THE POETICAL WORKS LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. THE IMPROVISATRICE. try Cha* Heath . Tcserru'>iter i THE POETICAL WORKS OF LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, IN FOUR VOLUMES. A NEW EDITION. VOLUME I. THE IMPROVISATRICE. LONDON : PRINTFD FOR LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1839. - -- - . ----- PR LONDON: PRINTED BY MANNING AND MASON, IVY LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW. ADVERTISEMENT. POETRY needs no Preface : if it do not speak for itself, no comment can render it ex- plicit. I have only, therefore, to state that The Improvisatrice is an attempt to illustrate that species of inspiration common in Italy, where the mind is warmed from earliest childhood by all that is beautiful in Nature and glorious in Art. The character depicted is entirely Italian, a young female with all the loveliness, vivid feeling, and genius of her own impassioned land. She is supposed to relate her own history ; with which are intermixed the tales and episodes which various circumstances call forth. Some of the minor Poems have appeared in The Literary Gazette. L. E. L. CONTENTS. THE IMPROV1SATRICE 1 TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ROSALIE ......... 109 ROLAND'S TOWER . . . . . . .129 THE GUERILLA CHIEF . . . . . . .143 THE BAYADERE . . . . . . .155 ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL . . . . . .179 THE DESERTER . : * . . . .165 GLADESMUIR . . . . . . . .193 THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL ..... 204 THE BASQUE GIRL AND HENRI QUATRE . * 212 THE SAILOR . . . . . . ^ . . 219 THE COVENANTERS . . . . . .227 FRAGMENTS THE SOLDIER'S FDJfERAL . . . . . .237 LINES WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF A GIRL BURNING A LOVE-LETTER ...... 240 ARION, A TALE ....... 242 V1U CONTENTS. Page MANMAD1N, THE INDIAN CPPID, FLOATING DOW5 THE THE FEMALE CONVICT ...... . 258 THE PAINTER'S LOVE ...... . 262 INEZ ........ . 271 THE OAK .'.... 4 4 . 282 . 284 CHANGE ....... . 286 THE GREY CROSS ...... . 289 CRESCENTIUS ....... . 201 ON A STAR ...... 4 . 295 HOME ..:..... . 297 THE EMERALD RING: A SUPERSTITION . 209 LOVE ........ . 301 LOVE, HOPE, AND BEAUTY . ... . 303 THE CRUSADER ...... . 904 THE WARRIOR: A SKKTCII ..... . 308 BALLADS. THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE ...... 319 SONG OF THE HUNTER'S BRIDE ..... 322 WHEN SHOULD LOVER'S BREATHE THEIR VOWS * . . 325 THE IMPROVISATRICE. I AM a daughter of that land, Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand Are most divine, where the earth and sky, Are picture both and poetry I am of Florence. 'Mid the chill Of hope and feeling, oh ! I still Am proud to think to where I owe My birth, though but the dawn of woe ! B THE IMPROVISATRICE. My childhood passed 'mid radiant things, Glorious as Hope's imaginings ; Statues but known from shapes of the earth, By being too lovely for mortal birth ; Paintings whose colours of life were caught From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrought ; Music whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening's close ; Language so silvery, that every word Was like the lute's awakening chord ; Skies half sunshine, and half starlight ; Flowers whose lives were a breath of delight ; Leaves whose green pomp knew no withering ; Fountains bright as the skies of our spring ; And songs whose wild and passionate line Suited a soul of romance like mine. THE IMPROVISATRICE. My power was but a woman's power ; Yet, in that great and glorious dower Which Genius gives, I had my part : I poured my full and burning heart In song, and on the canvass made My dreams of beauty visible ; 1 knew not which I loved the most Pencil or lute, both loved so well. Oh, yet my pulse throbs to recall, When first upon the gallery's wall Picture of mine was placed, to share Wonder and praise from each one there ! Sad were my shades ; methinks they had Almost a tone of prophecy I ever had, from earliest youth, A feeling what my fate would be. B 2 THE IMPROVISATRICB. My first was of a gorgeous hall, Lighted up for festival ; Braided tresses, and cheeks of bloom, Diamond agraff, and foam-white plume ; Censers of roses, vases of light, Like what the moon sheds on a summer night. Youths and maidens with linked hands, Joined in the graceful sarabands, Smiled on the canvass ; but apart Was one who leant in silent mood, As revelry to his sick heart Were worse than veriest solitude. Pale, dark-eyed, beautiful, and young, Such as he had shone o'er my slumbers, When I had only slept to dream Over again his magic numbers. THE IMPROVISATRICE. Divinest Petrarch ! he whose lyre, Like morning light, half dew, half fire, To Laura and to love was vowed He looked on one, who with the crowd Mingled, but mixed not ; on whose cheek There was a blush, as if she knew Whose look was fixed on her's. Her eye, Of a spring-sky's delicious blue, Had not the language of that bloom, But mingling tears, and light, and gloom, Was raised abstractedly to Heaven : No sign was to her lover given. I painted her with golden tresses, Such as float on the wind's caresses When the laburnums wildly fling Their sunny blossoms to the spring, THE IMPROV1SATRICE. A cheek which had the crimson hue Upon the sun touched nectarine ; A lip of perfume and of dew ; A brow like twilight's darkened line. I strove to catch each charm that long Has lived, thanks to her lover's song ! Each grace he numbered one by one, That shone in her of Avignon. I ever thought that poet's fate Utterly lone and desolate. It is the spirit's bitterest pain To love, to be beloved again ; And yet between a gulf which ever The hearts that burn to meet must sever. And he was vowed to one sweet star, Bright yet to him, but bright afar. THE IMPROV1SATRICE. O'er some, Love's shadow may but pass As passes the breath-stain o'er glass ; And pleasures, cares, and pride combined, Fill up the blank Love leaves behind. But there are some whose love is high, Entire, and sole idolatry ; Who, turning from a heartless world, Ask some dear thing, which may renew Affection's severed links, and .be As true as they themselves are true. But Love's bright fount is never pure ; And all his pilgrims must endure All passion's mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring. And some who waste their lives to find A prize which they may never win : THE IMPROVISATRICE. Like those who search for Irem's groves, Which found, they may not enter in. Where is the sorrow but appears In Love's long catalogue of tears ? And some there are who leave the path In agony and fierce disdain ; But bear upon each cankered breast The scar that never heals again. My next was of a minstrel too, Who proved what woman's hand might do, When, true to the heart pulse, it woke The harp. Her head was bending down, As if in weariness, and near, But unworn, was a laurel crown. She was not beautiful, if bloom And smiles form beauty ; for, like death, THE IMPRO^ISATRICE. Her brow was ghastly ; and her lip Was parched, as fever were its breath. There was a shade upon her dark, Large, floating eyes, as if each spark Of minstrel ecstasy was fled, Yet leaving them no tears to shed ; Fixed in their hopelessness of care, And reckless in their great despair. She sat beneath a cypress tree, A little fountain ran beside, And, in the distance, one dark rock Threw its long shadow o'er the tide And to the west, where the nightfall Was darkening day's gemm'd coronal, Its white shafts crimsoning in the sky, Arose the sun-god's sanctuary. THE IMPR'OVISATRICE. I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love She was a long, last farewell taking ; That, from her pale and parched lips, Her latest, wildest song was breaking. SAPPHO'S SONG. FAREWELL, my lute ! and would that I Had never waked thy burning chords ! Poison has been upon thy sigh, And fever has breathed in thy words. Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute ? I should have been the wretch I am, Had every chord of thine been mute. It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong THE IMPROV1SATRICE. 11 It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song. If song be past, and hope undone, And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame ; It is thy work, thou faithless one ! But, no ! I will not name thy name ! Sun-god ! lute, wreath are vowed to thee ! Long be their light upon my grave My glorious grave yon deep blue sea : I shall sleep calm beneath its wave ! FLORENCE ! with what idolatry I've lingered in thy radiant halls, Worshipping, till my dizzy eye Grew dim with gazing on those walls, 12 THE IMPROV1SATRICE. Where Time had spared each glorious gift By Genius unto Memory left ! And when seen by the pale moonlight, More pure, more perfect, though less bright, What dreams of song flashed on my brain, Till each shade seemed to live again ; And then the beautiful, the grand, The glorious of my native land, In every flower that threw its veil Aside, when wooed by the spring gale ; In every vineyard, where the sun, His task of summer ripening done, Shone on their clusters, and a song Came lightly from the peasant throng ; In the dim loveliness of night, In fountains with their diamond light, THE IMPROVISATRICE. 13 Iii aged temple, ruined shrine, And its green wreath of ivy twine ; In every change of earth and sky, Breathed the deep soul of poesy. As yet I loved not ; but each wild, High thought I nourished raised a pyre For love to light ; and lighted once By love, it would be like the fire The burning lava floods that dwell In Etna's cave unquenchable. One evening in the lovely June, Over the Arno's waters gliding, I had been watching the fair moon Amid her court of white clouds riding : 14 THE IMPROVISATRICE. I had been listening to the gale, Which wafted music from around, (For scarce a lover, at that hour, But waked his mandolin's light sound.) And odour was upon the breeze, Sweet thefts from rose and lemon trees. They stole me from my lulling dream, And said they knew that such an hour Had ever influence on my soul, And raised my sweetest minstrel power. I took my lute, my eye had been Wandering round the lovely scene, Filled with those melancholy tears, Which come when all most bright appears, THE IMPROVISATRICE. And hold their strange and secret power, Even on pleasure's golden hour. I had been looking on the river,, Half-marvelling to think that ever Wind, wave, or sky, could darken where All seemed so gentle and so fair : And mingled with these thoughts there came A tale, just one that Memory keeps Forgotten music, till some chance Vibrate the chord whereon it sleeps ! A MOORISH ROMANCE. SOFTLY through the pomegranate groves Came the gentle song of the doves ; Shone the fruit in the evening light, Like Indian rubies, blood-red and bright ; 15 16 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Shook the date-trees each tufted head, As the passing wind their green nuts shed ; And, like dark columns, amid the sky The giant palms ascended on high : And the mosque's gilded minaret Glistened and glanced as the daylight set. Over the town a crimson haze Gathered and hung of the evening's rays ; And far beyond, like molten gold, The burning sands of the desert rolled. Far to the left, the sky and sea Mingled their gray immensity ; And with flapping sail and idle prow The vessels threw their shades below Far down the beach, where a cypress grove Casts its shade round a little cove, THE IMPROVISATR1CE. 17 Darkling and green, with just a space For the stars to shine on the water's face, A small bark lay, waiting for night And its breeze to waft and hide its flight. Sweet is the burthen, and lovely the freight, For which those furled-up sails await, To a garden, fair as those Where the glory of the rose Blushes, charmed from the decay That wastes other blooms away ; Gardens of the fairy tale Told, till the wood-fire grows pale, By the Arab tribes, when night, With its dim and lovely light, And its silence, suiteth well With the magic tales they tell. 18 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Through that cypress avenue, Such a garden meets the view, Filled with flowers flowers that seem Lighted up by the sunbeam ; Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves Green as hope before it grieves O'er the false and broken-hearted, All with which its youth has parted, Never to return again, Save in memories of pain ! There is a white rose in yon bower, But holds it a yet fairer flower : And music from that cage is breathing, Round which a jasmine braid is wreathing, THE IMPROVISATRICE. A low song from a lonely dove, A song such exiles sing and love, Breathing of fresh fields, summer skies, Not to be breathed of but in sighs ! But fairer smile and sweeter sigh Are near when LEILA'S step is nigh ! With eyes dark as the midnight time, Yet lighted like a summer clime With sun-rays from within ; yet now Lingers a cloud upon that brow, Though never lovelier brow was given To Houri of an Eastern heaven ! Her eye is dwelling on that bower, As every leaf and every flower Were being numbered in her heart ; There are no looks like those which dwell c 2 20 THE IMPROVISATR1CE. On long-remembered things, which soon Must take our first and last farewell ! Day fades apace : another day, That maiden will be far away, A wanderer o'er the dark-blue sea, And bound for lovely Italy, Her mother's land ! Hence, on her breast The cross beneath a Moorish vest ; And hence those sweetest sounds, that seem . Like music murmuring in u dream, When in our sleeping ear is ringing The song the nightingale is singing ; When by that white and funeral stone, Half-hidden by the cypress gloom, THE IMPROVISATRICE. 21 The hymn the mother taught her child Is sung each evening at her tomb. But quick the twilight time has past, Like one of those sweet calms that last A moment and no more, to cheer The turmoil of our pathway here. The bark is waiting in the bay, Night darkens round : LEILA, away ! Far, ere to-morrow, o'er the tide, Or wait and be ABDALLA'S bride ? She touched her lute never again Her ear will listen to its strain ! She took her cage, first kissed the breast Then freed the white dove prisoned there : 22 THE IMPROVISATRICE. It paused one moment on her hand, Then spread its glad wings to the air. She drank the breath, as it were health, That sighed from every scented blossom ; And taking from each one a leaf, Hid them, like spells, upon her bosom. Then sought the sacred path again She once before had traced, when lay A Christian in her father's chain ; And gave him gold, and taught the way To fly. She thought upon the night, When, like an angel of the light, She stood before the prisoner's sight, And led him to the cypress grove, And showed the bark and hidden cove ; THE IMPROVISATRICE. And bade the wandering captive flee, In words he knew from infancy ! And then she thought how for her love He had braved slavery and death, That he might only breathe the air Made sweet and sacred by her breath. She reached the grove of cypresses Another step is by her side : Another moment, and the bark Bears the fair Moor across the tide ! 'Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight, To mark her eyes, now dark, now bright, As now they met, now shrank away, From the gaze that watched and worshipped their day. 24 THE IMPROVISATRICE. They stood on the deck, and the midnight gale Just waved the maiden's silver veil Just lifted a curl, as if to show The cheek of rose that was burning below : And never spread a sky of blue More clear for the stars to wander through ! And never could their mirror be A calmer or a lovelier sea ! For every wave was a diamond gleam : And that light vessel well may seem A fairy ship, and that graceful pair Young Genii, whose home was of light and air ! Another evening came, but dark ; The storm clouds hovered round the bark THE IMPROVISATRICE. 