Part 10
The spot on which her pearly sandals stay’d, Was that green islet, that might well be made Shrine for her footsteps: but I may not tell Of half the loveliness that lent its aid To that enchanting wilderness of shade, Of parted rock o’erhanging a sweet dell: Meet home for elfin sprites that nightly sing, And woo the stars to their enchanted ring.
Swift to this place, the margin’s pride she passed, O’er it a look of joyousness she cast. Sunlight and song were floating on the air. The hamadryads’ mirth, with warblings blent Of joyous birds, and fainter thrill yet sent By myriad tribes of insects whirling there In the fantastic and unending round, The bees’ glad hum and crickets’ shriller sound.
The river wantoned o’er the pebbles white, And seemed to linger with a fond delight By this loved scene, the fairest e’en of all That decked its banks—and hailed the jocund flow Of its mellifluous waters, as they go Meandering in their course. But hark! There fall Sounds of enchanting music on the breeze. A spirit’s voice is quivering through the trees.
“Minstrel of a far glorious clime,” it said, “What hath thy wandering footstep hither led, To string the lyre these silent haunts among, Waking the elfin sprites that here reside, And calling on the genius of the tide To hearken to the floatings of thy song, Borne to our crystal palace, whence we come Only when daylight ceases, and the hum
“Of earthliness is still’d for many an hour. When dews descend to steep the purple flower, And the more purple arch of heaven is hung With clustering stars, the coronal of night: Then, then we come to joy in that pure light, To lave the moonbeams o’er the waters flung, Dear to the spirits of the flood and fell, Dear to the genii of the woodland dell.
“But thou hast dared to call me to the day, To list the warblings of thine earthly lay, Presumptuous bard; or is it to demand Some favor from us, which thou fear’st to speak, And only o’er thy harp-chords dar’st to break, The vain request that trembles on thy hand, In strains that by the aid of echo go, From rocks above to coral caves below?
“But know, vain bard, the longings of thy breast, Stand to our immortality confessed. Thou sigh’st to know too much for one of earth: But as the music on the zephyrs flung, As the full cadence on thy lips that hung, Dies in the self-same span that saw its birth. As thy high hopes have ended in despair, Be too thy rashness tossed to empty air.
“We pardon thee, for the aerial train, Have ever lov’d the poet’s thrilling strain; Whether it swells the breezes from afar, Whether ’tis blended with the moon-tide bright, In full accord of harmony and light, Or sighed to Hesperus the vesper star: Whether ’tis given to rock, or vale, or shore, Or sweetly vibrates our glad waters o’er.
“But see the mountains, diademed with rays Of the departing sun’s transcendant blaze, Through all the west diffused. One halo there Of orient lustre shrines his farewell beams, And o’er the pensive earth reflected gleams. Image of love that fain would linger where His presence has been owned with warm delight, And forcefully withdraws his parting sight,
“And all himself transfuses in that look As bright as gentle. Mortal eye may brook The radiance that before it could not scan. There too pale Dian timidly draws nigh, Lost in the richer glory of the sky. Hail thee, fair crescent, hail! No evil ban From wicked fiend, or sprite, can mar the glow, That soon thy beauty all around shall throw.
“Hail thee, fair orb! all hail! advance to lend Thy more ethereal light. All spirits bend In holiest worship to thee. Forth from glen And the sequestered wood, from cave and bower, Impatiently they wait the genial hour Of thy mild sovereignty. Advance thee then! Speed, speed the hours till midnight is begun, And till each star its central course has run.
“Poet, we bear thee with us till the time, Spirits can know without the aid of chime From village church, or proud cathedral spire: Such as in thy land equal Babel’s dome, In vain design to reach the Almighty’s home, Where mortals with religion may aspire, And godliness to go.” She ceas’d and gave The signal, that was heard below the wave.
And now a chariot stood upon the edge Of the bright river’s willow fringed sedge. ’Twas formed of pearl and opal, whose clear dyes Are brilliant as the rainbow’s. Sapphire too And silver lent their aid. Shells of each hue Were curiously inlaid, and met the eyes As things unearthly there. Such was that car That shot its rich effulgency afar.
’Twas lined with down, soft as the swan’s white breast, And far more glorious tinted than the crest Of any bird that skims the earth or main. Once a white plant that ’neath the waters grew, Which the young nymphs that dwelt there, gathering knew To weave into their vestments, and to stain With tints pellucid, which they snatch from air Or from the tide, when sunbeams wanton there.
