The base
text for this edition was prepared from a microfiche of an original copy in
the "Edition Corvey" under a special agreement with Belser Wissenschaftlicher
Dienst, Wildberg, Germany, and Boyle, Co. Roscommon, Ireland. This text has
been used for the present edition with the kind permission of Belser Wissenschaftlicher
Dienst.
This edition was prepared by Tamara Holloway from a microfiche copy of the original text. This edition was prepared in Microsoft Word for Windows '98. The author's original spelling, punctuation, and spacing have been maintained.
Date
of completion: December 2, 2001
[page ii] SONGS OF A STRANGER
[page iv]
SONGS OF A STRANGER
BY
LOUISA STUART COSTELLO
Like one that stands upon
a promontory
And spies a far off shore which he would reach,
Wishing his foot were equal
with his eye.
Shakespeare.
London:
Published for the Author,
by
Taylor and Hessey,
93,
Fleet-street,
and
13, Waterloo-place, Pall-Mall.
1825
[v]
TO THE
REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES,
THESE POEMS
ARE DEDICATED,
AS A TRIBUTE OF GRATITUDE
AND
SINCERE ESTEEM,
BY
LOUISA STUART COSTELLO
[page
vii]
CONTENTS
The Hunter of the Uruguay
to his Love 1
The
Destroying Spirit 4
Lines.—If
we should ever meet again 7
Song.—Thy
form was fair 8
Song.—This
mournful heart 9
The
Dreamer on the Sea-shore 10
Lines.—I
cannot sleep 13
The
Cape of the Caba Rumia 14
Song.—The
transient time 16
The
Inca 17
Night,
on the Sea-shore 19
Spirit's
Song 21
To
my Mother 23
Lines.—Oft
on that latest star 25
Song.—In
early days 26
Song.—Oh,
had I ne'er beheld thee 27
Song for a German Air 28
Eastern
Song 29
Lines.—When
this heart is cold and still 30
Song.—Thou
art gone 31
Song.—I
will not ask 32
His
Indian Love to Diogo Alvarez 33
[page
viii]
Miranda's
Song 36
Medjnoon
in his Solitude 37
The
Past 39
Song.—Thou
wert lovely 41
Song.—Since
thou wilt banish me 42
Song.—If
those dark eyes 43
November
Fifth 44
Memory 46
Song.—Oh,
long enough my life has been 48
Song.—When
others saw thee 49
To
a False Friend 50
The
Indian Cupid 52
Song.—Yes,
I had hope 54
The
Traveller in Africa 55
Song
of the Crew of Diaz 59
Song.—Oh
that I could forget 61
Sylph's
Song 63
Song.—'Tis
the spot where we parted 65
Song.—Oh
let thy sorrows 66
Lines.—Why
look'd I on that fatal line 67
The
Adieu 68
Spanish
Song 71
Savoyard's
Song 72
Song.—When
all has faded 74
Song.—Swiftly
o'er the green sea 75
Romance 76
Song.—Were
all the vows 78
Written
at B— 80
Elegy 82
Song.—Ere
fortune change 84
Lines.—We met, and the hour 85
[page
ix]
On
hearing of the Change, &c. 86
On
a Picture of Cupid 88
Sung
by the Wife of a Japanese 90
Palace
of the Cappelletti 93
From
Metastasio 95
From
the same 96
From
the same 97
From
the same 98
From
the same 99
From
the same 100
From
Tasso's Aminta 101
From
Metastasio 102
From
the same 103
Imitated
from Tasso's Aminta 104
The
first Discovery of Columbus 105
Lament
of an Ashantee Warrior 107
Complaint
of Amanieu 111
La
Partenza 113
The
Return of the Indians 116
The
Wanderers in the Polar Sea 119
Chaucer's
Tale of the Falcon 123
Saint
Aldhelm 128
Lines
written in November, at Bremhill, Wilts, the
Residence of the Rev. W. L. Bowles 132
Lines.—I
ask thee not for looks that tell 133
Esquimaux
Song 134
Esquimaux
Incantation 135
Song.—Pretty
Jeanette, the time has been 137
Colabah,
the Camel-seeker 139
Lines.—Say
not my years 145
Notes 147
[page
xi]
Whoe'er may chance upon
thys lyttel booke
A moment's time to pause, may
call to mynde
That lyfe itself is one, whereon
we looke
With eye of praise or blame,
whenas we fynde
Our faults scann'd light, or
hardlie, by mankynde.
Soe, gentil reader, take not
moche amisse
What our hight authore may
have been inclyn'd
Herein to rite:—as he but meneth
thys,
To shew his booke, lyke lyfe,
a varied volume is.
Old
Poem
[page
1]
THE HUNTER OF URUGUAY TO HIS LOVE (1)
Would'st
thou be happy, would'st thou be free,
Come
to our woody islands with me!
Come,
while the summer sun is high,
Beneath
the peach tree's shade to lie;
Or
thy hunter will shield thee the live-long day
In
his hut of reeds from the scorching ray.
There
countless birds with wings of light
Shall
flit and glitter before thy sight,
And
their songs from the stately palm trees nigh
Shall
charm thee with ceaseless melody.
The
Cayman shall not lurk within
To steal around thy bed;
But the leopard shall yield his spotted skin
That thy couch may be warmly spread.
[page
2]
The river-serpent, with glittering coil,
Shall plunge beneath the tide;
And the Ao shall shun the happy isle
That hails my gentle bride.
Thou shalt list to the hymn of the forest choir
As eve comes gently on,
How the woods resound
With the lengthen'd sound,
Till in distance it is gone.
Thou shalt mark the ounce in his leafy shade,
How he lures his finny prey—
Whose colours, in the gleam display'd,
Illumine the wat'ry way.
The bright dorado shall glitter by
With scales of gold and blue,
As the lucid waters tremblingly
Reflect each varying hue.
Come, my beloved, delay no more;
I linger for thee upon the shore.
[page
3]
Fear not the rocks that darken our course;
Our canoes are swift and strong:
Fear not the eddy's hurrying force;
We shall dart, like light, along.
The willows are waving to hail us
home;
When
the hunter and his bride shall come:
All
the joys of summer stay for thee—
Oh, come to our woody islands with me.
[page
4]
THE DESTROYING SPIRIT (2)
I
sit upon the rocks that frown
Above the rapid Nile;
And
on the toil of man look down
With bitter and scornful smile.
My
rocks are inaccessible,
And
few return their terrors to tell.
My
subjects are the birds, whose wings
Never soar'd into other air;
To
whose shrill cries each echo rings—
For their nests are hidden there:
They
dip their plumes in that mighty river,
Whose
course is onward—onward, for ever.
I
see the deluge come sweeping on
Where waving corn-fields gleam;
And
forests, and cities, and herds are gone,
Like the shadows of a dream:
[page 5]
The rushing tide is an
ocean now;
And islands of ruin darken its brow.
But
the waters sink, and earth again
Smiles
under Nature's gentlest reign:
Where,
from scenes of bliss, shall I go?
I—whose
existence is terror and woe.
Now
I hide in the burning breast
Of
some mountain, whose fires are never at rest,
And
urge the torrents that downward flow,
Crashing
and swallowing all below.
Then,
through the air—away!—away!
Till
I check my course on the dread Himmaleh:
Down
to its deepest valleys I dive,
Which
no mortal can ever see and live,
To
visit the evil spirits who dwell
In
the ceaseless gloom of that murky dell.
With
them, from their rocky temples I roam,
To
lure the traveller from his home:
When he rests beneath some charmed tree
With dreams we vex his mind;
And he wakes our hideous forms to see,
As we hover upon the wind;
[page
6]
And
our voices howl in the hurrying blast,
Till
in frantic fear he breathes his last:
Then
we bear him to our dismal cave,
And
his tortured spirit we claim as our slave!
I dwell where tempests are loud and dread—
I ride on the billow's foam;
And wherever terror is widest spread
There is the Spirit's home.
[page
7]
LINES
If
we should ever meet again
When many tedious years are past;
When
time shall have unbound the chain,
And this sad heart is free at last;—
Then
shall we meet and look unmov'd,
As
though we ne'er had met—had lov'd!
And
I shall mark without a tear
How cold and calm thy alter'd brow;
I
shall forget thou once wert dear,
Rememb'ring but thy broken vow!
Rememb'ring
that in trusting youth
I
lov'd thee with the purest truth;
That
now the fleeting dream is o'er,
And
thou canst raise the spell no more!
[page
8]
SONG
Thy
form was fair, thine eye was bright,
Thy voice was melody;
Around
thee beam'd the purest light
Of love's own sky.
Each
word that trembled on thy tongue
Was sweet, was dear to me;
A
spell in those soft numbers hung
That drew my soul to thee.
Thy
form, thy voice, thine eyes are now
As beauteous and as fair;
But
though still blooming is thy brow,
Love
is not there.
And
though as sweet thy voice be yet,
I treasure not the tone;
It
cannot bid my heart forget—
Its
tenderness is gone!
[page
9]
SONG
Odi quelrusignolo
Che va di ramo in ramo
Cantado; io amo; io amo.
Tasso's Aminta
This
mournful heart can dream of nought but thee,
As with slow steps among these shades I move,
And
hear the nightingale from tree to tree
Sighing "I
love! I love!"
This
mournful heart wakes to one thought alone
That still our fatal parting will renew,
To
hear that bird when Spring's last eve is gone
Sighing "Adieu!
Adieu!"
[page
10]
THE DREAMER ON THE SEA SHORE (3)
What
are the dreams of him who may sleep
Where
the solemn voice of the troubled deep
Steals
on the wind with a sullen roar,
And
the waters foam along the shore?
Who
shelter'd lies in some calm retreat,
And
hears the music of waves at his feet?
He
sees not the sail that passes on
O'er
the sunny fields of the sea, alone,
The
farthest point that gleams on the sight,
A
vanishing speck of glittering light.
He
sees not the spray that, spreading wide,
Throws
its lines of snow on the dark green tide;
Or
the billows rushing with crests of foam
As
they strove which first should reach their home—
Their
home! What home has the restless main,
Which
only arrives to return again,
Like
the wand'rer she bears on her stormy breast,
Who seeks in vain for a place of rest.
Lo!
His visions bear him along
To
rocks that have heard the mermaid's song:
Or,
borne on the surface of some dark surge,
Unharm'd
he lies, while they onward urge
Their
rapid course, and waft him away
To
islands half hid 'midst the shadowy spray,
Where
trees wave their boughs in the perfum'd gale,
And
bid the wave-borne stranger hail;
Where
birds are flitting like gems in the sun,
And
streams over emerald meadows run,
That
whisper in melody as they glide
To
the flowers that blush along their side.
Sorrow
ne'er came to that blissful shore,
For
no mortal has entered that isle before:
There
the Halcyon waits on the sparkling strand
Till
the bark of her lover the Nautilus land;
She
spreads her purple wings to the air,
And
she sees his fragile vessel there—
She
sees him float on the summer sea,
Where
no breath but the sigh of his love may be.
[page
12]
The
dreamer leaps towards that smiling shore—
When,
lo! the vision is there no more!
Its
trees, its flowers, its birds are gone—
A
waste of waters is spread alone.
Plunged
in the tide, he struggles amain—
High
they pour, and he strives in vain:
He
sinks—the billows close over his head,
He
shrieks—'tis over—the dream is fled;
Secure
he lies in his calm retreat,
And
the idle waters still rave at his feet.
[page
13]
LINES
I
cannot sleep—my nights glide on
In one unbroken thought of thee;
And
when the gloomy shades are gone,
I start the dawning light to see.
And
as I watch the rising morn
Gain slowly o'er the yielding sky,
And
mark another day new born,
That glows so brightly—yet must die—
I
think how all the hopes we cherish
As transient, though as bright, will be;
And
frailest of the hopes that perish
Were mine, that told of love and thee!
