Ne'er seem'd before the Isle so bright;
And when their hymns were ended,
Oh! ne'er in such intense delight
Had their rapt souls been blended.
Some natural tears they surely owed
To those who wept for them, and fast they
flow'd,

And oft will flow amid their happiest hours;
But not less fair the summer-day,
Though glittering through the sunny ray
Are seen descending showers.

But how could Sorrow, Grief, or Pain,
The glory of that morn sustain?
Alone amid the Wilderness
More touching seem'd the holiness
Of that mysterious day of soul-felt rest:
They are the first that e'er adored
On this wild spot their Heavenly Lord,
Or gentle Jesus bless'd.

O Son of God!-How sweetly came
Into their souls that blessed name!
Even like health's hope-reviving breath
To one upon the bed of death.
Our Saviour!-What angelic grace
Stole with dim smiles o'er Mary's face,
While through the solitude profound
With love and awe she breathed that holy
sound !

Yes! He will save! a still small voice
To Mary's fervent prayer replied;
Beneath his tender care rejoice,
On earth who for his children died.
Her Lover saw that, while she pray'd,
Communion with her God was given
Unto her sinless spirit:-nought he said;
But gazing on her with a fearful love,
Such as saints feel for sister-souls above,
Her cheek upon his bosom gently laid,
And dreamt with her of Heaven.

Pure were their souls, as infant's breath, Who in its cradle guiltless sinks in death. No place for human frailty this, Despondency or fears;

Too beautiful the wild appears
Almost for human bliss.

Was love like theirs then given in vain? And must they, trembling, shrink from pure delight?

Or shall that God, who on the main
Hath bound them with a billowy chain,
Approve the holy rite,

And say! what wanteth now the Isle of
Palms,

To make it happy as those Isles of rest
(When eve the sky becalms
Like a subsiding sea)

That hang resplendent mid the gorgeous

west,

All brightly imaged, mountain, grove, and tree,

The setting sun's last lingering pageantry! Hath Fancy ever dreamt of Seraph-Powers Walking in beauty through these cloudframed bowers,

Light as the mist that wraps their dazzling feet?

And hath she ever paused to hear,
By moonlight brought unto her ear,
Their hymnings wild and sweet?
Lo! human creatures meet her view
As happy, and as beauteous too,
As those aerial phantoms!-in their mien,
Where'er they move, a graceful calm is seen
All foreign to this utter solitude,

Yet blended with such wild and fairy glide,
As erst in Grecian Isle had beautified
The guardian Deities of Grove and Flood.
Are these fair creatures earth-born and alive,
And mortal, like the flowers that round
them smile?

Or if into the Ocean sank their Isle
A thousand fathoms deep would they
survive,-
Like sudden rainbows spread their arching
wings,

And while, to cheer their airy voyage, sings With joy the charmed sea, the Heavens give way,

That in the spirits, who had sojourn'd long On earth, might glide, then re-assume their

Oh! fairer now these blessed Lovers seem, Gliding like spirits through o'er-arching trees,

Their beauty, mellowing in the chequer'd light,

Than, years ago, on that resplendent night,
When yielded up to an unearthly dream,
In their sweet ship they sail'd upon the seas.
Ay! years ago!-for in this temperate clime,
Fleet, passing fleet, the noiseless plumes of time
Float through the fragrance of the sunny air;
One little month seems scarcely gone,
Since in a vessel of their own
At eve they landed there.

Their bower is now a stately bower,
For, on its roof, the loftiest flower
To bloom so lowly grieves,
And up like an ambitious thing
That feareth nought behold it spring
Till it meet the high Palm-leaves!
The porch is opening seen no more,
But folded up with blossoms hoar,
And leaves green as the sea,

And, when the wind hath found them out,
The merry waves that dancing rout
May not surpass in glee.

About their home so little art,

They seem to live in Nature's heart,
A sylvan court to hold

In a palace framed of lustre green,
More rare than to the bright Flower-Queen
Was ever built of old.

Where are they in the hours of day?
—The birds are happy on the spray,
The dolphins on the deep,
Whether they wanton full of life,
Or, wearied with their playful strife,
Amid the sunshine sleep.

And are these things by Nature blest
In sport, in labour, and in rest,—
And yet the Sovereigns of the Isle opprest
With languor or with pain?

No! with light glide, and cheerful song,
Through flowers and fruit they dance along,
And still fresh joys, uncall'd for, throng
Through their romantic reign.

The wild-deer bounds along the rock,
But let him not yon hunter mock,
Though strong, and fierce, and fleet;
For he will trace his mountain-path,
Or else his antlers' threatening wrath
In some dark winding meet.
Vaunt not, gay bird! thy gorgeous plume
Though on yon leafy tree it bloom
Like a flower both rich and fair:
Vain thy loud song and scarlet glow,
To save from his unerring bow;
The arrow finds thee there.

Dark are the caverns of the wave,
Yet those, that sport there, cannot save,
Though hidden from the day,
With silvery sides bedropt with gold,
Struggling they on the beach are roll'd
O'er shells as bright as they.

