At length I made myself a task- To paint that Cretan maiden's fate, 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 tempest-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. 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. 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, 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!
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: 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, I scarcely heard The prayer that bore my name above: The Farewell! that kissed off her tears, Had more of pity than of love! 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 low'rs, 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, 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! Yet I was wretched, though I dwelt In the sweet sight of Paradise: But not now, A curse lay on me. 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? 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! I 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 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!
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: 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,
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! 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,— 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; 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! It was a face!-the summer-day Is not more radiant in its light! Dark flashing eyes, like the deep stars Lightning the azure brow of night; A blush like sunrise o'er the rose;
And wealth and fame pray for the tomb;-A cloud of raven-hair, whose shade
But can love bear from love to part, And not cling to that one dear heart?
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;
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.
CALL to mind your loveliest dream,- When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain-
When your pillow is made of the violet, And over your head the branches are met Of a lime-tree cover'd with bloom and bees, When the roses' breath is on the breeze, When odours and light on your eyelids press With summer's delicious idleness; And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance
Of the faery-banks of the bright Durance;
Just where at first its current flows 'Mid willows and its own white rose,- Its clear and early tide, or ere A shade, save trees, its waters bear.
The sun, like an Indian King, has left To that fair river a royal gift Of gold and purple; no longer shines His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines Sweeping beneath the burning sky Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep When the wings of the tempest shall over them sweep.
--And with its towers cleaving the red Of the sunset-clouds, and its shadow spread Like a cloak before it, darkening the ranks Of the light young trees on the river's banks, And ending there, as the waters shone Too bright for shadows to rest upon, A castle stands; whose windows gleam Like the golden flash of a noon-lit stream Seen through the lily and water-flags' screen: Just so shine those panes through the ivy green,
A curtain to shut out sun and air, Which the work of years has woven there. -But not in the lighted pomp of the west Looks the evening its loveliest; Enter yon turret, and round you gaze On what the twilight-east displays:
One star, pure, clear, as if it shed The dew on each young flower's head; And, like a beauty of southern clime, Her veil thrown back for the first time, Pale, timid, as she feared to own Her claim upon the midnight-throne, Shows the fair moon her crescent sign. -Beneath, in many a serpentine, The river wanders; chesnut-trees Where the low roofs and porticoes Spread their old boughs o'er cottages Are cover'd with the Provence-rose.
And there are vineyards: none might view And olive-groves, pale as the dew The fruit o'er which the foliage weaves;
Crusted its silver o'er the leaves. And there the castle-garden lay With tints in beautiful array:
Its dark green walks, its fountains falling, Its tame birds to each other calling; The peacock with its orient rings, The silver pheasant's gleaming wings; And on the breeze rich odours sent Sweet messages, as if they meant To rouse each sleeping sense to all The loveliness of evening's fall.— That lonely turret, is it not A minstrel's own peculiar spot? Thus with the light of shadowy gray To dream the pleasant hours away.
Slight columns were around the hall With wreathed and fluted pedestal Of green Italian marble made, In likeness of the palm-trees' shade; And o'er the ceiling starry showers Mingled with many-colour'd flowers, With crimson roses o'er her weeping, There lay that royal maiden sleepingDANAE, she whom gold could moveHow could it move her heart to love? Between the pillars the rich fold Of tapestry fell, inwrought with gold, And many-colour'd silks which gave, Strange legends of the fair and brave.
And there the terrace covered o'er With summer's fair and scented store; As grateful for the gentle care That had such pride to keep it fair.
And, gazing, as if heart and eye Were mingled with that lovely sky, There stood a youth, slight as not yet With manhood's strength and firmness set; But on his cold, pale cheek were caught The traces of some deeper thought, A something seen of pride and gloom, Not like youth's hour of light and bloom: A brow of pride, a lip of scorn,- Yet beautiful in scorn and pride- A conscious pride, as if he own'd Gems hidden from the world beside; And scorn, as he cared not to learn Should others prize those gems or spurn. He was the last of a proud race Who left him but his sword and name, And boyhood past in restless dreams Of future deeds and future fame. But there were other dearer dreams Than the light'ning-flash of these war-gleams That fill'd the depths of RAYMOND's heart; For his was now the loveliest part Of the young poet's life, when first, In solitude and silence nurst, His genius rises like a spring Unnoticed in its wandering;
Ere winter-cloud or summer-ray Have chill'd, or wasted it away,
And sigh for all the toil, the care, The wrong that he has had to bear; Then wish the treasures of his lute Had been, like his own feelings, mute, And curse the hour when that he gave To sight that wealth, his lord and slave.
But RAYMOND was in the first stage Of life's enchanted pilgrimage: 'Tis not for Spring to think on all The sear and waste of Autumn's fall:- Enough for him to watch beside The bursting of the mountain-tide, To wander through the twilight-shade By the dark, arching pine-boughs made, And at the evening's starlit hour To seek for some less shadowy bower, Where dewy leaf, and flower pale, Made the home of the nightingale. Or he would seek the turret-hall, And there, unheard, unseen of all, When even the night-winds were mute, His rich tones answer'd to the lute; And in his pleasant solitude
He would forget his wayward mood, And pour his spirit forth when none Broke on his solitude, save one.