[page
14]
THE CAPE OF THE CABA RUMIA
Cervantes mentions that the memory of Florinda, the daughter of Count Julian, is held in detestation by both Spaniards and Moors. On the coast of Barbary is a cape called the Caba Rumia, or Cape of the Wicked Christian Woman, where, it is said, that Cava, or Caba, or Florinda lies buried; and the Moors think it ominous to be forced into that bay.
Sir
Walter Scott
Sail
on! what power has our luckless bark
To this ominous realm betrayed,
Where
Cava's rock, o'er the waters dark,
Points out where her bones are laid?
Away!
away! though tempests sweep,
And waves rage loud and high,
Brave
all the terrors of the deep—
But come not that haven nigh.
The
spirit of the fatal fair
Hovers dimly over her grave;
[page
15]
'Tis
her voice that rings through the troubled air,
'Tis her moan that awakes the wave!
Oh!
dearly the sons of Spain can tell
The woes that her beauty cost,
When
Roderick, won by that witching spell,
Fame—honour and country lost.
And
ever her name is an evil sound,
And her memory hated shall be;
And
woe and dangers that bark surround
That Cava's rock shall see.
Then
hasten on for some happier shore;
Nor that Cape still linger near,
That
the Spaniard true, and the infidel Moor,
Alike avoid with fear!
[page
16]
SONG
The
transient time, for ever past,
How shall I dare review!—
The
fatal day we parted last,
And wept out last adieu!
Alas!
that day has swell'd to years—
That
sorrow to a sea of tears!
I
would the mournful thoughts would fly,
Regretted, loved in vain,
Among
the dreams of memory
That never come again!—
Would
their remembrance might decay,
Swept
like the autumn leaves away!
[page
17]
THE INCA
The
first appearance of Manco Capac, first Inca of Peru, and Mama Oella his consort,
was on the banks of the lake Titicaca.— They were of majestic stature, and
declared themselves children of the Sun, sent to direct his children of earth.
'Tis eve, the sun is sinking in the lake—
The lake, all glorious with his golden beams,
Whose calm clear breast reflects the mountains back
That raise their huge heads to the varied clouds.
The trees and flowers that grow along its banks
Smile in the lucid mirror. Every bough
Is vocal with the song of glittering birds,
Whose plumes are borrow'd from the rainbow's hues;
No other sound disturbs the silent air,
Although a prostrate nation is around,
Watching the last rays of the setting sun
In solemn and in graceful adoration.
The purple clouds grow deeper, deeper still,
Till the resplendent orb is seen no more;
[page 18]
But where he sunk upon the bright lake's margin
Appear two forms, majestic and erect,
Cloth'd in rich garments, hand in hand.
They come!
Onward they come across the yielding waters,
That give them passage!
Now they reach the shore!
While with glad shouts the people rend the skies—
"All hail, ye mighty Children of the Sun!"
[page
19]
NIGHT, ON THE SEA SHORE
I have fled from all, and none can now
My way, my wanderings see;
The waters widely round me flow—
I feel that I am free!
Oh!
who can wish for sunny day,
When they may look
on that lovely ray—
On the moon so
pure, so clear, and fair,
When
no human form is nigh,
When no human voice
can startle the air?
All
is silence and secrecy.
No
sound but the waters, that, murmuring, move—
No light but the shadowless orb above.
But see! the shadows are gathering fast—
The clear bright orb is gone:
Alas! no beauty can ever last,
That e'er I gaze upon!
The
waters that sparkled so bright before
Now moan alone
the gloomy shore;
And all is dark—as
the fate will be
That spreads its
cheerless path for me!
SPIRIT'S SONG
'Tis thy Spirit calls thee—come away!
I have sought thee through the weary day,
I have dived in
the glassy stream for thee—
I have gone wherever
a spirit might be:
In
the earth, where di'monds hide,
In the deep, where
pearls abide,
In the air, where
rainbows, glancing gay,
Smile the tears
of the sun away,
I
have wandered; 'mid the starry zone,
Through a world
by spirits only known,
Where 'tis bliss
to sail in that balmy air;
But to me 'twas
joyless till thou wert there.
I
traced the footsteps of the fawn
As it bounded over
the dewy lawn;
For the print it
left was so light and fair,
I deem'd thy step
had linger'd there.
I
heard a sound of melody—
Sad and sweet as
thy tender sigh;
'Twas the night-bird's
tone, but it smote my ear,
For I thought thy
own soft voice to hear.
I
see a form—it is gliding on,
Like a cloud that
sails in the sky alone,
And the stars gleam
through its veil of white—
Oh! can it be aught
of earth, so bright:
It beckons me on
to my airy home—
My own lov'd spirit!—I
come! I come!
Yes,
I have sung of others' woes,
Until
they almost seem'd mine own,
And fancy oft will
scenes disclose
Whose
being was in thought alone:
Her
magic power I've cherished long,
And
yielded to her soothing sway;
Enchanting is her
syren song,
And
wild and wond'rous is her way.
But thou—whene'er
I think on thee,
Those
glittering visions fade away;
My soul awakens,
how tenderly!
To
pleasures that can ne'er decay.
There's not an
hour of life goes by
But
makes thee still more firmly dear;
My sighs attend
upon thy sigh,
My
sorrows wait upon thy tear:
For
earth has nought so good, so pure,
That
may compare with love like thine—
Long as existence
shall endure,
Thy
star of guiding love shall shine!
O'er other stars
dark clouds may lower,
And
from our path their light may sever—
They lived to bless
us but an hour,
But
thine shall live to bless us ever!
LINES
Oft on that latest
star of purest light,
That
hovers on the verge of morning gray,
I gaze, and think
of eyes that gleam'd as bright,
As
fondly linger'd, and yet pass’d away.
While
this true heart in every throb can tell
'Tis
changeless since the first fond hour we met—
While at thy name it wakes, as to a spell,
I
feel 'tis not in nature to forget!
Thou canst not
have forgot the tender hour
When
we our parting tears together shed;
Thou canst not
have forgot the fading flower
That
ask'd thy hand to raise its drooping head.
Thy voice, thy
looks, thy sighs, too truly spoke—
Oh!
how could they deceive thyself and me?
No! death alone
the bond of truth has broke,
And
cast oblivion on the world and thee!
SONG
In
early days thy fondness taught
My soul its endless love to know;
Thy image waked
in every thought,
Nor
fear'd my tongue to tell thee so.
In all the trusting
faith of youth,
That
knows no dread, that feels no care,
I deem'd thy heart
was all of truth,
And
I the cherish'd object there.
Alas!
the vision'd bliss is gone—
Too
soon those days were o'er!
This heart still
loves—but loves alone—
Its
joys are there no more!
SONG
Oh!
had I ne'er beheld thee
How
calm my life had flown!
As cold, as pure
and tranquil
As
some fair vale unknown;
Where never yet
the footsteps
Of
wand'ring man has stray'd;
That smiles in
lonely beauty
Unheeded—unsurve'd.
How
cheerfully the moments
In
sweet content went by,
When sorrow's cloud
pass'd swiftly
Across
a placid sky:
The
charm of peace is broken—
Can nought its dream restore?
That sky, obscured
by sadness,
Shall
ne'er be cloudless more.
SONG FOR A GERMAN AIR
Between
thy fresh margins, gay with flowers,
Life's uncertain
visions showing;
Thus,
like thy waters glide past the hours.
Oft
on thy sunny banks I lie
And
mark the waves that glitter by
With fleeting joy
and brightness glowing.
Fair
stream! when no more near thee reclining,
I
gaze and lament for moments gone—
Cold and silent,
past repining—
Still
thy clear way thou wilt murmur on:
Still
will thy roses bloom anew,
Though
I no more their beauty view,
And yonder sun
as bright be shining!
EASTERN SONG
By
the brightness of the morning ray,
By
the deepest shades of night—
Thy beauty has
not pass'd away;
'Tis
ever in my sight.
No sorrow e'er
can light on me—
But
when, beloved, we part,
My thoughts are
bounded all in thee,
Thou
Lote-tree* of my heart.
* "The Lote-tree, beyond which there is no passing," stands in the seventh Heaven, and is the utmost bound, beyond which the angels themselves may not pass, or, as some rather imagine, beyond which no creature's imagination can extend.—Koran. [Author's note]
LINES
When this heart
is cold and still,
And
can throb for thee no more;
When it wakes not
to the thrill
Of
the harp's wild chord;
Nor can e'en afford
A
sigh to the days of yore;
Then come to my
silent tomb,
Which
the breeze will murmur over:
Where reigns the
deepest gloom—
Where
the bat flits by
And
the ravens cry—
Thou
shalt the spot discover.
SONG
Thou art gone,
and the brilliant light that shone
In
the track of thy way is fled;
And thou leav'st
the heart that loved thee alone,
Silent,
and cold, and dead!
When thy smile
arose, like the morning's beam,
All
the world seem'd good and bright
But 'tis past like
the lovely forms of a dream,
And
I wake to the gloom of night.
[page 32]
SONG*
I will not ask
one glance from thee,
Lest,
fondly, I should linger yet,
And all thy scorn
and cruelty
In
that entrancing glance forget.
I
may not, dare not, hear thee speak
In music's most persuasive tone,
Lest the sweet
sound to joy awake,
And
I forget 'tis sound alone!
* This song is honoured by having been set to some beautiful music by William Linley, Esq. [Author's note]
HIS INDIAN LOVE TO DIOGO ALVAREZ,
ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM BAHIA (4)
When thou stoodst
amidst thy countrymen
Our
captive and our foe,
What voice of pity
was it then
That
check'd the fatal blow?
When
the name of the mighty 'Man of Fire'
Re-echoed
to the sky,
And our chiefs
forgot their deadly ire—
Who
hail'd thy victory?
What
voice like the softest, sweetest note
That rings from
the slender white bird's throat,
Has
soothed thee so oft to rest?
And thou hast said,
so tenderly,
That to sit among
willow isles with me
Was
to be ever blest!
Oh!
have we not wander'd in silent night
When the thick dews fell from the weeping bough;
And then these
eyes, like the stars, were bright—
But are wet like those mournful branches now.
Like
the leafless plant that twines around
The
forest tree so fair and high,
And
when in that withering clasp 'tis bound,
Leaves
the blighted trunk to die,—
Thy
vows round my trusting heart have bound,
And
now thou leav'st me to misery!
* * * * *
* * * * *
Thou
wilt not return—thy words are vain!
Thou
wilt cross the deep blue sea;
And
some dark-eyed maid of thy native Spain
Will
hold thee far from me.
The
summer will come, and our willow shore
Will
hear the merman sing;
But
thou wilt list to his song no more
When
the rocks with his music ring:
He will murmur thy falsehood to every cave—
Or will tell of thy death on the stormy wave.
Ah! no; ah! no; 'tis of mine he'll tell—
I will weep no more—farewell!—farewell!
Look from thy bark, how I follow afar;
How I scorn the winds' and the billows' war;—
I sink! the waves ring loudly my knell;
My sorrows are passing—farewell!—farewell!
MIRANDA'S SONG*
Ye
elves! when spangled starlight gleams,
That flit beneath the ray,
Till morning darts her magic beams
And pale night hies away:
Ye know where springs
each flow'ret rare,
The
sweetest seek for me:
I'll weave a chaplet
rich and fair—
My
father! 'tis for thee!
The flow'rs, the
trees, the birds appear
To
wait but on my call;
But he whose power
has plac'd them here
Is
dearer far than all:
My thoughts with
tender pleasure rest
On
each delight I see;
But all the love
that swells in my breast,
My
father, is for thee!
