Agnes the Indian Captive. A Poem, in Four Cantos. With Other Poems. By the Rev. John Mitford |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. | CANTO III. |
| IV. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Agnes |  |
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CANTO III.
I.
—“The morning came—and all was past.—The soul had sought its kindred sky;
And left its sojourn here at last
In purer, happier realms to fly.
Far in the solitary dell
Was dug the mansion of the dead;
And when the clouds of evening fell,
Slow to the clarion's mournful swell,
The chief our sad procession led.
And one by one with shield and spear,
The warriors trod beside the bier;
And many a soldier's tears were shed
In grief and pity for the dead;
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The dirge that wept the fair and young.
Her bridal bed, a green grass grave;
Her spousal hymn, a funeral stave.
II.
“With iron sword they dug awayThe dark and narrow ground;
Then heaped the hollow shield with clay,
To rear the lofty mound.
A palm its weeping foliage hung,
Like a green curtain o'er the tomb:
And wide its feathery branches flung
Amidst the gathering gloom.
I turned one parting look to cast;
To breathe one sigh the first—the last.—
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Once more to murmur—‘Isabel.’—
I kneeled beside her tomb and wept,
Upon its brow the sunbeam slept,
The palm leaves whisp'ring to the gale,
Stretched their long shadows down the vale;
And soft I thought her rest must be,
Who slept beneath that lovely tree.
A throstle, on the cedar spray,
Sang to the evening's dewy ray,
And sweet its deepening music fell,
And floated down the twilight dell:
In truth I could not choose but stay,
And listen to the roundelay.
Dear was the evening beam that slept
Upon the grave where I had wept,
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That sang upon the cedar tree.
III.
“A heathen tomb on heathen ground,Marked where the Christian maiden lay;
But from my bosom I unbound
The cross; and deep beneath the mound
I press'd it through the clay.
'Twas all I could, for darker now
Each warrior bent his iron brow,
Unsheathed again his battle-blade,
His ported ensign wide displayed;
With helm and habergeon they trod,
O'er the red marle and oozy sod.
The waggon's griding wheels behind
Rolled harsh and heavy in the wind,
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Blew for the coming scene of death.
IV.
“In that dread host, one helm aloneThe Christian banner wore;
One armed knee that bent not down;
One only tongue that would not own
The name the prophet bore.
Save his, on every warrior's mail
The crescent beamed with lustre pale:
Yet well beloved was Ferdinand,
Amid that fierce and Tartar band;
For when the hour of death was nigh,
Sharp was his spear, and keen his eye;
And firm his foot, his arm was brave,
And strong his sword to kill or save.
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V.
“His youth in far Sobrarva's valesWas nursed beneath a mother's care;
And strange in sooth and wild the tales,
That reached Antillon's lonely dales
Of one so young and fair.
And well I can recall the day,
When busied in our infant play,
My sister Isabel and I
Were gathering up each meadow flower,
To screen our little summer bower
From sun, and wind, and sky:
He stood before us in the light
Of youth, and beautiful and bright
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While nursed with all a maiden's care,
Adown his breast his floating hair
In raven ringlets flowed.
VI.
“His tasselled bugle slung behind,His green robe fluttering in the wind,
The emerald broche that bound his vest,
The ostrich plume his waving crest;
The hunters' beechen spear that stayed
His fleet steps in the forest glade;
His beagles panting on the plain;—
—In truth I see them all again,
Clear as when in that evening hour
He stood beside our lowly bower:
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And many a sad and changeful scene;
And gone, for ever gone the ray
That opened on life's vernal day;
Yet still that sunny gleam appears
Fair through the darken'd frown of years;
As from a bright and angel form
Flows light to gild the tempest-storm.
VII.
“No youth like Ferdinand could rein,O'er the loose sands, his flying steed;
Whirl the swift javelin o'er the plain,
Or dart the tufted reed.
And when along the battle field
Aloft he bore his silver shield,
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From his bright lance the streamers flew,
White was his plume, his bonnet blue,
His spur and stirrup gold.
And oft with hawk and hunting-spear
For me he chased the fallow-deer,
Or slew to make my robe of fur
The martern and the mynever.
Scarce his unerring javelin mist,
And true the tercelet at his wrist.
And oft for me his barge would glide
In beauty down the river-tide,
When gleamed the evening star, and shed
Its light on rock and mountain head;
And silver'd the white sail that flew
Along the waters, bright and blue.
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VIII.
“Yet dearer was the youth to me,When under the green laurel tree
He loved to sing, with harp in hand,
The songs that praised our native land;
Old tales they were—long past the time
That woke anew the minstrel's rime;
And I have listen'd to the tale,
Till wild Antillon's lonely dale,
The ilex grove, the olive shade,
Seemed from the musing eye to fade,
And heaving o'er the craggy steep,
Rose the dark towers, and giant keep,
And like the mountain's rocky crown,
I saw the distant fortress frown,
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Winding along the moonlight plain.
