+4 %.o< ^ % & as ^0* *5 y ; To others give a thousand smiles, To me a single sigh. And when the admiring circle mark The paleness of thy face, A half-forniM tear, a transient spark Of melancholy grace, Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Some coxcomb's raillery ; Nor own for once thou thought'st on one, Who ever thinks on thee. Though smile and si«;h alike are vain, When sever'd hearts repine, My spirit flies o'er mount and main, And mourns in search of thine. LIGHT OF THE HAREM. Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, She yields to one her person and her heart, Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, For, not unhappy in her master's love, Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. II. They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily ; They scarcely can behold their male relations ; So that their moments do not pass so gayly As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 36 LIGHT OF THE HAREM. Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely ; And as the Turks abhor long conversations, Their days are either passed in doing nothing, Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse; Were never caught in epigram or witticism, Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews. In harems learning soon would make a pretty schism ! But luckily these beauties are no " Blues," No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em " That charming passage in the last new poem." The poor dear Musselwomen whom I mention Have none of these instructive pleasant people ; And one would seem to them a new invention, Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple. I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) A missionary author, just to preach Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. No chemistry for them unfolds her gases ; No metaphysics are let loose in lectures ; No circulating library amasses Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures Upon the living manners, as they j^ass us ; No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. JULIA. Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, The apostle of affliction, he who threw Enchantment over passion, and from wo Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew How to make madness beautiful, and east O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. His love was passion's essence — as a tree On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same. But his was not the love of living dame, Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, But of ideal beauty, which became In him existence, and o'erflowing teems Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 38 This breathed itself to life in Julie, this Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss Which every morn his fever'd lip would greet, From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; In that absorbing sigh perchance more bless'd Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possess'il. \?35* THE YOUNG HA IDEE. I enter thy garden of roses, Beloved and fair Haidee, Each morning where Flora reposes, For surely I see her in thee. Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung ; As the branch at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature Shines the soul of the young Haidee. But the loveliest garden grows hateful When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 40 THE YOUNG II A IDEE. But when drunk to escape from thy malice, The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee My heart from these horrors to save : "Will naught to my "bosom restore thee i Then open the gates of the grave. As the chief who to combat advances Secure of his conquest before, Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances. Hast pierced through my heart to its cove. Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish By pangs which a smile would dispel I Would the hope, which thou once bid'st me cherish, For torture repay me too well '. Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidee ! There Flora all wither'd reposi -, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. GENE VRA. Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features — caught From contemplation — where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness chami'd from its despair — Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That — hut I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought — I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colors blent, When from his beauty-breathing pencil bora, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent,) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! With naught Keniorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 42 GENEYKA H. Tiry cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, And yet so lovely that if Mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow : And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh ! While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less. LEILA. Hee eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell ! But gaze on that of the Gazelle, It will assist thy fancy well ; As large, as languishingly dark ; But Soul beam'd forth in every spark That darted from beneath the lid, Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. Yea, Soid, and should our prophet say That form was naught but breathing clay, By Alia ! I would answer nay ; Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood, Which totters o'er the fiery flood, With Paradise within my view, And all his Houris beckoning through. Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read And keep that portion of his creed, Which saith that woman is but dust, A soulless toy for tyrant's lust % On her might Muftis gaze, and own That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 44 On her fair cheek's unfading hue The young pomegranate's blossoms strew Their bloom in blushes ever new ; Her hair in hyacinthine flow, When left to roll its folds below, As midst her handmaids in the hall She stood superior to them all, Hath swept the marl lie where her feet Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet Ere from the cloud that gave it birth It fell, and caught one stain of earth. The cygnet nobly walks the water : So moved on earth Cireassia's daughter, The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, And spurns the wave with wings of pride, When pass the steps of stranger man Along the banks that bound her tide ; Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck: — Thus arm'd with beauty would she check Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise : Thus high and graceful was her gait ; Her heart as tender to her mate ; Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he '( Alas ! that name was not for thee ! I hear the sound of coming feet, But not a voice mine ear to greet ; More near, — each turban I can scan, And silver-sheathed ataghan ; 4-. The foremost of the band is seeu An Einir by his garb of green : " Ho ! Avho art thou \ " This low salam Replies, " Of Moslem faith I am.'' " The burden ye so gently bear Seems one that claims your utmost care, And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, My humble bark would gladly wait." " Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, And waft us from the silent shore ; Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply The nearest oar that's scatter'd by, And midway to those rocks where sleep The channel'd waters dark and deep. Rest from your task — so — bravely done, Our course has been right swiftly run ; Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, That one of — * * Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, The calm wave rippled to the bank ; I wateh'd it as it sank, methought Some motion from the current caught Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam That checker'd o'er the living stream : I gazed, till vanishing from view, Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; Still less and less, a speck of white That gemni'd the tide, then mock'd the sight ; 4G And all its hidden secrets sleep, Known but to Genii of the deep, Which, trembling in their coral caves, They dare not whisper to the waves. " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, But his shall be a redder grave ; Her spirit pointed well the steel Which taught that felon heart to feel. He caird the Prophet, but his power Was vain against the vengeful Giaour ; He called on Alia — but the word Arose unheeded or unheard. Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer Be pass'd, and thine recorded there ? I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, The traitor in his turn to seize ; My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, And now I go — but go alone." 'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; And shining in her white symar, As through yon pale -ray cloud the star Which now I gaze on, as on her, Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; Dimly I view its trembling spark ; To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; And I,-. before its rays appear, That lifeless thing the living fear. 47 I wander, father ! for my soul Is fleeting towards the final goal. I saw her, friar ! and I rose Forgetful of our former woes ; And rushing from my couch, I dart, And clasp her to my desperate heart ; I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? No breathing form within my grasp ; No heart that beats reply to mine ; Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! And art thou, dearest, changed so much, As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, I care not ; so my arms enfold The all they ever wish'd to hold. Alas ! around a shadow press'd, They shrink upon my lonely breast ; Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, And beckons with beseeching hands ! With braided hair, and bright-black eye — I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! But he is dead ! within the dell I saw him buried where he fell ; He comes not, for he cannot break From earth ; why then art thou awake \ They told me wild waves roll'd above The face I view, the form I love ; They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! I'd tell it, but' my tongue would fail : If true, and from thine ocean-cave Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 4S Oli ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er This brow that then will burn no more ; Or place them on my hopeless heart : But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, In mercy ne'er again depart ! Or farther with thee bear my soul Than winds can waft or waters roll i ■ . ZULEIKA. Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven ; Soft, as the memory of buried love ; Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above ; Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief, Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. Who hath not proved how feebly words essay To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray \ Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess The might — the majesty of Loveliness ? Such was Zuleika — such around her shone The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 50 The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonized the whole- And, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! Her graceful arms in meekness bending Across her gently-budding breast ; At one kind word those arms extending To clasp the neck of him who blest His child caressing and caress' d, Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt His purpose half within him melt : Not that against her fancied weal His heart though stern could ever feel ; Affection chain' d her to that heart ; Ambition tore the links apart. "Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! How dear this very day must tell, "When I forget my own distress, In losing what I love so well, To bid thee with another dwell : Another ! and a braver man "Was never seen in battle's van. We Moslem reck not much of blood ; But yet the line of Carasman Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood First of the bold Timariot bands That won and well can keep their lands. Enough that he who comes to woo Is kinsman of the Bey Ogkra : Z U L E I K A . 