Mazelli, and Other Poems Part 2

The falcon's wing was bold and strong, Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight; Strike one more blow, and thou to-night May'st rest;" then laid his bosom bare, And buried deep the dagger there, And by his victim's lifeless trunk, Without a sigh or groan he sunk.

Canto III.

I.

With plumes to which the dewdrops cling, Wide waves the morn her golden wing; With countless variegated beams The empurpled orient glows and gleams; A gorgeous ma.s.s of crimson clouds The mountain's soaring summit shrouds; Along the wave the blue mist creeps, The towering forest trees are stirred By the low wind that o'er them sweeps, And with the matin song of bird, The hum of early bee is heard, Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn, The coming of the bright-eyed morn; And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn, Her couch the fair Mazelli quits, And gaily, fleetly as a fawn, Along the wildwood paths she flits, Hieing from leafy bower to bower, Culling from each its bud and flower, Of brightest hue and sweetest breath, To weave them in her bridal wreath.

Now, pausing in her way, to hear The lay of some wild warbler near, Repaying him, in mocking tone, With music sweeter than his own; Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending, Her image in its waves to see, With its sweet, gurgled music blending, A song of tenfold melody; Now, chasing the gay b.u.t.terfly, That o'er her pathway pa.s.sed her by, With grace as careless, glee as wild, As though she were some thoughtless child; Now, seated on some wayside stone, With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown, In silent thoughtfulness, she seems To hold communion with her heart, Beguiling fancy with the dreams That from its Pure recesses start.

II.

There is a silent power, that o'er Our bosoms wields a wizard might, Restoring bygone years to light, With the same vivid glow they wore, Ere time had o'er their features cast The shadowy shroud that veils the past:-- To those who walk in wisdom's way, 'Tis welcome as an angel's smile; But those who from her counsels stray, Whose hearts are full of craft and guile, To them 'tis as a constant goad-- A weight that doubles Sorrow's load,-- A silent searcher of the breast, Which will not let the guilty rest.

In childhood's pleasant-season born, It haunts us in all after time; From youth's serene and sunny morn To manhood's stern meridian prime.

From manhood, till the weight of years, And life's dull constant toil, and tears, And pa.s.sion's ever raging storm, Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form.

True, youth, of hope and love possessed, By friends--youth has no foes--caressed, Finds in the present--happy boy!-- Enough of gaiety and joy; And man, whose visionary brain Begets that idle phantom train Of shadows--Power, Wealth, and Fame,-- A scourge--a bubble--and a name-- So often and so vainly sought-- Has little time for peaceful thought; And so they turn not back to gaze, Where faithful memory displays Her record of departed days; But oh! how loves the eye of age, To move along its pictured page, To scan and number, o'er and o'er, The joys that may return no more; The hopes that, blighted in their bloom, By disappointment's chilly gloom, Were given sadly to the tomb; The loves so wildly once enjoyed, By time's unsparing hand destroyed; The bright imaginative dreams, Portrayed by restless fancy's beams, By restless fancy's beams portrayed, Alas! but to delude and fade!

To count these o'er and o'er again Is age's sole resort from pain.

Then, stranger, marvel not that I Have claimed so long thy listening ear; I could not pa.s.s in silence by Themes to my memory so dear, As those which make my story's close-- Mazelli's love, Mazelli's woes.

III.

Ascending from the golden east, The sun had gained his zenith height, The guests were gathered to the feast, Prepared to grace the marriage rite; The youthful and the old were there, The rustic swain and bashful fair; The aged, reverend and gray, Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay, Each told, to while the time away, Some tale of his own wedding day; The youthful, timorous and shy, Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye, That, in its stolen glances, sends The language Love best, comprehends.

The noontide hour goes by, and yet The bridegroom tarries--why? and where?

Sure he could not his vows forget, When she who loves him is so fair!

And then his honour, faith, and pride, Had bound him to a meaner bride, If once his promise had been given; But she, so pure, so far above The common forms of earthly mould, So like the incarnate shapes of love, Conceived, and born, and nursed in heaven, His love for her could ne'er grow cold!

