The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 12

It was not when the Sun through the glittering sky, In summer's joyful majesty, Look'd from his cloudless height;-- It was not when the Sun was sinking down, And tinging the ruin's mossy brown With gleams of ruddy light;-- Nor yet when the Moon, like a pilgrim fair, 'Mid star and planet journeyed slow, And, mellowing the stillness of the air, Smiled on the world below;-- That, MELROSE! 'mid thy mouldering pride, All breathless and alone, I grasped the dreams to day denied, High dreams of ages gone!-- Had unshrieved guilt for one moment been there, His heart had turn'd to stone!

For oft, though felt no moving gale, Like restless ghost in glimmering shroud, Through lofty Oriel opening pale Was seen the hurrying cloud; And, at doubtful distance, each broken wall Frown'd black as bier's mysterious pall From mountain-cave beheld by ghastly seer; It seem'd as if sound had ceased to be; Nor dust from arch, nor leaf from tree, Relieved the noiseless ear.

The owl had sailed from her silent tower, Tweed hush'd his weary wave, The time was midnight's moonless hour, My seat a dreaded Douglas' grave!

My being was sublimed by joy, My heart was big, yet I could not weep; I felt that G.o.d would ne'er destroy The mighty in their tranced sleep.

Within the pile no common dead Lay blended with their kindred mould; Theirs were the hearts that pray'd, or bled, In cloister dim, on death-plain red, The pious and the bold.

There slept the saint whose holy strains Brought seraphs round the dying bed; And there the warrior, who to chains Ne'er stoop'd his crested head.

I felt my spirit sink or swell With patriot rage or lowly fear, As battle-trump, or convent-bell, Rung in my tranced ear.

But dreams prevail'd of loftier mood, When stern beneath the chancel high My country's spectre-monarch stood, All sheath'd in glittering panoply; Then I thought with pride what n.o.ble blood Had flow'd for the hills of liberty.

High the resolves that fill the brain With transports trembling upon pain, When the veil of time is rent in twain, That hides the glory past!

The scene may fade that gave them birth, But they perish not with the perishing earth, For ever shall they last.

And higher, I ween, is that mystic might That comes to the soul from the silent night, When she walks, like a disembodied spirit, Through realms her sister shades inherit, And soft as the breath of those blessed flowers That smile in Heaven's unfading bowers, With love and awe, a voice she hears Murmuring a.s.surance of immortal years.

In hours of loneliness and woe Which even the best and wisest know, How leaps the lighten'd heart to seize On the bliss that comes with dreams like these!

As fair before the mental eye The pomp and beauty of the dream return, Dejected virtue calms her sigh, And leans resign'd on memory's urn.

She feels how weak is mortal pain, When each thought that starts to life again, Tells that she hath not lived in vain.

For Solitude, by Wisdom woo'd, Is ever mistress of delight, And even in gloom or tumult view'd, She sanctifies their living blood Who learn her lore aright.

The dreams her awful face imparts, Unhallowed mirth destroy; Her griefs bestow on n.o.ble hearts A n.o.bler power of joy.

While hope and faith the soul thus fill, We smile at chance distress, And drink the cup of human ill In stately happiness.

Thus even where death his empire keeps Life holds the pageant vain, And where the lofty spirit sleeps, There lofty visions reign.

Yea, often to night-wandering man A pow'r fate's dim decrees to scan, In lonely trance by bliss is given; And midnight's starless silence rolls A giant vigour through our souls, That stamps us sons of Heaven.

Then, MELROSE! Tomb of heroes old!

Blest be the hour I dwelt with thee; The visions that can ne'er be told That only poets in their joy can see, The glory born above the sky The deep-felt weight of sanct.i.ty!

Thy ma.s.sy towers I view no more Through brooding darkness rising h.o.a.r, Like a broad line of light dim seen Some sable mountain-cleft between!

Since that dread hour, hath human thought A thousand gay creations brought Before my earthly eye; I to the world have lent an ear, Delighted all the while to hear The voice of poor mortality.

Yet, not the less doth there abide Deep in my soul a holy pride, That knows by whom it was bestowed, Lofty to man, but low to G.o.d; Such pride as hymning angels cherish, Blest in the blaze where man would perish.

EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM, ENt.i.tLED "THE HEARTH."

My soul, behold the beauty of his home!

The very heavens look down with gracious smiles Upon its holy rest. How bright a green Sleeps round the dwelling of two loving hearts!

The air lies hush'd above the peaceful roof, As if it felt the sanct.i.ty within.

On glides the river with a tranquil flow, Delighting in his music, as he bathes The happy bounds where happiness doth stray.

--I see them sitting by each other's side, In the heart's silent secrecy! I hear The breath of meditation from their souls.

They speak: a soft, subduing tenderness, Born of devotion, innocence and bliss, Steals from their bosoms in a silver voice That makes a pious hymning melody.

They look: a gleam of light as sadly sweet As if they listen'd to some mournful tale, Swims in their eyes that almost melt to tears.

They smile: oh! never did such languor steal From l.u.s.tre of two early-risen stars When all the silent heavens appear their own.

And lo! an infant shews his gladsome face!

His beautiful and shining golden head Lies on his mother's bosom, like a rose Fallen on a lilied bank. A dewy light Meets the soft smiling of his upward eye, As in the playful restlessness of joy He clings around her neck, and fondly strives To reach the kisses mantling from her soul.

--And now, the baby in his cradle sleeps, Hush'd by his mother's prayer! How soft her tread Falls, like a snow-flake, on the noiseless floor!

She almost fears to breathe too fond a sigh Towards the father of her darling child.

