The Golden Violet

INTRODUCTION

The title of the Golden Violet is taken from the Festival alluded to in the close of the Troubadour. There are various accounts of the origin of this metrical composition: the one from which my idea was principally taken is that mentioned by Warton.

THE GOLDEN VIOLET

TO-MORROW, to-morrow, thou loveliest May,

To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day;

Bride of the summer, child of the spring,

To-morrow the year will its favourite bring:

The roses will know thee, and fling back their vest,

While the nightingale sings him to sleep on their breast;

The blossoms, in welcomes, will open to meet

On the light boughs thy breath, in the soft grass thy feet.

To-morrow the dew will have virtue to shed

O'er the cheek of the maiden* its loveliest red;

To-morrow a glory will brighten the earth,

While the spirit of beauty rejoicing has birth.

Farewell to thee, April, a gentle farewell,

Thou hast saved the young rose in its emerald cell;

Sweet nurse, thou hast mingled thy sunshine and showers,

Like kisses and tears, on thy children the flowers.

As a hope, when fulfilled, to sweet memory turns.

We shall think of thy clouds as the odorous urns,

Whence colour, and freshness, and fragrance were wept ;

We shall think of thy rainbows, their promise is kept.

There is not a cloud on the morning's blue way,

And the daylight is breaking, the first of the May.

And never yet hath morning light

Lovelier vision brought to sight,

Or lovelier driven away from dreams,—

—And lovely that which only seems ;—

The garden, that beneath it lay.

From flower and fountain sent the ray

Reflected, till all round seem blent

Into one sunny element.

There in the midst rose marble halls,

Wreathed pillars upheld the walls ;

A fairy castle, not of those

Made for storm, and made for foes,

But telling of a gentler time,

A lady's rule, a summer clime.

And all spoke joyousness, for there

Thronged the gay, the young, the fair,—

It was now their meeting hour,—

They scattered round through grove and bower.

Many a high-born beauty made

Her seat beneath the chestnut shade ;

While, like her shadow hovering near,

Came her dark-eyed cavalier.

Bidding the rose fade by her cheek.

To hint of what he dared not speak.

And others wander'd with the lute,

In such a scene could it be mute ?

While from its winged sweetness came

The echo of some treasured name.

And many a grot with laughter rung.

As gathered there, these gay and young

Flung airy jests like arrows round,

That hit the mark but to rebound.

With graceful welcome smiled on all.

The lady of the festival

Wander'd amid her guests ; at last,

Many a courtly greeting past,

She stray'd into a little grove,

With cypress branches roofed above ;

Beneath the path was scarcely seen,—

Alike the walk and margent green.

So dim it was, each precious stone

The Countess wore a meteor shone.

Yet on she went, for naught her heart

In the glad revelings took part :

Too tender and too sad to share

In sportive mirth, in pageant glare;

Dearer to her was the first breath,

When morning shakes her early wreath,

And joys in the young smiles of day.

Albeit they steal her pearls away;

Dearer to her the last pale light

That lingers on the brow of night.

As if unwilling to be gone,

And abdicate its lovely throne :

Dearer to her were these than all

That ever shone in lighted hall.

The young, the gay, be they allow'd

One moment's pleasaunce in the crowd ;

The dance, the odours, song, and bloom,

Those soft spells of the banquet-room :

They last not, but the ear, the eye.

Catch the check'd frown— the hidden sigh,

Which pierce too soon the shining mask,

And prove delight may be a task.

Alas ! when once the heart shall learn

To gaze on the glad scene, then turn

To its own depths, and sadly say,—

“ Oh, what am I, and what are they ?

Masquers but striving to deceive

Themselves and others ; and believe

It is enough, if none shall know

The covered mass of care below.”

Sad lesson for the heart to bear,

Seeing how pass the young, the fair;

Forgot, as if they had not been

The spirit of the stirring scene ;

Or sadder still to watch the bands,

With kindly looks and fast-link'd hands

And know how that a word could move

The fierce extreme of hate from love, ---

That, sweep but o'er a fleeting year,

Of all the many gather'd here,

Now claiming friend's or lover's name,

Not one may be in aught the same.

But not like this is Nature's face,

Though even she must bear the trace

Of the great curse that clings to all ;

Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall :

There hides no darker doom behind,

Like workings in the human mind,

And the buds yield but to make way

For leaves or fruits upon the spray ;—

Not thus man's pleasures, which depart

And leave the sear’d or breaking heart.

On fair CLEMENZA went, her mood

Deepening with the deep solitude ;

That gentle sadness which is wrought

With more of tenderness, than thought,

When memory like the moonlight flings

A softness o'er its- wanderings,—

When hope, a holiday to keep,

Folds up its rainbow wings for sleep,

And the heart, like a bark at rest,

Scarce heaves within the tranquil breast,

When thoughts and dreams, that moment's birth

Take hues which are not of the earth.

But she was waken'd from her dream

By sudden flashing of the wave ;

The cypress first conceal'd the stream,

Then oped, as if a spirit gave,

With one touch of his radiant wand.

Birth to a scene in fairy land,

'Twas a small lake, the honey bee

Cross'd, laden, in security ;

From it an elfin island rose,

A green spot made for the repose

Of the blue halcyon, when an hour

Of storm is passing o’er its bower.

One lonely tree upon it stood,

A willow sweeping to the flood,

With darkling boughs and lorn decline,

As though even here was sorrow's sign.

'Twas even a haunted place ; one part,

Like that which is in every heart.

Beyond, the gloom was laugh'd away

By sparkling wave and dancing spray;—

One of those glowing spots that take

The sunbeams prisoners, and make

A glory of their own delight,

Below all clear, above all bright.

And every bank was fair ; but one

Most sheltered from the wind and sun

Seem'd like a favourite : the rest

Bared to the open sky their breast ;

But this was resting in the shade

By two old patriarch chestnuts made.

Whose aged trunks peep'd grey and bare

Spite of the clustering ivy's care,

Which had spread over all its wreath,

The boughs above, the ground beneath ;—

Oft told and true similitude

For moralist in pensive mood,

To mark the green leaves' glad outside,

Then search what wither'd boughs they hide.

And here the Countess took her seat

Beneath the chestnut, shelter meet

For one whose presence might beseem

The spirit of the shade and stream ;

As now she lean'd with upraised head,

And white veil o'er her bosom spread,

Hiding the gems and chains of gold

Which too much of rank's baubles told ;

Leaving her only with the power

Of nature in its loveliest hour,

When to its musing look is given

The influence of its native heaven.

Her cheek was pale, the hue of thought,

Like image by the sculptor sought

For some sweet saint, some muse on whom

Beauty has shed all but her bloom,

As if it would have naught declare

The strife and stain of clay were there.

Braided Madonna-like, the wave

Of the black hair a lustre gave

To the clear forehead, whose pure snow

Was even as an angel's brow :

While there was in her gentler eye

The touch of human sympathy,—

That mournful tenderness which still

In grief and joy, in good and ill,

Lingers with woman through life's void,

Sadden'd, subdued, but not destroy'd.

And gazed the Countess on the lake,

Loving it for its beauty's sake ;

Wander'd her look round, till its sight

Became itself blent with the light ;

Till, as it sought for rest, her eye

Now fell upon a green mound nigh.

With ivy hung and moss o'ergrown,

Beside it stood a broken stone,

And on it was a single flower,

The orphan growth of some chance shower,

Which brought it there, and then forgot

All care of the frail nursling's lot,—

A lily with its silver bells

Perfum'd like the spring's treasure cells ;

Yet drooping, pale, as if too late

Mourning for their neglected state,

It was the fittest flower to grow

Over the conscious clay below.

Bethought the Countess of a tale

Connected with the lonely vale ;

Some bard, who died before his fame ;

Whose songs remain'd, but not his name :

It told his tomb was by the wave,

In life his haunt, in death his grave.

Sadly she mused upon the fate.

That still too often must await

The gifted hand which shall awake

The poet's lute, and for its sake

All but its own sweet self resign,—

Thou loved lute ! to be only thine.

For what is genius, but deep feeling

Waken'd by passion to revealing ?

And what is feeling, but to be

Alive to every misery,

While the heart too fond, too weak,

Lies open for the vulture's beak ?

Alas ! for him possess'd of all

That wins and keeps a world in thrall,

Of all that makes the soul aspire,

Yet vow'd to a neglected lyre ;

Who finds, the first, a golden mine,

Sees the veins yield, the treasures shine,

Gazes until his eye grows dim,

Then learns that it is not for him ;

One who, albeit his wayward mood

Pines for and clings to solitude,

Has too much humanness of heart

To dwell from all his kind apart;

But seeks communion for the dreams

With which his vision'd spirit teems ;

Would fain in other cups infuse

His own delights, and fondly woos

The world, without that worldliness

Which wanting, there is no success ;

Hears his song sink unmark'd away,—

Swanlike his soul sinks with its lay,—

Lifts to his native heaven his eyes,

Turns to the earth, despairs and dies ;

Leaving a memory whose reward

Might lesson many a future bard,

Or, harder still, a song whose fame

Has long outlived its minstrel's name.

“ O, must this be !" CLEMENZA said,

“ Thus perish quite the gifted dead !

How many a wild and touching song

To my own native vales belong,

Whose lyrist's name will disappear

Like his who sleeps forgotten here !

Not so ; it shall be mine to give

The praise that bids the poet live.

There is a flower, a glorious flower,

The very fairest of my bower,

With shining leaf, aroma breath,

Befitting well a victor wreath ;

The Golden Violet shall be

The prize of Provence minstrelsy.

Open I'll fling my castle hall

To throng of harps and festival,

Bidding the bards from wide and far

Bring song of love or tale of war,

And it shall be mine own to set

The victor's crown of Violet."

From the review in La Belle Assemblée

Miss Landon, in an Introduction of less than half-a-dozen lines, informs us that the title of her book is taken from the festival alluded to at the close of her " Troubadour;" and that, of the various accounts which we possess of the origin of the metrical competition which it represents, her idea has been principally taken from a passage in Warton's " History of Poetry." It may be as well, therefore, to quote what Warton mentions respecting the Floral games which were instituted in France in the fourteenth century. " They were founded," as he states, " by Clementina Isaure, Countess of Thoulouse, and annually celebrated in the month of May. She published an edict, which assembled all the poets of France in artificial arbours, dressed with flowers : and he that produced the best poem was rewarded with a violet of gold. There were likewise inferior prizes of flowers made in silver. In the mean time the conquerors were crowned with natural chaplets of their own respective flowers. During the ceremony, degrees .were also conferred. He who had won a prize three times was created a doctor en gaye Science, the name of the poetry of the Provencal Troubadours. The instrument of creation was in verse. This institution, however fantastic, soon became common through the whole kingdom of France: and these romantic rewards, distributed with the most impartial attention to merit, at least infused an useful emulation, and in some measure revived the languishing genius of the French poetry.”

Miss Landon has enlarged upon the idea of the Countess; and, instead of confining her assemblage of minstrels to the French poets, has convened bards and songsters from nearly every region of the earth. Thus, in the course of the competition, which lasts two days, we have lays, and tales, and songs, from two Provençal minstrels, a Norman knight, a Scottish minstrel, a German meinnesinger, a Provençal lady, a pilgrim from the Holy Land, a Spanish minstrel, an Italian minstrel, an Irish minstrel, a Moorish bard, an English knight, &c. Had the golden prize been our's to award, we should probably have said " sweets to the sweet," and have transferred it from the raven hair of the noble Countess, to the possession of the Italian minstrel who sings the sad and mournful tale of blighted love — " The Rose." Miss Landon, however, feeling the difficulty of marking a preference, observes, in a somewhat abrupt close, that, when the lady had unbound the violet from her hair —

Many a flash from each dark eye pass'd,

Many a minstrel's pulse throbb'd fast,

As she held forth the flower ;

and subsequently adds —

Let each one at their pleasure set

The prize — the Golden Violet.

Could I choose where it might belong,

Mid phantoms but of mine own song ?

This brings to mind present-day television talent shows - who will be eliminated today?

* Gathering the May dew.

First Day

THE FIRST DAY

'Tis May again, another May,

Looking as if it meant to stay ;

So many are its thousand flowers,

So glorious are its sunny hours,

So green its earth, so blue its sky,

As made for Hope's eternity.

