University of Virginia Library

THE SISTERS OF SAINT CLARA.

A TALE OF PORTUGAL.

CANTO I.

I.

'Tis the bridal of nature, the season of spring,
When Pleasure flits round on her diamond wing,
And the spirit plays brightly and softly and free,
Like gem-dropping beams on a boundless blue sea,
And the young heart is lit by the beams of love's eye,
Like an altar of perfume by fires of the sky.
'Tis the heart-blooming season of innocent love,
When the green growing mead and the whispering grove,
And the musical stream, as it purls o'er the dale,
And the flowers whose lips zephyr woos in the vale,
Are seen with the spirit of thrilling delight
As visions of beauty too passingly bright,
And heard like the songs that come o'er us in dreams
When the soul's magic light through infinity gleams.
The gay Earth is vestured with verdure and flowers,
And hope sings away the sweet sunny hours,
While bathing in sunbeams, or over the sky
Her star-pinions waving through glories on high.
The citron groves throw on the wings of the breeze
Their balm-breathing flowers, and the green orange trees
Harp sweetly in airs from the hill and the sea,
Like lyres heard unseen singing joys yet to be.
O Eden of beauty! Lusitania! the sun
Loves to linger a while, when his journey is done,
On the lofty twin Pillars, whose brows in the sky
Gleam bright when the sun-god rides flashingly by,
Which stand in their might 'mid the waves of the sea—
Abyla and Calpe—unconquered and free.
And Cintra's dark forests look smilingly on
Apollo descending from his chariot throne,
While Estrella's lagoon, green Escura receives
Sheen tints of his rays from the wood's gilded leaves,
And Tajo's broad bay like a mirror reposes
'Tween a heaven of light and a garden of roses.

II.

The sun's last beam of purple light
Blazons proud Calpe's castle height,
And over Lusitania's sea
Looks with a smile of melody.
The volcan fires of Ætna glow,
Brighter as sinks Hyperion low,
And, 'mid the gathering twilight high
Stromboli flames against the sky,
O'er dark-blue ocean's billowy foam,
To light the wandering sailor home.
Child of the sun, the dusky Moor
Watches the horizon, bright obscure,
And, while the proud muezzin calls
Devotion's hour from Ceuta's walls,
Throws his keen eye's far-searching glance
O'er the dark billows as they dance
Along the Mauritanian shore,
And listens to their surging roar
Around Abyla's basement deep,
Lest in tired nature's twilight sleep
The foe upon his guard should steal,
And gain the pass ere trumpet peal.
Adverse, the gallant Briton's eye,
From Calpe's height gleams o'er the sky,
And marks with all a sailor's pride
The vast sail gleaming o'er the tide,
While every breeze that comes from far
Wafts music from red Trafalgar.
Evening's dim shadow o'er the close,
Fair Lusitania! and the rose
Of morning blushes o'er thy plains
With the same rich and gorgeous light
As when his warlike, wild Alains,
O'er forest, flood, and vale, and height,
From Volga's banks Respedial led
To Tajo's darkly wooded shore,
Though where they warr'd or why they bled
None know or name forevermore.
And the sun rolls his last faint beam
O'er princely dome, rose-margined stream,
And almond grove and jasmine bower,
With the same smile as when the earth
Blushed in the beauty of her birth.

III.

The full-orbed moon is gleaming bright
On Cintra's dark and rocky height,
And on verandah, turret, tower,
Palace and fane at this still hour
Glows with a radiant smile of love,
And gilds the music-breathing grove
With those pure beams of light serene,
Which sanctify the peaceful scene.
From wave and dome and field and grove
Rise the soft notes of pleading love,
And many a strain is heard from far
Of wandering lover's sweet guitar,
And in the songs he fondly sings
His glowing heart finds rainbow wings,
Which bear his spirit's powers afar
Unto his being's guiding star.
Dian—the queen of sighs and tears,
Her richest robe of beauty wears,
And smiles to hear the vows that rise
Beyond her empire in the skies,
While still she weeps, in prescient pain,
That passioned love is worse than vain.

IV.

St. Clara's dark and massy pile,
Where sunbeams fall but never smile,
'Mid the dense cypress grove uprears
Its ivied turrets, gray with years,
And, where the shadowy moonlight falls,
Uplifts its blackened prison walls,
Within whose solitary cells
Tearless despair forever dwells,
And sin, beneath devotion's name,
Reposes in its sacred shame,
While deeds 'twould sear the tongue to tell
Are done in murder's fatal cell.
Within St. Clara's cloistered gloom,
A living grave, a vital tomb,
Two lovely vestals, young and fair,
In misery dwelt and dark despair.
Their loves and hopes and feelings chained,
Lone sorrow o'er their being reigned,
'Till hope arose upon their eye,
And love's ecstatic witchery
Woke the fond hearts that had been crushed,
And the soul's sunlight current gushed.
Like roses budding on one stem
Or blending hues of opal gem,
Lonely they sat within their cell,
Silent till expectation's swell
Burst o'er each thought and feeling high,
Like sunshowers from the azure sky.
Round them the full heart's stilness hung,
'Till Zulma's glowing feelings sprung
To words that flowed like morning's beam,
Or song from lips of seraphim.
“Sweet Inez! fast the fearful hour
“When we shall spurn monastic power,
“Doth hasten, and our spirits' might
“Must dare the ordeal of to-night.
“The church's power, or father's ire,
“And Heaven perchance, will all conspire
“To cloud young love's ascending sun;
“Then, Inez, 'til the deed is done,
“And we have passed their power's extent,
“Let not thy dove-like heart relent
“Nor fancy picture punishment.”
“Oh, lovely Zulma! hope is light
“Within my trembling heart to-night,
“And fain this bosom yet would prove
“The silent joys of blissful love.
“But, ah! my path in life hath been
“So full of grief, and every scene
“Of joy so soon hath changed to woe,
“Life's common bliss I ne'er shall know
“Till my lone heart hath ceased to beat
“Within the snow-white winding-sheet.”
On her pale cheek and blanching brow
Hope's feverish hectic ceased to glow
And o'er her bosom came the blight,
The darkness of perpetual night,
The gloom of days that long had vanished,
And thoughts, that never could be banished.