IX.
“And many a song of wildest strain,And tales of hopes and wildest fears,
He sang, that peasants on the plain
Had carolled in his infant years;
Strange songs of wild and fitful mood,
That suited well our solitude.
Of him he sang (for dear in sooth
To memory are the tales of youth,
And bright and beautiful remain
Their treasur'd pictures on the brain,
And for a moment half efface
Of sorrow's form, the mournful trace).
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The master of the mighty horn;
And him whom in the waters wild
The white faies nurs'd a beauteous child;
And of the lake that lady fair
Would rock him in her lily-bower,
Would sleek with pearly comb his hair,
And feed him on the lotus flower;
And him who broken hearted perished,
Yet on the cold ground faint and pale;
Within his dying bosom cherish'd
The blue-eyed maid of Inisfail.
X.
“So fled the gentle hours along,In converse innocent and gay;
The morning walk, the evening song,
The dance at close of day.
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Such may the blessed spirits know;
But never, never could it last
Within this world of woe.
And when with Isabel I fled,
Still Ferdinand our coursers led;
And still he watched us when we slept,
And soothed the bitter woes we wept;
And mourned our hapless grief alone,
Nor breathed one sigh that told his own.
XI.
“When in her lonely bed of clayPoor Isabel was laid,
None thought of us, and we might stray
Unseen, untracked by night and day,
Through solitude and shade.
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The star of eve illumed our bower,
We thought of many a glade, and glen,
Where that sweet light was shining then;
And oft mid birds of wildest tone
That filled the woods with songs unknown,
The cuckoo's well-remember'd lay
Told us of countries far away:
‘And wilt thou, Agnes,’ said the youth,
‘And wilt thou seek that land with me?
And plight to me the faith, the truth,
The love that I will plight to thee?
Oh! blessed maid! yea, thou wilt be
A joy, a lovely mate to me;
And we will fellow pilgrims roam,
And God himself will guide us home;
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Our dreams of hope and happiness.
Be mine! be only mine! for thou
Art all I seek, I look for, now;
Be mine alone!’—My faith I gave
To him beside my sister's grave,
And we knelt there, and Heaven above
Bare witness to our pledge of love.
XII.
“I miss'd him at the accustomed hour;—The taper burnt within my tent;
And long I watch'd beside my bower,
And many an anxious look I bent:
Yet never sounding on my ear
Heard I the warrior's footsteps near;
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Stretched long beneath the moonlight beam,
Or flashing through the shades of night,
His armour throw its radiance bright:
I listened; but no friendly sound,
No well-known footstep pressed the ground;
But wild the yell that filled the air,
Of beast and bird, from nest and lair.
The pheasant on his night-perch crew,
On whirring wing the partridge flew:
Hoarse screamed the peacock in the brake;
The wild swan flapped along the lake;
With streaming dewlap o'er the pool
The bison sought its covert cool;
The wild boar in the caney mead
Champed loud and deep the ripen'd reed;
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The bleating of the antelope.
XIII.
“Day came, and still I saw him not,——Another and another day;—
Till hope itself was lost. My lot
I mourned no more, but had forgot
The ills that on me lay.
For life, for death, for weal, for woe,
To me was all alike below:
She whom I loved was dead; and he
Who had my faith, was dead to me.
I deemed that pale and far away,
Gored by some hostile sword he lay,
And stretched beneath the greenwood tree,
Lay bleeding for his love and me:
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He marched his squadron's ambush'd fight,
And where the chief his battle led,
Far off by frith and forest sped;
Where Latac lifts his summits hoar,
And flow the waves of Mansaror;
Till far Cailasa's echoes gave
The Tartar shouts o'er Ganges wave;
And Kelasch's icey breezes fanned
The floating flag of Samarcand.
XIV.
“Amid that multitude alone,In that huge camp of all bereft,
I lingered on, nor one would own
Her whom they deemed her God had left.
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Man's weakness and his woes to mourn;
No chapel, shrine, or saint was there,
A sabbathless sojourn.
But worse, far worse, than solitude
Was that fierce band untamed and rude;
And curses dark, and whisperings loud,
That reached me from the armed crowd;
And sullen threats that wished me dead,
And eyes that followed as I fled:
And hands that on the dagger laid,
Seemed waiting but night's gloomy shade.
With carnage reeks the lion's den;
So reeked this dark abode of men:
Like the gaunt beast at close of day,
They rose to hunt their trembling prey,
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Along the leafy couch unblest.
No home, no household hearth had I,
No shade, no shelter but the sky;
Beside his child no father wept,
Upon no mother's arm I slept;
No sisters watched my broken rest,
My pale cheek pillowing on their breast;
No brother's hand from scorn and shame
Was raised to save my injur'd name;
And not a prayer to Heaven was said,
To pour its mercy on my head.
