University of Virginia Library

TASSO AND THE SISTERS:

A CONVERSATION.

A Room in the Prince of Mantua's Palace—a Harp in the centre.
Enter the Prince, Tasso, Isabel, Bertha, Florence.
GONZAGA.
Let sage Philosophy come fenc'd in proof;
O'er her strong armour put the toga on;
Gird on her loins the sword of Disputation—
Wisdom her shield, her potent weapons Words:
And, thus accoutred, let her take the field,
Defying opposition:—upon this
Send but young Beauty forth, in smiles array'd,
And you will see Philosophy grow mute
And pale for very shame of her own weakness,
Whilst Beauty on her downcast face shall look
And laugh in triumph.

TASSO.
'Twere a fruitless task
To mention ought against fair Beauty's pow'r,
Whilst such a host of sparkling eyes are near
To prove her sov'reignty, and all I might
Urge in good Reason's cause to render vain,
Her truth to dulness turning: therefore rail
Against Philosophy e'en as you will—
I heed her not.

GONZAGA.
Poor Maiden! she hath lost
A strong defender then, and Beauty should
Make loud rejoicings, as beseems a victress.—
Come, sing to us, sweet Florence!

FLORENCE.
Nay, my Lord!
Let Isabel, or Bertha—I will not:
Better than Florence can they please the ear.

GONZAGA.
Be not so modest, prithee, gentle dame!
I pray you sing.

FLORENCE.
Indeed I cannot now:
My voice is unmelodious to-day.

GONZAGA.
How sweet is soft persuasion to a woman!
I pray you sing, sweet Florence! and delight
Earth and the air with music not their own,
But of the Heavens.—Are you not civil yet?
Come—Bertha, Isabel, and Tasso, you,
Entreat her for a song.

ISABEL.
Dear Sister, sing!
You never look so well as o'er the harp.

BERTHA.
Sing, dearest Girl! for we are all athirst
For some blest harmony, which you so well
Can steep the senses in.

TASSO.
Kind Florence, sing!
Or we shall deem you grown morose of late,
And loath to charm.

FLORENCE.
To Tasso's pray'rs I yield;
For when Philosophy doth stoop, 'tis mete
That all her fancies should be pleas'd awhile.

[She plays and sings.
GONZAGA.
A pleasing lay, for one that could not sing,
Because her voice was most unmusical:
Why! the gay lark, forsooth, will soon assert
She hath no melody wherewith to greet
The skies at morn. But, Bertha! sing you now,
And let us know that we have little cause
To pay regard to what the lark can do:—
Oh! let her warble in Aurora's air,
Or sulk upon the ground—the same to us,
Whilst such a songstress as fair Bertha lives
To glad the earth with sweeter harmony.

BERTHA.
The prince Gonzaga is poetical,
And the so fluent accents of his tongue
Must make my following voice but weak appear.
What song would'st have?

TASSO.
Of Echo and the Boy
Himself who slew, because he could not clasp
His own reflected image in the brook,
And turn'd into a flower.

BERTHA.
My fav'rite one!

[She plays and sings.
TASSO.
The music of your voice did Echo hear,
Most lovely Bertha! in repeating all
Its sounds of melody, she would forget
E'en her Narcissus, and bewail no more.

FLORENCE.
In troth, she would; and Pan would cease to love
The cruel maid in vain, and in her stead
Would worship the bright Goddess of these sounds.

BERTHA.
Now for your song, my Isabel!

GONZAGA.
Dear girl!
Give us a loftier strain than these have sung—
I tire of love-notes.

ISABEL.
Then my song shall be
Of merry quality: attend—'tis this.

[She plays and sings.
GONZAGA.
'Tis well there are no rocks, or quicksands here,
For those who listen to such siren notes:
Could th' Island-Goddess but have warbled so,
Ulysses had not thought of Ithaca,
Or his chaste spouse; but near her burning heart
His head he still had lain, intoxicate
With beauty and with melody!

ISABEL.
How well
A speech for all doth Lord Gonzaga frame!
Had sage Ulysses blest Calypso's love
With words thus eloquent, she would have died
(Immortal tho' she seem'd) whene'er he left
Her sea-girt kingdom. See you there, my Lord!
Why—these are words as lofty as your own,
And true as they.

GONZAGA.
A wicked girl are you—
So in the darkness of your eyes I read.

ISABEL.
You read it in the darkness of my eye!
Are dark eyes wicked then?

GONZAGA.
I never knew
A dark-eyed girl that lov'd not wickedness;
Dark eyes are Passion's palaces, and passion—
Say, is it virtue, Isabel?

ISABEL.
But blue—

FLORENCE.
No treason, Sister! not a word against them:
Of innocence do blue eyes ever speak.

BERTHA.
And truth.

FLORENCE.
And goodness.

GONZAGA.
Stay—I thought 'twas thus,
Until I gaz'd upon two ladies' eyes
Of naughty blue; but since that evil hour
I've thought a dark eye has less mischief in't,
Than one of azure.

BERTHA.
Oh! most wicked speech:
Let Tasso judge between them, and decide
If dark, or blue should have pre-eminence.

TASSO.
Those seeking justice then must quit the court;
Or else the Judge's wisdom would be fixed
So much 'twixt lovely light and lighted darkness,
That he dare give the preference unto neither—
Being spell-bound.

ISABEL.
Awhile we'll leave you then,
Most prudent Judge! your sentence well to weigh,
Ere you do speak it.

TASSO.
That were bootless too;
For, ere I could decide, I should require
So much of weighty argument to hear
On either part, that Time could not afford
Enough of his existence for our purpose.

GONZAGA.
We'll try the cause hereafter. Tasso! now
Choose, of this lovely sisterhood, the one
With whom you'd tarry; for the other twain
With me must come, that it declared may be,
The Graces once have parted.

FLORENCE.
Scrup'lous Judge!
See—thou'rt constrained to let your wisdom forth.

TASSO.
When the three Goddesses, on Ida's top,
Appear'd in nakedness divine, to make
The Shepherd judge of their eternal beauty—
He was a fool the golden prize to yield
To one;—he should have made the whole three parts,
And given to each a part, rather than bring
On his devoted head the wrath of two,
To make one prouder of her loveliness.
Therefore all three I purpose to detain
Of these scarce less than Goddesses, and forth
In solitude the Prince of Mantua send.

GONZAGA.
The envied prize did Paris surely give
To Venus, but to rid him of all three
Of those his heavenly pleaders,—and 'tis strange
That you should covet these mere mortal maids:
I gladly leave them, and commit you, Tasso,
To a worse fate than that of Ida's boy:—
Blue eyes are dang'rous in their innocence,
And dark ones apt to lead the soul astray!

[Exit.
ISABEL.
Oh, sacrilegious Lord!

TASSO.
Spare him, fair Isabel!
If you would be reveng'd, you can but close
The eyes he dares to rail at.

FLORENCE.
Dulcet flatterer!
Like you these bracelets which my sister wears,
Clinging and sparkling round her wrist?

TASSO.
Why—aye;
They glitter bravely—but the arms adorn'd
Do far surpass in beauty their adornment;
And each bright ornament must shine in vain,
When bound on so much whiteness. That blue robe
Which Florence wears—came it from Fairyland?

ISABEL.
'Tis rumor'd so, and that the Elfin queen
Did weave it all herself.

TASSO.
'Twas kindly done;
For mortal weeds, methinks, but ill would sit
On one so sylph-like.

BERTHA.
True: but, gallant Tasso!
I pray you leave me not unnotic'd here,
These flowers—do they the color of my hair become;
Or would you have them of a darker tint?

TASSO.
Sure you but wear them to display how poor
Are Flora's charms to thine—Oh! shew them not
Where gay Favonius may be revelling;
Lest he should learn to pass his Mistress o'er
With dull indifference, tho' dizen'd out
E'en in her May-dress; make her jealous grow,
And cover all her kingdom with sad tears,
Which men, unweeting of the Goddess' grief,
Would take for brightest dew-drops!

BERTHA.
Tasso loves
His cunning Fancy at all hours to show,
And, flattering others, proves his own conceit.

ISABEL.
True, Sister mine! and these fine things he says
No doubt he hath a thousand times conn'd o'er,
To suit the first occasion.

FLORENCE.
As a child
Its early lessons.

TASSO.
Prince! your words were true.
Oh, happy Son of Hecuba! how blest
Thy lot: thy heavenly visitants, for thee,
Of smiles and blandishments were full; but mine
With cruel words do pierce me to the heart—
With most ungracious accusations.