By night with starlike tapers gleaming,

And music like an odour streaming;

By day with portals open flung,

While bugle note and trumpet rung ;

Rose Isaure's towers : and gather'd there,

Again, the gifted, young and fair

Have at CLEMANZA’S summons met,

In contest for the Violet

Her heralds had been to distant lands

To call together the joyeuse bands,

And they had hasten'd. England had sent

Her harp across the blue element ;

The Spaniard had come from the land of romance ;

And the flower of her minstrels had gather'd in France,

From far and from near ; it was strange to see

The bards of Erin and Italy

Mingle together with those that came

From the highland home they so loved to name.

Hark to the sound of yon silver horn,

And the sweep of the harp to the distance borne ;

‘T is the hour of meeting, and welcome now

To the gifted hand and the laurel'd brow.

Young knight, think not of hawk or hound ;

Fair maiden, fling not thy smiles around ;

Warrior, regard not the sword at thy side ;

Baron, relax thou thy brow of pride ;

Let worldly coldness and care depart,

And yield to the spell of the minstrel's art.

‘T was a spacious hall, and around it rose

Carved pillars as white as the snows ;

Between, the purple tapestry swept,

Where, work'd in myriad shades, were kept

Memories of many an ancient tale,

And of many a blooming cheek now pale.

The dome above like a glory shone,

Or a cloud which the sunset lingers upon,

While the tinted pane seem'd the bright resort,

Where Iris' self held her minstrel court;

And beautiful was the coloured fall

Of the floating hues round the stately hall.

In groups around mix'd the gay throng,

Knight, noble, lady, child of song.

At one end was upraised a throne,

On which the Countess sat alone ;

Not with droop'd eye and bow'd-down head,

And simple white veil round her spread,

As lean'd she o'er the lonely wave,

Dreaming of the dead minstrel's grave ;

But purple robe and golden band

Bespoke the ladye of the land ;

Rich gems upon her arm were placed,

And lit the zone around her waist ;

But none were in her braided hair,

One only Violet was there,

The golden flower, which won all eyes,

Destined to be the minstrel prize.

They pass'd around the silver urn

Whose lot must fix the poet's turn ;

To a young Provence bard it came,—

He drew, and drew CLEMENZA’S name.

And forth at once young VIDAL sprung,

His light lute o'er his shoulder flung,

Then paused,—for over cheek and brow,

Like lightning, rush'd the crimson glow ;

A low sound trembled from that lute,

His lip tum'd pale, his voice was mute ;

He sent a hurried glance around,

As if in search : at last he found

The eyes without whose light to him

The very heaven above was dim :

At once his hand awoke the chords,

At once his lip pour'd tuneful words,

And gazing on his lady's smile,

Bade his soft notes arise the while.

Broken Spell

THE BROKEN SPELL:

THE FIRST PROVENÇAL MINSTREL'S LAY

A FAIRY TALE

Where on earth is the truth that may vie

With woman's lone and long constancy ?

Lovers there have been who have died

For the love that they made a warrior's pride ;

And a lover once, when a world was the prize,

Threw away his chance for a lady's eyes :

But not his the love that changes not

Mid the trials and griefs of an ill-starr'd lot ;

Not like the rainbow, that shines on high

Brighter and purer as darker the sky.

But woman's creed of suffering bears

All that the health and the spirit wears;

Absence but makes her love the more,

For her thoughts then feed on their own sweet store;

And is not hers the heart alone

That has pleasure and pride in a prize when won?

Her eye may grow dim, her cheek may grow pale,

But tell they not both the same fond tale ?

Love's lights have fled from her eye and cheek,

To burn and die on the heart which they seek.

Alas ! that so often the grave should be

The seal of woman's fidelity !

On the horizon is a star,

Its earliest, loveliest one by far ;

A blush is yet upon the sky,

As if too beautiful to die,—

A last gleam of the setting sun,

Like hope when love has just begun ;

The hour when the maiden's lute,

And minstrel's song, and lover's suit,

Seem as that their sweet spells had made

This mystery of light and shade.

That last rich sigh is on the gale

Which tells when summer's day is over,

The sigh which closing flowers exhale

After the bee, their honey lover,

As to remind him in his flight

Of what will be next noon's delight

'T is a fair garden, almond trees

Throw silver gifts upon the breeze :

Lilies, each a white-robed bride,

With treasures of pure gold inside,

Like marble towers a king has made ;—

And of its own sweet self afraid,

A hyacinth's flower-hung stalk is stooping,

Lovelier from its timid drooping :—

But in the midst is a rose stem,

The wind's beloved, the garden's gem.

No wonder that it blooms so well :

Thy tears have been on every leaf;

And, Mirzala, thy heart can tell

How lasting that which feeds on grief.

'Twas a branch of roses her lover gave

Amid her raven curls to wave,

When they bade farewell, with that gentle sorrow

Of the parting that sighs, “we meet to-morrow ;”

Yet the maiden knows not if her tears are shed

Over the faithless or over the dead.

She has not seen his face since that night

When she watch'd his shadow by pale moonlight,

And that branch has been cherish'd as all that was left

To remind her of love and of hope bereft.

She was one summer evening laid

Beneath the tulip tree's green shade,

When from her favourite rose a cloud

Floated like those at break of day ;—

She mark'd its silvery folds unshroud.

And there a radiant figure lay.

And in murmurs soft as those

Which sweep the sea at evening close,

Spoke the Spirit of the Rose :—

“MIRZALA, thy lover sleeps

While his mistress for him weeps.

He is bound by magic spell.

Of force which woman's love may quell ;

I will guide thee to the hall

Where thy faith may break his thrall.

Think thou if thy heart can dare

All that thou must look on there.

Turn not thou for hope nor fear.

Till the marble hall appear.

There thou wilt thy lover see

Dead to life, and love, and thee.

Only truth so pure as thine

Could approach the charmed shrine.

Press thy lips to the cold stone,

He will wake,— the spell be done !

Hast thou courage like thy love ?

Follow thou the snow-white dove.”

And MIRZALA rose up, and there

Was a fair dove on that rose tree,

With white wings glittering on the air,

Like foam upon a summer sea.

She follow 'd it until she stood

By where a little boat lay moor'd

To the green willow, from the flood

But by a water flag secured,

She enter'd, and it cut the tide;

Odours and music fill'd the sail,

As if a rose and lute had sigh'd

A mingled breath upon the gale.

It was at first a lovely scene ;

Leaves and branches wreathed a screen,

Sunbeams there might wander through;

Glimpses of a sky of blue,

Like the hopes that smile to cheer

The earthliness of sorrow here ;

And like summer queens, beside,

Roses gazed upon the tide,

Each one longing to caress

Her own mirror'd loveliness ;

And the purple orchis shone

Rich, as shines an Indian stone;

And the honeysuckle's flower

Crimson, as a sunset hour ;

But too soon the blooms are past,—

When did ever beauty last ?

And there came a dreary shade,

Of the yew and cypress made,

Moaning in the sullen breeze ;

And at length not even these,

But rocks in wild confusion hurl'd,

Relics of a ruin'd world.

Wide, more wide, the river grew.

Blacker changed its dreary hue,

Till, oppressed, the wearied eye

Only gazed on sea and sky—

Sea of death, and sky of night.

Where a storm had been like light.

MIRZALA was pale, yet still

Shrank she not for dread of ill.

She cross'd the sea, and she gain'd the shore ;

But little it recks to number o'er

The wearying days, and the heavy fears,

When hope could only smile through tears,

The perils, the pains, through which she pass'd,

Till she came to a castle's gate at last.

'T was evening ; but the glorious sky,

With its purple light and Tyrian dye,

Was contrast strange to the drear heath

Which bleak and desolate lay beneath.

Trees, but leafless all, stood there,

For the lightning flash had left them bare ;

The grass lay wither'd, as if the wind

Of the Siroc had mark’d its red course ; behind

The bright cloud shone on the river's face,

But the death-black waters had not a trace

Of the crimson blaze that over them play'd :

It seem'd as if a curse were laid

On the grass, on the river, the tree, and the flower,

And shut them out from the sunbeam's power ;

And with the last ray which the sunbeam threw,

The dove flew up, and vanished too.

And MIRZALA knew she had reach'd that hall

Where her lover lay sleeping in magic thrall ;

And she sat her down by a blasted tree,

To watch for what her fate might be.

But at midnight the gates roll'd apart with a sound

Like the groan sent forth from the yawning ground.

On she went with scarce light to show

That gulf and darkness were below,—

Light like the wan blue flames that wave

Their death-torch o'er the murderer's grave ;

And flickering shapes beset the way,

Watching in gloom to seize their prey,

Most terrible, for that the eye

Wander'd in dim uncertainty ;

But MIRZALA press'd fearless on,

Till every dreary shade was gone.

At once bursting into day

There a radiant garden lay.

There were tall and stately trees

With green boughs, in canopies

For the rose beneath, that smiled

Like a young and favourite child ;

With its purple wealth the vine,

Mix'd with silver jessamine,

Stretch'd around from tree to tree,

Like a royal tapestry ;

Sweet sounds floated on the air,

Lutes and voices mingled there,

And a thousand flowers blent

Into one delicious scent ;

Singing birds, and azure skies,

Made a spot like Paradise.

MIRZALA paused not to lave

Her pale forehead in the wave,

Though each fountain was as bright

As if form'd of dew and light.

Paused she not for the sweet song,

On the rich air bome along.

Fair forms throng'd around with flowers

Breathing of spring's earliest hours ;

Others from their baskets roll'd

Fruits of ruby and of gold.

Vainly ! nothing could delay,

Nothing win the maiden's stay.

And the magic scene again

Changed to a white marble fane

And as MIRZALA drew near,

Saw she two bright forms appear.

The first wore gorgeous coronet,

With topaz, pearl, and sapphire set,

And a diamond zone embraced

The rich robe around her waist ;

And as conscious of her power

In her great and royal dower,

With a smile that seem'd to say

Only gold can clear thy way,

She her casket show'd, where shone

Precious ore and Indian stone.

"Oh ! if gold could win his heart,

I would from the search depart ;

All my offering must be

True and spotless constancy."

Then to the other shape she turn'd,

Whose check with crimson blushes burn'd

But to think love could be sold

For a heartless gift of gold.

From her lily-braided hair

Took the spirit bud as fair

As if to summer suns unknown,

Gave it the maiden, and was gone.

Then MIRZALA stood by a portal barr'd

Where held the Lion King his guard ;

But touch'd by that bud the lion grew tame,

And the chain'd portals asunder came,

It was darkness all in that magic room,

But a sweet light stream'd from the lily's bloom.

And MIRZALA look'd on her lover's face,

And he woke at the touch of her soft embrace,

Joy, joy for the maiden, her task is done,—

The spell is broken, her love is won!

-----------------

The next who rose had that martial air,

Such as stately warrior wont to wear ;

Haughty his step, and sun and toil

Had left on his check their darker soil,

And on his brow of pride was the scar,

The soldier's sign of glorious war ;

And the notes came forth like the bearing bold

Of the knightly deeds which their numbers told.

THE FALCON :

THE LAY OF THE NORMAN KNIGHT

I hear a sound o'er hill and plain,

It doth not pass away.

Is it the valleys that ring forth

Their welcome to the day ?

Or is it that the lofty woods,

Touch'd by the morn, rejoice ?

No, 'tis another sound than these,—

It is the battle's voice.

I see the martial ranks, I see

Their banners floating there,

And plume and spear rise meteor-like

Upon the reddening air.

One mark'd I most of all,—he was

Mine own familiar friend ;

A blessing after him was all

My distant lip could send.

Curse on the feeble arm that hung

Then useless by my side !

I lay before my tent and watch'd

Onwards the warriors ride.

DE VALANCE he was first of all,

Upon his foam-white steed ;

Never knight curb'd more gallantly

A fiery courser's speed.

His silver armour shone like light,

In the young morning's ray ;

And around his helm the snowy plume

Danced like the ocean spray.

Sudden a bird burst through the air,—

I knew his falcon's flight ;

He perch’d beside his master's hand,—

Loud shouts rose at the sight.

For many there deem'd the brave bird

Augur'd a glorious day ;

To my dark thoughts, his fond caress

Seem'd a farewell to say.

One moment and he spread his wings,

The bird was seen no more ;

Like the sea waves, the armed ranks

Swept onwards as before.

The height whereon I lay look'd down

On a thick-wooded land,

And soon amid the forest shade

I lost the noble band.