51 His years need scarce a thought employ, I would not have thee wed a boy. And thou shalt Lave a noble dower : And his and my united power "Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, Which others tremble but to scan, And teach the messenger what fate The bearer of such boon may wait. And now thou know'st thy father's will ; All that thy sex hath need to know : 'Twas mine to teach obedience still — The way to love, thy lord may show." In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; And if her eye was fill'd Avith tears That stifled feeling dare not shed, And changed her cheek from pale to red, And red to pale, as - through her ears Those winged words like arrows sped, What could such be but maiden fears ? So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, Even Pity scarce can wish it less ! His head was leant upon his hand, His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water That swiftly glides and gently swells Between the winding Dardanelles ; 52 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, Nor even Ms Pacha's turban'd band Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, Careering cleave the folded felt With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud — He thought but of old GiaffiYs daughter ! No word from Selim's bosom broke ; One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : Still gazed he through the lattice grate, Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, But little from his aspect leam'd ; Ecpial her grief, yet not the same ; Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak, She knew not why, forbade to speak. Yet speak she must — but when essay ? " How strange he thus should turn away ! Not thus Ave e'er before have met ; Not thus shall be our parting yet." Thrice paced she slowly through the room, And watch' d his eye — it still was fix'd : She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd The Persian Atar-gul's perfume, And sprinkled all its odors o'er The pictured roof and marble floor : The drops that through his glittering vest The playful girl's appeal address'd 53 Unheeded o'er his bosom new, As if that breast were marble too. " What, sullen yet ? it must not be — Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " She saw in curious order set The fairest flowers of eastern land — " He loved them once ; may touch them yet, If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." The childish thought was hardly breathed Before the rose was plucked and wreathed ; The next fond moment saw her seat Her fairy form at Selim's feet : " This rose to calm my brother's cares A message from the Bulbul bears ; It says to-night he will prolong For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; And though his note is somewhat sad, He'll try for once a strain more glad, With some faint hope his falter'd lay May sing these gloomy thoughts away. " What ! not receive my foolish flower ? Nay then I am indeed unblest : On me can thus thy forehead lower ? And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? Come, lay thy head upon my breast, And I will kiss thee into rest, Since words of mine, and songs must fail, Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 54 ZULIEKA. I knew our sire at times was stem, But this from thee had yet to learn : Too •well I know he loves thee not ; But is Zuleika's love forgot ? All ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — This kinsman Bey of Carasman Perhaps may prove some foe of thine : If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, If shrines that ne'er approach allow To woman's step admit her vow, Without thy free consent, command, The Sultan should not have my hand ! Think'st thou that I could bear to part With thee, and learn to halve my heart >. Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side, Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? Years have not seen, Time shall not see The hour that tears my soul from thee : Even Azrael, from his deadly quiver When flies that shaft, and fly it must, That parts all else, shall doom forever Our hearts to undivided dust ! " ME DOR A. The Sun hath sunk— and, darker than the night, Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height, Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone — With it he comes not — sends not— faithless one ! The wind was fair though light ; and storms were none. Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet, His only tidings that they had not met ! Though wild, as now, for different were the tale Had Conrad waited for that single sail. The night-breeze freshens— she that day had pass'd In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; Sadly she sate— on high — Impatience bore At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away: She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, Nor deem'd it cold— her chill was at her heart ; Till grew such certainty from that suspense — His very sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 56 It came at last — a sad and shatterM boat, Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew In silence, darkling, each appear* 1 to wait His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : Something they would have said : but seem'd to fear To trust their accents to Medora's ear. She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot; "Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, That deem'd not till they found their energy. "While yet was Hope — the}- soften'd — flutter'd — wept: All lost — that softness died not — but it slept; And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, " With nothing left to love — there's naught to dread." "i'is more than nature's; like the burning might Delirium gathers from the fever's height. " Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well: Yet would I ask — ahnost my lip denies The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies ! " " Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; But here is one denies that he is dead : He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — ■ So tbrobb'd each vein — each thought — till then withstood : Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued ; 57 She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave Perchance but snatch' d her from another grave ; But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : Dash o'er her death-like cheek the ocean dew, Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve : Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, "With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; All, save repose of flight : still lingering there Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led, Will save him living, or appease him dead. W< » to his foes ! there yet survive a few, Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. The lights are high on beacon and from bower, And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. With the first boat descends he for the shore, And looks impatient on the lingering oar! Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 58 "With the first pause the resting rowers gave. He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high Ascends the path familiar to his eye. He reach'd this turret door — he paused — no sound Broke from within ; and all was night around. He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; He knockVl — but faintly — for his trembling hand Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. The portal opens — 'tis a well-known face- But not the form he panted to embrace. Its lips are silent — twice his own essavM, And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; He snatch'd the lam}) — its light will answer all — It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. He would not wait for that reviving ray — As soon covdd he have linger'd there for day ; But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; lli< steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, And set the anxious frame that lately shook : He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! In life itself she was so still and fair, That death with gentler aspect wither' d there ; MEDOKA. 59 And the cold floAvers, her colder hand contain 1 d, In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd As if she scarcely felt, hut feign' d a sleep, And made it almost mockery yet to Aveep : The long dark lashes fringed her lids of suoav, And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below — Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ; Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, And wished repose — but only for a AA'hile ; But the AA T hite shroud, and each extended tress, Long — fair— but spread in utter lifelessness, Which, late the sport of every summer wind, ■ Escaped the baffled wreath that stroA-e to bind ; These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? He ask'd no question — all were answer 1 d now By the first glance on that still, marble brow : It Avas enough — she died — what reek'd it ko\v '. The love of youth, the hope of better years, The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, The only living thing he could not hate, Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar: The proud — the wayward — who have fixed below Their joy, and find this earth enough for avo, GO Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite. But who in patience parts with all delight \ Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, In smiles that least befit who wear them most. (ULNA UK. The midnight pass'd, and to the massy door A light step came. It paused— it moved once more Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; Yet changed since last within that cell she came, More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame. On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, Which spoke before her accents—" Thou must die ! Yes, thou must die— there is but one resource, The last— the worst— if torture were not worse." '• Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim What last proclaim'd they— Conrad still the same. Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, And change the sentence I deserve to bear % Well have I earn'd — nor here alone— the meed Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 62 i;r l.n are. "Why should I seek? because — Oh! didst thou not Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot I Why should I seek ( — hath misery made thee blind To the fond workings of a woman's mind '. And must I say '. albeit my heart rebel With all that woman feels, but should not tell — Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden 1 d — loved. Reply not — tell not now thy tale again, Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, I rush through peril which she would not dare. If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, Were I thine own — thou Avert not lonely here : An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! What hath such gentle dame to do with home? But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; If thou hast coiirage still, and wouldst be free, Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me ! " " Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head ! Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight I Or is that instrument more fit for fight I " " Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. A single word of mine removes that chain: AYithout some aid how here could I remain ? GULNARE. 63 Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, If in anght evil, for thy sake the crime : The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : But he has said it — and the jealous well, Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — ■ Since with me came a heart he could not buy. I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, But for his rescue 1 with thee had fled. 'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, Their words are omens Insult renders true. Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; This fleeting grace was only to prepare New torments for thy life, and my despair. Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, To wear but till the gilding frets away I I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, If but to show how grateful is a slave. 114 GULNARE. But Lad lie not thus menaced fame and life, (And well lie keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,) I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or hut the worst. Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not start, Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now It points within the port a Mainote prow: But in one chamber, where our path must lead, There bleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor Seyd ! " " Guluare — Gulnare — I never felt till now My abject fortune, wither' d fame so low: Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band From earth with ruthless but with open hand, And therefore came 1, in my bark of war, To smite the smiter with a scimitar ; Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest ! " " Rest ! rest ! 1 >y sunrise must thy sinews shake, And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. I heard the order — saw — I will not see — If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. GULNARE. 65 My life — my love — my hatred — all below Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! Without it flight were idle — how evade His sure pursuit I my wrongs too unrepaid, My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, I'll try the fimmess of a female hand. The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er — Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud. She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply ; But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; And gathering, as he could, the links that bound His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear Full on his brow, as if from morning air — He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : Yet scarcely heeded these — another light From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 9 66 GULNARE. With hasty step a figure outward pass'd, Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis She at last ! No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — " Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill ! " Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye Starts from the day abrupt and fearfull}-. She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : As if she late had bent her leaning head Above some object of her doubt or dread. They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood ! KALED. And Lara called his page, and went his way — Well could that stripling word or sign obey : His only follower from those climes afar, Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung In duty patient, and sedate, though young ; Silent as him he served, his faith appears Above his station, and beyond his years. Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, In such from him he rarely heard command ; But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home Those accents, as his native mountains dear, Awake their absent echoes in his ear, Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall, Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; What marvel then he rarely left his side ? (38 Light was his form, and darkly delicate That brow whereon his native sun had sate, But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, The cheek where oft the unhidden blush shone through ; Yet not such blush as mounts when health would shov. All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care That for a burning moment fever'd there ; And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, Though its black oil) those long low lashes' fringe Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share : And pleased not him the sports that please his age, The tricks i if youth, the frolics of the page ; For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, Brief were his answers, and his qestions none ; His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book; His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; To know no brotherhood, and take from earth No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. KALED. 69 Still there was haughtiness in all he did, A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, In act alone obeys, his air commands ; As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire That thus he served, but surely not for hire. Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew No sympathy with that familiar crew : His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, So femininely white it might bespeak Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, But for his garb, and something in his gaze, More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; A latent fierceness that far more became His fiery climate than his tender frame : True, in his words it broke not from his breast, But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore Another ere he left his mountain shore ; For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, That name repeated loud without reply, 70 As -unfamiliar, or, if roused again, Start to the sound, as hut remeniher'd then ; Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake ; For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. jrJEFJBITHAS BAT' JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. Since our Country, our God — oh, my sire ! Demand that thy Daughter expire ; Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now ! And the voice of my mourning is o'er, And the mountains behold me no more ! If the hand that I love lay me low, There cannot be pain in the blow ! And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure — That the blood of thy child is as pure As the blessing I beg ere it flow, And the last thought that soothes me below. Though the virgins of Salem lament, Be the judge and the hero unbent ! I have won the great battle for thee, And my father and country are free ! JEI'IITHA'S DAUGHTER. When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd — When the voice that thou lovest is hush VI, Let my memory still lie thy pride, And forget not I smiled as I died ! PARI SIN A. It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard ; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, "Which follows the decline of day, As twilight melts beneath the moon away. But it is not to list to the waterfall That Parisina leaves her hall, And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light That the lady walks in the shadow of night , 10 71 PARI SIX A. And if she sits in Este's bower, Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — She listens — but not for the nightingale — Though her ear expects as soft a tale. There glides a step through the foliage thick, And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats qui There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : A moment more — and they shall meet — 'Tis past — her lover 's at her feet. And what unto them is the world beside, With all its change of time and tide ? Its living things — its earth and sky — Are nothing to their mind and eye. And heedless as the dead are they Of aught around, above, beneath ; As if all else had pass'd away, They only for each other breathe ; Their very sighs are full of joy So deep, that did it decay, That happy madness would destroy The hearts Avhich feel its fiery sway. Of guilt, of peril, do they deem In that tumultuous tender dream ? Who that have felt that passion's power, Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour ? Or thought how brief such moments last ? But yet — they are already pass'd ! Alas ! we must awake before We know such vision comes no more. PARISIXA. 75 She stood, I said, all pale and still, The living cause of Hugo's ill : Her eves unmoved, but full and wide, Not once had tum'd to either side — Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, But round their orbs of deepest blue The circling white dilated grew — And there with glassy gaze she stood As ice were in her curdled blood, But every now and then a tear So large and slowly gather'd slid From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, It was a thing to see, not hear ! And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes. To speak she thought — the imperfect note Was choked within her swelling throat, Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan Her whole heart gushing in the tone. It ceased — again she thought to speak, Then burst her voice in one long shriek, And to the earth she fell like stone Or statue from its base o'erthrown, More like a thing that ne'er had life, — A monument of Azo's wife, — Than her, that living guilty thing, Whose every passion was a sting, Which urged to guilt, but could not bear That guilt's detection and despair. 76 PARISIXA. But yet she lived — and all too soon Recover'd from that death-like swoon — But scarce to reason — every sense Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense, And each frail fibre of her brain (As bowstrings, when relaxed by rain, The erring arrow launch aside) Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — The past a blank, the future black, With glimpses of a dreary track, Like lightning on the desert path, When midnight storms are mustering wrath. She fear'd — she felt that something ill Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — ■ That there was sin and shame she knew ; That some one was to die — but who ? She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? Could this be still the earth beneath, The sky above, and men around ; Or were they fiends who now so frown'd On one, before whose eyes each eye Till then had smiled in sympathy \ All was confused and undefined To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; A chaos of wild hopes and fears : And now in laughter, now in tears, But madly still in each extreme, She strove with that convulsive dream ; For so it seem'd on her to break : Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! A ST ARTE. Manfeed. Yet there was one Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. Manfeed. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty : She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The cpiest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe : nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; And tenderness — but that I had for her ; Humility — and that I never had. Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own- I loved her, and destroy'd her ! AST ARTE. Wnrn. With thy hand I .Max fred. Not with my hand, hut heart — which broke her heart — It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed Blood, but not hers — and yet ber blood was shed. ********* [The Phantom of Astartk rises and stands in the midst. Can this be death I there's bloom upon her cheek ; But now I see it is no living hue, But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. It is the same — Oh, God ! that I should dread To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — Forgive me or condemn me. Nemesis. By the power which hath broken The grave which inthraU'd thee, Speak to him who hath spoken, Or those who have call'd thee ! Maxfred. She is silent, And in that silence I am more than answered. Nemesis. My power extends no further. Prince of air ! It rests with thee alone — command her voice. ASTARTE. 79 Aeiel. Spirit — obey this sceptre ! Nemesis. Silent still ! She is not of our order, but belongs To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, And we are baffled also. Manfred. Hear me, hear me — Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : I have so much endured — so much endure — Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made To torture thus each other, though it were The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; • And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! For I have call'd on thee in the still night, Startled the slumbering birds froin the hush'd boughs, And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves Acquainted with thy vainly echo'd name, Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 80 Look on the fiends around— they feel for me : I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — I reck not what— but let me hear thee once — This once — once more ! Phantom or Astarte. Manfred ! Manfred. Saj . say on — I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! Phantom. Manfred ! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills. Farewell ! Manfred. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? Phantom. Farewell ! Manfred. Say, shall we meet again? Phantom. Farewell ! Manfred. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. Phantom. Manfred ! [The Sjririt of Astarte disappears. IL1E(D)M©3EA 33) ESTIE, LEONORA D'ESTE. TnEY call'd me mad — and why ? Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? I was indeed delirious in my heart To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; But still my phrensy was not of the mind ; I knew my fault, and feel my punishment Not less because I suffer it unbent. That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; But let them go, or torture as they will, My heart can multiply thine image still ; Successful love may sate itself away, The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fate To have all feeling save the one decay, And every passion into one ddate, As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. Look on a love which knows not to despair, 11 82 LEONOKA D'ESTE. But all unquench'd is still my better part, Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, As dwells the gather d lightning in its cloud, Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, Till struck, — forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! And thus at the collision of thy name The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, And for a moment all things as they were Flit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. And vet my love without ambition grew ; I knew thy state, my station, and I knew A Princess was no love-mate for a bard ; I told it not, I breathed it not, it was Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, And yet I did not venture to repine. Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; Not for thou wert a princess, 1 >ut that Love Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay' d — Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above ! And in that sweet severity there was A something which all softness did surpass — The very love which lock'd me to my chain Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest, Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, And look to thee with undivided breast, And foil the ino-enuitv of Pain. LAURA. She was not old, nor young, nor at the years Which certain people call a " certain age" Which yet the most uncertain age appears, Because I never heard, nor could engage A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, To name, define by speech, or write on page, The period meant precisely by that word, — Which surely is exceedingly absurd. Laura was blooming still, had made the best Of time, and time return'd the compliment, And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd, She look'd extremely well where'er she went ; A pretty woman is a welcome guest, And Luara's brow a frown had rarely bent ; Indeed she shone all smiles, and seein'd to flatter Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) A pretty woman as was ever seen, Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 84 With all the fashions which the last mouth wore, Color'd, and silver paper leaved between That and the title-page, for fear the press Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; To some she courtsies, and to some she dips, Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; She then surveys, condemns, but pities still Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. One has false curls, another too much paint, A third — where did she buy that frightful turban \ A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, A fifth's look 's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, And lo ! an eighth appears,- — " I'll see no more ! " For fear, like Banquo's king, they reach a score. Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, Others were levelling their looks at her ; She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, And till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; The women only thought it quite amazing That, at her time of life, so many were Admirers still, — but men are so debased. Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. THERESA. Theresa's form — Methinks it glides before me now, Between me and yon chestnut's bough, The memory is so quick and warm ; And yet I find no words to tell The shape of her I loved so well : She had the Asiatic eye, Such as our Turkish neighborhood, Hath mingled with our Polish blood, Dark as above us is the sky ; But through it stole a tender light, Like the first moonrise of midnight ; Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, Which seem'd to melt to its own beam : All love, half languor, and half fire, Like saints that at the stake expire, And lift their raptured looks on high, As though it were a joy to die. A brow like a midsummer lake, Transparent with the sun therein, 86 . THERESA. When waves no murmur dare to make, And heaven beholds her face within. A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? I loved her then — I love her still ; And such as I am, love indeed In fierce extremes — in good and ill. But still we love even in our rage, And haunted to our very age With the vain shadow of the past, As is Mazeppa to the last. We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, She did not speak, and yet replied ; There are ten thousand tones and signs We hear and see, but none defines — Involuntary sparks of thought, Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, And form a strange intelligence, Alike mysterious and intense, Which link the burning chain that binds, Without their will, young hearts and minds ; Conveying, as the electric wire, We know not how, the absorbing fire. — I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, And still reluctant distance kept, Until I was made known to her, And we might then and there confer Without suspicion — then, even then, I long'd, and was resolved to speak ; But on my lips they died again, The accents tremulous and weak, THERESA. 87 Until one hour. — There is a game, A frivolous and foolish play, Wherewith we while away the day ; It is — I have forgot the name — And we to this, it seems were set, By some strange chance which I forget : I reck'd not if I won or lost, It was enough for me to he So near to hear, and oh ! to see The being whom I loved the most. — I watch'd her as a sentinel, (May ours this dark night watch as well !) Until I saw, and thus it was, That she was pensive, nor perceived Her occupation, nor was grieved Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still Play'd on for hours, as if her will Yet bound her to the place, though not That hers might be the winning lot. Then through my brain the thought did pass Even as a flash of lightning there, That there was something in her air "Which would not doom me to despair ; And on the thought my words broke forth, All incoherent as they were — Their eloquence was little worth, But yet she listen'd — 'tis enough — ■ Who listens once will listen twice ; Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, And one refusal no rebuff. 88 THERESA. I loved and was beloved again — They tell me, sire, you never knew Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, I shorten all my joy or pain ; To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; But all men are not born to reign, Or o'er their passions, or as you Thus o'er themselves and nations too. I am — or rather was — a prince, A chief of thousands, and could lead Them on where each would foremost bleed ; But could not o'er myself evince The like control — But to resume : I loved, and was lieloved again; In sooth, it is a happy doom, But yet where happiest ends in pain. — We met in secret, and the hour Which led me to that lady's bower Was fiery Expectation's dower. My days and nights were nothing' — all Except that hour which doth recall In the long lapse from youth to age No other like itself — I'd give The Ukraine back again to live It o'er once more — and be a page, The happy page, who was the lord Of one soft heart, and his own sword, And had no other gem nor wealth Save nature's gift of youth and health. BEATRICE. Once more in man's frail world ; which I had left So long that 'twas forgotten ; and 1 feel The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft Of the immortal vision which could heal My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, Where late my ears rung with the damned cries Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place Of lesser torment, whence men may arise Pure from the fire to join the angelic race; Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd My spirit with her light ; and to the base Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, Unblasted by the gloiy, though he trod From star to star to reach the almighty throne. Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 12 90 BEATRICE. So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, Love so ineffable, and so alone, That naught on earth could more my bosom move, And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light My paradise had still been incomplete. Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought, Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought With the world's war, and years, and banishment, And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; For mine is not a nature to be bent By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd, And though the long, long conflict hath been spent In vain, and never more, save when the cloud Which overhangs the Apenuine, my mind's eye Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud Of me, can I return, though but to die, Unto my native soil, they have not yet Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. AN G 10 LIN A. [Angiolina and Matcianna, afterwards Faliero.] Angiolina. 'Twas a gross insult ; but I heed it not For the rash seorner's falsehood in itself, But for the effect, the deadly deep impression Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere To all save me : I tremble when I think To what it may conduct. Marianna. Assuredly The Doge cannot suspect you ? Angiolina. Suspect me ! Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie, Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, His own still conscience smote him for the act, And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame Upon his coward calumny. 92 angiolina. Maeiantta. 'Twere fit He should be punish'd grievously. Angiolixa. He is so. MaRIANNA. What ! is the sentence pass'd I is he condemn'd '. Angiolina. I know not that, but he has been detected. Marianna. And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? Axgiolina. I would not be a judge in my own cause, Nor do I know what sense of punishment May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; But if his insults sink no deeper in The minds of the inquisitors than they Have ruffled mine, lie will, for all acquittance, Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. MaRIANNA. Some sacrifice is due to slanderd virtue. Angiolina. "Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? Or if it must depend upon men's words ? The dying Roman said, " 'twas but a name : " ANGIOLINA 93 It were indeed no more, if human breath Could make or mar it. Mauianna. Yet full many a dame, Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies, Such as abound in Venice, would be loud And all-inexorable in their cry For justice. Angiolina. This but proves it is the name And not the quality they prize : the first Have found it a hard task to hold their honor, If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming As they would look out for an ornament Of which they feel the want, but not because They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, And would seem honest, as they must seem fair. Maeianna. You have strange thoughts for a patrician dame. Angiolina. And yet they were my father's ; with his name, The sole inheritance he left. Marianna. You want none ; Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 94 A X G 1 L I X A . Axgiolixa. I should Lave sought none though a peasant's bride, But feel uot less the love and gratitude Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand Upon his early, tried, and trusted Mend, The Count Yal di Marino, now our Doge. Maiiiaxxa. And with that hand did he bestow your heart ? Axgiolina. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. aIakiaxxa. Yet this strange disproportion in your years, And, let me add, disparity of tempers, Might make the world doubt whether such a union o Could make you wisely, permanently, happy. AXGIOLIXA. The world will think with worldlings ; but my heart Has still been in my duties, which are many, But never difficult. Mariaxxa. And do you love him ? Angiolina. I love all noble qualities which merit Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me To single out what we should love in others, And to subdue all tendency to lend The best and purest feelings of our nature AXGIOLIXA. 95 To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand Upon Faliero : be had known him noble, Brave, generous; rich in all the qualities Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all Such have I found him as my father said. His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms Of men avIio have commanded ; too much pride, And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by The uses of patricians, and a life Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also From the quick sense of honor, which becomes A duty to a certain sign, a vice When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness In such sort, that the wariest of republics Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him, From his first fight to his last embassy, From which on his return the Dukedom met him. Maiuaxna. But previous to this marriage, had your heart Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, Such as in years had been more meet to match Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? Angiolina. I answer'd your first question when I said I married. 96 angiolina. Maeianna. And the second l Angiolina. Needs no answer. Maeianna. I pray your pardon, if I have offended. Angiolina. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew not That wedded bosoms could permit themselves To ponder upon what they now might choose, Or aught save their past choice. Maeianna. 'Tis their past choice That far too often makes them deem they would Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. Angiolina. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. Maeianna. Here comes the Doge — shall I retire { Angiolina. It may Be better you should quit me ; he seems wrapp'd In thought. — How pensively he takes his way ! [Exit Maeianna. [Enter the Doge and Pieteo.] Doge, (musing?) There is- a certain Philip Calendaro Now in the Arsenal, who holds command ANGIOLINA. 97 Of eighty men, and has great influence Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : This man, 1 hear, is bold and popular, Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 'twould Be well that he were won : I needs must hope That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, But fain would be PlETKO. My lord, pray pardon me For breaking in upon your meditation ; The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure To fix an hour when he may speak -with you. Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see — Say in the second hour of night. {Exit Pietko. Angiolina. My lord ! Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why delay So long approaching me ? — I saw you not. Angiolina. You were absorb'd in thought, and he who now Has parted from you might have words of weight To bear you from the senate. Doge. From the senate ? 13 98 angiolina. Angiolina. I would not interrupt him in his duty And theirs. Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. Angiolina. I thought the Duke had held command in Venice. Doge. He shall. — But let that pass. — We will be jocund. How fares it with you ? have you been abroad \ The day is overcast, but the calm wave Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar ; Or have you held a levee of your friends ? Or has your music made you solitary \ Say — is there aught that you would will within The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure, Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted On an old man oft moved with many cares ? Speak and 'tis done. Angiolixa. You're ever kind to me — I have nothing to desire, or to request, Except to see you oftener and calmer. Doge. Calmer ? angiolina. 99 Angiolina. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why Do you still keep apart and walk alone, And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, As not betraying their full import, yet Disclose too much ? Dogr Disclose too much ! — of what ? What is there to disclose \ Angiolina. A heart so ill At ease. Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state You know what daily cares oppress all those Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; Now suffering from the Genoese without, And malecontents within — 'tis this which makes me More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. Angiolina. Yet this existed long before, and never Till in these late days did I see you thus. Forgive me ; there is something at your heart More than the mere discharge of public duties, Which long use and a talent like to yours Have render'd light, nay, a necessity, To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 100 ANGIOLINA. You who have stood all storms and never sunk, And climb' d up to the pinnacle of power And never fainted by the way, and stand Upon it, and can look down steadily Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, "Were civil firry raging in Saint Mark's, You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow — Your feelings now are of a different kind ; Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. Doge. Pride ! Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. Angiolen*a. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels, And of all sins most easily besets Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. Doge. I had the pride of honor, of your honor, Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. Angiolina. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kindness In all things else, let me not be shut out From your distress : were it of public import, You know I never sought, would never seek To win a word from you ; but feeling now Your grief is private, it belongs to me AXGIOLINA. 101 To lighten or divide it. Since the day "When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, And I would soothe you back to what you were. Doge. To what I was ! — Have you heard Steno's sentence ? Angiolina. No. Doge. A month's arrest. ANGIOLrNA. Is it not enough ? Doge. Enough ! — yes, for a drunken galley-slave, Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master ; But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, Who stains a lady's and a prince's honor, Even on the throne of his authority. Angiolina. There seems to me enough in the conviction Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : All other punishment were light unto His loss of honor. Doge. Such men have no honor, They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. Angiolina. You would not have him die for this offence ? 102 axgiolina. Doge. Not now : — being still alive, I'd have him live Long as Tie can ; he has ceased to merit death ; The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges. And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. Axgiolina. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known A joyous Lour, or dreamless slumber more. Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood ? And he who taint* kills more than he who sheds it. Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows, That make such deadly to the. sense of man 2 Do not the laws of man say blood for honor ? And, less than honor, for a little gold \ Say not the laws of nations blood for treason \ Is 't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison For their once healthful current ? is it nothing To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest names ? Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt A prince before his people ? to have fail'd In the respect accorded by mankind To youth in woman, and old age in man ? To virtue in your sex, and dignity In ours ? — But let them look to it who have saved him. Axgiolina. Heaven bids us' to forgive our enemies. axgiolina. 103 Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own i Is Satan saved From wrath eternal ? AnGIOLENA.. Do not speak thus -wildly — Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! Akgiolina. And will you ? Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! AtTGIOLENA. And not till then ? Doge. What matters my forgiveness \ an old man's, Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters then My pardon more than my resentment, both Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long. — But let us change the argument. — My child ! My injured wife, the child of Loredano, The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, That he was linking thee to shame ! — Alas ! Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou But had a different husband, any husband In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 104 angiolina. Angiolina. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, And trust, and honor me ; and all men know That you are just, and I am true : what more Could I require, or you command '{ Doge. 'Tis well, And may be better ; but whate'er betide, Be thou at least kind to my memory. Angiouna. "Why speak you thus ? Doge. It is no matter why ; But I would still, whatever others think, Have your respect both now and in my grave. Angiollna. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? Doge. Come hither, child ; I would a word with you. Your father was my friend ; unecmal fortune Made him my debtor for some courtesies Which bind the good more fii-mly : when, oppress'd With his last malady, he will'd our union, It was not to repay me, long repaid Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; His object was to place your orphan beauty In honorable safety from the perils, Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail ANGIOLIXA. 105 A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not Think with him, but would not oppose the thought Which soothed his death-bed. Angiolina. I have not forgotten The nobleness Avith which you bade me speak, If my young heart held any preference Which would have made me happier ; nor your offer To make my dowry equal to the rank Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim My father's last injunction gave you. Doge. Thus, 'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, Nor the false edge of aged appetite, Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age Infected with that leprosy of lust Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, Making them ransack to the very last The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer Your father's choice. 14 106 ANGIOLINA. AnGIOLLNA. I did so ; I would do so In face of earth and Leaven ; for I have never Repented for my sake; sometimes for yours, In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you harshly ; I knew my days could not disturb you long ; And then the daughter of my earliest friend, His worthy daughter, free to choose again, Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom Of womanhood, more skilful to select By passing these probationary years ; Inheriting a prince's name and riches, Secured, by the short penance of enduring An old man for some summers, against all That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might Have urged against her right ; my best friend's child "Would choose more fitly in respect of years, And not less truly in a faithful heart. Axgiolixa. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart For doing all its duties, and replying "With faith to him with whom I was affianced. Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and should The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you true : For love, romantic love, which in my youth ANGIOLINA. 107 I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw Lasting, but often fatal, it had been No lure for me, in my most passionate days, And could not be so now, did such exist. But such respect, and mildly paid regard As a true feeling for your welfare, and A free compliance with all honest wishes ; A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings As youth is apt in, so as not to check Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew You had been Avon, but thought the change your choice ; A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct, — A trust in you — a patriarchal love, And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — Such estimation in your eyes as these Might claim, I hoped for. Angiolina. And have ever had. Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years, You knew it, choosing me, and chose ; I trusted Not to my qualities, nor would have faith In such, nor. outward ornaments of nature, Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; I trusted to the blood of Loredano Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul God gave you — to the truths your father taught you — To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — To your own faith and honor, for my own. 108 axgiolixa. Angiolixa. You have clone well. — I thank you for that trust, Which I have never for one moment ceased To honor you the more for. Doge. Where is honor, Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock Of faith connubial : where it is not — where Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream Of honesty iu such infected blood, Although 'twere wed to him it covets most : An incarnation of the poet's god In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or The demi-deity, Alcides, in His majesty of superhuman manhood, Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; It is consistency which forms and proves it : Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. The once fall'n woman must forever fall ; For vice must have variety, while virtue Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. Axgiolixa. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, (I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore yield you To the most fierce of fatal passions, and AXGIOLIXA. 109 Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate Of such a thing as Steno I Doge. You mistake me. It is not Steno who could move me thus ; Had it been so, he should but let that pass. Angiolina. What is 't you feel so deeply, then, even now ? Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, At once insulted in her lord and laws. Angiolina. Alas ! why will you thus consider it ? Doge. I have thought on 't till but let me lead you back To what I urged ; all these things being noted, I wedded you ; the world then did me justice Upon the motive, and my conduct proved They did me right, while yours was all to praise : You had all freedom — all respect — all trust From me and mine ; and, born of those who made Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones On foreign shores, in all things you appear' d Worthy to be our first of native dames. Angiolina. To what does this conduct ? 110 angiolixa. Doge. To thus much — that A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, Even in the midst of our great festival, I caused to be conducted forth, and taught How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; A wretch like this may leave upon the wall The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, And this shall spread itself in general poison ; And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass Into a by- word ; and the doubly felon ("Who first insulted virgin modesty By a gross affront to your attendant damsels Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) Requite himself for his most just expulsion By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, And be absolved by his upright compeers. Axgiolina. But he has been condemn'd into captivity. Doge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass Within a palace. But I've done with him ; The rest must be with you. Angiolina. "With me, my lord ? ANGIOLINA. Ill Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel : I Have let this prey upon me till I feel My life can not be long ; and fain would have you Regard the injunctions you will find within This scroll (Giving Iter a paper) Fear not ; they are for your advantage : Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. Angiolina. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall Be honor'd still by me : but may your days Be many yet and happier than the present ! This passion will give way, and you will he Serene, and what you should he — what you were. Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing ! But never more — oh ! never, never more, O'er the few days or hours which yet await The blighted old age of Faliero, shall Sweet Quiet shed her sunset ! Never more Those summer shadows rising from the past Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life, Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. I had but little more to task, or hope, Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, And the soul's labor through which I had toil'd To make my country honor'd. As her servant — 112 AXGIOLIXA. Her servant, though her chief — I would have goue Down to my fathers with a name serene And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — • Would I had died at Zara ! AiXGIOLENA. There you saved The state ; then live to save her still. A day, Another day like that would lie the best Beproof to them, and si >le revenge for you. Doge. • But one such day occurs within an age, My life is little less than one, and 'tis Enough for Fortune to have granted once, That which scarce one more favor'd citizen Ma}- -win in many states and years. But why Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; There's much for me to do — and the hour hastens. Angiolesta. Remember what you were. Doge. It were in vain ; Joy's recollection is no longer joy, While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. Angiolesta. At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore That you will take some little pause of rest : AXGIOLIXA. 113 Your sleep for many nights lias been so turbid, That it had been relief to have awaked you, Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. An hour of rest will give you to your toils With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. Doge. I cannot — ■ I must not, if I could ; for never was Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, And I shall slumber well — but where I — no matter. Adieu, my Angiolina. Angiolina. Let me be An instant — yet an instant your companion ! I cannot bear to leave you thus. Doge. Come then, My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made For better fortunes than to share in mine, Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. When I am gone— it may be sooner than Even these years warrant, tor there is that stirring Within — above — around, that in this city Will make the cemeteries populous 15 114 ANGIOLINA. As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — When I am nothing, let that which I was Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing "Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember ;■ — Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. \Ex< unt. AN AH AND A HO LIB AM AH. A woody and mountainous district near Mount Ararat. — Time, Midnight. [Enter An ah and Aholibamah.] Anah. Our father sleeps ; it is the hour when they Who love us are accustom' d to descend Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — How my heart beats ! Aholibamah. Let us proceed upon Our invocation. An All. But the stars are hidden. I tremble. Aholibamah. So do I, but not with fear Of aught save their delay. 11g axah and aholibamah. Anaii. My sister, though I love Azaziel more than oh, too much ! What was I going to say '. my heart grows impious. Aholibamaii. And where is the impiety of loving Celestial natures? Anaii. But, Aholibamah, I love our God less since his angel loved me : This cannot be of good ; and though I know not That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears Which are not ominous of right. Aholibamaii. Then wed thee Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long Many, and bring forth dust I Anaii. I should have loved Azaziel not less, were he mortal ; yet I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him. And when I think that his immortal wings Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, As he adores the Highest, death becomes Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : ANAII AND AHOLIBAMAII. H7 His grief will be of ages, or at least Mine would be such for him, were I the Seraph, And he the perishable. AlIOLIBAMAH. Rather say, That he Avill single forth some other daughter Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. Anaii. And if it should be so, and she loved him, Better thus than that he should weep for me. AlIOLIBAMAH. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, All Seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. But to our invocation ! — 'Tis the hour. Anaii. Seraph ! From thy sphere ! Whatever star contain thy glory ; In the eternal depths of heaven Albeit thou watehest with " the seven," Though through space infinite and hoary Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, Yet hear ! Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! And though she nothing is to thee, Yet think that thou art all to her. Thou canst not tell, — and never be Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — The bitterness of tears. 118 AXAII AND AHOLIBAMAH Eternity is in thine years. Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; With me thou canst not sympathize, Except in love, and there thou must Acknowledge that more loving dust Ne'er wept beneath the skies. Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st The lace of him who made thee great, As he hath made me of the least Of those cast out from Eden's gate : Yet, Seraph dear ! Oh hear ! For thou hast loved me, and I would not die Until I know what I must die in knowing, That thou forget'st in thine eternity Her whose heart death could not keep from o'ertlowing For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; And such, I feel, are waging in my heart A war unworthy : to an Adamite Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, For sorrow is our element ; Delight An Eden kept afar from sight, Though sometimes with our visions blent. The hour is near Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — Appear ! Appear ! Seraph ! My own Azaziel ! be but here, And leave the stars to their own lisdit. AXAH AND AIIOLIBAMAH. 119 AtT OT.TR AM ATT , Samiasa ! Wheresoe'er Thou rulest in the upper air — Or warring with the spirits who may dare Dispute with Him Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling Some wandering star, which shoots through the abyss, Whose tenants dying, while their world is falling, Share the dim destiny of clay in this , Or joining with the inferior cherubim, Thou deignest to partake their hymn — Samiasa ! I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. Many may worship thee, that will I not : If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, Descend and share my lot ! Though I 1 >e form'd of clay, And thou of beams More bright than those of day On Eden's streams, Thine immortality can not repay With love more warm than mine My love. There is a ray In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. It may be hidden long : death and decay Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart Defies it : though this life must pass away, Is that a cause for thee and me to part '. Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 120 AXAH AXD AHOLIBAMAH. I feel my immortality o'ersweep All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, Like the eternal thunders of the deep, Into my ears this truth — " Thou liv'st forever ! " But if it be in joy I know not, nor would know ; That secret rests with the Almighty giver Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and avo. But thee and me he never can destroy ; Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are Of as eternal essence, and must war With him if he will war with us : with thee I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; For thou hast ventured to share life with me, And shall /shrink from thine eternity I No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me thorough, And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil Around me still ! and I will smile, And curse thee not ; but hold Thee in as warm a fold As but descend, and prove A mortal's love For an immortal. If the skies contain More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them winging Their bright way through the parted night. Aholibajiah. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, As though they bore to-morrow's light. ax a ii and aiiolibamaii. 