[199] The original of the scene here described is presented by the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse:—“Des masses énormes de rochers, entassées l’une sur l’autre depuis le sommet de la montagne jusqu’à son pied, viennent y présenter un aspect superbe qu’ aucune description ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des géans, qui en se livrant un combat du haut des montagnes, lancèrent les uns sur les autres ces énormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beaucoup de peine, jusqu’au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant un sentier qui passe à côté de cette chaine de rochers. On entend continuellement un bruit sourd, qui parait venir d’un ruisseau au dessous des rochers; mais on a beau descendre, on se glissant à travers les ouvertures qui s’y trouvent, on ne découvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensäule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu’à la moitié de la montagne; c’est un bloc de granit taillé, d’une longueur de 30 pieds et d’un diamétre de 4 pieds. Il y a plus de probabilité de croire que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une colonne pour l’ériger en l’honneur de leur dieu Odin, que de prétendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains aient eu le dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d’une forme presque carrée, qu’ on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel du géant,) qui, à en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, était destiné à servir de piédestal à la colonnade susdite.”—Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin.

[200] Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the German minstrels in the Middle Ages.

THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS.

Call it not loneliness to dwell
In woodland shade or hermit dell,
Or the deep forest to explore,
Or wander Alpine regions o’er;
For nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:—
A bird’s light wing may break the air,
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there;
A bee the mountain flowers may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak;
An eagle, rushing to the sky,
Wake the deep echoes with his cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice though not of man is near.
But he, whose weary step hath traced
Mysterious Afric’s awful waste—
Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath view’d,
Can tell thee what is solitude!
It is to traverse lifeless plains,
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands and dazzling sky
Seem boundless as infinity!
It is to sink, with speechless dread,
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread,
Sever’d from earthly being’s trace,
Alone amidst eternal space!
’Tis noon—and fearfully profound,
Silence is on the desert round;
Alone she reigns, above, beneath,
With all the attributes of death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare,
No insect bide the scorching air;
The ostrich, though of sunborn race,
Seeks a more shelter’d dwelling-place;
The lion slumbers in his lair,
The serpent shuns the noontide glare.
But slowly wind the patient train
Of camels o’er the blasted plain,
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.
—Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high,
As a volcano, flame the sky;
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow
The dark-red seas of sand below;
Though not a shadow, save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown.
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide,
Reflects the date-tree on its side—
Speed on! pure draughts and genial air,
And verdant shade, await you there.
Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown
That hath not trod the burning zone!
Forward they press—they gaze dismay’d—
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapours that elude
The eye, the lip, they vainly woo’d.[201]
What meteor comes? A purple haze
Hath half obscured the noontide rays:[202]
Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere.
Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom,
Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces—till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath pass’d,
Far bearing o’er the sandy wave
The viewless Angel of the Grave.
It came—’tis vanish’d—but hath left
The wanderers e’en of hope bereft;
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame,
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame.
Faint with despondence, worn with toil,
They sink upon the burning soil,
Resign’d, amidst those realms of gloom,
To find their deathbed and their tomb.[203]
But onward still!—yon distant spot
Of verdure can deceive you not;
Yon palms, which tremulously seem’d
Reflected as the waters gleam’d,
Along th’ horizon’s verge display’d,
Still rear their slender colonnade—
A landmark, guiding o’er the plain
The Caravan’s exhausted train.
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss
The desert’s emerald oasis!
A rainbow on the torrent’s wave,
A gem embosom’d in the grave,
A sunbeam on a stormy day
Its beauty’s image might convey!
Beauty, in horror’s lap that sleeps,
While silence round her vigil keeps.
Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid
To slumber in th’ acacia shade:
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise
Their aromatic breath diffuse;
Where softer light the sunbeams pour
Through the tall palm and sycamore;
And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendant clusters o’er your heads.
Nature once more, to seal your eyes,
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies;
Again each heart the music hails
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales:
And oh! to Afric’s child how dear
The voice of fountains gushing near!
Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams
Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent’s venom’d coil
From the brief respite won by toil;
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose—
The hosts, to whom the desert’s breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death.
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless,
With life’s best balm—Forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.
The day hath closed—the moon on high
Walks in her cloudless majesty.
A thousand stars to Afric’s heaven
Serene magnificence have given—
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame
Shines forth eternally the same.
Blest be their beams, whose holy light
Shall guide the camel’s footsteps right,
And lead, as with a track divine,
The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine!
—Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu!
Again your lonely march pursue,
While airs of night are freshly blowing,
And heavens with softer beauty glowing.
’Tis silence all: the solemn scene
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien;
For giant-rocks, at distance piled,
Cast their deep shadows o’er the wild.
Darkly they rise—what eye hath view’d
The caverns of their solitude?
Away! within those awful cells
The savage lord of Afric dwells!
Heard ye his voice?—the lion’s roar
Swells as when billows break on shore.
Well may the camel shake with fear,
And the steed pant—his foe is near.
Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw
Far o’er the waste, a ruddy glow;
Keep vigil—guard the bright array
Of flames that scare him from his prey;
Within their magic circle press,
O wanderers of the wilderness!
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze,
Tell the wild tales of elder days,—
Arabia’s wond’rous lore, that dwells
On warrior deeds and wizard spells;
Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these,
Rising to vanish with the breeze;
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed
Their light where mortal may not tread;
And spirits, o’er whose pearly halls
Th’ eternal billow heaves and falls.
—With charms like these, of mystic power,
Watchers! beguile the midnight hour.
Slowly that hour hath roll’d away,
And star by star withdraws its ray.
Dark children of the sun! again
Your own rich orient hails his reign.
He comes, but veil’d—with sanguine glare
Tinging the mists that load the air;
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame,
Th’ approaching hurricane proclaim.
’Tis death’s red banner streams on high—
Fly to the rocks for shelter!—fly!
Lo! dark’ning o’er the fiery skies,
The pillars of the desert rise!
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling,
A giant-host, the heavens concealing,
They move, like mighty genii-forms,
Towering immense midst clouds and storms.
Who shall escape!—with awful force
The whirlwind bears them on their course;
They join, they rush resistless on—
The landmarks of the plain are gone;
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced,
Of those who trod the burning waste!
All whelm’d, all hush’d!—none left to bear
Sad record how they perish’d there!
No stone their tale of death shall tell—
The desert guards its mysteries well;
And o’er th’ unfathom’d sandy deep,
Where low their nameless relics sleep,
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread,
Nor know his steps are on the dead.

