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Donna Florida

Simms, William Gilmore (1806-1870)

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DONNA FLORIDA.

A TALE.

TO JAMES LAWSON, OF NEW YORK. “For Auld Lang Syne.”

PREFACE

The poem, of which the four first cantos are here submitted to the reader, was chiefly the work of the writer's youth. This fact, however, scarcely suggests any sufficient reason why it should be given to the public in his maturer years. But his object is explanation rather than apology. The poem was begun, but not finished,— indeed, it still remains unfinished,—at a time when the too famous production of Lord Byron, Don Juan, then of recent publication, was a subject of constant remark and criticism, particularly in connection with the premature and lamented fate of the unhappy writer. His mind was naturally drawn to the subject. The perusal of a favorite poet, as naturally excites in every youthful rhymester, a desire to echo the strain which he hears, and emulate the sweet notes which have fastened themselves upon his senses. He fancied, with a boyish

presumption, that he might imitate the grace and exceeding felicity of expression in that unhappy performance,—its playfulness, and, possibly, its wit,—without falling into its licentiousness of utterance, and malignity of mood. How he has succeeded in this object, it would not be becoming in him to inquire. That his attempt remains unfinished, is due to several causes, which do not call for explanation. The caprice of a youthful mind, diverted by a thousand objects and impulses,—the pressure of other employments of more immediate necessity,—the absence of the due stimulus,—that stimulus which is the great impelling principle of social effort,—the demand of the public;—all these may have had something to do with his reluctance to put the finishing stroke to a narrative, which, during the time of writing, found no small favor in his own sight, and which, he is still persuaded, may find some small favor in the sight of some of his readers. The superior circumstance which has deterred him from the completion of this sketch in later years, has been found in his own reluctance to bestow any farther labor upon a performance, the plan of which is so obviously

unoriginal; and he is not satisfied that a poem like Don Juan, marked by so many wearisome digressions, can hope—whatever may be the occasional force of its sentiment, the charm of its verse, or the truthfulness of its narrative—to survive in public estimation, when the domestic events and living persons, by whom its satire was provoked and its malignity engendered, shall have passed from the stage of present action, and been lost to the survey of living men. Even now, the mere personal and political matter of Don Juan, weighs like lead upon its vital merits and a future generation will find it a task of unwonted labor, to grope through the heaped-up rubbish of its numerous cantos, in search of the occasional gem,—the jewel, which, in less cumbrous setting, might have blazed forever in the eyes and to the admiration of the future. In the poem which follows, the author has not suffered his digressions to be so numerous or so long as those of the work which he unwisely made his model; but he is still not unaware, that they are too long, and too artificial, for the success of a composition, which, forbearing personal sarcasm and domestic satire,

makes no appeal to those vulgar tastes which delight in nothing half so much. Enough, perhaps, has been said, for the purpose of explanation. The writer may add, however, that the story, which, in the following cantos, has barely been begun, is one sufficiently interesting in his sight, and sufficiently susceptible of poetical embellishment, to make him desirous of giving it a proper shape and utterance. Whether he shall do so, under a new title, and in another form, or finish the work which he has here begun, must be left to the judgment of the future,—the public judgment and his own. Should it be thought by others, that the portions of the poem which are here given, would form a not unsuitable introduction to his narrative,— he himself considers them no more,—the story may be suffered to continue in its present channel. Should it be otherwise, it is very certain that what is here written can by no possibility furnish the slightest clue to the interest,—which it cannot accordingly impair,—of the contemplated sequel.

The ascetic may still ask, even after this long explanation, why these cantos, to which the

writer's own judgment opposes so many objections, should be preserved for so many years, and should be published now? But the question, though natural enough to the sterner critic, will scarcely be echoed by those who know with what tenacity the mind treasures up, and seeks to preserve, all those objects and performances of its youth, which revive its early assocations— which recal the first fresh emotions, and carry us back, however far we may have wandered erring, to that green season in the heart's young history, when every fresh sentiment was productive of some such delight as the voyager feels, when the bold head-lands, the tall forests, and the solemn mountains, of the unknown land, rise glorious and unexpected on his sight. That he should not destroy the child of his erring youth,—nay, that he should venture to preserve it with fondest care, and present it to the mental circle in which he moves, with something of a parent's pride and interest,—is a thing to be understood and felt, not be be explained or defended. Unfinished as the bantling is,—but half made up,—the author is not assured that it does not possess some qualities, which may commend

it in spite of its defects; and, thus believing, he could no more resolve upon its destruction, than he could adopt the ancient Spartan practice of exposing to perish the maimed infant, whose intellect might still cherish the noblest sentiments, and whose form, hideous even in its own sight, might still carry a heart, gushing, brimful, with all the sweet juices of the noblest humanity.

Woodlands, May 1, 1843.

CANTO I.

I.

I had been musing o'er an ancient story,
A legend of romance in sunny Spain,
That spoke of knights and dames, of love and glory,
Sweet phantoms we shall seldom see again:
There were proud, princely aspects, high and hoary,
Grey beards and pages, mingled in one strain,
Wove by that magic, which should never vanish,
And 'tis not in our heart of hearts to banish.

II.

It binds us yet we love it, and desire
No better company in bower and hall;
It calls up all the spirits we require,
And some it were far better not to call;
Dreams, and some very strange ones, full of fire,
Start up like Samuel's spectre to King Saul,
Without the spells of any witch from Endor,
Unless it be some young one, true and tender.

III.

And marvel not such legends please my spirit,
And make me love each ancient solitude;
Still seeking from its ruins grey to ferret,
The Genius loci proper to my mood;
A love of the mysterious I inherit,
From an old grand-dam who would often brood—
I, an apt listener—o'er the by-gone hours,
Brave knights, sweet nymphs, love and his favorite bow'rs.

IV.

Many a quaint story of an ancient season,
Warmed on her tongue and fasten'd on mine ear;
Some beyond scope of rhyme and more of reason,
But which I did not less delight to hear;—
To utter them again would be no treason,
And if to you such legends be but dear,
Sit down, and while the sweet South's breathing o'er us,
We'll bring the spirits of the past before us.

V.

And he who cannot cheer him by a fire,
Made up of the dry bones of ancient days,
Till, by the aid of fancy, from the pyre,
Starts forth some favorite spirit to his gaze,
Deserves to hear no music of the lyre,
To warm his fingers by no wizard blaze,
Nor from that spring the ancient minstrels talk of,
With one poor goblet of its waters walk off.

VI.

For the brute, grass and grain;—but for the spirit,
Comprising the true taste, and nobly taught,
The faculty to use that few inherit,—
High faculty of far-discerning thought;—
The Muse, who well perceives the mind of merit,
Hath evermore her lore and tribute brought,
And brings,—with soul erect, and spirit high,—
The beast may still enjoy his grunt and stye.

VII.

One half mankind are brutes,—the sub-division
Of the remaining moiety will make
The half of these but worthy our derision,
Creatures of cloth and clay, of stick and stake;
The rest may yield a few whose purer vision
Still teaches less to follow than forsake;
A passive, doubtful moral of man's being,
That only strengthens happily in fleeing.

VIII.

To you I sing, who, with a strong endeavor,
Would hold fit place among the sacred few;
Who, warm and watchful with that restless fever
Of spirit-stirring impulses, would view
The heart's true mysteries, denied those never,
Who with soul unrelaxing, high and true,
Would stride towards the goal, thro' toil and strife,
Where bloom the trees, alike, of light and life.

IX.

Some hundred years ago,—I am no stickler
For date and season, written and precise,
And so, about the month I'm not partic'lar,
There being no reason to be very nice;—
A Spanish maid—than whom no maid was fickler,
More difficult to please, and seldom twice—
Dwelt in her father's castle walls, the paragon,
Supreme for beauty 'mong the girls of Arragon.

X.

She was a peerless damsel, tall in stature,
Queen-like in gait, in manner arch and free;
Beauty had perch'd and smiled in every feature,
And every look of her eye was victory;—
Thus was she sent forth by the hand of nature,
The master-hand and master-work was she;
For many a month she was the reigning fashion,
And men and maids alike confessed their passion.

XI.

The latter sorrowed while the men were sighing;—
They saw but little beauty in her face;
And while the former spoke of heaven and dying,
They wished her dead and in a different place;
Some said she squinted, and if envious eyeing
Could make a pair of eyes look different ways,
Then were her's certain, 'neath their angry glances,
To have shot their rays zigzag, like warring lances.

XII.

But hate that's met by scorn works little evil,
It hurts no beauty, trenches not the skin,
Ne'er makes the temper sour or tongue uncivil,
And troubling nought without, moves nought within;
Our heroine, when they wished her at the devil,
Quietly answer'd with a pleasant grin,—
“'Twere shame with numerous lovers of my own,
To rob them of the only one they've known.”

XIII.

With such philosophy she went her ways,
Still smiling at the coil she made around her;
Her wit and conquests both beyond her days,
Her beauty bright as when at first it found her;
Her very presence soon produced a blaze,
Confounding still the host that would confound her;
She heard the sighs of man and groans of woman,
With an indifference that was scarcely human.

XIV.

But to my story.—With a tradesman-dread,
Lest you should not appreciate my wares,
I'll dwell at large on each particular head,
Single the grains of wheat from out the tares,
Item by item, and before you spread
Her each perfection as it first appears;
Nor keep you longer from the coming story,
Than is essential to our inventory.

XV.

This is a needful duty in a tale,
To make the reader know both lord and lady;
In mine, to frame the heroine nought shall fail;—
Chaste as December, pleasant as a May-day,
Bright as a faggot, sparkling as ripe ale,
Her blood and beauty both in virgin hey-day,—
Her eyes, the polar lights in love's astrology,
Her head—but let us look into phrenology.—

XVI.

She had there all the bumps of each good quality,
And some that were but doubtful, too, might be
Among the better ones,—like the fatality
That blights the blessing. Gall and Spurzheim see,
Ascending high, the mount of ideality,
A Muse herself—few half so fine as she—
And other bumps, above, behind, the ear,
That speak of virtues,—neither here nor there.

XVII.

How shall I venture to describe her mouth,
That rosy bible on which Love has sworn;
Fresh as the zephyr from the sunny south,
Soft as the flowret bursting with the morn;
Two op'ning rose-leaves which, in emulous growth,
Warring for sole sway on the stem where born,
Disclose beneath them, in an amorous curl,
Two links of white and laughter-loving pearl.

XVIII.

And then the odor,—not the common sweet,
Ambrosia much abused,—or, still more base,
Arabian perfumes, such as taint the street,
When flowing damsels seek the public place;—
But spirit odors, such as gently greet
The soul at midnight, when the stars yield grace
To the broad blue, and the bewitching time
Wins all its perfume from some happier clime.

