The Knight and The Enchantress :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Knight and The Enchantress

With Other Poems. By Lady Emmeline Stuart-Wortley

Stuart-Wortley, Emmeline (1806-1855)

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THE KNIGHT AND THE ENCHANTRESS.

LINES FROM “THE CIRCASSIAN;” AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

SONNET ON MY CHILD'S BIRTH-DAY.

SONNET.

SONG.

ON MUSIC

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TO THE COUNTESS OF JERSEY, AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF REGARD, This Volume IS VERY AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

THE KNIGHT AND THE ENCHANTRESS.

“Say whither along, ah! whither along;
Yet whither along art thou hurrying now?
The sun-set is hanging crown-jewels of pride
On the old mountain's towering brow,
And the vapoury twilight shall quickly enfold
All Nature in draperies of gray,—
Ah! whither along, at the hour of repose,
At the calm, dreamy close of the day?
Would'st thou leave thy fair steed on the broad yellow sands,—
Would'st thou take the fleet wings of the bark?
Thou must ride on amain, for the eventide comes,
And the night followeth frowning and dark!

Thou must ride on amain—past yon high craggy point—
Past yon bleak barren point must thou go—
For treacherous quicksands, and perilous rocks,
Here lurk the blue waters below.
Here, full many a venturous mariner lies,
In his shroud of the ooze and the weed;—
For his gay, gallant sails were as gossamer vain—
And his mast as the rush and the reed.
Thou must ride on amain, e'en till midnight's stern hour,
For heavy and long is the way:
Now rest thee, I rede thee, young Warrior with us,
Till the dawn of the golden-eyed day.

“Say whither along, yet whither along; but whither along, young Stranger;—
Ah! why then, whither along in thy strength and thy speed?
Loose, loose ye the reins—and dismount from the selle,
And forbear now to urge your tired steed!

Lo! the sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the shore,
And the sounds of the chainless and rushing night
Are deepening and gathering, till awful they grow,
In the sweep of their terrible might.

“Then whither along,—speak, whither along; yet whither along, young Stranger;—
Ah! why then, whither along in thy strength and thy speed?
Full urgent thine errand of surety must be;—
Full steadfast thy purpose—and bitter thy need.
Yet list to the voice of my warning, oh list;—
Nor proceed on thy perilous way,
Till the morning speaks out like a trump to the hills—
Till to-morrow's young dawn glimmers gray.”

“I must scour o'er the land,—I must sail o'er the sea,—
I must count many furlongs and miles,

Ere to-morrow's fair portals uplifted may be—
Ere to-morrow's young loveliness smiles:
For mine errand is urgent,—and sore is my need,—
And my will is unshaken and strong.”—

—“Yet whither along—speak, whither along;—
Oh! whither and wherefore along?
I know that the tempest is mustering afar—
For the signs of its terrors are forth on the blast.
(Well,—well am I skilled the dark Future to read;—
'T is unveiled unto me as the Past:
In its dim cloudy censer, yet quivering, I mark
The young Lightning's pale terrible fire,
Like a keen sword undrawn from its covering sheath—
Like the music within a mute lyre.
In their lone keyless caves the great Winds I perceive,
As they lie in abeyance upfurled;
As they sleep in their strong-holds, the ancient and drear;
At the deep hinges four of the world:

All the fountains of all the wide floods—and the rains
Are revealed to my quick, watchful eye;
And the embryo Earthquake 't is mine to detect,
And the coming Eclipse to descry).

“Oh! rest ye, oh! rest ye, in bower and in grot,
Till the dawn of to-morrow's fair light;
For stormy and gloomy, and heavy and dark
Are the signs of the on-coming night.”

Then a chorus of voices, low, tender, and sweet;—
Then a chorus of voices was heard:
And still the same burden they thrillingly sang,
While right onwards impetuous he spurred.
Still onwards he dashed; but with full equal speed,
The nymphs followed untiring behind.
“Oh! whither away, then?—ah! hither turn ye!”—
Their footsteps seemed winged by the wind:
Still followed they close, and still pleaded they soft—
“Oh! turn ye, young Stranger, and rest;

Pray thee enter our gate—pray thee bide in our bower—
Pray thee be our companion and guest,
Until morning hath sown with rare diamond and pearl,
All the glowing and rainbow-dyed ground;—
With the Spendthrift's luxurious thoughtlessness proud,
Scattering widely her treasures around.
Oh! Flower of the Flower of Chivalry, rest,
And await till the dark threatening hour
Brightly—brightly be overpast in the hush
Of our rose-trellised odorous bower.
Rest ye there, oh! young blooming Conqueror, rest;
For doubt not thy high deeds are known;
And be Honour to him whose fair forehead is crowned
E'en with Victory's laurel-wreathed Crown!
Rest ye there! bold Sir Guy o' the Featherstonehaugh;
For be sure thy redoubtable name,
Hath been loudly and proudly spread widely abroad,
By the echoing trumpet of Fame!

Rest ye there, brave Deliverer of Palestine's land,—
So renowned in the flower of thy youth;
Thou, the Mirror of Courtesy, the Anchor of Hope,
And the Star of bright Honour and Truth!
Lo! the banquet is spread, and the couch is prepared;
For though hurried thy journey might be,—
Be thou sure that Report, on her wings of the Wind,
Swiftly, surely, hath flown before thee!”

Then listened that Stranger Knight so bold,
To those melting and murmuring strains,—
To those smooth honey-words of flatteries soft,
Till he dropped the fair silken reins,
And spoke to his horse in low whispered tones;—
While that noble and gallant steed
Relaxed with a right good will at once
His stormy and rushing speed.
Then still sweeter rose the prevailing sounds,
And more witching out-poured the song:—

“Ah! whither along;—yet whither along;—
Why, whither and wherefore along?
Rest awhile from your wearisome journeyings now,—
Rest awhile from your harassing toil;
On your jewelled reins hangs the feathery foam,—
On your burnished mail the dust's soil.
Oh! hither turn ye! Oh! follow hither!
Dismount from your panting horse!
For panting and jaded, and wearied is he,
With the speed of your rushing course.
Oh, hither turn ye! Oh, follow hither!
Dismount from your out-worn steed:
Since whither along! speak, whither along!—
Yet whither along in such haste and such speed?”

He alit from his horse,—and Equerries four,
Straight sprung forward to seize the fallen reins;—
And they loosened the girths, and unfixed the fair selle,
And unfastened the rings and the chains;

But with nostril dilated, and eye flashing flame,
That tired steed snorts, and plunges, and rears,
And scarce suffers the equerries to lead him away,
Till command of his master he hears.

Now gently those nymphs the young Warrior surround,
And with blushes and smiles fair to see,
A goblet high foaming with rare mighty wine,
One tenders on suppliant knee:
While another casts wreaths of the summer's gay flowers
O'er his winding and shadowy way;
And the rest shake the fresh evening-dews cool and bright,
From the bloomy and odorous spray.
All, all in devotion and homage vie,
To that favoured and chosen young Knight;—
All, all cluster round him, intent to display
Their unchecked and triumphant delight:
And still as he follows their beck and their lead,
The same chorus unchangingly rings:

And many a voice as the Nightingale's sweet,
To a ravishing melody sings,—
“Then whither along?—speak, whither along?—
Ah! hither, turn hither,—yet hither—Sir Knight.”
And they pointed the way through a rose-trellised porch,
With red Midsummer's floweriness bright;
And one, with a small silver bugle blew soft,
A fairy and flourishing blast.
Straight backward the moss-covered valves were flung,
And the Knight through the aperture past;
But few steps hath he ta'en in the enchanted domain,
Ere he pauses o'erwhelmed and amazed;
For no language—no fancy can image the scene,
On whose glories he wonderingly gazed:
For whate'er way he turns, the fair vistas extend,
The superb Genii structures are seen;
On all sides was the beauty of gardens and groves,
And the glittering of marble's smooth sheen;
There were proud colonnades, stretching East stretching West,
Stretching North, South, in front and in rear:

There were fairy pavilions that rose like soft clouds,
From the green earth, both far off and near;
And fantastic pagodas, and domes, spires, and towers,
And all wild architectural feats;
And runnels, and fountains, and falling cascades,
Tempering gently the Midsummer heats.

Still, still in his ears rang the exquisite sounds,
And ceased not the full-chorussed song,
“Oh, whither along, thou victorious young Knight?
Oh whither, say, whither along?
Hither, hither, turn ye. Oh! follow hither,
And gaze on our glorious abode;
This is better by far than a tempest-tossed sea,
Or a long weary night-shrouded road.”

And glorious in sooth was the marvellous scene,
As it opened upon the sight;
'T was wond'rous, as glorious—'t was splendid, as strange—
'T was boundless, as beautcous and bright;

There were proud pillared halls, and broad terraces fair,
And great galleries lofty and wide,
Still by magic, they seemed to be suddenly raised,
As they sprang up on every side;
There were gay marble courts, filled with statues and founts,
And vestibules shadowy and vast;
Fast they hurry him on, nor e'er slacken their speed,
Through those courts and those galleries—fast—fast!
Through these and round those, the young warrior moves,
While still sing the bright gay-fluttering throng,
“Now, whither along; oh, whither along!—
Say, whither and wherefore along?”
Now to mighty saloons and huge chambers of state,
Is he ushered with song and with smile;
Well I ween, since he entered the rose-trellised porch,
He hath journeyed a long weary mile!
Through these and past those, the mailed Warrior moves;
Through these and round those is he led,

Till they come to one richer by far than the rest,
Where the walls with stained canvass were spread;
From the high-vaulted ceiling, e'en down to the floor,
Reached these picture-folds, glowing and warm;
So true to the life, that a Savage had owned
Their perfection, their truth, and their charm.
As his eye wandered over those many-hued walls,
What form, oh, what form doth he see?
'T is himself, as he combated late midst the brave—
The oppressed Holy Land to set free!
'T is himself, as he charged against Soldanrie's hosts,
Beneath Lebanon's cedar-crowned mount;
'T is himself, as he wounded and fainting sank down
By a dark-gushing, gore-tainted fount;
And again 't is himself, 'mid the tournament's ranks,
As when armistice brief was proclaimed,
He rode forth to display his fair skill and stout strength,
'Mongst the flower of the feared and the famed;

'T is himself and his steed, as in armour of proof,
They appeared in the lists on that day,
When the tempest of battle awhile was exchanged
For the mimic and well-ordered fray.
In amazement he stood, while swift rushed o'er his brow,
Of doubt, pleasure, and pride the mixed glow:
Then the Sovereign Enchantress spoke, smiling and calm,
With her soft, honeyed whisperings low;
“And say, canst thou marvel, Sir Knight, to behold
Thy exploits and thy sufferings portrayed?
Know, oblivion shall ne'er shroud thy lofty deserts,
Nor obscurity dare to o'ershade!
Lo! the might of thy daring is bruited afar,
And thy deeds of emprize are renowned!
What ho! careless Minstrels!—what do ye now there?
Sound the Pæan of Victory!—sound!”

