The Lay of the Stork | ||
INTRODUCTION.
The incident which gave rise to this poem, may be thus briefly told.
A young German lady of eighteen, had a fancy, a few years ago, to discover to what region the Storks repaired on quitting a Northern climate, and for that purpose attached to the neck of a tame one a letter, in which she begged for an answer from whoever found it, informing her of the place where the bird alighted, and any other particulars attending it. The bird was shot by an Arab, in Syria, and her letter, copied by him, without understanding its language or import, was sent to the Prussian Vice-Consul, at Beyrout, who courteously addressed the desired communication to the young lady. The correspondence which followed is given in the Appendix, with a copy of the original letter.
THE LAY OF THE STORK.
I. PART I. THE NECKAR.
Onward to the glowing Rhine:
Sunset on the purple heads
Of Alsatia's
Alsatia.—“Alsace est l'ancien pays des Tribocs dont il est parlé chez César, Strabon, Ptolomée et Ammian, et dont Stras-bourg ou Argentine, a été faite capital. B. Rhenanus dit que le nom d'Alsace est nouveau et il veut qu'il ait commencé sous le regne de Charlemagne qui en parle dans une charte pour le Prieuré du Val de Liévre sous le nom de Pagus Alsaticus. Jacques Chiflet soùtient que cette province emprunte son nom de la rivière d'Elle, d'où on a formé le mot latin Elsatia, Elisatium, Alisatium.”—(Origine de la Maison de Lorraine. 1704. A Toul.)
Red sunset on the vines that creep,
Far along the rocky steep,
Till those giant forests rise
Dark against the clear, broad skies,
All streak'd and fleck'd with sunset's glow,
Down to the river's banks below.
With the beam, from shore to shore,
Doubling, turning at thy will,
Circling through the meadows' maze,
Joyous in the golden blaze,
Till thy waters, full and free
Swell the Rhine's majestic sea.
Fade thy crowding heights away:
But fair Heidelberg stands out,
All her ruins girt about
With a diadem of gold,
Such as crown'd her once of old,
When two royal lovers stood,
Gazing from this charmèd grove,
Blest in tender solitude,
Till ambition conquered love.
Keysler says, “Velleda was celebrated as a prophetess amongst the Germans. Tacitus names her and Auriniæ as objects of worship in the time of Vespasian. Women were believed, by the ancient Germans, to possess the gift of prophecy. The priestess Jettha dwelt in a temple, some fragments of which still existed when Frederic built the new palace of Heidelberg.” The name of the mountain has been derived from its Pagan temple (Heiden) by the learned: the peasantry derive it from the bilberries with which it abounds: Heidel.
Gave place to these abodes of joy,
Didst thou foretel—alas!—in vain!
What fate their glories should destroy,
As desolate,—as erst thy own?
Ah! in the changes wrought by Time,
Whose sullen waves roll fiercely on,
What boots, amidst his course sublime,
A race of Kings—or Prophets—gone!
THE STORK.
Where the rose-hued rock has caught
Richer colours in the ray,
Till its peaks seem fairy-wrought,
Lila's shelter'd castle lies
Scarcely mark'd by curious eyes.
Pause beneath the ruddy cliff,
Then the ling'ring boatman tells
Dreamy tales, in soften'd tone,
Of an orphan maid, that dwells
In those lofty towers—alone.
Just beneath the turret's shade.
Sits a bird, demure and tall,
Buffon, with his usual poetical grace, gives the most minute and interesting particulars of the Stork and its habits. He describes the white variety as loving domesticity, while the black is solitary and seeks desolate places: he speaks of the welcome that attends the familiar bird, and of its content amidst crowded cities, where the noise and bustle are as indifferent to it as to the sparrow.
“The body is of a brilliant white, but the wings are black, with reflections of violet and brown. The Greeks derived its name from its colour. It makes long voyages, even in stormy weather: arrives in Germany as early as the 9th or 10th of May, and sometimes, in Alsace, appears in March: it always returns to the same nest after absence.”
Watching for the gentle maid.
White his breast, and on his wings
Glowing lights the sun-set flings:
Now, his supple neck he twines,
Casts his head his wings between,
Lila's form, amidst the vines,
By his rapid eye is seen.
He will feel her fond caress,
Hear her voice, so softly sweet,
Thoughts, in tender words, express,
For a happy lover meet:
The happiness of Lila's love.
“Do not suitors, at her gate
Trembling for the signal wait
That shall bid them enter in
Free to woo her, and to win?”—
Never suitor enters there;
Shrined in holy purity,
Given to lore and musings high,
She can interpret all the lays
The small birds sing in summer days,
She knows what to the waving grass
The breezes whisper as they pass:
And what the babbling waters say
When on the glitt'ring sands they play.
Well she knows each herb and flower,
Every star by name can call:
For, 'tis said, some mystic power
Gives her knowledge over all.
To our curious doubts is known,
Save that, in the realms of thought,
Lila lives—apart—alone.—
—A beauty soul and thought bestow—
Her friends and kindred vainly blame,
A world is hers they cannot know.
If sometimes courtly maidens seek
Her towers, an idle hour to chase,
'Tis then the bloom deserts her cheek
And pensive shades pass o'er her face:
They note her lowly joys with scorn,
Or pity the recluse forlorn.
Perchance she checks a rising sigh,
A tear one moment dims her eye,
But, bending from her tow'r, she sees
Yon hamlet 'midst the clust'ring trees;
She meets some bright-ey'd child's salute,
And sorrow in her heart is mute.
Whose white walls gleam beneath her tower,—
From Lila caught the quick'ning ray
That changed a dungeon to a bower:
Once, buried in yon gorge, it lay
With malady in ev'ry blast;
There pined the peasant, day by day,
And sank in penury at last.
She chose that spot of pleasant ground,—
—Health breathes in all the airs that blow,—
She scattered smiling dwellings round,
And lured the victims from below.
Now age and youth and childhood there,—
—Plenty and ease at length their own,—
Name Lila, with the truest pray'r,
That ever sought th' Eternal throne.”
Where beauties smile, and hands are prest,
And, as they whirl the time away,
The hermit Lila is their jest.
The subtle sands shake o'er and o'er;
And trampling on the heart's fresh flowers,
Can wonder that they rise no more!
Whilst Lila, on her mission bent,
Smiles on the work—and is content.
But yet her smile has not the light
Of joys that careless youth engage—
The knowledge comes with withering blight
That brings to youth the thoughts of age!
So brief the moments time can give
Of sunshine to our winter cold,
Ah! who would wish the young to live
In sad experience like the old!
The chill that on hard form attends,
Int'rest but feign'd and secret scorn
From those the careless world calls “friends;”
Perchance at ev'ning, pale and still,
Bent sadly o'er the terrace wall,
With hopes these gentle scenes recall
But still the vain futilities,—
The busy coil—that worldlings make,—
Come as a swarm of glitt'ring flies
Disturbs the calm of some bright lake:
“Alas!”—she sighs—“'tis wise to fly
A world that has no room for me,
Who, the frail forms of vanity
With vision too unclouded, see.
Whose nest is on the swaying bough;
Whose path is through the blue, broad sky,
At liberty!—at liberty!
Hail eve and silence!—sages say
The mind, by fasting, can descry
—From worldly clamour turn'd away—
The Secret Presence ever nigh.
“The mind,” says Fenelon, “has no less need of fasting than the body: it has also its intermissions. The fast of silence, recollection and prayer, is essential, as is also the cessation, occasionally, of external action and whatever distracts the soul.”
Fenelon remarked to one who conversed with Jansenists: “You are too much accustomed to mental application, which leaves your interior void, and prevents you from remembering the Secret Presence of God. This propensity to argument is greatly to be feared. The people whom you frequent are infinitely dry, argumentative, critical, and opposed to the true interior life. Make your greedy mind fast, make it keep silence: lead it to rest. God will then work more within it.”
I would avoid the startling jar
Of notes that yield but empty din:—
And feel the spirit-life within!
And cling to vague philosophy:
But, like to him who turn'd aside,
Sick of man's error and his pride;
When I have sought and heard my fill,
I sigh with disappointment still
That man is vanity alone,
Conjecture—doubt—with nothing known.
We nurse the fond belief—‘we know’—
While all, beneath the firmament,
Is falsehood and imperfect show:
We see the rain drop, shining bright,
But worlds are there that mock our sight!
Mountains and plains, with space between
Glide to new changes, nearer seen;
A speck of sand, that whirls around
Holds myriad beings in its bound.
On the Existence of Acari in Mica. By Sir D. Brewster.—“While examining with a microscope a thick plate of mica, from Siberia, about five inches long and three inches wide, he was surprised to observe the remains of minute animals, some the 70th of an inch, and others only the 150th of an inch in size. Some of these were inclosed in cavities round which the films of mica were in optical contact. These acari were, of course, not fossil, but must have insinuated themselves through openings between the plates of mica, which afterwards closed over them.”—British Association for the Advancement of Science, reported by “Athenæum,” October 6, 1855.
“Dans la moindre portion de matière se trouvent enfermés une infinité de corps tous plus petits les uns que les autres: tous decroissant par des amoindrissemens infiniment petits.” —Leibnitz.
Diminishes beyond our thought;
What seems to fill the widest place
Circles, still larger, through all space!—
Ah! should not man's confession be
An infant knows as much as he?
The height from whence the learned fall?
Shall she, who may not even share
His solemn vigils—seek at all?
The will to crush, to immolate,
All pangs to bear and to conceal,
Is woman's long accepted fate,—
She shrinks not back in woe or weal:
But, if she hope and strive alone,
No light upon her way, to shine,
—The star that beckoned onward gone—
Will not her strength at last decline?
And all her visions, great and high,
Vanish in chill reality!
Must then these aspirations fail!
My hope too wild, my power too weak,
My eager wishes all too frail?
I would that those with hearts like mine,
Whate'er their place, whate'er their state,
In one great interest should combine,
A new existence to create,
To banish falsehood, hatred, strife,
And give the world another life.
