Had lull'd her, and awakening from her rest When through the leaves an amorous sunbeam stole
And kiss'd her eyes; the fountain were a bath For her to lave her ivory feet, and cool The crimson beauty of her sleep-warm cheek, And bind her ruffled curls in the blue mirror Of the transparent waters. But these days Of visible poetry have long been past!— No fear that the young hunter may profane The haunt of some immortal; but there still- For the heart clings to old idolatry,
If not with true belief, with tenderness,- Lingers a spirit in the woods and flowers Which have a Grecian memory,-some tale Of olden love or grief link'd with their bloom, Seem beautiful beyond all other ones. The marble pillars are laid in the dust,
The golden shrine and its perfume are gone; But there are natural temples still for those Eternal though dethroned Deities,
Where from green altars flowers send up their incense:
This fount is one of them.
AN OLD MAN OVER THE BODY OF HIS SON.
I AM too proud by far to weep, that's o Though earth had naught so dear
As was the Soldier Youth to me
Now sleeping on that bier.
It were a stain upon his fame
Would do his laurel crown a shame,
To shed one single tear.
It was a blessed lot to die In battle and for liberty!
He was my first, my only child,
And when my race was run,
I was so proud to send him forth To do as I had done.
It was his last, his only field:
They brought him back upon his shield, But victory was won.
I cannot weep when I recall
Thy land has cause to bless thy fall.
When others tell their children all The fame that warriors win, I must sit silent, and but think On what my child has been, It is a father's joy to see The young eyes glow exultingly When warlike tales begin; And yet I know no living one
I would change for my sleeping Son.
THEY built a temple for the God, "Twas in a myrtle grove, Where the bec and the butterfly Vied for each blossom's love.
The marble pillars rose like snow, Glittering in the sunshine: A thousand roses shed their breath, Like incense, o'er the shrine. And there were censers of perfume, Vases with their sweet showers, And wreaths of every blended hue That lights the summer flowers.
And, like the breathing of those flowers Made audible, a sound Came, lulling as a waterfall,
From lutes and voices 'round.
I look'd upon the altar,—there The pictured semblance lay Of him the temple's lord; it shone More beautiful than day.
It was a sleeping child, as fair
As the firstborn of spring; Like Indian gold waved the bright curls In many a sunny ring.
His cheek was flush'd with its own rose, And with the crimson shed
From the rich wings that like a cloud Were o'er his slumbers spread.
And by him lay his feather'd shafts, His golden bow unbent;Methought that, even in his sleep, His smile was on them sent.
I heard them hymn his name-his power,—
I heard them, and I smiled;
How could they say the earth was ruled By but a sleeping child?
I went then forth into the world To see what might be there; And there I heard a voice of wo, Of weeping, and despair.
I saw a youthful warrior stand In his first light of fame,- His native city fill'd the air With her deliverer's name.
I saw him hurry from the crowd, And fling his laurel crown, In weariness, in hopelessness, In utter misery, down.
A cloud came o'er my destiny, The dream of passion soon was last, A summer's day may never past, Yes, every feeling then knew change, One only hope was left-revenge! He wedded with another-tears Are very vain, and as for fears
I know them not-I deeply swore No lip should sigh where mine before Had seal'd its vow, no heart should rest Upon the bosom mine had prest. Life had no ill I would not brave To claim him, even in the grave!