XIX.

Perfume, that with the breath of evening winds
Into the inner heart, and softens down
Each earth-asperity; and soothly binds
The angry spirit, animate to frown,
Into a patient gentleness, that finds
All nature meek around it, and, to crown
The soothing sway and influence, makes us deem
We feel those Eden blooms and airs of which we dream.

XX.

Her eye, her more than Asiatic eye,
Peering beneath her forehead like a star,
Bestowing a sweet glory on the sky,
Tho' gathering tempests hold a cloudy war;—
What may eclipse its splendor—what may vie—
As, sending its concentred glances far,
The raven fringe that girds it, smit with bright,
Glows like a sable cloud from its own flashing light.

XXI.

Hers was the beauty of rare symmetry,
Where tone still tempers feature. In her face,
Presiding, hover'd forms of harmony,
That took all harshness from that holy place;
Yet each was all perfection to the eye,
Spiritual, bright, instinct with maiden grace;
Eye spoke to eye, and lip, and cheek, and brow,
Harmonious, like some rivulet's rippling flow.

XXII.

Young was she—scarce sixteen—yet tall and bending
Graceful as any willow by the wave;
Glad was she, and a mirthfulness still blending
Even with her sadness, mirthfulness still gave;
Light-hearted, as if never once offending,
It did not seem as if she could be grave;
Certain, that song or psalm, or changing weather,
Ne'er made her dull for two whole hours together.

XXIII.

She had but one old relative, a sire,
A thick, short, gouty, drowsy, frowsy knight;
Whose only care, beside his kitchen fire,
Was how to boil his eggs and boil them right;
His omelet served, he had no more desire,
And slept, not waiting the approach of night;—
Not profitless his faith, as it appears,
In eating,—he had kept it sixty years.

XXIV.

He made no fuss about his daughter's beauty,—
Saw little of her suitors;—took no heed
Who came or went;—esteemed it not a duty
To ask about the income or the breed;—
But so they spared his fresh eggs, and his foot, he
Boiled one and nursed the other;—and thus freed
From all restraint and guidance but her own,
She was the happiest damsel ever known.

XXV.

When she was but fifteen her mother died,
And left her as you see her, young and fair;
Lovely as any pearl beneath the tide,
Down 'neath the Mexic waters, deep but clear;
Pure as a star that shines, of heaven the pride,
Fresh as a zephyr from the moon's own sphere;—
Her mother very like her was when young,
But dying—there's no need to have her sung.

XXVI.

She died, and she was buried, and thus ends
The lives of many thousands seen in one;
She had her hosts of enemies and friends,
With and without her own exertions won;
And she might well have said—“Time is and tends
To what it was before, till all is done;”
Her smiles were smiles and sunny ones,—her tears,
The soft'ning drops that fall when the young moon appears.

XXVII.

And you may write upon her single tomb,
The record that will suit the tombs of many;
“I was and am not!”—'Tis a fearful doom
To be denied the memory of any;
And yet how few survive the cumbrous gloom
Of one short season past—the puny penny,
Of all their fond ambition in the dust,
Where antiquarians find—perchance—its rust.

XXVIII.

It should be, but is not, the hope of all,—
Else man were better, nobler, than he is,—
To leave behind them that which must enthral
The homage of the future.—Even the hiss
Of a succeeding age, the rabble's bawl,
Seems dearer to the spirit's pride than this
Denial of all life—annihilation,
From each memorial in this fair creation.

XXIX.

Oh! let my epitaph in future years—
When I myself can never more be heard,
And there are none, perchance, whose gushing tears
Shall stir again as they too oft have stirr'd
The bosom which their memory yet endears,—
Be utter'd in the voicings of that bird,
That sings throughout the long eternity,—
“I was, I am, and must forever be!”

XXX.

Even as the mother, too, had died the maiden,
But that I bid her live, and plead her cause;
Should you have known her, had I not array'd in,
The garb of song, her beauties and her flaws,
Merely that life itself should be display'd in
Its proper colors to command applause,—
Less for the form to which I give preferment,
Than the immortal texture of the garment.

XXXI.

Makers of immortality and fame,
Creators of the life that never dies;
What from our people should our poets claim,
Who do so much to make the little rise;
We who can dignify the meanest name,
Make the base virtuous, and the simple wise?—
Alas! for all these deeds, as I'm a sinner,
In modern times we scarcely get a dinner.

XXXII.

One likes a friendly dinner, and would really
Honor a quiet board in green-pea season;
Perhaps would deign to sit down at it daily,
Or once a week at least, as more in reason;
Partaking of its pleasant dishes gaily,
Simply because we know they're meant to please one;—
With me some years ago this taste began,
I learn'd it from a thriving alderman.—

XXXIII.

He got his manners in that dog-day station,
By losing popularity and quiet;
He never won the people's approbation,
Tho' that's a matter common sense won't cry at;
They sometimes roused him into irritation,
Once knock'd him down when quelling of a riot;
And so he sigh'd at nought, when leaving office,
Save that in turtle he was yet a novice.

XXXIV.

But where am I?—Not at my heroine truly,—
But as some traveller who impels his goad
Into his horse's flanks and whips him duly,
Until he bounds on the forbidden road,
Knight-errant like, still bent on deeds unruly,
Glad of the features of an episode,
I drive on helter-skelter, rash and erring,
Heedless of laws as he, still stirring, spurring!

XXXV.

Our damsel waits—her charms demand attention,—
I left off at her eyes, and hardly gave 'em
Due share of that fierce glow which young lads mention,
As the first thing in beauty to enslave 'em.
Strange that so lovely, they should bring dissention,
Still making it most terrible to brave 'em:
In bane and beauty both, ah! adder-like,
No wonder they are still the first to strike!

XXXVI.

Such then was Leonora, when there came,
As who can doubt, a large and motley crowd
Of gallant lovers, smitten by the flame,
And at the altar which it kindled, bow'd;—
Knights of the highest station known to fame,
In valor peerless, and of lineage proud;
Young, old, fair, dark, a curious set of dandies,
But still admitted all as spanish grandees.

XXXVII.

Foremost among her suitors there was one
Than whom the nation had no braver choice;
In all the Moorish fights victorious known,
The king himself had spoke with favoring voice;
And Ponce de Leon was a name that shone,
And sounded, too, with no unheeded noise;
He had been in his youth a vigorous fellow,
But Time had touched him—he was rather mellow.

XXXVIII.

His beard had something of a grizzly hue,
And sallow was his shrivell'd-up complexion;
His shoulders caught a stoop at fifty-two,
And his good form had lost its old erection;
But yet he fondly fancied he might do,
And could not see the folly of connexion,—
He in the cold November of the year,
With one who just had seen her May appear.

XXXIX.

He pressed his suit with little relaxation,
And watch'd the maiden's eye and watch'd her heart;
As if his duty were circumvallation
Of Moorish fortress, with a warrior's art,
Each day advanced him to a nearer station,
And from the eyes of the fortress sped no dart,
Or missive, which escaped the jealous sight
Of that most dull but persevering knight.

XL.

At length his batteries being all completed,
The question in his mind and tent discussed,
His blood aroused to the assault, and heated,
With highest hope and something of distrust,
Before the lady now behold him seated,
Firm as in knightly saddle ere the joust;
And thus, with accents sweetly strong, but tender,
He summon'd the fair fortress to surrender.

XLI.

He boasted of his deeds—told many a story,
Othello-like, of conflict and of blood;—
Deeds done by flood and field, and many a glory
Plucked from grim battle in his angriest mood;—
But not with like success.—His beard so hoary
Would ever on the anxious hour intrude;
And when he boasted in his loudest strain,
She said—“Ah, me! you can't do that again!”

XLII.

“You're old now, good Don Ponce; your brightest days
Have vanish'd in the wars;—ah! wo is me!—
I had been glad t' have known you when your bays
Were green, and youth was flush with victory;
For those I have heard speaking in your praise,
Tell me you were the comeliest youth to see,
And in the field and in the bower alike,
You always knew the proper time to strike!”

XLIII.

Women when women truly are much more
Than women only:—to the enthusiast lover,
They are inspiring night-gems, and their lore
Is of unearthly images that hover
Like living stars above a spell-bound shore,
Which high and blessed spirits still watch over;
Their smiles are beams of planets which have shone,
Glad'ning a realm from which all other lights have gone!

XLIV.

Wooing they conquer;—soothing, they have spells
To still the heart-ache; and tho' things of tears,
Something of rapture from their sorrow wells,
Consoling, in a world of many cares,
Even while they make them. There is something tells
How first they came from Eden,—which endears
Earth still to love. They give it light and bloom,
Hallow its altars, nor forsake its tomb.

XLV.

They are the blessed sunshine, and their smiles
Call up the flowers and song-birds of the heart;
Each murmur maddens, and each beam beguiles,
And vainly would we reason and depart;
They woo, and win, and bind us in their toils,
And though we see, we cannot scorn the art,
Which lures with so much winningness and power
To lonely grove, sweet shade and secret bower.

XLVI.

If their smiles brighten—if their glances glow
And glitter with the sunbeam,—then, as well,
Their influence, when their tears in anguish flow,
Gathers about the heart a potent spell,
It may not baffle. Thus, they teach to know,
How much of the Tempter was she when she fell,
Our common mother,—by whose wanton taste,
We lost that Eden she has yet replaced.

XLVII.

And well has she replaced it!—in the glory,
The balm, the brilliance, of the beaming eye;
Theme of the minstrel's song, the gossip's story,
Untold devotion, deathless sympathy;
Kindler of hope in hearts cold and heads hoary,
In spirits long tutor'd by the fates to sigh,—
How more than equal are her thousand powers
To bring back Paradise and all its flowers.

XLVIII.

And yet, at times, I soberly confess it,
The creature is most troublesome and sad;
She brings us many a joy, but seeks to dress it
In hues so gloomy, how can we be glad!
So wayward is her mood that none can guess it,
Or fix it to one feature, good or bad;
One moment grows she most abruptly willing,
The next—she slaps the chaps that think of billing!

XLVIX.

Now, why did Leonora to her lover,
The valiant Ponce de Leon, with an air
Of such malicious heartlessness discover,
She knew he was not what he would appear;
Flinging his hopeful speculations over,
Casting down his fortresses, with such a sneer,
And that same beard with which his nature fenced him,
Turning so sharply, wickedly, against him.

L.

Plague, say I, on a thoughtless wench like this!—
The old knight quickly started from his seat,
When that his dream of unsubstantial bliss
Had thus been cruelly broken. To his feet
He sprang! He taller grew—with fiercer phiz
That glared with love and fury strangely meet;—
Then spoke, quite rabid at the rash allusion
To that which almost always breeds confusion.