[201] The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water.

[202] See the description of the Simoom in Bruce’s Travels.

[203] The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers.

MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

[“Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him:—“Marius, I come from the Prætor Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will support the Senate’s decree, and treat you as a public enemy.” Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired what answer he should carry to the governor. “Go and tell him,” said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, “that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage.”—Plutarch.]

’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high
With fierce resplendence fill’d th’ unclouded sky;
No zephyr waved the palm’s majestic head,
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread;
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light,
Silent and lonely, as at dead of night,
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes
Had strew’d their precious marble o’er the plains;
Dark weeds and grass the column had o’ergrown,
The lizard bask’d upon the altar stone;
Whelm’d by the ruins of their own abodes,
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods;
While near—dread offspring of the burning day!
Coil’d midst forsaken halls the serpent lay.
There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer’s high yet faded mien
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:—
Shadow’d, not veil’d, by locks of wintry snow,
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow’d brow;
Time had not quench’d the terrors of his eye,
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency;
While the deep meaning of his features told
Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d,
Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d;
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm.
—But slow his step—and where, not yet o’erthrown,
Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone,
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.
He slept—and darkly, on his brief repose,
Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head,
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain,
The kingly shadow seem’d to lift his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!
“And sleep’st thou, Roman?” cried his voice austere;
“Shall son of Latium find a refuge here?
Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate,
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate!
Go! with her children’s flower, the free, the brave,
People the silent chambers of the grave:
So shall the course of ages yet to be,
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!
“Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come,
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom;
I see the trophies of her pride decay,
And her long line of triumphs pass away,
Lost in the depths of time—while sinks the star
That led her march of heroes from afar!
Lo! from the frozen forests of the North,
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth!
Who shall awake the mighty?—will thy woe,
City of thrones! disturb the realms below?
Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries
Summon their shadowy legions to arise,
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls!
—Barbarians revel in their ancient halls,
And their lost children bend the subject knee,
Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free.
Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high,
A creature of the empyreal—thou, whose eye
Was lightning to the earth—whose pinion waved
In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course—thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reach’d thee!—rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings;
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!
But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O’er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire’s widow veils with dust her head.
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine:
Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate!
“Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise!
Wake to obey th’ avenging Destinies!
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country’s blood
Shall swell and darken Tiber’s yellow flood!
My children’s manès call—awake! prepare
The feast they claim!—exult in Rome’s despair!
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries,
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies;
Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among,
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young!
Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!”
The vision flies—a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear;
He starts, he wakes to woe—before him stands
Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief
To seek on other shores a home for grief.
—Silent the wanderer sat—but on his cheek
The burning glow far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language where all th’ indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, “Return!
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen
Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!”

