The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 6

THE ISLE OF PALMS.

CANTO FOURTH.

A summer Night descends in balm On the orange-bloom, and the stately Palm, Of that romantic steep, Where, silent as the silent hour, 'Mid the soft leaves of their Indian bower, Three happy spirits sleep.

And we will leave them to themselves, To the moon and the stars, these happy elves, To the murmuring wave, and the zephyr's wing, That dreams of gentlest joyance bring To bathe their slumbering eyes; And on the moving clouds of night, High o'er the main will take our flight, Where beauteous Albion lies.

Wondrous, and strange, and fair, I ween, The sounds, the forms, the hues have been Of these delightful groves; And mournful as the melting sky, Or a faint-remember'd melody, The story of their loves.

Yet though they sleep, those breathings wild, That told of the Fay-like sylvan child, And of them who live in lonely bliss, Like bright flowers of the wilderness, Happy and beauteous as the sky That views them with a loving eye, Another tale I have to sing, Whose low and plaintive murmuring May well thy heart beguile, And when thou weep'st along with me, Through tears no longer mayst thou see That fairy Indian Isle.

Among the Cambrian hills we stand!

By dear compulsion chain'd unto the strand Of a still Lake, yet sleeping in the mist, The thin blue mist that beautifies the morning: Old Snowdon's gloomy brow the sun hath kiss'd, Till, rising like a giant from his bed, High o'er the mountainous sea he lifts his head, The loneliness of Nature's reign adorning With a calm majesty and pleasing dread.

A spirit is singing from the coves Yet dim and dark; that spirit loves To sing unto the Dawn, When first he sees the shadowy veil, As if by some slow-stealing gale, From her fair face withdrawn.

How the Lake brightens while we gaze!

Impatient for the flood of rays That soon will bathe its breast: Where rock, and hill, and cloud, and sky, Even like its peaceful self, will lie Ere long in perfect rest.

The dawn hath brighten'd into day: Blessings be on yon crescent-bay Beloved in former years!

Dolbardan! at this silent hour, More solemn far thy lonely tower Unto my soul appears, Than when, in days of roaming youth, I saw thee first, and scarce could tell If thou wert frowning there in truth, Or only raised by Fancy's spell, An airy tower 'mid an unearthly dell.

O! wildest Bridge, by human hand e'er framed!

If so thou mayst be named: Thou! who for many a year hast stood Cloth'd with the deep-green moss of age, As if thy tremulous length were living wood, Sprung from the bank on either side, Despising, with a careless pride, The tumults of the wintry flood, And hill-born tempest's rage.

Each flower upon thy moss I know, Or think I know; like things they seem Fair and unchanged of a returning dream!

While underneath, the peaceful flow Of the smooth river to my heart Brings back the thoughts that long ago I felt, when forced to part From the deep calm of Nature's reign, To walk the world's loud scenes again.

And let us with that river glide Around yon hillock's verdant side; And lo! a gleam of sweet surprise, Like sudden sunshine, warms thine eyes.

White as the spring's unmelted snow, That lives though winter storms be o'er, A cot beneath the mountain's brow Smiles through its shading sycamore.

The silence of the morning air Persuades our hearts to enter there.

In dreams all quiet things we love; And sure no star that lies above Cradled in clouds, that also sleep, Enjoys a calm more husht and deep Than doth this slumbering cell: Yea! like a star it looketh down In pleasure from its mountain-throne, On its own little dell.

A lovelier form now meets mine eye, Than the loveliest cloud that sails the sky; And human feelings blend With the pleasure born of the glistening air, As in our dreams uprises fair The face of a dear friend.

A vision glides before my brain, Like her who lives beyond the Main!

Breathing delight, the beauteous flower That Heaven had raised to grace this bower.

To me this field is holy ground!

Her voice is speaking in the sound That cheers the streamlet's bed.

Sweet Maiden!--side by side we stand, While gently moves beneath my hand Her soft and silky head.

