Records of Woman: With Other Poems. by Felicia Hemans (1793-1835). Edinburgh: William Blackwood & London: T. Cadell, 1828 [Second Edition].

RECORDS OF WOMAN:
WITH OTHER POEMS

J. JOHNSTONE, PRINTER, EDINBURGH.

RECORDS OF WOMAN:

WITH OTHER POEMS.

BY

FELICIA HEMANS.

THE SECOND EDITION

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH:
AND T. CADELL, LONDON.
MDCCCXXVIII.

TO
MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE,
THIS VOLUME,
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF
GRATEFUL RESPECT AND ADMIRATION,
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
BY
THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

RECORDS OF WOMAN.

ARABELLA STUART.

"THE LADY ARABELLA," as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth, as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret, but early-discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and, at break of day, a French vessel engaged to receive her, was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, [Page 4]  contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, "which," says D'Israeli, "occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower;–he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders."–Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the King's service, and brought back to a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank.–"What passed in that dreadful imprisonment, cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history,–but enough is known; that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers." –D'ISRAELI's Curiosities of Literature.–The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.

ARABELLA STUART.

         And is not love in vain,
  Torture enough without a living tomb?
                                BYRON.

  Fermossi al fin il cor che balzò tanto.
                                PINDEMONTE.

I.

'TWAS but a dream!–I saw the stag leap free,
  Under the boughs where early birds were singing,
I stood, o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree,
  And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing
Far thro' a royal forest: then the fawn
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn
To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook,
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook,

[Page 6] 

And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career,
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear,
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance
Into the deep wood's heart; and all pass'd by
Save one–I met the smile of one clear eye,
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there,
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methought, thy hunting-spear away,
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side; and we, that met and parted,
  Ever in dread of some dark watchful power,
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-hearted,
   Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour,
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath
Of hidden forest flowers.

[Page 7] 

II.

[Page 8] 

III.

[Page 9] 

IV.

[Page 10] 

V.

                     Now the night grows deep,
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.
I hear my veins beat.–Hark! a bell's slow chime.
My heart strikes with it.–Yet again–'tis time!
A step!–a voice!–or but a rising breeze?
–Hark! haste!–I come, to meet thee on the seas.

* * * * * * * *

[Page 11] 

VI.

[Page 12] 

Fraught with our foes!–What boots it to recall
The strife, the tears? Once more a prison-wall
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight,
And joyous glance of waters to the light,
And thee, my Seymour, thee!

                    I will not sink!
  Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee;
And this shall be my strength–the joy to think
  That thou mayst wander with heaven's breath around thee;
And all the laughing sky! This thought shall yet
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet,
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken,
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token
Shall one day be deliverance, tho' the years
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears.

[Page 13] 

VII.

VIII.

[Page 14] 

Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been,
Thro' the leaves pouring its dark sultry bIue
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you
Hath murmur'd, and the rill.–My soul grows faint
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint
Your haunts by dell and stream,–the green, the free,
The full of all sweet sound,–the shut from me!

IX.

[Page 15] 

I am cast under their triumphal car,
An insect to be crushed.–Oh! Heaven is far,–
Earth pitiless!

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am prov'd
So long, so sternly! Seymour, my belov'd!
There are such tales of holy marvels done
By strong affection, of deliverance won
Thro' its prevailing power! Are these things told
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old
Wonder, yet dare not doubt,–and thou, oh! thou,
  Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay?–
Thou canst not!–thro' the silent night, ev'n now,
  I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray
Still first for thee.–Oh! gentle, gentle friend!
How shall I bear this anguish to the end?

Aid!–comes there yet no aid?–the voice of blood
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood

[Page 16] 

Sinks thro' the greensward!–is there not a cry
From the wrung heart, of power, thro' agony,
To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy! hear me! None
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun,
Have heavier cause!–yet hear!–my soul grows dark–
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark,
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone,
And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown,
Its freight of human hearts?–th' o'ermastering wave!
Who shall tell how it rush'd–and none to save?

Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know,
There would be rescue if this were not so.
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board,
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd,
Thou'rt where the dancers meet!–a magic glass
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass,
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall;–
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all–

[Page 17] 

Thine! What dost thou amidst the bright and fair,
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair?
It is not welI of thee!–my love was more
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore;
And there thou smilest while my heart is dying,
With all its blighted hopes around it lying;
Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf–
Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief.

Death!–what, is death a lock'd and treasur'd thing,
Guarded by swords of fire? ² a hidden spring,
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure,
As if the world within me held no cure?
Wherefore not spread free wings–Heaven, Heaven! control
These thoughts–they rush–I look into my soul
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array
Of fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray,
So shall their dark host pass.

[Page 18] 

                    The storm is still'd.
  Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou, canst sound
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd,
  For human line too fearfully profound.
Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child,
Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild,
And sinn'd in her despair! It well may be,
That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee–
By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd,
The stricken love which hath perchance ador'd
A mortal in Thy place! Now, let me strive
With Thy strong arm no more! Forgive, forgive!
Take me to peace!

                 And peace at last is nigh.
  A sign is on my brow, a token sent
Th' o'erwearied dust, from home: no breeze flits by,
  But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent
Of many mysteries.

[Page 19] 

                Hark! the warning tone
Deepens–its word is Death. Alone, alone,
And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart,
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless,
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness,
Thee, its first love!–oh! tender still, and true!
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name,
Tho' but a moment.

              Now, with fainting frame,
With soul just lingering on the flight begun,
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,
I bless thee! Peace be on thy noble head,
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead!
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain
Its might, again to bless thee, and again!
Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate
Too much; too long, for my sake, desolate

[Page 20] 

Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back,
From dying hands, thy freedom, and re-track
(After a few kind tears for her whose days
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways
Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send,
Ev'n then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend!
Down to my voiceless chamber; for thy love
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above,
Tho' bought with burning tears! It is the sting
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing
In this cold world! What were it, then, if thou,
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now?
Too keen a pang!–Farewell! and yet once more,
Farewell!–the passion of long years I pour
Into that word: thou hear'st not,–but the woe
And fervour of its tones may one day flow
To thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell–
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet–Farewell!

THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.^*

Fear!–I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death?
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom?
       *        *        *        *        *        *
I will not live degraded.
                                            Sardanapalus.

COME from the woods with the citron-flowers,
Come with your lyres for the festal hours,
Maids of bright Scio! They came, and the breeze
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas;–
They came, and Eudora stood rob'd and crown'd,
The bride of the morn, with her train around.

[Page 22] 

Jewels flash'd out from her braided hair,
Like starry dews midst the roses there;
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone,
Heav'd by her heart thro' its golden zone;
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale,
Gleam'd from beneath her transparent veil;
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue,
Though clear as a flower which the light looks through;
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye,
For the aspect of woman at times too high,
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam.

