The Fate of Adelaide
This is the title poem of Miss Landon's first volume of verse, published in 1821. It failed in its primary purpose, which was to raise money for her family. Apart from the fact that she was an unknown author, the publishers, John Warren, went out of business and she received not a penny from them. Nevertheless it established her credentials as a poet.
This youthful work is perhaps her only truly romantic production, indeed she calls it a 'Swiss romantic tale'. The setting in the time of the crusades is one she often used later in her undermining of the romantic ideal.
THE FATE OF ADELAIDE.
CANTO I
I.
Romantic Switzerland! thy scenes are traced
With characters of strange wild loveliness,
Beauty and desolation, side by side;
Here lofty rocks uprise, where nature seems
To dwell alone in silent majesty;
Rob'd by the snow, her stately palace fram'd
Of the white hills; towering in all their pride,
The frost's gigantic mounds are lost in clouds,
Like to vast castles rear'd in middle air.
The ice has sculptur'd too strange imagery—
Obelisks, columns, spires, fantastic piles;
Some like the polish'd marble, others clear
As the rock crystal, others sparkling with
The hues that melt along the sunborn bow.
And winter frowns upon the throne, which he
Has been whole ages raising, and beneath,
The gloomy vallies, like his footstool lie,
Where summer never comes—where never spring
Wreathes the young flowers round her golden hair.
The sun looks forth in beauty, but in vain,
Those dark vales never know the light of noon:
But there they hide them in their sullenness,
As the pale spirit of desolation chose
Them for his lonely haunt. No trace hath been
Of living thing upon those untrack'd snows;
Nought hath pass'd o'er them but the printless wind;
Ev'n that wild deer, which loves the mountain side,
Springs the abyss, and dares the venturous path
We shrink to look upon, yet comes not here.
For perilous were the rocks, and the false ice
Were slippery as the friendships of this life—
When most we lean on them, most treach'rous then,
Smooth but deceiving; and the precipice
Yawns in its fearful darkness close beneath;
So close, that but a single step aside,
And human help were vanity indeed!
And o'er them lowers destruction, high in air,
Upon those jutting crags, whose rugged sides,
Riven in fragments, and like ruins pil'd,
Seem as that giants of those ancient days
When earthborn creatures braved th' Olympic Gods,
Those of whom fable tells, had torn away
Rocks from their solid base, and with strong arm,
Parted the mountains: there the avalanche hangs,
Mighty, but tremulous; just a light breath
Will loosen it from off its airy throne;
Then down it hurls in wrath, like to the sound
Of thunder amid storms, or as the voice
Of rushing waters—death in its career.
The lurking tempests hold their gathering place
Within these caves, waiting the angry winds
Which are to bear their terrors thro' the skies.
But 'mid these scenes of wintry gloom, are some
Fair relics of the spring time blossoms, like
The sunny smiles of May, as if some breeze,
Just wander'd from delightful Italy,
Had brought the blessings of its birth-place here.
And lovely are the vallies which extend
Beneath the mountains; oh! how sweet it is
To gaze around when summer sunset sheds
Its splendor in the west; when the bright clouds,
Warm with the hues of eve, gleam o'er the sky,
As 'twere some heavenly spirit veil'd his form
In bursts of glory from a mortal eye.
When glowing in the ray, the glacier's shine,
With all the opal's varied colouring,
And every tint that tulip beds disclose,
Gilds the rich pageantry of parting day;
The golden arches, rich with purple gems,
Pillars of light, and crimson colonnades,
Like the gay palaces of fairy land
Which flit upon the thought, when the young eye
Dwells in rapt wonder on the enchanted tale.
Beneath are sun-bright vales and silver lakes,
The blue waves mantled with reflected red,
The sky's bright image on the stream imprest;
Green vineyards wreathing round the steep hill's side,
And groups of cheerful peasantry reclin'd
By their white dwellings, round whose lowly thatch
The light laburnum waves her yellow hair;
And rising on the gale, is heard the sound
Of rustic music of that cherish'd song
The Switzer loves ; whose every note is fraught
With thoughts of love, youth, home, and happiness.
II.
Raised on a rock, which overlooks the vale,
Like to its guardian power, a ruin stands;
It is o'ergrown with ivy, and the walls,
Mouldering around, are grey with aged moss.
There is yet left one melancholy hall—
The roof is riven, and the big rain drops beat
Upon the weed-grown floor ; and sun-beams fall,
Almost in mockery, for they are fraught
With too much happiness for scenes like this.
It has no tapestry but the spider's web ;
No music save the skreech owl's fearful cry, .
And the bat's noisy flight, or when the wind
Howls thro' it drearily, as 'twere a dirge
Mourning it's fallen fortunes. Ask it's fate
Of those who dwell around, and they will tell
The wild romantic tales of other days—
Remembrances that linger like the tints
Of evening blushes 'neath the veil of night.
Such is the tale of which my lyre would tell,
(Unskill'd and plaintive are the notes it breathes,)
I scarce may hope to catch one echo'd sound,
One murmur of the strain I love so well.
My wreath, if wreath at all my harp may claim,
Will be of simplest field-flowers. Oh ! belov'd
Inspirer of thy youthful minstrel's dream,
How dear the meed of fame would be to me!
For thou must see it, and thy hand would give
The brightest blossom that could sparkle there.
Thine was the earliest smile that ever shed
Its cheering light on my young laurel's growth.
Tho' other praise be dear (where is the bard,
To whom the voice of flattery is not sweet?)
Yet never, never can approval's smile
Be half so treasur'd, half so priz'd as thine.
III.
It was a night of gloom; strange shadowy forms
Rode on the dreary wind, which hoarsely blew
A prelude to the tempest's gathering.
