The Forest Sanctuary and Other Poems.

]> The Forest Sanctuary and Other Poems.Hemans, Felicia Dorothea Browne, Mrs. 1793‐1835Ophelia Yim,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition244KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956161999HemaFFores

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series41Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorThe forest sanctuary: and other poemsHemans, Felicia Dorothea Browne, MrsJohn MurrayLondon, 1825[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:546. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:546mf.]

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[Title Page]

THEFOREST SANCTUARY, &c. LONDON: PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS. THEFOREST SANCTUARY; ANDOTHER POEMS.BY MRS. HEMANS.LONDON:JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE‐STREET.MDCCCXXV. CONTENTS. THE FOREST SANCTUARY1 ␣␣␣␣␣Notes91LAYS OF MANY LANDS.␣␣␣␣␣Moorish Bridal Song107␣␣␣␣␣The Bird's Release109␣␣␣␣␣The Sword of the Tomb,—A Northern Legend112␣␣␣␣␣Valkyriur Song120␣␣␣␣␣The Cavern of the Three Tells,—Swiss Tradition124 ␣␣␣␣␣Swiss Songs—on the Anniversary of an ancient Battle128␣␣␣␣␣The Messenger Bird131␣␣␣␣␣The Stranger in Louisiana134␣␣␣␣␣The Isle of Founts,—an Indian Tradition137␣␣␣␣␣The bended Bow142␣␣␣␣␣␣He never smiled again145␣␣␣␣␣Coeur de Lion at the Bier of his Father148␣␣␣␣␣The Vassal's Lament for the fallen Tree154␣␣␣␣␣The Wild Huntsman158␣␣␣␣␣Brandenburgh Harvest‐Song,—from the German of La Motte Fouqué161␣␣␣␣␣The Shade of Theseus,—Ancient Greek Tradition163␣␣␣␣␣Ancient Greek Song of Exile166␣␣␣␣␣Greek Funeral Chant or Myriologue168␣␣␣␣␣The Parting Song173␣␣␣␣␣The Suliote Mother179␣␣␣␣␣The Farewell to the Dead182 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.␣␣␣␣␣The Treasures of the Deep187␣␣␣␣␣Bring Flowers189␣␣␣␣␣The Crusader's Return 191␣␣␣␣␣Thekla's Song; or, The Voice of a Spirit,—from the German of Schiller195␣␣␣␣␣The Revellers197␣␣␣␣␣The Conqueror's Sleep201␣␣␣␣␣Our Lady's Well203 THEFOREST SANCTUARY. Ihr Plätze aller meiner stillen freuden,Euch lass' ich hinter mir auf immerdar! So ist des geistes ruf an mich ergangen,Mich treibt nicht eitles, irdisches verlangen.Die Jungfrau von Orleans. Long time against oppression have I fought,And for the native liberty of faithHave bled and suffer'd bonds.Remorse, a Tragedy.

The following Poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country in the 16th century, takes refuge with his child in a North American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum.

THE FOREST SANCTUARY. I.THE voices of my home!—I hear them still!They have been with me through the dreamy night—The blessed household voices, wont to fillMy heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight!I hear them still, unchang'd:—though some from earthAre music parted, and the tones of mirth—Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright!Have died in others,—yet to me they come,Singing of boyhood back—the voices of my home! II. They call me through this hush of woods, reposingIn the grey stillness of the summer morn,They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born;Ev'n as a fount's remember'd gushings burstOn the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst,E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till wornBy quenchless longings, to my soul I say—Oh! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee away, III. And find mine ark!—yet whither?—I must bearA yearning heart within me to the grave.I am of those o'er whom a breath of air—Just darkening in its course the lake's bright wave,And sighing through the feathery canes 1—hath powerTo call up shadows, in the silent hour,From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave!—So must it be!—These skies above me spread,Are they my own soft skies?—Ye rest not here, my dead! IV. Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping,Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear,Save one!—a blue, lone, distant main is sweepingHigh o'er one gentle head—ye rest not here!—'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying,Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playingThrough my own chesnut groves, which fill mine ear;But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell,And for their birth‐place moan, as moans the ocean‐shell 2. V. Peace!—I will dash these fond regrets to earth,Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rainFrom his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me birth,And lineage, and once home,—my native Spain!My own bright land—my father's land—my child's!What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds?He hath brought marks of torture and the chain,Traces of things which pass not as a breeze,A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe—thy gifts are these. VI. A blighted name—I hear the winds of morn—Their sounds are not of this!—I hear the shiverOf the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borneFrom the high forest, when the light leaves quiver:Their sounds are not of this!—the cedars, waving,Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving,It is not murmur'd by the joyous river!What part hath mortal name, where God aloneSpeaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known? VII. Is it not much that I may worship Him,With nought my spirit's breathings to control,And feel His presence in the vast, and dim,And whispery woods, where dying thunders rollFrom the far cataracts?—Shall I not rejoiceThat I have learn'd at last to know His voiceFrom man's?—I will rejoice!—my soaring soulNow hath redeem'd her birth‐right of the day,And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd way! VIII. And thou, my boy! that silent at my kneeDost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes,Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I seePure through its depths, a thing without disguise;Thou that hast breath'd in slumber on my breast,When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest,Mine own! whose young thoughts fresh before me rise!Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer,And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air? IX. Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy?Within thy fathers' halls thou wilt not dwell,Nor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy,Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fellFor Spain of old.—Yet what if rolling wavesHave borne us far from our ancestral graves?Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebelAs mine hath done; nor bear what I have borne,Casting in falsehood's mould th' indignant brow of scorn. X. This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child!I have not sorrow'd, struggled, liv'd in vain—Hear me! magnificent and ancient wild;And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main,As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim shadeThe flood's voice, and the wind's, by swells pervade;Hear me!—'tis well to die, and not complain,Yet there are hours when the charg'd heart must speak,Ev'n in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break! XI. I see an oak before me 3, it hath beenThe crown'd one of the woods; and might have flungIts hundred arms to Heaven, still freshly green,But a wild vine around the stem hath clung,From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage throwing,Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing,Hath shrunk and died, those serpent‐folds among.Alas! alas!—what is it that I see?An image of man's mind, land of my sires, with thee! XII. Yet art thou lovely!—Song is on thy hills—Oh sweet and mournful melodies of Spain,That lull'd my boyhood, how your memory thrillsThe exile's heart with sudden‐wakening pain!—Your sounds are on the rocks—that I might hearOnce more the music of the mountaineer!—And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strainFloats out, and fills the solitary placeWith the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic race. XIII. But there was silence one bright, golden day,Through my own pine‐hung mountains. Clear, yet loneIn the rich autumn light the vineyards lay,And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone;And the red grapes untrodden strew'd the ground,And the free flocks untended roam'd around:Where was the pastor?—where the pipe's wild tone?Music and mirth were hush'd the hills among,While to the city's gates each hamlet pour'd its throng. XIV. Silence upon the mountains!—But withinThe city's gates a rush—a press—a swellOf multitudes their torrent way to win;And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell,A dead pause following each—like that which partsThe dash of billows, holding breathless heartsFast in the hush of fear—knell after knell;And sounds of thickening steps, like thunder‐rain,That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing fane! XV. What pageant's hour approach'd?—The sullen gateOf a strong ancient prison‐house was thrownBack to the day. And who, in mournful state,Came forth, led slowly o'er its threshold‐stone?They that had learn'd, in cells of secret gloom,How sunshine is forgotten!—They, to whomThe very features of mankind were grownThings that bewilder'd!—O'er their dazzled sight,They lifted their wan hands, and cower'd before the light! XVI. To this man brings his brother!