And mighty and magnificent, for he
Had seen the bright sun worshipp'd like a god Upon that land where first Columbus trod; And travelled by the deep Saint Lawrence' tide, And by Niagara's cataracts of foam, And seen the wild deer roam
Amongst interminable forests, where The serpent and the savage have their lair Together. Nature there in wildest guise Stands undebased and nearer to the skies; And 'midst her giant trees and water wide The bones of things forgotten, buried deep, Give glimpses of an elder world, espied By us but in that fine and dreamy sleep, When Fancy, ever the mother of deep truth,
When all the woods, and all the winds were still, Breathes her dim oracles on the soul of youth.
Kiss'd with the kiss of immortality.
And in his eye where love and pride contended, His dark, deep-seated eye, there was a spell Which they who love and have been loved can tell.
Her sleep that night was fearful,-O, that night! If it indeed was sleep: for in her sight A form (a dim and waving shadow) stood, And pointed far up the great Etna's side, Where, from a black ravine, a dreary wood Peeps out and frowns upon the storms below, And bounds and braves the wilderness of snow. It gazed awhile upon the lonely bride With melancholy air and glassy eye, And spoke-Awake, and search yon dell, for I,
And she—but what of her, his chosen bride, His own, on whom he gazed in secret pride, And loved almost too much for happiness? Enough to say that she was born to bless, She was surpassing fair: her gentle voice Came like the fabled music that beguiles The sailor on the waters, and her smiles Shone like the light of heaven, and said "Re- Though risen above my old mortality,
That morn they sat upon the sea-beach green; For in that land the sward springs fresh and free Close to the ocean, and no tides are seen To break the glassy quiet of the sea: And Guido, with his arm 'round Isabel, Unclasp'd the tresses of her chesnut hair, Which in her white and heaving bosom fell Like things enamour'd, and then with jealous air Bade the soft amorous winds not wanton there: And then his dark eye sparkled, and he wound The fillets like a coronet around
Her brow, and bade her rise, and rise a queen. And oh! 'twas sweet to see her delicate hand
Have left my mangled and unburied limbs A prey for wolves hard by the waters there, And one lock of my black and curled hair, That one I vowed to thee, my beauty, swims Like a mere weed upon the mountain river; And those dark eyes you used to love so well (They loved you dearly, my own Isabel) Are shut, and now have lost their light for ever. Go then into yon far ravine, and save Your husband's heart for some more quiet grave Than what the stream and withering winds may
And 'neath the basil-tree we planted, give The fond heart burial, so that tree shall live And shed a solace on thy after days; And thou-but oh! I ask thee not to tend
Press'd 'gainst his parted lips, as though to check The plant on which thy Guido loved to gaze,
In mimic anger all those whispers bland He knew so well to use, and on his neck Her round arm hung, while half as in command And half entreaty did her swimming eye Speak of forbearance, till from her pouting lip He snatch'd the honey-dews that lovers sip, And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully She frown'd, and wore that self-betraying air Which women loved and flatter'd love to wear.
Oft would he, as on that same spot they lay Beneath the last light of a summer's day, Tell (and would watch the while her steadfast eye)
How on the lone Pacific he had been, When the Sea Lion on his watery way Went rolling through the billows green, And shook that ocean's dead tranquillity: And he would tell her of past times, and where He rambled in his boyhood far away,
And spoke of other worlds and wonders fair
For with a spirit's power I see thy heart." He said no more, but with the dawning day Shrunk, as the shadows of the clouds depart Before the conquering sunbeams, silently. Then sprung she from the pillow where she lay,
To the wild sense of doubtful misery: And when she woke she did obey the dream, And journey'd onward to the mountain stream, Tow'rd which the phantom pointed, and she
The thorns aside which there luxuriant grew, The waters wash'd, it said, its floating hair. And with a beating heart descended, where
It was a spot like those romancers paint, Or painted when of dusky knights they told
I have ventured to substitute heart for the head of the lover. The latter appeared to ine to be a ghastly object to preserve.
Wandering about in forests old,
When the last purple colour was waxing faint And day was dying in the west :-the trees (Dark pine and chesnut, and the dwarfed oak And cedar) shook their branches till the shade Look'd like a living spirit, and as it played Seem'd holding dim communion with the breeze. Below, a tumbling river roll'd along
(Its course by lava rocks and branches broke) Singing for aye its fierce and noisy song; And there on shatter'd trunks the lichens grew And covered, with their golden garments, Death:
And when the tempest of November blew The Winter trumpet, till its failing breath Went moaning into silence, every green And loose leaf of the piny boughs did tell Some trembling story of that mountain dell. XII.