Darkness was on the sky, and murky shades
Obscur'd the brightness of the rising moon,
Which, struggling, threw at times a silvery smile,
Soon disappearing, and rebellious clouds
Crowded around and mock'd their gentle queen ;
The stars were hidden; one, and one alone,
Shed o'er the west her solitary ray;
And well that one might linger;—it had been,
In days which have a hallow'd memory,
The star peculiar to the smiling pow'r
Of love and beauty: never more than now
Could it seem Woman's emblem ; so her light
Should shine 'mid darkness, and her loveliness
Cheer the dull hour of gloom :—e'en that is past,
A cloud like death came over it, and quench'd
Its tender beam ; at once the storm pour'd forth
Its cup of fury, and the blasts arose,
Sweeping among the mountains with a sound
Of anger and of anguish, laughter, groans,
And shrieks as if of torture, and deep sobs
Mingled together; and at times the voice
Of thunder spake in wrath; and crashing woods,
Fierce gusts, and echoing caves, dread answers gave.
The Spirit of the lightning fiercely roll'd
His eyes of fire athwart the sky, and rent
The veil of blackness with his burning glance.
Dark lower'd the fearful night, but onwards still
The traveller urg'd his course ; there was no light
To point the gloomy path, save when a flash
Glar'd its blue flame around. The wood is past,
And he has gain'd the steep ascent which leads
To Ethlin's Castle. — He has entered now ;—
'Tis a young warrior, and his bosom wears
The red-cross. Instant cries of joy arise,
And words of greeting; one to meet him sprang,
And clasp'd him in her arms, while his warm cheek
Was wet with her sweet tears of tenderness—
My brother ! oh, my brother ! welcome home.
She started back, half sorrow half surprise,
From his averted clasp, and on him gaz'd
Almost reproachfully; and then her glance
Fell on a stranger's form : she turn'd and hid
Her gathering blushes in her father's arms.
The stranger spoke no word, but gave an urn
Unto that venerable chieftain's hand.
It told its tale too well; the dear, the lost,
For whom their lips yet trembled with the words
Of fond affection hailing his return,
He was gone from them, and the gates of death
Had clos'd for ever on their earthly love.
IV.
Most heavily this blight fell on the heart
Of Ethlin's Lord. Ernest had been his pride ;
On whom each bosom hope had built its throne;
With what proud joy the warrior sire had mark'd
The promise of his boyhood, when a child,
A very infant in his nurse's arms,
His eye would sparkle at the trumpet's voice,
And his young cheek grow red, when tales were told
Of glorious battle and heroic deeds !
It came, the wish'd-for time, and Ernest took
His father's sword, and sought the fields of war.
When Europe pour'd her thousands on the East,
That sword was claim'd by no unworthy hand :
Again it flash'd the reddest in the fight—
It was a hero's still! But all too soon ;
Cropt in his spring of glory, Ernest fell.
In that lone moment, when all earthly ties
More fond, more holy, twine around the heart,
He thought upon his home; and in that thought
There was a chill more terrible than death.
He gaz'd upon the chief, who knelt beside,
And cool'd his burning lips with the fresh spring,
And held his dying brow—" Orlando, we
Together sought these fatal plains, and still
Our course has been together, and our swords
Have been as one : oh ! by thy love for me,
And by thy faith, let not my ashes mix
With this accursed earth; but let them rest
Their last sad sleep in my own Switzerland!
My spirit would not slumber in a grave,
On which a father's blessing was not breath'd—
That was not moisten'd by my sister's tears.
Orlando, thou wilt tell them, that my death
Was such as well became a hero's child !"
V.
How precious is the memory of those
Who slumber in the tomb ! their lightest word
And look is then recall'd, and hallowed
As tender relics love had left behind—
Sweet but sad treasures! ah, how dear the thought
Which dwells on those departed; when the heart
Beats quick with fond reflections, and the worth,
The praise of those gone to their silent sleep,
Comes like a healing balm to sorrow's wound.
Most soothing was it to the father's grief
To hear how gloriously his Ernest fell;
Still would he ask Orlando of the fields
Which they had fought together; and the tale,
Tho' often told, was sweet unto his ear,
As the blithe peal, that tells the traveller,
Wayworn and faint, a refuge is at hand.
And there was one who listened to the tale,
And treasur'd ev'ry word Orlando breathed.
Young Adelaide, those accents are to thee
As sounds of heav'nly music, which no time
Or change can ever banish from the heart!
VI.
Oh, love ! how exquisite thy visions are !
Spring of the soul, what flowers can equal thine ?
When every other virtue fled from earth,
Thou linger'dst still, last solace of our path.
What were the world, bereft of thee ?—a void,
Without one sunny place on which the eye
Might rest for sweet refreshment. Thou art not
A summer blossom only; it is thine
To bloom in beauty on the wint'ry hour :
When storms and sorrows press the spirit down,
Then dost thou come, a gentle comforter,
Tenderly binding up the broken heart.—
Celestial thy first dawning ! it is like
The Morn awakening the smiling Hours,
Calling the flowers from their fragrant dreams,
And breathing melody and perfume around.
So does thy influence brighten on the soul,
Waking it to a new enchanted world,
Where every thought is gladness.
Never yet
Hath love dwelt in a lovelier temple than
That youthful maiden's form: she had now reach'd
Youth's fairest season, when the opening flower
Is just between the green bud and full rose.
There was a melancholy beauty in
The deep blue of her eyes ;—'twas sad, yet soft,
Melting in tenderness 'neath the dark lash
That curtain'd its mild splendor ; ev'ry glance
Bespoke a spirit wild and fanciful,—
A heart that answer'd sorrow's slightest thrill;
And thoughts that dwelt not on reality,
But lov'd to wander in imagin'd scenes,
'Mid fancy's fair creation revelling.