She look'd on the vine at her father's door,
Like one that is leaving his native shore;
She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own,
As it greenly wav'd by the threshold stone;
She turn'd–and her mother's gaze brought back
Each hue of her childhood's faded track.

[Page 23] 

Oh! hush the song, and let her tears
Flow to the dream of her early years!
Holy and pure are the drops that fall
When the young bride goes from her father's hall;
She goes unto love yet untried and new,
She parts from love which hath still been true;
Mute be the song and the choral strain,
Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again!
She wept on her mother's faithful breast,
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest;
She wept–yet laid her hand awhile
In his that waited her dawning smile–
Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less
For the gush of nature's tenderness!
She lifted her graceful head at last–
The choking swell of her heart was past;
And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. ³

[Page 24] 

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

Why do I weep?–to leave the vine
  Whose clusters o'er me bend,–
The myrtle–yet, oh! call it mine!–
  The flowers I lov'd to tend.
A thousand thoughts of all things dear,
  Like shadows o'er me sweep,
I leave my sunny childhood here,–
  Oh, therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, sister! we have play'd
  Thro' many a joyous hour,
Where the silvery green of the olive shade
  Hung dim o'er fount and bower.
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore,
  In song, in prayer, in sleep,
Have been as we may be no more,–
  Kind sister, let me weep!

[Page 25] 

I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon
  Must now light other feet,
With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune,
  Thy homeward step to greet.
Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child,
  Lay tones of love so deep,
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled–
  I leave thee! let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee! on thy breast,
  Pouring out joy and wo,
I have found that holy place of rest
  Still changeless–yet I go!
Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain,
  Eyes, that have watch'd my sleep!
Will earth give love like yours again!
  Sweet mother! let me weep!

And like a slight young tree, that throws
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs,

[Page 26] 

Once more she wept. But a changeful thing
Is the human heart, as a mountain spring,
That works its way, thro' the torrent's foam,
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home!
It is well!–the cloud, on her soul that lay,
Hath melted in glittering drops away.
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre!
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire.
Mother! on earth it must still be so,
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go!

They are moving onward, the bridal throng,
Ye may track their way by the swells of song;
Ye may catch thro' the foliage their white robes' gleam,
Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream.
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread
Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed;
They have light leaves around them, blue skies above,
An arch for the triumph of youth and love!

[Page 27] 

II.

Still and sweet was the home that stood
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood,
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread,
As if from the glow of an emerald shed,
Pouring thro' lime-leaves that mingled on high,
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky.
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glow'd,
Making a gleam round the lone abode;
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver
Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river;
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd,
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound,
And brightly before it a fountain's play
Flung showers thro' a thicket of glossy bay,
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain,
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane.

And thither Ianthis had brought his bride,
And the guests were met by that fountain-side;

[Page 28] 

They lifted the veil from Eudora's face,
It smiled out softly in pensive grace,
With lips of love, and a brow serene,
Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene.–
Bring wine, bring odours!–the board is spread–
Bring roses! a chaplet for every head!
The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd
On the young and fair from the world embower'd;
The sun looked not on them in that sweet shade,
The winds amid scented boughs were laid;
And there came by fits, thro' some wavy tree,
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea.

    Hush! be still!–was that no more
    Than the murmur from the shore?
    Silence!–did thick rain-drops beat
    On the grass like trampling feet?–
    Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword!
    The groves are fill'd with a pirate horde!

[Page 29] 

    Thro' the dim olives their sabres shine;–
    Now must the red blood stream for wine!

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang,
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang;
Under the golden-fruited boughs
There were flashing poniards and dark'ning brows,
Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled,
And the dying soon on a greensward bed.

Eudora, Eudora! thou dost not fly!–
She saw but Ianthis before her lie,
With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow,
Like a child's large tears in its hour of wo,
And a gathering film in his lifted eye,
That sought his young bride out mournfully.–
She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound,
Like tendrils, his drooping neck around,
As if the passion of that fond grasp
Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp.

[Page 30] 

But they tore her thence in her wild despair,
The sea's fierce rovers–they left him there;
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein,
And on the wet violets a pile of slain,
And a hush of fear thro' the summer grove,–
So clos'd the triumph of youth and love!

III.

    Gloomy lay the shore that night,
    When the moon, with sleeping light,
    Bath'd each purple Sciote hill,–
    Gloomy lay the shore, and still.
    O'er the wave no gay guitar
    Sent its floating music far;
    No glad sound of dancing feet
    Woke, the starry hours to greet.
    But a voice of mortal wo,
    In its changes wild or low,
    Thro' the midnight's blue repose,
    From the sea-beat rocks arose,

[Page 31] 

    As Eudora's mother stood
    Gazing o'er th' Egean flood,
    With a fix'd and straining eye–
    Oh! was the spoilers' vessel nigh?
    Yes! there, becalm'd in silent sleep,
    Dark and alone on a breathless deep,
    On a sea of molten silver, dark,
    Brooding it frown'd that evil bark!
    There its broad pennon a shadow cast,
    Moveless and black from the tall, still mast,
    And the heavy sound of its flapping sail,
    Idly and vainly wooed the gale.
    Hush'd was all else:–Had ocean's breast
    Rock'd e'en Eudora that hour to rest?

To rest?–the waves tremble!–what piercing cry
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high?
What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire,
Shoots from the deck up? Fire! 'tis fire!

[Page 32] 

There are wild forms hurrying to and fro,
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow;
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call,
And the dashing of water,–but fruitless all!
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame
The might and wrath of the rushing flame!
It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake,
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake;
It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvass rolls
Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls;
It hath taken the flag's high place in air,
And redden'd the stars with its wavy glare;
And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee,
To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea.
The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow–
Eudora! Eudora! where, where art thou?
The slave and his master alike are gone.–
Mother! who stands on the deck alone?
The child of thy bosom!–and lo! a brand
Blazing up high in her lifted hand!

[Page 33] 

And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair
Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare;
And her fragile form to its loftiest height
Dilated, as if by the spirit's might,
And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught,–
Oh! could this work be of woman wrought?
Yes! 'twas her deed!–by that haughty smile
It was hers–She hath kindled her funeral pile!
Never might shame on that bright head be,
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her free!

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride
On the pyre with the holy dead beside;
But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear,
As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near,
And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain
To the form they must never infold again.

One moment more, and her hands are clasp'd,
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp'd,

[Page 34] 

Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd,
And her last look rais'd thro' the smoke's dim shroud,
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move:–
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love! ^*

[Page 21]

* Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a picture in the "Painted Biography," there described.

[Page 34]

* Originally published, as well as several other of these RECORDS, in the New Monthly Magazine.

THE SWITZER'S WIFE.

Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with which the Austrian Bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been of an heroic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland was finally delivered.

THE SWITZER'S WIFE.

     Nor look nor tone revealeth aught
     Save woman's quietness of thought;
     And yet around her is a light
     Of inward majesty and might.
                                                 M.J.J.

       *        *        *        *        *        *

Wer solch ein herz an seinen Busen drückt,
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten.
                                                WILLHOLM TELL.