FAIR is the form that in yon orange bower, Like a lone spirit, bends beside the lamp, Whose silver light is flung o'er clustering rose, And myrtle with pearl buds and emerald leaves. Green moss and azure violets have form'd The floor, and fragrant bloom the canopy,
And perfumed shrubs and pillars, round whose
The vine has crept, and mix'd its purple fruit Amid the rich-hued blossoms. Citron trees, And beds of hyacinths, have sent their sweets Upon the odorous dew of the night gale, Which, playing with the trembling lamp, flings round
A changeful light-now glancing on the flowers, And brightening every hue-now lost in shade. Look out upon the night! There is no star In beauty visible-the Moon is still Sojourning in her shadowy hall-the clouds Are thickening round; but though the tempest's
Will herald in the morning, all is still,
And calm, and soothing now,-no rougher sounds Than the low murmur of the mountain rill, And the sweet music of the nightingale, Are on the air. But a far darker storm The tempest of the heart, the evil war Of fiery passions, is fast gathering
Vain tributes to remorse! At length she rose,
O'er that bright creature's head, whose fairy bower | Trickled through her slight fingers-tears, those And fairy shape breathe but of happiness. She is most beautiful! The richest tint That e'er with roselight dyed a summer cloud, Were pale beside her cheek; her raven hair Falls even to her feet, though fasten'd up In many a curl and braid with bands of pearl; And that white bosom and those rounded arms Are perfect as a statue's, when the skill
Of some fine touch has moulded it to beauty. Yet there are tears within those radiant eyes, And, that fair brow is troubled! She is young; But her heart's youth is gone, and innocence, And peace, and soft and gentle thoughts, have fled
A breast, the sanctuary of unhallow'd fires, That love has led to guilt. At each light stir Of but a waving branch, a falling leaf, A deeper crimson burnt upon her check, Fach pulse beat eagerly, for every sound To her was Fernand's step, and then she sank Pallid and tearful, with that sickening throb Of sadness only love and fear can know. The night pass'd on-she touch'd the silver chords, And answer'd with her voice her lone guitar. It pleased her for a while :-it soothes the soul To pour its thoughts in melancholy words; And if aught can charm sorrow, music can. The song she chose was one her youth had loved Ere yet she knew the bitterness of grief, But thought tears luxury :-
O take that starry wreath away,
Fling not those roses o'er my lute! The brow that thou wouldst crown is pale, The chords thou would awaken mute.
Look on those broken gems that lie
Beside those flowers, withering there; Those leaves were blooming round my lute, Those gems were bright amid my hair.
And they may be a sign to tell
Of all the ruin love will make: He comes in beauty, and then leaves The hope to fade, the heart to break!
The song died in low sobs. "I ever felt That it would come to this,-that I should be Forsaken and forgotten! I would give Life, more than life, those precious memories Of happiness and Fernand! I'd forget That I have been beloved, all I have known Of rapture, all the dreams that long have been My sole existence, but to feel again As I felt ere I loved-ere I had given My every hope as passion's sacrifice."
Her face was hidden in her hands; but tears
And paced with eager steps her scented bower, Then trimm'd her lamp, and gather'd flowers and leaves,
Twined them in wreaths, and placed them gracefully;
Then felt the vanity of all her care,
And scatter'd them around. The morning broke, And hastily she left the shade, to hide From all her anxious heart-her misery! That day she knew her fate-heard that Fernand Was now betroth'd to the high-born Blanche. Hermione wept not, although her heart Swell'd nigh to bursting, but she hid her thoughts Next morning she was gone!
The palace was all lustre, like a dome, A fairy dome; the roofs were all one blaze With lamp and chandelier; the mirrors shone Like streams of light, and, waving gracefully, The purple draperies hung festoon'd with wreaths, That shed their incense round. Hall after hall Open'd in some new splendour. Proud the feast The duke to-night gives for his peerless child, And Castile's noblest are all met to greet Blanche and her gallant lover: princely forms, And ladies beautiful, whose footsteps fell Soft as the music which they echo'd; light And melody, and perfume, and sweet shapes, Mingled together like a glorious dream.— Hermione is there! She has forsaken Her woman's garb, her long dark tresses float Like weeds upon the Tagus, and no one Can in that pale and melancholy boy Recall the lovely woman. All in vain
She look'd for him she sought; but when one pass'd
With raven hair and tall, her heart beat high- Then sank again, when her impatient glance Fell on a stranger's face. At length she reach'd A stately room, richer than all the rest,
For there were loveliest things, though not of life: Canvass, to which the painter's soul had given A heaven of beauty; and statues, which were touch'd
With art so exquisite, the marble seem'd Animate with emotion. It is strange, Amid its deepest feelings, how the soul Will cling to outward images, as thus
It could forget its sickness! There she gazed, And envied the sad smile, the patient look, Of a pale Magdalen: it told of grief, But grief long since subdued. Half curtain'd round
By vases fill'd with fragrant shrubs, were shapes Of Grecian deities and nymphs. She drew Sad parallels with her of Crete, who wept
O'er her Athenian lover's perjury.