A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

A FRAGMENT.

The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave,
Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill,
The wild wind slumbers in its cave,
And heaven is cloudless—earth is still!
The pile that crowns yon savage height
With battlements of Gothic might,
Rises in softer pomp array’d,
Its massy towers half lost in shade,
Half touch’d with mellowing light!
The rays of night, the tints of time,
Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone,
O’er its rude strength and mien sublime,
A placid smile have thrown.
And far beyond, where wild and high,
Bounding the pale blue summer sky,
A mountain vista meets the eye,
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume
A pencil’d shade, a softer gloom:
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light,
Its torrents glitter through the night,
While every cave and deep recess
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness.
Scarce moving on the glassy deep
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep;
But darting from its side,
How swiftly does its boat design
A slender, silvery, waving line
Of radiance o’er the tide!
No sound is on the summer seas,
But the low dashing of the oar,
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze
Through woods that fringe the rocky shore.
That boat has reach’d the silent bay—
The dashing oar has ceased to play;
The breeze has murmur’d and has died
In forest shades, on ocean’s tide.
No step, no tone, no breath of sound
Disturbs the loneliness profound;
And midnight spreads o’er earth and main
A calm so holy and so deep,
That voice of mortal were profane
To break on nature’s sleep!
It is the hour for thought to soar
High o’er the cloud of earthly woes;
For rapt devotion to adore—
For passion to repose;
And virtue to forget her tears,
In visions of sublimer spheres!
For oh! those transient gleams of heaven,
To calmer, purer spirits given,
Children of hallow’d peace, are known
In solitude and shade alone!
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon,
To blow beneath the midnight moon,
The garish world they will not bless,
But only live in loneliness!
Hark! did some note of plaintive swell
Melt on the stillness of the air?
Or was it fancy’s powerful spell
That woke such sweetness there?
For wild and distant it arose,
Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose,
When in lone wood, or mossy cave,
He dreams beside some fountain wave,
And fairy worlds delight the eyes
Wearied with life’s realities.
Was it illusion? Yet again
Rises and falls th’ enchanted strain,
Mellow, and sweet, and faint—
As if some spirit’s touch had given
The soul of sound to harp of heaven
To soothe a dying saint!
Is it the mermaid’s distant shell,
Warbling beneath the moonlit wave?
—Such witching tones might lure full well
The seaman to his grave!
Sure from no mortal touch ye rise,
Wild, soft, aërial melodies!
—Is it the song of woodland-fay
From sparry grot, or haunted bower?
Hark! floating on, the magic lay
Draws near yon ivied tower!
Now nearer still, the listening ear
May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear;
And accents low, as if in fear,
Thus murmur, half suppress’d:—
“Awake! the moon is bright on high,
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,
The world is hush’d to rest!”
Then sinks the voice—the strain is o’er,
Its last low cadence dies along the shore.
Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song,
Swift from her tower she glides along;
No echo to her tread awakes,
Her fairy step no slumber breaks;
And, in that hour of silence deep,
While all around the dews of sleep
O’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep,
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear,
Her dark eye glistens with a tear.
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek
And sudden pause her doubts bespeak,
The lip now flush’d, now pale as death,
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!
Oh! in that moment, o’er her soul
What struggling passions claim control!
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high,
By turns have won th’ ascendency;
And as, all tremulously bright,
Streams o’er her face the beam of night,
What thousand mix’d emotions play
O’er that fair face, and melt away.
Like forms whose quick succession gleams
O’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams;
Like the swift glancing lights that rise
Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies,
And traverse ocean o’er;
So in that full, impassion’d eye
The changeful meanings rise and die,
Just seen—and then no more!
But oh! too short that pause. Again
Thrills to her heart that witching strain:—
“Awake! the midnight moon is bright:
Awake! the moments wing their flight;
Haste! or they speed in vain!”——
O call of Love! thy potent spell
O’er that weak heart prevails too well;
The “still small voice” is heard no more
That pleaded duty’s cause before,
And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone,
And pride forgot, and reason flown!
Her cheek, whose colour came and fled,
Resumes its warmest, brightest red,
Her step its quick elastic tread,
Her eye its beaming smile!
Through lonely court and silent hall,
Flits her light shadow o’er the wall;
And still that low, harmonious call
Melts on her ear the while!
Though love’s quick ear alone could tell
The words its accents faintly swell:—
“Awake! while yet the lingering night
And stars and seas befriend our flight:
Oh! haste, while all is well!”——
The halls, the courts, the gates, are past,
She gains the moonlit beach at last.
Who waits to guide her trembling feet?
Who flies the fugitive to greet?
He, to her youthful heart endear’d
By all it e’er had hoped and fear’d,
Twined with each wish, with every thought
Each day-dream fancy e’er had wrought,
Whose tints portray with flattering skill
What brighter worlds alone fulfil!
—Alas! that aught so fair should fly
Thy blighting wand, Reality!
A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore,
A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore—
Disguise that vainly strove to hide
Bearing and glance of martial pride;
For he in many a battle-scene,
On many a rampart breach had been;
Had sternly smiled at danger nigh,
Had seen the valiant bleed and die,
And proudly rear’d on hostile tower,
Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower,
Britannia’s banner high!
And though some ancient feud had taught
His Bertha’s sire to loathe his name,
More noble warrior never fought
For glory’s prize or England’s fame.
And well his dark, commanding eye,
And form and step of stately grace,
Accorded with achievements high,
Soul of emprise and chivalry,
Bright name, and generous race!
His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun,
Tells a proud tale of glory won,
Of vigil, march, and combat rude,
Valour, and toil, and fortitude!
E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threw
Warm o’er that cheek their vivid hue,
His gallant soul, his stripling form,
Had braved the battle’s rudest storm;
When England’s conquering archers stood,
And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood,
When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield,
And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field,
And France around her king in vain
Had marshall’d valour’s noblest train—
In that dread strife his lightning eye
Had flash’d with transport keen and high,
And midst the battle’s wildest tide,
Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride.
Alike that fearless heart could brave
Death on the war-field or the wave;
Alike in tournament or fight,
That ardent spirit found delight!
Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar,
Bright o’er his soul a vision came,
Rising like some benignant star,
On stormy seas or plains of war,
To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame,
The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name!
And midst the wildest rage of fight,
And in the deepest calm of night,
To her his thoughts would wing their flight
With fond devotion warm;
Oft would those glowing thoughts portray
Some home, from tumults far away,
Graced with that angel form!
And now his spirit fondly deems
Fulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams!
Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow,
In minstrel garb attends the chief?
The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow
Reveals a shade of grief.
Sorrow and time have touch’d his face
With mournful yet majestic grace,
Soft as the melancholy smile
Of sunset on some ruin’d pile!
—It is the bard, whose song had power
To lure the maiden from her tower—
The bard, whose wild inspiring lays,
E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days,
First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast,
The flame that will not be represt,
The pulse that throbs for praise!
Those lays had banish’d from his eye
The bright soft tears of infancy,
Had soothed the boy to calm repose,
Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes;
And when the light of thought awoke,
When first young reason’s day-spring broke,
More powerful still, they bade arise
His spirit’s burning energies!
Then the bright dream of glory warm’d,
Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d,
The legends of each martial line,
The battle-tales of Palestine:
And oft, since then, his deeds had proved
Themes of the lofty lays he loved!
Now, at triumphant love’s command,
Since Osbert leaves his native land,
Forsaking glory’s high career
For her than glory far more dear;
Since hope’s gay dream and meteor ray
To distant regions point his way,
That there Affection’s hands may dress
A fairy bower for happiness;
That fond devoted bard, though now
Time’s wintery garland wreathes his brow,
Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye,
And fled his spirit’s buoyancy,
And strength and enterprise are past,
Still follows constant to the last!
Though his sole wish was but to die
Midst the calm scenes of days gone by,
And all that hallows and endears
The memory of departed years—
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined
To those loved scenes his pensive mind;
Ah! what can tear the links apart
That bind his chieftain to his heart?
What smile but his with joy can light
The eye obscured by age’s night?
Last of a loved and honour’d line,
Last tie to earth in life’s decline,
Till death its lingering spark shall dim,
That faithful eye must gaze on him!
Silent and swift, with footstep light,
Haste on those fugitives of night.
They reach the boat—the rapid oar
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore:
The bark is gain’d! A gallant few,
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew;
The pennant, in the moonlight beam,
With soft suffusion glows;
From the white sail a silvery gleam
Falls on the wave’s repose;
Long shadows undulating play,
From mast and streamer, o’er the bay;
But still so hush’d the summer air,
They tremble, midst that scene so fair,
