Narrative poems on the Female Character :: :: University of Virginia Library

Narrative poems on the Female Character

in the various relations of life. By Mary Russell Mitford ... Vol. I

Mitford, Mary Russell (1787-1855)

[dedication]

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

Serenade continued.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLII. THE SENTENCE.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

II.

CANTO II.

III.

CANTO III.

IV.

CANTO IV.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

II.

III.

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BLANCH;

A Poem IN FOUR CANTOS.

If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?
If zealous love should go in search of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?
If love ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch?
Shakespeare.

Introduction.

Ye Cliffs, that echo to Gaul's iron tread,
Ye Hills, whose soft turf bears the English train,
Ye Gales, whose spirit-stirring breath can spread
The bannerets of Liberty and Spain;

Say, can ye now resound the peaceful strain,
Such as ye wont, wild and irregular,
When the sweet pipe came soften'd o'er the plain,
Or lightly mingled with the gay guitar!
Can you such notes resound—or are they drown'd in War?

I sing, not I, of battles bravely won;
Not mine the “verse of tumult and of flame”
That tells the deeds of gallant Wellington,
Or consecrates the glories of the Græme.

I sing them not—nor though one honor'd name
Woke not of Albyn's bard the peerless string,
Moore, be thy life, thy death, a better fame
Than the low dirge that, faintly carolling,
My feeble lyre could breathe, my weaker voice could sing!

Not for such lofty strain I seek thy strand,
Romantic Spain! 'Tis but to while away
The lingering hours in Fancy's fairy land,
And frame wild fictions of thy elder day:

Now the sad vision chace, now own its sway,
Tho' variable, as the fitful dream
Of brain-sick fever, the capricious lay:
Change to the subject suited well, I deem,
For Woman's is the song, and Woman is the theme.

CANTO I.

[I.]

Alfonzo's princely tournament
Has bravely worn the summer day;
And scarce, when from the banner'd tent
To Murcia's halls the champions went,
The setting sun illum'd their way.
And now the breeze of evening stirs
The citron trees in Murcia's bower;
Sleeps now the silver passion flower;
The bird of night proclaims the hour;

Yet still the merry wassailers
Prolong the feast in princely tower.

II.

'Midst whispers of subdu'd applause,
The Queen, with blushing grace, withdraws.
Alfonzo, pausing, stoop'd to hear
Each low, half-murmur'd sound;
No praise escap'd his watchful ear,
And when he join'd his lady dear,
In beauty's self new charms he found.
'Twas for the fair Queen Isabel
The tourney and the feast were given,
In playful fight stout coursers driven,
And helm and targe and buckler riven,
Her peerless charms to tell:

Whilst Spanish Knights proclaim their Queen
In grace, in goodness, and in mien,
All other dames excelling;
Her form is beauty's throne serene!
Her heart is virtue's dwelling!

III.

Full many a hero proud was there,
Champions of England and of France;
This for the damsel debonair,
With sparkling eyes and jetty hair,
That for the blue-ey'd maid so fair,
To break the friendly lance.
And now they talk, in festive hall,
Of their good steeds and ladies' charms,
Of sparkling bowls and deeds of arms,

And ills that love and war befal.
But chiefly of the tourney told
The stripling brave, the chieftain old:
Then burst Ambition's rosy flame,
Or the dark blush of wrathful shame;
And you might well in every face
The day's success or failure trace.

IV.

Sir Hugh de Vernon spake—“In sooth,
Don Pedro, 'twas a gallant youth,
The nameless knight, who overthrew
Your Queen's proud champion and withdrew.
The knight of the white rose, whose shield,
In mystic words, own'd love's strong power
High-blazon'd o'er the listed field,

‘I live and die for my Blanch Flower!’
Who can the mystery read?” “Sir Knight,”
Don Pedro said, “if I aright
Mark'd your admiring eyes,
The flower that fix'd your roving sight
Guided the champion to the prize.
The flower that woke his courage staunch,
It was our gentle Princess Blanch.”

V.

Ere Vernon's lips to speak divide,
A haughty peer, who heard the tale,
Count Merida, with rage grew pale,
“And wherefore Blanch?” he cried,
“Cannot a boy, some sighing swain,
In love perchance with half the train

That tend his lady mother,
Cannot he come, with senseless speed,
And overthrow a jaded steed,
But you must cry, a matchless deed!
Forgetting every other?
Cannot he bear the stale device
Of lovers skill'd in quillets nice,
A half-blown rose upon a branch,
But he must aim at Lady Blanch?

VI.

“Don Pedro, well thou know'st that name”—
“Nay,” quoth the Briton, “check thy flame;
And tell me, Pedro, of the dame.
Was it the girl, with frolic mien,
Who hover'd round the lovely Queen,

So light, so graceful, and so fair,
She seem'd some creature of the air,
A floating beam of glory?
Juan de Merida, I bear
A charmed heart; no lover's care
Demands thy lady's story:
But from Don Pedro I would claim
The lineage of the peerless dame.”

VII.

“Short is the tale of happiness!
And happiness alone,
The self-blest heart, the power to bless,
The gentle Blanch has known.
Her sire was uncle to the King;
And, in calm peace and gay content,

With Blanch Alfonzo's youth was spent,
The heart's delicious spring!
The Princess was our Sovereign's heir,
And princely was her dower;
The nation lov'd the blooming pair,
‘Where could the King find one so fair
To share his love, his fame, his power?’
So spake the people and the states;
Not so the Monarch's breast;
The feather'd race chuse not their mates,
From birdlings of the parent nest.
Bred with the Princess like a brother,
He lov'd, he woo'd, he won another.

VIII.

“Then first was Blanch's virtue shown;
The young Queen was her dearest friend,

And when throughout the land 'twas known
A lowly orphan the high throne
Of Murcia should ascend;
When murmurs from his friends arose,
And threats from the proud Monarch's foes;
Then to the Queen the Princess came;
‘When my dear kinsman chose so well,
No dowerless bride was Isabel;
Half of my lands are thine, sweet dame!
Are we not sisters in our heart?
Would'st thou our childish union part?
And most unkindly now refuse
Wealth, only priz'd for thee, to use?’

IX.

“So spake young Blanch! and the white rose
Her own pure emblem may disclose,

As fair, as bright, as free from stain;”—
“Why harp'st thou still upon that strain?”
Don Juan cried; “To-morrow's field,
If in that field he dare appear,
Shall force the Knight to me to yield,
Shall from his brow the laurel tear,
The white rose from his shield!”
Merida frown'd a stern adieu,
And the late revellers withdrew.

X.

All sounds were hush'd within the halls;
Through the high towers no echo fell,
Save where the weary centinel
Pac'd slowly round the palace walls.
And lull'd in slumber's soft repose
Brave knights and lovely ladies lay;

Sleep could Grief's dewy eye-lids close,
Could chase away pale Envy's woes,
And young Ambition's throb delay.
One only passion spurn'd his power;
'Twas happy Love alone!
One maiden counted ev'ry hour,
One knight watch'd that fair maiden's bower,
And soon to Beauty's loveliest flower,
He woke Love's sweetest tone.

XI.

And thus the listening maiden caught
The strain her matchless charms had taught;
All softly breath'd lest restless ear
The tender timid tale should hear,
And mix'd with many an anxious sigh;

That girl had heard love's carols clear,
From valiant knight, and princely peer,
But ne'er to her was strain so dear
As that low broken melody.

Serenade.

O Star of Beauty, brightly burning,
Why light'st thou not thy pilgrim's way!
Why shroud thy beams, his homage spurning!
Why veil in clouds thy brilliant ray!
The glorious orb whose flame thou stealest,
Another land now feels his sway,
And cruel, thou that light concealest,
Which gives my soul a purer day.

XII. Serenade continued.

O Rose of Beauty, sweetly blooming,
Why com'st thou not each sense to cheer!
The air with fragrant breath perfuming!
And smiling through thy dewy tear!
The flower whose colors paint thy blushes,
O thou, a thousand times more dear!
That flower its world of sweetness flushes,
Thy guardian thorns alone appear.

Shine out, bright Star! for thee I languish;
O shine, to light my joyless eye!
Come forth, fair Rose! my heart's keen anguish
At thy sweet breath at once will fly.

Is 't not the Star of Beauty beameth?
Is 't not the Rose of Beauty nigh?
O Lady! if thy captive dreameth,
May he in this blest vision die!

XIII.

And sooth, 'twas like some vision'd form,
The Fay that to the lattice stole;
But for the blush, now glowing warm,
Now fading, in emotion's storm,
He might have thought 'twas but the soul
Of one thrice blest in Heav'n above,
Who came to spread life, joy, and love:
For through her form of fairy size
The laughing spirit seem'd to rise;

Nor gem, nor veil, with envious duty,
Obscur'd the purer ‘light of beauty;’
But every grace had room to play,
And caught the taper's fitful ray;
Whilst sweetly changing and unfix'd,
Now from the knight's fond gaze retreating,
Now, blushing, his bright glances meeting,
Pure love with virgin coyness mix'd.

XIV.

Scarce could the sculptor's practis'd eye
Decide if her's were symmetry:
For ever bounding, turning, dancing,
Like sun-beam on a meadow glancing,
None could proportion trace;

But still her light and airy round,
The charmed eye like magic bound,
And all proclaim'd it grace.
Her face with youth's pure coloring glows:
So softly blent, yet so distinct,
Such brilliant white, such rosy tinct,
The apple-blossom shows.
And the pure skin, divinely fair
Seem'd as the sun had spar'd her ever,
And wintry storms, and summer air,
Had touch'd her never.

XV.

Her auburn locks, with wayward will,
Stray from the golden bodkin still;

Luxuriant, glossy, unconfin'd,
The silken ringlets freely wind,
Now on her snowy forehead wave,
Now sport around her cheek's soft dimple,
Quick-passing like the calm lake's rimple,
Where the young cygnets lave:
Sometimes the ruby lips they kiss,
Where lovely smiles so gaily fly,
As if they liv'd for naught but bliss,
And ne'er had breath'd a sigh:
Sometimes they shade those azure eyes,
Whose rays through the dark lashes beaming,
In their own liquid diamonds gleaming,
Like summer meteors rise:
As if those rays, benignly clear,
Had never glitter'd through a tear.

XVI.

The maiden from her lattice bent,
Her own true knight to view;
'Twas the dark hour; but love had lent
His piercing sight; her gaze intent
The white-rose champion knew.
His towering form her eye could trace,
The hero's mien, the stately grace:
Whilst on his stainless armor came
Bright gleams of intermitted flame,
From the lone taper's ray;
His velvet mantle floated round,
And the white plumes his helm that crown'd
Bent with night's dewy spray.

XVII.

'Twas not the casque, or snowy plume,
That maiden's glance would greet;
She sought athwart the midnight gloom,
Her lover's eyes to meet,
The jet-black eyes whose lightning-blaze
Flash'd all too bright for mortal gaze,
Till, soften'd by the drooping lid,
All save love's trembling beams were hid.
The hero's toil-brown'd cheek was there;
The polish'd brow was slightly bent,
As if the statesman's studious care,
To youth's own candid front, so fair,
That cast of thought had lent.

XVIII.

But for his smiles;—O never thought,
Nor care, nor pain, they knew!
His was a lip with magic fraught,
Where sweetness and expression wrought;
Where wit his gayest lesson taught,
Where lurking love quaff'd honey-dew,
And on that lip sate eloquence:
But, oh, how vain, in that blest pause,
Was skilful art's mellifluence,
To tell his love to love's sweet cause!
Falling at his dear lady's feet,
The lov'd-one's name, O sound most sweet!
“My Blanch!” his trembling lips repeat.

XIX.

And sweet was Blanch's low reply,
And lovely her averted eye,
And bright her blushing cheek;
“Almanzor, dear Almanzor, fly!
'Tis for my sake these toils you seek;
Ah, rather, if my peace be dear,
Preserve the noble spirit here!”
She lightly touch'd his corslet clasp;
His bounding heart the steely grasp
Could scarcely then restrain;
“Oh my own Blanch! 'tis for thy sake
I live or die, or sleep, or wake;
But thy poor captive's heart will break,
If banish'd from thy sight again.

XX.

“Why should we part? my Blanch, thy beauty
Stole not my trembling soul away;
I would not lure thee from thy duty;
No, not to gild my happiest day.
I would not steal thy loveliest charms,
Innocence, nurs'd in Virtue's arms,
And cradled in the lap of Bliss;
I would not change that down-cast eye,
That timid smile, that half-breath'd sigh,
That blush of angel Modesty,
For rapture's fondest kiss.

XXI.

“It is thy mind I love, my Blanch!—
Remember'st thou the happy hour,
When first in fair Aledo's bower,
Plucking grape-clusters from the branch,
I saw thee and I felt thy power?
I see it now, the lovely scene!
Thy joyous vassals all around,
With merry dance and lightsome bound,
Whilst beauty only mark'd their Queen.
I see thee now! thy polish'd arm
Thrown, with affection's gentlest charm,
Round thy sick nurse, who sweetly smil'd
At thy caress and accent mild;
That look, that accent, won my heart,
I gaz'd, I lov'd!—Why should we part?”

XXII.

“Why should we part! Hast thou forgot,
Granadian chief, a Caliph's lot?
Would'st thou a Christian Princess bear
To breathe thy Harem's tainted air?
Yes, we must part.—Why didst thou roam,
Adventurous, from thy princely home?
Or why, when thus to love betray'd,
Why was not I a cottage maid,
And thou a rustic youth?
Then might our bloom together fade,
In peace, and joy, and truth!
Why is not mine Almanzor's faith,
That we might hope to meet in death!”
Mournful she paus'd: the King replied,
“Deign, lovely dame, to be my bride,

And thou, my peerless Blanch, alone
Shalt share my heart, my bed, my throne;
Thy faith, thyself, and I thine own!

XXIII.

“No ties detain thee here, sweet maid;
Wilt thou not come?”—she rais'd her head,
And flash'd reproach from her blue eye;
“Is kindred friendship, Prince, no tie?
Almanzor, not with thee to dwell,
Could hallow'd joys our love attend,
Would I forsake my Isabel,
My cousin, sovereign, friend!”
“Would'st not thou, Blanch? Ah, if with me
Thou would'st not joy from all to flee,
Though pity that soft breast may move,
Trust me, my fair, thou dost not love!

Love's lambent flames around thee play,
With rainbow tints reflected gay,
Brightening, not melting, in the ray,
Like sun-beams on a crystal rock;
But, till those icy walls decay,
Thy cold heart cannot feel his shock.”

XXIV.

Was it the taper's sudden light
That cast the colors heavenly bright,
Which glow'd on Blanch's downcast cheek?
Was it the ringlet, sporting wild,
That Blanch of her sweet smile beguil'd,
And woke her blush and dimple sleek?
Or was it but the modest joy
Of chastest love, of fondness coy,

Which seeks, with woman's graceful pride,
Ev'n when her passion she reveals,
Affection's fond excess to hide;
Avowing least when most she feels?
Almanzor gaz'd with hope renew'd,
And glance of triumph half-subdu'd;
Then thus, with lighter heart, pursu'd:

XXV.

“What is this magic tie? The King?
Ah! lovely maid, the healthful flower
That shelters in the night-shade's bower,
Blooms not beneath so dire a wing!
To virtue and to thee unjust,
He views thee, Princess, with mistrust.

And for the Queen”—“Almanzor, cease!
Traitor to friendship's empire, peace!
Away! I may not hear thy spell;
Away, too dangerous Infidel!
Seest thou not there thy matin warning,
Yon widening streak of eastern light,
Its cold pale lustre spreading bright,
Bringing, to wakeful lovers, night,
And to a sleeping world its morning?
Away! The watchman, chanticleer,
Sounds his shrill clarion in mine ear.
Hope not; I dare not bid thee fear,—
No, far from thee be pain and sorrow!
Away, if Blanch's fame be dear!
Knight of the Rose, a kind good morrow!”

XXVI.

At noon, high-rais'd above the crowd,
In a pavilion glitt'ring proud,
The lovely Queen with all her train
Sate gazing on the listed plain:
And, foremost of the courtly ring,
Was Murcia's young and gallant King;
A warrior brave in camps was he,
Though now, from 'cumbering armor free,
He view'd the splendid panoply;
Content, by Isabella's side,
Each champion's prowess to decide.

XXVII.

In beauty's most majestic mould
The fair Queen's perfect form was cast;
Proportion, feminine though bold,
Commanding charms each gesture told,
Whilst grace in every motion past.
Her hair was black, and dark her eye;
Her cheek had stol'n the richest dye
That paints the damask rose,
Unrivall'd, save by lips as red,
As coral, in its native bed,
The sparkling ocean, glows.
And her dark skin, of finest grain,
Though the warm sun, with mellow stain,
Had mark'd her for his own;

Flush'd the bright hue of joy or pain,
And told each feeling's throb as plain,
As if it match'd the swan's bright down:
And every blush that wanton'd there,
Told of the spirit heavenly fair!
And every glance of her dark eye,
Of kindness spake, and modesty!

XXVIII.

Around her form, of stateliest height,
Floated a purple mantle bright,
With gold embroidery richly dight;
Scarce could her page its weight sustain;
Beneath, a golden tissue shone,
With pearl bedeck'd and ruby stone,
Light clasp and glitt'ring chain.

And every bright and living gem
Glow'd in her princely diadem,
Or sparkled on her breast:
While still the pleas'd, yet dazzled, sight
Shrank from the bright excess of light,
On milder charms to rest.

XXIX.

It rested on that maiden fair,
With sunny smile and nut-brown hair,
Whose mantle caught its azure dye
From the soft lustre of her eye;
Whose veil seem'd, like a fleecy cloud,
The moon's chaste beauty to enshroud;
Whose very diamonds artless shone
Like dew-drops in the morning sun:

Whilst, on her knee, a cherub boy
Caught and return'd her glance of joy:
'Twas Ferdinand, the youthful heir
Of Murcia and the royal pair;
Was never child so brave, so fair,
Was none so well belov'd!
Isabel's joy, Alfonso's care,
Their fond caress he wont to share,
But still to Blanch he rov'd.

XXX.

Now is the mimic fight begun;
The clarions sound, the heralds run;
Champions of every nation flock;
And, in the fierce encounter's shock,
Full many a courser bites the field,
Full many a knight is forc'd to yield;—

I cannot sing of war! The lute
Falls from my hand relax'd and mute;
Jarring, it falls upon the ground;
A hero's death-groan seems the sound!
I cannot strike the quiv'ring string,
Of combat or of strife to sing!
Not mine the wish, nor mine the power,
To tell of listed field and fight,
Of dying steed, of wounded knight,
And the long tourney's wrathful hour!
Dreadful it is, when earthquake's shock
Shakes cot and palace, church and rock!
Dreadful, when thunder-bolts rush down,
And wrap in flames some crowded town!

But far more dreadful is the jar,
When human passions madly rise,
When louring, like a baleful star,
Ev'n mirthful sport and exercise,
Take the fell combat's splendid guise!
I cannot, will not, sing of war!

XXXI.

Blanch, studious, turn'd her lovely eye
From that blood-tinctur'd pageantry.
She shudder'd at the loud applause;
She trembled at the awful pause;
And when the trenchant lances prest,
Death-menacing, at either breast,
She hid her tearful features fair
In her young playmate's curly hair.

Scarce then could Blanch's soft caress
The Infant's kindling zeal repress;
He joy'd the mingled sound to hear
Of herald, horseman, sword, and spear;
His dark eyes flash'd the warrior's light,
“My cousin, I will be thy knight,”
He cry'd, “and Moors and Paynims fight!”
She blush'd; but soon her glowing cheek
Grew pale and cold as virgin snows;
She heard glad shouts the stillness break,
And friends and foes together speak,
“He comes! The knight of the white rose!”