A tender bloom just dawn'd upon her cheek,
Too pale, to say the rose was glowing there,
But the soft hue which the white violet
Wears on its perfum'd leaf; save when a blush
Deepen'd to crimson radiance o'er her face.
Her voice was sweet as the last dying close
Waked from the wild guitar in Spanish groves,
When the fond lover pours his soul in song,
And echo answers like a maiden's sigh.
It had those silvery tones which, lingering, hang
Upon the ear, and melt into the heart.
Young, lovely with the sunny brow of youth,
More touching from the pensive shade which threw
A magic charm around it. Such she was,
Fair as the spring time of her native vales.
I need not say how sweet the accents fell,
When first Orlando told his tale of love—
How tender was the blush that welcom'd it;
Nor need I tell how happy were the hours
That pass'd away in love's enchanted dreams;
'Twas all the bard e'er feign'd, or young hearts felt,
Of joys, like spring days, bright and fugitive.
But not long in the myrtle bowers of bliss
The warrior may remain; he may not see
His laurels pine in shade, or the deep stain
Of rust upon his sword. Again the sound
Of arms recall'd Orlando to the field;
And he will go : not Adelaide's, the love
That would enchain him to its witchery—
No; she would bid her lover from her arms,
E'en tho' her heart were breaking; point to fame,
Albeit 'twere more than death unto her soul!
VIII.
They wander'd thro' a scene, where every spot
Was trac'd with some soft record of the heart;
Where the eye could not glance, but it must gaze
On some memorial of their happiness.
Here wing'd with pleasure moments fled, as in
A magic circle, where hours past, but left
No sorrow for their loss—perish'd like flowers
Dying in odours, while fresh blooms succeed :
But these were dreams of blessedness departed;
And the long lingering looks they now were giving,
Perchance would be their last. Another day,
And, Adelaide, thy love will be afar.
The arm now round thee thrown so tenderly,
Will be the reddest in the ranks of death;
That voice, that sinks so sweetly on thy ear,
Low murmuring the gentle tones of love,
Will swell the war cry, and breathe loud defiance!
The omission of VII. is presumably a numeration error on the part of the publisher.
IX.
It was a night of summer's mildest reign—
Calm, lonely sweetness! scarce the breeze had pow'r
To waft the fragrant sighs born with the dew ;
It did not stir a leaf, nor wake a sound;
But all was quiet as an infant's sleep,
Save when the distant waterfall was heard,
Like airy notes of fairy minstrelsy.
'Twas a fair scene! beside them flowers bloom'd
Such as the earth puts forth to grace the step
Of a celestial visitant: the turf
Gleam'd with the diamond dew; and over head,
The half-form'd crescent of the young moon smil'd
On the blue ocean of the starry heaven;
A few light clouds were wandering around,
Still varying like love's dear uncertainty!
Now flowing gracefully, like beauty's veil,
Now as the frothing waves upon the sea,
And ever, as like snow they scatter'd round,
Gleam'd forth the glorious stars. At distance seen,
The ice-clad mountains rose magnificent,
Like marble palaces that Rome once rear'd
In her now long-past days of mightiness.
Girdling them in dark woods the black pines waved;
O'er them the night had thrown her deepest shrowd;
Gloom, where the moon had wasted her sweet smiles; ,
Shades that she might not pierce, where brightness fell
Vainly, as soothing words upon despair.
X.
They linger'd there, Orlando and his love,
His fair betrothed bride ; each step was link'd
With some associate sweetness, and recall'd
Some thought that love had hallow'd. Love will shed
His magic hues, where'er his pinions find
A resting place; the wilderness will smile,
And blossom like a rose, if he be there.
They reach'd a shadowy alcove, where oft
Th' unconscious hours had past unmark'd away.
It was in young affection's earliest day
They rais'd the fragrant temple, and then said—
No flower should ever deck their fav'rite haunt,
That was not hallow'd by the minstrel's song,
Or fancy could not paint some tender thought.
They rear'd it 'neath a pine which long had braved
The perilous bursting of the winter's storm ;
The stem was yet unbent, but it was scath'd
By the red lightning ; and the tempest's wing
Had past it, withering like adversity :
A white rose gracefully around it twin'd,
Cheering its ruin, and united still
Even amid decay, like faithful love,
Clinging more closely to the wounded spirit.
Around were brightest flowers ; the myrtle flung
Its snowy buds—a wreath for constancy;
The young moss-rose threw from its vermil cheek,
The green veil, fresh and beautiful as those
That caught their warm carnation from the lips
Of Venus, when she kiss'd their fragrant leaves ;
Fraught with cerulean hues, the violet
Half-open'd, timidly, its fair blue eyes;
Close by it's side, the lily pensively
Bow'd down its languid head, pale as the cheek
Faded by sorrow. There the hyacinth bloom'd
With liveliest colours; some like rubies glow'd,
Some bright with tyrian purple; others wore
The melting azure of a summer sky;
Some white and stainless, others ting'd with red,
Like the last warmth of a departing blush.----
Here had they come to watch the earliest smile
Of morning dimple into roseate light;
Here breezes, which had bath'd their burning wings
In streams, whose birth-place is amid the clouds,
Breath'd mountain freshness o'er the sultry noon;
Eve found 'them here listing her vesper song,
And stars had been the lamps to light their bowers.
And oft at that sweet solitary time
Would young Orlando listen to the voice
Of her he lov'd, soft as the moonlight song
The fabled Syren breath'd; and at his praise
A blush like day-break, and a smile, would play
Upon her cheek—the heart's own eloquence.