—Some were there,Who with their desolation had entwin'dFierce strength, and girt the sternness of despairFast round their bosoms, ev'n as warriors bindThe breast‐plate on for fight: but brow and cheekSeem'd theirs a torturing panoply to speak!And there were some, from whom the very mindHad been wrung out: they smil'd—oh! startling smileWhence man's high soul is fled!—where doth it sleep the while? XVII. But onward moved the melancholy train,For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die.This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain—Heaven's offering from the land of chivalry!Through thousands, thousands of their race they mov'd—Oh! how unlike all others!—the belov'd,The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eyeGrew fix'd before them, while a people's breathWas hush'd, and its one soul bound in the thought of death! XVIII. It might be that amidst the countless throng,There swell'd some heart with Pity's weight oppress'd,For the wide stream of human love is strong;And woman, on whose fond and faithful breastChildhood is rear'd, and at whose knee the sighOf its first prayer is breath'd, she, too, was nigh.—But life is dear, and the free footstep bless'd,And home a sunny place, where each may fillSome eye with glistening smiles,—and therefore all were still— XIX. All still—youth, courage, strength!—a winter laid,A chain of palsy, cast on might and mind!Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade,They stood, those breathless masses of mankind;Still, as a frozen torrent!—but the waveSoon leaps to foaming freedom—they, the brave,Endur'd—they saw the martyr's place assign'dIn the red flames—whence is the withering spellThat numbs each human pulse?—they saw, and thought it well. XX. And I, too, thought it well! That very mornFrom a far land I came, yet round me clungThe spirit of my own. No hand had tornWith a strong grasp away the veil which hungBetween mine eyes and truth. I gaz'd, I saw,Dimly, as through a glass. In silent aweI watch'd the fearful rites; and if there sprungOne rebel feeling from its deep founts up,Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poison‐cup. XXI. But I was waken'd as the dreamers wakenWhom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dreadRouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken,And they must battle till their blood is shedOn their own threshold‐floor. A path for lightThrough my torn breast was shatter'd by the mightOf the swift thunder‐stroke—and Freedom's treadCame in through ruins, late, yet not in vain,Making the blighted place all green with life again. XXII. Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen massOf cloud, o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky,Dream‐like I saw the sad procession pass,And mark'd its victims with a tearless eye.They mov'd before me but as pictures, wroughtEach to reveal some secret of man's thought,On the sharp edge of sad mortality,Till in his place came one—oh! could it be?—My friend, my heart's first friend!—and did I gaze on thee? XXIII. On thee! with whom in boyhood I had play'd,At the grape‐gatherings, by my native streams;And to whose eye my youthful soul had laidBare, as to Heaven's, its glowing world of dreams;And by whose side midst warriors I had stood,And in whose helm was brought—oh! earn'd with bloodThe fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beamsSmote on my fever'd brow!—Ay, years had pass'd,Severing our paths, brave friend!—and thus we met at last! XXIV. I see it still—the lofty mien thou borest—On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power!The very look that once thou brightly worest,Cheering me onward through a fearful hour,When we were girt by Indian bow and spear,Midst the white Andes—ev'n as mountain deer,Hemm'd in our camp—but thro' the javelin showerWe rent our way, a tempest of despair!—And thou—hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there! XXV. I call the fond wish back—for thou hast perish'dMore nobly far, my Alvar!—making knownThe might of truth 4; and be thy memory cherish'dWith theirs, the thousands, that around her throneHave pour'd their lives out smiling, in that doomFinding a triumph, if denied a tomb!—Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown,And with the wind their spirit shall be spread,Filling man's heart and home with records of the dead. XXVI. Thou Searcher of the Soul! in whose dread sightNot the bold guilt alone, that mocks the skies,But the scarce‐own'd, unwhisper'd thought of night,As a thing written with the sunbeam lies;Thou know'st—whose eye through shade and depth can see.That this man's crime was but to worship thee,Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice,The call'd of yore; wont by the Saviour's side,On the dim Olive‐Mount to pray at eventide. XXVII. For the strong spirit will at times awake,Piercing the mists that wrap her clay‐abode;And, born of thee, she may not always takeEarth's accents for the oracles of God;And ev'n for this—O dust, whose mask is power!Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour!Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod,And therefore thou destroyest!—where were flownOur hope, if man were left to man's decree alone? XXVIII. But this I felt not yet. I could but gazeOn him, my friend; while that swift moment threwA sudden freshness back on vanish'd days,Like water‐drops on some dim picture's hue;Calling the proud time up, when first I stoodWhere banners floated, and my heart's quick bloodSprang to a torrent as the clarion blew,And he—his sword was like a brother's worn,That watches through the field his mother's youngest born. XXIX. But a lance met me in that day's career,Senseless I lay amidst th' o'ersweeping fight,Wakening at last—how full, how strangely clear,That scene on memory flash'd!—the shivery light,Moonlight, on broken shields—the plain of slaughter,The fountain‐side—the low sweet sound of water—And Alvar bending o'er me—from the nightCovering me with his mantle!—all the pastFlow'd back—my soul's far chords all answer'd to the blast. XXX. Till, in that rush of visions, I becameAs one that by the bands of slumber wound,Lies with a powerless, but all‐thrilling frame,Intense in consciousness of sight and sound,Yet buried in a wildering dream which bringsLov'd faces round him, girt with fearful things!Troubled ev'n thus I stood, but chain'd and boundOn that familiar form mine eye to keep——Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep! XXXI. He pass'd me—and what next?—I look'd on two,Following his footsteps to the same dread place,For the same guilt—his sisters 5!—Well I knewThe beauty on those brows, though each young faceWas chang'd—so deeply chang'd!—a dungeon's airIs hard for lov'd and lovely things to bear,And ye, O daughters of a lofty race,Queen‐like Theresa! radiant Inez!—flowersSo cherish'd! were ye then but rear'd for those dark hours? XXXII. A mournful home, young sisters! had ye left,With your lutes hanging hush'd upon the wall,And silence round the aged man, bereftOf each glad voice, once answering to his call.Alas, that lonely father! doom'd to pineFor sounds departed in his life's decline,And, midst the shadowing banners of his hall,With his white hair to sit, and deem the nameA hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame6! XXXIII. And woe for you, midst looks and words of love,And gentle hearts and faces, nurs'd so long!How had I seen you in your beauty move,Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song!—Yet sat, ev'n then, what seem'd the crowd to shun,Half veil'd upon the clear pale brow of one,And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong,Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery sway,Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay. XXXIV. And if she mingled with the festive train,It was but as some melancholy starBeholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,In its bright stillness present, though afar.Yet would she smile—and that, too, hath its smile—Circled with joy which reach'd her not the while,And bearing a lone spirit, not at warWith earthly things, but o'er their form and hueShedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true. XXXV. But the dark hours wring forth the hidden mightWhich hath lain bedded in the silent soul,A treasure all undreamt of;—as the nightCalls out the harmonies of streams that rollUnheard by day. It seem'd as if her breastHad hoarded energies, till then suppress'dAlmost with pain, and bursting from control,And finding first that hour their pathway free:—Could a rose brave the storm, such might her emblem be! XXXVI. For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hungOn her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn,Was fled; and fire, like prophecy's had sprungClear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn—Pride—sense of wrong—ay, the frail heart is boundBy these at times, ev'n as with adamant round,Kept so from breaking!—yet not thus upborneShe mov'd, though some sustaining passion's waveLifted her fervent soul—a sister for the brave! XXXVII. And yet, alas! to see the strength which clingsRound woman in such hours!—a mournful sight,Though lovely!—an o'erflowing of the springs,The full springs of affection, deep as bright!And she, because her life is ever twin'dWith other lives, and by no stormy windMay thence be shaken, and because the lightOf tenderness is round her, and her eyeDoth weep such passionate tears—therefore she thus can die. XXXVIII. Therefore didst thou, through that heart‐shaking scene,As through a triumph move; and cast asideThine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory's mien,O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide,And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth,Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth,Where thy glad soul from earth was purified;Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the past,That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last. XXXIX. For thou hadst made no deeper love a guestMidst thy young spirit's dreams, than that which growsBetween the nurtur'd of the same fond breast,The shelter'd of one roof; and thus it roseTwin'd in with life.