121 Anaii. But if our father see the sight ! Aholibamah. He would hut deem it was the moon Rising unto some sorcerer's tune An hour too soon. Anah. They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! Aholibamah. Haste To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear My spirit, while they hover there, To Samiasa's breast ! An ah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! On Ararat's late secret crest A mild and many-color'd bow, The remnant of their flashing path, Now shines ! and now behold ! it hath Return'd to night, as rippling foam, Which the leviathan hath lash'd From his unfathomable home, When sporting on the face of the calm deep, Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 16 122 axaii and auolibamah. Aholibamah. They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! AlJAH. My Azaziel ! MY RE HA. Enter Sardanapaixs effeminately dressed, his Head crowned with Flow- ers, and his Robe negligently flowing, attended by a Train of Women and young Slaves, among them Myeeha. Saedaxapalus, (speaking to some of his attendants.) Let the pavilion over the Euphrates Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish' d forth For an especial banquet ; at the hour Of midnight we will sup there : see naught wanting, And bid the galley he prepared. There is A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river : We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, When Ave shall gather like the stars above us, And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs ; Till then, let each be mistress of her time, And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, choose, Wilt thou along with them or me ? 124 MYRRH A. Myrriia. My lord Sardaxapalfs. My lord, my life ! why answerest thou so coldly ? It is the curse of kings to be so answer VI. Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, wouldst thou Accompany our guests, or charm away The moments from me ? MrRRHA. The king's choice is mine. Sardanapalits. I pray thee say not so : my chiefest joy Is to contribute to thine every wish. I do not dare to breathe my own desire, Lest it should clash with thine; for thou art still Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. Myrrha. I would remain : I have no happiness Save in beholding thine ; yet Sardaxapalus. Yet ! what yet \ Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. My*rriia. I think the present is the wonted hour Of council ; it were better I retire. 125 Salemenes, (coming forward. ) The Ionian slave Bays well : let her retire. Sardanapalus. Who answers ? How now, brother ? Salemenes. The queen''* brother, And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. * * * -x- -::• * Sardanapalus. • Slave, tell The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. Attendant. King, she is here. [Myrrha enters.] Sardanapalus. (Apart to Attendant.) Away ! (Addressing Myrrha.) Beautiful being ! Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest : let me Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet oracle, Communicates between us, though unseen, In absence, and attracts us to each other. Myrrha. There doth. Sardanapalus. I know there doth, but not its name : What is it ? 126 Myerha. In my native land a God, And in rny heart a feeling like a God's, Exalted ; yet I own 'tis only mortal ; For what I feel is humble, and yet happj r — That is, it would he happy; but [Myerha pauses. Sardaxapalus. There comes Forever something between us and what AVe deem our happiness : let me remove The barrier which that hesitating accent Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. Myerha. My lord !— Sardaxapalus. My lord — my king — sire — sovereign ! thus it is — Forever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons Have gorged themselves up to equality, Or I have quaff 'd me down to their abasement. Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names, Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was, I prized them ; That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and nobles ; But when they falter from the lips I love, The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood Of this my station, which represses feeling M Y R R II A 127 In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, And share a cottage on the Caucasus With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. Myrkha. Would that we could ! Sard anap alus. And dost thou feel this ?— Why I Myrrha. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst never know. Sardanapalus. And that is ■ Myrrha. The true value of a heart ; At least, a woman's. Sardanapalus. I have proved a thousand — A thousand, and a thousand. Myrrha. Hearts ? Sarda>~apalus. I think so. Myrrha. Not one ! the time may come thou mayst. SARDA3S T APALL T S. It will. 128 Hear, Myrrha ; Salernenes Las declared — Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — But Salernenes hath declared my throne In peril. Myrrha. He did well. Sardanapalus. And say'st thou so ? Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, And made thee weep and blush I Myrrha. I should do both More frecpiently, and he did well to call me Back to my duty. But thou spak'st of peril — Peril to thee Sardanapalus. Ay, from dark plots and snares From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. I know not what — a labyrinth of things — A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more on't — But of the midnight festival. Myrrha. 'Tis time To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not Spurn'd his sage cautions ? MYRRHA. 129 Sardanapalus. What ? — and dost thou fear % Myrrha. jr eal . j — l' m a Greek, and how should I fear death ? A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom I Sardanapalus. Then wherefore dost thou turn so pale % Myrrha. I love. Sardanapalus. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more Than either the brief life or the wide realm, Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. Myrrha. That means thou lovest not thyself nor me ; For he who loves another loves himself, Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. Sardanapalus. Lost ! — why, who is the aspiring chief Avho dared Assume to win them ? Myrrha. Who is he should dread To try so much \ When he who is their ruler Forgets himself, will they remember him? Sardanapalus. Myrrha ! IT 130 MYRRIIA. Mtrrha. Frown not upon me : you Lave smiled Too often on me not to make those frowns Bitterer to bear than any punishment Which they may augur. — King, I am your subject ! Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more Degraded by that passion than by chains ! Still I have loved you. If that love were strong Enough to overcome all former nature, Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? Sardaxapalus. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair, And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. Myrrha. And without love where dwells security i Sardanapaixs. I speak of woman's love. Myrrha. The very first Of human life must spring from woman's breast, Your first small words are taught you from her lips, Your first tears cpiench'd by her, and your last sighs Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, When men have shrank from the ignoble care Of watching the last hour of him who led them. MYRRH A. 131 Sardanapalus. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music, The very chorus of the tragic song I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pastime Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not— calm thee. Mteriia. I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak About my fathers or their land. Sardanapalus. Yet oft Thou speakest of them. Mtrrha. True — true : constant thought Will overflow in words unconsciously ; But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. Sardanapalis. Well, then, how wouldst thou .save me, as thou saidst? Mtrrha.. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all The rage of the Avorst war — the war of brethren ! Sardanapalus. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; I live in peace and pleasure : what can man Do more ? 132 Myeeha. Alas ! my lord, -with common men There needs too oft the show of war to keep The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. Saedanapalis. And I have never sought but for the last. Myeeiia. And now art neither. Sabdanapaixs. Dost thou say so, Myrrha \ Myeeiia. I speak of civic popular love, self-love, Which means that men are kept in awe and law, Yet not oppress' d — at least they must not think bo; Or if they think so, deem it necessary, To ward off worse oppression, their own passions. A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. Saedanapalus. Glory ! what's that ? Myeeiia. Ask of the gods thy fathers, Saedanapalits. They cannot answer ; when the priests speak for them, 'Tis for some small addition to the temple. 133 Myrrha. Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. Sardanapalus. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. But what wouldst have ? the empire has been founded. I cannot go on multiplying empires. Myrrha. Preserve thine own. Sardaxapalus. At least, I will enjoy it. Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates : The hour invites, the galley is prepared, And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, In fit adornment for the evening banquet, Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until It seems unto the stars which are above us Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit Crown'd with fresh flowers like Myrrha. Victims. Sardanapalus. No, like sovereigns, The shepherd kings of patriarchal times, Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths, And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 134 M Y R R H A . [Saedanapalus discovered sleeping upon a Couch, and occasional!;/ dis- turbed in his Slumbers, ivith Mtkkha watching.] Mykrha, (sola, gazing. ) I have stolen upon liis rest, if rest it be, Which thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet ! Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams, Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathoin'd, Look like thy brother, Death — so still — so stirless — For then we are happiest, as it may be, we Are happiest of all within the realm Of thy stern, silent, and unwakening twin. Again he moves — again the play of pain Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and shake Me more to see than him to suffer. No : Let Nature use her own maternal means, — And I await to second, not disturb her. Myrrh a. And dost thou think A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which An Indian widow braves for custom ? MYRRHA. 135 Sardanapalus. Then We but await the signal. Myrrha. It is long In sounding. Sardanapalus. Now, farewell ; one last embrace. Myrrha. Embrace, but not the last ; there is one more. Sardanapalus. True, the commingling fire will mix our ashes. Myrrha. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion, Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. Sardanapalus. Say it. Myrrha. It is that no kind hand will gather The dust of both into one urn. Sardanapalus. The better : Rather let them lie borne abroad upon The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, Than be polluted more by human hands Of slaves and traitors. 136 Myrrha. Then farewell, tliou earth ! And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! Be thou still free and beautiful, and far Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of thee ! SaRDANAPALUS. And that ? Is yours. Myrrha. [The trumpet of Pania sounds without Hark ! Sardanapalus. Now ! Myrrha. Sardanapalus. Adieu, Assyria ! I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, And better as my country than my kingdom. [He mounts the pile. Now, Myrrha ! Myrrha. Art thou ready ? Sardanapalus. As the torch in thy grasp. [Myrrha fires the pile. Myrrha. 'Tis fired ! I come. [As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself into the fames, the Curtain fall*. .. OLIMPIA. [Enter Olimpia, flying from the pursuit — She springs upon the Altar.'] Soldier. She's mine ! Another Soldier, (exposing the former.) You lie, I track'd her first ; and were she The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [They fight. Third Soldier, (advancing towards Olimpia.) You may settle Your claims ; I'll make mine good. Olimpia. Infernal slave ! You touch me not alive. Third Soldier. Alive or dead ! Olimpia, (embracing a massive crucifix.) Respect your God ! 