I.

"T WAS Autumn; through Provence had ceased The vintage, and the vintage-feast. The sun had set behind the hill,

'The moon was up, and all was still,

And from the convent's neighboring tower
The clock had toll'd the midnight-hour,
When Jacqueline came forth alone,
Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown;
A guilty thing and full of fears,
Yet ah, how lovely in her tears!
She starts, and what has caught her eye?
What-but her shadow gliding by?
She stops, she pants; with lips apart
She listens to her beating heart!
Then, through the scanty orchard stealing,
The clustering boughs her track concealing,
She flies, nor casts a thought behind,
But gives her terrors to the wind;

Flies from her home, the humble sphere
Of all her joys and sorrows here,
Her father's house of mountain-stone,
And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown.
At such an hour in such a night,
So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright,
Who would have seen, and not confess'd
It looked as all within were blest?
What will not woman, when she loves?
Yet lost, alas, who can restore her?--
She lifts the latch, the wicket moves;
And now the world is all before her.

Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone ;
And Jacqueline, his child, was gone!
Oh what the madd'ning thought that came?
Dishonor coupled with his name!
By Condé at Rocroy he stood;

By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood;
Two banners of Castile he gave
Aloft in Notre Dame to wave;
Nor did thy Cross, St. Louis, rest
Upon a purer, nobler breast.

He slung his old sword by his side,

And snatch'd his staff and rush'd to save;
Then sunk-and on his threshold cried,
"Oh lay me in my grave!

-Constance! Claudine! where were ye then?
But stand not there. Away! away!
Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay.
Though old, and now forgot of men,
Both must not leave him in a day."

Then, and he shook his hoary head,

And, as she pass'd her father's door,
She stood as she would stir no more.
But she is gone, and gone for ever!
No, never shall they clasp her-never!
They sit and listen to their fears;
And he, who through the breach had led
Over the dying and the dead,
Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears!

Oh! she was good as she was fair;
None-none on earth above her!
As pure in thought as angels are,
To know her was to love her.
When little, and her eyes, her voice,
Her every gesture said " rejoice,"
Her coming was a gladness;
And, as she grew, her modest
grace,
Her down-cast look 't was heaven to trace,
When, shading with her hand her face
She half inclined to sadness.

Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted
Like music to the heart it went.
And her dark eyes-how eloquent!
Ask what they would, 't was granted.
Her father loved her as his fame;
-And Bayard's self had done the same'

Soon as the sun the glittering pane
On the red floor in diamonds threw,
His songs she sung and sung again,
Till the last light withdrew.
Every day, and all day long,
He mused or slumber'd to a song,
But she is dead to him, to all!
Her lute hangs silent on the wall;
And on the stairs, and at the door
Her fairy-step is heard no more!
At every meal an empty chair
Tells him that she is not there;

She, who would lead him where he went,
Charm with her converse while he leant;
Or, hovering, every wish prevent;

At eve light up the chimney-nook,
Lay there his glass within his book;
And that small chest of curious mould,
(Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,)
Tusk of elephant and gold;

Which, when a tale is long, dispenses
Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses.

In her who mourn'd not, when they miss'd her
The old a child, the young a sister?
No more the orphan runs to take
From her loved hand the barley-cake.
No more the matron in the school
Expects her in the hour of rule,
To sit amid the elfin brood,
Praising the busy and the good.
The widow trims her hearth in vain,
She comes not-nor will come again!
Not now, his little lesson done,

With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun;

Nor spinning by the fountain-side,
(Some story of the days of old,

Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told
To him who would not be denied ;)
Not now, to while an hour away,
Gone to the falls in Valombrè,
Where 't is night at noon of day;

Nor vandering up and down the wood,
To all but her a solitude,

Where once a wild deer, wild no more,
Her chaplet on his antlers wore,
And at her bidding stood.

II.

The day was in the golden west;

And, curtain'd close by leaf and flower, The doves had cooed themselves to rest In Jacqueline's deserted bower;

The doves that still would at her casement peck,
And in her walks had ever flutter'd round
With purple feet and shining neck,
True as the echo to the sound.