Their pastimes these, and labours too,
From day to day unwearied they renew,
In garments floating with a woodland-grace:
Oh! lovelier far than fabled sprites,
They glide along through new delights,
Like Health and Beauty vying in the race.
Yet hours of soberer bliss they know,
Their spirits in more solemn flow
At day-fall oft will run

When from his throne, with kingly motion,
Into the loving arms of Ocean
Descends the setting Sun.

Oh! beauteous are thy rocky vales,
Land of my birth, forsaken Wales!
Towering from continent or sea,
Where is the Mountain like to thee?-
The eagle's darling, and the tempest's
pride,-
Thou! on whose ever-varying side
The shadows and the sun-beams glide
In still or stormy weather,

Oh Snowdon! may I breathe thy name?
And thine too, of gigantic frame,
Cader-Idris? 'neath the solar flame,
Oh! proud ye stand together!

And thou, sweet Lake!-but from its wave
She turn'd her inward eye,

For near these banks, within her grave,
Her Mother sure must lie:

Weak were her limbs, long, long ago,
And grief, ere this, hath laid them low.

Yet soon Fitz-Owen's eye and voice
From these sad dreams recall
His weeping wife; and deeply chear'd
She soon forgets them all.

Or, haply, through delighted tears,
Her mother's smiling shade appears,
And, her most duteous child caressing,
Bestows on her a parent's blessing,
And tells that o'er these holy groves
Oft hangs the parent whom she loves.
How beauteous both in hours like these!
Prest in each other's arms, or on their knees,
They think of things for which no words
are found;

They need not speak: their looks express
More life-pervading tenderness
Than music's sweetest sound.
He thinks upon the dove-like rest
That broods within her pious breast;
The holy calm, the hush divine,
Where pensive, night-like glories shine;
Even as the mighty Ocean deep,
Yet clear and waveless as the sleep
Of some lone heaven-reflecting lake,
When evening-airs its gleam forsake.
She thinks upon his love for her,
His wild, empassion'd character,
To whom a look, a kiss, a smile,
Rewards for danger and for toil!
His power of spirit unsubdued,
His fearlessness, his fortitude,—
The radiance of his gifted soul,
Where never mists or darkness roll:

For through the air she seems to swim,
Yet oft she stops to look behind
On them below ;-till with the wind
She flies again, and on the hill-top far
Shines like the spirit of the evening star.
Nor lingers long as if a sight
Half-fear, half-wonder, urged her flight,
In rapid motion, winding still
To break the steepness of the hill,
With leaps, and springs, and out-stretch'd

arms,

More graceful in her vain alarms,
The child outstrips the ocean-gale,
In haste to tell her wondrous tale.
Her parents' joyful hearts admire,
Of peacock's plumes her glancing tire,
All bright with tiny suns,

And the gleamings of the feathery gold,
That play along each wavy fold
Of her mantle as she runs.

What ails my child? her mother cries,
Seeing the wildness in her eyes,
The wonder on her cheek;
But fearfully she beckons still,
Up to her watch-tower on the hill,
Ere one word can she speak.
My Father! Mother! quickly fly
Up to the green-hill-top with me,
And tell me what you there descry;
For a cloud hath fallen from the sky,
And is sailing on the sea.

They wait not to hear that word again:
The steep seems level as the plain,
And up they glide with ease:
They stand one moment on the height
In agony, then bless the sight,
And drop upon their knees.

A Ship!-no more can Mary say,
A blessed Ship! and faints away.-
Not so the happy sight subdues
Fitz-Owen's heart;-he calmly views
The gallant vessel toss

Her prow superbly up and down,
As if she wore the Ocean-Crown;
And now, exulting in the breeze,
With new-woke English pride he sees
St. George's blessed Cross.

Behold them now, the happy three,
Hang up a signal o'er the sea,
And shout with echoing sound,
While, gladden'd by her parents' bliss,
The child prints many a playful kiss
Upon their hands, or, mad with glee,
Is dancing round and round.

Scarce doth the thoughtless infant know
Why thus their tears like rain should flow,
Yet she must also weep;

Such tears as innocence doth shed
Upon its undisturbed bed,

When dreaming in its sleep.
And oft, and oft, her father presses

Her breast to his, and bathes her tresses,

Her sweet eyes, and fair brow.
How beautiful upon the wave
The vessel sails, who comes to save!
Fitting it was that first she shone
Before the wondering eyes of one,
So beautiful as thou.

See how before the wind she goes,
Scattering the waves like melting snows!
Her course with glory fills

The sea for many a league!-Descending,
She stoopeth now into the vale,
Now, as more freshly blows the gale,
She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills.
Oh! whither is she tending?

She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay ;
As for her crew, how blest are they!
See! how she veers around!

Back whirl the waves with louder sound;
And now her prow points to the land:
For the Ship, at her glad lord's command,
Doth well her helm obey.

They cast their eyes around the isle:
But what a change is there!
For ever fled that lonely smile
That lay on earth and air,

That made its haunts so still and holy,
Almost for bliss too melancholy,
For life too wildly fair.