LI.

His words were never many, and his blood,
Just then, were readier far at deed than word;
Had any warrior thus provoked his mood,
His answer had been spoken by the sword;
Nothing had interposed to stay the flood
Meet for his full appeasement;—he had poured,
Unstopped, the fullest vials of his wrath,
Till he had swept each foeman from his path.

LII.

But, 'twas a lady and a lovely one,—
One too, whom still he tenderly adored;
And so he used his tongue, and left alone,
Though fumbling still, the handle of his sword;—
His words were broken, yet they still ran on,
In most amusing floods of fury pour'd;
And now he raved in anger, now he pray'd,
Reproach'd in bitter word, and next implor'd the maid.

LIII.

“Oh, Leonora, is it thus you speak?
My beard is gray, you say, my head is white,
And I am old, and all my joints are weak!—
You had not thought so, had you been a knight!
I am not fit to press a lady's cheek,
To be her champion and assert her right;—
To win the prize of beauty at her beckon;—
Sancta Marie!—I'm abler than you reckon.

LIV.

“My limbs are strong although my beard is gray,
Nor have I lost the action of the court;
Even now, not backward in the wild melée,
Methinks my sword should make its good report
As in the battles of my youthful day;
Nor should I lack the graces of the sport;
And, in the measured dance at evening set,
I still could play my part with the young damsels yet.

LV.

“I old, and gray, and weak!—oh! Leonora,
How greatly you mistake me! Hear me speak;
Behold my tread; your eye may not explore a
Single feature you could fancy weak;
What, Ponce de Leon, who shrunk not before a
Whole troup of Moorish knights, who sought to wreak
Their vengeance on the little band he led,
But finding it uncomfortable, fled!—

LVI.

“Have I not fought in many hundred battles,
And who has ever seen me turn in flight?
Mine is the music when the armour rattles,
And on the vega meets each rival knight;
Thus Lope, the poet, who so sweetly prattles
Of all brave deeds of gallantry and might,
Has set my feats to verse, and nightly brings them
To Donna Clara's palace, where he sings them.

LVII.

“I old!—Was ever such a strange idea!—
I weak i' the joints!—ah! what is it, I pray,
Makes you, sweet lady, entertain so free a
Notion of one who never yet gave way?
Behold me as I walk:—you shall not see a
Finer or surer step i' the summer's day:—
I do not want to force your good opinion,
But a more proper man's not in the whole dominion.

LVIII.

“My height's the proper height—nor large, nor low—
My shoulders not too broad for honor knightly;
My form not overlaid with flesh, and so
Not liable to grossness most unsightly;—
Yet are my limbs not spare—my tread not slow—
My gait and carriage proper taste deems rightly;
And for my beard and hair, sweet Leonora,
They speak of wisdom in your true adorer.”

LVIX.

Thus argufied, or sought to argufy,
With action meet and air of deep anxiety,
Our worthy knight, who, taught to fight or die,
And only know of toil its strange variety,
Love had not tutor'd in his lessons sly;—
Of war, Don Ponce had feasted to satiety,
And years, that put him out of the pale of fashion,
Were yet the very impulse to his passion.

LX.

But in this field his ardor all was wasted;
A most provoking calm the maid maintained,
And this, the first rebuke the knight had tasted,
The only strife in which he was disdained,
Roused all his youthful ire. His speech and face did
Equally show how deeply he was pained;—
Exhausted only, he at length gave over,
The labor, for a season, of the lover.

LXI.

Yet did he not forbear his first desire;
He changed the siege into a close blockade;
With spies forever set who could not tire,
He kept close watch on tower and palisade;
At times he still maintained a running fire,
Sent her warm sonnets, and with serenade
And song, from many a poet in his way-lay,
Shot the estilo culto at her daily.

LXII.

But patience tired at last of vain pursuit;—
He sickened of a labor so excessive,
His love began to yawn;—his minstrels mute,
Uttered their strains in accents unimpressive;
From all his labors he beheld no fruit,
His passion grew at last to be digressive,
And cooling one day to his sober senses,
The knight drew off to calculate expenses.

CANTO II.

I.

Glancing my vision o'er the world's affairs,
Surveying this and that, of strange and common,
Its double singles and divided pairs,
Its human brutes and brutes that might be human,
All vexing life with sad and fruitless cares,
Yet all made agents of that creature, woman;—
I've come to this conclusion, that, 'twere better,
If we poor bachelors had never met her.

II.

Better we had not seen and could not fancy,
So sad and strange conception;—could not want
Her presence, nor beneath her necromancy
Feel the torn bosom and vex'd pulses pant,
With dreams and hopes that not a step advance ye
To health or happiness, but rather daunt,
At each impassion'd move, the weary spirit,
That sees the joy receding as we near it.

III.

Better, in single blessedness, had Adam,
Stout father-farmer, in his garden trod;
Unvex'd by daily strife with maid or madam,
And free to eat his fruit and meet his God:
I'm sure his fate had not been half so sad;—am
Certain, he had not then been thrust abroad
With breeches made of fig-leaves, quickly rended,
More quickly than his wife could get them mended.

IV.

I know this doctrine is esteemed heretical,
'Mongst your small poets—great-eyed lads who sing
Of raptures unexperienced,—theoretical,
Loves in the larder and perpetual spring:
Theirs is a language utterly æsthetical,
Set phrases of their art to which they cling,
Like some blind nag, sufficient in a mill,
Who, sent abroad, must hunt his own tail still.

V.

Nor does it alter that the “Pleasures” poet
Campbell—hath said, “the garden was a wild;”
For this is bald conjecture;—could he know it,
Or prove that Adam “sigh'd till woman smiled;”
One fact alone will amply serve to show it
Was doubtful whether he had been beguiled,
To yield his rib to bring the loveliest spouse in,—
For it was taken from his side when drowsing.

VI.

Even from his weakness and abandonment,
Had woman her first being. Thus hath grown
Her power of evil since;—still, uncontent,
Hath she explored his weakness and o'erthrown;
And, in the use of arts incontinent,
No longer pacified by one poor bone,
She grapples the whole man, brawn, beef and muscle,
Helped by the same old snake, and flings him in the tussle.

VII.

Have you not seen her in the public way,
Snare-setting?—In the ball-room, mark'd her eyes,
Pursuing, like a very snake's, her prey?—
And vainly would he dodge them, and be wise!
In flight alone is safety. Do you stray,
Beside her, when the moon is in the skies,—
Or by the brooklet, or along the sea,
Or in the garden, parlor, buttery?—

VIII.

In all of these is danger.—What with smiles,
Songs, tender glances, looks of gentlest fear,—
All humbug!—she most certainly beguiles,—
Takes you by eye or lip, by arm or ear,—
Leads you and binds you, soothes you and reviles,
Plays, cat-like, with your terrors, till the snare
Is fastened, and she knows you cannot fly,
Then, the same traitress Eve, she stands before your eye.

IX.

She is the cause of all the ill world's evil,
She kicks up all the dust, she makes the strife;
She is at bottom of each deed uncivil,
Mixes the bitter in the bowl of life,
And keeping up her commerce with the d---l,
Is still in some shape tempter, maid or wife;
Still wooing, winning—with stolen apples cramming us,
The game at last being finished by her d---ning us!

X.

Now, if the good Don Ponce, that worthy knight,
Had never met this flippant Spanish lady,
Nor felt his spirit 'neath the fatal light
Of beauty,—that had only reached its heyday,—
O'ersway'd, obscur'd and doom'd to cruel blight,—
His age had glided on like some calm May-day,
Its cold December storms subdued to showers
Of April,—and its forehead dress'd with flowers.

XI.

He had, like other warriors of his time,
Gone to his vineyard and suburban villa;
Had pass'd his days in stupor most sublime,
His nights, in deep allegiance to his pillow;
Untroubled by the crown, the church-bell's chime,
Sleep, garlic, wine and oil, a constant fill o',
At worst a brief annoyance from the city,
Of ruralizing damsels, pert and pretty.

XII.

Or if these vex'd him, he had farther gone
To his more desolate castle hid by trees,
Though on a rock so high, the setting sun
Smiles on it as the last of earth he sees;
Lingering awhile in fondness there alone
For this same reason;—the devoted breeze
Thence making it his resting place from flight,
And whistling lonely through its halls all night.

XIII.

There had he sat him down,—no eagle higher,
More free from man's intrusion; not a care,
With all that grandeur left him by his sire,
And but some ancient butler lingering there,—
A house-keeper perchance,—perhaps a friar,
Some lean domestic with a frosty hair,
Looking like creature of past world and season,
Making the winter put some ten degrees on.

XIV.

Perchance, in the long evenings of October,
Some old friend of his fighting days might come;
Fancy the liquor free,—the knights not sober,—
The wit all out and yet the men not dumb;
Each prating of his deeds, his bona roba,
His wit, grace, valor;—what a restless hum,
With cackling laughter, ringing thro' the mansion,
As old jokes found revivified expansion.

XV.

Thus cheerily perhaps, our knight had pass'd,
Through the long years from ripeness to decay,
In that stout castle that defied the blast;
Cheer'd with his friend by night, his farm by day;
If o'er his fate that maiden had not cast
Her wicked spells and held with wanton sway,
That made him all unfit,—and daily worse,—
For his own business, and perhaps for hers.

XVI.

I've said he raised the siege, but expectation
Still found him some encouragement; and still,
Each hour brought something forth to soothe vexation,
And hope grew active in despite of ill;
Still love was glowing with anticipation,
And fancied smiles that sweeten'd former chill;
For months, alas! the good old warrior struggled,
And still the maiden smiled, and still she juggled.

XVII.

The case was hopeless;—that atrocious beard,
Sprinkled with inauspicious gray and white;
That sleek, smooth, bald spot on his head, still rear'd
Conspicuous in his own and neighbor's sight;
Quirk's patent wig,—ah! had but that appear'd
In season,—he had been in happier plight;—
This song had not been written then, and Ponce
Had proved himself most proper for the nonce.

XVIII.

Defeated but not desperate, though the beauty
Most clearly mock'd him,—he, about this time,
Hearken'd a gypsey's story, and her sooty,
Sly face, encouraged him:—Her doggrel rhyme
Promised him loads of love, much more of booty,
After some small delay, some smaller crime;
And at this juncture, an old Portuguese,
Who, all his life, had wander'd o'er the seas,—

XIX.