I would the mighty truth once taught,
In simple words to simple man,
Were not by sophistry o'erwrought—
Until the wide and ample plan
Altered, and left to slow decay,
Has all the faults it swept away!
There is no happier lot than mine;
That youth is bliss, that wealth is power,
And I—the last of all my line,
And hold a sceptre in my hand,
Because in gold such spirits dwell
Can bind all creatures to its spell.
They pass, like winds, and are forgot:
But listen still one word to hear,
Sought, sigh'd for, waited for in vain:
All others fall upon my ear
Like discord in some minstrel's strain:
All else is meaningless—is weak—
But that one word they do not speak!
Where thoughts lie deep, a treasured store,
Whose sealèd fountain ever flows,
That word is whispered evermore!
Oh meadows! rich with jewell'd dews—
Why do I love your mysteries?
Why strive your secrets to attain,
And fill with hopes my heart and brain?
Why, but because ye may possess
The treasure I for ever seek,
May know the spell of happiness
And that one word have power to speak!
Watch the frail flow'rs and tend them well,
Lie dreaming beneath waving trees,
And fix my eyes on stars that tell
Of wonders in a world of light
Beyond my bounded mortal sight.
Stars!—ay, what mysteries are those!—
Whose depths when we would understand,
The vase of science overflows
And burns the sage's trembling hand.
Placed, one, in that vast dazzling line,
Awaiting the Eternal sign,
Yet this we place above them all!
Too sear'd with crime, too stain'd with blood,
That our's should be the chosen sphere
Which the Great Master said ‘was good.’
Who, gazing on that host sublime—
Whose distance we can mark alone,—
By measured space and counted time
Shall teach what ages keep unknown?
While I behold ye,—worlds! we dare
To name as realms all void—all vain!—
My soul still questions in despair
While ye shine on, in cold disdain.
And then come thronging visions fast,
Glowing and bright'ning—seen—and past!
Beams that will not pass away,
Bringing crowding mem'ries back,
Of a by-gone, vanish'd day,
Seem'd my own, though mine no more,
And that one dear word again
Voices whisper o'er and o'er.
Gone the ray, and hush'd the sound!
Melodies surpassing sweet!
Names that once I knew—they seem
Syllables that haunt a dream;
Stirring thoughts of joy and care,
Father—mother—where? oh where?
Dies each tender, melting tone—
'Tis the orphan's knell alone!
Yet still friends—what friends?—protest,
Lila is—or should be—blest!
The veins of yonder sunlit hills—
In deep caves that waters bind,
All were worse than poverty
To the treasure in my mind!
Treasure, barren though it be,
Shrouded in a secret urn,
Till a spark shall set it free,
And its precious flame shall burn,
Bearing to the clouds above
That one word—its being—Love!
That, when others sweetly share,
Loses neither charm nor power
But blooms on, more softly fair.
If a vision, let me live
In that vision's spell divine,
Feel the joy its mem'ries give,
Though no other may be mine!
All I know of love on earth
Shows me shadows of the truth,
Glowing with the sun of youth:
But I feel that far away
Shines the true, the living ray.
I can prize, can cherish all;
But, amidst this charmèd ground
Nothing answers when I call,
And my heart shrinks back once more,
Waiting, shrouded as before.
Has renew'd both flower and leaf,
Since my life, in tears begun,
Learnt, at once, the way to grief.
Kindred had th' unwelcome care
Of my youthful father's heir:
All of duty, duly paid,
Each one's task is fairly o'er,
Thanks them, and demands no more,
Asks for tenderness from none,
And is left to dream alone!
With all that nature yields to please,
I can, like those around me, smile,
And feel my yearning heart at ease,—
Even then will wake the mournful thought,
Subdued, repress'd, but ever nigh,
Like some sad chord that comes unsought
Amidst a cheerful melody,
And, sounding once, no other strain
Can echo in the heart again.
The cruel pomp of selfish state,
While woe and sordid cares pursue
Those worthier than the rich and great;
And smile, with silent scorn, to see
The follies and the joys they boast,
Are held as crimes by such as me.
Yes—crimes—while poverty and woe
Are pleading, trembling at their gate,
Their only care is—not to know,—
They dare to bid the wretched—wait!
And yet they talk of woman's place
As all too lowly for her soul,
And bid her quit her narrow space
And strive for mast'ry and control.
They crush the glow-worm at their feet
While reaching to the stars above,
And slight, for power undue—unmeet—
Mercy and tenderness and love!
And brings some changes every tide;
But pride and luxury and wrong,
Still reckless on their height abide.
The relics of an infant's play,
When once some mighty billow swells,
Will to the depths be borne away:
And, where they cumbered all the land,
Rich pearls shall strew the sunny strand;
But no mean power must check the ill,
Or pearls will be but pebbles still.
If, from the gems that light the sky,
No beam upon the earth is thrown,
And those who gaze, admire alone,
Nor hope nor feel a ray can cheer;
So great the distance from their sphere.
Though death each moment points and warns!
Keeps each at variance with his kind:—
One grain of dust another scorns!
I ask what boots it thus to feel,—
Content to pity and advise,
And waste life in mere sympathies?
Does not some power in Nature lie
To teach my heart the remedy?
Wild at first—now sweetly tame,
When the breath of early May
The arrival of the Stork in Europe takes place in the Spring. In Seville it is very common; but according, to the Prince of Canino, it is very rare and only an accidental visitor near Rome. Though so common in Holland, it very rarely arrives in Britain. The ground drainage of our marshes may have something to do with this; but it is hardly sufficient to account for so striking a difference in the migratory distribution of the bird, more especially as it proceeds to higher latitudes; for it regularly visits Sweden and the north of Russia, and breeds there. The winter is passed by the bird in the more genial climates of Asia, and in the northern parts of Africa, Egypt especially. Those who have seen these birds in the act of migration, speak of their numbers as very large: thus Belon remarks, that the Storks are never seen in flocks except when they are in the air; and he relates how, being at Abydos in the month of August, a great flight of Storks came from the north, and when they reached the commencement of the Mediterranean Sea, they there made many circuitous turns, and then dispersed into smaller companies. When Dr. Shaw was journeying over Mount Carmel, he saw the annual migration of those which had quitted Egypt; and he states that each of the flocks was half a mile in breadth, and occupied three hours in passing over. The black Stork (Ardea nigra), passes the winter in the southern parts of Europe, and in spring advances to high northern latitudes to spend the summer.
Maillet (says Buffon,) speaks of seeing Storks descend at the end of April, in Higher Egypt, and pause on the Delta, which, however, the inundation of the Nile soon forced them to leave.
They appear to quit all countries when the heat becomes excessive and the banks of rivers overflow and allow no fishing on the banks.
Storks are met with in Turkey and Persia. Bruyn remarked their nest represented on the ruins of Persepolis; indeed, all over Asia they are seen, except in the desert.
Lorraine and Alsace are the provinces of France where flocks in great numbers are seen to pass, and there is scarcely a village in which they do not make their nests in the belfries.
“It is of a mild nature, neither shy nor savage, and is easily tamed. It has generally a melancholy and pensive aspect, but sometimes has been known to forget these attributes, and join in the sports of children when surrounded by and accustomed to them.” —Notes to Buffon.
The Mahommedans call the Stork bel-arje, and hold it in great esteem and veneration. It is nearly as sacred with them as the Ibis with Egyptians. Shaw says those are held as profane who should kill one or use it ill.
Chas'd our snowy clouds away,
Wherefore restless every year?
And, when winter chills us here,
Spreading wide thy wings for flight
Speedst thou from my dazzled sight?
I have hail'd thee back once more,
And our summer lives we led,
Careless, as they pass'd of yore:
But, the cloudy season come,
Thou wilt seek another home;
That far Eastern home, the source
Of all knowledge, great and high,
Roll through realms of mystery:
Where the sun receives his light,
And to holy faith is given
Mighty lore, that reads aright
Hidden secrets, kept by Heaven.
Those who Nature's wonders know
See thee and thy wand'ring friends
As, in countless ranks, ye go
Trooping from the icy North
To some realm for ever bright,
Where no fear of winter's wrath
Comes between you and delight.
Back to Nile's majestic waves,
Some to Asian rivers lone,
By wild sculptur'd rocks and caves,
In Col. Todd's interesting “Travels in Western India,” may be read accounts of the shrines and temples of a multitude of deities.
The loftiest of the peaks of Abo is called Guru Sikra: here is a cavern before which is a block of granite, impressed with the feet of Data Briga, (an incarnation of Vishnoo), which is an object of pilgrimage.
The Pudda-ca, or footsteps of Rama Nanda, is a shrine also held in great veneration.
The Agori or man-eater, is a horrible human creature, living on carrion and impurities of all kinds.
Where the footsteps of a God
Mark the granite path he trod;
Where the gaunt Agori dwells;
And where Rama's shrines aspire
Proudly, as they rose of yore,—
Though the bright, misleading fire
Lights the Demon fane no more:—
Where the Deity, half seen,
Frowning, darksome boughs between,
Rears some shape of hideous might,
Lovely in his vot'ries' sight;
They, whose foul belief in ill
Crimes confirm, and frauds secure,
They who crouch and worship still,
In Moultan's hot groves impure.
But, when scorching burns the sun,
Once more is thy flight begun
Where the waves run cool, at rest,
And the fresh breeze fans thy breast.
Teach thee to what realm to fly,
Thou shalt pause eternally?
Thy wings have not the radiant dyes
Of those bright, gem-like birds, that shine
Amidst the flow'rs of tropic skies,
Warm with the colours of the mine.
Thou hast no voice of melody
To soothe and charm, to melt or fire,
Nor pheasant step, nor eagle eye:—
Yet can thy simple form inspire
A tender interest in the heart,
Because a loving guest thou art.
And, perching on the belfry oft,
We smile thy kindly shape to greet
Where, motionless, thou sit'st aloft;
We feel thou lov'st us, and we hail
Thy yearly visit to our land
Leading thy rapid, feathery band,
And know thy presence will not fail.