A moment's pause!--and as I look On the silent cot, and the idle brook, And the face of the quiet day, I know from all that many a year Hath slowly past in sorrow here, Since Mary went away.

But that wreath of smoke now melting thin, Tells that some being dwells within; And the balmy breath that stole From the rose-tree, and jasmin, cl.u.s.tering wide, O'er all the dwelling's blooming side, Tells that whoe'er doth there abide, Must have a gentle soul.

Then gently breathe, and softly tread, As if thy steps were o'er the dead!

Break not the slumber of the air, Even by the whisper of a prayer, But in thy spirit let there be A silent "Benedicite!"

Thine eye falls on the vision bright, As she sits amid the lonely light That gleams from her cottage-hearth: O! fear not to gaze on her with love!

For, though these looks are from above, She is a form of earth.

In the silence of her long distress, She sits with pious stateliness; As if she felt the eye of G.o.d Were on her childless lone abode.

While her lips move with silent vows, With saintly grace the phantom bows Over a Book spread open on her knee.

O blessed Book! such thoughts to wake!

It tells of Him who for our sake Died on the cross,--Our Saviour's History.

How beauteously hath sorrow shed Its mildness round her aged head!

How beauteously her sorrow lies In the solemn light of her faded eyes!

And lo! a faint and feeble trace Of hope yet lingers on her face, That she may yet embrace again Her child, returning from the Main; For the brooding dove shall leave her nest, Sooner than hope a mother's breast.

Her long-lost child may still survive!

That thought hath kept her wasted heart alive; And often, to herself unknown, Hath mingled with the midnight sigh, When she breathed, in a voice of agony, "Now every hope is gone!"

'Twas this that gave her strength to look On the mossy banks of the singing brook, Where Mary oft had play'd; And duly, at one stated hour, To go in calmness to the bower Built in her favourite glade.

'Twas this that made her, every morn, As she bless'd it, bathe the ancient thorn With water from the spring; And gently tend each flowret's stalk, For she call'd to mind who loved to walk Through their fragrant blossoming.

Yea! the voice of hope oft touch'd her ear From the hymn of the lark that caroll'd clear, Through the heart of the silent sky.

"Oh, such was my Mary's joyful strain!

And such she may haply sing again Before her Mother die."

Thus hath she lived for seven long years, With gleams of comfort through her tears; Thus hath that beauty to her face been given!

And thus, though silver-grey her hair, And pale her cheek, yet is she fair As any Child of Heaven.

Yet, though she thus in calmness sit, Full many a dim and ghastly fit Across her brain hath roll'd: Oft hath she swoon'd away from pain; And when her senses came again, Her heart was icy-cold.

Hard hath it been for her to bear The dreadful silence of the air At night, around her bed; When her waking thoughts through the darkness grew Hideous as dreams, and for truth she knew That her dear child was dead.

Things loved before seem alter'd quite, The sun himself yields no delight, She hears not the neighbouring waterfall, Or, if she hear, the tones recal The thought of her, who once did sing So sweetly to its murmuring.

No summer-gale, no winter-blast, By day or night o'er her cottage pa.s.s'd, If her restless soul did wake, That brought not a Ship before her eyes; Yea! often dying shrieks and cries Sail'd o'er Llanberris Lake, Though, far as the charm'd eye could view, Upon the quiet earth it lay, Like the Moon amid the heavenly way, As bright and silent too.

Hath she no friend whose heart may share With her the burthen of despair, And by her earnest, soothing voice, Bring back the image of departed joys So vividly, that reconciled To the drear silence of her cot, At times she scarcely miss her child?

Or, the wild raving of the sea forgot, Hear nought amid the calm profound, Save Mary's voice, a soft and silver sound?

No! seldom human footsteps come Unto her childless widow'd home; No friend like this e'er sits beside her fire: For still doth selfish happiness Keep far away from real distress, Loth to approach, and eager to retire.

The vales are wide, the torrents deep, Dark are the nights, the mountains steep, And many a cause, without a name, Will from our spirits hide the blame, When, thinking of ourselves, we cease To think upon another's peace; Though one short hour to sorrow given, Would chear the gloom, and win the applause of Heaven.