The snow-white steed, the silver shield,

Amid the foliage shone ;

But thicker closed the heavy boughs,

And even these were gone.

Yet still I heard the ringing steps

Of soldiers clad in mail.

And heard the stirring trumpet send

Defiance on the gale.

Then rose those deadlier sounds that tell

When foes meet hand to hand,—

The shout, the yell, the iron clang

Of meeting spear and brand.

I have stood when my own lifeblood

Pour'd down like winter rain ;

But rather would I shed its last

Than live that day again.

Squire, page, and leech my feverish haste

To seek me tidings sent ;

And day was closing as I paced

Alone beside my tent ;

When suddenly upon my hand

A bird sank down to rest,—

The falcon,—but its head was droop'd,

And soil'd and stain'd its breast

A light glanced through the trees : I knew

His courser's snowy hide,—

But that was dash'd with blood ; one bound,

And at my feet it died.

I rush'd towards my sword,—alas,

My arm hung in its sling ;

But, as to lead my venture,

The falcon spread its wing.

I met its large beseeching eye

Turn'd to mine, as in prayer ;

I follow'd, such was its strange power,

Its circuit through the air.

It led me on,—before my path

The tangled branches yield ;

It led me on till we had gain'd

The morning's battle-field.

The fallen confused, and numberless !

" O grief! it is in vain,

My own beloved friend, to seek

For thee amid the slain."

Yet paused the falcon, where heap'd dead

Spoke thickest of the fray ;

There, compass'd by a hostile ring,

Its noble master lay.

None of his band were near, around

Were only foes o'erthrown ;

It seem'd as desperate he rush'd.

And fought, and fell alone.

The helm, with its white plumes, was off;

The silver shield blood-stain'd ;

But yet within the red right hand

The broken sword remain'd.

That night I watch'd beside, and kept

The hungry wolves away,

And twice the falcon's beak was dipp'd

In blood of birds of prey.

The morning rose, another step

With mine was on the plain ;

A hermit, who with pious aid

Sought where life might remain.

We made DE VALENCE there a grave,

The spot which now he prest ;

For shroud, he had his blood-stain'd mail,—

Such suits the soldier best.

A chestnut tree grew on the spot ;

It was as if he sought,

From the press of surrounding foes,

Its shelter while he fought.

The grave was dug, a cross was raised,

The prayers were duly said,

While perch'd upon a low-hung bough

The bird moan'd overhead.

We laid the last sod on the grave,—

The falcon dropp'd like lead ;

I placed it in my breast in vain,

Its gallant life was fled.

We bade the faithful creature share

Its master's place of rest ;

I took two feathers from its wing,

They are my only crest.

Spring leaves were green upon the trees

What time DE VALANCE fell ;

Let autumn's yellow forests say

If I avenged him well.

And then I laid aside my sword,

And took my lute to thee,

And vow'd for my sworn brother's sake

I would a wanderer be.

Till for a year I had proclaim'd

In distant lands his fame,

And taught to many a foreign court

De VALENCE’S brave name.

Never was heart more kind and true,

Never was hand more bold ;

Never was there more royal knight.—

Gentles, my tale is told.

-----------------

Strange contrast to each gorgeous vest,

His rough plaid cross’d upon his breast,

And looking worn, and wild, and rude,

As just from mountain solitude ;

Though weary brow and drooping eye

Told wanderer 'neath a distant sky.

Heedless of all, with absent look,

The key of his clairshach he took ;

But the first breath, O ! it was sweet,

As river gliding at your feet,

And leaving, as it murmurs by,

Your pleasant dream, half thought, half sigh.

Falcon

THE DREAM:

THE LAY OF THE SCOTTISH MINSTREL

THERE are no sounds in the wanderer's ear,

To breathe of the home that he holds so dear ;

Your gales pass by on the breath of the rose,

The vines on your sunny hills repose ;

And your river is clear as its silver tide

Had no task save to mirror the flowers beside.

Thou art fair, Provence, but not fair to me

As the land which my spirit is pining to see,

Where the pine rises darkly, the lord of the wood,

Or stands lone in the pass, where the warrior has stood;

Where the torrent is rushing like youth in its might,

And the cavern is black as the slumber of night ;

Where the deer o'er the hills bound, as fleet and as free

As the shaft from the bow, as the wave of the sea ;

Where the heather is sweet as the sleep that is found

By the hunter who makes it his bed on the ground ;

Where the might of the chieftain goes down to his son,

In numbers as wild as the deeds that are done ;

Where the harp has notes caught from the storm and the flood,

When foemen are gathering together in blood ;

Yet has others that whisper the maiden, of love,

In tones that re-echo the linnet and dove ;

Where the mountain ash guards us from elfin and fay;

Where the broom, spendthrift-like, flings its gold wreath away ;

And the harebell shines blue in the depth of the vale,

O ! dear country of mine, of thee be my tale.

The lady awoke from the slumber of night,

But the vision had melted away from her sight.

She turn'd to her pillow for rest, but again

The same vision of fear became only more plain.

She dream'd she stood on a fair hill side,

And their lands lay beneath in summer pride,

The sky was clear, and the earth was green,

Her heart grew light as she gazed on the scene.

Two fair oak trees most caught her eye,

The one look'd proudly up to the sky,

The other bent meekly, as if to share

The shelter its proud boughs flung on the air.

There came no cloud on the face of day,

Yet even as she look'd they pass'd away,

Unmark'd as though they had never been,

Save a young green shoot that had sprung between.

And while she gazed on it, she could see

That sapling spring up to a noble tree.

Again she woke, and again she slept.

But the same dream still on her eyelids kept.

The morning came at last, but its light

Seem'd not to her as her mornings bright.

A sadness hung on her lip and brow,

She could not shake off, she shamed to avow.

While the hounds that chase the stag and roe

Were gathering in the court below,

She walk'd with her lord, and mark'd that on him

A somewhat of secret shadow lay dim ;

And sought she the cause with that sweet art,

Which is the science of woman's fond heart,

That may not bear the loved one to brood

O'er aught of sorrow in solitude ;

And with gentle arm in his entwined,

And witching cheek on his reclined,

The source of his gloom is to her made known,

'Tis a dream,—she starts, for she hears her own.

But his cares, at least, to the summons yield

Of the baying hound and the cheerful field ;

At the horn's glad peal, he downwards flung

From the terraced wall, and the stirrup sprung.

And the lady forgot her bodings too,

As his steed dash'd aside the morning dew,

So graceful he sate, while his flashing eye

Seem'd proud of his gallant mastery.

But the swell of the horn died away on the air,

And the hunter and hounds were no longer there ;

Then Matilda turn'd to her loneliness,

With a cloud on her spirit which she might not repress.

She took up her pencil, unconscious she drew

A heavy branch of the funeral yew ;

She reach'd her lute and its song awoke,

But the string, as she touch'd it, wail'd and broke ;

Then turn'd she the poet's gifted leaf,

But the tale was death, and the words were grief;

And still, with a power she might not quell,

The dream of the night o'er her hung like a spell.

Day pase'd, but her lord was still away ;

Word came he was press'd to a festal array ;—

'Twas a moment's thought,—around her was thrown

The muffling plaid, and she hasten'd alone

To the glen, where dwelt the awful maid

To whom the spirits of air had said

Unearthly words, and given a power

On the wind, and the stars, and the midnight hour.

She reach'd that glen ; not till then she took

One moment's breath, or one moment's look.

When paused she in awe—'twas so lone, so still ;

Silence was laid on the leaf and the rill,—

It was stillness as that of the tomb around,

The beat of her heart was the only sound.

On one side bleak rocks the barrier made,

As the first great curse were upon them laid;

Drear and desolate, stern and bare,

Tempests and time had been ravaging there.

And there gather'd darkly the lowering sky,

As if fearing its own obscurity;

And spectre like, around the vale,

Pale larches flung their long arms on the gale,

Till the sward of the glen sloped abruptly away,

And a gloomy lake under the precipice lay.

Never was life or sound in its wave,—

An abyss like that of the depths of the grave.

On yet she went ; till, sudden as thought,

By her stood the seer whom she wildly sought.

She had heard no step, seen no shadow glide,

Yet there the prophetess was by her side.

As the skilful in music tone their chords,

The lady had arm'd her with soothing words ;

But she looked on the face that fronted her there,

And her words and their substance melted in air.

Pale as the corpse on its death-bed reclining ;

And hands through whose shadow the starbeam was shining,

As they waved from her forehead the raven cloud

Of hair that fell to her feet like a shroud ;

And awful eyes,—never had earth

To their fearful wanderings given birth,

Their light and their haunting darkness came

From gazing on those it is sin to name.

She spoke, it was low, but it sank on the soul

With deadlier force than the thunder's roll ;

Yet her voice was sweet, as to it were left

The all of human feeling not reft :

" I heard the words come on the midnight wind ;

They pass'd, but their message is left behind ;

I watch'd the course of a falling star,

And I heard the bode of its cry from afar ;

I talk'd with the spirit of yonder lake ;

I sorrow'd, and, lady, 'twas for thy sake,

Part from thy face the sunny hair,

So young, and yet death is written there.

No one is standing beside thee now,

Yet mine eyes can see a noble brow,

I can see the flash of a clear dark eye,

And a stately hunter is passing by.

You will go to the tomb, but not alone,

For the doom of that hunter is as your own.

Hasten thee home, and kiss the cheek

Of thy young fair child, nor fear to break

The boy's sweet slumber of peace ; for not

With his father's or thine is that orphan's lot.

As the sapling sprang up to a stately tree,

He will flourish ; but not, thou fond mother, for thee.

Now away, for those who would blast thy sight

Are gathering fast on the clouds of night ;

Away, while yet those small clear stars shine,

They'll grow pale at the meeting of me and mine."

Alas, for the weird of the wizard maid !

Alas, for the truth of the words which she said !

Ah, true for aye will those bodings be

That tell of mortal misery !

I've seen my noble chieftain laid low,

And my harp o'er his grave wail'd its song of woe ;

And again it wail'd for the gentle bride

Who with hastening love soon slept by his side.

He pass'd away in the early spring,

And she in the summer, whose sun could bring

Warmth and life, in its genial hour,

To all save the drooping human flower.

I left the land, I could not stay

Where the gallant, the lovely, had pass'd away ;

Yet now my spirit is pining to greet

My youthful chief in his parent's seat.

I saw him once in a foreign land,

With plume on head, and with spear in hand ;

And many a lady's eye was bent

On the stranger knight in the tournament;

He had his father's stately brow,

And the falcon eye that flash'd below ;

But when he knelt as the victor down,

(Fair was the maiden who gave the crown,)

A few low words the young warrior said,

And his lip had his mother's smile and red,

He is dwelling now in his native glen,

And there my harp must waken again ;

My last song shall be for him young, him brave,

Then away to die at my master's grave !

------------------

LED by a child whose sunny air,

And rosy cheek young Health might wear,

When rising from the mountain wave,

Fresh as the stream its freshness gave ;

But gentle eyes, with softness fraught,

As if their tenderness they caught

From gazing on the pallid brow

Whose only light was from them now.

Beautiful it was to see

Such love in early infancy.

Far from the aged steps she led,

Long since the guiding light had fled ;

And meek and sad the old man grew,

As nearer life's dark goal he drew :

All solace of such weary hour

Was that child's love, and his own power

O'er music's spirit, and the store

He treasured up of legend lore.

She led him gently to his seat,

And took her place beside his feet,

Up gazing with fond fíxed eye,

Lest sigh should pass unnoticed by.

A clear rich prelude forth he rang,

Brighten'd his look as thus he sang ;

The colour lit his forehead pale,

As the master told his ancient tale.

Dream

THE CHILD OF THE SEA:

THE LAY OF THE SECOND PROVENÇAL BARD.

It was a summer evening; and the sea

Seem'd to rejoice in its tranquillity ;

Rolling its gentle waters to the west,

Till the rich crimson blush'd upon their breast,

Uniting lovingly the wave and sky,

Like Hope content in its delight to die.

A young queen with her maidens sat and sung

While ocean thousands of sweet echoes flung,

Delighted them to hear their voices blent

With music from the murmuring element.

Then cast they on the winds their radiant hair,

Then gather'd of the pink shells those most rare,

To gem their flying curls, that each might seem

A Nereid risen from the briny stream.

When sudden cried the queen, "Come, gaze with me

At what may yonder in the distance be."

All gather'd round. A little speck was seen,

Like a mere shadow, on the billows green.