XV.
“But then that dreaded night it came,That slaked in blood its torch of flame;
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The strange unwonted sounds that stirred;
Rung the shrill anvil on my ear;
Anew was tried the sharpen'd spear;
With curb, and iron harness bound,
The steeds stood pawing on the ground;
And grasping each his charger's mane,
Full armed the horsemen prest the plain,
And stood as if in act to spring,
And waiting but the bugle's ring;
Struck were the tents, and left and right
Rode out the couriers through the night:
I sat and listen'd, as aloof
Died on my ear the thundering hoof,
Or caught the watch-word as it went,
In louder cry from tent to tent.
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XVI.
“But oh! that shout, that murderous call,That rose on Delhi's captive wall,
What tongue could e'er have told;
When swarming over trench and tower,
Dark flew the javelin's iron shower,
And Scythian standard rolled.
And in the silence of the noon,
Yelled the loud cry, ‘Surûn, Surûn!’
And that huge trumpet Kerennay,
Roared heavy at the close of day.
'Twas when that trumpet's hideous blair,
Seemed as it rent the shaken air,
And drowned the victor's panting breath,
And hushed the shriller screams of death;
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Led me through each conflicting band;
For fast and thick the wildfire ran
O'er beacon and o'er barbican;
And as the flaming deluge glared,
Grimly each shadowy warrior stared,
And black as clouds the banners flew
In that red air of blazing hue.
XVII.
“Then pale and sick I hurried by,And urged my snorting steed to fly;
O'er heaps of dying and of dead,
The affrighted courser fled amain;
Borne by the tempest o'er our head,
The fire-flakes crackled on the plain:
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Whose mangled limbs were scorcht and torn,
And many a mother hurrying fast
To save the babe was newly born.
I saw the mother and the child
Sink down amid that pathless wild,
Till faint and weak, and far behind,
Their voices died along the wind.
Yet ere my courser passed away
I heard the tiger churn his prey;
And in the stoney moat that bound
With darken'd wave the turrets round,
Loud roared the crocodile for blood,
And shook in rage the seething flood,
And gnashed his jaws, when o'er the stream
Rose the poor victim's dying scream:
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Within the forest's shelter deep,
From the gorged vulture's talons fell
The blood drops down the grassy dell.
XVIII.
“Bethink thee what it was to meSuch scenes of pain and death to see;
I shook at every footstep near,
Left by that lawless camp alone;
I saw the midnight murderer,
I caught the hard and stifled groan.
Heedless I stood, benumbed with fear
I heard his lifted footsteps near,
I saw his hand the tent ropes draw,
The dagger gleaming in his vest:
No more I know, no more I saw,
Nor how that noble steed I prest;
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My cheek was wet with rain and dew,
I woke like one from death:
Soldier nor Sentinel was there,
Nor challenge in the midnight air,
Nor trumpet's warning breath:
But all that night, till morning light,
Through glade and glen I urged my way;
For still the wind would bring behind
The dreadful blast of Kerennay.
XIX.
“Gloomy the morn arose and dark,Ere I had gained this forest bound;
Nought but the chacal's plaintive bark,
Or vulture's scream was heard around.
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Drove like a torrent down the plain:
Weary and faint my courser fell;
But then I gained this shelter'd dell,
And safe beneath the arched roof,
That spread its branches tempest proof,
Stood listening to the blast.
For now the storm had rolled away,
Between the clouds the bright'ning day
Bespoke the danger past.
I saw along the watery grass
With glittering light the sun gleams pass,
And on the amber clouds aloof
The rainbow hang its braided woof;
It seemed a thousand spirits flew
Along its arch of emerald hue.
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XX.
“From leaf to leaf the raindrops slipped,With slow and slower sound;
I stood and watched them as they dripped
And plashed upon the ground.
'Twas not those drops that on the leaf
Were glittering bright and fair,
It was the fixedness of grief
That held me gazing there.
'Twas then that weary, faint, and pale,
You found me stretch'd upon the ground;
Mine is a sad and woeful tale;
I look, and all around
Is strange, and dark, and drear to me;
And gladly I would be with thee,
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My poor, lamented Isabel!”
XXI.
She stopt.—A gushing flood of tearsCame kindly to her aid;
The sad remembrance of her fears
Had wrought upon the maid;
Till all that scene of death and pain
Was pictur'd in her burning brain;
And for the ancient hermit's cell,
Its mossy couch, and wicker lamp;
She heard the Scythian murderer's yell,
And saw dark Timur's iron camp;
And heard the midnight trumpets bray,
And shrill and deep the chargers neigh;
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From tent to tent the torches glare;
And floating o'er the bloody band
The standard sheet of Samarcand.
| Agnes | |