Arrived at the knight's castle with a story
Of some strange fountain which in India lay,
Deep in a vale girt in by mountains hoary;
Whose virtues, baffling still the form's decay,
Renews the youth of man, and with the glory
Of former freshness so restores his day,
That none might know the form which once had quaff'd
The immortality of that rich draught.

XX.

He knew the very spot where it was found,—
That stout old sailor;—swore that all he wanted
Were some strong ships, with men and bottoms sound,
Guns, swords and bullets—chiefs not quickly daunted,
By darts and yelling Indians;—and that ground,
So foreign, and that fountain so enchanted,
Were to be gather'd in the church's fold;—
“For his part, he must have his share in gold.”

XXI.

Ponce questioned closely:—plausible, the fellow
Told a straight story, very smooth and clear,
Repeating it, the same,—though somewhat mellow,
By too much commerce with the butler's cheer:
The knight's faith soon was yielded—he got well;—a
Happy fancy banished all his care;
And off he darted suddenly and soon,
“Revisiting the glimpses of his moon.”

XXII.

His sun I should have said, but that the gender,
Hath its own scruples in a lady's case;—
Had you but seen his features proud and tender,
New-touch'd with hope, yet full of old disgrace;
The very effort which he made to render
His visage wooing, led him to grimace;
And then his accents, mix'd of pride and pleading,—
Ha! ha! the good old knight!—how thought he of succeeding?

XXIII.

Rash, to her presence, rushed he, while he carried
The strange sweet story of that magic draught;
“Dear Leonora, let us now be married,
And when its golden waters once are quaff'd,
This grisly beard—’ The knight had better tarried
A little longer, for the maiden laughed
With unrestrainéd impulse as he went on,
Assuming all the things his soul was bent on.

XXIV.

“Really, I know not, lady, whence your mirth,—
What see you here to laugh at? Do you doubt
Facts furnished by the sob'rest man on earth,
Here written legibly and soon made out;
Attested by our alcayde, man of worth
And spirit, good in substance, true and stout;
Whose blessed wife, an honor to the nation,
Brought him three children on the same occasion.

XXV.

“See here, in black and white, the truth entire;
Here Dias Codro swears—the Portuguese—
That he can guide me, ere three months expire,
To a small island in the Indian seas,
Call'd Bimini, or Isle of Youth's Desire,
Where, hidden deep, midst rocky heights and trees,
This sacred fountain springs, renown'd for giving
Youth to the old and beauty to the living.

XXVI.

“There's no mistake about it;—see each letter,
Writ in the plainest text;—observe the ink
Scarce dry upon the paper,—nothing better
Of this kind can be found in Spain, I think;
The scribe you know, the famous Gil Agretta,
I know him skilful even in his drink;
He writes the sweet songs for Don Jorge Morisco,
And lets the glory—not the gain—for his go.

XXVII.

“It only needs that you should see the writing,—
Look, Donna Leonora,—use your eyes;
If ever truth was nigh at one's inditing,
Then here, methinks, the truth most truly lies;
How smoothly-turn'd these letters, soul-delighting,
What a sweep here, how tall these columns rise!”
Ah! hapless Ponce,—he asked her to the survey,
But held the sheet—he knew not—topsy turvey!

XXVIII.

The maiden laugh'd more merrily than ever;
“You read it, good Don Ponce;” she slyly cried.
“What, take precedence of a lady, never!—
No, dearest, I would have you satisfied;”
Again the lady laughed; the knight was clever;
Prompt at evasion, though it touch'd his pride;
For on his cheek a deep red flush'd the brown—
But still he kept the paper upside down.

XXIX.

And, spite of all her laughter, he proceeded:
“Be mine, dear Leonora. Let us seek
That fountain, then—its waters, haply needed
By all, will bring back beauty to my cheek;
Life, youth and love, not ignorantly pleaded,
From heaven, shall be our ministers, and speak
For each desire that gathers in the breast,
Ere yet it rises to our thoughts confess'd.

XXX.

“The youth that is perpetual, won from heaven,
Shall bless us twain on earth. The flow'rs shall bloom
Perennial, and all blessings shall be given,
Unqualified, untainted, free from doom;—
No treasure then can from our grasp be riven,
Life shall have no denial, earth no tomb;
Days dawn and set, and every day endear ye
To other days!”—“Ah!” said the maid, “how weary!

XXXI.

“What, shall there be no quarrels—no commotion,
Will tempests sleep—shall I not use my tongue;—
Will the storms cease to scare us on the ocean;
Shall we no more by sweetest woes be wrung;
No widowhood!—no children!”—“What a notion!”
Replied Don Ponce. “Why, shall we not be young,
Forever loving, Leonora”—“Can, sir,
You stop awhile,” said she, “and take my answer?

XXXII.

“This fountain, should you find it, is a treasure,
That richly must repay your toil and care;
When you have found it, it shall be my pleasure,—
Provided always that it makes you fair,—
To be your wife, sir, at your earliest leisure,
On one condition more, which you shall hear:
Namely, that you shall bring across the ocean,
Some dozen bottles of this princely lotion.

XXXIII.

“They shall be bottled by your knightly hands, sir,
That so there may be no deception done;
You shall, to have the bottles clean, command, sir,
At least three days of washing for each one;
Fill'd, then,—cork'd, sealed and labelled,—understand, sir,—
And thenceforth sacred to my use alone;
You shall, in all your troubles, storms and strifes, sir,
Watch these same bottles as you love your life, sir.

XXXIV.

“These unto me deliver'd, and your youth,
Renew'd, as you avow it then will be;
Your love the same as now, soul full of truth,
No loss of member or of strength to see;
My promise, which I make to you in sooth,
Shall be fulfill'd, bear witness, heaven, for me;
Provided, while you're seeking youth o'er sea, sir,
There comes no lovelier youth a-seeking me, sir.”

XXXV.

Were ever such hard terms? In great vexation,
The stout old knight most keenly did upbraid;
Vain were his clamors, vain expostulation,
To move that most unreasonable maid;
“If these,” she said, “don't meet your approbation,
You're your own master,—no more need be said;”
And taking up her lute, she sung a ditty,
Quite popular at that time in the city.

LAY OF LEONORA.

I.

Old men young maids pursuing,
How little do they guess,
That every hour of wooing,
But makes their chances less;
The maid no longer spousy,
O'ercome with stories long,
To keep from feeling drowsy,
Must seek relief in song.
And so, with tinkle, tinkle,
As falling rain to fire,
She soon contrives to sprinkle
The good old man's desire.
And so with tinkle, tinkle,
She soon contrives to sprinkle.

II.

Love hath no long discourses,
A single smile, a sigh,
These are the sovereign forces,
That give him victory,—
Thus, while the old man's purring,
Dull speaking, dully heard,
The young one's stirring, spurring,
And he carries off the bird:
Ah! then, the tinkle, tinkle,
Is the church bell from the spire,
To kindle, not to sprinkle,
The fond bosom with desire.
Ah! then, the tinkle, tinkle,
Is to kindle not to sprinkle.

XXXVI.

Fizz, fuzz, pop, bang!—The knight's rage was terrific;
Was ever knight so trifled with before!
Offence so rank, with insult so specific,
Reach'd to his very ribs and touch'd the core;
But, not unlike the sea misnamed Pacific,
The calm was quite as sudden as the roar;
His storm blew out, his wrath subsided soon,
The skies were quickly cleared, outshone both stars and moon!

XXXVII.

In other words, he softened to civility,
After a brief explosion; made appeal
For a new trial, and with fresh ability
Urged the old arguments to sign and seal;
With quicken'd wit and lover plausibility,
Show'd how their marriage would ignite his zeal,
Strengthen his soul, make certain his endeavor,—
And other arguments both new and clever.

XXXVIII.

He made in truth one very strong suggestion,—
“These waters,” said he, “never yet were found
To do one half the help to one's digestion,
When bottled, and consumed on foreign ground;”
He quoted facts and works beyond all question,
For this opinion,—works considered sound,—
Such as the Nassau Brunnens—written well, sir,—
Advertisements from Saratoga!—Seltzer.

XXXIX.

These wrought within her hesitation brief;
Were soon dismiss'd, and, spite of plea and prayer,
The damsel, with a tone of pleasant grief,
Replied in the old accents, cool and clear:
“Sorry she could not then afford relief;
Must first behold the change on beard and hair;
And then, if no one better-graced came seeking,
He might renew, on terms, his present speaking.”

CANTO III.

I.

And Ponce hath left the spot which gave him birth;
Wept he at parting? Was there in his eye
That dewy-bright antagonist of mirth,
That seeks for sympathy, but no reply?
Or did he vainly dream that any earth,
Could yield him that his own could still deny,—
Could aught restore of those dear memories,
Which never die though all enjoyment dies.

II.

He did not weep, though bitter was his plight,
But at the stern he sat, as in the west,
In a full blaze of undiminish'd light,
The sun went down behind a billow's breast;
Then gazing back, with fond but failing sight,
For the faint shore-line on the sky impress'd,
He made that sad discovery of the heart,
The worst of mortal pangs, is that—to part.

III.

To sever from the known and loved before,
The field of boyhood's hope and young delight;
Each scene so dear to youth's confiding core,
When first the dawn of life broke blue and bright,
The morning triumph, when the cup runs o'er;
Hope in its first fruition; day and night
Commingling with joint glories to persuade,
That lovelier world than this was never made.

IV.

How strangely beautiful the well-known places,
About to lose them. With what sense the eye,
Taught by the yearning heart, reseeks, retraces,
Restores and renovates, what it must fly:
Tutored by memory, how affection graces,
Field flower and shrub, gray rock, and mountain high,
With beauties which the heart hath dwelt on never,
Till told that it is losing them forever.

V.

The old knight's forehead sunk upon his hand,
While the rough sea boy, in his roughest tone,
Bade them survey, for the last time, the land,
Too fondly cherish'd, far too dearly known;
Now narrow'd to a stripe of ocean strand,
Like dusky riband now,—now seen, now gone;—
He gazed, and sickened as he gazed,—his eye,
Shut, as 'twould seek to shut out agony.

VI.

He did not heed the shadows, nor the chill,
Of evening, that now gather'd round his frame;
Sick as he was, at heart, he lingered still,
And found a grateful music in the scream
Of one lone land-bird, that had used the will,
And wing, too, of the wildest, and still came,
Lingering about them until day had gone,—
When it flew off, and they went on alone.

VII.

Yet, while it scream'd above him,—while the seas
Answer'd in murmurs,—and, along the sky,
Wheel'd the pale moon,—and, gathering on the breeze,
Rose the wild sound of ocean mystery;
(Strange sound that well with wandering heart agrees,)
His feelings, saddened to intensity,
Grew into utterance, and with a tongue,
Made musical by anguish, thus he sung:

VIII.