*
This song was written for 'The Tempest,' to
the beautiful air of 'My Mother bids me bind my hair.' [Author's note]
MEDJNOON IN HIS SOLITUDE
My
ev'ry thought and wish was thine;
Alas!
thou know'st too well—
The ties that bind
thy soul and mine,
How
lasting need I tell.
Oh! I have lov'd
thee tenderly—
Too dearly love thee still!
I feel that thought
can never die—
That
wish no time can kill.
The life that spreads
before me now
Is one vast wilderness;
No fairy vales
the scene can show
That
smile to cheer and bless.
All dreary spreads
the frowning waste—
A
desert, gloomy, bare;
The rugged path,
when found at last,
Leads on but to despair!
No
streams, that cool the parching breeze,
Spring
in that desert rude;
Save those the
fainting Arab sees,
That
glitter to delude.
Or
if some smiling view display'd
Would
tempt my hope again,
I know 'tis but
an empty shade,
And
sigh to feel it vain!
THE PAST
Oh! how sad the
recollection! in the midst of joy it
springs;
What a train of
faded pleasures that fond idea brings!
All those hours
are gone for ever—they were sweet, but
pass'd away
Like the sunny
clouds that vanish in the midst of dying
day.
I have number'd
all the sorrows this tortured heart has
known;
I have counted
each delight I would ever call my own;
But the moments
are so woven, that the guiding clew is
gone,
And the sorrow
and the pleasure blended into one.
That one—oh! when
we parted, it was glittering in that
tear;
That one—'twas
in the accents that told we both were
dear:
It
dwelt in those fond glances, too fleet, too early past;
It lived in that
embrace—the tenderest—the last!
The
last! oh, in that word there are ages of despair!
No summer thought
of brightness can dwell untroubled
there;
Yet my soul was
in that moment so fraught with joy and
pain,
And ' tis only
recollection can give back the soul again!
SONG
Thou wert lovely
to my sight,
When
in yonder dell I found thee
In thy radiant
beauty bright,
Though
a desert spread around thee;
Like the heath-bell's
purple flower,
Shrinking from
a dewy shower.
Thou art rich in
beauty yet,
Fair
as when at first I loved thee;
All the snares
that could beset,
Rank
and splendour, since have proved thee;
Change thy fortune
as it will,
Thou art fair and
faultless still.
SONG
Since
thou wilt banish me,
A
long and last adieu!
This heart shall
cherish thee,
Though
ne'er those hopes renew
That once thy kindness
bade me know,
And now thy falsehood
turns to woe.
Since
all the joy I've known,
And
all the vows you made,
For ever now are
flown,
As
transient as a shade;
Oh! may thy fate
as happy be
As that which seemed
to shine on me.
Too fondly I relied,
Too
easily believed;
Forgot how men
have sigh'd,
And
women have deceived—
I thought the world
from falsehood free;
But, least of all,
I doubted thee!
SONG
If those dark eyes
have gazed on me,
Unconscious
of their power—
The glance in secret
ecstasy
I've treasured many an hour.
If that soft voice,
a single word
Has breathed for me to hear,
Like
Heaven's entrancing airs, the chord
Resounded on my ear.
That love—or hope—was vain,
The
fountain whence delight I drew
Would end in yielding pain!
My
folly and my peace at once
A moment could destroy;
It
bade me every wish renounce,
And broke my dream of joy.
NOVEMBER
FIFTH
Anniversary
of the Loss of H.M.S. Tweed
Oh,
what relief to gaze on yonder sky,
Where all is holy, calm, and purely bright!
Within,
the sound of mirth and revelry
Startles the timid ear of sober night.
And
eyes are bright and silver voices thrill,
As the harp echoes through the glittering
hall;
The
jest is there that wakes the laugh at will,
And mirth has cast her fairy spell o'er all.
I
turn, fair spirit of light! where peaceful thou
Art shining in unatler'd majesty;
The
thin clouds float across thy placid brow,
And catch its silver beam in passing by.
To-night!—oh!
on this night—nor many years
Have wasted, since in sad regret and pain,
Upon
the wave, the sound of woe, and tears,
And frantic pray'rs arose—arose in vain!
Thy
light was shrouded then in deepest gloom;
On that dark coast no friendly radiance shone
To
warn the victims of their gaping tomb—
Despair and death and horror reign'd alone!
Shine
on, shine on, thou treacherous planet still;
Gild with thy beams the now untroubled wave:
Alas!
thou fair and fatal cause of ill,
Thy smiles are lovely—but too late to save!
MEMORY
June
The high grass
waves, with varied hues
Of wild flowers glowing 'mid the green;
The
woods have caught a deeper shade,
And darkly skirt the distant scene.
The
white-throat sings from every brake
The blackbird breathes a sweet reply;
The
lark's shrill fairy notes awake
The echoes of his native sky:
The
pale wild rose is blushing near;
And clinging tendrils round it twine,
That
throw their gay and graceful wreaths
In many a varied waving line.
There
tremble on the slender stem
The barley's rich and bending heads;
And
here the pea, in winged bloom,
Along the air its fragrance sheds.
I cannot smile, though all the scene
Is gay in Nature's brightest guise;
I
think on hours that once have been,
And clouds o'er all the landscape rise.
And
can no charm that nature knows
The fatal power of grief destroy?
Ah,
no! in vain each beauty glows
When mem'ry has no gleam of joy!
SONG
Oh!
long enough my life has been,
Since I thy love have known;
I
would not change the pleasing scene,
And find its beauties flown.
Then
let me die, while yet no care
Has reached my trusting breast;
While
sorrow is a stranger there,
And all is joy and rest.
Let
me not feel what varied pain
Life's theatre can show—
That
all our present hours are vain,
And all our future woe!
SONG
When
others saw thee gay and vain,
And saw my weakness too,—
A
willing captive in thy chain,
Nor doubt nor care I knew.
When
others saw thy faults too well,
And bade my heart beware,
I
linger'd in thy beauty's spell,
And found no danger there.
Even
when I saw how false and cold
Thou couldst to others be,
My
trusting heart would not be told
Thou wert untrue to me.
Like
one whom lovely fruits allure
To death and misery*,
I
find my fate admits no cure,
And know the truth—to die!
* See, for a description of the Mancanillo—a tree of South America—Ulloa's Voyage. [Author's note]
TO
A FALSE FRIEND
Adieu!—'tis
past—the dream is over,
And
we are friends no more;
And
now my task shall be to smother
Thoughts prized too well before—
That
we have ever loved or met,
All,
but our parting, to forget.
Thou,
the first friend my heart had chosen—
Whose wish, whose hope was mine,
Farewell!—the
once warm vows are frozen
That lured my fate to thine:
Each
link of that bright chain is gone
That
bound our mutual hearts in one.
I
will not blame my soul's believing,
That ne'er thy faults could see;
The
error was thy own deceiving,
Not mine, who trusted thee:
This
heart can never learn to fear
Deceit
in one it holds so dear.
How
could I hear, without relying,
Thy lute's wild melody,
Though
false as Echo's voice replying
To some lone wand'rer's cry—
Unworthy
as the scentless flower,
Whose
beauty is its only dower?
Of
all the moments since our meeting,
When both seem'd fond and true,
Now
thou art cold as they were fleeting,
Be this my last review:
No
more—our hearts, our fates must sever,
And I erase thy name for ever!
The
Indian Cupid (5)
Who is he that swiftly
comes
In the lovely silence of night?—
I
know him by his sparkling plumes,
That shine in the clear moonlight;
By
the scarlet wings of his soaring bird,
And
the ceaseless music round him heard.
I know him by his arrows,
And by his blossom'd bow;
By
the forms of radiant beauty that bear,
And
softly wave in the perfumed air,
His standard to and fro.
In
the moonlight have I watched for thee—
When
the glittering beam was downward thrown,
And
each wave with a crest of diamond shone.
I
have seen the thin clouds sail along,
And I raised, to welcome thee, many a song;
But
long have I lingered, and watch'd in vain,
To
see the light of the starry train
Sweep
in beauty across the sky,
To
tones of heavenly harmony.
Now
I behold thee! now 'tis the hour—
Yes!
thou art come in thy splendour and power!—
But,
no! the vision is passing on,
The
bright forms vanish one by one—
On
the desolate shore I am left alone!
Yet
stay! oh, stay!—like lightning they move—
To well, by thy fleetness, I know thou art Love!
Song
Yes! I had hope when first we met,
For hope and joy were in thine eye;
'Twas
long before I could forget,
I trusted thee so tenderly.
And
even now, though years are flown,
And all that charm'd me then was vain,
I
think on happy moments flown,
Until they seem to live again.
But
I awake to truth and woe,
And vanish'd is the pleasing dream,
Like
the frail shade the moonbeams throw,
Or image in the passing stream*.
* See Frankenstein. [Author's note]
The Traveller in Africa (6)
A
Dramatic Sketch
A Forest. Night.
Alone,
amidst the interminable forest!—
Where
shall I seek for aid! my weary limbs,
Torn
by the briars, and wasted with fatigue,
Refuse
to bear me further.
Horrid
night!
Black,
rayless, midnight reigns; and the thick dew
Distils
its baleful drops upon my head.
And, hark! the topmost branches of
the trees,
With
dismal moan, now louder and more near,
Shake
in the rushing wind! It comes, it comes!—
The
dread tornado!—is there no escape!—
What
howl is that, which echoes from afar?
The frightful yell comes nearer——
Mighty
Heaven!
No
friendly torch, no watchfire near, to keep
The
savage foe at bay!—my cries alone,
My
frantic cries of agony, have power
To
scare the fell hyena from his prey!
The torrent sweeps along—a swelling
river
Rolls,
dashes at my feet! I dare not climb
Yon
palm for safety, lest the huge black ants
Fix
on and sting me into madness. Ha!
That
crash has fell'd the loftiest of the wood,
The
stately cotton-tree, that could withstand
A
thousand storms;—whose high, projecting stems,
Twisting
in many folds impenetrable,
Twin'd
with convoluvi and parasites,
Spread
their broad barrier, and forbade approach.
'Tis
fallen now—its purple blossoms crush'd—
And
that stupendous form, which once could yield
A
fainting army shelter, is laid low.
I dare not linger—yet I fear to fly.—
I
hear the human-monster's piercing howl,
The
fierce Ingrena, sporting with the storm,
Like its presiding demon. He approaches—
And,
as he comes, he tears the branches down,
And
arms himself for slaughter. I am lost!
His
wild eyes see me by the lightning's flash—
One
moment, and I perish!—Oh, no! no!
That
desp'rate leap has saved me, and the coil
Of
the huge Boa holds my shrieking foe!
A thousand deaths surround me—and I yield.—
No
more at eve, beneath the ganian's shade,
My
brave companions, shall we meet, to tell
Of
toils and dangers past: no more recall
The
lovely verdure of our native vales,
When,
listening to the crown-bird's cheerful note,
So
like our own wild wand'ring bird of spring,
That
fancy gives us back our homes again.
My
lov'd, lost home!—and must I perish here!—
Oh!
were I now amidst the burning sands,
So
the bright sun once more might shine on me,
Although
in all his scorching fierceness, yet
There
might be hope I should escape his beams;
Or,
were I on the brink of some broad river,
Where
the gaunt crocodile pursued my steps,
So
I had light to view mine enemy,
There might be some hope: but here no light can come!
The
blast
Bears
shouts upon its wings—new terrors still
Come
thronging to o'erwhelm me! Gracious Heaven!
Those
well-known sounds, those voices! and my name
Echoing
through all the forest!—I am saved!—
Here,
here, my friends! rush onward, ye are come
In time to see me die!
