The Troubadour

THE Poem of The TROUBADOUR is founded upon an ancient custom of Provence, according to which a festival was held, and the minstrel who bore away the prize from his competitors was rewarded, by the lady chosen to preside, with a Golden Violet. It is hardly necessary to say, that this makes only the conclusion of the tale,-—all the earlier parts being given to chival rous adventure and to description characteristic of the age.

L. E. L.

The age of chivalry is gone. BURKE.

CANTO I

CALL to mind your loveliest dream,—

When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain stream,

When your pillow is made of the violet,

And over your head the branches are met

Of a lime-tree cover'd with bloom and bees,

When the roses' breath is on the breeze,

When odours and light on your eyelids press

With summer's delicious idleness;

And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance

Of the faery banks of the bright Durance;

Just where at first its current flows

'Mid willows and its own white rose,—

Its clear and early tide, or ere

A shade, save trees, its waters bear.

The sun, like an Indian king, has left

To that fair river a royal gift

Of gold and purple; no longer shines

His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines

Sweeping beneath the burning sky

Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie

Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep

When the wings of the tempest shall over them sweep.

—And with its towers cleaving the red

Of the sunset clouds, and its shadow spread

Like a cloak before it, darkening the ranks

Of the light young trees on the river's banks,

And ending there, as the waters shone

Too bright for shadows to rest upon,

A castle stands; whose windows gleam

Like the golden flash of a noon-lit stream

Seen through the lily and water-flags' screen:

Just so shine those panes through the ivy green,

A curtain to shut out sun and air,

Which the work of years has woven there.

—But not in the lighted pomp of the west

Looks the evening its loveliest;

Enter yon turret, and round you gaze

On what the twilight east displays:

One star, pure, clear, as if it shed

The dew on each young flower's head;

And, like a beauty of southern clime,

Her veil thrown back for the first time,

Pale, timid as she feared to own

Her claim upon the midnight throne,

Shows the fair moon her crescent sign.

—Beneath, in many a serpentine,

The river wanders; chesnut trees

Spread their old boughs o'er cottages

Where the low roofs and porticoes

Are cover'd with the Provence rose.

And there are vineyards: none might view

The fruit o'er which the foliage weaves;

And olive groves, pale as the dew

Crusted its silver o'er the leaves.

And there the castle garden lay

With tints in beautiful array:

Its dark green walks, its fountains falling,

Its tame birds to each other calling;

The peacock with its orient rings,

The silver pheasant's gleaming wings;

And on the breeze rich odours sent

Sweet messages, as if they meant

To rouse each sleeping sense to all

The loveliness of evening's fall.—

That lonely turret, is it not

A minstrel's own peculiar spot?

Thus with the light of shadowy grey

To dream the pleasant hours away.

Slight columns were around the hall

With wreathed and fluted pedestal

Of green Italian marble made,

In likeness of the palm-trees' shade;

And o'er the ceiling starry showers

Mingled with many-colour'd flowers,

With crimson roses o'er her weeping,

There lay that royal maiden sleeping—

DANAE , she whom gold could move—

How could it move her heart to love?

Between the pillars the rich fold

Of tapestry fell, inwrought with gold,

And many-colour'd silks which gave,

Strange legends of the fair and brave.

And there the terrace covered o'er

With summer's fair and scented store;

As grateful for the gentle care

That had such pride to keep it fair.

And, gazing, as if heart and eye

Were mingled with that lovely sky,

There stood a youth, slight as not yet

With manhood's strength and firmness set;

But on his cold, pale cheek were caught

The traces of some deeper thought,

A something seen of pride and gloom,

Not like youth's hour of light and bloom:

A brow of pride, a lip of scorn,—

Yet beautiful in scorn and pride—

A conscious pride, as if he own'd

Gems hidden from the world beside;

And scorn, as he cared not to learn

Should others prize those gems or spurn.

He was the last of a proud race

Who left him but his sword and name,

And boyhood past in restless dreams

Of future deeds and future fame.

But there were other dearer dreams

Than the light'ning flash of these war gleams

That fill'd the depths of RAYMOND'S heart;

For his was now the loveliest part

Of the young poet's life, when first,

In solitude and silence nurst,

His genius rises like a spring

Unnoticed in its wandering;

Ere winter cloud or summer ray

Have chill'd, or wasted it away,

When thoughts with their own beauty fill'd

Shed their own richness over all,

As waters from sweet woods distill'd

Breathe perfume out where'er they fall.

I know not whether Love can fling

A deeper witchery from his wing

Than falls sweet Power of Song from thine.

Yet, ah! the wreath that binds thy shrine,

Though seemingly all bloom and light,

Hides thorn and canker, worm and blight.

Planet of wayward destinies

Thy victims are thy votaries!

Alas! for him whose youthful fire

Is vowed and wasted on the lyre,—

Alas! for him who shall essay,

The laurel's long and dreary way!

Mocking will greet, neglect will chill

His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill;

And, worst of all, that heartless praise

Echoed from what another says.

He dreams a dream of life and light,

And grasps the rainbow that appears

Afar all beautiful and bright,

And finds it only formed of tears.

Ay, let him reach the goal, let fame

Pour glory's sunlight on his name,

Let his songs be on every tongue,

And wealth and honours round him flung:

Then let him show his secret thought,

Will it not own them dearly bought?

See him in weariness fling down

The golden harp, the violet crown;

And sigh for all the toil, the care,

The wrong that he has had to bear;

Then wish the treasures of his lute

Had been, like his own feelings, mute,

And curse the hour when that he gave

To sight that wealth, his lord and slave.

But RAYMOND was in the first stage

Of life's enchanted pilgrimage:

'Tis not for Spring to think on all

The sear and waste of Autumn's fall: —

Enough for him to watch beside

The bursting of the mountain tide,

To wander through the twilight shade

By the dark, arching pine-boughs made,

And at the evening's starlit hour

To seek for some less shadowy bower,

Where dewy leaf, and flower pale,

Made the home of the nightingale.

Or he would seek the turret hall,

And there, unheard, unseen of all,

When even the night winds were mute,

His rich tones answer'd to the lute;

And in his pleasant solitude

He would forget his wayward mood,

And pour his spirit forth when none

Broke on his solitude, save one.

There is a light step passing by

Like the distant sound of music's sigh;

It is that fair and gentle child,

Whose sweetness has so oft beguiled,

Like sunlight on a stormy day,

His almost sullenness away.

They said she was not of mortal birth,

And her face was fairer than face of earth:

What is the thing to liken it to?

A lily just dipp'd in the summer dew—

Parian marble—snow's first fall?—

Her brow was fairer than each and all.

And so delicate was each vein's soft blue,

'Twas not like blood that wander'd through.

Rarely upon that cheek was shed,

By health or by youth, one tinge of red;

And never closest look could descry,

In shine, or in shade, the hue of her eye:

But as it were made of light, it changed,

With every sunbeam that over it ranged;

And that eye could look through the long dark lash,

With the moon's dewy smile, or the lightning's flash.

Her silken tresses, so bright and so fair,

Stream'd like a banner of light on the air,

And seldom its sunny wealth around

Was chaplet of flowers or ribbon bound;

But amid the gold of its thousand curls

Was twisted a braid of snow-white pearls,—

They said 'twas a charmed spell; that before,

This braid her nameless mother wore;

And many were the stories wild

Whisper'd of the neglected child.

LORD AMIRALD , (thus the tale was told),

The former lord of the castle-hold,—

LORD AMIRALD had followed the chase

Till he was first and last in the race;

The blood-dy'd sweat hung on his steed,

Each breath was a gasp, yet he stay'd not his speed.

Twice the dust and foam had been wash'd

By the mountain torrent that over them dash'd;

But still the stag held on his way,

Till a forest of pine trees before them lay,

And bounding and crashing boughs declare

The stag and the hunter have enter'd there.

On, on they went, till a greenwood screen

Lay AMIRALD and his prey between:

He has heard the creature sink on the ground,

And the branches give way at his courser's bound.

The spent stag on the grass is laid;

But over him is leant a maid,

Her arms and fair hair glistening

With the bright waters of the spring;

And AMIRALD paused, and gazed, as seeing

Were grown the sole sense of his being.

At first she heard him not, but bent

Upon her pitying task intent;

The summer clouds of hair that hung

Over her brow were backwards flung,

She saw him! Her first words were prayer

Her gasping favourite's life to spare;

But her next tones were soft and low,

And on her cheek a mantling glow

Play'd like a rainbow; and the eye

That raised in pleading energy,

Shed, starlike, its deep beauty round,

Seem'd now as if to earth spell-bound.—

They parted: but each one that night

Thought on the meeting at twilight.

It matters not, how, day by day,

Love made his sure but secret way.

Oh, where is there the heart but knows

Love's first steps are upon the rose!

And here were all which still should be

Nurses to Love's sweet infancy,—

Hope, mystery, absence:—then each thought

A something holy with it brought.

Their sighs were breathed, their vows were given

Before the face of the high Heaven,

Link'd not with courtly vanities,

But birds and blossoms, leaves and trees:—

Love was not made for palace pride,

For halls and domes—they met beside

A marble fountain, overgrown

With moss, that made it nature's own,

Though through the green shone veins of snow,

Like the small Fairy's paved ways,

As if a relic left to show

The luxury of departed days,

And show its nothingness. The wave

That princely brows was wont to lave

Was left now for the wild bird's bill,

And the red deer to drink their fill.

Yet still it was as fair a spot

As in its once more splendid lot:

Around, the dark sweep of the pine

Guarded it like a wood-nymph's shrine,

And the gold-spotted moss was set

With crowds of the white violet.

One only oak grew by the spring,

The forest's patriarch and king;

A nightingale had built her nest

In the green shadow of its rest;

And in its hollow trunk the bees

Dwelt in their honey palaces;

And underneath its shelter stood,

Leant like a beauty o'er the flood

Watching each tender bud unclose,

A beautiful white Provence rose;—

Yet wan and pale as that it knew

What changing skies and sun could do;

As that it knew, and, knowing, sigh'd,

The vanity of summer pride;

As watching could put off the hour

When falls the leaf and fades the flower.

Alas! that every lovely thing

Lives only but for withering,—

That spring rainbows and summer shine

End but in autumn's pale decline.

And here the lovers met, what hour

The bee departed from the flower,

And droop'd the bud at being left,

Or as ashamed of each sweet theft,

What hour the soft wind bore along

The nightingale's moonlighted song.

And AMIRALD heard her father's name,

He whose it was, was link'd with fame:

Though driven from his heritage,

A hunted exile in his age,

For that he would not bend the knee,

And draw the sword at Rome's decree.

She led him to the lonely cot,

And almost AMIRALD wish'd his lot

Had been cast in that humbler life,

Over whose peace the hour of strife

Passes but like the storm at sea

That wakes not earth's tranquillity.

In secret were they wed, not then

Had AMIRALD power to fling again

The banner of defiance wide

To priestly pomp and priestly pride;

But day by day more strong his hand,

And more his friends, and soon the brand

That in its wrongs and silence slept

Had from its blood-stain'd scabbard leapt.