25 Of misery : they just could see The distant shore of Italy, As the dim moon through vapours shone A few short rays, her light was gone. O'er head a sullen scream was heard, As sought the land the white sea-bird, Her pale wings like a meteor streaming. Upon the waves a light is gleaming Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death To light the night-black depths beneath. The vessel rolled amid the surge ; The winds howled round it, like a dirge Sung by some savage race. Then came The rush of thunder and of flame : It showed two forms upon the deck, One clasped around the other's neck, 26 THE IMPROVISATRICE. As there she could not dream of fear In her lover's arms could danger be near ? He stood and watched her with the eye Of fixed and silent agony. The waves swept on : he felt her heart Beat closer and closer yet to his ! They burst upon the ship ! the sea Has closed upon their dream of bliss ! Surely theirs is a pleasant sleep Beneath that ancient cedar tree, Whose solitary stem has stood For years alone beside the sea ! The last of a most noble race, That once had there their dwelling-place, THE IMPROVISATRICE. 27 Long past away ! Beneath its shade, A soft green couch the turf had made : And glad the morning sun is shining On those beneath the boughs reclining. Nearer the fisher drew. He saw The dark hair of the Moorish maid, Like a veil, floating o'er the breast Where tenderly her head was laid ; And yet her lover's arm was placed Clasping around the graceful waist ; But then he marked the youth's black curls Were dripping wet with foam and blood ; And that the maiden's tresses dark Were heavy with the briny flood ! Woe for the wind ! woe for the wave ! They sleep the slumber of the grave ! THE IMPROVISATR1CE. They buried them beneath that tree ; It long had been a sacred spot. Soon it was planted round with flowers By many who had not. forgot ; Or yet lived in those dreams of truth The Eden birds of early youth, That make the loveliness of love : And called the place " THE MAIDEN'S COVE,"- That she who perished in the sea Might thus be kept in memory. FROM many a lip came sounds of praise, Like music from sweet voices ringing ; For many a boat had gathered round, To list the song I had been singing. There are some moments in our fate That stamp the colour of our days ; THE IMPROVISATRICE. As, till then, life had not been felt, And mine was sealed in the slight gaze Which fixed my eye, and fired my brain, And bowed my heart beneath the chain. 'Twas a dark and flashing eye, Shadows, too, that tenderly, With almost female softness, came O'er its mingled gloom and flame. His cheek was pale ; or toil, or care, Or midnight study, had been there, Making its young colours dull, Yet leaving it most beautiful. Raven curls their shadow threw, Like the twilight's darkening hue, O'er the pure and mountain snow Of his high and haughty brow : 29 30 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Lighted by a smile, whose spell Words are powerless to tell. Such a lip ! oh, poured from thence Lava floods of eloquence Would come with fiery energy, Like those words that cannot die. Words the Grecian warrior spoke When the Persian's chain he broke ; Or that low and honey tone, Making woman's heart his own ; Such as should be heard at night, In the dim and sweet starlight ; Sounds that haunt a beauty's sleep, Treasures for her heart to keep. Like the pine of summer tall ; Apollo, on his pedestal THE IMPROVISATRICE. 31 In our own gallery, never bent More graceful, more magnificent ; Ne'er look'd the hero, or the king, More nobly than the youth who now, As if soul-centred in my song, Was leaning on a galley's prow. He spoke not when the others spoke, His heart was all too full for praise ; But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine, Which sank beneath their burning gaze. Mine sank but yet I felt the thrill Of that look burning on me still. I heard no word that others said Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh. My hand kept wandering on my lute, In music, but unconsciously 32 THE IMPROVISATRICE. My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high, A flush of dizzy ecstasy Crimsoned my cheek ; I felt warm tears Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet, My wild heart's most bewildering beat, Consciousness, without hopes or fears, Of a new power within me waking, Like light before the morn's full breaking. I left the boat the crowd : my mood Made my soul pant for solitude. Amid my palace halls was one, The most peculiarly my own : The roof was blue and fretted gold, The floor was of the Parian stone, Shining like snow, as only meet For the light tread of fairy feet ; THE IMPROVISATRICE. And in the midst, beneath a shade Of clustered rose, a fountain played, Sprinkling its scented waters round, With a sweet and lulling sound, O'er oranges, like Eastern gold, Half hidden by the dark green fold Of their large leaves ; o'er hyacinth bells, Where every summer odour dwells, And, nestled in the midst, a pair Of white wood-doves, whose home was there : And like an echo to their song, At times a murmur past along ; A dying tone, a plaining fall, So sad, so wild, so musical As the wind swept across the wire, And waked my lone ^olian lyre, 34 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Which lay upon the casement, where The lattice wooed the cold night air, Half hidden by a bridal twine Of jasmine with the emerald vine. And ever as the curtains made A varying light, a changeful shade, As the breeze waved them to and fro, Came on the eye the glorious show Of pictured walls where landscape wild Of wood, and stream, or mountain piled, Or sunny vale, or twilight grove, Or shapes whose every look was love ; Saints, whose diviner glance seemed caught From Heaven, some whose earthlier thought Was yet more lovely, shone like gleams Of Beauty's spirit seen in dreams. THE IMPROV1SATR1CE. I threw me on a couch to rest, Loosely I flung my long black hair ; It seemed to soothe my troubled breast To drink the quiet evening air. I looked upon the deep-blue sky, And it was all hope and harmony. Afar I could see the Arno's stream Glorying in the clear moonbeam ; And the shadowy city met my gaze, Like the dim memory of other days ; And the distant wood's black coronal Was like oblivion, that covereth all. I know not why my soul felt sad ; I touched my lute, it would not waken, Save to old songs of sorrowing Of hope betrayed of hearts forsaken u 2 36 36 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Each lay of lighter feeling slept, I sang, but, as I sang, I wept. THE CHARMED CUP. AND fondly round his neck she clung ; Her long black tresses round him flung, Love chains, which would not let him part And he could feel her beating heart, The pulses of her small white hand, The tears she could no more command, The lip which trembled, though near his ; The sigh that mingled with her kiss ; Yet parted he from that embrace. He cast one glance upon her face : His very soul felt sick to see Its look of utter misery ; THE IMPROVISATRICE. 37 Yet turned he not ; one moment's grief, One pang, like lightning, fierce and brief, One thought, half pity, half remorse, Passed o'er him. On he urged his horse ; Hill, ford, and valley spurred he by, And when his castle-gate was nigh, White foam was on his 'broider'd rein, And each spur had a blood-red stain. But soon he entered that fair hall : His laugh was loudest there of all ; And the cup that wont one name to bless, Was drained for its forgetfulness. The ring, once next his heart, was broken ; The gold chain kept another token. Where is the curl he used to wear The raven tress of silken hair ? 38 THE IMPROVISATRICE. The winds have scattered it. A braid Of the first spring day's golden shade, Waves with the dark plumes on his crest. Fresh colours are upon his breast : The slight blue scarf, of simplest fold, Is changed for one of woven gold. And he is by a maiden's side, Whose gems of price, and robes of pride, Would suit the daughter of a king ; And diamonds are glistening Upon her arm. There's not one curl Unfastened by a loop of pearl. And he is whispering in her ear Soft words that ladies love to hear. Alas ! the tale is quickly told His love hath felt the curse of gold ! THE IMPROVISATRICE. 39 And he is bartering his heart For that in which it hath no part. There's many an ill that clings to love ; But this is one all else above ; For love to bow before the name Of this world's treasure : shame ! oh, shame ! Love, be thy wings as light as those That waft the zephyr from the rose, This may be pardoned something rare In loveliness has been thy snare ! But how, fair Love, canst thou become A thing of mines a sordid gnome ? And she whom JULIAN left she stood A cold white statue ; as the blood Had, when in vain her last wild prayer, Flown to her heart, and frozen there. 40 THE 1MPROVISATRICE. Upon her temple, ea<:h dark vein Swelled in its agouy of pain. Chill, heavy damps were on her brow ; Her arms were stretched at length, though now Their clasp was on the empty air : A funeral pall her long black hair Fell over her ; herself the tomb Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom. Alas ! that man should ever win So sweet a shrine to shame and sin As woman's heart ! and deeper woe For her fond weakness, not to know That yielding all but breaks the chain That never reunites again ! THE IMPROVISATRICE. It was a dark and tempest night No pleasant moon, no blest starlight ; But meteors glancing o'er the way, Only to dazzle and betray. And who is she that, 'mid the storm, Wraps her slight mantle round her form ? Her hair is wet with rain and sleet, And blood is on her small snow feet. She has been forced a way to make Through prickly weed and thorned brake, Up rousing from its coil the snake ; And stirring from their damp abode The slimy worm and loathsome toad : And shuddered as she heard the gale Shriek like an evil spirit's wail ; 41 42 THE IMPROVISATRICE. When followed, like a curse, the crash Of the pines in the lightning flash : A place of evil and of fear Oh ! what can JULIAN'S love do here ? On, on the pale girl went. At last The gloomy forest depths are past, And she has reached the wizard's den, Accursed by God and shunned by men. And never had a ban been laid Upon a more unwholesome shade. There grew dank elders, and the yew Its thick sepulchral shadow threw ; And brooded there each bird most foul, The gloomy bat and sullen owl. THE IMPROVISATRICE. But IDA entered in the cell, Where dwelt the wizard of the dell. Her heart lay dead, her life-blood froze To look upon the shape which rose To bar her entrance. On that face Was scarcely left a single trace Of human likeness : the parched skin Showed each discoloured bone within ; And, but for the most evil stare Of the wild eyes' unearthly glare, It was a corpse, you would have said, From which life's freshness long had fled. Yet IDA knelt her down and prayed To that dark sorcerer for his aid. He heard her prayer with withering look ; Then from unholy herbs he took 43 44 THE IMPROVISATRICE. A drug, and said it would recover The lost heart of her faithless lover. She trembled as she turned to see His demon sneer's malignity ; And every step was winged with dread, To hear the curse howled as she fled. It is the purple twilight hour, And JULIAN is in IDA'S bower. He has brought gold, as gold could bless His work of utter desolateness ! He has brought gems, as if Despair Had any pride in being fair ! But IDA only wept, and wreathed Her white arms round his neck ; then breathed THE IMPROVISATRICE. 45 Those passionate complaints that wring A woman's heart, yet never bring Redress. She called upon each tree To witness her lone constancy ! She called upon the silent boughs, The temple of her JULIAN'S vows Of happiness too dearly bought ! Then wept again. At length she thought Upon the forest-sorcerer's gift The last, lone hope that love had left ! She took the cup, and kissed the brim, Mixed the dark spell, and gave it him To pledge his once dear IDA'S name ! He drank it. Instantly the flame Ran through his veins : one fiery throb Of bitter pain one gasping sob 46 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Of agony the cold death-sweat Is on his face his teeth are set His bursting eyes are glazed and still : The drug has done its work of ill. Alas ! for her who watched each breath, The cup her love had mixed bore death. LORENZO ! when next morning came For the first time I heard thy name ! LORENZO ! how each ear-pulse drank The more than music of that tone ! LORENZO ! how I sighed that name, As breathing it, made it mine own ! THE IMPROVISATRICE. 47 I sought the gallery : I was wont To pass the noontide there, and trace Some statue's shape of loveliness Some saint, some nymph, or muse's face. There, in my rapture, I could throw My pencil and its hues aside, And, as the vision past me, pour My song of passion, joy, and pride. And he was there, LORENZO there ! How soon the morning past away, With finding beauties in each thing Neither had seen before that day ! Spirit of Love ! soon thy rose-plumes wear The weight and the sully of canker and care : Falsehood is round thee ; Hope leads thee on, Till every hue from thy pinion is gone. 48 THE IMPROVISATRICE. But one bright moment is all thine own, The one ere thy visible presence is known ; When, like the wind of the south, thy power, Sunning the heavens, sweetening the flower, Is felt but not seen. Thou art sweet and calm As the sleep of a child, as the dew-fall of balm. Fear has not darkened thee ; Hope has not made The blossoms expand, it but opens to fade. Nothing is known of those wearing fears Which will shadow the light of thy after years. Then art thou bliss : but once throw by The veil which .shrouds thy divinity ; Stand confessed, and thy quiet is fled ! Wild flashes of rapture may come instead, But pain will be with them. What may restore The gentle happiness known before ? THE IMPROVISATRICE. 49 I owned not to myself I loved, No word of love LORENZO breathed ; But I lived in a magic ring, Of every pleasant flower wreathed. A brighter blue was on the sky, A sweeter breath in music's sigh ; The orange shrubs all seemed to bear Fruit more rbh, and buds more fair. There was a glory on the noon, A beauty in the crescent moon, A lulling stillness in the night, A feeling in the pale starlight. There was a charmed note on the wind, A spell in Poetry's deep store Heart-uttered words, passionate thoughts, Which I had never marked before. E 50 THE tMPROVISATRICE. 'Twas as my heart's full happiness Poured over all its own excess. One night there was a gorgeous feast For maskers in COUNT LEON'S hall ; And all of gallant, fair, and young, Were bidden to the festival. I went, garbed as a Hindoo girl ; Upon each arm an amulet, And by my side a little lute Of sandal-wood with gold beset. And shall I own that I was proud To hear, amid the gazing crowd, A murmur of delight, when first My mask and veil I threw aside ? For well my conscious cheek betrayed Whose eye was gazing on me too ! THE TMPROVISATRICE. 