Song of the Crew of Diaz,
On the Discovery of the Cape of Good Hope,
or Cape of Storms (7)
Where no sound was ever
heard
But the ocean's hollow roar,
As
it breaks, in foamy mountains,
Along the rugged shore:
That has terror on its wings,
Howls
to the startled echo
That through each cavern rings:
Upon
that world of waters,
Where nought has ever pass'd
But
the storm-bird's glittering pinions,
As it whirls amidst the blast—
Where
no sail has ever wandered
Beneath that troubled sky,
Frowns
the stately Cape of Storms
O'er the drear immensity!
Above
whose hoary summit,
Where captive thunders sleep,
Three
huge black clouds for ever
Their dreadful station keep.
We
have gazed on what no other
Has ever gazed upon—
We
have braved the angry spirits,
And our victory is won.
We
have conquered all the dangers
Of a yet unfathom'd sea;
And
we bring the prize of glory.
Our country, Spain, to thee!
Song
Oh! that I could forget the grief
Thy coldness taught my heart,
Nor
seek the transient, vain relief
Thy presence can impart!
Oh!
that I could for ever fly
The
fatal magic of thine eye!—
Or
that it had no power on me,
And
I might linger, yet be free!
Oh!
hush that soft, that gentle sigh!
Why shouldst thou mourn my fate—
The
author of my misery,
Whose pity comes too late?
Let
some harsh word of anger fall,
To chide my sorrow's deep excess;
That
I may hope thou art not all
As faultless as thy looks express:
That
it may teach me to resign,
And less deplore thou art not mine!
Sylph's Song
Fly with me, my mortal
love!
Oh! haste to realms of purer day,
Where
we form the morning dew,
And the rainbow's varied hue,
And give the sun each golden ray!
Oh! stay no more
On this earthly shore,
Where
Joy is sick of the senseless crew;
But taste the bliss we prove,
In the starry plains above,
Queens
of the meads of ether blue.
When
the moon is riding high,
And trembles in the lake below,—
Then we hover in its ray,
And amid the sparkles play,
While rippling waves of silver flow.
As pure and bright
As that gleaming light:
We
watch the eddying circle's bound,
And within
those lucid rings
We dip our shining wings,
And
scatter showers of radiance round.
When
softly falls the summer shower,
Fresh'ning all the earth with green,
From the cup of many a flower,
While the purple shadows lower,
We drink the crystal tears unseen.
Then come away!
No more delay,—
Our
joys and our revels haste to share.
Behold, where near thee wait,
As subjects of our state,
The shadowy spirits of the air!
Song
'Tis the spot where we
parted—
Oh! never again
Can
its breeze or its blossoms
Awake but to pain.
Ah!
as fair is the scene
As it flourish'd before;
But
the ray that gave life
Beams in lustre no more.
Thou
art gone—like the rainbow
Departed each hue,
That
gleam'd for a moment,
Then fled from the view;—
I
may gaze on the cloud,
The bright shadow pass'd o'er;
But
the light of thy form
Shall enchant me no more.
Song
Oh! let
thy sorrows pass away—
Waste not in sighs an hour of light;
Life
beams with many a varied ray,
And morning breaks the gloom of night.
That
morn, which veil'd in misty grey
On ev'ry flow'ret's lid is sleeping,
Tells
of the future glittering day,
And, sadly beauteous, smiles in weeping.
Then
let thy tears no more be shed—
The moment past is gone for ever;
The
rose that charm'd an hour, is dead,
And blooms again in beauty never.
Lines
Why look'd
I on that fatal line?
Why did I pray that page to see?
Too
well I knew no word of thine
Was fraught with aught but pain to me.
I
should have known, I should have thought
The fleeting hope would soon decay!
So
oft the gleam of joy it brought
Has only shone to pass away.
Thy
hand had traced the words I read;
And in that dream I wandered on—
Forgot
their cherish'd spell was fled,
Thy vows no more—thy fondness gone.
I
lived whole years of joy again;
I dwelt on each recorded vow;
Oh!
tender was their meaning then—
Alas! they have no meaning now!
The Adieu
We part,
and thou art mine no more!
I
go through seas never sought before,
Where
stars unknown to our native skies
Startle
the mariner's watchful eyes.
Our
bark shall over the waters sweep,
And
rouse the children of the deep:
Around
us, 'midst the silvery spray,
With
glittering scales shall the dolphins play.
When
scarcely flutters the snowy sail,
Gently
waved by the whispering gale,
I
shall gaze in the ocean's liquid glass,
And
mark the hidden treasures we pass:
The
amber and coral groves that glow
In
the sparkling sunbeams that dart below,
Whose
lucid and spreading boughs between
Countless flitting forms are seen.
Oh!
could I beneath the billows dive,
And
in that world of splendour live!
Were
there a cave for thee and me
Beneath
that bright and silent sea,
Which
waves conceal and rocks surround,
Like
that the Island loves found*.
Strange
and solemn was the hour
That
saw them reach that secret bower;—
Some
love-lorn seamaid's deep abode,
Or
palace of the ocean god.
Long
had Hoonga's inmost cells
Echoed to the mournful tone
Of
the waves among the shells,
And the winds that feebly moan:
But
never to music so sad, so sweet,
As
the vows they breathed in that lone retreat.
But,
ah! our bark glides swiftly on,
And my vision of that cave is gone,
* See for an account of the Cavern of Hoonga and romantic history of the lovers, mariner's tonga islands. [Author's note]
As
all the fleeting dreams have flown
That
bade me hail thee as my own.
I
have looked the last on my native shore—
We part! and thou art mine no more!
Spanish Song
Nay,
Inez, no more persuade;
Those are sounds that to glory should move:
Ah!
ne'er for a warrior made
Were the garlands thy fondness wove.
Wake!—arouse!
'tis the battle's roar;
'Tis its light'ning afar I see!
I
return with life no more,
Or, my country, thou shalt be free!
Yet,
Inez, in other lands,
When around war's banners shall stream;
When
rush forth our conquering bands
All radiant with bravery's beam:
Yes—then,
midst the battle's roar,
I can still spare one thought for thee;
But
we meet again no more,
Till, my country, thou shalt be free!
Savoyard's Song*
Never more when the spring returning
Smiles again on Savoy's plains,
Shall
my soft lute, as breaks the morning,
Wake timid echo with its strains:
Hours
so dear, so brightly gay,
Ye
are fled in grief and gloom away!
Wherefore
still is memory bringing
Scenes whose charm too well I know?
There
the deer, so lightly springing,
Darts along the drifted snow;
There
the vine, yon heights descending
With its purple clusters bending,
Twines
amid the vale below—
That vale my dreams alone can show.
Hours
so dear, scenes so gay,
Oh! ye are fled in gloom away!
* This and the four following Songs are published in Lyrical Specimens. The music arranged by Mr. J. Beale. [Author's note]
Fair
the flocks that once I tended—
Labour brought its sweet reward;
When
the day of toil was ended,
Blithely sung the Savoyard:
But
all those hours, so brightly gay,
Now
are fled in gloom away!
Song
When
all has faded into rest,
And mournful love is waking only—
When
moonlight on the lake's wide breast
Is gleaming fair and lonely;
There
is a spirit hovers near,
And round thee in each breeze is sighing:
But
ah! the sigh thou wilt not hear
Is in cold echo dying!
The
brightest star that glows above
Throws its pure lustre o'er thy dwelling;
A
tale of beauty and of love
Its soft clear ray is telling.—
Thine
eye is full as soft and bright,
Unwary souls of peace bereaving;
But
'tis a false, uncertain light,
That beams but in deceiving.
Song
Swiftly
oe'r the green sea sailing,
Glides my bark to yonder shore;
Soon
its flow'ry valleys hailing,
Winds and waves I'll heed no more.
Where
the freshest breeze is swelling,
Over flowers most sweet and fair,
Gleams
afar my little dwelling—
Ah! how soon my soul is there!
With
the verdant margin bleeding,
Sighing low the waters lave;
And
the rose, in fondness bending,
Blushes in the lucid wave:
Music's
melting notes are stealing
O'er the pure and perfum'd air,
All
those long lost scenes revealing—
Ah! how soon my love is there!
Romance
The knight in shining steel is clad,
His plume in the wild wind is streaming,
Like a meteor his sword is gleaming;
His
gallant steed hath power and speed,
And his eye with valour is beaming:
To
the battle afar he hies,
And, glowing the bright array to see,
Welcome
war to my soul, he cries,
Land of my sires! since I fight for thee!
The
sounds of dreadful tumult rise,
And buckler 'gainst buckler is clashing,
With scimetar falchion is flashing—
The
glorious knight, amid the fight,
Like a mountain torrent is dashing!
Dealing
fate through the ranks he flies,
As though the God of the field were he,—
Welcome
strife, still the warrior cries,
Land of my sires! since I strive for thee!
Subdued
the mighty Pagan foe—
In dust is the bright crescent lying,
While the banner of truth is flying.
The day
is won!—but ah! the sun
Soon shall set on the dead and the dying!
O'er
the field in panic, far and wide,
The hero marks how the vanquish'd flee—
Welcome
death to my soul, he cried,
Land of my sires! since I die for thee!
Song
Were all
the vows I liv'd to cherish
Breath'd
but to charm and then to perish?
They
were like the rainbow's greeting,
Tears
and smiles together meeting:
Ah!
as lovely and as fleeting—
Fare thee well!
I
saw those eyes such softness telling,
And
deem'd that truth must there be dwelling.
How
could I, when gazing on thee,
Doubt
the tender glance that won me,
Fly
the spell that has undone me?—
Fare thee well!
No
more thy smile or frown can move me,
The grave will be too cold to love thee:
O'er
the spot where I am lying
Thou
wilt hear the cold wind sighing,
To
my last lament replying,
Fare thee well!
Written at B—
Another
year, fair scenes! has led my steps
Back
to your shades again, and fairer now
Ye
seem to me than ever.
First
I turn
Where
yon tall spire gleams white above the trees:
I
seek the rustic porch, and pass along
The
thick dark avenue of mournful yews.
How
many, beautiful and gay, have trod
Beneath
your shade, dark boughs, in life's bright bloom,
And
after cold and silent to their graves!
The
gloom of centuries is spread around ye.
One
simple grave attracts me: underneath
The
loftiest elm that throws its giant shadow
Beyond
the tall stone, there thy bones are laid—
Thou,
whose pure soul so little earth had tainted;—
Whose life was on long day of charity,
Simple
and guileless, deeming all as free
From
falsehood as thyself! And here she lies.
Whose
smiles I loved to greet, and who ne'er looked
Upon
me but in kindness:—rest in peace!
Here
no intruding foot shall press the sod
Where
ye repose, save when some blooming child
Has
stray'd into the solitude, and bounds,
With
light step, o'er the dwellings of the dead—
Unthinking
that perhaps it passes by
The
home of one to whom its innocence
Was
dear,—till, wearied with its sportive toil,
It
rests its glowing cheek upon the turf,
And sleeps in calmness.
Elegy
The
sea is deep above thy grave,
And
the murmur of the rushing wave
Soothes thee to endless
sleep.
The
warring winds, with angry yell,
Ring
mournfully thy funeral knell,
And wild discordance keep.
Now
round thee wakes the hurrying storm,
And the red lightning rends aside
The wat'ry veil that strives to hide
Thy passive form.
The affrighted waves in heaps divide
And close again, as the loud thunder peals—
No eye beholds what the abyss reveals!
A waste of horror, black and drear, is spread
Far o'er the bosom of the troubled main.
Thy grave is calm again,
The
dread commotion ceases o'er thy head—
The
dark sea onward drives, and peaceful
Sleeps the dead!
Song
Ere fortune
change, and we become
The victims of its will,
Fly
to these arms—thy native home,
And we'll be happy still.
When
time steals on with gloomy brow,
And bids these roses fade,
As
brilliant as they blossom now
To me they'll seem, sweet maid!