Nearer and nearer, more distinct it grew,

Till came a fragile vessel full in view ;

As if at random flung to a chance gale,

Uncheck'd, unguided, flapp'd a silken sail ;

And saw they all alone a lady there,

Her neck and arms to the rude sea-wind bare,

And her head bow'd as in its last despair.

It came no nearer, on the sea it lay ;

The wind, exhausted, had died quite away.

They had a fairy boat, in which 'twas sport

Amid the inland channels to resort ;

Their fair hands raised the sail, and plied the oar,

And brought the lonely wanderer to their shore ;

Then mark'd they how her scarlet mantle's fold

Was round a young, a lovely infant roll'd.

They brought the wearied stranger to their tent,

Flung o'er her face cool water, gifted scent,

And touch'd her lips with wine, though all too plain

That death was darkening in each frozen vein :

Eager she gazed where the queen stood beside,

Her hands stretch'd to her own fair boy, and died.

And thus the babe was left without a name,

Child of the Sea, without a kindred claim :

He never felt the want ; that gentle queen

Nurtured his infancy, as though he had been

The brother of her own sweet Isabelle ;

But as he grew she thought it need to tell

His history, and gave the cloak whose fold

Was heavy with rich work and broider'd gold ;

And also gave his mother's carkanet,

With precious stones in regal order set.

In truth he was well worthy of her care ;

None of the court might match his princely air,—

And those who boasted of their bearing high

Quail'd at the flashing of his falcon eye.

Young as he was, none better ruled the speed

Or curb'd the mettle of the wayward steed,

None better knew the hunter's gentle craft,

None could wing from the bow a truer shaft ;

And noble was his courtesy and bland,

Graceful his bearing in the saraband ;

He knew the learned scroll the clerk displays,

And touch'd the lute to the fine poet's lays ;

And many bright eyes would their glances fling

On the young victor in the tilters' ring.

Young as he was, the seal was on his heart,

That burning impress which may not depart

Where it has once been set, Love's fiery seal :

But little need I dwell on what all feel ;

Gay, grave, cold, proud, stern, high, say is there one

Whom at some time Love has not breathed upon ?

And EGLAMOUR turn'd to fair ISABELLE,

As to his destiny's best oracle :

‘Twas at midnight, beneath her bower, he sung

Those gentle words, with which love gifts the tongue.

THE SONG.

O ! give me but my gallant steed,

My spurs and sword to serve at need,

The shield that has my father's crest,

Thy colours, lady, on my breast,

And I will forth to wild warfare,

And win thee, or will perish there.

I am unknown, of a lost line,

And thou, love, art the flow'r of thine.

I know thou art above me far,

Yet still thou art hope's leading star;

For love is like the breathing wind,

That everywhere may entrance find.

I saw thee, sure the fairest one

The morning light e'er look'd upon;

No wonder that my heart was moved,—

'Twere marvel if I had not loved.

Long, long held by a spell too dear,

Thy smile has kept thy loiterer here.

Almost it seem'd enough for me

Of Heaven to only gaze on thee.

But love lights high and gallant thought,

A rich prize must be dearly bought.

Unworthy votary at thy shrine,

I scorn my falchion's idle shine;

To-morrow I will wend away

To dim it in the battle fray.

Lady, farewell! I pray thee give

One look whereon may absence live,

One word upon my ear to dwell,

And then, sweet lady mine, farewell.

Then softly open was a casement flung,

And a fair face from out the lattice hung;

The trace of heavy tears was on her cheek,

But dash'd aside, as though the heart were weak

In tenderness, yet it sought strength to show

An outward firmness, whate'er lurk'd below.

'Twas but a moment's struggle, and the pride

That nerves the softness of a hero's bride

Was on her lofty forehead, as she gave

A sunny curl beside his plume to wave.

" I have another gift which you must take,

And guard it, EGLAMOUR, well for my sake:

It is a charmed ring—this emerald stone

Will be a sign, when thou art from me gone.

Mark if it changes; if a spot be seen

On the now spotless ground of lighted green,

Danger is round me; haste thou then to me,

Thou know'st how fearless is my trust in thee.

There is a weight to-night upon my heart;

Ah! peace for me can be but where thou art."

She spoke no more, she felt her bosom swell,

How could her lip find utterance for farewell?

He took the curl, one kiss is on it press'd,

Then gave it to its sanctuary, his breast;

And doffed his plumed helm,—" Dear lady, now

Take the last offering of thy lover's vow;

And for thy beauty's honour, I will go

Bareheaded to the battle, weal or woe.

Never shall crested casque my temples grace

Until again I look on thy sweet face."

A shriek burst from her—it was lost in air;

She call'd upon his name,—he was not there.

But leave we her, her solitude to keep,

To pray the Virgin's pity, wail and weep

O'er all the tender thoughts that have such power

Upon the constant heart in absent hour;

And go we forth with our young knight, to see

What high adventure for his arms may be.

Onward he rode upon a barbed steed,

Milk-white as is the maiden's bridal weed,

Champing his silver bit. From throat to heel

Himself was clad in Milan's shining steel;

The surcoat that he wore was work'd with gold;

And from his shoulder fell the scarlet fold

Of a rich mantle lined with miniver,

His mother's once, all that he held from her,

Save the bright chain, with pearl and ruby strung,

Which rainbow-like outside his hauberk hung;

His ashen lance lay ready in its rest;

His shield was poised beside him, and its crest

Was a young eaglet trying its first flight,

The motto, " I must seek to win my right:"

Two greyhounds ran beside; and mortal sight

Had never look'd upon more gallant knight.

Bareheaded so his features met the view,

Touch'd by the tender morning's early hue;

And eyes like the wild merlin's when she springs

After long prison, on her eager wings,

Fierce in their beauty, with that flashing glance

Which dazzles as it were a flying lance,

Giving the sternness of a warrior's air

To what had else seem'd face almost too fair:

And, as in mockery of the helm, behind,

Like plumes, his bright curls danced upon the wind;

Curls of that tint o'er which a sunbeam flings

A thousand colours on their auburn rings.

Two days he journey'd, till he reach'd a wood,

A very dwelling-place of solitude;

Where the leaves grew by myriads, and the boughs

Were fill'd with linnets, singing their sweet vows;

And dreaming, lover-like, with open eye,

He envied the gay birds that they might fly

As with a thought from green tree to green tree,

And wing their way with their dear loves to be.

Even as he mused on this he heard a cry,

A bitter shriek, for mercy pleading high.

He rushed, and saw two combatants with one

Whose strength seem'd in th' unequal battle done;

And praying, weeping, knelt a maiden near,

Whose piercing voice it was had reach'd his ear.

His lance flies, and one felon bites the ground,

The other turns, and turns for a death wound.

Their champion moved the rescued twain to greet,

Just one embrace, and they are at his feet.

And gazed Sir EGLAMOUR on their strange dress,

But more on the fair dame's great loveliness;

For, saving one, to him still beauty's queen,

A face so radiant had he never seen.

Together, for the sun was high in June,

They sought a shelter from the sultry noon.

There was shade all around, but had one place

Somewhat more softness in its gentler grace;

There of fair moss a pleasant couch was made,

And a small fountain o'er the wild flowers play'd,

A natural lute, plaining amid the grove,

Less like the voice of sorrow than of love.

They told their history: the maiden came

From a far heathen land, of foreign name;

The Soldan's daughter, but she fled her state,

To share a Christian lover's humbler fate:

That lover was from Italy, his hand

Had o'er a cunning art a strange command;

For he had curious colours, that could give

The human face so like, it seem'd to live.

He had cross'd over land and over sea

To gaze on the fair Saracen; and she,

When seen, was like the visions that were brought

In unreal beauty on his sleeping thought.

And Love is like the lightning in its might,

Winging where least bethought its fiery flight,

Melting the blade, despite the scabbard's guard.

Love, passionate Love, hast thou not thy reward,

Despite of all the soil and stain that clings

When earth thou touchest with thy heavenly wings,

In rich return'd affection, which doth make

Light of all suffering, for its own dear sake?

Together they had fled by sea and land,

And the youth led her to Italia's strand,

Where he had a lone home in Arno's vale—

A fit nest for his lovely nightingale—

Till stopp'd by those fierce outlaws, who had paid

Their life's base forfeit to the victor's blade.

Mused EGLAMOUR, in silence, on the art

Which even to absence pleasure could impart;

Ever before the eyes the one loved face,

Aiding the memory with its present grace.

Beautiful art, in pity surely sent

To soothe the banish'd lover's discontent!

Then pray'd they too his history and name,

Wherefore and whence their gallant champion came?

And told he of his vow, and of the maid

For whose sake each high venture was essay'd.

With earnest tone the painter said his way

Beside the palace of the princess lay;

And pray'd of his deliverer that he might

Bear off his likeness to his lady's sight.

And soon saw EGLAMOUR, with glad surprise,

The colours darken, and the features rise.

He gazed within the fountain, and the view

Was not more than the tablet's likeness true.

At length they parted, as those part, in pain,

Who rather wish than hope to meet again.

'Twas night, but night which the imperial moon,

Regal in her full beauty, turn'd to noon,

But still the noon of midnight; though the ray

Was clear and bright, it was not that of day;

When EGLAMOUR came to a gate: 'twas roll'd

On its vast hinges back; his eyes behold—

" He who counts his life but light,

Let him hunt my deer to-night:"

Needed no more, honour might be to win,

Eager our gallant spurr'd his courser in.

A noble park it was: the sweep of green

Seem'd like a sea touch'd with the silver sheen

Of moonlight, with the floating isles of shade

Lithe coppices of shrubs sweet-scented made;

'Twas dotted with small pools, upon whose breast

The radiance seem'd to have a favourite rest,

So bright each crystal surface shone; and, round,

Lines of tall stately trees flung on the ground

Huge mass of shade, while others stood alone,

As if too mighty for companions grown.

And yielded EGLAMOUR to the delight

Which ever must be born of such a night.

When, starting from his dream, he saw stand near,

Bright as the lake they drank from, the white deer.

Instant the leash was from his greyhounds flung—

They would not to the chase, but backwards hung;

To cheer them on he wound his bugle-horn;

And, ere the sound was in the distance borne

Away to silence, rang another strain,

And furious spurr'd a steed across the plain,

Huge like its giant rider. As he pass'd,

His shadow fell, as if a storm had cast

A sudden night around; grasp'd his right hand

A spear, to which our youth's was but a wand;

Black as his shadow on the darken'd field

Was horse and armour; and his gloomy shield

Was as a cloud passing before the stars.

EGLAMOUR set his lance; scarcely it jars

The mail'd rings of the hauberk: down he bent

In time to shun the one his foeman sent;

Wasting its strength it reach'd the lake beside,

And like a fallen tree dash'd in the tide.

Their swords are out like lightning; one whose stroke

Is as the bolt that fells the forest oak,

The other with light arm and ready wound.

At length the black knight's steed rolls on the ground;

He rises like a tower. One desperate blow,

And the blood wells from EGLAMOUR's fair brow;

His shield is dash'd in pieces: but just then,

Ere the recover'd blow was aim'd again,

He stakes his life upon a sudden thrust,

And his fierce foe is levell'd in the dust.

Gazed he in wonder on each giant limb,

Yet scarce he deem'd victory was won by him.

He went on bended knee: " Now, virgin queen,

Who hast my succour in this danger been,

Mother of God, these fair white deer shall be

Offer'd to-morrow at thy sanctuary."

He sat down by a fountain near, and tame

These gentle hinds now at his beckon came;

He lean'd on the soft grassy bed and slept,

And when he waked found they their watch had kept.

Then sprang he on his steed. The sun was high,

Morning's last blush was fading from the sky

O'er a fair city; there with pious will

He turn'd, his vow’d thanksgiving to fulfil.

He enter'd victor; and around him drew

The multitude, who could not sate their view,

Gazing upon him who the black knight slew,

And yet so young, so fair. Though somewhat now

His cheek had lost its custom'd summer glow,

With paleness from his wound, yet was not one

Could say his peer they e'er had look'd upon.

He found a stately church, and, bending there,

His spoil devoted,—pray'd his lover prayer;

When, rising from his knee, he saw a train

With cross and chaunt enter the holy fane,

Led by a man, though aged, of stately air,

With purple robe, though head and feet were bare.

He ask'd the cause, and he was told, the king

Thus sought some mercy on his suffering;

For that he had, in causeless jealousy,

Exposed his wife and child to the rude sea.