“Farewell! farewell! I had not thought to leave,
Sweet country, in the mellowness of life,
Thy shores of sunny verdure; nor to grieve
When launching on a world of newer strife;
Yet bitter are the promptings that bereave
The heart of all its kindred, as a knife,
That, sharpen'd for the purpose, must divide
The kindred blossoms growing side by side.

IX.

“Yet, not the fear of strife, the dread of toil,
The wild and its vicissitude and waste;
At these, the hardy frame, well-trained, may smile,
And rather, to the trial of them, haste;
But, from the hearts that capture and beguile,
To fly is worse than mortal; and I taste,
For the first time, the bitter of that boon
I begged too fondly, and lament too soon.

X.

“And thou, sweet cruelty, unkind but dear,
Why did thy stubborn heart not bend to mine,
Receive my homage and requite my pray'r,
Nor doom me thus to wander and repine;
Thou dost not know my love, thou scorn'st my tear,
Mock'st the fond spirit done to death by thine;
Ah! hast thou then no dread, that for the present,
The future state will be a state unpleasant.

XI.

“Methinks the tortures should be doubly cruel,
For maids who trifle with fond hearts below;
Damsels, whose pleasure it hath been to do ill,
To noble men, should there be made to know,
That kindness is their duty, love their jewel,
Their proper virtue, kissing while they go,
Bestowing charity through all their senses;—
Ah! could they know how sweet the recompense is!

XII.

“For love wins love, and charity that blesses
The heart that hungers, is thrice blessed in turn;
Not unrequited are the maid's caresses,
Who not denies them to the hearts that burn;
She who has hearkened to the youth's addresses,
Nor met his prayer with heedlessness and scorn,
Methinks, though in her purgatorial state,
Should be permitted a first choice for mate.

XIII.

“Nor tethered to that ‘single blessedness,’
The hope unmet, the parties not agreeing,—
Divorce should remedy her least distress,
Her bonds dividing, and her spirit freeing;
A motion of mere right, should bring redress,
With settlement the same, though from it fleeing;
And nothing should be suffer'd to prevent her
Seeking some soul that better may content her.

XIV.

“And yet, that separation!—Where, oh! death,
Abide thy tortures, if they be not found,
In the sad pang of that unuttering breath,
Which gives ‘farewell’ its keen and fatal sound;
That word, which killing rapture, quickens faith,
Tho' swathed in tears and born of the deep wound,
That is hope's death—and mocks the laboring breast,
That nought may gladden, and which cannot rest.

XV.

“Ay, death's sole pain is mental: other pain
It hath not: tho' the limb be cramped and torn,
By racking, strong convulsion, yet the brain,
And the sad heart are those which still have borne;
They are the sufferers and they strive in vain,
They cannot part with passions which were worn,
Even as a garment, round th' unshelter'd heart;—
The agony of dying, is to part

XVI.

“With those who loved and love us:—scarcely less
Than death are minor partings. To arise
At evening, when the clouds about us press,
And storms are hanging in the angry skies,
And with no staff, but perils numberless,
Our sole companions,—to behold the eyes
We would not see in sorrow, flooded o'er,—
Then speed away unto some foreign shore!—

XVII.

“This is the mental death—the agony
Beyond all pain of limb, all fever smart,
All racking of the joints:—this is to die;—
Sad burial of the hope that lit the heart;—
Love mourning, doom'd affections lingering by,
Muttering the words of death—‘We part, we part!’
Ah! what the trial—where the pangs, the fears,
To equal this sad source of thousand tears?

XVIII.

“And when the lamp of life upon a verge
Unseated as a vision, sinks at last;
And when the spirit launches on the surge
Of that dark, drear, unfathomable vast,
We call eternity,—its latest dirge,
Bemoans not pangs, still pressing, not o'erpast,
But that all natural things, forms, stars and skies,
And the more loved than all, are fading from its eyes.

XIX.

“Thus still beloved, though all relentless fair,
I part from thee and perish. Never more
Shall I win sweetness from the desolate air,
Or find a fragrant freshness in the shore;
The sea that images my deep despair,
Hath still a kindred language in its roar,
And in the clouds that gather on our lee,
A mournful likeness to my soul I see.

XX.

“The sense of life grows dim;—the glories pass,
Like those of melting rainbows from my sight;
Dark aspects rise as in the wizard's glass,
Reflect my inner soul, and tell of night;
Glooms gather on my vision, in a mass,
And all my thoughts, beheld in their dread light,
Rise like unbidden spectres,—rise to rave
Above the heart, which soon may be their grave.

XXI.

“This is your doing, damsel all too dear,
'Tis you have driven me forth;—'tis you have made
A gallant knight that not till now knew fear,
Of his own thoughts and shadows still afraid;
You taunted him about that grisly hair,
Grey beard, deep wrinkles, bald and polish'd head;
Packing him forth, o'er sea and wood and mountain,
To bottle water for you from that fountain.

XXII.

“Suppose his journey vain—suppose your lover,
Seeking the means his boyhood to restore,
Fails in that foreign region to discover
The blessings he will then pursue no more:—
You'll give no tear to soothe the weary rover,
No smile to cheer him when he comes ashore;
You'll laugh to see his wrinkled melancholy,
And tell such stories of the old man's folly.”

XXIII.

Thus bitterly bemoan'd he to the wind
That moan'd in sympathy. The chafing seas,
Had their own mighty sorrows, and the mind
Of that brave knight—now down upon his knees
Before the Virgin mother—grew resign'd;
Soothed somewhat by the softness of the breeze;—
He had his fears of ocean, and the scath
Of tempests, when they sally forth in wrath.

XXIV.

Its very calms brought danger to his eye;
The stillness was a threat of storm to come;
He could not here contend—he could but die,—
And then he'd like to struggle for it some;
He saw the wave, deceitful mirror, lie
Like some vast maelstrom, waiting for the doom;
Quiet, he knew, means danger; volcans sleep
Like giants, for a long while ere they leap.

XXV.

In the wild storm that whistles on the waves,
Sits danger not alone. The placid sea,
In which the wanton sea-maid nightly laves,
Conceals the whirlpool that a-gapes for thee,
Thou that look'st fondly down for ocean's caves,
Its golden sands, its glittering gems to see;
And most the monsters of the deep appear,
When the broad waters glide, blue, beautiful and clear.

XXVI.

Thus spoke his fancies, for the field was new,
On which the knight now journied. Death was nought,
Whate'er his terrors, once before his view,
Clearly, as when 'mong charging foes he fought;
In the fierce passage, he could strike and do—
Fame might be won there; service might be wrought;
But death by drowning was a source of fright,
Disquieting the stomach of our knight.

XXVII.

And when the winds of midnight waken'd up,
To revel on the bosom of the deep,
With gloom and thunder, a discordant troop,
Riding the mountain billows with dread sweep,
And from descending clouds, with desperate stoop,
Bidding the sharp and angry lightnings leap,
Till the black seething waters burst in fire;—
Oh, how it made the good old knight perspire.

XXVIII.

He had, it may be said, a brave array,
Three ships, four hundred souls, some rugged spirits;
There came the Spaniard, Portuguese, Malay,
Jew, Gentile,—men of wild but various merits;
All free, loose rovers—moral birds of prey—
Such men as peace from time of war inherits;
Throat-cutting gentry—swaggering, fierce and fearless,
Maimed some of them in battle, armless, earless.

XXIX.

But not less useful in a fruitful era,—
Fruitful for all employment,—trading, fighting,
Marching and murdering;—men to do and dare;—a
Reckless rabble, forlorn hopes inviting;
Ready for aught, but let the foe appear;—a
Jovial crew, one sacred cause uniting;
Whose banners bore the sign, Constantine's wonder,
Much used in every age, to lead to—plunder.

XXX.

Plunder and blood, and every rank brutality,
As much enjoyed as dinner or as drink;
Our knight review'd his men with cordiality;
In Moorish battle they had proved the pink
Of chivalry; though mercy and frugality
Were not among their virtues found, I think,—
Or mocked them;—they had bathed their hands in slaughter—
With as much coolness as we bathe in water.

XXXI.

But there was one among the motley many,
A tall, brave-looking lad, whose speaking eye,
Secured the knight's attention first, and then, he
Survey'd him with a strange anxiety;
Beholding him, he looked no more on any,
Of all his cut-throats, born to do or die;—
That manly form, brave glance and lofty brow,
They surely had encountered him ere now.

XXXII.

“But where? who was he? what his purpose here
With these wild braggarts? Could it be that one
So lofty-looking, graceful, youthful, fair,—
Already in the hope and heart undone,
Debased by crime, abandon'd to despair,
Or worse, through all, to worse indifference run,—
Should yield his soul up in such base communion,
A moral death most certain from such union.

XXXIII.

Your name? Who are you?”—thus to the unknown
Spake Ponce de Leon.—“We have met before!”
“Perchance,” replied the youth; “but I am one
You know not—of my lineage proud, but poor;—
Of friends bereft, by cruel fate undone,
I seek my fortune on the Indian shore;—
I feel that I have in me soul and strength,
And trust in God to make them known at length.”

XXXIV.

“'Tis a brave spirit;—but, declare your name!”—
“That I must make;—a pride that will not bear
The sting of sympathy, and feels it shame,
Forbids me yield my father's to your ear:
Too proudly chronicled by deeds of fame,
Let it be silent till mine own appear;
When I have won my laurels I will speak,
What now would bring the blush upon my cheek!

XXXV.

“Meanwhile, I am Don Ferdinand de Laye,
Provençal lineage;—this shall be my style;
Till, with occasion, I may pierce my way
To glory, that my deeds may win one smile—”
“Ha! then, you love?”—The youth responded “yea,”
And a slight redness tinged his cheek the while,—
“I love, Don Ponce, but love without a penny
Is sure, in Spain, the maddest love of any.”

XXXVI.

“Unless it be the grey-beard love;” our knight
Thoughtfully murmured. “Strange!” he mused a space;
“This youth and I were both in better plight
Were we but fortuned in each other's case;
Had he my wealth, his barriers would be slight,
Mine were all tumbled an I wore his face;—
The devil take these women—how they worry us,
Tease, tear, vex, wear, and flurry, hurry, scurry us!”

XXXVII.

That they were like in fortune with the fair,
Roused in Don Ponce a world of sympathy;
Unto that stranger youth he now drew near,
Soon raised him to his own Lieutenancy;
Sought his communion, found no other dear,
And only asked for recompense, that he
Should be a listener, no impatience shewing,
While he went o'er the “manner of his wooing.”

XXXVIII.

