Part 11

The lady Antonia appeared at Rome before the commencement of the carnival, and, as she was rich and a celebrated beauty, her arrival at the eternal city was soon known and talked about. Even the English at Rome were infected by the general enthusiasm, and forgot their national taciturnity when they saw the Gazella in her open carriage on the Corso. She was the theme of general admiration. Artists and officers, counts and cardinals, Britons and Americans, sounded the praises of the fair Contessa, and not a few of the impoverished nobility, fortune-hunters by profession, ranked themselves in the train of the lovely Antonia.

But cold was the maid, and though legions advanced, All drilled by Ovidean art, Though they languished and ogled, protested and danced, Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanced From the cold polished ice of her heart.

In fact the beautiful Contessa turned a deaf ear to every compliment; and if she listened for a moment to the Baron Von Konigsmarke, a lieutenant colonel of Austrian hussars, it was because the haughty noble professed to be actuated by a pure friendship; and, moreover, being a man of repulsive manners and a dead shot, served to keep more troublesome admirers at a distance. But even the Baron Von Konigsmarke, handsome, talented, mustachioed, and blazing with orders, was forced to give way, at the opening of the carnival, to a nameless mask, who attached himself inseparably to the lovely lady.

In no other Italian city does the carnival effect so great a revolution as it does in Rome. From whatever causes it arises—whether from the effect of dissipation, the force of superstition, or the daily contemplation of vast and venerable ruins—the dwellers in the Holy City are grave to a proverb, except during the brief saturnalia licensed by the Romish Church. Then, indeed, they rush to the opposite extreme of the wildest gaiety and the utmost extravagance. The carnival presents the singular spectacle of a whole city systematically mad. It is a _festa_ for the noble, a “beggar’s opera” for the mendicants—and it is hard to say which of the two classes enjoy it most. Fiddling, fluting, dancing, drinking, driving, racing, intrigue, and pelting with comfits, are a few of the most innocent and intellectual enjoyments of the reign of misrule.

The commencement of the saturnalia brought an unfeigned pleasure to the gay Antonia, not only because she entered heartily into the fun of the practical jests, but because she knew that there beat beside her in her carriage that to which no passionate Italian is indifferent—a youthful and noble heart, warm, happy, and devoted to herself. It is needless to say that the companion of her festive hours was the Count Carriale. The gaieties opened with brighter auspices than ever; for not one wretched criminal had been led to the block, to pour out his life for the edification of the assembled gazers, according to the tender edict of the sovereign pontiff, who wished, by the wholesome terror of an execution, to withhold the multitude from the perpetration of those crimes to which the license of a carnival might lead them. His holiness, we are credibly informed, was much chagrined to think that no felon was in prison whom, by a little extension of pontifical justice, he could send in safety to the guillotine. Unfortunately for his wishes, the pleasures began without the zest of a single death by the axe; they did not close, however, without a serious accident.

As the Count Carriale was whispering some tender words in the ear of his beautiful mistress, the horses attached to their carriage took fright, and they ran at full speed through the crowded streets, putting to flight the gay masqueraders and their motley equipages wherever they appeared. At length, in turning a sharp corner, the vehicle was overset, and the lady and the Count thrown with considerable violence to the pavement. The former, fortunately, was unhurt; but a captain of the papal horseguards, who had dismounted to render his assistance, perceived with dismay that a stream of blood flowed from the head of the wounded Count. The compassionate old soldier endeavored to remove the mask of the sufferer; but the Count seemed singularly unwilling to expose his face. The mask was at length drawn off by force; and then it was that the dragoon, with a cry of surprise and indignation, recognized in the pretended Count Carriale, the lover of Antonia at Venice and at Rome, the features of Maffeo Accaioli, a formidable brigand whom he had recently encountered on the mountains. The annunciation was no sooner made than the beautiful Contessa fainted.

* * * * *

How pleased were all the Romans when it was announced that his holiness the Pope had, by a special exercise of his power, ordained that the condemned brigand, the formidable Accaioli should be guillotined during the carnival. How kind of him! The ladies were in ecstacies. Even the Countess Gazella was far from lamenting this ungenerous precipitation, for a woman once duped never forgives her deceiver; and as she had already commenced an intimacy with the Baron Von Konigsmarke, she adopted the opinion of the old song:—

“’Tis well to be off with the old love Before you are on with the new.”

