ZAYDE AND ZAYDA.
(From Las Guerras Civiles de Granada.’)
Lo! beneath yon haughty towers,
Where the young and gallant Zayde
Fondly chides the lingering hours,
Till they bring his lovely maid.
Evening shades are gathering round him;
Doubting fear his heart alarms;
But nor doubt nor fear can wound him,
If he views his lady’s charms.
Hark! the window softly telling,
Zayda comes to bless his sight;
Bright as sun-beams clouds dispelling,
Mild as Cynthia’s trembling light.
“Dearest, say, to what I’m fated!”
Cried the Moor, as near he drew:
“Is the tale my page related,
Loveliest lady, is it true?
“To an ancient lord thy beauty
Does thy tyrant father doom?
Must my love, the slave of duty,
Waste in age’s arms her bloom?
“If my lot be still to languish,
Thine, another’s bride to be,
Let thy lips pronounce my anguish;
‘Twill be bliss to die by thee!”
Rising sighs her grief discover;
Fast her tears, while speaking, pour—
“Zayde, my Zayde, our loves are over!
Zayde, my Zayde, we meet no more!
“Allah knows, I cherished dearly,
Fondest hopes of being thine!
Allah knows, I grieve sincerely,
When I those fond hopes resign!
“May some lady, happier, fairer,
Blest with every charm and grace,
Whose kind friends would grieve to tear her
From all comfort, fill my place:
“May all pleasures greet your bridal;
May she give you heart for heart!
Never be she from her idol
Forced, as I am now, to part!”
“Rumour did not then deceive me!”
Wild the Moor in anguish cries:
“Then ’tis true! for wealth you leave me!
Wealth has charms for Zayda’s eyes!
“Blind to beauty, cold to pleasure,
Ozmyn shall my hopes destroy!
Yes; though worthless such a treasure,
He shall Zayda’s charms enjoy!
“Fare thee well! so soon to sever
Little thought I, when you said,
“Thine it is, and thine for ever
‘Shall be Zayda’s heart, my Zayde!’”
II.
Scarce moved the zephyr’s wings, while breathed the song,
And waves in silence bore the bark along.
’Twas Irza sang! Rosalvo at her side
Gazed on his cherub-love, his destined bride,
Felt at each look his soul in softness melt,
Nor wished to feel more bliss than then he felt.
Gainst the high mast, intent on book and beads,
A reverend abbot leans, and prays, and reads:
Yet oft with secret glance the pair surveys,
Marks how she looks, and listens what he says.
An idle task! The terms which speak their love
Had served for prayer, and passed unblamed above.
He finds each tender phrase so free from harm,
So pure each thought, each look so chaste though warm,
Still to his book and beads he turns again,
Pleased to have found his guardian care so vain;
While oft a blush of shame his pale cheek wears,
To find his thoughts so much less pure than theirs.
Oh! they were pure! pure as the moon, whose ray
Loves on the shrines of virgin-saints to play;
Pure as the falling snow, ere yet its shower
Bends with its weight its own pale fragile flower.
Not fourteen years were Irza’s; nay, ’tis true,
Most maids at twelve know more than Irza knew:
And scarce two more had spread with silken down
Her youthful cousin’s cheek of glowing brown.
His tutor sage (in fact, not show, a saint)
Had kept his heart and mind secure from taint.
In liberal arts, in healthful manly sports,
In studies fit for councils, camps, and courts,
His moments found their full and best employ,
Nor left one leisure hour for guilty joy.
Since her blue dove-like eyes six springs had seen,
Immured in cloistered shades had Irza been,
From duties done her sole delight deriven,
And her sole care to please the queen of heaven.
None e’er approached her, save the pure and good:
Her promised spouse; that monk who near them stood;
Her viceroy uncle, and some guardian nun
Were all she e’er had seen by moon or sun.
No amorous forms, by wanton art designed,
Had e’er inflamed her blood, or stained her mind;
No hint in books, no coarse or doubtful phrase
E’er bade her curious thought explore the maze
No glowing dream by memory’s pencil drawn
Had e’er profaned her sleep, and made her blush at dawn.
With flowers she decked the virgin mother’s shrine,
Nor guessed a wonder made that name divine.
The very love, which lent her looks such fire,
Ne’er raised one blameful thought, nor loose desire;
Like streams of gold, which in alembic roll,
The flames she suffered but refined her soul;
Made it more free from stain, more light from dross,
With brighter lustre, and with softer gloss.