Four flying dolphins to the car were reined, Whose eagerness could scarcely be restrained, So much they longed again to cleave the flood, And lave their golden scales, if but in spray Made by the chariot o’er the moonlit way. They wait the spirit’s entrance, as they would With that aerial burden lighter go. Spurning the azure depths that lie below.
The poet and the spirit press’d the car, Which soon the sportive dolphins whirl’d afar; Those dolphins bred in the Ionian sea, And thence were sent an offering to the maid, Who the bright current of the Hudson sway’d. The silvery rein obeying, on they flee— They track the beauteous river’s winding course, That not an eddy stirr’d, e’en from its source.
Still as a sheet of azure sheen it lay, Reflecting but the moon’s translucent ray That broke through amber clouds, that veil’d her brow, Or only sought to veil, since brighter shone Her presence canopied as by a throne: While the resplendent orbs prepare to throw Their planetary lustre on the view, Bursting interminable ether through.
Rapidly on the gleaming chariot went, A flash of inessential splendor sent Athwart the tide, and blended with the light The kindling stars flung forth, and yellow moon What to a poet could be such a boon, As thus to ride the waters as a sprite; With such a sky above and earth below, Thus o’er the glittering waters, thus to go?
To see the beauty of that starry eve, To list the melody the spirits weave At that still hour: to watch the varying scene; Here towering rock frowning in grand array, Whence springs the eagle forth to welcome day; There valleys slanting to the margin green, With vistas form’d by the cleft rock’s tall peaks, Through which a flood of moonlight splendor breaks.
Now the thick forests touch’d with autumn hues, And the wild flowers trembling with diamond dews, On the fair islets, which their car went by In magic speed, along the tide that delv’d Between its lofty banks, that then were shelv’d To admit of all the glory of the sky; The distant mountains rearing their proud brows O’er all the view, that tremulously glows.
Glows in the silvery light, that not alone On the wide ripples of the river shone, But on morass, and wood, and valley lay. Oh on the poet’s heart a rapture broke, That every inmost slumbering chord awoke. It seem’d as though his soul imbibed a ray Of that ethereal light, that all around The gentle earth, with shining cycles bound.
Or did the aerial spirit by his side, That gave him thus immortally to glide Over her moist dominions, on him pour More than the spell unearthly things to view, But the glad gush of spiritual feelings too; For then the poet deem’d that one such hour Of brief enchanted happiness, were worth A thousand years of feelings but of earth.
The spirit now lent him her aid to see Things that, to us, must lie in mystery; Visions unborn of time, which future years Shall make reality, and men shall know Stripp’d of the strangeness, that events will throw Into accordance. What, shall blood and tears Deface these smiling sites; or shall men learn The beacon-torch of virtue to discern?
But that alone to guide them o’er the steep And shelving rocks, hid by the ocean deep Of life; away—the theme we may not tell. Suffice it that the poet’s heart was glad, And could it be, if what he heard were sad? And now they touch’d the land, and reach’d a dell— A wild, enchanted spot, where fairies stood, Watching their coming from the illumin’d flood.
The sprites and fays their sportive glee began; From heart to heart the genial transport ran, Unmix’d with fear, or pain, or doubt, or dread That mar our earthly revelry. The song From fairy harps floated the air along, And on the breezes melting music shed; While odors that no censers seem’d to hold, A stream of luscious fragrance upward roll’d.
And dance went round, a graceful flying maze From tiny feet, that changing glancing rays Gave out around; for o’er their persons shone A light, that from the kindling stars is caught, When with their lustre most the skies is fraught, But all their brightest wassailage—oh, none That ever has beheld it, may reveal; Or gone for ever is his earthly weal,
Waking the fairies’ ire. “Hark! hark, away! Each to his mission—now no longer stay. Go cleave the air, or skim the liquid main, Where its proud billows dash with frantic roar, Or break in idle bubbles on the shore, Go do your errands on. Then here again To taste the luscious feast, and sip the bowl, And stay the winged moments ere they roll.”
So spake the fairy queen, and stretched her wand The magic sceptre sparkling in her hand. They wait no new command to disappear. And where that elfin band so lately stood, Falls but the shadow of the distant wood. No sound but of the river murmurs near, Where late ethereal melody was heard, And every leaf unearthly chorus stirred.
CHARADES.
I.
My first slew Pharaoh and his host,— My next has many a fortune lost,— My whole—more fatal still than either— It smashed Napoleon altogether!
