The Sea-King A metrical romance, in six cantos. With notes, historical and illustrative. By J. Stanyan Bigg |
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| VI. | CANTO VI. The Recognition. |
 | The Sea-King |  |
188
CANTO VI. The Recognition.
“Oh! I have sat me by the ghastly dead
In envy of their state, and wept a prayer
That I were cold like them. ------”
Millman. Fall of Jerusalem.
In envy of their state, and wept a prayer
That I were cold like them. ------”
Millman. Fall of Jerusalem.
“The unknown region, purposed to explore.”
Wilkie. Epigoniad.
Wilkie. Epigoniad.
“All waste! no sign of life
But the track of the wolf and the bear!
No sound but the wild, wild wind,
And the snow crunching under his feet!
Night is come; no moon, no stars,
Only the light of the snow!
But behold a fire in the cave of the hill,
A heart reviving fire. ------”
Southey's Thalaba.
But the track of the wolf and the bear!
No sound but the wild, wild wind,
And the snow crunching under his feet!
Night is come; no moon, no stars,
Only the light of the snow!
But behold a fire in the cave of the hill,
A heart reviving fire. ------”
Southey's Thalaba.
“Di lei degno egli, e degna ella di lui,
Ne meglio s' accopiaro unqu'altri dui.”
Ariosto.
Ne meglio s' accopiaro unqu'altri dui.”
Ariosto.
190
I.
O woman fair, and art thou doomed to weep?Thou art no vision then;—no glancing beam
Athwart this world of woe, and darkness deep;
No lovely angel in this feverish dream
Of frenzied life; to smile and make it seem
More holy than it is; more pure, more high,
And luminate it like a golden gleam
Of purest light across a cloudy sky,
For sorrow wounds thy breast, and care bedims thine eye.
191
Then is thy stem bowed down by woe and care!
And if thou art an angel given to bless,
Why wert thou ever made those griefs to share
Which man of sterner mould, is doomed to bear?
Or if thou art of high celestial birth,
Why wert thou taken from those regions fair?
Why art thou not all smiles, and joy, and mirth?
Alas! for thou too art, a weeping child of earth.
II.
And all day long Otlauga sat aloneCommuning with her thoughts; and in her breast,
Where many a hope and peaceful plant had grown,
There was contention now, and sad unrest.
For she had listened to no idle tale,
Framed but to charm the ear, and lull the soul
With bardic contemplations; and control
The mind to little, or to no avail,
And toss it on a wild ideal sea;—
This was a tale of life, and of reality.
192
III.
There hung a mist upon her past, a veilWhich mantled it in doubt and mystery:
But as the wanderer had pursued his tale
The curtain was removed, and she might see
In features fair, without a cloud between,
The regions of the past, and each familiar scene.
Joy filled her breast, she wept for very joy,
As each remembrance dwelt on some loved form;
Alas! for earthly bliss has its alloy,
And mirth is mixed with woe, and peace precedes a storm.
IV.
Hope, doubt, and fear, were rampant in her breast,Each, waged with each, a fierce continual strife,
For such is man, too easily opprest,
And such the elements of human life.
Sweet was it thus to dwell upon the past,
While joy seemed flowing in a tide of feeling,
Alas! the fairest sky may be o'ercast,
And night will come, although in silence stealing,
193
Bade the sad maiden's trembling heart rejoice.
“Believe whate'er that old man said,”
He whispered in her breast;
“His picture of the past is true,
Then why not all the rest?
He is thy guardian god and friend,
Appearing to relieve thee;
Be happy then;—believe his tale,
For why should he deceive thee?”
V.
“Hath he not opened in thy soulA hidden mine,—a wondrous treasure?
The past now yields its plenteous store,
Of sweet delight, and purest pleasure.
Hath he not pictured too, the scenes,
Where with light heart, and laughing eye,
Thy days were spent in sportive glee,
Thy early morn of life went by?
And is not this a wealthy store,
194
For knowledge dwells but in the past,
As peace dwells no where but in heaven.