Welcome ye loud from tower and wall,
Crying, with joy to mark your track,
“The Stork!—Spring's messenger, comes back!”
For whom twice o'er the season comes,
When other birds, with busy beak,
Make for their young their downy homes.
What bird so faithful to his mate?
So pious to his parents old?
Whose cares upon her nestlings wait,
Whose wings their forms so warmly fold?
And who has won so high a fame
As the fond bird that, legends say,
When in a city girt by flame,
Pow'rless to fly her young ones lay,
Rather than quit her burning nest,
Died, as they cower'd beneath her breast?
Chasida, is a word of grace,
And bards have of thy virtues sung
That, to some secret ocean place,
The old and feeble of thy race
Are borne, by spirits that have power,
To cast their feathery garb aside,
When—human from that favour'd hour—
They step as man in all his pride!
“Alexandre du Myndes dans Ælien, dit que les cigognes cassées de veillesse se rendent à certaines isles de l'ocean et là, en recompense de leur piété sont changées en hommes.” Ælien assures us that the reason of their worship in Egypt rose from their great moral qualities. In the Levant, some of the old respect is shown for the Stork. —See Notes to Buffon.
“Great moral virtues are attributed to this bird: temperance, conjugal fidelity, filial piety and paternal tenderness. They will carry their young ones on their wings before they can fly, and have been known to die with them rather than abandom them. The well known extraordinary attention they pay to their aged parents sound fabulous when told.” —Idem.
Let me to thee my hopes confide;
Spread thou the story far and wide,
And to all earth my message tell.
Speak thou of tenderness and care,
Proclaim, wherever thou shalt fly,
That love is watchful, and can bear
A Northern clime, a cloudy sky,
And sends a messenger in thee
From shore to shore, from sea to sea.
Go, where the Delta's isles invite,
And rest thee where, 'neath Persian skies,
Persepolis in ruin lies.
Speed to the groves of far Japan,
Where Spring—not dwindled to a span—
To lure thee to her gentle sphere,
Holds her mild sway throughout the year.
In every place where thou shalt rove
Let thy bright presence tell of love.
A charmèd life is thine,
Those who thy rapid voyage see
Shall deem thee half divine:
For where thy pure feet touch the ground,
No venom'd creature may be found:
Before thee all things evil flee,
Leaving the land to Spring and thee.
Above thy kind for this preferr'd.
Breathes in each place where'er thou art—
That love has taught thy wing to fly,
The magnet set to guide thy heart;
That, though conceal'd, obscur'd and lost,
Yet, even on the remotest ground,
By storm delay'd, by tempest tost,
Love can exist—and may be found.
And say, there is no death in love;
Bid those who weep no longer strive
The pangs of mem'ry to remove.
Invisible, love hovers near
The couch where wounded heroes lie;
No cave too dark, no spot too drear,
—All space is filled with sympathy—
The radiant spirit roams through earth,
Though now by error's veil conceal'd:
Yet it has shone, a Heavenly birth,
A blessed miracle reveal'd,
Its influence rests for ever here.
The Crane takes longer voyages than any other bird of passage. Is known in Sweden, Scotland, Orkneys, and all Northern countries. In autumn goes to France, where seeds are just sown, and in marshy places; then on to more Southerly climes, returning in Spring, and takes the way to the North, and thus makes a circle of voyages in a circle of seasons.
The ancients called the Crane, bird of Lybia, and bird of Scythia, as it arrived from both these extremities of the then known world.
The Crane cries loud in the air; its tumultuous clamours announce a storm.
At the first cold of Autumn, the Cranes are warned to change the climate.
Those of the Danube and Germany pass to Italy. They linger long in France if the autumn is mild. —Buffon.
Who, like thee, flies the winter's chill;
But, when the Eastern Summer burns,
Asks for our temp'rate region still:
Stay not in that soft clime where she
Is nam'd with awe, and held a queen;
But bring her home in Spring with thee,
When winds are still, and Earth is green.
Linger not 'midst Numidian maids,
The Demoiselle de Numidie.—“On a donné á ce bel oiseau le nom de Démoiselle a cause de son élégance, de sa parure et des gestes mimes qu'on lui voit affecter; cette Démoiselle-oiseau s'incline en effet par plusieurs révérences. se donne bonne air en marchant avec une sorte d'ostentation et souvent elle saute et bondit par gaité comme si elle voulait danser.” —Buffon.
Aristotle calls it the comedian. Plutarch also talks of its acting, and calls its movement pantomime.
The ancients speak of it as an actor and copyist of man; it has so much vanity that it prefers showing off its graces to eating. A party of Démoiselles are described as dancing like gypsies. —See Buffon's notes.
Aristotle talks of their dancing opposite each other.
Seduc'd by their attractive grace,
When, gliding in the perfum'd shades
Of Afric's groves, the dance they trace,
And, plum'd and dress'd with dang'rous art,
Use every wile to catch the heart:
For thee such charms must have no lure,
Far different love thou shalt secure.
And when, borne far from shore to shore,
My joyous message thou hast spread,
And tell my heart how thou hast sped.”
A scroll the Stork's white bosom round;
A purse the treasured words defends,
By Lila's skilful fingers made,
That by a silken cord depends,
Amidst the fluttering feathers laid.
There, closely hidden, shall it rest
Secure within that downy nest.
The myst'ry that his plumes conceal:
His lofty step more stately grows,
And his bright eye with ardour glows,
Her hopes and wishes proud to share,
And fond caresses thank her care.
THE LETTER.
A world of virtues, great and high,
Asks aid from ev'ry stranger's hand
To make her dream reality,
To all she sues, to all she pleads.
To him, who first this message reads,
A blessing and a pray'r she sends,
And ranks him as her first of friends:
All noble aims, all thoughts that soar,
She bids awake, to sleep no more.
Whose heart is throbbing like thy own,
Think thou behold'st her, hear'st her speak,
And grant thy help, where she is weak.
Where mis'ry strives, be there to cheer,
And weep with those who ask a tear:
To tend with healing sympathy:
Shrink not from error, or from crime,
But seek and aid—and save—in time.
To choke the garden where it grew;
But good can spring in any place
And, by its strength, the weeds subdue.
And never grows there herb or flower
But weeds start up within an hour;
Yet, if protecting hands secure,
The worthless changes to the pure.
Of the world's errors and its pain,
And yet refuse the help that all
Alike can give, however small?
Let each but labour as he can,
His part of good is gain'd to man
Is guided by that slight control,
And though his will be weak—alone,
The grain he casts may swell the whole.
It is but false and selfish lore
That bids us in cold silence rest:
Nor add the trifle of our store
While yet one being is unblest.
The truth to find, and vanquish ill
May never be our blissful chance;
But to strive on is virtue still—
Not to fall back is to advance.
May sink perchance in barren ground;
But if a fading flower they meet
Fresh beauties spring beneath our feet.
Heaven sheds on all alike its rain,
Strive then—nor fear to strive in vain.
This bird that quits the icy North,
But to return in glowing Spring,
And back thy answering message bring,
'Tis Lila: more than this to say
Were idle; but, whoe'er thou art,
Who shall her fond desire obey,
Be sure she holds thee in her heart.
Inscribe thy name upon the scroll:
—Her messenger will faithful prove,—
Give hope to distant Lila's soul
Whose wish would fill all earth with love.”
II. PART II.
From the tall linden's verdant crown;
And clust'ring coral berries weigh
The bow'd acacia's branches down:
The vines a crimson tinge reveal,
The grape has caught a ruddier die,
The thick woods shiver as they feel
Amidst their boughs the North wind's sigh.
Of shining plume and dusky wing,
Descends, and all expectant stand,
Till yon dark cloud its freight shall bring:
It pauses, and fresh troops alight
Till the broad space is snowy white.
Retreating from the icy North,
Bills clang, and clattering seem to cry,
—“The time is come!—'tis Winter!—fly!”
As questioning, with air discreet,
Of tardy stragglers, whom they hail,
Come sweeping onwards strong and fast;
But woe to him whose pinions fail,
Who drops, with flagging pace—the last.
No mercy, by their law, extends
To him who dares desert his friends:
In vain his struggles and his cries,
Pierced by their jav'lin-beaks—he dies!
Till fifteen times the sun has set,
From day to day a sage divan
Consults and ponders o'er their plan;
Steps slowly forth amid the press,
And, gazing round the crowded space,
Seems the vast concourse to address:—
That gestures speak a language plain?—
Although of old the poets feign
That careless Nature did them wrong,
And left the Storks without a tongue.
—Tho' poets sometimes tell us truth,—
Nor credit vain Italian tales,
That oft, on Como's silver lake,
While the calm fisher gently sails,
His nets, by sudden force, will break,
And, as in dreamy thought he lies,
And on the unwonted burthen broods,
Deep in the waters he descries
One naturalist asserts that at the bottom of the Lake of Como, multitudes of Storks in a torpid state have been found by fishermen.
Buffon considered as error the belief in the self-immersion of swallows and other birds in lakes; the instances cited by others, in support of that opinion, being, he conceives, merely exceptions or accidents. His chapter on the subject is extremely amusing and curious, full of candour, but resolute for facts, in spite of the poetry which he loves, and the traditions which he delights to allude to.
The Storks in countless multitudes;
Conceal'd, till Summer, in the tide.
And scorn on sland'rous legends throws.
The Black Stork seeks desert places, perches in the woods, frequents isolated marshes, and makes its nest in the thickest part of forests. The white species, on the contrary, chooses our habitations as a domicile, establishes himself on towers, chimneys and the roofs of houses: the friend of man, he shares his dwelling, and even his grounds; he fishes in our rivers, hunts in our gardens, places himself in the midst of our towns, without being startled by the noise, &c.—Buffon.
Not these the tribe of sable wing,
Morose and sad, that cherish gloom,
In arid deserts lingering,
And making cheerful earth a tomb.
They, though the race a kindred claim,
Are all unlike, except in name.
No social virtues make them dear,
Unbending, haughty and severe.