V.

Zulma's high spirit at the view
Of peril more undaunted grew,
And glowed 'mid sorrow's gathering gloom
Like angel faith above the tomb.
In danger's hour she stood alone,
'Mid fearful things the fearless one,
And, as her sunlight spirit burned
O'er the deep darkness of despair,
The trembling fears of all she turned
To hopes, and left them smiling there.
Her broad high brow the throne of thought,
And features into spirit wrought;
Her star-beam eye and face of light,
And moulded form that chained the sight,
And swan-like neck, and raven hair,
And swelling bosom, richly fair,
Which rose and sunk, like moonlight seas,
In its deep passion's ecstacies,
As if her mighty heart were swelling
In sun-waves for its heavenly dwelling;
All spake a spirit proud and high,
A wandering seraph of the sky,
And such was Zulma; sorrow's night
Might its dark shadows o'er her cast.
But the deep gloom her spirit's light
Changed into rose-beams as it past;
She had one aim, and none beside
Could bend her lofty lightning pride,
And, ere she drooped, she would have died.
Vemeira knew his daughter well,
And chained her spirit in a cell
Ere she could know the desolate
And hopeless woe of such a fate,
And 'twas to bless an elder child
He crushed that soul, so proud and wild.

VI.

Timid and fearful as the fawn,
That searches ere it treads the glade,
Yet lovely as a spring-time dawn
In robes of rosy light arrayed;
Warm, feeling, soft and delicate
As the last blush of summer eve,
Yet trembling at the frown of Fate,
Lest, while her heart did sadly grieve,
Sin should assume the garb of woe,
And shroud in gloom devotion's glow;
Inez, though fair as forms that rove
Round Fancy's fondest dream of love,
Was tender, gentle, fragile, frail,
And shrinking as the violet pale
Which blooms in solitary vale,
By zephyr fanned and breathed alone,
Unseen, unsought, unprized, unknown.
Feelings suppressed and thoughts untold
Flowed silently, like molten gold,
O'er her fond heart, while virtue's sun
Threw glory o'er them as they run.
Her smiles and tears alike were born
In purity of virgin love,
And, like bright Eos, child of morn,
She drank at streams that gush above:
For sweetness such to her was given,
Her faintest prayer was heard in heaven.

VII.

When Zulma heard her sister's plaint,
And saw her gentle spirit sink,
Her soul arose in power—“To faint
“While standing on dark ruin's brink
“Were madness worse than mirth in death
“When love and bliss our flight await
“To quail, to droop despair beneath
“Were folly that deserved the fate.”
“But if we fail”—“It cannot be!
“Love, like the mountain breeze, is free,
“And, amid peril, wrong and ill,
“Strong as the gale that sweeps the hill,
“Or severing ocean in its might,
“Brings long lost treasures into light.”
“But will beholding heaven approve
“Our broken vows for earthly love?”
“St. Mary shrive thee! would'st thou be
“A vestal in hypocrisy?
“Oh, gentle Inez, guard thy love!
“Count Dion's daring quest would prove
“But folly's dream in evil hour,
“If thou dost spurn the boy-god's power.”
Inez arose, her blue eye flowed
In gushing tears of pearly light—
“Zulma! my heart were ill-bestowed
“If Dion called me false to-night.”
“Vemeira's daughter still!—O Heaven!
“Love's messenger his call hath given!
“Inez! that rose, by Dion thrown,
“Lay on thy heart—it is thine own—
“And haste thee, for we must be gone!”
The soft strain of a sweet guitar
Now mellowed came as if from far,
But, skillful in its measured fall,
It rose by dark St. Clara's wall,
And, mastered by Prince Julian's hand,
Its sweet notes flowed so richly bland,
They told unseen the minstrel lover,
And Zulma's soaring spirit over
Threw breathless rapture as she fled
From her lone cell with footstep light,
While Inez' heart, at every tread,
Spake like deep voices of the night.

VIII.

Queen of the skies! why should the beams
Of thy soft eye so richly glow
O'er scenes that darkest gloom beseems,
As fitting their soul-harrowing woe?
Why should thy smile alike illume
Despair and Hope, and Love and Hate,
The bridal mansion and the tomb,
Hearts full of bliss and desolate?
Empress of Heaven! oh, thou wert made
For blooming hearts and tearless eyes,
To light the spirit's serenade,
And high-soul'd love's fond ecstacies;
And, when young Time in Eden's bowers
Wore radiant crowns of fragrant flowers,
While innocence with him would rove
In soothing shade of fair-leaved grove,
And love was bliss and truth its own
Blest guerdon in the morning's sight,
When angels looked from Glory's throne
And threw around her robes of light;
Ere woe was born of sin, and crime
Blotted from man's corrupted heart
The fairest name that youthful Time
Had written there with magic art;
Ere the sad hour man's father fell,
And o'er his fall rose shouts from hell,
Thou, sky-throned Isis! from above,
Saw'st nought but pure unconscious love
Beneath the azure sky—whose sun
Smiled on each deed by mortals done.
Alas! thou now art doomed to gaze
Upon a world so dark and fell,
That thy most pure and lovely rays
Reveal man's heart a living hell!

IX.

