"Now take the harp, EULALIA mine, For thy sad song;" and at the sign Came forth a maiden. She was fair And young; yet thus can spring-time wear The traces of far other hour
Than should be on such gentle flower. Her eyes were downcast, as to keep Their secret, for they shamed to weep; Her cheek was pale, but that was lost, So often the bright blushes cross'd; And seem'd her mouth so sweet the while, As if its nature were to smile; Her very birthright-hope,—but earth Keeps not the promise of its birth. "T was whisper'd that young maiden's breast Had harbour'd wild and dangerous guest; Love had been there,-in that is said All that of doom the heart can dread. Oh! born of Beauty, in those isles Which far 'mid Grecian seas arise, They call'd thy mother queen of smiles, But, Love, they only gave thee sighs. She woke the harp: at first her touch Seem'd as it sought some lighter strain; But the heart breathes itself, and such As suffer deep seek mirth in vain.
Farewell, farewell, I'll dream no more, "T is misery to be dreaming; Farewell, farewell, and I will be
At least like thee in seeming. I will go forth to the green vale,
Where the sweet wild-flowers are dwelling, Where the leaves and the birds together sing, And the woodland-fount is welling. Not there, not there, too much of bloom Has spring flung o'er each blossom; The tranquil place too much contrasts The unrest of my bosom.
I will go to the lighted halls,
Where midnight passes fleetest; Oh! memory there too much recalls Of saddest and of sweetest. I'll turn me to the gifted page
Where the bard his soul is flinging; Too well it echoes mine own heart, Breaking e'en while singing.
I must have rest; oh! heart of mine, When wilt thou lose thy sorrow? Never, till in the quiet grave;
Would I slept there to-morrow!
Rose-bud-mouth, sunny brow, Wore she, who, fairy-like, sprung now Beside the harp. Careless she hung Over the chords; her bright hair flung A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she: "All too sad are your songs for me; Let me try if the strings will breathe For minstrel of the aspen wreath." Lightly the answering prelude fell, Thus sang the Lady ISABELLE.
Where do purple bubbles swim, But upon the goblet's brim? Drink not deep, howe'er it glow, Sparkles never lie below. Beautiful the light that flows From the rich leaves of the rose; Keep it, then ask, where hath fled Summer's gift of morning-red? Earth's fair are her fleeting things; Heaven, too, lends her angels wings. What can charms to pleasure give, Such as being fugitive?
Thus with love: oh! never try Further than a blush or sigh; Blush gone with the clouds that share it, Sigh pass'd with the winds that bear it.
BUT met she then young VIDAL's eye, His half sad, half reproachful sigh: His ISABELLE! and could she be Votaress of inconstancy?
As if repentant of her words, Blushing she bent her o'er the chords; With fainter tones the harp then rung, As thus, with bow'd-down head, she sung.
I have belied my woman's heart, In my false song's deceiving words; How could I say love would depart, As pass the light songs of spring-birds? Vain, vain love would be Froth upon a summer-sea.
No, love was made to soothe and share The ills that wait our mortal birth; No, love was made to teach us where One trace of Eden haunts our earth. Born amid the hours of spring, Soothing autumn's perishing.
Timid as the tale of woe, Tender as the wood-dove's sigh, Lovely as the flowers below, Changeless as the stars on high,
Made all chance and change to prove, And this is a woman's love.
Well changed, fair lady, laughing said A girl beside, whose chesnut-hair Was wreathed with the wild vine-leaves spread,
As if that she some wood-nymph were; And darker were her brow and cheek, And richer in their crimson break, Than those of the fair ring beside. In sooth, LOLOTTE had often tried The influence of the wind and sun, That loved the cheek they dwelt upon
Too well, to leave it without trace They had known such sweet dwelling-place. And her bright eyes seem'd as they had won The radiance which the summer-sun Brought to her valleys lone and wild, Where she had dwelt. And now half child, Half woman, in the gay excess Of all youth's morning-happiness,
She came to the Lady of Isaure's towers, As fresh and as sweet as the forest-bowers Where the gladness had pass'd of her earliest hours.
"Now hearken thee, Lady ISABELLE, See if aright I read thy spell,
Mind, dangerous and glorious gift, Too much thy native heaven has left Its nature in thee, for thy light To be content with earthly home: It hath another, and its sight Will too much to that other roam,- And heavenly light and earthly clay But ill bear with alternate sway;- Till jarring elements create The evil which they sought to shun, And deeper feel their mortal state, In struggling for a higher one. There is no rest for the proud mind; Conscious of its high powers confined,
And the rule of thy charmed sway, to keep Vain dreams 'mid its best hopes arise; Watch over Love's enchanted sleep.