BERTHA.
Peace!
Nor murmur at the fate your speech deserves.
But, I beseech you, tell me if these flowers
Well with my hair accord.

TASSO.
So well, in truth,
That or a lighter, or a darker shade,
Given to one hue, would mar their general beauty—
So just and elegant is your discernment.

BERTHA.
And yours to think so—as a thing of course.

ISABEL.
I must disturb this parley: it grows late,
And we have mischief to contrive at Julia's.

FLORENCE.
Truly, good lack! 'tis pity, too, to leave
The eloquence that flows from Tasso's tongue,
For an old woman's prattle.

BERTHA.
Yes, indeed—
And his sincerity, for heartless words
That tend to nothing.

ISABEL.
And the soften'd speech
That calls us angels, for mere common talk.
Let us e'en weep!

TASSO.
Sweet Satirists! 'tis I
Alone for sorrow that can have good cause,
For what avails the eloquence of words
When none are near to hear them?

FLORENCE.
We lament
To make you woful—but are forc'd to go.

TASSO.
Stay yet awhile! I have a casket here,
Which holds some trinkets of but little worth,
And I would seek to have that worth increas'd
In being worn by three such lovely forms:
This ring, sweet Isabel! I give to you,
To grace it with a place on that fair hand
Amongst those other jewels, which outshine
Its feeble lustre, as your beauty all.
This string of pearls I would have Bertha honor
By the mere wearing near her damask cheek,
To you, fair Florence, with the laughing eye!
This girdle I present, which, when 'tis clasp'd
Around your azure vestment, will become
More rare and magical than Venus' zone.

FLORENCE.
Come, all ye Junos! then, and court my favor:
My garb's of fairy texture, and this band
As Cytherea's powerful.—Give me joy!

ISABEL.
And me as well: for, see! what radiance dwells
Enshrin'd about me! it doth dim the glow
Of this bright ring—at least, so Tasso says.

BERTHA.
Now, Flora! keep your Zephyrus away;
Lest he should love among these beads to live,
Scorning the splendor of your varied charms.

TASSO.
Fine sentences, and of th' utterers worthy!
Would that the Prince were here, with mete reply
T'encounter them.

ISABEL.
Because, alas! you cannot.
Most exquisite Humility! farewell.

BERTHA.
Pattern of lowliness and truth, farewell!

FLORENCE.
Meekness personified! farewell.

TASSO.
Wit, Grace
And Loveliness, dress'd out in female forms
To captivate the senses, fare ye well!

[Exeunt severally.

TASSO'S SPIRIT:

A SKETCH.

SCENE I.

A Room in the Palace of Bisaccio.
MANSO—TASSO.
MANSO.
Thou dream'st, Torquato!—thou but dream'st, I say;
And the bright Spirit which, thou fondly think'st,
Comes from the skies, sweet converse here with thee,
Of divers strange and lofty things, to hold,
Is the creation of thy mind alone,—
Deck'd with a Poet's coloring, and array'd
In Fancy's splendid garb.

TASSO.
Bisaccio! no:
'Tis all reality; tho' most sublime.
But yestereven, as I watch'd the Sun
Bidding farewell to our Italian skies,
(Blue as the eyes of angels!) whilst the Moon
Grew joyful at his setting, she appear'd—
My own unrivall'd Spirit—beautiful!
Oh! hadst thou look'd on her immortal visage,
And to her language listen'd, then wouldst thou
Have thought henceforth of her alone, and deem'd
Earth's loveliest maidens, if with her compar'd,
Mean as the rainbow's copy in the Heavens,
Arch'd near the rainbow's self. Renew thy scoffs
Of jeering unbelief, in merry mood;—
But still 'tis so.

MANSO.
Or comes she mounted high
On prancing steed, or sailing thro' the air?
Couch'd on a moon-beam, or a falling star?
Comes she array'd in naked Beauty's glow,
Or cloth'd in purple? Comes she gravely forth,
Or laughing blithely at my Tasso's dreams?
Comes she in silence, or in music shrin'd?
Flush'd as the red cheek'd rose, or meek and pale
As its white sister? Prithee, tell me this,
That I may know when Spirits cross my path.

TASSO.
Smiling and bright, at eventide she comes,
Like sun-beams o'er the hills, and walketh forth
In such deep silence, that where'er she treads
The earth seems turn'd to velvet: long she stays,
Light o'er my chamber sheds, and we do speak
In most unearthly fashion.

MANSO.
Excellent!
A kind, good Sprite, forsooth.—What talk ye of?

TASSO.
Of what e'en Manso could not comprehend.

MANSO.
That were a pity, were I near to listen.
But then—her voice! like summer winds, no doubt,
Divinely gentle:—thunder it is not,
Or I ere this had heard the lofty sounds.

TASSO.
Of this, I do beseech thee, speak no more:
'Tis profanation thus to think of beings
So far ourselves above.

MANSO.
Now, tell me, Tasso
Dost really deem that thou art favor'd so
Of Heaven, that one of its immortal race
Doth leave its glories to converse with thee
On this low earth?

TASSO.
Angels love Poesy,
And with my friendly Spirit I converse
In language, not as with my fellow men,
But, all poetical: what we speak of
Is nothing earthly; nor feel I of the earth
In our sublime communion, but her words
Lift me to Heaven—and we expatiate there!

MANSO.
God help thee, Poet! thou art craz'd, for sure.
[aside.
Thy tale is wondrous, Tasso—and so wondrous,
That, till I witness this encounter strange,
I cannot give it credence.

TASSO.
That thou shalt:
Unto my chamber, at the sunset, come;
And thou shalt see such things, and listen to
Converse so wild—impassion'd, that thy doubts
To much astonishment will all give way.

MANSO.
At sunset, then?

TASSO.
At sunset—in my chamber.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

Tasso's Bedchamber.
Tasso is seen gazing intently towards the Window.
Enter Manso.
MANSO.
Now do I look for wonders! 'Tis the hour
When thou, Torquato, step'st into the clouds—
Hath she already been, that thou dost stare
At yonder window thus?

TASSO.
Dost thou not see her there,
More beautiful than beauteous flow'rs?—there—there!

MANSO.
I see the beams of the departing Sun
Gleam faintly o'er the chamber—nothing more.

[Tasso continues to gaze stedfastly at the window, without regarding Manso's last words, and, after a pause, appears to converse with an invisible being.]
TASSO.
Kind Spirit! thou art gracious thus to bless
My sight with thy bright presence, and uplift
My soul from all that's earthly, unto things
Eternal as thyself. Oh! I could live
On the enchantment which thy lips give forth,
As those who dwelt on Ganges' verdant banks
Fed on the perfume which the wild flowers breath'd
On all around them—and were satisfied.
When thou art near, my veins no longer feel
To have their usual current; in its stead,
Music seems floating thro' them, and converts
Each thought to inspiration.

MANSO
Thou dost rave,
Speaking to air, as if—

TASSO.
(continuing to address the imaginary spirit)
And is it really thus?—
That Ocean's bed is but a hidden realm
Which fairies sport in, and that mirthful revels
Prevail beneath the water, whilst its face
Is one wide scene of terror? Sleep they so—
In shells—gay, painted shells; whilst dolphins watch
Their placid slumbers?—True! 'tis said, that once,
As a young Fairy and his bride repos'd
Upon the pearl-deck'd bottom of the sea,
From out the sand a small, still current rose
And bore them to the shore:—they waken'd then,
To look upon a new and unknown world,
(More beauteous than their own) which seem'd so fair
That they did dwell therein, and soon each grove,
Deep cave and valley felt their bosoms prest
By tiny feet at midnight, and the Earth
Vied with old Ocean in its fairy realms!

MANSO.
Oh, Poesy! thou art a dangerous gift;
Making the soul of thy possessor sad
With dreams—sweet dreams, which, whensoe'er they vanish,
(As oft they will) leave discontent behind,
And make what's real hardly to be borne.

TASSO.
Nay, nay—sweet Spirit! they are all divine.
Painting is Poetry struck mute, and dash'd
Upon the ready canvass, to delight
The eyes of men. The ear doth Music fill
With strains of wondrous melody, and makes
Our bosoms seem etherial. Both of these
Take birth from Poesy, which is the source
Of each high feeling;—bids deep passion rise,
Or lulls it into tears; decks all around
With its rare magic;—from each little flower
It catches eloquence; each blasted tree
Gives it a moral lesson to hold out,
And the wide Ocean and the mighty Sky
Display a volume to its searching eyes,
Fraught with a multitude of scenes and sounds
That speak sublimity—whether the Moon
Walk thro' the grandeur of a clouded Heaven,
As might a fair girl in a wilderness;
Whether she roll unclouded, with the stars
Companions of her journey; or the Sun
Burn in his glory there; or skies and seas
Be calm, or ruffled by the Tempests' breath.
Yes, Spirit! Painting, Poetry, and sound
Of Music's various notes are all divine!