That casement, underneath the trees,
Half open to the western breeze,
Look'd down, enchanting Garonnelle,
Thy wild and mulberry-shaded dell,
Round which the Alps of Piedmont rose,
The blush of sunset on their snows:
While, blithe as lark on summer-morn,
When green and yellow waves the corn,
When harebells blow in every grove,
And thrushes sing "I love! I love!"
Within (so soon the early rain
Scatters, and 't is fair again;
Though many a drop may yet be seen
To tell us where a cloud has been)
Within lay Frederic, o'er and o'er
Building castles on the floor,
And feigning, as they grew in size,
New troubles and new dangers;

With dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes,
As he and Fear were strangers.

St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled.
His eyes were on his loved Montaigne ;
But every leaf was turn'd in vain.
Then in that hour remorse he felt,

And his heart told him he had dealt
Unkindly with his child.

A father may awhile refuse;
But who can for another choose?

When her young blushes had reveal'd
The secret from herself conceal'd,
Why promise what her tears denied,
That she should be De Courcy's bride?
-Wouldst thou, presumptuous as thou art,
O'er Nature play the tyrant's part,
And with the hand compel the heart?
Oh rather, rather hope to bind

The ocean-wave, the mountain-wind;

Or fix thy foot upon the ground

To stop the planet rolling round.

The light was on his face; and there

You might have seen the passions driven-
Resentment, Pity, Hope, Despair-
Like clouds across the face of Heaven.

1 Cantando "Io amo! Io amo!"-Tasso.

Now he sigh'd heavily; and now,
His hand withdrawing from his brow,
He shut the volume with a frown,
To walk his troubled spirit down:
-When (faithful as that dog of yore1
Who wagg'd his tail and could no more)
Manchon, who long had snuff'd the ground,
And sought and sought, but never found,
Leapt up and to the casement flew,

And look'd and bark'd and vanish'd through.

'Tis Jacqueline! "Tis Jacqueline!"

Her little brother laughing cried.

"I know her by her kirtle green,

She comes along the mountain-side;

Now turning by the traveller's seat,-
Now resting in the hermit's cave,-

Now kneeling, where the pathways meet,
To the cross on the stranger's grave.
And, by the soldier's cloak, I know
(There, there along the ridge they go)
D'Arcy, so gentle and so brave!
Look up-why will you not?" he cries
His rosy hands before his eyes;
For on that incense-breathing eve
The sun shone out, as loth to leave.
"See to the rugged rock she clings!
She calls, she faints, and D'Arcy springs
D'Arcy so dear to us, to all;

Who, for you told me on your knee,
When in the fight he saw you fall,
Saved you for Jacqueline and me!"

And true it was! And true the tale!
When did she sue and not prevail?
Five years before-it was the night
That on the village-green they parted,
The lilied banners streaming bright
O'er maids and mothers broken-hearted;
The drum-it drown'd the last adieu,
When D'Arcy from the crowd she drew.
"One charge I have, and one alone,
Nor that refuse to take,.

My father-if not for his own,
Oh for his daughter's sake!"

Inly he vow'd-"'t was all he could!"
And went and seal'd it with his blood.
Nor can ye wonder. When a child,
And in her playfulness she smiled,
Up many a ladder-path he guided
Where meteor-like the chamois glided,
Through many a misty grove.

They loved-but under Friendship's name
And Reason, Virtue fann'd the flame;
Till in their houses Discord came,
And 't was a crime to love.
Then what was Jacqueline to do?
Her father's angry hours she knew,
And when to soothe, and when persuade,
But now her path De Courcy cross'd,
Led by his falcon through the glade-
He turn'd, beheld, admired the maid;
And all her little arts were lost!
De Courcy, lord of Argentiere!
Thy poverty, thy pride, St. Pierre,
Thy thirst for vengeance sought the snare.

