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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-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."

The Voyage of Columbus.

PREFACE.

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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 of 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 carefully 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;

1 The Original, in the Castilian language, according to the inscription that follows, was found among other MSS. in an old religious house near Palos, situated on an island formed by the

fiver Tinto, and dedicated to our Lady of Rábida. The writer

describes himself as having sailed with Columbus; but his style and manner are evidently of an after-time.

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 a Poem written not long after his death, when the great consequences of the Discovery were beginning

And ere his coming sung on either shore,
Him could not I exalt-by Heaven design'd
To lift the veil that cover'd half mankind!
Yet, ere I die, I would fulfil my vow;
Praise cannot wound his generous spirit now.

to unfold themselves, but while the minds of men Him, by the Paynim bard descried of yore, (1)
were still clinging to the superstitions of their fathers.
The Event here described may be thought too
recent for the Machinery; but I found them together.'
A belief in the agency of Evil Spirits prevailed over
both hemispheres; and even yet seems almost neces-
sary to enable us to clear up the Darkness, and, in
this instance at least,

To justify the ways of God to Men.

THE ARGUMENT.

Columbus, having wandered from kingdom to kingdom, at length obtains three ships and sets sail on the Atlantic. The compass alters from its ancient direction; the wind becomes constant and unremitting; night and day he advances, till he is suddenly stopped in his course by a mass of vegetation, extending as far as the eye can reach, and assuming the appearance of a country overwhelmed by the sea. Alarm and despondence on board. He resigns himself to the care of Heaven, and proceeds on his voyage; while columns of water move along in his path before him.

*

*

"Twas night. The Moon, o'er the wide wave, disclosed

Her awful face; and Nature's self reposed; When, slowly rising in the azure sky, Three white sails shone-but to no mortal eye, Entering a boundless sea. In slumber cast, The very ship-boy, on the dizzy mast, Half breathed his orisons! Alone unchanged, Calmly, beneath, the great Commander (2) ranged, Thoughtful, not sad; and, as the planet grew, His noble form, wrapt in his mantle blue, Athwart the deck a deepening shadow threw. "Thee hath it pleased-Thy will be done!" he said, (3, Then sought his cabin; and, their capas' spread, Around him lay the sleeping as the dead, When, by his lamp, to that mysterious Guide, On whose still counsels all his hopes relied, That Oracle to man in mercy given, Meanwhile the deities of America assemble in Whose voice is truth, whose wisdom is from heaven, (4, council; and one of the Zemi, the gods of the island- Who over sands and seas directs the stray, ers, announces his approach. "In vain," says he," have And, as with God's own finger, points the way. we guarded the Atlantic for ages. A mortal has He turn'd; but what strange thoughts perplex'd his soul, baffled our power; nor will our votaries arm against When, lo, no more attracted to the Pole, him. Yours are a sterner race. Hence; and, while The Compass, faithless as the circling vane, we have recourse to stratagem, do you array the na- Flutter'd and fix'd, flutter'd and fix'd again! tions round your altars, and prepare for an extermi- At length, as by some unseen hand imprest nating war." They disperse while he is yet speaking; It sought with trembling energy the West! 2 and, in the shape of a condor, he directs his flight to 'Ah no," he cried, and calm'd his anxious brow, the fleet. His journey described. He arrives there. Ill, nor the signs of ill, 'tis thine to show, A panic. A mutiny. Columbus restores order; con- Thine but to lead me where I wish'd to go!" tinues on his voyage; and lands in a New World. Ceremonies of the first interview. Rites of hospitality. The ghost of Cazziva.

Two months pass away, and an Angel, appearing in a dream to Columbus, thus addresses him; "Return to Europe; though your Adversaries, such is the will of Heaven, shall let loose the hurricane against you. A little while shall they triumph; insinuating themselves into the hearts of your followers, and making the World, which you came to bless, a scene of blood and slaughter. Yet is there cause for rejoicing. Your work is done. The cross of Christ is planted here; and, in due time, all things shall be made perfect!"

CANTO I.

Night-Columbus on the Atlantic-the Variation of the Compass, etc.

WHO the great Secret of the Deep possess'd And, issuing through the portals of the West, Fearless, resolved, with every sail unfurl'd Planted his standard on the Unknown World?

1 Perhaps even a contemporary subject should not be rejected as such, however wild and extravagant it may be, if the manners be foreign and the place distant-major è longinquo reverentia. "L'éloignement des pays," says Racine, "répare en quelque sorte la trop grande proximité des temps; car le people ne met guère de différence entre ce qui est, si j'ose ainsi parler, à mille ans de lui, et ce qui en est à mille lieues."

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Columbus err'd not. (5) In that awful hour,
Sent forth to save, and girt with godlike power,
And glorious as the regent of the Sun,
An Angel came! He spoke, and it was done!
He spoke, and, at his call, a mighty Wind, (6)
Not like the fitful blast, with fury blind,
But deep, majestic, in its destined course,
Sprung with unerring, unrelenting force,
From the bright East. Tides duly ebb'd and flow'd;
Stars rose and set; and new horizons glow'd;
Yet still it blew! As with primeval sway
Still did its ample spirit, night and day,
Move on the waters!-All, resign'd to Fate,
Folded their arms and sat; (7) and seem'd to wait
Some sudden change; and sought, in chill suspense,
New spheres of being, and new modes of sense;
As men departing, though not doom'd to die,
And midway on their passage to eternity.