That, which she bore her bridegroom, well might claim
A brother’s love, and bear a sister’s name:
And e’en where now her lips in playful bliss
Sealed on Rosalvo’s eyes a balmy kiss,
Love’s highest, dearest grace she meant to show,
Nor thought he more could ask, nor she bestow.
III
From Goa’s precious sands to Lisbon’s shore.
The viceroy’s countless wealth that vessel bore:
In heaps there jewels lay of various dyes,
Ingots of gold, and pearls of wondrous size;
And there (two gems worth all that Cortez won)
He placed his angel niece and only son.
Sebastian sought the Moors! With loyal zeal
Rosalvo cased his youthful limbs in steel;
To die or conquer by his sovereign’s side
He came; and with him came his destined bride.
E’en now in Lisbon’s court for Irza’s hair
Virgins the myrtle’s nuptial crown prepare,
And Hymen waves his torch from Cintra’s towers,
Hails the dull bark, and chides the slow-winged hours.
Seldom in this bad world two hearts we see
So blest, and meriting so blest to be;
Then oh! ye winds, gently your pinions move,
And speed in safety home the bark of love.
Brood, Halcyon, brood: thy sea-spell chaunt again,
And keep the mirror of the enchanted main,
Where his white wing the exulting tropic dips,
Calm as their hearts, and smiling as their lips.
The charm prevails! Hushed are the waves and still;
The expanded sails light favouring zephyrs fill.
Wafting with motion scarce perceived; and now
In rapture Irza from the vessel’s prow
Gazed on an isle with verdure gay and bright,
Which seemed (so green it shone in solar light)
An emerald set in silver. Long her eyes
Dwelt on its rocks; and “Oh! dear friend,” she cries,
And clasps Rosalvo’s hand,—“admire with me
Yon isle, which rising crowns the silent sea!
How bold those mossy cliffs, which guard the strand,
Like spires, and domes, and towers in fairy-land!
How green the plains! how balsam-fraught the breeze!
How bend with golden fruit the loaded trees;
While, fluttering midst their boughs in joyful notes,
Myriads of birds attune their warbling throats!
Blooms all the ground with flowers! and mark, oh! mark
That giant palm, whose foliage broad and dark
Plays on the sun-clad rock!—Beneath, a cave
Spreads wide its sparry mouth: while loosely wave
A thousand creepers, dyed with thousand stains,
Whose wreaths enrich the trees, and cloathe the plains.
Dear friend, how blest, if passed my life could be
In that fair isle, with God alone and thee,
Far from the world, from man and fiend secure,
No guilt to harm us, and no vice to lure!
Bright round the virgin’s shrine would blush and bloom
That world of flowers, which pour such rich perfume;
And sweet yon caves repeat with mellowing swell
Eve’s closing hymn, when chimed the vesper-bell.”
The pilot heard—“Oh! spring of life,” he cried,
“How bright and beauteous seems the world untried!
I too, like you, in youth’s romantic bowers
Dreamt not of wasps in fruit, nor thorns in flowers;
And when on banks of sand the sunbeams shone,
I deemed each sparkling flint a precious stone.
Ah! noble lady, learn, that isle so fair,
The fields all roses, and all balm the air,
That isle is one, where every leaf’s a spell,
Where no good thing e’er dwelt, nor e’er shall dwell.
No fisher, forced from home by adverse breeze,
Would slake his thirst from yon infernal trees:
No shipwrecked sailor from the following waves
Would seek a shelter in those haunted caves.
There flock the damned! there Satan reigns, and revels!
And thence yon isle is called (( The Isle of Devils!”
Nor think, on rumour’s faith this tale is given:
Once, hot in youthful blood, when hell nor heaven
Much claimed my thoughts, (the truth with shame I tell;
Holy St. Francis, guard thy votary well! )
In quest of water near that isle I drew:
When lo! such monstrous forms appalled my view,
Such shrieks I heard, sounds all so strange and dread,
That from the strand with shuddering haste I fled,
Plyed as for life my oars, nor backward bent my head.
And though since then hath flown full many a year,
Still sinks my heart, still shake my limbs with fear,
Soon as yon awful island meets mine eye!
Cross we our breasts! say, ‘Ave!’ and pass by!”
IV.
The isle is past. And still in tranquil pride
Bears the rich bark its treasures o’er the tide.