MANSO.
'Tis madness this; but madness wonderful,
And more to be admir'd than scoff'd withal:
I will e'en tarry 'till the vision end.

TASSO.
(with a burst of admiration)
It must, indeed, be grand—too grand for thought!
Oh, Heaven! the finest things of Earth, the Skies,
The depths of Ocean, when to thee compar'd,
Are far more insignificant than sparks,
Given from a taper, seen beneath the Sun:
And Earth's inhabitants as mean to thine
As flies unto the birds that love to mount
And gaze undazzled on the Orb of Day.
The Spirits of the Blest that enter there
Must feel that even their eternity
Can ne'er bring all thy glories to their view,
Nor shew them all thy wonders—Spirit! say
If it be thus:—it is!—o'erspread with meteors,
Boundless, e'erlasting—Earth! thou art a shade—
[In an altered tone.
The Ghosts of those departed—do they rise
To gaze upon their tombs; walk o'er the world;
Revisit scenes endear'd to them thro' life,
And watch the living whom they cherish still?
Or sleep their spirits with the mould'ring clay
Which once encompass'd them, till they be call'd
To other mansions than the cold, dark grave,
Nor deign to look upon Earth's face again?
Thou knowst not? thou—an Angel! and not know
These secrets of our being?—sure thou do'st,
But art forbidden to disclose them here:
'Tis well—and I presume upon thy love.—
Nay, tarry yet awhile, and let me still
Look on thy matchless beauty—Wilt thou go?
Give me thy blessing, Spirit!—She is gone!
[Tasso here pauses, and continues with his eyes fixed on the window: then turns suddenly towards Manso, who stands in an attitude of astonishment.
Bisaccio! now, thou canst no longer doubt
Of my celestial visitant—What say'st thou?

MANSO.
That thou art mad, or that thy friend is blind:
But thy strange parley with this thing of nought
Was framed so quaintly, that it sounded well,
And set me dreaming, too. No more of this—
I'll wait on your next vision. Walk we forth!

[Exeunt.

THE NUPTIALS OF JUNO.

A DESCRIPTIVE POEM.

THE SKELETONS.

My Fancy wander'd in the Caves of Death,
'Mid heaps of mould'ring bones, and heard and view'd
The words I echo and the scenes I sing.
Around me Skeletons stood lank and foul:
Their looks were horrible; for one and all
Seem'd gifted with existence—a pale light
Shone in their eyeless sockets, and their jaws
Mov'd as in mockery of living lips.
I past before them, when they grinn'd amain,
And hollow laughter shook the dreary vault!
'Twas terrible to see—and seeing, think
In space how brief should I as they become,
And be a partner in their devilish joy.—
I thought it devilish—not so their speech,
Which spoke in sorrowful and human tones,
And this the tenor of their eloquence.
‘The fears of Genius, in extreme despair
Of doing ought to make his name immortal,
Tho' sad and desolate, have bliss, compar'd
With the o'erwhelming and grief-laden clouds
That wait on Passion when her sun is set.
Each youthful Fancy, in its rising pride,
Creates an idol, before which it bows
As to reality; but soon dull Time
Proves the bright image to be false as dear,
And seldom is it that in after-life
We meet the Spirit of our early dreams.
My fate was otherwise: the very form
Which lit my slumbers, and my waking thoughts
Fill'd with its visionary loveliness,
Before me came in actual being—fair
As her imaginary counterpart:
The fetterless hair—the eye, half blue, half grey,
Shone both as in my musings, and the lips
Whose coolness I had prest in fancied bliss,
Existed—beautiful as ever gave
Sweet sounds in answer to the minstrel-string—
Sweet words respondent to the voice of love!
Her figure was of those that seem as made
For adoration, and of such a form
Was her mind worthy:—she admir'd the swell
Of Ocean's thunder and the Thunder's roar;
She lov'd the wildest elements—her eye
Watch'd the strong eagle in his reckless flight
Whither no other bird had dar'd to mount;
Her ear would listen to the lion's growl,
And therein find a music—and her thoughts
Ran thro' the maze of all sublimity!
Yet in her converse she was gentle ever,
And 'mid surrounding vice did keep as pure
As snows do even in a torrid clime,
Where the hot sun moves all things, save themselves.
But Purity itself in Passion dies:
We met, we lov'd—how wildly, deeply, words
Can shew, no better than an orrery
The stately motion of the living fires
That roll in air: but, oh! between the hour
When first of beauty all my visions were,
And that wherein appear'd young Beauty's self,
Communion I had held with sinful men,
And learn'd to laugh at virtue—marriage rites
I thought an idle mummery, to which
Disgust was near akin—a stranger, love.
When woman gives her heart away, her mind
A prisoner too becomes;—and thus it was
With her who deem'd me guileless as herself;
She drank the poison of my tongue—and fell!
Yes—the sole flash that lit my cheerless sky
Did I extinguish in an hour of guilt;
I stole the honey, but I burnt the bee;
I broke the cypress-head—the cypress died.—
Oh! not a villain on the guilty earth
With him can vie in damn'd hypocrisy,
Who plays deception with a woman's heart,
And blights the bosom that was wholly his.’
‘Regard not outward show—it falsifies:—
The lightest finger steals the heaviest purse;
More saintly nothing than a villain's speech.
Plain is the plumage of melodious birds—
Gaudy, of those which sing not; the loud drone
Preserves no honey in its noisy flight,
But how industrious is the silent bee!
Trust not the man who hath a specious smile
For ever on his face, and on his tongue
Most pliant words—the world's a world of rogues,
And few are honest who do honest seem.
Of all things doubt—give ample faith to none,
And thine own senses credit least of all.’
‘I was the Parent of as fair a Child
As ever gamboll'd o'er the the meads of Spring.
Unceasing mirth and fine intelligence
Were her peculiar attributes—tho' young;
For fifteen Autumns had not yet opprest
The earth with moistureless and faded leaves
Since she was born: her deep blue eye
Just spoke of rising passion, and her ear
Now lov'd impassion'd melody, the which
Her small lips warbled forth in strains divine:
In the light dance did she the lightest move,
And the most exquisite in form and step.
Dead was her mother—she my only child;
The spring of all my pleasures, all my love;
The only object that I priz'd on earth—
My earthly jewel, that had hues of heaven!
She died—my sweet girl died: her eloquence
Grew silent, and her beauty pale and dim;
The azure brilliance of her eye declin'd,
And Death exulted o'er her dying frame.
In the cold earth she was by moonlight laid,
When all was voiceless as her whit'ning lip,
Save the loud pealing of the funeral bell
That pour'd monotonous music into air.
My bliss was buried in my offspring's grave;—
I liv'd in utter solitude and woe,
Far from all revelry; for sounds of joy
Fell on the stillness of my broken heart
As fall the sun-beams on a plague-struck City,
Which doubly desolate and fearful make
The desolation which their splendor lights!’
‘There is a pride in singularity,
A foolish pride—most paltry pride of all;
For ne'er was excellence, or merit prov'd
By strange behaviour and unsocial ways;—
They shew an emptiness in heart and head,
And wise men should avoid this buffoon art,
Which suits mean Folly in his simplest mood.
Of form and dress let idle Idiots boast:
Chance gives the first—the last will riches bring.
Not so the clothing of th' immortal mind,
Which thought and constant study yield alone.
In mental beauty there is cause for pride:
The Mind—the glorious Mind hath nought to do
With form, with feature, or with modes of dress;
Its riches are as hidden as divine—
Boundless its powers, which can prevail o'er all
The disadvantages of corporal shape,
And lift a Pigmy o'er a Giant's head!’
In strange and desultory fashion thus
Spoke each stern Skeleton—and I mov'd on;
Till, suddenly, another in my path
Stood tall and fearful, and these words pronounc'd:
‘Hark unto tidings of the airless grave!
My body lay as dead within the earth:—
It mov'd not, felt not; neither saw, nor heard;
But still I had a consciousness of life,
Commingled with a dim idea of death:
I knew that I was utterly alone—
Apart from all things living, save the worm,
Whose bravest palace is the well-stor'd tomb.
And I had many dreams—such dreams as come
O'er brains molested by a calenture:
Now seem'd I on a vessel's busy deck,
'Mid waves of fire; until a hurricane
Arose and bore the lofty masts away,
As they were feeble osiers; then the ship
Sank in the flaming billows, and a shriek
Spoke tales of torture—but I felt no pain.
Again I dream'd: and thought me on the top
Of a sky-touching tree, from which I fell—
And falling, snatch'd at every neighb'ring branch,
In hope to cling thereto; but each in turn
Broke in my grasp—and down, and down I went,
With varied motion, till the dream decay'd.
And next came more than visionary grief;
For life appear'd returning to my frame:
My eyelids open'd, but I could not see;
I felt the gnawing of the hungry worms,
And heard them creeping round me, but to move
And crush their myriads was beyond my power:
Then burning thirst assail'd me—but I knew
That no blest liquids sparkled in the grave,
And the dire knowledge parch'd my lips the more:
I tried to speak—but could not, and my pangs
Grew to intolerable agony,
When, in a moment, all the wide earth shook,
And here I wander'd, as thou see'st me now.’
Such was my vision—if, indeed, I dreamt:
But the strange scene, the laugh, the voices, song
So real all appear'd, that, even now,
I cannot think it was a dream alone.