And at once from an hundred harps, outburst
The music of Victory loud,
Till his heart it grew dizzy with strong delight,
And his senses seemed wrapped in a cloud.
A dewy and dreamy cloud of balm,
For the spells were upon his brain,
And the flatteries chaunted forth, fell soft
On his soul, like a singing rain;
For still of his Knightly achievements all,
Were the Minstrels' heroic lays,
And whenever a pause broke the loud ringing strain,
Rose a murmur of plaudits and praise.

And now to the banquetting-hall of state,
Were his willing footsteps led—
While by chamberlains twelve was a canopy rich,
Carried loftily over head,
There the Sister Enchantresses sate in state,
With adorers and slaves by their side;
But the Queen of those bright enchantresses all,
Was the nymph whom he first had descried,—

Was the nymph who had witched him with silvery tones,
And with sweet-chaunted words to that spot—
Who had sprang like a startled fawn, prompt and light,
From the covert of bower and of grot!
Then mantled and veiled was her beautiful form,
Her exquisite form and her face,
Yet, nor mantle nor veil, could wholly suffice
To o'ershadow their charm and their grace—
Now their folds she unclasped, and their furls she unfixed,
And away their disguises she threw;
And she rose like the Morning-star in the pride
Of its loveliness pure—on the view,
While in ecstacy wild of astonishment stood,
That bewildered young stranger Knight;
For so bright Apparition ne'er gladdened before
His enraptured and ravished sight—
For the crescent-moon never shone so fair,
In its own blue heaven above,
As enwreathed 'midst her locks of deep hyacinth flow
And emblazed on her brow of love!

For the gossamer's folds ne'er so lightsomely waved
On the summer's soft breezy air,
As the cloth of starred silver, and cloth of flowered gold,
Floating waved round that form so fair;
'T was a broad jewelled Zodiac formed her zone,
And traced round its richly-wrought signs,
Hieroglyphic characters dimly shone,
Wizard numbers and mystical lines,—
Cabalistical names were thereon inscribed,
And squares, circles, and trines were engraved;
And with queenly grace, in her ivory hand
A fairy-like wand she waved.
Xereanthemum-blooms looped the draperies up
On her smooth shoulders white and round—
And with bracelets broad of the diamond-stone,
Were her fair arms of beauty bound;
And many a strange necromantic charm,
Affixed to her person she bore,
Sealed and shrouded from those who were all unversed
In the dark and the terrible lore.

“And how is it, Sir Knight, that thy traveller's garb,
Is with jewels and 'broidery o'erspread?
That a collar of gems round thy throat is clasped—
And a casque of bright gold shields thy head?
That thou wearest a bauldric emblazoned so fair—
And a scarf of some right cunning loom;
That thou 'rt pranked out with chain, and with ring, and with stud,
With torse, and with aigrette and plume?
How is't that thy steed with wrought housings is decked,
And with furniture glittering and fair,
Such as e'en in some Royal Procession of state
A young Monarch's might worthily wear?”

Then the cloud of a moment came over his brow,
As he answered the marvellous maid:
“For the royal tournament's trial of skill,
Thou behold'st me equipped and arrayed;
But while ranged 'mongst the princely combatants, there
Spurred a messenger breathless and fleet,

To bring me dark tidings, disastrous and dire,
Dark tidings I may not repeat—
There was death in delay, e'en in speed there was fear;
Swift I urged my precipitate course,
Nor stripped from my shoulders the harness of war,
Nor delayed to dismantle my horse;
And 't is therefore this thick-jewelled panoply rich,
And these furbished accoutrements fair—
These costly adornments, this dazzling array,
And these princely equipments I wear;
'T is for this that my stately-caparisoned steed
In such trappings of pride ye saw dight:
Oh! sore was my need, and my errand was stern,
And hasty, and hot was my flight.”

The cloud of a moment had spread o'er his brow,
But it vanished as fleet as it came;
The cloud of a moment had crept o'er his brow,
And a moment's faint chill o'er his frame;

But no shadowing cloud and no withering chill,
And no stingings of memory's keen dart,
Cast a gloom o'er his brow or a thrill through his frame,
Or disturbed his too false, faithless heart,
When that radiant Enchantress, with smile and soft word,
Led him up the vast luminous hall—
Where all splendours and witcheries, and wonders combined,
Well both spirit and sense might enthrall;
Where the magic of Picture arrested the gaze,
With its glory and with its grace—
Every scene of enchantment, all forms of delight,
There the eye at its pleasure could trace;
The poetical canvass was burthened and fraught
With a thousand and thousand themes—
That glanced o'er the soul, and that swept o'er the sense,
E'en like half-recollected dreams.
Lo! there Proserpine wandered o'er flowery-paved fields—
There sweet Hero kept watch by the wave;

And there pale, pale Andromeda writhed on her rock—
While came on her Deliverer to save;
There the Palmyrene Queen, on her snowy-white steed,
Midst her courtiers and followers sate—
Victory beaming sublime from her glorious mien,
While her eye flashed the lightnings of Fate;
Aphrodite's own glowing form too blushed there,
In her pearly, transparent shell,
And the Grecian Helen's fair faultless shape,
Was traced but too warmly well—
And swarth Egypt's own Sorceress-Sovran smiled—
With her lightning-like smiles and keen,
Looked she not as the world were but made to be lost
For its wonder, its pride, and its queen!
And there Anacyndaraxas' son,
With the rose and the myrtle crowned,
Reclined at the festal board, while thronged thick
His peers and his satraps, around—
All lavish splendours, all richest delights,
There amassed and commingling might seem,

Till that fair-imaged scene in its prodigal pride,
Vexed the sense like some wild feverish dream;

And there, like a mountain shepherd, reposed
Bright Endymion, couched on flowers;
Like a blooming young mountain-shepherd, fair
As the rosy-bosomed Hours;
With his blue-veined eyelids weighed softly down
By the golden oppression of sleep,
While around him the clustering violets brood,
And the vine's wreathing tendrils creep;
Glistening showers of moonlight come trembling down
From the crystalline skies above,
And melt round his sleeping and motionless form,
Like the tears and the smiles of Love!

There the soft Arethusa dissolved away,
Traced in lines of a faint, watery light,

And with mystical sympathy thrilled the whole soul,
And transfixed the contemplative sight.

And Narcissus pined o'er his bright shadow for aye—
For evermore languished he there;
While the entrancēd beholder might scarcely believe,
Both forms were but frail shadows fair!
With such skill had the artist's laborious hand,
His delectable work achieved;
So cunningly had his free pencil portrayed
The bright shape which his fancy conceived!
And there parted that mightiest chief of old Troy,
From Andromache lovely in tears,
While their Ilium's own sweet Morning-Star smiled beside,
In the bloom of his infantine years;
And near them, the dark fiery Sappho, alone,
Was divinely and fearfully traced,

Her unfilleted locks hung dishevelled and loose,
And her gem-studded zone was unbraced:
But the Sun-God still rose in her glorious dark eyes—
Set in fire, on her deep burning lips;
Nor might Passion, nor Suffering, nor Death, nor Despair,
His rich light in her spirit eclipse.

There, too, tower-built Carthage! poor heart-broken queen,
In a rapture of anguish and ire,
High tosses her white-gleaming arms o'er her head,
On a shadowy, funereal pyre:
And there, drawn by his wild lovely pards, harnessed light,
Comes on Bacchus, a beautiful shape;
To the axles his chariot wheels are dyed deep,
In the rich purple blood of the grape!
And Psyche—sweet Psyche—a dream of delight—
A soft vision, transcendantly fair,

By the bright Sovran Boy of warm Paphos' bowered shades,
Stands limned in her loveliness there.

And not only in paintings, choice, perfect, and vast,
Did the walls of that chamber abound;
But breadths of rich arras, all teeming with life,
From the ceiling hung down to the ground;
And the bright floor itself, with Mosaic smooth-paved,
Gave full many a fair image to view,
And sparkled with many a glittering design,
And with many a deep, glorious hue.
While where sate the gay revellers, raised on high seats,
Broad golden-fringed carpets were spread,
Whereon fresh wreaths of flowers, and thick clusters of fruit,
By Nature's own hand seemed new shed:
And a thousand proud statues, in groups or apart,
Glanced the light back from white Parian stone;

Save where strong coloured radiance from domes of stained glass,
Was clearly and vividly thrown:—
Those domes of stained glass in their turn too disclosed
Strange devices, fantastic and fine,—
Rich emblazonings—exquisite heraldries bright—
And quaint traceries—wreath-like that shine.

'T was a hall of luxurious Enchantment in truth,
That bewildered the sight and the brain;
'T was worthy indeed of that Sorceress-Queen,
And her radiant and fairy-like train:
For wherever eye turned, some fresh wonder appeared,
More startling and strange than the rest;
Some fair marvel of delicate handicraft rare,
Which the skill of a master confessed.

There are idols and images curiously carved,
And achieved with elaborate care,

And exact imitations of all living things
In the earth, or the water, or air:
And proud monuments countless, so complex and fine,
Such miraculous efforts of art,
That the eye might not seize their perfection at once,
But must study each portion and part.
There are exquisite models of cities superb—
Of towered capitals, stately and old,—
Composed of materials resplendent and rich,—
Built of chrysolite, ivory, and gold.
There are glorious fountains, whose diamond sheets fall
Into basins with sculptures o'er-wrought;—
Fair sculptures, where shine, in immortal repose,
The pale artist's high triumphs of thought!
There are huge candelabra of every device,
Constellation-like, clustered around;
There are high graceful jars, filled with newly-blown flowers,
Ranged in gay gleaming rows on the ground:

And many a richly-wrought vase, too, is there,
And full many a fair-sculptured urn;
And gilt braziers and censers, and cassolets bright,
Wherein costliest spiceries burn,—
Crystal coffers of wondrous workmanship, too,
Wherein treasure undreamed-of shines;
All the wealth of the Ocean's own central grots—
All the stores of the Earth's midmost mines;
From the burning and blinding diamond keen,
To the round pearl, so pure and so pale;
From the orient gold, to the silver whose sheen
Shows like light on the swift dolphin's scale,—
From the hard solid porphyry, polished and rich,
To the amber, etherially clear,—
The smooth glistening amber, which sages have said
Is the ocean-bird's long-treasured tear.