IT was the time when children bound to meet
  Their father's homeward step from field or hill,
And when the herd's returning bells are sweet
  In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still,
And the last note of that wild horn swells by,
Which haunts the exile's heart with melody.

[Page 38] 

And lovely smil'd full many an Alpine home,
  Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour,
Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam,
  And pierced its lattice thro' the vine-hung bower;
But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose,
Then first look'd mournful in its green repose.

For Werner sat beneath the linden-tree,
  That sent its lulling whispers through his door,
Ev'n as man sits, whose heart alone would be
  With some deep care, and thus can find no more
Th' accustom'd joy in all which Evening brings,
Gathering a household with her quiet wings.

His wife stood hush'd before him,–sad, yet mild
  In her beseeching mien;–he mark'd it not.
The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child
  Rang from the greensward round the shelter'd spot,
But seem'd unheard; until at last the boy
Rais'd from his heap'd-up flowers a glance of joy,

[Page 39] 

And met his father's face; but then a change
  Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee,
And a quick sense of something dimly strange
  Brought him from play to stand beside the knee
So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes
That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;
  But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look,
  Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and said,
"What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey,
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!
  Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow,
Missing the smile from thine? Oh! cheer thee! bend
  To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now!
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share
Of tried affection in thy secret care."

[Page 40] 

He looked up into that sweet earnest face,
  But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band
Was loosen'd from his soul; its inmost place
  Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand.
"Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on high
The white Alps glitter'd thro' the solemn sky:

"We must speak low amidst our ancient hills
  And their free torrents; for the days are come
When tyranny lies couch'd by forest-rills,
  And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home.
Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear,
Keep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.

"The envy of th' oppressor's eye hath been
  Upon my heritage. I sit to-night
Under my household tree, if not serene,
  Yet with the faces best-beloved in sight:
To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee–
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see?"

[Page 41] 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek;
  Back on the linden-stem she lean'd her form,
And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak,
  Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm.
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd,
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.

And she, that ever thro' her home had mov'd
  With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile
Of woman, calmly loving and belov'd,
  And timid in her happiness the while,
Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour,
Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,
  And took her fair child to her holy breast,
And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might
As it found language:–"Are we thus oppress'd?
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!

[Page 42] 

"I know what thou wouldst do: And be it done!
  Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me.
Trust me to Heaven, my husband!–this, thy son,
  The babe whom I have born thee, must be free!
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth
May well give strength–if aught be strong on earth.

"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread
  Of my desponding tears; now, lift once more,
My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,
  And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!
I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued,–
Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.

"Go forth beside the waters, and along
  The chamois paths, and thro' the forests go;
And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong
  To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow.
God shall be with thee, my belov'd!–Away!
Bless but thy child, and leave me:–I can pray!"

[Page 43] 

He sprang up, like a warrior-youth awaking
  To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air;
He caught her to his breast, while proud tears breaking
  From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair;–
And "Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry,
"That man for thee should gird himself to die.

"My bride, my wife, the mother of my child!
  Now shall thy name be armour to my heart:
And this our land, by chains no more defiled,
  Be taught of thee to choose the better part!
I go–thy spirit on my words shall dwell,
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps:–Farewell!"

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake,
  In the clear starlight: he, the strength to rouse
Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake,
  To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs,
Singing its blue half-curtain'd eyes to sleep,
With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.

[Page 44] 

PROPERZIA ROSSI.

Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry and music, died in consequence of an unrequited attachment.–A painting, by Ducis, represents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman Knight, the object of her affection, who regards it with indifference.

PROPERZIA ROSSI.

           —Tell me no more, no more
Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not lov'd, and striven, and fail'd to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting-place, a home for all
Its burden of affections? I depart,
Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me; I must leave
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious.

I.

ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its bright fulfillment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, tho' its race
Might have been loftier far.–Yet one more dream!
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam

[Page 48] 

Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph be,–
Thou, lov'd so vainly! I would leave enshrined
Something immortal of my heart and mind,
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone
Of lost affection;–something that may prove
What she hath been, whose melancholy love
On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song, that gush'd when none were near,
And dream by night, and weary thought by day,
Stealing the brightness from her life away,–
While thou–Awake! not yet within me die,
Under the burden and the agony
Of this vain tenderness–my spirit, wake!
Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake,
Live! in thy work breathe out!–that he may yet
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret
Thine unrequited gift.

[Page 49] 

II.

[Page 50] 

When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould,
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold,
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye,
Speak to him, lorn one, deeply, mournfully,
Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low,
And thrilling voice of song!–when he came nigh,
To send the passion of its melody
Thro' his pierced bosom–on its tones to bear
My life's deep feeling as the southern air
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath,–to rise, to swell,
To sink away in accents of farewell,
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow
Surely my parted spirit yet might know,
If love be strong as death!

[Page 51] 

III.

[Page 52] 

IV.

[Page 53] 

Never, oh! never more! Where'er I move,
The shadow of this broken-hearted love
Is on me and around! Too well they know,
  Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled;–but I go
  Under the silent wings of Peace to dwell;
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words–"in vain,"
  Sear'd on the heart–I go. 'Twill soon be past,
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,
  And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth,–who know'st not what was given
In that devotedness,–the sad, and deep,
And unrepaid–farewell! If I could weep
Once, only once, belov'd one! on thy breast,
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!
But that were happiness, and unto me
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be
So richly bless'd! With thee to watch the sky,
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh:

[Page 54] 

With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along,
To listen silently;–with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days,–
This had been joy enough;–and hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,
How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame
  A glory for thy brow!–Dreams, dreams!–the fire
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name–
  As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hush'd–awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive
Sad thoughts of me:–I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound–
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell,–
Say proudly yet–"'Twas hers who lov'd me well! "

GERTRUDE,
OR FIDELITY TILL DEATH.

The Baron Von Der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled "Gertrude Von Der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death."

GERTRUDE, OR FIDELITY TILL DEATH.

                 Dark lowers our fate,
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;
But nothing, till that latest agony
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose
This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,
In the terrific face of armed law,
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be,
I never will forsake thee.
                                                   JOANNA BAILLIE.

HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes rais'd,
  The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gaz'd–
  All that she lov'd was there.

[Page 57] 

The night was round her clear and cold,
  The holy heaven above,
Its pale stars watching to behold
  The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,
  "My Rudolph, say not so!
This is no time to quit thy side,
  Peace, peace! I cannot go.
Hath the world aught for me to fear,
  When death is on thy brow?
The world!–what means it?–mine is here–
  I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour
  Of glory and of bliss;
Doubt not its memory's living power
  To strengthen me thro' this!

[Page 58] 

And thou, mine honour'd love and true,
  Bear on, bear nobly on!
We have the blessed heaven in view,
  Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
  From woman's breaking heart?
Thro' all that night of bitterest woe
  She bore her lofty part;
But oh! with such a glazing eye,
  With such a curdling cheek–
Love, love! of mortal agony,
  Thou, only thou, should'st speak!