But here are told such varying tales

That none may know where truth prevails;

For there were hints of murder done,

And deeds of blood that well might shun

All knowledge; but the wildest one

Was most believed: 'twas whisper'd round

Lord AMIRALD in hunting found

An evil spirit, but array'd

In semblance of a human maid;

That 'twas some holy word whose force

Broke off their sinful intercourse.

But this is sure, one evening late

Lord AMIRALD reach'd his castle gate,

And blood was on his spurs of gold,

And blood was on his mantle's fold,—

He flung it back, and on his arm

A fair young child lay pillow'd warm;

It stretch'd its little hands and smiled,

And AMIRALD said it was his child,

And bade the train their aid afford

Suiting the daughter of their Lord.

Then sought his brother, but alone;

Yet there were some who heard a tone

Of stifled agony, a prayer

His child should meet a father's care;

And as he past the hall again

He call'd around his vassal train,

And bade them own his brother's sway.

Then past himself like a dream away,—

And from that hour none heard his name,

No tale, no tidings of him came,

Save a vague murmur, that he fell

In fighting with the Infidel.

But his fair child grew like a flower

Springing in March's earlier hour,

'Mid storm and chill, yet loveliest—

Though somewhat paler than the rest.

Perhaps it was her orphan'd state,

So young, so fair, so desolate,—

Somewhat of likeness in their fate

Made RAYMOND'S heart for her confess

Its hidden depths of tenderness.

Neglected both; and those that pine

In love's despair and hope's decline,

Can love the most when some sweet spell

Breaks the seal on affection's well,

And bids its waters flow like light

Returning to the darken'd sight.

And while his fallen fortunes taught

RAYMOND'S proud solitude of thought,

His spirit's cold, stern haughtiness

In her was gentle mournfulness.

The cold north wind which bows to earth

The lightness of the willow's birth

Bends not the mountain cedar trees;

Folding their branches from the breeze,

They stand as if they could defy

The utmost rage of storm and sky.

And she, she would have thought it sin

To harbour one sweet thought within,

In whose delight he had no part,—

He was the world of her young heart.

A childish fondness, yet revealing

Somewhat of woman's deeper feeling,—

Else wherefore is that crimson blush,

As her cheek felt her bosom's rush

Upon her face, while pausing now

Her eyes are raised to RAYMOND'S brow,

Who, lute-waked to a ballad old,

A legend of the fair and bold.

BALLAD

HE raised the golden cup from the board,

It sparkled with purple wealth,

He kist the brim her lip had prest,

And drank to his ladye's health.

Ladye, to-night I pledge thy name,

To-morrow thou shalt pledge mine;

Ever the smile of beauty should light

The victor's blood-red wine.

There are some flowers of brightest bloom

Amid thy beautiful hair,

Give me those roses, they shall be

The favour I will wear.

For ere their colour is wholly gone,

Or the breath of their sweetness fled,

They shall be placed in thy curls again,

But dy'd of a deeper red.

The warrior rode forth in the morning light,

And beside his snow-white plume

Were the roses wet with the sparkling dew,

Like pearls on their crimson bloom.

The maiden stood on her highest tower,

And watch'd her knight depart;

She dash'd the tear aside, but her hand

Might not still her beating heart.

All day she watch'd the distant clouds

Float on the distant air,

A crucifix upon her neck,

And on her lips a prayer.

The sun went down, and twilight came

With her banner of pearlin grey,

And then afar she saw a band

Wind down the vale their way.

They came like victors, for high o'er their ranks

Were their crimson colours borne;

And a stranger penon droop'd beneath,

But that was bow'd and torn:

But she saw no white steed first in the ranks,

No rider that spurr'd before;

But the evening shadows were closing fast,

And she could see no more.

She turn'd from her watch on the lonely tower

In haste to reach the hall,

And as she sprang down the winding stair

She heard the drawbridge fall.

A hundred harps their welcome rung,

Then paused as if in fear;

The ladye enter'd the hall, and saw

Her true knight stretch'd on his bier!

————

The spent stag on the grass is laid,

But over him is bent a maid,

Her arms and fair hair glistening

With the bright waters of the spring.

THE foundation of this tale was taken from the exquisite and wild legend in the Bride of Lammermuir. It is venturing on hallowed ground; but I have the common excuse for most human errors,--I was tempted by beauty.

Bends not the mountain cedar trees,

Folding their branches from the breeze.

Some ancient travellers assert, that in winter the cedars of Lebanon fold their branches together, and in this spiral form defy the storms which would otherwise destroy their outstretched limbs. I believe the fact is not well authenticated, but enough for the uses of poetry.

THE song ceased, yet not with its tone

Is the minstrel's vision wholly flown;

But there he stood as if he had sent

His spirit to rove on the element.

But EVA broke on his trance, and the while

Play'd o'er her lip a sigh and a smile;--

"Now turn thee from that evening sky,

And the dreaming thoughts that are passing by,

And give me those buds, thou hast pluck'd away

The leaves of the rose round which they lay;

Yet still the boon thrice fair will be,

And give them for my tidings to me.

A herald waits in the court to claim

Aid in the Lady of Clarin's name;

And well you know the fair CLOTILDE

Will have her utmost prayer fulfill'd.

Go to the hall at once, and ask

That thine may be the glorious task

To spread the banner to the day

And lead the vassals to the fray."--

He rush'd to the crowded hall, and there

He heard the herald's words declare

The inroad on her lands, the wrong

The lonely Countess suffer'd long,

And now SIR HERBERT'S arm'd array

Before her very castle lay;

But surely there was many a knight

Whose sword would strike for lady's right;

And surely many a lover's hand

In such a cause would draw the brand.

And rush'd the blood, and flash'd the light

To RAYMOND'S cheek, from RAYMOND'S eye,

When he stood forth and claim'd the fight,

And spoke of death and victory,

Those words that thrill the heart when first

Forth the young warrior's soul has burst.

And smiled the castle lord to see

His ward's impetuous energy.

"Well! get thy sword, the dawning day

Shall see thee lead my best array;

Suits it young warrior well to fight

For lady's cause and lady's right?

'Tis just a field for knight to win

His maiden spurs and honours in."

And RAYMOND felt as if a gush

Of thousand waters in one rush

Were on his heart, as if the dreams

Of what, alas! life only seems,

Wild thoughts and noontide revelries,

Were turn'd into realities.

Impatient, restless, first his steed

Was hurried to its utmost speed:

And next his falchion's edge was tried,

Then waved the helmet's plume of pride,

Then wandering through the courts and hall,

He paused in none yet pass'd through all.

But there was one whose gentle heart

Could ill take its accustom'd part

In RAYMOND'S feelings, one who deem'd

That almost unkind RAYMOND seem'd:—

If thus the very name of war,

Could fill so utterly each thought,

How durst she hope, that when afar

EVA would be to memory brought.

Oh, she had yet the task to learn

How often woman's heart must turn

To feed upon its own excess

Of deep yet passionate tenderness!

How much of grief the heart must prove

That yields a sanctuary to love!

And ever since the crimson day

Had faded into twilight grey,

She had been in the gallery, where

Hung, pictured, knight and lady fair,

Where haughty brow, and lovely face,

Show'd youth and maiden of her race.

With both it was a favourite spot,

And names and histories which had not

A record save in the dim light

Tradition throws on memory's night

To them were treasures; they could tell

What from the first crusade befell.

There could not be a solitude

More fitted for a pensive mood

Than this old gallery,—the light

Of the full moon came coldly bright—

A silvery stream, save where a stain

Fell from the pictured window pane,—

A ruby flush, a purple dye,

Like the last sun-streak on the sky,

And lighted lip, and cheek of bloom

Almost in mockery of the tomb.

How sad, how strange to think the shade,

The copy faint of beauty made,

Should be the only wreck that death

Shall leave of so much bloom and breath.

The cheek, long since the earth-worm's prey,

Beside the lovely of to-day

Here smiles as bright, as fresh, as fair,

As if of the same hour it were.

There pass'd a step along the hall,

And EVA started as if all

Her treasures, secret until now,

Burnt in the blush upon her brow.

There was a something in their meeting,

A conscious trembling in her greeting,

As coldness from his eye might hide

The struggle of her love and pride;

Then fears of all too much revealing

Vanish'd with a reproachful feeling.

What, coldness! when another day

And RAYMOND would be far away,

When that to-morrow's rising sun

Might be the last he look'd upon!

"Come, EVA , dear! by the moonlight

We'll visit all our haunts to night.

I could not lay me down to rest,

For, like the feathers in my crest,

My thoughts are waving to and fro.

Come, EVA , dear! I could not go

Without a pilgrimage to all

Of garden, nook, and waterfall,—

Where, amid birds, and leaves, and flowers,

And gales that cool'd the sunny hours,

With legend old, and plaining song,

We found not summer's day too long."

Through many a shadowy spot they past,

Looking its loveliest and its last,

Until they paused beneath the shade

Of cypress and of roses made,—

The one so sad, the one so fair,

Just blent as love and sorrow are.

And RAYMOND prayed the maiden gather,

And twine in a red wreath together

The roses. "No," she sigh'd "not these

Sweet children of the sun and breeze,

Born for the beauty of a day,

Dying as all fair things decay

When loveliest,—these may not be,

RAYMOND , my parting gift to thee."

From next her heart, where it had lain,

She took an amber scented chain,

To which a cross of gold was hung,

And round the warrior's neck she flung

The relique, while he kiss'd away

The warm tears that upon it lay.

And mark'd they not the pale, dim sky

Had lost its moonlit brilliancy,

When suddenly a bugle rang,—

Forth at its summons RAYMOND sprang,

But turn'd again to say farewell

To her whose gushing teardrops fell

Like summer rain,—but he is gone!

And EVA weeps, and weeps alone.

Dark was the shade of that old tower

In the grey light of morning's hour;

And cold and pale the maiden leant

Over the heavy battlement,

And look'd upon the armed show

That hurrying throng'd the court below:

With her white robe and long bright hair,

A golden veil flung on the air,

Like Peace prepared from earth to fly,

Yet pausing, ere she wing'd on high,

In pity for the rage and crime

That forced her to some fairer clime.

When suddenly her pale cheek burn'd,

For RAYMOND'S eye to her's was turn'd;

But like a meteor past its flame—

She was too sad for maiden shame.

She heard the heavy drawbridge fall,

And RAYMOND rode the first of all;

But when he came to the green height

Which hid the castle from his sight,

With useless spur and slacken'd rein,

He was the laggard of the train.

They paused upon the steep ascent,

And spear, and shield, and breast-plate sent

A light, as if the rising day

Upon a mirror flash'd its ray.

They pass on, EVA only sees

A chance plume waving in the breeze,

And then can see no more—but borne

Upon the echo, came the horn;

At last nor sight nor sound declare

Aught of what pass'd that morning there.

Sweet sang the birds, light swept the breeze,

And play'd the sunlight o'er the trees,

And roll'd the river's depths of blue

Quiet as they were wont to do.

And EVA felt as if of all

Her heart were sole memorial.

CANTO II

THE first, the very first; oh! none

Can feel again as they have done;

In love, in war, in pride, in all

The planets of life's coronal,

However beautiful or bright,—

What can be like their first sweet light?

When will the youth feel as he felt,

When first at beauty's feet he knelt?

As if her least smile could confer

A kingdom on its worshipper;

Or ever care, or ever fear

Had cross'd love's morning hemisphere.

