Part 17

Prostrate she falls, and thanks the Sire of life,

Whose arm hath snatched her from the billowy strife.

That duty done, she rose, and gazed around:

Mossed are the rocks, and flowers bestrew the ground.

Not distant far, a group of fragrant trees

Bend with their golden fruit. The ocean-breeze

Shakes a gigantic palm, which o’er a cave

Its dark green foliage spreads, and wildly wave

Their blooming wreaths, all starred with midnight dews,

A thousand creeping plants of thousand hues.

Then flashed the dreadful truth on Irza’s view!

That cave--those trees--that giant palm she knew!

Then from her lips for ever fled the smile:

--“Mother of God!” she shrieked, “the Demon-Isle!”--

Long on a broken crag she knelt, and prayed,

And wearied every saint for strength and aid;

Then speechless, heedless, senseless lay; when, lo!

Strange mutterings near her roused from torpid woe

Her soul to fresh alarms. Her head she reared,

And near her face an hideous face appeared;

But straight ’twas gone!--In trembling haste she rose,

And saw a ring of monstrous dwarfs inclose

Her rugged couch. Not Teniers’ hand could paint

Forms more grotesque to scare the tempted saint,

Than here, as on they pressed in circling throng,

With gnashing teeth seemed for her blood to long,

And grinned, and glared, and gloated! Quicker grew

Her breath! Death hemmed her round! As yet, ‘tis true,

Far off they kept; but soon, more daring grown,

More near they crept, oft sharpening on some stone

Their long crookt claws; and still, as on they came,

They screeched and chattered; and their eyes of flame,

Twinkling and goggling, told, what pleasure grim

‘Twould give to rack and rend her limb from limb:

--“Heaven take my soul!” she cried,--when, hark! a

moan,

So full, so sad, so strange--not shriek--not groan--

Something scarce earthly--breathed above her head--

‘Twas heard, and instant every imp was fled.

What was that sound? What pitying saint from high

Had stooped to save her? Now to heaven her eye

Grateful she raised. Almighty powers!--a form,

Gigantic as the palm, black as the storm,

All shagged with hair, wild, strange in shape and show,

Towered on the loftiest cliff, and gazed below.

On her he gazed, and gazed so fixed, so hard,

Like knights of bronze some hero’s tomb who guard.

Bright wreaths of scarlet plumes his temples crowned,

And round his ankles, arms, and wrists were wound

Unnumbered glassy strings of crystals bright,

Corals, and shells, and berries red and white.

On her he gazed, and floods of sable fires

Rolled his huge eyes, and spoke his fierce desires,

As on his club, a torn-up lime, he leaned.--

“Help, Heaven!” thought Irza, “‘tis the master-fiend!”

Not long he paused: he now with one quick bound

Sprang from the cliff, and lighted on the ground.

Back fled the maid in terror; but her fear

Was needless. Humbly, slowly crept he near,

Then kissed the earth, his club before her laid,

And of his neck her footstool would have made:

But from his touch she shrank. He raised his head,

And saw her limbs convulsed, her face all dread,

And felt the cause his presence! Sad and slow

He rose, resumed his club, and turn’d to go.

Reproachful was his look, but still ’twas kind;

He climb’d the rock, but oft he gazed behind;

He reach’d the cave; one look below he threw;

Plaintive again he moan’d, and with slow steps withdrew.

She is alone; she breathes again!--Fly, fly!--

Ah! wretched girl, too late! with frenzied eye,

(Scarce gone the master-fiend) his imps she sees,

Pour from the rocks, and drop from all the trees

With yell, and squeak, and many a horrid sound,

And form a living fence to hedge her round:

--“Now then,” she cried, 4 c all’s over!--oh! farewell,

Farewell, Rosalvo!” On her knee she fell,

And told her beads with trembling hands. Yet still

On came the throng; and soon, with wanton skill

(Lured by its coral glow and cross of gold),

One snatch’d her chaplet, nor forsook his hold,

Though hard she struggled: while more bold, more fierce

Another seized her arm, and dared to pierce

With his sharp teeth its snow. The pure blood stream’d

Fast from the wound, and loud the virgin scream’d;

And strait again was heard that sad strange moan,

And instant all the dwarfs again were flown.