On the young vestals' desperate flight
Thou didst look down with smile as gay
As it had been their bridal night,
And they were led in fair array
O'er bright saloons and marbled halls;
And on St. Clara's prison walls
Thy gleaming radiance shone as fair
As if delight were smiling there;
And on the lovely Inez' eye
As she and Zulma fled in fear,
Thy rays were thrown from yon blue sky,
Unconscious that they lit a tear.
Crossing the cypressed cemetry,
They hurried on with unheard tread
'Till they had gained the boundary
Of the lone empire of the Dead,
When, ere the signal could be given
To those who watched beyond the wall,
Inez stretched forth her hands to Heaven,
Weeping as if the hour when all
Her hopes should die had come and spread
Its pall o'er life—and thus she said;—
“Now, ere we part, sweet Zulma, say
“Thou lov'st me as in childhood's day,
“When we together fondly strayed
“Through arboured groves and green-wood shade,
“Plucked roses on the mead to crown
“The hours we loved to call our own.
“And felt that heaven looked smiling down,
“When none beneath the laughing sky
“Were half so gay as thou and I.
“Tell me the bloom of life's young flowers
“Still lingers round thy changeless heart
“And that the joy of happier hours
“Will never from thy soul depart!”
“Now ere we part! a strange prelude,
“Fair sister! to the heart's high bliss;
“Thy very spirit is imbued
“With doubts and fears—away with this!
“Thou art MY sister! droop not now,
“Remember thine and Dion's vow!
“They hear our rustling in the shade—
“Here is the cord-wove escalade—
“Now, Inez, fearless follow me,
“Doubt not, we must and shall be free.”
Unfaltering Zulma scaled the height,
Cheering the lovely nun to speed,
And then flew down with footstep light
To Julian's arms, most blest indeed,
The solitary vestal stood
A moment ere she dared to climb,
And in that moment's solitude
Her stolen flight appeared like crime;
She was so pure, so lovely, sin
Tinged not a thought her soul within.
But Dion hung upon the height,
And step by step she climbed above,
Her hand was stretched, in wild delight,
To grasp that of her only love,
When fancied guilt and dark despair
Came o'er her as she lingered there,
And her brain reeled in dizziness;
She heeded not the cries below,
She could not see nor hear nor know
The insupportable distress
Of those who saw her form on high,
Delirium in her swimming eye!
One last shrill shriek of wild affright.
The falling form that met his sight,
The hollow groan, that rose and fell
Upon his heart like ruin's knell,

X.

“Away—away! Prince Julian, fly!
“The alarum bell is pealing high,
“And ruthless hordes of vestal fiends
“Are rushing hither!”—Who ascends
Again that dreadful wall, so late
Scaled with a look that smiled at Fate?
'Tis Zulma—“Julian! leave me now,
“For I must share the death I wrought,
“And consummate my vestal vow
“In pain and darkness as I ought.”
She rose to give her purpose deed,
When Dion barred her path and cried—
“Prince Julian! as thou would'st in need,
“And when despair hath humbled pride,
“Crave mercy of the Power on high,
“Seize Zulma quick, and fly, fly, fly!”
In passion wild and wildered fear
The Prince obeyed the wise behest,
And grasped the heroic maiden ere
Her deed had left him thrice unblest,
And, ere a moment more had flown,
The high-soul'd nun and Prince had gone.
Count Dion watched till they had fled,
Then sprung below among the dead,
Where headstones gleamed to mock the gloom,
The desolation of the tomb.
Gently he raised the unconscious nun,
And laid her bleeding on his breast,
Thus—even thus, a blessed one
To pillow such a form to rest;
While, as he gazed in speechless woe
On her soft, lovely features graven
With death's dark lines, he saw below
Nor love nor joy, nor hope in heaven.
But scarce the space of lightning's glare
Was left to muse of his despair,
Or soothe the suffering Inez there,
The cloister horde by Clotilde led,
Exulting that their holy hate
Could now be poured on beauty's head
And virtue's bosom desolate,
Rushed like hyena troops upon
The gallant Dion—but, appalled
By his proud port, though all alone
He stood—they paused and shrilly called
The faggot priest, their alguazil,
To guard the holy cloister's weal.
Folding his bosom's dying bride
With one strong arm unto his breast,
And with the other waving wide
Iberia's sword that many a crest
Had cloven in the deadly fray,
He bade the throng yield ample way,
And sprung upon the ladder's height;
Then came the alguazil, the light
Of hell was in his scowling eye,
Dashing the trembling host aside
Like war-ship rushing in its pride.
The lover there that moment stood,
Not like a warrior trained in blood,
But like that Spirit who on high
His four-edged sword flashed o'er the sky,
And bade the sinning mortal die.
“Yield thee, blasphemer! Heaven commands.”
“Chain, then, the bold blasphemer's hands,
“And bind his madden'd spirit down
“Low as thy master's and thine own.”
“Darest thou the monarch's alguazil?”
“Bid ye the whelp-robbed lion kneel!”
“Dark ruffian! thou wilt rue this hour.”
“Ruffian!—not while my sword hath power.”
And with the word the unfailing blade
Low at his feet the opposer laid,
And Dion seized the escalade.
He springs with more than mortal might,
He rises—almost gains the height—
His hand is on the moss-grown wall—
This moment saves or ruins all!
A word, a thought, a look, a dream
May ratify the doom of years;
One glance, one quick electric gleam
May lead unto an age of fears!
Oh! Dion, nerve thy heart again,
One minute—spring—and thou art free,
O think—thy love—'tis vain—'tis vain,
Despair hath sealed thy destiny!
They tear away the cord-wove frame,
And thou art doomed to woe and shame!
Still Dion bears the double weight
With one torn, bleeding, numbing hand
Awhile—he falls—the scroll of Fate
Hath rolled its darkest record! “Stand,
“Exulting demons, stand ye there,
“And o'er all earth your triumph yell,
“And laugh o'er death and life's despair,
“For than ye worse reign not in hell!”
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

XI.