Hope thrill'd the bosom of our ocean knight,

Anxious he stay'd and watch'd the sacred rite;

He saw the old man kneel before the shrine

Where was the image of the Maid Divine.

He pray'd to her that Heaven, now reconciled,

Would pardon his great fault, and give his child

Back to his arms. With that the stranger set

Full in his view the cloak and carkanet.

One moment gazed the King upon his face;

The next, and they are lock'd in fast embrace,

While from their mutual eyes the warm tears run.

The Virgin Mother hath restored his son.

Hasty thanksgivings, anxious words were said;

Joy for the living, sorrow for the dead,

Mingled together. Oh! for those sweet ties

By which blood links affection's sympathies;

Out on the heartless creed which nulls the claim

Upon the heart of kindred, birth, and name.

Together seek they now the regal hall,

So long unknown to aught of festival;

One fill'd with mourning, as now fill'd with joy,

While thousands gather round the princely boy.

Open'd the King his treasury, and gave

His bounty forth free as the boundless wave;

Feasting was spread, the dance, the masque, the song,

Whatever might to revelry belong:

Seem'd the young prince as if he had a charm,

Love to take prisoner, envy to disarm.

Yet e'en while floating thus on fortune's tide,

While each delight the past delight outvied,

Never omitted he at twilight hour,

When sleep and dew fall on the painted flower,

There for the night like bosom friends to dwell,

To kiss the ring of his sweet ISABELLE.

He told his father, whose consent had seal'd

The gentle secret, half in fear reveal'd.

True love is timid, as it knew its worth,

And that such happiness is scarce for earth.

Waited he only for the princely band

With which he was to seek his foster-land,

When gazing on his treasured ring one night,

He saw clouds gather on the emerald's light.

Like lightning he has flung him on the steed,

His hasty spur then urged to fiery speed.

But leave we him to press his anxious way,

His band to follow with what haste they may;

And turn to the lorn princess who had kept,

With all a woman's truth, the faith she wept

Rather than spoke at parting. It was One

Whose love another faith had bade her shun,—

Ah! shame and sign of this our mortal state,

That ever gentle love can turn to hate,—

Had caused her all this misery. He brought

A charge that she with arts unholy wrought:

For he had seen his rival's picture press'd

To its soft home and altar on her breast;

And hitherto unknown in that far land

Was the sweet cunning of the limner's hand.

It was a fearful charge, all hope was vain,

And she must die the fire's red death of pain,

Unless that she could find some gentle knight

Who would do battle for a maiden's right,

And win: but her accuser never yet,

In field or tourney, had an equal met.

The fatal day is come, the pile is raised,

As eager for its victim fierce it blazed.

They led her forth: her brow and neck were bare,

Save for the silken veil of unbound hair;

So beautiful, few were there who could brook

To cast on her sweet face a second look.

There stood she, even as a statue stands,

With head droop'd downward, and with clasped hands;

Such small white hands that match'd her ivory feet,

How may they bear that scorching fire to meet!

On her pale cheek there lay a tear, but one

Cold as the icicle of carved stone.

Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in prayer

Unconsciously ; as if prayers had been there,

And they moved now from custom. Triumphing,

Sir AMICE rode around the weeping ring:

Once, twice, the trumpet challenges: all fear

To meet th' accuser's never-erring spear.

Her lip grows ghastly pale, closes her eye,

It cannot meet its last of agony.

But, hark! there comes a distant rushing sound,

The crowd gives way before a courser's bound.

She turns her face; her scarce raised eyes behold

The unhelm'd head shine with its curls of gold.

Sir AMICE knew his rival. What! so slight,

So young, would he dare cope with him in fight?

Their blades flash out, but only one is red;

Rolls on the ground the traitor's felon head,

The dust around with his life-blood is dyed,

And EGLAMOUR darts to his maiden's side.

Her lip is red, her eyes with tears are dim,

But she is safe, and she is saved by him.

My tale is told. May minstrel words express

The light at noon, or young love's happiness?

Enow, I trow, of that sweet dream can tell

Without my aiding. Gentles, fare ye well.

------------------

Wild and pale was the strange brow

Of the bard advancing now;

Eyeballs with such wandering light,

Like the meteors of the night,

As if they that fearful look

From their own dark mountains took,

Where the evil ones are found—

Gloomy haunt, and cursed ground;

Sank his voice to mutter'd breath,

The tale of sorrow, sin, and death.

Child Sea

Child Sea Song

THE RING:

THE GERMAN Meinnesinger's TALE

Both were young, and both were fair:

She with her shower of golden hair

Falling like flowers, and her bright blue eye

Like the sparkling wave the oar dashes by;

And he with lip and brow as fine

As the statues his country has made divine.

And the pair at the holy altar are kneeling,

While the priest that bond of love is sealing,

When pleasures and sorrows are blent in one,

And Heaven blesses what earth has done.

They love, they are loved, that youth and maid,

Yet over them hangs a nameless shade;

They are contrasts each: the broider'd gold

And red gems shine on his mantle's fold;

While the young bride's simple russet dress,

Though well it suits with her loveliness,

Is not a bridal robe fit for the bride

Of one so begirt with pomp and pride:

And on his brow and on his cheek

Are signs that of wildest passions speak,

Of one whose fiery will is his law;

And his beauty, it strikes on the heart with awe:

And the maiden, hers is no smile to brook

In meekness the storm of an angry look;

For her forehead is proud, and her eyes' deep blue

Hath at times a spirit flashing through,

That speaks of feelings too fierce to dwell

In, woman, thy heart's sweet citadel.

He placed on the golden nuptial band;

But the ring hath cut the maiden's hand,

And the blood dripp'd red on the altar stone,—

Never that stain from the floor hath gone.

Away he flung, with a curse, that ring,

And replaced it with one more glittering;

And Agatha smiled, as pleased to bear

Gems that a queen might be joyed to wear.

The priest urged that ring had been bless'd in vain,—

And the Count and the Maiden left the fane.

Change and time take together their flight,

Agatha wanders alone by night.

Has change so soon over passion pass'd,

So soon has the veil from love been cast?

The day at the chase, and the night at the wine,

Vivaldi has left his young bride to pine,

To pine if she would: but not hers the eye

To droop in its weeping, the lip but to sigh;

There is rage in that eye, on that lip there is pride,

As it scorn'd the sorrow its scorn could not hide.

Oh! frail are the many links that are

In the chain of affection's tender care,

And light at first: but, alas! few know

How much watching is ask'd to keep them so.

The will that yields, and the winning smile

That soothes till anger forgets the while;

Words whose music never yet caught

The discord of one angry thought;

And all those nameless cares that prove

Their heaviest labour work of love.

Ay, these are spells to keep the heart,

When passion's thousand dreams depart:

But none of this sweet witchcraft came

To fan the young Count's waning flame.

Passionate as his own wild skies,

Rank and wealth seemed light sacrifice

To his German maiden's lowly state;

Chose he as chooses the wood-dove his mate:

But when his paradise was won,

It was not what his fancy had fed upon.

Alas! when angry words begin

Their entrance on the lip to win;

When sullen eye and flushing cheek

Say more than bitterest tone could speak;

And look and word, than fire or steel,

Give wounds more deep,—time cannot heal;

And anger digs, with tauntings vain,

A gulf it may not pass again.

Her lord is gone to some hunter's rite,

Where the red wine-cup passes night;

What now hath Agatha at home?

And she has left it lone to roam.

But evil thoughts are on her, now

Sweeps the dark shadow o'er her brow.

What doth she forth at such an hour,

When hath the fallen fiend his power?

On through the black-pine forest she pass'd:

Drearily moan'd around her the blast;

Hot and heavy the thick boughs grew,

Till even with pain her breath she drew;

Flicker'd the moonlight over her path,

As the clouds had gather'd together in wrath;

Like the vague hopes whose false lures give birth

To one half the miseries haunting our earth.

Maiden, ah! where is thy way address'd?

Where is the red cross that hung on thy breast,

Safety and solace in danger and fear?

Both are around thee,—why is it not near?

Enter not thou yon cursed dell.

Thy rash step has enter'd. Lost maiden, farewell.

Closed the huge and shapeless crags around,

There was not of life a sight or sound;

The earth was parched, the trees were sear'd,

And blasted every branch appear'd;

At one end yawned a gloomy cave,

Black, as its mouth were that of the grave;

And dark, as if the waters of death

Were in its depths, rose a well beneath.

But the deadliest sight of that deadly place

Was to gaze on the human wanderer's face:

Pale it was, as if fell despair

Had written its worst of lessons there;

The features set like funeral stone,

All of good or kind from their meaning gone;

And the look of defiance to heaven cast,

As if feeling such look must be the last.

Down she knelt by the well, to say

What never prayer may wash away.

It was not a sound that pass'd along,

Nor aught that might to our earth belong.

And her words at once in their terror died,

For the spirit she call'd on stood by her side;

Not one of those fearful shapes that teem

On the midnight fears of the maniac's dream.

But better she could have brook'd to gaze

On the loathliest semblance the grave displays,

Than to meet that brow, whose beauty and power

Had somewhat yet of their earlier hour,

Deeper the present contrast to show;

But pride still struggled in vain with woe,

And in the wild light of the fiery eye

Was written hell's immortality.

He spoke:—" Now the vow of thy faith resign,

And in life or in death Vivaldi is thine.

Seal with thy blood." She bared her arm,

And the life-stream flow'd for the godless charm.

One single drop on her ring was shed,

And the diamond shone as the ruby red.

" Sealed mine own, now this be the sign

That in life or in death Vivaldi is thine."

Farewell, Allemaigne, farewell to thy strand,

They are bound to another, a southern land.

As yet she is not to be own'd as' his bride,

For feared Vivaldi his kinsmen's pride;

But safely their anchor at Venice is cast,

And the queen of the ocean is reached at last

Long had Agatha wished to see

The sunny vineyards of Italy.

Little was here of what she had dream'd:

Funeral-like the gondolas seem'd;

While the dark waters, parting beneath the oar,

Were too like those she had seen before;

And the Count, with his stern and haughty brow,

Seem'd the shadow of one ever present now.

Dreary it is the path to trace,

Step by step of sin's wild race.

Pass we on to a lovely night,

Shone the sea with silver moonlight;

Who, would ever dream, but such time

Must be sacred from human crime?

I see two silent figures glide

Moodily by the radiant tide;

I see one fall,—in Agatha's breast

Vivaldi's dagger hath found a nest:

I hear a heavy plunge, the flood,

Oh! 'tis crimson'd with human blood;

I see a meteor shining fair,

It is the sweep of golden hair;

Float the waters from the shore,

The waves roll on, I see no more.

Long years have pass'd,—Vivaldi's name

Is foremost in the lists of fame.

Are there, then, spirits that may steep

Conscience in such a charmed sleep ?

No; haggard eye and forehead pale

Tell sadly of a different tale;

And some said, not his wealth nor power

Could bribe them share his midnight hour.

'T is morn, and shout and trumpet's call

Proclaim that it is festival;

The Doge Vivaldi weds to-day

The bride that owns his city's sway;

Banner and barge float o'er that bride,—

The peerless Adriatic tide.

The galleys paused,—the ring he took.

Why starts the Doge with such wild look?

He bends again, his heart-streams creep;

A pale hand beckons from the deep;

All marvel that he doth not fling

To the sea-bride the marriage ring.

He heard the murmur; none then scann'd,

Save his own eye, the spectral hand!

He drops the ring, then bends again

To snatch it from that hand in vain.

He follows what he could not save,

One false step sinks him in the wave!

All rush the victim to restore,

But never eye beheld him more.

'Twas strange, for there they found the ring.

Some said it was fit gift to bring,

And lay upon the Virgin's shrine,

Of human vanity a sign.

And there, as if by miracle,

One drop of blood beneath it fell;

And, pale as twilight's earliest dew,

Lost the bright ring its ruby hue.

There still may curious eye behold

The relic. But my tale is told.

-----------------

" Now welcome, fair Marguerite, to thee,

Fair flower of Provence minstrelsy."

Came a lovely lady in place,

Like the twilight star in her pensive grace.