—How is it, that the hoursOf the same sport, the gathering early flowersRound the same tree, the sharing one repose,And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft,From the heart's memory fade, in this world's breath, so oft? XL. But thee that breath had touch'd not; thee, nor him,The true in all things found!—and thou wert blestEv'n then, that no remember'd change could dimThe perfect image of affection, press'dLike armour to thy bosom!—thou hadst keptWatch by that brother's couch of pain, and wept,Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when restFled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faithUnto thy soul—one light, one hope ye chose—one death. XLI. So didst thou pass on brightly!—but for her,Next in that path, how may her doom be spoken!—All‐merciful! to think that such things were,And are, and seen by men with hearts unbroken!To think of that fair girl, whose path had beenSo strew'd with rose‐leaves, all one fairy scene!And whose quick glance came ever as a tokenOf hope to drooping thought, and her glad voiceAs a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods rejoice! XLII. And she to die!—she lov'd the laughing earthWith such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers!—Was not her smile even as the sudden birthOf a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers?Yes! but to meet her fawn‐like step, to hearThe gushes of wild song, so silvery clear,Which, oft unconsciously, in happier hoursFlow'd from her lips, was to forget the swayOf Time and Death below,—blight, shadow, dull decay! XLIII. Could this change be?—the hour, the scene, where lastI saw that form, came floating o'er my mind:—A golden vintage‐eve;—the heats were pass'd,And, in the freshness of the fanning wind,Her father sat, where gleam'd the first faint starThrough the lime‐boughs; and with her light guitar,She, on the greensward at his feet reclin'd,In his calm face laugh'd up; some shepherd‐laySinging, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play. XLIV. And now—oh God!—the bitter fear of death,The sore amaze, the faint o'ershadowing dread,Had grasp'd her!—panting in her quick‐drawn breath,And in her white lips quivering;—onward led,She look'd up with her dim bewilder'd eyes,And there smil'd out her own soft brilliant skies,Far in their sultry southern azure spread,Glowing with joy, but silent!—still they smil'd,Yet sent down no reprieve for earth's poor trembling child. XLV. Alas! that earth had all too strong a hold,Too fast, sweet Inez! on thy heart, whose bloomWas given to early love, nor knew how coldThe hours which follow. There was one, with whom,Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried,Thou might'st, perchance, unshrinkingly have died;But he was far away;—and with thy doomThus gathering, life grew so intensely dear,That all thy slight frame shook with its cold mortal fear! XLVI. No aid!—thou too didst pass!—and all had pass'd,The fearful—and the desperate—and the strong!Some like the bark that rushes with the blast,Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along,And some as men, that have but one more fieldTo fight, and then may slumber on their shield,Therefore they arm in hope. But now the throngRoll'd on, and bore me with their living tide,Ev'n as a bark wherein is left no power to guide. XLVII. Wave swept on wave. We reach'd a stately square,Deck'd for the rites. An altar stood on high,And gorgeous, in the midst. A place for prayer,And praise, and offering. Could the earth supplyNo fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of allWhich on her sunny lap unheeded fall?No fair young firstling of the flock to die,As when before their God the Patriarchs stood?—Look down! man brings thee, Heaven! his brother's guiltless blood! XLVIII. Hear its voice, hear!—a cry goes up to thee,From the stain'd sod;—make thou thy judgment knownOn him, the shedder!—let his portion beThe fear that walks at midnight—give the moanIn the wind haunting him a power to say"Where is thy brother?"—and the stars a rayTo search and shake his spirit, when aloneWith the dread splendor of their burning eyes!—So shall earth own thy will—mercy, not sacrifice! XLIX. Sounds of triumphant praise!—the mass was sung——Voices that die not might have pour'd such strains!Thro' Salem's towers might that proud chant have rung,When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains,Had quell'd her foes!—so full it swept, a seaOf loud waves jubilant, and rolling free!—Oft when the wind, as thro' resounding fanes,Hath fill'd the choral forests with its power,Some deep tone brings me back the music of that hour. L. It died away;—the incense‐cloud was drivenBefore the breeze—the words of doom were said;And the sun faded mournfully from Heaven,—He faded mournfully! and dimly red,Parting in clouds from those that look'd their last,And sigh'd—"farewell, thou sun!"—Eve glow'd and pass'd—Night—midnight and the moon—came forth and shedSleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot—Save one—a place of death—and there men slumber'd not. LI. 'Twas not within the city7—but in sightOf the snow‐crown'd sierras, freely sweeping,With many an eagle's eyrie on the height,And hunter's cabin, by the torrent peepingFar off: and vales between, and vineyards lay,With sound and gleam of waters on their way,And chesnut‐woods, that girt the happy sleeping,In many a peasant‐home!—the midnight skyBrought softly that rich world round those who came to die. LII. The darkly‐glorious midnight sky of Spain,Burning with stars!—What had the torches' glareTo do beneath that Temple, and profaneIts holy radiance?—By their wavering flare,I saw beside the pyres—I see thee now,O bright Theresa! with thy lifted brow,And thy clasp'd hands, and dark eyes fill'd with prayer!And thee, sad Inez! bowing thy fair head,And mantling up thy face, all colourless with dread! LIII. And Alvar, Alvar!—I beheld thee too,Pale, stedfast, kingly; till thy clear glance fellOn that young sister; then perturb'd it grew,And all thy labouring bosom seem'd to swellWith painful tenderness. Why came I there,That troubled image of my friend to bear,Thence, for my after‐years?—a thing to dwellIn my heart's core, and on the darkness rise,Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful eyes? LIV. Why came I? oh! the heart's deep mystery!—WhyIn man's last hour doth vain affection's gazeFix itself down on struggling agony,To the dimm'd eye‐balls freezing, as they glaze?It might be—yet the power to will seem'd o'er—That my soul yearn'd to hear his voice once more!But mine was fetter'd!—mute in strong amaze,I watch'd his features as the night‐wind blew,And torch‐light or the moon's pass'd o'er their marble hue. LV. The trampling of a steed!—a tall white steed,Rending his fiery way the crowds among—A storm's way through a forest—came at speed,And a wild voice cried "Inez!" Swift she flungThe mantle from her face, and gaz'd around,With a faint shriek at that familiar sound,And from his seat a breathless rider sprung,And dash'd off fiercely those who came to part,And rush'd to that pale girl, and clasp'd her to his heart. LVI. And for a moment all around gave wayTo that full burst of passion!—on his breast,Like a bird panting yet from fear she lay,But blest—in misery's very lap—yet blest!—Oh love, love, strong as death!—from such an hourPressing out joy by thine immortal power,Holy and fervent love! had earth but restFor thee and thine, this world were all too fair!How could we thence be wean'd to die without despair? LVII. But she—as falls a willow from the storm,O'er its own river streaming—thus reclin'dOn the youth's bosom hung her fragile form,And clasping arms, so passionately twin'dAround his neck—with such a trusting fold,A full deep sense of safety in their hold,As if nought earthly might th' embrace unbind!Alas! a child's fond faith, believing stillIts mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to kill! LVIII. Brief rest! upon the turning billow's height,A strange sweet moment of some heavenly strain,Floating between the savage gusts of night,That sweep the seas to foam! Soon dark againThe hour—the scene—th' intensely present, rush'dBack on her spirit, and her large tears gush'dLike blood‐drops from a victim; with swift rainBathing the bosom where she lean'd that hour,As if her life would melt into th' o'erswelling shower. LIX. But he, whose arm sustain'd her!—oh! I knew'Twas vain, and yet he hop'd!—he fondly stroveBack from her faith her sinking soul to woo,As life might yet be hers!—A dream of loveWhich could not look upon so fair a thing,Remembering how like hope, like joy, like spring,Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move,And deem that men indeed, in very truth,Could mean the sting of death for her soft flowering youth! LX. He woo'd her back to life.—"Sweet Inez, live!My blessed Inez!—visions have beguil'dThy heart—abjure them!—thou wert form'd to give,And to find, joy; and hath not sunshine smil'dAround thee ever? Leave me not, mine own!Or earth will grow too dark!