THE SPIRITS OF THE OCEAN:

A POEM.

CANTO I.

The song—the song!—it was warbled by lips
Sweet as whatever the honey-bee sips—
And where?
By the Sea—by the Sea—for no region can be
So fit for a Spirit divine, as the Sea—
Play-ground of the winds, the limitless place
Where they love the white foam of the billows to chase—
'Twas there.
But the song—the song!—by a Spirit 'twas sung,
And these the wild notes o'er the waters that rung:
Such was the song.—But whose the tongue
From which the varied music sprung?
The voice was a Spirit's—but not of the sky;
Nor of grotto, nor vale where merry ouphes lie:
She dwelt not on mountain, she dwelt not in wood,
Nor in murmuring rill, nor in river's bright flood:—
Oh! where to that Spirit of beauty was given
A dwelling, if neither on Earth, nor in Heaven?
She dwelt in the glittering caves of the Deep,
And oft on the foam of the billows would sleep,—
And the billows she slept on appear'd, as they roll'd,
Like the clouds of the air, when all border'd with gold—
She dwelt in the Ocean—a Spirit as bright
As ever yet smil'd in the regions of light.
Scarce had the Spirit clos'd her song,
When from the waters rose a sound,
And words mysterious flow'd along
The billows as they wander'd round:—
And, at the words, a rush of wings,
Loud as the voice of countless springs
On pebbles playing,
Past o'er the Sea, and heavenly sighs,
With tears, cast down from unseen eyes,
Thro' air were straying.
Then a faint splash spread far and wide
O'er all the bosom of the tide;—
Like that we hear by rural pool.
Whene'er across its waters cool
Glad birds their way are winging;
Now all disporting in a ring,
Now dipping in the pool their wing,
And now again upspringing.
Ye marvel, perchance, why so swiftly flew
Such numberless wings at the words that were said?
Oh! well the sad Spirits of Ocean knew
'Twas lowly to worship a young Maiden dead:—
And all that had stray'd
From their watery dwelling—
On mountain-tops laid,
Or the black clouds compelling;
On the winds mounted high,
In forest shade sleeping;
Or on tall trees that sigh
Their wakeful couch keeping,—
Their revels destroy'd and their sweet slumber broken,—
All swiftly return'd as those wild words were spoken.
And deeply, deeply down the Sea
They hurried onward mournfully:—
They past o'er cities which the wave
Had folded in its boundless grave,
And look'd on many a lonely hall
That once rang loud with festival,
And chambers, now in ruins sunk,
Where Beauty smil'd and Love grew drunk:
They saw the sea-horse in his lair,
Nor broke upon his slumbers there;
They past the Monster of the Water,
Whilst resting from his work of slaughter;
Leviathans they mark'd reposing;
They saw the eyes of dolphins closing,
And view'd each lesser tribe that dwells
In Ocean, sleeping in its cells;—
From its fierce lords a moment free—
Those Tyrants of the billow'd Sea.
A palace stands bright
On the wide waters' bed,
Enveloped in light
From ten thousand gems shed:
Its roof is of pearl,
With rare diamonds bestrown,
And coral-wreaths curl
Round its pillars of stone,
More precious than yet
Ever shone 'neath the eyes
Of Beauty, and set
With the ruby's bright dies:
Each cornice and frieze
Is with silver bedight;
Its architraves please
With their porphyry bright:
Of gold is its base,
And its portals display
More charms than the face
Of the sunniest day;—
For on them are trac'd
Forms, of wild love that tell,
In bright purple, rais'd
From the murex' small shell;
In red tints that come
From the Insects of Ind,
Whose dwelling and tomb
Is the thick web they wind;
In yellow and blue,
Intermingled with green,
And ev'ry bright hue
'Neath the vast billows seen.
Here slumbers in a dreamful sleep
A Goddess of some fountain deep;
Whilst o'er her gleams a mortal eye,
Enchanted with her symmetry!
Above, a Giant-form appears,
His furrow'd cheek bedew'd with tears;—
And in his eye a mighty grief
Sits, as disdainful of relief.
A young girl, as the lily pale
That whitens in the midnight gale
The glorious moon beneath,
Hangs on his breast and strives to calm
His spirit by that nameless charm
Which, breath'd from woman's eye and voice,
Might make the dying heart rejoice
And worship even in death!
Far to the right are sylphs, adorning
Their hair with golden flowers,—
Fresh as the blossoms of the Morning,
When dew-drops greet the hours:
And children are disporting round
A lake, where white swans live,
And seem as listening to the sound
Its sparkling waters give.
These, and the charms of mountain, lea,
Of valley, wave and lawn,
Deck those bright portals of the sea,
In radiant colors drawn:—
A Spirit's cunning each display'd—
A Spirit's hand their beauty made.
Hark! a melancholy song
Thro' the water flows along,
Warbled by Sprites that stand before
The Ocean-palace' glittering door:—
The notes are wild and sad the strain,
And this the music of the main:
Such were the mournful words that flow'd
From lips divinely rare,
As round the dome those Spirits stood,
And watch'd its portals fair;
Which, as the plaintive song was sung,
Apart were slowly, gently swung;
And, as they oped, their hinges threw
Strange music on the waters blue,
Which join'd its altering notes to those
That from the throng of Spirits rose:—
One sound would speak of hope betray'd,
The next of beauty's bloom decay'd;
And then a note would rise that told
Of passion wreck'd and love grown cold,
And as it floated on the tide
Each mournful Spirit deeply sigh'd:
Anon, the music in its strain
Told of despair's undying pain,
Of youth and glory doom'd to die,
And heave the wild and bitter sigh
Of Hope's expiring agony:
Then chang'd the notes that told of madness
To those more gentle and less wild,
Warbling of sorrow's speechless sadness,
Of feelings desolate, yet mild;—
But tho' the music varied ever
In each melodious flow,
It told of joy's bland tumults never—
Its sounds were all of woe:—
Tho' loud they rise, tho' gently fall,
A note of sadness runs thro' all.
Widely apart the portals spread,
Whose hinges now no longer shed
Their music on the murmuring Sea,
As wild as music e'er may be;—
But all was stillness, and a light,
Dim as the hues that herald night,
(Those tints crepuscular, obscure
Which to mute thought the gazer lure)
Within, without its shade o'ercast,
And o'er the Ocean's bosom past,—
And all was stirless as the flowers
Of Flora's most sequestered bowers.
Wide ope the portals—Who, with brow
Betokening an undying woe,
Sits there in silence and in gloom,
Aye musing on his changeless doom?
'Tis he—the Rider of the Steed,
The ruler of his fiery speed:
He sits upon a lofty seat,
With countless gems beneath his feet;
Within his eye and o'er his face
As dark a sorrow still hath place
As when he past along the Deep
To wake the Infant from its sleep,
And bore the smiling babe away
Far, far beneath the Ocean-spray.
—And who is he that near him stands,
Attendant on his mute commands,
With eyes that hold as wild a glow
As lightning on the sky can throw,—
With glossy hair, and lips, whose form
Tell that their owner's soul is warm?—
'Tis he—the Child, who late was borne
Along the mighty Ocean's track,
From summit of tall rock forlorn,
Upon the milk-white Courser's back;—
Now waxed to that tumultuous age,
When Passion opes her burning page,