And the young bard, the first time praise

Sheds its spring sunlight o'er his lays,

Though loftier laurel, higher name,

May crown the minstrel's noontide fame,

They will not bring the deep content

Of his lure's first encouragement.

And where the glory that will yield

The flush and glow of his first field

To the young chief? Will RAYMOND ever

Feel as he now is feeling?—Never.

The sun wept down or ere they gain'd

The glen where the chief band remain'd.

It was a lone and secret shade,

As nature form'd an ambuscade

For the bird's nest and the deer's lair,

Though now less quiet guests were there.

On one side like a fortress stood

A mingled pine and chesnut wood;

Autumn was falling, but the pine

Seem'd as it mock'd all change; no sign

Of season on its leaf was seen,

The same dark gloom of changeless green.

But like the gorgeous Persian bands

'Mid the stern race of northern lands,

The chesnut boughs were bright with all

That gilds and mocks the autumn's fall.

Like stragglers from an army's rear

Gradual they grew, near and less near,

Till ample space was left to raise,

Amid the trees, the watch-fire's blaze;

And there, wrapt in their cloaks around,

The soldiers scatter'd o'er the ground.

One was more crowded than the rest,

And to that one was RAYMOND prest;—

There sat the chief: kind greetings came

At the first sound of RAYMOND'S name.

"Am I not proud that this should be,

Thy first field to be fought with me:

Years since thy father's sword and mine

Together dimm'd their maiden shine.

We were sworn brothers; when he fell

'Twas mine to hear his last farewell:

And how revenged I need not say,

Though few were left to tell that day.—

Thy brow is his, and thou wilt wield

A sword like his in battle-field.

Let the day break, and thou shalt ride

Another RAYMOND by my side;

And thou shalt win and I confer,

To-morrow, knightly brand and spur."

With thoughts of pride, and thoughts of grief,

Sat RAYMOND by that stranger chief,

So proud to hear his father's fame,

So sad to hear that father's name,

And then to think that he had known

That father by his name alone;

And aye his heart within him burn'd

When his eye to DE VALENCE turn'd,

Mark'd his high step, his warlike mien,—

"And such my father would have been!"

A few words of years past away,

A few words of the coming day,

They parted, not that night for sleep;

RAYMOND had thoughts that well might keep

Rest from his pillow,—memory, hope,

In youth's horizon had full scope

To blend and part each varied line

Of cloud and clear, of shade and shine.

—He rose and wander'd round, the light

Of the full moon fell o'er each height;

Leaving the wood behind in shade,

O'er rock, and glen, and rill it play'd.

He follow'd a small stream whose tide

Was bank'd by lilies on each side,

And there, as if secure of rest,

A swan had built her lonely nest;

And spread out was each lifted wing,

Like snow or silver glittering.

Wild flowers grew around the dale,

Sweet children of the sun and gale;

From every crag the wild vine fell,

To all else inaccessible;

And where a dark rock rose behind,

Their shelter from the northern wind,

Grew myrtles with their fragrant leaves,

Veil'd with the web the gossamer weaves,

So pearly fair, so light, so frail,

Like beauty's self more than her veil.—

And first to gaze upon the scene,

Quiet as there had never been

Heavier step than village maid

With flowers for her nuptial braid,

Or louder sound than hermit's prayer,

To crush its grass or load its air.

Then to look on the armed train,

The watch-fire on the wooded plain,

And think how with the morrow's dawn,

Would banner wave, and blade be drawn;

How clash of steel, and trumpet's swell,

Would wake the echoes of each dell.

—And thus it ever is with life,

Peace sleeps upon the breast of Strife,

But to be waken'd from its rest,

Till comes that sleep the last and best.

And RAYMOND paused at last, and laid

Himself beneath a chesnut's shade,

A little way apart from all,

That he might catch the waterfall,

Whose current swept like music round,—

When suddenly another sound

Came on the ear; it was a tone,

Rather a murmur than a song,

As he who breathed deem'd all unknown

The words, thoughts, echo bore along.

Parting the boughs which hung between,

Close, thick, as if a tapestried screen,

RAYMOND caught sight of a white plume

Waving o'er brow and cheek of bloom;

And yet the song was sad and low,

As if the chords it waked were woe.

SONG OF THE YOUNG KNIGHT

YOUR scarf is bound upon my breast,

Your colours dance upon my crest,—

They have been soil'd by dust and rain,

And they must wear a darker stain.

I mark'd thy tears as fast they fell,

I saw but heard not thy farewell,

I gave my steed the spur and rein,—

I dared not look on thee again.

My cheek is pale, but not with fears,

And I have dash'd aside my tears;

This woman's softness of my breast

Will vanish when my spear's in rest.

I know that farewell was our last,

That life and love from me are past;

For I have heard the fated sign

That speaks the downfall of our line.

I slept the soldier's tired sleep;

But yet I heard the music sweep,

Dim, faint, as when I stood beside

The bed whereon my father died.

Farewell, sweet love! never again

Will thine ear listen to the strain

With which so oft at midnight's hour

I've waked the silence of thy bower.

Farewell! I would not tears should stain

Thy fair cheek with their burning rain:

Tears, sweet! would an ill offering be

To one whose death was worthy thee.

————

RAYMOND thought on that song next day

When bleeding that young warrior lay,

While his hand, in its death-pang, prest

A bright curl to his wounded breast.

————

AND waning stars, and brightening sky,

And on the clouds a crimson dye,

And fresher breeze, and opening flowers,

Tell the approach of morning hours.

Oh, how can breath, and light, and bloom,

Herald a day of death and doom!

With knightly pennons, which were spread

Like mirror's for the morning's red,

Gather the ranks, while shout and horn

Are o'er the distant mountains borne.

'Twas a fair sight, that arm'd array

Winding through the deep vale their way,

Helmet and breast-plate gleaming in gold,

Banners waving their crimson fold,

Like clouds of the day-break: hark to the peal

Of the war-cry, answer'd by clanging steel!

The young chief strokes his courser's neck,

The ire himself had provoked to check,

Impatient for that battle plain

He may reach but never leave again;

And with flashing eye and sudden start,

He hears the trumpet's stately tone,

Like the echo of his beating heart,

And meant to rouse his ear alone.

And by his side the warrior grey,

With hair as white as the plumes that play

Over his head, yet spurs he as proud,

As keen as the youngest knight of the crowd:

And glad and glorious on they ride

In strength and beauty, power and pride.

And such the morning, but let day

Close on that gallant fair array,

The moon will see another sight

Than that which met the dawning light.—

Look on that field,—'tis the battle field!

Look on what harvest victory will yield!

There the steed and his rider o'erthrown,

Crouch together, their warfare is done:

The bolt is undrawn, the bow is unbent,

And the archer lies like his arrow spent.

Deep is the banner of crimson dyed,

But not with the red of its morning pride;

Torn and trampled with soil and stain,

When will it float on the breeze again;—

And over the ghastly plain are spread,

Pillow'd together, the dying and dead.

There lay one with an unclosed eye

Set in bright, cold vacancy,

While on its fix'd gaze the moonbeam shone,

Light mocking the eye whose light was gone;

And by his side another lay,

The life-blood ebbing fast away,

But calm his cheek and calm his eye,

As if leant on his mother's bosom to die.

Too weak to move, he feebly eyed

A wolf and a vulture close to his side,

Watching and waiting, himself the prey,

While each one kept the other away.

Little of this the young warrior deems

When, with heart and head all hopes and dreams,

He hastes for the battle:—The trumpet's call

Waken'd RAYMOND the first of all;

His the first step that to stirrup sprung,

His the first banner upwards flung;

And brow and cheek with his spirit glow'd,

When first at DE VALENCE'S side he rode.

The quiet glen is left behind,

The dark wood lost in the blue sky;

When other sounds come on the wind,

And other pennons float on high.

With snow-white plumes and glancing crest,

And standard raised, and spear in rest,

On a small river's farther banks

Wait their approach Sir HERBERT'S ranks.—

One silent gaze, as if each band

Could slaughter both with eye and hand.

Then peals the war-cry! then the dash

Amid the waters! and the crash

Of spears,—the falchion's iron ring,—

The arrow hissing from the string,

Tell they have met. Thus from the height

The torrent rushes in its might.

With the lightning's speed, the thunder's peal,

Flashes the lance, and strikes the steel.

Many a steed to the earth is borne,

Many a banner trampled and torn;

Or ever its brand could strike a blow,

Many a gallant arm lies low;—

Many a scarf, many a crest,

Float with the leaves on the river's breast;

And strange it is to see how around

Buds and flowers strew the ground,

For the banks were cover'd with wild rose trees,

Oh! what should they do amid scenes like these.

In the blue stream, as it hovered o'er,

A hawk was mirror'd, and before

Its wings could reach yon pine, which stands

A bow-shot off from the struggling bands,

The stain of death was on the flood,

And the red waters roll'd dark with blood.—

RAYMOND'S spear was the first that flew,

He the first who dash'd the deep river through;

His step the first on the hostile strand,

And the first that fell was borne down by his hand.

The fight is ended:—the same sun

Has seen the battle lost and won;

The field is cover'd with dying and dead,

With the valiant who stood, and the coward who fled.

And a gallant salute the trumpets sound,

As the warriors gather from victory around.

On a hill that skirted the purple flood,

With his peers around, DE VALENCE stood,

And with bended knee, and forehead bare,

Save its cloud of raven hair,

And beautiful as some wild star

Come in its glory and light from afar,

With his dark eyes flashing stern and bright,

And his cheek o'erflooded with crimson light,

And the foeman's banner over his head,

His first field's trophy proudly spread,

Knelt RAYMOND down his boon to name,—

The knightly spurs he so well might claim:

And a softness stole to DE VALENCE'S eyes,

As he bade the new-made knight arise.—

From his own belt he took the brand,

And gave it into RAYMOND'S hand,

And said it might a memory yield

Of his father's friend, and his own first field.

Pleasant through the darkening night

Shines from Clarin's towers the light.

Home from the battle the warriors ride,

In the soldiers' triumph, and soldiers' pride:

The drawbridge is lower'd, and in they pour,

Like the sudden rush of a summer shower,

While the red torch-light bursts through the gloom,

Over banner and breast-plate, helm and plume.

Sudden a flood of lustre play'd

Over a lofty ballustrade,

Music and perfume swept the air,

Messengers sweet for the spring to prepare;

And like a sunny vision sent

For worship and astonishment,

Aside a radiant ladye flung

The veil that o'er her beauty hung.

With stately grace to those below,

She bent her gem encircled brow,

And bade them welcome in the name

Of her they saved, the castle's dame,

Who had not let another pay

Thanks, greeting to their brave array,—

But she had vow'd the battle night

To fasting, prayer, and holy rite.

On the air the last tones of the music die,

The odour passes away like a sigh,

The torches flash a parting gleam,

And she vanishes as she came, like a dream.

But many an eye dwelt on the shade,

Till fancy again her form display'd,

And still again seem'd many an ear

The softness of her voice to hear.

And many a heart had a vision that night,

Which future years never banish'd quite.