'Tis joy to gaze, from the tall ships lee,
On the curling waves of the moonlight sea,
When the mellow airs of spring-time night
Come over the heart as it floats in light,
And the sleeping flowers exhale perfume,
Like a virgin's breath from lips of bloom,
And the dark-blue waters curl and gleam
In the diamond star-light's mirrored beam,
While the spirit burns o'er the glittering sea
'Till it longs a moonlight wave to be.
Oh, spirits that sail on the moonlight sea
Should have thoughts as vast as eternity,
And feelings as pure as the sleeping rose,
When its leaves in the dew of the sunset close.

XII.

XIII.

Before the rising, shrill-voiced gale
Flies the yard-stretching, mighty sail,
Swelling o'er broad Atlantic billow,
Like swan upon her wavy pillow,
Dashing aside from her high prow
The wave, whose hissing foam-wreaths glow
Like jewels thrown in floating snow,
And hurrying on her watery way,
Between two oceans, heaven and earth's,
Like war-horse through the battle fray,
Whose mighty heart would burst his girths
In its high swelling, should his lord
Or check his speed or sheathe his sword.
With a long sigh, as if from dream
Of pain and anguish slowly waking,
From Julian's breast, with sudden scream
Wild as her bleeding heart were breaking,
Zulma rose and gazed around
On ocean's sons, on wave and sky,
And then fell back and deeply groaned,
While gleamed through tears her eagle eye.
“Inez! sweet Inez!” Shudderings came
Over her like the sansar's breath,
As from her heart flowed that sweet name
Which now was linked with woe and death,
And, wrapt in silent suffering,
She saw nor wave nor sky nor lover,
Nor heard the light-winged breezes sing,
Like nymphs in sea-shells, ocean over;
All—all to her was pain and gloom,
Her thoughts of what she left behind
And o'er her angel sister's tomb
She heard the lonely wailing wind,
With spirit voice of wild distress,
Denouncing Inez' murderess!
Darkly with phantoms of her brain
Communing, o'er the billowy main
Zulma was hurried rapidly,
And the low murmuring of the sea
Seemed, when she heard the gulfing surge
Hymning the murdered vestal's dirge.

XIV.

The virgin huntress of the skies
With Ocean's daughters flies afar,
And Eos and her nymphs arise
Above the sun-god's throne, each star,
Orion's blazing sword of light,
And the twin-martyrs' glory bright,
And sea-born Beauty's radiance dimming,
While blue-zoned Tethys weaves a crown
Of pearls and corals brightly swimming
Through her vast empire fathoms down,
To deck Aurora's rosy brow
As her white steeds o'er ether fly,
And proud Hyperion, bright and slow,
Rolls unto heaven his glorious eye.
The bird of Jove his mighty wings
Waves o'er the crimson vault above,
And from his eye a radiance flings
Bright as the brightest glance of love.
The white-plumed sea-gull skims the sea,
The curlew sports around the bark,
And nature sings of liberty
And love as when from ancient ark
The beasts of earth and birds of heaven
To their bright fields and skies were given.

XV.

XVI.

The barque has passed the Tyrrhine sea
And anchored in the glorious bay
Of proud and base Parthenope,
Where perfumed gales with sunlight play
O'er antique temple, giant tower,
And palace proud, whose mirrored dome,
Like a bright heaven, o'er many a tomb
Of many a mighty one laid low
Gleams with a rich, refulgent glow,
Like Freedom o'er lost Power.
The barque is moored—the lovers gone
Beyond the once fair Lucrine lake,
Where dark-browed Ruin reigns alone
O'er Baiæ lost in marshy brake,
And all the fairy gardens, groves,
Meadows and dales erst loved so well
By him (so reckless luxury proves
In one a nation's ruin fell)
Who shunning Glory's shrine when he
Had gained the fane, left mighty Rome
The victim of fierce anarchy,
Dreading yet hurrying on her doom.
Lucrine—the haunt of mirth is gone,
And there volcanoes glare alone!
Baiæ hath sunk to dust, and she,
Earth's mistress stands, like ancestry,
Scowling o'er sons whose highest boast
Had been their fathers' deepest shame,
To pride, to truth, to glory lost,
To honest hearts and patriot fame.

XVII.

Days, weeks and months have been and gone,
And lovely Zulma dwells alone
In solitary castle high
Between fair earth and fairer sky.
Julian had been, all lovers are,
Had knelt and sworn his deathless love,
And, like a sky-throned, radiant star,
Thrown light and beauty from above;
He had been all that being is,
Whom kindoms wait—I dare not dwell
On man's intent to offer bliss
To one who had for him farewell
Bidden all thoughts of earth and heaven,
And sole to him her full heart given.
Prince Julian was Campania's heir,
And thus decreed his royal sire;—
“Thou wed'st proud Austria's daughter fair,
“Or never com'st the sceptre nigher.”
Julian was proud of pomp and fame—
The fair nun could nor trump his name
Nor plume his power—but she might be
The unseen queen of sovereignty,
The empress of his private hours—
The angel of his palace bowers.
So Julian thought, though he had tried
Her honest fame by speech oblique
And look lascivious, when his pride
And birth and state appeared most weak
Before wronged Zulma's Juno eye,
Whose glance spake pride and purity.
From day to day he talked of love,
While Zulma would not see his aim,
Save when the princely sophist strove
To prove all rites a needless name;
Then flashed her eye and glowed her brow,
Like sunbeams o'er the mountain snow.
On love I will not moralize;
It hath more wiles and snares than sighs;
Sooth be the tale and fair I tell—
His deeds are man's true chronicle.