—for thee alone,Thee have I lov'd, thou gentlest! from a child,And borne thine image with me o'er the sea,Thy soft voice in my soul—speak!—Oh! yet live for me!" LXI. She look'd up wildly; these were anxious eyesWaiting that look—sad eyes of troubled thought,Alvar's—Theresa's!—Did her childhood rise,With all its pure and home‐affections fraught,In the brief glance?—She clasp'd her hands—the strifeOf love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life,Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought,It seem'd as if a reed so slight and weakMust, in the rending storm not quiver only—break! LXII. And thus it was—the young cheek flush'd and faded,As the swift blood in currents came and went,And hues of death the marble brow o'ershaded,And the sunk eye a watery lustre sentThro' its white fluttering lids. Then tremblings pass'dO'er the frail form, that shook it, as the blastShakes the sere leaf, until the spirit rentIts way to peace—the fearful way unknown—Pale in love's arms she lay—she!—what had lov'd was gone! LXIII. Joy for thee, trembler!—thou redeem'd one, joy!Young dove set free! earth, ashes, soulless clay,Remain'd for baffled vengeance to destroy;—Thy chain was riven!—nor hadst thou cast awayThy hope in thy last hour!—though love was thereStriving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer,And life seem'd robed in beautiful array,Too fair to leave!—but this might be forgiven,Thou wert so richly crown'd with precious gifts of Heaven! LXIV. But woe for him who felt the heart grow still,Which, with its weight of agony, had lainBreaking on his!—Scarce could the mortal chillOf the hush'd bosom, ne'er to heave again,And all the silence curdling round the eye,Bring home the stern belief that she could die,That she indeed could die!—for wild and vainAs hope might be—his soul had hoped—'twas o'er——Slowly his failing arms dropp'd from the form they bore. LXV. They forc'd him from that spot.—It might be well,That the fierce, reckless words by anguish wrungFrom his torn breast, all aimless as they fell,Like spray‐drops from the strife of torrents flung,Were mark'd as guilt.—There are, who note these thingsAgainst the smitten heart; its breaking strings—On whose low thrills once gentle music hung—With a rude hand of touch unholy trying,And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange tones replying. LXVI. But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair!Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust;I saw your features by the torch's glare,And they were brightening with a heavenward trust!I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay,Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away,And peace was there—the calmness of the just!And, bending down the slumberer's brow to kiss,"Thy rest is won," he said :—"sweet sister! praise for this!" LXVII. I started as from sleep;—yes! he had spoken—A breeze had troubled memory's hidden source!At once the torpor of my soul was broken—Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force.—There are soft breathings in the southern wind,That so your ce‐chains, O ye streams! unbind,And free the foaming swiftness of your course!—I burst from those that held me back, and fellEv'n on his neck, and cried—"Friend, brother! fare thee well!" LXVIII. Did he not say "Farewell?"—Alas! no breathCame to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the throngTold that the mysteries in the face of deathHad from their eager sight been veil'd too long.And we were parted as the surge might partThose that would die together, true of heart.—His hour was come—but in mine anguish strong,Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea,Blindly I rush'd away from that which was to be. LXIX. Away—away I rush'd;—but swift and highThe arrowy pillars of the firelight grew,Till the transparent darkness of the skyFlush'd to a blood‐red mantle in their hue;And, phantom‐like, the kindling city seem'dTo spread, float, wave, as on the wind they stream'd,With their wild splendour chasing me!—I knewThe death‐work was begun—I veil'd mine eyes,Yet stopp'd in spell‐bound fear to catch the victims' cries, LXX. What heard I then?—a ringing shriek of pain,Such as for ever haunts the tortur'd ear?—I heard a sweet and solemn‐breathing strainPiercing the flames, untremulous and clear!—The rich, triumphal tones!—I knew them well,As they came floating with a breezy swell!Man's voice was there—a clarion voice to cheerIn the mid‐battle—ay, to turn the flying—Woman's—that might have sung of Heaven beside the dying! LXXI. It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing,To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and knowThat its glad stream of melody could springUp from th' unsounded gulfs of human woe!Alvar! Theresa!—what is deep? what strong?—God's breath within the soul!—It fill'd that songFrom your victorious voices!—but the glowOn the hot air and lurid skies increas'd——Faint grew the sounds—more faint—I listen'd—they had ceas'd! LXXII. And thou indeed hadst perish'd, my soul's friend!I might form other ties—but thou aloneCouldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend,By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown!Others might aid me onward:—Thou and IHad mingled the fresh thoughts that early die,Once flowering—never more!—And thou wert gone!Who could give back my youth, my spirit free,Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me? LXXIII. And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave!I could not weep!—there gather'd round thy nameToo deep a passion!—thou denied a grave!Thou, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame!Had I not known thy heart from childhood's time?Thy heart of hearts?—and couldst thou die for crime?—No! had all earth decreed that death of shame,I would have set, against all earth's decree,Th' inalienable trust of my firm soul in thee! LXXIV. There are swift hours in life—strong, rushing hours,That do the work of tempests in their might!They shake down things that stood as rocks and towersUnto th' undoubting mind;—they pour in lightWhere it but startles—like a burst of dayFor which th' uprooting of an oak makes way;—They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight,They touch with fire, thought's graven page, the rollStamp'd with past years—and lo! it shrivels as a scroll! LXXV. And this was of such hours!—the sudden flowOf my soul's tide seem'd whelming me; the glareOf the red flames, yet rocking to and fro,Scorch'd up my heart with breathless thirst for air,And solitude, and freedom. It had beenWell with me then, in some vast desert scene,To pour my voice out, for the winds to bearOn with them, wildly questioning the sky,Fiercely th' untroubled stars, of man's dim destiny. LXXVI. I would have call'd, adjuring the dark cloud;To the most ancient Heavens I would have said—"Speak to me! show me truth 8!"—through night aloudI would have cried to him, the newly dead,"Come back! and show me truth!"—My spirit seem'dGasping for some free burst, its darkness teem'dWith such pent storms of thought!—again I fled—I fled, a refuge from man's face to gain,Scarce conscious when I paus'd, entering a lonely fane. LXXVII. A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast!Silence was round the sleepers, whom its floorShut in the grave; a shadow of the past,A memory of the sainted steps that woreErewhile its gorgeous pavement, seem'd to broodLike mist upon the stately solitude,A halo of sad fame to mantle o'erIts white sepulchral forms of mail‐clad men,And all was hush'd as night in some deep Alpine glen. LXXVIII. More hush'd, far more!—for there the wind sweeps by,Or the woods tremble to the streams' loud play!Here a strange echo made my very sighSeem for the place too much a sound of day!Too much my footstep broke the moonlight, fading,Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading;And I stood still:—prayer, chant, had died away,Yet past me floated a funereal breathOf incense.—I stood still—as before God and death! LXXIX. For thick ye girt me round, ye long‐departed9!Dust—imaged form—with cross, and shield, and crest;It seem'd as if your ashes would have started,Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest!Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yoreBear to your thrilling presence what I boreOf wrath—doubt—anguish—battling in the breast!I could have pour'd out words, on that pale air,To make your proud tombs ring:—no, no! I could not there! LXXX. Not midst those aisles, through which a thousand yearsMutely as clouds and reverently had swept;Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tearsAnd kneeling votaries on their marble kept!Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloomAnd trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb!And you, ye dead!—for in that faith ye slept,Whose weight had grown a mountain's on my heart,Which could not there be loos'd.—I turn'd me to depart. LXXXI. I turn'd—what glimmer'd faintly on my sight,Faintly, yet brightening, as a wreath of snowSeen through dissolving haze?—The moon, the night,Had waned, and dawn pour'd in;—grey, shadowy, slow,Yet day‐spring still!—a solemn hue it caught,Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraughtWith stoles and draperies of imperial glow;And soft, and sad, that colouring gleam was thrown,Where, pale, a pictur'd form above the altar shone. LXXXII. Thy form, thou Son of God!—a wrathful deep,With foam, and cloud, and tempest, round thee spread,And such a weight of night!