XXXII.

She scarcely saw the snowy plume
That round his helmet play'd;

She scarcely mark'd the sable gloom
Of his stout foe in arms array'd.
It was count Merida's keen blade
That sought Almanzor in the fight;
She knew him not, but earnest pray'd,
“O shield from ill my own true knight!”
She gaz'd not on the haughty foes,
But her heart felt the ringing blows;
And when, the well-fought combat o'er,
Don Juan sank, besmear'd with gore,
Beneath Almanzor's sword;
When thousand voices shout his fame;
And his the victor's prize proclaim;
And his dark foe's defeat and shame;
Even when the joyful sound she heard,
Her heart had so intensely fear'd,
She scarce could trust the word.

XXXIII.

Dazzled, as in a pleasant dream,
Blanch view'd her knight of all the theme.
The Queen the princely scarf bestow'd,
Where gold and mingled 'broidery glow'd,
And the triumphant laurel crown;
But, gliding from the splendid throne,
The victor knelt to Blanch alone.
He did not raise his visor'd casque;
Love lurk'd beneath war's rugged mask!
And, in his mailed clasp, the hand
He prest that held young Ferdinand.
“Lady, behold thy knight!” he cried,
“By thy dear self I swear,
Though fortune and though fate divide,
In pain, in sickness, and in care,

In life and in life's parting hour,
To live and die for my Blanch Flower!”
He said, nor waited for reply;
But vaulting on his prancing steed,
O'er the high barrier seem'd to fly,
And vanish'd from each wond'ring eye,
With more than mortal speed.

XXXIV.

Marvell'd the knights, in field and hall,
Who could the youthful victor be?
Don Juan, brooding o'er his fall,
Nurs'd baleful envy's rancorous gall,
His lady's blush of love to see.
Smiles on his pallid features sate,
But his dark bosom nourish'd hate

To him who won the crowd's applause,
To her the fair and spotless cause.
The Princess, fled from him, from all,
Her hero's accents to recal,
And half to hope, and half to fear,
Again his lay of love to hear.
Alone she pass'd the midnight hour,
But mute was all around;
No footstep echo'd from the tower;
No strain throughout the silent bower,
Broke the calm air with soul-felt sound.
Hush'd was the tuneful serenade;
Yet listen'd still the watchful maid,
And sigh'd to be so well obey'd.

XXXV.

So pass'd the night. At break of day
With the young Prince she took her way,
With dart and bow, across the lawn:
But not to spill the life-blood gay
Of the blythe birds on verdant spray,
Or chase the spotted fawn.
'Twas but with Ferdinand to try
How far the painted shaft would fly,
And mark the Infant's ardent eye,
The feather'd bolt pursuing;
Or send it whizzing through the trees,
And watch him the light arrow seize,
Now bent his playmate fair to teaze,
Now ev'ry fond caress renewing.

For this they left the stately court,
Deep in the woodland glen to sport;
And as they pass'd the palace wall
Their laughter sounded thro' the hall:
The happy father rose to see
And share their guileless revelry,
Nor turn'd till to the park they flew,
And graceful wav'd a kind adieu!

XXXVI.

High rode the sun: to the green wood
The King their flow'ry steps pursued:
He listen'd for some sportive bound,
For childish laugh, or frolic glee;
He thought behind each shelter'd mound
His rosy Ferdinand to see;

He wander'd full of hope and joy;—
What was that low heart-piercing sound?
What was that form upon the ground?
It was his dying boy!
His face with death's pale stamp imprest,
A barbed arrow in his breast,
In Blanch's arms the Infant lay;
His closing eyes on her were fix'd,
With looks where pain and fondness mix'd,
And his faint moans her hand transfix'd,
When she would draw the dart away.

XXXVII.

They cease at once. The boy is dead!
The father breathes nor word, nor groan;
He stands as if the shaft that sped

And bow'd to earth that lovely head,
Had turn'd his form to stone.
He sees the cheek whose rosy flush
Outvied at morn the eastern blush,
Now horrible in death!
He sees the lips he oft has prest;
O ne'er on his those lips shall rest!
Cold is the fond and happy breast!
Mute is the tuneful breath!
Still, motionless, Alfonzo gaz'd,
Though friends and courtiers crowded round;
Till Blanch the lovely Infant rais'd,
And kiss'd and lav'd with tears the wound;
And wip'd it with her silken tress:
Then with wild start his speech he found,
“Drag hence the murderess!”

XXXVIII.

Shock'd and amaz'd the courtiers stood;
“See you not that her victim's blood
Spouts out upon her knee?
See you not 'tis her painted dart
Hath pierc'd my murder'd infant's heart?
O Blanch! Thou who could'st calmly see
His glaring eye-balls fix'd on thee,
Why did'st not thou first murder me!
Yes, fair destroyer! I alone
Impede thy passage to the throne;
Kill me as thou hast kill'd my child,
And I will bless thy mercy mild.”
The Monarch ceas'd. To calm his thought
Time-honor'd Pedro vainly sought:

Vainly implor'd the kneeling fair,
“Hear but my tale!” was all her prayer.

XXXIX.

“I will not hear! I can but see!
Doth not that sight sweet vengeance claim?
My boy, the fiend that murder'd thee
Should drain the dregs of misery,
Though shelter'd by a mother's name!
And thou—Drag hence the miscreant, Lords!”
Blanch, starting on her feet, her hand
Unlink'd from the dead Ferdinand,
Obey'd Alfonzo's stern command,
In grief too full, too deep, for words.
Yet, as she went, her tearless look,
Fix'd on the corse, her frame that shook

Convulsive, told she scarce could brook
The pangs that rent her bosom's chords.
And as the King's last words she caught,
“Ah, who to thee this tale shall tell,
My hapless, childless Isabel!”
A scream burst forth too wild for thought!
And, senseless to her prison door,
The lost, unfriended maid they bore.

XL.

Throughout the land the tidings spread:
The people mourn'd the Infant dead;
And vengeance on poor Blanch's head,
With heart and voice, call'd down.
Yet some there were, of gentler mould,
Who all her deeds of mercy told;

“Time will a guilty tale unfold,”
They said, in whisp'ring tone,
“But never that sweet lady's hand
Could aim the dart at Ferdinand!”
In high cathedral chaunted loud,
Prayers for the murder'd Infant rung;
And bells were toll'd and masses sung
At sainted shrine and convent proud.
Within the court 'twas sadness all;
At council-board, at mass, in hall
Scarce was the monarch seen;
And none, since the lov'd victim's fall,
Had view'd the childless Queen.
One only peer of all his train
Sought not Alfonzo's ear in vain;
Count Merida, with specious lies,

Urg'd him to the fell sacrifice,
“A nation's prayers demand her fate;
My liege! why should you hesitate!”

XLI.

To ev'ry mortal ill resign'd
Was the fair captive's dauntless mind;
Nor trial by her brother worm,
Nor death could shake her purpose firm:
Trial nor death were hers!
Eight weary days had roll'd away,
When, with the beams of morning gay,
Came an arm'd band: their lovely prey
Deem'd them her murderers.
They led her thro' the crowded street,
They plac'd her on a platform high,

And curses the poor maiden greet,
And hatred lours in ev'ry eye;
Yet is not that fair wretch to die,
For death were pity's sweetest meed!
And now the herald's deep-ton'd cry
Proclaims the culprit's murd'rous deed;
And now the sentence in her ear
Rings in loud accents sadly clear.

XLII. THE SENTENCE.

“Blanch of Aledo! murderess foul!
In pity to thy sinful soul,
And for thou art our uncle's heir,
Thy life—murderess! thy life we spare;

But from thy state we pluck thee down:
Thy wealth is forfeit to the crown;
Thy lands, thy vassals, and thy home:
And thou, proscrib'd and spurn'd, shalt roam.
No tongue shall speak the name thou bearest!
No hand shall touch the robe thou wearest!
No ear shall listen to thy call!
The roof that shelters thee shall fall!
The man who succours thee shall die!
Hence, murderess, hence! repent, and fly!”

XLIII.

The herald's task is o'er. The maid,
Still tranquil, fix'd, and breathless staid;
As if of that dread tale no word
Her terror-palsied ear had heard;

At length, awak'ning from her trance,
She cast to heaven one suppliant glance,
As if to seek for mercy there:
Then, stepping tow'rds the armed ring,
She ask'd, “May I not see the King?
Will not he listen to my prayer?”
Vainly she gaz'd in ev'ry face,
A tear, a pitying look to trace;
Still in each guard's averted eye,
She read his stern fidelity:
Till a tall comely archer came,
And roughly seiz'd the lovely dame,
And led her from the crowd;
“Away! the King abhors thy name!”
He cried, abrupt and loud.
But, with the word, he kindly prest,

Within her hand, his little store,
And whisper'd, “Would that it were more!”
Sweet was the sound to Blanch's breast!
She would not take the proffer'd purse;
But there was one would bless, not curse!
He who has known the venom'd pang
When hatred lurks in misery's fang,
He only knows what sweet relief
E'en powerless pity yields to grief.

XLIV.

A bankrupt ev'n in thanks, the maid
By tears alone his kindness paid.
She, at whose feet proud lords had sued,
For innocence by want subdu'd,
For contrite guilt to plead,

She, who successful pour'd the prayer
For human error, human care,
Found now no eye her tears to share,
No arm to shield her in her need,
And, when the archer turn'd away,
And none was there her steps to stay,
None, Cheer thee, hapless maid! to say;
She felt, as one by shipwreck tost
Upon a wild and savage coast,
From peace and love and grandeur hurl'd,
An outcast in an unknown world.

XLV.

Conspicuous from her rich attire,
Blanch pass'd through many a crowded street;
Once could that form all ages fire;
All prest to gaze and to admire;

Now at her coming all retreat:
Save those, the basest of the base,
Who, from her high and eminent place,
Would pluck ennobled Virtue down;
Who love to glut their fiendlike eye,
With sight of princely misery,
And hate all brows that wear a crown.
From such the jest obscene she heard,
The gibing taunt, the bitter word
Which licens'd vice pours in the ear
Of suffering modesty;
Such sounds to be condemn'd to hear,
Was punishment far more severe,
More dreadful destiny,
Than Merida's extremest hate,
Or the King's wrath could meditate.

XLVI.

Shuddering she fled to the high porch,
Wide spread before our Lady's church:
And, “Here,” she cried, “my sorrows cease!
Here I may lay me down in peace,
And dying, fear no earthly foes!”
She laid her head against the door,
Her form along the marble floor;
And soon the cool refreshing shade,
And gales that swept the colonnade,
Lull'd the fair maid to calm repose:
Gay dreams were floating o'er her brain,
When startled she awoke;
And ere those visions bright and vain

Fled from the sense of real pain,
She saw advance a bridal train,
And her sweet smiles unconscious broke.

XLVII.

Blanch oft the youthful bride had seen,
A damsel of the court;
And often to the gentle Queen,
Had prais'd fair Inez' frolic mien,
And often, on the velvet green,
Had join'd with her the Infant's sport.
The bride came deck'd in smiles and blushes;
But, when she caught the Princess' eye,
Back to her heart her warm blood rushes,
And all her smiles of beauty fly!

She runs, as from a lion's wrath,
Trembling across the church-yard path;
But the deep sigh, the crystal tear,
They speak of pity more than fear:
“Heaven shield the wanderer on her way!
Carlos, I cannot wed to-day!”

XLVIII.

Blanch left the porch, with sadden'd soul,
And to a new-made grave-mound stole,
Beneath a mournful cypress rais'd;
Till, leaning on the verdant knoll,
The big tears floated as she gaz'd.
The selfish but most natural thought,
Where is my grave? her feelings taught.

“Ah! when I die, no decent stone
Will tell, the once-lov'd Blanch lies here;
No friends will wait on Blanch's bier;
No earth be on my ashes thrown;
But dogs my unblest corse shall tear,
And vultures strip each whitening bone!”
Dried were her tears: her spirit soar'd
From death to its immortal birth!
When groans of anguish, near her pour'd,
Recall'd her struggling thought to earth.

XLIX.

On the low grave, before her, knelt
A form where beauty once had dwelt,
Till chas'd by grief's rude hand away;

Her garments told her cause of woe,
And widow'd tears, that ceaseless flow,
Proclaim'd the sorrow, passing show,
The soul-felt grief that shuns the day.
She saw not Blanch: her pensive glance
Strayed not beyond the grave's expanse;
Till sighs from other lips that broke,
A partner in her anguish spoke:
She look'd up, full of jealous woe,
To guard her shrine from worshippers;
Reluctant, any tear save her's,
Should honor him who slept below.
But when she saw what mourner wept,
Thro' her spare form faint shiverings crept;
Touch'd by the maid with murder stain'd,
She deem'd the hallow'd earth prophan'd;

And, bent from impious touch to save,
Stretch'd her weak frame along the grave;
“In mercy, hence!” at length she said,
And the meek sufferer obey'd.

L.

Whither to fly? Alas, my sight
Can happy love's sweet blossom blight!
My form can change the tender care
Of widow'd grief, to wild despair!
I may not with the poor man toil!
I may not with the happy smile!
I may not with the mourner weep!
I may not with the buried sleep!

I can but die—They bade me roam—
I go to thee, my native home!

CANTO II.

I.

Oh it is sad, when far away,
To mourn the home once lov'd so well;
Paint every charm in colors gay,
And every ruin'd comfort tell!
And shudder as, still rushing on,
Springs the sad thought, for ever gone!
But sadder far it is to come,
A branded outcast, stain'd and lost,
And wander, like a restless ghost,

Around that lov'd and lovely home!
There the despairing mourner sits;
Her father's form before her flits,
Such as it wont in days long fled:
And she blest Heaven that he was dead,
Before from his own castle gate,
Was turn'd his orphan desolate.

II.

She saw Aledo's turrets proud,
Revolving seasons braving,
And, floating like a fleecy cloud,
The broad white banners waving.
She saw the lovely scene around,
Rich vale and fertile mead,

So princely was the ample bound,
A horseman, at his speed,
Might slack the swiftest courser's pace,
Ere half the circle he could trace.
And every tree, and every flower,
Brought Joy's pale ghost to Blanch's eye;
And every gale that swept the bower,
Seem'd vocal with sad melody.

III.

Nor was the sighing breeze alone
Responsive to her plaintive moan;
For she had many an humble friend,
Too firm to break, tho' forc'd to bend.

And as she slowly pass'd along,
Tears chok'd each gentle maiden's song;
And it would stay the gayest dance,
Of her fair form to catch a glance.
Nor dwelt there, in that wide domain,
One who believ'd that murder's stain
Had tainted Blanch's soul:
Don Juan plied his arts in vain,
Not one of all the vassal train
Own'd aught but her control.
In cottage bower, in castle hall,
Their lady was belov'd of all.
The blind man knew her gentle voice,
It bade his darken'd soul rejoice,
And led him on to duty;

He heard, and in that silver sound,
His mind a new impression found,
He seem'd to see her beauty.
The deaf man gaz'd upon her form,
Felt her hands' pressure, soft and warm,
Saw her lips sever;
And fancied strains from her blest tongue,
Strains, such as seraphs might have sung!
And on the fond idea hung
For ever.

IV.

And the stout peasant, o'er his flail,
Would muse upon the dreadful tale:

And when a few together meet,
Darkly they hint, and whispering greet:
But when the mass assembles many,
Then bolder, louder murmurings rise,
With visage stern, and moody eyes,
They challenge any,
Who dare asperse their lady's fame,
Or stain her pure and spotless name.
One word in Blanch's silver tone,
Alfonzo, had thy realm o'erthrown!
One glance from Blanch's azure eye
Had hurl'd thee from thy dignity!
One sign from Blanch's lily hand
Had made her Queen of all thy land!
But not by sign, or glance, or tone,

She stirr'd rebellion's pride;
Could one man's blood have gain'd the throne,
Though her worst foe's and his alone,
Rather than spill it, she had died.

V.

Yet still soft pitying murmurs came,
From maiden fair, from wedded dame:
The very children, in their play,
Would act the warrior's part, and say,
“O soon shall we grow stout and tall,
And thus we'll storm the tyrant's wall,
With courage true and staunch,
Nor rest till, in her castle hall,
We place the Lady Blanch!”

Till at the word, the grandame sage
Would strive to tame their bootless rage:
Though still, adown her aged cheek,
Unwonted tears a passage seek;
And she would make the holy sign,
And call upon the aid divine,
To be a shield and stay to her,
Who was of all the comforter.
And would the oft-told story tell,
When her last son in battle fell,
How like some blessed saint she came:—
Poor maid! though death be in thy name,
What is that name but air,
Less pure than the heart-breathed sigh,
Which for thy life ascends on high,
The widow's, orphan's prayer.

VI.

Fled from their love their lady dear;
She, who ne'er felt a selfish fear,
Nor her stern fate reprov'd;
One only pang her heart could tear,
'Twas when the dark cloud, hovering near,
Spread far around its menace drear,
To ruin those she lov'd.
Yet oft for her some precious boon
Would grateful peasants bring,
Beneath the olive shade at noon,
Or by the rippling spring.
One evening, to th' accustom'd shade,
A weightier basket they convey'd;

And Blanch alone beneath the bower,
Of wild broom form'd and lavender,
And hidden by the bindweed's flower,
Could find the gift design'd for her.
A hurried scroll was there—“O fly,
Dear Lady, from these bounds, or die!
Merida comes—O shun his eye!
And throw your garments in the river,
And deign this lowly garb to wear;—
O, may the blessed Virgin's care,
Our lady every sorrow spare,
From every woe deliver!”

VII.

Blanch, when the tear which dimm'd her sight
Was chas'd by pleasure's sparkling light,

Rush'd deeper in the covert shade.
She went, a dame, whose raiment vain,
All torn by thorns and wet with rain,
Seem'd form'd to mock the courtly train;
She bounded back a rustic maid,
And sought the Sangonera's brink,
Deep in its waves her robes to sink;
But half she started back, to view
Her image in the waters blue,
And smil'd and blush'd, with pleasure vain,
And turning bent to look again.

VIII.

Nor ever yet, in lady's bower,
Venetian mirror show'd

A form, where beauty's magic power,
Proportion's grace, and youth's bright flower,
In such sweet union glow'd;
The kirtle white, the pink corsette,
Marking her waist's slim lightness, met;
The short sleeves show'd her ivory arms;
The kerchief her fair bosom's charms
Half veil'd and half disclos'd;
Her hair no longer hid her face,
Nor her white throat forbade to trace:
In silken net, with Grecian grace,
Was each bright curl dispos'd,
And foot and ankle, bounding free
From all encumbering drapery,
She seem'd the prettiest village maid,
That ever tripp'd on hill or glade.

And still she smil'd, and still she blush'd,
With conscious beauty sweetly flush'd,
“O could I dear Almanzor see!”
Till—and her glowing cheek grew pale,
“Alas!” she sigh'd, “of what avail
Is beauty now to me!”

IX.

Deeper and deeper in the wild,
The joyless Princess went;
Far from the bower where sweetly smil'd
Her Isabel, while yet a child;
Far from each spot, whose graces mild
Had fill'd them with content.

Still shunning convent, tower, and town,
For many a day she wander'd on;
Nourish'd by rip'ning grain, or root,
Or wilding fig, or vineyard's fruit;
Or sometimes some young shepherd boy,
Viewing her charms with childish joy,
Would manly raptures feign;
Or sometimes, of some rustic maid,
The lovely wand'rer sought for aid,
And seldom sought in vain.