Can he be any but a friend,
Who thus hath ta'en thy doubts away,
Removed the curtain from the past,
And given it to the light of day;
And open'd up within thy breast
A source of joy, a source of rest?
VI.
And if a friend, believe his tale;And be at ease as reason moves thee:
What can thy troubles him avail?
Be happy then;—the Sea-King loves thee.”
But doubt and fear, like two envenom'd snakes,
Bask'd in the scene which hope had thus portrayed;
And she, like one who suddenly awakes
Out of a glorious dream, to find himself in shade,—
Became immersed in deeper grief,
Beyond the power of art's relief.
195
VII.
“He cannot be my friend” the maiden said,“Can I forget that deep, that heavy sigh,
That form that seems already dead,
And then the icy coldness of that eye?
Have I not seen him in my midnight dreams,
When clothed with horror to my soul he came;
Have I not seen him by those bloody streams,
And heard him mutter o'er my hated name?
And have I not awoke with shuddering start,
And felt his icy hand upon my heart?
How can he be my friend? for even now
I feel the fever playing o'er my brow;
Which doubtless he with pestilential breath,
Cast on me thus, to work my certain death!
VIII.
“He doubtless is the foe of all my name;A wondrous man he is, if man he be,
And thus may know the regions whence I came,
And be acquainted with my history.
196
And sees the secret locked within my breast:
And thus insidious, wishes to impart
Poison unto my soul, in friendly show,
He tells a tale to win my ready heart,
And raises me by hope, to plunge me deep in woe!”
IX.
Thus spake the maid; until her anxious soulWound to a pitch of feeling, for relief
Brimmed o'er in anguish, like a too full bowl;—
And tears gushed forth in tides, as from a fount of grief.
'Tis hard when pressed by grief and care,
When sufferings force the bitter groan,
When gathering fears induce despair,—
To think, to feel, I am alone!
No friend the drooping soul to cheer,
No loving eye, no kind caress,
No ready hand to wipe the tear,
But utter,—utter,—loneliness.
197
X.
And if the world is nothing to the heart,It seeks its friends in phantoms of its own;
As if these could alleviate the smart,
Or fill the void, the soul feels when alone.
This cannot be;—that heart is like a flower
Torn from its native earth, and flung on high,
Bleached by the sun and wind, from hour to hour,—
That plant must wither, and that heart must die!
It has affections which would ever cling
To hearts congenial; and would intertwine,
Like sister saplings at the smile of spring,
Or like the flexious branches of the vine.
But if these cling to nought but passive air,
Soon must they lose their vigour, droop, and fade;—
So fades the heart, when overwhelmed by care,
It clings to nothing, but a fleeting shade.
XI.
Grief spends itself, although it may be deep,And sighs, and tears, oft bring a kind release;
198
A dreamless sleep, of quietude and peace.
So was it with Otlauga, when the gush,
The first sad gush of feeling ceased to flow,
No longer now the waves tumultuous rush,
It is a quiet stream, yet still a stream of woe.
Now there is time for thought; and now a glow
Rests on her pallid brow, “it may be so,
As hope hath thus portrayed,” the maiden said;
“Then why distract myself with needless woe,
Or bring fresh torment on my hapless head?
XII.
“But may I not, through magic's potent power,Draw back the curtaining veil of mystery,
And read the events of many a coming hour,
And scan the secrets of futurity?
Lives there not one in yonder gloomy glen,
Who, through observance, and through magic rite,
Possesses knowledge, unpossessed by men,
And sees the things, unseen by human sight.
199
And he my future destiny shall show,
Whether it glitter with a joyous ray,
Or be obscured in gloomy clouds of woe!”
XIII.
Thus spake the maid; and thus she felt her soulEased of its load, and of its misery.
There is a power which man has at controul,
To cast his burthen on futurity,
And trust that this may soon reveal
Some good, his present grief to heal.