Scarce conscious that she lived, scarce knowing why,

Half grieved, half grateful, Irza raised her eye:

Still on the rock (not dared he down to spring)

Dark and majestic stood the demon-king;

Then lowly knelt, and raised his arm to wave

An orange bough, and court her to his cave.

Lost are her friends; no help, no hope is nigh;

What can she do, and whither can she fly?

To him already twice her life she owes,

And but his presence now restrains her foes.

On wings of flame the sun had left the main;

And peeping from the trees, the imps too plain

Shot darts of rage from their green orbs of sight:

She heard their gibberings, and she mark’d their spite;

And, while they eyed her form, their care she saw

To grind their teeth, and whet each cruel claw.

Demons alike, the monarch-demon’s breast

Appear’d least fierce; of ills she chose the best,

Sought, where profaned her coral rosary lay,

Then slowly mounted where he show’d the way.

Cautious he led her tow’rds his lone abode,

And clear’d each stone that might impede her road.

With pain she trod: she reach’d the cave; but there

No more their weight her wearied limbs could bear.

Exhausted, fainting, anguish, terror, thirst,

Fatigue o’erpower’d her frame: her heart must burst,

Her eyes grow dim! Sunk on the rock she lies,

And sinking, prays she never more may rise.

Long in this deathlike swoon she lay: at length

Exhausted nature show’d forth all its strength,

And call’d her back to life. Her opening eyes

Beheld a grotto vast in depth and size,

Whose high straight sides forbade all hopes of flight:

The fractured roof gave ample space for light,

Through which in gorgeous guise the day-star shone

On many a lucid shell and brilliant stone.

Through pendent spars and crystals as it falls,

Each beam with rainbow hues adorns the walls,

Gilds all the roof, emblazes all the ground,

And scatters light, and warmth, and splendour round.

Gently on pillowing furs reposed her head;

With many a verdant rush her couch was spread;

A gourd with blushing fruits was near her placed,

Whose scent and colour woo’d alike her taste;

And round her strewn there bloom’d unnumber’d flowers

Charming her sense with aromatic powers.

One only object chill’d her blood with ear:

Far off removed (but still, alas! too near),

Scarce breathing, lest a breath her sleep might break,

There stood the fiend, and watch’d to see her wake.

In sooth, if credit outward show might crave,

Than Irza, ne’er had nymph an humbler slave.

He watched her every glance; her frown he fear’d;

And if his pains to meet her wish appear’d,

All pains seem’d far o’er-paid, all cares appeased,

And so she found but pleasure, he was pleased.

One power he claim’d, but claim’d that power alone:

Still, when he left her side, a mass of stone

Barr’d up the grotto, nor allow’d her feet

To pass the limits of her bright retreat.

But when in quest of food not forced to stray,

In Irza’s sight he wore the livelong day,

And show’d her living springs and noontide shades,

Spice-breathing groves, and flower-enamell’d glades.

For her he still selects the sweetest roots,

The coolest waters, and the loveliest fruits;

To deck her charms the softest furs he brings,

And plucks their plumage from flamingo wings;

Bids blooming shrubs, to shade her, bend in bowers,

And strews her couch with fragrant herbs and flowers

While many an ivy-twisted grate restrains

The splendid tenants of the etherial plains.

Then, when she sought her lonesome grot at eve,

And waved her hand, and warn’d him take his leave,

Her will was his: he breathed his plaintive moan,

Gazed one last look, then gently roll’d the stone.

Perhaps, such constant care and worship paid,

More fit for angel than for mortal maid,

At length had won her, with more grateful mind

To view his gifts, and pay respect so kind;

But, as her giant-gaoler she esteem’d

Some prince of subterraneous fire, she deem’d

His favours snares, his presents only given

To shake her faith, and steal her soul from heaven.