That spirit is never idle that doth 'waken* The soul to sights and contemplations deep, Even when from out the desert's seeming sleep A sob is heaved that but the leaves are shaken; But when across its frozen wastes there comes A rushing wind, that chills the heart and bears Tidings of ruin from those icy domes, The cast and fashion of a thousand years, It is not for low meanings that the soul Of Nature, starting from her idlesse long, Doth walk abroad with Death, and sweep among The valleys where the avalanches roll.
That smiled as it was wont; and he was found His young limbs mangled on the rocky ground, And, 'midst the weltering weeds and shallows cold,
His black hair floated as the phantom told, And like the very dream his glassy cyc Spoke of gone mortality.
She stared and laugh'd aloud like one whose brain
Is shock'd o' the sudden : then she looked again : And then she wept. At last-but wherefore ask How-tremblingly, she did her bloody task? She took the heart and washed it in the wave, And bore it home and placed it 'midst wild flowers,
Such as he loved to scent in happier hours, And 'neath the basil-tree she scoop'd a grave, And therein placed the heart, to common earth Doom'd, like a thing that owned not human birth.
And the tree grew and grew, and brighter green Shot from its boughs than she before had seen, And softly with its leaves the west winds played: And she did water it with her tears, and talk As to a living spirit, and in the shade Would place it gently when the sun did walk High in his hot meridian, and she prest The boughs (which fell like balm) upon her breast.
'Tis not to speak of "Doubt" that her great She never pluck'd a leaf nor let a weed
And catching at the brambles, as her feet Sunk in the crumbling earth, the poor girl trod; And there she saw-Oh! till that moment none Could tell (not she) how much of hope the sun And cheerful morning, with its noises, brought, And how she from each glance a courage caught; For light and life had scattered half her fright, And she could almost smile on the past night; So, with a buoyant feeling, mixed with fear Lest she might scorn heav'n's missioned minister, She took her weary way and searched the dell, And there she saw him-dead. Poor desolate
Of sixteen summers, had the waters wild No pity on the boy you loved so well! There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay, His pale face upwards to the careless day,
Within a shadow of its branches feed, But nursed it as a mother guards her child, And kept it shelter'd from the "winter wild:" And so it grow beyond its fellows, and Tow'red in unnatural beauty, waving there And whispering to the moon and midnight air, And stood a thing unequalled in the land.
But never more along her favourite vale, Or by the village paths or hurrying river, Or on the beach, when clouds are seen to sail Across the setting sun, while waters quiver And breezes rise to bid the day farewell- No more in any bower she once loved well, Whose sound or silence to the ear could tell Aught of the passionate past, the pale girl trod : Yet Love himself, like an invisible god, Haunted each spot, and with his own rich breath Fill'd the wide air with music sweet and soft, Such as might calm or conquer Death (if Death Could e'er be conquered,) and from aloft Sad airs, like those she heard in infancy, Fell on her soul and filled her eyes with tears; And recollections came of happier years Thronging from all the cells of memory. All her heart's follies she remember'd then, How coy and rash-how scornful she had been, And then how tender, and how coy again, And ever shifting of the burning scene That sorrow stamps upon the helpless brain.
This paragraph is obscure; it was written to repel an assertion (made in a poem to which I cannot recur) that the fall of an avalanche spoke "Doubt and Death." The reader can, if he pleases, pass it over altogether. By her who knew alone her brother's guilt,)
Leoni-(for this tale had ne'er been told
Leoni, timorous lest the blood he spilt Should rise in vengeance from its secret hold, And come abroad and claim a sepulchre ;
Or, haplier, fancying that the lie he swore
That Guido sailed and would return no more" Was disbelieved and not forgot by her; Or that she had discover'd where he lay Before his limbs had wither'd quite away, Or-but whate'er it was that moved him then, He dug and found the heart, unperish'd; For she, to keep it unlike the common dead, Had wound it round with many a waxen line, And bathed it with a curious medicine: He found it where, like a dark spell, it lay, And cursed and cast it to the waves away.
That day the green tree wither'd, and she knew The solace of her mind was stol'n and gone: And then she felt that she was quite alone
In the wide world; so to the distant woods And caverned haunts, and where the mountain floods
Thunder into the silent air, she flew. She flew away, and left the world behind, And all that man doth worship, in her flight; All that around the beating heart is twined; Yet, as she looked farewell to human kind, One quivering drop arose and dimm'd her sight, The last that frenzy gave to poor distress. And then into the dreary wilderness She went alone, a crazed, heart-broken thing: And in the solitude she found a cave Half hidden by the wild-brier blossoming, Whereby a black and solitary pine, Struck by the fiery thunder, stood, and gave Of pow'r and death a token and a sign:
And there she lived for months: She did not heed
The seasons or their change, and she would feed On roots and berries, as the creatures fed Which had in woods been born and nourished.