XI.
It was the hour of parting, and they breath'd
Those vows of tender constancy,—the hopes,
The fears, the fond regrets that crowd the time
Of love's farewell. Hope, for what joy can thrill
The maiden's bosom with such throb of bliss,
As when, returning from the fields of death,
The warrior comes in all the pride of fame,
And seeks his dearest trophy in her smile !
Fear, for what heart but sickens at the thought
Of danger darkening round some cherish'd being !
A few short hurried vows of changeless faith,
And their farewell was taken silently.
That sorrow is not much, which seeks for words ,
To image forth its grief. Methinks adieu
Is cold, when uttered with aught else but tears.
XII.
'Tis the bright hour of noon; the sun looks forth
In all his splendour, o'er the stirring scene
Of thousands rushing onward to the strife.
They come in armed ranks, and spear and shield
Are glistening in the ray. How beautiful,
How glorious, and how glad they move to death !
The very banners sweep as they were proud
To spread their crimson foldings to the air.
Here the young warrior curbs his foaming steed,
Impatient for his first of fields; and here
The toil-worn veteran, with his locks of age,
White as the war-plume waving o'er his helm,
Pants for the bursting of the battle storm.
How bright, how envied, is the warrior's fate !
For him will glory bind her choicest wreaths
Of fadeless laurels ;—his the stormy joy,
Which the brave spirit feels at honour's call,
When the bard wakes his proudest minstrelsy:
(And what can thrill the harp like warlike theme ?)
His deeds will be remembered, and his name
Will live for ever in the breath of song :
Love's fairest roses 'neath the laurel grow,
And woman's fondest sigh is for the brave.
XIII.
Upon a lofty tower stood Adelaide,
And watch'd the scene below: you might have gaz'd
On those fair tresses floating in the wind ;
The white veil flowing o'er her graceful form,
Her arms cross'd pensively upon her breast,
And eyes, now upwards rais'd in tears to heav'n,
Now glancing mournfully on those beneath,
And deem'd that Peace had paus'd one moment, ere
She wing'd her flight from earth ; so fair she was,
Like to some lovely creature of the skies.
Her eye dwelt on Orlando's form, who yet
Linger'd to catch one dear, one parting glance—
That last look, treasur'd so in after hours.
He wore the colours she had given, white
And green, the hue of promise, borne by spring.
He passed, and Adelaide is left with nought
But hope, to cheer away the slow wing'd days.
Hope, frail but lovely shadow ! thou dost come,
Like a bright vision on our pathway here,
Making the gloomy future beautiful,
And gilding our horizon with a light,
The fairest human eye can ever know.
Fav'rite of heaven ! 'twas thine to pledge the cup
Of pleasure's sparkling waters undefil'd;
But, oh ! the draught was fleeting ! scarce thy lip
Touch'd the clear nectar ere 'twas vanished.
The soul of youth confides in thee ; thy voice
Is love's own halcyon music ; it is thine
To colour every dream of happiness.
I've pictur'd thine a soft etherial form,
Like to some light creation of the clouds—
Some bright aerial wonder ; o'er thy cheek
The rose has shed its beauty ; on thy brow
The golden clusters play enwreath'd with flowers,
Gay with a thousand transitory hues ;
The rainbow tints are gleaming in thy wings ;
Thy laughing eyes are blue—not the deep shade
Worn by the melancholy violet,
But the clear sunny blue of summer skies;
And in thy hand a glass, wherein the eye
May gaze on many a wonder—all is there
That heart can pant for; many a glorious dream
Meets the rapt sight, no sooner seen than gone.
False as thou art, O most illusive Hope !
Reproach is not for thee : what, tho' the flowers
Which thou dost scatter o'er our pilgrimage,
Are evanescent, yet they are most sweet.
Who would not revel in thy witchery,
Tho' all too soon the spell will be dissolved!
The moments of thy reign are bless'd indeed ;
They are the purest pleasures life can boast—
Reality is sadness.-------
But thy power
Sheds its most soothing influence when the heart,
Too full for utterance, beats a fond farewell !
Then beams thy sunshine, lighting up a sky,
Which else were thickest darkness ;—for what gloom
Is like the gloom of absence ! But for thee,
And thy sweet promises of meeting joys,
The warm embrace, the look of love, the smile,
The blissful words of welcome once again,—
Parting were as the shadow of the grave.
XIV.
Thus far my song hath reach'd again to thee,
With whom my strain began : say, will thy smile
Beam on my harp, like sunshine upon flowers,
Depriv'd of which they die ? Oh ! if one note
Can boast of sweetness, 'tis from thee 'twas caught.
Enough, enough ! whate'er my fate may be,
That song is transport, that wins praise from thee.
CANTO II.
I.
Once more my harp awakens ; once again,
Tho' all unworthy be my hand to twine
Th' etherial blossomings of poetry,
I would call forth its numbers, yet would feel
Its music fall like sunlight on my soul.
Oh, lovely phantom! tho' they say that thou
Art but a light to lead my steps aside ;
That thy romance is but a wayward dream;
That few are thy true votaries, and they
Drain to the dregs the cup of bitterness ;
And speak in mockery of the glorious wreath,
Whose holiest resting place is in the grave ;
Tell of the cold contempt that ever waits
On those who call on thee, and call in vain.—
All this I know and feel, most deeply feel,
How few the favour'd ones on whom thou breathest
The heart's aroma, immortality.
Yet still I love thee, passionately love!
Yet would I dwell on thy fair picturings,
Although thy brightest hues may be no more
Than tulip tints, that colour but to fade.