Lest morn’s first beam behold them there.
—Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night!
From river wave, or mountain height,
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers,
By haunted spring in forest bowers;
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell,
In amber grot, where mermaids dwell,
And cavern’d gems their lustre throw
O’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow?
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze,
In solitary splendour blaze,
And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear,
Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere?
What grove of that mysterious world
Holds thy light wing in slumber furl’d?
Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove:
Awake! to guide the bark of love!
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon
Shall fade the bright propitious moon;
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale,
E’en now—but lo! the rustling sail
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale!
The bark glides on—their fears are o’er;
Recedes the bold romantic shore,
Its features mingling fast.
Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eye
May still each lovely scene descry
Of years for ever past!
There wave the woods, beneath whose shade
With bounding step thy childhood play’d,
Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns,
Free as their native birds and fawns;
Listening the sylvan sounds, that float
On each low breeze, midst dells remote—
The ringdove’s deep melodious moan,
The rustling deer in thickets lone;
The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh,
The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony.
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour,
There thy own mountains darkly tower!
Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude
But thou hast loved its solitude!
No path so wild but thou hast known,
And traced its rugged course alone!
The earliest wreath that bound thy hair
Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there.
There in the day-spring of thy years,
Undimm’d by passions or by tears,
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye
Wander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky,
While the wild breeze that round thee blew,
Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue.
Pure as the skies that o’er thy head
Their clear and cloudless azure spread,
Pure as that gale whose light wing drew
Its freshness from the mountain dew,
Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high,
A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy!
Such days were thine! ere love had drawn
A cloud o’er that celestial dawn!
As the clear dews in morning’s beam
With soft reflected colouring stream,
Catch every tint of eastern gem
To form the rose’s diadem,
But vanish when the noontide hour
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower—
Thus in thy soul each calm delight,
Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright,
Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire,
Or linger’d only to expire!
Spring on thy native hills again
Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise,
And call forth, in each grassy glen,
Her brightest emerald dyes!
There shall the lonely mountain rose,
Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose;
Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream
Shall sparkle in the summer beam;
The birch, o’er precipice and cave,
Its feathery foliage still shall wave,
The ash midst rugged clefts unveil
Its coral clusters to the gale,
And autumn shed a warmer bloom
O’er the rich heath and glowing broom.
But thy light footstep there no more
Each path, each dingle shall explore.
In vain may smile each green recess,
—Who now shall pierce its loneliness?
The stream through shadowy glens may stray,
—Who now shall trace its glistening way?
In solitude, in silence deep,
Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep,
No lute’s wild swell again shall rise
To wake her mystic melodies.
All soft may blow the mountain air,
—It will not wave thy graceful hair!
The mountain rose may bloom and die,
—It will not meet thy smiling eye!
But like those scenes of vanish’d days,
Shall others ne’er delight;
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze,
Yet seem not half so bright!
O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue
Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high;
Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to view
That home of infancy!
Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power,
Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour,
But pause and linger on the deck,
Till of those towers no trace, no speck,
Is gleaming o’er the main;
For when the mist of morn shall rise,
Blending the sea, the shore, the skies,
That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes,
Shall bless them ne’er again!
There the dark tales and songs of yore
First with strange transport thrill’d thy soul,
E’en while their fearful mystic lore
From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole.
There, while thy father’s raptured ear
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear,
And in his eye the trembling tear
Reveal’d his spirit’s trance;
How oft, those echoing halls along,
Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song—
Tradition wild of other days,
Or troubadour’s heroic lays,
Or legend of romance!
Oh! many an hour has there been thine,
