THE FOREST SANCTUARY.

“Long time against oppression have I fought,
And for the native liberty of faith
Have 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 sixteenth 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.]

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 fill
My heart’s clear depths with unalloy’d delight!
I hear them still, unchanged: though some from earth
Are 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 reposing
In the gray stillness of the summer morn;
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born.
Even as a fount’s remember’d gushings burst
On the parch’d traveller in his hour of thirst,
E’en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn
By 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 bear
A 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—hath power
To 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 sweeping
High o’er one gentle head. Ye rest not here!—
’Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying,
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing
Through my own chestnut groves which fill mine ear;
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell,
And for their birthplace moan, as moans the ocean-shell.

V.

Peace!—I will dash these fond regrets to earth,
Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain
From his strong pinion. Thou that gavest me birth,
And lineage, and once home,—my native Spain!
My own bright land—my fathers’ 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 shiver
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne
From 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 alone
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known?

VII.

Is it not much that I may worship Him
With naught my spirit’s breathings to control,
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim,
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll
From the far cataracts? Shall I not rejoice
That I have learn’d at last to know His voice
From man’s? I will rejoice!—my soaring soul
Now hath redeem’d her birthright of the day,
And won, through clouds, to Him her own unfetter’d way!

VIII.

And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes,
Fill’d with the love of childhood, which I see
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise;
Thou that hast breathed 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 fell
For Spain of old. Yet what if rolling waves
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves?
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel,
As 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, lived in vain.
Hear me! magnificent and ancient wild;
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main,
As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim shade
The 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 charged heart must speak,
E’en in the desert’s ear to pour itself, or break!

XI.

I see an oak before me:[290] it hath been
The crown’d one of the woods; and might have flung
Its 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:
O sweet and mournful melodies of Spain,
That lull’d my boyhood, how your memory thrills
The exile’s heart with sudden-wakening pain!
Your sounds are on the rocks:—that I might hear
Once more the music of the mountaineer!
And from the sunny vales the shepherd’s strain
Floats out, and fills the solitary place
With 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 lone,
In 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 within
The city’s gate a rush, a press, a swell
Of multitudes, their torrent-way to win;
And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell,
A dead pause following each—like that which parts
The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts
Fast 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 gate
Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown
Back 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 whom
The very features of mankind were grown
Things that bewilder’d! O’er that 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 entwined
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair
Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind
The breastplate on for fight; but brow and cheek
Seem’d theirs a torturing panoply to speak!
And there were some, from whom the very mind
Had been wrung out; they smiled—oh, startling smile,
Whence 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 moved—
Oh, how unlike all others!—the beloved,
The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eye
Grew fix’d before them, while a people’s breath
Was 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 breast
Childhood is rear’d, and at whose knee the sigh
Of its first prayer is breathed—she, too, was nigh.
But life is dear, and the free footstep bless’d,
And home a sunny place, where each may fill
Some 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 wave
Soon leaps to foaming freedom; they, the brave,
Endured—they saw the martyr’s place assign’d
In the red flames—whence is the withering spell
That numbs each human pulse? They saw, and thought it well.

XX.

And I, too, thought it well! That very morn
From a far land I came, yet round me clung
The spirit of my own. No hand had torn
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe
I watch’d the fearful rites; and if there sprung
One 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 waken,
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken,
And they must battle till their blood is shed
On their own threshold floor. A path for light
Through my torn breast was shatter’d by the might
Of the swift thunder-stroke; and freedom’s tread
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain,
Making the blighted place all green with life again.

XXII.

Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass
Of 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 moved before me but as pictures, wrought
Each 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 laid
Bare, 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 blood!—
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams
Smote 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—even as mountain deer,
Hemm’d in our camp; but through the javelin shower
We 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’d
More nobly far, my Alvar!—making known
The might of truth;[291] and be thy memory cherish’d
With theirs, the thousands that around her throne
Have pour’d their lives out smiling, in that doom
Finding 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 sight
Not 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 take
Earth’s accents for the oracles of God;
And even 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 flown
Our hopes, if man were left to man’s decree alone!

XXVIII.

But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze
On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw
A sudden freshness back on vanish’d days,
Like water-drops on some dim picture’s hue;
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood
Where banners floated, and my heart’s quick blood
Sprang 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 the 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 night
Covering me with his mantle. All the past
Flow’d back; my soul’s far chords all answer’d to the blast.