Sweet Spirit of the Harp ! thou canst create
An airy world of beauty and delight,
Far from the chill realities of life,
Where sorrow closely follows pleasure's steps;
Rapture, companion of thy wanderings !
Still, thou enchanting power, my love is thine.—
But yet there is a dearer bliss, than dwells
E'en in these fond illusions ;—ah! canst thou,
From whom it came, paint the deep joy, or tell
What the young minstrel feels, when first the song
Has been rewarded by the thrilling praise
Of one too partial, but whose lightest word
Can bid the heart beat quick with happiness—
Recall thine earliest and thy dearest wish—
Recall the first bright vision of thy youth,
The hope, which was, ah! more than life to thee !
Where blended timid fear, whate'er it was
That thy young spirit priz'd, and thou mayst tell,
Were mine the fairest laurel Bard e'er gain'd,
In days when Greece was proud to grace the lyre;
Were mine the fame, before whose glory life
Sinks into nothingness, they could not be
So precious as the slightest wreath of thine :
It is my thought of pride, my cherish'd prize,
To breathe one song not quite unworthy thee.
But, Hope ! thy charmed voice I may not trust;
To list to thy sweet promises, is but
To throw the seeds of pleasure to the wind.
What can I look upon but vivid dreams,
That sprang like flowers, and like flowers perish'd,
Leaving no trace, save a few whither'd leaves
Trodden to earth, and mouldering round the stem.
Alas ! each sunny vision I have known,
Has pass'd away like to an infant's smile—
Bathed the next moment in the bitterest tears.
And shall I raise my hall of joy again,
My fairy dwelling, on th' unstable sand ?
With tremulous hand, I scarce dare wake the strings;
They too may tell the vanity of hope.
II.
Morn came in joy, and eve in tenderness ;
Still Adelaide was lonely in her bower,
While on Orlando hung her every thought.
She sang the songs which once he had call'd sweet,
Cherish'd his favorite flowers, and oft would trace
The haunts his step had sought, and pour'd her soul
In faithful orisons for him to heaven.
Love for the absent, is as love that dwells
O'er the remembrance of the cherish'd dead;
The same deep feeling—kind, affectionate ;
A veil thrown o'er each fault, a purer light
Around each virtue ; now like relics priz'd ;
'Tis the same feeling, save we do not mourn
With sorrow that can never solace know—
Save that we look with soothing confidence
To the blest moment, when we meet once more !
How we do love the absent! absence is
The moonlight of affection ; then the heart,
Sheds o'er each thought a visionary charm,
A chastened pensive beauty ; and the shade
That hangs around, like dim futurity,
Tho' the eye may not pierce it, yet it may
Image ideal loveliness, and trace
Bright shapes, which if the shadows were dispell'd,
Might be but blanks; for never yet did life
Present the path of pleasantness we dream'd ;
Tho' like the assurance the sweet moonlight gives
Of the reflected sun, our hopes shine forth,
And tell us all that fancy paints is true.
III.
She knelt before the altar, while around
Swell'd deep, slow, solemn music. She was robed,
As a young bride, in rich and rare attire :
The brilliants flash'd, amid the auburn waves
Of her luxuriant hair, and rosy wreathes
Fell with the glossy curls upon her neck.
And bright the sparkling zone round her slight waist,
Fastening the foldings of her snowy robe.—
She knelt, and hid her face ; and when she rose,
Her cheek was pale, and bore the trace of tears,
Wearing that look of faded loveliness
Which tells the blight of misery hath pass'd,
And that the heart is withering silently !
She gaz'd upon the glass which stood beside—
It gave a lovely semblance back; a form
Of matchless grace ; a face where beauty dwelt;
But sorrow's records there were deeply trac'd.
The eloquence of that soft countenance
Bore the dark characters of grief; the look
She wildly gave, seem'd agony ; the tears
That did but tremble 'neath the eyelash, fell
Upon the delicate hand that press'd her brow.
Well might that glance be agony; so fair,
In life's most happy season ! yet to her
The future was a blank, the past despair !
She had long loved but too devotedly ;—
The dream was over, and she shrank away
From the now joyless world : he who had been
To her the light, the breath of life, was gone.
Memory to her was as a faded flower,
Whose lingering fragrance just recalls how sweet,
How beautiful it has been, but to keep
Regret alive, and make its wither'd state—
More wither'd from its former loveliness.
IV.
They laid aside her gems and costly vest,
And robed her in the simple garb of black.
And those fair tresses, braided o'er her brow
Like golden clusters round pure ivory,
Bright as the locks the Egyptian queen once gave—
A tender offering, worthy her and love—
Were sever'd from her head; and then they threw
The eternal veil upon her face. Yet still
She seem'd scarce conscious of the scene around:
Even that irrevocable vow, which breaks
All earthly ties, call'd no emotion forth ;
Her soul held but one feeling, desolate,
The recklessness of cold and fix'd despair.
The anthem ceas'd, the long last vow is said,
And she is lost for ever to the world !
Many a look on that sweet votary dwelt,
Marvelling that one, in youth's enchanted hour,
Should turn away from life, when life's so fair
As it does ever seem at morning's rise;
When fancy's fairy pencil tints the scene,
Where the warm eye of expectation roves,
Led on by hope, whose wild and gladsome light
Is as a meteor glancing over all;—
At this joy-breathing moment, turn away,
And bid the opening rosebud pine in shade.
Vain idle wonder ! little do they know
How recklessly the eye of sorrow dwells
On youth and loveliness ! What charm has life
To her whose spirit sinks in one deep thought,
One feeling, where all others are absorb'd ;
One lone grief, like the deadly plant which grows
And spreads its venom'd leaves, until around
Nought but a noxious poison'd spot is left,
Where blossoms, fruit, nor even weeds appear;
All lost in that one baleful influence.
