A Sicilian Story :: :: University of Virginia Library

It may be that the rhymes I bring to thee
(An idle offering, Beauty,) are my last:
Therefore, albeit thine eye may never cast
Its light on them, 'tis fit thine image be
Allied unto my song; for silently
Thou may'st connect the present with the past.
'Tis fit, for Saturn now is hurrying fast,
And thou may'st soon be nothing, ev'n to me.
Be this the record then of pleasant hours
Departed, when beside the river shaded
I walk'd with thee, gazing my heart away,
And, from the sweetest of your garden flowers,
Stole only those which on your bosom faded.
O, why has happiness so short a day!

“Nunc scio quid sit amor.”

I.

There is a spirit within us, which arrays
The thing we doat upon with colourings
Richer than roses—brighter than the beams
Of the clear sun at morning, when he flings
His showers of light upon the peach, or plays
With the green leaves of June, and strives to dart
Into some great forest's heart,
And scare the sylvan from voluptuous dreams.
There is a spirit that comes upon us when
Boyhood is gone,—before we rank as men,
Before the heart is canker'd, and before
We lose or cast away that innocent feeling
That gives life all its freshness. Never more
May I feel this, and yet the times have been

I have seen love in burning beauty stealing
O'er a young cheek and run the bright veins through,
And light up, like a heaven, eyes of such blue
As in the summer skies was never seen.
I was an idler then, and life was green,
And so I loved and languished, and became
A worshipper of the boy-god's fickle flame,
And did abase myself before him: he
Laugh'd outright at my fierce credulity.

II.

And yet, at times, the recollection's sweet,
And the same thought that pleased me haunts me still,
Chief at the hour when day and evening meet,
And twilight, shadowy magician! calls
Shapes unsubstantial from his cloudy halls,
And ranks them out before us 'till they fill
The mind with things forgotten. Valley and hill,
The air, the dashing ocean, the small rill,
The waving wood and the evanishing sky,
Tow'rd this subduing of the soul, ally
Their pow'rs, and stand forth a resistless band.
If then the elements league against us, and
The heart rebel against the mind's command,

Why—we must sink before these sickly dreams
Until the morning comes, and sterner themes
Do fit us through this stormy world to sail.
Farewell to love; and yet, 'tis woven in my tale.

III.

A story (still believed through Sicily,)
Is told of one young girl who chose to die
For love. Sweet ladies, listen and believe,
If that ye can believe so strange a story,
That woman ever could so deeply grieve,
Save she who from Leucadia's promontory
Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy,
(Ungrateful he to work her such annoy,)
But time hath, as in sad requital, given
A branch of laurel to her, and some bard
Swears that a heathen god or goddess gave
Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven:
And now, at times, when gloomy tempests roar
Along the Adriatic, in the wave
She dips her plumes, and on the watery shore
Sings as the love-craz'd Sappho sung of yore.

IV.

One night a masque was held within the walls
Of a Sicilian palace: the gayest flowers
Cast life and beauty o'er the marble halls,
And, in remoter spots, fresh waterfalls
That streamed half hidden by sweet lemon bowers
A low and silver-voiced music made:
And there the frail perfuming woodbine strayed,
Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough,
And as in female trust seemed there to grow,
Like woman's love 'midst sorrow flourishing:
And every odorous plant and brighter thing
Born of the sunny skies and weeping rain,
That from the bosom of the spring
Starts into life and beauty once again,
Blossom'd; and there in walks of evergreen,
Gay cavaliers, and dames high-born and fair,
Wearing that rich and melancholy smile
That can so well beguile
The human heart from its recess, were seen;
And lovers, full of love or studious care,
Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air,
And spirits that never till the morning sleep.
And, far away, the mountain Etna flung

Eternally its pyramid of flame
High as the heav'ns, while from its heart there came
Hollow and subterranean noises deep,
And all around the constellations hung
Their starry lamps, lighting the midnight sky,
As to do honour to that revelry.

V.

Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowd
Sick at the soul with sorrow: her quick eye
Ran restless thro' the throng, and then she bowed
Her head upon her breast, and one check'd sigh
Breath'd sweet reproach 'gainst her Italian boy,
The dark-eyed Guido whom she lov'd so well:
(O how he loved Sicilian Isabel!)
Why came he not that night to share the joy
That sate on every face, and from her heart
Bid fear and all, aye, all but hope, depart—
For hope is present happiness: Shapes and things
That wear a beauty like the imperial star
Of Jove, or sunset clouds or floating dews,
And like an arch of promise shine afar,
When near cast off their skiey colourings,
And all their rainbow-like and radiant hues

Are shadowy mockeries and deceptive fire.
But Hope! the brightest of the passionate choir
That thro' the wide world range,
And touch with passing fingers that most strange
And various instrument, the human heart,—
Ah! why didst thou so soon from Isabel depart?

VI.

Dark Guido came not all that night, while she
(His young and secret bride) sate watching there,
Pale as the marble columns. She search'd around
And 'round, and sicken'd at the revelry,
But if she heard a quick or lighter bound
Half 'rose and gazed, and o'er her tearful sight
Drew her white hand to see his raven hair
Come down in masses like the starless night,
And 'neath each shortened mask she strove the while
To catch his sweet inimitable smile,
Opening such lips as the boy Hylas wore;
(He whom the wild and wanton Nymphs of yore
Stole from Alcmena's Son:) But one and then
Another passed, and bowed, and passed again.
She looked on all in vain: at last more near
A figure came and, whispering in her ear,

Asked in a hoarse and quick and bitter tone,
Why there she sate alone,
The mistress of the feast, while all passed by
Unwelcomed even by her wandering eye.
It was her brother's voice—Leoni!—no,
It could not be that he would jeer her so.
He breathed a name; 'twas ‘Guido’:—tremblingly
She sate and shrank from his inquiring eye,
But hid the mighty secret of her soul.
Again—ah! then she heard her terrible doom
Sound like a prophecy, and to her room
Like a pale solitary shade she stole.

VII.

And now to tell of him whose tongue had gained
The heart of Isabel. 'Twas said, he came
(And he was of a line of fame)
From Milan where his father perished.
He was the last of all his race, and fled
To haughty Genoa where the Dorias reigned:
A mighty city once, tho' now she sleeps
Amidst her amphitheatre of hills,
Or sits in silence by her dashing deeps,
And not a page in living story fills.

He had that look which poets love to paint,
And artists fashion, in their happier mood,
And budding girls when first their dreamings faint
Shew them such forms as maids may love. He stood
Fine as those shapely Spirits heaven descended,
Hermes or young Apollo, or whom she
The moon-lit Dian, on the Latmian hill,
When all the woods and all the winds were still,
Kissed with the kiss of immortality.
And in his eye where love and pride contended,
His dark, deep-seated eye, there was a spell
Which they who love and have been lov'd can tell.
And she—but what of her, his chosen bride,
His own, on whom he gazed in secret pride,
And loved almost too much for happiness?
Enough to say that she was born to bless.
She was surpassing fair: her gentle voice
Came like the fabled music that beguiles
The sailor on the waters, and her smiles
Shone like the light of heaven, and said ‘Rejoice!’

VIII.

That morn they sat upon the sea-beach green;
For in that land the sward springs fresh and free
Close to the ocean, and no tides are seen
To break the glassy quiet of the sea:
And Guido, with his arm 'round Isabel,
Unclasped the tresses of her chesnut hair,
Which in her white and heaving bosom fell
Like things enamour'd, and then with jealous air
Bade the soft amorous winds not wanton there;
And then his dark eyes sparkled, and he wound
The fillets like a coronet around
Her brow, and bade her rise, and rise a queen.
And oh! 'twas sweet to see her delicate hand
Pressed 'gainst his parted lips, as tho' to check
In mimic anger all those whispers bland
He knew so well to use, and on his neck
Her round arm hung, while half as in command
And half entreaty did her swimming eye
Speak of forbearance, 'till from her pouting lip
He snatched the honey-dews that lovers sip,
And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully
She frowned, and wore that self-betraying air
Which women loved and flattered love to wear.

IX.

Oft would he, as on that same spot they lay
Beneath the last light of a summer's day,
Tell (and would watch the while her stedfast eye,)
How on the lone Pacific he had been,
When the Sea Lion on his watery way
Went rolling thro' the billows green,
And shook that ocean's dead tranquillity:
And he would tell her of past times, and where
He rambled in his boyhood far away,
And spoke of other worlds and wonders fair
And mighty and magnificent, for he
Had seen the bright sun worshipp'd like a god
Upon that land where first Columbus trod;
And travelled by the deep Saint Lawrence' tide,
And by Niagara's cataracts of foam,
And seen the wild deer roam
Amongst interminable forests, where
The serpent and the savage have their lair
Together. Nature there in wildest guise
Stands undebased and nearer to the skies;
And 'midst her giant trees and waters wide
The bones of things forgotten, buried deep,
Give glimpses of an elder world, espied

By us but in that fine and dreamy sleep,
When Fancy, ever the mother of deep truth,
Breathes her dim oracles on the soul of youth.

X.

Her sleep that night was fearful,—O, that night!
If it indeed was sleep: for in her sight
A form (a dim and waving shadow) stood,
And pointed far up the great Etna's side,
Where, from a black ravine, a dreary wood
Peeps out and frowns upon the storms below,
And bounds and braves the wilderness of snow.
It gazed awhile upon the lonely bride
With melancholy air and glassy eye,
And spoke—‘Awake and search yon dell, for I,
‘Tho' risen above my old mortality,
‘Have left my mangled and unburied limbs
‘A prey for wolves hard by the waters there,
‘And one lock of my black and curled hair,
‘That one I vowed to thee my beauty, swims
‘Like a mere weed upon the mountain river;
‘And those dark eyes you used to love so well
‘(They loved you dearly, my own Isabel,)
‘Are shut and now have lost their light for ever.

‘Go then unto yon far ravine, and save
‘Your husband's heart for some more quiet grave

I have ventured to substitute the heart for the head of the lover. The latter appeared to me to be a ghastly object to preserve.

‘Than what the stream and withering winds may lend,
‘And 'neath the basil tree we planted, give
‘The fond heart burial, so that tree shall live
‘And shed a solace on thy after days;
‘And thou—but oh! I ask thee not to tend
‘The plant on which thy Guido loved to gaze,
‘For with a spirit's power I see thy heart.’
He said no more, but with the dawning day
Shrunk, as the shadows of the clouds depart
Before the conquering sun-beams, silently.
Then sprung she from the pillow where she lay,
To the wild sense of doubtful misery:
And when she 'woke she did obey the dream,
And journey'd onwards to the mountain stream
Tow'rd which the phantom pointed, and she drew
The thorns aside which there luxuriant grew,
And with a beating heart descended where
The waters washed, it said, its floating hair.

XI.

It was a spot like those romancers paint,
Or painted when of dusky knights they told
Wandering about in forests old,
When the last purple colour was waxing faint
And day was dying in the west:—the trees
(Dark pine and chesnut and the dwarfed oak
And cedar,) shook their branches, 'till the shade
Look'd like a living spirit, and as it played
Seem'd holding dim communion with the breeze:
Below, a tumbling river rolled along,
(Its course by lava rocks and branches broke)
Singing for aye its fierce and noisy song;
And there on shattered trunks the lichens grew
And covered, with their golden garments,—Death.
And when the tempest of November blew
The Winter trumpet, 'till its failing breath
Went moaning into silence, every green
And loose leaf of the piny boughs did tell
Some trembling story of that mountain dell.

XII.

That spirit is never idle that doth 'waken

This paragraph is obscure. It was written to repel an assertion (made in a poem to which I cannot recur) that the fall of an avalanche spoke “Doubt and Death.” The reader can, if he pleases, pass it over altogether.

The soul to sights and contemplations deep,
Even when from out the desert's seeming sleep
A sob is heaved that but the leaves are shaken;
But when across its frozen wastes there comes
A rushing wind, that chills the heart and bears
Tidings of ruin from those icy domes,
The cast and fashion of a thousand years,
It is not for low meanings that the soul
Of Nature, starting from her idlesse long,
Doth walk abroad with Death, and sweep among
The valleys where the avalanches roll.
'Tis not to speak of ‘Doubt’ that her great voice,
Which in the plains doth bid the heart rejoice,
Comes sounding like an oracle. Amidst men
There are no useless marvels: Ah! why then
Cast on the wonder-working nature shame,
Or deem that, like a noisy braggart, she
(In all things else how great and freed from blame)
Once in an age should shout ‘A mystery!’

XIII.

But, to my story. Down the slippery sod
With trembling limbs, and heart that scarcely beat,
And catching at the brambles, as her feet
Sunk in the crumbling earth, the poor girl trod;
And there she saw—Oh! till that moment none
Could tell (not she) how much of hope the sun
And cheerful morning, with its noises, brought,
And how she from each glance a courage caught;
For light and life had scattered half her fright,
And she could almost smile on the past night;
So, with a buoyant feeling, mixed with fear
Lest she might scorn heav'n's missioned minister,
She took her weary way and searched the dell,
And there she saw him—dead. Poor desolate child
Of sixteen summers, had the waters wild
No pity on the boy you loved so well!
There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay,
His pale face upwards to the careless day,
That smiled as it was wont; and he was found
His young limbs mangled on the rocky ground,
And, 'midst the weltering weeds and shallows cold,
His black hair floated as the phantom told,
And like the very dream his glassy eye
Spoke of gone mortality.

XIV.

She stared and laugh'd aloud like one whose brain
Is shock'd o' the sudden: then she looked again;
And then she wept. At last—but wherefore ask
How, tremblingly, she did her bloody task?
She took the heart and washed it in the wave,
And bore it home and placed it midst wild flowers,
Such as he loved to scent in happier hours,
And 'neath the basil tree she scoop'd a grave,
And therein placed the heart, to common earth
Doom'd, like a thing that owned not human birth.

XV.

And the tree grew and grew, and brighter green
Shot from its boughs than she before had seen,
And softly with its leaves the west winds played:
And she did water it with her tears, and talk
As to a living spirit, and in the shade
Would place it gently when the sun did walk
High in his hot meridian, and she prest
The boughs (which fell like balm) upon her breast.
She never plucked a leaf nor let a weed
Within the shadow of its branches feed,

But nursed it as a mother guards her child,
And kept it shelter'd from the ‘winter wild:’
And so it grew beyond its fellows, and
Tow'red in unnatural beauty, waving there
And whispering to the moon and midnight air,
And stood a thing unequalled in the land.

