Poetical Works Complete

TALES, AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ROSALIE.

"Tis a wild tale-and sad, too, as the sigh

That young lips breathe when Love's first dreamings fly;

Music swept past :-it was a simple tone; But it has waken'd heartfelt sympathies ;It has brought into life things past and gone; Has waken'd all those secret memories, That may be smother'd, but that still will be

When blights and cankerworms, and chilling Present within thy soul, young ROSALIE!

showers,

The notes had roused an answering chord within:

Come withering o'er the warm heart's passion- In other days, that song her vesper hymn had

flowers.

Love! gentlest spirit! I do tell of thee,

Of all thy thousand hopes, thy many fears, Thy morning blushes, and thy evening tears; What thou hast ever been, and still will be,Life's best, but most betraying witchery!

It is a night of summer,-and the sea Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks; Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone, Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it seeks Some face it loves, yet fears to dwell upon. The waves are motionless, save where the oar, Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone, Has broken in upon their azure sleep.

Odours are on the air :-the gale has been Wandering in groves where the rich roses weep,— Where orange, citron, and the soft lime-flowers Shed forth their fragrance to night's dewy hours. Afar the distant city meets the gaze,

Where tower and turret in the pale light shine, Seen like the monuments of other daysMonuments Time half shadows, half displays. And there are many, who, with witching song And wild guitar's soul-thrilling melody, Or the lute's melting music, float along O'er the blue waters, still and silently. That night had Naples sent her best display Of young and gallant, beautiful and gay.

There was a bark a little way apart

From all the rest, and there two lovers leant:One with a blushing cheek and beating heart, And bashful glance, upon the sea-wave bent; She might not meet the gaze the other sent Upon her beauty;-but the half-breathed sighs The deepening colour, timid smiling eyes, Told that she listen'd Love's sweet flatteries. Then they were silent :-words are little aid To love, whose deepest vows are ever made By the heart's beat alone. O, silence is Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss!—

been.

Her alter'd look is pale:-that dewy eye

Almost belies the smile her rich lips wear ;That smile is mock'd by a scarce-breathing sigh, Which tells of silent and suppress'd careTells that the life is withering with despair, More irksome from its unsunned silentness

A festering wound the spirit pines to bear; A galling chain, whose pressure will intrude, Fettering Mirth's step, and Pleasure's lightest mood.

Where are her thoughts thus wandering?-A spot,

Now distant far, is pictured on her mind,A chestnut shadowing a low white cot, With rose and jasmine round the casement twined,

Mix'd with the myrtle-tree's luxuriant blind. Alone, (O! should such solitude be here ?)

An aged form beneath the shade reclined, Whose eye glanced round the scene; and then

a tear

Told that she miss'd one in her heart enshrined!

Then came remembrances of other times,

When eve oped her rich bowers for the pale

day;

When the faint, distant tones of convent chimes

Were answer'd by the lute and vesper lay ;— When the fond mother blest her gentle child, And for her welfare pray'd the Virgin mild. And she has left the aged one to steep

Her nightly couch with tears for that lost child,

The ROSALIE,-who left her age to weep,

When that the tempter flatter'd her and wiled Her steps away, from her own home beguiled. She started up in agony :-her eye

Met MANFREDI's. Softly he spoke, and smiled Memory is past, and thought and feeling lie Lost in one dream-all thrown on one wild die.

They floated o'er the waters, till the moon
Look'd from the blue sky in her zenith noon,-
Till each glad bark at length had sought the
shore,

And the waves echo'd to the lute no more;
Then sought their gay palazzo, where the ray
Of lamps shed light only less bright than day;
And there they feasted till the morn did fling
Her blushes o'er their mirth and revelling.

And life was as a tale of faërie,

As when some Eastern genie rears bright bowers,
And spreads the green turf and the colour'd
flowers;

And calls upon the earth, the sea, the sky,
To yield their treasures for some gentle queen,
Whose reign is over the enchanted scene.
And ROSALIE had pledged a magic cup-

The maddening cup of pleasure and of love!
There was for her one only dream on earth!
There was for her one only star above !—
She bent in passionate idolatry

Before her heart's sole idol-MANFREDI !

II.