Such, Adelaide, thy fate, e'en in thy morn !
Thy summer-day, when all seem'd fair around,
The desolating pow'r was hov'ring near;
And the sweet altar, where love's pure light shone,
Was levell'd with the dust; while the fond heart,
That had uprear'd it, sunk beneath the shock !
V.
She who doth bend her o'er her lover's urn,
And pour the hopeless tears that wail the dead;
Tho' deep, tho' wild her misery may be,
Grief has for her a gentle anodyne.
There is a flower blooms upon the grave,
A life spring, even in the desert found,
A sunny ray upon the vale of tears—
The memory of his faithfulness ; the bliss,
That his last thought was her's; that her's the name
That trembled, even in death, upon his lips.
But where's the balm to soothe the heart that pines
'Neath love's unkindness ? where's the spell can charm
Sorrow like that away ? Who could have dream'd,
A bud so fair would bring such bitter fruit ?
VI.
And where was he, Orlando ? where was he,
When Adelaide breathed vows, which should have been
His own ? He stood before the altar too,
And by his side there was a youthful fair;
She was most beautiful, the island queen,
For whose dear love the Grecian wanderer sigh'd,
When on him smil'd the daughter of the sun,
And proffer'd immortality was not
More perfect in her loveliness, as o'er
Her vermil cheek she drew the bridal veil,
To hide the rose-light blush's soft consent.
She was most beautiful; but the black hair,
Like raven plumage on the polish'd front;
The ebon arch, pencill'd so gracefully;
And the dark splendour of those glancing eyes,
Meltingly bright, like to her native heaven
When the night comes, in moonlight and in stars,
Told that she was the child of eastern climes.
VII.
The sultry noon had pass'd, the fresh'ning flowers
Rais'd their declined heads, while the cool gale
Left on each leaf a dewy kiss, and bore
Their perfum'd souls away; the rose, which hid
All day her cheek of fragrance from the sun,
In the protecting shadow of the palm,
Now gave rich offerings forth. There was no sound
To break the beauty of eve's light repose,
Save when the fountain threw its sparkling foam
And silver waters o'er the marble floor,
So soft it fell, like music ; or the boughs
Whisper'd together yet more softly still.
And when the young Zoraide awoke her lute,
Fit answer to an evening fair as this,
It looked like fairy land; and she who lean'd
Beside the fount, whose azure mirror gave
A fresh existence to her loveliness,
Seemed one of those etherial forms, the flowers,
In the wild magic of Arabian tale.
I may not name Arabia, and not pay
The slight meed of my homage to its songs:
How oft I've linger'd o'er the page, which told
Of him, the wand'rer of the sea, and all
The marvels he beheld ! and when Gulnare
Unveil'd the glories of the ocean depth,
Or where the Persian and his ill-starr’d love,
United in the grave, found sweet repose !
And him, the Fortunate, whose gorgeous hall
Kings could not match—Aladdin, who possest
The mystic lamp ; alas ! that days like these,
Of fairy wonders, now should be no more.
How have I shudder'd, when the warning voice
Pass'd o'er the careless city, but in vain !
When the dread curse came down, and one alone
Liv'd (fearful life !) in the sad solitude.
I've hung on the strange witchery, till I've deem'd
The bright creations visible, and seen
Th' enchanted palaces before me rise:
A few brief moments, and how chang'd the scene!
The song is broken off, the shatter'd lute
Spends its last breath in dying murmurings,
Lost in the clang of arms; the fountain wave
Is red with gore, its crystal beauty gone ;
And flowers, trodden on the blood-stain'd earth,
Shed their last odorous sigh upon the dead;
While she, their fairy mistress, captive now,
Is pale and senseless in yon warrior's arm!
VIII.
The hour of fear is over, and Zoraide
Has listened to the Christian warrior's tale,
And her young heart is won. Came there no thought
Of shame and sorrow, false one, when thy lip
Proffer'd again the vows of changeless faith ?
Alas ! alas ! too often conscience sleeps,
When pleasure's syren numbers lull its rest.—
Oh, Love! when, as thy birthright, there was giv'n
To thee each fairest, each endearing gift,
What demon came, and hid amid thy wreath
The heart-consuming worm, Inconstancy ?
'Tis well; for were thy blissfulness less fleet,
It were a joy to render life too dear.
Whoe'er could brook to leave their earthly home,
If it were love's unchangeable abode?
There are some moments in our path of life,
Like showers mid drought, or sunshine amid showers,
Awakening every feeling of delight
With which the soul can thrill in rapturous joy.
Such is the warrior's happiness, when, come
From the dark fields of death, he sees once more
The treasures lost so long, now found again;
Sees gladness in each face, and hears the words
Of heart-breathed welcome, from each lip he loves;
When the dim eye of age again grows bright
To look upon him; and within his arms
Reclines the cherish'd one, whose tender smile,
And soft eyes melting with delicious tears,
Eagerly dwell on the dear stranger's face.—
Happiness, soon thy dwelling may be found !
Fly from the heartless pleasures of the world,
Those passing lights, that dazzle to deceive !
Seek that bright spot of blessedness, thy home—
All that this life can give of pure and dear—
Changeless affection, kindness still the same,
The ear that listens but to soothe thy grief—
That never tedious thinks thy tale of joy;
The look, that shares thy hope and soothes thy fear;
The smile still fondly answering thy own ;
Each dream of bliss, and each desire of love,
Is in the magic circle of thy hearth.
Again, there is a numeration error, there being no section IX.
X.