And now the sun, ere yet his lamp he shrouds,
Stains the pure western sky with crimson clouds:
Now from the sea’s last verge he sheds his rays,
And sinks triumphant in a golden blaze.
Still o’er the heavens reflected splendours flow,
Which make the world of waters gleam and glow:
Wide and more wide each billow shines more bright,
Till all the empurpled ocean floats in light.
Soon as fair Irza marked the evening’s close,
Grave from her seat the young enthusiast rose,
Told o’er her beads, and when the string was said,
“Ave Maria!” sang the enraptured maid;
Her look so humble, so devout her air,
Each worldly wish appeared so lost in prayer,
All felt, no thought could to her mind be near,
That man her form could see, her voice could hear:
Hushed all the ship!—Each sailor checked his glee,
Clasped his hard hands, and bent his trembling knee;
And each (as rose that soft mysterious strain,
Best help in trouble, and sweet balm in pain)
Gazed on the maid with mingled awe and fear,
Damp on his cheek perceived the unwonted tear,
Then raised to Heaven his eyes in earnest prayer,
And half believed himself already there.
Low too Rosalvo knelt, nor knew, if now
For Mary’s grace, or Irza’s, rose his vow.
Scarce e’en the monk forbore to kneel; his child
Fondly he viewed, and sweetly, gravely smiled,
And blessed that God, as swelled each melting note,
Who gave such heavenly powers to human throat!
Melodious strains, oh! speed your flight above
On Neptune’s wings, and reach the ear of Love!
Oh! spread thy starry robe, celestial queen,
(For much thine aid she needs!) from ills to screen
Thy virgin-votaress!—Silence holds the deep,
And e’en the helmsman’s eyes are sealed by sleep:
Yet mark yon gathering clouds!—the moon is fled!—
Mark too that deathlike stillness, deep and dread!
And hark!—from yon black cloud an awful voice
Pours the wild chaunt, and bids the winds rejoice!
SONG OF THE TEMPEST-FIEND.
I marked her!—the pennants, how gaily they streamed!—
How well was she armed for resistance!
The waves that sustained her, how brightly they beamed
In the sun’s setting rays, and the sailors all seemed
To forget the storm-spirit’s existence.
But I marked her!—and now from the clouds I descend!
My spells to the billows I mutter!
I clap my black pinions! my wand I extend,
In darkness the sky and the ocean to blend,
And the winds mark the charms which I utter.
Now more and more rapid in eddies I whirl,
In my voice while the thunder-clap rumbles:
And now the white mountainous waves, as they curl,
I joy o’er the deck of the vessel to hurl,
And laugh, as she tosses and tumbles.
The crew is alarmed; but the tempest prevails,
No care from my fury delivers!
Ere there’s time for their furling the canvass, the sails
From the top to the bottom I split with my nails,
And they stream in the blast, rent in shivers!
The sky and the ocean, fierce battle they wage;
The elements all are in action!
No sailor the storm longer hopes to assuage:
What clamours, what hurry, what oaths, and what rage!
Oh, brave! what despair, what distraction!
Their heart-strings, they ache, while my ravage they view;
Each knee ’gainst its fellow is knocking!
My eyes, darting lightnings to dazzle the crew,
Burn and blaze; and those lightnings so forked and so blue
Make the darkness of midnight more shocking.
The morn to that vessel no succour shall bring!
Now high o’er the main-mast I hover;
Now I plunge from the sky to the deck with a spring,
And I shatter the mast with one flap of my wing;
It cracks! and it breaks! and goes over!
Hew away, gallant seamen! fatigue never dread;
You shall all rest to-night from your labours!
The ocean’s wide mantle shall o’er you be spread,
The white bones of mariners pillow your head,
And the whale and the shark be your neighbours.
For I swoop from aloft, and I blaze, and I burn,
While my spouts the salt billows are drinking:
And I drive ’gainst the vessel, and beat down the stern,
And pour in a flood, which shall never return,
And all cry—66 She’s sinking! she’s sinking!”—
The barge?—well remembered!—’tis strong, and ’tis large,
And will live in the billows’ commotion;
But now all my spouts from the clouds I discharge,
And down goes the vessel, and down goes the barge!
Hurrah! I reign lord of the ocean!
How their shrieks rose in chorus! Now all is at rest;
The tempest no longer is brewing!
My dreams by the harm newly done will be blest,
So I’ll sleep for a while on a thunder-cloud’s breast,
Then rouze to hurl round me fresh ruin.
