Enough that bright eyes turn'd in vain
On him who bow'd beneath her chain:-
Then came the careless word and look,
All the fond soul so ill can brook,
The jealous doubt, the burning pain,
That rack the lover's heart and brain;
The fear that will not own it fear,
The hope that cannot disappear;
Faith clinging to its visions past,
And trust confiding to the last.
And thus it is: ay, let Love throw
Aside his arrows and his bow;
But let him not with one spell part,
The veil that binds his eyes and heart.
Woe for Love when his eyes shall be
Open'd upon reality!
One day a neighbouring baron gave
A revel to the fair and brave,-
And knights upon their gallant steeds,
And ladies on their palfreys gray,
All shining in their gayest weeds,
Held for the festival their way.
A wanderer on far distant shores,
That baron had brought richest stores
To his own hall, and much of rare
And foreign luxury was there:
Pages, with colour'd feathers, fann'd
The odours of Arabia's land;
The carpets strewn around each room
Were all of Persia's purple loom;
And dark slaves waited on his guests,
Each habited in Moorish vests,
With turban'd brows, and bands of gold
Around their arms and ancles roll'd.
And gazed the guests o'er many a hoard,
Like Sinbad's, from his travel stored.
They look'd upon the net-work dome,
Where found the stranger birds a home,
With rainbow-wings and gleaming eyes,
Seen only beneath Indian skies.
At length they stood around the ring,
Where stalk'd, unchain'd, the forest-king,
With eyes of fire and mane erect,
As if by human power uncheck’d.
Full ill had RAYMOND's spirit borne The wayward mood, the careless scorn, With which his mistress had that day Trifled his happiness away.His very soul within him burn'd, When, as in chance, her dark eye turn'd On him, she spoke in reckless glee:Is there a knight who, for love of me, Into the court below will spring, And bear from the lion the glove I fling?
A shriek!-a pause, then loud acclaim Rose to the skies with RAYMOND's name. Oh, worthy of a lady's love! RAYMOND has borne away the glove. He laid the prize at the maiden's fect, Then turn'd from the smile he dared not meet:
A moment more he is on the steed,
The spur has urged to its utmost speed,
As that he could fly from himself, and all
The misery of spirit's thrall.
The horse sank down, and RAYMOND then Started to see the foaming rein,
The drops that hung on the courser's hide,
And the rowel's red trace on its panting side;
And deep shame mingled with remorse,
As he brought the cool stream to his fallen
horse.
The spot where he paused was a little nook,
Like a secret page in nature's book ;—
Around were steeps where the wild vine
Hung, wreathed in many a serpentine,
Wearing each the colour'd sign
Of the autumn's pale decline.
Like a lake in the midst was spread
A grassy sweep of softest green,
Smooth, flower-dropt, as no human tread
Upon its growth had ever been.
Limes rose around, but lost each leaf,
Like hopes luxuriant but brief;
And by their side the sycamore
Grew prouder of its scarlet store:
The air was of that cold clear light
That heralds in an autumn-night,-
The amber west had just a surge
Of crimson on its utmost verge;
And on the east were piled up banks
Where darkness gather'd with her ranks
Of clouds, and in the midst a zone
Of white with transient brightness shone
From the young moon, who scarcely yet
Had donn'd her lighted coronet.
With look turn'd to the closing day,
As he watch'd every hue decay,
Sat RAYMOND; and a passer by
Had envied him his reverie;-
But nearer look had scann'd his brow,
And started at its fiery glow,
As if the temples' burning swell
Had made their pulses visible.
Too glazed, too fix'd, his large eyes shone
To see aught that they gazed upon.
Not his the paleness that may streak
The lover's or the minstrel's cheek,
As it had its wan colour caught
From moods of melancholy thought;
'Twas that cold, dark, unearthly shade,
But for a corpse's death-look made;
Speaking that desperateness of pain,
As one more pang, and the rack'd brain
Would turn to madness; one more grief,
And the swoln heart breaks for relief.
Oh, misery! to see the tomb Close over all our world of bloom;
To look our last in the dear eyes
Which made our light of paradise ;
To know that silent is the tone
Whose tenderness was all our own;
To kiss the cheek which once had burn'd
At the least glance, and find it turn'd
To marble; and then think of all
Of hope, that memory can recall.
Yes, misery! but even here
There is a somewhat left to cheer,
A gentle treasuring of sweet things
Remembrance gathers from the past,
The pride of faithfulness, which clings
To love kept sacred to the last.
And even if another's love
Has touch'd the heart to us above
The treasures of the east, yet still
There is a solace for the ill.
Those who have known love's utmost spell
Can feel for those who love as well;
Can half forget their own distress,
To share the loved one's happiness.