XVI.

But never more along her favorite vale,
Or by the village paths or hurrying river,
Or on the beach, when clouds are seen to sail
Across the setting sun, while waters quiver
And breezes rise to bid the day farewell—
No more in any bower she once loved well,
Whose sound or silence to the ear could tell
Aught of the passionate past, the pale girl trod:
Yet Love himself, like an invisible god,
Haunted each spot, and with his own rich breath
Filled the wide air with music sweet and soft,
Such as might calm or conquer Death, (if Death
Could e'er be conquered,) and from aloft
Sad airs, like those she heard in infancy,
Fell on her soul and filled her eyes with tears,

And recollections came of happier years
Thronging from all the cells of memory.
All her heart's follies she remember'd then;
How coy and rash—how scornful she had been,
And then how tender, and how coy again,
And every shifting of the burning scene
That sorrow stamps upon the helpless brain.

XVII.

Leoni—(for this tale had ne'er been told
By her who knew alone her brother's guilt,)
Leoni, timorous lest the blood he spilt
Should rise in vengeance from its secret hold,
And come abroad and claim a sepulchre;
Or, haplier, fancying that the lie he swore
“That Guido sailed and would return no more”
Was disbelieved and not forgot by her;
Or that she had discovered where he lay
Before his limbs had withered quite away,
Or—but whate'er it was that moved him then,
He dug and found the heart, unperished;
For she, to keep it unlike the common dead,
Had wound it 'round with many a waxen line,

And bathed it with a curious medicine:
He found it where, like a dark spell, it lay,
And cursed and cast it to the waves away.

XVIII.

That day the green tree wither'd, and she knew
The solace of her mind was stol'n and gone:
And then she felt that she was quite alone
In the wide world; so, to the distant woods
And caverned haunts, and where the mountain floods
Thunder unto the silent air, she flew.
She flew away, and left the world behind,
And all that man doth worship, in her flight;
All that around the beating heart is twined;
Yet, as she looked farewell to human kind,
One quivering drop arose and dimm'd her sight,
The last that frenzy gave to poor distress.
And then into the dreary wilderness
She went alone, a craz'd, heart-broken thing;
And in the solitude she found a cave
Half hidden by the wild-brier blossoming,
Whereby a black and solitary pine,
Struck by the fiery thunder, stood, and gave
Of pow'r and death a token and a sign:

And there she lived for months: She did not heed
The seasons or their change, and she would feed
On roots and berries as the creatures fed
Which had in woods been born and nourished.

XIX.

Once, and once only was she seen, and then
The chamois hunter started from his chace,
And stopped to look a moment on her face,
And could not turn him to his sports again.
Thin Famine sate upon her hollow cheek,
And settled Madness in her glazed eye
Told of a young heart wrong'd and nigh to break,
And, as the spent winds waver ere they die,
She to herself a few wild words did speak,
And sung a strange and broken melody;
And ever as she sung she strew'd the ground
With yellow leaves that perished 'ere their time,
And well their fluttering fall did seem to chime
With the low music of her song:—the sound
Came like a dirge filling the air around,
And this (or like) the melancholy rhyme.

1

There is a spirit stands by me:
It comes by night, it comes by day,
And when the glittering lightnings play,
Its look is pale and sad to see.
'Tis he—to whom my brother gave
A red unconsecrated grave.

2

I hear him when the breezes moan,
And, when the rattling thunders talk,
I hear him muttering by me walk,
And tell me I am ‘quite alone.’
It is the dæmon of the dead,
For all that's good hath upwards fled.

3

It is a dæmon which the wave
Hath cast abroad to scare my soul;
Yet wherefore did the waters roll
So idly o'er his hasty grave?
Was the sad prayer I uttered then
Unheard,—or is it due again?

4

Is't not enough that I am here,
Brainstruck and cold and famished,
A mean remove above the dead,—
But must my soul be wild with fear
As sorrow, now that hope is gone
And I am lost and left alone?

4

They told me, when my days were young,
That I was fair and born to reign,
That hands and hearts were my domain,
And witchery dwelt upon my tongue:
And now—but what is this to me
Struck on the rock of memory?

5

And yet at times I dream—aye yet,
Of vanish'd scenes and golden hours,
And music heard in orange bowers,
(For madness cannot quite forget)
And love, breath'd once to me alone,
In sighs, and many a melting tone.

6

Then curious thoughts, and floating things
Saved from the deluge of the brain,
Pass with perplexity and pain:
Then darkness, deaths, and murderings,—
And then unto my den I hie,
And vainly, vainly pray to die.

XX.

At last she wandered home. She came by night.
The pale moon shot a sad and troubled light
Amidst the mighty clouds that moved along.
The moaning winds of Autumn sang their song,
And shook the red leaves from the forest trees;
And subterranean voices spoke. The seas
Did rise and fall, and then that fearful swell
Came silently which seamen know so well;
And all was like an Omen. Isabel
Passed to the room where, in old times, she lay,
And there they found her at the break of day;
Her look was smiling, but she never spoke
Or motioned, even to say—her heart was broke:

Yet in the quiet of her shining eye
Lay death, and something we are wont to deem
(When we discourse of some such mournful theme,)
Beyond the look of mere mortality.

XXI.

She died—yet scarcely can we call it Death
When Heaven so softly draws the parting breath;
She was translated to a finer sphere,
For what could match or make her happy here!
She died, and with her gentle death there came
Sorrow and ruin, and Leoni fell
A victim to that unconsuming flame,
That burns and revels on the heart of man;
Remorse.—This is the tale of Isabel,
And of her love the young Italian.

THE FALCON, A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

‘Frederigo, of the Alberighi family, loved a gentlewoman and was not ‘requited with like love again. But by bountiful expenses, and over ‘liberal invitations, he wasted all his lands and goods, having nothing ‘left him but a Hawk or Faulcon. His unkind mistress happeneth ‘to come to visit him, and he not having any other food for her ‘dinner, made a dainty dish of his Faulcon for her to feed on. Being ‘conquered by this exceeding kind courtesie, she changed her former ‘hatred towards him, accepting him as her husband in marriage, and ‘made him a man of wealthy possessions.’

Boccaccio. (Old translation.) Fifth day: novel 9.

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:

For Fred. read Frederigo
For Gian. read Giana
For Bia. read Bianca

SCENE I.

Outside of a Cottage. Sunset.
Frederigo
alone.
Oh poverty! And have I learnt at last
Thy bitter lesson? Thou forbidding thing
That hast such sway upon this goodly earth,
Stern foe to comfort, sleep's disquieter,
What have I done that thou should'st press me thus?
Let me not say how I did bear me in
Prosperity; much of the good we do
Lies in its secret—But away with this,
For here are skiey themes to dwell upon.
—Now do I feel my spirit hath not quite
Sunk with my fortunes.—'Tis the set of Sun.
How like a hero who hath run his course
In glory doth he die. His parting smile
Hath somewhat holy in it, and doth stir
Regret, but soft and unallied to pain,

To see him quietly sink and sink away,
Until on yonder western mountain's top
Lingering he rests at last, and leaves a look
More beautiful than e'er he shed before:
A parting present, felt by all that lov'd
And flourish'd in his warm creative smile.
Nor unattended does he quit the world,
For there's a stillness in this golden hour
Observable by all; the birds that trill'd
And shook their ruffled plumes for joy to see
His coming in the morning, sing no more:
Or if a solitary note be heard,
Or the deep lowing of the distant beast,
'Tis but to mark the silence. Like to this,
In a great city the cathedral clock,
Lifting its iron tongue, doth seem to stay
Time for a moment, while it calls aloud
To student's or to sick man's watchful ear,
“Now goes the midnight.” Then, I love to walk,
And, heark'ning to that Church memorial, deem
That sometimes it may sound a different tale,
And upwards to the stars and mighty moon
Send hollow tidings from this dreaming world,
Proclaiming all below as calm as they.

The Sunlight changes, and the tints are now
Darkened to purple. Ha! a step: who's there?
A Lady—O Giana!

Giana and her Maid enter.
Gia.
Yes, Sir: you
Have cause to be surprised.

Fred.
Not so, dear lady;
Honour'd I own that my poor dwelling should
Receive so fair a guest.

Gia.
You do forget
Past times.

Fred.
No, Madam, no; those times still live
Like blossomings of the memory, kept apart
For holier hours, and shelter'd from the gaze
Of rude uncivil strangers; and—and they
Are now my only comfort; so lest they
Should fade, I use 'em gently, very gently,
And water'em all with tears.

Gia.
Your poverty
Has made you gloomy, Signior Frederigo.

Fred.
Pardon me, Madam: 'twas not well, indeed,
To meet a guest like you with sorrow: you
Were born for happiness.

Gia.
Alas! I fear not.

Fred.
Oh! yes, yes; and you well become it, well.

May grief ne'er trouble you, nor heavier hours
Weigh on so light a heart.

Gia.
You well reprove me:
Light means unfeeling.

Fred.
Yet I meant not so.
Giana! let me perish by your hate
If ever I reproach you: what am I,
Struck by misfortune, and the chilling touch
Of Poverty, an outcast from my fortunes,
Lavish'd and lost by folly—

Gia.
'Twas for me.

Fred.
Oh! no, no: I had many faults whereof
The burthen rests with me: then what am I,
That I should dare reproach you? think no more on't:
Know me your truest servant, only that,
And bound to live and die for you.

Gia.
No more,
But let's enjoy the present.

Maid.
My Lady, Sir,
Is come to feast with you.

Gia.
'Tis even so.

Fred.
I am too honour'd: Can you then put up
With my, (so poor a) welcoming? If the heart
Indeed could lavish entertainment, I
Would feast you like a queen: but, as it is,
You will interpret kindly?

Gia.
Oh! I come
To grace a bachelor's table: that is never
Stor'd but with common viands. Now we'll go,
And rest us in your orchard, Signior.
The evening breezes must be pleasant there;
So, for an hour, farewell.

Fred.
Farewell, dear Madam:
I hope you'll find there some—ah! 'ware the step.

Gia.
'Tis but an awkward entrance, Sir, indeed.

Fred.
You'll find some books in the arbour, on the shelf
Half hid by wandering honeysuckle: they
Are books of poetry. If I remember
You lov'd such stories once, thinking they brought
Man to a true and fine humanity,
Tho' silly folks are wont to jeer them, now.

Gia.
You've a good memory Signior. That must be—
Stay, let me count: aye, some six years ago.

Fred.
About the time.

Gia.
You were thought heir, by many,
Then, to the Count Filippo: you displeased him:
How was't?

Fred.
Oh! some mere trifle: I forget.

Gia.
Nay, tell me; for some said you were ungrateful.

Fred.
I could not marry to his wish.

Gia.
Was it so?

Fred.
Thus simply: nothing more, believe it.

Gia.
I knew not this before. Adieu!

Exit.
Fred.
She comes to dine—to dine with me, who am
A beggar. Now, what shall I do to give
My Idol entertainment? not a coin:
Not one, by Heav'n, and not a friend to lend
The veriest trifle to a wretch like me.
And she's descended from her pride too—no;
No, no, she had no pride.—Now if I give
Excusings, she will think I'm poor indeed,
And say misfortune starved the spirit hence
Of an Italian gentleman. No more:
She must be feasted. Ha! no, no, no, no,
Not that way: Any way but that. Bianca! Enter Bianca.

This Lady comes to feast.

Bia.
On what, Sir? There
Is scarce a morsel: fruits perhaps—

Fred.
Then I
Must take my gun and stop a meal i' the air.

Bia.
Impossible: there is no time. Old Mars, you know,
Frights every bird away.

Fred.
Ah! villain: he
Shall die for 't, bring him hither.

Bia.
Sir!
The falcon?

Fred.
Aye, that murderous kite. How oft
Hath he slain innocent birds: now he shall die.
'Tis fit he should, if 'twere but in requital:
And he for once shall do me service—Once!
Hath he not done it oft? no matter: Now
I'll wring his cruel head, and feast my queen
Worthily.

Bia.
He is here, Sir.

Fred.
Where? vile bird,
There—I'll not look at him.

Bia.
Alas! he's dead:
Look, look! ah! how he shivers.

Fred.
Fool! Begone.
Fool! am not I a fool—a selfish slave?
I am, I am. One look: ah! there he lies.
By heav'n, he looks reproachingly; and yet
I loved thee, poor bird, when I slew thee. Hence.
Bianca exit.
Mars! my brave bird, and have I killed thee, then,
Who wast the truest servant—fed me, loved,
When all the world had left me?—Never more
Shall thou and I in mimic battle play,

Nor thou pretend to die, (to die, alas!)
And with thy quaint and frolic tricks delight
Thy master in his solitude. No more,
No more, old Mars! (thou wast the god of birds)
Shalt thou rise fiercely on thy plumed wing,
And hunt the air for plunder: thou couldst ride,
None better, on the fierce and mountain winds
When birds of lesser courage droop'd. I've seen
Thee scare the wandering eagle on his way,
(For all the wild tribes of these circling woods
Knew thee and shunn'd thy beak,) and thro' the air
Float like a hovering tempest fear'd by all.
Have I not known thee bring the wild swan down
For me, thy cruel master: aye, and stop
The screaming vulture in the middle air,
And mar his scarlet plumage—all for me,
Who kill'd thee—murdered thee, poor bird; for thou
Wast worthy of humanity, and I
Feel with these shaking hands, as I had done
A crime against my race.

SCENE II.

A Room.

Frederigo. Giana.

Gia.
You think it strange that I should visit you?

Fred.
No, Madam, no.

Gia.
You must: ev'n I myself
(Yet I've a cause) must own the visit strange.

Fred.
I am most grateful for it.

Gia.
Hear me, first.
What think you brought me hither? I've a suit
That presses, and I look to you to grant it.

Fred.
'Tis but to name it, for you may command
My fullest service. Oh! but you know this:
You injure when you doubt me.