Where, oh! where's the chain to fling, One that will bind CUPID's wing, One that will have longer power Than the April sun or shower? Form it not of Eastern gold, All too weighty it to hold; Form it neither all of bloom, Never does Love find a tomb Sudden, soon, as when he meets Death amid unchanging sweets: But if you would fling a chain, And not fling it all in vain, Like a fairy form a spell Of all that is changeable: Take the purple tints that deck, Meteor-like, the peacock's neck; Take the many hues that play On the rainbow's colour'd way; Never let a hope appear Without its companion fear; Only smile to sigh, and then Change into a smile again; Be to-day as sad, as pale,
As minstrel with his lovelorn tale; But to-morrow gay as all Life had been one festival. If a woman would secure
All that makes her reign endure, And, alas! her reign must be Ever most in phantasy, Never let an envious eye Gaze upon the heart too nigh; Never let the veil be thrown Quite aside, as all were known Of delight and tenderness, In the spirit's last recess; And, one spell all spells above, Never let her own her love.
BUT from the harp a darker song Is sweeping like the winds alongThe night-gale, at that dreamy hour
It is itself its sacrifice.
Ah! sad it is, to see the deck Dismasted, of some noble wreck; And sad to see the marble-stone Defaced, and with gray moss o'ergrown; And sad to see the broken lute For ever to its music mute! But what is lute, or fallen tower, Or ship sunk in its proudest hour, To awe and mystery combined
In their worst shape-the ruin'd mind? To her was trusted that fine power Which rules the bard's enthusiast hour; The human heart gave up its keys To her, who ruled its sympathies In song whose influence was brought From what first in herself had wrought Too passionate; her least emotion Swept like the whirlwind o'er the ocean. Kind, terder, but too sensitive, None seem'd her equal love to bear; Affection's ties small joys could give, Tried but by what she hoped they were. Too much on all her feelings threw The colouring of their own hue; Too much her ardent spirit dream'd Things would be such as she had deem'd. She trusted love, albeit her heart Was ill made for love's happiness; She ask'd too much, another's part Was cold beside her own excess.
She sought for praise; her share of fame, It went beyond her wildest claim: But ill could her proud spirit bear All that befalls the laurel's share;- Oh, well they gave the laurel-tree A minstrel's coronal to be! Immortal as its changeless hue, The deadly poison circles through, Its venom makes its life; ah! still Earth's lasting growths are those of ill;- And mined was the foundation-stone, The spirit's regal shrine o'erthrown. Aimless and dark, the wandering mind Yet had a beauty left behind;
A touch, a tone, a shade, the more
To tell of what had pass'd before. She woke the harp, and backward flung
When spirit and when storm have power;-The cloud of hair, that pall-like hung
Yet sadly sweet: and can this be,
AMENAIDE, the wreck of thee?
O'er her pale brow and radiant eyes, Wild as the light of midnight-skies,
When the red meteor rides the cloud, Telling the storm has burst its shroud: A passionate hue was on her cheek; Untranquil colours, such as break With crimson light the northern sky: Yet on her wan lip seem'd to lie A faint sweet smile, as if not yet It could its early charm forget.
She sang, oh! well the heart might own The magic of so dear a tone.
I know my heart is as a grave Where the cypress watch is keeping Over hopes and over thoughts
In their dark silence sleeping. Yet not the less know I that heart Was a goal whence proud steeds started, Though now it be a ruin'd shrine
Whose glory is departed.
For my spirit hath left her earthly home And found a nobler dwelling, Where the music of light is that of life, And the starry harps are swelling. Yet ever at the midnight-hour
That spirit within me burneth, And joy comes back on his fairy wings, And glory to me returneth.
Sweet Spirit of delicious Song, To whom, as of true right, belong The myriad music-notes that swell From the poet's breathing shell; We name thy name, and the heart springs Up to the lip, as if with wings, As if thy very mention brought Snatches of inspired thought.
Is it war? At once are borne Words like notes of martial horn. Is it love? Comes some sweet tale Like that of the nightingale. Is it Nature's lovely face?
Rise lines touch'd with her own grace. Is it some bright garden-scene? There, too, hath the minstrel been, Linking words of charmed power With the green leaf and the flower. Is it woman's loveliness?
He hath revell'd to excess, Caught all spells that can beguile In dark eye or rosy smile. Is it deed that hath its claim Upon earth's most holy fame, Or those kindly feelings sent But for hearth and home content? Lofty thought, or counsel sage, Seek them in the poet's page; Laurel, laud, and love belong To thee, thou Spirit sweet of Song.
Not in courtly hall to-day Meets the lady's congress gay. "T is a bright and summer-sky, They will bear it company; Odours float upon the gale, Comrades suiting minstrel-tale; Flowers are spreading, carpet meet For the beauty's fairy-feet. Shame to stay in marble-hall Thus from nature's festival.
The garden had one fair resort, As if devised for minstrel-court: An amphitheatre of trees
Shut from soft cheeks the ruder breeze; While all around the chesnuts made, With closing boughs, a pleasant shade, Where, if a sunbeam wander'd through, 'T was like the silver fall of dew; The middle was an open space Of softest grass, and those small flowers, Daisies, whose rose-touch'd leaves retrace The gold and blush of morning's hours.