The wind rose high–but with it rose
  Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
  To happy bosoms near;

[Page 59] 

While she sat striving with despair
  Beside his tortured form,
And pouring her deep soul in prayer
  Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
  With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
  Had still'd his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
  She bath'd his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
  As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
  Enduring to the last!
She had her meed–one smile in death–
  And his worn spirit pass'd.

[Page 60] 

While ev'n as o'er a martyr's grave
  She knelt on that sad spot,
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
  Strength to forsake it not!

IMELDA.

                            –Sometimes
The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,
And lov'd when they should hate,–like thee, Imelda! ⁴
                                                                 Italy, a Poem.

Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma.
                                                                 TASSO.

WE have the myrtle's breath around us here,
   Amidst the fallen pillars;–this hath been
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear,
   Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene,
Up thro' the shadowy grass, the fountain wells,
   And music with it, gushing from beneath
The ivy'd altar!–that sweet murmur tells
   The rich wild-flowers no tale of wo or death;

[Page 62] 

Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain
Lay deep, and heavy drops–but not of rain–
On the dim violets by its marble bed,
And the pale shining water-lily's head.

Sad is that legend's truth.–A fair girl met
   One whom she lov'd, by this lone temple's spring,
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set,
   And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair
   With the blue heaven of Italy above,
And citron-odours dying on the air,
And light leaves trembling round, and early love
Deep in each breast.–What reck'd their souls of strife
Between their fathers? Unto them young life
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years;
And if they wept, they wept far other tears

[Page 63] 

Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, that hour,
Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and flower,
And star, just gleaming thro' the cypress boughs,
Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows.

But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying tread
   Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled
   Up where the cedars make yon avenue
Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught–
Was it the clash of swords?–a swift dark thought
   Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd,
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook
   Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more,
She still'd her heart to listen–all was o'er;
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh,
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by.

[Page 64] 

That night Imelda's voice was in the song,
Lovely it floated thro' the festive throng
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light,
And her cheek glow'd with beauty's flushing dyes,
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies,
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze
Follow'd her form beneath the clear lamp's blaze,
And marvell'd at its radiance. But a few
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue,
With something of dim fear; and in that glance
   Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest,
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance,
   Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest,
Comes not unmask'd. Howe'er this were, the time
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime
Alike: and when the banquet's hall was left
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft,
When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane,
And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again

[Page 65] 

There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone,
Thro' the dim cedar shade; the step of one
That started at a leaf, of one that fled,
Of one that panted with some secret dread:–
What did Imelda there? She sought the scene
Where love so late with youth and hope had been;
Bodings were on her soul–a shuddering thrill
Ran thro' each vein, when first the Naiad's rill
Met her with melody–sweet sounds and low;
We hear them yet–they live along its flow–
Her voice is music lost! The fountain-side
She gain'd–the wave flash'd forth–'twas darkly dyed
Ev'n as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge,
   Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep,
There lay, as lull'd by stream and rustling sedge,
   A youth, a graceful youth. "Oh! dost thou sleep,
Azzo?" she cried, "my Azzo! is this rest?"
–But then her low tones falter'd:–"On thy breast

[Page 66] 

Is the stain–yes, 'tis blood!–and that cold cheek–
That moveless lip!–thou dost not slumber?–speak,
Speak, Azzo, my belov'd–no sound–no breath–
What hath come thus between our spirits?–Death!
Death?–I but dream–I dream!"–and there she stood,
A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood,
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown,
Her form sustain'd by that dark stem alone,
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old,
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold;
When from the grass her dimm'd eye caught a gleam–
'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream,–
Her brother's sword!–she knew it; and she knew
'Twas with a venom'd point that weapon slew!
Wo for young love! But love is strong. There came
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame,

[Page 67] 

There came swift courage! On the dewy ground
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round,
Like a long silken stole; she knelt, and press'd
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast,
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight!
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night!–
So the moon saw them last.
                            The Morn came singing
   Thro' the green forests of the Appenines,
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging,
   And steps and voices out amongst the vines.
What found that day-spring here? Two fair forms laid
Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave,
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the grave?
Could it be so indeed? That radiant girl,
Deck'd as for bridal hours!–long braids of pearl

[Page 68] 

Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining,
   As tears might shine, with melancholy light;
And there was gold her slender waist entwining;
   And her pale graceful arms–how sadly bright!
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying,
And round her marble brow red roses dying.–
But she died first!–the violet's hue had spread
   O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress'd,
She had bow'd heavily her gentle head,
   And on the youth's hush'd bosom sunk to rest.
So slept they well!–the poison's work was done;
Love with true heart had striven–but Death had won.

EDITH,
A TALE OF THE WOODS.^*

Du Heilige! rufe dein Kind zurück!
Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.
                                                WALLENSTEIN.

THE woods–oh! solemn are the boundless woods
  Of the great Western World, when day declines,
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods,
  More deep the rustling of the ancient pines;
When dimness gathers on the stilly air,
  And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood,
Awful it is for human heart to bear
  The might and burden of the solitude!

[Page 70] 

Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there sate
One young and fair,–and oh! how desolate!
But undismay'd; while sank the crimson light,
And the high cedars darken'd with the night,
Alone she sate; tho' many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,
Were sever'd from her need and from her wo,
  Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot
Combat had rag'd, and brought the valiant low,
  And left them, with the history of their lot,
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene
For her whose home of other days had been
Midst the fair halls of England! but the love
  Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear,
And by its might upborne all else above,
  She shrank not–mark'd not that the dead were near.

[Page 71] 

Of him alone she thought, whose languid head
  Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell;
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled,
  While heavily she felt his life-blood well
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound,
Yet hoped, still hoped!–Oh! from such hope how long
  Affection wooes the whispers that deceive,
Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong,
  And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe
The blow indeed can fall! So bow'd she there
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer
Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight down,
Veining the pine-stems thro' the foliage brown,
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place,
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face,
Whereby she caught its changes: to her eye,
  The eye that faded look'd through gathering haze,
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony,
  Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze,

[Page 72] 

When voice was not: that fond, sad meaning pass'd–
She knew the fulness of her wo at last!
One shriek the forests heard,–and mute she lay,
And cold; yet clasping still the precious clay
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death!
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth,
Many and sad! but airs of heavenly breath
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth
Is far apart.