And thus Otlauga veiled by clearer skies,
Where starlike hope, in brightening beauty rose,
And joyful visions bless'd her raptured eyes,—
Snatched from the lap of care, an opiate of repose.
XIV.
Sweet were her slumbers, and she seemed to beCast on a land of paradise; a fairy isle,
Laved by a joyous and resplendent sea,
200
And there she thought old Orvar's loving eye
Was o'er her for protection; dangers fly
Before that magic glance, as from the sun
Clouds melt into the azure arching sky.
All was delight and happiness serene,
A land of wonder, and of sweet repose;—
But now a pale and shadowy form arose,
And passed athwart that fair ideal scene:
No fear came o'er her, and no sense of danger,
She erst had seen that form, it was the haughty stranger.
XV.
Amidst her own sad sorrows, and despair,The stranger's were forgotten; and yet now
That she was happily released from care,
And quiet was her soul, and peaceful was her brow,
Her former sympathies regained their course
In all their vigour, and in all their force.
And now she yearned his griefs to know,
201
How was it thus? and say why should it be,
That she an interest in his cause should bear?
Whence came that strong, and tender sympathy
With his deep troubles, and consuming care?
What was that stranger form to her? ah! know
That hearts congenial, have an influence
Over each other, hid from sordid sense;
And share each other's joy, and sympathize in woe!
XVI.
That phantom form approached her now,Care in his eye, pride on his brow.
And now his tender, fervent glance
Seemed fixed upon her very soul,
Until her blood beyond controul
Mounted into her countenance.
Confusion laboured in her breast,
She dreamt that he the silence broke,
And with it broke her peaceful rest!—
For starting up the maid awoke.
202
XVII.
The dark grey dawn just then was breaking,Above the mountains far away;
All nature's voices seemed awaking,
To hail the glad approach of day:
The maid prepared to haste away
To yonder dark, and haunted glen,
Where,—ignorance and terror say
No cheering light, no timid ray.
Breaks ever on the darksome den,
Where he forever makes his stay,
Who visits not the haunts of men!
XVIII.
She had not reached the chamber's outer door,When a fair child rushed in of aspect mild,
Whose parents had been dead two years and more,—
Thus was Alfrida left an orphan child,
Cast on life's stream, a fair, a tender flower,
Whose young affections withered in their bloom,
With misery only as an earthly dower,
203
But a kind hand had seized the tender plant,
As it went hurrying down the stream of woe,
Had cherished it,—relieving every want,
And shewn it that, which only love can show.
XIX.
Oh! yes Otlauga loved that orphan child;—One common sympathy bound them heart to heart,
For both were beautiful, and meek and mild,
And both had felt, life's deepest, bitterest smart.
And oh! Alfrida loved her fair deliverer more,
Than with a sister's love; for she could trace
Feelings which oft had solaced her before,
When her own mother smiled upon her face;
And, with a childish trust, that ever throws
Its very soul in utter nakedness
On those it loves, in confident repose;—
She loved Otlauga fair, the far-famed shepherdess.
XX.
But now she came in the full flush of pride,204
Half timidly she stole, as if to chide
The buoyant triumph that shone in her eyes.
Otlauga had been weeping;—and she knew
Sorrow seeks sympathy, and lives on sighs,
As bruised flowers delight in honeydew,
Nor love the radiance of cerulean skies.
“They told me thou wert sad;—I must not wake
The echoes of thy chamber; yet all day
I longed upon thy solitude to break,
And steal thee from thy care, and from thyself away.”
XXI.
“I longed to tell thee who it was that came,And sang that wondrous song of joy and woe;—
Hast thou not heard of harps as red as flame,
Impressed like marble, on the frozen snow,
Seen on the hills and in the vales below?
Those wondrous prints were seen but yesterday,
When the old man had wandered all alone
Over the hills, his solitary way,
205
Then this is he, of whom the minstrel spake,—
The wondrous wanderer of the worlds below;
Who ne'er was known on mortal sight to break,
In all his wanderings, in this world of woe.
None know that aged wanderer's name,
None know the regions whence he came!”