Hushed is the storm: the heavens no longer frown;
And o’er that spot, where late the bark went down,
All bright and smiling flows the treacherous wave,
Like sunshine playing on a new-made grave.
Full rose the watery moon: it showed a plank,
To which, all deadly pale, with tresses dank,
And robes of white, on which the sea had flung
Loose wreaths of ocean-flowers, unconscious clung
A fair frail form:—‘twas Irza!—to the shore
Each following wave the virgin nearer bore;
And now the mountain surge overwhelmed the land,
Then flying left her on the wished-for strand.
Soon hope and love of life her powers renew;
Swift towards a cliff she speeds, which towers in view,
Nor waits the wave’s return’; and now again
Safe on the shore, and rescued from the main,
Prostrate she falls, and thanks the Sire of life,
Whose arm hath snatched her from the billowy strife.
That duty done, she rose, and gazed around:
Mossed are the rocks, and flowers bestrew the ground.
Not distant far, a group of fragrant trees
Bend with their golden fruit. The ocean-breeze
Shakes a gigantic palm, which o’er a cave
Its dark green foliage spreads, and wildly wave
Their blooming wreaths, all starred with midnight dews,
A thousand creeping plants of thousand hues.
Then flashed the dreadful truth on Irza’s view!
That cave—those trees—that giant palm she knew!
Then from her lips for ever fled the smile:
—“Mother of God!” she shrieked, “the Demon-Isle!”—
Long on a broken crag she knelt, and prayed,
And wearied every saint for strength and aid;
Then speechless, heedless, senseless lay; when, lo!
Strange mutterings near her roused from torpid woe
Her soul to fresh alarms. Her head she reared,
And near her face an hideous face appeared;
But straight ’twas gone!—In trembling haste she rose,
And saw a ring of monstrous dwarfs inclose
Her rugged couch. Not Teniers’ hand could paint
Forms more grotesque to scare the tempted saint,
Than here, as on they pressed in circling throng,
With gnashing teeth seemed for her blood to long,
And grinned, and glared, and gloated! Quicker grew
Her breath! Death hemmed her round! As yet, ’tis true,
Far off they kept; but soon, more daring grown,
More near they crept, oft sharpening on some stone
Their long crookt claws; and still, as on they came,
They screeched and chattered; and their eyes of flame,
Twinkling and goggling, told, what pleasure grim
‘Twould give to rack and rend her limb from limb:
—“Heaven take my soul!” she cried,—when, hark! a
moan,
So full, so sad, so strange—not shriek—not groan—
Something scarce earthly—breathed above her head—
‘Twas heard, and instant every imp was fled.
What was that sound? What pitying saint from high
Had stooped to save her? Now to heaven her eye
Grateful she raised. Almighty powers!—a form,
Gigantic as the palm, black as the storm,
All shagged with hair, wild, strange in shape and show,
Towered on the loftiest cliff, and gazed below.
On her he gazed, and gazed so fixed, so hard,
Like knights of bronze some hero’s tomb who guard.
Bright wreaths of scarlet plumes his temples crowned,
And round his ankles, arms, and wrists were wound
Unnumbered glassy strings of crystals bright,
Corals, and shells, and berries red and white.
On her he gazed, and floods of sable fires
Rolled his huge eyes, and spoke his fierce desires,
As on his club, a torn-up lime, he leaned.—
“Help, Heaven!” thought Irza, “‘tis the master-fiend!”
Not long he paused: he now with one quick bound
Sprang from the cliff, and lighted on the ground.
Back fled the maid in terror; but her fear
Was needless. Humbly, slowly crept he near,
Then kissed the earth, his club before her laid,
And of his neck her footstool would have made:
But from his touch she shrank. He raised his head,
And saw her limbs convulsed, her face all dread,
And felt the cause his presence! Sad and slow
He rose, resumed his club, and turn’d to go.
Reproachful was his look, but still ’twas kind;
He climb’d the rock, but oft he gazed behind;
He reach’d the cave; one look below he threw;
Plaintive again he moan’d, and with slow steps withdrew.