There were riches that eye never gazed on before—
That tongue may not try e'en to tell:

From mountain and desert—from river and rock—
From cavern, and fountain, and cell.
There were riches, I wean, from no earthly-piled hoards,
But from regions unspeakably far,—
From the depths of old Chaos, the gulphs of old Night,
And from comet, and meteor, and star.
Gems like sparks of the sun, with such brilliance endowed,
So intense in their terrible light,
That covered and shrouded, and folded they were,
Else their glory had dazzled the sight!
While still through those veils and those shroudings escaped
Their intense, unendurable rays,
Till the sense aching shrank from the glaring excess
Of that half-suppressed, half-revealed blaze!

There were exquisite shells, of all dyes and all shapes,
From some far sea's unsearchable shore;

There were wedges and ingots of metals unknown,—
Of strange, nameless, and marvellous ore.
There were fair coins stamped deep with the emblem and badge
Of high empery, secret and dark;
The uninitiated eye of the gazer must fail
To interpret each cryptical mark.
There were wonders of nature, and wonders of art,—
All things choice and costly, and rare;
Nor in art nor in nature might fair thing be found,
That had not its counterpart there:
'T was one vast chaos-labyrinth—one wild vortexgulph
Of enchantment, and mystery, and change;
Each moment brought surely new marvels to light,
More o'erwhèlming, and splendid, and strange!
'T was one jubilee-revel—one festival-show,—
One bright Saturnalian display;
And Pleasure—fair Pleasure—the queen of the hour,
O'er every glad bosom held sway.

Was nothing there wanting to enchant and enchain,
To intoxicate, charm, and surprise!
Oh! was nothing there wanting, that magical power
Could command, or construct, or devise!
There were feats of machinery, complex and strange;
And scarce treasures of skill and of art;
With such subtle refinements of cunning contrived,
That dark Witchcraft must there have borne part!

There were perfect museums, wherein were amassed
All creation's rich wonders profound,—
Those wonders that meet us wherever we move,
Without number, or measure, or bound.
There were huge magic mirrors, whose surface displayed
Swift successions of dim, shadowy things—
Now the trouble of nations—the out-breaking of wars—.
Now the glory or downfal of Kings!

—The fulfilments of prophecies, wondrous and wild,—
Or the intrigues and the issues of crime;—
The conclusions of destiny—the ends of events—
And the ruinous triumphs of Time!

There were mighty raised platforms with sceneries adorned,—
There was many a fair spacious stage,
Whereon were enacted, with splendour and skill,
The chief subjects of History's rich page;
Or from antique tradition or fanciful tale,
Divers passages aptly were ta'en,
And catastrophe true, with wild fictions entwined,
Thrilled the soul with rich pleasure and pain.
And still spectacle followed on spectacle fast,—
Ever glorious, and various, and new,—
And from platform to platform the wandering eye glanced,
While diversity feasted the view!

Here a fair mimic battle raged stoutly and long,
'T was the rout and the rally,—the stand! and the charge!
While bickered the lamp-light, uncertain and fast,
Upon oriflamme, helmet, and targe:—
There a right royal banquet, a festival sped,
Amidst lights, wreaths, and jewels, and plumes,
Or a funeral-pageant passed slowly across,
With its pomp of o'ershadowing glooms;
Or else 't was some stern, ancient sacrifice proud,
Or some dread incantation and dire,—
Or some oracle deep—or some fiery ordeal—
Or some rite round a dark frowning pyre,—
Or the festal grape-gatherings of sweet southern climes,
Were enacted with blithesome parade;
Or a high Roman triumph went sweeping along,
With the victor in purple arrayed;
Or a proud coronation of Soldan or King,
With all due ceremonial supreme,

Set the clear air ablaze with its glory and pomp,
Till it past like an over-wrought dream!

Round that wonderful hall, gilded galleries ran,
Wherein countless spectators were placed;
And that gay, splendid scene, with fair mien and rich garb,
Well I ween they beseemingly graced.
O'er the carved bulustrades of these galleries they leaned,
And the wave of their plume-crested heads
Was e'en as the motion of billows half-lulled,
O'er which many a foam-wreath still spreads:
And the hum of their mingling voices seemed
Like the sound of a musical breeze,
When it runs in continuous murmur soft,
Through a forest of thick-woven trees.
In the dazzling light of that chamber vast,
Was each feature and outline revealed;

For more dazzling its light than the midsummer's sun's
When it glares in a cloudless field:
For not only ten thousand of thousand of lamps
There in sparkling profusion are hung,
Thick as glittering dew-drops in morning's bright hour,
The leaves and the flowerets among,
But at either side of the Enchantress's throne,
At fathoms' distance four,
Reared two mighty Leviathans, spouting up flames,
Full an hundred feet and more:
Those columns of flames, e'en like rockets burst
Into sevenfold splendour on high;
Like far-gleaming rockets, that lustrously break
In the arch of a deep midnight sky!
And then fell down in showers of swift-shooting stars;—
For like swift-shooting stars glanced the sparks,
All harmlessly bright as the phosporic flame,
That by night streams at times round fleet barks.

'T was like beads and like bubbles of clear golden fire,—
Like specks and like spangles of light;
And strong was the radiance cast widely around,
And supremely, ineffably bright!
And from every side of that radiance intense,
Over-powering reflections were thrown,
From vessels of silver, and vessels of gold,
And from trinkets of pure, precious stone;
From the flagons and urns, and bossed salvers superb,
And the graceful and rare myrrhine cups;
And the goblets, like rich crown-imperial-flowers,
Where the small bird luxuriously sups.

Oh! what tongue might pronounce half the splendor and pomp,
Which that marvellous banquet displayed;
All the genii that dwell in the earth and the air
Must have lent that bright Sorceress their aid!

There were huge Cornucopias suspended in air,
That unshaken spontaneously poured
Their treasure of flowers and delectable fruit
On the groaning and well-furnished board.
All growths, of all climates—ripe, luscious, and fresh,
Were in lavish abundance spread round;
Whether such as in newly-found lands flourish fair,
Or in gorgeous old countries renowned;
And choice cates, heaped in dishes of cost, there were piled,
And all luxuries, flavorous and rare:—
Every fish of the sea, every creature of earth,—
Every fowl of the wide-regioned air!

Blythe the cup-bearers ply their glad task, blythe and fleet,
And the goblets o'erflowingly shine,
With the golden Metheglin, the Hypocrasse spiced,
And rich weepings of Shiraz' famed vine:

But the Enchantress herself, with her own snowy hand,
Ever proffered the cup to the Knight;
And in sooth, from those hands, even the wine seemed more clear,
And the gem-crusted goblet more bright!

Now the minstrels made pause,—now the timbrel was still,—
And the voice of the singers was mute;—
Now hushed were the dulcimers, trumpets, and harps,
And silenced the silvery-voiced flute:
And that dear dulcet voice, more melodious than all,
Murmured tenderly close in his ear;
That voice as the wailing of turtle-doves soft,—
As the warble of nightingales clear:—
“Sir Knight,” said that Sorceress Queen, “I would yield
All these triumphs, this pomp, and this pride,

From country to country, to wander with thee,
As thy Slave—if—alas!—not thy Bride!”
As she speaks, her sweet voice sinks to whisperings faint,—
Faint, broken, and quivering, and low;—
Those whisperings tremble to sighs,—and those sighs
Into echoes mellifluously flow.
As she looks in his face, the bright roseate bloom
Of her glorious and beautiful face,
Fades softly away, and her aspect is touched
With a tender and sad twilight grace;
And her luminous eyes, fixed on his, become dull
With the dimness of trespassing tears,
Until slowly she turns from the enraptured young Knight,
As o'er-powered by emotions and fears.
“Fair Marvel! resplendent Enchantress!” he cried,
“I am thine,—I am all wholly thine!—
I have gazed on a full dazzling sun;—I have drained
A draught of a soul-maddening wine!”

Nor farther he said—for that drunkenness deep,
Of the heart, and the soul, and the brain,
Grew deeper and deeper, and stronger the spell,
And yet closer the links of the chain.

Long, long hath that wonderful banquet endured,
Yet still fleetly the joyous time flies;—
But slumber at last came by gentle degrees,
To visit his pleasure-palled eyes,—
And scarce closed were the lids, when a vision arose,
Like a mist 'twixt the moon and the morn:
'T was his own Britomartis,—his own betrothed love,—
All by sufferings and watchings o'er-worn,
At the altar upheld by her stern lordly sire,
Like a pale corse just torn from the tomb:
With her Bridegroom beside her, arrayed in gay sort,
With rich mantle, and collar, and plume;—

And who is that Bridegroom?—Sir Launcelot Vaux,
Who disputed with him that fair hand,
When the one urged his suit for dear love of herself,
And the other for love of her land!
Now the vision hath changed—'t is the beauteous Bride still;
But in grave-clothes she is mournfully bound;
And laid, stretched on her bier, while with taper and book,
Stand the priests in their scapulaires round.
Then a deep heavy sigh, of remorse and despair,
From his bosom unconsciously came;
And he woke with a start, while he uttered aloud
His own lost Britomartis' loved name.
Swift the vision had come,—swift the vision had flown.—
For the cup-bearer still held on high
The vessel from which he was crowning his cup,
When sleep drew the deep lid o'er his eye!

Of a sudden, a sharp, biting blast crossed the hall,—
So sharp, and so biting, and chill,
That it pierced through the bones, and it shook all the nerves
With its icy and arrowy thrill.
Then the Knight would have wrapped his fair furbordered cloak,
Round his shoulders, and round his broad breast;
But 't is gone—it is lost!—Now where—where can it be—
That fair broidered and minnivered vest?
Where—where is that mantle, which o'er his rich mail,
Loose and flowing he gallantly wore?
That cloak which, embossed on its thick-broidered folds,
The red-cross so transcendantly bore?
Then he called to a silken-haired cup-bearer near,
And bade him straight seek for his cloak;

But a dark dæmon-grin crossed that cup-bearer's face,
He sped not—he stirred not—nor spoke!
Sore angered, the Knight would have grasped his good sword,—
His own cross-handled sword, keen and good;
But 't is stolen from his side—it is loosed from his belt;—
Dark—dark to his cheek springs the blood.
“Mary Mother! now pardon, and shield me,” he cries;
“For 't is shame to a true Red-cross Knight,
To be thus without symbol, or token, or badge
Of his hallowed pretensions in sight!”
Dark—dark to his cheek springs the choler-stirred blood,
And fierce to his eye mounts the flame;—
Lo! a change, deep and dreadful, came o'er that fair scene,
When his tongue named that high, holy name,

And he gazed with a rising and deepening distrust
On the troubled and panic-struck throng:
The gay feasts broken off—wide-dispersed the gay groups,
And suspended the newly-raised song:
He turned to the marvellous shape by his side,—
Oh! how fearful the expression that past
O'er that mien so resplendent, — that beautiful brow,
As she shuddered and cowered down, aghast!
And there came a low sound of deep thunder anon,
And a shadow of terrible gloom:
And the splendour and glory was strangely obscured
Of that shining and glittering room.
Out spoke that young Knight; “Now to horse! ha! to horse!
For too long I've been tarrying with ye!
Now to horse! ha! to horse! and a courteous farewell
To thy company, Sorceress, and thee!”