Still then her loathing heart remain’d the same,

Joy’d when he went, and shudder’d when he came;

And when to share his fruits by hunger press’d,

Ever she bless’d them first, and cross’d her breast.

Days creep--months roll--no change! no hope! and oh!

Rosalvo lost, what hope can life bestow?

Death, only death, she feels, can end her woes;

Nor doubts death soon will bring that wish’d-for close;

For now her frame, her mind, confess disease;

Painful and faint she moves; her tottering knees

Scarce bear her weight; and oft, by humour moved,

Her sickening soul now loathes what late it loved.

It comes! the moment comes! Her frame is rent

By sharper pangs; her nerves, too strongly bent,

Seem on the point to break; her forehead burns;

Her curdling blood is fire, is ice by turns;

Her heart-strings crack!--“This hour is sure her last!’

Fainting she sinks, and hopes “that hour is pass’d!”

Wake, Irza, wake to grief most strange and deep!

Still must thou live, and only live to weep!

Oh, lift thine aching head, thy languid eyes,

And mark what hideous stranger near thee lies.

“Guard me, all blessed saints!”--A monster child

Press’d her green couch; and, as it grimly smiled,

Its shaggy limbs, and eyes of sable fire,

Betray’d the crime, and claim’d its hellish sire!

“Lost! lost! My soul is lost!” the affrighted maid,

(Ah, now a maid no more!) distracted, said,

And wrung her hands. Those words she scarce could say;

Yet would have pray’d, but fear’d’t was sin to pray!

That only veil which ne’er admits a stain,

The veil of ignorance, was rent in twain:

In spite of virtue, cloisters, horror, youth,

She knows, and feels, and shudders at the truth.

That night accursed!--In death-like swoon she slept--

Then near her couch if that dark demon crept--

Oh! where was then her guardian angel’s aid?

And would not heavenly Mary save her maid?

Deprived of sense--betray’d by place and time--

Then was she doom’d to share the unconscious crime?

Debased, deflower’d, and stamp’d a wretch for life,

A monster’s mother, and a demon’s wife?

Oh! at that thought her soul what passions tear!

How then she beats her breast, how rends her hair,

And bids, with golden ringlets scatter’d round,

Stream all the air, and glitter all the ground!

Sighs, sobs, and shrieks the place of words supply;

And still she mourns to live, and prays to die,

Till heart denies to groan, and eyes to flow;

Then, on her couch of rushes sinking low,

Languid and lost she lies, in silent, senseless woe.

What lifts her burning head? why opes her eye?

What makes her blood run back? A faint shrill cry!

Too well, alas! that cry was understood:

The monster pined for want, and claim’d its food.

Then in her heart what rival passions strove!

How shrinks disgust, how yearns maternal love!

Now to its life her feelings she prefers;

Now Nature wakes, and makes her own--“’Tis hers!”

Loathing its sight, she melts to hear its cries,

And, while she yields the breast, averts her eyes.

Not so the demon-sire: the child he raised,

He kiss’d it--danced it--nursed it--knelt, and gazed,

Till joyful tears gush’d forth, and dimm’d his sight:

Scarce Irza’s self was view’d with more delight.

He held it tow’rds her--horror seem’d to thrill

Her frame. He sigh’d, and clasp’d it closer still.

Once, and but once, his features wrath express’d:

He saw her shudder, as it drain’d her breast;

And, while reproach half mingled with his moan,

Snatch’d it from her’s, and press’d it to his own.

Three months had pass’d; still lived the monster-brat:

Its sire had sought the wood; alone she sat:

She sheds no tears--no tears are left to shed;

Unmoisten’d burn her eyes--her heart seems dead--

Her form seems marble. Lo! from far the sound

Of music steals, and fills the caves around.

She starts!--scarce breathing--trembling;--“Oh! for

wings!”--

But hark! for nearer now the minstrel sings. .