Bids reckless Youth its words admire
And catch a portion of their fire.
As oft upon a Winter's-night
The heavens are black—the stars are bright,—
Tho' dark his eye and dark the hues
That o'er his face their shade transfuse,
Within, within there lurks a spirit
Which oft doth mirthful mood inherit,
Stealing across each wilder throb
Of passion, that hath power to rob
The bosom of its joyous dress,
And turn it to a wilderness.
But who is the Maiden that sits in the hall
Of that Palace of Ocean, the palest of all?
Without motion, or life, and appearing alone
Some statue cut out from a half-livid stone?
Without or a smile, or a beauty to cheer?
Whence came she? await, and ye quickly shall hear,
On an emerald throne, drest in glittering state
And by splendor surrounded, that dead Maiden sate:
Her pale brow was adorn'd with a crown of pure gold,
Where the ruby and topaz were seen to unfold
Their beautiful glories, whose radiance might vie
With the colors of earth—the rich tints of the sky,
When the Lord of the Daylight is hiding his car
In the breast of the waters wild, flowing afar:
A necklace of amber, as bright as was ever
By the Heliads shed over stream of a river,
Glow'd on her shrunk bosom and rendered its chill,
Fix'd paleness sepulchral more death-seeming still,
As flowers that are dying more desolate seem
When fresh verdure round them in beauty doth gleam.
A robe of light azure encircled each limb,
Which made her dull eyes look more ghastly and dim;
And rings of rare price from her withering finger
Seem'd falling, as if all unwilling to linger
Where tints of young blood to their brightness could add
No beauty, and where e'en their splendor look'd sad:
But still o'er her eyes and her face and her neck
Of loveliness rare might be traced the pale wreck,
And the hair that escap'd from her glittering crown,
And far as the gem-cover'd pavement flow'd down,
Still kept its rich colors, all glossy and bright,
O'ersprinkled with ringlets, divine to the sight:—
It seem'd as if Death from his whole prey forbore
To make the half-ruin his horrors shew more;
Or else, ere the work of destruction was done,
The Tyrant bewail'd at the ruin begun;—
Then suddenly ceas'd the fair form to devour,
And left it a mark of his pity and power!
The word was spoken—to the ground
Each Spirit that stood weeping round
Bent sorrowful and slow:
Again arose that music wild,
And lowly down the Master's Child
Inclin'd his lofty brow;
Whilst the sad Parent, speechless, gaz'd
On eyes that could no more be rais'd;—
And as he looked, a long-drawn sigh
Betray'd his bosom's agony,—
To think the faded form he view'd
Was once with loveliness endued,
Whose coral lip and azure eye
Could make the rudest gazer sigh;—
To think that she, who, when the moon
Made night more beautiful than noon,
So lov'd to mark its radiance fair
And watch her rival of the air,
Whilst ever flow'd the notes along
Of Fancy's wildly-warbled song,
To think that lov'd and loveliest maid,
So oft upon his bosom laid,
Who seem'd commission'd from the skies
To bear to Earth a Paradise,—
Like rainbows should have past away,—
As beautiful, but frail as they!
Oh, Woman! mortal as thou art,
Supreme thy triumph o'er the heart!
Thine eye and cheek and magic lip
(Where bees might well their honey sip)
Make man forget his soul was given
To worship a far different Heaven:—
Nor Man alone—for we are told,
In Chronicles of days of old
And many a Bard's romantic story,
That Gods have left their seats of glory
And scoff'd at Heaven's immortal rest,
To languish on a Maiden's breast:—
And wisely scoff'd—for earth, nor sky
Hath charms that may with woman's vie,
When beauty brightens o'er her form
And youth makes all her feelings warm!
Return, my Muse!—The Spirits knelt,
But worshipp'd not with praise, or pray'r;
Sad sighs and tears told all they felt,
And silence—near akin to care:—
And all look'd sorrowful—save one—
'Twas he-the Master's only Son:
Tho' long and low he stoop'd beneath
The crown which deck'd a brow of death,
There was a laughter in his eye,
Wild as the stars thro' heaven that fly,
Showing strange thoughts, and plainly telling
With love, with love his heart was swelling;—
And, whilst he humbly bent the knee
To that pale Maiden of the Sea,
A smile upon his kindling cheek,
(For smiles can eloquently speak)
Told that, altho' his form inclin'd
In worship there, his chainless mind
Had taken to her wings divine,
And bow'd before a lovelier shrine.
Then rose a Spirit, at a bound,
From off the pearl-besprinkled ground,
(Pearls that made the earth appear
Beauteous as a mirror clear!)
And, with her tresses, swept away
The tears that on her eyelids lay;
With voice harmonious silence broke,
And these the gentle words she spoke:
The song was sung: the Sprite again
To worship with the rest return'd:—
Rose the great Master's offspring then,
And all his face with fancy burn'd:
His cheeks were flush'd, his eyes were fill'd
With light that love alone can give;
His beating heart with feelings thrill'd
That only rise where love doth live:
He smil'd on all, and with a voice
That made each beauteous breast rejoice—
That every Sprite of woe beguil'd,
Thus Reumon spoke—the Spirit's Child:
He spoke: and away, on the bright wings of hope,
Young Reumon hath passed from the dome of the Deep:
The worship is done; the gay portals are ope,
And forth from the palace the fair Spirits sweep;—
With smiles and with tears, thcy all hasten along,
And converse in the sweet notes of beautiful song;
They hie to their revels on earth, or in air,
And give to the light winds their minstrelsy rare.
But where is the Child of the Spirit supreme?
Where now doth his eye in its brilliancy beam?
Oh! wherever 'tis glancing in brightness around;
Wherever the tone of his deep voice may sound;
Wherever his light feet in ecstasy rove;—
'Tis sure by the side of his own lady Love.
But the Lord of the Deep? As the sorrowful willow,
Whose branches bend over some rivulet's bank
And love on its bright stream their verdure to pillow
Till their furthermost leaves become wither'd and dank,
Tho' the current should fail, tho' its freshness should die,
And its smooth bed forsaken all desolate lie,
Still reclines as before and as faithful as ever,
As tho' the lost stream had deserted it never:
The great Spirit thus o'er the dead Maiden hung
As fondly as when her rare beauties were young:—
Tho' the glow of her lip, tho' the bloom of her cheek
And her eyes, whose blue light could a wild language speak,
Were all faded and gone, still the sad Spirit lov'd,
Nor e'er from the side of the dead Maiden mov'd.
And still the fair Sprites of the far-foaming Sea
Would frequent abandon their revels of glee,
And 'mid sounds of strange music, right mournful, tho' sweet,
Would weep as they knelt at the dead Maiden's feet.
Enough of sighs, enough of tears:—
Bring me my favorite lyre that cheers!
Now vanish gloom and vanish sadness;—
Ye plaintive sounds! away, away:—
Give me the harp that speaks of gladness!
I die for a more cheerful lay.
But, as the light strings gayly move,
Still let their music breathe of love;—
Of love, sweet love and woman's eye
And beauty's bloom melodiously.—
Ye musings, hence! that mirth destroy;
I strike the chords that wake to joy!

CANTO II.