X.

Sweet was the season, heavenly fair,
And Blanch repos'd on thymy couch,
Soft and elastic to the touch,

And flinging perfumes on the air:
Whilst joying in the fragrant breeze,
All harmless came the humming bees:
And softly clear the vesper bell
Adown the valley stole,
Mix'd with shrill scream or merry swell,
As sounds of infant laughter fell
(Sweet discord!) on the soul.

XI.

O then, upon the maiden's breast
Her solitary anguish press'd!
She mourn'd not when from grandeur hurl'd;
She felt not then the aching void
To stand alone in all the world,

Unknown, unlov'd, and unemploy'd.
But now no fondness bade rejoice,
None sooth'd in pain or sorrow;
Morn came; but never cheerful voice
Rous'd her with kind good-morrow.
She gaz'd around on flower and tree;
She caught the wild bird's melody;
She track'd the footsteps of the hare;
She mark'd the red deer in its lair;—
The birds were hov'ring o'er their young;
Around the doe her light fawn sprung;
Love thro' the whole creation glow'd,
And Blanch's bosom overflow'd:
Her breast with its rich fulness strove,
“I, only I, have naught to love!”

XII.

Lightly she sprang upon her feet,
And bounded from her calm retreat;
“What should I fear? In this array
Can aught the royal maid betray!”
Still guided by the pleasant tone
Of childish glee, she rambled on,
And came to a low rustic cot,
Close by a circling rivulet,
And never yet a lovelier spot
That lady's glance had met.
Midst poplars light and mulberry shade,
The setting sun-beams gaily play'd,
Reflected from a mountain high,
Where, on soft turf of beryl dye,
Goats, flocks, and frolic children stray'd.

XIII.

Within the porch, with myrtle gay,
A lovely woman stood,
Watching the children at their play,
And joyous, mild, and blythe as they,
Seem'd that fair woman's mood.
Her form had the luxuriant grace
Of beauty's ripen'd prime,
When fully blown each charm we trace,
Matur'd, not stain'd, by time.
Her figure was of middle height,
And clear though brown her skin;
And every tint that blush'd so bright,
Catching her black eye's sunny light,
Glow'd with the fire that dwelt within:

And every smile, with dimpling fold,
Of gaiety and goodness told.

XIV.

On Blanch she gaz'd, and Blanch on her,
And each admir'd the other;
O never truth and nature err!
The maid a tender chord could stir,
“How beautiful is yonder child,
With glowing cheeks and ringlets wild!”
More sweetly the fair woman smil'd;
It was her happy mother!
“That girl is mine—my only one!
And I and Agnes dwell alone,
In this low rustic cot;

Her father, he is far away,
That little child is all my stay,
Yet blessed is my lot.”
And much they spake: till Blanch confess'd,
Nor parents, friends, nor home had she;
Then kindly, to the gen'rous breast
Of Beatrice, the maid was press'd,
“Stay here, fair girl, and dwell with me!
Stay here! nor care, nor fear, nor strife,
Shall vex our calm and happy life,
My heart e'en now thou cheerest!
That lovely smile can ne'er deceive;
That angel face I must believe;
How shall I call thee, dearest?”

XV.

She started: falsehood never dwelt
In Blanch's spotless breast,
But with that name, too sure she felt,
There was no hope of rest.
Blushing and trembling, still she stood,
Till her sweet eyes, in mournful mood,
Glanc'd on a half-expanded rose,
Which, bent by rain-drops, hung its head,
Yet thro' the leaves its lustre shed,
Bright as the new-fall'n snows.
Just such the rose Almanzor bore,
When, at his lady's feet, he swore,
Though fate divide, or fortune lour,
To live, to die, for his Blanch flower!

The thought her painful musings broke,
And, like the Blanch of former days,
Her blue eyes flash'd their wonted rays,
As sportively she spoke.

XVI.

“Proud lords and dames, of high degree,
Read in the skies their destiny;
And trace or good, or ill, afar,
As shines or sinks their ruling star.
The white rose, at my natal hour,
Propitious beam'd, my planet flower!
It seeketh still the cool retreat,
It shunneth still the summer's heat;
How sweetly here it flourisheth!

And I too seek the lonely glade,
And I too love the tranquil shade,
And me the calm breeze nourisheth.
Thine is the flower, I too am thine,
And thou must call me Rosaline.”

XVII.

Beatrice still her hand retain'd,
And still with gen'rous fervor strain'd,
And led her tow'rds the myrtle bower,
Then stoop'd to pluck the modest flower:
“Yes, loveliest Rose, thy namesake fair,
Thy planet flower, shall deck thy hair,
‘Sweets to the sweet!’”
But, wounded by a hidden thorn,

She snatch'd her hand, all gash'd and torn;
Whilst the fair blossom snapp'd and fell,
Like tear-drop from its coral cell,
At Blanch's trembling feet.

XVIII.

Oh, when the heart, which misery's chill
Has frozen, feels the genial thrill
Of earthly hope, of mortal love,
Flutt'ring and panting, like the dove,
Who to the heav'n-directed launch
Bore (blessed sign!) the olive branch;
Oh, in that throb of hope renew'd,
Of mem'ry for a while subdued,

Of slumb'ring grief, of conquer'd pain,
Of mortal passion born again;
When fortitude has dropt her shield,
When heav'nly hopes to earthly yield,
Then is the time, then is the hour,
When ev'n a tree, a bird, a flower,
With dreadful recollections twin'd,
May rend with woe the firmest mind!

XIX.

Afresh the mourner's heart-wounds bleed,
As gazing on the fallen rose,
“Yes, we are twins in fate indeed!”
She sigh'd and thought on all her woes:
“Alike, in bloom of beauty cropt,
Unmourn'd to the chill earth we dropt!

Alike our spotless pride defac'd!
Alike with bloody stain debas'd!
Alike our virgin graces fly!
Alike neglected doom'd to die!”
Beatrice mark'd the falling tear,
And strove the drooping maid to cheer;
Then broken was the mournful spell,
For sound of kindness never fell,
Unmark'd, on Blanch's ear.

XX.

Tranquil and spotless and serene,
Weeks glided by in that fair scene;
No change their calm existence knew,
Save that increase of kindness grew

'Twixt hostess free and gentle guest,
As more was prov'd each gen'rous breast.
But Beatrice's laughing child
Most fondly lov'd the stranger mild;
With garlands still her hair would deck;
Still wind her arms around her neck;
Still to her lap at ev'ning creep;
Still on her bosom sink to sleep;
And wak'ning at her mother's touch,
Refuse to quit her downy couch,
Her clasp of love, still closer, strain,
And weep and sob in childish pain;
Till Blanch would kiss those tears away,
Like dew-drops on the rose of May;
And Blanch's voice would soothe her woes,
And lull her to her calm repose.

XXI.

If in this world of breathing harm,
There lurk one universal charm,
One power, which to no clime confin'd,
Sways either sex and ev'ry mind;
Which cheers the monarch on his throne;
The slave beneath the torrid zone;
The soldier rough, the letter'd sage,
And careless youth, and helpless age;
And all that live, and breathe, and move;
'Tis the pure kiss of infant love!
And Blanch's woe-chill'd heart would melt,
When Agnes' lip her forehead felt;
And Agnes' gentle grasp could lead
The pensive girl, o'er dale and mead;

Till, for the while, of grief beguil'd
Ev'n Agnes' self seem'd less a child.

XXII.

One spot the sweet companions lov'd,
One spot preferr'd to every other;
And leaving oft the careful mother,
Together there they rov'd.
'Twas by a stream of dubious force;
Now mild as fountain from its source;
Now breasting rocks in rugged course,
With silv'ry spray wild dashing;
Now a calm lakelet, hid by trees,
Scarce dimpling in the summer breeze,
While scarce the pleas'd intruder sees

100

The brilliant sun-beams flashing.
'Twas where, emerging from the pool,
The river flow'd with murmurs cool,
And, winding round the mountain's ridge,
Crept gently thro' a rustic bridge;
There Blanch best lov'd to sit and muse
Beneath a fragrant orange tree,
Where vines hung down in garlands free,
And mix'd in graceful canopy,
Leaves, flowers, and fruit of loveliest hues.

XXIII.

Reclin'd within the verdant bower,
Sate the fair child and fairer maiden,

101

Catching the breeze, at noon-tide hour,
With varied perfumes laden:
Whilst Agnes still from Blanch would fly,
And seek the river's marge, to fling
Pellucid pebbles in the spring,
And mark the circle spread, and die:
Or, leaning o'er the brink, would stand,
And graceful wave her little hand;
Then looking back, in playful mood,
Fly to the bridge, along the wood,
Run, linger, hope to be pursued,
And laughing cross the rill;
While Blanch, the frolic sport declining,
Yet in her childish pleasure joining,
Mark'd her in graceful mazes twining
Upon the verdant hill.

102

XXIV.

There the fair flocks, sedate and mild,
Gaz'd fearless on the lovely child,
Like them in innocence;
And goats, on craggy eminence,
Scarce fled from one, as light, as gay,
As buoyant, and as wild as they.
Whilst the lone shepherd, on the rock,
Forgot awhile his fleecy flock,
To pour his softest, sweetest strain,
And to his rebec's notes complain
Of his soul's fierce devouring flame,
Lighted at eye of witching dame.
He knew, to Sangonera's rill,

103

With Agnes fair, one fairer still
In noon-day brightness came;
And not a shepherd but would twine
A votive wreath for Rosaline.

XXV.

One morn, with more than usual neatness,
The rustic cot was drest;
And smiles of more benignant sweetness
Sprang from its mistress' breast.
Blanch caught her smiles and the glad fires
Which in her radiant eye-beams play,
“Ah! dearest dame, that brilliant ray
No common joy inspires!
Is it thy husband comes to-day?

104

It must be so! love's heralds gay
In ev'ry varying dimple stray:
It must be so! love's rosy flush
Proclaims his coming by thy blush.”

XXVI.

“Yes, my sweet Rose! This blissful morn,
That saw my cherub Agnes born,
Now ushers in a joy more dear;
Fernandez comes my heart to cheer!
He left thee, Agnes, in my arms;
What changes he'll discover!
He left me bright in youthful charms,
Himself a rustic lover.

105

Now a proud archer from the court,
Absence and time his love may smother;
Well, Agnes! thou with infant sport
Must woo him for thy mother!
Away! away! my maiden fair!
My pleasant labor none shall share;
Soon may'st thou know such tender care.”
Beatrice said, and archly smil'd;
The fair one, blushing, shook her head;
Then lightly from the cottage sped
With the young, joyous child.

XXVII.

She sought the fragrant orange bower,
And clasp'd the trunk around,

106

With hand which match'd the snowy flower,
Her form upon the ground:
Whilst her head, resting on her arm,
Now hid, now show'd its seraph charm,
And her bright curls of auburn hair
Broke from their silken ligature,
To wave upon her bosom pure
And sport around her forehead fair.
There, all resign'd to thought, she lay,
Nor join'd in Agnes' sportive play;
Sooth'd by the rebec's sound, which still
Floated at times upon the breeze,
As wafted down the turfy hill,
The ear divided strains could seize
Of broken melody:
An air so sweet, so wildly free,

107

Now ev'ry liquid note renewing,
Now pausing long, and now pursuing
Each maze of harmony,
That, sense and woe absorb'd in ear,
Seem'd that she only liv'd to hear.

XXVIII.

Mute was the soul-entrancing song:
Her lovely charge had vanish'd long;
In vain she sought the streamlet's side;
In vain she call'd across the tide;
The echoes still, with mock'ry vain,
“Dear Agnes! Agnes!” swell'd again.
No Agnes came: the noon-day stillness
Struck Blanch's heart with boding chillness.

108

The birds were cluster'd in the trees;
The sheep round ev'ry knoll were sleeping;
No goat from rocky cliff was peeping;
The very cottage smoke seem'd creeping,
Upon the slumb'ring breeze;
All was so still, she thought to hear
Agnes' quick breath and footsteps clear,
Descending from the hill;
She comes at length! she's on the height;
A ridge might chamois' self affright,
But like a sylph's her airy flight,
She bounds towards the rill.

XXIX.

Still Agnes flew with heart elate,
The slender grass scarce felt her weight,

109

Till springing on a tott'ring stone,
She fell with dizzying swiftness down;
Fell, from the rock's impending steep
To where the river swells most deep,
And sank beneath the whelming flood.
Blanch by the woody margin stood,
She scream'd not that dread sight to see,
But plung'd into the wave;
“O God! her mother succour'd me,
Grant me the child to save!”

XXX.

The sinking babe she wildly clasp'd,
And as she plung'd instinctively,
A small twig of the willow tree

110

The vent'rous maiden grasp'd.
A twig so slender, it would shake
If wren perch'd there its thirst to slake,
And yet awhile that fragile branch
Bore Agnes and the dauntless Blanch:
But soon she saw the willow string,
From parent tree dissevering;
And mark'd, with sad and joyless soul,
The bough slow parting from the bole.
Another limb, high o'er her head,
Fair hope of safety gave;
But in one hand her charge was laid,
One held the twig she clasp'd to save.
Would she but fling the child away,
And grasp at yonder firm-set spray,
Then might she reach the bank!

111

But faster still the babe she press'd
And held it closer to her breast,
As rapidly she sank.

XXXI.

Hark! mingling voices loud combine,
“Agnes!” they shout, and, “Rosaline!”
At first, in tones of rapt'rous glee,
The wild notes swell impatiently;
More anxious grows the call;
Feebler the mother's boding cry;
The father's tones of ecstasy
To grief's chill cadence fall:
A faint shriek rises on the blast,
To guide their steps—it is the last!

112

And rushing on in agony,
(O sight of horror!) there they lie,
Half whelm'd in the deep water;
That child, light of her mother's eye,
Agnes, her only daughter!
And that heroic maid,
Whose arm the lovely child upstaid,
Tho' sense, and hope, and power to aid,
Seem fled from her for ever:
Tho', floating in the stream, her hair,
And snowy garb alone declare
What form supports the infant fair,
Where the waves sever.

113

XXXII.

They sank; and dreadful was the scream
From the poor mother's heart!
The father plung'd into the stream,
Swift as his plumed dart;
She could not speak; with eager eye,
And quiv'ring lip, and breath suspended,
Pale statue of Expectancy,
She stood till joy the conflict ended!
Fernandez came, and to the shore
His lovely, senseless, burthen bore;
Her Rosaline, and that dear girl
More precious than th' Egyptian pearl,
The only fondling of their nest,
Sole comfort of the mother's breast.

114

She saw her wet and pale as death,
But felt her move, and caught her breath,
And in that blissful moment sank,
Fainting and senseless, on the bank.

XXXIII.

O short was Beatrice's swoon,
And pleasant was the waking;
Her child's caresses rous'd her soon,
To joy through sorrow breaking.
She clasp'd her darling to her heart,
“My Agnes, never will we part!
But where is she—the angel mild,
To whom I owe my life, my child!”
She heard a voice that strove to speak,
Felt a kiss tremble on her cheek,

115

A hand with her's entwine;
A form her fond embraces seek;
And blest her Rosaline!

XXXIV.

At length she ask'd in calmer tone,
“How chanc'd it, my adopted one?”
“Dear mother, there is naught to tell:
From yonder mountain's shelvy swell,
Our own dear Agnes slipt, and fell.
Oh, I had borne a heart of stone,
Had I not plung'd into the wave!
I caught the twigs that dip and lave,
And, thus supported, strove to save
Her life, till sense was gone.”
“Fernandez, come! My Rosaline,

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A mother's blessing take!
If ever force or fraud combine,
Thy life or peace to stake!
Oh then for her most innocent sake,
Whose life thou sav'dst at risk of thine,
May angels for thy guardians wake,
And save and bless thee, Rosaline!

XXXV.

“My husband, come! aid me to bless!”
Tears stopt her speech. With sweet distress,
Blanch bends to earth her dewy eye,
Upon her soul those praises press,
Like saintly prophecy.

117

And feelings indistinctly sweet
Thrill through the crimson tide, which gushes
In a quick flow of softest blushes,
As sudden in retreat.
She lifted up her lovely face;
She wrung her hair with mermaid grace;
And braided the long ringlets free;
And clasp'd her succouring willow tree,
And kiss'd the wounded branch:
Then turn'd, Fernandez' eyes to meet,
Who sank to bless her at her feet
He caught her glance, he gaz'd, he shook,
He knew the blush, the smile, the look,
“'Tis she! 'tis Lady Blanch!”

118

XXXVI.

Beatrice, starting in alarm,
Threw round young Agnes' waist her arm;
As if to shield her from the hand
That slew the royal Ferdinand.
O, momentary was the thought!
“Forgive me thou, however styl'd,
To me with angel blessings fraught,
Preserver of my child!”
Resign'd to her most wretched fate,
Collected, calm, the maiden sate:
A more than princely dignity
Rose on her brow and lit her eye.

119

But when she caught those soothing words,
And saw the sire in homage kneeling,
It struck affection's slacken'd chords,
And majesty was lost in feeling.

XXXVII.

“And is there one who knows my name,
And yet abhors me not!
O soldier brave! O gentle dame!
Though evil tongues obscure my fame,
That babe, whose death was call'd my shame,
Was not more pure from blot!
More, Beatrice, I dare not say!—
Fernandez, that disastrous day,

120

Thou wert among my guard;
'Twas thou, who, while thou seem'dst to chide,
To give me all thy pittance tried,
And turn'd away, thy tears to hide:—
Those tears, to guiltless suffering given,
Hidden on earth, were seen in Heaven,
And there is thy reward!
Thou comest from the court—O tell,
Where is my friend, my Isabel?”

XXXVIII.

“Alas, dear lady! Mystery
Still shrouds her fate from every eye:

121

Some say, within the palace pent,
The joyless Queen remains,
Another martyr'd innocent,
Laden with Blanch's chains;
Some say, for safety she is fled,
Within a convent's hold;
And some report her captive led,
By him, of Moorish chiefs the head,
Almanzor, Caliph bold.
But, Lady, should I dare to tell
That still thou liv'st, a miracle,
Not worthy faith, 'twould seem:
For in Aledo's wilderness
'Twas told thou diedst, in weariness
Of this bad world, self-slain; thy dress
Found floating down the stream.

122

XXXIX.

“Call'd to a sadder, harsher task,
Of thy escape I dare not ask!—
Two of my comrades, in my cot,
Now snatch a short repose;
Sebastian well the Princess knows;
And we must seek some secret spot.
Know'st thou such, Beatrice?” “Ah, me!
That from my dwelling I should see
My child's preserver turn'd!
Fernandez, thou art cowardly!
Lady, my cot shall shelter thee,
My woman's arms thy shield shall be;
Was never shield so nobly earn'd!”

123

XL.

“No, Beatrice! It is not mine,
The joy to be thy Rosaline,
Blessing and blest:
For me is no abiding place;
My feet their pilgrimage must trace,
Till, ended this long weary race,
I lay me down to rest.
Till then, kind friends, farewell! Ah then,
Believe me, we shall meet again!
I go to seek the hermit's cell,
Deep in the mountain wilds. Farewell!”

124

XLI.

She glided on: Fernandez stood,
His eyes drown'd in their briny flood:
Beatrice Blanch's steps pursued;
And pluck'd from her the raiment wet,
And cloth'd her in her own;
“Relics of my eternal debt,
If I, who wore you, once forget,
Turn you my heart to stone!”
Blanch once again young Agnes press'd
And once her mother to her breast;
She wav'd her hand, and strove to speak,
But no word could she say;
And gasping, as her heart would break,
She darted on her way.