Oh, but to know our heart has been,
Like the toy of an Indian queen,
Torn, trampled, without thought or care,-
Where is despair like this despair!—
All night beneath an oak he lay,
Till nature blush'd bright into day;
When, at a trumpet's sudden sound,
Started his courser from the ground:
And his loud neigh waked RAYMOND's dream,
And, gazing round, he saw the gleam
Of arms upon a neighbouring height,
Where helm and cuirass stream'd in light.
AS RAYMOND rose from his unrest
He knew DE VALENCE'S falcon-crest;
And the red cross that shone like a glory
Told the warrior was vow'd to the holy war.
RAYMOND should join the warrior-train,
Leagued 'gainst the infidels of Spain.
They parted:-Over RAYMOND's thought
Came sadness mingled too with shame;
When suddenly his memory brought
The long forgotten Eva's name.
Oh! Love is like the mountain-tide,
Sweeping away all things beside,
Till not another trace appears
But its own joys, and griefs, and fears.
He took her cross, he took her chain
From the heart where they still had lain;
And that heart felt as if its fate
Had sudden grown less desolate,
In thus remembering love that still
Would share and sooth in good and ill.
He spurr'd his steed; but the night-fall
Had darken'd ere he reach'd the hall;
And gladly chief- and vassal-train
Welcomed the youthful knight again.
And many praised his stately tread,
His face with darker manhood spread;
But of those crowding round him now,
Who mark'd the paleness of his brow,
But one, who paused till they were past,
Who look'd the first but spoke the last:
Her welcome in its timid fear
Fell almost cold on RAYMOND's ear;
A single look,-he felt he gazed
Upon a gentle child no more,
The blush that like the lightning blazed,
The cheek then paler than before,
A something of staid maiden grace,
A cloud of thought upon her face;
She who had been, in RAYMOND's sight,
A plaything, fancy, and delight,
Was changed: the depth of her blue eye
Spoke to him now of sympathy,
And seem'd her melancholy tone
A very echo of his own;
Ay, this, thought RAYMOND, is the strife And that pale forehead, surely care
To make my sacrifice of life;
What is it now to me that fame
Shall brighten over RAYMOND's name;
There is no gentle heart to bound,
No cheek to mantle at the sound:
Lady's favour no more I wear,-
My heart, my helm-oh! what are there?
A blighted hope, a wither'd rose.
Surely this warfare is for those
Who only of the victory crave
A holy but a nameless grave.
Short greeting past; DE VALENce read
All that the pale lip left unsaid;
On the wan brow, in the dimm'd eye,
The whole of youth's despondency,
Which at the first shock it has known
Deems its whole world of hope o'erthrown.
And it was fix'd, that at Marseilles,
Where the fleet waited favouring gales,
Has graved an early lesson there.
They roved through many a garden-scene,
Where other, happier days had been;
And soon had RAYMOND told his all
Of hopes, like stars but bright to fall;
Of feelings blighted, changed, and driven
Like exiles from their native heaven;
And of an aimless sword, a lute
Whose chords were now uncharm'd and mute.
But Eva's tender blandishing
Was as the April-rays, that fling
A rainbow till the thickest rain
Melts into blue and light again.
There is a feeling in the heart
Of woman which can have no part
In man; a self deyotedness,
As victims round their idols press,
And asking nothing, but to show
How far their zeal and faith can go.
Pure as the snow the summer-sun
Never at noon hath look'd upon,—
Deep as is the diamond-wave,
Hidden in the desart-cave,—
Changeless as the greenest leaves
Of the wreath the cypress weaves,—
Hopeless often when most fond,
Without hope or fear beyond
Its own pale fidelity,-
And this woman's love can be!
And RAYMOND although not again Dreaming of passion's burning chain, Yet felt that life had still dear things To which the lingering spirit clings. More dear, more lovely Eva shone In thinking of that faithless one; And read he not upon the cheek All that the lip might never speak, All the heart cherish'd yet conceal'd, Scarce even to itself reveal'd? And RAYMOND, though with heart so torn By anger, agony, and scorn, Might ill bear even with love's name, Yet felt the maiden's hidden flame Come like the day-star in the east, When every other light has ceased; Sent from the bosom of the night To harbinger the morning-light.
Again they parted: she to brood
O'er dreaming hopes in solitude,
And every pitying Saint to pray
For RAYMOND on the battle-day.
And he no longer deem'd the field
But death to all his hopes could yield.
To other, softer dreams allied,
He thought upon the warrior's pride.
But as he pass'd the castle-gate
He left so wholly desolate,
His throbbing pulse, his burning brain,
The sudden grasp upon the rein,
The breast and lip that gasp'd for air,
Told Love's shaft was still rankling there.
With something of their ancient light,
While plume and pennon met his sight;
While o'er the deep swept the war-cry,
And peal'd the trumpet's voice on high,
While the ship rode the waves as she
Were mistress of their destiny.