Borne on the highest bough that crowns
The aged fir's dark, solemn crest;
Conceal'd where sullen Nature frowns,
They build a secret lonely nest;
Flying to marshes far remote,
On whose cold breast no lilies float;
But where, on pools of waveless sloth,
Flit winged things in hideous play,
Would scare the sight with strange dismay.
Things—that like glitt'ring vices shine,
Ever in motion to and fro,
Coloured with many a radiant line,
Skimming the slime for prey below;
Dazzling, in starry splendour drest,
But dim and monstrous if at rest.
Man's lore is weak their course to trace:
Some deem they linger on our shore
And wait in darkness for the Spring,
While far those silver pinions soar,
To pleasant places wandering:
For scenes, by the fair race enjoy'd,
Their envious kindred most avoid:
Passing above, with scornful flight,
Nor pausing when the rest alight.
Jealous their snowy plumes to view
That gives their own a duskier hue.
Nor seek, nor cherish sympathy!
Even those dim wings, if touch'd by light,
And not in murky gloom conceal'd,
With sapphire, emerald hues unite,
And to the sun new beauty yield,
Tinted with e'en a richer glow
Than those, eclips'd by breasts of snow.
Looks on his rival in despair,
And hurrying past, with clamour flies
From joys he still disdains to share.
—“Boast, oh white tribes! your plumage fair,
The Black Stork has a world elsewhere!”
Seek, if ye will, that sphere unknown
Thro' many an age to Eastern lore,
The feathers of the black Stork, which is only called black to distinguish it from the white kind, are very beautiful in the light, catching violet and golden-green reflections on the dark brown ground of the wings. A very red skin surrounds the eyes.
It is wild and solitary, and loves the oldest firs, choosing the highest branches on which to perch.
A species called Jabiru, of the same family, is found on the banks of the Amazon and Orinoco. It has sometimes in its fishing excursions to combat large serpents, and is furnished by nature with arms to defend and attack its foes, having a powerful and trenchant bill, inserted like a hatchet into its large head, and a thick and nervous throat.
The Jabiru is found in Brazil, and in Guiana is called Negro. It feeds generally on the insects it finds in lonely marshes and beside rivers.
The black Stork avoids the spots frequented by the white sort, and shuns society with its species. It flies in small parties, or in pairs, and never in large flocks like the others.
Buffon adds—“We are not assured that it travels in the same manner as the white Stork, and are even ignorant whether the time of its migration is the same: nevertheless, there is every reason to believe so.”
Whose rivers, lakes, and forests lone
Bids in her secret depths increase,
Till giant creatures, sprung to birth
From dawning time, encumber earth.
In hermits, to your race allied;
There Negro flocks in hostile ranks,
Roam sadly by the gloomy banks;
Their trenchant bills, for combat made
With serpents, ghastly in their strength,
That haunt each poisonous nook and glade,
And triumph in their scaly length,
Amidst Guiana's swamps and reeds,
Where their arm'd foe undaunted feeds.
A happier lot and narrower space,
Nor heed the summons that exhorts
The friends to seek their Spring resorts.
When other flocks have led the way?
The crested Huppo,
The Huppo.—This bird bears quite a poetical character amongst ancient naturalists, its qualities being supposed to resemble those attributed to the Stork, with whom it is frequently seen in company. It was held as a good harbinger by the Egyptians, who constantly repeat its form in their hieroglyphics, and consider it, like the Stork, an emblem of filial piety.
There are several species, all remarkable, and of few birds have more fables been recounted: amongst the most famous is its supposed power of breaking evil charms, and its singular knowledge of the occult virtues of herbs.
In England and in Sweden, it was held as a bird of ill-omen. It leaves Northern climates at the same period as the Stork, and is generally found in the same regions.
Our love of man, deserts him now;
Past are the temp'rate Summer airs,
And howling winds the forests bow.
She seeks, like us, the banks of Nile,
Land where she learnt those mystic spells,
Pow'rful alike for good or guile,
That make her fear'd where'er she dwells:
But well the Pious Bird is known
To us for virtues like our own.
The Swallow generally precedes the Stork in his annual migrations. Of this bird there are many traditions in the East. In the notes to Buffon occurs the following:—
“This year (1779) there was no snow during winter: never-theless, the swallows did not arrive in Burgundy till the 9th of April, and at the Lake of Geneva till the 14th. It is related that a shoemaker of Bâle, having put round the neck of a Swallow a collar, on which was written:
received, the following Spring, this answer to his question:—
‘A Athènes, Chez Antoine, Pourquoi t'en informe tu?’To this story the witty naturalist adds the following comment: “Ce qui est le plus probable dans cette anecdote c'est que les vers ont été fait en Suisse. Quant au fait il est plus que douteux.”
Warn'd us to verdant Egypt's Spring?
Wise bird! whose skill the herb can find
That gives back vision to the blind!
Than ours her pinions far less strong,
For favouring winds she waited long.
And see, the enamell'd Halcyons
Buffon says that this beautiful bird, though originally from a warm climate, has become habituated to the cold of ours. It may be seen all the winter beside the frozen streams, often plunging beneath the ice, and re-appearing with its prey: it is called, for this reason, in Germany, eisvogel.
The most superstitious ideas were attached to the Halcyon: that it had the property of preventing thunder, of augmenting hidden treasure, and, though dead, could renew its plumage at the accustomed time. “It communicates,” says one ancient author, “to whoever carries it, grace and beauty: gives peace in a house: calm to the sea: attracts the fish, and renders the season abundant.”
“Ces fables,” adds Buffon, “flattent la credulité mais malheureusement, ce ne sont que des fables.”
The Halcyon is the most beautiful bird of our climate, from the brilliancy of the colours of its enamelled plumage.
It is sometimes called “the Nymph,” from bearing the name of Alcyone, the plaintive daughter of Eolus, so often named by the poets Euripides, Ovid, &c. Ariosto speaks thus:
“S'udir l'alcioni alla marina del' antico infortunio lamentarsi.”
The nightingale is sometimes meant in these poetical allusions, as in those of “sad Electra's poet.”
Return'd to find their winter home,
That makes us exiles, lures them here.
Beautiful nymphs! whose glance can bless
Even snows with grace and happiness!
Like the wild Cranes—a noisy crowd—
Nor let the idle watcher see
Our solemn hour with vacant glee.
Few such as he, methinks, can boast
He mark'd us leave our trysting ground,
He turns a moment—we are lost,
Plung'd far in space, without a sound.
They who the Storks in air behold
Storks fly without noise or uttering cries, and leave the North the latter end of August. So rapid is their flight, when once settled in conclave, that, as they make no clamour, like many other birds, they are lost to sight instantly. —Buffon.
The flight of the Stork is powerful and sustained, like all birds that have broad wings and a short tail. As he flies he carries his head stiff and forward, and his claws extended backward as if to serve as a rudder. —Idem.
May marvel at the height we gain,
—The ample wings, spread broad and bold,—
Powerful and steady moves our train:
The firm head pointing, forward sent,
The claws, our rudder, backward bent,
Piercing the clouds with lightning force:
What mortal eye shall trace our course!
His form a dark speck in the sky:
He waits our signal to be free,
The time is come!—'tis winter—fly!”
The last swift wing is sweeping by,
She deems, amidst the wild array,
Her fav'rite she can yet descry:
And fancies on his snowy breast
She sees her crimson ribbon rest;
But, careless of her fond adieu,
He passes—and is lost to view.
Down from the mountain's highest steep,
And plunge their branches in the wave
As the proud river winds his way,
Now doubling near some gloomy cave,
Now circling round some ruin grey,
Dreary and grand and desolate,
As though it bore to sudden fate
Of its lone region dares intrude:
Within the sullen river's glass,
Thousands of shining wings move slow,
As glittering in the air they go;
The shade of all those snowy flocks
Deepens the gloom along the rocks;
One moment, and—the shadow gone—
The lonely Danube murmurs on.
Where Inn maintains his foamy war,
By beetling cliff and startled town
Pouring his restless torrent down,
But—Martinswand and Innspruck past—
On speeds the army—far and fast.
Mark the canal with waving lines?
That o'er awaking Venice shines?
It flashes, vanishes—too soon—
That meteor on the blue lagoon.
Ah! now I know—I see them fly—
The storks!—the storks are passing by.”
St. Mark's gold domes fade fast away,
Fade all the rose-hued palace towers
Of fairy fret-work, all the isles,
And left, amidst her roofs of flowers,
Alone, fair Venice sits and smiles.
As if by genii planted there,
To dazzle Europe's wondering eyes
With all the East can boast of rare,
Gleaming, two silver seas between,
And guarding both, with lofty mien:
There pause awhile the winged band,
—Their ranks, as if by chiefs, review'd,—
—The word is given—the flight renew'd.
All Asia's plains before them lie.
No more compell'd through space to roam,
The Storks have reached their winter home.
Free may they linger now, and choose
The spot they love on Syria's strand,
Ere yet the hot sun fade the hues
Of countless flowers that hide the sand
And deck the Desert's carpet rude,
—A Paradise of Solitude!
Wak'd by the dews, burst forth in flower,
The scarlet amaryllis hastes
To throw her mantle o'er the wastes,
Striving the roses to subdue
In soft perfume and brilliant hue.
Narcissus opes his starry eyes,
Carnations, rich in odour, rise,
And feathery palms o'ershadow all.
Where gliding finny tenants dwell:
And ev'ry river, swelling o'er,
Invites the fisher to the shore.
Even Lebanon's dark cedars bring
New leaves to greet the smiling Spring:
And on the myrtle's hardy stem
Is hung a snowy diadem.
Would stray from such a scene as this?
And Lila's truant, like the rest,
Builds in this bower her second nest.
Where marvels, in an age gone by,
Mark'd sites with awe and solemn dread,
Where now unnoticed ruins spread!
Sad Noah, ere his ark began
That voyage on the surging flood
Which should destroy the homes of man:
And where—his fated journey past—
The world's preserver slept at last.
'Tis here, as Pagan minstrels sing,
Andromeda's dark rock and ring
Are seen above the angry wave
That foamed before the monster's cave.