—a night, when sleepFrom the fierce rocking of the billows fled.A bark show'd dim beyond thee, with its mastBow'd, and its rent sail shivering to the blast;But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread,Thou, as o'er glass, didst walk that stormy seaThrough rushing winds, which left a silent path for thee LXXXIII. So still thy white robes fell!—no breath of airWithin their long and slumberous folds had sway!So still the waves of parted, shadowy hairFrom thy clear brow flow'd droopingly away!Dark were the Heavens above thee, Saviour!—darkThe gulfs, Deliverer! round the straining bark!But thou!—o'er all thine aspect and arrayWas pour'd one stream of pale, broad, silvery light——Thou wert the single star of that all‐shrouding night! LXXXIV. Aid for one sinking!—Thy lone brightness gleam'dOn his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave,With its worn, fearful; human look that seem'dTo cry through surge and blast—"I perish—save!"Not to the winds—not vainly!—thou wert nigh,Thy hand was stretch'd to fainting agony,Even in the portals of th' unquiet grave!O thou that art the life! and yet didst bearToo much of mortal woe to turn from mortal prayer! LXXXV. But was it not a thing to rise on death,With its remember'd light, that face of thine,Redeemer! dimm'd by this world's misty breath,Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine?—Oh! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye,With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty!And the pale glory of the brow!—a shrineWhere Power sat veil'd, yet shedding softly roundWhat told that thou couldst be but for a time uncrown'd! LXXXVI. And more than all, the Heaven of that sad smile!The lip of mercy, our immortal trust!Did not that look, that very look, erewhile,Pour its o'ershadow'd beauty on the dust?Wert thou not such when earth's dark cloud hung o'er thee?—Surely thou wert!—my heart grew hush'd before thee,Sinking with all its passions, as the gustSank at thy voice, along its billowy way:——What had I there to do, but kneel, and weep, and pray? LXXXVII. Amidst the stillness rose my spirit's cryAmidst the dead—"By that full cup of woe,Press'd from the fruitage of mortality,Saviour! for thee—give light! that I may knowIf by thy will, in thine all‐healing name,Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame,And early death—and say, if this be so,Where then is mercy?—whither shall we flee,So unallied to hope, save by our hold on thee? LXXXVIII. "But didst thou not, the deep sea brightly treading,Lift from despair that struggler with the wave?And wert thou not, sad tears, yet awful, shedding,Beheld, a weeper at a mortal's grave?And is this weight of anguish, which they bindOn life, this searing to the quick of mind,That but to God its own free path would crave,This crushing out of hope, and love, and youth,Thy will indeed?—Give light! that I may know the truth! LXXXIX. "For my sick soul is darken'd unto death,With shadows from the suffering it hath seenThe strong foundations of mine ancient faithSink from beneath me—whereon shall I lean?—Oh! if from thy pure lips was wrung the sighOf the dust's anguish! if like man to die,—And earth round him shuts heavily—hath beenEven to thee bitter, aid me!—guide me!—turnMy wild and wandering thoughts back from their starless bourne!" XC. And calm'd I rose:—but how the while had risenMorn's orient sun, dissolving mist and shade!—Could there indeed be wrong, or chain, or prison.In the bright world such radiance might pervade?It fill'd the fane, it mantled the pale formWhich rose before me through the pictured storm,Even the grey tombs it kindled, and array'dWith life!—how hard to see thy race begun,And think man wakes to grief, wakening to thee, O sun! XCI. I sought my home again:—and thou, my child,There at thy play beneath yon ancient pine,With eyes, whose lightning laughter10 hath beguil'dA thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine;Thou in thy mother's arms, a babe, didst meetMy coming with young smiles, which yet, though sweet,Seem'd on my soul all mournfully to shine,And ask a happier heritage for thee,Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see. XCII. Now sport, for thou are free—the bright birds chasing,Whose wings waft star‐like gleams from tree to tree;Or with the fawn, thy swift wood‐playmate racing,Sport on, my joyous child! for thou art free!Yes, on that day I took thee to my heart,And inly vow'd, for thee a better partTo choose; that so thy sunny bursts of gleeShould wake no more dim thoughts of far‐seen woe,But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on—as now they flow. XCIII. Thou hast a rich world round thee:—Mighty shadesWeaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head,With the light melting through their high arcades,As through a pillar'd cloister's11: but the deadSleep not beneath; nor doth the sunbeam passTo marble shrines through rainbow‐tinted glass;Yet thou, by fount and forest‐murmur ledTo worship, thou art blest!—to thee is shownEarth in her holy pomp, deck'd for her God alone. THE FOREST SANCTUARY.PART SECOND. Wie diese treue liebe seeleVon ihrem Glauben Voll,Der ganz alleinIhr selig machend ist, sich heilig quäle,Das sie den liebsten Mann verloren halten soll! FAUST I never shall smile more—but all my daysWalk with still footsteps and with humble eyes,An everlasting hymn within my soul.WILSON. I. BRING me the sounding of the torrent‐water,With yet a nearer swell—fresh breeze, awake12!And river, darkening ne'er with hues of slaughterThy wave's pure silvery green,—and shining lake,Spread far before my cabin, with thy zoneOf ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone!Send voices through the forest aisles, and makeGlad music round me, that my soul may dare,Cheer'd by such tones, to look back on a dungeon's air! II. Oh, Indian hunter of the desert's race!That with the spear at times, or bended bow,Dost cross my footsteps in thy fiery chaseOf the swift elk or blue hill's flying roe;Thou that beside the red night‐fire thou heapest,Beneath the cedars and the star‐light sleepest,Thou know'st not, wanderer—never may'st thou know!—Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers earth,To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons' mirth. III. There, fetter'd down from day, to think the whileHow bright in Heaven the festal sun is glowing,Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile,Flush like the rose; and how the streams are flowingWith sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass,And water‐flowers, all trembling as they pass;And how the rich dark summer‐trees are bowingWith their full foliage;—this to know, and pineBound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot—'twas mine. IV. Wherefore was this?—Because my soul had drawnLight from the book whose words are grav'd in light!There, at its well‐head, had I found the dawn,And day, and noon of freedom:—but too brightIt shines on that which man to man hath given,And call'd the truth—the very truth, from Heaven!And therefore seeks he, in his brother's sight,To cast the mote; and therefore strives to bindWith his strong chains to earth, what is not earth's—the mind! V. It is a weary and a bitter taskBack from the lip the burning word to keep,And to shut out Heaven's air with falsehood's mask,And in the dark urn of the soul to heapIndignant feelings—making even of thoughtA buried treasure, which may but be soughtWhen shadows are abroad—and night—and sleep.I might not brook it long—and thus was thrownInto that grave‐like cell, to wither there alone. VI. And I a child of danger, whose delightsWere on dark hills and many‐sounding seas—I that amidst the Cordillera heightsHad given Castilian banners to the breeze,And the full circle of the rainbow seenThere, on the snows13; and in my country beenA mountain wanderer, from the PyreneesTo the Morena crags—how left I notLife, or the soul's life quench'd, on that sepulchral spot? VII. Because Thou didst not leave me, oh, my God!Thou wert with those that bore the truth of oldInto the deserts from the oppressor's rod,And made the caverns of the rock their fold,And in the hidden chambers of the dead,Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed,And met when stars met, by their beams to holdThe free heart's communing with Thee,—and ThouWert in the midst, felt, own'd—the strengthener then as now! VIII. Yet once I sank. Alas! man's wavering mind!Wherefore and whence the gusts that o'er it blow?How they bear with them, floating uncombin'd,The shadows of the past, that come and go,As o'er the deep the old long‐buried things,Which a storm's working to the surface brings!Is the reed shaken, and must we be so,With every wind?—So, Father! must we be,Till we can fix undimm'd our stedfast eyes on Thee. IX. Once my soul died within me. What had thrownThat sickness o'er it?—Even a passing thoughtOf a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o'ergrown,Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought!Perchance the damp roof's water‐drops, that fellJust then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell,Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caughtSome tone from memory, of the music, wellingEver with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky dwelling. X. But so my spirit's fever'd longings wrought,Wakening, it might be, to the faint sad sound,That from the darkness of the walls they broughtA lov'd scene round me, visibly around14.Yes! kindling, spreading, brightening, hue by hue,Like stars from midnight, through the gloom it grew,That haunt of youth, hope, manhood!