Once, and once only was she seen, and then The chamois hunter started from his chase, And stopped to look a moment on her face, And could not turn him to his sports again. Thin Famine sate upon her hollow cheek, And settled Madness in her glazed eye Told of a young heart wrong'd and nigh to break, And, as the spent winds waver ere they die, She to herself a few wild words did speak, And sung a strange and broken melody; And ever as she sung she strew'd the ground With yellow leaves that perish'd ere their time, And well their fluttering fall did seem to chime With the low music of her song:-the sound Came like a dirge filling the air around, And this (or like) the melancholy rhyme.
There is a spirit stands by me:
It comes by night, it comes by day,
And when the glittering lightnings play, . Its look is pale and sad to see. Tis he to whom my brother gave
A red unconsecrated grave.
I hear him when the breezes moan, And, when the rattling thunders talk, I hear him muttering by me walk, And tell me I am "quite alone." It is the dæmon of the dead, For all that's good hath upwards fled
It is a dæmon which the wave Hath cast abroad to scare my soul; Yet wherefore did the waters roll So idly o'er his hasty grave? Was the sad prayer I uttered then Unheard, or is it due again?
Is't not enough that I am here, Brainstruck and cold and famished, A mean remove above the dead,But must my soul be wild with fear As sorrow, now that hope is gone, And I am lost and left alone?
They told me, when my days were young, That I was fair and born to reign, That hands and hearts were my domain, And witchery dwelt upon my tongue: And now-but what is this to me, Struck on the rock of memory?
And yet at times I dream-ay yet, Of vanish'd scenes and golden hours, And music heard in orange bowers (For madness cannot quite forget,) And love, breathed once to me alone, In sighs, and many a melting tone.
Then curious thoughts, and floating things Saved from the deluge of the brain,
Pass with perplexity and pain; Then darkness, deaths, and murderings,- And then unto my den I hie, And vainly, vainly pray to die.
At last she wandered home. She came by night The pale moon shot a sad and troubled light Amidst the mighty clouds that moved along. The moaning winds of Autumn sang their song, And shook the red leaves from the forest trees; And subterranean voices spoke. The seas Did rise and fall, and then that fearful swell Came silently which seamen know so well; And all was like an Omen. Isabel Passed to the room where, in old times, she lay, And there they found her at the break of day; Her look was smiling, but she never spoke Or motioned, even to say-her heart was broke: Yet, in the quiet of her shining eye
Lay death, and something we are wont to deem (When we discourse of some such mournful
Beyond the look of mere mortality.
Particularly for a young bard like me,
She died yet scarcely can we call it Death When Heaven so softly draws the parting breath; She was translated to a finer sphere,
For what could match or make her happy here? She died, and with her gentle death there came Sorrow and ruin, and Leoni fell
A victim to that unconsuming flame, That burns and revels on the heart of man; Remorse. This is the tale of Isabel, And of her love the young Italian.
THE Octave rhyme (Ital. ottava rima)
Is a delightful measure, made of ease Turn'd up with epigram, and, though it seem a
Not to stick quite so closely to the letter; One's verse as well as fancy should be free,
The last indeed hates every sort of fetter: So, as each man may call what maid he chooses By way of Muse, I'll e'en call all the Muses.
Hearken! ye gentle sisters (eight or nine,) Who haunted in old time Parnassus' hill, If that so worshipp'd mount be yet divine, And ye there meet your mighty master still, And still for poet heads the laurel twine,
And dip your pitchers in the famous rill, I'll trouble ye for a leaf or two; though first I 'll just try the jug, for 'faith, I'm somewhat thirsty.
And now, great lyrist, fain would I behold Thee in thy glory-Lord and Life of day! Sun-bright Apollo! with thy locks of gold, As thou art wont to tread heav'n's starry way, Not marbled and reduced to human mould, As thou didst stand, one of a rich array (Yet even there distinct and first of all,)
Verse that a man may scribble when he please, In the vast palace of the conquer'd Gaul.
Is somewhat difficult: indeed, I deem a
Stanza like Spenser's will be found to teaze Less, or heroic couplet; there, the pen May touch and polish, and touch up again.
But, for the octave measure-it should slip Like running water o'er its pebbled bed, Making sweet music (here I own I dip
In Shakspeare for a simile,) and be fed Freely, and then the poet must not nip The line, nor square the sentence, nor be led By old, approved, poetic canons; no, But give his words the slip, and let 'em go.
I mean to give in this same pleasant rhyme Some short account of Don Diego de Montilla, quite a hero in his time,
Who conquer'd captain Cupid, as you'll see : My tale is sad in part, in part sublime,
With here and there a smack of pleasantry: As to the moral,-why-'tis under cover, I leave it for the reader to discover.
"Arms and"-but I forget. Love and the man I sing, that's Virgil's method of beginning, Alter'd a little just to suit my plan.
I own the thing, and so there's not much sin ning:
Most writers steal a good thing when they can, And when 'tis safely got 'tis worth the winning. The worst of 'tis we now and then detect 'em, Before they ever dream that we suspect 'em.