He hath gained the last corridore,—gained the last court;
He hath passed now the rose-bescreened gate:
And there doth his steed, all untended, unhoused,
Unsquired and unforaged, await.
But oh! wonder of wonders! 't was Midsummer's height
When he entered these magical bowers,
And 't is now almost winter—'t is autumn's dim wane,
Yet it seems but a few fleeting hours.
No prescribed alternations of night and of day
Were perceived in that wondrous abode,
Where the current of time, all unchangingly bright,
And unpausingly, swift ever flowed!
Where a light, than a Midsummer's midnoon of light,
More o'erpowering, and clear, and intense,
Ever gloriously shone, without shadow or wane,
And pierced to the soul through the sense.
Now he urges his steed—and now shipping he's ta'en—
And now fades like a dream the alien strand;—

Passes day after day,—till the hour comes at last,
When he hails his own sweet native land!
And away—and away—like a shaft from the bow—
Unpausing, unwearied, he speeds;
And not sunshine nor showers, nor darkness nor light,
And nor high-way nor by-way he heeds.
To the ancient Northumbrian hills is he bound,
Where his own Britomartis dwells;
And his heart with expectancy heaves and throbs,—
With a thousand emotions it swells.
Bright—bright breaks the morn of the last wished-for day
Of his journey so tedious and long,
And the hope in his bosom, erst fluttering and faint,
Aye grows stronger, and yet more strong!
Joy!—joy!—for the old castle-turrets he sees;—
For the proud castle-streamer's in view!
On! on! thou good steed,—yet a few more strides,
And the green wood is well threaded through!

On! on!—but feebler and fainter still—
Each successive effort grows;—
Yet courage! brave steed! and right soon shalt thou gain
Fair shelter and needful repose.

Broad the evening shadows are stretching away,
Over hill, over valley, and wood;
And the sun it hath set with a stormy pomp,—
Red—red glared its disc as blood!
Sir Knight! for a little space now relax,
As relax ye must, your speed,
And breathe for awhile now, as breathe ye must,
Your toil-worn and travel-spent steed!
And turn ye! ah turn from the pathway now;
For behold ye, where sad and slow,
A funeral-train is coming on,
With its mystery of gloom and woe!
Yea! turn ye! ah turn from the pathway now,
Make ye way for the solemn bier:

And who is the chiefest mourner there?
In his eye there is seen no tear;
In his stately step is no faultering shewn,—
In his aspect no sorrow-stamped trace;
But haughty and calm, but serene and unmoved
Is that mourner's cold, passionless face!
And well did Sir Guy of the Featherstonehaugh,
His opponent and rival know;
And he shrank, as though suddenly smitten sore
With a mortal and murtherous blow;
And he gazed with a dull and a vacant eye
On the lingering and lengthening train,
Neither anger nor pride could find place in his heart,
'T was too utterly full of pain!
And a thousand—and still a thousand thoughts
Rushed thick to his grief-swoll'n heart;
Where one settled, immovable pang remained,—
One which could not, and would not depart!

Now the funeral-pageant hath turned to the right,
Where gleams out through the greenwood's shade,
A stately Baronial Chapel fair,
Wherein many a sleeper is laid.
And Sir Guy he was left by that vanishing train,
'Midst the shadows and stillness alone;
And both rider and horse remained motionless there,
As though carved out of senseless stone.
Now a rustling low of the leaves is heard,—
Now a stealthy step creeps to his side;
'T is the Ladye Britomarte's gentle page,
The loyal, and trusty, and tried:—
“Sir Knight!—oh Sir Knight! it hath ill befallen:”
Thus he whispered:—“thou 'rt sped here so late;—
'T was a dire mischance—'t is a desperate hap—
'T is a dark and an untoward fate!

Hadst thou sooner arrived, it perchance had been thine,
Our adorable Ladye to save
From the darkest of dooms—from a sore-wounded heart,—
A loathed home, and a cold, lonely grave!

“Wouldst thou hear how her Sire, so unpitying and stern,
Crushed her hopes with a haughty disdain,
And bound her to one she abhorred and contemned,
With a galling and iron-linked chain!
Wouldst thou hear of her sufferings, her wrongs, and her woes?—
Wouldst thou hear of her tortures and pangs?
And how deeply Despair in her heart set his stings—
His empoisoned and pestilent fangs?
How her face, like a lit alabaster-wrought vase,
Still grew paler, and ever more pale—

How her form's buoyant gracefulness vanished at once,—
Bowed and bent like the reed in the gale?—
How her lips which, like roses in sunshine, erst bloomed,
Changed to lilies embedded in snow—
How her eye, once a midnight with lightnings transpierced,
As a midnight of shadows did grow?—
How her hair, in long willowy abandonment hung,
Reft of gloss, yet with still its rich hue—
How her hands so transparently slender became,
You might see the warm day-beam glance through?—
How her voice, in low tremulous faulterings came forth,
Like an echo of echoes 't was heard,
While like tears fell those accents, so sad and so sweet,
With deep sighs 'twixt each faintly-breathed word?

'T was to me that she spoke, in her lorn dying hour,
And thy name first she shudderingly named;
And then thus she addressed me, while trembling and low,
She those soft, melting syllables framed:
“Tell him, thousands of thousands have shared my dark fate,
And that thousands of thousands yet must,
While Faithlessness walks this fair beautiful earth,
And Forgetfulness blights Love's fond trust!
Tell him well, well I ween, that midst Pleasure's bowered haunts
He hath loitered the live long day,
And from Virtue's fair pathways, happier far,
Hath too recklessly wandered astray!”
He answered not—moved not—that wretched Knight;
But his courser, so jaded and worn,
Started suddenly forward, and sprang like the deer,
When up-roused by the hunter's loud horn;

Like the dolphin chased close by the hungry shark,—
Like the bird by the hawk pursued;—
Away and away—ever on—on—on!—
O'er the common, or through the green wood.—
Ha! it bounds o'er the plain—ho! it leaps o'er the stream,
Lo! it strains up the steep rugged hill,
With an ardour and vigour untamed and untired,
While a voice shrieks all tuneless and shrill.
“Yet, whither along, say whither along?—
Why, whither along art thou hurrying now,
With the foam on thy steed, and the dust on thy mail,
And the drops on thy pale ghastly brow?”
Well he knew that wild sound—well he knew that wild voice—
Though all altered and sharpened its tone,
Too—too well he knew it—and deeply he wished
That he never had heard it, nor known!

And evermore flew his fierce horse, unrestrained,
Over upland, and dale, and morass;
O'er the waste and the fallow, the field and the road—
Over heath, over stubble, and grass.
And the Enchantress, with all her delusory train,
With her Sister Enchantresses fair,
Evermore tracked his steed's footsteps swift,
And drove him to phrenzied despair!

“Yet, whither along—speak! whither along—now whither along, young Stranger?
Oh, why then, whither along in thy haste and thy fear?”
Evermore heard he those accents of dread
In his loathing and shrinking ear!
And evermore stretched his fierce steed to the race,
Nor heeded the voice nor the rein,
As he leaped o'er the torrent, and dashed through the wood,
And bounded o'er hill and o'er plain!

“Ha! whither along?—ho! whither away, in thy horror and thy despair?
Nay, turn to us! look on us! fly us not now!
What! are we not courteous and fair?
Lo! the time speedeth on, when thy flight shall be done,
When thy wild race shall come to an end,
And in vain thou wilt call on the shadows of night
To environ thee round, and befriend!
Then despiteously—fiercely—with dread whirlwind cry—
Shall we shout out in chorus together,—
Ha! whither along—ho! whither along—whither—whither?—
Now hither!—come hither!—ah, whither?

A SUNSET HOUR.

'Tis Sunset!—time of dreamy peace,
When work-day sounds begin to cease:
'T is Sunset!—many a winged isle,
And wandering mount, and changeful pile
Of cloud steals daylight's lingering smile,
And girt with momentary splendour,—
(Which soon—too soon they must surrender,)
Dazzles the gazer's lifted eye,
While like one Rainbow glows the sky!

'T is Sunset;—'t is the witching hour,
When fair Imagination's power
Reigns o'er the rapt elysiumed soul
With sweet compulsion—bright controul.

Who can behold that glorious sky,
Nor yield to feelings pure and high?
Who can behold that cloud-strewn field,
With all the splendours there revealed?
Who can behold each winged isle,
Each wandering mount, each changeful pile,
Nor shape ten thousand dreams the while?—
Revelling in fantastic vein,
'Mid wild Enchantment's rich domain,
Till to the Music of the Mind,
Clearly and brilliantly defined,
A glorious—glorious city rise,
Like that which antique histories
Pronounce, uprose, with glittering throng
Of towers and spires, to Orpheus' song!
Of gold, and purple, and vermilion,
Shines many a rich and rare pavilion,
And bastion there,—and battlement
Of ruby seem, with topaz blent;

And pyramid and pinnacle,
Rosy as lip of Indian shell,
Mingle with silvery-shining wall,—
And hold the eye in charmēd thrall—
How glorious is the illusion all!—
Surely not half so splendid shone
Balbec of old—nor Babylon!

Oh! oft on Cloudland's tracts I gaze,
Wildered with rapture and amaze;
And gaze and muse—and muse and ponder
On all the endless glories yonder,
Until I dream a world is there—
A thousand worlds supremely fair,
With countless habitants in each,
Too rare and bright for thought to reach,—
Till all the cloud-emblazoned sky
One burning crimson galaxy
Appears—of proud creations bright,—
Made of Air, Colour, Fire, and Light!

Away—away!—wild thoughts and high,
Playing like Lightnings in the sky!
Ah! as I wandering, walk apart,
Communing with my own full heart,
Resistlessly mine eye is won,
Yon hamlet-fold to gaze upon!—
Those tranquil Peasant-homesteads low,
That shine not in the Sunset's glow;
Those Shepherd-sheilings, gray and still,
Beneath the darkly-covering hill:
At once they win my mind away
From all the pomps of dying day!
At once my journeying thoughts lead back
To a more sweet, familiar track!—
Oh! lovely, lowly shepherd sheilings,
The harmony of kindred feelings
Your quiet aspect can call forth,
And bring pure dreams of tenderest worth,
And wild and wayward fancies chase,—
To wake—far sweeter in their place.