1 Argus.

2 Called in the language of the country pas de l'Echelle.

The day was named, the guests invited;
The bridegroom, at the gate, alighted;
When up the windings of the dell
A pastoral pipe was heard to swell,
And lo, an humble Piedmontese,
Whose music might a lady please,
This message through the lattice bore,
(She listen'd, and her trembling frame
Told her at once from whom it came)
"Oh let us fly-to part no more!"

III.

That morn ('t was in Ste Julienne's cell,
As at Ste Julienne's sacred well
Their dream of love began),

That morn, ere many a star was set,
Their hands had on the altar met
Before the holy man.

-And now the village gleams at last;
The woods, the golden meadows pass'd,
Where, when Toulouse, thy splendor shone
The Troubadour would journey on
Transported-or, from grove to grove,
Framing some roundelay of love,
Wander till the day was gone.
"All will be well, my Jacqueline!
Oh tremble not-but trust in me.
The good are better made by ill,
As odors crush'd are sweeter still;
And gloomy as thy past has been,
Bright shall thy future be!"

So saying, through the fragrant shade
Gently along he led the maid,

While Manchon round and round her play'd:
And, as that silent glen they leave,
Where by the spring the pitchers stand,
Where glow-worms light their lamps at eve,
And fairies dance-in fairy-land,

(When Lubin calls, and Blanche steals round, Her finger on her lip, to see;

And many an acorn-cup is found

Under the greenwood tree)

From every cot above, below,
They gather as they go-

Sabot, and coif, and collerette,

The housewife's prayer, the grandam's blessing!
Girls that adjust their locks of jet,
And look and look and linger yet,
The lovely bride caressing;

Babes that had learnt to lisp her name,
And heroes he had led to fame.

But what felt D'Arcy, when at length Her father's gate was open flung? Ah, then he found a giant's strength; For round him, as for life, she clung! And when, her fit of weeping o'er, Onward they moved a little space, And saw an old man sitting at the door, Saw his wan cheek, and sunken eye That seem'd to gaze on vacancy, Then, at the sight of that beloved face, At once to fall upon his neck she flew; But not encouraged-back she drew, And trembling stood in dread suspense, Her tears her only eloquence!

All, all the while-an awful distance keeping:
Save D'Arcy, who nor speaks nor stirs ;
And one, his little hand in hers,
Who weeps to see his sister weeping.

Then Jacqueline the silence broke.
She clasp'd her father's knees and spoke,
Her brother kneeling too;

While D'Arcy as before look'd on,
Though from his manly cheek was gone
Its natural hue.

"His praises from your lips I heard,
Till my fond heart was won;
And, if in aught his Sire has err'd,
Oh turn not from the Son!—

She, whom in joy, in grief you nursed;
Who climb'd and call'd you father first,
By that dear name conjures

On her you thought-but to be kind!
When look'd you up, but you inclined?
These things, for ever in her mind,

Oh are they gone from yours?

Two kneeling at your feet behold;

One-one how young ;-nor yet the other old.
Oh spurn them not-nor look so cold-
If Jacqueline be cast away,

Her bridal be her dying day.

Well, well might she believe in you!-
She listen'd, and she found it true."

He shook his aged locks of snow;
And twice he turn'd, and rose to go.
She hung; and was St. Pierre to blame,
If tears and smiles together came?
"Oh no-
o-begone! I'll hear no more."
But as he spoke, his voice relented.
"That very look thy mother wore

When she implored, and old Le Roc consented
True, I have done as well as suffer'd wrong,

Yet once I loved him as my own!

-Nor can'st thou, D'Arcy, feel resentment long;
For she herself shall plead, and I atone.
Henceforth," he paused awhile, unmann'd,
For D'Arcy's tears bedew'd his hand;
"Let each meet each as friend to friend,
All things by all forgot, forgiven.

And that dear Saint-may she once more descend
To make our home a heaven!-
But now, in my hands, your's with her's unite.
A father's blessing on your heads alight!
-Nor let the least be sent away.
All hearts shall sing Adieu to sorrow!
St. Pierre has found his child to-day;
And old and young shall dance to-morrow."