Gia.
That I think:
So, to my errand. Gentle Signior, listen.
I have a child: no mother ever lov'd
A son so much: but that you know him, I
Would say how fair he was, how delicate;
But oh! I need not tell his sweet ways to you:
You know him, Signior, and your heart would grieve,

I feel't, if you should see the poor child die,
And now he's very ill. If you could hear
How he asks after you and says he loves you
Next to his mother, Signior—

Fred.
Stay your tears.
Can I do ought to soothe your pretty boy?
I love him as my own.

Gia.
Sir?

Fred.
I forget.
And yet I love him, lady: does that ask
Forgiveness? Is my love—

Gia.
Now you mistake me,
I thank you for your love.

Fred.
Giana! How!

Gia.
To my poor child: he pines and wastes away.
There is but one thing in the world he sighs for,
And that—I cannot name it.

Fred.
Is it mine?

Gia.
It is, it is: I shame to ask it, but
What can a mother do?

Fred.
'Tis yours, Giana:
Aye, tho' it be my head.

Gia.
It is—the falcon.
Ah: pardon me: I see how dear the bird
Is to you, and I know how little I
Have right to ask it. Pardon me.

Fred.
Alas!
I do, from—from my soul.

Gia.
I feel my folly.
You shall not part with your poor faithful friend.
No more of it: I was cruel to request it.
Signior, I will not take it, for the world.
I will not rob you, Sir.

Fred.
Oh! that you could:
Poor Mars! Your child, Madam, will grieve to hear
His poor old friend is dead.

Gia.
Impossible.
I saw it as I entered.

Fred.
It is dead.
Be satisfied, dear madam, that I say it:
The bird is dead.

Gia.
Nay, this is not like you.
I do not need excuses.

Fred.
Gracious lady,
Believe me not so poor: the bird is dead.
Nay then, you doubt me still, I see. Then listen.
Madam, you came to visit me—to feast:
It was my barest hour of poverty.
I had not one poor coin to purchase food.
Could I for shame confess this unto you?
I saw the descending beauty whom I loved

Honouring my threshold with her step, and deign
To smile on one whom all the world abandoned.
Once I had been her lover, how sincere
Let me not say: my name was high and princely:
My nature had not quite forgot its habits:
I lov'd you still: I felt it—Could I stoop
And say how low and abject was my fortune,
And send you fasting home? Your servant would
Have scorn'd me. Lady, even then I swore
That I would feast you daintily: I did.
My noble Mars, thou wast a glorious dish
Which Juno might have tasted.

Gia.
What is this?

Fred.
We feasted on that matchless bird, to which
The fabulous Phœnix would have bow'd. Brave bird!
He has redeem'd my credit.

Gia.
(after a pause)
—You have done
A princely thing, Frederigo. If I e'er
Forget it may I not know happiness.
Signior, you have a noble delicate mind,
And such as in an hour of pain or peril
Methinks I could repose on.

Fred.
Oh! Giana!

Gia.
I have a child who loves you: for his mother

You've work'd a way into her inmost heart.
Can she requite you?

Fred.
How! what mean you? Oh!
Giana, sweet Giana, do not raise
My wretched heart so high, too high, lest it
Break on its falling.

Gia.
But it shall not fall,
If I can prop it, or my hand requite
Your long and often-tried fidelity.
I come, Frederigo, not as young girls do,
To blush and prettily affect to doubt
The heart I know to be my own. I feel
That you have loved me well. Forgive me now,
That circumstance, which some day I'll make known,
Kept me aloof so long. My nature is
Not hard, altho' it might seem thus to you.

Fred.
What can I say?

Gia.
Nothing. I read your heart.

Fred.
It bursts, my love: but 'tis with joy, with joy.
Giana! my Giana! we will have
Nothing but halcyon days: Oh! we will live
As happily as the bees that hive their sweets,
And gaily as the summer fly, but wiser:
I'll be thy servant ever; yet not so.
Oh! my own love, divinest, best, I'll be

Thy Sun of life, faithful through every season,
And thou shalt be my flower perennial,
My bud of beauty, my imperial rose,
My passion flower, and I will wear thee on
My heart, and thou shalt never, never fade.
I'll love thee mightily my queen, and in
The sultry hours I'll sing thee to thy rest
With music sweeter than the wild birds' song:
And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars,
(They are they are, but softer,) and thy shape
Fine as the vaunted nymphs' who, poets feign'd,
Dwelt long ago in woods of Arcady.
My gentle deity! I'll crown thee with
The whitest lilies and then bow me down
Love's own idolater, and worship thee.
And thou wilt then be mine? My love, my love!
How fondly will we pass our lives together;
And wander, heart-link'd, thro' the busy world
Like birds in eastern story.

Gia.
Oh! you rave.

Fred.
I'll be a miser of thee; watch thee ever;
At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night.
We will have clocks that with their silver chime
Shall measure out the moments: and I'll mark
The time and keep love's pleasant calendar.
To day I'll note a smile: to morrow how

Your bright eyes spoke—how saucily, and then
Record a kiss pluck'd from your currant lip,
And say how long 'twas taking: then, thy voice
As rich as stringed harp swept by the winds
In Autumn, gentle as the touch that falls
On serenader's moonlit instrument—
Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be
My household goddess—nay smile not, nor shake
Backwards thy clustering curls, incredulous:
I swear it shall be so: it shall, my love.

Gia.
Why, now thou'rt mad indeed: mad.

Fred.
Oh! not so.
There was a statuary once who lov'd
And worshipped the white marble that he shaped;
Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen,
Or some such fine kind-hearted deity,
Touch'd the pale stone with life, and it became
At last, Pygmalion's bride: but thee—on whom
Nature had lavish'd all her wealth before,
Now Love has touch'd with beauty: doubly fit
For human worship thou, thou—let me pause,
My breath is gone.

Gia.
With talking.

Fred.
With delight.
But I may worship thee in silence, still.

Gia.
The evening's dark; Now I must go: farewell
Until to-morrow.

Fred.
Oh! not yet, not yet.
Behold! the moon is up, the bright ey'd moon,
And seems to shed her soft delicious light
On lovers reunited. Why she smiles,
And bids you tarry: will you disobey
The Lady of the sky? beware.

Gia.
Farewell.
Nay, nay, I must go.

Fred
We will go together.

Gia.
It must not be to-night: my servants wait
My coming at the fisher's cottage.

Fred.
Yet,
A few more words, and then I'll part with thee,
For one long night: to-morrow bid me come
(Thou hast already with thine eyes) and bring
My load of love and lay it at thy feet.
—Oh! ever while those floating orbs look bright
Shalt thou to me be a sweet guiding light.
Once, the Chaldean from his topmost tower
Did watch the stars, and then assert their power
Throughout the world: so, dear Giana, I
Will vindicate my own idolatry.
And in the beauty and the spell that lies

In the dark azure of thy love-lit eyes;
In the clear veins that wind thy neck beside,
'Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide,
And in thy polish'd forehead, and thy hair
Heap'd in thick tresses on thy shoulders fair;
In thy calm dignity; thy modest sense;
In thy most soft and winning eloquence;
In woman's gentleness and love (now bent
On me, so poor,) shall lie my argument.

DIEGO DE MONTILLA.

A SPANISH TALE.

I

The octave rhyme (Ital. ottava rima)
Is a delightful measure made of ease
Turn'd up with epigram, and, tho' it seem a
Verse that a man may scribble when he please,
Is somewhat difficult; indeed, I deem a
Stanza like Spenser's will be found to teaze
Less, or heroic couplet; there, the pen
May touch and polish and touch up again.

II

But, for the octave measure—it should slip
Like running water o'er its pebbled bed,
Making sweet music, (here I own I dip
In Shakspeare for a simile) and be fed
Freely, and then the poet must not nip
The line, nor square the sentence, nor be led
By old, approved, poetic canons; no,
But give his words the slip, and let 'em go.

III

I mean to give in this same pleasant rhyme
Some short account of Don Diego de
Montilla, quite a hero in his time,
Who conquer'd captain Cupid as you'll see:
My tale is sad in part, in part sublime,
With here and there a smack of pleasantry:
As to the moral, why—'tis under cover.
I leave it for the reader to discover.

IV

‘Arms and’—but I forget. Love and the man
I sing, that's Virgil's method of beginning,
Alter'd a little just to suit my plan,
I own the thing and so there's not much sinning,
Most writers steal a good thing when they can,
And when 'tis safely got 'tis worth the winning.
The worst of't is we now and then detect 'em,
Before they ever dream that we suspect 'em.

V

Love and the man I sing—and yet 'twould be
As well methinks, nay perhaps it may be better,
Particularly for a young bard like me,
Not to stick quite so closely to the letter;
One's verse as well as fancy should be free,
The last indeed hates every sort of fetter:
So, as each man may call what maid he chuses
By way of Muse, I'll e'en call all the Muses.

VI

Hearken! ye gentle sisters (eight or nine),
Who haunted in old time Parnassus' hill,
If that so worshipp'd mount be yet divine,
And ye there meet your mighty master still,
And still for poet heads the laurel twine,
And dip your pitchers in the famous rill,
I'll trouble ye for a leaf or two; tho' first I
'll just try the jug, for 'faith, I'm somewhat thirsty.

VII

And now, great lyrist, fain would I behold
Thee in thy glory—Lord and Life of day!
Sun-bright Apollo! with thy locks of gold,
As thou art wont to tread heav'n's starry way,
Not marbled and reduced to human mould,
As thou didst stand, one of a rich array,
(Yet even there distinct and first of all,)
In the vast palace of the conquer'd Gaul.

VIII

But, if thy radiant forehead be too bright
For me to look upon with earthy eye,
Ah! send some little nymph of air or light,
Whom love has touch'd and taken to the sky,
And bid her, till the inspiration quite
O'erwhelms, show'r kisses on my lip, and sigh
Such songs (and I will list to her for hours)
As once were sung in amaranthine bowers.

IX

And I will lie pillow'd upon her breast,
And drink the music of her words, and dream
(When sleep shall bring at last a pleasant rest)
Haply of many a high immortal theme,
And, in the lightning of her beauty blest,
My soul may catch perhaps one thrilling beam
From her dark eyes—but, ah! your glorious day
Ye nymphs and deities now hath passed away.

X

Oh! ye delicious fables, where the wave
And woods were peopled and the air with things
So lovely—why, ah! why has science grave
Scatter'd afar your sweet imaginings?
Why sear'd the delicate flow'rs that genius gave,
And dash'd the diamond drops from fancy's wings?
Alas! the spirit languishes, and lies
At mercy of life's dull realities.

XI

No more by well or bubbling fountain clear
The Naiad dries her tresses in the sun,
Nor longer may we in the branches hear
The Dryad talk, nor see the Oread run
Along the mountains, nor the Nereid steer
Her way amongst the waves when day is done.
Shadow nor shape remains.—But I am prating
While th' reader and Diego, both, are waiting.

XII

Diego was a knight, but more enlighten'd
Than knights were then, or are, in his countree,
Young—brave—(at least, he'd never yet been frighten'd,)
Well-bred, and gentle, as a knight should be:
He play'd on the guitar, could read and write and
Had seen some parts of Spain, and (once) the sea.
That sort of man one hopes to meet again,
And the most amorous gentleman in Spain.

XIII

There was a languor in his Spanish eye
That almost touched on softness; had he been
Instead of man a woman, by the bye,
His languish had done honour to a queen;
For there was in it that regality
Of look, which says the owner must have been
Something in former days, whatever now:
And his hair curl'd (or was curl'd), o'er his brow.

XIV

The Don Diego (mind this, Don Dieygo:
Pronounce it rightly,) fell in love. He saw
The daughter of a widow from Tobago,
Whose husband fell with honour: i.e. War
Ate up the lord of this same old virago,
Who strait return'd to Spain, and went to law
With the next heir, but wisely first bespoke
The smartest counsel, for that's half the joke.

XV

The lady won her cause; then suitors came
To woo her and her daughters: she had two:
Aurelia was the elder, and her name,
Grace, wit, and so forth, thro' the country flew
Quicker than scandal: young Aurora's fame—
She had no fame, poor girl, and yet she grew
And brighten'd into beauty, as a flower
Shakes off the rain that dims its earlier hour.

XVI

Aurelia had some wit, and, as I've said,
Grace, and Diego lov'd her like his life;
Offer'd to give her half his board and bed,
In short he woo'd the damsel for a wife,
But she turned to the right about her head
And gave some tokens of (not love but) strife;
And bade him 'wait, be silent, and forget
Such nonsense: He heard this, and—lov'd her yet.

XVII

He lov'd: O how he lov'd! His heart was full
Of that immortal passion, which alone
Holds thro' the wide world its eternal rule
Supreme, and with its deep seducing tone
Winneth the wise, the young, the beautiful,
The brave, and all, to bow before its throne;
The sun and soul of life, the end, the gain;
The rich requital for an age of pain.

XVIII

Beneath the power of that passion he
Shrank like a leaf of summer, which the sun
Has scorch'd 'ere yet in green maturity—
He was a desperate gamester who ne'er won
A single stake, but saw the chances flee,
And still kept throwing on till—all was done:
A rose on which the worm had rioted.
[All this was what his friends and others said.]

XIX

And yet, but one short year ago, his cheek
Dimpled and shone, and o'er it health had flung
A colour, like the Autumn evening's streak,
Which flushing through the darker olive, clung
Like a rich blush upon him. In a freak
Men will I'm told, or when their pride is stung,
Call up that deepening crimson in girls' features:
Some people swear it makes 'em different creatures.

XX

For me, I always have an awkward feeling
When that vermilion tide comes flooding o'er
The brows and breast, instead of gently stealing
On, and then fading till 'tis seen no more;
The first proceeds too from unhandsome dealing,
And sudden leaves a paleness, if no more,
Perhaps a frown. The last is born of pleasure,
Or springs from praise, and comes and goes at leisure.

XXI

His mistress—Shall I paint Aurelia's frown?
Her proud and regal look, her quick black eye,
Thro' whose dark fringes such a beam shot down
On men (yet touch'd at times with witchery)
As when Jove's planet, distant and alone,
Flashes from out the sultry summer sky
And bids each lesser star give up its place.
—This was exactly Miss Aurelia's case.

XXII

Her younger sister—she was meek and pale
And scarcely noticed when Aurelia near,
None ev'n had thought it worth their while to rail
On her, and in her young unpractis'd ear
Those soft bewitching tones that seldom fail
To win had ne'er been utter'd. She did steer
Her gentle course along life's dangerous sea
For sixteen pleasant summers quietly.