She is alone; she breathes again!—Fly, fly!—
Ah! wretched girl, too late! with frenzied eye,
(Scarce gone the master-fiend) his imps she sees,
Pour from the rocks, and drop from all the trees
With yell, and squeak, and many a horrid sound,
And form a living fence to hedge her round:
—“Now then,” she cried, 4 c all’s over!—oh! farewell,
Farewell, Rosalvo!” On her knee she fell,
And told her beads with trembling hands. Yet still
On came the throng; and soon, with wanton skill
(Lured by its coral glow and cross of gold),
One snatch’d her chaplet, nor forsook his hold,
Though hard she struggled: while more bold, more fierce
Another seized her arm, and dared to pierce
With his sharp teeth its snow. The pure blood stream’d
Fast from the wound, and loud the virgin scream’d;
And strait again was heard that sad strange moan,
And instant all the dwarfs again were flown.
Scarce conscious that she lived, scarce knowing why,
Half grieved, half grateful, Irza raised her eye:
Still on the rock (not dared he down to spring)
Dark and majestic stood the demon-king;
Then lowly knelt, and raised his arm to wave
An orange bough, and court her to his cave.
Lost are her friends; no help, no hope is nigh;
What can she do, and whither can she fly?
To him already twice her life she owes,
And but his presence now restrains her foes.
On wings of flame the sun had left the main;
And peeping from the trees, the imps too plain
Shot darts of rage from their green orbs of sight:
She heard their gibberings, and she mark’d their spite;
And, while they eyed her form, their care she saw
To grind their teeth, and whet each cruel claw.
Demons alike, the monarch-demon’s breast
Appear’d least fierce; of ills she chose the best,
Sought, where profaned her coral rosary lay,
Then slowly mounted where he show’d the way.
Cautious he led her tow’rds his lone abode,
And clear’d each stone that might impede her road.
With pain she trod: she reach’d the cave; but there
No more their weight her wearied limbs could bear.
Exhausted, fainting, anguish, terror, thirst,
Fatigue o’erpower’d her frame: her heart must burst,
Her eyes grow dim! Sunk on the rock she lies,
And sinking, prays she never more may rise.
Long in this deathlike swoon she lay: at length
Exhausted nature show’d forth all its strength,
And call’d her back to life. Her opening eyes
Beheld a grotto vast in depth and size,
Whose high straight sides forbade all hopes of flight:
The fractured roof gave ample space for light,
Through which in gorgeous guise the day-star shone
On many a lucid shell and brilliant stone.
Through pendent spars and crystals as it falls,
Each beam with rainbow hues adorns the walls,
Gilds all the roof, emblazes all the ground,
And scatters light, and warmth, and splendour round.
Gently on pillowing furs reposed her head;
With many a verdant rush her couch was spread;
A gourd with blushing fruits was near her placed,
Whose scent and colour woo’d alike her taste;
And round her strewn there bloom’d unnumber’d flowers
Charming her sense with aromatic powers.
One only object chill’d her blood with ear:
Far off removed (but still, alas! too near),
Scarce breathing, lest a breath her sleep might break,
There stood the fiend, and watch’d to see her wake.
In sooth, if credit outward show might crave,
Than Irza, ne’er had nymph an humbler slave.
He watched her every glance; her frown he fear’d;
And if his pains to meet her wish appear’d,
All pains seem’d far o’er-paid, all cares appeased,
And so she found but pleasure, he was pleased.
One power he claim’d, but claim’d that power alone:
Still, when he left her side, a mass of stone
Barr’d up the grotto, nor allow’d her feet
To pass the limits of her bright retreat.
But when in quest of food not forced to stray,
In Irza’s sight he wore the livelong day,
And show’d her living springs and noontide shades,
Spice-breathing groves, and flower-enamell’d glades.
For her he still selects the sweetest roots,
The coolest waters, and the loveliest fruits;
To deck her charms the softest furs he brings,
And plucks their plumage from flamingo wings;
Bids blooming shrubs, to shade her, bend in bowers,
And strews her couch with fragrant herbs and flowers
While many an ivy-twisted grate restrains
The splendid tenants of the etherial plains.
Then, when she sought her lonesome grot at eve,
And waved her hand, and warn’d him take his leave,
Her will was his: he breathed his plaintive moan,
Gazed one last look, then gently roll’d the stone.
Perhaps, such constant care and worship paid,
More fit for angel than for mortal maid,
At length had won her, with more grateful mind
To view his gifts, and pay respect so kind;
But, as her giant-gaoler she esteem’d
Some prince of subterraneous fire, she deem’d
His favours snares, his presents only given
To shake her faith, and steal her soul from heaven.