And sign and sound of festival

Are ringing through that castle hall;

Tapers, whose flame send a perfumed cloud,

Flash their light o'er a gorgeous crowd;

With a thousand colours the tapestry falls

Over the carved and gilded walls,

And, between, the polish'd oak pannels hear,

Like dark mirrors, the image of each one there.

At one end the piled up hearth is spread

With sparkling embers of glowing red:

Above the branching antlers have place,

Sign of many a hard won chase;

And beneath, in many a polish'd line,

The arms of the hunter and warrior shine;

And around the fire, like a laurell'd arch,

Raised for some victor's triumphal march,

The wood is fretted with tracery fair,

And green boughs and flowers are waving there.

Lamps, like faery planets shine,

O'er massive cups of the genial wine,

And shed a ray more soft and fair

Than the broad red gleam of the torch's glare;

And, flitting like a rainbow, plays

In beautiful and changing rays,

When from the pictured windows fall

The colour'd shadows o'er the hall;

As every pane some bright hue lent

To vary the lighted element.

The ladye of the festive board

Was ward to the castle's absent lord;

The Ladye ADELINE ,—the same

Bright vision that with their greeting came

Maidens four stood behind her chair,

Each one was young, and each one fair;

Yet they were but as the stars at night

When the mood shines forth in her fullness of light

On the knot of her wreathed hair was set

A blood-red ruby coronet;

But among the midnight cloud of curls

That hung o'er her brow were eastern pearls,

As if to tell their wealth of snow,

How white her forehead could look below.

Around her floated a veil of white,

Like the silvery rack round the star of twilight;

And down to the ground her mantle's fold

Spread its length of purple and gold;

And sparkling gems were around her arm,

That shone like marble, only warm,

With the blue veins wandering tide,

And the hand with its crimson blush inside.

A zone of precious stones embraced

The graceful circle of her waist,

Sparkling as if they were proud

Of the clasp to them allow'd.

But yet there was 'mid this excess

Of soft and dazzling loveliness,

A something in the eye, and hand,

And forehead, speaking of command:

An eye whose dark flash seem'd allied

To even more than beauty's pride,—

A hand as only used to wave

Its sign to worshipper and slave,—

A forehead, but that was too fair

To read of aught but beauty there!

And RAYMOND had the place of pride,

The place so envied by her side,—

The victor's seat,—and overhead

The banner he had won was spread.

His health was pledged!—he only heard

The murmur of one silver word;

The pageant seem'd to fade away,

Vanish'd the board and glad array,

The gorgeous hall around grew dim,

There shone one only light for him,

That radiant form, whose brightness fell

In power upon him like a spell,

Laid in its strength by Love to reign

Despotic over heart and brain.

Silent he stood amid the mirth,

Oh, love is timid in its birth!

Watching her lightest look or stir,

As he but look'd and breathed with her.

Gay words were passing, but he leant

In silence; yet, one quick glance sent,—

His secret is no more his own,

When has woman her power not known?

The feast broke up:—that midnight shade

Heard many a gentle serenade

Beneath the ladye's lattice. One

Breathed after all the rest were gone.

SERENADE

SLEEP , ladye! for the moonlit hour,

Like peace, is shining on thy bower;

It is so late, the nightingale

Has ended even his love tale.

Sleep, ladye! 'neath thy turret grows,

Cover'd with flowers, one pale white rose;

I envy its sweet sighs, they steep

The perfumed airs that lull thy sleep.

Perchance, around thy chamber floats

The music of my lone lute notes,—

Oh, may they on thine eyelids fall,

And make thy slumbers musical!

Sleep, ladye! to thy rest be given

The gleamings of thy native heaven,

And thoughts of early paradise,

The treasures of thy sleeping eyes.

————

I NEED not say whose was the song

The sighing night winds bore along.

RAYMOND had left the maiden's side

As one too dizzy with the tide

To breast the stream, or strive, or shrink,

Enough for him to feel, not think;

Enough for him the dim sweet fear,

The twilight of the heart, or ere

Awakening hope has named the name

Of love, or blown its spark to flame.

Restlessness, but as the winds range

From leaf to leaf, from flower to flower;

Changefulness, but as rainbows change,

From colour'd sky to sunlit hour.

Ay, well indeed may minstrel sing,—

What have the heart and year like spring?

Her vow was done: the castle dame

Next day to join the revellers came;

And never had a dame more gay

O'er hall or festival held sway.

And youthful knight, and ladye fair,

And juggler quaint, and minstrel rare,

And mirth, and crowds, and music, all

Of pleasure gather'd at her call.

And RAYMOND moved as in a dream

Of song and odour, bloom and beam,

As he dwelt in a magic bower,

Charm'd from all by fairy power.

—And ADELINE rode out that morn,

With hunting train, and hawk, and horn;

And broider'd rein, and curb of gold,

And housings with their purple fold

Decked the white steed o'er which she leant

Graceful as a young cypress, bent

By the first summer wind: she wore

A cap the heron plume waved o'er,

And round her wrist a golden band,

Which held the falcon on her hand.

The bird's full eye, so clear, so bright,

Match'd not her own's dark flashing light.

And RAYMOND , as he watch'd the dyes

Of her cheek rich with exercise,

Could almost deem her beauty's power

Was now in its most potent hour;

But when at night he saw her glance

The gayest of the meteor dance,

The jewels in her braided hair,

Her neck, her arms of ivory bare,

The silver veil, the broider'd vest,—

Look'd she not then her loveliest?

Ah, every change of beauty's face

And beauty's shape has its own grace!

That night his heart throbb'd when her hand

Met his touch in the saraband:

That night her smile first bade love live

On the sweet life that hope can give.—

Beautiful, but thrice wayward, wild,

Capricious as a petted child,

She was all chance, all change; but now

A smile is on her radiant brow,—

A moment and that smile is fled,

Coldness and scorn are there instead.

Ended the dance, and ADELINE

Flung herself, like an eastern queen,

Upon the cushions which were laid

Amid a niche of that gay hall,

Hid from the lamps; around it play'd

The softness of the moonlight fall.

And there the gorgeous shapes past by

But like a distant pageantry,

In which you have yourself no share,

For all its pride, and pomp, and care.

She pass'd her hand across the chords

Of a lute near, and with soft words

Answer'd; then said, "no, thou shalt sing

Some legend of the fair and brave."

To RAYMOND'S hand the lute she gave,

Whose very soul within him burn'd

When her dark eye on his was turn'd:

One moment's pause, it slept not long,—

His spirit pour'd itself in song.

ELENORE

THE lady sits in her lone bower,

With cheek wan as the white rose flower

That blooms beside, 'tis pale and wet

As that rose with its dew pearls set.

Her cheek burns with a redder dye,

Flashes light from her tearful eye;

She has heard pinions beat the air,

She sees her white dove floating there;

And well she knows its faithful wing,

The treasure of her heart will bring;

And takes the gentle bird its stand

Accustom'd on the maiden's hand,

With glancing eye and throbbing breast,

As if rejoicing in its rest.

She read the scroll,—"dear love, to-night

By the lake, all is there for flight

What time the moon is down;—oh, then

My own life shall we meet again!"

One upward look of thankfulness,

One pause of joy, one fond caress

Of her soft lips, as to reward

The messenger of EGINHARD .

That night in her proud father's hall

She shone the fairest one of all;

For like the cloud of evening came

Over her cheek the sudden flame,

And varying as each moment brought

Some hasty change of secret thought;

As if its colour would confess

The conscious heart's inmost recess.

And the clear depths of her dark eye

Were bright with troubled brilliancy,

Yet the lids droop'd as with the tear

Which might oppress but not appear.

And flatteries, and smile and sigh

Loaded the air as she past by.

It sparkled, but her jewell'd vest

Was crost above a troubled breast:

Her curls, with all their sunny glow,

Were braided o'er an aching brow:

But well she knew how many sought

To gaze upon her secret thought;—

And Love is proud,—she might not brook

That other's on her heart should look.

But there she sate, cold, pale, and high,

Beneath her purple canopy;

And there was many a mutter'd word,

And one low whisper'd name was heard,—

The name of EGINHARD ,—that name

Like some forbidden secret came.

The theme went, that he dared to love

One like a star his state above;

Here to the princess turn'd each eye,—

And it was said, he did not sigh

With love that pales the pining cheek,

And leaves the slighted heart to break.

And then a varying tale was told,

How a page had betray'd for gold;

But all was rumour light and vain,

That all might hear, but none explain.

Like one that seeks a festival,

Early the princess left the hall;

Yet said she, sleep dwelt on her eyes,

That she was worn with revelries.

And hastily her maidens' care

Unbinds the jewels from her hair.

Odours are round her chamber strown,

And ELENORE is left alone.

With throbbing heart, whose pulses beat

Louder than fall her ivory feet,

She rises from her couch of down;

And, hurriedly, a robe is thrown

Around her form, and her own hand

Lets down her tresses golden band.

Another moment she has shred

Those graceful tresses from her head.

There stands a plate of polish'd steel,

She folds her cloak as to conceal

Her strange attire, for she is drest

As a young page in dark green vest.

Softly she steps the balustrade,

Where myrtle, rose, and hyacinth made

A passage to the garden shade.

It was a lovely summer night,

The air was incense-fill'd, the light

Was dim and tremulous, a gleam,

When a star, mirror'd on the stream,

Sent a ray round just to reveal

How gales from flower to flower steal.

"It was on such a night as this,

When even a single breath is bliss,

Such a soft air, such a mild heaven,

My vows to EGINHARD were given."

Sigh'd ELENORE , "Oh, might it be

A hope, a happy augury!"

She reach'd the lake,—a blush, a smile,

Contended on her face the while;

And safely in a little cove,

Shelter'd by willow trees above,

An ambuscade from all secured,

Her lover's little boat lay moor'd.—

One greeting word, with muffled oar,

And silent lip, they left that shore.

It was most like a phantom dream

To see that boat flit o'er the stream,

So still, that but yet less and less

It grew, it had seem'd motionless.

And then the silent lake, the trees

Visible only when the breeze

Aside the shadowy branches threw,

And let one single star shine through,

While the faint glimmer scarcely gave

To view the wanderers of the wave.

The breeze has borne the clouds away

That veil'd the blushes of young day;

The lark has sung his morning song;—

Surely the princess slumbers long.

And now it is the accustom'd hour

Her royal father seeks her bower,

When her soft voice and gentle lute,

The snowfall of her fairy foot,

The flowers she has cull'd, with dew

Yet moist upon each rainbow hue;

The fruits with bloom upon their cheek,

Fresh as the morning's first sun streak;

Each, all conspired to wile away

The weariness of royal sway.

But she is gone: there hangs her lute,

And there it may hang lone and mute:

The flowers may fade, for who is there

To triumph now if they are fair:

There are her gems,—oh, let them twine

An offering round some sainted shrine!

For she who wore them may not wear

Again those jewels in her hair.

At first the monarch's rage was wild;

But soon the image of his child,

In tenderness rose on his heart,

How could he bear from it to part?

And anger turn'd to grief: in vain

Ambition had destroy'd the chain

With which love had bound happiness.

In vain remorse, in vain redress,—

Fruitless all search. And years past o'er,

No tidings came of ELENORE ,

Although the king would have laid down

His golden sceptre, purple crown,

His pomp, his power, but to have prest

His child one moment to his breast.