But
youth and bloom are still thy own—
Oh! spend that youth with me!
A
heart where truth has fix'd her throne
Expands to welcome thee.
The
heart I give ne'er knew a stain,
'Tis all the wealth that's mine:
Is
that a bribe, whose worth may gain
A gem so rich as thine?
Lines
We met—and the hour of our meeting is fled:
May thy course be of pleasure, tho' mine be
of pain!
Our
footsteps may ne'er in that pathway be led,
That may lead to each other again.
How
brief was the time!—but how joyous it flew!—
'Twas sunshine alone, not a cloud hover'd there:
Alas!
such bright hours of my life have been few—
I return to my long cherish'd care.
My
form and my name will soon fade from thy mind,
Tho' the scenes where we met in thy mem'ry
may be;
But
no place in my thought will those images find,
Except to remind me of thee.
On Hearing of the Change a Short Time had Made
in a Beautiful Woman
Art
thou so chang'd! so lovely as thou wert
When
last I saw thee—lovely, though in sadness;
Those
eyes so bright, amidst their melancholy,
Beaming
with sweet intelligence; that form,
Graceful
and full of majesty, that moved
As
the tall palm bows to the sighing breeze!
Often, when gazing only to admire thee,
I've
mark'd the traces that late tears had left;
But
sorrow seem'd in thee so beautiful,
None
could have wish'd it banish'd from thy brow.
Ah! like a canker, it has fed upon
The
beauteous flow'r that cherish'd it too long,
And, leaf by leaf, the blossom has decay'd!
Beauty
was fatal to thee, and it flies,
Like
all in whom thy trust reposed:—'tis gone!—
Love,
beauty, joy, are fled away for ever;
Sorrow still lingers on, and reigns alone!
On a Picture of Cupid resting on his Bow and
Gazing in a Stream
Thy
bow unstrung, thy beaming eyes
Fix'd on the sparkling waves below,
That,
trembling in their glad surprise,
In softer, sweeter, murmurs flow:
Upon
the margin of the stream
Thou
standest, lost in fancy's dream,
And
wondering at the lovely shade
Thy
own enchanting form has made.
And
hast thou never known till now
The
radiance of that heavenly brow?—
Nor
deem'd, until reflected there,
The
form that charms the world was fair?
Narcissus-like,
thy fairer face,
Thy bending form's celestial grace,
Chains
thee, enamour'd, to the spot—
Thy
victims and thy sway forgot!
Oh!
wake not from that vision's power!
Still
rooted, bloom!—a lovely flower:
And
let oblivion's veil be spread
O'er
bosoms that too long have bled!
As
fair, as fix'd, for ever be;—
Gaze on, and let the world be free!
Supposed to be Sung by the Wife of a Japanese
who had been Taken by the Russians to their Country
I look through
the mist and I see thee not—
Are
thy home and thy love so soon forgot?
Sadly
closes the weary day,
And
still thy bark is far away.
The
tent is ready, the mats are spread,
The saranna* is pluck'd for thee:
Alas!
what fate has thy baidare led
So far from thy home and me!
Has
my bower no longer charms for thee?
Where the purple jessamines twine
Round
the stately spreading cedar tree,
And
rest in its arms so tenderly—
As I have reposed in thine.
*
See Notes. [Author's note]
In
vain have I found the sea-parrot's nest,
And
robb'd of its plumes her glittering breast,
Thy
mantle with varied hues to adorn—
Thou
hast left me watchful and forlorn!
Dost
thou roam amidst the eagle flocks,
Whose
aerie is in the highest rocks?
Dost
thou seek the fox in his hiding place?
Or
hold the beaver in weary chase?
Dost
thou seek, beneath the foaming tide,
Where
the precious red pearls hide?
Return!
the evening mist is chill,
And
sad is my watch on the lonely hill.
Return!
the night wind is cold on my brow,
And
my heart is as cold and desolate now:—
Alas!
I await thee and hope in vain,
I
shall never behold thy return again!
*
* * * *
*
* * * *
She
stood on the beach all the starless night,
But nought appear'd to her eager sight;
No
bark on its bosom the ocean bore,
And
he she loved return'd no more.
For
the strangers came from the icy north,
And
their words and their gifts had won him forth;
Their
ship sail'd far from his native bay,
And it bore him to other regions away.
The Palace of the Cappelletti
"Where
Juliet at the mask
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him"
Rogers' Italy
The palace
is a ruin; round the walls
The
ivy hangs its venerable wreaths,
And
birds of night flit through the lonely arches
That
echoed once with music.
Of
those halls
Where
the gay maskers fled like shadows by,
In
many a strange fantastic shape, and all
Was
mirth and splendour, a few stones remain!
The
marble pillars twined with perfum'd flowers,
From
whose propitious shade the unbidden guest
Gazed
on the daughter of his enemy.
She,
thoughtless who that palmer's robe conceal'd,
"Too early saw unknown, and knew too late!"
Where are they now?—The morning mist may trace
To
Fancy's eye their visionary forms;
But
day arises—they are there no more.
Unhallow'd
steps have trod the garden's bounds;
The
meanest peasant of Verona strays,
Regardless
where the youthful lovers met;
When
the cold, silent moon look'd sadly down
On
all the fatal vows they breath'd that night.
The
pomp of Montagues and Capulets
Is
faded in oblivion, and their names
Had
passed away with time long since no more;
But
they are made immortal by their victims.
There
is a broken tomb that, legends say,
Once
held their ashes:—years will come and vanish,
And
not a vestige will be left of them;
Yet
they have endless life and endless fame
Through him who told their sorrows.
From Metastasio
Dal
suo gentil sembiante, &c.
'Twas
from thy beauty first arose
My earliest love to thee;
And
changeless, till my life shall close,
My constancy shall be.
Though
beauty brighter than thine own,
To me a thought incline,
I
know no joy but thee alone—
I see no charms but thine.
From the same
Altro
sloievo non resta, &c.
One
only pleasure fate bestows
On hearts condemn'd to sever—
'Tis
when they meet to mourn their woes
Before they part for ever;
With
mutual tears recall the days
No future will renew;
Sadly
return each tender gaze,
And sigh their last adieu!
From the same
Io
lo so, che il bel sembiante, &c.
Too
well I know her beauty's power,
Too well its fruits I know;
We
met—and from that fatal hour
My life has been woe.
Too
well I know—and ev'ry vale,
Each cave and desert grove,
From
me have learnt the mournful tale,
And sigh the name I love.
From the same
L'onda
che mormora, &c.
The
wave that murmurs from shore to shore,
The breeze that trembles on leaf and tree—
That
lingers awhile and returns no more,
Is less inconstant than thou to me!
And
yet this foolish and erring heart
Withers in endless sorrow and pain;
And,
though I know how fickle thou art,
Bids me still trust in a hope so vain.
From Metastasio
E la fede degli amante,
Come l' Araba fenice, &c.
The faith that lovers boast their own
Is like the Arabian bird;
For
while to none its form is known,
By all its fame is heard.
Go—from
its ashes bid it rise
Immortal to my view,
And
know the changeless faith you prize
Shall be immortal too.
From the same
Mi
lagnero tacendo, &c.
In silent and in sad regret,
My life shall pass away;
But
bid me not my love forget—
Oh! how can I obey?
Wilt
thou the only hope destroy
That still survives for me?
The
lonely, miserable joy
Of perishing for thee?
From Tasso's Aminta
Picciola
e l' ape, &c.
The golden bee, whose summer hours
Are
passed amidst the blushing flowers,
Though
small his size, though weak his wing,
Has
power and torture in his sting:
Even
such is love, for small the space
He
asks to give him ample place.
Now
in the shade thine eyelids give;
Now in thy waving golden hair;
Now
in the dimpled smiles that live
Upon that cheek so soft and fair—
Conceal'd,
he there has room to dwell;
And ah! his power I know too well!
From Metastaio
Nella
face che risplende, &c.
On the bright taper's trembling ray,
The infant gazes with delight;
And
fondly hopes to bear away
The splendid beam that charms his sight:
In
vain he strives with eager clasp,
To make the glittering prize his own;
The
treach'rous flame eludes his grasp,
And, flying, leaves him pain alone.
From the same
Gratitude
Benche
di senso privo
Fin l' arboscello
e grato, &c.
The
willow tow'rds the silver tide
Bends gracefully her boughs, to greet
The
cooling waves that softly glide,
And lave the turf around her feet.
How
gladly, when he seeks her aid
To shield him from the scorching ray,
She
spreads her branches for his shade,
The long remember'd debt to pay!
Imitated from Tasso's Aminta
"How
canst thou say it gives thee joy
Midst rural shades to rove,
Since,
in those scenes, the soul employ
Of all thou see'st is love?
The
willows bend their pensive boughs,
And meet with every wind;
Her
wreaths the graceful ivy throws,
The willing elm to bind.
Hadst
thou a heart, where love could dwell
Without distrust or fear,
The
sighs their tender joy that tell
Thou couldst not fail to hear."—
She
answered, and her scornful eyes
She coldly turn'd away—
"When I have heard their tender sighs,
I'll yield to what you say."
The First Discovery of Columbus (8)
"The
howling winds forbid us to trust the fatal main,
Oh,
turn our wand'ring vessel to harbour once again!
Why
to this 'bold Italian' our lives, our hopes confide?
No
golden land awaits us beyond the shoreless tide.
How
long shall he deceive us with boasting, vain and loud?
And
when we gaze for land he can show us but a cloud!"
The
gallant leader heard; but he listened undismay'd,
Though
he saw their furious glances, and their daggers half display'd;
No
fear was in his soul—but his heart was wrung with woe—
Shall
he quail before their murmurs, and his glorious meed forego?
Had
he braved the ocean's terrors in tempest and in night—
And shall he furl his sails with the promised goal in sight?
For
he look'd tow'rds the horizon and mark'd the setting sun;
And
by its ruddy light he knew his toil was done.
'Twas
in deepest midnight, as they cut the yielding wave,
When
not a star was shining to guide them, or to save—
As
in awful, hopeless, silence their onward course they steer,
Far
in the murky darkness—lo! glimmering lights appear!
In
breathless joy and wonder they watch the opening sky;
And
with the morning rises their rapturous certainty:
Through
the silvery vapour gleaming extends the welcome strand,
And
trees, and rocks, and mountains, before their view expand:
They
breast the foaming surges, and shouting leap to shore,
While every echo answers, "God, and Saint Salvador!"
Lament of an Ashantee Warrior
Condemned
to death as a sacrifice to
When
the king held his sacred revelry,
Who
among the train was greater than I?
Whose
golden bow could brighter shine—
Whose
eagle plume was prouder than mine?
And when the nations rose,
And the battle-sound was high,
What trumpet 'midst the foes
First raised the conquering cry?
My
power, my courage, each foeman knew;
No
spear more swift, no sword more true!
And
is this the meed the brave should claim—
Is
this the end of a life of fame?
Yes!—I
am old, my power is o'er,
And
the deeds of my youth are remembered no more:
I
can lead no longer to victory—
I am worthless, feeble, and fit to die!
I
sat by the sacred river's side,
And
heard the sound of its gentle tide,
As
it dashed on the shore with lively din,
Where
the mangroves dip their boughs within.
Countless birds on that island dwell,
With black and glittering wings;
And one, whose note has the softest
swell,
Chaining the soul in its powerful swell,
So mournfully he sings.
The
green-doves murmur'd as I lay,
And
the parrot's plumes in the sun were gay.
But, while I lingered, the waves arose,
And darkness was in the sky;
The river heaved with troubled throes,
And the wind moaned fearfully.
I saw in the stream, so dark and clear,
The mighty of the deep*;
And I knew my fated hour was near,
When he roused him from his sleep.