There is a light step passing by Like the distant sound of music's sigh; It is that fair and gentle child, Whose sweetness has so oft beguiled,
When thoughts with their own beauty fill'd Like sunlight on a stormy day,
Shed their own richness over all,
As waters from sweet woods distill'd Breathe perfume out where'er they fall. I know not whether Love can fling A deeper witchery from his wing Than falls sweet Power of Song from thine; Yet, ah! the wreath that binds thy shrine, Though seemingly all bloom and light, Hides thorn and canker, worm and blight. Planet of wayward destinies Thy victims are thy votaries! Alas! for him whose youthful fire Is vowed and wasted on the lyre,- Alas! for him who shall essay, The laurel's long and dreary way! Mocking will greet, neglect will chill His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill; And, worst of all, that heartless praise Echoed from what another says. He dreams a dream of life and light, And grasps the rainbow that appears Afar all beautiful and bright, And finds it only formed of tears. Ay, let him reach the goal, let fame Pour glory's sunlight on his name, Let his songs be on every tongue, And wealth and honours round him flung: Then let him show his secret thought, Will it not own them dearly bought? See him in weariness fling down The golden harp, the violet-crown ;
His almost sullenness away.
They said she was not of mortal birth, And her face was fairer than face of earth: What is the thing to liken it to? A lily just dipp'd in the summer-dew— Parian marble-snow's first fall?- Her brow was fairer than each and all. And so delicate was each vein's soft blue, 'Twas not like blood that wander'd through. Rarely upon that cheek was shed,
By health or by youth, one tinge of red; And never closest look could descry, In shine, or in shade, the hue of her eye: But as it were made of light, it changed, With every sunbeam that over it ranged; And that eye could look through the long dark lash,
With the moon's dewy smile, or the lightning's flash.
Her silken tresses, so bright and so fair. Stream'd like a banner of light on the air, And seldom its sunny wealth around Was chaplet of flowers or ribbon bound; But amid the gold of its thousand curls Was twisted a braid of snow-white pearls,— They said 'twas a charmed spell; that before This braid her nameless mother wore; And many were the stories wild Whisper'd of the neglected child.
Lord AMIRALD, (thus the tale was told) The former lord of the castle-hold,- Lord AMIRALD had followed the chase Till he was first and last in the race; The blood-dyed sweat hung on his steed, Each breath was a gasp, yet he stay'd not his speed.
Twice the dust and foam had been wash'd By the mountain-torrent that over them dash'd ;
But still the stag held on his way, Till a forest of pine-trees before them lay, And bounding and crashing boughs declare The stag and the hunter have enter'd there. On, on they went, till a greenwood-screen Lay AMIRALD and his prey between:
He has heard the creature sink on the ground,
As if a relic left to show The luxury of departed days, And show its nothingness. The wave That princely brows was wont to lave Was left now for the wild bird's bill, And the red deer to drink their fill. Yet still it was as fair a spot As in its once more splendid lot: Around, the dark sweep of the pine Guarded it like a wood-nymph's shrine, And the gold-spotted moss was set With crowds of the white violet. One only oak grew by the spring, The forest's patriarch and king; A nightingale had built her nest In the green shadow of its rest; And in its hollow trunk the bees Dwelt in their honey-palaces ;
And the branches give way at his courser's And underneath its shelter stood,
The spent stag on the grass is laid; But over him is leant a maid, Her arms and fair hair glistening With the bright waters of the spring; And AMIRALD paused, and gazed, as seeing Were grown the sole sense of his being.
At first she heard him not, but bent Upon her pitying task intent; The summer-clouds of hair that hung Over her brow were backwards flung; She saw him! Her first words were prayer Her gasping favourite's life to spare: But her next tones were soft and low, And on her cheek a mantling glow Play'd like a rainbow; and the eye That, raised in pleading energy, Shed, starlike, its deep beauty round, Seem'd now as if to earth spell-bound. They parted: but each one that night Thought on the meeting at twilight.
It matters not, how, day by day, Love made his sure but secret way. Oh, where is there the heart but knows Love's first steps are upon the rose! And here were all which still should be Nurses to Love's sweet infancy.- Hope, mystery, absence:--then each thought A something holy with it brought. Their sighs were breathed, their vows were given
Before the face of the high Heaven, Link'd not with courtly vanities, But birds and blossoms, leaves and trees :— Love was not made for palace-pride, For halls and domes-they met beside
A marble-fountain, overgrown With moss, that made it nature's own,
Leant like a beauty o'er the flood Watching each tender bud unclose, A beautiful white Provence-rose ;— Yet wan and pale as that it knew What changing skies and sun could do; As that it knew, and, knowing, sigh'd, The vanity of summer-pride;
As watching could put off the hour When falls the leaf and fades the flower. Alas! that every lovely thing Lives only but for withering,- That spring-rainbows and summer-shine End but in autumn's pale decline.
And here the lovers met, what hour The bee departed from the flower, And droop'd the bud at being left, Or as ashamed of each sweet theft, What hour the soft wind bore along The nightingale's moonlighted song.
And AMIRALD heard her father's name, He whose it was, was link'd with fame: Though driven from his heritage, A hunted exile in his age,
For that he would not bend the knee, And draw the sword at Rome's decree.
She led him to the lonely cot And almost AMIRALD wish'd his lot Had been cast in that humbler life, Over whose peace the hour of strife Passes but like the storm at sea That wakes not earth's tranquillity.
In secret were they wed, not then Had AMIRALD power to fling again The banner of defiance wide
To priestly pomp and priestly pride; But day by day more strong his hand,
Though through the green shone veins of And more his friends, and soon the brand
That in its wrongs and silence slept Had from its blood-stain'd scabbard leapt.
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