XVIII.

XIX.

Bewildered, lost in guilt and shame,
And torrent passions wildly warring;
Defied, despised in deed and name,
Each wild-fire thought another marring;
Prince Julian stood unmoving where,
In all the grandeur of despair,
Zulma, like empress throned in power
More than deserted nun, had left
Her lover in that sundering hour
When her proud heart of hope was reft.
Zulma had hurried from his view—
Her form of love, her voice, her smile,
No more enchantment o'er him threw—
No more his sorrows could beguile;
She had been his—and now was not—
He had been hers in grief and woe—
Now she had gone—to be forgot—
And he was left alone to—“No!
“By Heaven! it cannot, shall not be!
“Crown, sceptre, kingdom—what are ye
“To love and love's true paradise?
The earth preferred unto the skies!
“Ambrose!” “My lord!”—“Caparison
“The fleetest steed in all my stalls,
“And bring the courser here anon—
“And guard thou well the castle walls!
“I will the maid regain or die,
“For Honour is man's majesty!”
He vaulted on his gallant steed,
And vanished in the forest dun,
Then rose the hill, and o'er the mead
Rushed 'neath the last beam of the sun.

CANTO II.

I.

O land of my birth! thou fair world of the West!
With freedom and glory and happiness blest!
Thou nation upspringing from forest and grove,
Like wisdom's armed queen from the brain of high Jove!
Though thy winds are the coldest the North ever blows,
And thy mountains the drearest when covered with snows;
Tho' the warm fount of feeling is chilled while it gushes,
And pleasure's stream frozen as brightly it rushes;
Tho' thy sons, like their clime, are oft chilling and rude
And rough as the oak in their own mountain wood;
Yet I love thee, my country! as fondly as Tell
Loved the Alpine Republic he rescued so well.
For thy yeomen can circle the winter-eve hearth,
Undreading oppression, and talk of the Earth,
Whose bosom yields nurture to father and son
Leaving hearts pure and gay when the glad work is done:
While the pæans they shout over glories by-gone
Are echoed by virtues for ever their own.
O thou home of the rover o'er ocean's rude wave,
Asylum of sorrow and fort of the brave!
Advance in thy glory o'er forest and sea,
Unrivalled, unconquered, heroic and free!
Though the rose bloom and fade in its holiday hour,
And the sun-god is palled in his glory of power
Tho' winter's cold breath blanch the blossoming rose,
Unlike the bright clime where the sky ever glows,
Yet thy virtues bend not to each soothing breeze,
Whose syren song lures through the soft shading trees
Like the gay, grovelling sons of the tropical clime,
Whose skies are all glory—whose earth is all crime.
None love thee so well as thy sons far away,
None bless thee more oft than the bard of this lay.

II.

The sunniest rose that ever blowed
In velvet vale of soft Cashmere;
The loveliest light that ever glowed
O'er heaven in spring-time of the year,
Ne'er blushed and beamed more purely bright
Than gentle Inez' sinless heart
Upon that dread unholy night
When doomed with all it loved to part.
No spirit, gazing from above,
With eyes impearled in pity's tears,
Cherished more heavenly thoughts of love
In glory's highest, brightest spheres.
Than that pure child of love and light,
Dragged, 'neath the covert of the night,
To the dim arch'd refectory;
Where, telling fast their rosaries,
And lifting many a saint-like eye
To heaven with muttered groans and sighs,
The demon conclave met to doom
To living grave, to breathing tomb,
The apostate, suffering, dying nun.
The word hath passed—the deed is done!
Ere morn gleams through the pictured glass
Of prison cell, or o'er the wall
Of dark St. Clara light doth pass,
Dimly and thick and sickening, all
Of that dark bigot band, save one,
Are kneeling at the tapered shrine,
Before the Omniscient's holy throne,
Where every thought should be divine,
To chant their impious prayers to Him,
In whose creation-searching eye
Not even the heavenliest seraphim
Are pure in their great piety!
Alas! that Heaven's most blessed boon,
Religion, breathing peace and love,
In man's polluted heart so soon
The veriest creed of hell should prove!

III.

Unseen, unfelt, unknown, her fate
O'er the fair vestal's head had past,
And she was left all desolate—
The doom was sealed—the die was cast—
Ere, waking from her dreadful dream,
She faintly said—“I heard a scream
“Of death, methought, O Dion! say
“Is Zulma safe?” Then, as she lay
Leaning against the dungeon wall,
She turned—groaned—and fell back again;
“Oh, Dion! love! oh, tell me all,
“Where—where is Zulma?”—Awful pain
Came o'er her then and dimmed the eye
Of yesternight's dread memory,
And through her spirit's drear opaque
She could not look—she could not take
Perception of her agony;
She knew 'twas so—but how or why
It baffled her delirious brain
To tell;—and then she thought again,
And more distinct her memory grew
Of what had passed—and chill the dew
Of death hung on her writhen brow,
Where love still shed its parting glow,
As dim she caught the past and gone;
Yet she could not—the dying one,
Think why she thus was left alone.
She spake again, but faint and low—
“O Dion! thou hast often said
“Thy love could master every woe,
“And o'er all griefs its radiance shed;
“It cannot be that thou should'st now
“Forsake thy love, forget thy vow—
“Now, when I feel—O Dion, come
“And bear me hence—I must go home!”
She listened then for some faint sound,
And strove to rise and look around;
But all was midnight gloom, and she
Alone there in her agony.
Still memory gathered link by link—
And still life's current quickly bled—
With a death-thirst she longed to drink
What flowed around her dungeon bed;
She scooped the fluid in her hand,
And bore it to her lips—'t was blood!
And then her spirit lost command
'Mid horror, gloom, and solitude,
While thought, no words of man can tell,
O'er all the past began to swell,
And well she saw her hopeless doom,
There buried in eternal gloom,
Whence shrillest shriek and wildest cry
Could never reach the shuddering sky.
No missal there nor cross had she,
O'er which to breathe her parting breath;
To cheer her in her misery,
And change to bliss the pangs of death;
For they had banned the dying nun
And barred redeeming penitence!
Demons! their hate her glory won—
Her amulet was innocence!
So malice works its own reward,
And weakest proves when most on guard,
For never yet hath hatred wrought
The deadly ruin which it sought,
Untended by a deadlier blow
Than that which laid its victim low.