Yes! humble dwellings, peasant-homes,
Ye move me more than mightiest domes;
While feelings old as heaven and earth,
Of soundless source and bournless birth,
Gathering themselves together—start,
And make a haven of my heart!
Welcome! ye ancient feelings here,
Whether ye prompt a smile or tear:
Welcome, Old Feelings! welcome still,
From all the weight, the stain, the chill
Ye 've had to endure through changeful time,
As ye were linked with shame and crime,—
Repulsed from myriad human breasts,
Where ye had been as angel-guests;
Exorcised—e'en as evil things—
Ye—with heaven's dews upon your wings—
Banished—like dark and treacherous foes;—
Denounced, as source of heaviest woes;
Stifled in countless human hearts,
Whose feelings are refined to arts,

While cramped existence grows a task,
The very countenance a mask;
And speech seems given but to conceal
All that they feel—and do not feel!
'Stead of to echo and reveal;
A ready weapon that they wield
With craft and skill, as bar and shield!

Still—still your wrongs are well redressed,
In many a warm devoted breast,
Wherein for ever ye abide,
With virtue and with truth allied;
Unstained in life—unchanged in death—
Expiring with the expiring breath!
Welcome! Old Feelings, to my soul,
Possess and penetrate the whole;
Or print the smile—or prompt the tear,—
Ever ye 're welcome and ye 're dear!
Old—old ye are as Heaven and Earth,
Of immemorial spring and birth;

And you have yet a race to run,
Farther than Planet hath, or Sun:
And you have yet, age after age,
For your unbounded heritage!

Welcome! Old Feelings, to my soul,
Suffuse and sanctify the whole!
With home and household thoughts conjoined,
And all harmoniously entwined
With meditations of the mind!—
Affection!—gentlest—loveliest—chief,—
Pale Pity, 'trothed to paler Grief!
Sympathy—whose unbounded might
Doth all pervade—doth all unite!
Reverence, and Confidence, and Zeal,
And all the heart was made to feel—
Welcome, ye ancient Feelings, here!
Make my whole soul your shrine and sphere!

THE BRIDAL.

“Here is right-royalle hypocrasse, Ladye of mine,
For thy royaller lips' burning crimson, to kiss;
And as thou lov'st music far better than wine,
Listen! heard ye e'er music more perfect than this?”

“Pledge me—pledge me bright Ladye!—while harpstrings thrill round:
Why thus motionless sit ye?—why sit ye thus mute?
Do'st thou love not the harp and the dulcimer's sound?
Ah! in sooth, they 're not sweet as thine own silvery lute!”

“Oh Bridegroom! young Bridegroom!” the Ladye replied,
While the hypocrasse-goblet she raised, as t'was meet,
To her tremulous lips with the blush of a Bride,
“Oh Bridegroom! young Bridegroom! the music is sweet!

“'Tis the King's choicest minstrels—the practised and skilled—
Strike their loud-ringing harps to thy honour and praise;
And with flatteries, sweet as rare spice-woods distilled,
Enrich they their festal and heart-gladdening lays!

“But thou droop'st like a hyacinth weighed down with dew;—
Bid the minstrels be still, nor those glad strains repeat;

Thou art wearied, my Bird! and thy cheeks wan of hue—”
“Nay, Ronald—brave Ronald!—the music is sweet!”

“Cloth of silver, and draperies of rich cloth of gold
Have I brought thee, and mantles, and fair vests of pall;
But though gems be encrusted on every thick fold,
Thou shedd'st tears, as though pearls thou thought'st loveliest ofall!

“And pearls thou shalt have, to bedeck that fair brow,
If the Argosies-royalle, or the Ocean hath pearls,
To 'twine carkanets meet for thy proud throat of snow,—
To wreathe coronals worthy thy dark glossy curls!”

“Nay, Ronald—brave Ronald!” the Ladye replied,
As she bowed her bright head on her beautiful hand,
As becometh a dainty and delicate Bride,
The Flower of the Fairest, and First of the Land!

“Nay, Ronald—brave Ronald!” she tremblingly said;
Like a bird's distant warble arose her sweet voice;
“Bright, bright are thy diamonds—thy rubies blood red;
Why dream'st thou that pearls are my pleasure and choice?”

“Nay! I spake but in mockery—I spake but in jest,—
Mine Enchantress,—my Idol,—my Bride,—and my Queen!

And but fabled that pearls were thy choice and thy quest,
Since the tears that thou shedd'st were like pearls in their sheen!

“Now let smiles, rosy smiles o'er thy countenance play,
And thus banish each trace of that trespassing tear;
Though in maiden shame-facedness veiled, sooth to say,
E'en thy loveliness, lovelier to me doth appear!

“But away!—let us mix with the revel's light train;
Let the festal lamps shine with a yet ruddier blaze;—
Let the harps pour a wilder and welcomer strain;
And away!—let us thread the gay Saraband's maze!

“'Tis to-morrow the shrill battle-trumpet shall sound,
And thy Ronald shall challenge the world for thy name:
Sovereign Beauty! by thee shall the Victor be crowned;
And thy touch shall be Glory—thy smile shall be Fame!

“Oh! I sigh for the combat, I burn for the charge;
Would my foot were in stirrup!—my lance were in rest!
Bareheaded,—withouten or breast-plate or targe,
I should joy to approve thee, first, loveliest, and best!

“Would the Kings of the Earth could assembled be there,
With the captains and leaders renowned of the age,

Joined with all that this earth boasts most radiant and fair,
Then how proudly for thee, the gay warfare I'd wage!

“Oh, I burn for the combat! I sigh for the strife!—
I pine to do deeds of high knightly emprize;
And how lightly, beloved one! I'd peril this life,
To maintain the dominion supreme of those eyes!”

Then the Ladye far paler and paler became,
Till essayed she to smile, and essayed she to speak;
The bright blood, like a wavering, wind-shaken flame,
Then flashed o'er her forehead, and blazed o'er cheek.

“Oh! no parlaunce of combats, my Love and my Lord!
Oh! no parlaunce of combats, nor challenges now!—

Yesternight, in a dream, saw I not the keen sword,
In some desperate encounter, waved high round thy brow!

“And the featureless Phantom that wielded the blade,
Oh how mighty his strength—or how deadly his art!
And nor mercy nor ruth his remorseless hand stayed,
Till he plunged the dire weapon, deep—deep in thy heart!

“And but now—while the lay and the legend went round—
While the lamps poured their richest and ruddiest gleam;—
When most witching and soft arose music's sweet sound,—
Then recurred to remembrance that foul, fatal dream!

“And the minstrels' song came like a dirge on mine ear,
And the lights glared like funeral lamps to my sight;
And methought I beheld thee, outstretched on thy bier,
While solemn and sad rose the stern burial rite!

“Yesternight—yesternight—that dark vision of dread;
Oh how fast from thy bosom gushed forth the warm blood!
Oh! how droopingly hung that pale, slumber-bowed head!
And how heavy that slumber—how staunchless that flood!

“Ha! the Spectre—the Spectre! he tore me away,
With his red, reeking hands, from that scene of despair;
For a spectre it seemed, though in knightly array,—
Clad all proudly, and fairly, and gallantly there!

“Oh! speak not of combats, my Love and my Lord,
But be faulchion, and gauntlet, and helm laid aside;
For these dreaming eyes saw thee by death-dealing sword,
Stricken down in thy strength, in thy youth, and thy pride!

“Now, beseech thee take heed, for thine Adeline's sake,
But behold my wan cheek, and my tear-troubled eye;—
Be this tourney delayed, or my fond heart will break;
For I know thou wilt fall—thou wilt bleed—thou wilt die!”

Then the Bridegroom laughed loud—and the Bridegroom laughed long:
“Now a slow, funeral-chaunt bid these gay minstrels sing;

O'er my corse, mind ye pour tears of wine—bright and strong;
For my bier, mark—a bed of fresh roses ye bring!

“Let my beautiful Bride have her will and her way;
Ah! a thousand fond deaths, love, for thee have I died!
—And fierce martyrdom suffered for many a long day;
Yet once more, let me die for thy sake, then, sweet Bride!

“Be the tourney delayed!—by my Halidom—no!
The more lowering the danger, the loftier the deed!
E'en now could I wish the loud trumpet should blow;
—Let me grasp the long lance, and rein in the fierce steed!”

“Nay! now say ye not so—Ronald—say ye not so!
Nor despise ye the counsels of love's zealous care;

Nor reject ye what heaven may in visions foreshew,
Nay, Ronald, brave Ronald,—I rede thee, beware!”

Hush ye! hearken ye! lo, 'tis the Warder's loud horn;
How startling, how thrilling, its sharp sudden peal,
While from echo to echo, 'tis boundingly borne—
Listening Silence hath set, on each lip her deep seal.

Now who can the guest be—so careless and late?
For the banquet is done, 'tis the Saraband's hour;
O, who can it be that now speeds to the gate,
Whom the Warder hath spied from his post on the tower?

Enters swift a retainer, to announce this new guest—
“'Tis a knight, good my lord, from far Palestine's land,

With the red-cross embroidered on shoulder and breast,
That now craves to be joined, to this gay festive band.”

“Bid him welcome,” that gallant young Bridegroom replied;
Say his presence shall honour our hearth and our board—
Bear him fair, courteous greetings from Bridegroom and Bride,
Bid him welcome from Ladye and welcome from Lord!”

But that Ladye no word she vouchsafed, and no look,
As she drew her deep veil yet more closely around—
And while slightly her frame with some boding thrill shook,
She sate pale as a sacrifice—flower-wreathed and bound!

Then whispered her lover low, low in her ear,
“Is't in mercy those perilous charms thou'dst conceal?
Ah, in mercy to me, sweet!—now cheer thee, take cheer!
For each cloud on thy brow—in my heart's core I feel!”

“Yesternight, yesternight—my dark vision,” she said,
The while heaved her sad bosom with tremulous sighs;
And drooped low o'er that bosom her exquisite head,
Nor upraised she, when entered the Stranger, her eyes!

He entered—all eyes but her own were transfixed
On the dark stately form that drew silently nigh;

Doubt, observance, surprise, with slight awe faintly mixed—
Straight arrested each tongue, and enchained every eye!

High and princely his stature—full martial his frame;
But his features were masked from the gaze of the crowd,
By the vizor struck down, which repelled the fond aim
Of close scrutiny's shaft,—nor discovery allowed!

With the mien of a Conqueror, the form of a Mars,
With the garb of a Knight, and the step of a King,
Moves he on,—that plumed champion of Christendom's wars,
From the Holy Countrie—say, what news doth he bring?

Oh! with none holds he parley, he is questioned of none,
As he strides through that ample and loudechoing hall—
As he moves on conspicuously lofty and lone;
The occupation, the attraction, the wonder of all.

He is armed cap-a-pie, limb and trunk, front and flank,
As for hostile encounter of vengeance and wrath;
As he passed—the carousers and wassailers shrank,
And so left him free passage, and broad open path!

He is armed cap-a-pie—head and heel, foot and hand,
From his long knightly spurs, to his high nodding crest;
Sooth to say, the Crusader from Palestine's land,
Seems full strangely equipped for a gay wedding guest!