Full gallantly Orlando stemm'd the tide,
The stormy tide of battle; he had been
Amid the bravest champions of the Cross !
At length the gloomy night of warfare clos'd, ;
And the sweet smile of peace dawn'd o'er the sky,
And homeward turn'd the warriors. Italy
First greeted them again; but as they sought
Orlando and his beautiful Zoraide,
His natal towers, it chanc'd their mountain guide
Unheedful wander'd from the purpos'd path
Around the dark wood twined; ages had pass'd
Since those huge trees were saplings of the spring,
And trembled when the slightest breeze pass'd by.
Now they rose giants, in their hour of pride,
Stood in their strength, and braved the blast of heaven:
Naked they stood and desolate ; the oaks,
Which, garb'd in summer foliage, had been
The glory of the forest, worn and bare,
Were now like monuments of time's decay ;
The leaves were gone from all, save where the pine
Threw the wide shadow of its unchang'd green.
I could not envy it that fadeless state.—
Ah ! who would be the last, the only one
That ruin spares—no ; if the blight must pass
O'er all around, let it pass o'er me too !
The moon was darken'd by a clouded heaven;
No sweets, no music, rose to welcome her;
The birds did seem to dread such solitude:
Nor flowers could spring upon that dank cold earth.
Fierce o'er the snowy mountains swept the wind,
With wild lament; it seem'd the unearthly wail
Of unforgiven souls, or as the yell
Of evil spirits riding on the gale.
They gain'd an opener space ; at distance seen,
Uprose a lighted tower ; and where's the chief
Would not throw wide the hospitable gate,
And gladly hail the swords of Palestine ?
Free was the welcome, fairly spread the feast;
Proudly the host receiv'd his honour'd guest:
But chill the damp upon Orlando’s heart----
Was it a dream !—he stood in Ethlin's hall!
XI.
The wine cup circles; thro' the festal train
The sound of mirth and revelry is heard ;
The minstrels strike the harp, and proudly raise
The song of triumph ; round the cheerful board
Are gallant warriors ! many a one is there,
Whose fame were fitting theme for minstrel song.
But turn we from these flowers of chivalry,
To yonder chief, who leans abstractedly,
As if some shadow on his spirit hung;
Some dreaming mood, that comes when present scenes
Recall long absent thoughts, and bring to mind
What yet would be most willingly forgotten.
Orlando ! there is gloom upon thy brow !
Can Ethlin's be a hall of joy to thee ?
Beside thee sits thy young and lovely bride—
Who does not envy thee so fair a prize;
The bard is telling of thy glorious deeds,
And many a lady's eye is bent on thee.
The voice of pleasure is not heard; in vain
The goblet sparkles, and the song is breathed;
Even beauty's smile glanced unregarded by!
Came not the days long past upon thy soul,
Weighing the spirit down, like fearful forms,
The dreary shapes that crowd a fever'd dream ?
He thought on Adelaide;—oh ! where was she ?
Her place was vacant, and all seemed so strange!
She was the last fair scion of her race ;
The lofty pillars of proud Ethlin's line
Were broken all; and now another lord
Bore sway, in that too well remember'd hall.
They spoke of him, the late chief of these towers ;
He too had pass'd unto his place of rest.
And then, with kindling cheek, Orlando heard
Yet once again, the name of Adelaide :
They told, a lonely orphan, she had sought
The convent's silent shade : some secret grief
Had prey'd upon her; and it had been said,
She was a victim at the sacred shrine—
Rather the bride of sorrow than of heaven.
He heard no more, but left the mirthful group,
And sought again the groves, where once young love
Had borne the halcyon hours upon his wing,
Roaming in that strange mood, when conscious wrong
Presses upon the heart;—when feelings rise,
We may not brook another's eye should see;
When memory haunts us, as a spectred form
On which we dare not gaze, and solitude
Is what we tremble at, yet what we seek.
XII.
'Tis soothing, oh ! most soothing to the heart,
To rove 'mid scenes where once we have been blest!
Each tree, each blossom, has a thrilling charm;
They seem memorials of those happier hours :
The very sigh that tells they are no more,
Is sweet unto the spirit; former days,
And former feelings, rise upon the soul,
Dear as they once have been. Again the heart
Throbs warmly, fondly, as 'twas wont to do.
Thou, who art yet with young hopes undecay'd,
With unscath'd happiness, thy bosom guest,
Unchill'd by sorrow; 'tis not thine to tell
How soon the warmth, the purity will fade,
Of thy once lovely wild imaginings !
Thou canst not tell how dear they'll be to thee,
'Mid coming clouds; or how thy thoughts will fear
To catch from the remembrance of the past,
A faint reflection of thy former bliss !
Thine eye is looking now to future hours,
Where hope has traced for thee a fairy land ;
Pass but a little while, and thou wilt shrink
From the cold visions of futurity,
Which thou, alas ! hast learnt to know too well;
And turn to that dear time, ere sadness threw
Its shadow o'er thy prospect; when thy soul
Shed over all its own romantic light;
Ere falsehood, disappointment, grief, and wrong,
Wither'd the feelings of thy opening youth—
Leaving thee, like the bud the worm hath scath'd,
Bloom on its cheek—the canker in its heart.
XIII.
.
Orlando rov'd around ; not his the bliss
That breathes from recollections like the sigh
Exhaling fragrance from the faded rose.
Ah ! how unlike the calm and lovely nights,
When last with Adelaide he wander'd here!
Then the moon glanced upon a summer sky—
A smiling queen amid her starry court—
And all around was loveliness, and love.