SONG.

1.

When summer smiled on Goa’s bowers

They seem’d so fair;

All light the skies, all bloom the flowers,

All balm the air!

The mock-bird swell’d his amorous lay,

Soft, sweet, and clear; .

And all was beauteous, all was gay,

For she was near.

2.

But now the skies in vain are bright

With Summer’s glow;

The pea-dove’s call to Love’s delight

Augments my woé;

And blushing roses vainly bloom;

Their charms are fled,

And all is sadness, all is gloom,

For she is dead!

3.

Now o’er thy head, my virgin love,

Rolls Ocean’s wave;

But fond regret, in myrtle grove,

Hath dug thy grave.

Sweet flowers, around her vacant urn

Your wreaths I’ll twine,

And pray such flowers, ere Spring’s return,

May garland mine!

“He! he!”--That love-lorn dirge--that heavenly

tongue--

That air, she taught him‘t was Rosalvo sung!

Rosalvo, whom the waves, which wreck’d their bark,

Had borne, like her, for purpose sad and dark,

To that strange isle; though far remote the beach

From Irza’s grot, which Fate ordain’d him reach;

But now at length his curious search explores

These rude and slippery crags and distant shores;

And while he treads his dangerous path, the strains

Which Irza taught him soothe her lover’s pains.

She hears his steps, and hears them soon more near;

And loud she cries--“Rosalvo! Hear! oh, hear!

‘Tis Irza calls!” and now more quick, more nigh,

Down the steep rock she hears those footsteps fly.

Again she calls. He comes! He searches round;

He seeks the gate, and soon the gate is found.

Alas! ‘t is found in vain! the marble guard

Seem’d rooted as the rock, whose mouth it barr’d.

Yet still, with labouring nerves, to move the stone

He struggles. Now he stops; and, hark! A groan!

But one; then all was hush’d! A sickening chill

Seized Irza’s heart, and seem’d her veins to thrill.

Fain had she call’d her youthful bridegroom’s name;

Her tongue Fear’s numbing fingers seem’d to lame.

Footsteps!--more near they drew:--slow rolled the

stone--

The infernal gaoler came, but came alone.

With anxious glance his eye explored the cell;

But when it fix’d on her’s, abash’d it fell.

He knelt, and seem’d to fear her frown. He bore

His club.’T was splash’d with brains! ‘twas wet with

gore!

She fear’d--she guess’d--she rush’d--she ran--she

flew,--

Nor dared the fiend her frantic course pursue.

“Rosalvo! speak! Rosalvo!” Shrill, yet sweet,

She wakes the echoes. What obstructs her feet?

‘T is he, the young, the good, the kind, the fair!

As some frail lily, which the passing share *

Or wanton boy hath wounded, droops its head,

Its whiteness wither’d, and its fragrance fled,

Low lay the youth, and from his temple’s wound

With precious streams bedew’d the ensanguin’d ground.

Then reason fled its seat! She shrieks! she raves!

And fills with hideous yells the ocean caves;

Rends her bright locks, and laughs to see them fly,

And bids them seek Rosalvo in the sky.

To dig his grave she fiercely ploughs the ground,

Loud shrieks his name, nor feels the flints that wound

Her bosom’s globes, and stain their snow with gore,

As wild she dashes down, and beats in rage the floor.

Now fail her strength, her spirits; mute she sits,

Silent and sad; then laughs and sings by fits.

A statue now she seems, or one just dead,

Her looks all gloom, her eyes two balls of lead:

Then simply smiles, and chaunts, with idiot glee,

“Ave Maria! Benedicite!”

Till, Nature’s powers revived by rest, again

The fury passions riot in her brain,

And all is rage, revenge, and helpless, hopeless pain.

Days, weeks, months pass. Time came with slow relief;

But still at length it came. No more her grief

Disturbs her brain: she knows “that groan was his!”

And fully feels herself the wretch she is.

She rises: towards the grotto’s mouth she goes,

Nor dares the fiend her wandering steps oppose.