From rise of morn to set of blessed sun,
From blessed set of sun to rise of morn,
Still ever new, the story was begun,
Still did the knight anew his grievance mourn;
A tale beginning ever, never done,
The same old hope and fear, and love and scorn;
From stem to stern, was heard forevermore a
Single name, and that was Leonora.

XXXIX.

The knight grew eloquent in his narration;
Spared not himself;—described his follies truly;
How much he labored in that strange vocation,
Love-making, in his old age lesson'd newly;
How faint the lady's smile; her approbation
How mixed with jibe and jeer, and jest unruly;
And then her last and cruel requisition,
Which brought his stomach into such condition,—

XL.

In hope to pleasure hers. The young De Laye
Hearken'd the mournful story. Sigh for sigh,
Yielded in proper place:—Was pleased to say—
“'Twas the most piteous tale of cruelty
That human ear had heard for many a day.”—
Ah! had Don Ponce beheld his glances sly,
The close compression of his lips, concealing
Some wicked thoughts that moment he was feeling—

XLI.

Could he have hearken'd, when the youth, alone,
Sang to himself, and all his soul confess'd;—
Have heard that sacred name, so dearly known,
In sobs of passion not to be repress'd,
Rise on the traitor's lips, in many a tone,
Of stifled fondness, struggling from his breast;—
Nay, see the billet,—which, in moments stolen,
He read, with all his soul—which held her soul in;—

XLII.

The soul of Leonora:—Thus her letter
Breathed forth its language to the young De Laye:
“You only do I love, but love's a fetter,
If fortune lend no sunshine to the way;
Go forth, Alphonso, make your fortunes better,
Use the old knight and conquer at Cathay,
Bring home your spoils from Golden Chersonesus—
Your empty-handed lovers seldom please us.

XLIII.

“Beauty with youth is mighty; but with these,
Join fortune, and the man becomes invincible;
The two are always very sure to please,
The third must conquer—it embodies principle;
The first may win their way by slow degrees,
The third, by instant storm, takes bosoms sensible;
You, dear Alphonso, own the two,—be steady,
ecure the third, and I am yours already.

XLIV.

“Of all the men I've known, you most I fancy,
The noblest form of beauty to my eyes;
But wealth is very needful to advance ye,
Win this, and with it, every dearer prize;
Let not the dream of this old knight entrance ye,—
Yet should you of these waters get supplies,
Fill me some dozen bottles, cork and seal 'em,
Or find a way from old Don Ponce to steal 'em.

XLV.

“They'll be of little use to him I reckon,
Th' adventure solely to your good enures,
You must be chief!—It needs not I should beckon
To glory, by depicting what is yours;
Perchance 'twere wisdom to impose a check on
Your ardent spirit when you reach those shores,
Lest you should find some Indian's venom'd arrow,
When you least think it, sticking in your marrow.

XLVI.

“Win gold and fame—go forward bravely fighting—
Secure my dozen bottles;—take the lead,
Whene'er the prospect seems at all inviting;—
No telling what is done by fearless deed;—
Those pearls of Urabay are eye-delighting,
They tell me we can raise 'em from the seed;—
I would not have you rush in danger's eye,
But, at all hazards, get a good supply.

XLVII.

“Farewell! Fare ever well, that our love's fare
May be made better. You are at a feast,
The knife in hand, before you noblest cheer,
Around, and with you, many a hungering guest;
Slow spirit and dull work, leaves labor bare;
He who most watchful is, his fare is best;
Go, dear Alphonso, go; your sails unfurl,
For love and glory, gold and seed of pearl.”

XLVIII.

De Laye's farewell, breathed quite another tone;
Nor gold nor pearls beguiled him;—in his heart
Love was the sovereign, single-eyed, alone,
Impregnable, refusing to depart;—
Couch'd at the prow, when daylight all was gone,
He sang his parting strain with little art;
A low, sad ditty, simple song, untaught,
But earnest, deep, sincere, with feeling fraught.

DE LAYE'S FAREWELL.

I.

That sun which sinks with glorious train
Beneath the dark blue sea,
Shall hail me when he soars again,
Far distant, love, from thee;
Yet when he rises in the east,
I'll fancy that he bears,
A tribute from thy heaving breast,
Affection's gift of tears.

II.

Earth soon will drink his living ray,
And ocean with her voice,
Shout fiercely to her streams, at play,
As if they did rejoice.
To me, more welcome far, the dirge,
This burthen of the sea,
That, reeking up with laboring surge,
Doth seem to moan with me.

III.

Sad wailing comes the sea-bird's note,
Along the waters breaking;
And dying tempest's echoes float,
Perchance my requiem shrieking!—
Yes, the same wave that now we hear,
With winds in music blending,
May howl my dirge upon thine ear,
My love and fortune ending.

IV.

Ah! wilt thou shed a tear for him
Whose early life was sadness;
And bid for once the eye be dim,
Whose every glance was gladness;
On him whose love would still restrain
The sorrows that deplore him,
And bid thee gladly smile again,
As late thou smiled'st o'er him.

V.

Oh! vain the dream, that fondly sees,
Borne bright on Fancy's pinion,
Soft colorings fresh and fair like these,
In gentler Hope's dominion;—
And vain the solace that would tell,
Though storm and sea divide us,
Of scenes remember'd, ah! too well,
And forms, too loved, beside us.

VI.

Yet, though the soothing dream be vain,
Of joys at future meeting;
Of early bliss renew'd again,
As dear and not so fleeting;
Yet shall the bird of better days
From memory's lab'rinth wander,
To glad the pilgrim's devious ways,
With music sweeter, fonder.

VII.

And though it sings no happy themes,
Yet, mellowing all his sorrow,
It cheers the wanderer in his dreams,
And strengthens for the morrow;
He sees thee blest, and still as bright,
Beside Morana's billow,
And knows that dreams of him at night,
Still gather round thy pillow.

VIII.

Yes, thou wilt watch that sun's last tint,
As in the west declining;
Thou seest him leave his latest print
On rocks where I am pining;
And think and fancy brighter days,
When we may see it streaming
Its fires upon our mutual gaze,
In milder lustre gleaming.

IX.

Farewell, my native land,—thou sky
For which my soul is straining,
I see thee still in memory's eye,
Each lovely tint retaining;
Those lonely groves so dear to youth,
Those dear, sweet, shady bow'rs,
Where Passion poured his vow of truth,
And Feeling heard on flow'rs.

X.

Farewell, the home that hope endears,
Where young contentment found me,
Nursed in the arms of friendly years,
With spring-flowers bursting round me;
Farewell, dear maid,—yet, ah! the song
That wakes such fond emotion,
Is silenced in that thunder gong,
That shakes the realm of ocean.

XI.

Tho' love's fond, feeble voice be drown'd,
If, in thy gentle spirit,
An echo to mine own is found,
Thou can'st not fail to hear it:
Be happy, dearest, whilst thou may,
Yet if in dreams thou hearest,
The pilgrim died afar, away,—
Ah! still be happy, dearest!

XLIX.

It should not be forgotten, gentle reader,
That while these lovers sang their separate strains,
Their ships, beneath a gale that proved a speeder,
Were posting swimmingly o'er ocean's plains;
Not in their course, perhaps;—a tempest-breeder
Took them aback, and addled Ponce's brains;
About his stomach nothing need be said,
Though that was much more addled than his head.

L.

The voyage was a long one;—for the breeze,
Shot forth on opposition's wings to stay
Their gallant vessels, which, o'er unknown seas,
And managed by dull pilots, made their way;
But, at the ending of some ninety days,
The western continent before them lay;
Blue skies, broad forests, deep and boundless waters,
And naked Indians, husbands, wives and daughters.

LI.

Poor devils!—hapless was their wild condition
Till came the good Don Ponce to mend their case;
He saw their need and bade them soon petition,
The intervention of the Virgin's grace;
While he himself became their soul's physician,
And brought redemption for that happy race,—
Though when they spurn'd the holy truths he taught them,
He took another course for it and fought them.

LII.

Had you but seen him as he shot them down,
Praying the while the Virgin's kind assistance!
That Christian soldier, happy in his frown,
Soon preach'd the truth in spite of all resistance,
The converts promised all a heavenly crown,
Were sent apart, in prayer, a little distance,
Then shot,—these converts fresh from paganism,
Thus rendered safe 'gainst heresy and schism.

LIII.

Ah! pious Ponce, how pleasant were thy cares!
And yet how strange the savage should refuse
The blessed boon of faith thy hand prepares,
And in his maddest desperation choose,
Rather the solace of his heathen prayers,
His woodland temple, fresh with nightly dews,
To thy new creed, enforced by shot and rack,
Pikes cross'd within the abdomen and back.

LIV.

Poor wretches! that could never understand
Till slain, how very greatly they were wrong;
How they rebell'd against a heav'nly hand,
In peace too heavy and in war too strong;
Looking with evil eye upon the brand
That slew;—and cursing to the last the tongue,
That ordered the dread sacrifice—not knowing,
How pleasant was the journey they were going.

LV.

Or if converted—thus the argument—
With souls already well prepared for heaven,
With a full faith in every sacrament,
Their truth made sure, their evil deeds forgiven;
They might—how strong the fear!—with human bent
Fall from the faith if farther time were given;
'Twas mercy that, first fitting for the altar,
Provided, the next instant, shot and halter.

LVI.

Sufficient is the evil for the day:—
Our Canto here must finish. We have shown
Our hero in the new world, on his way,
Making himself by Christian practice known;
The reader will please fancy some delay;
His task is hard—his journey scarce begun;
Months pass and years, 'midst scuffles, strifes and scratches,
Before the Don devours the Apalatchies;

LVII.

Or they devour the Don. Meanwhile, fair eyes,
Ye that have traced this desultory strain,
Sweet sleep be on ye;—pleasant visions rise,
Your senses soothe, your fancies all enchain;
The wizard world where still our progress lies,
Unfold, with all its pomp of pride and pain,
Its forests, streams, that woo the timorous glance,
Brave chiefs, bright maids,—its rich realm of romance.

CANTO IV.

I.

I want a Muse, as Byron did a hero;
None of your frowsy dames of classic ages,
Cold, marble damsels, always below zero,
Forever 'mongst the chronicles and sages,
But one who would not shrink from a bolero,
Did we require to have one in our pages;
Who'd laugh, or sing, or dance, when I request her,
Nor wait for the certificate from Nestor.

II.

After my own heart I would have her fashion,
A lively, prompt, frank damsel, fond and free;
Blood in her veins and in her bosom passion,
And in her soul a sense of liberty,
That bids her, as the mood directs, still dash on,
The generous sport to share, the sight to see;
Loving all noble things,—for its own sake,
The beautiful,—and striving still to make.