CANTO IL

The Voyage continued.

"WHAT vast foundations in the Abyss are there, (8
As of a former world? Is it not where
Atlantic kings their barbarous pomp display'd; (9)
Sunk into darkness with the realms they sway'd.

1 The capa is the Spanish cloak.
2 Herrera. dec. 1, lib. i, e. N.

When towers and temples, through the closing wave,
A glimmering ray of ancient splendor gave-
And we shall rest with them.-Or are we thrown"
(Each gazed on each, and all exclaim'd as one)
"Where things familiar cease and strange begin,
All progress barr'd to those without, within?
-Soon is the doubt resolved. Arise, behold-
We stop to stir no more-nor will the tale be told."
The pilot smote his breast; the watchman cried
"Land!" and his voice in faltering accents died. (10)
At once the fury of the prow was quell'd;
And (whence or why from many an age withheld) (11)
Shrieks, not of men, were mingling in the blast;
And armed shapes of godlike stature pass'd!
Slowly along the evening-sky they went,
As on the edge of some vast battlement;
Helmet and shield, and spear and gonfalon
Streaming a baleful light that was not of the sun!

Long from the stern the great adventurer gazed
With awe not fear; then high his hands he raised.
Thou All-supreme-in goodness as in power,
Who, from his birth to this eventful hour,
Hast led thy servant (12) over land and sea,
Confessing Thee in all, and all in Thee,
Oh still"-He spoke, and lo, the charm accurst
Fled whence it came, and the broad barrier burst!
A vain illusion! (such as mocks the eyes

Of fearful men, when mountains round them rise
From less than nothing) nothing now beheld,
But scatter'd sedge-repelling, and repell'd!

And once again that valiant company
Right onward came, plowing the Unknown Sea.
Already borne beyond the range of thought,
With Light divine, with Truth immortal fraught,
From world to world their steady course they keep, (13)
Swift as the winds along the waters sweep,
'Mid the mute nations of the purple deep.
-And now the sound of harpy-wings they hear;
Now less and less, as vanishing in fear!

And, see, the heavens bow down, the waters rise,
And, rising, shoot in columns to the skies, (14)
That stand-and still, when they proceed, retire,
As in the desert burn'd the sacred fire;
Moving in silent majesty, till Night
Descends, and shuts the vision from their sight.

CANTO III.

An Assembly of Evil Spirits.

THOUGH changed my cloth of gold for amice grey-(15)

In my spring-time, when every month was May,
With hawk and hound I coursed away the hour,
Or sung my roundelay in lady's bower.

And though my world be now a narrow cell,
(Renounced for ever all I loved so well)
Though now my head be bald, my feet be bare,
And scarce my knees sustain my book of prayer,
Oh I was there, one of that gallant crew,
And saw-and wonder'd whence his Power He drew,
Yet little thought, though by his side I stood,
Of his great Foes in earth and air and flood,
Then uninstructed.-But my sand is run,
And the Night coming-and my Task not done!-
Twas in the deep immeasurable cave
Of Andes, (16) echoing to the Southern wave,

'Mid pillars of Basalt, the work of fire,
That, giant-like, to upper day aspire;
"T was there that now, as wont in heaven to shine,
Forms of angelic mould, and grace divine,
Assembled. All, exiled the realms of rest,
In vain the sadness of their souls suppress'd;
Yet of their glory many a scatter'd ray
Shot through the gathering shadows of decay.
Each moved a God; and all, as Gods possess'd
One half the globe; from pole to pole confess'd! (17)
Oh could I now-but how in mortal verse-
Their numbers, their heroic deeds rehearse!
These in dim shrines and barbarous symbols reign,
Where Plata and Maragnon meet the main. (18)
Those the wild hunter worships as he roves,
In the green shade of Chili's fragrant groves;
Or warrior-tribes with rites of blood implore,
Whose night-fires gleam along the sullen shore
Of Huron or Ontario, inland seas, (19)
What time the song of death is in the breeze!
"T was now in dismal pomp and order due,
While the vast concave flash'd with lightnings blue,
On shining pavements of metallic ore,
That many an age the fusing sulphur bore,
They held high council. All was silence round,
When, with a voice most sweet yet most profound,
A sovereign Spirit burst the gates of night,
And from his wings of gold shook drops of liquid
light!

Merion, commission'd with his host to sweep
From age to age the melancholy deep!
Chief of the Zemi, whom the isles obey'd,
By Ocean sever'd from a world of shade. (20)

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"An, why look back, though all is left behind? No sounds of life are stirring in the wind.

And you, ye birds, winging your passage home,
How blest ye are !-We know not where we roam.
We go," they cried, "go to return no more!
Nor ours, alas, the transport to explore
A human footstep on a desert shore!"