'Tis night again-a soft and summer night;-
A deep blue-heaven, white clouds, moon and star-
light;-

So calm, so beautiful, that human eye
Might weep to look on such a tranquil sky: :-

It was the image of the maid who wept

Those precious tears that heal and purify.
Love yet upon her lip his station kept,

But heaven and heavenly thoughts were in her

eye.

One knelt before the shrine, with cheek as pale
As was the cold white marble. Can this be
The young-the loved--the happy ROSALIE?
Alas! alas! hers is a common tale :-
She trusted, as youth ever has believed;—
She heard Love's vows-confided-was deceived!

Oh, Love! thy essence is thy purity!

Breathe one unhallow'd breath upon thy flame,
And it is gone forever,-and but leaves
A sullied vase-its pure light lost in shame!

And ROSALIE was loved,-not with that pure
And holy passion which can age endure;
But loved with wild and self-consuming fires,—
A torch which glares-and scorches-and ex-
pires.

A little while her dream of bliss remain'd,-
A little while Love's wings were left unchain'd.
But change came o'er the trusted MANFREDI:
His heart forgot its vow'd idolatry;
And his forgotten love was left to brood
O'er wrongs and ruin in her solitude!

How very desolate that breast must be,
Whose only joyance is in memory!

A night just form'd for Hope's first dream of And what must woman suffer, thus betray'd!—

bliss,

Or for Love's yet more perfect happiness!

The moon is o'er a grove of cypress trees,
Weeping, like mourners, in the plaining breeze;
Echoing the music of a rill, whose song
Glided so sweetly, but so sad, along.

There is a little chapel in the shade,

Her heart's most warm and precious feelings made

But things wherewith to wound: that heart-so

weak,

So soft-laid open to the vulture's beak!

Its sweet revealings given up to scorn

It burns to bear, and yet that must be borne!
And, sorer still, that bitterer emotion,

To know the shrine which had our soul's devotion
Is that of a false deity!--to look

Where many a pilgrim has knelt down and Upon the eyes we worshipp'd, and brook
pray'd

To the sweet saint, whose portrait, o'er the shrine,
The painter's skill has made all but divine.
It was a pale, a melancholy face,-

A cheek which bore the trace of frequent tears, And worn by grief,-though grief might not efface

The seal that beauty set in happier years; And such a smile as on the brow appears

Their cold reply! Yet these are all for her!-
The rude world's outcast, and love's wanderer!
Alas! that love, which is so sweet a thing,
Should ever cause guilt, grief, or suffering!
Yet she upon whose face the sunbeams fall—
That dark-eyed girl-had felt their bitterest thrall!

She thought upon her love; and there was not In passion's record one green sunny spot

Of one whose earthly thoughts, long since sub- It had been all a madness and a dream,

dued

Past this life's joys and sorrows, hopes and fearsThe worldly dreams o'er which the many brood.

The heart-beat hush'd in mild and chasten'd mood.

The shadow of a flower on the stream,
Which seems, but is not; and then memory turn'd
To her lone mother. How her bosom burn'd
With sweet and bitter thoughts! There might be

rest

The wounded dove will flee into her nest

The home she hoped ;-then sought that home And it had twined its small hands in the hair

again.

A flush of beauty is upon the skyEve's last warm blushes-like the crimson dye The maiden wears, when first her dark eyes meet

The graceful lover's sighing at her feet.

And there were sounds of music on the breeze,
And perfume shaken from the citron trees;
While the dark chestnuts caught a golden ray
On their green leaves, the last bright gift of day;
And peasants dancing gayly in the shade
To the soft mandolin, whose light notes made
An echo fit to the glad voices singing.
The twilight spirit his sweet urn is flinging
Of dew upon the lime and orange stems,
And giving to the rose pearl diadems.

There is a pilgrim by that old gray tree,
With head upon her hand bent mournfully;
And looking round upon each lovely thing,
And breathing the sweet air, as they could bring
To her no beauty and no solacing.

'Tis ROSALIE! Her prayer was not in vain, The truant-child has sought her home again!

It must be worth a life of toil and care,Worth those dark chains the wearied one must

bear

Who toils up fortune's steep,-all that can wring
The worn-out bosom with lone suffering,―
Worth restlessness, oppression, goading fears,
And long-deferr'd hopes of many years,—
To reach again that little quiet spot,

So well loved once, and never quite forgot;-
To trace again the steps of infancy,

And catch their freshness from their memory!
And it is triumph, sure, when fortune's sun
Has shone upon us, and our task is done,
To show our harvest to the eyes which were
Once all the world to us! Perhaps there are
Some who had presaged kindly of our youth;
Feel we not proud their prophecy was sooth?