IV.

A sound disturbed her solitude—
High chanting from the chapelry;
Like wailings from a gloomy wood
When echoed by a stormy sky,
The distant swell of cloister strain
And matin hymn came o'er her brain,
And roused to life her slumbering pain;
It was her dirge—that morning song,
And slowly rolled the notes along
The cypress groves—the vaults—the cells—
Like murder's midnight groan which tells
The fearful deed most fearfully;
And there the lovely Inez lay
In suffering's last extremity,
While not a solitary ray
Of light relieved the heart-felt gloom
That palled her spirit in the tomb.
It was a mockery of her woe—
The mass of hell yelled out below—
That pæan, like a death-doom sent
Through farthest vault—through deepest cell,
To agonize the punishment
Of the fair one Heaven loved so well.
But oh, no fiend with things can cope
Whom God hath left to their own will—
Giv'n o'er beyond all reach of hope,
At hate's hell-cup to drink their fill;
The deadliest demon, banned the most,
May fill the archangel's holiest throne
Ere mortal once—forever lost,
Can for his damning deeds atone.
The light of heaven may beam o'er hell
Dimly and touch the apostate there;
But man, abandoned, bids farewell
To hope, and weds his own despair.

V.

Another sound the stillness broke,
And Inez' bleeding heart awoke.
It was the wailing of a dove,
The death-song of a simple bird
O'er her who died for heaven and love,
And gladly were the soft notes heard.
Perched on a cypress o'er her cell,
The bird hailed not the glorious sun,
But sadly sung the last farewell
Of the pure, sweet, expiring nun,
To earth and earthly sins and woes
And life so early in its close.
As Inez listened to the strain,
And longed to waft it back again,
The shade of death was in her eye,
The pulses of her being beat
Faintly, and death's last agony
Came o'er her like a shadowy bloom,
A soft voice stealing from the tomb,
A light to guide the parting spirit
Beyond the woes that all inherit.
Feebly she sunk—the crimson tide
Gushed forth no more—her heart was still;
Yet her lips trembled as she died—
“Dion—forgive—my wrongs!” and 'till
Her features sunk collapsed in death
That name was breathed with every breath.

VI.

A taper gleams amid the gloom—
A white-robed form approaches near—
It pauses by the dungeon tomb,
And listens tensely as in fear,
Or hope—and now it moves again
And lifts the iron-bolted grate,
And gazes o'er the cell of pain,
Doubting its lovely tenant's fate.
Demon! go in—thy victim's gone!
Unseen, unheard, like guilt alone,
Clotilde doth listen there awhile,
And then descends—and with a smile
Deadly and dark moves round the corse,
Whose features are an angel's still.
“Dead?—Ay, 'tis well—it had been worse
“Had justice half fulfilled my will
“Or hadst thou lived till now!”—She turned
The lovely vestal's body o'er,
And laughed aloud; and then she spurned
The corse upon its gory floor,
And smiled as if she gave it pain;
And then she raised the beauteous nun—
“Ay, 'tis a blessed fate, sweet one!
“That thou hast wrought thyself—again
“Thou would'st not do the deed!” She threw
The pale, cold corse in scorn away,
And yet more dark her features grew,
As death had robbed her of her prey;
And still she stood, with fiend-like eye,
Revelling in hatred's demon feast,
And with low curse and muttered cry
Banning e'en Him who had released
The vestal from her deadly power
And raised the soul to Eden's bower,
When a loud crash rose high—and far
The echo as of bolt and bar
Shooting, went forth!—Where art thou now,
Proud abbess? Ah! thou soon wilt know!
The iron portal to the cell,
The lifted grate had fallen—how
It nought avails for me to tell;
Perchance, the wind had laid it low,
Or death-winged angel might have thrown
The dreadful bars in anger down,
Eternal justice to dispense
To suffering, murdered innocence.
Howe'er it was—proud Clotilde there
Was doomed to perish with the dead,
In silence, darkness and despair,
And meet the fate her sentence said.
There could be no relief—no, none—
She had gone forth, unseen, alone,
And from that subterranean cell
No cry arose to human ear;
It was a dark monastic hell,
Beyond hope's sun-illumined sphere.
She shook the bars—but they were fast—
She shrieked—but echo mocked her pain;
She gazed around—but shadows past
Like fiends, and she sunk down again.
And then remorse was leagued with fear.
And both like vipers gnawed her heart:
And horrid sounds were in her ear
That cried—“What dost thou here? depart!
“Seek thou the hell of thy dark creed,
“Thine be the doom thou hast assigned,
“The unpitying bigot's bitter meed,
“The quenchless ruins of the mind!
“Depart! depart!” how awful e'er
Is guilt when phrenzied by its fear!

VII.