And muster'd on the deck the band,
Till died the last shout from the strand;
But when the martial pomp was o'er,
And, like the future, dim the shore
On the horizon hung, again
Closed Raymond's memory, like a chain
The spirit struggles with in vain.
The sky with its delicious blue, The stars like visions wandering through: Surely, if Fate had treasured there Her rolls of life, they must be fair; The mysteries their glories hide Must be but of life's brightest side; It cannot be that Fate would write Her dark decrees in lines of light. And RAYMOND mused upon the hour When, comrade of the star and flower, He watch'd beside his lady's bower; He number'd every hope and dream, Like blooms that threw upon life's stream Colours of beauty, and then thought On knowledge, all too dearly bought; Feelings lit up in waste to burn, Hopes that seem but shadows fair, All that the heart so soon must learn, All that it finds so hard to bear.
The young moon's vestal lamp that hour
Seem'd pale as that it pined for love;
No marvel such a night had power,
So calm below, so fair above,
To wake the spirit's finest chords
Till minstrel-thoughts found minstrel-words.
It is the latest song of minc
That ever breathes thy name, False idol of a dream-raised shrine, Thy very thought is shame,— Shame that I could my sprit bow
That night, borne o'er the bounding seas, To one so very false as thou.
The vessel swept before the breeze,
Loaded the air, the war-cry's swell,
Woe to the Moorish infidel;
And raising their rich hymn, a band
Of priests were kneeling on the strand,
To bless the parting ship, and song
Came from the maidens ranged along
The sea-wall, and who incense gave,
And flowers, like offerings to the wave
That bore the holy and the brave.
And RAYMOND felt his spirit rise, And burn'd his cheek, and flash'd his eyes
I had past years where the green wood
Makes twilight of the noon,
And I had watch'd the silver flood
Kiss'd by the rising moon;
And gazed upon the clear midnight
In all its luxury of light.
And, thrown where the blue violets dwell,
I would pass hours away,
Musing o'er some old chronicle
Fill'd with a wild love-lay;
Till beauty seem'd to me a thing
Made for all nature's worshipping.
I saw thee, and the air grew bright
In thy clear eyes' sunshine;
I oft had dream'd of shapes of light,
But not of shape like thine.
My heart bow'd down,-I worshipp'd thee,
A woman and a deity.
I may not say how thy first look
Turn'd my whole soul to flame,
I read it as a glorious book
Fill'd with high deeds of fame;
I felt a hero's spirit rise,
Unknown till lighted at thine eyes.
False look, false hope, and falsest love!
All meteors sent to me
To show how they the heart could move,
And how deceiving be:
They left me, darken'd, crush'd, alone,
My bosom's household-gods o'erthrown.
The world itself was changed, and all
That I had loved before
Seem'd as if gone beyond recall,
And I could hope no more;
The scar of fire, the dint of steel,
Are easier than Love's wounds to heal.
But this is past, and I can cope
With what I'd fain forget;
I have a sweet, a gentle hope
That lingers with me yet,-
A hope too fair, too pure to be
Named in the words that speak of thee.
Henceforth within the last recess
Of my heart shall remain
Thy name in all its bitterness,
But never named again;
The only memory of that heart
Will be to think how false thou art.
And yet I fain would name thy name,
My heart's now gentle queen,
E'en as they burn the perfumed flame
Where the plague-spot has been;
Methinks that it will cleanse away
The ills that on my spirit prey.
Sweet EVA! the last time I gazed
Upon thy deep blue eyes,
The cheek whereon my look had raised
A blush's crimson dyes,
I marvell'd, love, this heart of mine
Had worshipp'd at another shrine.
I will think of thee when the star,
That lit our own fair river,
Shines in the blue sky from afar,
As beautiful as ever;
That twilight-star, sweet love, shall be
A sign and seal with thee and me!
LAND of the olive and the vine,
The saint and soldier, sword and shrine!
How glorious to young RAYMOND's eye
Swell'd thy bold heights,spread thy clear sky,
When first he paused upon the height
Where, gather'd, lay the Christian might.
Amid a chesnut-wood were raised
Their white tents, and the red cross blazed
Meteor-like, with its crimson shine,
O'er many a standard's scutcheon'd line.
On the hill opposite there stood
The warriors of the Moorish blood,-
With their silver crescents gleaming,
And their horse-tail-pennons streaming ;
With cymbals and the clanging gong,
The muezzin's unchanging song,
The turbans that like rainbows shone,
The coursers' gay caparison,
As if another world had been
Where that small rivulet ran between.