XXIII

Her shape was delicate: her motion free
As his, that “charter'd libertine” the air,
Or Dian's, when upon the mountains she
Follow'd the fawn: her bosom full and fair;
It seem'd as Love himself might thither flee
For shelter when his brow was parched with care:
And her white arm, like marble turn'd by grace,
Was of good length, and in its proper place.

XXIV

Her hair was black as night: her eyes were blue:
Her mouth was small, and from its opening stream'd
Notes like the silver voice of young Carew,
Of whose sweet music I have often dream'd,
And then (as youths like me are wont to do)
Fancying that every other damsel scream'd,
Started to hear Miss C. again. I sit
In general (to be near her) in the pit.

XXV

Let lovers who have croaking Delias swear
Their tones are ‘just in tune’ or ‘just the thing:’
Let lying poets puff, in couplets fair,
Pan's reedy pipe—Apollo's golden string—
How Memnon sung, and made the Thebans stare
When he saw Titan's daughter scattering
Flowers—'tis all stuff, reader: what say you?
Give me (but p'rhaps I'm partial) Miss Carew.

XXVI

Oh! witching as the nightingale first heard
Beneath Arabian heavens, wooing the rose,
Is she, or thrush new-mated, or the bird
That calls the morning as the last star goes
Down in the west, and out of sight is heard
Awhile, then seems in silence to repose
Somewhere beyond the clouds, in the full glory
Of the new-risen Sun.—Now to my story:

XVII

The Don was constant at his Lady's court,
For every day at twelve she held a levee,
Where song, joke, music, and all sorts of sport
Went 'round, so that the hours were seldom heavy;
Aurelia talk'd, (and talking was her forte)
Or quizzed her female friends, and then the bevy
Of coxcombs vow'd such wit was never heard:
For this one gave his honour, one his word.

XVIII

Things went on pretty smoothly till the Don
Declar'd his love; but, when he sought to marry,
He found she would not give up all for one:
What! Counts and Cavaliers and all, and carry
Herself demurely—'twas not to be done:
She said she lov'd him not, and bade him tarry,
(As I have told,) on which he did begin
To grow and soon grew tolerably thin.

XXIX

He gazed and watch'd, and watch'd and gazed upon her,
And look'd, like Suckling's lover, thin and pale;
But how should looking thin have ever won her,
When looking well (as he says) didn't prevail?
It did not answer with our Spanish Donna,
Nor can it save in poem, play, or tale;
In fact there's not much interesting in't
Unless it be in hotpress and good print.

XXX

Yet, gentles, would I not be thought to jeer
The Love that flourishes when young hearts are given,
And pledged in hope and fullest faith sincere,
Nor would I jest when such fond hearts are riven.
I only mean that love ('tis pretty clear)
When 't rises without hope is merely leaven,
And that boys suffering 'neath the lash of Cupid,
Are sometimes even more than sad; they're stupid.

XXXI

At last, Aurora saw him: she had seen
Him oft when scarcely turning from her book
She bowed, and then as he had never been,
Resum'd her study. Now, his alter'd look
She mark'd, and troubled eye once so serene,
And trembling limbs which Love's wild fever shook:
—His faint and melancholy smile that shone
So seldom but so beautiful was gone.

XXXII

She look'd and look'd again: She could not turn,
And yet she tried, her eyes or thoughts away;
And as it were from pity, strove to learn
The cause of all his ill, and did essay
(While passion in her heart began to burn)
To soothe his sadness, and to make him gay
Would smile and talk of Love, or livelier matter:
A simpleton! as if 'twould make him fatter.

XXXIII

But sorrow never lasts; he must have died,
Had he not some way sought and found relief,
For, howsoe'er we try the fact to hide,
Love is but meagre diet sauced with grief;
'Tis feasting too much like the Barmecide,
Who thought to pass off his invisible beef,
Kid, nuts, et cetera, on his guest, and so
Got his ears box'd for lying, as we know.

XXXIV

Diego, when he found all hope was gone,
Determin'd like a prudent man to fly;
At first he tore his hair (it was his own)
But, then, his mother—she began to cry,
And asked him, would he leave her all alone
(She who had watch'd and lov'd him long) to die,
And her grey hairs to the grave with sorrow bring?
He said ‘he could not think of such a thing.’

XXXV

He said ‘Dear Mother, on my honour (not
‘In its new meaning) from Madrid I'll go,
‘And if I think more of her I'll be shot.’
Yet, as he spoke, a settled look of woe
Declared she never could be quite forgot
Whom in his young heart he had worshipp'd so;
And the mute eloquence of his sickly smile
Told all his thoughts, for grief doth not beguile.

XXXVI

The knave (it is his study) and the fool
(For he has glimpses) and the madman may
Deceive; they do by accident or rule,
And keep their look of cunning from the day:
But grief is lesson'd in an honest school,
And o'er the face spreads out, in sad array,
Its pallid colours or its hectic flush;
It ought to put the others to the blush.

XXXVII

Well—one day, when king Phœbus in the East
Had lifted his round head from off his pillow,
And frighten'd from their slumbers man and beast,
And turn'd to clear quicksilver every billow,
The Don Diego, from Love's toil released,
With ducats prim'd and head ycrown'd with willow,
Stepp'd in his heavy coach with heavier sigh,
Pull'd up the blinds and bade the drivers ‘fly.’

XXXVIII

They travell'd (our sad hero and his mother,)
From great Madrid, thro' old and new Castile,
Stopp'd at one town and rattled thro' another,
Ate fish and fowl and flesh, (excepting veal:)
Meanwhile he took it in his head he'd smother
Cupid; he tried, and soon began to feel
That as the boy grew quiet, he grew merry.
(He smother'd him with Port and sometimes Sherry.)

XXXIX

Then 'round his mother he would twine his arms
Gently, and kiss and call her his Aurelia,
And gaze and sigh ‘inimitable charms!’
And then ‘what ruby lips!’ until 'twas really a
Joke, for altho' it fill'd her with alarms
To see him rave and take his glass thus freely, a
Bystander must have laugh'd to see a woman
Of fifty kiss'd: in Spain 'tis quite uncommon.

XL

Well, this went on: he found that wine was better
Than thought, while thought ran cankering thro' his
And so he talk'd of other things, and let her [breast,
Sweet name sometimes (‘Divine Aurelia’) rest:
To finish, he sat down and wrote a letter,
In which he said that—‘all was for the best—
‘That love might grow to folly—that his mother
‘Had but one child, and might not have another.’

XLI

‘That filial duty was a noble thing:
‘That he must live tho' 'gainst his inclination,
‘For tho' he once resolv'd, he said, to fling
‘Himself into the sea, as an oblation
‘To Cupid, yet, as love had lost its sting,
‘He'd take a dip merely for recreation:
‘And then he added he should go to Cadiz,
‘To see the place, and how he lik'd the ladies.’

XLII

The letter ended with—I quite forget
The actual words, but with some short apology
About his lungs, he said he ow'd a debt
To nature, and—pshaw! tho' I've been to college I
Am in the Doctors' language stupid yet,
And often blunder in my phraseology;
No matter, he was sick he did declare,
And wanted change of scene and country air.

XLIII

And then he rambled thro' his native land,
And by her rivers wide and silver rills
Running thro' cork and beechen forests, and
Breath'd the brave air of those immortal hills,
Which like an altar or memorial stand
Of patriot spirits, whose achievement fills
Story and song: for, once, the Spanish name
Was noble and identified with fame.

XLIV

Now—but I'm quite a shallow politician,
And we've enough of politics in prose,
And so to men of talent and condition
I leave the task to plead the Spanish woes;
What I should say might be mere repetition,
And bring the theme no nearer to its close,
So I'll e'en leave the wrongs of Spain to time;
Besides, the thing's too serious for this rhyme.

XLV

Diego pass'd Cordova, gay Sevilla,
(Seville) and saw some mighty pleasant sights,
Saw the Fandango and the Sequidilla
And new Bolero danc'd on summer nights,
And got at last to Cadiz, which is still a
Right noble city, as Lord Byron writes.
N.B. The dances I have nam'd are national,
And like all others tolerably irrational.

XLVI

Yet, I remember some half pleasant days
When I did love a common country dance,
Ere peace and fashion had conspir'd to raise
Quadrilles to note in England as in France;
I came in then for some small share of praise,
But now, I dread (I own't) a woman's glance,
These vile Quadrilles do so perplex one's feet
With windings,—like the labyrinth of Crete.

XLVII

Four girls stand up, and beside each a beau
Of figure, stiffen'd upwards from the hip,
(Loose as his morals downwards) points his toe
Prepar'd thro' many a puzzling maze to slip,
‘Poule’—‘Moulinet’—‘Balancez’—‘Dos à dos’—
(Wherein the pretty damsels seem to dip
And rise and fall just like the unquiet ocean,)
And other moods of which I have no notion.

XLVIII

He stayed some time at Cadiz; tho' he hated
He vow'd, the shocking gallantries which there
Some—any men may have 'till they are sated;
Yet look'd he sometimes at the sweeping hair
(Until in truth his choler had abated)
That bound the foreheads of the Spanish fair,
And sunn'd him often 'neath a warm full eye,
And wish'd—but this was seldom, by the bye,

XLIX

He wish'd at times to meet Aurelia's look
Divine, and her right royal figure, graced
With beauty intellectual, (like a book
Well bound and written in the finest taste,
Whose noble meaning no one e'er mistook,)
Her white arm, and her undulating waist,
Her foot like Atalanta's, when she ran
And lost the race (a woman should) to man.

L

But in his lonely moments he would dream
Of young Aurora, and would tremble lest
Aught should befal the girl, and then a gleam
Of the sad truth would come and break his rest,
And from his pillow he would rise and scream:
This was a sort of night-mare, at the best,
For he at Cadiz had forgot his diet,
And raked and drank instead of being quiet.

LI

He thought of her so young, and oh! so pale,
And like a lily which the storms have bent
Unto the dust: then would he swear and rail
That 'twas impossible and never meant
That girls should die for love: an idle tale,
And by some moody imp of slumber sent
To teaze him, for the Rosicrucian creed
Is understood in Spain by all—who read,

LII

Whate'er it was—presentiment (which is
A sort of silent prophecy, some say,
In lottery luck, and love, and death, and bliss,)
Or not, he could not drive the thought away;
Then—'twas a passing fancy—were she his,
How gently would he soothe her dying day—
He swore she should not die—(when folks are amorous
They're frequently absurd, as well as clamorous.)

LIII

When once his Spanish head had got this notion,
It stuck upon his brain just like birdlime,
And cur'd him without either pill or potion,
Bleeding or balm, in no (or little) time;
Then would he wander on that deep blue ocean,
Dreaming of her, and string some idle rhyme,
And every stanza (none are known to fame)
Did finish somehow with Aurora's name.

LIV

And often to a grotto did he hie
Which in a lone and distant forest stood,
Just like a wood-nymph's haunt; and he would lie
Beneath the cover of its arch so rude,
For there when the August sun had mounted high,
And all was silent but the stock-dove's brood,
The whispering zephyr sometimes 'rose unseen,
And kiss'd the leaves and boughs of tender green.

LV

And every shrub that fond wind flatter'd cast
Back a perfuming sigh, and rustling roll'd
Its virgin branches 'till they mov'd at last
The neighbour tree, and the great forest old
Did homage to the zephyr as he past:
And gently to and fro' the fruits of gold
Swayed in the air, and scarcely with a sound
The beeches shook their dark nuts to the ground.

LVI

Before the entrance of that grotto flow'd
A quiet streamlet, cool and never dull,
Wherein the many-colour'd pebbles glow'd,
And sparkled thro' its waters beautiful,
And thereon the shy wild-fowl often rode,
And on its grassy margin you might cull
Flowers and healing plants: a hermit spot
And, once seen, never to be quite forgot.

LVII

Our lover, Don Diego de Montilla,
In moody humour pass'd his time at Cadiz.
Drove out to Arcos, or perhaps Sevilla,
Saint Lucar—Trafalgar (which I'm afraid is
Not now in fashion)—danced the Sequidilla,
Sometimes with castanets to please the ladies,
Ate, drank, and sail'd upon the dark blue waters,
Where mothers begg'd he'd take (for health) their daughters.

LVIII

They used to say ‘my poor Theresa's grown
‘Lately quite pale and grave, poor dear; and she
‘Has lost all appetite’—and then they'd moan
And wipe their eyes, where tears were sure to be,
And leave their daughters with the Don, alone,
To be cur'd by sea-air—and gallantry.
The Don was satisfied and never gazed
Or talk'd of love: the girls were quite amaz'd.

LIX

They look'd and sigh'd, as girls can look and sigh
When they want husbands, or when gossips tell
That they shall have a husband six feet high,
(Tho' five feet nine or ten might do as well)
With curly hair, Greek nose, and sweet black eye,
And other things on which I cannot dwell:
'Twas useless: he was puzzling o'er some rhyme,
Or thinking of Aurora all the time.

LX

Ah, poor Aurora!—she is gone where never
Hate, passion, envy, grief can touch her more;
And with her love, beside that famed river
That lashes with its waves the haunted shore,
(Class'd with those radiant spirits who did ever
Act nobly here, until—the play was o'er,)
She wanders in her long probation, 'till
Death shall decay and Sin, and Time be still.

LXI

She faded like the soft and summer light
That mingles gently with the darkness, and
Seems woo'd not conquer'd by the coming night,
Meeting his dim embrace but not command,
Until it sinks and vanishes, and the sight
On mockeries of the past alone is strain'd.
Thus Jove, drawn out in all Corregio's charms,
Wraps the sweet Io in his shadowy arms.

LXII

Alas! she was so young—but Death has no
Compassion on the young more than the old,
She wore a patient look, but free from woe
Unto the last, ('tis thus the story's told;)
She never look'd reproachful—peevish, tho'
Her lady sister would not seldom scold,
Because the girl had fancied her old lover;
For none could any other cause discover.

LXIII

O, melancholy Love! amidst thy fears,
Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein
Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears,—
The pride of sorrow that will not complain—
The exultation that in after years
The lov'd one will discover—and in vain,
How much the heart silently in its cell
Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell.