Slow
in the river's depth he passed,
And
I knew my time was ebbing fast.
* The Hippopotamus. [Author's note]
I
heard the spirits' funeral song,
As
the frightened waters rushed along;
I
knew that death was in the knell,
And
I bade to lengthened days farewell.
But I thought to perish like the brave,
As my fathers had before;
I thought to fill a glorious grave,
And none be honoured more!
My spirit in the forest's gloom
Shall wander many a night,
And fill the Indians, as they roam
Onwards to their welcome home,
With sorrow and affright.
They
will say, "Why wanders the restless shade?
At
the chieftain's death was no offering made?
His
name was spread afar,
He
was unsubdued in was;
He
should have had a glorious train
To
bear him to his bright domain.
Why
does the hero's spirit stay
To trouble us on our dreary way?"
No
lament there shall be, no funeral rite;—
I
shall fall like the lightning that mocks the sight.
My
children shall gaze and ask the trace
Of
him who was first in power and place:
None
shall point out the warrior's grave—
I shall die like a felon and a slave!
Complaint of Amanieu des Escas
the end of the thirteenth century, under
James II, King of Arragon
When
thou shalt ask why round thee, sighing,
My mournful friends appear,
They'll
tell thee Amanieu is dying,
And thou wilt smile to hear.
They
will reproach thee with my fate;—
Yet, why should they deplore!
Since
death is better than the hate
I suffer evermore.
Why
chid'st thou that in pensive numbers
I dared to love my own?
The
kiss we give to one that slumbers
Is never felt or known.
And
long I strove my thoughts to hide,
Nor would my weakness show;
With
secret care I should have died,—
I can but perish now!
Oh!
once I smil'd, in proud derision,
At love and all its pain:
The
woe of others seems a vision,
Our own the truth too plain!
May'st
thou yet feel the chilling void
My soul has known too long!—
When
this brief life, thy scorn destroyed,
Is ended with my song!
La Partenza
from
Metastasio
Alas! the
fatal hour has come,—
The hour of fate to me!
How
shall I live?—where seek a home?—
So far removed from thee!
My
life will pass in ceaseless sighs,
Till its last throb be o'er;
While
ah! perhaps the heart I prize
Remembers me no more!
Still
will my hopes be wandering,
The vanished peace to find
Of
those fond hours, whose rapid wing
Has left no trace behind.
In
every place—where'er thou art,
My tend'rest thoughts shall soar;
While
ah! perhaps thy changeful heart
Remembers me no more!
When
each sad morn my weary way
I seek, remote and drear,
And
ask each rock and cavern gray
For her who cannot hear,
Still
shall I breathe a sigh to thee
From many a distant shore;
While
thou, perhaps, content with be,
Rememb'ring me no more!
How
fondly will my mem'ry rest
On hill, and vale, and grove,
Where
every hour of life was blest—
For all we pass'd in love!
But
ah! those scenes of happiness
I knew but to deplore;
Whilst
thou, perhaps, may'st prize them less,
Rememb'ring me no more!
"There,"—shall
I dream—"by yonder wave,
Her frowns first caused me pain;
And
here, in sign of peace, she gave
Her gentle hand again!—
'Twas
here the breeze my earliest sighs
Upon its bosom bore."—
But
thou, perhaps, canst all despise,
Rememb'ring me no more!
Oh!
think, the gloomy shades among,
How hopelessly I mourn!
Oh!
think how I have loved thee long,
And loved without return!
Think
on the hour that bids us part—
My life, my peace, restore!
Let
me not fear thy changeful heart
Remembers me no more!
The Return of the Indians to Niagara
My
faithful love! we'll onward roam,
And
seek together our forest home:
No
more the stranger's roof to see,
In
our woods—on our rivers we are free.
They
cannot lure the Indian to stay
From
his woods and his rivers long away.
The
stranger's halls may yield him bliss,
But
can they compare to a sky like this?
The
stranger may feast in his gaudy bowers,
But
his banquet is not so sweet as ours;
And
gold and jewels may round him shine,
But
can they compare with riches like mine—
My
wide domains of mountain and grove,
My joys with thee of freedom and love?
Lake
Erie is near, and the Rapids clear
Will guide us on our way,
Until
they rush, with sparkling gush,
Where wild Ontario's waters play.
The
ravens are hovering for their food,
For
fatal to the finny brood
Is the dash of the Rapid's spray;
They
lie on the shore, and their colours bright
Flash
for awhile in the sunny light,
Then fade in death away.
The
evening sun its parting glance
Has left on rock and tree,
And
lo! the shadowy mists advance!—
And they move—how rapidly!
Ha!
'tis not evening's misty dew
That spreads in clouds on high;
Those
wreaths of snowy foam defy
The
might of time, of earth and sky,—
The
stately Falls burst on my view
In all their majesty!
Now
down the dizzy steep we go,
Where
the stunning waters flow
Over
rocks, whose heads are seen
The
overwhelming waves between;—
Scarcely
the eye may mark the height
From
whence they pour with resistless might!
Let
us fly from the deaf'ning sound,
Whose
thunder shakes the trembling ground;
Midst
the terror of that ceaseless din,
Is
there no spot to shelter in?
Methinks,
through the roar so wild and high,
Silver
voices in whispers sigh,
And
across the foam of that rushing tide
Shadowless
forms appear to glide.
There,
where the rainbow loves to play
In
vanishing hues along the spray,
Their
glittering wings the Spirits wave,
And
beckon us to their wat'ry cave:—
They
know from the stranger's land we come,
And they hasten to welcome the Indians home.
The Wanderers in the Polar Sea*
The moon is high, with every star,
And
a sky of deepest blue,—
The
dazzling wildfire shoots afar
Its sparks of varied hue,
And
darts, like a gilded snake, along
The
vivid and glittering clouds among.
Not
a wave but glows with the magic light,
And
reflects on its bosom another night—
A
night of radiant majesty,
The
daughter of the polar sky.
'Midst
boundless plains of ice we lie,
In the regions of endless frost,
Over
flattering hope's decay to sigh—
Over hopes and wishes crost!
* See Captain Lyon's beautiful and affecting Narrative of an unsuccessful attempt to reach Repulse Bay. [Author's note]
'Tis
morn!—the vapours slowly glide,
And
spread their wings on every side;
Their
breath on all around they throw,
And
icy spires and columns grow:
Swiftly
the wreathing lines extend,
And
from every cord the sprays depend.
When
the sparkling sun leads on the day,
And
melts those veils of mist away,
Still,
in clinging fondness lingers
The
glittering work of their fairy fingers,
And
our storm-beat vessel we behold
Spangled
and strew'd with gems and gold,
That
gleam and vanish one by one,
Till
all—like our hopes and joys—are gone!
We
gaze once more on the dreary way
That
frowns before us each rising day,
And
shudder—chill'd in soul—to know
We
sail alone through this realm of
snow!—
That
not a sound can wake the air
But the groan of the coming storm,
Or
the sullen growl of the startled bear
As he rears his grisly form
From
the icy throne, where, in wait for prey,
Like the demon of the clime he lay.
Our
anchors are whelm'd in the angry tide,
Our masts the storm has riven,—
We wander on, without help or guide,
By winds and waters driven;
And
every gust that hurries by
Sounds
like a spirit's warning cry,
That
tells us our latest hope is o'er,
And
we may return to our homes no more!
Honour
and Fame! is this the end
Your visions taught my mind,
When
I left each tender, weeping friend,
And every tie behind?
Though
icy deserts and storms be past,
Must
we perish 'midst ice and storms at last!
Ha!
the rapid current drives
Our vessel on its course!
Powerless—all
in vain—she strives
To battle with its force.
Hark!
the deaf'ning surges roar,
And the eddy whirls us on
To
that sad and gloomy shore
Where worldly toils are done—
Where
the hospitable deep
Will
yield us rest and dreamless sleep!
Dash'd along from rock to rock,
Trembling to the deadly shock—
Every element our foe—
Nerveless and desolate,
Through clouds of boiling foam we go,
Abandoned to our fate!
* * * *
* * * *
No!—we are saved!
Behold where,
cloth'd in light,
The
broad Atlantic spreads before our sight!—
Escaped
the shoals yon treacherous billows hide,
Safe
on her breast our shattered bark may ride:
Hail,
glorious Ocean! to thy arms we come—
Oh
bear thy wanderers to their southern home!
[page
123]
Chaucer's Tale of the Falcon, to Canace
Squire's
Tale
My
birth was happy, and in joy I grew,
My
early hours no fear, no sorrow knew;
My
bed was in a rock of marble grey,
And
tranquilly and sweetly passed each day;
Till
my broad wing had learnt to pierce the sky,
I
knew not, even in thought, adversity.
Near
my untroubled home a Tercelet dwelt,
Whose
specious worth my heart too deeply felt:
His
faults were veil'd from my deluded eyes,
For
he was fraught with falsehood and disguise.
His
mien was gentle, humble was his look,
And truth I heard in every word he spoke:
So
full of tender care, so fair, so plain—
Oh!
who that heard would deem that he could feign!
But,
as beneath bright flow'rs the serpent lies
With
ready spring his victim to surprise;
Or
as a costly tomb, with glittering show,
Conceals
the ghastly, livid, form below:
Thus
was he clothed in virtue's brightest hue—
The
truest seeming—and the most untrue!
In
deep deceit, so potent was his skill,
None
knew his purpose, save the powers of ill!
And
many a year with prayers and vows hi strove,
Ere
yet I listened to his feigning love;
Until
my heart, where too much pity dwelt,
Thoughtless
of evil it had never felt,
Trembling
with tender fear to see him die—
Betray'd,
alas! by fond simplicity,
At
length, its coldness and its pride resigned,
For
one as fickle as the summer wind;
For
one whose loss I live but to deplore—
Too
soon who wandered to return no more!
Oh!
how may truth perceive the depths of guile?
Or see destruction in a lover's smile,
Whose
pleading sadness one brief word might cheer—
Who
seem'd so constant, and who was so
dear!
Not
gentle Troilus, who for Cressid sigh'd,
Not
he of Troy for Menelaus' bride,—
Not
Jason seem'd more true!
Ah me! yet
never
Since
Lamech—he in love the first deceiver:
Oh!
not from earliest time might ever be
One
so forsworn—so deeply false as he!
'Twas
Heaven to listen to that magic tone
That
made the charmed, willing, soul his own;
To
see, to hear, to cherish him as true,
And
dream of virtues that he never knew!
I
wander'd in that vision, and so far
He
was my light, my only guiding star.
The
smallest pain that to his breast was known,
My
bosom felt more keenly than his own:
My
firm, unwav'ring truth no change could move,
Nor
ought that e'er was mine, except his love.
At
last hard fortune, envious of my joy,
And watchful all my pleasures to destroy,
Ordain'd
that we should part. How shall I find
Words
sad enough to speak what grief of mind
That
parting gave me?—Death! I know thy power,
And
felt its bitterness that wretched hour!
Oh!
when we bade our fatal, fond, adieu;
And
when I mark'd his cheek's fast fading hue—
I
check'd my tears, and hush'd each struggling sigh,
Lest
I should wake anew his misery.
Heaven
heard my constant vows, that Death alone
Should
claim from him the heart so much his own.
But
why should I his tender answer tell?
None
can be falser—none can speak so well!
Who
meets a fiend and would not be his prey,
Has
need of arts and spells to guard his way.
He
went, amidst the busy world to try
What
man seeks evermore—variety.
Ah!
why, ungrateful, wretched, human kind,
For
distant hopes leave present joys behind?
Even
as a captive bird, though fed with care,
Shielded
from summer sun and wintry air,
Fostered
with all that dotage can bestow,
Amidst
these splendours pines with secret woe;
[page
127]
And
should the gilded portal open lie,
Speeds
swiftly to the woods and liberty:
There
toils he for his food, yet sweetly sings,
Nor
heeds the labour for the change it brings.