XXII.
The fair Otlauga faintly smiled,Upon that lovely, simple child,—
“Alfrida, there was one who knew that form,
And I that one; for in the times of yore
I have beheld him, clothed in clouds and storm;
And often have I heard his voice before,
Amid the tempest's din, and ceaseless roar,
Of loud and thundering cataracts;—but how,
And when, and where, I cannot tell thee now.
For I must haste away to yonder vale,
Yon gloomy vale, all silent as the grave,
The subject of wild songs, and many a tale;—
Farewell Alfrida fair, I seek the wizard's cave.
206
XXIII.
Stern was the aspect nature wore:—around,Hills piled on hills, encrusted in the snow,
Loomed gloomily in the dim, and shadowy light;
And in the hidden glen, far, far below,
The cataract rumbled with an angry sound;
And leafless trees, to the uncertain sight
Seemed like gaunt spectres; for the mists of night
Hung round about them, not yet rolled away,
Before the chariot of the source of light,
The source of life and joy, the glorious orb of day.
XXIV.
Otlauga took the trackless mountain path,Erased by long disuse; for none had trod
Its winding route;—they feared the wizard's wrath,
And aye it wended to his curst abode.
Oh! blame this maiden not, that she should grow
Impatient, 'neath her load of misery;—
She had no refuge, when o'erwhelming woe
Rushed o'er her spirit, like a troubled sea;
207
No hand was stretched out for her relief.
XXV.
But rather turn thine eye to heaven, and praiseThy Saviour and thy God; for when thy care
Weighs heavy on thy soul, thou mayest raise
Thy voice in supplication and in prayer,
And God will bring thy soul release,
And hush thy troubles into peace.
Then let her tears be free from blame,
Who ne'er had heard a Saviour's name;
Of faith, of hope, of sins forgiven,
Of present joy, of future heaven.—
No ray of mercy, and no light divine,
Had on the chaos of her spirit flamed;
The countless blessings, christian, that are thine,
Were nought to her, who ne'er had heard them named.
XXVI.
She was not taught to bow the knee in prayer,208
Nor, through the vista of long years of care,
Pointed to realms of purity and love.
She knew nought of that peace of mind,
Which trust in God, and faith instil;
The humble heart, the soul resigned,
The will, obedient to his will.
She ne'er was told of life's short pilgrimage,
Tending to endless woe, or joys divine;
She ne'er had read one page—one truth-fraught page
Of that thrice hallowed book, thou callest thine.—
XXVII.
What wonder then that she should go astray,When trying to throw off her load of woe;
Since none were there, to show the wondrous way,
In which the wretched, and opprest should go?
Then blame her not, if to chase doubt away
She has determined, with unflinching eye,
To gaze upon those mysteries that lay
209
Oh! call it not presumption:—blame her not
For her soul's darkness, when no beam of light
Was, or could e'er have been, her happy lot,
But ign'rance was her plea, and innocence her might.
XXVIII.
Otlauga wandered on the narrow brinkOf a vast precipice, a shelving rock,
To gaze down which, would make the spirit shrink
With a convulsive start, and sudden shock.
For in the depths below, the dizzy eye
In the dim light, no objects could descry,
All was blank night, and hidden mystery.
But far above, the wintry pine and broom
Disrobed, hung naked o'er the rock on high;
Whose jagged top, was hid amidst the gloom,
And hanging mists, of the impending sky.
XXIX.
She now has reached the bridge; and from around210
Narrow and dark, and of a depth profound,
Widening and spreading to the mountain's base.
So narrow was the crevice, at a bound
The agile huntsman, in the ardent chase,
Had cleared the yawning gulph;—but far below
Was spread that gloomy vale, where in their cell,
The wizard, and his wolfish neighbours dwell.
And even now, in trembling haste to go
Over the bridge, Otlauga, from below
Hears howlings loud, and many a savage yell,
Mingled with distant mutterings of a spell.
XXX.