Sheathed in harness of steel, as on battle's hot day,
Cased in armour of proof—strong and close and complete,
Seems he fully prepared in that martial array,
Not for galliard and feast, but for stern warlike feat!

But enough that a noble Crusader he be,
Hospitality's warmest of welcomes to claim—
Though unknown be his errand—concealed his degree,
Unrevealed his pretensions—unuttered his name.

'Tis the red-cross is marked on his mantle's dark fold,
On his sword's bossy handle, his small shining shield—
Well I ween, in the ranks of the brave and the bold,
It hath glittered the foremost in many a fair field.

Erst the thick-broidered scarf on his arm hath been bright,
But all faded its hues are, and soiled is its sheen:
And erst splendid and rich were the arms of the knight,
But they've furnished his need through long service and keen!

Erst the hair-knot that's fixed on his helm hath been fair—
But its brightness is dimmed—though unchanged be its hue;
Yes! the brightness is dimmed on that braid of brown hair,
And discoloured and pale, is its silk twine of blue.

At once he strode on, to the dais of state,
Through the broad columned space where the wassailers were—

Where the seneschals stood, and the troubadours sate,
And the yeomen and merrymen gaily did fare.

He turned not to the left—he turned not to the right,
And he heeded no courtesie—hearkened no word;
But strode up, where the youthful hosts sate full in sight;
And stood facing the Ladye—and facing the Lord.

For a moment he stood in his might and his pride—
Like a black tower of iron, he stood on the floor,
With his gauntleted hand on the sword at his side—
'Twas a sword that had oft drank the Saracen's gore!

For a moment he stood in his power and his pride,
While a deep boding silence reigned through that vast hall;

The last murmur of doubt and conjecture had died,
And a hush, like the hush of the grave dwelt on all.

For a moment he stood there, unbending and high—
Like the young oak that lords it o'er copse and o'er plain;
Who were distant, pressed forward—shrank back, who were nigh—
And their deepening disquietude none might restrain!

The while, waited his host in suspense and surprise,
With a mien as unbending, and proud as his own:
And the Bride, the pale Bride, with dark, fixed glassy eyes,
Sate there mute, mazed, and motionless, stiffened to stone.

From the folds of his mantle, that stern Stranger took
A gemmed ring and a scroll,—now the Bride's heart-veins beat,
For one moment his hand with fierce menace he shook,
And then dashed down the ring and the scroll at her feet!

The next instant—in silence he rapidly drew
From his hand, the huge steel-covered gauntlet he wore—
And with air of disdain and defiance he threw
That huge gauntlet the gallant young Bridegroom before!

Then upsprang that young Bridegroom, half maddened with ire;
“Ho! my arms—now despatch!—what! my squires—haste ye!—haste!”
To his cheek sprang the blood, to his eye leapt the fire,
In flushings and flashes, fierce, fitful, and fast.

Then young Eustace the Red-Hand, and Randolph the bold,
Sprang like lightning, their lord's hasty summons to obey—
Ere a few flying seconds were breathlessly told,
Stood both Knights face to face in war's dreadful array!

Then they paused not for fashion—they stayed not for form—
They demanded no umpire, proclaimed no pretence—
Fiercely glowed in both bosoms wrath's terrible storm;
They prepared for assault, and prepared for defence!

Then each grasped his good sword, and each snatched his true shield;
And what else should they wait for,—what more could they need?

Standard-bearers, or mareschall-chiefs of the field?
No! nor fair-measured lists, nor caparisoned steed!

And they paused not for poursuivants, heralds nor tromp,
Nor for room, nor for signal, for pledge, nor for prize;
No august ceremonial, no chivalrous pomp
Decked that fray in some gay courtly spcctacle's guise!

Where so lately was heard but the laugh and the song,
How the flash of steel shone, how the clash of steel rang!—
Where so lately lisped Flattery's smooth honeytipped tongue,
How harsh and how stern jarred the armour's loud clang!

Ha! the knot from the Stranger's plumed helmet's struck down,
Dost thou know that dark tress, then—thou good gallant groom?
Dost thou know, that thick hair-knot of deep auburn brown,
That, at that thou strik'st fiercely, and sparest the high plume?

So fiercely—it bounds to the feet of the Bride,
And she knows 'tis her own—with its stained twine of blue—
In the blood of her Bridegroom, 'tis dabbled and dyed,
For the next moment saw his brave bosom pierced through.

As if heedless with fury, or wild with despair,
Until then had fought madly and rashly his foe;
But aroused by that insult—with skill, true and rare,
He avenged but too well, his antagonist's blow!

Yea! thy bosom, young Bridegroom, hath sheathed the good sword,
That Soldanrie's hosts rued in far Palestine,
And now broke from the Victor the first hollow word,
“The envied death-wound is his—though the Victory be mine!

“Thou false one! thou traitress! abhorred and accursed;
And yet ah! not abhorred—would to heaven that thou wert!
But the grief 'mongst my griefs, far the deadliest and worst,
Is the thought that thou still canst be dear to this heart.

“Yea! still dear to this heart—though I know thee at last,
And have proved thee as, oh! 'twas distraction to prove!
And while nought can e'er cancel or cover the past,
Unforgetting—and all unforgiving—I love!

“And thou—thou!—by those shudderings, convulsive and quick,—
Th' agitation thy lips' quivering tremours reveal;
By that brow's ashy hue—by those gasps short and thick,
I see thou—heart of ice—heart of iron—e'en canst feel!

“Oh! for pomp, and for pride, and for power hast thou wed;
Retribution shall seize thee!—remorse shall enslave!
Dust, ashes, and death, be thy portion instead;
Be thy Bridegroom the worm, and thy palace the grave!

“Well thou knew'st where, in dungeons and chains, I lay pent,
In my bitterest ordeal—in mine uttermost need:

Well thou knew'st; for the right trusty envoy I sent,
Sought and found thee, and staunchly my cause strove to plead.

“Well thou knew'st—well thou knew'st—for that envoy returned,
To pronounce how his mission proved fruitless and vain;
And his brave, loyal bosom indignantly burned,
As he told how thou 'dst mocked at the tale of my pain.

“How at last thou hadst spurned him, and driven him away,
With revilings and threatenings—with harshness and scorn;—
Still affecting to doubt what he strove to pourtray—
My affliction, my misery;—chained—wounded—forlorn!

“'Twas that true, trusty follower that saved me at last—
That unbolted my dungeon, and severed my chain;—
That unwound the close toils which about me were cast,
And that gave me to life and to freedom again!

“'Twas with dext'rous contrivance, and diligent zeal,
My deliverance, my safety at length he achieved;
The whilst thou—not one pang of regret didst thou feel,
For the sufferings of one thou'dst so foully aggrieved!

“Not one pang of regret, did I say?—No! forsooth,
'T was with transports—with triumph, thou heard'st of my fate;
Since it left thee thus free—lost to feeling and ruth,
To elect thee a nobler and far wealthier mate!

“'Tis sore pity thy Bridegroom, the flower of his race,
Should thus fall in the prime of his promising youth,
For a thing so contemptibly worthless and base,
As a Woman devoid of faith, honour, and truth!

“And I grieve that this arm should have dealt the dire blow;
Not his blood—not his blood—but mine own fate I sought:
Now filled up to o'erflowing's my deep cup of woe;—
Woman! Woman!—how wide is the ruin thou'st wrought!

“And not yet is't completed. I feel—ah! I feel
Fury, anguish, remorse, my racked vitals consume;—
Hath this hand not another stern death-blow to deal?
Must another marked victim not sink to the tomb?

“Would the sands of Samaar had grown red with my blood—
That these bones were strewn bleaching in Palestine's air—
That these limbs had for Lebanon's eagles been food—
That the wild dog had made this crushed heart his own share!”

Yet more hollow and hoarse grows his voice as he speaks;
Indistinctly and faintly those murmurs are heard;
Still with half-stifled gasps, and deep pauses and breaks,
'Twixt each laboured, and long-drawn, and low-muttered word.

Ha! he loosens his corslet—and now his rash hand
Grasps a short, trusty poniard, all glittering and keen;—

In his bosom 'tis plunged,—while that scared wedding band,
Shuddering—staggering—shrink back, with wild panic-struck mien!

Was no hand to assist him—no arm to sustain,
While sore struggling, he writhed in his pangs on the floor!—
Hark! hark!—heard ye that shriek?—hark again! and again!
How it freezes with horror the heart's inmost core!

'T was that poor frantic Bride shrieked—and shrieking she sprung,
Tossing wide her white arms, to the dying man's side;
Raving madness its cloud o'er her senses hath flung—
Oh for Death and Despair, thou too meetlymatched Bride!

She hath forced up the vizor, and bursts on her view,
Now those once well-known features—the cherished of old;—
Yet no eye but her own could have known them—that knew
All too wildly and well,—and could tearless behold!

Now fast—fast cometh on Death's tremendous eclipse;
His most horrible shape, there the tyrant hath ta'en!
Oh! those death-swimming eyes, and those bloodstreaming lips,
And those features distorted with passion and pain!

She hath dashed back the helmet from off that broad brow;
How damp with the death-sweat's that deep, coal-black hair!

All unconsciously 'gan her wild tears forth to flow,
Mingling strangely with blood-gouts and cold death-dews there!

Whence that mouth's gory stains—hideous, horrent, and dread?
'Tis some artery hath burst in that passionwrung frame;
So the poniard's dark work hath been fearfully sped,
And thus doubly decisive was Death's awful aim!

Now she staunches that bosom's wide wound with her hair,
And those blood-streaming lips with her brideveil she dries;
And she chafes those cold palms with her soft hands and fair,
And with kisses she seals up those death-darkened eyes.

And now that keen poniard, in phrenzied despair,
She hath seized—she hath plunged in her own breaking heart;
Ah! far easier Death's fiercest of tortures to bear,
Than to endure of remorse and despair the mixed smart!

She hath fallen like a lily snapped rudely in twain,
Ere the dark tide gushed free from her bosom's deep wound;
With quick peals of shrill laughter,—wild, loud, and insane,
She sank down by her Lover and Lord on the ground!

Oh that fair festal hall!—how profound is the gloom,
Where so lately was nothing save pleasaunce and mirth!
And still later, the clamour of conflict—the tomb
Is not stiller than now seems that drear place of dearth!

For the song, and the dance, and the feast all are done;
Let tears flow for bright wine—spread round ashes for flowers:
With dismayed consternation to-morrow's fair sun
Shall look down on the events of these few fatal hours.

Now those pale wedding guests doff their gay robes of pride,
And the black weeds of mourning affect they instead,
And all silent and slow, in their sorrow they glide,
As they feared to awaken or anger the dead!