She left the hall of paintings, and pursued A corridor which open'd to the air, And enter'd in the garden: there awhile, Beneath the shadow of a cypress tree, She breathed the cooling gale. Amid the shade Of those bright groves were ladies lingering, Who listen'd to most gentle things, and then Blush'd like the roses near them; and light groups Of gladsome dancers, gliding o'er the turf, Like elfin revelling by the moonlight.
She look'd up to the lovely face of heaven :— It was unclouded, and the rolling moon Pass'd o'er the deep blue sky like happiness, Leaving a trace of light. She gazed around,— There was no gloom but that within her heart. Ah, this is very loneliness to feel So wholly destitute, without one thing That has a portion in our wretchedness!
Then two came by-that voice to her was death
It was her false Fernand's! A lovely girl Hung on his arm, so soft, so delicate,
It seem'd a breath might sweep her from the earth; And Fernand bent with so much tenderness To catch the music of the timid voice, Which dared not breathe its love-vow audibly. Hermione rush'd thence, as if her step Had been upon the serpent's lair. That night She brooded o'er her wrongs, and bitterly Pray'd for revenge! And this is Woman's
All her affections are call'd into life By winning flatteries, and then thrown back Upon themselves to perish, and her heart, Her trusting heart, fill'd with weak tenderness, Is left to bleed or break!
The marriage feast was spread, the guests were round,
The halls were fill'd with mirth, and light, and song.
High o'er the rest the youthful pair were placed, Beneath a canopy of fretted gold
And royal purple. With a shout they drank Health and long blessedness to the fair bride! And Fernand call'd for wine, to pledge them back His thanks. A slender Page approach'd, and held The golden cup; - There is a marble look In the dark countenance of that pale boy Ill suiting one so youthful. Fernand drain'd The liquor to the dregs; yet, while he drank He felt the eagle glance of that strange Page Fix on him like a spell. With a wild laugh Of fearless taunting, he took back the cup- That laugh rang like a demon's curse! The sounds
Of revelry one moment paused-they heard
Mutter'd the words-" Vengeance!" "Hermione!"
Blanche broke the silence by her shrick-Fernand Had fallen from his seat, his face was black With inward agony—that draught bore fate! That Page had poison'd him!-In dread they turn'd
To where the murderer was: she had not moved, But stood with fixed eyes! the clouds of death Were on her face-she too had pledged the cup!
"O why should Fate such pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining; Or why so sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune's shining? This world's wealth, when I think upon't, Is pride and a' the lave on't; Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave on't."-BURNS.
Most beautiful, most happy! must there be Clouds on thy sky, and thorns upon thy path? Love, why art thou so wretched? thou so form'd To be the blessedness of life, the last Sweet relic left of Eden! Yet on thee, Even on thee, the curse is laid! Thy cup
Has its full share of bitterness. The heart Is chill'd, crush'd, and constrain'd by the cold
world, Outraged and undervalued; the fine throb Of feeling turn to ministers of grief; All is so false around, affection's self Becomes suspected. But of all drear lots That love must draw from the dark urn of fate, There is one deepest misery-when two hearts, Born for each other, yet must beat apart. Aye, this is misery, to check, conceal That which should be our happiness and glory; To love, to be beloved again, and know A gulf between us :-aye, 'tis misery! This agony of passion, this wild faith, Whose constancy is fruitless, yet is kept Inviolate-to feel that all life's hope, And light, and treasure, cling to one from whom Our wayward doom divides us. Better far To weep o'er treachery or broken vows,— For time may teach their worthlessness :—or pine With unrequited love;-there is a pride In the fond sacrifice-the cheek may lose Its summer crimson; but at least the rose Has wither'd secretly-at least, the heart That has been victim to its tenderness,
Has sigh'd unecho'd by some one as true, As wretched as itself. But to be loved With feelings deep, eternal as our own, And yet to know that we must quell those feelings With phantom shapes of prudence, worldly care- For two who live but in each other's life, Whose only star in this dark world is love! Alas, that circumstance has power to part The destiny of true lovers!