125

XLII.

Afar, amid the mountains wild,
Where rocks on rocks, confus'dly pil'd,
Were crown'd with snows that never melt;
Where the sweet sun-beams seldom smil'd,
A pious hermit dwelt.
Scarce on the shelving cliff sublime
The mountain roe had dar'd to climb:
For, over head the rocks impending,
Seem'd to the scar'd eye nodding, bending:
And underneath a torrent flash'd
Its spray, in awful grandeur dash'd.
Now foaming o'er th' impeding branch;
Now choak'd by sudden avalanche,

126

To momentary rest.
Half-way the steep and rocky stage,
The consecrated hermitage
Hung, like an eagle's nest.

XLIII.

Where'er a level spot he found,
Where herb or flower had space to grow,
The hermit form'd his garden ground;
And garlands bloom'd above, around,
That wondrous rock, with snow-wreaths crown'd,
While foaming torrents dash'd below.
Here every maxim seem'd revers'd,
That bard has sung, or sage rehears'd;

127

Here the rude storm and rushing wind,
To things inanimate confin'd,
Jarr'd all, save the lone inmate's mind.
Where nature's tumults never cease,
He found, 'mid warring tempests, peace!

XLIV.

Yes! To the heart by woe subdued,
An unmix'd joy is solitude!
'Tis bliss to 'scape the asking eye
Of vacant curiosity;
The scornful sneer; the pity loud;
The comfort of the babbling crowd;
Th' officious, forward, vain, caress;
From such to 'scape is happiness!

128

But, ah, beware! ye soft-soul'd train,
Who feel at length the woes you feign,
Beware, nor seek the lonely plain!
The beardless youth, whose gentle lay
Steals many a damsel's soul away;
The misanthrope, whose gloomy breast
The world in darker colors drest;
Neglected wife; or love-sick maid;
Or she, who, erring and betray'd,
Implores in vain the false-one's aid;
By fancy, or by misery led,
Oft from the weary world have fled,
And sought in hermitage, or cell,
In tranquil solitude to dwell.
'Twas peacefulness they sought, and rest:—
What found they? The still aching breast.

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XLV.

But he, the holy man, who sate,
Trimming his lamp, within his cell,
He mourn'd a far severer fate,
And misery unspeakable.
Time, which had silver'd o'er his hair
And dimm'd his eye, had quell'd despair;
And piety that peace had giv'n,
Which resignation plucks from Heav'n.
Lull'd by the thunder's distant roll,
The hermit sate, and o'er his soul
Joys, vanish'd long, resistless stole.
Sons by the tide of war o'erthrown;
A wife bent, broken-hearted, down;
And she, that lovely wretched one,

130

Whose fate no parent's tongue could tell,
All in his tortur'd fancy dwell;
Such as, in life's meridian day,
Chas'd pain and fear and care away.
His wife's kind hand again he press'd;
His laughing boys again he bless'd;
And that young girl, so sweetly fair,
Rung in his ears her vesper prayer:
Where are they now? 'Tis terrible
To think on hours by woe o'ercast,
But the worst pang in memory's cell
Is bliss for ever past.

XLVI.

The thunder roll'd, in deaf'ning clash;
And, awfully, the lightning's flash

131

In wanton grandeur play'd;
It rous'd the sage, that pealing storm,
He rose to mark the lightning's form,
As o'er the rocks it stray'd.
And, leaning from the cave, he thought,
A shriek, a human shriek, he caught;
Again it came, with anguish fraught!
And, mingling with the torrent's swell,
Faint, yet distinct, the shrill scream fell.

XLVII.

He linger'd not; but firm as youth,
The rocky pathway trod,
Though pour'd the rain so fast; in sooth,
The chamois, sleeping on the sod,

132

Scarce to escape the hunter's snare,
On such a night had left his lair.
But the kind heart that pity warms
Is proof against the fiercest storms.
He comes again: the rocky stairs
He treads—O richly laden!
Within his arms a form he bears;
'Tis she! The royal maiden!

135

CANTO III.

I.

Sweeter than earthly is the strain,
From yonder convent ringing,
Of maidens, free from mortal stain,
Their Christian Pæans singing!
The notes, now ling'ring on the breeze,
Now sinking low, now swelling high,
The ear with soft enchantment seize,
And lap the soul in melody.

136

But spells of stronger, holier feeling,
O'er pious hearts serenely stealing,
Those hallow'd strains inspire;
From maids, whose chaste and tranquil fate
To heaven is vow'd and dedicate,
Who, shaking off this changeful state,
To God alone awake the lyre;
Wild-floating like a seraph's call,
“Praise to the Highest! Praise ye all!”

II.

And wanderers well such sounds might deem
Illusions of an heav'nly dream.
The convent rose not high and proud,
To show the superstitious crowd

137

Another form of vanity;
Its lowly roof was hid by trees,
Cork, ilex, pine, which, in the breeze,
Wav'd o'er the shrine of piety.
A dreary plain was all around,
Far as the eye could reach,
And on the flat, unfertile ground,
Dwelt silence, seldom chas'd by sound
Of busy toil, or pleasant speech.
No herds were there; nor flocks, nor goats,
Nor summer birds, with merry notes;
The vulture, wild inhabitant,
With shrilly scream past lonely on;
Save when, with sad and boding tone,
The raven join'd his solemn chaunt.

138

III.

That vesper hymn, unmingled now
With aught less calm and holy,
Two pilgrims heard, with pious vow,
And soothing melancholy.
They linger'd still upon the plain,
As if to catch the distant strain;
And, afar off, the silver hair,
The giant frame that brav'd the storm,
Contrasted with the fragile form,
So sad, so drooping, and so fair,
Bending like pensile willow branch,—
The hermit he, the maid was Blanch.
Pale, wan, from bed of sickness risen,
She gaz'd on her eternal prison:

139

But not one shiv'ring doubt repress'd
The voice within that promis'd rest;
No ling'ring hope, with earthly chain,
Drew her to the stern world again.
If ever on her cheerless track
Too busy mem'ry forc'd her back;
If ever restless fancy drew
Her hours to come in shadowy view;
No sun-shine gilt her backward day,
No hope illum'd her onward way,
The past, the future, she would fly,
Her only selfish wish, to die!
A tear, a sigh, the wish reproves;
Friendship's the tear, the sigh was Love's.

140

IV.

At the low convent's gate she sank,
“Father, I was forbid to thank,
But bless me, ere I enter here!
Thou know'st me all—” “O child most dear,
To me alone and angels clear,
I bless thee with a father's love!
A brighter and a purer sphere
Will shield the wandering dove.”
She rose with smile ineffable;
“Soon shall I be at rest!
But for my own dear Isabel,
Her fate alone disturbs my breast!
Promise me, if I live or die,
To all but one thy secresy:

141

Lost to the world, to hope, to shame,
O what to me is fickle fame!
Such triumphs I resign;
And with them, my most fatal name,
Thy Blanch no more, but Rosaline.”

V.

They enter'd—Dark-rob'd sisters stray'd
The cloister walks along;
And soon, to greet the stranger maid,
Came the fair courteous throng.
Ev'n she, the stately Prioress,
Bent from her pride of holiness,
The lovely votary to bless,
And hail the hermit sage:

142

The Confessor, Francisco mild,
Benignly gaz'd, and sweetly smil'd,
As she had been his only child,
The solace of his age.
But when her piteous tale he caught,
His brow was wrinkled o'er with thought,
His clear mild voice was chok'd with sighs,
And tears bedimm'd his searching eyes,
With love and pity fraught.
“Fear not for her!” Francisco said,
As turning from the weeping maid,
The hermit bent his way;
“Fear not for her! nor wealth, nor power,
Shall tear her from this hallow'd bower;
Nor torture keen, nor golden shower,
Shall force me to betray!”

143

His way the holy man pursued;
Blanch, with mild spirit unsubdued,
Staid in that tranquil solitude.

VI.

And in that dark and gloomy cell,
They lov'd the gentle novice well.
Not then, as in an after age,
The convent op'd, at parent's rage,
Some sad true love to sever;
To swell some proud boy's heritage,
Of her regardless ever,
Who, a resisting victim driven,
With vows extorted tempted Heaven.
O many a loathing votaress
Those saintly weeds hath worn,

144

And felt her throbbing bosom press,
With stifled love, whose wild excess
Goads like a rankling thorn.
The tears, which once she strove to hide,
Burning impatience long hath dried,
And wishes most unholy:
O wretched one! her days depart,
In prayers that spring not from the heart,
Embitter'd temper, cherish'd smart,
Unlov'd, unloving melancholy.

VII.

None such, among those holy maids,
Disgrac'd their calm religious shades.

145

The hapless many, who had known
The world's wild strife and anguish'd groan;
The happy few, who early came,
And knew of misery but the name;
These loving, as they only love
Who never vice or treachery prove;
Those soften'd by remember'd woes,
All sooth'd the mourner to repose.
And still benignant smiles repaid
The efforts of each generous maid;
And ne'er did Blanch's grief intrude,
To sadden their calm solitude.
Francisco watch'd, from day to day,
The lovely novice fade away;
Her figure of proportion rare
Seem'd melting to its kindred air;

146

And, in her cheeks, one hectic flush
Supplied the varying maiden blush;
Whilst from her eyes bright flashes broke,
And of the brighter spirit spoke:
But still, tho' pain and anguish tore,
In patience and in truth she bore.

VIII.

So months pass'd on with that poor maid,
And every month her strength decay'd;
Yet still increasing peace she felt:
'Twas winter now; and oft she said,
“My soul, ere spring-flowers bloom and fade,
Will leave this narrow belt.”

147

One only hope, one only care,
Awoke her bosom's swell;
That hope an angel well might share—
Need I its tender aim declare!—
That care was Isabel.
The hope, the care, together wrought,
No mental skill could sunder;
And oft alone the maiden thought
On good Fernandez' tale of wonder:
Whilst still, in Fancy's visions seen,
Came the brave Moor and lovely queen.

IX.

One eve that, from the nuns retir'd,
Her dreams the fam'd Alhambra fir'd,
Dreams its more famous lord inspir'd;

148

Young Clara came, with breathless glee,
“Haste, dearest sister, follow me!
A comely pilgrim, Rosaline,
Laden with gold and jewels fine,
Comes kneeling at our lady's shrine;
And with him bears his Moorish chains;
And, even now, he tells the pains,
He suffer'd, ere his blest release.
Haste, or the wondrous tale will cease!
And, sooth, on holy maiden's ear
Ne'er fell a tale more deft and clear.

X.

“Haste, dearest Rose!” Clare onward drew;
Blanch, half unwilling, shrank from view.

149

She deem'd, it was the common strain
Of prison dark and clanking chain,
And Moorish damsel, heavenly fair,
Who turn'd those ponderous chains to air.
But scarce the crowded grate they sought,
Ere the first words the maiden caught
Fix'd her chill'd ear, entranc'd her thought,
('Twas of some captive dame he spoke,
Whose chamber o'er the garden hung,
Where he to toil and misery woke,
And listen'd as she sung:)
O had she tun'd her notes to pleasure,
That voice had marr'd the gayest measure!
It was a voice, whose every tone
Seem'd form'd for songs of woe alone;
It was a wild unvaried lay,
Monotonous from day to day;

150

Ye pious maids! 'tis sad to tell,
But thus the tale of misery fell.

XI. Song of the Captive Lady.

“The boy went forth, at break of day,
With his own Blanch;
The mother watch'd him at his play,
And strove to drive the wolf away:—
Savage was she who pierc'd his heart!
Will none the life-blood staunch?
The boy is dead!—Whose was the dart?
'Twas thine, my Blanch!

151

The boy lies welt'ring in his blood!—
Where liest thou, Blanch?
In his fair cheeks, a noisome brood,
The death-worms cling and seek their food:
But where is she, whose fatal quiver
Destroy'd that lovely branch;
Deep in the bosom of the river,
Thou liest, my Blanch!”

XII.

More had he told: but from the crowd
Rose lamentations shrill and loud;
The sisters all, in kind distress,
Press round the wond'ring Prioress,

152

To tell how, fainting, cold, and dead,
Their own dear Rosaline is laid;
Where is the holy Francis now?
He, who from herb and plant and bough,
Is skill'd to draw the healing balm;—
He comes, their clamorous grief to calm:
And the lov'd mourner breathes again,
Restor'd to life, to sense, to pain.

XIII.

Francisco linger'd by her side,
And powerful charms the priest applied.
For when the nuns, at matin hour,
Sought the sweet maiden in her bower,

153

She smil'd her thanks, with courteous glee,
And spake her benedicite,
And press'd the hands of all.
They saw no more the novice fair,
Or confessor, at meal or prayer,
In chapel or in hall.
And much the pious, curious throng
Admir'd, and guess'd, and wonder'd long:
Till it was told, in solemn tone,
That she, the lovely drooping one,
Supported by the father sage,
Was gone on pious pilgrimage.

154

XIV.

So leave we now the convent cell,
Of that most wretched dame to tell,
Who, in th' Alhambra tower,
Her tottering reason sang away,
Or seem'd with her dead boy to play,
Hugging the form she call'd his clay,
Thro' many a weary hour:
Unlearning every sense but care,
Lost to all feeling save despair.
One morn, at her accustom'd station,
The lovely maniac sung;
And rocking slow, in faint vibration,
Like a fond careful nurse she swung.

155

Within her arms, in drapery wrapt,
An alabaster vase she lapp'd,
And fancied it her son!
She shudder'd, as the marble cold
Struck to her heart thro' every fold,
But clasp'd it tighter in her hold,
Still chanting her sad death-like moan.

XV.

'Twas on a day of joy and feast,
Early the holy rites began,
And Moors, from worldly cares releas'd,
To pious domes swift crowding ran.
The Caliph, at the mosque, had heard,
Unsooth'd, his Prophet's hallow'd word:

156

His prostrate people he had seen,
Adoring low the sacred green,
Almanzor only wore;
The caftan, gemm'd with many a star,
The turbant crescent, glittering far,
The diamond-hilted scymetar,
And emerald spurs, he bore.
His courser's housings, border'd round,
With golden foliage, trail'd the ground;
And the good steed, as proud to bear
His royal burthen, paw'd the air.
Whilst chiefs and viziers press'd along,
And plaudits hail'd the splendid throng.

157

XVI.

And that applause, unfeign'd and loud,
'Twas the heart-tribute of the crowd,
Who, gazing on the stateliest train
That ever trod thy cities, Spain,
Mark'd not the gay procession's glare,
Saw but the parent monarch there.
Those plaudits once had sooth'd the heart,
Where rankled now woe's fest'ring smart;
The Caliph fled from every eye,
By change of place for ease to try;
Poor King, 'twas from himself he'd fly!
Ah! ye, who ease by change would prove,
From vexing thoughts,—first cease to love!

158

XVII.

Alone, within his garden bowers,
He linger'd through the noontide hours;
But vainly there the seasons fling
Rich autumn's fruits, the bloom of spring,
And vainly there pellucid stream,
From many a marble fountain,
Waters, which sparkle in the beam,
And with ambrosial perfumes steam
O'er mossy bed and mimic mountain.
Vain is the fragrant orange grove;
And vain the myrtle bower of love;
Tho' black-ey'd nymphs glide thro' the trees,
Like gossamer upon the breeze;

159

Vain all to him, whose love was all!
Who saw that star of beauty fall,
In whose pure light he liv'd, he mov'd,
As saint ador'd, as woman lov'd!

XVIII.

Almanzor shunn'd the venal throng,
Who pass'd with sylph-like steps along.
Pensive he rov'd, unwitting where,
Till wild notes floated in the air;
'Twas the poor queen's low plaintive song.
O through his breast what tides of woe,
That mournful voice could bid to flow!
Scarce breath'd and indistinct it fell;
But yet, enchanted by the spell,

160

(As oft by some strange power we seek
The charm, which bids the full heart break,)
He flew to Isabel.

XIX.

There still she sate with arms enfolded
Around the vase—like statue, moulded
For some sepulchral urn, her form!
So fix'd, so pale, so like to death,
With half-clos'd eyes and viewless breath;
Can life that senseless mourner warm!
Cold shiverings on Almanzor crept,
Now in his veins his life-blood slept,
Now throbb'd within his heart of flame.

161

He thought on the triumphant hour,
When first, in Murcia's princely tower,
In beauty's pride, in pomp of power,
He saw the lovely dame.
Before his eyes the vision bright
Too faithful memory bore;
Her dark hair glittering with the light
Of gems, that in her crown she wore;
Gems, by those jetty eyes outshone,
Which dimm'd the radiant diamond stone,
By their effulgent blaze!
And cheeks which sham'd her crimson throne;
And form which mock'd all praise;
And every beauty's sweet excess,
Enhanc'd by perfect happiness.

162

XX.

He thought on all the courtly train:
That Monarch, of her charms more vain,
Than deeds of arms, or wide domain:
And on that boy, whose infant eye
Was lit by princely dignity:
And, Oh, a form more witching fair,
Pure as the moon's chaste beam, was there!
The fairy, glancing smiles around,
Whose slender foot scarce touch'd the ground,
Whose very form, upborne in air,
Seem'd floating like her nut-brown hair!—
That thought Almanzor could not bear,
He struck his clench'd hand on his brow,
He mus'd upon the dreadful now!

163

What balm that cureless wound shall staunch!
His limbs with anguish shiver;
When, suddenly, her mournful air
The maniac breath'd, in calm despair,
“Deep in the bosom of the river
Thou liest, my Blanch!”

XXI.

What is the sound, whose piercing call
Can bid the hero's tear-drops fall?
'Tis the name which dwelleth in the heart,
Unbreath'd, unheard, unspoken;
'Tis the vision which, with sudden start,
All other thought hath broken;
'Tis the cherish'd pang which memory hoards,
Too sacred and too sad for words;

164

If another lip should breathe that name,
If another tongue should that thought proclaim,
In that pang should another sympathise,
It stirs the heart with electric flame,
And the burning tide o'erflows the eyes!
Almanzor wept, till his o'er-fraught breast
Seem'd of its grief unladen;
And turn'd again to its gloomy rest,
Like a widow'd dove to her lonely nest,
In the grave of his lovely maiden.

XXII.

When as he thought to leave the Queen,
Brave Heli came, with wondering mien,
Almanzor's trusted friend was he;
And his dark eye's quick sparkling glee

165

Show'd the kind Moor had that to tell
Would please the gloomy Caliph well.
He told, that morn a stranger pair,
A priest, a page, their city sought;
Age silver'd o'er the old man's hair,
And his mild cheek was pale with thought:
But for the graceful page,—in truth,
That boy was the most lovely youth,
That ever, in the Christian land,
Gave goblet to a lady's hand!
And prostrate at the Alhambra gate,
Fatigued, and faint, and sad, they sate!

XXIII.

“Till, as I pass'd, the gentle boy
Hung to my robe with fearful joy

166

And begg'd me of the King to tell,
And the lone drooping Isabel:
And that fair boy upon his knee,
Almanzor's self implor'd to see;
And he a name, and token sent,
As pledges of his fair intent.
One beam of that mild-piercing glance,
Where the pure spirit seem'd to dance
In its own azure Heaven;
One tone of that soft, silver voice,
Whose sound might bid despair rejoice,
Sufficient pledge had given!
One only glance, one only tone,
Like those, my sovereign, have I known!”

167

XXIV.

Breathless from doubting hope, “What name?
What pledge?” the trembling Monarch said:
Heli did not that word proclaim
Which lit Almanzor's glance of flame;
But in his hand a tress he laid,
Whose long curls wav'd, in many a fold,
And crisped maze of darker gold,
As if on Blanch's neck it stray'd.
And when brave Heli's eye he caught,
And his kind smile with pleasure fraught,
The King no other answer sought:
And darting on, light-footed joy
Soon bore them to the seeming boy.