And where was ELENORE ? her home

Was now beneath the forest dome;--

A hundred knights had watch'd her hall,

Her guards were now the pine trees tall:

For harps waked with the minstrel tale,

Sang to her sleep the nightingale:

For silver vases, where were blent

Rich perfumes from Arabia sent,

Were odours when the wild thyme flower

Wafted its sweets on gale and shower:

For carpets of the purple loom

The violets spread their cloud of bloom,

Starr'd with primroses; and around

Boughs like green tapestry swept the ground.

—And there they dwelt apart from all

That gilds and mocks ambition's thrall;

Apart from cities, crowds, and care,

Hopes that deceive, and toils that wear;

For they had made themselves a world

Like that or ever man was hurl'd

From his sweet Eden, to begin

His bitter course of grief and sin.—

And they were happy; EGINHARD

Had won the prize for which he dared

Dungeon and death; but what is there

That the young lover will not dare?

And she, though nurtured as a flower,

The favourite bud of a spring bower,

Daughter of palaces, yet made

Her dwelling place in the green shade;

Happy, as she remember'd not

Her royal in her peasant lot,—

With gentle cares, and smiling eyes

As love could feel no sacrifice.

Happy her ivory brow to lave

Without a mirror but the wave,

As one whose sweetness could dispense

With all save its own excellence;--

A fair but gentle creature, meant

For heart, and hearth, and home content.

It was at night the chase was over,

And ELENORE sat by her lover,—

Her lover still, though years had fled

Since their first word of love was said,—

When one sought, at that darksome hour,

The refuge of their lonely bower,

A hunter, who, amid the shade,

Had from his own companions stray'd.

And ELENORE gazed on his face,

And knew her father! In the chase

Often the royal mourner sought

A refuge from his one sad thought.

He knew her not,—the lowly mien,

The simple garb of forest green,

The darken'd brow, which told the spoil

The sun stole from her daily toil,

The cheek where woodland health had shed

The freshness of its morning red,—

All was so changed. She spread the board,

Her hand the sparkling wine cup pour'd;

And then around the hearth they drew,

And cheerfully the woodfire threw

Its light around.—Bent o'er her wheel

Scarcely dared ELENORE to steal

A look, half tenderness, half fear,

Yet seem'd he as he loved to hear

Her voice, as if it had a tone

Breathing of days and feelings gone.

"Ah! surely," thought she, "Heaven has sent

My father here, as that it meant,

Our years of absence ended now!"

She gazed upon his soften'd brow;

And the next moment, all revealing,

ELENORE at his feet is kneeling!—

Need I relate that, reconciled,

The father bless'd his truant child.

————

Elenore

This tale is the versification of an old tradition in Russell's Tour through Germany. I have ventured on one or two alterations: the original makes Nero the father; and somewhat similar to the discovery of Bedreddin by his cream-tarts, in the Arabian Nights, the emperor recognizes his daughter by the flavour of a dish she alone knew how to prepare.

WHERE is the heart that has not bow'd

A slave, eternal Love, to thee:

Look on the cold, the gay, the proud,

And is there one among them free?

The cold, the proud,—oh! Love has turn'd

The marble till with fire it burn'd;

The gay, the young,—alas that they

Should ever bend beneath thy sway!

Look on the cheek the rose might own,

The smile around like sunshine thrown;

The rose, the smile, alike are thine,

To fade and darken at thy shrine.

And what must love be in a heart

All passion's fiery depths concealing,

Which has in its minutest part

More than another's whole of feeling.

And RAYMOND'S heart; love's morning sun

On fitter altar never shone;

Loving with all the snow-white truth,

That is found but in early youth;

Freshness of feeling as of flower,

That lives not more than spring's first hour;

And loving with that wild devotion,

That deep and passionate emotion,

With which the minstrel soul is thrown

On all that it would make its own.

And RAYMOND loved; the veriest slave

That e'er his life to passion gave:

Upon his ear no murmur came

That seem'd not echoing her name;

The lightest colour on her cheek

Was lovelier than the morning break.

He gazed upon her as he took

His sense of being from her look:—

Sometimes it was idolatry,

Like homage to some lovely star,

Whose beauty though for hope too high,

He yet might worship from afar.

At other times his heart would swell

With tenderness unutterable:

He would have borne her to an isle

Where May and June had left their smile;

And there, heard but by the lone gale,

He would have whisper'd his love tale;

And without change, or cloud, or care,

Have kept his bosom's treasure there.

And then, with all a lover's pride,

He thought it shame such gem to hide:

And imaged he a courtly scene

Of which she was the jewell'd queen,—

The one on whom each glance was bent,

The beauty of the tournament,

The magnet of the festival,

The grace, the joy, the life of all,—

But she, alas for her false smile!

ADELINE loved him not the while.

And is it thus that woman's heart

Can trifle with its dearest part,

Its own pure sympathies?—can fling

The poison'd arrow from the string

In utter heartlessness around,

And mock, or think not of the wound?

And thus can woman barter all

That makes and gilds her gentle thrall,—

The blush which should be like the one

White violets hide from the sun,—

The soft, low sighs, like those which breathe

In secret from a twilight wreath,—

The smile like a bright lamp, whose shine

Is vow'd but only to one shrine;

All these sweet spells,—and can they be

Weapons of reckless vanity?

And woman, in whose gentle heart

From all save its sweet self apart,

Love should dwell with that purity

Which but in woman's love can be:

A sacred fire, whose flame was given

To shed on earth the light of heaven,—

That she can fling her wealth aside

In carelessness, or sport, or pride!

It was not form'd for length of bliss,

A dream so fond, so false as this;

Enough for ADELINE to win

The heart she had no pleasure in,—

Enough that bright eyes turn'd in vain

On him who bow'd beneath her chain:—

Then came the careless word and look,

All the fond soul so ill can brook,

The jealous doubt, the burning pain,

That rack the lover's heart and brain;

The fear that will not own it fear,

The hope that cannot disappear;

Faith clinging to its visions past,

And trust confiding to the last.

And thus it is: ay, let Love throw

Aside his arrows and his bow;

But let him not with one spell part,

The veil that binds his eyes and heart.

Woe for Love when his eyes shall be

Open'd upon reality!

One day a neighbouring baron gave

A revel to the fair and brave,—

And knights upon their gallant steeds,

And ladies on their palfreys gray,

All shining in their gayest weeds,

Held for the festival their way.

A wanderer on far distant shores,

That baron, had brought richest stores

To his own hall, and much of rare

And foreign luxury was there:

Pages, with colour'd feathers, fann'd

The odours of Arabia's land;

The carpets strewn around each room

Were all of Persia's purple loom;

And dark slaves waited on his guests,

Each habited in Moorish vests,

With turbann'd brows, and bands of gold

Around their arms and ancles roll'd.

And gazed the guests o'er many a hoard,

Like Sinbad's, from his travel stored.

They look'd upon the net work dome,

Where found the stranger birds a home,

With rainbow wings and gleaming eyes,

Seen only beneath Indian skies.

At length they stood around the ring,

Where stalk'd, unchain'd, the forest king,

With eyes of fire and mane erect,

As if by human power uncheck'd.

Full ill had RAYMOND'S spirit borne

The wayward mood, the careless scorn,

With which his mistress had that day

Trifled his happiness away.—

His very soul within him burn'd,

When, as in chance, her dark eye turn'd

On him, she spoke in reckless glee,—

''Is there a knight who, for love of me,

Into the court below will spring,

And bear from the lion the glove I fling?"

A shriek!—a pause,—then loud acclaim

Rose to the skies with RAYMOND'S name.

Oh, worthy of a lady's love!

RAYMOND has borne away the glove.

He laid the prize at the maiden's feet,

Then turn'd from the smile he dared not meet:

A moment more he is on the steed,

The spur has urged to its utmost speed,

As that he could fly from himself, and all

The misery of his spirit's thrall.

The horse sank down, and RAYMOND then

Started to see the foaming rein,

The drops that hung on the courser's hide,

And the rowel's red trace on its panting side;

And deep shame mingled with remorse,

As he brought the cool stream to his fallen horse.

The spot where he paused was a little nook,

Like a secret page in nature's book,—

Around were steeps where the wild vine

Hung, wreathed in many a serpentine,

Wearing each the colour'd sign

Of the autumn's pale decline.

Like a lake in the midst was spread

A grassy sweep of softest green,

Smooth, flower-dropt, as no human tread

Upon its growth had ever been.

Limes rose around, but lost each leaf,

Like hopes luxuriant but brief;

And by their side the sycamore

Grew prouder of its scarlet store:

The air was of that cold clear light

That heralds in an autumn night,—

The amber west had just a surge

Of crimson on its utmost verge;

And on the east were piled up banks

Where darkness gather'd with her ranks

Of clouds, and in the midst a zone

Of white with transient brightness shone

From the young moon, who scarcely yet

Had donn'd her lighted coronet.

With look turn'd to the closing day,

As he watch'd every hue decay,

Sat RAYMOND ; and a passer by

Had envied him his reverie;—

But nearer look had scann'd his brow,

And started at its fiery glow,

As if the temples' burning swell

Had made their pulses visible.

Too glazed, too fix'd, his large eyes shone

To see aught that they gazed upon.

Not his the paleness that may streak

The lover's or the minstrel's cheek,

As it had its wan colour caught

From moods of melancholy thought;

'Twas that cold, dark, unearthly shade,

But for a corpse's death look made;

Speaking that desperateness of pain,

As one more pang, and the rack'd brain

Would turn to madness; one more grief,

And the swoln heart breaks for relief.

Oh, misery! to see the tomb

Close over all our world of bloom;

To look our last in the dear eyes

Which made our light of paradise;

To know that silent is the tone

Whose tenderness was all our own;

To kiss the cheek which once had burn'd

At the least glance, and find it turn'd

To marble; and then think of all

Of hope, that memory can recall.

Yes, misery! but even here

There is a somewhat left to cheer,

A gentle treasuring of sweet things

Remembrance gathers from the past,

The pride of faithfulness, which clings

To love kept sacred to the last.

And even if another's love

Has touch'd the heart to us above

The treasures of the east, yet still

There is a solace for the ill.

Those who have known love's utmost spell

Can feel for those who love as well;

Can half forget their own distress,

To share the loved one's happiness.

Oh, but to know our heart has been,

Like the toy of an Indian queen,

Torn, trampled, without thought or care,—

Where is despair like this despair!—

Is there a knight who, for love of me,

Into the court below will spring,

And bear from the lion the glove I fling.

This is an anecdote told of De Lorge, a knight of Francis the First's, in whose presence it took place.

All night beneath an oak he lay,

Till nature blush'd bright into day;

When, at a trumpet's sudden sound,

Started his courser from the ground:

And his loud neigh waked RAYMOND'S dream,

And, gazing round, he saw the gleam

Of arms upon a neighbouring height,

Where helm and cuirass stream'd in light.

As RAYMOND rose from his unrest

He knew DE VALENCE'S falcon crest;

And the red cross that shone like a glory afar,

Told the warrior was vow'd to the holy war.

"Ay, this," thought RAYMOND , "is the strife

To make my sacrifice of life;

What is it now to me that fame

Shall brighten over RAYMOND'S name;

There is no gentle heart to bound,

No cheek to mantle at the sound:

Lady's favour no more I wear,—

My heart, my helm—oh! what are there?