-Still, as beyond this mortal life impell'd
By some mysterious energy, He held
His everlasting course. Still self-possess'd,
High on the deck He stood, disdaining rest;
(His amber chain the only badge he bore,'
His mantle blue such as his fathers wore)
Fathom'd, with searching hand, the dark profound,
And scatter'd hope and glad assurance round;
Though, like some strange portentous dream, the past
Still hover'd, and the cloudless sky o'ercast.

At day-break might the Caravels 2 be seen, Chasing their shadows o'er the deep serene; Their burnish'd prows lash'd by the sparkling tide, Their green-cross standards waving far and wide. And now once more to better thoughts inclined, The seaman, mounting, clamor'd in the wind. The soldier (24) told his tales of love and war; The courtier sung-sung to his gay guitar. Round, at Primero, sate a whisker'd band; So Fortune smiled, careless of sea or land! (25) Leon, Montalvan (serving side by side; Two with one soul-and, as they lived, they died), Vasco the brave, thrice found among the slain, Thrice, and how soon, up and in arms again, As soon to wish he had been sought in vain, Chain'd down in Fez, beneath the bitter thong, To the hard bench and heavy oar so long! Albert of Florence, who, at twilight-time, In my rapt ear pour'd Dante's tragic rhyme, Screen'd by the sail as near the mast we lay, Our nights illumined by the ocean-spray; And Manfred, who espoused with jewell'd ring Young Isabel, then left her sorrowing: Lerma "the generous," Avila "the proud ;"4 Velasquez, Garcia, through the echoing crowd Traced by their mirth-from Ebro's classic shore, From golden Tajo, to return no more!

CANTO V.

The Voyage continued.

YET Who but He undaunted could explore (26) A world of waves, a sea without a shore, Trackless and vast and wild as that reveal'd When round the Ark the birds of tempest wheel'd; When all was still in the destroying hourNo sign of man! no vestige of his power! One at the stern before the hour-glass stood, As 't were to count the sands; one o'er the flood Gazed for St. Elmo; while another cried "Once more good-morrow!" and sate down sigh'd.

Then sunk his generous spirit, and he wept. The friend, the father rose; the hero slept. Palos, thy port, with many a pang resign'd, Fill'd with its busy scenes his lonely mind; The solemn march, the vows in concert given, (27) The bended knees and lifted hands to heaven, The incensed rites, and choral harmonies, The Guardian's blessings mingling with his sighs; While his dear boys-ah, on his neck they hung, (28) And long at parting to his garments clung.

Oft in the silent night-watch doubt and fear
Broke in uncertain murmurs on his ear.
Oft the stern Catalan, at noon of day,
Mutter'd dark threats, and linger'd to obey;
Though that brave Youth-he, whom his courser
bore

Right through the midst, when, fetlock-deep in gore,
The great Gonzalo (29) battled with the Moor
(What time the Alhambra shook-soon to unfold
Its sacred courts, and fountains yet untold,
Its holy texts and arabesques of gold),
Though Roldan, (30) sleep and death to him alike,
Grasp'd his good sword and half unsheathed to strike
Oh born to wander with your flocks," he cried,

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And bask and dream along the mountain-side; To urge your mules, tinkling from hill to hill; Or at the vintage-feast to drink your fill, And strike your castanets, with gipsy-maid Dancing Fandangos in the chesnut shadeCome on," he cried, and threw his glove in scorn, Not this your wonted pledge, the brimming horn, Valiant in peace! adventurous at home! Oh, had ye vow'd with pilgrim-staff to roam; Or with banditti sought the sheltering wood, Where mouldering crosses mark the scene of blood!He said, he drew; then, at his Master's frown, Sullenly sheathed, plunging the weapon down.

CANTO VI.

The flight of an Angel of Darkness.
WAR with the Great in War let others sing,
Havoc and spoil, and tears and triumphing,
The morning-march that flashes to the sun,
The feast of vultures when the day is done;
And the strange tale of many slain for one!
I sing a Man, amidst his sufferings here,
Who watch'd and served in humbleness and fear;
Gentle to others, to himself severe.

Still unsubdued by Danger's varying form,
Still, as unconscious of the coming storm,
He look'd elate; and, with his wonted smile,
On the great Ordnance leaning, would beguile
The hour with talk. His beard, his mien sublime,
and Shadow'd by Age-by Age before the time,'
From many a sorrow borne in many a clime,
Moved every heart. And now in opener skies
Stars yet unnamed of purer radiance rise!
Stars, milder suns, that love a shade to cast,
And on the bright wave fling the trembling mast!
Another firmament! the orbs that roll,

Day, when it came, came only with its light;
Though long invoked, 't was sadder than the night!
Look where He would, for ever as He turn'd,
He met the eye of one that inly mourn'd.

1 F. Columbus, c. 32.

2 Light vessels, formerly used by the Spaniards and Portu- Singly or clustering, round the Southern pole!

guese.

3 F. Columbus, c. 23.

4 Many such appellations occur in Bernal Diaz. c. 204.

5 A luminous appearance of good omen.

Nor yet the four that glorify the Night

1 F. Col. c. 3.

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