168

XXV.

Low at her feet Almanzor knelt;
His hand her trembling pressure felt;
He could not speak, he could but hang,
Enraptur'd, on her look;
And sighs that from his bosom sprang,
They prov'd that joy may have a pang,
As hard as grief's to brook.
Whilst modesty o'er Blanch's face,
Spread the bright tint, improv'd by toil,
And love relumin'd every grace
Which woe had tried to spoil.
Her timid glances sought the ground;
A nobler resting-place they found;
Almanzor's brow, with candor crown'd,

169

Caught the mild beam:
He press'd her fair hand to his lip,
All wet with tears, as swallows dip,
On glancing wing, and sport, and sip,
And revel o'er the stream.

XXVI.

Sweet pause of joy, how strong thy spell!
Blanch broke the stillness; “Isabel!”
In faltering tones she said:
That word could love's soft raptures quell;
“Fear not, dear maid! all will be well;
She lives.—My Blanch, what miracle
The Sangonera river staid,
When thou, my all of life, wert there,
And my soul mourn'd thee in despair?

170

But wherefore ask I! since to see
Thy lovely form from tyrants free,
To see thee here is bliss to me!
Receive the Christian's vows, my life,
My only love! My only wife!”

XXVII.

Blanch's contracted brow,—her sigh,
Half-heav'd, then caught convulsively,—
Her chillness, her averted look,
Her hand that with faint tremor shook,
Told, in her breast no joy could dwell:
Again she murmur'd, “Isabel!”
The Caliph gaz'd upon her face,
Displeas'd her look of woe to trace;

171

Then first he mark'd the sunken eye,
The hollow cheek, the frequent sigh,
The struggling smile that vainly strove
To hide the mental agony;
Gone is the blush of modesty!
Drown'd is the glance of love!

XXVIII.

And anger from the Caliph's breast,
Unfrequent inmate, goes!
“Queen Isabel! She is at rest:
Soon to thy heart shall she be press'd,
But thou must share, my gentle guest,
Refreshment and repose.

172

Then will I tell her mournful state,
And by what strange and wondrous fate,
She to Granada came.
And how preserv'd to her, to me,
My lovely Blanch again I see,
That tale from thee I'll claim.
Heli, the aged priest attend,
As Blanch's, as thy sovereign's friend!”

XXIX.

He led her thro' a princely hall,
With marble pav'd and gilded wall;
Thro' the wide court, where freshening streams
From the lion's fountain, caught the beams,
That now on the cool waters play'd,
Now lit the marble colonnade;

173

A hundred columns stood around,
With pious scroll and bandeau bound,
And a hundred arches those columns crown'd:
On every side the palace spread,
In gorgeous state, its lofty head;
And up the stairs Almanzor led,
To a light and gay and brilliant room,
With gold and painting burnish'd o'er,
Where every gale gave fresh perfume,
And the rich fragrance sought the dome,
From the cool perforated floor.

XXX.

Beneath a velvet canopy,
Almanzor plac'd the Princess fair;

174

And reach'd her fruit and conserves rare,
And watch'd her with a parent's care,
And a fond lover's gallantry.
Then lying at his lady's feet,
Raising his head, her glance to meet,
The Caliph spake: “That fatal day,
When the poor boy's disastrous play
Swept Murcia's princely pride away,
That fatal morn, disguis'd I came;
Ah, need I say, my gentle dame,
Beneath what passion's sway?
All was confusion in the court;
Terror appear'd in every eye;
Ev'n the fix'd watch, with anxious port,
Seem'd doubtful if to stay or fly.

175

The dreadful story soon I caught;—
O deem not, Blanch, in heart, or thought,
Of doubt, or fear, I harbor'd aught,
I knew that mind too well!
But endless seem'd the dreary day,
I linger'd in the woods away,
Till at the close of twilight gray,
I met the frantic Isabel.

XXXI.

“Deep was her groan and wild her call;
Her reason totter'd to its fall;
But yet enough I caught, to know
The cause of that dread overthrow:
The real cause! Blanch, only I
Could clear up that dark mystery.

176

Who would Almanzor's tale receive?
The Moorish Caliph who believe?
To shield thy fame, vain were my strife;
My only aim, to save thy life.
For this, the Queen I captive led,
And Heli to the tyrant dread
My scroll of menace bore;—
‘To liberty fair Blanch restore!
Dare not to touch her sacred head!
The hour that spills her stainless gore,
Sees Isabella dead.
Nor till, unhurt and free, the maid
Reposes in Aledo's shade,
Shall Murcia's threats, or Murcia's power,
Force my fair captive from my tower!”

177

XXXII.

Blanch press'd his hand, with tremulous thrill,
And momentary pause,
“'Twas then for this he dar'd not kill!
Yet terrible Alfonzo's skill
To work his dark revengeful will,
And yet evade the clause.
But Isabel?” “My loveliest maid,
The strong impression seem'd to fade,
Like fearful dreams at break of day:
Reason shone calmly in her eye,
And the mild tear and frequent sigh
Stole frenzy's tide away;
As pattering rain and moaning blast
Tell that the lightning's rage is past.

178

So mourn'd she, till the fatal hour
When tidings came that Murcia's flower,
Deep in the Sangonera's tide,
A self-slain victim, plung'd and died.
The tale struck to her heart, her brain,
And madness, with his fearful train
Of horrid visions, came again.
Poor guiltless sufferer! Only thou
Canst heal her wounded spirit now!”

XXXIII.

Then Blanch's tears of pity fell;
“My friend, my gentle Isabel!
Was it for me?—” “Dear lady, nay!
Thy precious tears a moment stay;
How wert thou sav'd, sweet Princess, say?”

179

Faltering and slow the story came;
Tho' o'er each injury as quick
She pass'd, as snow-flakes falling thick,
Yet woke the Caliph's wrathful flame;
Till on each generous deed she hung,
And mercy, dropping from her tongue,
Like rain from heaven, the fire could tame.

XXXIV.

He blest the gentle Beatrice;
He blest the hermit old;
But soon the lover's transports cease,
As thus the tale is told.
“Exhausted by the tempest's rage,
I lay in the calm hermitage;

180

'Tis to his care, that pious sage,
I owe that still I live:
But, while each panting short-drawn breath
Suspended seem'd 'twixt life and death,
'Twas his in holiness and faith,
A better boon to give.

XXXV.

“I told him all; one only spot
Remain'd for me: one only lot!
Almanzor, the most holy vow,
Enroll'd in heaven, divides us now!
Whilst wavering still and unprofess'd,
Thou wert my bosom's latest guest;

181

And even now, tho' love's keen barb
Lurks not beneath the novice' garb,
For thee to heaven ascends my prayer,
My only hope to meet thee there.
By a strange chance, in convent cell,
I heard the fate of Isabel:
I came the hero's soul to wake,
The guiltless captive's chains to break,
For Blanch's, for Almanzor's sake!”

XXXVI.

Weeping on his reluctant hands,
Blanch bends her knee upon the ground;
Irresolute awhile he stands,
Then lifts her up with sudden bound,

182

And clasps the maiden to a heart
Throbbing, as life and soul would part!
Emotion quell'd each broken word;
But eloquence had spoke unheard
In that wild jar of grief and love;
Ah, she who hop'd no more to prove
Such pangs, how much she err'd!
Words came at length.—“Beloved one,
And wilt thou leave me here alone,
In joyless pomp, in wretched show,
The prey of solitary woe?
None toil to cheer, or lighten care,
And my best comfort, calm despair?
Thou wilt not—canst not! Blanch, 'twas thine
To bid the mourner cease to pine;
The hungry feed; relieve the poor;
And open to th' oppress'd thy door;—

183

Come, view the circle thou may'st cheer,
Come, and thy heart will keep thee here!”

XXXVII.

To a fair hall the Caliph led,
Where, like the sky, at distance spread,
The ceiling rose above their head:
Inlaid with circle and with star,
Of gold and silver, brightly shining,
With color'd woods their beauty joining,
And distance every tint refining,
Like moonlight sea-view kenn'd afar.
He led her to a balcony
That jutted from the wall;

184

“All that from this fair hill you see
Almanzor sovereign call!”

XXXVIII.

Granada stretch'd beneath their feet,
With palace, mosque, and cheerful street;
And dark-ey'd Moors were cluster'd there;
And veiled dames with graceful air;
Mirth rul'd the hour and toil was staid.
Th' Alhambra grove around them lay,
With lofty elm and cypress spray,
And oleander shade.
Remada's mountain hung above them,
With corn-fields sloping down the side,
And cots, where cherub children hide,
And Blanch's heart sprang forth to love them;

185

Whilst dale and village, cot and hill,
Woke in her breast the social thrill.

XXXIX.

“I talk not, Blanch, of thrones; for there
Sit doubt and watchfulness and care.
But here is not one blessed spot
So fair, but thou couldst mend its lot!
Here is not one so curst, but thou
Couldst chase despair from every brow!
Canst thou such angel joys resign?
My love, my Blanch, be wholly mine!”
“Once might such joys have tempted me!
Now—Have I not relinquish'd thee!
Life has no more to give.

186

Almanzor, ere thy halls I trod,
The dedicated spouse of God,
In convent gloom I vow'd to live.
'Twill not be long! I feel it here!”
On her pure heart, her hand she prest;
The thought of her eternal rest,
Alone had power the maid to cheer!
“'Twill not be long! and wouldst thou have
My span of life fond passion's slave?
Oh, No! Caliph, my ear has caught
A tale with such deep horror fraught,
That it would daunt thy boldest thought,
Would agonise thy soul:
Who sav'd my life, the hermit, he,
Unhappy father! told it me:
It was a Moor that stole

187

His daughter from her tranquil cell,
In freedom and in bliss to roam;—
Poor wretched one, her death-groan fell
Within a narrower home!
Happy, if her deserved fate
Her fouler crime might expiate!”

XL.

“Is't priestly vengeance that you dread?
My power might shield your sacred head
From—” “Stop the torrent in its course,
Force back the Ebro to its source,
Then, shield th' apostate from remorse;
That is beyond thy power!
Almanzor, spare my feeble heart!

188

I came to bless thee, and to part;
Why waste we thus the hour?
I go,—'twould cheer me in my cell,
Once more to see my Isabel!”

XLI.

In war, Almanzor stood enroll'd
The boldest chief, where all were bold;
A hero's soul in hero's mould;
His arm the bravest fled:
But never was his courage prov'd
Till now that, for the maid he lov'd,
Himself he vanquished.
He saw her sinking at his side;
“One parting kiss of love!” he cried;

189

“One kiss may be forgiven!
In my vain passion deified,
Queen of my heart, my joy, my pride,
Thou diest a spotless virgin bride,
To live a saint in heaven!”
He clasp'd her to his throbbing heart,
“Bless thee, my best and dearest part,
Bless thee for ever!”
He fled: that look of woe suppress'd,
In the fair mourner's eye shall rest;
And from her ear, and from her breast,
No sound those words shall sever:
And yet, at first, as if unheard
That stifled groan, that last low word,
She sate with calm and tearless eye,
And bending form, and gentle sigh;

190

And shook the ringlets from her ear,
With patient smile his voice to hear,
As if her lover still were near.

XLII.

As mists upon the mountain side,
Cots, woods, and glittering streamlets hide,
Till the pure breeze and brilliant ray,
The morning vapors chase away,
And the bright landscape springs to day;
So from her trance, to fate resign'd,
Woke the fair maid's celestial mind.
Heli was there, the Caliph's friend,
The lovely mourner to attend,
And lead her to the captive Queen.

191

Never from Heli's down-cast eye,
Had shrunk the soul of modesty;
He gaz'd not on her blushing mien,
Her page's habit seem'd unseen,
Whilst, bent before the drooping maid,
The Moor his King's sad greetings paid.

XLIII.

“Lady, Almanzor bade me say,
From Murcia, chafing at delay,
Count Merida, this very day,
For Isabel arrives:
Step, lady, on the balcony,
And thou th' advancing pomp mayst see,
Their pursuivants, their pageantry;—
Woe to that pageant! but for thee,
'T had cost ten thousand lives!

192

He comes, the captive dame to crave;
Or from proud Murcia's king to bear
Defiance to the Caliph brave,
To Spain, on either side, despair!
But for thine aid, he might as soon
Have woo'd and won the cold chaste moon,
From her high throne, as Isabel.
To pluck the rainbow from the sky,
And fix its tints in painter's dye,
Were less impossible,
Than, or by threats, or force, to wrest
Aught from Almanzor's haughty breast!”

193

XLIV.

“Will he not then?” “Yes! Murcia's king
Th' unheeded gauntlet now may fling;
The captive's doors wide open spring.
But not his threats the bolts undrew;
Nothing for him! but all for you!
Ah, lady, must you go?” One sigh
He caught, but in her lifted eye
Beam'd calm and saintly constancy.
She answer'd not: but wav'd her hand
And motion'd to the door;
Perchance she fear'd her self-command,
Perchance the kindly Moor.
“The Queen!” at length she faltering said,
And to the royal fair he led.

194

XLV.

Silent they pass'd. Before the dame,
Unmark'd, unseen, unheard, they came:
She lay upon a velvet couch,
Beneath a crimson canopy,
And drew her hand from Blanch's touch,
But open'd not her eye.
Till Blanch no longer could repress
The thrilling tone of fond distress:
In sounds no selfish grief could lend,
She cried, “and is it thou, my friend,
My cousin Isabel!
And do I press thee to my heart,
And does no throbbing feeling dart,
Of kindred love to tell!”

195

XLVI.

Then forth the lovely maniac rush'd;
Her eye was wild, her cheek was flush'd;
But on the maid that eye was fix'd,
With doubting hope and sadness mix'd.
She stood as one who, scarce awake,
At vision'd spectres seems to shake;
Quakes at each thought; starts at each sound;
Feels each accustom'd object round;
Bewilder'd shrinks from day's bright beam;
And trembling asks, was it a dream?
She dragg'd Blanch to the casement bright,
Held her at arm's length in the light,

196

And gaz'd upon her faded charms;
Till reason's dawn began to break:
And with one shrill, heart-piercing shriek,
She fell in Blanch's arms.

199

CANTO IV.

I.

Joy cannot claim a purer bliss,
Nor grief a dew from stain more clear,
Than female friendship's meeting kiss,
Than female friendship's parting tear.
How sweet, the heart's full bliss to pour
To her, whose smile must crown the store!
How sweeter still, to tell of woes
To her, whose faithful breast would share
In every grief, in every care,
Whose sigh can lull them to repose!

200

O blessed sigh! There is no sorrow,
But from thy breath can sweetness borrow;
Ev'n to the pale and drooping flower
That fades in love's neglectful hour,
Ev'n with her woes can friendship's power
One happier feeling blend:
'Tis from her restless bed to creep,
And sink, like wearied babe, to sleep,
On the soft couch her sorrows steep,
The bosom of a friend.

II.

So the two royal cousins lay,
Clasp'd in each other's arms, till day,

201

And Isabel, on Blanch's breast,
Lull'd by her sighs, had sunk to rest.
The morning beam, with joyous light,
Athwart the lattice glimmer'd bright;
And Blanch the lovely Queen could view,
Her shrunken form, her pallid hue;
Save that one cheek, with kindly flush,
Stole from her warmth a soften'd blush;
And seem'd, on its fair pillow thrown,
A maiden rose on Parian stone.
Her eyelids clos'd, yet moist with dews,
An air of holy grief diffuse;
And yet on lips unknown to guile,
Sits (banish'd long!) a holier smile;
That smile the mourner's heart can cheer;
Why is the parting hour so near!

202

III.

In that lone bower remembrance brought
Years long gone by to Blanch's thought:
When she and Isabella stray'd
In dear Aledo's pleasant shade;
Stray'd, like twin lambs, the broom among,
Listening the linnet's cheerful song.
She saw her still, a nut-brown child,
With eyes whose dark beams, flashing wild,
Caught radiance from her glowing cheeks;
And dimples, dappling when she smil'd,
As the May morning breaks.
O how her own dear father lov'd
To watch the playmates as they rov'd;

203

At distance store of fruit to place,
For the gay victor in the race,
And join himself the sportive chace,
Determin'd still to lose:
And mark the happy infant's toil,
Dividing with nice care the spoil,
And Isabel to choose!
Then to his knee the gipsy sprang;
While his own fairest Blanch would hang,
With clasping arms, around his neck:
And he would kiss the urchins bold;
And love them both, and oft infold
Their locks, like ebony and gold,
That curious caskets deck.

204

IV.

Such were their infant joys; too short!
That dear, dear father died!
But at grave task, or merry sport,
The friends were side by side.
The vassals, when, with girlish grace,
They first adventur'd in the chace,
Their future lady could not trace;
Alike their robes and jewels rare;
They knew not if the dark-hair'd maid,
Or she whose auburn ringlets play'd,
Were rich Aledo's heir.
They had nor wish, nor hope, nor thought,
That was not still in common:
And, even when they sprang to woman,
Beauty and love no difference wrought.

205

Oh, Blanch still saw the pretty blush,
Still heard the voice, half chok'd with shame,
Still felt the trembling burning flush,
When first she breath'd Alfonzo's name;
She saw the blushes, brighter still,
The sparkling bliss, the lovely thrill,
When, trembling with confusion sweet,
She caught the monarch at her feet:
She saw her in her bridal geer;—
And turn'd to view the mourner here.

V.

She wakes! ah, vain it were to say,
How sadly breaks to them the day!

206

That morn, for aye, th' Alhambra gate
The Queen must leave, with princely state;
And tho' a page within her train,
Blanch follows her to Christian Spain,
The parting hour is near.
The Princess left not to the hand
Of time, or chance, her kind command;
Never did Blanch, one single hour,
Defer a blessing in her power!
Speaking, she brush'd away a tear.

VI.

“My cousin, by our childish love!
By him who, hovering now above,

207

Guards us; by him, blest infant, swear
To grant thy Blanch's parting prayer!
Thou wilt—my only Isabel,
In thy pure breast what feelings dwell,
By my own heart I know:
Thou wouldst to Don Alfonzo's ear
My tarnish'd fame attempt to clear:
But if my life, my peace be dear,
That fatal wish forego.
For ever hush'd be every sound,
The wretched parent's heart can wound:
He deems me dead—I only live
For that which thou alone canst give.
I only live, my Queen to bless,
And sometimes hear her happiness.

208

VII.

“This is my prayer, and thou hast sworn,
Tho' thou shouldst hear thy Blanch's fame
Aspers'd, and stain'd with murder's name;
Tho' hypocrites, with brow of scorn,
Bear witness to my shame;
Never by sign, or look, or word,
Tell to the monarch he has err'd.
My most belov'd, attend!
Be Blanch's very name forgot!
None think me living—name me not!
Enough for me, that free from blot
Thou knowst me for thy friend.”

209

VIII.

“And such a friend! O never yet
Had earthly friendship such a debt!
How we have lov'd! Ev'n in the hour
Of bridal vows, of princely power,
I wept to leave thee, Blanch!
And my dear boy's first lisping tone,
When speech began”—O wretched one!
That thought recall'd his dying moan,
And op'd the wound no skill could staunch.
She spake no more: tho' Blanch's tear
Hung on her cheek, like dew-drop clear
Upon the lily's snowy bell;
Vain was all art to soothe or cheer;
Unfelt the soften'd accents fell.

210

IX.