51 And never yet had praise been dear, As on that evening, to mine ear, LORENZO ! I was proud to be Worshipped and flattered but for thee ! THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG. PLAYFUL and wild as the fire-flies' light, This moment hidden, the next moment bright, Like the foam on the dark-green sea, Is the spell that is laid on my lover by me. Were your sigh as sweet as the sumbal's sigh, When the wind of the evening is nigh ; Were your smile like that glorious light, Seen when the stars gem the deep midnight ; Were that sigh and that smile for ever the same They were shadows, not fuel, to love's dulled flame. E 2 52 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Love once formed an amulet, With pearls, and a rainbow, and rose-leaves set. The pearls were pure as pearls could be, And white as maiden purity ; The rose had the beauty and breath of soul, And the rainbow-changes crowned the whole. Frown on your lover one little while, Dearer will be the light of your smile ; Let yoUr blush, laugh, and sigh ever mingle together. Like the bloom, sun, and clouds of the sweet spring weather. Love never must sleep in security, Or most calm and cold will his waking be. And as that light strain died away, Again I swept the breathing strings : THE 1MPROVISATRICE. 53 But now the notes I waked were sad As those the pining wood-dove sings. THE INDIAN BRIDE. SHE has lighted her lamp, and crowned it with flowers, The sweetest that breathed of the summer hours ; Red and white roses linked in a band, Like a maiden's blush, or a maiden's hand ; Jasmines, some like silver spray, Some like gold in the morning ray ; Fragrant stars, and favourites they, When Indian girls, on a festival-day, Braid their dark tresses : and over all weaves The rosy-bower of lotus leaves Canopy suiting the lamp-lighted bark, Love's own flowers, and Love's own ark. 54 THE IMPROVISATRICE. She watched the sky, the sunset grew dim ; She raised to CAMDEO her evening hymn. The scent of the night-flowers came on the air ; And then, like a bird escaped from the snare, She flew to the river (no moon was bright, But the stars and the fire-flies gave her their light ;) She stood beneath the mangoes' shade, Half delighted and half afraid ; She trimmed the lamp, and breathed on each bloom, (Oh, that breath was sweeter than all their per- fume !) Threw spices and oil on the spire of flame, Called thrice on her absent lover's name ; And every pulse throbbed as she gave Her little boat to the Ganges' wave. THE IMPROVISATRICE. 55 There are a thousand fanciful things Linked round the young heart's imaginings. In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower Is gifted then with a spell and a power : A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign, From which the maiden can well divine Passion's whole history. Those only can tell Who have loved as young hearts can love so well, How the pulses will beat, and the cheek will be dyed, When they have some love-augury tried. Oh, it is not for those whose feelings are cold, Withered by care, or blunted by gold ; Whose brows have darkened with many years, To feel again youth's hopes and fears 56 THE IMPROVISATRICE. What they now might blush to confess, Yet what made their spring-day's happiness ! ZAIDE watched her flower-built vessel glide, Mirrored beneath on the deep-blue tide ; Lovely and lonely, scented and bright, Like Hope's own bark, all bloom and light. There's not one breath of wind on the air, The heavens are cloudless, the waters are fair, No dew is falling : yet woe to that shade ! The maiden is weeping her lamp has decayed Hark to the ring of the cymetar ! It tells that the soldier returns from afar. Down from the mountains the warriors come : Hark to the thunder-roll of the drum ! THE IMPROVISATRICE. 57 To the startling voice of the trumpet's call ! To the cymbal's clash ! to the atabal ! The banners of crimson float in the sun, The warfare is ended, the battle is won. The mother hath taken the child from her breast, Arid raised it to look on its father's crest. The pathway is lined, as the bands pass along, With maidens, who meet them with flowers and song. And ZAIDE hath forgotten in AZIM'S arms All her so false lamp's falser alarms. This looks not a bridal, the singers are mute, Still is the mandore, and breathless the lute ; Yet there the bride sits. Her dark hair is bound, And the robe of her marriage floats white on the ground. Oh ! where is the lover, the bridegroom ? oh ! where ? Look under yon black pall the bridegroom is there ! 58 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Yet the guests are all bidden, the feast is the same, And the bride plights her troth amid smoke and 'mid flame ! They have raised the death-pyre of sweet-scented wood, And sprinkled it o'er with the sacred flood Of the Ganges. The priests are assembled : their song Sinks deep on the ear as they bear her along, That bride of the dead. Ay, is not this love ? That one pure, wild feeling all others above : Vowed to the living, and kept to the tomb ! The same in its blight as it was in its bloom. With no tear in her eye, and no change in her smile Young ZAIDE had come nigh to the funeral pile. The bells of the dancing-girls ceased from their sound ; Silent they stood by that holiest mound. THE IMPROVISATRICE. 59 From a crowd like the sea-waves there came not a breath . When the maiden stood by the place of death ! One moment was given the last she might spare ! To the mother, who stood in her weeping there. She took the jewels that shone on her hand ; She took from her dark hair its flowery band, And scattered them round. At once they raise The hymn of rejoicing and love in her praise. A prayer is muttered, a blessing said, Her torch is raised ! she is by the dead. She has fired the pile ! At once there came A mingled rush of smoke and of flame : The wind swept it off. They saw the bride, Laid by her AZIM, side by side. The breeze had spread the long curls of her hair : Like a banner of fire they played on the air. 60 THE 1MPROVISATRICE. The smoke and the flame gathered round as before, Then cleared ; but the bride was seen no more. I heard the words of praise, but not The one voice that I paused to hear ; And other sounds to me were like A tale poured in a sleeper's ear. Where was LORENZO ? He had stood Spell-bound ; but when I closed the lay, As if the charm ceased with the song, He darted hurriedly away. 1 masqued again, and wandered on Through many a gay and gorgeous room ; What with sweet waters, sweeter flowers, The air was heavy with perfume, THE IMPROVJSATRICE. 61 The harp was echoing the lute, Soft voices answered to the flute, And, like rills in the noontide clear, Beneath the flame-hung gondolier, Shone mirrors peopled with the shades Of stately youths and radiant maids ; And on the ear in whispers came Those winged words of soul and flame, Breathed in the dark-eyed beauty's ear By some young love-touched cavalier ; Or mixed at times some sound more gay, Of dance, or laugh, or roundelay. Oh, it is sickness at the heart To bear in revelry its part, And yet feel bursting : not one thing Which has part in its suffering, 62 THE IMPROVISATRICE. The laugh as glad, the step as light, The song as sweet, the glance as bright ; As the laugh, step, and glance, and song, Did to young happiness belong. I turned me from the crowd, and reached A spot which seemed unsought by all An alcove filled with shrubs and flowers, But lighted by the distant hall, With one or two fair statues placed, Like deities of the sweet shrine. That human art should ever frame Such shapes so utterly divine ! A deep sigh breathed, I knew the tone ; My cheek blushed warm, my heart beat high THE IMPROVTSATRICE. 63 One moment more I too was known, - I shrank before LORENZO'S eye. He leant beside a pedestal. The glorious brow, of Parian stone, Of the Antinous, by his side, Was not more noble than his own ! They were alike : he had the same Thick-clustering curls the Roman wore The fixed and melancholy eye The smile which passed like lightning o'er The curved lip. We did not speak, But the heart breathed upon each cheek ; We looked round with those wandering looks, Which seek some object for their gaze, As if each other's glance was like The too much light of morning's rays 64 THE IMPROVISATRICE. I saw a youth beside me kneel ; I heard my name in music steal ; I felt my hand trembling in his ; Another moment, and his kiss Had burnt upon it ; when, like thought, So swift it past, my hand was thrown Away, as if in sudden pain. LORENZO like a dream had flown ! We did not meet again : he seemed To shun each spot where I might be : And, it was said, another claimed The heart more than the world to me ! 1 loved him as young Genius loves, When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light, The love, the life, by passion given. THE IMPROVISATRICE. 65 I loved him, too, as woman loves Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : Life had no evil destiny That, with him, I could not have borne ! I had been nurst in palaces ; Yet earth had not a spot so drear, That I should not have thought a home, In Paradise, had he been near ! How sweet it would have been to dwell, Apart from all, in some green dell Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers ; And nestling birds to sing the hours ! Our home, beneath some chesnut's shade, But of the woven branches made : Our vesper hymn, the low, lone wail The rose hears from the nightingale ; 66 THE IMPROVISATR1CE. And waked at morning by the call Of music from a waterfall. But not alone in dreams like this, Breathed in the very hope of bliss, I loved : my love had been the same In hushed despair, in open shame. I would have rather been a slave, In tears, in bondage, by hrs side, Than shared in all, if wanting him, This world had power to give beside ! My heart was withered, and my heart Had ever been the world to me ; And love had been the first fond dream, Whose life was in reality. I had sprung from my solitude Like a young bird upon the wing THE IMPROVISATRICE. To meet the arrow ; so I met My poisoned shaft of suffering. And as that bird, with drooping crest And broken wing, will seek his nest, But seek in vain ; so vain I sought My pleasant home of song and thought. There was one spell upon my brain, Upon my pencil, on my strain ; But one face to my colours came; My chords replied but to one name LORENZO ! all seemed vowed to thee, To passion, and to misery ! I had no interest in the things That once had been like life, or light ; No tale was pleasant to mine ear, No song was sweet, no picture bright. F 2 67 68 THE IMPROVISATRICE. I was wild with my great distress, My lone, my utter hopelessness ! I would sit hours by the side Of some clear rill, and mark it glide, Bearing my tears along, till night Came with dark hours ; and soft starlight Watch o'er its shadowy beauty keeping, Till I grew calm : then I would take The lute, which had all day been sleeping Upon a cypress tree, and wake The echoes of the midnight air With words that love wrung from despair. SONG. FAREWELL ! we shall not meet again As we are parting now! THE IMPROVISATRICE. I must my beating heart restrain Must veil my burning brow ! Oh, I must coldly learn to hide One thought, all else above Must call upon my woman's pride To hide my woman's love ! Check dreams I never may avow ; Be free, be careless, cold as thou ! Oh ! those are tears of bitterness, Wrung from the breaking heart, When two, blest in their tenderness Must learn to live apart ! But what are they to that long sigh, That cold and fixed despair, That weight of wasting agony It must be mine to bear ? 70 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Methinks I should not thus repine, If I had but one vow of thine. I could forgive inconstancy To be one moment loved by thee ! With me the hope of life is gone The sun of joy is set ; One wish my soul still dwells upon The wish it could forget. I would forget that look, that tone, My heart hath all too dearly known. But who could ever yet efface From memory love's enduring trace ? All may revolt, all may complain But who is there may break the chain ? Farewell ! I shall not be to thee More than a passing thought ; THE IMPROV1SATRICE. 71 But every time and place will be With thy remembrance fraught ! Farewell ! we have not often met We may not meet again ; But on my heart the seal is set Love never sets in vain ! Fruitless as constancy may be, No chance, no change, may turn from thee One who has loved thee wildly, well But whose first love-vow breathed farewell ? And lays which only told of love In all its varied sorrowing, The echoes of the broken heart, Were all the songs I now could sing. 72 THE IMPROVISATRTCE. Legends of olden times in Greece, When not a flower but had its tale ; When spirits haunted each green oak ; When voices spoke in every gale ; When not a star shone in the sky Without its own love history. Amid its many songs was one That suited well with my sick mind. I sang it when the breath of flowers Came sweet upon the midnight wind. LEADES AND CYDIPPE. She sat her in her twilight bower, A temple formed of leaf and flower ; Rose and myrtle framed the roof, To a shower of April proof ; THE IMPROVISATRICE. 73 And primroses, pale gems of spring, Lay on the green turf glistening-, Close by the violet, whose breath Is so sweet in a dewy wreath. And oh, that myrtle ! how green it grew ! With flowers as white as the pearls of dew That shone beside : and the glorious rose Lay like a beauty in warm repose, Blushing in slumber. The air was bright With the spirit and glow of its crimson light. CYDIPPB had turned from her columned hall, Where, the queen of the feast, she was worshipped by all: Where the vases were burning with spices and flowers, And the odorous waters were playing in showers ; 74 THE IMPROVISATR1CE. And lamps were blazing those lamps of perfume Which shed such a charm of light over the bloom Of woman, when Pleasure a spell has thrown Over one night hour and made it her own. And the ruby wine-cup shone with a ray, As the gems of the East had there melted away ; And the bards were singing those songs of fire, That bright eyes and the goblet so well inspire ; While she, the glory and pride of the hour, Sat silent and sad in her secret bower ! There is a grief that wastes the heart, Like mildew on a tulip's dyes, When hope, deferred but to depart, Loses its smiles, but keeps its sighs : THE IMPROVISATRICE. 75 When love's bark, with its anchor gone, Clings to a straw, and still trusts on. Oh, more than all ! methinks that love Should pray that it might ever be Beside the burning shrine which had Its young heart's fond idolatry. Oh, absence is the night of love ! Lovers are very children then ! Fancying ten thousand feverish shapes, Until their light returns again. A look, a word, is then recalled, And thought upon until it wears, What is, perhaps, a very shade, The tone and aspect of our fears. And this is what was withering now The radiance of CYDIPPE'S brow. 76 THE IMPROVISATRICE. She watched until her cheek grew pale ; The green wave bore no bounding sail : Her sight grew dim ; 'mid the blue air No snowy dove came floating there, The dear scroll hid beneath his wing, With plume and soft eye glistening, To seek again, in leafy dome, The nest of its accustomed home ! Still far away, o'er land and seas, Lingered the faithless LEADES. She thought on the spring days, when she had been, Lonely and lovely, a maiden queen : When passion to her was a storm at sea, Heard 'mid the green land's tranquillity. THE IMPROVISATRICE. 77 But a stately warrior came from afar ; He bore on his bosom the glorious scar So worshipped by woman the death-seal of war. And the maiden's heart was an easy prize, When valour and faith were her sacrifice. Methinks, might that sweet season last, In which our first love-dream is past, Ere doubts and cares, and jealous pain, Are flaws in the heart's diamond-chain : Men might forget to think on Heaven, And yet have the sweet sin forgiven. But ere the marriage-feast was spread, LEADES said that he must brook 78 THE IMPROVISATR1CE. To part awhile from that best light, Those eyes which fixed his every look : Just press again his native shore, And then he would that shore resign For her dear sake, who was to him His household-god ! his spirit's shrine ! He came not ! Then the heart's decay Wasted her silently away : A sweet fount, which the mid-day sun Has all too hotly looked upon ! It is most sad to watch the fall Of autumn leaves ! but worst of all It is to watch the flower of spring Faded in its fresh blossoming ! THE IMPROVISATRICE. 