White daisies were wreathed in the dark-brown shade

Of her tresses, parted in simple braid:

Her long eyelash was the shadow of night,

And the eye beneath was the morning bright;

For its colour was that of the diamond dew

Which hath caught from the glancing light its hue;

Her cheek was pale, for its blush soon pass'd,—

Loveliest tints are not those which last;

Then again it redden'd, again was gone,

Like a rainbow and rose in unison:

Her smile was sad, as if nature meant

Those lips to live in their own content;

But Fate pass'd o’er them her stern decree,

And taught them what suffering and sorrow might be:

And sang she in sweet but mournful tone,

As her heart had the misery it painted known.

Ring

Queen Cyprus

THE QUEEN OF CYPRUS:

THE PROVENÇAL LADY'S LAY

A summer isle, which seem'd to be

A very favourite with the sea,

With blue waves but as guardians set,

Wearing them like a coronet;

Once sacred to the smile-zoned Queen,

Whose reign upon the heart hath been,

And is so still. What need hath she

Of shrine to her divinity?

Each fair face is her visible shrine;

She hath been, she will be divine.

But, rose-lipp'd Venus, thy sweet power

Was unown'd in thy myrtle bower,

Thy marble temple was no more,

Thy worship gone from thine own shore,

What time my tale begins: yet still

Hadst thou left music in the rill,

As if 't had heard thy footstep fall,

And from that time grew musical;

Scent on the flower, as if thy hair

Had lost its own rich odour there;—

All, the green earth, the sunny clime,

Were relics of thy lovely time.

Fair Cyprus! dream-like 'twas to land

Where myrtle groves stretched from thy strand,

And paid the freshness of the wave

With fragrance which they sighing gave.

But sunshine seen, but sunshine felt,

You reach'd the palace where she dwelt;

Cyprus's maiden queen, whose reign

Seem'd ancient days restored again,

When it was only beauty's smile

Claim'd fealty of Cytherea's isle.

Mid fair dames of her court, a star,

The loveliest of the group by far,

IRENE stood. Was it in pride

Her regal gems were laid aside,

As if she scorn'd them all, content

To be her own best ornament ?

The terrace where they stood look'd down

On gathered crowds of her fair town;

'Twas a gay scene: on the one side,

Gardens and groves stretched far and wide

In gay confusion, flower and tree

Cover'd the green earth to the sea,

One arm of which begirt the walls

Where rose IRENE's marble halls.

Upon the terrace, with a band

Of the isle's loveliest at her hand,

Was the young queen. 'Twas as again

The goddess claim'd her ancient reign,

So fair she was. At first you thought

'T was some divinity, that brought

Her beauty from her native skies;

You met once more those soft dark eyes,

You felt that though to them were given

The colour and the light of heaven,

Yet were they mortal,—their deep blue

Was soften'd by a shadowy hue

Of melancholy, such as earth

Will fling upon her fairest birth—

Woman's foreknowledge of the woe

That waits upon her path below.

Is it some festival to-day,

That hither comes the proud array,

Which gathers round the gazing crowd,

And rings the air with plaudits loud?

Sweep seven bold galleys to the land,

Spring from their decks a warrior band,

Dance their white plumes before the breeze

Like summer foam on summer seas,—

Flashes the lance like meteor light,

Hauberk and helm are gleaming bright,—

And spreads the banner its rich fold,

Where shines on purple work'd in gold

A lion, which a maiden's hand

Holds by a silken rein's command.

Well may’st thou bend, fair queen, thy brow

To the brave warrior's greeting now;

Well have they fought for thee and thine,

Sweet flower of thy royal line;

And well may they catch thy sweet eye,

And swear beneath its rule to die.

Yet, young IRENE, on thy side

Is not all triumph's panting pride;

For, like clouds on a troubled sky,

Red and white shades alternate fly

Over thy face; now like the stone

Colour hath never breathed upon,

Now crimson'd with a sudden flush,

As if thy heart had dyed thy blush.

The rebel prince is passing near,—

Thy bearing droops in sudden fear;

He passes, and thine eye is dim

With anxious gazing after him,

And tears are darkening its blue,

Shining on the long lash like dew.

Beautiful weakness! oh, if weak,

That woman's heart should tinge her cheek!

'Tis sad to change it for the strength

That heart and cheek must know at length.

Many a word of sneer and scorn

Must in their harshness have been borne;

Many a gentle feeling dead,

And all youth's sweet confiding fled,—

Ere learn'd that task of shame and pride,

The tear to check, the blush to hide.

'Tis midnight, and a starry shower

Weeps its bright tears o'er leaf and flower;

Sweet, silent, beautiful, the night

Sufficing for her own delight.

But other lights than sky and star

From yonder casements gleam afar;

There odorous lamps of argentine

Shed that sweet ray, half shade, half shine,

Soft as it were but beauty's smile

That lit her favourite bower the while.

Back from each open lattice flew

The curtains, like swoll'n waves of blue,

Star-dropt with silvery broidery rare;

And every motion seem'd to bear

A message from the grove beneath,—

Each message was a rose's breath.

A thousand flowers were round the room,

All with their gifts of scent and bloom;

And at the far end of the hall,

Like music, came a lulling fall

Of waters; at the midnight time

Play'd from the fount a liquid chime,

As 'twere the honey-dews of sleep

'Lighting, each lid in rest to steep.

Leant on a silken couch, which caught

The air with fragrant rose-breath fraught,

Lay the young Queen. As if oppress'd

With its rich weight, her purple vest

Was doff'd, as if with it were laid

Aside cares, pomp, and vain parade.

While, like a cloud in the moonlight,

Floated her graceful robe of white.

Just stirred enough the scented air

To lift the sunny wreaths of hair,

And bear the tresses from the ground,

Which the attendant maids unbound.

A cheerful meeting wont to be

That evening hour's tranquillity.

There with the young, the frank, the gay,

IRENE would be glad as they,

Blithe prisoner 'scaping form and state,

Her nature warring with her fate.

Glad, but yet tender, gentle, meek,

Her fairy hand was all too weak

For regal sceptre; never meant

To rule more than the music sent

From a light lute, whose gentle tone

Was as an echo to her own.

But bent and sadden'd is her gaze,

Her heart is gone to other days;

When summer buds around her hair

Were all the crown she had to wear,

And they were twined by him who now

Grasp'd fierce at that upon her brow;

Her playmate and her early friend.

And thus can young affection end!

And thus can proud ambition part

The kindliest ties around the heart!

And like the desert springs that dry

To dust beneath the parching sky,

All too soon waste the sweet revealing

Of youth's fresh flow of generous feeling.

Morn came, but with it tidings came,

Half timid joy, half crimson shame.

Oh! the rose is a tell-tale flower,

And watching looks were on the hour,

On the red blush, the drooping eye,

The queen wore as the prince pass'd by.

Policy read the thoughts within,

Ending where love could but begin.

Why might not TANCRED share her seat?

They lead the rebel to her feet.

Sage counsellor and noble peer

Spared maiden blush and maiden fear.

Yielding, yet tremulous the while,

Her sole reply one downcast smile;

While order'd they the moon that night

Should rise upon the nuptial rite.

Ill might the youthful maiden brook

To fix on his her timid look,

She only felt his lip had press'd

Her white hand, and hope told the rest.

Companion of her infancy,

Less than her friend how could he be ?

She did not mark the haughty glare

Which even now his look could wear;

The lip of pride as if disdain'd

The fond heart which yet his remain'd;

As scorn'd the empire of the land

That must be shared with woman's hand.

The moon upon the bridal shone,

Treachery,— Prince TANCRED—he is gone!

Confusion marr'd the fair array;

An armed band are on their way,

The rebel banner is display'd,

And thus is trusting faith repaid.

IRENE flung her marriage veil

Aside, her cheek was deadly pale.

But, save that, nothing might declare

That love or grief were struggling there.

Wondering they gazed on their young Queen,

So firm her step, so proud her mien.

Promptly the city was prepared,

Summon'd to arms the royal guard

Were bade their strength and bearing shew

To awe, but not attack the foe

Till further orders. Last of all

She called her council to the hall.

She enter'd; it was strange to see

How soon such utter change could be.

Pale as if lip and cheek had grown

Sudden to monumental stone,

So fix'd, that, but the lighted eye

Shew'd it had yet to close and die,

It was like the last sleep of death,

When hue, warmth, light, have pass'd with breath.

Hurriedly had been thrown aside

The silver robes that deck'd the bride;

A night-black garb around her swept:

Drear contrast! for her hair yet kept

Amid its wealth of sunny curls

The bridal snowy braid of pearls.

She paused not, though her breath seem'd given

But as the last to waft to heaven,

And on the vacant throne laid down

The dove-topp'd wand of rule and crown.

From many never pass'd away

That sweet voice to their dying day.

" My hand is all too weak to bear

A sceptre which the sword must share.

To my bold kinsman I resign

All sway and sovereignty of mine;

Bear him the sceptre of the land,

No longer fetter'd by that hand."

Rose the red blush, her accents fell,

Scarce might they hear her low farewell.

When as she turn'd to leave the hall,

Rose kindly murmurs of recall;

The crown was hers, and many a brand

Now waited only her command.

One word, one look, on them she cast,

" Your Queen's request, her first, her last.”

Silence as deep as in the grave,

To the new king his homage gave;

Arose no shout to greet his name,

To him no word of welcome came,

But pass'd he solemnly and sad

To palace halls no longer glad.

Nought was there or of shout or song,

That bear young monarch's praise along;

Many there were that bent the knee,

But many bent it silently.

They led him to a stately room,

Yet with somewhat of nameless gloom;

Flowers were there, but wither'd all;

Music, but with a dying fall;

Maidens, but each with veiled face,

TANCRED gazed round, he knew the place;

'Twas here his interview had been

With her its young and radiant queen.

There was her couch; was she there yet?

He started back: the brow was set

In its last mould; that marble cheek,

Fair as if death were loth to break

Its spell of beauty; the fixed lid,

As if the daylight were forbid

To brighten the blue orbs that kept

Their azure even while they slept

All other sleeps, save this dark one.

And this the work that he had done.

And she was gone, the faithful,—fair,

In her first moment of life's care;

Gone in her bloom, as if the earth

Felt pity for its loveliest birth,

And took her like the gentle flower,

That falls before the earliest shower;

With heart too tender, and too weak,—

What had such heart to do but break ?

-----------------

SUDDEN and harsh the harp-strings rung,

As rough the hand now over them flung;

Loud as a warning, omen-like, drear,

Sank the deep tones on each listener's ear,—

'T was a Palmer, that seem'd from the Holy Land,

That now sway'd the harp with his stern right hand;

None around could discover his name,

Nor tell whence that pilgrim minstrel came.

THE PILGRIM'S TALE

I have gone east, I have gone west,

To seek for what I cannot find;

A heart at peace with its own thoughts,

A quiet and contented mind.

I have sought high, I have sought low,

Alike my search has been in vain;

The same lip mix'd the smile and sigh,

The same hour mingled joy and pain.

And first I sought 'mid sceptred kings;

Power was, so peace might be, with them:

They cast a look of weariness

Upon the care-lined diadem.

I ask'd the soldier; and he spoke

Of a dear quiet home afar,

And whisper'd of the vanity,

The ruin, and the wrong of war.

I saw the merchant 'mid his wealth;

Peace surely would with plenty be:

But no! his thoughts were all abroad

With their frail ventures on the sea.

I heard a lute’s soft music float

In summer sweetness on the air;

But the poet's brow was worn and wan,—

I saw peace was not written there.

And then I number'd o'er the ills,

That wait upon our mortal scene;

No marvel peace was not with them,

The marvel were if it had been.

First, childhood comes with all to learn,

And even more than all, to bear

Restraint, reproof, and punishment,

And pleasures seen but not to share.

Youth, like the Scripture's madman, next,

Scattering around the burning coal;

With hasty deeds and misused gifts,

That leave their ashes on the soul.

Then manhood, wearied, wasted, worn,

With hopes destroy'd and feelings dead;

And worldly caution, worldly wants,

Coldness, and carelessness instead.

Then age, at last, dark, sullen, drear,

The breaking of a worn-out wave;

Letting us know that life has been

But the rough passage to the grave.

Thus we go on; hopes change to fears

Like fairy gold that turns to clay,

And pleasure darkens into pain,

And time is measured by decay.

First our fresh feelings are our wealth,

They pass, and leave a void behind;

Then comes ambition, with its wars,

That stir but to pollute the mind.

We loathe the present, and we dread

To think on what to come may be;

We look back on the past, and trace

A thousand wrecks, a troubled sea.