LXIV

Else—wherefore else doth lovely woman keep
Lock'd in her heart of hearts, from every gaze
Hidden, her struggling passion—wherefore weep
In grief that never while it flows allays
Those tumults in the bosom buried deep,
And robs her bright eyes of their natural rays.
Creation's sweetest riddle!—yet, remain
Just as thou art; man's only worthy gain.

LXV

And thou, poor Spanish maid, ah! what hadst thou
Done to the archer blind, that he should dart
His cruel shafts 'till thou wast forced to bow
In bitter anguish, aye, endure the smart
The more because thou wor'st a smiling brow
While the dark arrow canker'd at thy heart?
Yet jeer her not: if 'twere a folly, she
Hath paid (how firmly paid) Love's penalty.

LXVI

Oft would she sit and look upon the sky,
When rich clouds in the golden sun-set lay
Basking, and loved to hear the soft winds sigh
That come like music at the close of day
Trembling amongst the orange blooms, and die
As 'twere from very sweetness. She was gay,
Meekly and calmly gay, and then her gaze
Was brighter than belongs to dying days.

LXVII

And on her young thin cheek a vivid flush,
A clear transparent colour sate awhile:
'Twas like, a bard would say, the morning's blush,
And 'round her mouth there played a gentle smile,
Which tho' at first it might your terrors hush,
It could not, tho' it strove, at last beguile;
And her hand shook, and then 'rose the blue vein
Branching about in all its windings plain.

LXVIII

The girl was dying. Youth and beauty—all
Men love or women boast of was decaying,
And one by one life's finest powers did fall
Before the touch of death, who seem'd delaying,
As tho' he'd not the heart at once to call
The maiden to his home. At last, arraying
Himself in softest guise, he came: she sigh'd,
And, smiling as tho' her lover whisper'd, died.

LXIX

Diego—tho' it seem as he could change
From love to love at pleasure—be it said
Unto his honour, he did never range
Again: I should have written that he fled
To her (some people thought this wondrous strange)
At the first news of danger.—She was dead.
One silly woman said her heart was broke.—
He look'd and listen'd, but he never spoke.

LXX

He saw her where she lay in silent state,
Cold and as white as marble: and her eye,
Whereon such bright and beaming beauty sate,
Was—after the fashion of mortality,
Closed up for ever; ev'n the smiles which late
None could withstand, were gone; and there did lie
(For he had drawn aside the shrouding veil,)
By her a helpless hand, waxen and pale.

LXXI

Diego stood beside the coffin lid
And gazed awhile upon her: then he bent
And kiss'd her, and did—'twas grief's folly, bid
Her wait awhile for him, for that he meant
To follow quickly: then his face he hid,
And 'gainst the margin of the coffin leant,
In mute and idle anguish: not a breath
Or sound was heard. He was alone, with Death.

LXXII

At last they drew him, like a child, away;
And spoke in soothing sorrow of the dead,
Placing her sweet acts out in kind array,
And mourn'd that one so gracious should have fled
As 'twere before her time; tho' she would say,
Poor girl, (and often to that talk she led,)
That to die early was a happy lot,
And, cheering, said she should be ‘soon forgot.’

LXXIII

She left one letter for her love: they gave
The feeble scrawl into his hand, and told
How when she found that medicine could not save
And love had come too late, she grew more bold,
And bade, when she was quiet in her grave,
(I think the phrase was ‘when her hand was cold,’)
That they should give that letter to the Lord
Diego, her first love; or some such word.

LXXIV

None heard the sad contents; he read it thro'
And thro', and wept and pondered on each page.
At last, a gentle melancholy grew,
And touch'd, like sorrow at its second stage,
His eye with langour, and contriv'd to strew
His hair with silver ere his middle age:
But for the fiery passion which alone
Had stamped his youth with folly,—it was gone.

LXXV

Some years he liv'd: he liv'd in solitude,
And scarcely quitted his ancestral home,
Tho' many a friend and many a lady woo'd
Of birth and beauty, yet he would not roam
Beyond the neighbouring hamlet's church-yard rude;
And there the stranger still, on one low tomb,
May read ‘Aurora;’ whether the name he drew
From mere conceit of grief or not, none knew.

LXXVI

P'rhaps 'twas a mere memorial of the past:
Such Love and Sorrow fashion, and deceive
Themselves with words, until they grow at last
Content with mocks alone, and cease to grieve:
Such madness in its wiser mood will cast,
Making its fond credulity believe
Things unsubstantial. 'Twas—no matter what—
Something to hallow that lone burial spot.

LXXVII

He grew familiar with the bird; the brute
Knew well its benefactor, and he'd feed
And make acquaintance with the fishes mute,
And, like the Thracian Shepherd as we read,
Drew, with the music of his stringed lute,
Behind him winged things, and many a tread
And tramp of animal: and in his hall
He was a Lord indeed, belov'd by all.

LXXVIII

In a high solitary turret where
None were admitted would he muse, when first
The young day broke, perhaps because he there
Had in his early infancy been nurs'd,
Or that he felt more pure the morning air,
Or lov'd to see the great Apollo burst
From out his cloudy bondage, and the night
Hurry away before the conquering light.

LXXIX

But oftener to a gentle lake that lay
Cradled within a forest's bosom, he
Would, shunning kind reproaches, steal away,
And, when the inland breeze was fresh and free,
There would he loiter all the livelong day,
Tossing upon the waters listlessly.
The swallow dash'd beside him, and the deer
Drank by his boat and eyed him without fear.

LXXX

It was a soothing place: the summer hours
Pass'd there in quiet beauty, and at night
The moon ran searching thro' the woodbine bowers,
And shook o'er all the leaves her kisses bright,
O'er lemon blossoms and faint myrtle flowers,
And there the west wind often took his flight
When heaven's clear eye was closing, while above
Pale Hesper 'rose, the evening light of love.

LXXXI

How sweet it is to see that courier star
(Which like the spirit of the twilight shines)
Come stealing up the broad blue heaven afar,
Silvering the dark tops of the distant pines,
Until his mistress in her brighter car
Enters the sky, and then his light declines:
But sweetest when in lonely spots we see
The gentle, watchful, amorous deity.

LXXXII

He comes more lovely than the Hours: his look
Sheds calm refreshing light, and eyes that burn
With glancing at the sun's so radiant book,
Unto his softer page with pleasure turn:
'Tis like the murmur of some shaded brook,
Or the soft welling of a Naiad's urn,
After the sounding of the vast sea-waves.
'Tis after jealous fears the faith that saves.

LXXXIII

Then bashful boys stammer their faint fond vows;
Then like a whisper music seems to float
Around us: then from out the thicket boughs
Cometh the nightingale's so tender note,
And then the young girl listens, and allows
(Mov'd by the witching of the sweet bird's throat)
To passion its first kiss:—but of these things
He thought not in his moody wanderings.

LXXXIV

'Twas solitude he lov'd where'er he strayed,
No danger daunted and no pastime drew,
And ever on that fair heart-broken maid
(Aurora) who unto the angels flew
Away so early, with grief unallayed
He thought, and in the sky's eternal blue
Would look for shapes, 'till at times before him she
'Rose like a beautiful reality.

LXXXV

—But he hath passed away, and there remains
Scarcely the shadow of his name: the sun,
The soft breeze, and the fierce autumnal rains
Fall now alike upon him: he hath done
With Life and cast away its heavy chains,
And in his place another spirit may run
Its course (thus live, love, languish, and thus die,)
Thro' every maze of dim mortality.

LXXXVI

One day he came not at his usual hour,
(He had long been declining) and his old
Kind mother sought him in his lonely tower,
And there she found him lying, pale and cold:
Her son was dead, and love had lost his power;
And then she felt that all her days were told.
She laid him in his grave, and when she died
A stranger buried her by Diego's side.

THE WORSHIP OF DIAN.

SHEPHERDS. WOMEN.

First Shepherd.
Come hither shepherds. See, Apollo dies.
Some hours ago and who so bright as he?
His proud smile turn'd the waves to silver, and
The half-ripe fruit vermilion'd: It drew sweets
From herb and flower, and on the living earth
Shower'd beauty. Man was pleas'd and laugh'd to find
His blood run quicker and his heart grow warm,
And maids grew joyous, for they knew their cheeks
Wore then a livelier red: and see, he dies.

Second Shepherd.
But we must now forget him; for behold,
Dian is coming. Mark!

First Shepherd.
How fierce she glares!
Thus when in angry mood she stretches forth
Her arm above the waters, doth she look;
And as she bares her breast the wanton waves
Rebel 'gainst Neptune's mastery, and leap up
Far as their silver chains will reach, to do
The night-queen homage. Then, the mariner
Who hath forgot his home-confined bride,
And maid whose thoughts were not of chastity,
The merchant who hath ventures on the sea
And never prayed her help against the storms,
Do feel her wrath.

Second Shepherd.
Look! who is there, Alexas—
There, tow'rd the East?

First Shepherd.
Oh! Pan is by yonder brook:

Thus ever thro' the heats of Summer he
Offers his steaming incense to the moon;
For which she chafes his burning brow, and gives
To his parch'd herbs a freshness. Every thing
That owns his sway then honours her: rivers which
Grew hot i' the sun and silent slipp'd away,
Resume their natural pow'rs and celebrate
With music the first coming of the night.
The solemn owl speaks and the crickets sing,
And from the springing grass there comes a noise,
As tho' to tell that the earth slumbered not.
The nightingale alone seems to complain,
Yet sweetly, and the wanton Zephyrus steals
Rustling amongst the forest leaves, and plays
With the young buds and from the hawthorn branch
Shakes half its bloom—but she unclouds her brow,
And looks propitious. Kneel, ye virgins, kneel!
And stretch your white arms tow'rd the bright'ning sky,
And sing the hymn to Dian. Goddess, hear!

Hymn.

Dian!—We seek thee in this tranquil hour;
We call thee by thy names of power;
Lucina! first, (that tender name divine,

100

Which young and travail'd dames adore and fear)
Child of the dark-brow'd Proserpine!
Star-crowned Dian! Daughter of Jove
Olympian! Mother of blind Love!
Fair Cynthia! Towered Cybele!
Lady of stainless chastity!

Bend low thy listening ear,
And smile upon us now the long day's toil,
Beautiful queen! is done,
And from the withering sun
Save thou and bless the parch'd and fainting soil;
So may thy silver shafts ne'er miss their aim,
But strike the heart of every bounding fawn,
And not a nymph of thine e'er lose her fame
By loitering in the beechen glades,
Or standing, with her mantle half undrawn,
Like listening Silence, near the skirting shades
Of forests, where the satyrs lie
Sleeping with upward face, or piping musically.

Oh! smile upon us Dian! smile as thou
Art wont, 'tis said, at times to look upon
Thy own pale boy, Endymion,
When he sleeps calmly on the mountain's brow:
And may no doubt nor care,

101

When thou shalt wish, on nights serene and still,
To stay thy car upon the Latmos' hill,
Touch with a clouded hand thy look of light,
Nor elemental blight
Mar the rich beauties of thy hyacinthine hair.

Queen of the tumbling floods! oh lend thine ear
To us who seek and praise thee here.
Fright not the Halcyon from her watery nest,
When on the scarcely-moving waves she sits
Listening, sore distrest
Lest that the winds, in sullen fits
Should come and lift the curling seas on high:
Yet, if the storm must come—then Dian! then
Scatter the billows from the Delphic shore,
And bid the monsters of the deep go roar
Where the wild Scylla howls and raves,
Hard by those foreign caves
Sicilian, dug, 'tis said, by giant men
Beneath Pelorus' rugged promontory.

On thy white altar we
Lavish in fond idolatry,
Herbs and rich flowers such as the summer uses:
Some that in wheaten fields
Lift their red bells amidst the golden grain:

102

Some that the moist earth yields,
Beneath the shadows of those pine trees high,
Which, branching, shield the far Thessalian plains
From the fierce anger of Apollo's eye,
And some that Delphic swains
Pluck by the silver springs of Castaly.
Yet, there (thus it is said) the wanton Muses,
Their dark and tangled locks adorning,
Lie stretch'd on green slopes 'neath the laurel boughs,
Or weave sad garlands for their brows;
And tho' they shun thee thro' the livelong night,
Bend their bright eyes before the God of morning,
And hail with shouts his first return of light.

Now and for ever hail, great Dian!—Thou,
Before whose moony brow
The rolling planets die, or lose their fires,
And all the bravery of Heaven retires.
There Saturn dimly turns within his ring,
And Jove looks pale upon his burning throne;
There the great hunter-king,
Orion, mourns with watery glare,
The tarnished lustre of his blazing zone:
Thou only, through the blue and starry air,
In unabated beauty rid'st along,
Companion'd by our song.

103

Turn hither, then, thy clear and stedfast smile,
To grace our humble welcoming,
And may thy poet's brain
Be free from all but that so famous pain
Which sometimes, at the still midnight,
Stirs his creative fancyings, while,
(Charmed by thy silver light)
He strives, not vainly then, his sweetest song to sing.

106

THE DEATH OF ACIS.

Hic ver purpureum: varios hic flumina circum
Fundit humus flores: hic candida populus antro
Imminet, et lentæ texunt umbracula vites.
O, Galatea.
VIRG. Ecl. ix.

107

Listen, my love, and I will tell you now
A tale Sicilian: 'tis of fabulous times
When the vast giants liv'd and spirits dwelt
In haunted woods and caves beneath the seas,
And some (these were the harmless Naiades)
By running waters. You have heard me tell of
The sea-nymph Galatea, Nereus' child,
Who lov'd the shepherd Acis? 'tis a sweet
And mournful history, and to think how love
Could bend a rugged Cyclops to his power
Is pleasant: hearken then.