A blighted hope, a wither'd rose.

Surely this warfare is for those

Who only of the victory crave

A holy but a nameless grave."

Short greeting past; DE VALENCE read

All that the pale lip left unsaid;

On the wan brow, in the dimm'd eye,

The whole of youth's despondency,

Which at the first shock it has known

Deems its whole world of hope o'erthrown.

And it was fix'd, that at Marseilles,

Where the fleet waited favouring gales,

RAYMOND should join the warrior train,

Leagued 'gainst the infidels of Spain.

They parted:—Over RAYMOND'S thought

Came sadness mingled too with shame;

When suddenly his memory brought

The long forgotten EVA'S name.

Oh! Love is like the mountain tide,

Sweeping away all things beside,

Till not another trace appears

But its own joys, and griefs, and fears.

He took her cross, he took her chain

From the heart where they still had lain;

And that heart felt as if its fate

Had sudden grown less desolate,

In thus remembering love that still

Would share and sooth in good and ill.

He spurr'd his steed; but the night fall

Had darken'd ere he reach'd the hall;

And gladly chief and vassal train

Welcomed the youthful knight again.

And many praised his stately tread,

His face with darker manhood spread;

But of those crowding round him now,

Who mark'd the paleness of his brow,

But one, who paused till they were past,

Who look'd the first but spoke the last:

Her welcome in its timid fear

Fell almost cold on RAYMOND'S ear;

A single look,—he felt he gazed

Upon a gentle child no more,

The blush that like the lightning blazed,

The cheek then paler than before,

A something of staid maiden grace,

A cloud of thought upon her face;

She who had been, in RAYMOND'S sight,

A plaything, fancy, and delight,—

Was changed: the depth of her blue eye

Spoke to him now of sympathy,

And seem'd her melancholy tone

A very echo of his own;

And that pale forehead, surely care

Has graved an early lesson there.

They roved through many a garden scene,

Where other, happier days had been;

And soon had RAYMOND told his all

Of hopes, like stars but bright to fall;

Of feelings blighted, changed, and driven

Like exiles from their native heaven;

And of an aimless sword, a lute

Whose chords were now uncharm'd and mute.

But EVA'S tender blandishing

Was as the April rays, that fling

A rainbow till the thickest rain

Melts into blue and light again.

There is a feeling in the heart

Of woman which can have no part

In man; a self devotedness,

As victims round their idols press,

And asking nothing, but to show

How far their zeal and faith can go.

Pure as the snow the summer sun

Never at noon hath look'd upon,—

Deep as is the diamond wave,

Hidden in the desart cave,—

Changeless as the greenest leaves

Of the wreath the cypress weaves,—

Hopeless often when most fond,

Without hope or fear beyond

Its own pale fidelity,—

And this woman's love can be!

And RAYMOND although not again

Dreaming of passion's burning chain,

Yet felt that life had still dear things

To which the lingering spirit clings.

More dear, more lovely EVA shone

In thinking of that faithless one;

And read he not upon the cheek

All that the lip might never speak,

All the heart cherish'd yet conceal'd,

Scarce even to itself reveal'd.

And RAYMOND , though with heart so torn

By anger, agony, and scorn,

Might ill bear even with love's name,

Yet felt the maiden's hidden flame

Come like the day-star in the east,

When every other light has ceased;

Sent from the bosom of the night

To harbinger the morning light.

Again they parted: she to brood

O'er dreaming hopes in solitude,

And every pitying saint to pray

For RAYMOND on the battle day.

And he no longer deem'd the field

But death to all his hopes could yield.

To other, softer dreams allied,

He thought upon the warrior's pride.

But as he pass'd the castle gate

He left so wholly desolate,

His throbbing pulse, his burning brain,

The sudden grasp upon the rein,

The breast and lip that gasp'd for air,

Told Love's shaft was still rankling there.

That night, borne o'er the bounding seas,

The vessel swept before the breeze,

Loaded the air, the war-cry's swell,

Woe to the Moorish infidel;

And raising their rich hymn, a band

Of priests were kneeling on the strand,

To bless the parting ship, and song

Came from the maidens ranged along

The sea wall, and who incense gave,

And flowers, like offerings to the wave

That bore the holy and the brave.

And RAYMOND felt his spirit rise,

And burn'd his cheek, and flash'd his eyes

With something of their ancient light,

While plume and pennon met his sight;

While o'er the deep swept the war-cry,

And peal'd the trumpet's voice on high,

While the ship rode the waves as she

Were mistress of their destiny.

And muster'd on the deck the band,

Till died the last shout from the strand;

But when the martial pomp was o'er,

And, like the future, dim the shore

On the horizon hung, again

Closed RAYMOND'S memory, like a chain

The spirit struggles with in vain.

The sky with its delicious blue,

The stars like visions wandering through:

Surely, if Fate had treasured there

Her rolls of life, they must be fair;

The mysteries their glories hide

Must be but of life's brightest side;

It cannot be that Fate would write

Her dark decrees in lines of light.

And RAYMOND mused upon the hour

When, comrade of the star and flower,

He watch'd beside his lady's bower;

He number'd every hope and dream,

Like blooms that threw upon life's stream

Colours of beauty, and then thought

On knowledge, all too dearly bought;

Feelings lit up in waste to burn,

Hopes that seem but shadows fair,

All that the heart so soon must learn,

All that it finds so hard to bear.

The young moon's vestal lamp that hour

Seem'd pale as that it pined for love;

No marvel such a night had power,

So calm below, so fair above,

To wake the spirit's finest chords

Till minstrel thoughts found minstrel words.

THE LAST SONG

IT is the latest song of mine

That ever breathes thy name,

False idol of a dream-raised shrine,

Thy very thought is shame,--

Shame that I could my sprit bow

To one so very false as thou.

I had past years where the green wood

Makes twilight of the noon,

And I had watch'd the silver flood

Kiss'd by the rising moon;

And gazed upon the clear midnight

In all its luxury of light.

And, thrown where the blue violets dwell,

I would pass hours away,

Musing o'er some old chronicle

Fill'd with a wild love lay;

Till beauty seem'd to me a thing

Made for all nature's worshipping.

I saw thee, and the air grew bright

In thy clear eyes' sunshine;

I oft had dream'd of shapes of light,

But not of shape like thine.

My heart bow'd down,—I worshipp'd thee,

A woman and a deity.

I may not say how thy first look

Turn'd my whole soul to flame,

I read it as a glorious book

Fill'd with high deeds of fame;

I felt a hero's spirit rise,

Unknown till lighted at thine eyes.

False look, false hope, and falsest love!

All meteors sent to me

To show how they the heart could move,

And how deceiving be:

They left me, darken'd, crush'd, alone,

My bosom's household gods o'erthrown.

The world itself was changed, and all

That I had loved before

Seem'd as if gone beyond recall,

And I could hope no more;

The scar of fire, the dint of steel,

Are easier than Love's wounds to heal.

But this is past, and I can cope

With what I'd fain forget;

I have a sweet, a gentle hope

That lingers with me yet,—

A hope too fair, too pure to be

Named in the words that speak of thee.

Henceforth within the last recess

Of my heart shall remain

Thy name in all its bitterness,

But never named again;

The only memory of that heart

Will be to think how false thou art.

And yet I fain would name thy name,

My heart's now gentle queen,

E'en as they burn the perfumed flame

Where the plague spot has been;

Methinks that it will cleanse away

The ills that on my spirit prey.

Sweet EVA ! the last time I gazed

Upon thy deep blue eyes,

The cheek whereon my look had raised

A blush's crimson dyes,

I marvell'd, love, this heart of mine

Had worshipp'd at another shrine.

I will think of thee when the star,

That lit our own fair river,

Shines in the blue sky from afar,

As beautiful as ever;

That twilight star, sweet love, shall be

A sign and seal with thee and me!

CANTO III

LAND of the olive and the vine,

The saint and soldier, sword and shrine!

How glorious to young RAYMOND'S eye

Swell'd thy bold heights, spread thy clear sky,

When first he paused upon the height

Where, gather'd, lay the Christian might.

Amid a chesnut wood were raised

Their white tents, and the red cross blazed

Meteor-like, with its crimson shine,

O'er many a standard's scutcheon'd line.

On the hill opposite there stood

The warriors of the Moorish blood,—

With their silver crescents gleaming,

And their horse-tail pennons streaming;

With cymbals and the clanging gong,

The muezzin's unchanging song,

The turbans that like rainbows shone,

The coursers' gay caparison,

As if another world had been

Where that small rivulet ran between.

And there was desperate strife next day:

The little vale below that lay

Was like a slaughter-pit, of green

Could not one single trace be seen;

The Moslem warrior stretch'd beside

The Christian chief by whom he died;

And by the broken falchion blade

The crooked scymeter was laid.

And gallantly had RAYMOND borne

The red cross through the field that morn,

When suddenly he saw a knight

Oppress'd by numbers in the fight:

Instant his ready spear was flung,

Instant amid the band he sprung;—

They fight, fly, fall,—and from the fray

He leads the wounded knight away!

Gently he gain'd his tent, and there

He left him to the leech's care;

Then sought the field of death anew,—

Little was there for knight to do.

That field was strewn with dead and dying;

And mark'd he there DE VALENCE lying

Upon the turbann'd heap, which told

How dearly had his life been sold.

And yet on his curl'd lip was worn

The impress of a soldier's scorn;

And yet his dark and glazed eye

Glared its defiance stern and high:

His head was on his shield, his hand

Held to the last his own red brand.

Felt RAYMOND all too proud for grief

In gazing on the gallant chief:

So, thought he, should a warrior fall,

A victor dying last of all.

But sadness moved him when he gave

DE VALENCE to his lowly grave,—

The grave where the wild flowers were sleeping,

And one pale olive-tree was weeping,—

And placed the rude stone cross to show

A Christian hero lay below.

With the next morning's dawning light

Was RAYMOND by the wounded knight.

He heard strange tales,—none knew his name,

And none might say from whence he came;

He wore no cognizance, his steed

Was raven black, and black his weed.

All owned his fame, but yet they deem'd

More desperate than brave he seem'd;

Or as he only dared the field

For the swift death that it might yield.

Leaning beside the curtain, where

Came o'er his brow the morning air,

He found the stranger chief; his tone,

Surely 'twas one RAYMOND had known!

He knew him not, what chord could be

Thus waken'd on his memory?

At first the knight was cold and stern,

As that his spirit shunn'd to learn

Aught of affection; as it brought

To him some shaft of venom'd thought:

When one eve RAYMOND chanced to name

Durance's castle, whence he came;

And speak of EVA, and her fate,

So young and yet so desolate,

So beautiful! Then heard he all

Her father's wrongs, her mother's fall:

For AMIRALD was the knight whose life

RAYMOND had saved amid the strife;

And now he seem'd to find relief

In pouring forth his hidden grief,

Which had for years been as the stream

Cave-lock'd from either air or beam.

And soon I deem'd the time would be,

For many a chief stood leagued with me.

I know not whether it may be necessary to remark, that the period I suppose in this poem is that of the later time of chivaly in Provence, when the spirit of religious enquiry was springing, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of the Albigenses.