A vast crowd assembled to witness the dying agonies of the brigand. He was escorted to the scaffold by the papal dragoons, and a long file of penitents in their robes of sackcloth, bound at the waist with cords, their gloomy eyes peering through holes cut for the purpose in their cowls. These pious monks begged alms of all good Catholics to aid their endeavors in getting the soul of the condemned through purgatory. The prisoner entered on the scaffold, attended by his confessor. He kissed the cross, he received the last consolations of religion, he looked firmly on the multitude, and lay down to die—the axe descended, and it was all over.

* * * * *

His eminence, the Cardinal Riario, sat in secret consultation with the confessor of the dying brigand. He held a miniature in his hand.

“Yes,” he cried, “these are the lovely features of Rosa Vanelli—Rosa, whom I deceived and abandoned to despair.”

“The Cardinal’s hat and the scarlet robe cover a multitude of sins,” replied the penitent, sneeringly.

“I could laugh at your bitterness,” said the Cardinal, “did I not hold in my hand this sad memorial. Tell me, from whom did you receive it?”

“From her son.”

“Her son!” cried the Cardinal, starting to his feet; “mine as well as hers! Would to God I could see his face! Speak, Gregory, where did you part with him?”

“On the scaffold!” said the penitent, fixing his savage eyes upon the Cardinal. “Maffeo Accaioli was your son and the child of her I loved. What say you? Are not Rosa and myself avenged?”

The Cardinal heard but the first part of the sentence, for ere it was concluded, he had fallen back in his huge chair, helpless and unconscious: still his fixed and rayless eyes, half starting from their sockets, glared on the penitent with an expression that would have appalled a feebler heart.

“The comedy is over,” said the monk. “His eminence is dead.”

THE FATE OF THE HORNET.

I.

The summer sun is on the wave, The zephyr seeks the sea, And ripples, dancing round her, lave The bulwark of the free. How beautiful and brave a thing! The rising swell she rides, While sun and shade uniting fling Their colors on her sides.

II.

Her decks, on which the sunbeams play, Are girt by many a gun, That guard our fame by night and day, Where laurels green are won. And ever may she lift on high The banner of our glory, Bearing in every azure sky The stars that tell our story.

III.

And though the tempest clouds may lower Above the angry deep, And storms, with wild convulsive power, Around that vessel sweep, While there is yet one shattered sail To flutter in the blast, Oh may she bear through gloom and gale That banner to the last.

IV.

But why discourse of things like these? No cloud its shadow flings, And kindly blows the western breeze To lend the sea-bird wings. The lately-flapping sail it swells, And sings along the tide, As musical as village bells, That hail a happy bride.

V.

The warlike ship yields gracefully Before the welcome wind, And, slowly fading in her lee, The land is left behind. One loud hurrah, that rent the air, Broke from her iron men. Alas! that crew and vessel ne’er Shall enter port again.

VI.

Not when the guns in fury sent Their message to the foe— When clouds were in the firmament, And surges were below— When rose the wild and loud hurrah Of ocean’s stormy strife— Amidst the crash of plank and spar The crew gave up their life:

VII.

But when the sky was calm and blue, And far as eye could see, No hostile ship or squadron threw A shadow on the sea. At such a tide and such an hour Was heard a rushing sound, And, lashed by a resistless power, The waves grew white around.

VIII.

Ere pious lips could form a prayer, Or feeble ones a cry, The heaving sea had ceased to bear That gallant ship on high. Gone were the lovely and the brave, Old ocean was alone, And only gave to mark their grave A bubble and a moan.

A VISION.

She hovers round my dreams! Like the soft early beams, When day-light through my lattice streams, Thoughts of her beauty greet my waking hours; Like fragrance stolen by zephyr from the flowers, Or odors from the spice-trees pressed by showers Which fall in summer time In that delicious clime,— Told in melodious chime By Eastern poets—where the bulbul sings And flutters near the rose his charmed wings.— On my delightful sense her memory steals, And the deep fountain of my heart unseals! And ofttimes, Fancy, gentle sprite, reveals Her winning smile, her form of artless grace, So like to life, so perfect and so fair, That, with a magic pencil, I could trace Her picture on the air! Yes! Fancy is the Ariel of my mind— And I, like Prospero, in a lonely isle Far distant from the world’s dominions, My solitary days and nights beguile In sending out, swift as careering wind, My messenger with starry pinions— That he may speed and find The shapes and hues of beauty which adorn The land, the unreal land where he was born! Oh then, what strange enchantment I behold! A Fairy palace, built of pearls and gold Upon a slope of emerald. Myriads swarm About the portal—myriad creatures bright As the intensest light Of phosphor flame—small as the motes that rise, When the sun’s beam comes warm From its far throne in the uncurtained skies. Among the elves and fairies moves their queen; Tell me, dear Fancy, delicate Ariel—say, Have I not oft a like expression seen, An eye, a brow, illumined by a ray As pure and soft? Oh, take the misty screen That hides the vision from my view away! Alas! the whole has faded, And sober Truth has shaded The radiance of shapes and hues ideal; Yet, in _that_ loveliest face, My wakened mind can trace How perfect a resemblance to the real!