II.
I am not deceiving, believe me, my dear, That all are my first, who to thee are not near; My next may be anything—choose what you like, And say what you please—it will suit it alike. My whole of this trifling charade is the price, You will not give more, if you take my advice. SPHINX
THE ENGLISH FLOWER.
Not the proud rose of England’s glorious crown— Not France’s flower-de-luce of stainless sheen— Not Scotland’s boastful emblem of renown— Not Erin’s hallowed shamrock green—
Not, as the laurel prodigal of power, To deck the blood-stained victor’s triumph high,— Not as the proud Narcissus, hapless flower, Of self-enamored vanity to die,—
No cultured plant of rare exotic birth, With flaunting hues unconscious of perfume,— Meek offspring of thy parent earth,— Art thou, sweet bud of native bloom,—
Pure as the lily of some rural glade, That bursts unnoted from the velvet sod, Yet sends, from tufted leaves its head that shade, A tribute of rare odors up to God.
Oh! born to cheer, to comfort, and to bless, To lend to happiness a deeper charm, To banish sorrow with thy pure caress, Holy, and sweet, and innocent, and warm—
May nought of lasting grief thy smiles efface, Blight thy rich cheek, or dim thy laughing eyes. Long mayest thou witch the world with that fair face, Then bloom for ever in the eternal skies. ZETA.
THE YOUNG MOTHER.
BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy. WORDSWORTH
I.
A young and gentle mother, She bows above her boy, And a tear is in her downcast eye, But ’tis the tear of joy— Of one whose few fair summers On golden wings have sped, Like childhood’s dreams of Paradise, Above her sainted head. Loved, ere her life’s flush morning Had kindled into day, And worshipped, as she wooed the flowers That bloomed around her way, By one whose warm affections On her wondrous beauty hung, And their first taintless tribute gave To the shrine to which they clung!
II.
A young and gentle mother— Still beautiful, but pale With sleepless but unwearied watch, Alike through joy and wail. A mother!—yet believing Life’s duties scarce begun— Whose childhood seemed of yesterday In its unclouded sun; So early had the story Of idol Love been told— So early had her virgin heart Been gathered to its fold!
III.
And he who won her—where is he, In this her day of pride, When every hope she claimed before, By this grew dim and died! So priceless was the treasure Her throbbing bosom bore, So centered was her spirit now On one she could adore! Where is he!—Ah! her vision Is of shadowy ships and seas— And _for_ him the unuttered prayer Is poured on bended knees. Each day in thought she follows His stormy ocean track, And every dreamy midnight still Her pillow brings him back. For he—for distant regions Torn early from her side,— Had parted, with his heart in tears, From that outsobbing bride.
IV.
Long time afar he lingered, And oft the message came Of fadeless love—and of cruel fate The tale was still the same. Years fled—and still he wandered— In one long dream of home, And prattling voices round its hearth— An exile, doomed to roam.
V.
At length her leaping spirit Its promised bliss had found, And she heard its pulses quick and loud Beat to the welcome sound. He on the bounding waters Had cast himself once more, To greet that home, and hearth, and bride, That rose above their roar Like lights amid a tempest— Bright beacons of the land, Where all we love shall hail us soon, A joy-inspiring band!
VI.
’Twas then I saw that mother, And babe with silken hair, And all a mother’s pride and hope, Just dashed with fear, was there. Her head upon his temple Was stooped in pensive rest, Mingling its light, uncumbered locks With those that veiled her breast; Her eye, just dropped in shadow, Looked melancholy down, And the tear that glittered from its depths Was not of grief alone— But the still look of thankfulness That o’er her features fell, Lent even to the tears a beam That told you all was well! One arm around her idol Protectingly was flung, The other, as of one in dreams, Beside her aimless hung.—
· · · · ·
VII.
O Innocence and Beauty!— And Youth, with all its flowers, When they _together_ round us come What a heritage is ours! Who ever dreams a sepulchre O’er such can darkly close, Or the heart’s sun e’er set in clouds, That robed in lustre rose!
· · · · ·
VIII.
Alas! that gentle mother— I saw her not again, Till, in my village wanderings, I joined the burial train. They told me, as we silent wheeled Among the verdant graves, That _he_, her first—last hope on earth, Was snatched into the waves!— And, ever after, that her cheek, Like her infant’s eye, grew dim, And her waning life was but a prayer, Or quiet, lonely hymn.— And thus her passing spirit Beheld her infant’s go, ’Till all that lit her pilgrimage Was shattered at a blow. Then, pointing to the tomb, her feet Began their faltering way Through earth’s last farewell faded bloom, To Immortality!