79 To see the once so clear blue orb Its summer light and warmth forget ; Darkening beneath its tearful lid, Like a rain-beaten violet ! To watch the banner-rose of health Pass from the cheek ! to mark how plain Upon the wan and sunken brow, Become the wanderings of each vein ! The shadowy hand so thin, so pale ! The languid step ! the drooping head ! The long wreaths of neglected hair ! The lip whence red and smile are fled ! And having watched thus, day by day, Light, life, and colour, pass away ! To see, at length, the glassy eye Fix dull in dread mortality ; 80 THE 1MPROVISATR1CE. Mark the last ray, catch the last breath, Till the grave sets its sign of death ! This was CYDIPPE'S fate ! They laid The maiden underneath the shade Of a green cypress, and that hour The tree was withered, and stood bare ! The spring brought leaves to other trees, But never other leaf grew there ! It stood, 'mid others flourishing, A blighted, solitary thing. The summer sun shone on that tree When shot a vessel o'er the sea When sprang a warrior from the prow LEADES ! by the stately brow. THE IMPROVISATRICE. Forgotten toil, forgotten care, All his worn heart has had to bear. That heart is full ! He hears the sigh That breathed ' Farewell !' so tenderly. If even then it was most sweet, What will it be that now they meet ? Alas ! alas ! Hope's fair deceit ! He spurred o'er land, has cut the wave, To look but on CYDIPPE'S grave. It has blossomed in beauty, that lone tree, LEADES' kiss restored its bloom ; For wild he kissed the withered stem It grew upon CYDIPPE'S tomb ! And there he dwelt. The hottest ray, Still dew upon the branches lay o 81 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Like constant tears. The winter came ; But still the green tree stood the same. And it was said, at evening's close, A sound of whispered music rose ; That 'twas the trace of viewless feet Made the flowers more than flowers sweet. At length LEADES died. That day, Bark and green foliage past away From the lone tree, again a thing Of wonder and of perishing ! One evening I had roamed beside The winding of the Arno's tide ; The sky was flooded with moonlight : Below were waters azure bright, THE IMPROVISATRICE. Palazzos with their marble halls, Green gardens, silver waterfalls, And orange groves and citron shades, And cavaliers and dark-eyed maids ; f Sweet voices singing, echoes sent From many a rich-toned instrument. I could not bear this loveliness ! It was on such a night as this That love had lighted up my dream Of long despair and short-lived bliss. I sought the city ; wandering on, Unconscious where my steps might be : M.y heart was deep in other thoughts ; All places were alike to me : At length I stopped beneath the walls Of San Mark's old cathedral halls. G 2 83 84 THE IMPROVISATRICE. I entered : and, beneath the roof, Ten thousand wax-lights burnt on high ; And incense on the censers fumed As for some great solemnity: The white-robed choristers were singing ; Their cheerful peal the bells were ringing : Then deep-voiced music floated round, As the far arches sent forth sound The stately organ : and fair bands Of young girls strewed, with lavish hands, Violets o'er the mosaic floor ; And sang while scattering the sweet store. I turned me to a distant aisle Where but a feeble glimmering came (Itself in darkness) of the smile Sent from the tapers' perfumed flame ; THE I'MPROVISATRICE. 85 And coloured as each pictured pane Shed o'er the blaze its crimson stain : While, from the window o'er rny head, A dim and sickly gleam was shed From the young moon, enough to show That tomb and tablet lay below. I leant upon one monument, 'Twas sacred to unhappy love : On it were carved a blighted pine A broken ring a wounded dove. And two or three brief words told all Her history who lay beneath : ' The flowers at morn her bridal flowers, ' Formed, e'er the eve, her funeral wreath.' I could but envy her. 1 thought, How sweet it must be thus to die ! 86 THE IMPROV1SATRICE. Your last looks watched, your last sigh caught, As life or heaven were in that sigh ! Passing in loveliness and light ; Your heart as pure, your cheek as bright As the spring-rose, whose petals shut By sun unscorched, by shower unwet ; Leaving behind a memory Shrined in love's fond eternity. But I was wakened from this dream By a burst of light a gush of song A welcome, as the stately doors Poured in a gay and gorgeous throng. I could see all from where I stood. And first I looked upon the bride ; She was a pale and lovely girl ; But, oh God ! who was by her side ? THE IMPROVISATRICE. 87 LORENZO ! No, I did not speak ; My heart beat high, but could not break. I shrieked not, wept not : but stood there Motionless in my still despair ; As I were forced by some strange thrall, To bear with and to look on all, I heard the hymn, I heard the vow ; (Mine ear throbs with them even now !) I saw the young bride's timid cheek Blushing beneath her silver veil. I saw LORENZO kneel ! Methought ('Twas but a thought !) he too was pale. But when it ended, and his lip Was prest to hers I saw no more ! My heart grew cold, my brain swam round, I sank upon the cloister floor ! 88 THE IMPROVISATRICE. I lived, if that may be called life, From which each charm of life has fled- Happiness gone, with hope and love, In all but breath already dead. Rust gathered on the silent chords Of my neglected lyre, the breeze Was now its mistress : music brought For me too bitter memories ! The ivy darkened o'er my bower ; Around, the weeds choked every flower. I pleased me in this desolateness, As each thing bore my fate's impress. At length I made myself a task To paint that Cretan maiden's fate, THE IMPROVISATRICE. 89 Whom Love taught such deep happiness, And whom Love left so desolate. I drew her on a rocky shore : Her black hair loose, and sprinkled o'er With white sea-foam ; her arms were bare, Flung upwards in their last despair. Her naked feet the pebbles prest ; The tempes't-wind sang in her vest : A wild stare in her glassy eyes ; White lips, as parched by their hot sighs ; And cheek more pallid than the spray, Which, cold and colourless, on it lay : Just such a statue as should be Placed ever, Love ! beside thy shrine ; Warning thy victims of what ills What burning tears, false god ! are thine. 90 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Before her was the darkling sea : Behind the barren mountains rose A fit home for the broken heart To weep away life, wrongs, and woes ! I had now but one hope : that when The hand that traced these tints was cold- Its pulse but in their passion seen LORENZO might these tints behold, And find my grief; think see feel all I felt, in this memorial ! It was one evening, the rose-light Was o'er each green veranda shining ; Spring was just breaking, and white buds Were 'mid the darker ivy twining. THE IMPROVISATRICE. 91 My hall was filled with the perfume Sent from the early orange bloom : The fountain, in the midst, was fraught With rich hues from the sunset caught ; And the first song came from the dove, Nestling in the shrub alcove. But why pause on my happiness ? Another step was with mine there Another sigh than mine made sweet With its dear breath the scented air ! LORENZO ! could it be my hand That now was trembling in thine own ? LORENZO ! could it be mine ear That drank the music of thy tone ? We sat us by a lattice, where Came in the soothing evening breeze, 92 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Rich with the gifts of early flowers, And the soft wind-lute's symphonies. And in the twilight's vesper-hour, Beneath the hanging jasmine-shower, I heard a tale, as fond, as dear As e'er was poured in woman's ear ! LORENZO'S HISTORY. I was betrothed from earliest youth To a fair orphan, who was left Beneath my father's roof and care, Of every other friend bereft : An heiress, with her fertile vales, Caskets of Indian gold and pearl ; Yet meek as poverty itself, And timid as a peasant girl : THE IMPROVISATRICE. 93 A delicate, frail thing, but made For spring sunshine, or summer shade ; A slender flower, unmeet to bear One April shower, so slight, so fair. I loved her as a brother loves His favourite sister : and when war First called me from our long-shared home To bear my father's sword afar, I parted from her, not as one Whose life and soul are wrung by parting : With death-cold brow and throbbing pulse, And burning tears like life-blood starting. Lost in war dreams, 1 scarcely heard The prayer that bore my name above : The ' Farewell !' that kissed off her tears, Had more of pity than of love ! 94 THE IMPROVISATR1CE. I thought of her not with that deep, Intensest memory love will keep More tenderly than life. To me She was but as a dream of home, One of those calm and pleasant thoughts That o'er the soldier's spirit come ; Remembering him, when battle lowrs, Of twilight walks and fireside hours. I came to thy bright FLORENCE when The task of blood was done : I saw thee ! Had I lived before ? Oh, no ! my life but then begun. Ay, by that blush ! the summer rose Has not more luxury of light ! Ay, by those eyes ! whose language is / Like what the clear stars speak at night, THE IMPROVISATRICE. 95 Thy first look was a fever spell ! Thy first word was an oracle Which sealed my fate ! I worshipped thee, My beautiful, bright deity ! Worshipped thee as a sacred thing Of Genius' high imagining ; But loved thee for thy sweet revealing Of woman's own most gentle feeling. I might have broken from the chain Thy power, thy glory round me flung ! But never might forget thy blush The smile which on thy sweet lips hung ! I lived but in thy sight ! One night From thy hair fell a myrtle blossom ; It was a relic that breathed of thee : Look ! it has withered in my bosom ! 96 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Yet I was wretched, though I dwelt In the sweet sight of Paradise : A curse lay OB me. But not now, Thus smiled upon by those dear eyes, Will I think over thoughts of pain. I'll only tell thee that the line That ever told Love's misery, Ne'er told of misery like mine ! I wedded. I could not have borne To see the young IANTHE blighted By that worst blight the spring can know Trusting affection ill requited ! Oh, was it that she was too fair, Too innocent for this damp earth ; And that her native star above Reclaimed again its gentle birth ? THE 1MPROVISATRICE. She faded. Oh, my peerless queen, I need not pray thee pardon me For owning that my heart then felt For any other than for thee ! 1 bore her to those azure isles Where health dwells by the side of spring ; And deemed their green and sunny vales, And calm and fragrant airs, might bring Warmth to the cheek, light to the eye, Of her who was too young to die. It was in vain ! and, day by day The gentle creature died away. As parts the odour from the rose As fades the sky at twilight's close She past so tender and so fair ; So patient, though she knew each breath 97 98 THE IMPROVISATRICE. Might be her last ; her own mild smile Parted her placid lips in death. Her grave is under southern skies ; Green turf and flowers o'er it rise. Oh ! nothing but a pale spring wreath Would fade o'er her who lies beneath ! I gave her prayers I gave her tears I staid awhile beside her grave ; Then led by Hope, and led by Love, Again I cut the azure wave. What have I more to say, my life ! But just to pray one smile of thine, Telling I have not loved in vain That thou dost join these hopes of mine ? Yes, smile, sweet love ! our life will be As radiant as a fairy tale ! THE 1MPROVISATRICE. Glad as the sky-lark's earliest song Sweet as the sigh of the spring gale ! All, all that life will ever be, Shone o'er, divinest love ! by thee. Oh, mockery of happiness ! Love now was all too late to save. False Love ! oh what had you to do With one you had led to the grave ? A little time I had been glad To mark the paleness on my cheek ; To feel how, day by day, my step Grew fainter, and my hand more weak ; To know the fever of my soul Was also preying on my frame : H 2 100 THE IMPROVISATRICE. But now I would have given worlds To change the crimson hectic's flame For the pure rose of health ; to live For the dear life that Love could give. Oh, youth may sicken at its bloom, And wealth and fame pray for the tomb ; But can love bear from love to part, And not cling to that one dear heart ? I shrank away from death, my tears Had been unwept in other years : But thus, in love's first ecstasy, Was it not worse than death to die ? LORENZO ! I would live for thee ! But thou wilt have to weep for me ! That sun has kissed the morning dews, I shall not see its twilight close ! THE IMPROVISATRICE. That rose is fading in the noon, And I shall not outlive that rose ! Come, let me lean upon thy breast, My last, best place of happiest rest ! Once more let me breathe thy sighs Look once more in those watching eyes ! Oh ! but for thee, and grief of thine, And parting, I should not repine ! It is deep happiness to die, Yet live in Love's dear memory. Thou wilt remember me, my name Is linked with beauty and with fame. The summer airs, the summer sky, The soothing spell of Music's sigh, Stars in their poetry of night, The silver silence of moonlight, 101 1(32 THE 1MPROVISATR1CE. The dim blush of the twilight hours, The fragrance of the bee-kissed flowers ; But, more than all, sweet songs will be Thrice sacred unto Love and me. LORENZO ! be this kiss a spell ! My first ! my last ! FAREWELL ! FAREWELL ! THERE is a lone and stately hall, Its master dwells apart from all. A wanderer through Italia's land, One night a refuge there I found. The lightning flash rolled o'er the sky, The torrent rain was sweeping round : These won me entrance. He was young, The castle's lord, but pale like age ; THE 1MPROV1SATR1CE. 103 His brow, as sculpture beautiful, Was wan as Grief's corroded page, He had no words, he had no smiles, No hopes : his sole employ to brood Silently over his sick heart In sorrow and in solitude. I saw the hall where, day by day, He mused his weary life away ; It scarcely seemed a place for woe, But rather like a genie's home. Around were graceful statues ranged, And pictures shone around the dome. But there was one a loveliest one ! One picture brightest of all there ! Oh ! never did the painter's dream Shape thing so gloriously fair ! 104 THE IMPROV1SATR1CE. It was a face ! the summer day Is not more radiant in its light ! Dark flashing eyes, like the deep stars Lighting the azure brow of night ; A blush like sunrise o'er the rose ; A cloud of raven hair, whose shade Was sweet as evening's, and whose curls Clustered beneath a laurel braid. She leant upon a harp : one hand Wandered, like snow, amid the chords ; The lips were opening with such life, You almost heard the silvery words. She looked a form of light and life, All soul, all passion, and all fire ; A priestess of Apollo's, when The morning beams fall on her lyre ; THE IMPROVISATRICE. 105 A Sappho, or ere love had turned The heart to stone where once it burned. But by the picture's side was placed A funeral urn, on which was traced The heart's recorded wretchedness ; And on a tablet, hung, above, Was 'graved one tribute of sad words ' LORENZO TO HIS MINSTREL LOVE.' TALES, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ROSALIE. 'Tis a wild tale and sad, too, as the sigh That young lips breathe when Love's first dreamings Hy; When blights and cankerworms, and chilling showers, Come withering o'er the warm heart's passion-flowers. Love ! gentlest spirit ! I do tell of thee, Of all thy thousand hopes, thy many fears, Thy morning blushes, and thy evening tears ; What thou hast ever been, and still will be, Life's best, but most betraying witchery ! 