LORD AMIRALD'S HISTORY

I LOVED her! ay, I would have given

A death-bed certainty of heaven

If I had thought it could confer

The least of happiness on her!

How proudly did I wait the hour

When hid no more in lowly bower,

She should shine, loveliest of all,

The lady of my heart and hall;—

And soon I deem'd the time would be,

For many a chief stood leagued with me.

It was one evening we had sate

In my tower's secret council late,

Our bands were number'd, and we said

That the pale moon's declining head

Should shed her next full light o'er bands

With banners raised, and sheathless brands.

We parted; I to seek the shade

Where my heart's choicest gem was laid;

I flung me on my fleetest steed,

I urged it to its utmost speed,—

On I went, like the hurrying wind,

Hill, dale, and plain were left behind,

And yet I thought my courser slow—

Even when the forest lay below.

As my wont, in a secret nook

I left my horse,—I may not tell

With what delight my way I took

Till I had reach'd the oak-hid dell.

The trees which hitherto had made

A more than night, with lighten'd shade

Now let the stars and sky shine through,

Rejoicing, calm, and bright, and blue.

There did not move a leaf that night

That I cannot remember now,

Nor yet a single star whose light

Was on the royal midnight's brow:

Wander'd no cloud, sigh'd not a flower,

That is not present at this hour.

No marvel memory thus should press

Round its last light of happiness!

I paused one moment where I stood,

In all a very miser's mood,

As if that thinking of its store

Could make my bosom's treasure more.

I saw the guiding lamp which shone

From the wreath'd lattice, pale and lone;

Another moment I was there,

To pause, and look—upon despair.

I saw her!—on the ground she lay,

The life blood ebbing fast away;

But almost as she could not die

Without my hand to close her eye!

When to my bosom press'd, she raised

Her heavy lids, and feebly gazed,

And her lip moved: I caught its breath,

Its last, it was the gasp of death!

I leant her head upon my breast,

As I but soothed her into rest;—

I do not know what time might be

Past in this stony misery,

When I was waken'd from my dream

By my forgotten infant's scream.

Then first I thought upon my child.

I took it from its bed, it smiled,

And its red cheek was flush'd with sleep:

Why had it not the sense to weep?

I laid its mother on the bed,

O'er her pale brow a mantle spread,

And left the wood. Calm, stern, and cold,

The tale of blood and death I told;

Gave my child to my brother's care

As his, not mine were this despair.

I flung me on my steed again,

I urged him with the spur and rein,—

I left him at the usual tree,

But left him there at liberty.

With madd'ning step I sought the place,

I raised the mantle from her face,

And knelt me down beside, to gaze

On all the mockery death displays,

Until it seem'd but sleep to me.

Death,—oh, no! death it could not be.

The cold grey light the dawn had shed,

Changed gradual into melting red;

I watch'd the morning colour streak

With crimson dye her marble cheek;

The freshness of the stirring air

Lifted her curls of raven hair;

Her head lay pillow'd on her arm,

Sweetly, as if with life yet warm;--

I kiss'd her lips: oh, God, the chill!

My heart is frozen with it still:—

It was as suddenly on me

Open'd my depths of misery.

I flung me on the ground, and raved,

And of the wind that past me craved

One breath of poison, till my blood

From lip and brow gush'd in one flood.

I watch'd the warm stream of my veins

Mix with the death wounds clotted stains;

Oh! how I pray'd that I might pour

My heart's tide, and her life restore!

And night came on:—with what dim fear

I mark'd the darkling hours appear,—

I could not gaze on the dear brow,

And seeing was all left me now.

I grasp'd the cold hand in mine own,

Till both alike seem'd turn'd to stone.

Night, morn, and noontide pass'd away,

Then came the tokens of decay.

'Twas the third night that I had kept

My watch, and, like a child, had wept

Sorrow to sleep, and in my dream

I saw her as she once could seem,

Fair as an angel: there she bent

As if sprung from the element,

The bright clear fountain, whose pure wave

Her soft and shadowy image gave.

Methought that conscious beauty threw

Upon her cheek its own sweet hue,

Its loveliness of morning red;

I woke, and gazed upon the dead.

I mark'd the fearful stains which now

Were dark'ning o'er the once white brow,

The livid colours that declare

The soul no longer dwelleth there.

The gaze of even my fond eye,

Seem'd almost like impiety,

As it were sin for looks to be

On what the earth alone should see.

I thought upon the loathsome doom

Of the grave's cold, corrupted gloom;—

Oh, never shall the vile worm rest

A lover on thy lip and breast!

Oh, never shall a careless tread

Soil with its step thy sacred bed!

Never shall leaf or blossom bloom

With vainest mockery o'er thy tomb!

And forth I went, and raised a shrine

Of the dried branches of the pine,—

I laid her there, and o'er her flung

The wild flowers that around her sprung;

I tore them up, and root and all,

I bade them wait her funeral,

With a strange joy that each fair thing

Should, like herself, be withering.

I lit the pyre,—the evening skies

Rain'd tears upon the sacrifice;

How did its wild and awful light

Struggle with the fierce winds of night;

Red was the battle, but in vain

Hiss'd the hot embers with the rain.

It wasted to a single spark;

That faded, and all round was dark:

Then, like a madman who has burst

The chain which made him doubly curst,

I fled away. I may not tell

The agony that on me fell:—

I fled away, for fiends were near,

My brain was fire, my heart was fear!

I was borne on an eagle's wing,

Till with the noon-sun perishing;

Then I stood in a world alone,

From which all other life was gone,

Whence warmth, and breath, and light were fled,

A world o'er which a curse was said:

The trees stood leafless all, and bare,

The sky spread, but no sun was there:

Night came, no stars were on her way,

Morn came without a look of day,—

As night and day shared one pale shroud,

Without a colour or a cloud.

And there were rivers, but they stood

Without a murmur on the flood,

Waveless and dark, their task was o'er,—

The sea lay silent on the shore,

Without a sign upon its breast

Save of interminable rest:

And there were palaces and halls,

But silence reign'd amid their walls,

Though crowds yet fill'd them; for no sound

Rose from the thousands gather'd round;

All wore the same white, bloodless hue,

All the same eyes of glassy blue,

Meaningless, cold, corpse-like as those

No gentle hand was near to close.

And all seem'd, as they look'd on me,

In wonder that I yet could be

A moving shape of warmth and breath

Alone amid a world of death.

'Tis strange how much I still retain

Of these wild tortures of my brain,

Though now they but to memory seem

A curse, a madness, and a dream;

But well I can recall the hour

When first the fever lost its power;

As one whom heavy opiates steep,

Rather in feverish trance than sleep,

I waken'd scarce to consciousness,—

Memory had fainted with excess:

I only saw that I was laid

Beneath an olive tree's green shade;

I knew I was where flowers grew fair,

I felt their balm upon the air,

I drank it as it had been wine;

I saw a gift of red sunshine

Glittering upon a fountain's brim;

I heard the small birds' vesper hymn,

As they a vigil o'er me kept,—

I heard their music, and I wept.

I felt a friendly arm upraise

My head, a kind look on me gaze!

RAYMOND, it has been mine to see

The godlike heads which Italy

Has given to prophet and to saint,

All of least earthly art could paint!

But never saw I such a brow

As that which gazed upon me now;—

It was an aged man, his hair

Was white with time, perhaps with care;

For over his pale face were wrought

The characters of painful thought;

But on that lip and in that eye

Were patience, peace, and piety,

The hope which was not of this earth,

The peace which has in pangs its birth,

As if in its last stage the mind,

Like silver seven times refined

In life's red furnace, all its clay,

All its dross purified away,

Paused yet a little while below,

Its beauty and its power to show.

As if the tumult of this life,

Its sorrow, vanity, and strife,

Had been but as the lightning's shock

Shedding rich ore upon the rock,

Though in the trial scorch'd and riven,

The gold it wins is gold from heaven.

He watch'd, he soothed me day to day,

How kindly words may never say:

All angel ministering could be

That old man's succour was to me;

I dwelt with him; for all in vain

He urged me to return again

And mix with life:—and months past on

Without a trace to mark them gone;

I had one only wish, to be

Left to my grief's monotony.

There is a calm which is not peace,

Like that when ocean's tempests cease,

When worn out with the storm, the sea

Sleeps in her dark tranquillity,

As dreading that the lightest stir

Would bring again the winds on her.

I felt as if I could not brook

A sound, a breath, a voice, a look,

As I fear'd they would bring again

Madness upon my heart and brain.

It was a haunting curse to me,

The simoom of insanity.

The links of life's enchanted chain,

Its hope, its pleasure, fear or pain,

Connected but with what had been,

Clung not to any future scene.

There is an indolence in grief

Which will not even seek relief:

I sat me down, like one who knows

The poison tree above him grows,

Yet moves not; my life-task was done

With that hour which left me alone.

It was one glad and glorious noon,

Fill'd with the golden airs of June,

When leaf and flower look to the sun

As if his light and life were one,—

A day of those diviner days

When breath seems only given for praise

Beneath a stately tree which shed

A cool green shadow over-head;

I listen'd to that old man's words

Till my heart's pulses were as chords

Of a lute waked at the command

Of some thrice powerful master's hand.

He paused: I saw his face was bright

With even more than morning's light,

As his cheek felt the spirit's glow;

A glory sate upon his brow,

His eye flash'd as to it were given

A vision of his coming heaven.

I turn'd away in awe and fear,

My spirit was not of his sphere;

Ill might an earthly care intrude

Upon such high and holy mood:

I felt the same as I had done

Had angel face upon me shone,

When sudden, as sent from on high,

Music came slowly sweeping by.

It was not harp, it was not song,

Nor aught that might to earth belong!

The birds sang not, the leaves were still,

Silence was sleeping on the rill;

But with a deep and solemn sound

The viewless music swept around.

Oh never yet was such a tone

To hand or lip of mortal known!

It was as if a hymn were sent

From heaven's starry instrument,

In joy, such joy as seraphs feel

For some pure soul's immortal weal,

When that its human task is done,

Earth's trials past, and heaven won.

I felt, before I fear'd, my dread,

I turn'd and saw the old man dead!

Without a struggle or a sigh,

And is it thus the righteous die?

There he lay in the sun, calm, pale,

As if life had been like a tale

Which, whatsoe'er its sorrows past,

Breaks off in hope and peace at last.

I stretch'd him by the olive tree,

Where his death, there his grave should be;

The place was a thrice hallowed spot,

There had he drawn his golden lot

Of immortality; 'twas blest,

A green and holy place of rest.

But ill my burthen'd heart could bear

Its after loneliness of care;

The calmness round seem'd but to be

A mockery of grief and me,—

The azure flowers, the sunlit sky,

The rill, with its still melody,

The leaves, the birds,--with my despair,

The light and freshness had no share:

The one unbidden of them all

To join in summer's festival.

I wander'd first to many a shrine

By zeal or ages made divine;

And then I visited each place

Where valour's deeds had left a trace;

Or sought the spots renown'd no less

For nature's lasting loveliness.

In vain that all things changed around,

No change in my own heart was found.

In sad or gay, in dark or fair,

My spirit found a likeness there.

At last my bosom yearn'd to see

My EVA'S blooming infancy;

I saw, myself unseen the while,

Oh, God! it was her mother's smile!