She seeks the spot on which Rosalvo fell,

On which he died! She knows that spot too well!

But, lo! no corse was there! All smooth and green

A velvet turf o’erstrewn with flowers was seen,

And fenced with roses. “Oh! whose pious care

Hath deck’d this grave? Hear, gracious Heaven, his

prayer,

When most he needs!” While thus in doubt she stands,

She marks the fiend’s approach. His ebon hands

Sustain’d a gourd of flowers of various hue;

He pour’d them, kiss’d the turf, and straight withdrew

Hither each morn his blooming gifts he bore,

Smooth’d the green sod, and strew’d it o’er and o’er.

Hither, each morn, came Irza; on those flowers

She wept, she pray’d, she sang away her hours.

So mourns the nightingale on poplar spray *,

Her callow brood by shepherds borne away,

Weeps all the night, and from her green retreat

Fills the wide groves with warblings sad as sweet.

And still fresh woes succeed. She feels again

Mysterious pangs, nor doubts her cause of pain.

Too sure, while lost in maniac state she lay,

Her sense, her wits, her feeling all away,

The fiend once more had seized the unguarded hour

To force her weakness, and abuse his ower.

“Qualis populeâ,” &c.--Virgil.

Again Lucina came. That new-born cry,

Shuddering, again she heard; her fearful eye

Wander’d around awhile, nor dared to stay.

“There, there he lies! my child!” With fresh essay

Once more she turn’d. But when at length her sight

Dwelt on its face, her wonder--her delight--

Can ne’er by tongue be told, by fancy guess’d!

Frantic she caught, she kiss’d, and lull’d him on her breast.

Oh! who can paint how Irza loved that child!

Grieved when he moan’d, and smiled whene’er he smiled!

His dimpled arm soft on the rushes lay;

Through his fine skin the blood was seen to play;

That skin than down of swans more smooth and white;

Nor e’er shone summer sky so blue and bright,

As shone the eyes of that same cherub elf;

In small the model of her beauteous self.

The scant gold locks which gilt his ivory brow,

Were sun-beams gleaming on a globe of snow;

And on his coral lips the red which stood,

Shamed the first rose, whose milk was Paphia’s blood.

By fairy-thefts since nurses were beguiled,

Never stole fairy yet a lovelier child!

In Nature’s costlier charms no babe array’d,

At length a mother’s fears and throes repaid:

Not when Lucina first in myrtle grove,

To Beauty’s kiss presented new-born Love;

And while, with wond’ring eyes, the immortal boy

Imbibed new light, and pour’d ecstatic joy:

He kiss’d and drain’d by turns her fragrant breast,

Till amorous ring-doves coo’d the god to rest.

Mothers may love as much, but never more,

Nor e’er did mother love so well before,

As Irza loved that child! Her sable lord

Mark’d well that love; and now, to health restored,

He felt her child to home would chain her feet,

Nor roll’d the stone to close her lone retreat.

Still, when he went, he with him bore away

That fav’rite babe, nor fear’d she far would stray.

Arm’d with his club, she now might safely rove

Through verdant vale, or weep in shadowy grove;

For soon the dwarfs were used to bear her sight,

Knew that dread club, nor dared indulge their spite.

Still from afar off looks of rage they cast,

And shrilly squeal’d and clamour’d as she pass’d;

But by their flight when near she came, ‘twas seen,

They own’d allegiance, and confess’d their queen.

One morn her savage lord, in quest of food,

Forsook tho cave, and sought th’ adjacent wood;

And as her darling boy he with him bore,

Irza, unwatch’d, might pace the sounding shore.

Listless and slow she moved, and climb’d with pain

A tow’ring cliff, which beetled o’er the main.

Now three full years had flown, since Irza’s eye

Had dwelt on human form, and since reply

From human tongue had blest her ear.’Tis true,

Throned on a rock, which spread before her view

The sea’s wide-stretching plains, she once descried

A gallant vessel plough the neighbouring tide.