There is a time,
Just the first blush of summer, when the spring
And his soft rains are passing off, and flowers
Unclasp their bosoms to the winds and spread

108

Perfume and living beauty thro' the world.
It is the year's gay manhood: Nature then,
Grateful and wantoning in idolatry,
Does homage to the sun.—Long years ago,
At this gay season, in a cave o'errun
By vines and boundless clematis, (between
Whose wilderness of leaves white roses peep'd,
And honeysuckle which, with trailing boughs,
Droop'd o'er a sward grateful as ever sprung
By sprinkling fountains, when Apollo drove
The nymphs to haunt the thickets,) Acis knelt
At Galatea's feet. She gaz'd awhile.
One delicate hand was press'd against her cheek
That flush'd with pleasure, and her dark hair stream'd
Shadowing the brightness of her fixed eye,
Which on the young Sicilian shepherd's face
Shone like a star: the other hand hung down,
White as that Parian stone the sculptor hew'd
To fashion for the temples of his gods.
Peerless on earth, and like those forms of old,
Pallas, or dark-eyed Juno, or the queen
Who won the fruit on Ida, sate the sea-nymph,
Proud Galatea; 'till at last she rais'd
Her arm and twined it round her lover's neck,
And in the gentlest music asked him then
Why and how much he lov'd, and if he thought

109

'Twas strange that she, a high sea nymph, should leave
Her watery palaces and coral caves,
Her home, and all immortal company,
To dwell with him, a simple shepherd boy.
—But hark! a sudden sound burst on their ears,
And thro' the disturbed air came words like these:

“Hear me ye rocks, and all ye hollow caves
Where the wild ocean raves!
And thou, eternal Ætna! on whose brow
The white and silent and perennial snow
Sits like a diadem, I shout to thee,
In this my sad extremity.
Hearken! ye liberated winds that stray
From your dark caverns to the day,
And blindly wander all the world around:
Say to that world, ‘I love, I love, I die;’
And, on your home-returning sound,
Bear the white Galatea's last reply.”

Thus, from an overhanging promontory,
Shouted the giant Polypheme: the seas
Drew backward as affrighted at the sound:
The green woods moved, and the light poplar shook
Its silver pyramid of leaves: the Fauns

110

Rose up to listen, and the Naiades
Shrank in their chrystal fountains. Gloomily,
And still awhile, the Cyclops lay: at last,
He lifted to his mouth a reed, and blew
A strange and sweet preluding symphony.
He was a master of his pipe and knew
How every note was touch'd: deep sorrow mix'd
With those his mountain melodies, and Love cast
A strange charm 'round him: mighty tears then fill'd
His solitary eye, and with such noise
As the rough winds of Autumn make when they
Pass o'er a forest and bend down the pines,
The giant sigh'd. Again he blew his reed,
And as the whistling music pass'd away,
Sang thus of the white Galatea.

“Fair Galatea, listen! By my birth
(And I can trace it to the sea, the earth)
I love you; not as mortals love a maid,
Amorous, yet afraid
Lest that her answer chase all hope away:
Oh! Galatea, did I not celebrate
You thro' the world, and tell you were divine,
(Will you not then be mine?)
And ever sing your praise, early and late,
Thro' all the changes of a summer's day?”

111

“Proud Galatea, listen! am I not he,
Before whose matchless melody
The finest player stills his charmed lute,
And every sea-maid's voice is mute?
Am I not he to whose sweet song the Faun
Dances with mad delight,
And, on her cloudy pillow resting thro' the night,
Queen Dian listens 'till the morn?”

“Am I not, cruel nymph, great Neptune's child,
Who circles with his arms the visible earth,
(Altho' I may not walk the waters wild)
And shalt thou scorn my worth?
—Yet pardon, Galatea, pardon, for my heart
Is almost broken, beauty, and the smart
Of Love may draw from me
Words that I must disown in calmer hours:
I meant not, never meant to anger thee.
Listen, my love! altho' in coral bowers
Thou hidest, now that thro' the burning air
Starry Apollo rides. Listen, my fair;
The Son of Neptune, from his mountain high,
Calls: Galatea! listen, and reply.”

He ended, and the lovers left their cave
To see who sang so sweet, and stood exposed

112

Before the giant's eye. At once he saw
His rival and the nymph he lov'd so well
Twined in each other's arms. ‘Away,’ he cried,
‘Away thou wanton nymph, and thou, my slave,
‘Earth-born and base, thou—thou whom I could shake
‘To atoms, as the tempest scatters abroad
‘The sea-sand tow'rd the skies, away, away!’
He spoke, and from the groaning promontory
Wrench'd a huge rock, to lift whose massy weight
Would strain the sinews of a hundred arms,
And toss'd it tow'rd the sun: awhile it flew
Thro' the blue air with whizzing noise, with all
Its moss and stones and roots and branching shrubs,
And stopp'd at last in the mid-air, and then
Dropp'd like a plummet. Oh! the shepherd boy:
He felt the Cyclop's wrath, for on his head
The mighty weight descended: not a limb,
Or bone or fragment or a glossy hair
Remained of all his beauty. He was struck
Dead in a moment. Galatea! where
Fled you to shun the tumbling mountain—where?
What matters it? the sea-maid's heart was struck,
And never own'd a love again. She changed,
(As Grecian fables say) the shepherd boy
Into a stream, and on its banks would lie
And utter her laments in such a tone

113

As might have mov'd the rocks, and then would call
Upon the murdered Acis. He the while
Ran to the sea, but oft on summer nights
Noises were heard and plaintive music, like
The songs you hear in Sicily. Shepherd swains
For many an age would lie by that lone stream,
And from its watery melodies catch an air,
And tune it to their simple instruments.
Hence, as 'tis thought by some, did many songs
Originate, and oh! most likely 'tis
That pastoral music first had some such birth,
But whether from the running brooks it came,
Or from the rustling leaves, or whispering winds,
Or silver talking fountains, who may tell?
It is enough we live and own its power.

116

GYGES.

[_]

This Story of Gyges, if I may so designate the slight thread of narrative that runs through these stanzas, comes from Herodotus. It is englished in “Painter's Palace of Pleasure,” and is there prefaced by the following moral.

“That husband, which is beautified with a comely “and honest wife, whose rare excellencie doth surpasse “others, as wel in lineaments, proporcion, and feature “of bodie, as in inwarde qualities of minde: if he cannot “retaine in the secrecie and silence of his breast, “that excellinge gifte and benefite, is worthy to be inaugured “with a laurel crown of follie.

Vol. I. Nov. 6.

I have imposed the name of ‘Lais’ upon the queen of Candaules, who is without a name in the Story.

There is another account (in Plato, I believe,) of this same Gyges and his famous ring, which rendered him invisible, and by means of which he gained access to the Lydian Queen. This however would have been at variance with the moral, and was excluded.

117

‘Lydian measures.’
Dryden.

I

I've often thought that if I had more leisure
I'd try my hand upon that pleasant rhyme,
The old ‘ottava rima,’ (quite a treasure
To poets who can make their triplets chime
Smoothly:) 'tis equally adapt to pleasure,
To war, wit, love, or grief, or mock-sublime:
And yet—when pretty woman's in the case,
The lines go tripping with a better grace.

118

II

I've but small wit, and therefore will not venture
On wit; and fighting—'tis a noisy game;
From this too I'm bound down by my indenture;
(At least I swear I am, and that's the same;)
Then grief—I scarcely ever think she meant her
Madonna face—no 'twould not do: of fame
Or pleasure I know little to rehearse,
But Love is shaped and fit for every verse.

III

Love! oh! he breathes and rambles 'round the world
An idol and idolater: he flies
Touching, with passing beauty, ringlets curl'd,
Ripe lips, and bosoms white, and starry eyes,
And wheresoe'er his colours are unfurled
Full many a young and panting spirit hies.
His ranks are raw, for all are volunteers:
Some fired with hope, and plenty plagued with fears.

119

IV

He is the sweetest, yet the fiercest passion,
That ever soothed or scarred the human heart,
Worshipped and jeered by all in every nation,
And hugged and bidden while he's hugged, depart.
Yet, to say truth, if I should have occasion
Again to know him, I should beg his dart
Might be a little blunted; nay, before,
'Twas tipp'd with gall—it should be sugar'd o'er.

V

And I would have this dart held by a hand
That would pour balm upon the wound it gave:
Like that ‘white wonder’ of a foreign land,
Whose mistress in the silver moonlight gave
Tokens of early love, and did command
One heart's devotion—but I'm getting grave:
That damsel's sweetheart sadden'd, to be brief,
And washed down ('twas with poison) all his grief.

120

VI

I'd have her eyes dark as the summer night,
When Dian sleeps, and fair the planets roll
Along their golden journeys: 'tis a sight
That comes like—like—I mean that, on the whole,
It touches and, as 'twere, transports one quite,
And makes one feel that one must have a soul;
And then our wits go wandering from their ways,
Wild, and ‘wool-gathering,’ as the proverb says.

VII

So much for eyes, and now for smiles. A smile
I hold to be like balm; (the sting's the tongue:)
It soothes the cankers of the heart awhile,
And is a sort of silent music flung
(Or sunbeam) o'er the lips, and can beguile
The very d---l; pshaw! he never clung
To woman's lips: I blush and blush again.
'Twas all mistake: he ‘puts up’ with the men.

121

VIII

I never saw a fault in women yet:
Their bodies and their minds are full of grace:
Sometimes indeed their tongue—but I forget,
And 'faith that runs a very pretty race,
And doth bewilder one like wine, or debt,
Or whist when in an ancient partner's face,
We read supreme contempt, and hear her groan,
And feel that all the blunders are our own.

IX

This is vexatious I must own, and so
Are many things if but the mind were given
To make the most of trifles, but I go
Gently and jogging on (I hope) to heaven,
Sometimes in mirth, but oft'ner touch'd with woe,
(For I have somewhat of the mortal leaven,)
And string on rainy days an idle rhyme,
And kill the present to feed future time.

122

X

Now to my tale, which I would fain indite
(Tho' many a living bard can scribble better)
Without deploying to the left and right,
To see how others touch this style and metre;
I'll even keep Lord Byron out of sight.
By the bye, Lord B. and I were school'd together
At Harrow where, as here, he has a name.
I—I'm not even on the list of fame.

XI

But I am quite impatient. O, my muse!
If muse I have, hie thee across the sea,
And where in plenteous drops the famous ‘dews
Of Castalie' fall, beg a few for me;
A laurel branch too; sure they'll not refuse,
(The sisters)—if they do, then strip the tree,
And we will cultivate the laurel here,
And advertise for claimants far and near.

123

XII

Bards have a pleasant method, I must say,
Of mixing up their songs in this lax age.
Now, sweet and sharp and luscious dash'd with gay
(Like Christmas puddings, laurell'd,) are the rage;
Some stuff huge pamphlets in the duckling way,
(With ‘thoughts’) and now and then leave out ‘the sage;’
Some mark their tales (like pork) with lines and crosses;
Some hide things over-done with piquant sauces.

XIII

Some hash the orts of others, and re-hash:
Some rub the edge off jokes—to make 'em fair;
Some cut up characters, (that's rather rash,
And more than serious people well can bear:)
In short there's many a way to make a dash:
Now, if you write incog.—that has an air;
(Yet men may as I have for this good reason:)
Then Love's a thing that's never out of season.

124

XIV

Love is a pure and evanescent thing,
And, when its delicate plumes are soil'd, it dies.
There is a story of a Lydian king,
Candaules, who it seems thought otherwise:
Aloose, uxorious monarch, passioning
For what he had already. Husbands wise!
Attend the moral of my curious story,
For I intend to lay it now before ye.

XV

Candaules king of Lydia had a wife,
Beautiful Lais: she was such as I
(Had she not ta'en her silly husband's life,
Which shews a certain taste for cruelty,)
Could love;—but no! we might have had some strife,
And she was rather cold and somewhat ‘high,’
And I detest that stalking, marble grace,
Which makes one think the heart has left its place.

125

XVI

Now King Candaules was an amorous sot,
A mere, loose, vulgar simpleton d'ye see;
Bad to be sure, yet of so hard a lot
Not quite deserving, surely: and that she
All old ties should so quickly have forgot
Seems odd. We talk of ‘woman's constancy
And love’—yet Lais' lord was but a fool,
And she's but the exception, not the rule.

XVII

She had the stature of a queen: her eyes
Were bright and large but all too proud to rove,
And black, which I have heard some people prize;
Lightly along the ground she deign'd to move,
Gazed at and woo'd by every wind that flies,
And her deep bosom seem'd the throne of love:
And yet she was, for my poor taste, too grand,
And likely for ‘obey’ to read ‘command.’

126

XVIII

Give me less faultless woman, so she might
Be all my own, trusted at home and far,
With whom the world might be forgotten quite,
The country's scandal and the city's jar,
And in whose deep blue eyes Love's tenderest light
Should rise in beauty, like a vesper star,
On my return at evening, aye, and shine
On hearts I prized. By Jove! 'twould be divine.

XIX

Oh! we would turn some pleasant page together,
And 'plaud the wit, the tale, the poet's tropes,
Or, wandering in the early summer weather,
Talk of the past mischance and future hopes,
Or ride at times, (and that would save shoe-leather,)
For nought so well with nervous humours copes
As riding; i. e. taken by degrees;
It warms the blood, and saves all doctor's fees.

127

XX

Candaules' court was much like courts in general
In times of peace, that is, 'twas pretty gay:
To my taste better much than when the men are all
Busy in horrid fighting far away,
With scarce a sound but drums beating the ‘generale;’
Yes—now and then, when the wild trumpets bray,
And their rich voice goes riding on the wind
Like mounted war, but leaves no track behind.

XXI

There was a Lydian boy who ‘pleas'd at court;’
A youngster such as girls would smile to see,
Excellent in each brave and gentle sport,
War and the chace, the song, the dance, was he,
But scribbling tender verses was his forte,
And Gyges was quite fam'd for modesty,
And when the king would praise his queen, the youth
Yawn'd, in a way provoking: 'twas in truth.

128

XXII

And yet he was not altogether cold;
(This I conclude, the story does not tell;)
I mean, he was not sheepish, nor too bold,
Nor did he swear, nor languish like a belle:
Pshaw! had I had my wits I might have told
This in five words; he pleased the women well.
They said indeed at times, ‘a little bolder;’
But this they knew would change, when he grew older.

XXIII

There was a mark on Lais' swan-like breast,
(A purple flower with its leaf of green,)
Like that the Italian saw when on the rest
He stole of the unconscious Imogene,
And bore away the dark fallacious test
Of what was not, altho' it might have been,
And much perplex'd Leonatus Posthumus;
In truth he might have puzzled one of us.