Silent she sate, till he who came,
To Murcia's court to bear the dame,
(With many a gallant count and knight
And many a page and lady bright,)
He, skill'd to wield detraction's sword,
Himself the proudest knight that e'er
Sought favor of a lady fair,
Merida's haughty lord,
In litter deck'd with bright array,
Bore her, like some pale corse, away.
The motion strange, the freshening air
Reviv'd her then: no Blanch was there.

211

X.

She, by the good Francisco's side,
A seeming boy, was doom'd to ride;
Expos'd to scoffings rude and vain,
And jeers from all the menial train.
They marvell'd much, with gownsman old
To find a youth so fair of mould;
In faith 'twas pity! Such a boy
Was fram'd for some sweet lady's joy!
Pity, the beams of that blue eye,
By fast and prayer to mortify!
And ruby lips were never made,
To ply the cowled father's trade!
She heard them not; the sainted maid;—
Why then repeat their ribaldry!

212

XI.

Oh, in her mind far other thought
Rankled, by love and pity taught!
Almanzor's last fond parting word,
By Heli told, still, still she heard:
And still she turn'd her anxious eye
Tow'rds the far distant balcony;
Where a last glance to catch he stood,
Till winding down the hilly wood,
The train, in long procession dight,
And she, the jewel heavenly bright,
His lovely Blanch, was hid from sight!
Still thro' the long, long day she turn'd
To the Alhambra's lofty tower;
And as her breast with anguish burn'd,

213

She closer press'd the orange flower;
Sole relic of Almanzor's bower,
To soothe, to cheer, how vast its power!
He sent it to the drooping maid;
And some as precious token pray'd
By his dear lady given
O well that gift her love express'd!
The crucifix from her fair breast
In Heli's hand the Princess press'd,
“Say 'tis the guide to me, to heaven!”
Emotion chok'd the rest.

XII.

No more is now Granada seen,
Nor high Remada's cliff;

214

And distance veils the city's queen,
The fair Generaliffe.
Tedious and sad the journey wore
To them, who woe's sad burthen bore;
Yet all too soon the parting came.
Tho' few, and short, and far between,
The stolen moments when, unseen,
They mingled sighs and tear-drops sheen,
Still comfort each short pause might claim.
'Twas sweet, 'mid voices mingling round,
To listen for one silver sound;
To catch a stolen glance; to feel
The whisper'd sigh on silence steal;
Ev'n the same fragrant gale to breathe;
Or garlands from one bower to wreathe.

215

Such tender joys ineffable,
Deem not with love alone they dwell!
The better love, the purer flame,
That lurks in friendship's sacred name,
‘Love without wings’ such joys may claim.
And such they felt, whose parting sigh,
Whose heart's dull dreary void was nigh,
Who either would for either die!

XIII.

Blanch must away. One last embrace,
And of her lovely form no trace
Shall with the Queen remain.
She goes!—Was it the wind that sigh'd

216

Through trees by Guadalquivir's tide?
Was it the poplar's shade that dyed
The river's breast with dusky stain?
Or was it the dark Juan stole,
Foul listener! from the moon-light knoll?
Fain would the Queen his thought descry;
But, though mistrust lurk'd in his eye,
His every word was courtesy.

XIV.

Now Murcia's lofty towers they near'd;
And now Alfonzo's train appear'd.
The courtiers hail'd the rescued dame;
The people join'd the loud acclaim;
And all with joyful welcome came;

217

While the proud Monarch sprang to clasp
His long-lost Queen, in love's fond grasp.
Blest was the hour to all but one;
Grief dwelt with Isabel alone!
She saw the wood, the very glade
Where that most precious quarry bled:
Frenzy came not; with memory curst,
Her panting heart seem'd like to burst.
She shrank from Don Alfonzo's hand,
And writh'd and murmur'd “Ferdinand!”
“Comfort thee, sweet! Partake my joy,
Dry up thy tears!” “My boy! my boy!”

218

XV.

“My Isabel!”—The King again
Sought to repress her sorrow vain,
“He was our joy; but light all pain,
Whilst we are spar'd to bless each other!
Calm for thy husband's sake the strife,
Who lives but in thy peace, thy life!”
“Dost thou conjure me as thy wife,
And was I not his mother?
O most unnatural! The she-wolf
Will plunge down the rift mountain's gulf,
To save or to avenge her whelp!
Whilst I—” “How could thy feeble help,
My Queen, our bleeding infant save?
Life visits not the tranquil grave.—

219

But for revenge, my Isabel,
The murderess—” The scream that fell
From that fair dame was horrible!
Dreadful to hear, to feel, to tell.

XVI.

Pale as her lovely infant's clay,
Her ladies bore the Queen away.
Alfonzo walk'd apart the while,
With cloudy brow and folded arm;
And Merida, with bitter smile,
Foresaw the darkly coming harm;
He hated all whom Blanch had lov'd,
But most the Queen his hatred prov'd.—

220

Alfonzo, starting from his thought,
The venerable Pedro sought,
“Is it not strange, Don Pedro, tell,
This frantic grief of Isabel?
She lov'd the child—I lov'd him too!
It was a glorious boy!
So like his mother!—still I view,
Still share, her tearful joy,
When first alone he tottering came
To her dear feet—first breath'd her name!
It was a glorious boy!”
He paus'd, and hung his head, to hide
Parental fondness' gushing tide.

221

XVII.

None spake. “Pedro, was it not said
By her, the murderess—who is dead!
That grief from Isabella fled;
And love and joy could only rest,
Sweet inmates of her peaceful breast?
Yet mourning still, so long; so wild;
No thought for me; still, still the child!”
“Perchance, my liege, the grief subdued
By time, th' accustom'd scene renew'd;
And time again will fade the trace
Of her lost boy from every place;
She views him now ev'n in your face:

222

Hence sprang her greetings cold.”
“Cold!” cried the King; “Thou 'st terms of grace!
By Heaven! She shrank from my embrace
As 'twere a serpent's fold!

XVIII.

“Merida, thou didst view the Queen,
While captive to the Moor;
Is't sudden, this wild frantic mien?
Was she thus cold before?
Merida, speak! Hast thou forgot
All use of words?” “I saw her not,
My liege, till from th' Alhambra tower,
Without the gates, she join'd our power.”

223

“And then?” “Dread Sir, the royal dame
In a close-cover'd litter came;
From me, through each successive day,
Haughty and cold, she turn'd away;
From me, from all; save Inez fair,
And one young page, of beauty rare,
Whom freed from Moorish chains we bare.”

XIX.

“Where is that page?”—“With all our train,
He sought the bounds of Christian Spain:
He parted then, upon the bank
Of the soft murmuring Guadalquivir,
Oh, many a tear the slow waves drank,
And many a sigh low-whisper'd sank

224

Through alders that o'erhung the river.”
“Whose sigh? Whose tear?” “My liege, it chanc'd,
That night I wander'd by the tide,
And leaning by the poplar's side,
I heard a voice in woe entranc'd:
Sweet was the sound—and not unknown!
‘And must thou go, my dearest one,
‘And must thou go?’ it cried;
‘O life has nothing left for me,
I lose my all in losing thee,
My best belov'd, my pride!’”

XX.

“Whose was that voice?” “In wonder tost,
The softly-breath'd reply I lost;

225

'Twas sweetly murmur'd, as the love
Of the new-wedded turtle-dove,
And intermix'd with many a sigh.
Again the well-known voice I heard,
‘O go not yet—one parting word,
One kiss, the last, before we die!’”
“Whose was that voice? Tempt me no more!
“Just then, my liege, upon the shore
Th' unshrouded moon-beams fell;
I saw a woman stately, fair,
Her face conceal'd by jetty hair,
Around the page her arms enfold—”
“Name her, or die!” “He left her hold,
And quickly fled across the wold,
And cried ‘Heaven shield thee, Isabel!’”

226

XXI.

“'Tis false, by Mary's blessed name!
Coward, the slanderer's fiend-like fame,
The traitor's death, thy portion be!
Hence with the slave!” A moment turn'd
The Monarch's thought: with doubt he burn'd.
“Merida, stay! The boy? The page?”
“Ah, vain, my liege, my honest rage!
He fled, and none the boy could see.”
“If this be false, death is thy share!
If true—O God! That misery spare!—
Inez, saw she the page?” “At hand
She waited on the Queen's command.—”
“Where is the Queen?—So true to me,
So fair, so pure—it cannot be!

227

But yet so cold!—The Queen, say where?”
“At the low tomb of Ferdinand!”
Don Pedro said—“Ah, dares she stand
A foul adult'ress there?
Yet even there, at his sad tomb,
My justice shall decide her doom.”

XXII.

'Tis evening. The last sunbeams play
Within the chapel rich;
Each pillar touch with golden ray,
Light every arch's pointed way,
And with a glory, proudly gay,
Crown each rude saint in fretted nich.

228

Within a gothic arch enshrin'd,
The lovely boy is laid;
And gold and sculptur'd store combin'd
In rich and wild profusion join'd,
To honor the lov'd infant dead:
But not in tomb or sculptur'd art;
His shrine is in his mother's heart.

XXIII.

Prone on the grave the mourner prays,
And the pale taper's sickly rays
Upon her features fall,
Crossing the gay and golden light,
That from the casement streams so bright,
With wavering shade;—her very sight
Might timid hearts appal!

229

Her long black hair, spread round her form,
Her ghastly face, whence coloring warm,
And sense and motion seem to fly;
Her robe dark as the evening storm;
Her fix'd unnatural eye;
All, with a thousand tongues, declare,
This is not grief,—it is despair!

XXIV.

Heart-torn, but firm, Alfonzo came;
Yet paus'd he when he saw the dame,
“Has that sad bosom room for love!”
Oh, there was none his breast to move
For the poor Queen: Don Pedro went,
Fearing again the innocent,

230

By the stern King condemn'd, to hear.
And the dark Juan's moody eyes
Survey'd his foul revenge's prize,
Nor mark'd the tears, nor reck'd the sighs,
Alfonzo breath'd for one so dear.

XXV.

Arming himself to give the stroke,
And giving, share, the monarch spoke:
“Queen Isabel, arise!
Stain not by drops that tainted flow,
The cherub's shrine, who sleeps below;
Oh! not for him that current slow
Steals from thy dewy eyes.

231

Start not. 'Twas not for Ferdinand
That thou didst, sad and weeping, stand,
At eve on Guadalquivir's strand;
'Twas not his cheek thy lips impress'd;
'Tis not his loss that steals thy rest;
Not those the mother's sacred tears.
Adult'ress! Thy unholy fears,
And guilty hopes, and love, and shame,
That look of agony may claim.
The page! the page! his name? his name?”
He ceas'd: the Queen nor mov'd, nor spoke,
Nor word nor sigh his mercy woke;
She only laid one trembling hand
On the rich shrine of Ferdinand.
She only lifted up her face,
As if one pitying look to trace

232

In eyes, where love's refulgent grace
Beam'd on her ever:
But from that alter'd glance she shrank,
And, clinging to the tomb, she sank
As drowning wretches to their plank,
“Tell thee his name! Oh, never!”

XXVI.

“Call Inez forth!” The monarch cried:
“Alfonzo,” the sad mourner sigh'd,
“Alfonzo, he enshrined here
Was not from such foul stain more clear!
Thou, only thou, my heart couldst claim.
That boy—that page—” “Tell then his name!”
Her pallid lips the marble kiss;

233

“A victim, my sweet babe, I come!
Victim! I have deserv'd my doom;
Deserv'd to die! but not for this!”

XXVII.

There all entranc'd in grief she lay,
And sense and misery fled away;
Till Inez call'd her from the grave;
And Inez' tale fresh anguish gave.
O vain had been her simple art
To soothe the jealous monarch's heart!
Vainly she said, the youthful page,
So sick, so pale, so green of age,
Was form'd the gentle heart to move
With pity, friendship, all but love.

234

Urg'd on by Merida's stern earl,
He little reck'd the faithful girl.
She wept, the piteous tale to tell
To the poor lonely Isabel;
But 'twas decreed, she must abide
To have her cause by combat tried:
And if, in twenty days, no knight
Appear'd, for her the count to fight,
Or if the day Don Juan gain,
That hour shall Isabel be slain.

XXVIII.

Soon through the towns of Murcia spread
The wrathful sovereign's edict dread;

235

All mourn'd the Queen's unhappy lot,
And wept, and pitied, and forgot!
The workmen, who the lists prepar'd,
Sought of a soldier of the guard,
If some brave noble of the court,
Or gallant foreign knight were there,
As champion for their lady fair?
That soldier, from his kindly eye,
Brush'd off a tear, and check'd a sigh,
“O none is here from hall or bower!
And yon poor dame in prison tower,
Her race of woe is short:
To-morrow's sun approaches fast;—
To-morrow's sun will be her last!”

236

XXIX.

The morrow came. With changeful sway,
Half tears, half smiles, arose the day;
Emblem of the sad victim's fate,
The sun just gleam'd in shrouded state;
On high pavilion, seat and throne,
His beams with fitful lustre shone;
On spearmen rang'd in martial row,
On lance and battle-axe and bow;
On heralds deck'd with tabards bright;
On marshal, page, and squire, and knight;
And on the mild despairing dame,
Who, hopeless or of life or fame,
In mourning weeds, close veiled, came;
And on the King, more wretched far!
Who, glorious as an earthly star,

237

Felt, on his throne, the nothingness
Of grandeur or of pomp, to bless.
There was not one of all the crowd
Had dar'd to stem his anger proud,
To say, O deem not ill of her!
Flatterers were there, applauders loud,
But not one comforter.

XXX.

Silent and sad was all around;
The marshals view'd the listed ground:
And soon Don Juan's herald came,
His style and title to proclaim,
And Isabel's imputed shame.

238

HERALD.
“Here cometh Merida's brave knight!
He cometh to defend the right,
For his great King's and conscience' sake:
To prove the Queen, so seeming bright,
A foul adult'ress, wanton, light,
He cometh here in single fight,
With knighthood, life, and fame at stake.”

XXXI.

Sounded the echoing bugle strain,
Shrilly and loud, o'er all the plain.
Then rode th' appellant forth: as gay
As if the dim and long array
Were but for some bright tourney's play.

239

His armor, all of burnish'd green,
Reflected every sunbeam sheen,
With emerald lustre, glancing bright,
Like meadows in the morning-light.
The plumage of his crested helm
Was glittering, as the sun-crown'd elm,
From whose young leaves the rain-drops fly,
And nod and sparkle as they die.
Upon his shield a column frown'd,
With dark luxuriant ivy bound;
“Off with the weed!” was blazon'd round.
He seem'd as for the fight he burn'd:
And when again awoke the strain,
Ev'n his Arabian courser spurn'd
The warrior's tightening rein.

240

XXXII.

Again the heralds loud proclaim,
“If comes no champion for the dame,
From this brave knight to wrest the prize,
At the third bugle blast she dies!”
The second blast has ceas'd to sing,
And dreadful is the pause;
All eyes are fix'd upon the king,
And on the combat's mournful cause:
She sate, wrapt in her sable veil;
None could descry the visage pale,
None see the wild despairing eyes;
But all could read, as in a book,
The feelings that her bosom shook,
Guessing by thrill and start her look,
And by her long convulsive sighs.

241

Her sobbing maids, with common grief,
Found, in their gushing tears, relief.
But who, Alfonzo, who shall tell
The feelings in thy heart that swell!
Doubt, fear, mistrust, and jealousy!
And love abhorring her deceit,
Yet mourning the delusion sweet;
Wishing his sentence rash, retriev'd,
Longing again to be deceiv'd
By that fair seeming purity.

XXXIII.

No knight appear'd: The third blast blew;
Then o'er the bounds a champion flew!

242

His stainless armour bright; his crest,
With plumes white as the wild swan's breast;
His martial mien, his youthful grace,
His very courser's mettled pace,
The courtly circle knew!
The conqueror in the tourney game,
He shall protect thee, gentlest dame!
His shield still bore the milk-white rose,
But it was snapp'd from the bright stem;
And radiant with its dewy gem,
Low on the ground its lustre shows.
Yet still his motto own'd its power,
“I worship the departed flower!”

243

XXXIV.

He pluck'd the gauntlet from the ground,
And brave defiance threw around.
The marshals of the field dispose
The combatants in listed close.
And either horse is turn'd to wheel,
In stunning shock, and either steel
Is rais'd to give the wound;
And every heart, and every eye,
To one brave champion seems to fly;
And Isabel has rais'd her veil,
And, but that speech and motion fail,
Had flown to bless her knight;
When sudden o'er the barrier rush'd
A young fair boy, with travel flush'd,

244

Whose words in well-known sweetness gush'd,
“Stay, for our Lady's sake, the fight!”

XXXV.

“The page! The page!” Young Inez cried;
The monarch sprang from Pedro's side;
The page is at his feet!
The cap from her fair head she tears;
Her snowy bosom wildly bares;
Her tresses flowing round her form,
With sunny lustre brightly warm;
Her blue eyes full of saintly joy,
Her holy smiles, all doubt destroy:
In one alone such charms can meet;

245

'Tis she, proud Murcia's loveliest branch,
The long-thought dead, the exile Blanch!

XXXVI.

The nobles, awe-struck and amaz'd,
With strange and sudden wonder, gaz'd.
Unearthly was the maiden's look;
The changeful blood her cheeks forsook;
But still the tender smile was there,
The sunny eye, the form of air;
Almost they deem'd, before their eyes,
To heaven th' enfranchis'd soul would rise:
Alfonzo gaz'd not on her charms,
But, rushing to his lady's arms,

246

“Forgive me, Isabel!” he said,
The Queen from his embraces fled;
And hung on Blanch's neck, and cried,
“Dearest, for thee I would have died!”

XXXVII.

The King mark'd her emotion wild,
“And was it thus thou lov'dst thy child?
Is the boy's savage murderess press'd,
With transport, to the mother's breast?
Force them apart!—Bear Blanch to death!”
Falter'd not then the maiden's breath:
She loos'd the Queen's convulsive clasp,
Shrank from Almanzor's frenzied grasp,

247

(Who rush'd the monarch's rage to tame)
And bent to kiss the weeping dame;
Whispering, “It was to die I came!
Remember, Isabel, thy vow!”
“'Twere impious not to break it now!”
And, with the word, thro' the proud ring
That held Almanzor from the King,
Queen Isabella broke:
Low at his feet, with sudden spring,
She knelt and firmly spoke.

XXXVIII.

“Blood cries for blood! Th' avenging hand
Hath slept too long, my Ferdinand!

248

The murderess' blood shall stain thy spear;
Alfonzo, thou must take it here—
I am the murderess!”
She paus'd, her hand upon her breast;
She paus'd, and sacred was the rest.
Tears stood in every eye; no word,
No motion, and no sigh, was heard,
To break the mute distress.
The King began, “By what sad chance,
My wife—” “O when the murdering lance
Was lifted to her blameless heart,
Who brav'd for me death's venom'd dart,
Thou didst not pause to ask—What chance!”
Again she stopp'd, to gather strength
For the sad tale; it came at length,
Hurried and low, with faltering tone,

249

And look, that freshly seem'd to see
The Infant playing at her knee;
Now sickening at his dying moan.
She laid her head on Blanch's lap,
And faintly told the dreadful hap.

XXXIX.

“Blanch and my boy, that fatal day,
Pass'd by the palace to their play:
I saw them from my lattic'd bower;
The lovely child smil'd at the tower,
And kiss'd his hand, as if to say,
‘My mother, hasten, come away!’
I came: the boy, like a gay fawn,
Plung'd deeper in the woodland lawn:

250

O wretched careless mother, I!
I wander'd on unheedingly!
At length a dreadful shriek I caught;
I saw a wolf pursue my child;
My trembling hands to save him sought,
And drew the bow with terror wild.
'Twas Blanch's bow! 'twas Blanch's dart!
It pierc'd—O God! It pierc'd my heart!”