By cries to draw it near she long essay’d,

And oft a palm-bough waved in sign for aid:

But all her cries and all her signs were vain;

On sail’d the bark, nor e’er return’d again!

On that same rock she sat, and eyed the wave,

And wish’d she there had found her wat’ry grave!

Fain had she sought one then, plunged from the steep.

And buried all her sufferings in the deep;

But faith alike and reason bade her shun

That wish, nor break a thread which God had spun.

Hark!--was it fancy?--hark again!--the shores

Echo the sound of fast approaching oars.

Oh! how she gazed!--a barge (by friars ’twas mann’d)

Cut the smooth waves, and sought the rocky strand.

Soon (while his wither’d hands a crosier hold,

All rich with gems, and rough with sculptured gold),

Landing alone, a reverend monk appear’d:--

His jewell’d cross--his flowing silver beard--

“‘Tis he!--‘tis he!”--swift down the steep she flies,

Falls at the stranger’s feet, and frantic cries,

Down her pale cheek while tears imploring roll,

“Help, father abbot! save me! save my soul!”

‘Twas he indeed! that bark which ne’er return’d,

Well on the cliff* her fair wild form discern’d,

But deem’d some island-fiend had spread a snare

To lure them with a form so wild and fair.

Yet oft in Lisbon would those seamen tell,

How angled for their souls the prince of hell;

And warmly paint, their leisure to beguile,

The fallen angel of th’ enchanted isle.

At length this wonder reach’d the abbot’s ear,

And prompt affection made the wonder clear:--

“’Twas Irza! shipwreck’d Irza! none but she

So heav’nly fair, so lonely lost could be!”

Straight he prepares anew that sea to brave,

Which once already seem’d to yawn his grave;

Nor ask, how chanced it that he reach’d the shore:

It was through a miracle and nothing more.

Whether on monkish frock as safe rode he,

As night-hags skim in sieves o’er Norway’s sea;

Or like Arion plough’d the wat’ry plain,

Horsed on some monster of the astonish’d main,

Some shark, some whale, some kraken, some sea-cow--

St. Francis saved him, and it boots not how.

And now again the saint his priest survey’d,

From waves and winds imploring heavenly aid;

Resolved for Irza’s sake to brave the worst

Which fate could offer on that isle accurst.

Far off his ship was anchor’d; on that strand

Not India’s wealth could make a layman land!

Therefore with none but monks he mann’d his barge,

Which bore of beads and bells a sacred charge;

Whole heaps of relics lent by Cintra’s nuns,

And holy water (blest at Rome) by tons!

His toils were all o’erpaid! he saw again

His fav’rite child, and kindly soothed her pain;

And while her tale he heard, oft dropp’d a tear,

And sign’d his beard-swept breast in awe and fear:

Then bade her speed the friendly bark to gain,

And fly the infernal monarch’s green domain;

Nor yield her tyrant time to cast a spell,

And rouse to cross her flight the powers of hell.

Then first from Irza’s cheek the glow of red,

By hope of rescue raised, grew faint, and fled;

Trembling she nam’d her cherub-boy, confess’d

A mother’s fondness fill’d his mother’s breast;

Described how fair he look’d, how sweet he smiled,

And fear’d her flight might quite destroy her child.

Then rose the abbot’s ire--ee Oh, guilty care!”

Frowning, he cried, and shook his hoary hair:

“Fair is the imp? and shall he therefore breathe

To win new subjects for the realms beneath?

The fiends most dangerous are those spirits bright,

Who toil for hell, and show like sons of light;

And still when Satan spreads his subtlest snares,

The baits are azure eyes, the lines are golden hairs.

Name thou the brat no more! To Cintra’s walls

Fly, where thy footsteps mild repentance calls.

I’ll hear no plaint! kneel not! I’m deaf to prayer!

Swift, brethren, to the barge this maniac bear;

Speed! speed!--no tears!--no struggling!--no delay