                          Now light, of richer hue
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew;
The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play'd,
Bright-colour'd birds with splendour cross'd the shade,
Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke
  From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings
Of Earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke
  Into young life and joy all happy things.
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance,
The widow'd Edith: fearfully her glance

[Page 73] 

Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange,
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change
Flash'd o'er her spirit, ev'n ere memory swept
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept;
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled,
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough,
With all its whispers, wav'd not o'er her now,–
Where was she? Midst the people of the wild,
  By the red hunter's fire: an aged chief,
Whose home look'd sad–for therein play'd no child–
  Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief,
To that lone cabin of the woods; and there,
Won by a form so desolately fair,
Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung,
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung;
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye,
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by,

[Page 74] 

Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head,
  And leaning on his bow.
                                  And life return'd,
Life, but with all its memories of the dead,
  To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore
The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore,
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair,
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air,
Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen
  A daughter to the land of spirits go,
And ever from that time her fading mien,
  And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low,
Had haunted their dim years; but Edith's face
Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place,
And they again seem'd parents. Oh! the joy,
The rich deep blessedness–tho' earth's alloy,

[Page 75] 

Fear, that still bodes, be there–of pouring forth
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and worth
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow,
On something all its own!–that kindly glow,
Which to shut inward is consuming pain,
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again,
When, like the sunshine, freed.–And gentle cares
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs
Who lov'd her thus: her spirit dwelt the while,
With the departed, and her patient smile
Spoke of farewells to earth;–yet still she pray'd,
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place
Had been among the wilds; for well she knew
The secret whisper of her bosom true,
Which warn'd her hence.

[Page 76] 

                                    And now, by many a word
Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd,
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn,
Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dim,
By the persuasion of her fervent eye,
All eloquent with child-like piety,
By the still beauty of her life, she strove
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love
Pour'd out on her so freely.–Nor in vain
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain
The soul in gentle bonds: by slow degrees
Light follow'd on, as when a summer breeze
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade
And lets the sunbeam through:–her voice was made
Ev'n such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide,
By faith and sorrow rais'd and purified,
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led,
Until their prayers were one. When morning spread
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow
Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress-bough,

[Page 77] 

And when the quiet of the Sabbath time
Sank on her heart, tho' no melodious chime
Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one.
–Now might she pass in hope, her work was done!
And she was passing from the woods away;
The broken flower of England might not stay
Amidst those alien shades; her eye was bright
Ev'n yet with something of a starry light,
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak,
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh
Of autumn thro' the forests had gone by,
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown,
Flushing the air; and winter's blast had been
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green
Fring'd their dark boughs; for spring again had come,
The sunny spring! but Edith to her home
Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad
To part with life, when all the earth looks glad

[Page 78] 

In her young lovely things, when voices break
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake:
Is it not brighter then, in that far clime
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time,
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms,
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs?
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day,
And sounds and odours with the breezes' play,
Whispering of spring-time, thro' the cabin-door,
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore;
Then with a look where all her hope awoke,
"My father!"–to the grey-hair'd chief she spoke–
"Know'st thou that I depart?"–"I know, I know,"
He answer'd mournfully, "that thou must go
To thy belov'd, my daughter!"–"Sorrow not
  For me, kind mother!" with meek smiles once more
She murmur'd in low tones; "one happy lot
  Awaits us, friends! upon the better shore;
For we have pray'd together in one trust,
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own,
Under the cedar-shade: where he is gone,
Thither I go. There will my sisters be,
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee
My childhood's prayer was learn'd–the Saviour's prayer
Which now ye know–and I shall meet you there,
Father and gentle mother!–ye have bound
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found
By Mercy's children."–From the matron's eye
Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply;
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep,
Solemnly beautiful, a stillness deep,
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,
And mantling up his stately head in wo,
"Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old,
In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll'd.

[Page 80] 

  "Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side,
    And the hunter's hearth away;
  For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride,
    Daughter! thou canst not stay.

  Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home,
    Where the skies are ever clear!
  The corn-month's golden hours will come,
    But they shall not find thee here.

  And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
    Under our whispering pine;
  Music shall midst the leaves be heard,
    But not a song like thine.

  A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill,
    Telling of winter gone,
  Hath such sweet falls–yet caught we still
    A farewell in its tone.

[Page 81] 

  But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be
    Where farewell sounds are o'er;
  Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shalt see
    No fear of parting more.

  The mossy grave thy tears have wet,
    And the wind's wild moanings by,
  Thou with thy kindred shalt forget,
    Midst flowers–not such as die.

  The shadow from thy brow shall melt,
    The sorrow from thy strain,
  But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt,
    Our hearts shall thirst in vain.

  Dim will our cabin be, and lone,
    When thou, its light, art fled;
  Yet hath thy step the pathway shown
    Unto the happy dead.

[Page 82] 

  And we will follow thee, our guide!
    And join that shining band;
  Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side–
    Go to the better land!"

The song had ceas'd–the listeners caught no breath,
That lovely sleep had melted into death.

[Page 69]

* Founded on incidents related in an American work, "Sketches of Connecticut."

THE INDIAN CITY.^*

What deep wounds ever clos'd without a scar?
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it.
                                            Childe Harold.

I.

ROYAL in splendour went down the day
On the plain where an Indian city lay,
With its crown of domes o'er the forest high,
Red as if fused in the burning sky,
And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made
A bright stream's way thro' each long arcade,
Till the pillar'd vaults of the Banian stood,
Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood,

[Page 84] 

And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold,
As a tree midst the genii-gardens old,
And the cypress lifted a blazing spire,
And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire.
Many a white pagoda's gleam
Slept lovely round upon lake and stream,
Broken alone by the lotus-flowers,
As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours,
Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed
Its glory forth on their crystal bed.
Many a graceful Hindoo maid,
With the water-vase from the palmy shade,
Came gliding light as the desert's roe,
Down marble steps to the tanks below;
And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard,
As the molten glass of the wave was stirr'd;
And a murmur, thrilling the scented air,
Told where the Bramin bow'd in prayer.

[Page 85] 

There wandered a noble Moslem boy
Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy;
He gazed where the stately city rose
Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose;
He turn'd where birds thro' the gorgeous gloom
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume;
He track'd the brink of the shining lake,
By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake,
Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound
To the very heart of the holy ground.

And there lay the water, as if enshrin'd
In a rocky urn, from the sun and wind,
Bearing the hues of the grove on high,
Far down thro' its dark still purity.
The flood beyond, to the fiery west
Spread out like a metal-mirror's breast,
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep,
Seem'd made for the swimmer's joyous leap,

[Page 86] 

For the stag athirst from the noontide chase,
For all free things of the wild-wood's race.

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky,
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye,
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave;
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white,
O'er the glossy leaves in his young delight,
And bowing his locks to the waters clear–
Alas! he dreamt not that fate was near.

His mother look'd from her tent the while,
O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile:
She, on her way unto Mecca's fane,
Had staid the march of her pilgrim train,
Calmly to linger a few brief hours
In the Bramin city's glorious bowers;
For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall,
The red gold of sunset–she lov'd them all.

[Page 87] 

II.

The moon rose clear in the splendour given
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven;
The boy from the high-arch'd woods came back–
Oh! what had he met in his lonely track?
The serpent's glance, through the long reeds bright?
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might?
No!–yet as one by a conflict worn,
With his graceful hair all soil'd and torn,
And a gloom on the lids of his darken'd eye,
And a gash on his bosom–he came to die!
He look'd for the face to his young heart sweet,
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet.