Gone-gone is all its loneliness,
And with it much of loveliness.
Into each deep glen's dark recess,
The day-shine pours like rain,
So strong and sudden is the light
Reflected from that wonder bright,
Now tilting o'er the Main.

Soon as the thundering cannon spoke,
The voice of the evening-gun

The spell of the enchantment broke,
Like dew beneath the sun.

Soon shall they hear th' unwonted cheers
Of these delighted mariners,

And the loud sound of the oar,
As bending back away they pull,
With measured pause, most beautiful,
Approaching to the shore.

For her yards are bare of man and sail,
Nor moves the giant to the gale;
But, on the Ocean's breast,
With storm-proof cables, stretching far,
There lies the stately Ship of War
r;
And glad is she of rest.

Ungrateful ye! and will ye sail away, And leave your bower to flourish and decay, Without one parting tear?

Where you have slept, and loved, and pray'd,
And with your smiling infant play'd
For many a blessed year!

No! not in vain that bower hath shed
Its blossoms o'er your marriage-bed,

Nor the sweet Moon look'd down in vain,

Forgetful of her heavenly reign,

On them whose pure and holy bliss

Even beautified that wilderness.

To every rock, and glade, and dell,
You now breathe forth a sad farewell.
Say! wilt thou ever murmur on
With that same voice when we are gone,
Beloved stream!-Ye birds of light!
And in your joy as musical as bright,
Still will you pour that thrilling strain,
Unheard by us who sail the distant main?
We leave our nuptial bower to you!
There still your harmless loves renew,
And there, as they who left it, blest,
The loveliest ever build your nest.
Farewell once more-for now and ever! -
Yet, though unhoped-for mercy sever
Our lives from thee, where grief might
come at last;

Yet whether chain'd in tropic calms,
Or driven before the blast,
Most surely shall our spirits never
Forget the Isle of Palms.-

What means the Ship? Fitz-Owen cries,
And scarce can trust his startled eyes,-
While safely she at anchor swings,
Why doth she thus expand her wings?
She will not surely leave the bay,
Where sweetly smiles the closing day,
As if it tempted her to stay?
O cruel Ship! 'tis even so:

No sooner come than in haste to go;
Angel of bliss! and fiend of woe!—
-Oh! let that God who brought her here,
My husband's wounded spirit cheer!
Mayhap the ship for months and years
Hath been among the storms, and fears
Yon lowering cloud, that on the wave
Flings down the shadow of a grave;
For well thou knowst the bold can be
By shadows daunted, when they sail the sea.
Think,in our own lost Ship, when o'er our head
Walk'd the sweet Moon in unobscured light,
How oft the sailors gazed with causeless
dread

On her, the glory of the innocent night,
As if in those still hours of heavenly joy,
They saw a spirit smiling to destroy.
Trust that, when morning brings her light,
The sun will shew a glorious sight,
This very Ship in joy returning

With outspread sails and ensigns burning,
To quench in bliss our causeless mourning.
-O Father! look with kinder eyes

On me, the Fairy-infant cries.

O blessed child! cach artless tone Of that sweet voice, thus plaintively Breathing of comfort to thyself unknown, Who feelest not how beautiful thou art, Sinks like an anthem's pious melody Into thy father's agitated heart, And makes it calm and tranquil as thy own. A shower of kisses bathes thy smiling face, And thou, rejoicing once again to hear The voice of love so pleasant to thine ear, Thorough the brake, and o'er the lawn, Bounding along like a sportive fawn, With laugh and song renewst thy devious

race;

Or round them, like a guardian sprite,
Dancing with more than mortal grace,
Steepest their gazing souls in still delight.
For how could they, thy parents, see
Thy innocent and fearless glee,
And not forget, but one short hour ago,
When the Ship sail'd away, how bitter was
their woe?

-Most like a dream it doth appear,
When she, the vanish'd Ship, was here-
A glimpse of joy, that, while it shone,
Was surely passing-sweet :-now it is gone,
Not worth one single tear.

CANTO IV.

A SUMMER-NIGHT descends in balm On the orange-bloom, and the stately Palm, Of that romantic steep,

Where, silent as the silent hour,
'Mid the soft leaves of their Indian bower,
Three happy spirits sleep.

And we will leave them to themselves,
To the moon and the stars, these happy elves,
To the murmuring wave, and the zephyr's
wing,

That dreams of gentlest joyance bring
To bathe their slumbering eyes;
And on the moving clouds of night,
High o'er the main will take our flight,
Where beauteous Albion lies.
Wondrous, and strange, and fair, I ween,
The sounds, the forms, the hues have been
Of these delightful groves;

And mournful as the melting sky,
Or a faint-remember'd melody,

Yet though they sleep, those breathings wild,
That told of the Fay-like sylvan child,
And of them who live in lonely bliss,
Like bright flowers of the wilderness,
Happy and beauteous as the sky
That views them with a loving eye,
Another tale I have to sing,
Whose low and plaintive murmuring
May well thy heart beguile,

And when thou weepst along with me,