Unshrived, she there must die in all
Her unforgiven guilt and woe;
On either side a dungeon wall,
And wrath above and death below
Unsoothed, unpitied and alone,
Without a single orison,
Without a tear to mourn her fate,
Or look of grief compassionate,
Or holy right or orris pall
Or requiem chanted forth by all
The holy vestal sisterhood,
Who round her erst admiring stood
As if St. Marie had been given
To them in other form from heaven.
But such be guilt's dark fate for e'er!
She there must perish dust to dust,
Unshriven in the dungeon drear,
Accursed below—among the just
All entrance barred eternally!
Now guilt forestalled redemption's hours,
And madness sprung from agony!
Darkly the storm of misery lowers,
And darker yet it soon shall be;
For Sin uprears her giant form
And mad Remorse, her spectre, stands,
Gashed by the fangs of guilt's dark worm,
Lifting on high his gory hands
To warn too late—to tell at last
The victim that her day hath past,
And yet more awful thoughts arise
More fearful shadows blast her view,
And wilder are her echoed cries,
And colder is the dungeon-dew.

VIII.

Time flies—strength fails—but madness grows
Stronger and darker in its mood,
And fevered Fear delirious throws,
O'er all the gloom a robe of blood;
And now she sinks beside the nun,
There like a song-lulled angel sleeping,
And smiling as her woes were done,
And she in heaven were vigils keeping.
She starts as if an adder stung!
A demon voice of mirth had rung
Through all the chambers of her brain;
She listens—now it comes again,
Blended with laughter wild and rude,
And echoes through the fatal cell,
And cries aloud—“Thy soul's imbued
“With blood of innocence;—'tis well
“That on thy victim's lifeless breast
“Thou should'st sink in eternal rest!”
Her maniac heart could bear no more,
The last extremity had come;
She grovelled on the cold earth floor
In speechless anguish at her doom;
Gazed with a madden'd eye, that told
What horrors o'er her bosom rolled,
Upon the nun who slept as still
As infant that has drank its fill;
Then with a shriek that might appal
The fiend, against the dungeon wall
Dashed headlong—groaned and died!—'Tis past,
The more than mortal suffering.
Alas! I would it were the last!
But earthly minstrel dare not sing
Of fates beyond the farthest ken
Of starry-eyed philosophy;
Among the abodes of mortal men
He finds enough of misery
To break the heart and rack the brain
That feels or thinks of human pain.
Her fate hath past—her soul hath fled—
And peace attend the voiceless Dead!

IX.

Life scarce had parted and her fate
Passed o'er the haughty abbess there,
Ere steps approached the iron grate,
And voices, as in last despair,
Echoed above the fatal cell.—
The portal's raised and they descend,
The sisterhood.—Now note ye well,
Fair vestals! ere ye ween to wend
In sin's broad path, sin's woful end!
The highest bliss of heaven may prove
The bitterest dreg in misery's cup,
And spirits born of heaven and love
By guilt be lost and given up
To state abhorring and abhorred—
And not adoring and adored!
Long was the anxious search and quest
Ere they could trace their abbess there,
And anguish searched full many a breast
As they stood gazing in despair
On murdered and on murderess.
I pause not now to paint the scene—
The natural ills of life suffice
To fill with tears the sternest eyes,
When thought retraces what hath been,
To gloom the heart and cloud the way
That shone so brightly yesterday.
Together from the dungeon cell
The corses were in silence borne,
While lingering tolled the funeral knell,
And sullen echoes moaned forlorn;
And shrouded in their vestments white,
They laid them side by side, and kept
Their vigils through the livelong night,
While breathlessly the dead ones slept,
As softly as two infants, born
Perchance, to be each other's scorn!
The wakeful sisters watched alone,
And many a holy rite was done
To foil the fiend and save the soul
Of her who once held high control
O'er penance stern and vow austere,
For many a long and sinful year.
The lovely innocent that there
Too holy was for grief or prayer,
Lay like a picture of the blest,—
'Twas her last hour and loveliest!
They watched—they prayed—night waned and morn,
Like holy hope in Eden born,
Blushed the stained glass and casement through,
And gave the gloomy scene to view.

X.

To die—to feel the spirit fainting
In the mansions of the breast,
While yet the vivid eye is painting
Life and vigor unpossessed;
To see the mortal frame decaying,
The temple's pillars breaking down,
And know the soul will soon be straying
Over climes and realms unknown;
While warm affection hovers o'er
The couch of death, with wailing prayer
Imploring lengthened life once more
In all the anguish of despair;
And we behold and feel and know
All that is felt for us and yet
Beside perceive the overthrow
Of hopes on which the heart is set,
And picture in our dying hour
Anguish unknown till we are dead,
And conscious, hopeless misery's power,
And tears from being's fountains shed—
Oh, 'tis a time, an hour of gloom
Worse than the midnight of the tomb!
But, ah, 'tis worse to think that we,
The proud, high, sentient lords of earth
Must moulder into dust and be
Or clay or nothing! At our birth
It was decreed that we should die,
But not that we should rotting lie
With every foul and loathsome thing
Blending our ashes.—Fling, oh, fling
My corse in ocean's booming wave,
Or burn it on the funeral pyre,
But lay it not in reeking grave
To glimmer with corruption's fire!
St. Clara's funeral bell is knelling
With the solemn voice of death,
And far the mournful notes are swelling
While from postern far beneath
Issue the white-robed virgin train,
Chanting low the requiem strain,
Over the dark and dismal tomb
Of one in being's roseate bloom,
And one in sallow withered age,
Departed from life's tragic stage.
Where sorrow never wakes to weep,
And ill and wrong distract no more,
And homeless wanderers sweetly sleep,
And hate and pride and pain are o'er,
They lay the vestals finally.
Above them waves a cypress tree,
Intwined with briar and rosemary,
And round them sleep the mighty dead,
Who centuries since forever fled;
A silent nation gone—alas!
Where living thought can never pass.
The ceremonial pomp is past—
The vestals vanish, one by one—
The holy father is the last,
And even he hath slowly gone.
And stillness reigns o'er all the scene,
That is so peaceful and serene;
A stillness greatly eloquent
When pious spirits bow and feel
Delicious melancholy, sent
From heaven o'er all their being steal
With purifying breathings mild;
And they become like little child
Gentle and docile, purely good,
In their communing solitude,
And look from earth to heaven with eye
Of sage reflecting piety,
Comparing man's allotment here
With glories of a brighter sphere.