110 ROSALIE. It is a night of summer, and the sea Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks ; Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone, Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it seeks Some face it loves, yet fears to dwell upon. The waves are motionless, save where the oar, Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone, Has broken in upon their azure sleep. Odours are on the air : the gale has been Wandering in groves where the rich roses weep, Where orange, citron, and the soft lime-flowers Shed forth their fragrance to night's dewy hours. Afar the distant city meets the gaze, Where tower and turret in the pale light shine, Seen like the monuments of other days Monuments Time half shadows, half displays. ROSALIE. And there are many, who, with witching song And wild guitar's soul-thrilling melody, Or the lute's melting music, float along O'er the blue waters, still and silently. That night had Naples sent her best display Of young and gallant, beautiful and gay. There was a bark a little way apart From all the rest, and there two lovers leant : One with a blushing cheek and beating heart, And bashful glance, upon the sea-wave bent ; She might not meet the gaze the other sent Upon her beauty ; but the half-breathed sighs, The deepening colour, timid smiling eyes, Told that she listened Love's sweet flatteries. Then they were silent : words are little aid To Love, whose deepest vows are ever made Ill 112 ROSALIE. By the heart's beat alone. Oh, silence is Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss ! Music swept past : it was a simple tone ; But it has wakened heartfelt sympathies ; It has brought into life things past and gone ; Has wakened all those secret memories, That may be smothered, but that still will be Present within thy soul, young ROSALIE ! The notes had roused an answering chord within : In other days, that song her vesper hymn had been. Her altered look is pale : that dewy eye Almost belies the smile her rich lips wear ; That smile is mocked by a scarce-breathing sigh, Which tells of silent and suppressed care Tells that the life is withering with despair, More irksome from its unsunned silentness A festering wound the spirit pines to bear : ROSALIE. 113 A galling chain, whose pressure will intrude, Fettering Mirth's step, and Pleasure's lightest mood Where are her thoughts thus wandering ? A spot, Now distant far, is pictured on her mind, A chesnut shadowing a low white cot, With rose and jasmine round the casement twined, Mixed with the myrtle-tree's luxuriant blind. Alone, (oh ! should such solitude be here ?) An aged form beneath the shade reclined, Whose eye glanced round the scene ; and then a tear Told that she missed one in her heart enshrined ' Then came remembrances of other times, When eve oped her rich bowers for the pale day ; When the faint, distant tones of convent chimes Were answered by the lute and vesper lay ;- I 114 ROSALIE. the fond mother blest her gentle child, And for her welfare prayed the Virgin mild. she has left the aged one to steep Her nightly couch with tears for that lost child, The ROSALIE, who left her age to weep, When that the tempter flattered her and wiled Her steps away, from her own home beguiled. She started up in agony : her eye Met MANFREDI'S. Softly he spoke, and smiled. Memory is past, and thought and feeling lie Lost in one dream all thrown on one wild die. They floated o'er the waters, till the moon Look'd from the blue sky in her zenith noon, ROSALIE. 115 Till each glad bark at length had sought the shore, And the waves echoed to the lute no more ; Then sought their gay palazzo, where the ray Of lamps shed light only less bright than day ; And there they feasted till the morn did fling Her blushes o'er their mirth and revelling. And life was as a tale of faerie, As when some Eastern genie rears bright bowers, And spreads the green turf and the coloured flowers ; And calls upon the earth, the sea, the sky, To yield their treasures for some gentle queen, Whose reign is over the enchanted scene. And ROSALIE had pledged a magic cup The maddening cup of pleasure and of love ! There was for her one only dream on earth ! There was for her one only star above ! T 2 116 ROSALIE. She bent in passionate idolatry Before her heart's sole idol MANFREDI ! IT. 'Tis night again a soft and summer night ; A deep-blue heaven, white clouds, moon and star- light ; So calm, so beautiful, that human eye Might weep to look on such a tranquil sky : A night just formed for Hope's first dream of bliss, Or for Love's yet more perfect happiness ! The moon is o'er a grove of cypress trees, Weeping, like mourners, in the plaining breeze ; Echoing the music of a rill, whose song Glided so sweetly, but so sad, along. ROSALIE. 117 There is a little chapel in the shade, Where many a pilgrim has knelt down and prayed To the sweet saint, whose portrait, o'er the shrine, The painter's skill has made all but divine. It was a pale, a melancholy face, A cheek which bore the trace of frequent tears, And worn by grief, though grief might not efface The seal that beauty set in happier years ; And such a smile as on the brow appears Of one whose earthly thoughts, long since subdued Past this life's joys and sorrows, hopes and fears The worldly dreams o'er which the many brood. The heart-beat hushed in mild and chastened mood. It was the image of the maid who wept Those precious tears that heal and purify. Love yet upon her lip his station kept, But heaven and heavenly thoughts were in her eye. 118 ROSALIE. One knelt before the shrine, with cheek as pale As was the cold white marble. Can this be The young the loved the happy ROSALIE ? Alas ! alas ! hers is a common tale : She trusted, as youth ever has believed ; She heard Love's vows confided was deceived ! Oh, Love ! thy essence is thy purity ! Breathe one unhallowed breath upon thy flame, And it is gone for ever, and but leaves A sullied vase its pure light lost in shame ! And ROSALIE was loved, not with that pure And holy passion which can age endure ; But loved with wild and self-consuming fires, A torch which glares and scorches and expires. ROSALIE. 119 A little while her dream of bliss remained, A little while Love's wings were left unchained. But change came o'er the trusted MANFREDI : His heart forgot its vowed idolatry ; And his forgotten love was left to brood O'er wrongs and ruin in her solitude ! How very desolate that breast must be, Whose only joyance is in memory ! And what must woman suffer, thus betrayed ! Her heart's most warm and precious feelings made But things wherewith to wound : that heart so weak, So soft laid open to the vulture's beak ! Its sweet revealings given up to scorn It burns to bear, and yet that must be borne ! 120 ROSALIE. And, sorer still, that bitterer emotion, To know the shrine which had our soul's devotion Is that of a false deity ! to look Upon the eyes we worshipped, and brook Their cold reply ! Yet these are all for her ! The rude world's outcast, and love's wanderer ! Alas ! that love, which is so sweet a thing, Should ever cause guilt, grief, or suffering ! Yet she upon whose face the sunbeams fall That dark-eyed girl had felt their bitterest thrall ! She thought upon her love ; and there was not In passion's record one green sunny spot It had been all a madness and a dream, The shadow of a flower on the stream, Which seems, but is not ; and then memory turned To her lone mother. How her bosom burned ROSALIE. 121 With sweet and bitter thoughts ! There might be rest The wounded dove will flee into her nest That mother's arms might fold her child again. The cold world scorn, the cruel smite in vain, And falsehood be remembered no more, In that calm shelter : and she might weep o'er Her faults and find forgiveness. Had not she To whom she knelt found pardon in the eyes Of Heaven, in offering for sacrifice A broken heart ? And might not pardon be Also for her ? She looked up to the face Of that pale saint ; and in that gentle brow, Which seemed to hold communion with her thought, There was a smile which gave hope energy. She prayed one deep, wild prayer, that she might gain The home she hoped ; then sought that home again. 1*22 ROSALIE. A flush of beauty is upon the sky Eve's last warm blushes like the crimson dye The maiden wears, when first her dark eyes meet The graceful lover's, sighing at her feet. And there were sounds of music on the breeze, And perfume shaken from the citron trees ; While the dark chesnuts caught a golden ray On their green leaves, the last bright gift of day ; And peasants dancing gaily in the shade To the soft mandolin, whose light notes made An echo fit to the glad voices singing. The twilight spirit his sweet urn is flinging Of dew upon the lime and orange-stems, And giving to the rose pearl diadems. There is a pilgrim by that old grey tree, With head upon her hand bent mournfully ; ROSALIE. 123 And looking round upon each lovely thing, And breathing the sweet air, as they could bring To her no beauty and no solacing. Tis ROSALIE ! Her prayer was not in vain. The truant-child has sought her home again ! It must be worth a life of toil and care, Worth those dark chains the wearied one must bear Who toils up fortune's steep, all that can wring The worn -out bosom with lone suffering, Worth restlessness, oppression, goading fears, And long-deferred hopes of many years, To reach again that little quiet spot, So well loved once, and never quite forgot ; To trace again the steps of infancy, And catch their freshness from their memory ! 124 ROSALIE. And it is triumph, sure, when fortune's sun Has shone upon us, and our task is done, To show our harvest to the eyes which were Once all the world to us ! Perhaps there are Some who had presaged kindly of our youth. Feel we not proud their prophecy was sooth ? But how felt ROSALIE ? The very air Seemed as it brought reproach ! there was no eye To look delighted, welcome none was there ! She felt as feels an outcast wandering by Where every door is closed ! She looked around ; She heard some voices' sweet familiar sound. There were some changed, and some remembered things; There were girls, whom she left in their first springs, Now blushed into full beauty. There was one Whom she loved tenderly in days now gone ! ROSALIE. 125 She was not dancing gaily with the rest : A rose-cheeked child within her arms was prest ; And it had twined its small hands in the hair That clustered o'er its mother's brow : as fair As buds in spring. She gave her laughing dove To one who clasped it with a father's love ; And if a painter's eye had sought a scene Of love in its most perfect loveliness Of childhood, and of wedded happiness, He would have painted the sweet MADELINE ! But ROSALIE shrank from them, and she strayed Through a small grove of cypresses, whose shade Hung o'er a burying-ground, where the low stone And the grey cross recorded those now gone ! There was a grave just closed. Not one seemed near, To pay the tribute of one long last tear ! 126 ROSALIE. How very desolate must that one be Whose more than grave has not a memory ! Then ROSALIE thought on her mother's age, Just such her end would be with her away : No child the last cold death-pang to assuage No child by her neglected tomb to pray ! She asked and like a hope from Heaven it came ! To hear them answer with a stranger's name. She reached her mother's cottage ; by that gate She thought how her once lover wont to wait To tell her honied tales ; and then she thought o On all the utter ruin he had wrought ! The moon shone brightly, as it used to do Ere youth, and hope, and love, had been untrue ; ROSALIE. 127 But it shone o'er the desolate ! The flowers Were dead ; the faded jessamine, unbound, Trailed, like a heavy weed, upon the ground ; And fell the moonlight vainly over trees, Which had not even one rose, although the breeze, ~ v Almost as if in mockery, had brought Sweet tones it from the nightingale had caught ! She entered in the cottage. None were there i The hearth was dark, the walls looked cold and bare ! All all spoke poverty and suffering ! All all was changed ! and but one only thing Kept its old place ! ROSALIE'S mandolin Hung on the wall, where it had ever been. There was one other room, and ROSALIE ROSALIE. Sought for her mother there. A heavy flame Gleamed from a dying lamp ; a cold air came Damp from the broken casement. There one lay, Like marble seen but by the moonlight ray ! And ROSALIE drew near. One withered hand Was stretched, as it would reach a wretched stand Where some cold water stood ! And by the bed She knelt and gazed and saw her mother dead ! ROLAND'S TOWER. A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. Oh, Heaven ! the deep fidelity of love ! WHERE, like a courser starting from the spur, Rushes the deep-blue current of the Rhine, A little island rests ; green cypresses Are its chief growth, bending their heavy boughs O'er grey stones marking long-forgotten graves. A convent once stood here ; and yet remain Relics of other times, pillars and walls, Worn away and discoloured, yet so hung With wreaths of ivy that the work of ruin K 130 A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. Is scarcely visible. How like this is To the so false exterior of the world ! Outside all looks so fresh and beautiful ; But mildew, rot, and worm, work on beneath, Until the heart is utterly decayed. There is one grave distinguished from the rest, But only by a natural monument : A thousand deep-blue violets have grown Over the sod. I do love violets : They tell the history of woman's love ; They open with the earliest breath of spring ; Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew, and light ; And, if they perish, perish with a sigh Delicious as that life. On the hot June They shed no perfume : the flowers may remain, But the rich breathing of their leaves is past ; A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 131 Like woman, they have lost their loveliest gift, When yielding to the fiery hour of passion : The violet breath of love is purity. On the shore opposite, a tower stands In ruins, with a mourning-robe of moss Hung on the grey and shattered walls, which fling A shadow on the waters ; it comes o'er The waves, all bright with sunshine, like the gloom Adversity throws on the heart's young gladness. I saw the river on a summer eve : The sun was setting over fields of corn, 'Twas like a golden sea ; and on the left Were vineyards, whence the grapes shone forth like gems, K 2 132 A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. Rubies, and lighted amber ; and thence spread A wide heath covered with thick furze, whose flowers, So bright, are like the pleasures of this world, Beautiful in the distance, but, once gained, Little worth, piercing through the thorns which grow Around them ever. Wilder and more steep The banks upon the river's other side : Tall pines rose up like warriors ; the wild rose Was there in all its luxury of bloom, Sown by the wind, nursed by the dew and sun : And on the steeps were crosses grey and old, Which told the fate of some poor traveller. The dells were filled with dwarfed oaks and firs ; And on the heights, which mastered all the rest, A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 133 Were castles, tenanted now by the owl, The spider's garrison : there is not one Without some strange old legend of the days When love was life and death, when lady's glove Or sunny curl were banners of the battle. My history is of the tower which looks Upon the little island. LORD HERBERT sat him in his hall : the hearth Was blazing as