That cluster'd o'er its mother's brow: as fair
As buds in spring. She gave her laughing dove
To one who clasp'd it with a father's love;
And if a painter's eye had sought a scene
Of love in its most perfect loveliness-
Of childhood, and of wedded happiness,-
He would have painted the sweet MADELINE!
But ROSALIE shrank from them, and she stray'd
Through a small grove of cypresses, whose shade
Hung o'er a burying-ground, where the low stone
And the gray cross recorded those now gone!
There was a grave just closed. Not one seem'd

near,

To pay the tribute of one long-last tear!
How very desolate must that one be
Whose more than grave has not a memory!

Then ROSALIE thought on her mother's age,-
Just such her end would be with her away:
No child the last cold death-pang to assuage-
No child by her neglected tomb to pray!
She ask'd-and like a hope from heaven it
came!-

To hear them answer with a stranger's name.

She reach'd her mother's cottage; by that gate She thought how her once lover wont to wait To tell her honey'd tales; and then she thought On all the utter ruin he had wrought! The moon shone brightly, as it used to do Ere youth, and hope, and love, had been untrue; But it shone o'er the desolate! The flowers Were dead; the faded jessamine, unbound, Trail'd, like a heavy weed, upon the ground; And fell the moonlight vainly over trees, Which had not even one rose, although the

breeze,

Almost as if in mockery, had brought
Sweet tones it from the nightingale had caught!

She enter'd in the cottage. None were there! The hearth was dark,-the walls look'd cold and bare!

All-all spoke poverty and suffering!

The waves, all bright with sunshine, like the

gloom

Adversity throws on the heart's young gladness.

All-all was changed! and but one only thing
Kept its old place! ROSALIE's mandolin
Hung on the wall, where it had ever been.
There was one other room,-and ROSALIE
Sought for her mother there. A heavy flame
Gleam'd from a dying lamp; a cold air came
Damp from the broken casement. There one lay,
Like marble seen but by the moonlight ray!
And ROSALIE drew near. One wither'd hand
Was stretch'd, as it would reach a wretched stand
Where some cold water stood! And by the bed
She knelt and gazed-and saw her mother-So bright, are like the pleasures of this world,

I saw the river on a summer eve:
The sun was setting over fields of corn,-
'Twas like a golden sea;—and on the left
Were vineyards, whence the grapes shone forth
like gems,

dead!

ROLAND'S TOWER.

A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.

O, Heaven! the deep fidelity of love!

WHERE, like a courser starting from the spur,
Rushes the deep-blue current of the Rhine,
A little island rests; green cypresses
Are its chief growth, bending their heavy boughs
O'er gray stones marking long-forgotten graves.
A convent once stood here; and yet remain
Relics of other times, pillars and walls,
Worn away and discolour'd, yet so hung
With wreaths of ivy that the work of ruin
Is scarcely visible. How like this is
To the so false exterior of the world!
Outside all looks so fresh and beautiful;
But mildew, rot, and worm, work on beneath,
Until the heart is utterly decay'd.
There is one grave distinguish'd from the rest,
But only by a natural monument:-
A thousand deep-blue violets have grown
Over the sod.-I do love violets:
They tell the history of woman's love,
They open with the earliest breath of spring;
Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew, and light;
And, if they perish, perish with a sigh
Delicious as that life. On the hot June
They shed no perfume: the flowers may remain,
But the rich breathing of their leaves is past ;-
Like woman, they have lost their loveliest gift,
When yielding to the fiery hour of passion:
The violet breath of love is purity.

On the shore opposite, a tower stands

In ruins, with a mourning-robe of moss

Rubies, and lighted amber; and thence spread
A wide heath cover'd with thick furze, whose
flowers,

The banks upon the river's other side:
Tall pines rose up like warriors; the wild rose
Was there in all its luxury of bloom,

Sown by the wind, nursed by the dew and sun:
And on the steeps were crosses gray and old,
Which told the fate of some poor traveller.
The dells were fill'd with dwarfed oaks and firs;
And on the heights, which master'd all the rest,
Were castles, tenented now by the owl,
The spider's garrison: there is not one
Without some strange old legend of the days
When love was life and death,-when lady's
glove

Or sunny curl were banners of the battle.-
My history is of the tower which looks
Upon the little island.