But such unhallowed fables all
Before the chosen warriors fall
Who came in myriads from the North,
To thrust such idle legends forth.
And purer creed could ill subdue!
They came, even then, in mercy's name,
But on destruction built their fame.
III. PART III.
The embroidered carpet is unroll'dBeneath a sycamore's broad shade,
The silken cushions, wrought with gold,
And jewell'd pipe, are ready laid.
It is the Scheik's accustom'd hour:
The breeze flows fresh from Syria's sea;
And Khālid, from his castle tow'r,
Will seek, at eve, his fav'rite tree.
The Arabs, as his step draws nigh,
Retire, nor mar his privacy:
They know, his mind with projects fraught,
He wants not rest, but quiet thought.
No braver leader have they known,
And in his fame they hail their own.
But mark his step and mark his eye.
That eye, though dark, has not the glow
That flashes from an Arab lid;
Though scorch'd his cheek, a skin of snow
Beneath his robe is scarcely hid:
And, though his language is their own,
A tongue that well becomes the Scheik,
The accents have not all the tone
That, in their tents, the Arabs speak.
They call him Khālid,
The name of Kāled means Happy, according to the celebrated poem of Antar, as quoted by M. de Lamartine.
“Kaled n'est plus bien nommé depuis que jele cherche.”This is a line in the song of Antar, when, excited by the desire of Abla, to whom he is devoted, he departs, resolved to emulate the marvellous doings of Kāled-Eben-Mohareb, to obtain the hand of his cousin Jida. Kāled on the day of his marriage killed a thousand camels and twenty lions, the latter with his own hand, and served up the flesh of the lions to the three tribes invited to his wedding, who feasted on it during three days.
Antar resolves to conquer this famous chief of the tribe of Beni-Zobaid.
The name of “Happy” suits him well,
Who never in the battle-field
One foot of ground was forced to yield,
And who, since first he led them on,
Has glory gain'd and conquest won.
Allah, amidst the tribe's despair,
—When fell their Scheik, a chief of fame,—
Had heard and, granted to their pray'r,
Khālid, the Happy Stranger, came.
To crush the treach'rous Russian's pride,
Leave island home and flowery plain,
To fight upon the weaker side.
Now he attends the Pasha's word,
Prompt to attack the Tartar horde:—
But listless wears the anxious day
When warriors wait, and chiefs delay.
'Tis said, when in the fountain's wave
The Prophet bent, his head to lave,
The manner in which Mohammed was caught away and carried through the Seven Heavens, is one of the questions which has been much discussed and disputed. Some thinking he went bodily and returned the same night; others contending that his journey was only in a vision. Some say it was begun and ended while a vase full of water, was in the act of being overturned, before all had fallen to the ground.—See Koran.
His soul went on for countless years,
Throughout all space, through all the spheres,
From world to world, from pole to pole,
And learnt the mysteries of the whole.
He saw how rubies have their birth,
And how the acorn grows in earth,
How pearls are formed in Ocean's breast,
How builds the Auk her giant nest:
Saw all the caves where tempests lurk,
And how the hot volcanoes work;
Seem'd but one plunge, and nothing more!
So thought through past and future speeds
Nor space, nor time, nor motion needs.
The Scheik inhaled that drug of price
Haschish.—“By the Indians called Bhang, the Persians Bang, and the natives of Barbary, I believe, Fasukh. The Hottentots use it; and even the Siberians, we are told, intoxicate themselves by the vapour of this seed thrown upon red-hot stones. Egypt surpasses all other nations in the variety of compounds into which this fascinating drug is taken, and will one day probably supply the Western world with ‘Indian hemp,’ when its solid merits are duly appreciated. At present in Europe it is chiefly confined, as cognac and opium used to be, to the apothecary's shelves.”—Notes to the word “Haschish,” in Burton's Pilgrimage to El Medinah and Meccah, vol. i. p. 64.
Of the terrible and bewildering effects of the opiate called haschish, Mr. Radcliffe relates that the sense of hearing “becomes, occasionally, so developed, that a word pronounced low, or a slight movement, sounds like a peal of thunder.” He says further:—
“In the state induced by haschish, the singular and fantastic forms which those under its influence, and the parties surrounding them, have appeared to undergo, are of great interest. ‘The eyelashes, writes one gentleman, ‘lengthened themselves indefinitely, and rolled themselves as threads of gold on little ivory bobbins which turned unassisted, with frightful rapidity. . . . I still saw my comrades at certain moments, but deformed, half men, half plants, with the pensive airs of an ibis standing on one foot, of ostriches flapping their wings, &c.’—‘I imagined that I was the parroquet of the Queen of Sheba, and I imitated as well as I was able the cries of this praiseworthy bird.’”
The same gentleman “thought he could look at will into his stomach, and that he saw there, in the form of an emerald, from which escaped millions of sparks, the drug he had swallowed.”
That changes Earth to Paradise,
But can transform to foul from fair,
If careless hands the charm prepare.
His thoughts fled far for many a day,
Through all his fortune's devious way,
What he had sought and won and lost,
Mistaken hopes, an endless store!
Vain strivings—expectation crost,
And joys and pleasures—prized no more.
And, to his bosom's smother'd sigh,
These words, within his heart, reply.
—“And I—with tender visions still
That peace on earth at length might reign,
Who would not cherish fears of ill,
But idly hoped the end to gain,
By love have taught, by precept nurs'd,
That Truth should like a Phœnix soar
And war and hatred rule no more;
I—leader of a savage band,
Who but obey my strange command
Because, by superstition driv'n,
They deem their chief by Allah giv'n!
I—yielding to the power of chance,
Give up my aspirations high,
And, where they blindly rush, advance,
And, like them, follow destiny!
The hopes my eager childhood caught,
The truths those gentle fathers taught,
Are they then vain when glory calls,
Or linger but in convent walls?
Are love and peace but fables all,
And must men strive like beasts of prey,
Struggling and wrestling day by day,
The end for ever farther thrown,
And the world's good—a cloud alone!
Strange Fate!—my Eastern mother's star
Has kept me from the region far
Of my lost father's lineage high;
A region all to me unknown,
Which he forsook, new realms to try,
And had no spot of earth his own.
Dying, he gave me but his sword:
And she, the Syrian bride he won,
A few brief fleeting years adored,
Slept in his tomb—and left her son.
The Pasha's pity did the rest,
And men called Khālid's fortune blest!
Oh, Northern clime! that in my dreams
Comes to my soul in sunny gleams!
On thy free soil has better state
Than all the gauds, our dearth that mock,
And on our savage pride await.
Oh happy! on some river's side
To hear the ever-murmuring tide,
And see the barks glide gently on
As meet for peaceful freights alone.
And, if some heart at length were found
To yield me room wherein to dwell,
And lead me to enchanted ground
And teach—what nought beside can tell—
Ha!—see, it floats—the Pasha's sign!
Away! no hopes like these are mine!”
THE SONG OF THE ARABS.
Than this beneath the eagle eye
Of Lebanon, whose cedars throw
Their shadows on eternal snow?
As this our river loves yet leaves?—
With roses blushing at our feet,
And many a gentle bird that grieves,
And tunes so wild, so soft a song,
We can but wish his sorrows long.
And hang their grapes the trees between:
The maidens dress their long dark hair
With shining coins of graven gold,
And flow'rs, not half so fresh and fair.
'Tis sand, hot sand, though fair its hue,
Look to the deep sea, bright and blue,
And those light skiffs that dance thereon:
On our white tents beneath the shade,
By cedar, pine and laurel made,
Where orange flowers, of rich perfume,
With starry eyes peep through the gloom.
Whose light forms breeze-like, fawn-like, move,
As if the softest air they meet
Would all too rough a lover prove
For fragile beings such as they:
But, see them furious in the fray,
The light'ning lags behind their pace!
And ask if Allah's blessed face
Turns ever from the Arab race!
To war the sword—to peace the song.”
Proud of their beauty, loved to praise,
Had Saba been, who sits alone,
Pale, motionless, as turn'd to stone—
When first she came, young Youssouf's bride,
He for whose love the maidens sigh'd:
—The boldest fisher and the best.
And both were fair, and gay, and blest.
For, safe from storms, secure from ill,
His prosp'rous bark came laden still:
Till once the skiffs all reached the shore,
But Youssouf's?—came that day no more!
Her heart has left one only joy,
Her son, whose smile delights the Scheik,
Her Youssouf still—her orphan boy.
See where he sports, intent and glad,
His aim is true, his eye is keen:
His pensive mother, veil'd and sad,
Watching his careless step and mien.
The skill they cherish fairly tried,
And each can tell some wond'rous tale
How “Youssouf's hand, that cannot fail,
Commands the plain, commands the sky,
Soon as his touch obeys his eye.
And, would he daunt the wildest steed
That ever serv'd an Arab's need,
Scarce has he met the angry glance,
Scarce towards the mane his hands advance,
Than the proud flash of living flame
That made all pause, he knows to quell,
Steps, gentle as a maid's gazelle.”
Close at his mother's feet it lies:
Could he have gained a fairer prize?
“Ah! hapless child! what hast thou done!
Alas! the sainted bird that came
The Arabs home and care to claim!—
This deed my cup of anguish fills—
Woe! woe to him a stork who kills!”
And echo speeds each fierce reply.
Nor in our tents one moment stay,
Ill chance on all attends where fell
The holy bird Heaven loves so well!”
Buffon says that this beautiful bird, though originally from a warm climate, has become habituated to the cold of ours. It may be seen all the winter beside the frozen streams, often plunging beneath the ice, and re-appearing with its prey: it is called, for this reason, in Germany, eisvogel.
The most superstitious ideas were attached to the Halcyon: that it had the property of preventing thunder, of augmenting hidden treasure, and, though dead, could renew its plumage at the accustomed time. “It communicates,” says one ancient author, “to whoever carries it, grace and beauty: gives peace in a house: calm to the sea: attracts the fish, and renders the season abundant.”