Has a wild legend of untoward love, Fond, faithful, and unhappy! There it stands By the blue Guadalquivir; the green vines Are like a girdle round the granite pillars Of its bare crags, and its dark shadow falls Over an ancient castle at the base. Its lord had a fair daughter, his sole child,- Her picture is in the old gallery still; The frame is shatter'd, but the lovely face Looks out in all its beauty; 'tis a brow Fresh, radiant as the spring,-a pencill'd arch, One soft dark shadow upon mountain snow. A small white hand flings back the raven curls From off the blue-vein'd temples; on her cheek There is a colour like the moss rosebud When first it opens, ere the sun and wind Have kiss'd away its delicate slight blush. And such a fairy shape, as those fine moulds Of ancient Greece, whose perfect grace has given Eternity to beauty. She was loved!
And the wild songs that tell how she was loved Yet haunt their native valley. He was one Who had each great and glorious gift, save gold; Music was ever round his steps:-to him There was deep happiness in nature's wild And rich luxuriance, and he had the pride, The buoyant hope, that genius ever feels In dreaming of the path that it will carve To immortality. A sweeter dream Soon fill'd the young Leandro's heart: he loved, And all around grew Paradise,-Inez Became to him existence, and her heart Soon yielded to his gentle constancy.
They had roam'd forth together: the bright dew Was on the flowers that he knelt and gave, Sweet tribute to his idol. A dark brow Was bent upon them-'tis her father's brow! And Inez flung her on his neck and wept.
He was not one that prayers or tears might move; For he had never known that passion's power, And could not pardon it in others. Love To him was folly and a feverish dream, A girl's most vain romance-he did but mock Its truth and its devotion. "You shall win Your lady love," he said with scornful smile, "If you can bear her, ere the sun is set, To yonder summit: 'tis but a light burden, And I have heard that lovers can do wonders!"
He deem'd it might not be; but what has love E'er found impossible!
Leandro took his mistress in his arms. Crowds gather'd round to look on the pale youth, And his yet paler Inez; but she hid
Her face upon his bosom, and her hair, Whose loose black tresses floated on the wind, Was wet with tears! They paused 'to rest awhile
Beneath a mulberry's cool sanctuary— (Ill-omen'd tree, two lovers met their death Beneath thy treacherous shade! 'Twas in old time
Even as now :)—it spread its branches round, The fruit hung like dark rubies 'mid the green Of the thick leaves, and there like treasures shone Balls of bright gold, the silkworm's summer palace.
Leandro spoke most cheerfully, and soothed The weeping girl beside him; but when next He loosed her from his arms he did not speak, And Inez wept in agony to look
Upon his burning brow. The veins were swell'd, The polish'd marble of those temples now Were turn'd to crimson-the large heavy drops Roll'd over his flush'd cheek-his lips were
And moisten'd but with blood; each breath he
Was a convulsive gasp! She bathed his face With the cool stream, and laid her cheek to his- Bade him renounce his perilous attempt, And said, at least they now might die together! He did not listen to her words, but watch'd The reddening west-the sun was near the wave: He caught the fainting Inez in his arms- One desperate struggle-he has gain'd the top, And the broad sun has sunk beneath the river! A shout arose from those who watch'd; but why Does still Leandro kneel, and Inez hang Motionless round his neck? The blood has
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