And yet he comes not. Half way now, From where, at his meridian height, He pours his fullest, warmest light, To where, at eve, in his decline, The day-G.o.d sinks into the brine, When his diurnal task is done, Descends his ever burning throne, And still the bridegroom is not, there-- Say, why yet tarries he, and where?

IV.

Within an arbour, rudely reared, But to the maiden's heart endeared By every tie that binds the heart, By hope's, and love's, and memory's art,-- For it was here he first poured out In words, the love she could not doubt,-- Mazelli silent sits apart.

Did ever dreaming devotee, Whose restless fancy, fond and warm, Shapes out the bright ideal form To which he meekly bends the knee, Conceive of aught so fair as she?

The holiest seraph of the sphere Most holy, if by chance led here, Might drink such light from those soft eyes, That he would hold them far more dear Than all the treasures of the skies.

Yet o'er her bright and beauteous brow Shade after shade is pa.s.sing now, Like clouds across the pale moon glancing, As thought on rapid thought advancing, Thrills through the maiden's trembling breast, Not doubting, and yet not at rest.

Not doubting! Man may turn away And scoff at shrines, where yesterday He knelt, in earnest faith, to pray, And wealth may lose its charm for him, And fame's alluring star grow dim, Devotion, avarice, glory, all The pageantries of earth may pall; But love is of a higher birth Than these, the earth-born things of earth,-- A spark from the eternal flame, Like it, eternally the same, It is not subject to the breath Of chance or change, of life or death.

And so doubt has no power to blight Its bloom, or quench its deathless light,-- A deathless light, a peerless bloom, That beams and glows beyond the tomb!

Go tell the trusting devotee, His worship is idolatry; Say to the searcher after gold, The prize he seeks is dull and cold; a.s.sure the toiler after fame, That, won, 'tis but a worthless name, A mocking shade, a phantasy,-- And they, perchance, may list to thee; But say not to the trusting maid, Her love is scorned, her faith betrayed,-- As soon thy words may lull the gale, As gain her credence to the tale!

And still the bridegroom is not there-- Oh! why yet tarries he, and where?

V.

It was the holy vesper hour, The time for rest, and peace, and prayer, When falls the dew, and folds the flower Its petals, delicate and fair, Against the chilly evening air; And yet the bridegroom was not there.

The guests, who lingered through the day, Had glided, one by one, away, And then, with pale and pensive ray, The moon began to climb the sky, As from the forest, dim and green, A small and silent band was seen Emerging slow and solemnly; With cautious step, and measured tread, They moved as those who bear the dead; And by no lip a word was spoke, Nor other sound the silence broke, Save when, low, musical, and clear, The voice of waters pa.s.sing near, Was softly wafted to the ear, And the cool, fanning twilight breeze, That lightly shook the forest trees, And crept from leaf to trembling leaf, Sighed, like to one oppressed with grief.

Why move they with such cautious care?

What precious burden do they bear?

Hush, questioner! the dead are there;-- The victim of revenge and hate, Of fierce Ottali's fiery pride, With that stern minister of fate, As cold and lifeless by his side.

VI.

Still onward, solemnly and slow, And speaking not a word, they go, Till pausing in their way before Mazelli's quiet cottage door, They gently lay their burden down.

Whence comes that shriek of wild despair That rises wildly on the air?

Whose is the arm so fondly thrown Around the cold, unconscious clay, That cannot its caress repay?

Such wordless wo was in that cry, Such pain, such hopeless agony, No soul, excluded from the sky, Whom unrelenting justice hath Condemned to bear the second death, E'er breathed upon the troubled gale A wilder or a sadder wail;-- It rose, all other sounds above, The dirge of peace, and hope, and love!

VII.

And day on weary day went by, And like the drooping autumn leaf, She faded slow and silently, In her deep, uncomplaining grief; For, sick of life's vacuity, She neither sought nor wished relief.