XI.

XII.

The autumnal sun's rich evening beams
Blush o'er Cantabria's billowy sea,
And Lusian fields and groves and streams,
Like angel smiles, celestially;
And clustering vines hang purpling o'er
The shrubbery-mantled palisade,
And golden orange, cypress hoar,
And cork-tree rough, and yew, whose shade
The dead alone doth canopy,
And sunken glen and dim defile,
Alike in nature's bounties free,
Return the soul-inspiring smile
Of Autumn—queen-muse of the heart!
And as soft evening's hues depart,
Like holy hopes that smile in death,
And twilight robes the fading sky
With beauty felt, not seen—beneath
The spreading palm, the lover's eye
Burns as he tunes his soft guitar,
And sees his own dear maid afar,
Approaching her rose-woven bower
To solemnize love's sacred hour.
And lordly prince and shepherd hind,
And lady proud and simple maid
Enjoy alike the season kind,
When flowers grow lovelier as they fade.
Eve shadows dim the varied scene,
And the calm sunlight wanes away,
While one lone cloud of lustre sheen
Still wears the rays of parting day,
And hangs upon the zenith sky,
Like hope the sad heart lingering by.

XIII.

Looming in shadowy twilight o'er
Tajo's broad bay afar is seen,
Scudding toward the Lusian shore,
A quick, unladen brigantine;
And now it grows upon the eye,
White sail, dark hulk, and swan-like prow;
And swells upon the evening sky
Like castle turreted with snow;
And full the rushing wake is heard,
Blent with command's shrill-uttered word,
And many a heart throbs fondly now
To meet its loves and find its home,
As the light vessel crinckles slow
The waters which no longer foam.
The brigantine is moored—the crew
Are busy, boisterous, glad and gay,
And jovial crowds are there;—but who
Through the dense throng makes rapid way
With looks so proudly desolate?
Tis Zulma, who hath borne her fate
And yet will bear 'till being's close,
All she hath lost and still can lose,
With an unshrinking spirit none
Can tame or crush;—she is alone
In desolation—but she bears
Her lofty brow unblanched, and throws
Around an eye undimned by tears,
And, as she hurries on, she grows
Stronger, as if her spirit stood
Prepared for woe of all degree,
And agony and solitude,
And horror, and deep misery.
With hurried step though tearless eye,
She came, where still the massy towers
Of her own convent rose before her
And cast time's deepened shadows o'er her.
From many a tongue too soon she heard
The fatal story of the past,
Told too with many a needless word,
That fell like Lybia's desert blast.
Zulma shrieked not, but fiercely rolled
O'er brain and heart the worst—the last
Wild storm of ruin; hope fell dead,
And her high spirit 'neath its own
Intensity was crushed; she said
Nothing responsive—sigh nor groan,
Nor scream nor cry was heard; she threw
Her bleeding eye to heaven and bowed
A moment as in prayer—then grew
Like desperation calm.—A crowd,
As toward St. Clara's towers she went,
Followed in mute astonishment
That she should thus defy despair
And her own certain ruin dare.
Soon ceased their marvel—Zulma came
Beneath the window of her cell,
And upward gazed—and sighed the name,
The memory of the victim nun
The loved, the lost, the lonely one,
Who shed o'er life the only spell
The true heart loves and prizes well.
And as she gazed with mournful eye
On dusky wall and cypress grove,
The soul whose pride could never die,
The spirit of immortal love
That never sheds a human tear,
Was journeying to a holier sphere.

XIV.

“Jesu Maria! who art thou?
“Christ and the Virgin shield us now!”
A war-steed dashes through the throng—
A horseman leaps upon the ground,
And rushes like a maniac strong
Toward dying Zulma, while around
Gather the crowd to mark the scene—
For one so mournful ne'er had been.
Zulma looked up—a faint smile passed,
Like silvery moon-beam on the wave,
O'er lip and eye and then it cast
Behind the death hue of the grave.
Low bowed the horseman, Julian, there,
And fearful was his agony;
He kneeled, like statue of despair,
In hopeless, speechless misery;
But quivering lips and burning brow
Were worse than vain and idle now.
“Zulma”—he said at last, but wild
Came then the memory of his shame,
And Zulma's eye so proudly smiled
He trembled but to speak her name,
For she was calm as all must be
Who triumph o'er the demon—man,
And hold their pride and purity
Above corruption's blight and bann.
But life was ebbing fast away
From Zulma's broken heart and now,
While yet was left a conscious ray
Or never more his words must flow.
He spake at last—his words were few
But full of dark remorseful power,
The out-pourings of the soul's mildew,
That taints each lovely blooming flower,
Making all life a waste!—The fire
Of being, that had sunk and waned
In Zulma's bosom, burned again
Brightly a moment and there reigned
A majesty 'mid all her pain
That daunted Julian, as she strove
To rise upon a maiden's breast;—
“Prince Julian! that thou had'st my love,
‘And that in thine I was most blest,
'Tis bootless now to own; my doom
“Is sealed forever and the tomb
“Must be the resting-place of one
“Who once—who yet loves thee alone;
“Thou hast my pardon while I live—
“Forgive thyself as I forgive!”
Backward she fell—faint grew her breath,
Life left her cheek, her brow, her eye;
Slow o'er her heart came chilling death—
Zulma is in eternity!

THE DEATH SCENE.