129

XXIV

The king told Gyges of the purple flower;
(It chanced to be the flower the boy lik'd most;)
It has a scent as though Love, for its dower,
Had on it all his odorous arrows tost,
For tho' the Rose has more perfuming power,
The Violet (haply 'cause 'tis almost lost,
And takes us so much trouble to discover)
Stands first with most: but always with a lover.

XXV

He blush'd and listen'd—panted like a fawn
That's just escaped the fraudful hunters' range,
And his eyes sparkled like approaching morn,
And on his cheek he felt the colour change
Until he trembled—and the blush was gone:
His brain was stagger'd with a notion strange:
He sighed to see, tho' but for once, the flower;
The monarch laugh'd, but 'twas a dangerous hour

130

XXVI

In the first rushing of that burning tide
Hath many a glorious spirit been swept away;
Heroes, bards, kings, have been brain-struck and died
When the first burst of love, in full array
Hath shewn the world at once its pomp and pride
Of beauty, starting into sudden day:
Hence men restor'd to sight by surgic toil,
Should learn to court the shade, at least awhile.

XXVII

Next day he (Gyges) led the talk. He said
He thought it ‘curious’ nature ever should
Imprint an useless mark—that he was bred
To think what seem'd most sportive in her mood,
Was for a purpose: then he hung his head,
And o'er his fine face flush'd the eloquent blood,
And the king's broad and boastful stare he shunn'd:
He look'd like a man in debt who had been dunn'd.

131

XXVIII

Candaules (shame upon the silly king!)
Vowed that the curious boy this mark should see.
He saw—(In faith 'twould be a pretty thing
If even kings could take this liberty).
He saw her in her beauty, fluttering
From pleasure as she glanc'd her smiling eye
On the broau mirror which displayed a breast
Unlaced, where Jove himself might sigh to rest.

XXIX

The boy came (guided by the king) to where,
In the most deep and silent hour of night,
Stood Lais: quite unloos'd, her golden hair
Went streaming all about like lines of light
And, thro' the lattice-leaves gusts of soft air
Sighedlike perfume, and touched her shoulders white,
And o'er her tresses and her bosom played,
Seeming to love each place o'er which they strayed.

132

XXX

Then sank she on her couch and drew aside
The silken curtains and let in the moon,
Which trembling ran around the chamber wide,
Kissing and flooding the rich flowers which June
Had fann'd to life, and which in summer-pride
'Rose like a queen's companions. Lais soon,
Touch'd by the scene, look'd as she had forgot
The world: the boy stood rooted to the spot.

XXXI

He stood, with beating pulse and widen'd eyes,
Like one struck dumb by some magician's charm,
Listening to the low music of her sighs,
And gazing on her white and rounded arm;
At last the lady motion'd as to rise,
When it occurr'd to him there might be harm
Unless he left (and quickly left) the place:
He mov'd, and then she met him, face to face.

133

XXXII

It was the lady's turn to wonder now.
She wonder'd, but her wonder soon subsided,
And scorn and anger flash'd across her brow;
At length, she grew more calm, and (perhaps guided
By pity for his youth) she asked him how—
How a young gentleman like him who prided
Himself upon his modesty could call
At such an hour:—he blush'd, and told her all.

XXXIII

She swore she would have vengeance for the wrong,
Double and deadly vengeance—and she had.
His majesty soon after took that long
Journey whence none but ghosts, or things as bad,
Return: 'twas said his wine grew mighty strong,
And that 'twas handed by this curious lad,
(Gyges) whom Lais fancied from that day,
And made Lord of herself and Lydia.

134

XXXIV

That king! he was the last of all his race.
A race of kings and heroes, and he lay
Helpless and dead: his smile gave pow'r and place
Honour and wealth and joy, but yesterday.
But poison had swept the smile from off his face,
And his cold limbs went floating far away,
Stript of the tomb wherein he should have slept:
He liv'd unhonour'd, and he died unwept.

XXXV

It is a chilling thing to see, as I
Have seen, a man go down into the grave,
Without a tear, or ev'n an alter'd eye:
Oh! sadder far than when fond women rave,
Or children weep or aged parents sigh
O'er one whom art and love doth strive to save
In vain; man's heart is sooth'd by every tone
Of pity, saying he's ‘not quite alone.’

135

XXXVI

I saw a pauper once, when I was young,
Borne to his shallow grave: the bearers trod
Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung,
And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod:
On the rough boards the earth was gaily flung:
Methought the prayer which gave him to his God
Was coldly said:—then all, passing away,
Left the scarce-coffin'd wretch to quick decay.

XXXVII

It was an autumn evening, and the rain
Had ceased awhile, but the loud winds did shriek
And call'd the deluging tempest back again,
The flag-staff on the church-yard tow'r did creak,
And thro' the black clouds ran a lightning vein,
And then the flapping raven came to seek
Its home: its flight was heavy, and its wing
Seem'd weary with a long day's wandering.

136

XXXVIII

How the frail pair lived on I know not: I
Have but subdued Candaules to my strain.
It was enough for me that he should die,
And having kill'd the king, why—that's the main:
So, for the moral of the story, try
(Turning to the beginning once again,)
To trace it in the quaint and antique text;
You'll find the meaning not at all perplex'd.

XXXIX

Reader, this trifle's ended: I have told
The tale and shewn the moral ‘in a way:’
Yet doth my page another truth unfold,
Namely that women of the present day
Are not so bad, nor half, as those of old.
Then, cast not thou the lesson quite away,
That—as they're better than they were before,
Why, men should love 'em (wisely) more and more.

137

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

139

AN INVOCATION.

I

If, at this dim and silent hour,
Spirits have a power
To wander from their homes of light,
And on the winds of night
To come, and to a human eye
Stand visible, like mortality—

II

Come thou, the lost Marcelia, thou—
And on thy sunny brow
Bear all thy beauty as of old,
For I dare behold
Whatever sights sublime there be,
So I may once more look on thee.

140

III

Or be thou like a dæmon thing,
Or shadow hovering,
Or like the bloody shapes that come
With torch and sound of drum,
Scaring the warrior's slumbers, I
Will welcome thee, and wish thee nigh.

IV

And I would talk of the famous brave,
Of the dead, and their house the grave,
And feel its wondrous silentness,
And pity those whom none may bless,
And see how far the gaping tomb
Stretches its spectral arms—and hear my doom.

V

And I would know how long they lie
On their dark beds who die,
And if they feel, or joy, or weep,
Or ever dare to sleep
In that strange land of shadows. Thou
Whom I do call, come hither—now.

141

VI

But there thou art, a radiant spirit,
And dost inherit
Earlier than others thy blue home,
And art free to roam
Like a visiting beam, from star to star,
And shed thy smiles from skies afar.

VII

Then, soft and gentle beauty, be
Still like a star to me;
And I will ever turn at night
Unto thy soothing light,
And fancy, while before thine eyes,
I am full in the smile of Paradise.

142

ON THE STATUE OF THESEUS,

ONE OF THE ELGIN MARBLES.

Aye, this is he,
A proud and mighty spirit: how fine his form
Gigantic! moulded like the race that strove
To take Jove's heav'n by storm and scare him from
Olympus. There he sits, a demigod,
Stern as when he of yore forsook the maid
Who doating saved him from the Cretan toil,
Where he had slain the Minotaur. Alas!
Fond Ariadne, thee did he desert
And heartless left thee on the Naxos shore
To languish.—This is he who dared to roam
The world infernal, and on Pluto's queen,
Ceres' own lost Proserpina, did lay
His hand: thence was he prison'd in the vaults
Beneath, 'till freed by Hercules. Methinks,
(So perfect is the Phidian stone) his sire,
The sea-god Neptune, hath in anger stopped
The current of life, and with his trident-touch
Hath struck him into marble.

143

“WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN.”

When shall we three meet again?
We will meet when the storms and rain
Of Autumn come, and the winds go by
Our dwelling with a fearful cry,
And shake the red leaves from the trees;
And when they say that the year must die,
Amongst their dreary harmonies
We'll mingle a wild but livelier strain,
And sing “We three have met again.”

Three sprightly spirits are we now;
One upon her maiden brow
Bears life and beauty, and her smile
Shall cheer me on for many a mile;

144

For I am going far away,
To see the blue and cloudless day
Shine on the fields of Italy:
What tho' full many a heavy hour
May press me with its silent power,
And I, upon a foreign shore
A stranger, feel that touch the more;
Yet, from amidst my sadness, I
Will look upon futurity,
And half forget my moody vein,
In the thought that “We shall meet again.”

When the Autumn nights are long
We will sing some pleasant song;
And you, my friend, whose silver tone
Makes Music's very voice your own,
You shall pour your richest numbers,
And 'wake the silent night from slumbers;
And gentle Helen thou shalt be
Queen of the hour to him and me,
And we will braid amidst thy hair
Roses like thy bosom fair,
And we will laugh and worship thee,
As the spirit of poetry.

145

Away, away—for I must go
Over the wild and bounding waters;
But amongst the Roman daughters
I shall think of thee, as now:
And— —if a lofty line
Remind me of thy verse divine,
Or if some sweet melody
Should bring a thought of home to me,
I will neglect the soothing strain,
To sigh “Oh! may we meet again.”

146

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

[_]

[HE DIED AT ROME OF THE MAL' ARIA.]

O Rome! amongst thy temples high,
And columns with the wild weed crown'd,
And sculptured capitals that lie
Struck down, and in the grasp of Time,
How many a mighty heart sublime
Lies dead and stripp'd of all its fame,
Like those who never earn'd a name,
Or played a base or vulgar part;
And now—thou hast another heart,
(No better in the wide world found)
Buried in thy immortal ground.
For thou—(altho' thy works of stone,
All in their times renowned known

147

As things of mere mortality
Must perish—) thou canst never die.

But he, the burthen of my song,
Who came, but might not tarry long,
In summer strength hath perished.
Oh! many a thing beside the grave
Whom few could love, and none could save,
Hath he, with weak but hurrying tread
Passed.— And he is with the dead!
‘The dead’—whom now 'twere vain to call
While lying in their silent sleep,
And yet we cannot help but weep,
Albeit 'tis idle, idle all.
Then, let this poor memorial
Remind some of his early day,
And to all who lov'd him, say
Though gone, he is not quite forgot.
While to those who knew him not,
It is enough to tell that he
Was such a man as men should be;
That pray'r, nor art, nor love could save;
And that he lies in a foreign grave.

148

MARCELIA.

—It was a dreary place. The shallow brook
That ran throughout the wood, there took a turn
And widened: all its music died away,
And in the place a silent eddy told
That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees
Funereal (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine,
And spicy cedar,) clustered, and at night
Shook from their melancholy branches sounds
And sighs like death: 'twas strange, for thro' the day
They stood quite motionless, and looked methought
Like monumental things, which the sad earth
From its green bosom had cast out in pity,
To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves
Disown'd their natural green, and took a black
And mournful hue: and the rough brier, stretching

149

His straggling arms across the rivulet,
Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching
With his tenacious leaf, straws, withered boughs,
Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which
Swam with the current, and with these it hid
The poor Marcelia's death-bed. — Never may net
Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope,
For not a fish abides there. The slim deer
Snorts as he ruffles with his shorten'd breath
The brook, and panting flies the unholy place,
And the white heifer lows and passes on;
The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds
Go higher up the stream. And yet I love
To loiter there: and when the rising moon
Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks
Red and dilated thro' the evening mists,
And chequered as the heavy branches sway
To and fro' with the wind, I stay to listen,
And fancy to myself that a sad voice,
Praying, comes moaning thro' the leaves, as 'twere
For some misdeed. The story goes that some
Neglected girl (an Orphan, whom the world
Frown'd upon) once stray'd thither, and 'twas thought
Cast herself in the stream: You may have heard
Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who

150

Fell ill and came to want? No?—oh she lov'd
A wealthy man who mark'd her not. He wed,
And then the girl grew sick and pined away
And drown'd herself for love. Some day or other
I'll tell you all the story.

151

PORTRAITS.

I dreamt, and o'er my enchanted vision pass'd
Shapes of the elder time (beautiful things
That men have died for!) as they stood on earth,
But more ethereal, and each forehead bore
The stamp and character of the starry skies.

First came that Roman Lady from whose bosom
The Gracchi twins were born, gracious Cornelia:
Her raven hair was wreath'd about her brow
Severe, yet fair and lovely. Like a queen
She trod, majestic as when Juno thron'd
Above the Deities, by the side of Jove,
Lends her proud smile celestial, while her Lord
Showers Heaven's bounties on the world below.

Behind her followed an Athenian dame,
(The pale and elegant Aspasia)
Like some fair marble carved by Phidias' hand,
And meant to imitate the nymph or muse:

152

Mistress of poetry and song was she,
And fit to be beloved of Pericles.
Shadowed by myrtle boughs she floated onwards.

Then came a dark-brow'd spirit, on whose head
Laurel and withering roses loosely hung:
She held a harp amongst whose chords her hand
Wandered for music—and it came. She sang
A song despairing, and the whispering winds
Seem'd envious of her melody, and streamed
Amidst the wires to rival her, in vain.
Short was the strain, but sweet: Methought it spoke
Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas,
Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone,
And hopes decay'd for ever: and my ear
Caught well remember'd names, ‘Leucadia's rock’
At times, and ‘faithless Phaon:’ Then the form
Pass'd not, but seem'd to melt in air away:
This was the Lesbian Sappho.—Then pass'd by
Another, and another, without names.

At last came one whom none could e'er mistake
Amidst a million: Egypt's dark-eyed Queen:
The love, the spell, the bane of Antony.
O, Cleopatra! who shall speak of thee?
Gaily, but like the Empress of a land

153

She mov'd, and light as a wood-nymph in her prime,
And crown'd with costly gems, whose single price
Might buy a kingdom, yet how dim they shone
Beneath the magic of her eye, whose beam
Flash'd love and languishment: Of varying humours
She seem'd, yet subtle in her wildest mood,
As guile were to her passions ministrant.
At last she sank as dead. A noxious worm
Fed on those blue and wandering veins that lac'd
Her rising bosom: aye, did sleep upon
The pillow of Antony, and left behind,
In dark requital for its banquet—death.

154

LINES WRITTEN UNDER AN ENGRAVING OF MILTON.

He, tho' he dwelt in seeming night,
Scattered imperishable light
Around, and to the regions of the day
Sent his winged thoughts away,
And bade them search the ways on high
For the bright flame of Poetry.
—'Tis to adventurous spirits given
Alone, who dare themselves obey,
And look at the face of the inmost heaven.