it mocked the storm without With its red cheerfulness : the dark hounds lay Around the fire ; and the old knight had doffed His hunting-cloak, and listened to the lute And song of the fair girl who at his knee Was seated. In the April hour of life, 134 A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. When showers are led by rainbows, and the heart Is all bloom and green leaves, was ISABELLE : A band of pearls, white like the brow o'er which They past, kept the bright curls from off the fore- head ; thence They wandered to her feet a golden shower. She had that changing colour on the cheek Which speaks the heart so well ; those deep-blue eyes, Like summer's darkest sky, but not so glad They were too passionate for happiness. Light was within her eyes, bloom on her cheek, Her song had raised the spirit of her race Upon her eloquent brow. She had just told Of the young ROLAND'S deeds, how he had stood Against a host and conquered ; when there came A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 135 A pilgrim to the hall and never yet Had stranger asked for shelter and in vain ! The board was spread, the Rhenish flask was drained ; Again they gathered round the hearth, again The maiden raised her song ; and at its close, " I would give worlds," she said, " to see this chief, " This gallant ROLAND ! I could deem him all " A man must honour and a woman love !" " Lady ! I pray thee not recall those words, " For I am ROLAND !" From his face he threw The hood and pilgrim's cloak, and a young knight Knelt before ISABELLE ! They loved ; They were beloved. Oh, happiness ! I have said all that can be said of bliss, In saying that they loved. The young heart has 136 A LEGEND OF THE RHINE, Such store of wealth in its own fresh wild pulse ; And it is love that works the mind, and brings Its treasure to the light. I did love once Loved as youth woman genius loves ; though now My heart is chilled and search, and taught to wear That falsest of false things a mask of smiles ; Yet every pulse throbs at the memory Of that which has been ! Love is like the glass, That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful. The morning looks Its very loveliest, when the fresh air Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red ; And the hot noon flits by most rapidly, When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page Bearing the poet's words of love : and then A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 137 The twilight walk, when the linked arms can feel The beating of the heart ; upon the air There is a music never heard but once, A light the eyes can never see again ; Each star has its own prophecy of hope, And every song and tale that breathe of love Seem echoes of the heart. And time past by As time will ever pass, when Love has lent His rainbow plumes to aid his flight and spring Had wedded with the summer, when a steed Stood at LORD HERBERT'S gate, and ISABELLE Had wept farewell to ROLAND, and had given Her blue scarf for his colours. He was gone To raise his vassals, for LORD HERBERT'S towers 13S A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. Were menaced with a siege ; and he had sworn By ISABELLE'S white hand that he would claim Its beauty only as a conqueror's prize. Autumn was on the woods, when the blue Rhine Grew red with blood : LORD HERBERT'S banner flies, And gallant is the bearing of his ranks. But where is he who said that he would ride At his right hand to battle ? ROLAND ! where Oh ! Where is ROLAND ? ISABELLE has watched Day after day, night after night, in vain, Till she has wept in hopelessness, and thought Upon old histories, and said with them, " There is hope in man's fidelity !" A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 139 ISABELLE stood upon her lonely tower ; And, as the evening-star rose up, she saw An armed train bearing her father's banner In triumph to the castle. Down she flew To greet the victors : they had reached the hall Before herself. What saw the maiden there ? A bier ! her father laid upon that bier ! ROLAND was kneeling by the side, his face Bowed on his hands and hid ; but ISABELLE Knew the dark curling hair and stately form, And threw her on his breast. He shrank away As she were death, or sickness, or despair. " ISABELLE ! it was I who slew thy father !" She fell almost a corpse upon the body. It was too true ! With all a lover's speed, ROLAND had sought the thickest of the fight ; 140 A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. He gained the field just as the crush began ; Unwitting of his colours, he had slain The father of his worshipped ISABELLE ! They met once more; and IsABELLEwas changed As much as if a lapse of years had past : She was so thin, so pale, and her dim eye Had wept away its luxury of blue. She had cut off her sunny hair, and wore A robe of black, with a white crucifix : It told her destiny her youth was vowed To heaven. And in the convent of the isle That day she was to enter, ROLAND stood Like marble, cold, and pale, and motionless : The heavy sweat upon his brow was all His sign of life. At length he snatched the scarf A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. 141 That ISABELLE had tied around his neck, And gave it her, and prayed that she would wave Its white folds from the lattice of her cell At each pale rising of the evening-star, That he might know she lived . They parted Never Those lovers met again ! But ROLAND built A tower beside the Rhine, and there he dwelt. And every evening saw the white scarf waved, And heard the vesper-hymn of ISABELLE Float in deep sweetness o'er the silent river. One evening, and he did not see the scarf, He watched and watched in vain ; at length his hope Grew desperate, and he prayed his ISABELI.E Might have forgotten him : but midnight came, And with it came the convent's heavy bell, Tolling for a departed soul ; and then 142 A LEGEND OF THE RHINE. He knew that ISABELLE was dead ! Next day They laid her in her grave ; and the moon rose Upon a mourner weeping there : that tomb Was ROLAND'S death-bed ! THE GUERILLA CHIEF. But the war-storm came on the mountain gale, And man's heart beat high, though his cheek was pale, For blood and dust lay on the white hair, And the maiden wept o'er her last despair ; The hearth was cold, and the child was prest A corpse to the murdered mother's breast ; And fear and guilt, and sorrow and shame, Darkened wherever the war-fiend came. IT stood beneath a large old chesnut-tree, And had stood there for years: the moonlight fell Over the white walls, which the vine had hung With its thick leaves and purple fruit : a pair Of pigeons, like the snow, were on the roof Nestled together ; and a plaining sound Came from a fountain murmuring through the wood, 144 THJE GUERILLA CHIEF. Less like the voice of sorrow than of love. Tall trees were gathered round : the dark green beech ; The sycamore, with scarlet colours on, The herald of the autumn ; dwarf rose-trees, Covered with their last wealth ; the poplar tall, A silver spire ; olives with their pale leaves ; And some most graceful shrubs, amid whose boughs Were golden oranges ; and hollow oaks, Where the bees built their honey palaces. It was a silent and a lovely place, Where Peace might rest her white wings. But one came From out the cottage, not as one who comes To gaze upon the beauty of the sky And fill his spirit with a calm delight ; THE GUERILLA CHIEF. 145 But with a quick though noiseless step, as one Who fears the very echo of that step May raise a spectre. When he reached the fount, He sat down by its side, and turned to gaze Upon the cottage : from his brow the sweat Poured down like summer rain ; there came no sound From his white lips, but you might hear his heart Beating in the deep silence. But at length A voice came to his sorrow " Never never " Shall I look on their face again ! Farewell ! " I cannot bear that word's reproach, nor look " On pale lips breathing blessings which the tears " Belie in speaking ! I have blighted all " All all their hopes, and my own happiness !" L 146 THE GUERILLA CHIEF. " LEANDRO !" said a sweet and gentle voice ; And a soft hand pressed on his throbbing brow, And tears like twilight dew fell on his cheek. He looked upon the maiden : 'twas the one With whom his first pure love had dwelt, the one Who was the sun and starlight of his youth ! She stood beside him, lovely as a saint Looking down pity upon penitence Perhaps less bright in colour and in eye Than the companion of his infancy : But was that cheek less fair because he knew That it had lost the beauty of its spring With passionate sorrowing for him ? She stood One moment gazing on his face, as there Her destiny was written ; and then took A little crucifix of ebony, THE GUERILLA CHIEF. 147 And placed it in his bosom from her own : " And this, LEANDRO ! this shall be thy guide ! '* Thy youth has been a dream of passion ; guilt " And evil has been round thee : go thy way ! " The showers of thy youth will clear to summer. " My prayers be with thee !" " Prayers ! oh ! nothing more ? " Have I then lost thy love thy precious love ? " The only green leaf of my heart is withered ! " She blushed a deep-red blush ; her eloquent eyes Met his almost reproachfully, and her face Was the next moment hidden on his bosom. But there was happiness even in that farewell, Affection and deep confidence, Tenderness, hope, for Love lights Hope and tears, Delicious tears ! the heart's own dew. L 2 148 THE GUERILLA CHIEF. They parted. LEANDRO kept that little cross like life : And when beneath the sky of Mexico, When earth and even heaven were strange to him, The trees, the flowers, were of another growth ; The birds wore other plumes ; the very stars Were not those he had looked upon in boyhood. 'Tis something, if in absence we can see The footsteps of the past : it soothes the heart To breathe the air scented in other years By lips beloved ; to wander through the groves Where once we were not lonely, where the rose Reminds us of the hair we used to wreathe With its fresh buds where every hill and vale, And wood and fountain, speak of time gone by ; And Hope springs up in joy from Memory's ashes. THE GUERILLA CHIEF. 149 LEANDRO felt not these : that crucifix Was all that wore the look of other days 'Twas as a dear companion. Parents, home, And more than all, BIANCA, whose pure reign, Troubled by the wild passions of his youth, Had now regained its former influence, All seemed to hear the vows he made for her, To share his hopes, feel for his deep remorse, And bless him, and look forward. And at last Once more the white sail bore him o'er the sea, And he saw SPAIN again. But war was there And his road lay through ruined villages. Though cold, the ashes still were red, for blood Had quenched the flames ; and aged men sat down, 150 THE GUERILLA CHIEF. And would not leave the embers, for they said They were too old to seek another home. LEANDRO met with one whom he had known In other days, and asked of his own valley ; It yet was safe, unscathed by the war-storm. He knelt down in deep thankfulness ; and then, Through death and danger, sought the grove once more. His way had been through a thick beechen wood ; The moon, athwart the boughs, had poured her light, Like hope, to guide him onwards. One more turn, and he should gaze upon his home ! He paused in his heart's overflowing bliss, And thought how he should wake them from their dreams THE GUERILLA CHIEF. 151 Perchance of him ! of his BIANCA'S blush ! He heard the music of the fountain come A sweet and welcome voice upon the wind He bounded on with the light steps of hope, Of youth and happiness. He left the wood, And looked upon a heap of mingled blood And blackened ashes wet upon the ground ! He was awakened from his agony By the low accents of a woman's voice ; He looked, and knew BIANCA. She was laid Beside the fountain, while her long black hair Hung like a veil down to her feet : her eyes, So large, so dark, so wild, shone through the gloom, Glaring like red insanity. She saw Her lover, shrieked, and strove to fly 152 THE GUERILLA CHIEF. But fell : her naked feet were gashed with wounds. " And have I met thee but to see thee die ?" LEANDRO cried, as he laid the pale face Upon his breast, and sobbed like a young child. In vain he dashed the cold stream on her face, Still she lay like a corpse within his arms. At length he thought him of a giant tree, Whose hollow trunk, when children, they had oft Called home in playfulness. He bore her there ; And of fresh flowers and the dry leaves he made A bed for his pale love. She waked at last, But not to consciousness : her wandering eyes Fixed upon him, and yet she knew, him not ! Fever was on her lip and in her brain, And as LEANDRO watched, his heart grew sick To hear her rave of outrage, wrongs, and death ; THE GUERILLA CHIEF. 153 How they were wakened from their midnight sleep By gleaming steel curses and flaming roof ! And then she groaned, and prayed herself to die ! It was an evening when through the green leaves Of the old chesnut shot the golden light Of the rich sunset ; into the fresh air LEANDRO bore the maiden he had nurst As the young mother nurses her sick child. She laid her head upon his heart, and slept Her first sweet, quiet sleep : the evening-star Gleamed through the purple twilight when she waked Her memory aroused not to the full Oh, that was mercy! but she knew her love ; And over her pale face a calm smile shone, Fondly though faintly breathed and blest his name ! 154 THE GUERILLA CHIEF. That night the moonlight shone upon LEANDRO, Aud in his arms a corpse ! * . He lived in one deep feeling in revenge : With men he mingled not but in the battle ; His mingling there was deadly ! When the GAUL Was driven from the land which he had spoiled, That dark chief sought BIANCA'S grave ! A cross Marks THE GUERILLA AND THE MAIDEN'S TOMB ! AN INDIAN TALE. [" THE BAYADERE" was taken from some faint recollection of a tale 1 had either read or heard; and meeting with the word " Bayadere " many years after recalled it to my memory as a subject exquisitely poetical. I have been since told it was a poem of Goethe's. This poem has never been to my knowledge translated ; and, being ignorant of the German language, I am unable to say whether the tale conforms to the original or not.] THERE were seventy pillars around the hall, Of wreathed gold was each capital, And the roof was fretted with amber and gems, Such as light kingly diadems ; The floor was marble, white as the snow Ere its pureness is stained by its fall below : In the midst played a fountain, whose starry showers Fell like beams on the radiant flowers, 156 THE BAYADERE. Whose colours were gleaming, as every one Burnt, from the kisses just caught from the sun ; And vases sent forth their silvery clouds, Like those which the face of the young moon shrouds, But sweet as the breath of the twilight hour When the dew awakens the rose's power. At the end of the hall was a sun-bright throne, Rich with every glorious stone ; And the purple canopy overhead Was like the shade o'er the dayfall shed ; And the couch beneath was of buds half blown, Hued with the blooms of the rainbow's zone ; And round, like festoons, a vine was rolled, Whose leaf was of emerald, whose fruit was of gold. But though graced as for a festival, There was something sad in that stately hall : THE BAYADERE. 