--Sleep broods o'er all the house: the mother's heart, Beating within her husband's folding arms, Dreams of sweet looks of waking happiness, Unceasing greetings of congenial thought, Deep blendings of existence; till awoke By the long stirring of delightful dreams, She with a silent prayer of thankfulness Leans gently-breathing on the breast of love!

Can guilt or misery ever enter here?

Ah! no; the spirit of domestic peace, Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile That sinks into the sullen soul of vice, And wins him o'er to virtue, so transforms The purpose of his heart, that sudden shame Smothers the curses struggling into birth, And makes him turn an eye of kindliness Even on the blessings that he came to blast.

It is a lofty thought, O guardian love!

To think that he who lives beneath thine eye Can never be polluted. Pestilence, The dire, contagious pestilence of sin May walk abroad, and lay its victims low; But they, whose upright spirits worship thee, Breathe not the tainted air--they live apart Unharm'd, as Israel's heaven-protected sons, When the exterminating angel pa.s.s'd With steps of blood o'er Egypt's groaning land.

Then ever keep unbroken and unstained The sabbath-sanct.i.ty of home; the shrine Where spirit in its rapture worships G.o.d.

By Heaven beloved for ever are the walls That duly every morn and evening hear Our whisper'd hymns! Eternity broods there.

Yea! like a father smiling on a band Of happy children, the Almighty One Dwells in the midst of us, appearing oft In visible glory, while our filial souls, Made pure beneath the watching of his eye, Walk stately in the conscious praise of Heaven!

THE FRENCH EXILE.

My Mary! wipe those tears away That dim thy lovely eyes, Nor, on that wild, romantic lay, That leads through fairy worlds astray, Waste all thy human sighs.

Come hither on the lightsome wing Of innocence, and with thee bring Thy smiles that warmly fall Into the heart with sunny glow; When once he tunes his harp to sing, Thou wilt not be in haste to go.-- --The Minstrel's in the Hall!

Quickly she started from her seat, With blushing, virgin-grace; Her long hair floating like a stream, While through it shone with tender gleam Her calm and pensive face!

Soon as she heard the Minstrel's name, Across her silent cheek there came A blythe yet pitying ray; For often had she heard me tell Of the French Exile, blind and lame, Who sung and touched the harp so well-- --Old Louis Fontenaye.

Silent he sat his harp beside, Upon an antique chair; And something of his country's pride Did, exiled though he was, reside Throughout his foreign air!

A snow-white dog of Gascon breed, With ribbands deck'd, was there to lead His dark steps,--and secure The paltry alms that traveller threw, Alms that in truth he much did need, For every child that saw him, knew That he was wretched poor.

His harp with figures quaint and rare Was deck'd, and strange device; There, you beheld the mermaid fair In mirror braid her sea-green hair, In wild and sportive guise.

There, on the imitated swell The Tritons blew the wreathed sh.e.l.l Around some fairy isle; --He framed it, when almost a child, Long ere he left his native dell: Who saw the antic carving wild Could scarce forbear to smile.

With silver voice, the lady said, She knew how well he sung!-- --Starting, he raised his h.o.a.ry head, To hear from that kind-hearted maid His own dear native tongue.

He seem'd as if restored to sight, So suddenly his eyes grew bright When that music touch'd his ear; The lilied fields of France, I ween, Before him swam in softened light, And the sweet waters of the Seine They all are murmuring near.

Even now, his voice was humbly sad, Subdued by woe and want; So crush'd his heart, no wish he had To feel for one short moment glad, That hopeless Emigrant!

--The aged man is young again, And cheerily chaunts a playful strain While his face with rapture shines;-- How rapidly his fingers glance O'er the glad strings! his giddy brain Drinks in the chorus and the dance, Beneath his cl.u.s.tering vines.

We saw it was a darling tune With his old heart,--a chear That made all pains forgotten soon;-- Gay look'd he as a bird in June That loves itself to hear.

Nor undelightful were the lays That warm and flowery sung the praise Of France's lovely queen, When with the ladies of her court, Like Flora and her train of fays, She came at summer-eve to sport Along the banks of Seine.

But fades the sportive roundelay; Both harp and voice are still; The dear delusion will not stay, The murmuring Seine flows far away, Sink cot and vine-clad hill!

Though his cheated soul is wounded sore, His aged visage dimm'd once more, The smile will not depart; But struggles 'mid the wrinkles there, For he clings unto the parting sh.o.r.e, And the morn of life so melting-fair, Still lingers in his heart.

Ah me! what touching silentness Slept o'er the face divine Of my dear maid! methought each tress Hung 'mid the light of tenderness, Like clouds in soft moonshine.

With artful innocence she tried In languid smiles from me to hide Her tears that fell like rain;-- But when she felt I must perceive The drops of heavenly pity glide, She own'd she could not chuse but grieve, So gladsome was the strain!

If when his griefs once more began, His eyes had been restored, And met her face so still and wan, How had that aged, exiled man The pitying saint adored!

Yet though the angel light that play'd Around her face, pierced not the shade That veil'd his eyeb.a.l.l.s dim,-- Yet to his ear her murmurs stole, And, with a faultering voice, he said That he felt them sink into his soul Like the blessed Virgin's hymn!

He pray'd that Heaven its flowers would strew On both our heads through life, With such a tone, as told he knew She was a virgin fond and true, Mine own betrothed wife!

And something too he strove to say In praise of our green isle,--how they Her generous children, though at war With France, and both on field and wave Encountering oft in fierce array, Would not from home or quiet grave Her exiled sons debar!

Long was the aged Harper gone Ere Mary well could speak,-- So I cheer'd her soul with loving tone, And, happy that she was my own, I kiss'd her dewy cheek.

And, when once more I saw the ray Of mild-returning pleasure play Within her glistening eyes, I bade the gentle maiden go And read again that Fairy lay, Since she could weep, 'mid fancied woe, O'er real miseries.