—till the boundOf my shut cavern seem'd dissolv'd, and IGirt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of sky. XI. I look'd—and lo! the clear broad river flowing,Past the old Moorish ruin on the steep,The lone tower dark against a Heaven all glowing,Like seas of glass and fire!—I saw the sweepOf glorious woods far down the mountain side,And their still shadows in the gleaming tide,And the red evening on its waves asleep;And midst the scene—oh! more than all—there smil'dMy child's fair face, and hers, the mother of my child! XII. With their soft eyes of love and gladness rais'dUp to the flushing sky, as when we stoodLast by that river, and in silence gaz'dOn the rich world of sunset:—but a floodOf sudden tenderness my soul oppress'd,And I rush'd forward with a yearning breast,To clasp—alas! a vision!—Wave and wood,And gentle faces, lifted in the lightOf day's last hectic blush, all melted from my sight. XIII. Then darkness!—oh! th' unutterable gloomThat seem'd as narrowing round me, making lessAnd less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom,That bright dream vanish'd from my loneliness!It floated off, the beautiful!—yet leftSuch deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft,I lay down, sick with passion's vain excess,And pray'd to die.—How oft would sorrow weepHer weariness to death, if he might come like sleep! XIV. But I was rous'd—and how?—It is no taleEven midst thy shades, thou wilderness, to tell!I would not have my boy's young cheek made pale,Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befelIn that drear prison‐house.—His eye must growMore dark with thought, more earnest his fair brow,More high his heart in youthful strength must swell;So shall it fitly burn when all is told:—Let childhood's radiant mist the free child yet enfold! XV. It is enough that through such heavy hours,As wring us by our fellowship of clay,I liv'd, and undegraded. We have powersTo snatch th' oppressor's bitter joy away!Shall the wild Indian, for his savage fame,Laugh and expire, and shall not truth's high nameBear up her martyrs with all‐conquering sway?It is enough that Torture may be vain—I had seen Alvar die—the strife was won from Pain. XVI. And faint not, heart of man! though years wane slow!There have been those that from the deepest caves,And cells of night, and fastnesses, belowThe stormy dashing of the ocean‐waves,Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have nurs'dA quenchless hope, and watch'd their time, and burstOn the bright day, like wakeners from the graves!I was of such at last!—unchain'd I trodThis green earth, taking back my freedom from my God! XVII. That was an hour to send its fadeless traceDown life's far sweeping tide!—A dim, wild night,Like sorrow, hung upon the soft moon's face,Yet how my heart leap'd in her blessed light!The shepherd's light—the sailor's on the sea—The hunter's homeward from the mountains free,Where its lone smile makes tremulously brightThe thousand streams!—I could but gaze through tears—Oh! what a sight is Heaven, thus first beheld for years! XVIII. The rolling clouds!—they have the whole blue spaceAbove to sail in—all the dome of sky!My soul shot with them in their breezy raceO'er star and gloom!—but I had yet to fly,As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot,And strange, I knew—the sunbeam knew it not;—Wildest of all the savage glens that lieIn far sierras, hiding their deep springs,And travers'd but by storms, or sounding eagles' wings. XIX. Ay, and I met the storm there!—I had gain'dThe covert's heart with swift and stealthy tread:A moan went past me, and the dark trees rain'dTheir autumn foliage rustling on my head;A moan—a hollow gust—and there I stoodGirt with majestic night, and ancient wood,And foaming water.—Thither might have fledThe mountain Christian with his faith of yore,When Afric's tambour shook the ringing western shore! XX. But through the black ravine the storm came swelling—Mighty thou art amidst the hills, thou blast!In thy lone course the kingly cedars felling,Like plumes upon the path of battle cast!A rent oak thunder'd down beside my cave—Booming it rush'd, as booms a deep sea‐wave;A falcon soar'd; a startled wild‐deer pass'd;A far‐off bell toll'd faintly through the roar—How my glad spirit swept forth with the winds once more! XXI. And with the arrowy lightnings!—for they flash'd,Smiting the branches in their fitful play,And brightly shivering where the torrents dash'dUp, even to crag and eagle's nest, their spray!And there to stand amidst the pealing strife,The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life,And all the mountain‐voices on their way,—Was it not joy?—'twas joy in rushing might,After those years that wove but one long dead of night! XXII. There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon,And lit me to my home of youth again,Through the dim chesnut shade, where oft at noon,By the fount's flashing burst, my head had lain,In gentle sleep: but now I pass'd as oneThat may not pause where wood‐streams whispering run,Or light sprays tremble to a bird's wild strain,Because th' avenger's voice is in the wind,The foe's quick rustling step close on the leaves behind. XXIII. My home of youth!—oh! if indeed to partWith the soul's lov'd ones be a mournful thing,When we go forth in buoyancy of heart,And bearing all the glories of our springFor life to breathe on,—is it less to meet,When these are faded?—who shall call it sweet?—Even though love's mingling tears may haply bringBalm as they fall, too well their heavy showersTeach us how much is lost of all that once was ours! XXIV. Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow,Nor the green earth, nor yet the laughing sky,Nor the faint flower‐scents15, as they come and goIn the soft air, like music wandering by;—Oh! not by these, th' unfailing, are we taughtHow time and sorrow on our frames have wrought,But by the sadden'd eye, the darken'd brow,Of kindred aspects, and the long dim gaze,Which tells us we are chang'd,—how chang'd from other days! XXV. Before my father—in my place of birth,I stood an alien. On the very floorWhich oft had trembled to my boyish mirth,The love that rear'd me, knew my face no more!There hung the antique armour, helm and crest,Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast,There droop'd the banner, with the marks it boreOf Paynim spears; and I, the worn in frameAnd heart, what there was I?—another and the same! XXVI. Then bounded in a boy, with clear dark eye——How should he know his father?—when we parted,From the soft cloud which mantles infancy,His soul, just wakening into wonder, dartedIts first looks round. Him follow'd one, the brideOf my young days, the wife how lov'd and tried!Her glance met mine—I could not speak—she startedWith a bewilder'd gaze;—until there cameTears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her name. XXVII. She knew me then!—I murmur'd "Leonor!"And her heart answer'd!—oh! the voice is knownFirst from all else, and swiftest to restoreLove's buried images with one low tone,That strikes like lightning, when the cheek is faded,And the brow heavily with thought o'ershaded,And all the brightness from the aspect gone!—Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was fled,Weeping as those may weep, that meet in woe and dread. XXVIII. For there we might not rest. Alas! to leaveThose native towers, and know that they must fallBy slow decay, and none remain to grieveWhen the weeds cluster'd on the lonely wall!We were the last—my boy and I—the lastOf a long line which brightly thence had pass'd!My father bless'd me as I left his hall——With his deep tones and sweet, tho' full of years,He bless'd me there, and bath'd my child's young head with tears. XXIX. I had brought sorrow on his grey hairs down,And cast the darkness of my branded name(For so he deem'd it) on the clear renown,My own ancestral heritage of fame.And yet he bless'd me!—Father! if the dustLie on those lips benign, my spirit's trustIs to behold thee yet, where grief and shameDim the bright day no more; and thou wilt knowThat not thro' guilt thy son thus bow'd thine age with woe! XXX. And thou, my Leonor! that unrepining,If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me,When stars—the stars that earliest rise—are shining,How their soft glance unseals each thought of thee!For on our flight they smil'd;—their dewy rays,Thro' the last olives, lit thy tearful gazeBack to the home we never more might see;So pass'd we on, like earth's first exiles, turningFond looks where hung the sword above their Eden burning. XXXI. It was a woe to say—"Farewell, my Spain!The sunny and the vintage land, farewell!"—I could have died upon the battle plainFor thee, my country! but I might not dwellIn thy sweet vales, at peace.—The voice of songBreathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along;The citron's glow is caught from shade and dell;But what are these?—upon thy flowery sodI might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out to God! XXXII. O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep!—Strange heart of man! that ev'n midst woe swells high,When thro' the foam he sees his proud bark sweep,Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky!Yes! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind;His spirit rises with the rising wind;For, wedded to the far futurity,On, on, it bears him ever, and the mainSeems rushing, like his hope, some happier shore to gain. XXXIII. Not thus is woman. Closely her still heartDoth twine itself with ev'n each lifeless thing,Which, long remember'd, seem'd to bear its partIn her calm joys. For ever would she cling,A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earthWhere she hath loved, and given her children birth,And heard their first sweet voices. There may SpringArray no path, renew no flower, no leaf,But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell grief. XXXIV. I look'd on Leonor, and if there seem'dA cloud of more than pensiveness to rise,In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleam'd,And the soft darkness of her serious eyes,Misty with tender gloom; I call'd it noughtBut the fond exile's pang, a lingering thoughtOf her own vale, with all its melodiesAnd living light of streams. Her soul would restBeneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gorgeous west! XXXV. Oh! could we live in visions! could we holdDelusion faster, longer, to our breast,When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold,That which we see not, and are therefore blest!But they, our lov'd and loving, they to whomWe have spread out our souls in joy and gloom,Their looks and accents, unto ours address'd,Have been a language of familiar toneToo long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and unknown. XXXVI. I told my heart 'twas but the exile's woeWhich press'd on that sweet bosom;—I deceiv'dMy heart but half:—a whisper faint and low,Haunting it ever, and at times believ'd,Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seemLike those that dream, and know the while they dream,Midst the soft falls of airy voices griev'd,And troubled, while bright phantoms round them play,By a dim sense that all will float and fade away! XXXVII. Yet, as if chasing joy, I woo'd the breeze,To speed me onward with the wings of morn.—Oh! far amidst the solitary seas,Which were not made for man, what man hath borne,Answering their moan with his!—what thou didst bear,My lost and loveliest! while that secret careGrew terror, and thy gentle spirit, wornBy its dull brooding weight, gave way at last,Beholding me as one from hope for ever cast! XXXVIII. For unto thee, as thro' all change, reveal'dMine inward being lay. In other eyesI had to bow me yet, and make a shield,To fence my burning bosom, of disguise;By the still hope sustain'd, ere long to winSome sanctuary, whose green retreats within,My thoughts unfetter'd to their source might rise,Like songs and scents of morn.—But thou didst lookThro' all my soul, and thine even unto fainting shook. XXXIX. Fall'n, fall'n, I seem'd—yet, oh! not less belov'd,Tho' from thy love was pluck'd the early pride,And harshly, by a gloomy faith reproved,And sear'd with shame!—tho' each young flower had died,There was the root,—strong, living, not the lessThat all it yielded now was bitterness;Yet still such love as quits not misery's side,Nor drops from guilt its ivy‐like embrace,Nor turns away from death's its pale heroic face. XL. Yes! thou hadst follow'd me thro' fear and flight;Thou wouldst have follow'd had my pathway ledEven to the scaffold; had the flashing lightOf the rais'd axe made strong men shrink with dread,Thou, midst the hush of thousands, wouldst have beenWith thy clasp'd hands beside me kneeling seen,And meekly bowing to the shame thy head——The shame!—oh! making beautiful to viewThe might of human love—fair thing! so bravely true! XLI. There was thine agony—to love so wellWhere fear made love life's chastener.—HeretoforeWhate'er of earth's disquiet round thee fell,Thy soul, o'erpassing its dim bounds, could soarAway to sunshine, and thy clear eye speakMost of the skies when grief most touch'd thy cheek.Now, that far brightness faded! never moreCouldst thou lift heavenwards for its hope thy heart,Since at Heaven's gate it seem'd that thou and I must part. XLII. Alas! and life hath moments when a glance(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirr'd,)A flush—a fading of the cheek perchance.A word—less, less—the cadence of a word,Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath,Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with death!—Even thus, what never from thy lip was heardBroke on my soul.—I knew that in thy sightI stood—howe'er belov'd—a recreant from the light! XLIII. Thy sad sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along,——Oh! the deep soul it breath'd!—the love, the woe,The fervor, pour'd in that full gush of song,As it went floating through the fiery glowOf the rich sunset!—bringing thoughts of Spain,With all her vesper‐voices, o'er the main,Which seem'd responsive in its murmuring flow.—"Ave sanctissima!"—how oft that layHath melted from my heart the martyr‐strength away! Ave, sanctissima!'Tis night‐fall on the sea;Ora pro nobis!Our souls rise to thee! Watch us, while shadows lieO'er the dim water spread;Hear the heart's lonely sigh,—Thine, too, hath bled! Thou that hast look'd on death,Aid us when death is near!Whisper of Heaven to faith;Sweet mother, hear! Ora pro nobis!The wave must rock our sleep,Ora, mater, ora!Thou star of the deep! XLIV. "Ora pro nobis, mater!"—What a spellWas in those notes, with day's last glory dyingOn the flush'd waters!—seem'd they not to swellFrom the far dust, wherein my sires were lyingWith crucifix and sword?—Oh! yet how clearComes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear!"Ora!"—with all the purple waves replying,All my youth's visions rising in the strain——And I had thought it much to bear the rack and chain! XLV. Torture!—the sorrow of affection's eye,Fixing its meekness on the spirit's core,Deeper, and teaching more of agony,May pierce than many swords!—and this I boreWith a mute pang. Since I had vainly strivenFrom its free springs to pour the truth of HeavenInto thy trembling soul, my Leonor!Silence rose up where hearts no hope could share:—Alas! for those that love, and may not blend in prayer! XLVI. We could not pray together midst the deep,Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay,Through days of splendour, nights too bright for sleep,Soft, solemn, holy!—We were on our wayUnto the mighty Cordillera‐land,With men whom tales of that world's golden strandHad lur'd to leave their vines.—Oh! who shall sayWhat thoughts rose in us, when the tropic skyTouch'd all its molten seas with sunset's alchemy? XLVII. Thoughts no more mingled!—Then came night—th' intenseDark blue—the burning stars!—I saw thee shineOnce more, in thy serene magnificence,O Southern Cross 16! as when thy radiant signFirst drew my gaze of youth.—No, not as then;I had been stricken by the darts of menSince those fresh days, and now thy light divineLook'd on mine anguish, while within me stroveThe still small voice against the might of suffering love. XLVIII. But thou, the clear, the glorious! thou wert pouringBrilliance and joy upon the crystal wave,While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring,Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave!—Alas! I watch'd her dark religious glance,As it still sought thee through the Heaven's expanse,Bright Cross!—and knew not that I watch'd what gaveBut passing lustre—shrouded soon to be—A soft light found no more—no more on earth or sea! XLIX. I knew not all—yet something of unrestSat on my heart. Wake, ocean‐wind! I said;Waft us to land, in leafy freshness drest,Where through rich clouds of foliage o'er her head,Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by,Like singing voices, and the green earth lieStarry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread!—But the calm bound us midst the glassy main;Ne'er was her step to bend earth's living flowers again. L. Yes! as if Heaven upon the waves were sleeping,Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay,All moveless through their blue transparence keeping,The shadows of our sails, from day to day;While she—oh! strongest is the strong heart's woe—And yet I live! I feel the sunshine's glow—And I am he that look'd, and saw decaySteal o'er the fair of earth, th' ador'd too much!—It is a fearful thing to love what death may touch. LI. A fearful thing that love and death may dwellIn the same world!—She faded on—and I—Blind to the last, there needed death to tellMy trusting soul that she could fade to die!Yet, ere she parted, I had mark'd a change,—But it breath'd hope—'twas beautiful, though strange:Something of gladness in the melodyOf her low voice, and in her words a flightOf airy thought—alas! too perilously bright! LII. And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild,And quick, and eager, like the flashing gazeOf some all wondering and awakening child,That first the glories of the earth surveys.—How could it thus deceive me?—she had wornAround her, like the dewy mists of morn,A pensive tenderness through happiest days,And a soft world of dreams had seem'd to lieStill in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye. LIII. And I could hope in that strange fire!—she died,She died, with all its lustre on her mien!—The day was melting from the waters wide,And through its long bright hours her thoughts had been,It seem'd, with restless and unwonted yearning,To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turningFor her fond words were all of vintage‐scene,And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's breath——Oh! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on death! LIV. And from her lips the mountain‐songs of old,In wild faint snatches, fitfully had sprung;Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold,The "Rio verde"17, on her soul that hung,And thence flow'd forth.—But now the sun was low,And watching by my side its last red glow,That ever stills the heart, once more she sungHer own soft "Ora, mater!"