XL.

The mother ceas'd: Her agony,
Reflected, shone in every eye.
Alfonzo hung his princely head;
“Cheer thee, my Queen!” at length he said;
“Cheer thee, and help to bless the maid,

251

Who by my crime from Murcia driven,
Comes, like a blessed saint from heaven,
Each woe to chase, each wound to staunch:
Thy sovereign kneels for pardon, Blanch.”
“All is forgiven. Be all forgot!”
She strove to rise, she strove to smile;
Her smile was mournful as her lot;
And her slight form, subdued by toil,
Sank back on her dear native soil.

XLI.

The Caliph, springing to the fair,
Rais'd her in love's most fond embrace:
His helm was off, his head was bare;
And valiant knights his name declare;
Almanzor, first of Moorish race!

252

Grief to the King mild thoughts had lent;
With graceful courtesy he bent,
And hail'd the champion of his dame.
No time was this for idle speech:
“The Princess dies! Have you no leech
For her whose aid a worm might claim?”
They bore her to the royal tent,
They laid her on a couch;
For skilful leeches, hurrying, sent;
And maidens o'er the pillow bent,
Made holy by her touch.

XLII.

Again the shuddering lover view'd,
By famine and by toil subdued,

253

Her whom he liv'd but to adore.
Again he mark'd the hollow eye;
The sunken cheek, the panting sigh;
The cold dews starting from each pore;
The lips which roses wont to paint,
Pale-quivering now; the ringlets faint,
Once light as plumage of the dove,
And buoyant as the breath of love,
Now clinging to her forehead damp;
He mark'd the varying colors break,
In fitful brightness, o'er her cheek,
Now ashy pale, now blushing meek;
Like flashes of th' expiring lamp.
Deep groans his tortur'd bosom swell:
“Hush! she revives: all will be well!”
Cried the fair sanguine Isabel.

254

XLIII.

Blanch waken'd from her death-like trance,
And gaz'd on all who round her stood;
Till her vest caught her modest glance;
Then painful was her rushing blood.
She spake not; but her lovely eye
Fix'd on the Queen, imploringly;
Oh! well her kindred spirit knew
The eloquence of that bright hue!
O'er the fair maid she flung her veil,
“I should have died in holier dress!”
She sigh'd. Then turn'd Almanzor pale,
“Thou without whom all blessings fail,
My Blanch, My Blanch! O live to bless!”

255

XLIV.

Faintly she smil'd. Her glances fell
Upon an armed centinel,
Before the royal tent:
His manly eyes were wet with tears,
And many a look of humble fears,
And many a sigh, he sent.
“Fernandez!” At that voice so sweet,
The lowly soldier's at her feet;
“How is thy Agnes?—Isabel,
Almanzor,—ye have heard me tell—
How is thy dame?” “O well, too well;
When they shall hear!—” his face was flush'd;
Respect and grief his accents hush'd:

256

Blanch drew a rosary from her vest,
And dropp'd it on the archer's breast;
“For Beatrice!” with alter'd hue,
The kind Fernandez slow withdrew.
She press'd Almanzor's hand; “Had we
Liv'd, like that pair, in cottage free,
Tending our flocks on mountain green,
How blest, how happy, had we been!”
Sighing, as from some painful thought,
Sudden from his, her hand she caught:
“Almanzor, hast thou still my cross?”
“Think'st thou I would endure its loss!
It is a relic, love, of thee!”
“O not of me! O not of me!”

257

XLV.

None broke the silent pause—“My Queen,
Hast thou the wretched Juan seen?
O it would stay my soul from Heaven,
To die ere all on earth's forgiven!
Alfonzo!” Her mild asking eye
Caught, ere 'twas breath'd, the kind reply;
Again she smil'd, the sainted maid!
'Twas for her direst foe she pray'd.
The Queen knelt down, her lips to kiss;
“Isabel, thus to die is bliss!
Soon shall we meet—I go before—
And thou—” “O better comfort teach!”—
The Queen began, when from the door,
Inez, approaching, led the leech.

258

“Not now! not now! I fain would sleep!”
The sage, retiring, shook his head:
The maidens cluster'd round the bed;
And Isabel drew back to weep.

XLVI.

Almanzor, kneeling by her side,
His agony in vain would hide:
Ev'n Don Alfonzo's sterner grief,
Found in unwonted tears relief.
Blanch slowly turn'd her from the light,
As if to shun that melting sight;
And threw her arm across her face,
And none her dying look might trace,

259

None watch her closing eye:
An awful stillness fill'd the place,
Unbroken by a sigh:
Till Isabel, sooth'd by her tears,
For new-born hope resign'd her fears,
“Sweet maid! how tranquil is her sleep!
I cannot hear her breath!”
She rose, to Blanch's couch to creep:—
It was the sleep of Death!

END OF BLANCH.

261

THE RIVAL SISTERS;

A Poem; IN THREE CANTOS.

Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day:
She who can love a sister's charms, and hear
Sighs for a Rival with unwounded ear.
Pope.

263

CANTO I.

I. Song.

Happiness is like virgin snows,
As soft, as smooth, as gay:
The leveret's step on its surface shows,
And the rustling pine-leaf the linnet throws;

264

While the beam in whose ruddy light it glows,
For ever melts its charms away.

Content is like the meadow's breast,
Blooming with herbs and flowers:
No hillock betrays the skylark's nest;
No track remains where the arm'd hoof press'd;
And when the scythe shall its beauty wrest,
'Twill spring more fair in vernal hours.

II.

The song has ceas'd. If song indeed it were,
That in one cheerful sweet monotony,
Sooth'd with its warblings faint the morning air,
Like the wild music of the summer bee,
Or wintery robin's dearer melody.

265

The song has ceas'd. But still the humming sound
Of rustic wheel that join'd the harmony,
Tells where the busy songstress may be found,
And guides the wanderer's steps along the turfy ground.

III.

And one there was, who, from the shady wood,
Survey'd, with quick delight, the pleasant scene;
Deep in a verdant lawn a cottage stood
Circled by antique groves—save that between
One narrow arch, the distance smil'd serene:
Its spires, and hills, and towns, and sparkling streams
Contrasting with the darkly-fring'd ravine,
Or flowery path, where the tall forest gleams,
And rears its stately head, and brightens in the beams.

266

IV.

Nor yet alone upon the crested oak,
Fell with its lustre sheen that orient ray:
Sweetly it kiss'd the light and curling smoke,
That from the cottage chimney wreath'd its way;
Sweetly on the white walls it seem'd to play,
Seen but by snatches through the clustering vine;
And on the quick-hedg'd garden, trimly gay;
And on the lowly porch, where jasmines twine
With honeysuckle pale and modest eglantine.

V.

But chiefly the bright beam of morning shone
On her, who plied the wheel before the door.

267

His eyes the wanderer shaded from the sun,
Long on the songstress maid intent to pore,
And turn'd to go, yet came to gaze once more:
Charm'd, and much wondering what the charm could be
That fix'd, with magic power unfelt before,
Him who had hung on woman's dangerous glee,
And yet more dangerous sigh—and boasted, “I am free!”

VI.

It was not beauty: for, in very truth,
No symmetry of features deck'd the maid.
Was it the vivid blush of early youth;
The Hebe lip where changeful dimples play'd;
The flaxen locks whose crisped ringlets stray'd

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O'er the blue dove-like eyes serene and mild;
The rose-tipp'd fingers that her toil betray'd;
The rounded form, luxuriantly wild,
Of woman's graces full;—the face so like a child?

VII.

Or was it the expression, calm and even,
Which tells of blest inhabitants within;
A look as tranquil as the summer Heaven;
A smile that cannot light the face of sin;
A sweetness so compos'd that passion's din
Its fair unruffled brow has never mov'd;
Beauty, not of the features nor the skin,
But of the soul;—and loveliness best prov'd
By one unerring test—No sooner seen than lov'd?

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VIII.

Such were the charms that fix'd the wanderer's eye,
And staid his steps to watch the youthful fair;
Her dress, accordant with her industry,
Spoke her some happy peasant's blooming care;
A simple cap confin'd her flowing hair,
A snowy 'kerchief veil'd her bosom sheen;
No covering hid her arms of beauty rare,
And underneath her robe of brightest green,
In a rude slipper cas'd, one fairy foot was seen.

IX.

Yet though so simple the fair rustic cot,
So plain its fairer inmate's modest dress,

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No trace of poverty deform'd the spot,
Saddening young joy with pictures of distress.
Rather it seem'd, as searching eyes might guess,
Of humble competence the calm retreat;
And visions of scarce-imag'd happiness
Made the young stranger's pulses quicker beat,
And woke the passing thought,—A cot with her how sweet!

X.

Whilst thus he gaz'd, looking his soul away,
An upper casement on its hinges rung,
And a small hand, white as the ocean spray,
Upon the clustering vine recumbent hung:
Swift at the sight, the songstress maiden flung

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Her wheel away, and sought the flowery mound,
Where many a cherish'd tender blossom sprung,
Where nice exotics wintery shelter found,
And artificial showers refresh'd the parching ground.

XI.

A sprig of myrtle, gay with pearly flowers
And coral-tinctur'd buds, the maiden chose;
The rich geranium next,—then to the bowers
Of native sweets she turn'd, and pluck'd a rose;
A mossy rose whose beauty brighter shows
Through its light sparkling dew-drops!—binding fast
The offering, which with her own graces glows,
Back to the door with sylph-like bound she past,
And round a stately maid her snowy arms she cast.

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XII.

'Twas beauty's very self her arms embrac'd!
Beauty so perfect, that the Grecian form,
‘Which fix'd proportion and gave laws to taste,’
Seem'd but a copy of those graces warm.
Her figure was majestic, as the storm
That broods upon the mountain;—and her face,
Dazzlingly fair and bright and uniform,
As the refulgent sun 'mid cloudless space,
When in the summer noon he runs his ardent race.

XIII.

Yet in those faultless features and that shape,
So slender, yet so round, a varying line,

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A look which, scarcely seen, seems to escape,
Likeness which all can trace and none define,
Seem'd in its bonds the cottage maids to twine.
Though the majestic fair one's golden hair
Broke from the comb that would its pride confine:
Though, as her breast, her flowing robe was fair,
And each nice fold betray'd the toilet's pleasing care;

XIV.

Full hard it were the secret source to trace
Of that resemblance undefinable:
For not more different was the blooming face
Where smiling innocence had fix'd her cell,
From that where grandeur rode in beauty's shell;

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Than the luxuriant figure round and low,
Which like a chubby babe's in dimples fell,
From that, whose towering stature seem'd to grow
With every sudden turn, and every gesture slow.

XV.

And still more different seem'd the breathing soul,
Which in the stranger maid's fine features spoke:
The self-admiring glance uncheck'd that stole;
The smile of proud contempt; the frown that broke
Her snowy brow, with beauty-killing stroke;
The cheek, now pale, now flush'd with ardent glee,
As bent to envy's or to passion's yoke;
All seem'd to say, In this fair creature see,
How bright, yet how unlovely, beauty's form may be!

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XVI.

All seem'd to say; nor was the voice unheard,
Though the heart's core it reach'd not by the ear:
But the young stranger keen remark deferr'd,
His first, his favorite maid, to see, to hear.
Though little caught he of those accents clear,
Yet they their kindred and their names reveal—
“Did Mary's song awake thee, sister dear?
Or com'st thou, Grace, the blush of morn to steal?”
Scarcely the words he caught—long he the voice shall feel.

XVII.

A voice it was so sweet, so musical,
So sighing, yet so cheerful, that it press'd
Upon the ear, like the low dying fall
Of the dear bird of night—when from her nest

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With her sweet melody she soothes to rest
Each angry passion and each worldly thought.
Flinging a summer feeling o'er the breast,
Came that soft voice, with peace and gladness fraught:
Oh what of joy and love might not such tones have taught!

XVIII.

Yet though she spake again, and though he stood
Listening, not with his ear, but with his soul;
No other word across the envious wood
Could the rapt stranger hear beneath the knoll.
Faint, sweet, and indistinct, her accents stole;
But he could watch his Mary's lovely face;
Could read on Grace's features passion's scroll;
And, well I ween, was none more skill'd to trace
Good humor's witching charm, or anger's louring race.

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XIX.

He saw the dear one round her sister's waist
One dimpled arm with gay affection fling,
Whilst on fair Grace's snowy breast she plac'd
Her new-blown flowers—the treasures of the spring.
But not one smile arose on cherub wing,—
One grateful smile, to say, How dear thy care!
Shrinking averse, as from a hornet's sting,
Mary's embrace she shunn'd with frowning air,
Nor need her chiding lips her proud contempt declare.

XX.

Yet long she seem'd to chide, and pluck'd at last
From her white bosom each balm-breathing flower;
Then on the gale the exil'd blossoms cast;
The gentler gale, which to love's secret bower

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The myrtle bore, that still morn's dewy shower,
And his own Mary's sweeter breath retain'd.
There stood the maid, unconscious of her power,
Nor frown, nor pouting lip her beauty stain'd;
The look of joy was gone, the smile of love remain'd.

XXI.

Temper! thy power more sweetly magical
Than that which grac'd of old Amphion's lyre,
Can savage hearts with wondrous spell enthral;
Can clear Suspicion's mists with gladdening fire;
Can chain in rosy bonds impetuous Ire;
Can melt the ice-bound heart of cold Disdain;
Can dying Love with vital breath inspire;
From every passion pluck the cancerous pain,
And seeming still to yield, lead captive all the train:

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XXII.

Save one alone—pale Envy, it was thou
That gav'st to Grace's heart the venom'd pang;
O never throned on so fair a brow!
Nor ever deeper didst thou strike thy fang,
Than when the smile to Mary's features sprang,
As from her sister's side she turn'd away,
To tend a dove, whose plaintive murmurs rang
Through the thick vine in faint melodious lay,
Seeking her tender care, through each revolving day.

XXIII.

Lovely, but drooping, was the lonely bird,
Sav'd from the fowler's half-successful aim;
Startled and trembling at each sound it heard,
Save when its gentle mistress breath'd its name,

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And smooth'd its ruffled breast; Oh, then so tame
Was the mild warbler, that it lov'd to spring
From its close shelter to the fostering dame,
And, drooping on her breast its wounded wing,
Peck at her rosy lip, and softer murmurs sing.

XXIV.

And on her bosom now it lay reclin'd—
Soft as its pillow! when in boisterous play
Grace seiz'd the fluttering bird, and sought to bind
Around its downy neck a collar gay;
The startled favorite quickly flew away;
Mary with breathless speed its flight pursued:
Then first in Grace's eye shone pleasure's ray,
While her sweet sister turn'd with strength subdued,
And, at the cottage door, her graceful toil renew'd.

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XXV.

Yet, as she turn'd, her burning blushes dried
The tear-drop on her cheek that glitter'd sheen,
And her soft smiles soon check'd the gushing tide;
For she her dear lamented bird had seen
Caught by a stranger youth of noblest mien;
Had mark'd his glance, where awe and fondness strove;
Had guess'd what sprig he held of brightest green:
And, blushing, view'd her myrtle and her dove,
Love's emblems! deep enshrin'd in the warm breast of love.

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CANTO II.

I.

Thou heavenly blessing of the earthly breast,
Whether or Love or Charity thy name,
That in one gentle heart a cherish'd guest,
Would'st in another wake a kindred flame;
Droop not, immortal Love! tho' vain thy aim,
Nor close thy trembling wings in anguish'd pause!
Chang'd, but not lost, thy haven is the same;

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For, sure as steel obeys the magnet's laws,
So sure a purer flame the outcast Love shall cause.

II.

The seeds we scatter on a barren rock,
The tempest's angry breath may sweep away;
Yet to the valley wafted by the shock,
And firmer planted by its boisterous sway,
There may they brave unhurt the wintery day;
And peep and brighten in the showers of spring;
And, shelter'd from the sun's oppressive ray,
Through the mild hours of summer blossoming,
Reach their autumnal prime, and golden harvests fling.

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III.

So was it now: The quick and anxious throb
Which stirr'd the plumage of the sleeping dove,
As, sooth'd on Frederic's breast, its gasping sob
And fluttering heart were quieted by love;
That throb had power his faltering voice above,
The passions each fair sister rous'd, to tell;
For Mary, it was all that love could prove;
For Grace, contemptuous indignation's swell;
And anger fann'd the flame which sweetness lit so well.

IV.

Now in the wood he lies, beneath a birch
Which overspreads a winding narrow stream;

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His eyes the shallow waters seem to search,
Though nor the pebbles that transparent gleam,
Nor slender grass that intercepts the beam,
One wandering thought have stolen or conscious glance:
For he is listening to the dearest theme
That ever fill'd a youthful lover's trance,
Nor would he lose one sound for Europe's wide expanse.

V.

To tales of those we love, all sense is ear;
Patience exhaustless; and enamor'd youth
Holds garrulous age too brief, and bends to hear
A grandame's praise, or nurse's tale uncouth,
As wisdom speaking from the lips of truth;

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Affection's cravings still unsatisfied,
Long Frederic listen'd to the aged Ruth,
Who seated on a beech root by his side,
Of Mary's goodness told with all a nurse's pride.

VI.

O never since the nurse that Shakspeare drew—
(Shakspeare or Nature—are they not the same?)
Was tongue so prone, or memory so true,
To give to childhood's pranks affection's fame.
Each spot that they survey'd, some tale could claim:
In yonder path the dying lamb she found;
Pluck'd on that bank sweet cowslips for her dame;
And with her simple breakfast totter'd round,
To feed the gipsey's child beneath yon woody mound.

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VII.

How sweet the forest seem'd to Frederic's eyes,
Of Mary's infant sports the happy scene!
Still on the bank the seeded cowslips rise;
And still the ashes on the wither'd green,
Tell where the gipsey's recent camp has been;
And half he deem'd in that lone path to view
The lovely babe o'er the dead lambkin lean;
Its stiffening limbs with freshest flowrets strew,
And bathe the cold mild face with childhood's holy dew.

VIII.

And Frederic smil'd as, at the wand of truth,
The painted visions, rear'd by fancy, fled;

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And by his side the old and feeble Ruth
Appear'd alone in her fair nursling's stead;
Yet from her lips he learn'd that, humbly bred,
His Mary's father was their curate good;
Who, whilst in paths of righteousness he led
His happy flock, death's early victim stood,
And left a lovely wife to cheerless widowhood.

IX.

Two cherub children liv'd to soothe her care,
And beautiful it was to see young Grace
Hide in her elder sister's bosom fair,
From each admiring eye, her blushing face;
And beautiful it was to see them chace,

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Like bounding fawns, the woodland paths along,
Till flush'd and breathless with the merry race,
The sportive babes, lull'd by the wood-lark's song,
Slept in each other's arms the forest shades among.

X.

But soon a wealthy aunt the younger bore,
Reluctant, from her weeping mother's arms.
Unhappy Grace! Oh never, never more
Shall thy chang'd heart enjoy such simple charms;
Or feel such hope as now thy bosom warms,
Again to share thy sister's fond caress!
Unhappy Grace!—Ah sure the fond alarms,
Which rent sweet Mary's breast with kind distress,
Presag'd you ne'er again should know such happiness!

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XI.

Long was it ere they met: rear'd in the dome
Of splendid opulence in cities gay,
Grace Neville soon forgot her cottage home,
And the dear partner of her simple play.
Command dwelt in her look; and all gave way,
Obedient to the infant beauty's frown;
She was the theme of every minstrel's lay;
Her smile was happiness, her praise renown,
And added conquests still her ripening beauties crown.