"Speak to me!–whence doth the swift blood run?
What hath befall'n thee, my child, my son?"
The mist of death on his brow lay pale,
But his voice just linger'd to breathe the tale,
Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn,
And wounds from the children of Brahma born:

[Page 88] 

This was the doom for a Moslem found
With a foot profane on their holy ground;
This was for sullying the pure waves, free
Unto them alone–'twas their God's decree.

A change came o'er his wandering look–
The mother shriek'd not then, nor shook:
Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood,
Rending her mantle to staunch its flood;
But it rush'd like a river which none may stay,
Bearing a flower to the deep away.
That which our love to the earth would chain,
Fearfully striving with Heaven in vain,
That which fades from us, while yet we hold,
Clasp'd to our bosoms, its mortal mould,
Was fleeting before her, afar and fast;
One moment–the soul from the face had pass'd!

Are there no words for that common wo?
–Ask of the thousands, its depths that know!

[Page 89] 

The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest,
Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast;
He had stood, when she sorrow'd, beside her knee,
Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee;
He had kiss'd from her cheek the widow's tears,
With the loving lip of his infant years;
He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring-day–
Now in his blood on the earth he lay,
Murder'd!–Alas! and we love so well
In a world where anguish like this can dwell!

She bow'd down mutely o'er her dead–
They that stood round her watch'd in dread;
They watch'd–she knew not they were by–
Her soul sat veil'd in its agony.
On the silent lip she press'd no kiss,
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this:
She shed no tear as her face bent low,
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow;

[Page 90] 

She look'd but into the half-shut eye,
With a gaze that found there no reply,
And shrieking, mantled her head from sight,
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might!

And what deep change, what work of power,
Was wrought on her secret soul that hour?
How rose the lonely one?–She rose
Like a prophetess from dark repose!
And proudly flung from her face the veil,
And shook the hair from her forehead pale,
And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood,
With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood.
Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky
A brow in its regal passion high,
With a close and rigid grasp she press'd
The blood-stain'd robe to her heaving breast,
And said–"Not yet–not yet I weep,
Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep,

[Page 91] 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent,
Be piled for its victim's monument.
–Cover his dust! bear it on before!
It shall visit those temple-gates once more."

And away in the train of the dead she turn'd,
The strength of her step was the heart that burn'd;
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smil'd,
As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child.

III.

Hark! a wild sound of the desert's horn
Thro' the woods round the Indian city borne,
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar–
War! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war!
The Bramin look'd from the leaguer'd towers–
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers;
And the lake that flash'd through the plantain shade,
As the light of the lances along it play'd;

[Page 92] 

And the canes that shook as if winds were high,
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by;
And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea,
Wide round the sheltering Banian tree.

There stood one tent from the rest apart–
That was the place of a wounded heart.
–Oh! deep is a wounded heart, and strong
A voice that cries against mighty wrong;
And full of death as a hot wind's blight,
Doth the ire of a crush'd affection light!

Maimuna from realm to realm had pass'd,
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast;
There had been words from her pale lips pour'd,
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword.
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear,
And the dark chief of Araby grasp'd his spear,
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall,
And a vow was recorded that doom'd its fall.

[Page 93] 

Back with the dust of her son she came,
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame;
She came in the might of a queenly foe,
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow;
But a deeper power on her forehead sate–
There sought the warrior his star of fate;
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line
Was hail'd as a spirit and a sign,
And the faintest tone from her lip was caught,
As a Sybil's breath of prophetic thought.

Vain, bitter glory!–the gift of grief,
That lights up vengeance to find relief,
Transient and faithless!–it cannot fill
So the deep void of the heart, nor still
The yearning left by a broken tie,
That haunted fever of which we die!

Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown,
As a king in death might reject his crown;

[Page 94] 

Slowly the strength of the walls gave way–
She wither'd faster, from day to day.
All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain,
To stay the flight of her soul were vain;
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn
The frail dust ne'er for such conflicts born,
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come
For its fearful rushing thro' darkness home.

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride,
As on that eve when the fair boy died;
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell;
She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone
Had an echo of feelings that long seem'd flown.
She murmur'd a low sweet cradle song,
Strange midst the din of a warrior throng,
A song of the time when her boy's young cheek
Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber meek;

[Page 95] 

But something which breathed from that mournful strain
Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again;
And starting as if from a dream, she cried–
"Give him proud burial at my side!
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave,
When the temples are fallen, make there our grave."

And the temples fell, tho' the spirit pass'd,
That stay'd not for victory's voice at last;
When the day was won for the martyr-dead,
For the broken heart, and the bright blood shed.

Through the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed;
Free swept the flame thro' the idol fanes,
And the streams flow'd red, as from warrior-veins,
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay,
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey,

[Page 96] 

Till a city of ruin begirt the shade,
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid.

Palace and tower on that plain were left,
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft;
The wild vine mantled the stately square,
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair,
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung–
This was the work of one deep heart wrung!

[Page 83]

* From a tale in Forbes' Oriental Memoirs.

THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.

There is but one place in the world:
–Thither where he lies buried!
       *        *        *        *        *        *        *
There, there is all that still remains of him,
That single spot is the whole earth to me.
                                            COLERIDGE's Wallenstein.

Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.
                                            Childe Harold.

THERE went a warrior's funeral thro' the night,
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone,
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoof's tread

[Page 98] 

In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains pass'd; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,
  Wore man's mute anguish sternly;–but of one,
Oh! who shall speak? What words his brow unveil?
  A father following to the grave his son!
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,
  Thro' the wood-shadows, moved the knightly train,
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low,
  Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain,
Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reached the lone
  Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
  Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shuddered thro' the pile,
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent
Round the De Coucis' antique monument,

[Page 99] 

When dust to dust was given:–and Aymer slept
  Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broider'd folds the Syrian wind had swept
  Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine:
So the sad rite was clos'd. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave,
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid
  In slumber on his shield.–Then all was done,
All still around the dead.–His name was heard
Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were stirr'd
  By some old song, or tale of battle won,
Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast
Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd
On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceas'd

[Page 100] 

Mingled with theirs.–Ev'n thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side:
Alas! to think of this!–the heart's void place
  Fill'd up so soon!–so like a summer-cloud,
All that we lov'd to pass and leave no trace!–
  He lay forgotten in his early shroud.
Forgotten?–not of all!–the sunny smile
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile,
And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying
  Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep,
And all the music with that young voice dying,
  Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter's bugle:–these things lived
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow.–Day by day,
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Thro' the dim fane soft summer-odours breathing,
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,

[Page 101] 

And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
Thro' storied windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love–a secret love and lowly,
And the rose image all things fleet and fair,
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells.
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
To blush through every season?–Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still.
For years, those gorgeous coronals renewed,
  And brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even thro' mid-winter, filled the solitude
  With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm.
–Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring
In lone devotedness!