“Ces fables,” adds Buffon, “flattent la credulité mais malheureusement, ce ne sont que des fables.”
The Halcyon is the most beautiful bird of our climate, from the brilliancy of the colours of its enamelled plumage.
It is sometimes called “the Nymph,” from bearing the name of Alcyone, the plaintive daughter of Eolus, so often named by the poets Euripides, Ovid, &c. Ariosto speaks thus:
“S'udir l'alcioni alla marina del' antico infortunio lamentarsi.”
The nightingale is sometimes meant in these poetical allusions, as in those of “sad Electra's poet.”
Dark grew his brow, he glanced around,
The bird lay bleeding on the ground:
And, menaced by the hostile band,
Flush'd but unshrinking in the fray,
Held by his mother's trembling hand,
His fav'rite Youssouf stood at bay.
The crowd fell back—they own'd their lord.
—“Take up the quarry, and on me
Fall all the ill—if ill there be:
But, idle thought! God guards his own,
And made all things for man alone.
This foolish bird, even like his kind,
Was for our food or sport design'd.
Give praise to Allah! all beside
Is but man's error or his pride.
Such prowess on the Russian foe.
The hour is come—on yonder height
Waves free our signal for the fight,
Yonder our path to victory!”
At once the variable throng
Renew the shout, the word obey,
And hail the mandate, hoped so long.
—“Lead Khālid, lead once more to fame!”
And the skies ring with Khālid's name.
His dying agonies she feels:
Her Youssouf's fate in his she fears,
And bathes the victim with her tears.
Would she could staunch the purple tide
That gushes from his snowy side!
Thy messenger returns no more!
Some sacred message it may prove,
For still he thrives in Allah's love:
Oh! bear it to him straight, his power
Is great to read the words aright,—
Averted is the evil hour,
And we shall conquer in the fight!”
Bears to the skies young Youssouf's name:
—'Tis he, by Allah's gracious will,
That gives us good instead of ill!”
The secret of that talisman;
Enough the treasure to receive
That with grave awe and care they bring,
He knows they rev'rence and believe
The written page a sacred thing, —
And, even though bound in error's thrall,
Yet solemn is belief in all.—
As something precious, to obey,
That, when for aid and counsel prest,
This scroll divine may guide his way:
So deem the tribe, and more and more
Their chief, by Allah sent, adore.
Where lances flash and banners float,
And the shrill trumpet's clamorous note
Frights nature's stillness,—and where roar
Loud thunders, that are not of Heaven!—
Where lightnings blast the forests hoar,
And torrents, from the mountains driven,
Sparkle and foam, not as of yore
By long accustomed tempests tost—
But roll full tides of crimson gore
And mangled forms, from either host,
Hurl'd down, and in abysses lost—
Had chief a band more wildly brave,
Or scorn to pity or to save:
Bearing all ills with minds unmoved,
Making e'en famine's self a jest:
Casting by life, as if unloved,
And slaught'ring with untiring zest!
And he must urge, command—nay force
His victims to this desp'rate course,
With Lila's message in his breast,
Where beats a heart as soft and kind
As ever pitied the distrest,
And throbb'd to succour all mankind.
Who talk of power, and boast of will!
With toil o'erworn, with struggles spent,
—A moment's pause the time allowed,
Freed from the tumult of the crowd;
First from the little purse he drew
The scroll the sacred charge that bore,
And read them, trembling, o'er and o'er.
—“To me! such holy words of bliss,
And read in such a scene as this!—
The Dove, that braved the flood alone,
And held a leaf of Paradise,
Brought promise to a world undone—
But, can a star for me arise,
Before whose path dark torrents run?—
And waiting till to-morrow's sun
Shall still on newer horrors shine,
The voice that rouses carnage—mine!
This angel music sounds too late,
It cannot charm the force of Fate!”
IV. PART IV.
Where the long-leaved willows bend,
And in Spring white hawthorn blossoms
With the air their fragrance blend;
That, escaped its velvet borders,
Hastes its bosom to expand,
Bearing onward to the ocean
Fleets that may the world command:
From fair Thames are tidings coming
That shall swell the startled heart,
And awake the soul that slumbers
To assume its noblest part.
Winding through a fertile land:
Crowding thick on either hand:
From gay Seine is heard the summons,—
Though the voice is soft that falls,
It shall wake a thousand echoes,
'Tis for help in need it calls!
From the Danube and its gloom,
To the Neckar, gently flowing,
Have the rapid tidings come.
Springs the holy fire of love,
Now, behold! the hour of danger
All her constancy shall prove.
If her boasted thoughts of duty
Are not phantoms of the mind;
If she dream of deeds of mercy
And some glorious task would find:
Let her quit all joy and pleasure,
All the triumphs beauty gave,
And go forth—to help and save.
War, subdued and charm'd so long—
War, in all its dread and pain,
All its suff'rings, grief and wrong:
Ghastly war his chain has riven,
And all earth to ruin given!—
Beaming rest and peace divine,
Flashes far the meteor war
And the nations mark its sign.
“Sisters! there your brothers lie:
Mothers! there your sons are prone:
Wives! your husbands mangled die,
Bleeding—fever'd—crush'd—alone!
Not a hand to smooth the pillow,
Nor the humble couch prepare:
Not a voice to still the murmur:
Not a word to soothe despair!
Shudd'ring as the news goes round,—
Rise! your feeble hands have vigour,
Rise! for power your will has found.”
Time is pressing—no delay!
Where they pass the coldest welcome,—
Nations speed them on their way.
Prompt and steady, faithful, daring,
Scorning all but truth and right,
Never beamed a holier vision
On some sainted hermit's sight:
Than that band of pilgrims blest,
Speeding onward to the East!
The deep dark cypress forests spread,
Closed in by many a fair white wall,
Reveals the mansions of the dead:
O'er Scutari advance in air:
No palaces or rosy bowers
Are those that gleam at distance fair;
There lie the sick on beds of pain,
Unconscious of the scene, all light,
The sparkling shore, the gardens bright,
They may not hope to view again!
The foe and friend, the low, the high,
The gen'rous Frank, the Tartar slave,
The Turk, the Arab, mingled lie.
And round them flit an angel band
That seem all wants, all pains to know:
With noiseless step and tender hand
As on from couch to couch they go.
A fainting hero's bed of pain,
Scarce breathing,—many a bloody stain
Is on his breast, as marble white,
Seam'd with deep scars—a piteous sight!
One arm hangs pow'rless, but her care
Has bound it well—she watches now
That sleep descending at her prayer,
May calm the fever of his brow.
He moves uneasily—his hand
Presses his heart, as if in pain—
She stoops, perchance that crimson band
May his faint breath too much constrain.
—She starts—why grows her cheek so pale?
Why burst those tears she would control?
Tells to her heart some mystic tale
That silken purse—that crumpled scroll?
Ah Lila! when those lines were traced
No blood that snowy page defaced!
Ah Lila! this lorn couch may tell
Thy bird has done his mission well!
So strangely thrown beneath her care
Who cherish'd thus, even in his breast
The words she wrote—how came they there?
She knows that, leading on his band
Where dangers most appall'd, he fell,
That conquest followed his command,
And those who mourn'd revenged him well.
The day was won, and loud acclaim
Hail'd victory, uncertain long:
The air resounded Khālid's name
Sought vainly by th' exulting throng:
At length they found the mangled chief,
Prone, where as thick his Arabs lie
As lie in Autumn leaf on leaf
The scattered blossoms left to die.
Pierced through, but in his arms prest fast
A boy lay dead, whose dauntless brow
Told of the fatal struggle past
For whom he died—alas! and how.
Shall flow like thine for sons as dear,
Warm from their mother's parting kiss—
Too young for glorious death like this!
Joy, Lila, through thy tears may shine,
For mingled bliss and pain are thine;
Khālid's last hour thy eyes may see,
But he may live—and live for thee!
Gleaming in life's rapid tide;
Khālid all unconscious lies,
And his nurse has cares beside.
Others ask her ready aid,
And the debt to all is paid.
On his heart a shield had been,
It had turn'd the blade away
Glancing off, its folds between.
That his life could guard so well,
Till at length, his murmur'd pray'r
Asks his treasure from her care.
Still new terrors, day by day:
Pain and agony and woe
Fill each moment with dismay.
Saw him in his horrors stand,
Claims his own unceasingly,
Grasping victims from her hand.
Oft he paused where Khālid lay—
Paused and glared—then strode away.
Still the outstretch'd arms appal
Still they reach—but do not fall.
Till her watchful eye and hand
Scares the vulture from his stand.
What rapture runs through ev'ry vein.
The stricken chain sends, link by link,
New hopes, new joys from heart to brain!
Khālid looks up in wild surprise—
An angel gazes in his eyes,
A fairy arm is round him thrown,
Life and its marvels—all his own!
That ask the cherish'd scroll again,
And bid his nurse the story hear
Of how the faithful bird was slain.
How Youssouf's fate and his he found
Circled within that narrow bound.
Our Northern speech thus understand,
And to my questions make reply
In accents of our Fatherland?”
Where Neckar flows, were lords of yore;
And some neglected tower is mine
Left, when he sought far Syria's shore.
For angry words his kindred spoke,
And his proud soul disdain'd the yoke.
Methinks, nay, thou the tale may'st know,
There is a mount, that long ago,
Was famed for woman's truth and skill,
When from past grief and present ill
She rescued, by a hallowed jest,
The tradition of the Weiber-Treue is well known. The castle of Weinberg being besieged, was defended by the women as well as the men within it. When forced to surrender at length, the victors generously gave permission to the females, who had shown so much courage, to carry off with them whatever treasure they prized the most. The robust heroines each shouldered her husband, and marched down the mountain triumphantly.
The ruins of this famous castle are near Heilbronn, on the Neckar.
‘The treasure that she loved the best?’
The Mountain of the Faithful Wives.
The castle there in ruin falls:
Long arms of ivy clasp the walls.
Deserted, and the heir unknown,
The state, at length, will claim its own.”
And there the wand'rer finds a home.