THE ISLE OF REST.
Some of the islands where the fancied paradise of the Indians was situated, were believed to be in Lake Superior
I.
That blessed isle lies far away— ’Tis many a weary league from land, Where billows in their golden play Dash on its sparkling sand. No tempest’s wrath or stormy waters’ roar Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.
II.
There the light breezes lie at rest, Soft pillowed on the glassy deep; Pale cliffs look on the waters’ breast, And watch their silent deep. There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wing, Sits lone and still beside the bubbling spring.
III.
And far within, in murmurs heard, Comes, with the wind’s low whispers there The music of the mounting bird, Skimming the clear bright air. The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide, Comes wildly dancing from the green hill-side.
IV.
The sun there sheds his noontide beam On oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers; And gaily by the shaded stream Spring forth the forest flowers. The fountain flings aloft its showery spray, With rainbows deck’d, that mock the hues of day.
V.
And when the dewy morning breaks, A thousand tones of rapture swell; A thrill of life and motion wakes Through hill, and plain, and dell. The wild bird trills his song—and from the wood The red deer bounds to drink beside the flood.
VI.
There, when the sun sets on the sea, And gilds the forest’s waving crown, Strains of immortal harmony To those sweet shades come down. Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng, And pour in evening’s ear their charmed song.
VII.
E’en on this cold and cheerless shore, While all is dark and quiet near, The huntsman, when his toils are o’er, That melody may hear. And see, faint gleaming o’er the waters’ foam, The glories of that isle, his future home. E. F. E.
THE ITALIAN LOVER.
Steeped in a mild unclouded moonlight, the storied domes, arches and pinnacles of Venice, once mistress of the Adriatic, and still the most interesting of Italian cities, lay sleeping in surpassing loveliness. Venice, like Melrose, is best viewed when lit up by the pale lunar beam which permits the dark shadows of its palaces to hide the decay of their crumbling foundations—which softens its few faults of architecture, and blends each airy and ethereal turret with the dusk of the deep sky itself. The soft illumination, mellowing and mingling their wave-worn halls and arches, awakes the luxurious inhabitants to life and animation. Dark gondolas, filled with masks and music begin to glide along the shadowy canals, marking the course they take by the undulating reflection of their lamps in the water. Here and there, from the windows of some haughty palace, whence a flood of radiance is poured upon the night, contrasting with the moonbeams as it falls upon the stream without, may be heard the resounding din of instrumental music, timing the steps of dancers in the halls within.
Where the shadow fell darkest from a mighty pile, shrouding all below, a noble maiden bent from a balcony, and listened to a lover’s serenade. She stood, screened from the light, and motionless, rapt in mute attention, while the cavalier beneath her struck his guitar with matchless skill, and sang a canzonet that breathed the very soul of passion. At length the music died meltingly away, and the lady was about to retire from the balcony.
“Hist, Contessa!” whispered the singer of the gondola; “you will not leave me so suddenly?”
“I cannot converse with a stranger, though he be masked,” answered the lady, “for it is not carnival time.”
“You jest, beautiful Antonia,” replied the cavalier. “You would not have listened to my serenade had you not recognized my voice.”
“You are right, Count,” said the lady, with a light laugh. “I know you. But be brief; for my uncle is within, and I dare not delay. Why are you here?”
“_Why_, Antonia? Do _you_ ask me? I am going to quit Venice to-night: it is like quitting hope, for I know not when I shall see you again.”
“Then you will not be at Rome at the carnival? I am going thither with my uncle,” said the lady.
“If I dared,” muttered the cavalier with hesitation. “But it shall be so, Antonia—I will brave every thing. At Rome, then, we will meet again—at the carnival.”
“Fail not!” said the Venetian lady.
“I will meet you again if I live,” replied the cavalier passionately. “And if I die, why, my spirit shall be with you.”
Here a slight sound was heard from the apartment behind the balcony. The lady wished her lover a hasty good-night, and vanished. The serenader gave an order to his attendant in a low voice, and as the light barque shot from the gloomy shadow of the palace into a bright streak of moonlight, a voice from the stern commenced the favorite “buona notte” of the Venetian gondoliers. The youth and maiden were the Count Carriale and the beautiful Contessa Antonia Gazella. We shall rejoin them at the carnival.
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