Oh, Heaven! how beauteous is the glow
Which Morning on thy front doth throw;
When sky and earth and air and sea
Breathe incense and divinity!
But far more beautiful the tint
Which Midnight on thy brow doth print;
When moon and stars, divinely fair,
Glitter in all their grandeur there,
And Earth beneath thy face lies spread,
Tranquil as thou art overhead!
The moon roll'd on, in cloudless glory,
Beneath a wilderness of blue,
And all along the mountains hoary
Flung a pale garb of silvery hue:
One little twinkling star, alone,
At distance in her pathway shone,
And smiling worlds, sublime as high,
Were scatter'd thro' the azure sky:
And as the bright Queen swept above,
(The image of continual love)
She seem'd a splendid mirror, sent
To charm the stars thro' which it went,
By holding out its bosom fair
For them to see their beauty there.
Nature had all her music hush'd,
Save the wide Ocean's ceaseless roar;
Whose foaming billows eager rush'd
To kiss the pebbles on its shore,
And dash'd against each lofty rock,
As tho' its adamant to mock.
So calm, so beautiful, so bright,
So full of sweetness was the night,
One could have almost wish'd that morn
Would ne'er again those skies adorn.
Oh! countless were the things divine
Which view'd the moon-beams round them shine;
But loveliest was a girl that laid
Within the brightness which they made
In sleep, as stirless and profound
As the o'erpow'ring silence round.
Her dark locks she had careless flung
O'er her fair arms unsullied white,
And ringlets on her forehead hung,
Nor hid its matchless beauty quite:
Tho' clos'd her eyes, the very lid
And the long lashes that conceal'd
Told how divine the orbs they hid,
The orbs themselves tho' not reveal'd;—
And those who gaz'd upon them clos'd,
Whilst the sweet Maid in bliss repos'd,
Might swear the lovely lights below
Were black as midnight's darkest brow,
But fill'd with living fire, that turn'd
All hearts to passion where it burn'd.
And next her lip—but wherefore strive
To sing the magic of her face?
The Painter's fancy ne'er could give
Such beauty to his forms of grace,
And least of all may tuneful verse
The story of her charms rehearse.
And slept the Maid alone?
Blush not, Beauty! thou wast born
For not an hour of life forlorn—
The heart's thine only throne!
And there thou reignst o'er smiles and tears—
Queen of a world of joys and fears,
That all around thee cling and hover
Till youth and love and all are over:—
No plaintive tone—away—away:—
A blessing on each Minstrel gay!
The Maiden's head was pillow'd on
The bosom of the Spirit's Son:
They were alone—and Reumon kept
His eyes on Laura, as she slept,
And prais'd the gentle pow'r that blest
His lov'd one with such peaceful rest.
And then he look'd around, above,
And commun'd with the stars on high:—
All things on earth did speak of love,
And all the air and all the sky:—
He rais'd his voice, and every word
By Spirits of the Deep was heard,—
And forth they came, and one and all,
Obedient to his powerful call;
And some did tune harmonious lyres,
As o'er the sleeping girl they hung,
And, as they lightly pressed the wires,
'Twas thus their answering sisters sung:
Thus sang the Spirits:—then advanc'd,
With gentle pace, a sister band,
Which round the sleeping Maiden danc'd,
With foot to foot and hand in hand:
Their garments in the moonlight gleam'd,
And brighter than that moonlight seem'd,
All radiant ever, and no shade
By their etherial forms was made;—
And difficult it were to trace
The outline of their form and face;—
And scarce could one that gaz'd declare
Which the fine Spirits, which the air.
They parted then, and each upheld
A thread that seem'd of moon-beams wrought;—
From the fair Moon's own breast impell'd
And by those beauteous Spirits caught;—
And then in mazy rounds they went,
Whilst music sweet divinely sounded;—
Now stood erect, to earth then bent,
Then up again in concord bounded,—
And still around their footsteps light
Was drawn the thread of moon-beams bright.—
Awhile they danc'd, awhile they sang,
And music soft harmonious rang
In sweet reply, and air and sea
Seem'd hallow'd by their minstrelsy.
“Away, gay Sprites! wild Reumon said:
At once the warbling Spirits fled;—
Their voice, their lyres were heard no more,
And all was silent as before.
The Maiden woke and vow'd that ne'er
Did vision so divine appear;
And gaily said that, as she slept,
A host of Spirits o'er her swept,
And sang beneath the virgin Moon
Unto their lyres melodious tune;
That others danc'd in beauteous guise,
Then vanish'd from her stedfast eyes:—
And Reumon smil'd—and fondly broke
With joyful lip her gentle speech;
Of love and pleasure wildly spoke,
And the rare tales that Poet's teach:—
And Laura listen'd to the voice
Of him she worshipp'd, and the eye
Of Bard did never so rejoice,—
In watching each bright sphere on high
And all the glories that take birth
From Ocean, or the wondrous Earth,—
As did that Maiden's, whilst she gaz'd
On Reumon, as her charms he prais'd,
Vowing that words of love were ne'er
Breath'd into lovelier maiden's ear.—
I said she worshipp'd—and her heart
To his was bound by fetters strong;
And words of his could e'er impart
More charms to her, than syren's song,
In days of old, to those whose oar
Approach'd Sicania's dang'rous shore.
'Tis sung the Hamadryades
Depended on their kindred trees;
With them to life did slowly spring,
Divine beyond imagining;
Bloom'd as they flourish'd, and decay'd
When their lov'd boughs in dust were laid:—
And even thus the Maiden young
On Reumon's love for being hung;
And youth and bloom would soon have died
Could aught have made that love subside.
Away!—it was an hour sublime,
When Joy shook hands with passing Time;
And light and love fill'd all the scene
O'er which the bright Moon roll'd the Queen.
The Lovers drank of Passion's cup,
And every feeling wild was up
High in the breast—and soul and sense
Were lost in bliss divine—intense!
Their pulse mov'd quick, their hearts beat high
In all Love's sweet variety;—
Hours swift away as moments flew,
And, one by one, the stars withdrew;—
Yet still on softer couch than down
Lay Reumon—
But ye quaintly frown!
Your stoic thoughts ye need not tell;
For I do know their tenor well.
Aye, frown, ye Grave!—let Wisdom's crowd
Rail against Love's bright self aloud,
And term him, o'er and o'er again,
A wild chimera of the brain;
Still will he reign, to charm the soul,
And all must yield to his control;—
And those who love are wiser far
Than all pale Mammon's votaries are—
For what were Earth, or Heaven above
Without the thoughts—the fire of love?
By Phœbus' lyre Megara's wall
Was render'd passing musical,—
And Love can bid a heart of stone
Assume a wild, impassion'd tone;
Each thought of gloom at once destroy,
And make the soul all feeling—joy!
Lo! again the Morning bright
Shines in her celestial height,
Smiling from eastern mountain's crest
On night, retiring to the west:—
Early sun-beams gleam around;
Sparkling dew-drops kiss the ground;—
And every branch of every tree
Gives token of returning glee.
The air grows warm, and now advance
The insects in their mazy dance;
The flowers assume a lovelier hue
And all their odors bland renew;
In deeper tints the skies are clad,
Enlight'ning all the waters glad,
And Earth and Heaven their charms display
In honor of the rising Day.
Still Reumon, by young Laura's side,
Ador'd his dear, unrivall'd bride;
Nor heeded time, nor light, nor space
In gazing on her peerless face;
But fondly linger'd near to mark
The changes of its beauty—Hark!
A trumpet's loud and deaf'ning clang,
Tumultuous, in the distance rang.
'Twas War's first note, announcing grief to come,
When tears should answer to the muffle-drum,
And Love's pale cheek be pillow'd on the sod
Where once her Warrior and her Hero trod,
Till the stroke fell and it became a grave
For hearts to bleed o'er and for tears to lave.
The trumpet blew—and, soon, from land to land
Past dauntless millions, arm'd with spear and brand;
And helm and cuirass gleam'd o'er many a field
From heads and bosoms that ne'er deign'd to yield:—
And haughty steeds, that shar'd their riders' lust
For blood and conquest, spurn'd the subject dust,
And neigh'd exultingly, whilst gun and sword
Did their base bidding at a Tyrant's word.
All Earth was terror:—streams of sable gore
Died the deep sands of each contested shore—
Whole cities blaz'd, and Ruin, far and wide,
Display'd the folly of Man's hell-sprung pride.
The beauty of the world was soon destroy'd,
And Nature's thrones became a blighted void;—
Where verdure laugh'd, and fields of dark'ning gold,
Beneath the pinions of the breezes, roll'd;
Where flow'rs look'd forth upon the tearful morn,
Drest in their colors bright and newly born;
Where streamlets sweetly murmur'd in the sun
And proudly seem'd 'mid scenes so fair to run;
—All, all grew desolate; nor could the ground
Supply with food the beasts that wander'd round;
But all in hunger made their piteous moan,
And the Earth satisfied the worm alone.