I have been over many lands,

And each and all I found the same;

Hope in its borrow'd plumes, and care

Madden'd and mask'd in pleasure's name.

I have no tale of knightly deed:

Why should I tell of guilt and death,

Of plains deep dyed in human blood,

Of fame which lies in mortal breath.

I have no tale of lady love,

Begun and ended in a sigh,

The wilful folly nursed in smiles

Though born in bitterness to die.

I have a tale from Eastern lands,

The same shall be my song to-day;

It tells the vanity of life,—

Apply its lesson as ye may.

Pilgrim

THE EASTERN KING:

THE PILGRIM'S TALE

He flung back the chaplet, he threw down the wine

"Young Monarch, what sorrow or care can be thine?

There are gems in thy palace, each one like a star

That shines in the bosom of twilight afar;

Thy goblets are mantling in purple and light,

The maidens around thee like morning are bright,

Ten kingdoms bow down at the sound of thy name,

The lands of far countries have heard of thy fame,

The wealth of the earth, and the spoils of the seas,

Are thine; oh young Monarch, what ail'st thou, with these?"

" I'm weary, I'm weary. Oh! pleasure is pain

When its spell has been broken again and again.

I am weary of smiles that are bought and are sold,

I am weary of beauty whose fetters are gold,

I am weary of wealth—what makes it of me

But that which the basest and lowest might be?

I have drain'd the red wine-cup, and what found I there?

A beginning of madness, no ending of care!

I am weary of each, I am weary of all,

Listless my revel, and lonely my hall.

Breathe not the song, for its sweetness is flown;

Fling not these flowers at the foot of my throne;

Veil, maidens, veil your warm cheeks of the rose,

Ye are slaves of my sceptre, I reck not of those!"

The Monarch rose up with the reddening of morn,

He rose to the music of trumpet and horn;

His banner is spread to the sun and the wind,

In thousands the plain by his warriors is lined.

The foot ranks go first, their bows in their hand,

In multitudes gathering like waves on the strand;

Behind ride his horsemen, as onwards they come,

Each proud steed is covering his bridle with foam.

In the midst is the King: there is pride on his brow,

As he looks on the myriads that follow him now,

His eye and his sabre are flashing alike,

Woe, woe for the warrior that dares him to strike!

Thousands and thousands are strewn on the ground,

AHMED comes back a conqueror, but what hath he found?

The cry of the orphan is loud on his ear,

And his eye hath beheld the young bride's bitter tear,

And the friend of his youth is left dead on the plain,

And the flower of his nobles return not again.

There are crowds that are filling the air with his name;

Do ye marvel the monarch is loathing his fame?

Again to the sunshine the banners are spread;

Again rings the earth with the warrior's tread;

And loud on the wings of the morning are borne

The voice of the trumpet, the blast of the horn;

And eager to gaze on the royal array,

The people in crowds gather forth on its way.

Who would deem they were gazing on death and on doom,

That yon purple and gold strew'd the way to the tomb?

The canopy glitters; oh, vainest deceit!

There the king's robe of state is his cold winding-sheet.

And he at whose beck waited life, waited death,

He hath not command on a poor moment's breath,

A whole people trembled when that he but frown'd,

And his smile was the summer of nations around.

Now who is there watches for smile or for frown:

For the head of another is girt with his crown;

And he lieth a heap of powerless clay,

Where the meanest earth-worm at his pleasure may prey.

They bore the monarch on to his tomb,

Black marble suiting such dwelling of gloom:

But on it was graven a lesson sublime,

A voice from the grave appealing to time;

Were not voice from the living or dead alike

On the heart in its foolish pride to strike.

" Millions bow'd down at the foot of my throne;

The strength of the north and the south were my own;

I had treasures pour'd forth like the waves of the sea;

Success seem'd the slave of my sceptre to be.

And pleasures in crowds at my least bidding came,

Every wish that the will in its wildness could frame:

And yet amid all that fell to my share,

How much was weariness, how much was care!

I numbered years of pain and distress,

And but fourteen days of happiness.

Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power,

Are more than the toys of a passing hour;

Earth's flowers bear the foul taint of earth,

Lassitude, sorrow, are theirs by their birth.

One only pleasure will last, to fulfil,

With some shadow of good, the Holy One's will.

The only steadfast hope to us given,

Is the one which looks in its trust to heaven."

-----------------

Eastern King

There was silence around the stately hall,

For that song laid the spell of its darkness o'er all;

Some thought of their hopes now low in the tomb;

Others of hopes that were but in their bloom,

And trembled to think how frail, if how fair,

Earth's pleasures in beauty and being are;

Others had thoughts they feared to name,

As that pilgrim could read each heart in its shame:

But word or sign gave he to none,

And away like a shadow in silence hath gone.

Rose the Countess, and left her throne,

Signal it was that the meeting was done,

And spoke her summons, and graceful led

To where the sumptuous board was spread.

Evening came, and found its hours

Vow'd to music, mirth, and flowers.

Wide ten gorgeous halls were flung,

Each with purple tapestry hung ;

With wreathes, whose roses were as bright

As in the first morning light ;

Mirrors like the glassy plain,

Where the beauty beam'd again ;

Pictures whose Italian grace

Show'd inspiration's finest trace,

To whose wing'd moods were given

Moment's visionings of heaven ;

And, more than all together fair,

Beauty's living soul was there.

Follow'd by those who pleasaunce took

In converse light and curious look,

The Countess led where leaf and flower

Made one small hall an Eastern bower.

The blush acacia seem'd to keep

Watch o'er the rose's purple sleep ;

And tulips, like the wine-cups stored

Round a monarch's festal board ;

And the roof above, as art

Vied with nature's loveliest part,

Was so curiously inlaid,

That there another garden play'd.

No lamps amid the foliage hung,

But silver smiles the moonbeams flung ;

And radiance from each distant room

Lighted the flowers' and ladies' bloom.

A harp was there. The haunt was one,

Where many a summer noon, alone,

CLEMENZA lent time music's wings ;

And, dreaming o'er the mournful strings,

Learn'd other lessons than those taught

By pride, and wealth, and worldly thought.

Said the band round that it were shame,

Such hour should pass unhymn'd away ;

And many a fair lip smiled its claim,

As echo sweet to minstrel lay.

Pray'd they the Countess that her hand

Should first assume the harp's command.

She paused, then said that she would wake

One, for that nameless poet's sake ;

One song snatch'd from oblivion's wave,

Like the lone lily on his grave.

SONG

MY heart is like the failing hearth

Now by my side,

One by one its bursts of flame

Have burnt and died.

There are none to watch the sinking blaze,

And none to care,

Or if it kindle into strength,

Or waste in air.

My fate is as yon faded wreath

Of summer flowers ;

They've spent their store of fragrant health

On sunny hours,

Which wreck'd them not, which heeded not

When they were dead ;

Other flowers, unwarn'd by them

Will spring instead.

And my own heart is as the lute

I am now waking ;

Wound to too fine and high a pitch

They both are breaking.

And of their song what memory

Will stay behind ?

An echo, like a passing thought,

Upon the wind.

Silence, forgetfulness, and rust,

Lute, are for thee :

And such my lot ; neglect, the grave,

These are for me.

------------------

" Now take the harp, EULALIA mine,

For thy sad song ;" and at the sign

Came forth a maiden. She was fair

And young ; yet thus can spring-time wear

The traces of far other hour

Than should be on such gentle flower.

Her eyes were downcast, as to keep

Their secret, for they shamed to weep ;

Her cheek was pale, but that was lost,

So often the bright blushes cross'd ;

And seem'd her mouth so sweet the while,

As if its nature were to smile ;

Her very birthright hope,—but earth

Keeps not the promise of its birth.

'Twas whisper'd that young maiden's breast

Had harbour'd wild and dangerous guest ;

Love had been there,—in that is said

All that of doom the heart can dread.

Oh ! born of Beauty, in those isles

Which far 'mid Grecian seas arise,

They call'd thy mother queen of smiles,

But, Love, they only gave thee sighs.

She woke the harp : at first her touch

Seem'd as it sought some lighter strain ;

But the heart breathes itself, and such

As suffer deep seek mirth in vain.

SONG

Farewell, farewell, I'll dream no more

'Tis misery to be dreaming ;

Farewell, farewell, and I will be

At least like thee in seeming.

I will go forth to the green vale,

Where the sweet wild flowers are dwelling,

Where the leaves and the birds together sing,

And the woodland fount is welling.

Not there, not there, too much of bloom

Has spring flung o'er each blossom ;

The tranquil place too much contrasts

The unrest of my bosom.

I will go to the lighted halls,

Where midnight passes fleetest ;

Oh ! memory there too much recalls

Of saddest and of sweetest.

I'll turn me to the gifted page

Where the bard his soul is flinging ;

Too well it echoes mine own heart,

Breaking e'en while singing.

I must have rest ; oh! heart of mine.

When wilt thou lose thy sorrow ?

Never, till in the quiet grave ;

Would I slept there to-morrow !

----------------

Rosebud mouth, sunny brow,

Wore she, who, fairylike, sprung now

Beside the harp. Careless she hung

Over the chords ; her bright hair flung

A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she,

" All too sad are your songs for me ;

Let me try if the strings will breathe

For minstrel of the aspen wreath."

Lightly the answering prelude fell,

Thus sang the Lady ISABELLE.

SONG

Where do purple bubbles swim,

But upon the goblet's brim ?

Drink not deep, howe'er it glow

Sparkles never lie below.

Beautiful the light that flows

From the rich leaves of the rose;

Keep it,—then ask, where hath fled

Summer's gift of morning red?

Earth's fair are her fleeting things ;

Heaven, too, lends her angels wings.

What can charms to pleasure give,

Such as being fugitive ?

Thus with love : oh ! never try

Further than a blush or sigh ;

Blush gone with the clouds that share it,

Sigh pass'd with the winds that bear it.

----------------------

But met she then young VIDAL’S eye,

His half-sad, half-reproachful sigh :

His ISABELLE ! and could she be

Votaress of inconstancy ?

As if repentant of her words,

Blushing she bent her o'er the chords ;

With fainter tones the harp then rang,

As thus, with bow'd down head, she sung.

SONG

I have belied my woman's heart,

In my false song's deceiving words ;

How could I say love would depart,

As pass the light songs of spring birds?

Vain, vain love would be

Froth upon a summer sea.

No, love was made to soothe and share

The ills that wait our mortal birth ;

No, love was made to teach us where

One trace of Eden haunts our earth.

Born amid the hours of spring,

Soothing autumn's perishing.

Timid as the tale of woe,

Tender as the wood-dove's sigh,

Lovely as the flowers below,

Changeless as the stars on high,

Made all chance and change to prove,

And this is a woman's love.

-------------------

" Well changed, fair lady," laughing said

A girl beside, whose chestnut hair

Was wreath'd with the wild vine leaves spread,

As if that she some wood nymph were ;

And darker were her brow and cheek,

And richer in their crimson break,

Than those of the fair ring beside.

In sooth, LOLOTTE had often tried

The influence of the wind and sun,

That loved the cheek they dwelt upon

Too well, to leave it without trace

They had known such sweet dwelling-place.

And her bright eyes seem'd as they had won

The radiance which the summer sun

Brought to her valleys lone and wild,

Where she had dwelt. And now half child,

Half woman, in the gay recess

Of all youth's morning happiness,

She came to the Lady of Isaure's towers,

As fresh and as sweet as the forest bowers

Where the gladness had pass'd of her earliest hours.

" Now harken thee, Lady ISABELLE,

See if aright I read thy spell,

And the rule of thy charm'd sway, to keep

Watch over Love's enchanted sleep."

SONG

Where, oh! where's the chain to fling,

One that will bind Cupid's wing,

One that will have longer power

Than the April sun or shower ?

Form it not of Eastern gold,

All too weighty it to hold ;

Form it neither all of bloom,

Never does love find a tomb

Sudden, soon, as when he meets

Death amid unchanging sweets :

But if you would fling a chain,

And not fling it all in vain,

Like a fairy form a spell

Of all that is changeable,

Take the purple tints that deck,

Meteor-like, the peacock's neck ;

Take the many hues that play

On the rainbow's coloured way ;

Never let a hope appear

Without its companion fear ;

Only smile to sigh, and then

Change into a smile again ;

Be to-day as sad, as pale,

As minstrel with his lovelorn tale ;

But to-morrow gay as all

Life had been one festival.