“I’LL THINK OF THEE, LOVE!”

I’ll think of thee, love, when the landscape is still, And the soft mist is floating from valley and hill; When the mild, rosy beam of the morning I see, I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!

I’ll think of thee, love, when the first sound of day Scares the bright-pinioned bird from its covert away; For the world’s busy voice has no music for me— I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!

I’ll think of thee, love, when the dark shadows sleep On the billows that roll o’er the emerald deep: Like the swift-speeding gales, every thought then will be— I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!

I’ll think of thee, dearest, while thou art afar, And I’ll liken thy smile to the night’s fairest star: As the ocean-shell breathes of its home in the sea— So in absence my spirit will murmur of thee! P. B.

_Boston, July, 1836._

COTTAGE LIFE.

Oh! happy cottage life, Far from foul gain, and rude ambitious strife! And oh thrice happy ye, Who innocent and free Dwell in your village homes with plenty rife!

Happy to watch the morn ’Mid rosy clouds in the rich orient born! Happy to fill the pail, In some sequestered vale, Or spin the fleece, or shell the golden corn!

Happy your friend to rear, Some snowy lamb, or weanling heifer dear— For they will ne’er forget, When once their love is set, But will your footsteps follow, far and near.

Happy to live at ease ’Mid rural blessings, and domestic peace— Thrice happy, when ye die, Beside your sires to lie In the old churchyard, ’neath the ancestral trees.

THE GUARDIAN WATCHER.

My little girl sleeps on my arm all night, And seldom stirs, save when, with playful wile, I bid her turn and put her lip to mine— Which, in her sleep, she does; and, sometimes, then, Half muttered through her slumbers, she affirms, Her love for me is boundless; and I take The little imp, and, closer in my arms, Assure her by my action—for my lips Yield me no utterance then—that, in my heart, She is the treasured jewel. Tenderly, Hour after hour, with no desire of sleep, I watch about that large amount of hope, Until the stars wane, and the yellow moon Walks forth into the night. S.

INTERROGATORIES.

The stars, dear Fanny, were out last night, And the moon was bright on high, And the silent earth, by the clear cold light, Looked up to the dark blue sky,— But the fairest spot on her face so white Was the grove with the brook hard by; Can you tell, dear Fanny, what might it be, That the stars looked down on so pleasantly?

There stood two forms by that moonlit grove. In the night-air damp and cold, And one was lovely and meet for love, And one was of manly mould; To the winking stars, in their arch above, Was a gentle secret told. Can you say, sweet Fanny, what might it be Was whispered last night so tenderly?

A sound—yet not of a spoken word, But softer and sweeter in tone,— Like the quick low note of a startled bird That sleeps on its nest alone,— Once and again that sound was heard, As of lips together grown. Can you guess, dear Fanny, what might it be— The sound that faltered so tenderly?

I turned away with a sad, chilled heart, From that happiest spot below,— For I felt that I was a thing apart, There was none to love me so; And the _one_ for whom my soul founts start Is froward and cold, you know. Can you think, sweet Fanny, who may it be That my thoughts _will_ dwell on so heavily?

I sometimes dream of a happier lot, Of a heart that is all my own,— Of a quiet hearth, and a vine-clad cot, Where peace may dwell alone,— Where sorrow and bitterness enter not, Or vanish at love’s soft tone; And all last night I was dreaming of you— Do you know, dear Fanny, if dreams prove true?

GNADENHUTTEN.

About the middle of the last century, the Moravians, so much distinguished by their exertions for the welfare of the most hapless portion of their species, established a missionary station at the northern base of the Blue Mountains, in what is now Northampton county, Pennsylvania, a few miles from the beautiful scenery of Mauch Chunk. This station they appropriately termed, “Gnadenhutten,” or “The House of Grace.”