Now the departing autumn's shadowy hours
Were passing in their gloom. Dark season! thou
Alone dost give a stern unkind farewell!—
Fair is the young spring, with her golden hair
And braids of dewy flowers, and her brow
Has the soft beauty of a timid girl;
And, like a blushing bride, the summer comes,
While the sun smiles upon his favorite child :
When first thou dost magnificent succeed
To the bright chariot of the circling year,
The valleys laugh, and plenty greets thy steps ;
Around thee then the cheerful cornfields wave,
And purple clusters sparkle on the vine;
Then the rich tints are colouring the leaves,
Like the pavilion of an eastern king,
And flowers breathe their latest, sweetest sigh.
Soon is thy beauty gone ! the leaves and flowers,
That welcom'd thee at first, are quickly gone,
Like faithless friends that flee adversity;
Then round thee blow the keen winds, like reproach,
That ever wait upon the sunless day.—
Thy brow is sad, thy sky is lost in clouds,
And darkness is around thee as a robe.
Spring blushes into summer ; summer goes,
And leaves a glorious trace of light behind;—
E'en winter softens into sunny spring;—
But thou, pale melancholy season ! thou
Alone departest in thine hour of wrath ?
XIV.
How chang'd the scene from what it once had been!
Now loneliness hung o'er it like a cloud !
The myrtle bower they'd twin'd so gracefully,
No trace of it was left; and that white rose,
That wreath'd so fondly round the blasted pine,
Was gone—the tree stood now quite desolate.
Beneath, half-hidden by the briars round,
And green with moss, there was a broken harp :
Time had been, when those now so silent chords
Were sweet as hope's soft prophecy of love ;
Now his heart died within him, as the breeze
Waked, faintly wak'd, the few remaining strings.
He turn'd him from the grove, where each thing was
A witness of the sorrow he had caus'd ;
Yet still he wander'd on : at length his step
Paus'd 'mid the silent dwellings of the dead.
Here where the yew, dark emblem of despair !
Threw its black shadow, Ethlin's race repos'd.
Here lay the vet'ran—his long warfare o'er;
The youthful hero, fallen like the pine
In its first summer; and the maiden's tomb,
Whose beauty was but as a fairy dream.
XV.
There was one grave—he knew it well again,
For he had often knelt with Adelaide,
When the affectionate tribute of her tears
Were offer'd to the dead;—what was that voice
Waking the silent night ? he look'd around :
A maiden, by her dark veil half conceal'd,
Was leaning on the tomb, breathing low sounds,
Like griefs low accents wailing o'er the sod.
He gaz'd upon her—it was Adelaide !
In the wild dream of phrenzy, she had fled
Her convent's cell, and sought her brother's urn :
She sank on the cold turf! the moonlight fell
Upon her pallid face.—Alas ! how chang'd
From the fair rose he left! Her faded cheek
Wore a strange ghastly hue; her eye was dim—
Ah ! how unlike its once so lovely light!—
Half clos'd and rayless ; and the drooping lash
Hung heavily upon the glossy blue :
Her form was wasted, and her gasping lip
Had lost its rosy beauty; she was now
But the last shade of blighted loveliness !
He knelt beside her, but she knew him not—
The chill of death was freezing round her heart ;
Her hand was ice, the life pulse was unheard ;
But at his passionate and wild lament,
A ray yet glanc'd upon her vacant eye,
Which to Orlando turn'd, as it would close
In gazing on the face she had so lov'd;—
Then faintly strove to breathe forgiving sounds,
Low, inarticulate. Upon her neck
He threw himself;—that murmur was her last—-
The lip he press'd was cold !
XVI.
A curse was laid upon him!—gold and power,
Beauty and fame were his, yet still there hung
That shadow on his brow ; and never smile
Was seen to lighten o'er his face : he mov'd
As if beneath the influence of some spell,
Darkening his soul; his sleep was not repose.
Then wild creations haunted him, and shapes
Of terror and of evil; and a form,
A wan and wasted form, rose on his dreams,
Till rest was agony ! There was a fire,
By day and night, consuming at his heart;
A withering seal was set on every thought—
All ministers of bitterness ; he shunn'd
The haunts of pleasure ; still that dying look
Of sweet forgiveness, and the last faint tone
Of her he had deserted, tortur'd him.
XVII.
She mark'd the change (his fair Zoraide), and strove,
With all a woman's winning tenderness,
To soothe his gloomy spirit, but in vain—
The shadow of his soul fell o'er her too :
Her cheek grew pale with frequent tears, that wore
The rose away. Oh! burning are the drops
That wounded love will shed—like to the dew
Falling from off the poison tree, the blight
Still following the touch ;—ah ! other tears
Soften and bless—but these destroy the heart.
She was alone, a stranger in the land;
All her hopes dwelt upon him ; she was as
A sunborn flower of her native plains,
Borne to far northern climes; it languishes
When its bright lover, the all-glorious sun,
That erst looked smiling on its beauty, turns
A cold and clouded glance—its drooping head
Sickens and pines. Thus fared it with Zoraide—
Passing as flits a morning dream away.
XVIII.
What was his life thenceforth ?—a fiery page,
Traced with unreal characters ; a night
Gleaming with meteor flashes. They had laid
Zoraide (for thus she wish'd it) by the side
Of her sweet rival: there he leant:—morn
And found him bending there; the evening dew
Fell damp upon his brow; his sole employ
To braid these graves with fairest blossomings,
While visions wild, and fearful images
Of woe—the relics of reality—
Usurp'd the throne of the etherial mind :
This might not be for long. When first he twin'd
His offerings round those tombs, the bee had just
Wak'd his soft music in the violet;
And when the autumn's amber clusters shone
Upon the green leav'd vines, Orlando slept
In the dark shadowy dwellings of the dead !