Had Louis' then before the gate dismounted,
Lost in the chase at set of sun;
Like Henry, when he heard recounted"
The generous deeds himself had done,
(That night the miller's maid Colette
Sung, while he supp'd, her chansonnette'
Then-when St. Pierre address'd his village-train,
Then had the monarch with a sigh confess'd
A joy by him unsought and unpossess'd,
-Without it what are all the rest?-
To love and to be loved again.

1 Louis the Fourteenth.

2 Alluding to a popular story related of Henry the Fourth of France; similar to ours of "The King and Miller of Mansfield."

PREFACE.

THE following Poem (or to speak more properly, what remains of it') has here and there a lyrical turn of thought and expression. It is sudden in its transitions, and full of historical allusions; leaving much to be imagined by the reader.

The subject is a voyage the most memorable in the annals of mankind. Columbus was a person of extraordinary virtue and piety, acting under the sense of a divine impulse; and his achievement the discovery of a New World, the inhabitants of which were shut out from the light of Revelation, and given up, as they believed, to the dominion ef malignant spirits.

Many of the incidents will now be thought extravagant; yet they were once perhaps received with something more than indulgence. It was an age of miracles; and who can say that among the venerable legends in the library of the Escurial, or the more authentic records which fill the great chamber in the Archivo of Simancas, and which relate entirely to the deep tragedy of America, there are no volumes that mention the marvellous things here described? Indeed the story, as already told throughout Europe, admits of no heightening. Such was the religious enthusiasm of the early writers, that the Author had only to transfuse it into his verse; and he appears to have done little more; though some of the circumstances which he alludes to as well known, have long ceased to be so. By using the language of that day, he has called up Columbus "in his habit as he lived," and the authorities, such as exist, are care fully given by the Translator.

INSCRIBED ON THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.

UNCLASP me, Stranger; and unfold,
With trembling care, my leaves of gold
Rich in Gothic portraiture-
If yet, alas, a leaf endure,

In RABIDA'S monastic fane,

I cannot ask, and ask in vain.

The language of Castile I speak;
'Mid many an Arab, many a Greek,
Old in the days of Charlemain;
When minstrel-music wander'd round,
And Science, waking, bless'd the sound.
No earthly thought has here a place,
The cowl let down on every face;

Shakspeare.

Yet here, in consecrated dust,
Here would I sleep, if sleep I must.
From Genoa when Columbus came,
(At once her glory and her shame)
"T was here he caught the holy flame.
"T was here the generous vow he made;
His banners on the altar laid-

One hallow'd morn, methought, I felt
As if a soul within me dwelt!
But who arose and gave to me
The sacred trust I keep for thee,
And in his cell at even-tide
Knelt before the cross and died—
Inquire not now. His name no more
Glimmers on the chancel-floor,
Near the lights that ever shine
Before St. Mary's blessed shrine.

To me one little hour devote,
And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee;
Read in the temper that he wrote,
And may his gentle spirit guide thee!
My leaves forsake me, one by one;
The book-worm through and through has gone
Oh haste-unclasp me, and unfold;
The tale within was never told!

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

THERE is a spirit in the old Spanish Chroniclers of the sixteenth century that may be compared to the

freshness of water at the fountain-head. Their simplicity, their sensibility to the strange and the wonderful, their very weaknesses, give an infinite value, by giving a life and a character to every thing they touch; and their religion, which bursts out everywhere, addresses itself to the imagination in the highest degree. If they err, their errors are not their own. They think and feel after the fashion of the time; and their narratives are so many moving pictures of the actions, manners, and thoughts of their contemporaries.

What they had to communicate, might well make them eloquent; but, inasmuch as relates to Columbus, the inspiration went no farther. No National Poem appeared on the subject; no Camoëns did honor to his Genius and his Virtues. Yet the materials, that have descended to us, are surely not unpoetical; and a desire to avail myself of them, to convey in some instances as far as I could, in others as far as I dared, their warmth of coloring and wildness of imagery, led me to conceive the idea of