Yet, when by chance they meet her on the hill, Or lonely wandering by the sullen rill, By its wild voice to dim seclusion led, The shepherds linger on their way, And unto G.o.d in silence pray, To bless her h.o.a.ry head.

In church-yard on the sabbath-day They all make room for her, even they Whose tears are falling down in showers Upon the fading funeral flowers, Which they have planted o'er their children's clay.

And though her faded cheeks be dry, Her breast unmoved by groan or sigh, More piteous is one single smile Of hers, than many a tear; For she is wishing all the while That her head were lying here; Since her dear daughter is no more, Drown'd in the sea, or buried on the sh.o.r.e.

A sudden thought her brain hath cross'd; And in that thought all woes are lost, Though sad and wild it be: Why must she still, from year to year, In lonely anguish linger here?

Let her go, ere she die, unto the coast, And dwell beside the sea; The sea that tore her child away, When glad would she have been to stay.

An awful comfort to her soul To hear the sleepless Ocean roll!

To dream, that on his boundless breast, Somewhere her long-wept child might rest; On some far island wreck'd, yet blest Even as the sunny wave.

Or, if indeed her child is drown'd, For ever let her drink the sound That day and night still murmurs round Her Mary's distant grave.

--She will not stay another hour; Her feeble limbs with youthful power Now feel endow'd; she hath ta'en farewell Of her native stream, and hill and dell; And with a solemn tone Upon the bower implores a blessing, Where often she had sate caressing Her who, she deems, is now a saint in Heaven.

Upon her hearth the fire is dead, The smoke in air hath vanished; The last long lingering look is given, The shuddering start,--the inward groan,-- And the Pilgrim on her way hath gone.

Behold her on the lone sea-sh.o.r.e, Listening unto the hollow roar That with eternal thunder, far and wide, Clothes the black-heaving Main! she stands Upon the cold and moisten'd sands, Nor in that deep trance sees the quickly-flowing tide.

She feels it is a dreadful noise, That in her bowed soul destroys A Mother's hope, though blended with her life; But surely she hath lost her child, For how could one so weak and mild Endure the Ocean's strife, Who, at this moment of dismay, Howls like a monster o'er his prey!

But the tide is rippling at her feet, And the murmuring sound, so wildly sweet, Dispels these torturing dreams: Oh! once again the sea behold, O'er all its wavy fields of gold, The playful sun-light gleams.

These little harmless waves so fair, Speak not of sorrow or despair; How soft the zephyr's breath!

It sings like joy's own chosen sound; While life and pleasure dance around, Why must thou muse on death?

Here even the timid child might come, To dip her small feet in the foam; And, laughing as she view'd The billows racing to the sh.o.r.e, Lament when their short course was o'er, Pursuing and pursued.

How calmly floats the white sea-mew Amid the billows' verdant hue!

How calmly mounts into the air, As if the breezes blew her there!

How calmly on the sand alighting, To dress her silken plumes delighting!

See! how these tiny vessels glide With all sails set, in mimic pride, As they were ships of war.

All leave the idle port to-day, And with oar and sheet the sunny bay Is glancing bright and far.

She sees the joy, but feels it not: If e'er her child should be forgot For one short moment of oblivious sleep, It seems a wrong to one so kind, Whose mother, left on earth behind, Hath nought to do but weep.

For, wandering in her solitude, Tears seem to her the natural food Of widow'd childless age; And bitter though these tears must be, Which falling there is none to see, Her anguish they a.s.suage.

A calm succeeds the storm of grief, A settled calm, that brings relief, And half partakes of pleasure, soft and mild; For the spirit, that is sore distrest, At length, when wearied into rest, Will slumber like a child.

And then, in spite of all her woe, The bliss, that charm'd her long ago, Bursts on her like the day.

Her child, she feels, is living still, By G.o.d and angels kept from ill On some isle far away.