And daily from her cheek, the glow Departed, and her virgin brow Was curtained with a mournful gloom,-- A shade prophetic, of the tomb; And her clear eyes, so blue and bright, Shot forth a keen, unearthly light, As if the soul that in them lay, Were weary of its garb of clay, And prayed to pa.s.s from earth away; Nor was that prayer vain, for ere The frozen monarch of the year, Had blighted, with his icy breath, A single bud in summer's wreath, They shrouded her, and made her grave, And laid her down at Lodolph's side; And by the wide Potomac's wave, Repose the bridegroom and the bride.

'Tis said, that, oft at summer midnight, there, When all is hushed and voiceless, and the air, Sweet, soothing minstrel of the viewless hand, Swells rippling through the aged trees, that stand With their broad boughs above the wave depending, With the low gurgle of the waters blending The rustle of their foliage, a light boat, Bearing two shadowy forms, is seen to float Adown the stream, without or oar or sail, To break the wave, or catch the driving gale; Smoothly and steadily its course is steered, Until the shadow of yon cliff is neared, And then, as if some barrier, hid below The river's breast, had caught its gliding prow, Awhile, uncertain, o'er its watery bed, It hangs, then vanishes, and in its stead, A wan, pale light burns dimly o'er the wave That rolls and ripples by Mazelli's grave.

Notes To Mazelli

Note 1.

"And how its long and rocky chain Was parted suddenly in twain, Where through a chasm, wide and deep, Potomac's rapid waters sweep, While rocks that press the mountain's brow Nod O'er his waves far, far below."

"The pa.s.sage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps, one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a vent also. In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the mountain, rend it asunder, and pa.s.s off to the sea.

"The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that, in this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge Mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley; that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base.

"The piles of reckon each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah, the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression. But the distant finishing which nature has given to this picture, is of a very different character. It is a true contrast to the foreground. It is as Placid and delightful as that is wild and tremendous.

"For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to the eye, through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were, from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pa.s.s through the breach, and partic.i.p.ate of the calm below."--Jefferson's Notes on Virginia.

Note 2.

"Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will."

That the Indian mind and language are not devoid of poetry, the names they have given to this bird (the whip-poor-will) sufficiently evidence.

Some call it the "Muckawis," others the "Wish-ton-wish," signifying "the voice of a sigh," and "the plaint for the lost." Those, who in its native glens at twilight, have listened to its indescribably melancholy song, will know how beautifully appropriate these names are.

Note 3.

"They, the foul slaves' of l.u.s.t and gold, Say that our blood and hearts are cold."

It has been advanced by some writers, that the almost miraculous fort.i.tude often displayed by Indians, under the most intense suffering, is to be accounted for by their insensibility to pain, resulting, they allege, from a defective nervous organization. From the absence of a display of gallantry and tenderness between the s.e.xes, they argue also, in them, the nonexistence of love, and its kindred pa.s.sions. This we think unjust, as it robs them of the honours of a system of education, which is life-long, and whose sole object is to attain the mastery of all feeling, physical or mental. The view taken of this subject by Robertson, in his History of America, to us, seems most accordant with truth. He says: "The amazing steadiness with which the Americans endure the most exquisite torments, has induced some authors to suppose that, from the peculiar feebleness of their frame, their sensibility is not so acute as that of other people; as women, and persons of a relaxed habit, are observed to be robust men, whose nerves are more firmly braced. But the const.i.tution of the Americans is not so different in its texture, from that of the rest of the human species, as to account for this diversity in their behaviour. It flows from a principle of honour, instilled early and cultivated with such care, as to inspire him in his rudest state with a heroic magnanimity, to which philosophy hath endeavoured in vain to form him, when more highly improved and polished.

This invincible constancy he has been taught to consider as the chief distinction of a man, and the highest attainment of a warrior. The ideas which influence his conduct, and the pa.s.sions which take possession of his heart, are few. They operate of course with more decisive effect, than when the mind is crowded with a multiplicity of objects, or distracted by the variety of its pursuits; and when every motive that acts with any force in forming the sentiments of a savage, prompts him to suffer with dignity, he will bear what might seem impossible for human patience to sustain. But whenever the fort.i.tude of the Americans is not roused to exertion by their ideas of honour, their feelings of pain are the same with those of the rest of mankind."

Note 4.

"Bathed in the poisonous manchenille."