157 There floated the breath of the harp and flute, But the sweetest of every music is mute : There are flowers of light, and spiced perfume, But there wants the sweetest of breath and of bloom : And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, For the smiling of woman shineth not here. With urns of odour o'er him weeping, Upon the couch a youth is sleeping r His radiant hair is bound with stars, Such as shine on the brow of night, Filling the dome with diamond rays, Only than his own curls less bright. And such a brow, and such an eye As fit a young divinity ; A brow like twilight's darkening line, An eye like morning's first sunshine, 158 THE BAYADERE. Now glancing through the veil of dreams As sudden light at daybreak streams. And richer than the mingled shade By gem, and gold, and purple made, His orient wings closed o'er his head ; Like that bird's, bright with every dye, Whose home, as Persian bards have said, Is fixed in scented Araby. Some dream is passing o'er him now A sudden flush is on his brow ; And from his lip come murmured words, Low, but sweet as the light lute chords When o'er its strings the night-winds glide To woo the roses by its side. He, the fair boy-god, whose nest Is in the water-lily's breast ; THE BAYADERE. He of the many-arrowed bow, Of the joys that come and go Like the leaves, and of the sighs Like the winds of summer skies, Blushes like the birds of spring, Soon seen and soon vanishing ; He of hopes, and he of fears, He of smiles, and he of tears Young CAMDEO, he has brought A sweet dream of coloured thought, One of love and woman's power, To MANDALLA'S sleeping hour. Joyless and dark was his jewelled throne, When MANDALLA awakened and found him alone. He drank the perfume that around him swept, 'Twas not sweet as the sigh he drank as he slept ; 159 160 THE BAYADERE. There was music, but where was the voice at whose thrill Every pulse in his veins was throbbing still ? And dim was the home of his native star While the light of woman and love was afar ; And lips of the rosebud, and violet eyes Are the sunniest flowers in Paradise. He veiled the light of his glorious race In a mortal's form and a mortal's face, And 'mid earth's loveliest sought for one Who might dwell in his hall and share in his throne. The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest The bee from the midst of its honey quest, And open the leaves of the lotus lay To welcome the noon of the summer day. It was glory, and light, and beauty all, When MANDALLA closed his wing in Bengal. THE BAYADERE. 161 He stood in the midst of a stately square, As the waves of the sea rolled the thousands there ; Their gathering was round the gorgeous car Where sat in his triumph the Subadar ; For his sabre was red with the blood of the slain, And his proudest foes were slaves in his chain ; And the sound of the trumpet, the sound of his name, Rose in shouts from the crowd as onwards he came. With gems and gold on each ataghan, A thousand warriors led the van, Mounted on steeds black as the night, But with foam and with stirrup gleaming in light ; And another thousand came in their rear, On white horses, armed with bow and spear, With quivers of gold on each shoulder laid, And with crimson belt for each crooked blade. M 1(J2 THE BAYADERE. Then followed the foot ranks, their turbans showed Like flashes of light from a mountain cloud, For white were the turbans as winter snow, And death-black the foreheads that darkened below ; Scarlet and white was each soldier's vest, And each bore a lion of gold on his breast, For this was the chosen band that bore The lion standard, it floated o'er Their ranks like morning ; at every wave Of that purple banner, the trumpets gave A martial salute to the radiant fold That bore the lion-king wrought in gold. And last the elephant came, whose tower Held the lord of this pomp and power : And round that chariot of his pride, Like chains of white sea-pearls, THE BAYADERE. 163 Or braids enwove of summer-flowers, Glided fair dancing-girls ; And as the rose leaves fall to earth, Their light feet touched the ground, But for the zone of silver bells You had not heard a sound, As, scattering flowers o'er the way, Whirled round the beautiful array But there was one who 'mid them shone A planet lovely and alone, A rose, one flower amid many, But still the loveliest of any : Though fair her arm as the moonlight, Others might raise an arm as white ; Though light her feet as music's fall, Others might be as musical ; M 2 164 THE BAYADERE. But where were such dark eyes as hers ? So tender, yet withal so bright, As the dark orbs had in their smile Mingled the light of day and night. And where was that wild grace which shed A loveliness o'er every tread, A beauty shining through the whole, Something which spoke of heart and soul. The Almas had passed lightly on, The armed ranks, the crowd, were gone, Yet gazed MANDALLA on the square As she he sought still glided there, Oh that fond look, whose eyeballs' strain, And will not know its look is vain ! At length he turned, his silent mood Sought .that impassioned solitude, THE BAYADERE. The Eden of young hearts, when first Love in its loneliness is nurst. He sat him by a little fount ; A tulip-tree grew by its side, A lily with its silver towers Floated in silence on the tide ; And far round a banana tree Extended its green sanctuary ; And the long grass, which was his seat, With every motion grew more sweet, Yielding a more voluptuous scent At every blade his pressure bent. And there he lingered, till the sky Lost somewhat of its brilliancy, And crimson shadows rolled on the west, And raised the moon her diamond crest, 165 O 166 THE BAYADERE. And came a freshness on the trees, Harbinger of the evening breeze, When a sweet far sound of song, Borne by the breath of flowers along, A mingling of the voice and lute, Such as the wind-harp, when it makes Its pleasant music to the gale Which kisses first the chords it breaks. He followed where the echo led, Till in a cypress-grove he found A funeral train, that round a grave Poured forth their sorrows' wailing sound ; And by the tomb a choir of girls, With measured steps and mournful notes, And snow-white robes, while on the air, Unbound their wreaths, each dark curl floats, THE BAYADERE. Paced round and sang to her who slept Calm, while their young eyes o'er her wept. And she, that loveliest one, is here, The morning's radiant Bayadere : A darker light in her dark eyes, For tears are there, a paler brow Changed but to charm the morning's smile, Less sparkling, but more touching now. And first her sweet lip prest the flute, A nightingale waked by the rose, And when that honey breath was mute, Was heard her low song's plaintive close, Wailing for the young blossom's fall, The last, the most beloved of all. As died in gushing tears the lay, The baud of mourners passed away : 167 168 THE BAYADERE. They left their wreaths upon the tomb, As fading leaves and long perfume Of her were emblems ; and unbound Many a cage's gilded round, And set the prisoners free, as none Were left to love now she was gone. And azure wings spread on the air, And songs, rejoicing songs, were heard ; But, pining as forgotten now, Lingered one solitary bird : A beautiful and pearl-white dove, Alone in its remembering love. It was a strange and lovely thing To mark the drooping of its wing, And how into the grave it prest, Till soiled the dark earth-stain its breast ; THE BAYADERE. 169 And darker as the night-shades grew, Sadder became its wailing coo, As if it missed the hand that bore, As the cool twilight came, its store Of seeds and flowers. There was one Who, like that dove, was lingering lone, The Bayadere : her part had been Only the hired mourner's part ; But she had given what none might buy, The precious sorrow of the heart. She wooed the white dove to her breast, It sought at once its place of rest : Round it she threw her raven hair, It seemed to love the gentle snare, And its soft beak was raised to sip The honey-dew of her red lip. 170 THE BAYADERE. Her dark eyes filled with tears, to feel The gentle creature closer steal Into her heart with soft caress, As it would thank her tenderness ; To her 'twas strange and sweet to be Beloved in such fond purity, And sighed MANDALLA to think that sin Could dwell so fair a shrine within. " Oh, grief to think that she is one " Who like the breeze is wooed and won ! " Yet sure it were a task for love " To come like dew of the night from above " Upon her heart, and wash away, " Like dust from the flowers, its stain of clay, " And win her back in her tears to heaven " Pure, loved, and humble, and forgiven : THE BAYADERE. 171 " Yes ! freed from the soil of her earthly thrall, " Her smile shall light up my starry hall !" The moonlight is on a little bower, With wall and with roof of leaf and of flower, Built of that green and holy tree Which heeds not how rude the storm may be. Like a bridal canopy overhead The jasmines their slender wreathings spread, One with stars as ivory white, The other with clusters of amber light ; Rose-trees four grew by the wall, Beautiful each, but different all : One with that pure but crimson flush That marks the maiden's first love-blush ; 172 THE BAYADERE. By its side grew another one, Pale as the snow of the funeral stone ; The next was rich with the damask dye Of a monarch's purple drapery ; And the last had leaves like those leaves of gold Worked on that drapery's royal fold. And there were four vases, with blossoms filled, Like censers of incense, their fragrance distilled ; Lilies, heaped like the pearls of the sea, Peeped from their large leaves' security ; Hyacinths with their graceful bells, Where the spirit of odour dwells Like the spirit of music in ocean shells ; And tulips, with every colour that shines In the radiant gems of Serendib's mines ; THE BAYADERE. 173 One tulip was found in every wreath, That one most scorched by the summer's breath, Whose passionate leaves with their ruby glow Hide the heart that lies burning and black below. And there, beneath the flowered shade By a pink acacia made, MANDALLA lay, and by his side, With eye, and breath, and blush that vied With the star and with the flower In their own and loveliest hour, Was that fair Bayadere, the dove Yet nestling in her long black hair : She has now more than that to love, And the loved one sat by her there. And by the sweet acacia porch They drank the softness of the breeze. 174 THE BAYADERE. Oh more than lovely are love's dreams, 'Mid lights and blooms and airs like these ! And sometimes she would leave his side, And like a spirit round him glide : A light shawl now wreathed round her brow, Now waving from her hand of snow, Now zoned around her graceful waist, And now like fetters round her placed ; And then, flung suddenly aside, Her many curls, instead, unbound, Waved in fantastic braids, till loosed, Her long dark tresses swept the ground : Then, changing from the soft slow step, Her white feet bounded on the wind Like gleaming silver, and her hair Like a dark banner swept behind ; THE BAYADERE. 175 Or with her sweet voice, sweet like a bird's When it pours forth its first song in spring, The one like an echo to the other, She answered the sigh of her soft lute-string, And with eyes that darkened in gentlest tears, Like the dewy light in the dark-eyed dove, Would she sing those sorrowing songs that breathe Some history of unhappy love. " Yes, thou art mine !" MANDALLA said, ' ' I have lighted up love in thy youthful heart ; " I taught thee its tenderness, now I must teach " Its faith, its grief, and its gloomier part ; " And then, from thy earth-stains purified, " In my star and my hall shalt thou reign my bride/' It was an evening soft and fair, As surely those in Eden are, 176 THE BAYADERE. When, bearing spoils of leaf and flower, Entered the Bayadere her bower : Her love lay sleeping, as she thought, And playfully a bunch she caught Of azure hyacinth bells, and o'er His face she let the blossoms fall : " Why I am jealous of thy dreams, " Awaken at thy AZA'S call." No answer came from him whose tone Had been the echo of her own. She spoke again, no words came forth ; She clasped his hand, she raised his head,- One wild, loud scream, she sank beside, As pale, as cold, almost as dead ! By the Ganges raised, for the morning sun To shed his earliest beams upon, THE BAYADERE. 177 Is a funeral pile, around it stand Priests and the hired mourners' band. But who is she that so wildly prays To share the couch and light the blaze ? MANDALLA'S love, while scornful eye And chilling jeers mock her agony : An Alma girl ! oh shame, deep shame, To Brahma's race and Brahma's name ! Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside, For a moment her bursting tears to hide. None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre ; Then like a thought she darted by, And sprang on the burning pile to die ! " Now thou art mine ! away, away " To my own bright star, to my home of day !" N 178 THJi BAYADERE. A dear voice sighed, as he bore her along Gently as spring breezes bear the song, " Thy love and thy faith have won for thee " The breath of immortality. " Maid of earth, MANDALLA is free to call " AZA the queen of his heart and hall !" ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL, HYDE-PARK CORNER. These are familiar things, and yet how few Think of this misery ! I LEFT the crowded street and the fresh day, And entered the dark dwelling, where Death was A daily visitant, where sickness shed Its weary languor o'er each fevered couch. There was a sickly light, whose glimmer showed Many a shape of misery : there lay The victims of disease, writhing with pain ; N 2 180 ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL. And low faint groans, and breathings short and deep, Each gasp a heartfelt agony, were all That broke the stillness. There was one, whose brow Dark with hot climates, and gashed o'er with scars, Told of the toiling march, the battle-rush, Where sabres flashed, the red shots flew, and not One ball or blow but did Destruction's work : But then his heart was high, and his pulse beat Proudly and fearlessly : now he was worn With many a long day's suffering, and death's A fearful thing when we must count its steps ! And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreams Of home, of happiness, of quiet years Spent in the little valley which had been So long his land of promise ? Farewell all ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL. 181 Gentle remembrances and cherished hopes ! His race was run, but its goal was the grave. I looked upon another, wasted, pale, With eyes all heavy in the sleep of death ; Yet she was lovely still, the cold damps hung Upon a brow like marble, and her eyes, Though dim, had yet their beautiful blue tinge. Neglected as it was, her long fair hair Was like the plumage of the dove, and spread Its waving curls like gold upon her pillow ; Her face was a sweet ruin. She had loved, Trusted, and been betrayed ! In other days, Had but her cheek looked pale, how tenderly Fond hearts had watched it ! They were far away, She was a stranger in her loneliness, And sinking to the grave of that worst ill, 182 ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL. A broken heart. And there was one whose cheek Was flushed with fever 'twas a face that seemed Familiar to my memory, 'twas one Whom I had loved in youth. In days long past, How many glorious structures we had raised Upon Hope's sandy basis ! Genius gave To him its golden treasures : he could pour His own impassioned soul upon the lyre ; Or, with a painter's skill, create such shapes Of loveliness, they were more like the hues Of the rich evening shadows, than the work Of human touch. But he was wayward, wild ; And hopes that in his heart's warm summer clime Flourished, were quickly withered in the cold And dull realities of life ; ... he was Too proud, too visionary for this world ; ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL. 183 And feelings which, like waters unconfined, Had carried with them freshness and green beauty, Thrown back upon themselves, spread desolation On their own banks. He was a sacrifice, And sank beneath neglect ; his glowing thoughts Were fires that preyed upon himself. Perhaps, For he has left some high memorials, Fame Will pour its sunlight o'er the picture, when The artist's hand is mouldering in the dust, And fling the laurel o'er a harp, whose chords Are dumb for ever. But his eyes he raised Mutely to mine he knew my voice again, And every vision of his boyhood rushed Over his soul ; his lip was deadly pale, But pride was yet upon its haughty curve ; . . He raised one hand contemptuously, and seemed 1S4 ST. GEORGE'S HOSPITAL. As he would bid me mark his fallen state, And that it was unheeded. So he died Without one struggle, and his brow in death Wore its pale tnarb'e look of cold defiance. THE DESERTER. Alas, for the bright promise of our youth! How soon the golden chords of hope are broken, How soon we find that dreams we trusted most Are very shadows 'TWAS a sweet summer morn, the lark had just Sprung from the clover bower around her nest, And poured her blithe song to the clouds : the sun Shed his first crimson o'er the dark grey walls Of the old church, and stained the sparkling panes Of ivy-covered windows. The damp grass, That waved in wild luxuriance round the graves, Was white with dew, but early steps had been And left a fresh green trace round yonder tomb : 186 THE DESERTER. 