XXX.

Till, in that rush of visions, I became
As 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 brings
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things!
Troubled even thus I stood, but chain’d and bound
On 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![292] Well I knew
The beauty on those brows, though each young face
Was changed—so deeply changed!—a dungeon’s air
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear.
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race,
Queen-like Theresa! radiant Inez!—flowers
So 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, bereft
Of each glad voice once answering to his call.
Alas, that lonely father! doom’d to pine
For sounds departed in his life’s decline;
And, midst the shadowing banners of his hall,
With his white hair to sit, and deem the name
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame![293]

XXXIII.

And woe for you, midst looks and words of love,
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long!
How had I seen you in your beauty move,
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song!—
Yet sat, even then, what seem’d the crowd to shun,
Half-veil’d upon the pale clear 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 star
Beholds 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 war
With earthly things, but o’er their form and hue
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true.

XXXV.

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might
Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul,
A treasure all undreamt of,—as the night
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll
Unheard by day. It seem’d as if her breast
Had hoarded energies, till then suppress’d
Almost 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 hung
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn,
Was fled; and fire, like prophecy’s, had sprung
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn—
Pride—sense of wrong; ay, the frail heart is bound
By these at times, even as with adamant round,
Kept so from breaking! Yet not thus upborne
She moved, though some sustaining passion’s wave
Lifted her fervent soul—a sister for the brave!

XXXVII.

And yet, alas! to see the strength which clings
Round 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 twined
With other lives, and by no stormy wind
May thence be shaken, and because the light
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye
Doth 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 aside
Thine 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 guest,
Midst thy young spirit’s dreams, than that which grows
Between the nurtured of the same fond breast,
The shelter’d of one roof; and thus it rose
Twined in with life. How is it that the hours
Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers
Round 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 hath touch’d not; thee, nor him,
The true in all things found!—and thou wert blest
Even then, that no remember’d change could dim
The perfect image of affection, press’d
Like armour to thy bosom! Thou hadst kept
Watch by thy brother’s couch of pain, and wept,
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest
Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith
Unto 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 been
So strew’d with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene!
And whose quick glance came ever as a token
Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice
As a free bird’s in spring, that makes the woods rejoice!

XLII.

And she to die!—she loved the laughing earth
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers!
Was not her smile even as the sudden birth
Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers?
Yes! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear,
Which oft, unconsciously, in happier hours
Flow’d from her lips, was to forget the sway
Of Time and Death below, blight, shadow, dull decay!

XLIII.

Could this change be? The hour, the scene, where last
I 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 star
Through the lime-boughs; and with her light guitar,
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined,
In his calm face laugh’d up; some shepherd lay
Singing, 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 smiled out her own soft brilliant skies,
Far in their sultry southern azure spread,
Glowing with joy, but silent!—still they smiled,
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 bloom
Was given to early love, nor knew how cold
The hours which follow. There was one, with whom,
Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried,
Thou mightst, perchance, unshrinkingly have died:
But he was far away; and with thy doom
Thus 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 field
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield,—
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the throng
Roll’d on, and bore me with their living tide,
Even 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 supply
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all
Which 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 known
On him the shedder!—let his portion be
The fear that walks at midnight—give the moan
In the wind haunting him, a power to say,
“Where is thy brother?”—and the stars a ray
To search and shake his spirit, when alone
With the dread splendour 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!
Through 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 sea
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free!
—Oft when the wind, as through 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 driven
Before 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 shed
Sleep, 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 city—[294] but in sight
Of the snow-crown’d sierras, freely sweeping,
With many an eagle’s eyrie on the height,
And hunter’s cabin, by the torrent peeping
Far off: and vales between, and vineyards lay,
With sound and gleam of waters on their way,
And chestnut woods, that girt the happy sleeping
In many a peasant home!—the midnight sky
Brought 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’ glare
To do beneath that temple, and profane
Its 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, steadfast, kingly: till thy clear glance fell
On that young sister; then perturb’d it grew,
And all thy labouring bosom seem’d to swell
With painful tenderness. Why came I there,
That troubled image of my friend to bear
Thence, for my after-years?—a thing to dwell
In my heart’s core, and on the darkness rise,
Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful eyes?

LIV.