LORD HERBERT sat him in his hall: the hearth
Was blazing as it mock'd the storm without
With its red cheerfulness: the dark hounds lay
Around the fire; and the old knight had doff'd
His hunting-cloak, and listen'd to the lute
And song of the fair girl who at his knee
Was seated. In the April hour of life,
When showers are led by rainbows, and the heart
Is all bloom and green leaves, was ISABELLE:
A band of pearls, white like the brow o'er which
They past, kept the bright curls from off the fore-
head; thence

They wander'd to her feet—a golden shower.
She had that changing colour on the check
Which speaks the heart so well; those deep-blue

eyes,

Like summer's darkest sky, but not so glad-
They were too passionate for happiness.
Light was within her eyes, bloom on her cheek,
Her song had raised the spirit of her race

Upon her eloquent brow. She had just told
Of the young ROLAND's deeds,-how he had stood

Hung on the gray and shatter'd walls, which fling Against a host and conquer'd; when there came

A shadow on the waters; it comes o'er

A pilgrim to the hall-and never yet

But where is he who said that he would ride

Had stranger ask'd for shelter and in vain!

The board was spread, the Rhenish flask was At his right hand to battle?-ROLAND! where-

My heart is chill'd and sear'd, and taught to wear That falsest of false things-a mask of smiles; Yet every pulse throbs at the memory

Of that which has been! Love is like the glass
That throws its own rich colour over all,

And makes all beautiful. The morning looks
Its very loveliest, when the fresh air

Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red;
And the hot noon flits by most rapidly,
When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page
Bearing the poet's words of love and then
The twilight walk, when the link'd arms can feel
The beating of the heart; upon the air
There is a music never heard but once,-
A light the eyes can never see again;
Each star has its own prophecy of hope,
And every song and tale that breathe of love
Seem echoes of the heart.

And time past byAs time will ever pass, when Love has lent His rainbow plumes to aid his flight—and spring Had wedded with the summer, when a steed Stood at LORD HERBERT'S gate, and ISABELLE Had wept farewell to ROLAND, and had given Her blue scarf for his colours. He was gone To raise his vassals, for LORD HERBERT'S towers Were menaced with a siege; and he had sworn By ISABELLE'S white hand that he would claim Its beauty only as a conqueror's prize. Autumn was on the woods, when the blue Rhine Grew red with blood:-Lonn HERBERT'S banner flies,

And gallant is the bearing of his ranks.

O! Where is ROLAND?

ISABELLE has watch'd

Day after day, night after night, in vain,
Till she has wept in hopelessness, and thought
Upon old histories, and said with them,
"There is hope in man's fidelity!"
ISABELLE stood upon her lonely tower;
And, as the evening star rose up, she saw
An arm'd train bearing her father's banner
In triumph to the castle. Down she flew
To greet the victors :-they had reach'd the hall
Before herself. What saw the maiden there?
A bier!-her father laid upon that bier!
ROLAND was kneeling by the side, his face

Bow'd on his hands and hid ;-but ISABELLE
Knew the dark curling hair and stately form,
And threw her on his breast. He shrank away
As she were death, or sickness, or despair.

They met once more; and ISABELLE was changed

As much as if a lapse of years had past:
She was so thin, so pale, and her dim eye
Had wept away its luxury of blue.
She had cut off her sunny hair, and wore
A robe of black, with a white crucifix :-
It told her destiny-her youth was yow'd
To heaven. And in the convent of the isle
That day she was to enter, ROLAND stood
Like marble, cold, and pale, and motionless:
The heavy sweat upon his brow was all
His sign of life. At length he snatch'd the scarf
That ISABELLE had tied around his neck,
And gave it her, and pray'd that she would wave
Its white folds from the lattice of her cell
At each pale rising of the evening star,
That he might know she lived. They parted--

never

Those lovers met again! But ROLAND built
A tower beside the Rhine, and there he dwelt.
And every evening saw the white scarf waved,
And heard the vesper hymn of ISABELLE
Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river.
One evening, and he did not see the scarf,--
He watch'd and watch'd in vain; at length his

hope

Grew desperate, and he pray'd his ISABELLE Might have forgotten him :-but midnight came,

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