If a woman would secure

All that makes her reign endure,

And, alas ! her reign must be

Ever most in fantasy,

Never let an envious eye

Gaze upon the heart too nigh ;

Never let the veil be thrown

Quite aside, as all were known

Of delight and tenderness,

In the spirit's last recess ;

And, one spell all spells above,

Never let her own her love.

------------------

But from the harp a darker song

Is sweeping like the winds along—

The night gale, at that dreamy hour

When spirit and when storm have power ;—

Yet sadly sweet : and can this be,

AMENAÏDE, the wreck of thee ?

Mind, dangerous and glorious gift,

Too much thy native heaven has left

Its nature in thee, for thy light

To be content with earthly home :

It hath another, and its sight

Will too much to that other roam,—

And heavenly light and earthly clay

But ill bear with alternate sway ;—

Till jarring elements create

The evil which they sought to shun,

And deeper feel their mortal state,

In struggling for a higher one.

There is no rest for the proud mind ;

Conscious of its high powers confined,

Vain dreams mid its best hopes arise ;

It is itself its sacrifice.

Ah ! sad it is, to see the deck

Dismasted, of some noble wreck ;

And sad to see the marble stone

Defaced, and with grey moss o'ergrown ;

And sad to see the broken lute

For ever to its music mute !

But what is lute, or fallen tower,

Or ship sunk in its proudest hour,

To awe and mystery combined

In their worst shape—the ruin'd mind ?

To her was trusted that fine power

Which rules the bard's enthusiast hour ;

The human heart gave up its keys

To her, who ruled its sympathies

In song whose influence was brought

From what first in herself had wrought

Too passionate ; her least emotion

Swept like the whirlwind o'er the ocean.

Kind, tender, but too sensitive,

None seem'd her equal love to bear;

Affection's ties small joys could give,

Tried but by what she hoped they were.

Too much on all her feelings threw

The colouring of their own hue ;

Too much her ardent spirit dream'd

Things would be such as she had deem'd.

She trusted love, albeit her heart

Was ill made for love's happiness ;

She ask'd too much, another's part

Was cold beside her own excess.

She sought for praise ; her share of fame,

It went beyond her wildest claim :

But ill could her proud spirit bear

All that befalls the laurel's share ;—

Oh, well they gave the laurel tree

A minstrel's coronal to be !

Immortal as its changeless hue,

The deadly poison circles through,

Its venom makes its life ; ah ! still

Earth's lasting growths are those of ill ;—

And mined was the foundation stone,

The spirit's regal shrine o'erthrown.

Aimless and dark, the wandering mind

Yet had a beauty left behind ;

A touch, a tone, a shade, the more

To tell of what had pass'd before.

She woke the harp, and backward flung

The cloud of hair, that pall-like hung

O'er her pale brow and radiant eyes,

Wild as the light of midnight skies,

When the red meteor rides the cloud,

Telling the storm has burst its shroud :

A passionate hue was on her cheek ;

Untranquil colours, such as break

With crimson light the northern sky :

Yet on her wan lip seem'd to lie

A faint sweet smile, as if not yet

It could its early charm forget.

She sang, oh ! well the heart might own

The magic of so dear a tone.

SONG

I know my heart is as a grave

Where the cypress watch is weeping

Over hopes and over thoughts

In their dark silence sleeping.

Yet not the less know I that heart

Was a goal whence proud steeds started,

Though now it be a ruin'd shrine

Whose glory is departed.

For my spirit hath left her earthly home

And found a nobler dwelling,

Where the music of light is that of life,

And the starry harps are swelling.

Yet ever at the midnight hour

That spirit within me burneth,

And joy comes back on his fairy wings,

And glory to me returneth.

BUT a shade pass'd over the maiden's face ;

Some darker image her thoughts retrace ;

And so sadly the tones from the harp-strings swept,

'Twas as for very pity they wept.

A Faded flower, a broken gem

Are emblems mine :

The flower hath lost its loveliness

With its sunshine ;

The ruby stone no more is set

On lady's brow,

Its beauty of unsullied light

Is wanting now.

Like me, no thought of former worth

From doom will save ;

They will be flung to earth and air,

I to the grave.

The lorn one with her song has pass'd,

‘Twas meet such song should be the last

------------------

Now, gentle Sleep ! thy honey wing,

And roses, with thy poppies bring.

Sweet and soft be thy rest to-night ;

That, at the call of Morning's light,

May crimson cheeks and radiant eyes,

Lovely as her own, arise.

END OF THE FIRST DAY

Closing Songs

Song Clemenza

Song Eulalia

Song Isabelle 1

Song Isabelle 2

Song Lolotte

Song Amenaïda

Second Day

THE SECOND DAY

Sweet Spirit of delicious Song,

To whom, as of true right, belong

The myriad music notes that swell

From the poet's breathing shell ;

We name thy name, and the heart springs

Up to the lip, as if with wings,

As if thy very motion brought

Snatches of inspired thought.

Is it war ? At once are borne

Words like notes of martial horn.

Is it love ? Comes some sweet tale

Like that of the nightingale.

Is it Nature's lovely face ?

Rise lines touch'd with her own grace.

Is it some bright garden scene ?

There, too, hath the minstrel been,

Linking words of charmed power

With the green leaf and the flower.

Is it woman's loveliness ?

He hath revell’d to excess,

Caught all spells that can beguile

In dark eye or rosy smile.

Is it deed that hath its claim

Upon earth's most holy fame,

Or those kindly feelings sent

But for hearth and home content?

Lofty thought, or counsel sage.

Seek them in the poet's page ;

Laurel, laud, and love belong

To thee, thou Spirit sweet of Song.

Not in courtly hall to-day

Meets the lady's congress gay.

'Tis a bright and summer sky,—

They will bear it company ;

Odours float upon the gale,

Comrades suiting minstrel tale ;

Flowers are spreading, carpet meet

For the beauty's fairy feet.

Shame to stay in marble hall

Thus from Nature's festival.

The garden had one fair resort,

As if devised for minstrel court :

An amphitheatre of trees,

Shut from soft checks the ruder breeze ;

While all around the chestnuts made,

With closing boughs, a pleasant shade,

Where, if a sunbeam wander'd through,

'Twas like the silver fall of dew ;

The middle was an open space

Of softest grass, and those small flowers,

Daisies, whose rose-touch'd leaves retrace

The gold and blush of morning's hours.

To-day the Countess had for throne

An ancient trunk with moss o'ergrown ;

And at her feet, as if from air

A purple cloud had fallen there,

Grew thousand violets, whose sighs

Breathed forth an Eastern sacrifice ;

And, like a canopy, o'erhead

A Provence rose luxuriant spread,

And its white flowers, pale and meek,

Seem'd sisters to the lady's cheek.

And ranged in a graceful order round,

A fairy court upon fairy ground,

Group'd the bright band ; and, like a tent,

Leaves and bloom over all were blent,

Flinging bright colours, but changing fast,

As ever the varying sunbeams pass'd ;

And in the midst grew a myrtle tree,

There was the minstrel's place to be,

And its buds were delicate, frail, and fair,

As the hopes and joys of his own heart are.

Dark was the brow, and the bearing proud,

Of the bard who first stept forth from the crowd ;

A small cloak down from his shoulder hung,

And a light guitar o'er his arm was slung ;

Many a lady's casement had known

The moonlight spell of its magic tone :

But the fire of youth from his cheek had pass'd,

And its hopes and its dreams had faded as fast ;

The romance of his earlier time was over,

The warrior had half forgotten the lover ;

And the light, grew dark in his radiant eyes,

As he told his tale of high emprize.

THE YOUNG AVENGER:

THE SPANISH MINSTREL’S TALE

THE warrior's strength is bow'd by age, the warrior's step is slow,

And the beard upon his breast is white as is the winter snow ;

Yet his eye shines bright, as if not yet its last of fame were won ;

Six sons stand ready in their arms to do as he has done.

" Now take your way, ye LARAS bold, and to the battle ride ;

For loud upon the Christian air are vaunts of Moorish pride :

Your six white steeds stand at the gate ; go forth, and let me see

Who will return the first and bring a Moslem head to me."

Forth they went, six gallant knights, all mail'd from head to heel ;

Is it not death to him who first their fiery strength shall feel ?

They spurr'd their steeds, and on they dash'd, as sweeps the midnight wind ;

While their youngest brother stood and wept that he must stay behind.

“Come here, my child," the father said, " and wherefore dost thou weep ?

The time will come when from the fray naught shall my favourite keep ;

When thou wilt be the first of all amid the hostile spears."

The boy shook back his raven hair, and laugh'd amid his tears.

The sun went down, but lance nor shield reflected back his light ;

The moon rose up, but not a sound broke on the rest of night.

The old man watch'd impatiently, till with morn o'er the plain

There came a sound of horses' feet, there came a martial train.

But gleam'd not back the sunbeam glad from plume or helm of gold,

No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the turban's emerald fold.

A Moorish herald ; six pale heads hung at his saddle-bow,

Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew the lines of each fair brow.

" O ! did they fall by numbers, or did they basely yield ?"

" Not so ; beneath the same bold hand thy children press'd the field.

They died as NOURREDDIN would wish all foes of his should die ;

Small honour does the conquest boast when won from those who fly.

" And thus he saith, ' This was the sword that swept down thy brave band,

Find thou one who can draw it forth in all thy Christian land.'

If from a youth such sorrowing and scathe thou hast endured,

Dread thou to wait for vengeance till his summers are matured."

The aged chieftain took the sword, in vain his hand essay'd

To draw it from its scabbard forth, or poise the heavy blade ;

He flung it to his only child, now sadly standing by.

" Now weep, for here is cause for tears ; alas ! mine own are dry."

Then answer'd proud the noble boy, " My tears last morning came

For weakness of my own right hand ; to shed them now were shame :

I will not do my brothers' names such deep and deadly wrong ;

Brave were they unto death, success can but to God belong."

And years have fled, that boy has sprung unto a goodly height.

And fleet of foot and stout of arm in his old father's light;

Yet breathed he never wish to take in glorious strife his part,

And shame and grief his backwardness was to that father's heart.

Cold, silent, stern, he let time pass, until he rush'd one day,

Where mouming o'er his waste of youth the weary chieftain lay.

Unarm'd he was, but in his grasp he bore a heavy brand,

" My father, I can wield this sword ; now knighthood at thine hand.

For years no hour of quiet sleep upon my eyelids came,

For NOURREDDIN had poison'd all my slumber with his fame.

I have waited for my vengeance ; but now, alive or dead,

I swear to thee by my brothers' graves that thou shall have his head."

It was a glorious sight to see, when those two warriors met :

The one dark as a thunder-cloud, in strength and manhood set ;

The other young and beautiful, with lithe and graceful form,

But terrible as is the flash that rushes through the storm.

And eye to eye, and hand to hand, in deadly strife they stood,

And smoked the ground whereon they fought, hot with their mingled blood ;

Till droop’d the valiant infidel, fainter his blows and few,

While fiercer from the combat still the youthful Christian grew.

NOURREDDIN falls, his sever'd head, it is young LARA’S prize :

But dizzily the field of death floats in the victor's eyes.

His cheek is as his foeman's pale, his white lips gasp for breath :

Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the victory and death.

He raised him on his arm, " My page, come thou and do my will ;

Canst thou not see a turban'd band upon yon distant hill ?

Now strip me of my armour, boy, by yonder river's side,

Place firm this head upon my breast, and fling me on the tide."

That river wash'd his natal halls, its waters bore him on,

Till the moonlight on the hero in his father's presence shone.

The old chief to the body drew, his gallant boy was dead,

But his vow of vengeance had been kept, he bore NOURREDDIN’S head.

-----------------------

'T was sad to gaze on the wan brow

Of him who now awoke the lute,

As one last song life must allow,

Then would those tuneful lips be mute.

His cheek was worn, what was the care

Had writ such early lesson there ?

Was it Love, blighted in its hour

Of earliest and truest power

By worldly chills which ever fling

Their check and damp on young Love's wing ;

Or unrequited, while the heart

Could not from its fond worship part !

Or was it but the wasting woe

Which every human path must know ;

Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain,

And seeking not their ark again ;

Friends in their very love unjust,

Or faithless to our utmost trust ;

Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard ;

Or fame, that is its own reward

Or has no other, and is worn

'Mid envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn ?

All these ills had that young bard known,

And they had laid his funeral stone.

Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd,

As thus the minstrel sung his last.

Continued

Young Avenger