Wild grief shed burning tears:—where late the sire
Had seen his young hope, with an eye of fire,
Demand the strife sublime, was now a tomb,
O'er which the father mourn'd his offspring's doom.
Old matrons were made childless; beauteous eyes
Of girls upbraided the unpitying skies,
Or wept in resignation, till the cheek
Grew cold with thoughts that have no pow'r to speak.
Strife rose and spread, till every hill and plain
Groan'd with the loathsome weight of warriors slain,
And Death swept onward in his shadowy car
To feast triumphant at the heels of War!
If such the Madness, such the Guilt,
That gloried in the blood they spilt;
If quiet thus the land forsook,
And tumult held unbounded sway,—
Oh! well might Love and Beauty look
For happier climates far away,
Where peace and joy again might greet
The silence of their blest retreat,
And the glad hours in pleasure go,
Unruffled by one thought of woe.
Vile weeds will hide the clearest stream,
And dust obscure the greenest earth;
And mist will dim the brightest beam
That ever from the Moon had birth:—
And scenes of terror aye dispel
The dreams that round young Beauty dwell,
And woe and death can ever blight
The magic of Love's strange delight.
A land of bliss, a home of quiet,
Far from the world's unhallow'd riot;
Where earth is green and skies are clear,
And Nature's music greets the ear,
Thrown out from waters and from grove,
Is the sole spot that's fit for love.
—And such a sweet and peaceful clime,
(Replete with scenes and sounds sublime,)
Was that to which wild Reumon bore
The Maiden beautiful and young—
By mortal eyes ne'er hail'd before,
And never yet by Minstrel sung—
A land of love, a land of glee,
Right fit for Passion's ecstasy!
On the sea-shore the Maiden stood
And look'd upon the boundless flood,
Which, far as her bright eyes could trace,
Roll'd foaming, with majestic grace,
Deep—deep, around,
As if no bound
Were near to stop its glorious pace.
'Twas now the hour that Reumon vow'd
Should see his Love forsake the strand
Where war and tumult rang aloud,
To seek a fair and quiet land.
That hour had past:—her cheek grew pale
And strength and hope began to fail,—
For Reumon came not, and afar
The ceaseless din she heard of war,
Which nearer and yet nearer drew,
Until the warriors met her view—
Cloth'd all in strongly-tempered steel,
With plume to helm and spur to heel.
They mark'd her well, and paus'd awhile,
Delighted with a form so fair,
And then began to fawn and smile
And told her of her beauty rare:
She trembled—and ne'er yet did bird
Whose music in the air is heard,
When close pursued by hungry hawk,
So long for refuge safe and nigh,
Wherein his ravenous ire to balk
And right secure in covert lie,—
As Laura for her Reumon brave
To bear her o'er the bounding wave,
Far from the warriors fiercely stern
That round her murmur'd all in glee,
As pleas'd the terror to discern
Of Maid so passing fair as she,—
And every moment nearer came
To question of her home and name,
Looking, as they around her rang'd
And each with each fierce looks exchang'd,
Like fiends, whose very touch can blight,
Surrounding some fair form of light.
They came,—and one, with iron clasp,
Enclos'd her in his hated grasp:
She rais'd her voice:—“Oh, Reumon mine!
“If one kind thought of me be thine;—
“If love, if vows have ought to bind—
“Let thy rare Spirits mount the wind!”—
Listen, listen—music gay
Floats upon its airy way;
Golden pinions gleam afar,
Sparkling as with gem and star;
Swiftly, swiftly, sound and song
Come the charmed air along,
And Spirits six
Their voices mix,
Flying, flying as they sing
And a light bark with them bring,
With golden sails
And painted sides,
To kiss the gales
And greet the tides:
Falling, they upon the billow
Lay the bark, as 'twere a pillow
Fit for thing so beautiful;
Rosy garlands then they throw
On the nimble vessels prow,
And sweet flow'rs that fairies cull.
The Spirits warbled—whilst they sung
As from the earth young Reumon sprung,
High in the air a weapon whirl'd,
And to the dust the warriors hurl'd:—
Then gently clasp'd his Laura dear,
And bade her not to weep, or fear.
They left the ground:—the Sprites decay'd
Amid the music that they made,
And, onward by the breezes sent,
Away, away the light bark went.
The wondering Chieftains uprose from the plain,
And murmur'd of vengeance—the murmur was vain;
Nor the Maid, nor the Child of the Spirit shall stand
Again on those Warriors' desolate land:—
With a frown on his brow, each retir'd to his home,
To muse on new combat and glory to come.
Meanwhile o'er the tranquil sea
Past the light bark merrily:—
It cut the water with a speed,
Whose swiftness might all thought exceed;
Nor even left a fleeting track
Upon the billows' stately back,
Which mov'd unruffled still and fast,
As nought above their height had past.—
The light bark flew, nor ought controll'd
The tenor of its arrowy course,—
Swift as a leaf, when onward roll'd
By all the winds' tumultuous force;—
Its painted prow right gayly shone;—
Its sails upon the air were thrown;—
And such a thing minute and gay
It look'd upon its nimble way,
That those who from afar beheld
Its beauty o'er the billows glide,—
By heavenly hands unseen impell'd,
That mov'd around its glitt'ring side,—
Might deem 'twas e'en the Nautilus
Careering o'er the Ocean thus,
All haste to greet the Halcyon's nest,
Constructed on the water's breast,
Once more from travel to repose
And strive to sooth its lov'd-one's woes. —
“How merrily,” young Reumon said,
As on the painted vessel sped,
“Doth my brave bark its pathway trace
“Along the ruffled Ocean's face!—
“A thing more beautiful and swift
“Than ever the dark billows saw
“Across their swelling bosoms drift,
“Obedient to the steersman's law.
“My dark-eyed Love! 'twas made by Sprites
“That move thro' Ocean, as the lights
“Of Heaven on high—'twas made to sweep
“With my dear Beauty o'er the Deep,
“And bear her from an unblest soil,
“Where all was tumult and turmoil,
“Unto a bright and matchless Isle,
“That far across the waves doth smile,
“Array'd in loveliness divine—
“Fair Love! that Island home is mine:—
“I bade the Spirits who do dwell
“Within the Mermaid's coral cell
“Bedeck it all in loveliest guise,
“To charm my Laura's radiant eyes;—
“And they have made it almost vie
“With the rare glory of the sky,
“And fill'd it all with forms as fair
“As those that revel in the air,
“Or skim the sea, or haunt the shade,
“Of leafy grove and forest glade:
“But beauteous as those forms may be,
“Not one may e'er compare with thee,
“And the blest Isle will own a Queen
“Unrivall'd as its matchless scene!”
“How blissfully,” the Maiden said,
As swiftly on the light bark sped,
“Will pass the feather-footed hours
“In that fair Island's lovely bowers!
“How passing sweet 'twill be to list
“To all the sounds which there exist,
“In whisp'ring streams, that wind about
“O'er flow'ry vale and gentle hill;
“In strains, from every grove sent out
“By birds that love the woodland still,
“And, most of all, in song and tune
“Of Spirits, floating 'neath the moon!
“How sweet to wander, side by side,
“Along the banks of each bright tide;
“On verdant fields, that give to view
“Many a flow'rs imperial hue;
“To rest by moolight, in the grove,
“In slumbers, fill'd with dreams of love!
“Now hie thee on, my nimble bark!
“I long that Island fair to mark;—
“Too fast to such a beauteous scene
“Thou canst not bear its happy Queen.”
And fast—and fast, with motion deft,
The bounding waves the vessel cleft;
And whilst it kept its rapid path,
They wail'd around it, as in wrath
That thing so slight, from coast to coast,
Should dare to brave their mingled host.
It flew, as it had wings and life
To bear it thro' the billows strife,—
And dash'd away along their foam,
As anxious to its bourn to come.
It flies—it flies: the Lovers reach
The happy Island's tranquil beach
And quit the vessel, which again
Glides swiftly o'er the weltering main:—
It bounds away, all life and light,
With speed of unimagin'd might;
The Lovers watch its rapid course
Along the murmuring waters hoarse,
Until it gains its native spray,
And, in the distance, fades away.
Then hied they from the glorious strand
And quickly pac'd its glitt'ring sand,
O'er which were scatter'd shell and gem,
Each fit to grace a diadem;
(A diadem work'd out to press
A brow of regal loveliness;)
Or, sparkling ever, hang to deck
The rarest maiden's blushing neck.—
They hasten'd on, and soon were met
By forms of heavenly mould;—
Forms that the eye may ne'er forget
If once it doth behold:
Their limbs were light; their eyes were blue;
Their cheeks were all of rosy hue,—
And veins of azure, small and bright,
Career'd along their bosoms white—
Rich as the sky, when partly seen
Thro' clouds of pure and snow-like sheen.
And those who gaz'd upon their tresses,
Responding to the winds' caresses,
Might deem they had received the kiss
Of Crathis and of Sybaris,
And, wash'd in either fountain fair,
Had gain'd their matchless colors there.