Still then her loathing heart remain’d the same,
Joy’d when he went, and shudder’d when he came;
And when to share his fruits by hunger press’d,
Ever she bless’d them first, and cross’d her breast.
Days creep—months roll—no change! no hope! and oh!
Rosalvo lost, what hope can life bestow?
Death, only death, she feels, can end her woes;
Nor doubts death soon will bring that wish’d-for close;
For now her frame, her mind, confess disease;
Painful and faint she moves; her tottering knees
Scarce bear her weight; and oft, by humour moved,
Her sickening soul now loathes what late it loved.
It comes! the moment comes! Her frame is rent
By sharper pangs; her nerves, too strongly bent,
Seem on the point to break; her forehead burns;
Her curdling blood is fire, is ice by turns;
Her heart-strings crack!—“This hour is sure her last!’
Fainting she sinks, and hopes “that hour is pass’d!”
Wake, Irza, wake to grief most strange and deep!
Still must thou live, and only live to weep!
Oh, lift thine aching head, thy languid eyes,
And mark what hideous stranger near thee lies.
“Guard me, all blessed saints!”—A monster child
Press’d her green couch; and, as it grimly smiled,
Its shaggy limbs, and eyes of sable fire,
Betray’d the crime, and claim’d its hellish sire!
“Lost! lost! My soul is lost!” the affrighted maid,
(Ah, now a maid no more!) distracted, said,
And wrung her hands. Those words she scarce could say;
Yet would have pray’d, but fear’d’t was sin to pray!
That only veil which ne’er admits a stain,
The veil of ignorance, was rent in twain:
In spite of virtue, cloisters, horror, youth,
She knows, and feels, and shudders at the truth.
That night accursed!—In death-like swoon she slept—
Then near her couch if that dark demon crept—
Oh! where was then her guardian angel’s aid?
And would not heavenly Mary save her maid?
Deprived of sense—betray’d by place and time—
Then was she doom’d to share the unconscious crime?
Debased, deflower’d, and stamp’d a wretch for life,
A monster’s mother, and a demon’s wife?
Oh! at that thought her soul what passions tear!
How then she beats her breast, how rends her hair,
And bids, with golden ringlets scatter’d round,
Stream all the air, and glitter all the ground!
Sighs, sobs, and shrieks the place of words supply;
And still she mourns to live, and prays to die,
Till heart denies to groan, and eyes to flow;
Then, on her couch of rushes sinking low,
Languid and lost she lies, in silent, senseless woe.
What lifts her burning head? why opes her eye?
What makes her blood run back? A faint shrill cry!
Too well, alas! that cry was understood:
The monster pined for want, and claim’d its food.
Then in her heart what rival passions strove!
How shrinks disgust, how yearns maternal love!
Now to its life her feelings she prefers;
Now Nature wakes, and makes her own—“’Tis hers!”
Loathing its sight, she melts to hear its cries,
And, while she yields the breast, averts her eyes.
Not so the demon-sire: the child he raised,
He kiss’d it—danced it—nursed it—knelt, and gazed,
Till joyful tears gush’d forth, and dimm’d his sight:
Scarce Irza’s self was view’d with more delight.
He held it tow’rds her—horror seem’d to thrill
Her frame. He sigh’d, and clasp’d it closer still.
Once, and but once, his features wrath express’d:
He saw her shudder, as it drain’d her breast;
And, while reproach half mingled with his moan,
Snatch’d it from her’s, and press’d it to his own.
Three months had pass’d; still lived the monster-brat:
Its sire had sought the wood; alone she sat:
She sheds no tears—no tears are left to shed;
Unmoisten’d burn her eyes—her heart seems dead—
Her form seems marble. Lo! from far the sound
Of music steals, and fills the caves around.
She starts!—scarce breathing—trembling;—“Oh! for
wings!”—
But hark! for nearer now the minstrel sings. .
SONG.
1.
When summer smiled on Goa’s bowers
They seem’d so fair;
All light the skies, all bloom the flowers,
All balm the air!
The mock-bird swell’d his amorous lay,
Soft, sweet, and clear; .
And all was beauteous, all was gay,
For she was near.
2.
But now the skies in vain are bright
With Summer’s glow;
The pea-dove’s call to Love’s delight
Augments my woé;
And blushing roses vainly bloom;
Their charms are fled,
And all is sadness, all is gloom,
For she is dead!
3.