III.

What care I for the classical proprieties,
The unities, and all that sort of thing;
I rather choose to deal in contrarieties,
And sometimes sermonize, and sometimes sing;
What if I grope?—'tis one of my varieties,
Of temper,—you shall see me on the wing;
I ask not what your Aristotle's say,
But free as any, make myself a way.

IV.

My Muse must suit my purposes and nature,—
My country,—be of kith and kin with mine;
Ardent, impetuous, a bold, generous creature,
With eye and soul that might be born of wine;
A gushing heart that speaks in every feature,
Impulsive, with a courtly wit to shine;
None of your puling dames, all lamentation,—
Yet ready with her tears when there's occasion.

V.

She must have health and strength—a wing that soaring
Through cloud and storm may make the heavens her own;
An eye that far, thro' depth of sky exploring,
May challenge the keen glances of the sun;
A wealth of thoughts and images, outpouring,
Worthy the wondrous world, her wing hath won;
And, still subservient to her song, the splendor,
Of all that makes her realm, of rich, and wild, and tender!

VI.

Her rocks, her streams, her mountains as they stand,
Homes of the pure, the beautiful in heaven;
Skies softly set, that, spreading o'er the land,
Show bridals of rare beauty, morn and even;
And oh! the mighty rivers, wild and grand,
With seas that leap from heights by thunder riven;
And all the thousand tributary sights,
That in our forest land, reveal such dear delights.

VII.

Of these must she partake,—whatever glory,
Boon Nature yields us of the bright, the fair,
Shall, in her every feature, have its story,
Prove her original and make her dear;
The giant tree by years and moss made hoary,
The wondrous cavern and the fountain clear;
Hills, vales and streams, must still reflect her beauty,
Inspire her strain and win her constant duty.

VIII.

A rare and wondrous form, she rises slowly,
Even by her own magnificence opprest;
Though proud her glance, yet is her aspect holy,
As speaking the sweet peace within her breast;
Though distant still, yet neither dim nor lowly,—
The single star that flames upon her crest,
Shall blaze upon the nations till they own,
The sovereign is most worthy of the throne.

IX.

Such is the Muse I summon!—In our sight,
The Apalachian summits;—at our feet,
The bay of Tampa, glorious in the light
Of spring, and with its wealth of flowers made sweet;
We stand amid a cavalcade most bright,
In all the pomp of arms and steeds complete;
The old knight at their head, and with a visage
As fierce as ever El Cid wore, at his age.

X.

Beside him, second in command, that stranger,
Known for the nonce as Ferdinand de Laye;
The very picture of chivalric danger,
A tall, bright form, with plume and armor gay:
Free is his fearless step,—no forest ranger,
More supple, though upon his shoulders lay,
Some fifty pounds of mail, and sword his fist in,
That might have amply served the old Philistine.

XI.

Ah! well might Don Ponce sigh as he survey'd him,
Vault from the yielding earth into his selle;
Once on a time, ere age had so affray'd him,
He, too, might possibly have done as well;
But in such effort now, his joints betray'd him,
He strove, indeed, most manfully—and fell;
But up at length, his stiffen'd legs a-straddle,
He sunk, with inward pray'r, into the saddle.

XII.

And this important duty scarcely ended,
When ho! the trumpets, and the clang of strife;
The foeman was upon them!—wildly blended
Were savages and Spaniards,—life for life;
Thick flew the hurtling arrows, well intended;
Loud roar'd the matchlock and out flash'd the knife;
'Twas but a minute's conflict, and yet ne'er, sir,
Had Juan Ponce beheld a foe fight fiercer!

XIII.

But in the battle he forgot his years,—
Recall'd the tide of youth, the day when first,
Alive to glory and unknown to fears,
His charger thro' the Moorish squadrons burst;—
Plucking bright honor from his rival peers,
With all youth's daring and ambition's thirst;—
Once more the spirit of that day blazed out,
Right and left charging, making hideous rout.

XIV.

“A Leonora!” was his battle cry!—
But louder than his own was heard De Laye's;—
“A Leonora!” still it thunder'd high,
And much it did the ancient knight amaze;
Until he thought it might be sympathy!—
“Worthy young man,”—he could but on him gaze,
As, with each stroke, that spoke a savage slain,
“A Leonora!” went the cry again!

XV.

Never did youthful knight his spurs to win,
So seek the combat with such bloody bent;
Don Ponce was brave, and loved the battle's din,
But ne'er had he beheld such fell intent;
For wheresoe'er the strife was hottest seen,
Like some dread angel on destruction sent,
Wing'd with impetuous rage and chainless might,
De Laye was there, still smiting, sworn to smite.

XVI.

The poison'd shaft fell harmless from his breast;
The heavy tomahawk of stone in vain,
Hurl'd by the vigorous savage, smote his crest;
The form that wing'd it sinks among the slain!
A host surround him; on each side they press'd;
They dart the lance, they hurl the stone amain;
He breaks their ranks, he cleaves the foremost down,
He wheels, he strikes, he shouts, he stands alone!

XVII.

Well might the savage tremble to behold
Such wondrous prowess.—Backward they recoil'd,
No more, in conflict so unequal, bold;
Vain had been shaft and stone, by magic foil'd;—
Such was their simple faith, which render'd cold,
Their valor;—and all vainly had they toil'd;—
No dripping scalp had yet been swung in air,
No pallid foe had yet sung out his soul's despair.

XVIII.

And death for them was in that thunder loud,
And death in every stroke of that keen blade;
Thunder and bolt of flame, when not a cloud,
Darken'd the day;—and, smiting heart and head,
Shafts of pale lightning, whole battalions mow'd,
Easily as the bright scythe sweeps the glade
In summer,—while the sun looks gaily on,
As if he nothing cared for green and glory gone.

XIX.

Their God thus heedless of their fate, they fled,
As hopeless of the fight;—when, from the wood,
Rang a wild whoop of death, to shake the dead,—
A shrill, dread shout, that curdled gentle blood,
And o'er the heart a human horror shed;—
That stout revived their courage, and they stood,
Firm with new hope,—they knew the battle cry,—
Of him who long had led their arms to victory.

XX.

They answered with a joy, such as he knows,
Who, from the precipice, with death in sight,
Is sudden pluck'd, by friendly grasp, and glows
With hope, but late resign'd, and fresh delight;
With whoop of battle they confront their foes,
And fell the shout which now demands the fight;
While from the thicket's shade outsprings a form,
Gigantic, fit to rouse and sway the storm.

XXI.

Never did Art in happiest hour unfold,
So proud a presence;—never to the eye,
Did mortal, fashioned in superior mould,
The cunning scrutiny of Art defy;
Or woman love, or rival man behold,
A shape more perfect in its symmetry:
The Apollo, with his ready shaft to strike,
Was only not inferior, yet how like!

XXII.

Their great war captain!—Mico of the fight,—
'Yclept Seminolé! His giant frame
Was wrapt in cotton robe of virgin white,
That to his knees from his broad shoulders came;
Yet bare his neck and breast to sun and sight,
And bare his arms, whose muscular strength might claim
Our fear or admiration,—but that now,
We gaze with juster wonder on his brow.

XXIII.

The lion in his port, and in his glance,
The eagle, free, commercing with the sun;
Yet, subtle as the serpent's, to entrance,
The victim that he only looks upon;
How swift and yet how graceful his advance,—
How fearless, as with fight already won;
He seeks no common foe, no feeble prey,
But, scorning all beside, at once confronts De Laye.

XXIV.

Thus, by a noble instinct, still, the brave,
Finds the true foeman;—'mid the thick of foes,
Sees, at a glance, to whom boon Nature gave,
The soul for noblest struggle;—where the blows
Rain deadliest, with the deeds choice spirits crave;—
Where danger shouts in blood,—whence honor flows;
And the big heart triumphing o'er the hour,
Dilates, in form erect and deeds of wondrous power.

XXV.

Well matched these mighty spirits, for De Laye
Was born to lord it; all apart he stood,
And saw, with fierce delight, upon his way,
The dusky warrior;—with admiring mood,
Beheld his mighty limbs, their easy play,
Yet massive, straight, like giants of the wood:—
Two lions from far countries,—each the king
Among his fellows,—each, impatient for the spring.

XXVI.

A moment thus, confronting, ere the strife!—
De Laye was armed in Spanish panoply,
With lance and sword, both red with human life,
And helm and shield.—Not so Seminolé;—
His naked breast was open to the knife,—
His brow, to sword or bolt of murder, free;
No shield before his heart;—upon his back,
The quiver, tho' the bow within his hand was slack.

XXVII.

A surer weapon for the arm of might,
The mace within his grasp,—a weapon brought
From Apalachia's mountains,—dread in fight,
Of solid rock, and smooth; not idly wrought,
Nor idly borne,—descending with a blight,
Upon the hapless victim, and, to nought,
Crushing the light, the life, the brain, the bone,
Suddenly,—leaving death no privilege to groan.

XXVIII.

Keen was the glance he fixed upon the foe,
As if his mode of battle to divine;
Then, from his hand, he cast aside the bow,
As quite unworthy of his fell design;
A single shout, then came the sudden blow,
But well De Laye had understood the sign,
Seen in the warrior's eye;—the ready steed
Wheel'd sudden, and thus foil'd the dangerous deed.

XXIX.

The heavy mace, impelled by furious hand,
Went blindly whizzing through the pliant air;
In the next moment the avenging brand,
Had cleft the Mico's brow or bosom bare,
But that a word,—a shout of fierce command,—
Brought forth new foes to make the Spaniard 'ware;
Out from the wood, a flock of darts took flight,
That, but for shield and mail, had much distress'd our knight.

XXX.

They saved the chieftain, but increased the ire
To wildest height of passion in De Laye;
Fierce was he at the least, and full of fire,
But deadly in his mood when kept at bay;
The worthy foeman, ever his desire,—
Him found,—a generous madness for the fray,
Bore him on reckless, while his trumpet voice
Went up, as if his soul within him did rejoice.

XXXI.

“Ho, Santiago!”—such was now his cry,
Spain's ancient cry of battle, which had led
So oft her gallant knights to victory,
Still conquering, though at every pore they bled;
Battle not beauty, now, was in his eye,
Else had he not forgot, what late, instead,
Taught by the veteran lover, he had shouted,—
Dread name alike to him and those he routed.

XXXII.

“Ho! Santiago!”—and with lance in rest,
He bore against the Mico, where he stood,
Poised on his club, with broad and fearless chest,
And eye as calm as if his fiery blood
Had frozen, and no spirit in his breast
Warmed him to combat as in ancient mood;
Hushed, calm and placid as the storm, ere yet
Its black and trooping bands, in dread array have met.