[Page 102] 

                          One spring-morn rose,
  And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid–
Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose
  From the fierce noon–a dark-hair'd peasant maid:
Who could reveal her story?–That still face
  Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow,
And the curv'd lip, there lingered yet such grace
  As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye–
For death was on its lids–fell mournfully.
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair
Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care.
Whence came that early blight? Her kindred's place
Was not amidst the high De Couci race;
Yet there her shrine had been!–She grasp'd a wreath–
The tomb's last garland!–This was love in death.

INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG.

An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's Expedition to the source of St. Peter's River.

INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG.

Non, je ne puis vivre avec un coeur brisé. Il faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de l'air.    
Bride of Messina,  
Translated by MADAME DE STAËL.

Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman.
The Prairie.

DOWN a broad river of the western wilds,
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe
Swept with the current: fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray
Rose with the cataract's thunder.–Yet within,
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone,
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,
A woman stood. Upon her Indian brow

[Page 105] 

Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair wav'd
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child,
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,
And lifted her sweet voice that rose awhile
Above the sound of waters, high and clear,
Wafting a wild proud strain, her Song of Death.

Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream and free!
Father of ancient waters, ⁵ roll! and bear our lives with thee!
The weary bird that storms have toss'd would seek the sunshine's calm,
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt flies to the woods of balm.

Roll on!–my warrior's eye hath look'd upon another's face,
And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam's trace;

[Page 106] 

My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper to his dream,
He flings away the broken reed–roll swifter yet, thou stream!

The voice that spoke of other days is hush'd within his breast,
But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let me rest;
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone,–
I cannot live without that light–Father of waves! roll on!

Will he not miss the bounding step that met him from the chase?
The heart of love that made his home an ever sunny place?

[Page 107] 

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and deck'd his couch of yore?–
He will not!–roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore!

Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow,
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this wo;
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath may waft away
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day.

And thou, my babe! tho' born, like me, for woman's weary lot,
Smile!–to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not;

[Page 108] 

Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love away,
Thy mother bears thee far, young Fawn! from sorrow and decay.

She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are heard to weep,
And where th' unkind one hath no power again to trouble sleep;
And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a dream,–
One moment, and that realm is ours.–On, on, dark rolling stream!

JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS.

Jeanne d'Arc avait eu la joie de voir à Chalons quelques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore l'attendait à Rheims, au sein de son triomphe: Jacques d'Arc, son père, y se trouva, aussitot que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent entrées; et comme les deux frères de notre Héroine l'avaient accompagnés, elle se vit, pour un instant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d'un père vertueux.    Vie de Jeanne d'Arc.

JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS.

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame!
  A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earth-born frame
  Above mortality:
Away! to me–a woman–bring
Sweet waters from affection's spring.

THAT was a joyous day in Rheims of old,
When peal on peal of mighty music roll'd
Forth from her throng'd cathedral; while around,
A multitude, whose billows made no sound,
Chain'd to a hush of wonder, tho' elate
With victory, listen'd at their temple's gate.

[Page 111] 

And what was done within?–within, the light
  Thro' the rich gloom of pictur'd windows flowing,
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight,
  The chivalry of France their proud heads bowing
In martial vassalage!–while midst that ring,
And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king
Receiv'd his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn
  Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim,
  As thro' long aisles it floated o'er th' array
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone
And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone,
With the white banner, forth like sunshine streaming,
And the gold helm, thro' clouds of fragrance gleaming,
Silent and radiant stood?–The helm was rais'd,
And the fair face reveal'd, that upward gaz'd,
  Intensely worshipping;–a still, clear face,
Youthful, but brightly solemn!–Woman's cheek
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek,
  Yet glorified with inspiration's trace

[Page 112] 

On its pure paleness; while, enthron'd above,
The pictur'd Virgin, with her smile of love,
Seem'd bending o'er her votaress.–That slight form!
Was that the leader thro' the battle storm?
Had the soft light in that adoring eye,
Guided the warrior where the swords flash'd high?
'Twas so, even so!–and thou, the shepherd's child,
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild!
Never before, and never since that hour,
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power,
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand,
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land;
And beautiful with joy and with renown,
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown,
Ransom'd for France by thee!

                      The rites are done.
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken,
And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken,
  And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicing sun

[Page 113] 

May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies,
  Daughter of Victory!–A triumphant strain,
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies,
  Gush'd thro' the portals of the antique fane,
And forth she came.–Then rose a nation's sound–
Oh! what a power to bid the quick heart bound
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer
Man gives to Glory on her high career!
Is there indeed such power?–far deeper dwells
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells
Whence happiness flows forth!–The shouts that fill'd
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd
One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone,
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown,
Sank on the bright maid's heart.–"Joanne!"–Who spoke
  Like those whose childhood with her childhood grew
Under one roof?–"Joanne!"–that murmur broke
  With sounds of weeping forth!–She turn'd–she knew

[Page 114] 

Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there,
In the calm beauty of his silver hair,
The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy
From his dark eye flash'd proudly; and the boy,
The youngest-born, that ever lov'd her best:
"Father! and ye, my brothers!"–On the breast
Of that grey sire she sank–and swiftly back,
Ev'n in an instant, to their native track
Her free thoughts flowed.–She saw the pomp no more–
The plumes, the banners:–to her cabin-door,
And to the.Fairy's Fountain in the glade, ⁶
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd,
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose,
Her spirit turn'd. The very wood-note, sung
  In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt
Where o'er her father's roof the beech-leaves hung,
  Was in her heart; a music heard and felt,

[Page 115] 

Winning her back to nature.–She unbound
  The helm of many battles from her head,
And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep the ground,
  Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said,–
"Bless me, my father, bless me! and with thee,
To the still cabin and the beechen-tree,
Let me return!"

                Oh! never did thine eye
Thro' the green haunts of happy infancy
Wander again, Joanne!–too much of fame
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant-name;
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price,
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise
Of home with all its loves, doth fate allow
The crown of glory unto woman's brow.

PAULINE.

To die for what we love!–Oh! there is power
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this;
It is to live without the vanish'd light
That strength is needed.

---

Così trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno
Della vita mortal il fiore e'l verde.
                                                    TASSO.

ALONG the star-lit Seine went music swelling,
  Till the air thrill'd with its exulting mirth;
Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling
  For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth;
And a glad sound the measure lightly beat,
A happy chime of many dancing feet.

[Page 117] 

For in a palace of the land that night,
  Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung,
And from the painted walls a stream of light
  On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung:
But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride
Was one, the lady from the Danube-side. ⁷

Pauline, the meekly bright!–tho' now no more
  Her clear eye flash'd with youth's all tameless glee,
Yet something holier than its dayspring wore,
  There in soft rest lay beautiful to see;
A charm with graver, tenderer sweetness fraught–
The blending of deep love and matron thought.

Thro' the gay throng she moved, serenely fair,
  And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky,
Sate on her brow beneath its graceful hair,
  As her young daughter in the dance went by,
With the fleet step of one that yet hath known
Smiles and kind voices in this world alone.

