In 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:
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,
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!
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;
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,
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.
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,
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
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 a 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 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-ABDALLAH's bride?
She touched her lute-never again
Her ear will listen to its strain!
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,
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!
She took her cage, first kissed the breast-As there she could not dream of fear—
Then freed the white dove prisoned there:
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;
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.
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
Of misery-they just could see
The distant shore of Italy,
Surely theirs is 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,
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 Jover'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!
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 she 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;
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:
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
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
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,
as only meet
Shining like snow,
For the light tread of fairy-feet;
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 Aeolian lyre,
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
whose earthlier
From Heaven,
thought
Was yet more lovely,-shone like gleams
Of Beauty's spirit seen in dreams.
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-
Each lay of lighter feeling slept,
I sang, but, as I sang, I wept.
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?
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!
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.
Upon her temple, each dark vein
Swelled in its agony of pain.
Chill, heavy damps were on her brow;
Her arms were stretched at length, though
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!
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,
Her hair is wet with rain and sleet,
Wraps her slight mantle round her form?
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;
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.
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
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
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
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!
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.
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.
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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
The gentle happiness known before?
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 rich, 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.
'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!
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!
Nothing is known of those wearing fears Love once formed an amulet,
Which will shadow the light of thy after- | With pearls, and a rainbow, and rose-leaves
|