'Twas a plain stone, but graven with a name That many stopped to read a soldier's name And two were kneeling by it, one who had Been weeping ; she was widow to the brave Upon whose quiet bed her tears were falling. From off her cheek the rose of youth had fled, But beauty still was there, that softened grief, Whose bitterness is gone, but which was felt Too deeply for forgetfulness ; her look, Fraught with high feelings and intelligence, And such as might beseem the Roman dame Whose children died for liberty, was made More soft and touching by the patient smile Which piety had given the unearthly brow, Which Guido draws when he would form a saint Whose hopes are fixed on Heaven, but who has yet Some earthly feelings binding them to life. THE DESERTER. 187 Her arm was leant upon a graceful youth, Tire hope, the comfort of her widowhood ; He was departing from her, and she led The youthful soldier to his father's tomb As in the visible presence of the dead She gave her farewell blessing ; and her voice Lost its so tremulous accents as she bade Her child tread in that father's steps, and told How brave, how honoured he had been. But when She did entreat him to remember all Her hopes were centred in him, that he was The stay of her declining years, that he Might be the happiness of her old age, Or bring her down with sorrow to the grave, Her words grew inarticulate, and sobs Alone found utterance ; and he, whose cheek Was flushed with eagerness, whose ardent eye 188 THE DESERTER. Gave animated promise of the fame That would be his, whose ear already rang With the loud trumpet's war-song, felt these dreams Fade for a moment, and almost renounced The fields he panted for, since they must cost Such tears as these. The churchyard left, they passed Down by a hawthorn hedge, where the sweet May Had showered its white luxuriance, intermixed With crimson clusters of the wilding rose, And linked with honeysuckle. O'er the path Many an ancient oak and stately elm Spread its green canopy. How EDWARD'S eye Lingered on each familiar sight, as if Even to things inanimate he would bid A last farewell ! They reached the cottage-gate : His horse stood ready ; many, too, were there, THE DESERTER. 189 Who came to say good-by, and kindly wish To the young soldier health and happiness. It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling To know we are regretted. " Farewell" said And oft repeated, one last wild embrace Given to his pale mother, who stood there, Her cold hands pressed upon a brow as cold, In all the bursting heart's full agony One last, last kiss, he sprang upon his horse, And urged his utmost speed with spur and rein. He is past . . . out of sight. The muffled drum is rolling, and the low Notes of the death-march float upon the wind, And stately steps are pacing round that square With slow and measured tread ; but every brow Is darkened with emotion, and stern eyes, 190 THE DESERTER. That looked unshrinking on the face of death, When met in battle, are now moist with tears. The silent ring is formed, and in the midst Stands the deserter ! Can this be the same, The young, the gallant EDWARD? and are these The laurels promised in his early dreams ? Those fettered hands, this doom of open shame ? Alas ! for young and passionate spirits ! Soon False lights will dazzle. He had madly joined The rebel banner ! Oh 'twas pride to link His fate with ERIN'S patriot few, to fight For liberty or the grave ! But he was now A prisoner ; yet there he stood, as firm As though his feet were not upon the tomb : His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold ; But his lip trembled not, and his dark eyes THE DESERTER. 191 Glanced proudly round. But when they bared his breast For the death-shot, and took a portrait thence, He clenched his hands, and gasped, and one deep sob Of agony burst from him ; and he hid His face awhile his mother's look was there. He could not steel his soul when he recalled The bitterness of her despair. It passed That moment of wild anguish ; he knelt down ; That sunbeam shed its glory over one, Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy ; The next fell over cold and bloody clay. . . . There is a deep-voiced sound from yonder vale, Which ill accords with the sweet music made By the light birds nestling by those green elms ; 192 THE DESERTER. And, a strange contrast to the blossomed thorns,' Dark plumes are waving, and a silent hearse Is winding through that lane. They told it bore A widow, who died of a broken heart : Her child, her soul's last treasure, he had been Shot for desertion ! GLADESMIHR. " There is no home like the home of our infancy, no remembrances like those of our youth ; the old trees whose topmost boughs we have climbed, the hedge containing that prize a bird's nest, the fairy tale we heard by the fireside, are things of deep and serious interest in maturity. The heart, crushed or hardened by its intercourse with the world, turns with affectionate delight to its early dreams. How I pity those whose child- hood has been unhappy ! to them one of the sweetest springs of feeling has been utterly denied, the most green and beautiful part of life laid waste. But to those whose spring has been what spring should ever be, fresh, buoyant, and gladsome, whose cup has not been poisoned at the first draught, how delicious is recollection ! they truly know the pleasures of memory." THERE is not A valley of more quiet happiness, Bosomed in greener trees, or with a river Clearer than thine, GLADESMUIR ! There are huge hills 194 GLADESMUIR. Like barriers by thy side, where the tall pine Stands stately as a warrior in his prime, Mixed with low gnarled oaks, whose yellow leaves Are bound with ruby tendrils, emerald shoots, And the wild blossoms of the honeysuckle ; And even more impervious grows the brier, Covered with thorns and roses, mingled like Pleasures and pains, but shedding richly forth Its fragrance on the air ; and by its side The wilding broom as sweet, which gracefully Flings its long tresses like a maiden's hair Waving in yellow beauty. The red deer Crouches in safety in its secret lair ; The sapphire, bird's-eye, and blue violets, Mix with white daisies in the grass beneath ; And in the boughs above the woodlark builds, GLADESMUIR. 195 And makes sweet music to the morning ; while All day the stock-dove's melancholy notes Wail plaintively the only sounds beside The hum of the wild bees around some trunk Of an old moss-clad oak, in which is reared Their honey palace. Where the forest ends, Stretches a wide brown heath, till the blue sky Becomes its boundary ; there the only growth Are straggling thickets of the white-flowered thorn And yellow furze : beyond are the grass-fields, And of yet fresher verdure the young wheat ; These border round the village. The bright river Bounds like an arrow by, buoyant as youth Rejoicing in its strength. On the left side, Half hidden by the aged trees that time Has spared as honouring their sanctity, o 2 196 GLADESMUIR. The old grey church is seen : its mossy walls And ivy-covered windows tell how long It has been sacred. There is a lone path Winding beside yon hill : no neighb'ring height Commands so wide a view ; the ancient spire, The cottages, their gardens, and the heath, Spread far beyond, are in the prospect seen By glimpses as the greenwood screen gives way. One is now tracing it, who gazes round As each look were his last. The anxious gasp That drinks the air as every breath brought health ; The hurried step, yet lingering at times, As fearful all it felt were but a dream How much they tell of deep and inward feeling ! That stranger is worn down with toil and pain, His sinewy frame is wasted, and his brow GLADESMUTR. 197 Is darkened with long suffering ; yet he is Oh more than happy ! he has reached his home, And RONALD is a wanderer no more. How often in that fair romantic land Where he had been a soldier, he had turned From the rich groves of SPAIN, to think upon The oak and pine ; turned from the spicy air, To sicken for his own fresh mountain-breeze ; And loved the night, for then familiar things, The moon and stars, were visible, and looked As they had always done, and shed sweet tears To think that he might see them shine again Over his own GLADESMUIR ! That silver moon, In all her perfect beauty, is now rising ; The purple billows of the west have yet A shadowy glory ; all beside is calm, 198 GLADESMUIR. And tender and serene a quiet light, Which suited well the melancholy joy Of RONALD'S heart. At every step the light Played o'er some old remembrance ; now the ray Dimpled the crystal river ; now the church Had all its windows glittering from beneath The curtaining ivy. Near and more near he drew His heart beat quick, for the next step will be Upon his father's threshold ! But he paused He heard a sweet and sacred sound they joined In the accustomed psalm, and then they said The words of GOD, and, last of all, a prayer More solemn, and more touching. He could hear Low sobs as it was uttered. They did pray His safety, his return, his happiness ; And ere they ended he was in their arms ! GLADESMUIR. 199 The wind rose up, and o'er the calm blue sky The tempest gathered, and the heavy rain Beat on the casement ; but they pressed them round The blazing hearth, and sat while RONALD spoke Of the fierce battle ; and all answered him With wonder, and with telling how they wept During his absence, how they numbered o'er The days for his return. Thrice hallowed shrine Of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside ! I do remember in my early youth I parted from its circle ; how I pined With happy recollections they to me Were sickness and deep sorrow : how I thought Of the strange tale, the laugh, the gentle smile Breathing of love, that wiled the night away. The hour of absence past, I was again 200 GLADESMUIR. With those who loved me. What a beauty dwelt In each accustomed face ! what music hung On each familiar voice ! We circled in Our meeting ring of happiness. If e'er This life has bliss, I knew and felt it then ! But there was one RONALD remembered not, Yet 'twas a creature beautiful as Hope, With eyes blue as the harebell when the dew Sparkles upon its azure leaves ; a cheek Fresh as a mountain-rose, but delicate As rainbow colours, and as changeful too. " The orphan ELLEN, have you then forgot " Your laughing playmate ?" RONALD would have clasped The maiden to his heart, but she shrank back : GLADESMUIR. 201 A crimson blush and tearful lids belied Her light tone, as she bade him not forget So soon his former friends. But the next morn Were other tears than those sweet ones that come Of the full heart's o'erflowings. He was given, The loved, the wanderer, to their prayers at last ; But he was now so changed, there was no trace Left of his former self ; the glow of health, Of youth, was gone, and in his sallow cheek And faded eye decay sat visible ; All felt that he was sinking to the grave. He wandered like a ghost around ; would lean, For hours, and watch the river ; or would lie Beneath some aged tree, and hear the birds Singing so cheerfully ; and with faint step Would sometimes try the mountain side. He loved 202 GLADESMUIR. To look upon the setting sun, and mark The twilight's dim approach. He said he was Most happy that all through his life one wish Had still been present to his soul the wish That he might breathe his native air again ; That prayer was granted, for he died at home One wept for him when other eyes were dry, Treasured his name in silence and in tears, Till her young heart's impassioned solitude Was filled but with his image. She had soothed And watched his few last hours but he was gone ! The grave to her was now the goal of hope ! She passed, but gently as the rose leaves fall Scattered by the spring gales. Two months had fled Since RONALD died ; they threw the summer flowers GLADESMUIR. 203 Upon his sod, and ere those leaves were tinged With autumn's yellow colours, they were twined For the poor ELLEN'S death-wreaths ! . . . They made her grave by RONALD'S. THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL. Their path had been a troubled one, each step Had trod 'mid thorns and springs of bitterness ; But they had fled away from the cold world, And found, in a fair valley, solitude And happiness in themselves. They oft would rove Through the dark forests when the golden light Of evening was upon the oak, or catch The first wild breath of morning on the hill, And in the hot noon seek some greenwood shade, Filled with the music of the birds, the leaves, Or the descending waters' distant song. And that young maiden hung delightedly Upon her minstrel lover's words, when he Breathed some old melancholy verse, or told Love's ever- varying histories; and her smile Thanked him so tenderly, that he forgot Or thought of but to scorn the flatteries He was so proud of once. I need not say How happy his sweet mistress was. Oh, all Know love is woman's happiness ! COME, love ! we'll rest us from our wanderings : The violets are fresh among the moss, The dew is not yet on their purple leaves, THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL. 205 Warm with the sun's last kiss sit here, dear love ! This chesnut be our canopy. Look up Towards the beautiful heaven ; the fair moon Is shining timidly, like a young queen Who fears to claim her full authority : The stars shine in her presence ; o'er the sky A few light clouds are wandering, like the fears That even happy love must know ; the air Is full of perfume and most musical, Although no other sounds are on the gale Than the soft falling of the mountain rill. Or waving of the leaves. 'Tis just the time For legend of romance, and, dearest ! now I have one framed for thee : it is of love, Most perfect love, and of a faithful heart That was a sacrifice upon the shrine 206 THE MINSTREL OF PORTUGAL. Itself had reared ! I will begin it now, Like an old tale : There was a princess once, More beautiful than spring, when the warm look Of summer calls the blush upon her cheek, The matchless ISABEL of PORTUGAL. She moved in beauty, and where'er she went Some heart did homage to her loveliness. But there was one a youth of lowly birth Who worshipped her ! I have heard many say Love lives on hope ; they knew not what they said : Hope is Love's happiness, but not its life ; How many hearts have nourished a vain flame In silence and in secret, though they knew They fed the scorching fire that would consume the