He saw the burning fire that keeps,
In the unfathomable deeps,
Its powers for ever, and made a sign
To the Morning Prince divine,
Who came across the sulphurous flood
Obedient to that master call,
And, in Angel beauty, stood
Proud on his star-lit pedestal.

145

Then the mighty limner drew,
And tincted with a skiey hue,
The king of all the damned: the same
Who headlong from the Empyrean came,
With all his fiery cherubim,
Blasted, and millions fell with him.

He saw the dreary regions where
Eternal Chaos sate, and there
Learnt secrets of the whispering gloom,
And faced the father of the tomb,
Orcus; and many an awful thing
That comes in wild freams hovering,
Tumult, and Chance, and Discord, Fame,
And heard and saw “the dreaded name
Of Demogorgon,” and his soul
Felt the shadowy darkness roll
From night's throne, and then he told
To man those signs and wonders old.

156

TO A STAR.

WRITTEN (FOR A COMMON-PLACE BOOK) UNDER THE SKETCH OF A CAVALIER CONTEMPLATING A STAR.

Now, from thy skiey road, look down upon me,
Hesper—Star of my sad nativity!
—With no unholy thought I dare to court
Thy lustrous eye on me: and as to one
Known in some happier hours I bid thee hail
After my many wanderings. I have seen
Thy burning glance on bare and peopled lands,
Civil and savage: on the parched plains
Of India and the sands of Palestine,
On tropic waters and on iced shores,
And on the far and solitary seas
O' the south. I've roam'd this circular world, and thou
Hast follow'd me like fate, yet never look'd
Before with such kind aspect: Thou art now
Shining above my home, and hallowing
The sweet haunt of my infancy — I come

157

After my toils and dangers to seek rest,
And love, and welcoming eyes, and gentle hearts.
Oh! thou bright Star, be now my messenger,
And from thy cloudy palace (for the clouds
Are rolling 'round about thee) glance upon
My mother's house with thy expressive eye,
And to the dear inhabitants, gentle Star,
Dart smiling tidings that the boy they loved
Is come indeed. Shipwrecked and lost for years,
He lives redeemed from his watery grave,
Lives, and will be a blessing. And on the cheek
Of one supremely soft and beautiful,
Light like the cheerful ray of a Summer morning;
So may my own Olympia know that still
Juan, the wanderer, lives.

158

SONG.

[Sleep, my Leila: do not fear]

1

Sleep, my Leila: do not fear;
Close thine eyes; thy Hassan's here.
Thy lover's still beside thee:
Then how can harm betide thee?

2

Sleep, my rose of beauty, sleep,
And I will hush thy murmurs deep,
And watch thee while thou sleepest,
And kiss thee if thou weepest.

3

Yet, may no fears, nor aught that seems
Evil ever haunt thy dreams.
Dream thou of love and flowers,
Blue skies and happier hours.

159

4

And I, beneath this summer moon,
Will sing an old remember'd tune,
Such as the winds awaken
When slumbering leaves are shaken.

5

Such as comes, when o'er smooth sands
The sea-maid spreads her silver hands,
And sinks, with scarce a motion,
Back in the calm green ocean.

6

Sweet as when as the star-light goes,
Thy dark eyes now begin to close
On all, on me thy lover:
They're shut: my song is over.

160

SONG. A MAID TO HER LOVER.

Where's the ring I gave to thee,
Juan, when our love was young,
And I upon thy bosom clung
With all a girl's credulity?

In the narrow circlet lay
An emblem as I thought (ere fears
And doubt sprung up in after years)
Of endless love, that mock'd decay.

And its golden round contained
For gentle hearts a silent spell,
Within whose magic we might dwell,
I hoped, as long as life remained.

And am I then forgot by you?
Oh! then send back the idle token,
For rings are nought when vows are broken,
And useless all while love is true.

161

SERENADE.

Listen! from the forest boughs
The voice-like angel of the spring
Utters his soft vows
To the proud rose blossoming.

And now beneath thy lattice, dear!
I am like the bird complaining:
Thou above (I fear)
Like the rose disdaining.

From her chamber in the skies
Shouts the lark at break of morning,
And when day-light flies
Comes the raven's warning.

This of gloom and that of mirth
In their mystic numbers tell;
But thoughts of sweeter birth
Teacheth the nightingale.

162

A DRYAD'S HAUNT.

TRAVELLER.
This is a lovely spot. Here let us rest,
Beneath this branching oak, and make the grass
Our bed awhile. Shepherd! this spot indeed
Were worthy some tradition: hast thou none
Stored in thy memory, to beguile the time
While the sky burns above us? Why, methinks,
The very seasons meet, flinging the buds
Of Spring in the lap of Summer. Every tree
That prodigal Nature gives springs forth, and seems
The fairest of its kind. The poplar there
Shoots up its spire and shakes its leaves i' the sun
Fantastical, while 'round its slender base
Rambles the sweet-breath'd woodbine: There beside,
Glooms the dark cypress, and the ash seems to sigh
Lest it should fling its berries to the blast:
There crawls the vine; there the pale rose doth hang
Her head like a love-sick girl: on high the cedar
Stoops, like a monarch to his people bending,
And casts his sweets around him—Where are we?

163

GUIDE.
I had almost forgot the place. This was
A Dryad's home: Beneath this ancient oak
(First o' the forest) that doth spread its arms
Abroad, and stands again regenerate,
She liv'd. She loved, it seems, a mortal, but
The fairest youth in Phocis: on his brow
Sate a mild beauty, (such the ancients paint
Hylas or Hyacinth, or who died self slain
Narcissus;)—Here she passed her life, and caught
Youth from the changing year. She lov'd to lie
At noontide on yon slope, and muse upon
Her sad and lonely destiny. At last,
Quitting her sacred tree (here had she dwelt
The spirit of the place) she plunged within
Yond bend of the Cephisus, where you see
The waves flow darker and the ripples sink
To silence: yet she died not, for some god
(Then watching from his orb) saved the poor nymph
And fixed her in the skies, a star 'tis thought,
For ever when the setting sun departs
On April evenings or in early May,
(That time she left us) a pale star is seen
Brightly to shine on that part of the stream
Wherein she plunged; and ever when it shines
The trees around the place are mov'd, as if

164

By airs from Heav'n, and sweetness steams about:
The dark pines bend their heads: that sacred oak
Lets falls its leaves, as when on Autumn nights
The north wind (Winter's fierce precursor) roams
Amongst the branches howling, and disrobes
The shrubs of all their green: pale Syrinx then
Moans in the reeds, and sweet Aglaia (she
Still constant to the inconstant rivulet,)
Troubles the faint Cephisus' course, and breathes
Music along the waters.

165

THE LAST DAY OF TIPPOO SAIB.

That day he 'rose Sultan of half the East.
—The guards awoke, each from his feverish dream
Of conquest or of fear: the trumpet plain'd
Thro' the far citadel, and thousands trooped
Obedient to its mournful melody,
Soldier and chief and slave: And he the while
Traversed his hall of power, and with a look
Deeply observant glanced on all: then, waving
His dusky arm, struck thro' the listening crowd
Silence and dumb respect: from his fierce tongue
Stream'd words of vengeance: Fame he promised,
And wealth and honours to the brave, but woe
To those who fail'd him.—There he stood, a king
Half-circled by his Asian chivalry,
In figure as some Indian God, or like

166

Satan when he beneath his burning dome
Marshall'd the fiery cherubim, and called
All Hell to arms. The Sun blazed into day:
Then busy sights were seen, and sounds of war
Came thickening: first the steed's shrill neigh; the drum
Rolling at intervals; the bugle note,
Mix'd with the hoarse command; then (nearing on)
The soldier's silent, firm, and regular tread;
The trampling horse; the clash of swords; the wheel
That, creaking, bore the dread artillery.
How fierce the dark king bore him on that day!
How bravely! Like a common slave he fought,
Heedless of life, and cheer'd the soldier on;—
Deep in his breast the bullets sank, but he
Kept on, and this looked nobly—like a king.
That day he earned a title with his life,
And made his foes respect him.—Towards night
He grew faint, very faint with many wounds:
His soldiers bore him in: they wept: he was
Their old commander, and, whate'er his life,
Had led them on to conquest. Then (it was
His wish) they placed him on his throne—He sate
Like some dark form of marble, with an eye
Staring, and strained with pain, and motionless,
And glassy as with death: his lips compressed

167

Spoke inward agony, yet seem'd he resolute
To die a king. An enemy came, and strove
To tear away his regal diadem:
Then turned his eye; he rose—one angry blush
Tinted his cheek, and fled. He grasp'd his sword,
And struck his last, faint, useless blow, and then
Stood all defenceless—Ah! a flash, and quick
Fled the dark ball of death: right thro' the brain
It went, (a mortal messenger) and all
That then remain'd of that proud Asian king,
Who startled India far and wide, and shook
The deserts with his thunder, was—a name

168

SONG.

[My love is a lady of gentle line]

My love is a lady of gentle line,
Tow'rds some like the cedar bending,
Tow'rds me she flies—like a shape divine
From heaven to earth descending.

Her very look is life to me,
Her smile like the clear moon rising,
And her kiss is as sweet as the honied bee,
And more and more enticing.

Mild is my love as the summer air,
And her cheek (her eyes half closing)
Now rests on her full-blown bosom fair,
Like Languor on Love reposing.

169

[Once, in a dream, I saw a shape of power]

Once, in a dream, I saw a shape of power
And unimaginable beauty, clad
In a vest of brightness star dropt, armed with
A spear (celestial temper) while around
Blaz'd circling light—intense—and far beyond
Those sheeted lightnings that, by night, cast out
Their splendours near the line. The vision spoke
Cheering, and as it spoke, the air became
Painfully sweet. Such odours as the rose
Wastes on the summer air, or such as rise
From beds of hyacinths, or from jasmine flowers,
Or when the blue-ey'd violet weeps upon
Some sloping bank remote, while the young sun
(Creeping within her sheltering bower of leaves)
Dries up her tears, were nought—fantastical.
It spoke—in tones cathedral organs (touched
By master hands) ne'er gave—nor April winds,
Wandering thro' harps Æolian—nor the note
Of pastoral pipe, heard on the Garonne banks
At eventide—nor Spanish youth's guitar,
Night-touch'd—nor strains that take the charmed ear,
Breath'd by the 'witching dames of Italy.

170

SONG.

[Thou shalt sing to me]

Thou shalt sing to me
When the waves are sleeping,
And the winds are creeping
'Round the embowering chesnut tree.

Thou shalt sing by night,
When no birds are calling,
And the stars are falling
Brightly from their mansions bright.

Of those thy song shall tell
From whom we've never parted,
The young, the tender-hearted,
The gay, and all who loved us well.

But we'll not profane
Such a gentle hour
Nor our favourite bower,
With a thought that tastes of pain.

171

SONNETS.

SPRING.

This and the three following sonnets were given to Messrs. Ollier, and have already appeared in “The Literary Pocket Book for 1820.”

It is not that sweet herbs and flow'rs alone
Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep
In their great mother's iced bosom deep
For months, or that the birds, more joyous grown,
Catch once again their silver summer tone,
And they who late from bough to bough did creep,
Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep,
And seem to sing of winter overthrown.
No—with an equal march the immortal mind,
As tho' it never could be left behind,
Keeps pace with every movement of the year;
And (for high truths are born in happiness)
As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear,
And sees beyond the slave's or bigot's guess.

172

SUMMER.

Now have green April and the blue-eyed May
Vanish'd awhile: and lo! the glorious June
(While Nature ripens in his burning noon)
Comes like a young inheritor, and gay,
Altho' his parent months have passed away;
But his green crown shall wither, and the tune
That usher'd in his birth be silent soon,
And in the strength of youth shall he decay.
What matters this—so long as in the past
And in the days to come we live, and feel
The present nothing worth, until it steal
Away, and like a disappointment die?
For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory,
Flies ever on before or follows fast.

173

AUTUMN.

There is a fearful spirit busy now:
Already have the elements unfurled
Their banners: the great sea-wave is upcurled:
The cloud comes: the fierce winds begin to blow
About, and blindly on their errands go,
And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled
From their dry boughs, and all the forest world,
Stripp'd of its pride, be like a desert show.
I love that moaning music which I hear
In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul
Seems gathering tidings from another sphere;
And, in sublime mysterious sympathy,
Man's bounding spirit ebbs and swells more high,
Accordant to the billow's loftier roll.

174

WINTER.

This is the eldest of the seasons: he
Moves not like Spring with gradual step, nor grows
From bud to beauty, but with all his snows
Comes down at once in hoar antiquity.
No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee
Before him, nor unto his time belong
The suns of Summer, nor the charms of song,
That with May's gentle smiles so well agree.
But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud,
Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound,
And with a gentle footstep prints the ground,
As tho' to cheat man's ear; yet while he stays
He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days,
And bid the dance and joke be long and loud.

175

SONNET.

[WRITTEN AFTER SEEING MR. MACREADY IN ROB ROY.]

Macready, thou hast pleas'd me much: 'till now
(And yet I would not thy fine powers arraign)
I did not think thou hadst that livelier vein,
Nor that clear open spirit upon thy brow.
Come, I will crown thee with a poet's bough:
Mine is an humble branch, yet not in vain
Giv'n, if the few I sing shall not disdain
To wear the little wreaths that I bestow.
There is a buoyant air, a passionate tone
That breathes about thee, and lights up thine eye
With fire and freedom: it becomes thee well.
It is the bursting of a good seed, sown
Beneath a cold and artificial sky:
'Tis genius overmastering its spell.

176

A STORMY NIGHT.

It is a stormy night, and the wild sea
That sounds for ever, now upon the beach
Is pouring all its power. Each after each
The hurrying waves cry out rejoicingly,
And crowding onwards, seem as they would reach
The height I tread upon. The winds are high,
And the quick lightnings shoot along the sky
At intervals. It is an hour to teach
Vain man his insignificance; and yet,
Tho' all the elements in their might have met,
At every pause comes ringing on my ear
A sterner murmur, and I seem to hear
The voice of Silence sounding from her throne
Of darkness, mightier than all—but all alone.