Unmeet awhile to draw the sword,
I dare not trust our scorching sands,
And Northern climes may strength afford:
And if I gain a heritage,
'Twill be a refuge for my age;
And, gentle nurse, be sure for thee
My castle gates shall open free!”
Lila has turn'd her head aside:
“Go then,” she said, “and health and peace
Shine on thy path, thy wand'rings cheer,
But, till these fatal contests cease,
My duty and my home are here.”
V. PART V. THE CONTRAST
“After hard struggles, pain and strife,Hostile to thought, destroying rest,
Unwilling, cast in times unblest
To battle on with feverish life;
Midst savage foes, and friends as rude—
Joy!—joy!—at length in solitude!
“For the dread cannon's voice of fate,
Quelling the earth, rending the sky;
For blazing towns and shrieks of hate;
And the spent hero's rallying cry;
For plains, thick strewn—yet desolate—
Where mangled forms, like sandheaps, lie—
These to exchange, as in a dream,
—A dream of terrors first, that cease
Glimpses of Heaven and radiant peace—
For this bright wood and sunny sky,
Roaming in careless liberty!
To follow where the steep path leads
Deeper and deeper in the shade,
By fluttering, whispering branches made,
To many a sudden-opening glade,
That to the mazy wild succeeds:
“Upon the soft, dry turf to lie
Gazing upon the shining sky
That gleams, a starry space between,
Through flickering leaves of tender green:
And, almost with a lover's look,
To watch the fairy things that nod
And quiver in this silent nook,
Spangling the elastic velvet sod.
“Harebells in groups, and many a cup
That from its bank looks coyly up:
And feathery grasses—all at play:
Enamelled lizards glancing bright:
Transparent creatures feathery-light,
Humming and flitting to and fro
As the soft breezes come and go:
With nothing mute of all this throng
Moving and wavering to song,
But to the softest chords subdued
To suit such fairy solitude.
“And this the Northern summer time!
And these the flowers a Northern clime
All perfume and all bloom bestows?
Methought our glowing crimson rose,
Our tender nightingale alone
Could in their fabled charms be known,
Where the rich East, in jewelled pride
Looks from her throne, a peerless bride.
“Sweet nurse! how had it been with me,
But for thy mercy and thy care?
Yet canst thou not my pleasure share!
Thou gav'st me life and liberty,
But no soft air, no birds, no flowers,
Revive thy cheek and please thine eye—
Sad watch is thine for countless hours;
Scarce thanks, scarce notice dost thou gain,
For all thy goodness, all thy pain!
“And seldom will thy heart recall
The thought of one—where many claim
The aid thou giv'st alike to all,
Heedless of rank or birth or fame:
Working for pity's sake, alone,
Unnamed, untalk'd of, and unknown!”
Thus Khālid, health and strength renew'd,
Of lost domains acknowledged heir,
The past and all its pains review'd,
And blest the present gleaming fair
Pass'd, ever and anon, a cloud?
Why came a voice, that whisp'ringly
Sigh'd softly first, then murmur'd loud,
Still asking him if Lila's will
Allows the time for selfish joy;
If other's good and other's ill
Like her's his anxious thoughts employ,
Or if the high appeal sent forth
Is cast aside as nothing worth?
—Ah mandate, surely too severe,
With youth and hope and pleasure here!
Days went and came, and wand'ring still,
Unsated with the charm of health,
He felt his veins new vigour fill,
And greedy of fond Nature's wealth,
He sought her in wild woods and fields,
And blest her for the good she yields,
Pursued beneath an August sun:
And, once, when, mounting ever high'r,
He through the mazy woods had run,
He came, just where a Druid stone,
By some strong tempest's rage o'erthrown,
Had formed an arch, as prone it fell,
On two huge blocks whose granite might
Upheld a temple on yon height
Famed for the shrine of pagan Bel,
But altar, temple, swept away,
Wreathed with bright flowers the ruins lay.
The peasant-legends whispered tales
Of danger in that pleasant spot,
But Khālid all unconscious hails
The cool retreat and tranquil grot.
Here, listless, at his ease he lies,
In happy, dreamy, weariness,
Watching the painted butterflies
Whose quivering wings the leaves caress.
The city's spires and palaces,
The river, gliding gaily by,
Blue as the bright tint of the sky,
With snowy vessels dotted o'er;
The lofty bridge from shore to shore:
Rich walnut groves and woods of pine,
Gardens and trellises of vine,
Shining below in light and heat,
While all is shade in his retreat,
And the fresh breeze with whisp'ring tone,
Comes rustling, sporting, whirling on.
Sudden—a ringing laugh awakes
The silence of the leafy brakes,
And Khālid turns his half-shut eyes,
Startled, at once, to strange surprise.
Above, and peering curiously,
Two bright blue eyes have met his own,
A sweet face blushing—arch but shy,
And white arms, clinging to the stone:
A form of woman—yet a child,
Is watching in gay, jesting mood
This stranger to her native wood.
And, nothing daunted by the gaze
Admiring—rapt—her beauty drew,
She still looks down, in sweet amaze,
And claps her hands and laughs anew.
A band of shining ivy twined
Amidst the locks it could not bind,
This from her graceful head she throws,
And the wreath rests on Khālid's brows.
He starts—a pleasure wild and new,
His heart, his brain is rushing through.
She speaks: “Art thou the stranger guest
Sent to our shores from farthest East,
Who, wand'ring in our wilds alone
Hast slept beside the Druid's stone?”
Dwell'st thou?—in wave or cloud or air;
Or are these woody glades so blest
To give a bird like thee her nest?”
—“Yes,—yes,”—she wildly laugh'd—“to me
These woods are, as these mountains, free;
And I can lead thee, far and wide,
Where never foot of man has been,
Over the foamy torrent's side,
—Down, headlong, thro' the deep ravine.
If thou hast courage, come with me,
And fairer marvels thou shalt see
Than all the East has shown thee yet,
And, in our Fatherland, forget
Whatever made thee sad before;
But, for a twelvemonth and a day
Thou shalt my ev'ry sign obey,
And think upon the past no more.”
Nor to thy wishes grant thee all?
Oh teach me then thy mysteries,
And take me as thy willing thrall
Who, with a present like to this,
Would look back to the past for bliss!”
One instant as he spoke, a cloud
Came o'er his heart, and Lila's pray'r
Gleamed,—then was cover'd with a shroud—
And the bright form rose lightly there.
—“Better,”—she smiling said, “to live
In all the joy that life can give,
Than muse beneath a Druid stone
And waste the hours of youth—alone.”
She beckoned onward—and he stood
Beside her, far beyond the wood.
—“Tell me how to call thee, maiden,
For thou fli'st so fast and far,
To o'ertake a shooting star.”
Then she laugh'd, till every echo
Sent the mirthful tidings round,
—“Those who know me call me Minnè,
Many seek, but few have found:
Well my name they understand
Minstrels of the Fatherland.” —
—“Sweet Minnè—wherefore fly so fast?
Wait till the heat of noon be past:
Sweet Minnè!—yield one fond embrace!”
—Again in yonder distant place,
Perch'd on a height he sees her stay,
As if she chid his long delay.
Oh! what a wild pursuit—in vain—
Midst flow'rs and sunshine, toil and pain,
Hopes, wishes unfulfill'd, he strove
To reach the goal of Minnè's love!
Deceived, but trusting in his speed,
Following her sign, from place to place,—
With her light laughter for his meed.
Till, after twelve months and a day
Beside the Druid stone he lay;
And, as awakening from a dream
Look'd down on city, forest, stream.
Turn'd, where bright Minnè smiled before,
But saw the lovely shape no more.
THE VINTAGE.
And sunny clusters bend the vine,
Boats, crowded with their luscious freight,
On the swift river's margin wait,
Then, with their store, row gaily home,
For the full vintage time is come.
And the broad moon looks smiling down
On dances and on songs that cheer
And welcome in the plenteous year.
Of yon white village midst the trees;
But happy, above all the rest.
For Lila's lonely castle grey
Puts forth its welcome to the day;
On every tower a pennon flies
Gazed on by eager tear-bright eyes.
Peace comes with all her gifts at last;
That nations, tired of strife, agree
To grant to force what reason claim'd,
And the spent world, a moment free,
Looks on the angry past—ashamed:—
For mighty interests that quell
Empires and kingdoms little move
The rustic race, content to dwell
In their small world of strife and love:
Whatever chance, of war or woe,
Their mountains rise, their rivers flow.
Of Fame and Glory!—paltry things!
A plenteous vintage gives us here.
But why that pennon?—it may be
Some chief return'd, perchance like me.
Well is he loved for whose return
Those joy bells ring, those joy fires burn!”
A chief we gaze from roof and wall,
A young and gentle maid to meet
Is the fond care that stirs us all:
'Tis Lila—we have ask'd in vain,
Her weary absence none explain;
Nor how, nor whence she comes is known,
Enough—she is once more our own.”
Strangely it falls upon my ear,
Till my heart's secret pulses beat
With springing hope and sudden fear—
If it should be!—but why create
New hopes to be the jest of fate!”
That shines on Lila's castle lone,
Tell him he sought the treasure far
That once before his path was thrown,
And while his dreams the semblance crost,
The truth was seen, yet sought—and lost.
LILA'S RETURN.
My absence, with thy bounty large,
Say, what has chanced of time and tide,
Since truant Lila left her charge?
Hour swell'd to day, and month to year—
But she resumes her duties here.”
When old Schloss-Adler's ruins grey,
Assumed an aspect strangely gay,
And whisper'd rumour, scarce defined,
Spoke of the long-lost heir restored—
He came, at length, the youthful lord,
And, in his lofty brow and mien
The ancient race was plainly seen.
Had as a hero's shrined his name;
Had fought beneath his high command;
His followers spoke of this, and told
Of wild attacks, as fierce as bold;—
Of rivers cross'd, where waters roll'd
High as his breast, while cannon pour'd
Its deadly hail to stop his course,
Yet onward, with resistless force
He cheer'd his warriors through the ford.