And sweetest songs they merrily sung
To greet their Monarch aud Mistress young;
And round them joyfully danc'd along,
In concord with their heavenly song:—
“Oh! welcome, fair Maiden of distant earth,
“To beautiful scenes of passion and mirth:
“Oh! welcome, dear Maiden—approach and mark
“The land thou hast reach'd in thy glittering bark.”
And lightly on the Maiden mov'd
Beside the step of him she lov'd:
Thro' scenes of beauty they pursued
Their flowery way, and soon ascended
A mount, that in the Island stood
And almost with the bright clouds blended;
They paus'd upon its middle steep
And turn'd to gaze on all around,—
And scarce the Maid her sense could keep
For rapture at the sight she found:
For, far beneath, three vallies green
In all their verdant pride were seen,
Upon whose breasts sweet flow'rs arose,
As bright as e'er the Morning view'd
Beneath her glorious eye unclose
And smile upon the sun-beams rude,
That love to quit their native sky
On beds so beautiful to lie:
And odorous shrubs their incense shed
Upon the earth, and thro' the air
Such sweet perfumes unceasing spread,
One might have grown inebriate there
From scenting fragrancy so rare.—
Thro' each green valley's bright abode
Streamlets, for ever murmuring, flow'd,
Transparent as the light that lies
In wicked Beauty's dangerous eyes;
And o'er them hung each graceful tree
That loves beside the wave to be,
In morning dew all wet and dipp'd,
Which slowly from their branches dripp'd;—
And ere the drops the earth could print
They drank the passing sun-beam's tint,—
So that the gazing eye, deceiv'd,
Might, for a moment, have believ'd
The glittering boughs did doubtless throw
Bright amber on the ground below:
And, midst the herbage and the bloom
Of flowers, that mingled their perfume,
Wide branches forth did proudly shoot
Far distant from their native root,
All loaded with delicious fruit,
Of every die and every shape
That rich Pomona's children wear:—
Some scarcely from the leaves escape,
But slumber in their beauty there;
Whilst others boldly darken forth
And dare t' assert their matchless worth,
And look upon the flowers, that smile
Beneath them, on the green below,
As if they thought to prove the while
How deeplier beautiful their glow:
In other lands, in other climes
Fruits ripen at their several times;
But here together all display'd
Their hues, in gay confusion laid,
And yellow, purple, green and red
All—all at once shone overhead.
Beyond the vales fair hills appear'd
And gently up their foreheads rear'd:—
Some yellow all with flowery dress;
Others of darker loveliness;—
And some were crown'd by meeting trees,
From whose thick boughs the wild birds sung
Songs, whose melodious flow might please
The ear that heard their tuneful tongue
Much as the sound that waters give,
In falling ever, those who live
Where, on the scarcely-breathing Day,
The sun pours down his burning ray,
And parches all things with his beam,
Save the bright bosom of the stream.
Then round the mount young Laura past:—
At every step new glories greeted
Her sparkling eyes, and loud and fast
Her lips sweet words of joy repeated.—
And last she view'd a sloping plain
Sweep from the mountain to the main,
Whereon were sporting deer and fawn,
And timid sheep and young gazelle,
With every beast that loves to dwell
On flowery mead and grassy lawn.
Beyond the green and fertile wold
In majesty the Ocean roll'd,
By rocks that almost seem'd to pry
Into the wide, cerulean sky,
As fiery passion dares to trace
The beauty of a virgin's face:—
The waves roll'd on and mix'd their sound
With that which floated far around,
Harmoniously, from vale and hill—
Given out by glad bird's tuneful bill;—
And wave and bird their voice combine
With all the minstrelsy divine
Of heavenly song and heavenly lyre,
Resounding with their rarest fire,
To praise the Spirit's glorious child
And her he lov'd—the Maiden wild.
Such the blest Isle. And now the night
Comes in her starry garment bright,
And Reumon and his lov'd-one hie
Within their Island-home to lie,
And fall from passion's tumults deep
Into a long and quiet sleep.
'Twas in the centre of a grove,
Fit for the silent hours of love—
Its floor was laid with marble, stain'd
With colors in fantastic mode,
And carpets on the ground remain'd
That might have grac'd a God's abode—
All soft as down, and each gave way
At every passing footstep gay:
With radiant hues the ceilings glow'd,
And many a matchless figure show'd;—
Each trac'd by some impassion'd hand,
That could creation's power command,
And unto painted beauty give
The magic of the forms that live,—
And draw the Ocean, Earth and Sky
Divine as in reality.
By every glittering casement's side,
Rich tapestry hung flowing down,
And, doubling all the chambers pride,
Along the walls such Mirrors shone
As Beauty loves (nor doth she sin)
To see herself reflected in.
The Maiden strayed thro' room and hall,
And look'd delighted upon all:—
Then, full of pleasure, she reclin'd
On Reumon's breast her glowing cheek;
Recall'd each beauteous scene to mind
And strove her boundless joy to speak:
Whilst he replied to every word
That her enchanting lips preferr'd
In tones divine—and, as she spoke,
With kisses oft her accents broke:
He lov'd the varied charms to view
That rapture o'er her features threw,
And every moment nearer still
He clasp'd her to his heart, until,
By slumber's gentle power opprest,
She sunk within his arms to rest!
Then sounds arose:—the Sprites that kept
Their revels, as the Maiden slept,
And danc'd and sang, thro' all the grove,
The dance and song that Spirits love,
Tun'd all their lyres to gentle numbers
To sooth the happy Maiden's slumbers,
And as they notes harmonious play'd,
These the gay words their sweet lips said:
The music dies—the song is sung—
Their lyres away the Sprites have flung;—
They hasten from the grove's retreat,
And tread the earth with airy feet;
Hie to their beds of gentle rest,
Recumbent on the Island's breast,
And soon each joyful Sprite reposes
In beauty on a couch of roses.
And, my wild Muse! 'tis time for thee
To cease thy careless minstrelsy,
And hie to rest with Sprite and maid,
In slumber on their Island laid.—
Away to sleep,—or else thy song
May haply seem too wild and long;
For Critic stern doth little heed
Things that the bounds of truth exceed,
And names of Sprites the beauteous theme
At best a vain and idle dream,
Bred in the frenzied Poet's thought
And madly into music wrought—
The music of the tuneful verse
Which his impassion'd lips rehearse.—
Then furl thy wing—nor evermore
Of Spirits be thy artless lore;
Or, if such themes be still thy choice,
Sing with a less erratic voice!
Come, my wild Muse! from sky and land,
Wherein thou rov'st with magic wand,
That gives all things a blissful guise
Which meet thine ever wandering eyes—
Bless but a moment more my numbers,
And then resume thy fleeting slumbers,
Soon to awake, renew'd again,
And ponder on a loftier strain!
Oh! fast as sound the moments fly
When loving lips and eyes are nigh,—
And hours and years mov'd swiftly on
Within the Island's sunny clime,
Where joy and love for ever shone
Upon the tearless course of time:—
And the young Maid, as Spirits fair,
Still reign'd the peerless Beauty there;—
And he—the Ocean-Spirit's Child—
For ever on his lov'd-one smil'd,
And gave unto her wondering view
Things that till then no mortal knew;—
The mysteries of Sea and Heaven,
The language of their Dwellers bright—
All to her growing sense were given;
And songs by day and dreams by night,—
By Spirits sung, by Sprites inspir'd,—
For ever her young fancy fir'd.
Theirs was a love that could not die—
All free from Sorrow's tear, or sigh;
A feeling passionate, whose power
Alloy might never prove,—
But made their happy Island-bower
A Paradise of Love!
And, all alone, thro' grove and shade
Of foliage by each woodland glade,
They wander'd oft, when vanish'd Day
Left Night to her sublime array
Of stars, that love her brow to press—
Each one a world of loveliness!
And, frequent, when the moonlight pale
Smil'd radiance on the fragrant vale,
They lay in bliss divine and deep—
Lull'd by the songs of Sprites to sleep.
If such their love—oh! wonder not
That all beside they soon forgot;
Felt not a wish to change, or roam,
And never left their Island-home.
And would ye fain question where now is the dwelling
Of those of whose deeds my wild lay hath been telling?
Of the dead Maid that reign'd in the palace of Ocean?
Of the Spirit that lov'd—the proud Lord of the Deep?
Of the beautiful Sprites that have paid her devotion,
And oft have been seen in my strange song to weep?
If Reumon yet live—if his Laura yet smile,
All loveliness still, in their favorite Isle?
And where on the breast of the limitless Sea
That Island of beauty and verdure may be?—
—Oh! seek not wild Fancy's sweet dreams to dispel,
Nor strive the gay thoughts of the Poet to quell:—
From fable to truth, oh! how dull the transition—
—'Tis foolish to search for the things of a vision!