Fears now assail her, phantoms rush around,And long she hesitates; meanwhile the sun
Appears above the horizon's orient bound,
Prepared his short, but glorious course to run.
And now the mists before his potent ray,
Curl down the mountains, rise up from the vales;
Dissolved they sink, or melt in light away,
211
The scene now stood revealed, a little band
Of houses far dissevered, here and there,
Besprinkled o'er that thinly peopled land,
Where all beside, was barren, bleak, and bare.
XXXI.
The contrast now was strong, and marked, betweenThe outer world, and that which hidden lay;
A gulph of darkness, and a dazzling scene,—
Black realms of bitter night, bright realms of blazing day.
A momentary pause,—and down she flies,
Down the steep banks the trembling maiden hies;
Her resolutions urge her on; and now
The mists close round her, yet unto her sight
Huge rocks present their bold and rugged brow,
Like giant bands to guard these realms of night;—
Past trees and shrubs she hurries in her flight,
Scarce seen amidst the thick and vap'rous air:—
But in the distance, lo! a glimmering light,
Casts on the weirdlike scene, a faint and lurid glare.
212
XXXII.
Right onward towards the faint and flickering flameOtlauga hastens with a trembling heart;
Now larger grows the flame, and now more bright,
As on she speeds; till with a sudden start
She finds herself, before the man of night.—
He was a man of reverend aspect; white
Were his long flowing locks; and on his brow
Deep thought and meditation sat; yet now
A cloud came o'er his features, and a storm
Of fear, or passion lit his meteor eye,
That gleamed its lightnings, like a thunderous sky.
XXXIII.
Stern was his gaze, until a shuddering aweBecame the master passion of his soul;—
Strange! awe towards one so fair from such a man!
“Maiden what dost thou here?” the seer began,
“Thou art not come to spurn me? for thy face
Declares thee harmless, innocent and mild;
Yet art thou of a dreaded wondrous race,
213
Amazement held Otlauga dumb awhile,
Till, o'er her features, stole a truant smile:
And summoning her thoughts, the maid began
To tell the reason why, she sought this dreaded man.
XXXIV.
“No,—Rolfi no,—men say that thou art wise,Foretelling things to come,—of peace and wars;
Thou seest things unseen by human eyes,
And learnest wisdom from the silent stars.
They say the film is taken from thy sight,
So that thou mayest pierce the deepest gloom;
And pass the bounds of mystery and night,
And scan the secrets of the book of doom.
Know then the simple cause that brought me here,
Over the hills, and down the vale to thee,
Was, not to thrill thy soul with childish fear,
But from thy lips to learn, my future destiny.”
XXXV.
“Maiden why mock'st thou me?” the sage replied,214
Since he the dreadful! is thy certain guide,
Who hath ascended from the world of woe?
Did I not lately hear from all around,
His awful footsteps, shake the solid ground?
And did I not, upon the midnight wind
Hear his much dreaded voice speak to the storm?
Shrouded in mist did I not see behind,
His sad and shrunken, but majestic form?
Why then O maid seek me, when he is nigh,—
The father of thy race; whose prescient eye
Hath scanned each deep, and dreadful mystery.”
XXXVI.
Here he was interrupted, for a stepHurried and quick came hastening down the vale;
And then upon the bleak and wintry gale
A voice called on Otlauga; “where art thou
My kind protector, where? all hail! all hail!
Thou shalt know peace and consolation now.”
This ceased, and at the wondering maiden's side
215
Sparkling with joy, and bathed in latent pride;
“Haste,—haste, the father of thy race is nigh,
He now waits for thee near the placid tide.”
XXXVII.
Scarce had she said, when up with nimble boundsShe passed the confines of the haunted grounds,
Surprised, amazed, Otlauga sped behind,
Her fair locks sailing on the morning wind.
Now o'er the mountain, through the virgin snow,
The maidens hasten with untiring speed;
Hills they have passed, they tread the vales below,
And now ascending, skim along the mead.
Between two lines of hills, a mighty chain,
They view the distant and untroubled main.