Love and the man I sing-and yet 'twould be As well methinks, nay perhaps it may be better,
But, if thy radiant forehead be too bright For me to look upon with earthly eye, Ah! send some little nymph of air or light, Whom love has touch'd and taken to the sky, And bid her, till the inspiration quite
O'erwhelms, show'r kisses on my lip, and sigh Such songs (and I will list to her for hours) As once were sung in amaranthine bowers.
And I will lie pillow'd upon her breast,
And drink the music of her words, and dream (When sleep shall bring at last a pleasant rest) Haply of many a high immortal theme; And, in the lightning of her beauty blest,
My soul may catch perhaps one thrilling beam From her dark eyes-but, ah! your glorious day, Ye nymphs and deities, now hath passed away.
Oh! ye delicious fables, where the wave
And woods were peopled and the air with things
So lovely-why, ah! why has science grave, Scatter'd afar your sweet imaginings? Why sear'd the delicate flow'rs that genius gave, And dash'd the diamond drops from fancy's wings?
Alas! the spirit languishes, and lies At mercy of life's dull realities.
No more by well or bubbling fountain clear The Naiad dries her tresses in the sun, Nor longer may we in the branches hear
The Dryad talk, nor see the Oread run Along the mountains, nor the Nereid steer
Her way amongst the waves when day is done
Shadow nor shape remains-But I am prating While th' reader and Diego, both, are waiting.
Diego was a knight, but more enlighten'd Than knights were then, or are, in his countree, Young--brave-(at least, he'd never yet been frighten'd,)
Well-bred, and gentle, as a knight should be: He play'd on the guitar, could read and write, and Had seen some parts of Spain, and (once) the
That sort of man one hopes to meet again, And the most amorous gentleman in Spain.
There was a languor in his Spanish eye
Beneath the power of that passion he
Shrank like a leaf of summer, which the sun Has scorch'd ere yet in green maturityHe was a desperate gamester who ne'er won A single stake, but saw the chances flee,
And still kept throwing on till-all was done. A rose on which the worm had rioted
[All this was what his friends and others said.} XIX.
And yet, but one short year ago, his cheek
Dimpled and shone, and o'er it health had flung A colour, like the Autumn evening's streak, Which flushing through the darker olive, clung Like a rich blush upon him. In a freak
Men will, I'm told, or when their pride is stung
That almost touched on softness; had he been Call up that deepening crimson in girls' features:
Instead of man a woman, by the bye,
His languish had done honour to a queen!
For there was in it that regality
Of look, which says the owner must have been Something in former days, whatever now: And his hair curl'd (or was curl'd) o'er his brow.
The Don Diego (mind this, Don Diego: Pronounce it rightly,) fell in love. He saw The daughter of a widow from Tobago,
Whose husband fell with honour: i. e. War Ate up the lord of this same old virago, Who straight return'd to Spain, and went to law
With the next heir, but wisely first bespoke The smartest counsel, for that's half the joke.
The lady won her cause; then suitors came To woo her and her daughters: she had two: Aurelia was the elder, and her naine,
Grace, wit, and so forth, through the country flew
Quicker than scandal: young Aurora's fame
She had no fame, poor girl, and yet she grew And brighten'd into beauty, as a flower Shakes off the rain that dims its earlier hour.
Aurelia had some wit, and, as I've said, Grace, and Diego loved her like his life; Offer'd to give her half his board and bed,
In short he woo'd the damsel for a wife. But she turned to the right about her head,
And gave some tokens of (not love but) strife; And bade him wait, be silent, and forget
Some people swear it makes 'em different cres.
For me, I always have an awkward feeling
When that vermilion tide comes flooding o'er The brows and breast, instead of gently stealing On, and then fading till 'tis seen no more; The first proceeds too from unhandsome dealing, And sudden leaves a paleness, if no more, Perhaps a frown. The last is born of pleasure, Or springs from praise, and comes and goes at leisure.
His mistress-Shall I paint Aurelia's frown? Her proud and regal look, her quick black eye, Through whose dark fringes such a beam shot
On men (yet touch'd at times with witchery) As when Jove's planet, distant and alone,
Flashes from out the sultry summer sky And bids each lesser star give up its place. -This was exactly Miss Aurelia's case.
Her younger sister,-she was meek and pale, And scarcely noticed when Aurelia near; None e'en had thought it worth their while to rai! On her, and in her young unpractised ear Those soft bewitching tones that seldom fail
To win had ne'er been utter'd. She did steer Her gentle course along life's dangerous sea For sixteen pleasant summers quietly.
Her shape was delicate: her motion free As his, that " charter'd libertine" the air,
Such nonsense: He heard this, and-loved her Or Dian's, when upon the mountains she
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