Now o’er thy head, my virgin love,
Rolls Ocean’s wave;
But fond regret, in myrtle grove,
Hath dug thy grave.
Sweet flowers, around her vacant urn
Your wreaths I’ll twine,
And pray such flowers, ere Spring’s return,
May garland mine!
“He! he!”—That love-lorn dirge—that heavenly
tongue—
That air, she taught him; ’t was Rosalvo sung!
Rosalvo, whom the waves, which wreck’d their bark,
Had borne, like her, for purpose sad and dark,
To that strange isle; though far remote the beach
From Irza’s grot, which Fate ordain’d him reach;
But now at length his curious search explores
These rude and slippery crags and distant shores;
And while he treads his dangerous path, the strains
Which Irza taught him soothe her lover’s pains.
She hears his steps, and hears them soon more near;
And loud she cries—“Rosalvo! Hear! oh, hear!
‘Tis Irza calls!” and now more quick, more nigh,
Down the steep rock she hears those footsteps fly.
Again she calls. He comes! He searches round;
He seeks the gate, and soon the gate is found.
Alas! ’t is found in vain! the marble guard
Seem’d rooted as the rock, whose mouth it barr’d.
Yet still, with labouring nerves, to move the stone
He struggles. Now he stops; and, hark! A groan!
But one; then all was hush’d! A sickening chill
Seized Irza’s heart, and seem’d her veins to thrill.
Fain had she call’d her youthful bridegroom’s name;
Her tongue Fear’s numbing fingers seem’d to lame.
Footsteps!—more near they drew:—slow rolled the
stone—
The infernal gaoler came, but came alone.
With anxious glance his eye explored the cell;
But when it fix’d on her’s, abash’d it fell.
He knelt, and seem’d to fear her frown. He bore
His club.‘T was splash’d with brains! ’t was wet with
gore!
She fear’d—she guess’d—she rush’d—she ran—she
flew,—
Nor dared the fiend her frantic course pursue.
“Rosalvo! speak! Rosalvo!” Shrill, yet sweet,
She wakes the echoes. What obstructs her feet?
‘T is he, the young, the good, the kind, the fair!
As some frail lily, which the passing share *
Or wanton boy hath wounded, droops its head,
Its whiteness wither’d, and its fragrance fled,
Low lay the youth, and from his temple’s wound
With precious streams bedew’d the ensanguin’d ground.
Then reason fled its seat! She shrieks! she raves!
And fills with hideous yells the ocean caves;
Rends her bright locks, and laughs to see them fly,
And bids them seek Rosalvo in the sky.
To dig his grave she fiercely ploughs the ground,
Loud shrieks his name, nor feels the flints that wound
Her bosom’s globes, and stain their snow with gore,
As wild she dashes down, and beats in rage the floor.
Now fail her strength, her spirits; mute she sits,
Silent and sad; then laughs and sings by fits.
A statue now she seems, or one just dead,
Her looks all gloom, her eyes two balls of lead:
Then simply smiles, and chaunts, with idiot glee,
“Ave Maria! Benedicite!”
Till, Nature’s powers revived by rest, again
The fury passions riot in her brain,
And all is rage, revenge, and helpless, hopeless pain.
Days, weeks, months pass. Time came with slow relief;
But still at length it came. No more her grief
Disturbs her brain: she knows “that groan was his!”
And fully feels herself the wretch she is.
She rises: towards the grotto’s mouth she goes,
Nor dares the fiend her wandering steps oppose.
She seeks the spot on which Rosalvo fell,
On which he died! She knows that spot too well!
But, lo! no corse was there! All smooth and green
A velvet turf o’erstrewn with flowers was seen,
And fenced with roses. “Oh! whose pious care
Hath deck’d this grave? Hear, gracious Heaven, his
prayer,
When most he needs!” While thus in doubt she stands,
She marks the fiend’s approach. His ebon hands
Sustain’d a gourd of flowers of various hue;
He pour’d them, kiss’d the turf, and straight withdrew
Hither each morn his blooming gifts he bore,
Smooth’d the green sod, and strew’d it o’er and o’er.
Hither, each morn, came Irza; on those flowers
She wept, she pray’d, she sang away her hours.
So mourns the nightingale on poplar spray *,
Her callow brood by shepherds borne away,
Weeps all the night, and from her green retreat
Fills the wide groves with warblings sad as sweet.
And still fresh woes succeed. She feels again