That memory’s pencil oft shall dress
In softer shades, and tints that shine
In mellow’d loveliness!
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears,
Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret,
The sunshine of thine early years,
Scarce deem’d so radiant—till it set!
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone,
The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known!
On rock and turret, wood and hill,
The fading moonbeams linger still,
Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower,
At evening’s last and sweetest hour,
While varying still, the western skies
Flush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes,
Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d,
Each richer, lovelier, than the last.
How oft, while gazing on the deep,
That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep,
As if its wave, so still, so fair,
More frowning mien might never wear,
The twilight calm of mental rest
Would steal in silence o’er thy breast,
And wake that dear and balmy sigh
That softly breathes the spirit’s harmony!
—Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be given
Of joy on earth—so near allied to heaven!
Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye?
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh?
Is there a grief his voice, his smile,
His words, are fruitless to beguile?
—Oh! bitter to the youthful heart,
That scarce a pang, a care has known,
The hour when first from scenes we part,
Where life’s bright spring has flown!
Forsaking, o’er the world to roam,
That little shrine of peace—our home!
E’en if delighted fancy throw
O’er that cold world, her brightest glow,
Painting its untried paths with flowers,
That will not live in earthly bowers,
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear
One breath of life’s ungenial air;)
E’en if such dreams of hope arise
As heaven alone can realise,
Cold were the breast that would not heave
One sigh, the home of youth to leave;
Stern were the heart that would not swell
To breathe life’s saddest word—farewell!
Though earth has many a deeper woe,
Though tears more bitter far must flow,
That hour, whate’er our future lot,
That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot!
Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart,
The thought, that bade the tear-drop start;
And Osbert by her side
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell
Nature’s fond struggle told too well;
And days of future bliss portray’d,
And love’s own eloquence essay’d,
To soothe his plighted bride!
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,
In that sweet land to which they fly;
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells
Of blooming Italy.
For he had roved a pilgrim there,
And gazed on many a spot so fair
It seem’d like some enchanted grove,
Where only peace, and joy, and love,
Those exiles of the world, might rove,
And breathe its heavenly air;
And, all unmix’d with ruder tone,
Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone!
Far from the frown of stern control,
That vainly would subdue the soul,
There shall their long-affianced hands
Be join’d in consecrated bands.
And in some rich, romantic vale,
Circled with heights of Alpine snow,
Where citron-woods enrich the gale,
And scented shrubs their balm exhale,
And flowering myrtles blow;
And midst the mulberry boughs on high
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry;
On some bright streamlet’s emerald side,
Where cedars wave in graceful pride,
Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise,
A shelter’d bower of paradise!
Thus would the lover soothe to rest
With tales of hope her anxious breast;
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore
Her soul’s bright visions to restore,
And bid gay phantoms of delight
Float in soft colouring o’er her sight.
——O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon,
Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon,
How oft thy spirit’s buoyant power
Will triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hour
Prevailing o’er regret!
As rears its head th’ elastic flower
Though the dark tempest’s recent shower
Hang on its petals yet!
Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smile
The aged bard to joy beguile;
Those silent years that steal away
The cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray,
Win from the mind a nobler prize,
E’en all its buoyant energies!
For him the April days are past,
When grief was but a fleeting cloud;
No transient shade will sorrow cast,
When age the spirit’s might has bow’d!
And, as he sees the land grow dim,
That native land now lost to him,
Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands,
And long in speechless grief he stands:
So desolately calm his air,
He seems an image wrought to bear
The stamp of deep, though hush’d despair.
Motion and life no sign bespeaks,
Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks,
Just waves his silvery hair!
Nought else could teach the eye to know
He was no sculptured form of woe!
Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood,
Till the cold moon was waning fast,
And many a lovely star had died,
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast
Far o’er the slumbering tide;
And, robed in one dark solemn hue,
Arose the distant shore to view.
Then, starting from his trance of woe,
Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow,
While thus his wild and plaintive strain
Blends with the murmur of the main.

THE BARD’S FAREWELL.