Oh black crisis of horror—stern close of dismay!
How is terror stamped deep on each agonized mien!
Bear ye,—bear ye the dead to their dim house of clay,
Since too dread for the living's this soul-harrowing scene!

100

There he lies, that young Bridegroom,—the flower of his race,—
Think how many rich hopes shall be tombed in his urn;
And there lies the fair Bride, in her bloom and her grace,
And that dark, haughty Stranger, so fierce and so stern!

Conquering Death hath on each set his signet and seal;—
Oh! bear them away, then,—the treacherous and true;—
Bear, bear them away—they, the false and the leal,—
That the first should be myriads—the latter so few!

101

AH! WHAT AVAILS!

Ah! what avails—say what avails?
Death—the dim, shadowy Death prevails!
We struggle—but we struggling sink;
We shudder—yet approach the brink;
We murmur—still we must obey;
We marvel—but may ne'er gainsay!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death, the winged Spectre, still prevails!

Monarchs! trust not in jewelled crowns,
In bannered fleets, and columned towns;
In ermined courts, or marshalled hosts,—
Beware—nor make these things your boasts;

102

Or be prepared to find your trust
Delivered to the yawning dust.
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death, as a King of Kings, prevails!

Bold Warrior! take thy spear and targe,
And brunt the encounter and the charge?
The broad-sword and the breast-plate take;
Thou may'st march free in Victory's wake:
Yet must Death meet thee in a field,
Where vain shall be both spear and shield!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death—Death at bow and buckler rails!

Free Poet strew thy glorious lyre
With the ashes of its own deep fire;
Thy laurel-harvest thou may'st reap,
But ne'er from mortal doom escape!
Thy lays in other hearts may burn,
But warm not the embers in thine urn!

103

Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death o'er the Lords of Song prevails!

Oh maiden! from thy radiant brow
The flowers unbind which flush its snow,
Or leave them there a few short hours,
True prophets shall be those changed flowers—
“Behold us perished, dim, and pale;
Maiden! we tell thee thine own tale!”
Ah! what avails—say, what avails?
The inexorable Death prevails!

His fiat is unbreathed—unspoken—
But trophy dire, and ghastly token;
But fearful monument and mark
Proclaim his rule and victory dark.
All soon or late obey his law,
In doubt, in trembling, and in awe!
And what avails—ah! what avails?
For evermore great Death prevails!

104

In ambush and at 'vantage still,
He waits to work his fatal will;
And none shall 'scape the impartial blow,
Which lays the strong and feeble low;—
Which levels in one fleeting hour,
Pride, Meanness, Honour, Weakness, Power!
Ah! what avails—then what avails?
Death weighs all things in his dread scales!

Whate'er our frail defences be,
Death! they must prove the same to thee;
Of granite or of gossamer,
Without an effort or a stir,
Thou meltest them at once away,
And leavest us—denuded clay!
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Death still concludes all mortal tales.

Each moment that o'er earth doth pass,
Thy scythe mows myriads down, like grass:

105

Thou—that art Lord of all that is;
Thy garment's hem the proudest kiss;
At thy low call, the loftiest quake;
On them thy yoke the freest take.
Ah! what avails, then—what avails?
Since Death for evermore prevails!

106

ON MEMORY.

Memory! oh Memory! thou most sovereign power,
Racking the soul with many a sleepless hour—
Bringing ten thousand visions to the brain,
That once could cheat, that come to charm again!
Once! the old Once, of other, lovelier years—
Though dimly seen by eyes that gaze through tears,
How deeply felt by stricken hearts of love,
That must remember, and that can not rove!
Once! oh! the leaden bolts—the venomed darts,
That vain Remembrance hurls at those fond hearts,
Those burning hearts, whose feelings lie suppressed,
And make a sealed volcano of the breast!
Alas! who hath not felt, who doth not know,
Insidious Memory's sweetly-bitter woe?

107

(While most, o'er the most true and tender heart,
Doth she her deep and magic power exert);
When once we've loved in our confiding youth—
And loved with tenderness—and loved with truth—
The doom is written, and the seal is set;
How can the heart learn coldly to forget?
And if condemned some cherished hopes to lose—
Too oft—too oft capriciously we choose
To hoard the thorny stalk whose rose hath dropped,—
And spurn the stem whose flowers are all uncropped;
We link our souls to those dear treasures reft,
Nor cling the closer to the blessings left;
We turn from all Earth proffers, to pursue
All that we found most faithless and untrue;
And though much counsel, comfort, aid we need,
Would turn away though seraph-tongues should plead;
And though with torturing thirst we fiercely burn,
Would yet from the most dazzling fountains turn
With disrespect of cold distrust—with grief
That scorns all solace—shrinks from all relief,

108

Still ever thirsting, thirsting for the streams,
Which fed the Eden of our earliest dreams;
And broke in beauty round us, when young life,
With every promise of delight, seemed rife—
Which glassed the heavens, yet bore on their pure tide
All the Earth's enchantments gloriously beside—
Ay! glassed the heavens and earth—their pomps and powers—
The immortal stars, and the evanescent flowers;
'T is for their sake that while we onwards stray,
We oft from fairest currents turn away;
Ay! from the most outshining fountains turn
With luxury of fond anguish, still to yearn
For the lost freshness of that spring's cool wave,
'T is worse than vain to covet and to crave!
Or if we drink—to our distempered taste
Brackish they seem, as well-springs in the waste.
We languish more for those that we have lost—
And when we worst despair—desire them most!

109

We cast our longing, languid looks behind,
And thirst for streams we never more shall find;
As antique legends touchingly have told,
The daughters of the Ptolemies of old
When by some proud alliance far removed
From that dear land they so supremely loved,
Thirsted unto the death for one deep draught
Of their Choaspes' stream—(whereof they quaffed
In childhood's thrice-blessed time, ere care or woe
Had robbed their cheeks of youth's delightful glow)
Their own adored Choaspes!—which poured down
But for the wearers of the Imperial Crown—
For thronēd kings—and chiefs of far renown,
The sceptred lords of Egypt's sovereign line—
Its starry nectar, and its crystal wine;
So pearly pure those precious waters were,
Had sumptuous Cleopatra melted there
A pyramid of pearls, they had not shone more fair!
Such living fragrance from their freshness stole,
Each drop was an elixir to the soul;

110

Yes! yes! we pine, as Egypt's queenly daughters
Pined for their parted father-land's sweet waters—
With agonizing yearnings vain and wild,
For those lost fountains, fresh and undefiled;
No other streams shall so well minister
Unto the soul's thirst 'midst the toil, the stir,
And all the tribulation and the strife,
The excitement and distraction of this life;
Thus still we pine, as Egypt's royal Brides
Pined by their thronēd Consorts' kingly sides—
Pined 'midst all luxury could to grandeur grant,
With one unsoothed distress, and helpless want;
In vain obsequiously the kneeling slave,
The golden jewel-studded goblet gave—
In vain that goblet foamed with rarest wines,
Or waters, clear as gems of the Orient's mines;
Nectar, the drink of gods, had been in vain
To allay their fever, or to assuage their pain—
Or quench that thirst, by which they thus were doomed
To be tormented, mastered, and consumed;

111

While all this world of splendid could bestow—
Of pleasant could concede, was theirs below—
All, all its treasures and its joys their own;
All, all its stores and gifts before them thrown,
Save that poor comfort which they craved alone!
Oh! for one draught of their Choaspes' wave,
To soothe, to cheer, to gladden, and to save!
Or for one drop, to cool the expiring breath—
To mitigate the anguish of that death!
If death alone must aid, and all beside,
By fate's remorseless rigours be denied.
Pale grew their cheeks, by alien breezes fanned,
And fast those queenly flowers of Egypt's land,
Transplanted, drooped and withered on the stem;
What was the empire and the pomp to them?
Gladly would they have thrown their robes of pride,
And all the insignia of their state aside;
Gladly have left the palace and the throne,
Once more to call Choaspes' stream their own;

112

Once more the blessed melody to hear
Of those lost fountains, beautiful and clear;
Once more their fevered brows and lips to lave
In the soft, balmy coolness of that wave;
But this might not be—and their sole relief,
Was in the indulgence of their treasured grief;
And as they might not by thy flowery brink,
Choaspes, stray, nor of thy pure waves drink,
—That gleam like molten silver in their bed—
They made a heavy feast of tears instead;
(As though such precious drops could sole supply
The loss of those sweet springs no longer nigh,
For which they could with joy have laid them down to die;
And yet thy waves kept their melodious flow,
And heaven's reflections on their face did show,
And bore the morning's beauty on their breast,
And evening's weight of quiet and of rest;
But not for them who maddened for them so,
Who pined for them—and spurned all else below:

113

Oh! Memory! thus in wild and feverish dreams,
By thee inspired, we pine for long-lost streams,
And turn with fond caprice of vain distress
To all we miss—from all that we possess;
And still, while hopes, and loves, and joys depart,
While in this world, fate smites—death hurls his dart,—
All have some deep Choaspes of the heart;
Some loved lost spring whose touch should heal all care,
Some bright Choaspes of their fond despair!
Some hallowed stream whose waves far-severed roll,
Some dear Choaspes of the yearning soul!

Oh, Memory! Memory! since the unhappy pair
From Paradise expelled, first learned to bear
Thy heavy yoke, and drain thy deadly wine,
How many a heart hath bled before thy shrine!
Not that thy dreamy rule—thy twilight reign
Is all of grief, of vanity, and pain;
No! thou hast solaced with an angel's tongue,
Ofttimes the souls ingratitude hath wrung—

114

When treachery hath aggrieved, and scorn reviled,
And thou alone consolingly hast smiled;
And thou hast soothed in sharp bereavement's hour,
With solemnizing, harmonizing power,
Hearts that had found this disenchanted Earth,
Without thy aid too dreary in its dearth;
Words of affection, silenced when most sweet,
Thy echo-tongue is skilful to repeat;
Loved lineaments, dear aspects, to restore,
Skilful thy shadowy hand is—from thy store,
What treasures they collect, who hoped for such no more!
But there are thousand thousands that would fain
Yield all thy pleasures to escape thy pain!
For what is like thy tyranny below,
When we would court Hope's renovating glow?
Thou bind'st us to our perished joy, or woe—
Like those whose hideous cruelty, 't was said,
Together chained the living and the dead!
Can any exorcism from Self release,
Bid haunting consciousness depart or cease?