Even
so he fled; and from that fatal day
Another
charms him from my sight to stay;
Another
sways the heart I ruled before—
He loves another, and I hope no more!
Saint Aldhelm (10)
Fragment
of a Legend found among the Ruins, on
clearing
away the Abbey-Church of Malmesbury, Wilts.
The waves pour over their rocky bed,
And foam in the stream below;
The
moon her glittering light has spread
On the waters as they flow
By
the Abbey's walls that tower so high—
Where, musing on the fate
Of
man, his toils and vanity,
The saintly Aldhelm sat.
He
pray'd, as he look'd on the sky of night,
And mark'd the glorious ray
That
rested, clear and calm and bright,
On all that beneath him lay,
That
man might see by as pure a light
The error of his way.
"And,
oh!" he cried, "that I had power
To charm from sin and pride
Those
who prize the present hour,
And have no thought beside.
Thou,
Lord, hast given me soul and sense—
Oh! were they given in vain?
Was
I not bless'd with eloquence
Thy people's hearts to gain?
Alas!
though my words in their minds have chain'd
Awhile in hope or dread;
Like
the sun-beam that my robe sustain'd
The transient spell has fled:
A
few brief hours was their sin restrain'd;
Then back, uncurb'd, they sped.
To
me is known full many a lay
The wand'ring minstrel sings;
And
I might lure them, thence, to stay
And list of heavenly things.
Then
come, my harp, whose cords so long
Have swell'd for Heaven alone,
And
now to some unwonted song
Awake thy thrilling tone.
And
lie thou there, my gown of gray,
That long my garb hast been;
For
I must seem a harper gay,
And wear a harper's mien."
[asterisks]
And
many a peasant on his way,
And
many a knight he lured to stay
With the magic of his song.
And
of those who heard his charmed strain
None
return'd to their homes again—
But their hearts with faith were strong.
And
some took up the holy weeds,
And left the world for Heaven;
And
some their crimes by righteous deeds
Atoned, and are forgiven.
And
many through Aldhelm's pious care
Are reigning as saints above—
He
lived a life of ceaseless prayer,
Of holiness, and love.
Kong
Athelstan that man of peace
As his saintly guardian chose,
And
bade in wealth the church increase
Where his sacred bones repose.
Where
the altar rears its front to God,
King Athelstan is laid;
And
their souls are join'd in that blest abode,
Where both are immortal made.
Lines
Written in November, at Bremhill, Wilts,
the Residence of the Rev. W. L. Bowles
Sweet
Bremhill! when last in thy gardens I stray'd,
Thy trees were all green and thy skies were
all bright;
The
spray of thy fountain 'midst roses that play'd,
Reflected their colours and glittered with
light.
Yet,
Bremhill, though lost is the pride of thy flowers;
Though thy roses are faded, thy leaves swept
away—
As
gaily and sweetly have lingered the hours
As when they were bright in the sunshine of
May.
Thy
mistress still smiles, and thy poet still sings—
Here the wise find their peer—here the poor
find their friend:
Then,
Bremhill, I mourn not that summer has wings,
Since thou hast a charm that no winter can
end!
Lines
I ask thee
not for looks that tell
Of fondest love; nor may I dare
On
those melodious notes to dwell,
And hope that tenderness is there.
I
see thee pensive—but I gaze
In vain, nor claim one tender sigh;
Nor
when the tear thine eye betrays,
Deem that it mourns my misery.
I
see thee gay—but never deem
The ceaseless charms that round thee play
To
me can be but as a dream,
That came in light and pass'd away:
Yet
let me one sole boon implore,
When happier others fondly sue,
Although
their vows may please thee more,
Believe—believe that mine are true!
Esquimaux Song
With
thee I chased the bounding deer,
As it fled along the snow;
Over
plains of ice, though dark and drear,
'Twas pleasant with thee to go.
With
thee, in our fleeting summer days
I've wandered for many an hour,
When
the wild bee in the sunny rays
Was glitt'ring on every flower.
How
often I've sail'd in thy light canoe
That every storm could brave;
And
thy spear has struck the finny foe,
The king of the icy wave.
What
arrow can match thy arrow's flight,
Or ever its course pursue?
What
eye like thine so soft and bright?
What bosom is half so true?
Esquimaux Incantation
By the bones
of the dead
That whirl in the blast,
When
the white bear has fled
From his fearful repast;
By
the spirits that hover
And shriek in the air,
When
the hunters discover
The wolf in his lair;
By
the wind of the north
That bears death on his breast—
We
charge thee—come forth
From thy cave of rest!
By
the regions of woe
Where the demons remain;
By
the soul of each foe
That our warriors have slain;
By
the mists that surround us
With darkness and pain;
By
the ice that has bound us
On mountain and plain;
By
the wind of the north
That bears death on his breast—
We
charge thee—come forth
From thy cave of rest!
Song
from
Florian
Pretty Jeanette, the time has been
When
thou of the dance wert the blithesome queen,
When
thy laugh the gayest of all we knew,
But
now thou art sad, and silent too!
"Ah!
then there was one in the dance with me,
And
none so merry—so kind as he:
But
in vain for him now may I wait every day,—
And
I care not for any, now he is away!"
Pretty
Jeanette, thou art fair and young,—
There
are gentle swains these shades among;
Let
the cloud pass over, and tears be o'er,—
Choose
one of our number, and sigh no more!
"Ah,
no! though the lord of these vales were one,
My
heart would still follow the youth that's gone:
Love
chooses but once, and I yield to his sway,—
And
I care not for any, now he is away!
Colabah (11)
The
Camel-Seeker
"Return!
return! where dost thou stray—
Where hide thee from my sight?
I
have wandered all the burning day,
And through the shades of night:—
Amidst
the Winding Sands I go,
And call to thee in vain;
And see before me, rising slow,
The 'vapour of the plain.'
As
I hopeless tread, with eager haste,
Along
the wild and scorching waste,
The purple haze comes on:
Around
upon the air it flings
Destruction
from its rainbow wings,
And warns me to be gone.
My
faithless favourite! ah why
Led'st
thou thy master here to die!
Among
my children was thy place,
Whose tears thy loss deplore:—
Though
thou hadst been of heavenly race,
We had not prized thee more;—
Though
thou wert stately, pure, and fair,
As
she who came at Saleh's prayer.
Methinks
I hear the warning cry
Of Duma in the air,
Who
calls upon me sullenly—
'Thy hour is nigh,—prepare!'"
Thus
Colabah, the Arab, strayed,
With toil and grief opprest,
Till,
'midst a cavern's awful shade
He cast him down to rest,
And
to the Desert Spirit prayed
That his visions might by blest:
He
lay in slumber heavy and deep,
And a dream came over his troubled sleep.
He
thought in the cavern's murky gloom
A single ray was shed,
Like
the light that glimmers in a tomb
Beside the unconscious dead:
And
by that dim, uncertain light
He traced a vaulted way,
That
frown'd in the dismal hues of night,
While all beyond was day;
And
there, 'midst skies of purest blue,
Were shadows and shapes of things—
But
he could not mark their form or hue,
For the flashing of golden wings;
And
voices sounded in melody,
But he knew not what they sung,
For
even the breeze of that lovely sky
With answering music rung.
He
started from that fairy dream,
And gazed through the gloom around;—
Behold!
'tis there, the lonely gleam,—
And, hark! 'tis the magic sound!
It
beckons to yonder land of light,
That spreads before his eager sight!
But
all the glories who may tell,
That
favour'd Arab that befell?
As
he roved through Iram's radiant bowers,
'Midst
glowing fruits and perfumed flowers;
By
a stream of liquid pearl, whose bed
Of
musk with emeralds was spread,
And
rubies, whose unclouded light
Made
the sparkling tide more bright;
By
whose banks, of varied hue,
Trees,
whose leaves were jewels, grew;
And
the bells of gold that amidst them hung
On
the wakening breeze soft music flung;
And
lovely forms were flitting by,
Like scattered pearls so fair,
But
the lustre of each large black eye
Met
his gaze unconsciously,
Nor
mark'd as Colabah drew nigh:
And all he look'd on there,
Though
bright, and glowing, and rich it gleam'd,
Was
but the shadow of what it seem'd.
To
him the stream was as the land—
The flowers, the fruit, shrunk from his hand,
Nor aught opposed his way;
But
while he lingered in rapt surprise,
The
hues grew pale to his dazzled eyes,
And all was silvery gray:
The
forms were dim—and, one by one,
They
faded, till each trace was gone;
And
where that lovely land had been,
The
waste of the Winding Sands was seen!
And
Colabah with joy descried
His
wandering camel by his side.
* * * * *
Oft,
since that time, at the pensive hour,
When slowly waned the day,
And
in worship of the Prince of Power
The prostrate shadows lay,
The
Arab told, in Shedad's bowers
The wonders that befell;—
How
soft the tints of Iram's flowers,—
How fair the maids who dwell
In
those eternal groves of light:
Pure as Zohara's eyes of night,
When
on the erring sons of Heaven
They shot a mournful ray,
That
told their crime was unforgiven—
Then fled from their gaze away:
Leaving
the earth, they dared prefer
A
ray of the Paradise lost for her!
Lines
Say
not my years too few have been
To learn the world's deceit,—
That
seldom, in life's varied scene,
May youth and sorrow meet:
Will
sorrow be content to sleep
Till time has roused its power?—
Is
there a date to learn to weep—
Comes it not every hour?
The
fatal word by fate impress'd
On childhood's tender page,
Chides
every joy of youth to rest,
And leaves a life of age.
And
though a momentary light
Might sparkle from my eye,
'Twas
but the meteor of a night—
No native of the sky!
[page 146]
NOTES
[Provided by Author]
"There are numerous wooded islands in the Uruguay river, consisting of willow, peach, and palm trees; they are the haunts of innumerable birds, remarkable for the splendour of their plumage and sweetness of their note. The yaguarete, or leopard of South America, abounds here; and men pass the summer on these islands hunting them for the sake of their skins. There are many rapids and eddies in some parts of this river, and the Indians use double canoes with oars, some seventy feet long.
"The ao is an amphibious animal, very ferocious and formidable.
"The cayman, an animal of which some tribes of Indians stand in strange fear, believing it can only be killed by the reflection of its basilisk eye.
"The bearded monkeys, a troop of which are called by the Portuguese a choir, from their singing in concert at sunrise and sunset.
"The ounce has a singular stratagem to lure his prey."—See Southey's Hist. Brazil.
"Mountains of sand and rock, elevated and hewn perpendicularly, present on the eastern shore of the Nile, the course of which they contract, an impregnable chain. They extend themselves to a distance, by immense and frequent intersection, into the desert, the horrors of which they augment.
"These barren and horrible mountains are the domain of a multitude
of birds, which have there fixed their habitations, where they never meet
with any disturbance, and from whence they spread themselves over the waters
and through the country to search for prey. The name of Dsjebel el Teir—Mountain
of the Birds, given to this chain, indicates its inhabitants."—Sonnini's Egypt.
"An inundation of the Nile gives a correct picture of a deluge. The cottages, being built of earth, could not stand one instant against the current. The rapid stream carried off all that was before it, men, women, children, cattle, corn, all was washed away in a moment, and left the place where the village stood without any thing to indicate that there had ever been a house on the spot. It is one vast ocean, out of which rise numerous islands and many magnificent ruins.
"On our way down, it was pleasing to see the difference of the country: all the lands that were under water before were now not only dried up, but already sown; the muddy villages carried off by the rapid current were all rebuilt; the fences
[page 149]
opened, the fellahs at work in the fields, and all wore a different aspect;
yet the waters had subsided only fifteen days."—Belzoni's Egypt.