And near the water, on the rocky strand,
Unmoved and still, two lonely beings stand.
XXXVIII.
A fleeting glimpse;—and they are seen no more,216
That hide the prospect from the rugged shore,
And cast their shadows on the dreary scene.
Still on Otlauga speeds; but who can tell
The hopes, the fears, the tossings of her mind,
Her gushing joy, transformed as by a spell
To fear and grief, by doubts that lurked behind.
And only you can sympathize her state,
To whom like care, and circumstance are given,
When on a crisis seems to hang your fate,
And failing is a hell, but bright success a heaven.
XXXIX.
Still on they toil; swift speeding ever on,And now they turn the angle of a hill;
A rapid glance tells one they sought is gone,
While one,—the younger on the shore stands still.
Otlauga gazed around—“I fear in vain
We hitherward have come,” the maiden said;
When like a spectre from th' uneven plain,
Rose that old man who seemed already dead:
217
And seemed to have such dreaded influence o'er her,
He who had stood beside those bloody streams,
Once more appeared, and now he stood before her.
XL.
Her hopes were shattered! and the maid had sunkO'erwhelmed with grief, with terror and affright,
But that old man approached and with a look
Dissolved the clouds, that wrapt her soul in night.
Surprized, the maiden gazed upon his brow,
Where majesty was stamped by many a sign;
His pallid face,—she could not blame it now,
It beamed with joy, and seemed almost divine.
Sweet reminiscences were in her breast,
Of early joys, and quiet scenes of rest.
XLI.
And ever and anon a much loved formWould smile upon her, with benignant eye;
In times of dread when fears would raise a storm,
218
Nor suffer aught to work her any harm,
But from her spirit chase each new alarm,
And from her bosom every rising sigh.
Each childish whim, his kindness would allow,
And join her pranks though care sat on his brow.
And oft she wondered at his matchless power,
When he raised phantoms up to please her eye;
And wrought fresh wonders every changing hour,
To win her love, and charm her infancy.—
And oft in later life her soul would yearn
To find her early friend, and love him in return.
XLII.
Her wishes are accomplished! for she seesIn that old man the father of her race;
All fears disperse, as clouds before the breeze,
She knows beyond a doubt, that smiling face.
How changed since last she saw him in her hall!
No more that dreadful frown, that threatens death
Dwells on his features, like a funeral pall,
219
No more with icy coldness gleams that eye,
To strike the gazer with unnatural dread;
That ghastly glare, that deep and heavy sigh,—
All like a dreadful dream, have vanished, and have fled.
Herself she could not curb e'en had she tried,
But tears of joy with broken sobbings blend;
As the fair maid in thrilling accents cried
“Orvar,—my father,—friend,—my friend,—my only friend!
XLIII.
“Thine only friend?” a voice in deep tones said,And thrilled its meaning through the maiden's heart;
Surprised, she quickly turned around her head,—
But why that blush? and why that sudden start?
She knew that voice,—and well she knew that form,
'Twas he whom she had fancied known to danger;
On whom dark care had showered his blighting storm,—
The proud, the haughty, and majestic stranger.
Haughty and proud no more; for at her feet
220
Before that fragile form;—their glances meet,
As he exclaims “Oh! call me too thy friend.”
XLIV.
“He is thy friend Otlauga,” Orvar said;“Nay more than friend;—this is a happy day,
For now thy griefs and troubles have an end,
And bright, and cloudless is thy future way.
Now maid prepare to hear a name of dread,
But tremble not, or thou art none of mine,
Yet at this name the curdling blood hath fled
From many a stouter heart, and sterner cheek than thine.
The sun of happiness with glorious beams
Hath risen to cheer, and luminate thy heart;—
Behold the hero of thine early dreams!
Ye two have met, and never more shall part.
Oh! may the holy Triad ever rest
Your friend, to shield you with protecting wing;
And grant that greatest boon, a peaceful breast,—
My blessing on you both;—this is the dread Sea-King.”
| The Sea-King | |