And there was desperate strife next day:
The little vale below that lay
Was like a slaughter-pit, of green
Could not one single trace be seen;
The Moslem warrior stretch'd beside
The Christian chief by whom he died;
And by the broken falchion-blade
The crooked scymetar was laid.
And gallantly had RAYMOND borne
The red cross through the field that morn,
When suddenly he saw a knight
Oppress'd by numbers in the fight:
Instant his ready spear was flung,
Instant amid the band he sprung;-
They fight, fly, fall,-and from the fray
He leads the wounded knight away!
Gently he gain'd his tent, and there
He left him to the leech's care;
Then sought the field of death anew,—
Little was there for knight to do.
That field was strewn with dead and dying;
And mark'd he there DE VALENCE lying
Upon the turban'd heap, which told
How dearly had his life been sold.
And yet on his curl'd lip was worn
The impress of a soldier's scorn;
And yet his dark and glazed eye
Glared its defiance stern and high:
His head was on his shield, his hand
Held to the last his own red brand.
Felt RAYMOND all too proud for grief
In gazing on the gallant chief:
So, thought he, should a warrior fall,
A victor dying last of all.
But sadness moved him when he gave
DE VALENCE to his lowly grave,-
The grave where the wild flowers were sleeping,
And one pale olive-tree was weeping,-
And placed the rude stone-cross to show
A Christian hero lay below.
With the next morning's dawning light Was RAYMOND by the wounded knight. He heard strange tales,-none knew his name, And none might say from whence he came; He wore no cognizance, his steed Was raven black, and black his weed. All owned his fame, but yet they deem'd More desperate than brave he seem'd; Or as he only dared the field
For the swift death that it might yield.
Leaning beside the curtain, where Came o'er his brow the morning-air, He found the stranger chief; his tone, Surely 'twas one RAYMOND had known! He knew him not, what chord could be Thus waken'd on his memory?
At first the knight was cold and stern, As that his spirit shunn'd to learn Aught of affection; as it brought To him some shaft of venom'd thought: When one eve RAYMOND chanced to name Durance's castle, whence he came; And speak of Eva, and her fate, So young and yet so desolate, So beautiful! Then heard he all Her father's wrongs, her mother's fall: For AMIRALD was the knight whose life RAYMOND had saved amid the strife; And now he seem'd to find relief In pouring forth his hidden grief, Which had for years been as the stream Cave-lock'd from either air or beam.
I loved her! ay, I would have given
A death-bed certainty of heaven
If I had thought it could confer
The least of happiness on her!
How proudly did I wait the hour
When, hid no more in lowly bower,
She should shine, loveliest of all,
The lady of my heart and hall;—
And soon I deem'd the time would be,
For many a chief stood leagued with me.
It was one evening we had sate In my tower's secret council late, Our bands were number'd, and we said That the pale moon's declining head Should shed her next full light o'er bands With banners raised, and sheathless brands. We parted; I to seek the shade
Where my heart's choicest gem was laid;
I flung me on my fleetest steed,
I urged it to its utmost speed,—
On I went, like the hurrying wind,
Hill, dale, and plain were left behind,
And yet I thought my courser slow-
Even when the forest lay below.
As my wont, in a secret nook
I left my horse,-I may not tell
With what delight my way I took
Till I had reach'd the oak-hid dell.
The trees which hitherto had made
A more than night, with lighten'd shade
Now let the stars and sky shine through,
Rejoicing, calm, and bright, and blue.
There did not move a leaf that night That I cannot remember now, Nor yet a single star whose light Was on the royal midnight's brow: Wander'd no cloud, sigh'd not a flower, That is not present at this hour. No marvel memory thus should press Round its last light of happiness! I paused one moment where I stood In all a very miser's mood, As if that thinking of its store Could make my bosom's treasure more. I saw the guiding lamp which shone From the wreath'd lattice, pale and lone; Another moment I was there, To pause, and look—upon despair.
I saw her!-on the ground she lay,
The life-blood ebbing fast away;
But almost as she could not die
Without my hand to close her eye!
When to my bosom press'd, she raised
Her heavy lids, and feebly gazed,
And her lip moved: I caught its breath,
Its last, it was the gasp of death!
I leant her head upon my breast,
As I but soothed her into rest;-
I do not know what time might be
Past in this stony misery,
When I was waken'd from my dream
By my forgotten infant's scream.
Then first I thought upon my child:
I took it from its bed, it smiled,
And its red cheek was flush'd with sleep:
Why had it not the sense to weep?
I laid its mother on the bed,
O'er her pale brow a mantle spread,
And left the wood. Calm, stern, and cold.
The tale of blood and death I told;
Gave my child to my brother's care
As his, not mine were this despair.
I flung me on my steed again,
I urged him with the spur and rein,—
I left him at the usual tree,
But left him there at liberty.
With madd'ning step I sought the place, raised the mantle from her face,
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