To-day the Countess had for throne An ancient trunk with moss o'ergrown; And at her feet, as if from air A purple cloud had fallen there,
Grew thousand violets, whose sighs Breathed forth an Eastern sacrifice; And, like a canopy, o'erhead
A Provence-rose luxuriant spread, And its white flowers, pale and mcek, Seem'd sisters to the lady's cheek.
And ranged in a graceful order round, A fairy-court upon fairy-ground, Group'd the bright band; and, like a tent, Leaves and bloom over all were blent,
Flinging bright colours, but changing fast, As ever the varying sunbeams pass'd; And in the midst grew a myrtle-tree, There was the minstrel's place to be, And its buds were delicate, frail, and fair,
As the hopes and joys of his own heart are. The sun went down, but lance nor shield
Dark was the brow, and the bearing proud, Of the bard who first stept forth from the crowd;
A small cloak down from his shoulder hung, And a light guitar o'er his arm was slung; Many a lady's casement had known The moonlight-spell of its magic tone: But the fire of youth from his cheek had pass'd,
And its hopes and its dreams had faded as fast; The romance of his earlier time was over, The warrior had half forgotten the lover; And the light grew dark in his radiant eyes, As he told his tale of high emprize.
reflected back his light;
The moon rose up, but not a sound broke on the rest of night.
The old man watch'd impatiently, till with morn o'er the plain
There came a sound of horses' feet, there came a martial train.
But gleam'd not back the sunbeam glad from plume or helm of gold, No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the turban's emerald fold. A Moorish herald; six pale heads hung at his saddlebow,
Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew the lines of each fair brow.
THE SPANISH MINSTREL'S TALE.
THE warrior's strength is bow'd by age, the warrior's step is slow,
And the beard upon his breast is white as is the winter-snow;
Yet his eye shines bright, as if not yet its last of fame were won; Six sons stand ready in their arms to do as he has done.
Now take your way, ye LARAS bold, and to the battle ride; For loud upon the Christian air are vaunts of Moorish pride:
Your six white steeds stand at the gate; go forth, and let me see
"Oh! did they fall by numbers, or did they basely yield?”
Not so; beneath the same bold hand thy children press'd the field.
They died as NOURREDDIN would wish all
foes of his should die; Small honour does the conquest boast when won from those who fly.
And thus he saith: "This was the sword that swept down thy brave band,
Find thou one who can draw it forth in all thy Christian land.'
If from Dread thou to wait for vengeance till his
a youth such sorrowing and scathe thou hast endured,
summers are matured.
Who will return the first and bring a Mos- The aged chieftain took the sword, in vain
Forth they went, six gallant knights, all
mail'd from head to heel;
Is it not death to him who first their fiery strength shall feel?
To draw it from its scabbard forth, or poise the heavy blade;
He flung it to his only child, now sadly standing by.
"Now weep, for here is cause for tears; alas! mine own are dry."
Then answer'd proud the noble boy: "My | His check is as his foeman's pale, his white tears last morning came
lips gasp for breath: For weakness of my own right hand; to Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the shed them now were shame:
I will not do my brothers' names such deep and deadly wrong;
Brave were they unto death, success can but to God belong.
And years have fled, that boy has sprung unto a goodly height, And fleet of foot and stout of arm in his old father's light;
Yet breathed he never wish to take in glorious strife his part,
And shame and grief his backwardness was to that father's heart.
Cold, silent, stern, he let time pass, until he rush'd one day,
Where mourning o'er his waste of youth the weary chieftain lay.
Unarm'd he was, but in his grasp he bore a heavy brand:
"My father, I can wield his sword; now knighthood at thine hand."
For years no hour of quiet sleep upon my eyelids came,
For NOURREDDIN had poison'd all my slumber with his fame.
I have waited for my vengeance; but now, alive or dead,
I swear to thee by my brothers' graves that thou shalt have his head."
He raised him on his arm: "My page, com thou and do my will;
Canst thou not see a turban'd band upen yon distant hill?
Now strip me of my armour, boy, by yonder river's side,
firm this head upon my breast, and fling me on the tide."
'T was sad to gaze on the wan brow Of him who now awoke the lute, As one last song life must allow, Then would those tuneful lips be mute. His cheek was worn, what was the care Had writ such early lesson there? Was it Love, blighted in its hour Of earliest and truest power By worldly chills which ever fling Their check and damp on young Love's wing; Or unrequited, while the heart Could not from its fond worship part? Or was it but the wasting woe Which every human path must know;
It was a glorious sight to see, when those Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain,
And seeking not their ark again; Friends in their very love unjust, Or faithless to our utmost trust; Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard; Or fame, that is its own reward Or has no other, and is worn
'Mid envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn? All these ills had that young bard known, And they had laid his funeral stone. Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd, As thus the minstrel sung his last.
THE ITALIAN MINSTREL'S TALE.
THE Count GONFALI held a feast that night, And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous light
Over gold carvings and the purple fall Of tapestry; and around each stately hall
« PreviousContinue » |