Wherefore, oh, wherefore had they flung

The veil just as her mother's hung!—

Another look I dared not take,

Another look my heart would break!

I rush'd away to the lime grove

Where first I told my tale of love;

And leaves and flowers breathed of spring

As in our first sweet wandering.

I look'd towards the clear blue sky,

I saw the gem-like stream run by;

How did I wish that, like these, fate

Had made the heart inanimate.

Oh! why should spring for others be,

When there can come no spring to thee.

Again, again, I rush'd away;

Madness was on an instant's stay!

And since that moment, near and far,

In rest, in toil, in peace, in war,

I've wander'd on without an aim

In all, save lapse of years the same.

Where was the star to rise and shine

Upon a night so dark as mine?—

My life was as a frozen stream,

Which shares but feels not the sun-beam,

All careless where its course may tend,

So that it leads but to an end.

I fear my fate too much to crave

More than it must bestow—the grave.

————

Had been but as the lightning's shock,

Shedding rich ore upon the rock.

It is a belief among some savage nations,--the North American Indians, I believe,--that where the lightning strikes it melts into gold.

AND AMIRALD from that hour sought

A refuge from each mournful thought

In RAYMOND'S sad but soothing smile;

And listening what might well beguile

The spirit from its last recess

Of dark and silent wretchedness.

He spoke of EVA, and he tried

To rouse her father into pride

Of her fair beauty; rather strove

To waken hope yet more than love.

He saw how deeply AMIRALD fear'd

To touch a wound not heal'd but sear'd:

His gentle care was not in vain,

And AMIRALD learn'd to think again

Of hope, if not of happiness;

And soon his bosom pined to press

The child whom he so long had left

An orphan doubly thus bereft.

He mark'd with what enamour'd tongue

RAYMOND on EVA'S mention hung,—

The softened tone, the downward gaze,

All that so well the heart betrays;

And a reviving future stole

Like dew and sunlight on his soul.

Soon the Crusaders would be met

Where winter's rest from war was set;

And then farewell to arms and Spain;—

Then for their own fair France again.

One morn there swell'd the trumpet's blast,

Calling to battle, but the last;

And AMIRALD watch'd the youthful knight

Spur his proud courser to the fight:

Tall as the young pine yet unbent

By strife with its mountain element,—

His vizor was up, and his full dark eye

Flash'd as its flashing were victory;

And hope and pride sate on his brow

As his earlier war-dreams were on him now.

Well might he be proud, for where was there one

Who had won the honour that he had won?

And first of the line it was his to lead

His band to many a daring deed.

But rose on the breath of the evening gale,

Not the trumpet's salute, but a mournful tale

Of treachery, that had betray'd the flower

Of the Christian force to the Infidel's power.

One came who told he saw RAYMOND fall,

Left in the battle the last of all;

His helm was gone, and his wearied hand

Held a red but a broken brand.—

What could a warrior do alone?

And AMIRALD felt all hope was gone.

Alas for the young! alas for the brave!

For the morning's hope, and the evening's grave!

And gush'd for him hot briny tears,

Such as AMIRALD had not shed for years;—

With heavy step and alter'd heart,

Again he turn'd him to depart.

He sought his child, but half her bloom

Was withering in RAYMOND'S tomb.

Albeit not with those who fled,

Yet was not RAYMOND with the dead.

There is a lofty castle stands

On the verge of Grenada's lands;

It has a dungeon, and a chain,

And there the young knight must remain.

Day after day,—or rather night,—

Can morning come without its light?

Pass'd on without a sound or sight.

The only thing that he could feel,

Was the same weight of fettering steel,—

The only sound that he could hear

Was when his own voice mock'd his ear,—

His only sight was the drear lamp

That faintly show'd the dungeon's damp,

When by his side the jailor stood,

And brought his loathed and scanty food.

What is the toil, or care, or pain,

The human heart cannot sustain?

Enough if struggling can create

A change or colour in our fate;

But where's the spirit that can cope

With listless suffering, when hope,

The last of misery's allies,

Sickens of its sweet self, and dies.

He thought on EVA :—tell not me

Of happiness in memory!

Oh! what is memory but a gift

Within a ruin'd temple left,

Recalling what its beauties were,

And then presenting what they are.

And many hours pass'd by,—each one

Sad counterpart of others gone;

Till even to his dreams was brought

The sameness of his waking thought;

And in his sleep he felt again

The dungeon, darkness, damp, and chain.

One weary time, when he had thrown

Himself on his cold bed of stone,

Sudden he heard a stranger hand

Undo the grating's iron band:

He knew 'twas stranger, for no jar

Came from the hastily drawn bar.

Too faintly gleam'd the lamp to show

The face of either friend or foe;

But there was softness in the tread,

And RAYMOND raised his weary head,

And saw a muffled figure kneel,

And loose the heavy links of steel.

He heard a whisper, to which heaven

Had surely all its music given:—

"Vow to thy saints for liberty,

Sir knight, and softly follow me!"

He heard her light step on the stair,

And felt 'twas woman led him there.

And dim and dark the way they past

Till on the dazed sight flash'd at last

A burst of light, and RAYMOND stood

Where censers burn'd with sandal wood,

And silver lamps like moonshine fell

O'er mirrors and the tapestried swell

Of gold and purple: on they went

Through rooms each more magnificent.

And RAYMOND look'd upon the brow

Of the fair guide who led him now:

It was a pale but lovely face,

Yet in its first fresh spring of grace,

That spring before or leaf or flower

Has known a single withering hour:

With lips red as the earliest rose

That opens for the bee's repose.

But it was not on lip, or cheek

Too marble fair, too soft, too meek,

That aught was traced that might express

More than unconscious loveliness;

But her dark eyes! as the wild light

Streams from the stars at deep midnight,

Speaks of the future,—so those eyes

Seem'd with their fate to sympathise,

As mocking with their conscious shade

The smile that on the red lip play'd,

As that they knew their destiny

Was love, and that such love would be

The uttermost of misery.

There came a new burst of perfume,

But different, from one stately room,

Not of sweet woods, waters distill'd,

But with fresh flowers' breathings fill'd;

And there the maiden paused, as thought

Some painful memory to her brought.

Around all spoke of woman's hand:

There a guitar lay on a stand

Of polish'd ebony, and raised

In rainbow ranks the hyacinth blazed

Like banner'd lancers of the spring,

Save that they were too languishing.

And gush'd the tears from her dark eyes,

And swell'd her lip and breast with sighs;

But RAYMOND spoke, and at the sound

The maiden's eye glanced hurried round.

Motioning with her hand she led,

With watching gaze and noiseless tread,

Along a flower-fill'd terrace, where

Flow'd the first tide of open air.

They reach'd the garden; there was all

That gold could win, or luxury call

From northern or from southern skies

To make an earthly paradise.

Their path was through a little grove,

Where cypress branches met above,

Green, shadowy, as nature meant

To make the rose a summer tent,

In fear and care, lest the hot noon

Should kiss her fragrant brow too soon.

Oh! passion's history, ever thus

Love's light and breath were perilous!

On the one side a fountain play'd

As if it were a Fairy's shade,

Who shower'd diamonds to streak

The red pomegranate's ruby cheek.

The grove led to a lake, one side

Sweet scented shrubs and willows hide:

There winds a path, the clear moonshine

Pierces not its dim serpentine.

The garden lay behind in light,

With flower and with fountain bright;

The lake like sheeted silver gave

The stars a mirror in each wave;

And distant far the torchlight fell,

Where paced the walls the centinel:

And as each scene met RAYMOND'S view,

He deem'd the tales of magic true,—

With such a path, and such a night,

And such a guide, and such a flight.

The way led to a grotto's shade,

Just for a noon in summer made;

For scarcely might its arch be seen

Through the thick ivy's curtain green,

And not a sunbeam might intrude

Upon its twilight solitude.

It was the very place to strew

The latest violets that grew

Upon the feathery moss, then dream,—

Lull'd by the music of the stream,—

Fann'd by those scented gales which bring

The garden's wealth upon their wing,

Till languid with its own delight,

Sleep steals like love upon the sight,

Bearing those visionings of bliss

That only visit sleep like this.

And paused the maid,—the moonlight shed

Its light where leaves and flowers were spread,

As there she had their sweetness borne,

A pillow for a summer morn;

But when those leaves and flowers were raised,

A lamp beneath their covering blazed.

She led through a small path whose birth

Seem'd in the hidden depths of earth,—

'Twas dark and damp, and on the ear

There came a rush of waters near.

At length the drear path finds an end,—

Beneath a dark low arch they bend;

"Safe, safe!" the maiden cried, and prest

The red cross to her panting breast!

"Yes, we are safe!—on, stranger, on,

The worst is past, and freedom won!

Somewhat of peril yet remains,

But peril not from Moorish chains;—

With hope and heaven be our lot!"

She spoke, but RAYMOND answer'd not:

It was as he at once had come

Into some star's eternal home,—

He look'd upon a spacious cave,

Rich with the gifts wherewith the wave

Had heap'd the temple of that source

Which gave it to its daylight course.

Here pillars crowded round the hall,

Each with a glistening capital:—

The roof was set with thousand spars,

A very midnight heaven of stars;

The walls were bright with every gem

That ever graced a diadem;

Snow turn'd to treasure,—crystal flowers

With every hue of summer hours.

While light and colour round him blazed,

It seem'd to RAYMOND that he gazed

Upon a fairy's palace, raised

By spells from ore and jewels, that shine

In Afric's stream and Indian mine;

And she, his dark-eyed guide, were queen

Alone in the enchanted scene.

They past the columns, and they stood

By the depths of a pitchy flood,

Where silent, leaning on his oar,

An Ethiop slave stood by the shore.

"My faithful ALI !" cried the maid,

And then to gain the boat essay'd,

Then paused, as in her heart afraid

To trust that slight and fragile bark

Upon a stream so fierce, so dark;

Such sullen waves, the torch's glare

Fell wholly unreflected there.

'Twas but a moment; on they went

Over the grave-like element;

At first in silence, for so drear

Was all that met the eye and ear,—

Before, behind, all was like night,

And the red torch's cheerless light,

Fitful and dim, but served to show

How the black waters roll'd below;

And how the cavern roof o'erhead

Seem'd like the tomb above them spread.

And ever as each heavy stroke

Of the oar upon these waters broke,

Ten thousand echoes sent the sound

Like omens through the hollows round,

Till RAYMOND , who awhile subdued

His spirit's earnest gratitude,

Now pour'd his hurried thanks to her,

Heaven's own loveliest minister.

E'en by that torch he could espy

The burning cheek, the downcast eye,—

The faltering lip, which owns too well

All that its words might never tell;—

Once her dark eye met his, and then

Sank 'neath its silken shade again;

She spoke a few short hurried words,

But indistinct, like those low chords

Waked from the lute or ere the hand

Knows yet what song it shall command.

Was it in maiden fearfulness

He might her bosom's secret guess,

Or but in maiden modesty

At what a stranger's thought might be

Of this a Moorish maiden's flight

In secret with a Christian knight.

And the bright colour on her cheek

Was various as the morning break,—

Now spring-rose red, now lily pale,

As thus the maiden told her tale.