115

Could we but be—to escape from doom and thee—
Blest into stone, like the olden Niobe!
Oh! misery! when with tortures too refined,
The heart's poor bankrupts—the exiles of the mind—
Midst all life's vanities and troubles move,
Martyrs to thee, and constancy and love!
Too spectre-like 'mongst things substantial, real—
Too mortal, too material, midst the ideal;
Sometimes indeed, thou spread'st a royal feast
Before thy votaries when they court thee least—
Thou seizest sweetly on their Being's whole;
The Past comes rushing o'er their passive soul!
And all that lent enchantment to that past—
All that the hues of glory o'er it cast;
But can such transports stay, such visions last?
Ah, no! too soon they pass—to leave the mind
Doubly dejected, desolate, and blind!
Thy gold too finely beaten falls to dust,
Those aëry forms thou'rt skilful to adjust—
Like forced exotics soon grow dim and pale,
And all thine o'erblown bubbles burst and fail!

116

Thy troubled fountains darkly overboil,
Thy thoughts lie strangled in their own sweet coil,
Thy rainbow-coloured dreams themselves despoil.
The golden cord thou wind'st about the heart—
Too much outstretched doth jarringly dispart;
To leave a death-like silence of the soul,
A gloom that palpably doth round us roll—
A sense of deep and heavy solitude,
A blank, a stagnant, and a frozen mood;
While in a point existence lies compressed—
Straightened and prisoned in the close-locked breast!
Till that wild calenture of heart returns,
And once again the brain and bosom burns;
That calenture of feeling—full, profound—
That brings a moment's Paradise around,
A dreamy Paradise—where we respire
A passionate air—whose every breath is fire;
Where the ground, hollowed to sweet echo-cells—
Gives many a murmur where the footstep dwells.
Delirious—rapturous—visionary—strange
That fever-mood is,—and too drear the change,

117

When cold reality once more resumes
Her sway, and rush back to their opening tombs,
Fancy's too brilliant phantoms, pure and fair—
And leave the wretch to darkness and despair!
Oh! there are in this life some fearful hours—
When sorrow startles while it overpowers;
When the heart shrinks back like a sensitive plant,
From the harsh contact of those things that want
The charm of old familiar usage, blessed,
And sweet, and sacred, to the conscious breast;
That tender charm, whose power all hearts confess—
Which more than magic virtue doth possess.
No! 't is not from their contact—'t is from thee,
And from thy touch, insidious Memory,
That thus the heart draws back—with pain and grief,
Trembling and shrinking like a sensitive leaf—
'T is from thy wildering maddening breath it shrinks;
'T is from the tightening of thy galling links;
'T is from the deepening of thy venomed sting;
'T is from thy touch, too chill and withering—

118

That touch which blights Hope's bud—checks Joy's sweet spring—
Yea! 't is from thee, that with convulsive start,
Recoils so oft the lacerated heart;
That touch goes thrilling to its inmost core,
Worst pang of all who bear, or ever bore;
Memory! thou torturest with that thrilling touch—
Oh! Memory, Memory! thou'rt a life too much;
Ay! thou'rt a life too much, confessed indeed,
When the forsaken bosom—doomed to bleed,
The past and all its blessedness recalls,
Till many a tear of sick dejection falls;
And all the was contrasted with the is—
Smites the lorn heart for ever lost to bliss;
A life too much, that fever-life of dreams;
That life of shadows crossed by meteor beams,
That life of fetters—and of burdens sore,
That crush the soul, and wound the heart's sick core.
Yet Memory! oft in homage to thy shrine,
All hope, peace, joy, and comfort we resign;

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Resign all willingly—nay, gladly too,
False to ourselves—to thee, to thee—too true;
Poisons we make our food; our health, disease;
Our riches, poverty—constraint, our ease—
Our loss, our sole possession! and our bane
Our one dear blessing! whilst the pain—the pain
Of death, without the promise of its peace,
Without its soothing prospects of release,
Is our life's life—for so we love our woe,
It seems worth every happiness below.

Wildered, infatuated, we make our life
At once a blank, a sufferance, and a strife;
We die into the Past with rapturous pain,
To die back to the Present's dearth again;
And shall I thus a willing martyr fall,
And unresisting bear thy bitter thrall?
No! let me learn a wiser, better part,
And pluck forth from the wound the festering dart—

120

Nor hold it with convulsive clutch of woe,
Till part and portion of myself it grow—
Let me expel thy dreams—thy forms efface,
Nor banish them alone, but more, replace!
And woo new hopes to fill each vacant space;
For thy dull garlands—hueless, scentless, dead—
Twining the wreaths of love and joy instead.
Memory! a life too much on earth thou'rt given,
But an eternity—the more may'st prove in heaven!

121

THE APPEAL.

If changeless truth might claim thy love's return,
And constancy, nor time nor fate can move—
Then should I not in lonely anguish mourn,
Then should'st thou love me with surpassing love!

If fond submission—if endurance meek
Of wrong, of scorn, of coldly-bitter blame—
If smiles worn on a melancholy cheek—
If these may touch thee, then thy love I claim!

If jealousy that still itself restrains,
Lest haply thou its fevered rage shouldst rue—
If a devotion that itself disdains,
And deems the idolatry but the idol's due:

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If a true passion, that itself consumes,
Still, Phœnix-like, from ashes forth to arise;
If a fond hope, which still itself illumes,
To die, as a neglected watch-fire dies:

If these things—these can touch thee;—if the love
That never can diminish nor depart,
May melt thy soul—thy stubborn bosom move—
Then—then, mine claims its sole rich meed—thy heart!

Alas! alas! these things can touch thee not;
Arise!—give wrong for wrong, and scorn for scorn;
Poor injured heart! and wrestle with your lot,
Nor miserably consent to be forlorn!

Haply, if that may bid thee not, return
To Love and me—false lover—falsest friend;
At least I thus may lingeringly learn
To feel the indifference I would fain pretend!

123

LINES FROM “THE CIRCASSIAN;” AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

Lo! the lightning-limbed Antelope leaps o'er the plain,
His footsteps are light, quick, and noiseless as rain;
And graceful and free as the laugh of a child,
Are his glad, buoyant movements, all wanton and wild.

So leaped and so bounded the heart of my youth,
All fearless with gladness—all glowing with truth;
But the thorns o'er its track scattered frequent and thick,
Have wounded it even to the core and the quick.

The lightning-limbed Antelope still scours the plain,
But my heart and my footstep both know the dull chain.

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Oh! where shall I turn, or for solace or aid?
My freedom is lost, and my hope is betrayed!

Ye past hours of delight! ye glad golden-winged hours!
When I fostered my birds, and I tended my flowers;
When Hope's living star shone supreme in the skies,
And but set—if it set—e'en still lovelier to rise.

Lo! the lightning-limbed Antelope bounds o'er the plain,
With nought to impede him—with nought to restrain:
Unwearied, untrembling—free, fearless, and lone;
With the Desert, the Fountains, the Sunshine its own.

Ah! the desert, and all its dim haunts still are mine;
But the sunbeams no more o'er my pathway may shine;
But the fountains—the fountains for ever are lost;—
Soonest hidden from those who could prize them the most.

125

SONNET ON MY CHILD'S BIRTH-DAY.

Be blessings on this day, my precious Child,
Blessings be on it!—Two short years ago,
(How swiftly years and all things pass below!)
'T was on this day that Fate the kindliest smiled
Upon thy Mother;—since on her warm and wild
And ardent wishes then did she bestow
Thee, treasured one!—The glad and gladdening glow
Of July's sun—oh thou!—mine Undefiled—
Mine Innocent!—is laughing round thee now;
And happiest omens let me fondly trace
In every ray that, brightening o'er thy brow,
Surely from thence wins a more glowing grace,
Its kindling smile to enhance!—may Heaven allow
That sunshine long may beam, reflected from that face.

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SONNET.

Love! at whose mention e'en youth's quick heart stirs:
Alas! why art thou Care's too fond ally,
While Sorrow, like thy shadow, still dwells nigh?
Alas! that thy most true interpreters
Should be—though many a prayer thy lip prefers—
The evanescent blush—the tear—the sigh—
And these thine emblems too!—so thou dost fly;
So thou dost melt and pass;—and fondly errs
The heart that trusts in thee:—however fair
Thy promise may appear!—as from the gaze
That evanescent blush—though rich and rare—
Sinks fast away;—scarce one bright moment stays,
As fleets the tear—as melts the sigh in air—
So thou takest flight an hundred thousand ways!

127

SONG.

When first thy deep blue eye, Love,
So softly shone on me,
I breathed one trembling sigh, Love,
And gave my heart to thee!

But when I found 't was true, Love,
That gift was given in vain;
I'd nothing more to do, Love,
Than—to take it back again!

128

ON MUSIC

BEING PLAYED AT THE PALACE AT ANTWERP AT NIGHT, DURING THE SIEGE.

Cease, cease those festal and triumphal tones,
There is an echo of long-deepening groans
Upon the winds of mournful midnight borne;
But ill it suits with brattling tromp and horn.

Low sounds of Death accost the startled ear;—
Distract them not—they claim one pitying tear.
Oh! hush the music in the royal hall,
Let it sink slow in many a dying fall.

The Brave, with foreheads ploughed and bosoms gored,
Turn from their old companions of the sword,

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Their Brethren of the Battle—turn and weep,
While through their veins cold mortal shudderings creep!

Hark! hear ye not their smothered moans and cries?
Silence those soul-bewildering harmonies.
Oh! they have poured their blood for sceptred state,
Some honours vain let that for them abate!

For that, life's holiest ties they've sundered wide—
Its tenderest charities have cast aside;—
For that, they've stemmed the storm of War's red field;
Shall that for them not one vain pleasure yield?

There, on their narrow pallets stretched, they lie,
While every pulse with torturing pangs throbs high;
Till in one agony—the deadliest—last—
A thousand agonies have fiercely past!

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May still, small whispers pierce the incumbent gloom,
And chase the horrors darkening round their doom;
Horrors their homicidal service owned,—
Now be they cancelled, banished and atoned!

Perchance their fevered fancy may rejoice
In the soft echoes of some well-known voice;
Still let them greet the fondly-dreaming ear,
Sweeter than all the music joy can hear.

Hushed are the loud artillery hurricanes;
Be silenced too the afar-resounding strains,
That cheer the soldier in the savage strife,—
But soothe not his last-lingering hour of life!

Yea! silenced be the stormy-rolling drum,—
The stars—the holy stars of midnight come;
And shrinking from those glad, unholy sounds,
Weep tears of light on yon red battle-grounds.

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Meek Hope! o'er these sad hours shed down, like balm,
Thy sweet—thy solemn—thine adoring calm—
While slow they roll, loaded with Night and Death,
Though winged from yon proud dome on Music's breath!

(Meek Hope!—not such as draws a troubled birth
From this our troubled and vexatious earth;
But such as hath her starry home above;—
Even such as lives by Faith, and leans on Love!)

Cease—cease those festal—those triumphal tones;
Hark to those echoes of long-deepening groans!
On human sympathies they well may call;
Oh! hush the music in the Royal Hall!

FINIS.

Originally published in the “ Athenæum.”