A town besieged and famine-prest,
By numbers girt, and sore distrest,
By his prompt courage, strength and skill,
Defended and triumphant still.
At length struck down when fate decreed
Conquest to one immortal day,
Chance saved him in his utmost need,
Mangled and dying as he lay.
And weak, at first, as oft his skiff
And pause beneath the rosy cliff.
He loved the wood, the rock, the glade,
And, day by day, he roam'd alone;
Till once—in evil hour betray'd,
He slept beneath the Druid stone.
In the young Baron's mind and mien:
The gayest of the idle gay,
The theme of fashion's empty praise,
Our modest maidens turn'd away
Nor cared to meet his hardy gaze.
But the light fair, whose lives pass by
In butterfly variety,
Hail'd the bold stranger in their train,
As fickle as themselves—and vain!
For me, I thought within his breast
The error of wild youth forget.
Frown'd old Schloss-Adler as of yore.
Again his cheek was pale with care,
But in his eye a brighter flame,
For pity, tenderness, were there.
Then knew we that the spell was past
That for awhile his star o'ercast:
And since—
His virtues in his deeds are found.
Her quays destroy'd, her commerce lost,
New towers, new mills, new vessels fill
Her streets and wharfs with pride and cost,
Fresh fields are till'd, fresh vineyards plann'd,
Gardens along the rocks are spread,
And plenty smiles upon the land,
Ask who these prosp'rous changes made,
From whence the help, the counsel came,
Ask for the peasant's friend and aid,
And hear young Baron Wilhelm's name.”
Now haste, for ere the daylight fail,
And the first ray of moonlight falls,
My boat must reach Schloss-Adler's walls,
That I may clasp that stranger's hand,
And thank him for our Fatherland.”
Of late some evil chance he met,
His wounds, they say, have bled again,
And sick he lies, in dole and pain.”
And change to pearls beneath the wave
So Lila's tears fell fast and free,
—But she can hasten—and may save.
Shrouded the sick man's silent room,
And, as he mark'd the daylight die,
He turn'd him, with a weary sigh.
“Enough!”—he said:—“the task is done,—
If late obedience can atone
For follies past and wasted time,
Lila may yet forgive my crime,
Unless, like Minnè, but a shade
Of promise to my fancy made!
—At least, of good this dream is still—
The other leading but to ill:
Vainly on either may I call
Frail hopes—that Death can cancel—all!”
That moment sent a radiant stream
Flooding the dusky chamber through:
And—standing in the silver gleam,
Close at his side a form is shown,
And a soft hand has clasp'd his own.
Be still—be calm—all care forget:
'Tis her's to tend thee and revive—
Thine to obey her, and to live.”
Is this a fevered dream again?
Cam'st thou in yonder moonbeams clear,
My couch to watch, my soul to cheer?
Art thou, in truth, a saviour sent,
To hear my latest, lorn lament?”
An echo in thy heart,—is known:
Who waits to greet and call thee friend.
Revive, repay her care and mine,
And Lila's—and my thanks are thine.”
The truth—the life-spring of my heart!
The name I have not ask'd or known
Thy virtues and thy beauty own:
But all I dreamt of good or wise
Speaks in thy voice—shines in thy eyes:
Holy and high let Lila be—
But thou—oh, be thou all to me!”
'Twere worse than vain to question then,
And I, the nurse of wounded men,
Foretold not we should meet again:
To tend my charge with pious zeal
Was all the care befitting me:
Was all the thanks I ask'd of thee:
Now—fortune smiles upon thy lot,
And Lila's handmaid suits thee not.”
Those are but toys to minds like thine,
Thou know'st the good alone are great,
Thou know'st the only boon that Fate
Can yield me is to call thee mine!”
Her heart thrill'd to a whispered word:
“He loves me! 'tis no vision now.
Oh, happy heart! the truth record!”
Then with a smile of sweet disguise,
She turn'd away her beaming eyes:
—“No more: when we together sail,
Where on yon cliff the moonlight falls,
And Lila's lonely turrets hail,
And stand within her castle walls:
—And she has loved thee many a day—
If she her cherish'd dream resign,
Perchance I may not say thee nay.”
When tender eyes are watching too:
And Khālid felt, from hour to hour,
What hope and happiness can do.
A bark with joyous freight shall guide
Its course to where yon little bay
Lies, with its rose-hued sentinel,
Guarding that lonely castle well,
The beacon of their onward way:
The vales are filled with golden haze
Rolling and twining wreaths of cloud,
The peaks are flashing in the blaze
That pierces through the misty shroud,
The earliest gleam of morning's light—
When the fresh wave it cleaves so fast
Casts off the boat, and glitters past.
And on the shaded terrace rest,—
—Above, the Stork's deserted nest
Hangs quivering in the waving air.
Lila's bright cheek and glistening eyes,
As on his arm she gently laid
Her hand caressingly,—and said:
To bid thee welcome to thy home,
Wilt thou regret at last to see
Lila—thy dream—thy own, in me!”
REWARD.
Of visions that beset the mind,
And lead, through devious mazes long,
The striving heart at length may find,
To crown life's ceaseless search for bliss,
One love, one faith, one trust—like this!
And the reward enough shall prove
To those whose goal was truth and love:
Who saw in all an object meet
For pity and for sacrifice,
Who wash'd the weary pilgrim's feet,
Nor towards the banquet turn'd their eyes,
Who strove, who serv'd, who bore, who wrought,
Nor praise, nor power, nor triumph sought,
But blest the Giver when it came.
For hearts that answer to their own,
And happy too who nothing gain,
But, patient still, work on alone
Without dismay, without regret
In the hard task by conscience set.
But happy too—“who stand and wait.”
L'ENVOYE.
Rejoicing in thy beauty's pride,
The young and loving heart reminding
What sunny tales thy legends hide.
And let the minstrel, musing lonely,
Amidst thy Paradise of flowers,
Pouring his song for solace only,
Like the wild bird within thy bowers:
Long keep the record of the stories
That cling to those fair heights of thine,
Lost, almost, in the ancient glories
Of yonder full and stately Rhine.
And, if his solitary numbers
One noble deed may yet inspire,
And blest the tears that check his lyre!
Would lead to more than poet's dream!
Even as fair Lila's high aspiring
Is not a visionary theme.
APPENDIX.
Copy of the Paper attached to the Stork's neck, as transcribed by the Arab who shot the bird:—
“Etent tues (étant toute) curieuse de savoir où nos cigognes passent le tems qu'elles nesont pas chez nous, j'ai eu l'idée de mettre à celui-ci ce colier et j'espère qu'il tombera dans des mains qui vondront bien medonner des renseignements que je désire et je vous prie de m'écrire par la poste sous l'adresse suivante, A Mademoiselle la Comtesse O. de G., à T. Silesie Prussienne, en Europe. Oh que je me rejouis de recevoir une lettre de l'Afrique, ou de l'Asie mais l (il) faut qu'elle soit très detaillée; vous me direz dans quel paysvous de meurez, quel est votre sauvveroin votre re ligion votre langue etsurtout votre som (nom) etvotre adresse. J'écris enfrancais parceque i est la ngue (il est la langue) la plus repandue dans le monde. On á seulem, ent pas fallu tier. (Il ne faut pas seulement tuer ?) la
Letter of the Aunt of the young Countess to the Prussian Vice-Consul at Beyruth, in Syria.
Monsieur,
Permettez que ce soit moi qui vous exprime Monsieur le Consul! notre reconnaisance, de la grande bonté, avec la quelle vous avez bien voulu répondre à une petite étourderie de ma niéce la Comtesse O. de G. en Silesie. C'est fort heureux, que sa lettre soit tombée en des mains si bienveillantes, et soyez persuadé, Monsieur! que nous savons en aprécier tout le prix. Dans le nombre d'occupations importantes, vous donnez non seulement du tems, mais encore une amiable attention á la curiosité d'une campagnarde, qui étoit trop jeune pour entrevoir les consequences possibles de la mission de sa cigogne, entreprise sans conseil Losque' à mon arrivée cet êté en Silesie, elle m' en parla, et me montra toute heureuse, la réponse qu'elle avoit recu de Beyruth, dattée du 7 Mai, 1846, je fus tentée de croire que quelque voisin, instruite de cette singulière correspondance, lui avait fait parvenir une réponse imaginaire. Je l'ai promis de
Answer of the Young Countess to the Vice-Consul.
Sir,
It is a great pleasure to me to be able to answer you in your own language, which I hope you will like better than French. I must begin with begging your pardon for a great many faults you will find in this letter; but it is only a short time that I am learning the English language. I am very obliged to you for your letters, which I received both, and they afforded me the utmost pleasure and surprise, as I never thought of the possibility to get an answer to my note, which I feared would be loosed. You will surely be astonished that I not wrote before, but there were so many of my acquaintances who confirmed me
Till then, believe with high respects for your punctuality and kind regarde for your complaisance,
That Lila's yearning for the unknown is no fiction, the following anecdote, supplied by the Crimean Correspondent of the Morning Herald newspaper, and published while this poem was passing through the press, furnishes additional proof:—
“You are well aware of the donations to the British soldiery sent out from the fair sex in England, from the lowliest cottager to the very highest lady in the realm. Among the presents were some flannel shirts. One of these fell to the lot of Sergeant— the other day (I am requested not to print the name, but I know the man well); this shirt he opened, and then, inside it, he discovered, carefully pinned, a lock of hair and the following letter, which I subjoin verbatim. The letter is directed thus:—
“‘This is for you And I hope it is A young man if not Give it tou won.’”
Inside, the words run thus:—
“My dear Friend,—I write those few lines to you hoping that they Cheer you A little. I think you are dull, but God will hulp you. I am A young woman And I hope that you are A young man, this is my hire (sic. for hair) Keep it for My sake
So ends the letter. Neither country nor town is mentioned in it. It was wafered, not sealed, and the stamp on the envelope is a “forget-me-not.” The lock of hair enclosed is light brown in colour, and plaited in three, tied with blue and yellow silk threads. Who is Mary?”
The Lay of the Stork | ||