XII.

Mary, the whilst, an humble cottage maid,
Pursued her simple path in gay content;

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Ne'er from her native home her wishes stray'd,
To those far walls, where, in soft durance pent,
In mirth and sloth her sister's hours were spent:
Except that when she breath'd the breeze of morn,
Or on the rustic gate at evening leant,
A wish, of fondness and of pleasure born,
Would spring, that Grace were there, to share and to adorn!

XIII.

Ah! little deem'd she that to Grace's eye,
No joy the breathing charms of morn could bring;
The roseate blushes of the eastern sky;
The dews, seen through the mists, which seem to fling
Cold trembling diamonds on the lap of spring;

295

The varied verdure of the breezy grove;
The brook where swallows skim with glancing wing;
The fragrant gale; the clouds that roll above;
Such scenes the vain can see, nor feel one touch of love.

XIV.

To taste the bliss which scenes like these inspire,
Belongs but to the pure and blameless breast,
Where never selfish wish, or low desire,
Or vain ungenerous thoughts disturb its rest.
As in the stainless mirror, brighter drest,
And lovelier far the finish'd landscape seems,
So in the virtuous bosom, doubly blest,
Nature in all her radiant beauty gleams,
And snatches higher grace from intellectual beams.

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XV.

Nor yet alone could Nature's loveliness
Bring bliss to Mary's heart, or charm her sight;
Much she enjoy'd the merry idleness,
What time she led the dance in moonshine bright;
And better still she lov'd in winter's night,
At her dear mother's side to sit and pore,
By the quick blazing faggot's flickering light,
On wild Arabia's sweetly magic lore,
Glowing with strange delight, yet trembling evermore.

XVI.

Her's too the joy, which those, who proudly live
In gorgeous mansions and in courtly state,

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Oft know not, or despise,—The joy to give:
Not the gay baubles, which in equal rate
They take and give—the commerce of the great!
Not Charity, that flies to distant lands,
And leaves unfed the beggar at the gate;
Nor the cold boon, with which reluctant hands
Would bribe the trump of Fame at Vanity's commands.

XVII.

Of humble usefulness how cheap the power!
Little she had, but kindness made it dear:
The cordial cup, press'd from the cowslip's flower,
Or elder-berry rich, or currant clear;
The homely meal, enrich'd with pity's tear,

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Which oft the lone unfriended wanderer fed;
The smile of power the sinking heart to cheer;
And cares which hovering round the sleepless bed,
Oft in their rosy chains the fiend Disease have led.

XVIII.

Such were the tales the happy lover heard
Of her by age belov'd, by youth admir'd;
And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to speak the word,
To know if none a softer passion fir'd;
To know if her dear heart, still uninspir'd,
Held yet unsear'd by love its healthful beat;
Ruth shook her head, as faltering he inquir'd,
“Has no one sought that flower, so fair, so sweet?”
And soon her story came with wondrous change replete.

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XIX.

“Yes; many a youth had caught from Mary's eye
The spark which kindles love's devouring flame,
And many a broken phrase and smother'd sigh
Had told soft secrets to the lovely dame.
But none so well could hopeless passion tame,
Dismiss the lover, and retain the friend;
At once refuse, yet seem her fate to blame,
And wayward heart, which would, yet could not, blend
With those whose honest worth might prouder maidens bend.

XX.

“At length a youthful knight the valley sought,
To join the may-day sports beneath the tree;
Handsome and gay, with grace and riches fraught,
And the near kinsman of our Lord was he;

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Sir Walter Mowbray call'd:”—Ruth did not see
The blushes which on Frederic's features play'd.
Nor heard him softly sigh—“And can it be!
Is this then, Mowbray, thy sweet cottage maid!
And is it thy betroth'd, that has my heart betray'd!”

XXI.

Ruth heard him not: but reckless of his smart
Pursued in simple guise her artless tale;
And told how Mary won Sir Walter's heart,
And how, resistless as th' autumnal gale
Scatters the leaves when withering frosts assail,—
Ev'n so his sighs upon the anxious breast
Of the fond mother, sick and poor, prevail;
And Mary, wondering if the stranger guest
That stirr'd her heart were love,—obey'd her kind behest.

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XXII.

“If love it were, 'twas love resembling fear!
A strange dislike from humble peace to roam;
Aversion to the rank he held so dear,
The sumptuous equipage, the splendid dome,
Serv'd to endear the more her native home.
And she would say, ‘Does it not seem to thee
That the light sea-weed, floating on the foam,
Must happier than yon lotos-blossom be
In leaden bason pent?—happier, for it is free!

XXIII.

“‘And yet that lotos, on th' Egyptian wave,
Enjoy'd its native sun, its freshening shower;
Till brought to northern climes, a torpid slave,
And nurs'd to sickly life in art's warm bower,

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See how it seems to mourn, poor languid flower!
The fancied charms, which forc'd it here to pine!
Ah! Mowbray, should I, in some after hour,
Sigh for the humble blessings I resign,
To share thy splendid lot,—Will not such fate be mine?’

XXIV.

“So (as with Mowbray o'er the fair domain
Of Claremont's Lord she roam'd,) the maiden said:
A sunny smile, sweet, transitory, vain,
Around her lovely mouth full archly play'd;
And the fond youth, not by such threat dismay'd,
Press'd her to name the blest, th' important day,
When he (O happiest!) from her native glade,
The sweet unfading flower should bear away,
To bloom in softer skies, and brighter charms display.

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XXV.

“The day was fix'd, when, as Sir Walter's bride,
Sweet Mary from her peaceful home should go.
Yet much she long'd, in Grace's arms to hide,
On that auspicious morn, doubt's painful glow;
And bid her tears on that white bosom flow,
Which could to infant grief such balm impart;
And Grace obey'd her call: and came to show
Proud man's inconstancy,—Vain woman's art;—
The serpent's glittering form, and worse than serpent's heart.

XXVI.

“Canst thou not guess that which I hate to tell?
Grace Neville's beauty might a world ensnare;
And lur'd from Mary by her witching spell,
Mowbray beheld and lov'd the worthless fair.—

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She rose to breathe with him the morning air;
She echo'd every strain that Mowbray sang;
If the cool grove he trod, he found her there:
She in the evening dance to meet him sprang;
And in the moonlight walk their mutual carols rang.

XXVII.

“Successful were her arts.—Nor Mary strove
To win again the heart she once had fir'd:
She gain'd her mother's blessing to their love,
With difficulty gain'd—and then retir'd,
(E'en by the changeful youth rever'd, admir'd,)
To cheerful toils, contentment, and repose.
Whilst, not by love but vanity inspir'd,
To-morrow's bridals Grace's empire close,
And from her native plains, the Lady Mowbray goes.”

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XXVIII.

Still Frederic listen'd, though the tale was told:
Rousing at length, to the good dame he turn'd;
And his sweet gracious thanks, more than his gold,
Might claim the tear that on her bosom burn'd.
Oh! how false Mowbray's fickle vows he spurn'd,
Yet blest th' inconstancy his soul despis'd!
Ah, ye such mingled feelings well have learn'd,
Who loving one, by faithless fools mispriz'd,
In wrongs that left her free, have joy'd and sympathis'd!

XXIX.

Ye best can tell with what contemptuous hate
And scornful pity Frederic's bosom glow'd,
For the false fair, whom even-handed fate
Plung'd in the gulph from whence their treachery flow'd.

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“O comfortless and wretched your abode
Will be,” he cried, “ye cold and heartless twain!
How different from her calm and peaceful road,
Whom sweetness leads and virtue's lovely train!”
He said, and left the woods to view her charms again.

309

CANTO III.

I.

'Tis blest, as rare, when nature's glories find
Man's jarring soul in such pure harmony,
That every charm strikes from th' accordant mind,
A sweeter tone of higher extasy!
'Twas now the loveliest hour of fair July:
The birds in silence sought their verdant cell,
Save that one chirp, soft as a lover's sigh,

310

Simple yet joyous, scarce distinguish'd fell,
And seem'd of peace and rest the warring world to tell.

II.

The gentle lamb now sought her mother's side;
Whilst the shy bat, quick glancing o'er the stream,
Seem'd like some airy fleeting shade to glide:
Transparent in the horizontal beam
The elmin leaves like pendent emeralds gleam;
And, piercing every western dell, the sun
Rich glories threw, till each rude nook, I deem,
So bright in its illusive lustre shone,
That eastern Kings had own'd their jewel'd thrones outdone.

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III.

And lovely as the gay and cheerful glow
Of thy retiring beams, bright orb of light!
From whose blest fount, hope, joy, and being flow,
Ev'n such as thou, so beautiful, so bright,
So good is Temper to our mental sight!
Ev'n as thy rays each craggy path illume,
And flash their glories on the brow of night,
So can she chase the intellectual gloom;—
The sun that gladdens life, the torch that lights the tomb.

IV.

Frederic had watch'd each transitory charm
Of earth and sky, from the refulgent hue
That universal nature seem'd to warm

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With undestroying fires, more bright to view
Than Etna or Vesuvius ever knew;
Till now that twilight wraps her sable stole
Round wood and sky; and the refreshing dew
Seems o'er the mead in vapory clouds to roll,
Or gem the slender grass beneath each woody knoll.

V.

Dear to the lover's heart the twilight hour!
The hour when fancy's potent dreams enthrall,
And mingling hope and love's bewitching power,
Charm each bewilder'd sense, and chain them all.
O what sweet dreams obey the Syren's call
Of ceaseless bliss and exquisite delight!
Ev'n so to dream is joy!—Joy that would fall,

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Like snow-wreaths in the sun, at morning light—
Reason is day's stern Queen!—Wild fancy rules the night.

VI.

Yet dearer even than that magic dream
It is, to linger round her lov'd abode,
Who, like the polar star's benignant beam,
Points to the haven of bliss, and lights the road.
The wavering flame that through the casement glow'd,
Capricious blazing from the cottage fire,
At times a swift and graceful shadow show'd;
The cheerful soul could ev'n the shade inspire,
With its own airy grace, and charms that cannot tire.

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VII.

Young Frederic stood upon the very spot
Where his ear drank in love at early morn:
And now he saw the Sisters leave the cot,
With one, at once his hatred and his scorn,
With Mowbray, he the heartless and forsworn!
Mary alone advanc'd beyond the door,
And pausing, with a charm of kindness born,
“Will you not come, dear Grace, and tread once more
The scene of early bliss, our nurse's humble floor?”

VIII.

“Will you not come?” As if to tempt her forth,
Peer'd, o'er the feathery grove, the silver moon,
Darting her pallid light from south to north

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And lending to the world a milder noon;
Still Grace refus'd; “Mary, grant thou my boon,”
Sir Walter cried, “and I with thee will go;”
And Mary smil'd and paus'd, but answer'd soon,
“Why wilt thou tempt me thus to empty show?
Why force me still to say, my kindest brother, no?”

IX.

“In sooth, the show thou scorn'st, my gentle dame,
Is the heart's hope of many a lovely girl;
For never yet rank's proud and beamy flame
Play'd round a fairer brow than Claremont's Earl;
I would but guide him to the modest pearl,
Which by my brighter diamond shines so fair:
Those charms that ne'er were made for village churl,

316

I would but to a genial region bear,
And show to courtly crowds my chosen, peerless pair.

X

“I ask thee but one week with us to stay
At Claremont Hall, and canst thou then refuse?
Desert thy sister on her bridal day?
Fly from a brother who so humbly sues?”
“Nay, Mowbray, mock not thus my lowly views,
Nor teach my Grace to scorn her sister's name.
Blest may you be, and well your blessings use!
Honor wait on you, riches, health and fame!
Each holy hope fulfill'd, and every virtuous aim!

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XI.

“For me—Oh, leave me here! content, to cheer
My tender mother through declining age;
Leave me, nor yet believe, my sister dear,
(Though far from courtly Claremont's bustling stage,)
To-morrow's joy will any heart engage
More deeply, or with fewer tears between;—
Nor will I hide it in my hermitage;
The tabor shall our youthful friends convene,
And Mary lead the dance along the village green.

XII.

“I am no guest for Claremont Hall—Farewell!”
Sweet was her smile as lightly forth she sprang.
Gay Mowbray sigh'd,—and something seem'd to swell

318

Within his breast, as the resounding clang
Of the clos'd door, which through the cottage rang,
Proclaim'd his chafing lady's angry mood:
And even as he gaz'd, he felt a pang,
Insulting though he were—Both of one blood,
He thought, and both so fair!—Ah, why not both so good?

XIII.

Frederic the converse heard across the court,
And Grace's rage compar'd to his was cool;
“With Mary's virgin coyness dost thou sport,
Judging her soul by thine, officious fool!
And is Lord Claremont then thy destin'd tool?”
Pausing he strove imperious wrath to curb,
And with sweet Mary's art his passions school;

319

Till now she skims across each dewy herb,
Whilst scarce her bounding steps the timid hare disturb.

XIV.

'Twas in a path where the bright moon-beams slept,
And Mary saw and knew the stranger youth;
Half-starting with surprise, yet still she kept
Her fearless way tow'rds the low cot of Ruth.
Frederic advanc'd:—For manly grace, in sooth,
Few forms with his could vie:—Yet earnest love
In manner loses what it gains in truth;
And ne'er ungracefully did Frederic move,
Till to sweet Mary's hands he gave her rescued dove.

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XV.

Half caught the maiden his confusion sweet,
Whilst flinging her light basket from her hand,
His piercing eyes her modest glances meet,
All as to clasp the bird her arms expand.
Her quicker breath the dove's light plumage fann'd,
As if her innocent joy she strove to check:
Yet still she strok'd its wing, with gesture bland,
Still laid her cheek against its glossy neck,
And show'd how childhood's joys can lovely woman deck.

XVI.

Yes! If a friend I sought, it should be one
Who to such childish pleasures knows to bend:
Who seeks the shell upon the sea-beach thrown,

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And the light weed where shape and coloring blend;
Whose feet the wild, untrodden dell descend
To seek the primrose pale, the violet fair,
The robin's nest from plunderers to defend,
With the young brood her simple viands share,
And smile with blameless joy at each successful care.

XVII.

For good and happy is the glowing breast
Whence, universal love! thy essence springs!
What though wit's carping tribe, proudly unblest,
Mock at the bliss thy joyous spirit brings:
What though they hold the beauties nature flings
And her free denizens, as parts so small
Of this fair world, such vile and useless things

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As wisdom scorns, and folly dooms to fall:
Yet she whom genius loves has care and love for all.

XVIII.

Frederic, delighted, view'd the gentle maid;
The more delighted, for his piercing look
Soon guess'd she would not fly his proffer'd aid;
Mary her bird, and he the basket took,
And as they pass'd, each glen and darkling nook,
And every silvery path to converse led.
For terror soon each generous mind forsook,
And they had gaily reach'd Ruth's humble shed,
Ere either heart had deem'd that half their way was sped.

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XIX.

And yet, in sooth, as slowly had they walk'd
As if their lingering steps could bribe old Time
To stop his fleeting sand-glass while they talk'd;
Or win the moon to stay her course sublime
And list young Frederic's wild and ardent rhyme,
And Mary's song, his sweetest recompense.
Nor e'er, thou silvery moon, in any clime
Rose sweeter offerings to thy heavenly sense,
Than love's enthusiast lay and warbling innocence.

XX.

Sweet was it to the lover's heart to mark
How Ruth on Mary's gentle accents hung,

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Whilst, wisely cheerful as the matin lark,
Kindness and comfort mingling from her tongue,
And plenty from her liberal hand, she flung.
Yet envied he the goodness he admir'd,
When with a parting kiss from Ruth she sprung:
And with a new and scarce-own'd wish inspir'd
To charm as she was charm'd, from the lone cot retir'd.

XXI.

Silent awhile they walk'd.—It was a pause
That calm and gay indifference never knew;
Each throbbing heart could well explain the cause,
And fear'd, yet long'd the converse to renew.
Frederic began—“Why does each spot I view

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Which as I came I lov'd, now wake my fear?
'Tis that they say—I soon must bid adieu
To her whose sweet companionship would cheer
Arabia's lonely wilds, or Lapland's ice-bound year.

XXII.

“Nay shake not thus thy head, sweet monitress!
This is no fancy of the sickly brain,
Born of bright moonshine and calm loneliness,
And fading in the morning light again:
Still dost thou smile? list then a humbler strain,
List, nor refuse thy lowly suppliant's prayer!
Didst thou not say, that quitting the gay train
Who to Lord Claremont's sumptuous halls repair,
Thou on the village green to-morrow's dance shouldst share?

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XXIII.

“Thou hast refus'd to join the courtly group;
A peasant gains the bliss denied a peer!
Mary, were I that peasant, I would stoop
To gaze on kings as from a higher sphere!
Oh make me then thus happy, maiden dear,
And deign with me to lead the rustic dance!”
In her sweet smile he found no cause of fear,
And caught the joy that could his soul entrance,
Before she whisper'd “yes,” from her accordant glance.

XXIV.

Yet, from some lurking feeling, Frederic ask'd,
(Could it be jealousy?) “Hast thou e'er met

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The youthful Earl, who in one blaze has bask'd
Of prosperous fortune, never troubled yet
Till now that Mary scorns his coronet:
Know'st thou Lord Claremont?” “No! I know him not.
Yet when I hear his virtues, I regret
For one short moment my calm humble lot,
And the strong bar that parts the castle from the cot:—

XXV.

“I go not there—for I am here so blest!
Why should I risk thy precious peace, content?
Why seek by flattering tongues to be caress'd
Then rudely from the fickle bosom rent,
And left to pine, to pity, to lament?

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No, Frederic, here, upon my native green,
I mourn no friendships lost, no hours mispent.
Nay vanity itself endears the scene,
There I a slave should be—and here I am a queen.

XXVI.

“The fairy queen—Titania, merry sprite!
To-morrow eve, we hold our revels gay;
Now, Oberon, we part!—A fair good night!”
She cried, and airy as the sprightly fay
Bounded from Frederic's side alert away;
And gain'd her cottage home; and dreamt, I deem,
Not of the coming morn's superb array,
But of her waking vision's new born theme:—
O shadow of a shade!—Is it not all a dream?

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XXVII.

Ye lovely dames, beneath whose nuptial state,
The proud earth trembled as it pass'd along,
Tell, for ye can, the honors that await
The beauteous idol of the courtly throng!
Tell, for ye can, that ev'n while bards prolong
In praise of the fair bride the mirthful hour,
Ev'n in the dance, the banquet, and the song,
The heart returns to its dear native bower;
And doubt, the mildew, hangs in love's expanded flower.

XXVIII.

For ye, sweet maids!—needless it were to tell,
How lightly tripp'd at eve upon the plain,

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Young Frederic and the nymph, whose powerful spell
Had bound him in the strong though flowery chain
That Temper weaves and never weaves in vain.
Beauty but traces letters on the sand;
Temper engraves on brass. And the bright swain
Who own'd in Mary's form her soft command
As Frederic won her heart, as Claremont gain'd her hand.

XXIX.

And needless 'twere to tell that Mary's life
In virtue pass'd, and bliss that cannot cloy:
Whilst Grace with Mowbray wag'd incessant strife,
And found in every blessing some alloy.
For wedlock, like the Amreeta cup, brings joy

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Unfading to the gentle and the good:
But in the fierce and wicked can destroy
Love, peace, and hope; and rushing through the blood
Deathless, yet killing not, give wrath perpetual food!

END OF RIVAL SISTERS.