The savage race which then inhabited those regions were divided in sentiment with respect to their benevolent visitors. Some regarded them with veneration; while others, and they the more numerous portion, looked upon them with a malignant suspicion, which resulted in a midnight attack, when the establishment was destroyed by fire and the inhabitants, male and female, young and old, butchered!

’Twas eve, the balmy breath of flowers, Came sweetly floating on the breeze; The recent rain-drops gemmed the bowers, And glistened on the leafy trees.

And far into the eastern sky The growling thunder-cloud had gone, Upon whose breast of inky dye, The radiant bow of promise shone.

The setting sun beamed broad and bright, And far the lengthening shadows cast; On Gnadenhutten’s tower-crown’d height, He lingered long to look his last.

And never had his parting ray, To light a lovelier scene been given; Since first he trod his radiant way, Across the azure vault of heaven.

For not on hill, and vale, and stream, And glittering leaf and sacred tower Alone, was shed his evening beam— It lit devotion’s hallowed hour:

For there was heard the solemn bell, That told the hour of rest and prayer; There sweetly rose the anthem’s swell, And holy words were spoken there.

And o’er the heaven-directing page, The man of God enraptured hung; While wisdom’s aphorisms sage, Distilled like honey from his tongue.

And there the forest-warrior stood, With bow unstrung and humbled pride; With longing soul for heavenly food, The dark-brown matron pressed his side.

And tottering age, and vigorous youth, And childhood with its steadfast gaze, Heard wondrous words of heavenly truth; And knelt in prayer and joined in praise.

And O! a holy look was given, To him who bent that book above; His brow was bright with light from heaven; His soul with heaven’s all brightening love.

Nor was it that he loved to roam, He crossed the pathless ocean o’er; Nor yet to find a fairer home, Left he his own loved native shore.

It was to point the forest sons, Up to the radiant throne of God; And show those dark, benighted ones, The way through Christ’s atoning blood;

That far into the desert wild, From the refined abodes of men, With his loved wife and only child, He sought that distant forest glen.

That matron’s brow was young and fair, Half hid ’neath locks of golden sheen; And lovely as a thing of air, Was little rosy Wilhelmine.

With wavy curls of flaxen hair; And forehead rising pure and high; And breast as mountain’s snow-wreath fair; And eyes like stars in winter sky.

Buoyant, and beautiful, and bright, A being made of smiles and bliss; With soul too full of heaven’s own light, To stay in such a world as this.

And soon was that immortal flower— That bud of being, lent not given— From blighting sin and sorrow’s shower, Transplanted safe to bloom in heaven.

’Twas night—the sky was cloudless blue, And all around was hushed and still, Save paddle of the light canoe, And wailing of the whippoorwill.

The moon was like a silver thread, Just sinking in the green wood’s bosom; And swift from heaven the night-dew sped, With pearly gifts for leaf and blossom.

And soft as balmy dews of night Upon the beauteous blossom’s breast, Came slumber, and her finger light, On every closing eyelid pressed.

’Twas night—dark night—no sound arose— The weary eye forgot its weeping; And wrapt in bonds of bland repose, The missionary band lay sleeping.

But hark! upon the startled air, Wild, unexpected whoops arise!— And the red conflagration’s glare, Is brightening all the midnight skies!

Up! sleepers, up! awake and fly, By the dread lamp your foes have lighted— To the dark green-wood’s bosom hie, Your homes are gone, your hopes are blighted.

Up! sleepers, up! away, away! A canopy of smoke is o’er you; Around you fiery streamers play, And the dark savage is before you!

Perchance some home-fraught dream of joy, In slumber’s silken links had bound them; They wake! ’tis but to hear the cry Of savage slaughter raging round them!

They wake! ’tis but to mark the arm Of death above each brow impending; Vain, vain, the shriek of wild alarm— And vain the prayer for life ascending.

They died, as holy martyrs die— Their latest thought to God was given; Resigned their souls in agony, To wake in ecstacy in heaven.

And perished all? One mother fled, Escaping both the brand and arrow; And to the midnight forest sped, Weary and weak, in pain and sorrow!

Nor fled alone—in wild distress, A little one she fondly pressed, Sleeping in blessed unconsciousness, Rocked by the throbbings of her breast.

For when the work of death was rife, ’Midst savage yell and dying prayer, She fearless sought the thickest strife, And found that little slumberer there.

Trembling beneath a shed she crept— The babe still hushed upon her bosom— Restrained each bursting throb, nor wept, Fearing to wake that slumbering blossom,