XXXIII.

But not less terrible in calm,—his glance
Scann'd fearlessly the onset of his foe;
He moved not, though he saw the steed advance,
Nor raised the weapon, nor prepared the blow;
But when, outstretch'd, he saw the quivering lance,
His eye upon De Laye's, with heighten'd glow,
Spoke for his resolute purpose,—with the thrust,
Nimbly he leapt aside, as practised in the joust.

XXXIV.

He leapt aside, and as the steed rush'd on,
Darted upon his path,—his eye revealing
A settled purpose, and a deed foredone,
Already, in his thought. De Laye was dealing
On meaner foes the strokes designed for one,—
The Mico at his heels:—His charger wheeling,
Receives the fatal blow upon his forehead,
Struck with both hands, a stroke most hard and horrid.

XXXV.

It crush'd the bone, it sunk into the brain,—
The generous beast upon the sand is sprawling;
And oh! such savage triumph o'er the slain,
As deep to deep in stormy revel calling;
But small advantage does the warrior gain,
The brave De Laye, while yet the steed is falling,
Leaps to the earth, where, on the spot before him,
The giant savage stands, his huge mace waving o'er him.

XXXVI.

Oh! for thy noblest prowess, brave De Laye,
The occasion needs it; never more than now,
Stood danger, in red garments, in thy way;—
A vision swims before thee of the blow,
The lacerated skull,—the wild array
Of howling wretches, ready for the flow
Of blood, most precious in its draughts to those,
Who deem such duty best ensures the skies repose.

XXXVII.

The master of the forest world is he,
Who claims the combat. Thou hast seen his might;—
A single stroke from him were death to thee;
Well for thee now, that, practised in the fight,
Taught in best schools of fence beyond the sea,
Thy skill hath won thee glory as a knight;—
Be firm, strike fairly,—bravely do thy part,
And Jesu keep thee, youth, and shield from harm thy heart.

XXXVIII.

With foot to foot,—eye flashing back to eye,—
Lips set, and weapons lifted, lo! they stand;
Mutely the opposing multitudes draw nigh,
Hush'd the shrill whoop, and still the stern command;
Each rests upon its brave for victory;—
Now soars the mace, now flashes forth the brand,
They strike, they shrink, recoil, and still advance,
While silence wraps the host, as in some deathlike trance.

XXXIX.

De Laye his buckler casts upon the ground,
As worthless in such conflict,—keen, his steel,
A passage to the Mico's side hath found,
And the blood flows,—the savage seems to reel,—
But stung with fury, though but slight the wound,
The chief in swifter strokes begins to deal,
Reckless of wounds, he urged each battering blow,
Raining them down as fast as hail-stones on the foe.

XL.

So thick and fast the strokes, wielding at will
His massive weapon with gigantic ease,
It tasked De Laye's best exercise and skill,
To baffle and avoid extremities;
But keen his eye, and calm his spirit, still;
The Mico's failing strength at last he sees,
And with new courage, makes a desperate pass,
Designing to bestow the coup-de-grace;—

XLI.

When his Toledo failed against the stone,
Snapp'd sudden at the hilt, and thus he stood,
Helpless, unarm'd, before his foe alone;—
What matter'd it the Mico's streaming blood,
From three deep wounds, and he untouch'd by one?
Flight would not serve, would shame his hardy mood;—
Grasping his dagger, he prepared to make,
The last dread struggle, fatal to partake.

XLII.

The mace is whirl'd aloft, the stroke descending;
De Laye prepared to rush within its sweep,
Disarm the fearful shock of death impending,
And, in his foeman's very grasp, strike deep;—
When, hark! a shot!—the certain bullet rending
The uplifted arm, anticipates the leap,
Down falls the weapon; from his hazy eye,
A gleam of hate and rage breaks on his enemy.

XLIII.

He bounds from earth, a vague desire impelling,
To grasp and strangle, in his fold, the foe;
De Laye eludes him;—but his heart rebelling,
Forbids that he should strike another blow;
A generous feeling in his bosom swelling,
Denies that one so fearless, battling so,
Should perish, prostrate, weaponless and maim'd;—
A feeling that Don Ponce severely blamed!

XLIV.

“You should,” says he, half angry and half jealous,
“Have dirk'd the dusky savage on the spot;
What need for pity on these pagan fellows,
Who'd make no bones of putting us in pot;
They're cannibals, so all the captains tell us,
And nothing, let me tell you's, to be got,
By fiddle-faddle notions of this nature,—
Pity is only for some fellow creature.

XLV.

Besides, the profit,—where is that I wonder,
Our charity should still begin at home;
Who goes abroad to use it, makes a blunder;
Would he show pity he need never roam;
Never you spare the foeman, once he's under,
Make his prayer short, and let it end in doom;—
His captive, and decreed to fill his belly,
You'll feel the force of all these truths I tell ye.”

XLVI.

This homily was when the strife was ended:—
Let us return to brave Seminolé;—
Dim-sighted, with all objects round him blended,
In depth of shade, he sunk upon his knee;
Then wild the shriek from all his tribe ascended,
The clamor of a people's agony,—
And heedless of the shot now falling sorest,
They bore him off in safety to the forest.

XLVII.

Brave savages!—but terribly they paid,
The penalty of this extreme devotion;
The path they took was cover'd with the dead,
As, after storm, the ship's path, on the ocean;
The wounded were all knock'd upon the head,
Out of their suffering,—that was Ponce's notion;
And much it vex'd him to behold De Laye,
With loathing in his aspect, turn away.

XLVIII.

“Too nice your stomach for success, De Laye;”
Thus the old soldier, as, among the slain,
Seeking the wounded, he pursued his way,
With bill or bludgeon freeing them from pain;—
A very busy man was he that day,
Though ever and anon he said again,
“Success needs no nice stomach,—it demands
Neither clean deeds, clean conscience, nor clean hands.

XLIX.

“Where had I been and what my glory now,
Had I allow'd my nose to spoil my taste?
Jesu be praised! I've ever kept the vow
I made when first for battle I was graced;
I never lost a purse to 'scape a blow,
Nor spared a life to save my strokes from waste;
If pity ever came to stay my mood,
Shouting, I struck, and banished her in blood.

L.

“The lad is brave enough, but I've no relish
For your nice stomachs,—and he turn'd away,
As if he thought my deeds were something hellish,
Would make him sicken but to see and stay;
And now he'll go and all his own embellish,
Making me seem the lesser beast of prey;
The lion he, to overthrow and spurn,
The jackal I, to follow in my turn.

LI.

“A pretty story to be told in Spain,
And heard by Leonora!—Ha! that cry;
Methinks, 'tis ringing in mine ears again,—
'Twas surely a most strange audacity,
And I have just occasion to complain,—
I'll charge him with the insolence, and by
The holy mother's grace, if he don't show me
Good reason for th' impertinence, then, blow me!—

LII.

“If crack'd crowns do not follow! Not so fast,
De Leon,—there's some danger in crown-cracking,
With one in mould so far superior cast,
Such strength, with skill and spirit nowise lacking;
Less doubtful and less dangerous mode thou hast;
Send him still forward, in the van attacking,—
And as he seems to relish such employment,
Why, leave him, simply, to its full enjoyment.

LIII.

“But mum's the word at present! He is nigh,
Confound him! with a brow as calm and quiet,
As if his soul were something all too high,
For common moods of man to vex with riot;
While I am burning with my jealousy,
Moved ever more his haughty head to fly at,—
Yet must I check my falcon!—Oh! thou wonder
Of valor, born, methinks, of blood and thunder!

LIV.

“Let me embrace thee,—let me look upon thee,
Devour thee all with eyes of admiration;
How I rejoice me that my banner won thee,
My glory and the glory of the nation;
Well may thy comrade love, thy foeman shun thee,
Methinks thou giv'st them both the best occasion;
To-morrow shalt thou lead the way to glory,
As sure of fame as any chief in story.

LV.

“Thy deeds already equal those of Cortez,
And what of the successes of Pizarro,—
His fights with the Peruvians were but sorties,
Of giants against pigmies,—men of marrow,
'Gainst men of straw and lath;—my memory short is,
But vainly would I from the ancients borrow,
A rival name for thine. To make all know it,
As I do, all that's wanting is the poet.

LVI.

“But come! Enough of glory!—now for dinner,—
It should await us. Glory, when alone,
'S a sort of food, though fine, yet rather thinner,
Than suits with men like us, of blood and bone;
They need substantials, who have proved the winner
In such a game as that but lately done;—
But look ye, comrade, art thou very sure a
Victory had been won, wert not for Leonora?

LVII.

“Dost know, that when I shouted out that name,
Most precious in my soul's vocabulary,
Your lips—unconscious, I suppose—the same
Re-shouted, in such accents,—tender, very,—
That, 'faith, I almost fancied I had shame;
As fearing of my errors you made merry;—
But then again I fancied such might be,
The name of her, your own peculiar she.

LVIII.

“But what of love and glory,—boyhood's passions,—
When men are hungry! Talk of one's renown,
Or sweetheart, when he's yearning for his rations,
And my life on it, but he knocks you down;
The heart depends upon the body's fashions,
The soul upon the substance,—it is known,
In England, the affections are at home in,
No other than that slaughter-house, the abdomen.

LVIX.

“We Spaniards are not wanting in affection,
Yet would it be impertinent to say,
Our creature-comforts sail in close connection,
With the dear fancies in our souls that sway;
Even in an omelet, open to detection,
The feelings of the heart still find their way,—
Whither—we need not ask,—but in one's stomach,
Love lies so snugly, it would seem his hammock.

LX.

“He fattens there, and grows in time as saucy,
As if it were his own, his true domain,
Whence, if not seasonably met by laws, he
Usurps dominion over blood and brain;
On all the faculties soon laying paws, he
Grows rampant, breaks his bonds with might and main;
Does mischief round the country, burning, blazing,
Roars, rages, rends, in manner most amazing!

LXI.

“‘A Leonora!’ was our battle cry,
“‘A Leonora!’ be our dinner summon;
Let love and appetite together vie,
In vigor, and the viands and the woman,
But yield the first just now the mastery,
My hunger at this moment's scarcely human,—
Eat, drink, the sages tell us, for to-morrow,
We die, and there's an end to sauce and sorrow.”

LXII.

Keen glance the old knight set upon the face
Of his companion, as, with effort strong,
Subduing his own feeling, and all trace
Of discontent, he led the way along,—
The blush upon the youth's cheek, the grimace,
When Leonor' was named, betoken'd wrong,—
But smiling, smirking, like an ancient sinner,
He kept his wrath in cool—till after dinner.