For a description of a frightful valley, and traditions of evil spirits inhabiting temples of stone and decoying travellers, see Fraser's Tour through the Snowy Range of the Himmala.
The nautilus is frequently seen in large numbers on the sea near the coast of Egypt, when the weather is perfectly fair and serene; but their slender forms are unable to endure the motion of a moderate breeze, which often destroys or strands them on the beach.—For the Halcyon and Nautilus, see Greek Anthology.
"The first settler in Bahia was Diogo Alvarez, a native of Viana, young, and of noble family, who, with that spirit of enterprise then common among his countrymen, embarked to seek his fortune in strange countries. He was wrecked on the shoals on the north of the bay of Bahia (1510). Part of the crew were lost, others escaped this death to suffer one more dreadful—the natives seized and eat them. Diogo saw there was no other possible chance of saving his life than by making himself useful to these cannibals. He therefore exerted himself in recovering things from the wreck, and by these exertions succeeded in conciliating their favour. Among other things,
[page 150]
he was fortunate to get on shore some barrels of powder and a musket, which
he put in order at his first leisure, after his masters were returned to their
village; and one day, when the opportunity was favourable, brought down a
bird before them. The women and children shouted 'Caramaru!'—a man of fire!
and cried out that he would destroy them: but he told the men, whose astonishment
had less of fear mingled with it, that he would go with them to war and kill
their enemies. They marched against the Tapuyas: the fame of this dreadful
engine went before them, and the Tapuyas fled. From a slave he became a sovereign—the
chiefs of the savages thought themselves happy if he would accept their daughters
as his wives. He fixed his abode on the spot where Villa Velha was afterwards
erected. At length, a French vessel came within the bay, and Diogo resolved
to revisit his native country. He embarked with his favourite wife: the others
could not bear this abandonment. Some of them swam after the ship, in hopes
of being taken on board; and one followed so far, that before she could reach
the shore again her strength failed her, and she sank.
"They were received with signal houours at the court of France, and returned again to Brazil."—Southey's Hist. of Brazil.
"The natives call the mermen, or sea-apes, which are
to be found here, Upupiara, and represent them as mischievous animals, which
go up the river in summer."—Ibid.
See the beautiful description of the leafless parasite plants in Southey's History of Brazil; also of a little white bird called the ringer, because its note resembles the sound of a bell; and the tree called Escapu, from which there falls a copious dew like a shower. See also the Willow Isles.
[page 151]
"The Indian Cupid is represented riding by moonlight on a parrot, or lory, and attended by dancing-girls or nymphs, the foremost of whom bears his colours, which are, a fish on a red ground. His favourite place of resort is round Agra, and principally the plains of Matra. His bow is of sugar-cane or flowers, with a string of bees, and his five arrows each pointed with an Indian blossom of a heating quality. His name is Camdeo,—but he has at least twenty-three names."—Sir Wm. Jones.
The approach of a tornado is announced by the violent rustling of the
upper branches of the trees.
For description of the large black ants that infest the forests, &c.,
and of the immense growth of the cotton-tree, see Hutton's
Ashantee, and Bosman.
"The ingrena, or ourang-outan, is said to be larger than a man.
They tear off branches of the trees, and beat men to death in the woods."—Ibid.
"The ganian trees are similar to the banian of India.
"The crown-bird is about the size of a pigeon, with beautiful green plumage. They cry every hour, like a cuckoo."—Ibid.
"In the reign of John II of Portugal (1484), Bartholomew Diaz, an officer, whose sagacity, experience, and fortitude admirably qualified him for the undertaking, stretched boldly to the south, and after encountering a succession of tempests in unknown seas, beheld his labours and perseverance crowned by the lofty promontory which bounds Africa on that side. To behold it, was all that the violence of the winds, the shattered condition of his ships, and the turbulent spirit of his crew allowed him. The appellation of Cabo Tormentoso, or Stormy Cape, was expressive of the boisterous elements which forbade his nearer approach; but on his return the name was changed, by the discernment of his sovereign, to that of Cape of Good Hope—the auspicious omen of future success."—Campbell's Travels in Africa.
page
90.
Saranna is the bread-fruit of the Japanese.
Baidare—the Japanese boat.
They ornament their parkis
and all their dresses with the feathers of the sea-parrot, storm-finch, and
mauridor.
Purple jessamine, Bignoria grandiflora, is a climbing plant, native
of Japan—flowers purple.
Japan produces red pearls, which are no less esteemed than white.
"Friday, August 3rd, 1492, Columbus set sail from Palos. They had hard winds at first, which they considered ominous.—11th. They had sight of the Canaries.—September 7. They lost sight of land with sighs and tears; many fearing never to see it again.—14th. Columbus observed the variation of the compass, which no man, till then, had considered; and which every day more evident.—16th. They saw pieces of grass or herbs on the water, of a pale green colour; and on one of them a grasshopper alive; and these signs of land approaching made some believe they had seen it. Suddenly, Columbus called out, 'Land! land!' but it proved but clouds. Murmurs were now very great against that 'bold Italian,' his prayers, and promises; and the crew determined to wait but three days before they will return. The first of these days he perceived, by the sunset, that land was near, and commanded that they should abate their sails in the night: in which night he spied light. Two hours after midnight, Roderigo de Triana descried land on the 11th of October, 1492, which, when it was day, they saw to be an island of fifteen leagues compass, plain and woody, with a great pool of fresh water; the naked people wondering on the shore, thinking their ships were living creatures. They went on land, and termed it Saint Salvador, by the inhabitants called Guanahani, one of the isles of the Lucayos, nine hundred and fifty leagues from the Canaries."—Purchas his Pilgrimes.
For an affecting account of an aged chief, whose life was forfeit to
the gods, see Bowdich.
"An island, called Bird Island, abounds in singing birds; among
the rest, a nightingale, whose note is peculiarly sweet.
"Their Fetishes, or subordinate deities, are supposed to inhabit
peculiar rivers, woods, and mountains. The favourite of Ashantyee is that
of the river Tando.
"The higher orders are supposed to live with the deity after death, and enjoy all they did on earth; for which reason they sacrifice so many persons at their funerals, that they may form their attendants in the next world. Those whose wickedness has deprived them of the general custom of sacrificing, or whom neglect or circumstances may have deprived of it, are supposed to haunt the gloom of the forest—stealing occasionally to their former abodes in rare, but lingering visits." See Bowdich and Hutton's Ashantee.
"The monastery of St. Aldhelm of Malmesbury was first founded by Meyldulph, a Scot, a man of great piety, in 630. It is said to have covered, with the buildings belonging to it, the space of forty-five acres.
"The abbey church was equal to most churches in England.
"Such was Athelstan's veneration for Aldhelm (who was a founder of the abbey with Meyldulph), that he chose him for his tutelar saint. His cousins, Elwin and Ethelwin, slain in
[page 155]
the famous battle of Brunanburgh, were by Athelstan's orders buried in the
abbey church, near the sepulchre of St. Aldhelm.
"Athelstan himself dying at Gloucester, his body was brought to
Malmesbury with great pomp, and interred under the high altar."
A miracle of St. Aldhelm is thus recorded:—"And on a daye as he
sayd masse in the chyrch of St. Johan Latrans; and whan the masse was don
there was no man that wolde take his chesyble (cassock) from him at the end
of the masse; and thenne he saw the sonne-beame shyne thorough the glasse
wyndowe, and henge his chesyble thereon; whereof all the people marvelled
greatly at that myracle. And the same chesyble is yet at Malmesburye; the
colour thereof is purple."—Golden Legend.
"St. Aldhelm, a near relation of Ina, king of the West Saxons,
was an excellent performer on the harp, a most excellent Latin and Saxon poet,
a very skillful singer, a doctor of singular merit, an eloquent speaker, and
wonderful master of sacred and profane learning."—Copied
by Leland from an ancient chronicle.
"Aldhelm used to assume the manners of a Troubadour. He placed
himself on one of the bridges which led from the town to some of the neighbouring
villages; and when he had collected a crowd by singing some amusing songs,
he after a time induced them to listen to such discourses as were calculated
to ameliorate their manners."—Andrews's
History of Great Britain.
"The Arabian tribe of Ad were descended from Ad, the son of Aws, son of Arem, son of Sem, son of Noah, who, after the
[page
156]
confusions of tongues settled in Al Ahkaf, or the Winding Sands, in the province
of Hadramant, where his posterity greatly multiplied. Their first king was
Shedad, the son of Ad, of whom Eastern writers deliver many strange things;
particularly that he finished the magnificent cities his father had begun,
wherein he built a fine palace adorned with delicious gardens, to embellish
which he spared neither cost nor labour, proposing thereby to create in his
subjects a superstitious veneration of himself as a god. This garden or paradise
was called the garden of Iram, and is mentioned in the Koran, and often alluded
to by Oriental writers. They tell us it is still to be found in the deserts
of Aden, being preserved by Providence as a monument of divine justice, though
it be invisible unless very rarely, when God permits it to be seen: a favour
one Colabah pretended to have received, in the reign of Khalif Moahuryah,
who sending for him to know the truth of the matter, Colabah related, that
he was seeking a lost camel he found himself on a sudden at the gates of this
city, and entering, saw not one inhabitant; at which, being terrified, he
stayed no longer than to take with him some fine stones, which he showed the
Khalif. Shedad and his attendants, going to take a view of his garden, were
destroyed by a visitation from heaven."—Sale's Preliminary Discourse.
It will be perceived that Colabah's adventure, which reminds one of Sancho's apocryphal visit to the stars, has been a little altered in some of its particulars.
"That 'vapour in a plain,' which so often deceives the thirsty traveller, is called in Arabic Serab: it is seen in sandy plains about noon, resembles a large lake of water in motion, and is occasioned by the reverberation of the sun's beams."—Notes to Koran.
[page
157]
"I saw from the S.E. a haze come on, in colour like the purple
part of the rainbow; but not so compressed of thick: it did not occupy twenty
yards in breadth, and was about twelve feet high from the ground. It was a
kind of blush upon the air, and it moved very rapidly."—Bruce's mention of the Simoom.
"Ali said, the pious, when they come from their sepulchres, shall
find ready prepared white-winged camels with saddles of gold."—Notes to Koran.
For the miracle of the she-camel which the prayers of Saleh produced
from a rock, see Ibid.
The angel of death is called Duma, and is said to call dying persons
by their respective names at their last hour.
"The Arabs, when they found themselves in a desert in the evening
(the genii being supposed to haunt such places about this time), used to say,
'I fly for protection unto the lord of this valley, that he may defend me
from the fury of his people.'"—Ibid.
See the splendid descriptions in the Koran of several of the hundred gardens of paradise—the streams, whose beds are musk, earth
camphire, pebbles emerald and rubies, sides saffron—the trees with golden
bells of "ravishing harmony" set in motion by the wind—the Hur-al-oyun,
so called from their large black eyes,
who may be mistaken for scattered pearls—with
all the delights that Mohammed declared would require the ability of a hundred
men to enjoy!
"Whatever is in heaven or on earth worshippeth God voluntarily
or of force, and their shadows also, morning and evening."—Koran.
Note.—"The infidels and devils themselves being constrained to humble themselves before him, though against their will,
[page
158]
when they are delivered up to punishment. The mention of the shadows alludes to the increasing and diminishing
of the shadows according to the height of the sun; so that when they are longest,
which is morning and evening, they
appear prostrate on the ground in the posture of adoration."—Sale.
A similar idea occurs in Milton:—
"And wave your tops ye pines, and every plant
In sign of worship wave."
See the fable in notes to Koran, of the angels Harut and Marut, betrayed by the beauty of Zohara (the planet Venus), sent to prove their virtue.
THE END.