—and the soundWas even like love's farewell—so mournfully profound. LV. The boy had dropp'd to slumber at our feet;——"And I have lull'd him to his smiling restOnce more!" she said:—I rais'd him—it was sweet,Yet sad, to see the perfect calm which bless'dHis look that hour;—for now her voice grew weak;And on the flowery crimson of his cheek,With her white lips a long, long kiss she press'd,Yet light, to wake him not.—Then sank her headAgainst my bursting heart.—What did I clasp?—the dead! LVI. I call'd—to call what answers not our cries—By that we lov'd to stand unseen, unheard,With the loud passion of our tears and sighsTo see but some cold glistering ringlet stirr'd,And in the quench'd eye's fixedness to gaze,All vainly searching for the parted rays;This is what waits us!—Dead!—with that chill wordTo link our bosom‐names!—For this we pourOur souls upon the dust—nor tremble to adore! LVII. But the true parting came!—I look'd my lastOn the sad beauty of that slumbering face;How could I think the lovely spirit pass'd,Which there had left so tenderly its trace?Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow—No! not like sleep to look upon art Thou,Death, death!—She lay, a thing for earth's embrace,To cover with spring‐wreaths.—For earth's?—the waveThat gives the bier no flowers—makes moan above her grave! LVIII. On the mid‐seas a knell!—for man was there,Anguish and love—the mourner with his dead!A long low‐rolling knell—a voice of prayer—Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread,—And the pale‐shining Southern Cross on high,Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky,Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red;—Were these things round me?—Such o'er memory sweepWildly when aught brings back that burial of the deep. LIX. Then the broad lonely sunrise!—and the plashInto the sounding waves 18!—around her headThey parted, with a glancing moment's flash,Then shut—and all was still. And now thy bedIs of their secrets, gentlest Leonor!Once fairest of young brides!—and never more,Lov'd as thou wert, may human tear be shedAbove thy rest!—No mark the proud seas keep,To show where he that wept may pause again to weep. LX. So the depths took thee!—Oh! the sullen senseOf desolation in that hour compress'd!Dust going down, a speck, amidst th' immenseAnd gloomy waters, leaving on their breastThe trace a weed might leave there!—Dust!—the thingWhich to the heart was as a living springOf joy, with fearfulness of love possess'd,Thus sinking!—Love, joy, fear, all crush'd to this—And the wide Heaven so far—so fathomless th' abyss! LXI. Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks lie low,What shall wake thence the dead?—Blest, blest are theyThat earth to earth entrust; for they may knowAnd tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's clayShall rise at last, and bid the young flowers bloom,That waft a breath of hope around the tomb,And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray!But thou, what cave hath dimly chamber'd thee?Vain dreams!—oh! art thou not where there is no more sea19? LXII. The wind rose free and singing:—when for ever,O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain,I could have bent my sight with fond endeavourDown, where its treasure was, its glance to strain;Then rose the reckless wind!—Before our prowThe white foam flash'd—ay, joyously—and thouWert left with all the solitary mainAround thee—and thy beauty in my heart,And thy meek sorrowing love—oh! where could that depart? LXIII. I will not speak of woe; I may not tell—Friend tells not such to friend—the thoughts which rentMy fainting spirit, when its wild farewellAcross the billows to thy grave was sent,Thou, there most lonely!—He that sits above,In his calm glory, will forgive the loveHis creatures bear each other, ev'n if blentWith a vain worship; for its close is dimEver with grief, which leads the wrung soul back to Him! LXIV. And with a milder pang if now I bearTo think of thee in thy forsaken rest,If from my heart be lifted the despair,The sharp remorse with healing influence press'd,If the soft eyes that visit me in sleepLook not reproach, though still they seem to weep;It is that He my sacrifice hath bless'd,And fill'd my bosom, through its inmost cell,With a deep chastening sense that all at last is well. LXV. Yes! thou art now—Oh! wherefore doth the thoughtOf the wave dashing o'er thy long bright hair,The sea‐weed into its dark tresses wrought,The sand thy pillow—thou that wert so fair!Come o'er me still?—Earth, earth!—it is the holdEarth ever keeps on that of earthy mould!But thou art breathing now in purer air,I well believe, and freed from all of error,Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life with terror. LXVI. And if the love which here was passing lightWent with what died not—Oh! that this we knew,But this!—that through the silence of the night,Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true,Would speak, and say, if in their far repose,We are yet aught of what we were to thoseWe call the dead!—their passionate adieu,Was it but breath, to perish?—Holier trustBe mine!—thy love is there, but purified from dust! LXVII. A thing all heavenly!—clear'd from that which hungAs a dim cloud between us, heart and mind!Loos'd from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils flungA chain, so darkly with its growth entwin'd.This is my hope!—though when the sunset fades,When forests rock the midnight on their shades,When tones of wail are in the rising wind,Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh;For the strong hours will sway this frail mortality! LXVIII. We have been wanderers since those days of woe,Thy boy and I!—As wild birds tend their young,So have I tended him—my bounding roe!The high Peruvian solitudes among;And o'er the Andes‐torrents borne his form,Where our frail bridge hath quiver'd midst the storm20.—But there the war‐notes of my country rung,And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fledTo hide in shades unpierc'd a mark'd and weary head. LXIX. But he went on in gladness—that fair child!Save when at times his bright eye seem'd to dream,And his young lips, which then no longer smil'd,Ask'd of his mother!—that was but a gleamOf Memory, fleeting fast; and then his playThrough the wide Llanos21 cheer'd again our way,And by the mighty Oronoco stream,On whose lone margin we have heard at morn,From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise‐music borne22. LXX. So like a spirit's voice! a harping tone,Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear,Such as might reach us from a world unknown,Troubling man's heart with thrills of joy and fear!'Twas sweet!—yet those deep southern shades oppress'dMy soul with stillness, like the calms that restOn melancholy waves23: I sigh'd to hearOnce more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage fann'd,And turn'd to seek the wilds of the red hunter's land. LXXI. And we have won a bower of refuge now,In this fresh waste, the breath of whose reposeHath cool'd, like dew, the fever of my brow,And whose green oaks and cedars round me close,As temple‐walls and pillars, that excludeEarth's haunted dreams from their free solitude;All, save the image and the thought of thoseBefore us gone; our lov'd of early years,Gone where affection's cup hath lost the taste of tears. LXXII. I see a star—eve's first‐born!—in whose trainPast scenes, words, looks, come back. The arrowy spireOf the lone cypress, as of wood‐girt fane,Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire;The pine gives forth its odours, and the lakeGleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake,Till every string of nature's solemn lyreIs touch'd to answer; its most secret toneDrawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its own. LXXIII. And hark! another murmur on the air,Not of the hidden rills, or quivering shades!—That is the cataract's, which the breezes bear,Filling the leafy twilight of the gladesWith hollow surge‐like sounds, as from the bedOf the blue mournful seas, that keep the dead:But they are far!—the low sun here pervadesDim forest‐arches, bathing with red goldTheir stems, till each is made a marvel to behold, LXXIV. Gorgeous, yet full of gloom!—In such an hour,The vesper‐melody of dying bellsWanders through Spain, from each grey convent's towerO'er shining rivers pour'd, and olive‐dells,By every peasant heard, and muleteer,And hamlet, round my home:—and I am here,Living again through all my life's farewells,In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was spoken,And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart—yet unbroken! LXXV. In such an hour are told the hermit's beads;With the white sail the seaman's hymn floats by:Peace be with all! whate'er their varying creeds,With all that send up holy thoughts on high!Come to me, boy!—by Guadalquivir's vines,By every stream of Spain, as day declines,Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky.—We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my child!Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the wild. LXXVI. At eve?—oh! through all hours!—From dark dreams oftAwakening, I look forth, and learn the mightOf solitude, while thou art breathing soft,And low, my lov'd one! on the breast of night:I look forth on the stars—the shadowy sleepOf forests—and the lake, whose gloomy deepSends up red sparkles to the fire‐flies' light.A lonely world!—even fearful to man's thought,But for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath sought. NOTES.

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