[Page 118] 

Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast?
  Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh?
Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest
  Midst the light laughter of festivity:–
Whence come those tones!–Alas! enough we know,
To mingle fear with all triumphal show!

Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying
  In fairy-rings around the echoing hall?
Soft airs thro' braided locks in perfume sighing,
  Glad pulses beating unto music's call?
Silence!–the minstrels pause–and hark! a sound,
A strange quick rustling which their notes had drown'd!

And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking–
  Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed!
From the gay dream of revelry awaking,
  One moment holds them still in breathless dread;

[Page 119] 

The wild fierce lustre grows–then bursts a cry–
Fire! thro' the hall and round it gathering–fly!

And forth they rush–as chased by sword and spear–
  To the green coverts of the garden-bowers;
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear,
  Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers:
While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven.

And where is she, Pauline?–the hurrying throng
  Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast
Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along–
  Till now the threshold of that death is past,
And free she stands beneath the starry skies,
Calling her child–but no sweet voice replies.

[Page 120] 

"Bertha! where art thou?–Speak, oh! speak my own!"
  Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while,
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone,
  Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile;
A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death,
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce breath!

But oh! thy strength, deep love!–there is no power
  To stay the mother from that rolling grave,
Tho' fast on high the fiery volumes tower,
  And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave.
Back, back she rushes thro' a host combined–
Mighty is anguish, with affection twined!

And what bold step may follow, midst the roar
  Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise?
None!–Courage there stood still–and never more
  Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes!

[Page 121] 

Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell?
And died they heart to heart?–Oh! who can tell?

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke
  On that sad palace, midst its pleasure-shades;
Its painted roofs had sunk–yet black with smoke
  And lonely stood its marble colonnades:
But yester-eve their shafts with wreaths were bound–
Now lay the scene one shrivell'd scroll around!

And bore the ruins no recording trace
  Of all that woman's heart had dared and done?
Yes! there were gems to mark its mortal place,
  That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone!
Those had the mother, on her gentle breast,
Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest.

[Page 122] 

And they were all!–the tender and the true
  Left this alone her sacrifice to prove,
Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew,
  To deep, lone, chasten'd thoughts of grief and love.
–Oh! we have need of patient faith below,
To clear away the mysteries of such wo!

JUANA.

Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state in a magnificent dress, and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time incessantly, waiting for the moment of returning life.

JUANA.

It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love,
This wild and passionate idolatry,
What doth it in the shadow of the grave?
Gather it back within thy lonely heart,
So must it ever end: too much we give
Unto the things that perish.

THE night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace-room,
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved thro' the gorgeous gloom,
And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red,
Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead.

[Page 125] 

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see,
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were free;
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay,
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array.

But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the cold slumberer's side,
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride;
Only her full impassion'd eyes as o'er that clay she bent,
A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent.

And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like shadows of a cloud,
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer spoke aloud;

[Page 126] 

She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, "Thou yet wilt wake,
And learn my watchings and my tears, belov'd one! for thy sake.

"They told me this was death, but well I knew it could not be;
Fairest and stateliest of the earth! who spoke of death for thee?
They would have wrapp'd the funeral shroud thy gallant form around,
But I forbade–and there thou art, a monarch, robed and crown'd!

"With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath,
And thy brow so proudly beautiful–who said that this was death?

[Page 127] 

Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee long,
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd and strong.

"I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair like thee,
The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light of glee!
A frail and drooping form is mine–a cold unsmiling cheek,–
Oh! I have but a woman's heart, wherewith thy heart to seek.

"But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord! and hear'st how I have kept
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and wept;

[Page 128] 

How in one long, deep dream of thee my nights and days have past,
Surely that humble, patient love must win back love at last!

"And thou wilt smile–my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile,
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile!
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine–
Oh! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond glance of thine!

"Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou com'st from the chase,
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy face!

[Page 129] 

Thou'lt reck no more tho' beauty's gift mine aspect may not bless;
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love, shall give me loveliness.

"But wake! my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of thy voice:
Awake! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone,
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine alone."

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth day by day,
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul found way,

[Page 130] 

Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er every grace,
Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and face.

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's breast,
And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his rest,
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the wind,–
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair behind.

THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL.

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid,
Woman!–a power to suffer and to love,
Therefore thou so canst pity.

WILDLY and mournfully the Indian drum
  On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke;–
"Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come,"–
  So the red warriors to their captive spoke.
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone,
  A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood,
Like a king's son; tho' from his cheek had flown
  The mantling crimson of the island-blood,
And his press'd lips look'd marble.–Fiercely bright,
And high around him, blaz'd the fires of night,

[Page 132] 

Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro,
As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow
Lighting the victim's face:–But who could tell
Of what within his secret heart befel,
Known but to heaven that hour?–Perchance a thought
Of his far home then so intensely wrought,
That its full image, pictur'd to his eye
On the dark ground of mortal agony,
Rose clear as day!–and he might see the band,
Of his young sisters wand'ring hand in hand,
Where the laburnums droop'd; or haply binding
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding;
Or, as day clos'd upon their gentle mirth,
Gathering with braided hair, around the hearth
Where sat their mother;–and that mother's face
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place
Where so it ever smiled!–Perchance the prayer
Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair;

[Page 133] 

The blessing from her voice, the very tone
Of her "Good-night" might breathe from boyhood gone!–
He started and look'd up:–thick cypress boughs
  Full of strange sound, wav'd o'er him, darkly red
In the broad stormy firelight;–savage brows,
  With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread,
Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars
Look'd thro' the branches as thro' dungeon bars,
Shedding no hope.–He knew, he felt his doom–
Oh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom
That happy hall in England!–Idle fear!
Would the winds tell it?–Who might dream or hear
The secret of the forests?–to the stake
  They bound him; and that proud young soldier strove
His father's spirit in his breast to wake,
  Trusting to die in silence! He, the love
Of many hearts!–the fondly rear'd,–the fair,
Gladdening all eyes to see!–And fetter'd there

[Page 134] 

He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand
Flamed up to light it, in the chieftain's hand.
He thought upon his God.–Hush! hark!–a cry
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity,–
A step hath pierc'd the ring!–Who dares intrude
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood?–
A girl–a young slight girl–a fawn-like child
Of green Savannas and the leafy wild,
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower,
Happy because the sunshine is its dower;
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed,–
For hers had mourn'd a playmate brother dead.

She had sat gazing on the victim long,
Until the pity of her soul grew strong;
And, by its passion's deep'ning fervour sway'd,
Ev'n to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid
His bright head on her bosom, and around
His form her slender arms to shield it wound

[Page 135] 

Like close liannes; then rais'd her glittering eye
And clear-toned voice that said, "He shall not die!"

"He shall not die!"–the gloomy forest thrill'd
  To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell
On the fierce throng; and heart and hand were still'd,
  Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell.
They gaz'd–their dark souls bow'd before the maid,
She of the dancing s