18 138 Third Soldier. Yes, when he shines in gold. Girl, you but grasp your dowry. [As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and sudden effort, easts down the crucifix: it strikes the Soldier, who falls. Third Soldier. Oh, great God ! Olimpia. Ah ! now you recognize him. Third Soldier. My brain's crusk'd ! Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness ! [He Jits. Other Soldiers, (coming up.) Slay her, although she had a thousand lives : She hath kill'd our comrade. Olimpia. Welcome such a death ! You have no life to give, which the worst slave Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming Son, And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and thee ! [Enter Arnold.] Arnold. What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! Forbear ! oLiMriA. L39 Cesar, {aside and laughing.) Ha ! ha ! here's equity ! The dogs Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. Arnold. With -what weapon ? Soldiers. The cross, beneath which he is crush' d ; behold him Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it Upon his head. Arnold. Even so ; there is a woman Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, Ye would have honor'd her. But get ye hence, And thank your meanness, other God you have none, For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd Your ranks more than the enemy. Away ! Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, But not even these till he permits. A Soldier, (murmuring.) The lion Might conquer for himself then. Arnold, (puts him down.') Mutineer ! Rebel in hell— you shall obey on earth ! \The soldiers assault Arnold. 140 Come on ! I'm glad on't ! I will show you, slaves, How you should be commanded, and who led you First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale, Until I waved my banners from its height, As you are bold within it. [Arnold mows doion the foremost; the rest throw dmcn tlieir arms. Soldiers. Mercy ! mercy ! Arnold. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you who Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements \ Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive A moment's error in the heat of conquest — The conquest which you led to. Arnold. Get you hence ! Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd In the Colonna palace. House ! Olimpia, (aside.) In my father's Arnold, (to the soldiers?) Leave your arms ; ye have no further need Of such : the city's rendered. And mark well You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out a stream As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 0LIMP1A. 141 Soldiers, (deposing their (inns and departing.') We obey ! Arnold, (to Olimpia.) Lady, you are safe. Oldipia. I should be so, Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the marble, Even at the altar foot, whence I look down Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! Arnold. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and Thine own, although I have not injured thee. Olimpia. No ! Thou hast only sack'd my native land, — No injury ! — and made my father's house A den of thieves ! No injury !— this temple — Slippery with Roman and with holy gore. No injury ! And now thou wouldst preserve me, To be but that shall never be ! [She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe round her, and pre- pares to dash herself down on the side of the Attar apposite to that where Arnold stands. Arnold. Hold! hold! 1 swear. 142 OLIMPIA. Ollmpia. Spare thine already forfeit soul A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. I know thee. Arnold. No, thou know'st me not ; I am not Of these men, though Olijipia. I judge thee by thy mates ; It is for God to judge thee as thou art. I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me, And here, upon the marble of this temple, Where the baptismal font baptized me God's, I offer him a blood less holy But not less pure (pure as it left me then, A redeem'd infant) than the holy water The saints have sanctified ! [Olimpia waves her hand to Arnold with disdain, and dashes herself on the pavement from the Altar. ADAH. The Earth, near the Garden of Eden. [Enter Cain and Adah.] Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. Cain. I "will ; but wherefore ? Adah. Our little Euoeh sleeps upon yon bed Of leaves, beneath the cypress. Cain. Cypress ! 'tis A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it For our child's canopy ? 144 ADAH. Adah. Because its branches Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem Fitting to shadow slumber. Caix. Ay, the last — And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. [They go wp to the child. How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, In their pure incarnation, vying with The rose leaves strewn beneath them. Adah. And Lis lips, too, How beautifully parted ! Xo ; you shall not Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; But it were a pity to disturb him till 'Tis closed. Cain. You have said well ; I will contain My In-art till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on, And smile, thou little, young inheritor Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, Which were not mine nor thine ? But now sleep on ! His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 145 And shining lids are trembling o'er his long Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; Half open, from beneath them the clear bine Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream— Of what \ Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, My disinherited boy ! Tis but a dream ; For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? Can we not make another \ Cms. "Where \ Adah. Here, or Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not The want of this so much regretted Eden. Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, To whom we owe so much besides our birth \ Cain. Yes — death, too, is among the debts we owe her. Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit who withdrew thee hence, Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 10 146 Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, Would have composed thy mind into the calm Of a contented knowledge ; but I see Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him, And can forgive him all, that he so soon Hath given thee back to us. Cain. So soon ? Adah. 'Tis scarcely Two hours since ye departed : two long hours To me, but only hows upon the sun. Cain. And yet I have approached that sun, and seen Worlds which he once shone on, and never more Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought Years had roll'd o'er my absence. Adah. Hardly hours. Cain. The miud then hath capacity of time, And measures it by that which it beholds, Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. I had beheld the immemorial works Of endless beings ; skii-rVl extinguish'd worlds ; And, gazing on eternity, methought I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages From its immensity ; but now I feel My littleness again. Well said the spirit, That I was nothing ! 147 Adah. "Wherefore said lie so ? Jehovah said not that. Cain. No : he contents him With making ns the nothing which we are ; And after flattering dust with glimpses of Eden and Immortality, resolves It back to dust again — for what ? Adah. Thou know'st — Even for our parents' error. Cain. What is that To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought Thy own, hut of the spirit who was with thee. Would I could die for them, so they might live ! Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim Might satiate the insatiable of life, And that our little rosy sleeper there Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. Ad aii. How know we that some such atonement one day May not redeem our race I 14S ADAH. Cain. By sacrificing The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have we Done, that we must be victims for a deed Before our birth, or need have victims to Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? Adah. Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy words Sound impious in mine ears. Cain. Then leave me ! Ad aii. Never, Though thy God left thee. Cain. Say, what have we here ? Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and fruits. These are a goodly offering to the Lord, Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun According to the curse ! — must I do more ? For what should I be gentle ? for a war With all the elements ere thev will vield ADAH. 140 The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, And seem well-pleased with pain ? For Avhat should I Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already Expiate with what we all have undergone, And to be more than expiated by The ages prophesied, upon our seed. Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, The germs of an eternal misery To myriads is within him ! better 'twere I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst The rocks, than let him live to Adah. Oh, my God ! Touch not the child— my child ! thy child ! Oh Cain ! Caix. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? Caix. I said, 'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give Life to so much of sorrow as he must Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 150 That saying jars you, let us only say — 'Twere better that he never had been born. Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the joys, The mother's joys of -watching, nourishing, And loving him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! [She goes to the child. Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, For then we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain ? Mother, and sire, and son, our features are Reflected in each other ; as they are In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, To hail his father ; while his little form Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! The childless cherubs well might envy thee The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but His heart will, and thine own too. Cain. Bless thee, boy ! If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, To save thee from the serpent's curse ! Adah. It shall. ; . ': DONNA INEZ. A learned lady, famed For every branch of every science known — In every Christian language ever named, With virtues equall'd by her Avit alone, She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, And even the good with inward envy groan, Finding themselves so very much exceeded In their own way by all the things that she did. Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart All Calderon and greater part of Lope, So that if any actor miss'd his part She could have served him for the prompter's copy ; For her Feinagle's were a useless art, And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he Could never make a memory so fine as That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. 152 DOXXA INEZ. Her favorite science was the mathematical, Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ; In short, in all things she was fairly what I call A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity, Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzling. Some women use their tongues — she looVd a lecture, Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, An all-in-all sufficient self-director, Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, AVhose suicide was almost an anomaly — One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — (The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity.") In short, she was a walking calculation, Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers, Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, Or " Ccelebs' Wife " set out in quest of lovers, Morality's prim personification, In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; To others' share let " female errors fall," For she had not even one — the worst of all. Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — Of any modern female saint's comparison ; So far above the cunning powers of hell, Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; DONNA INEZ. 153 Even her minutest motions went as -well As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar ! Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, A great opinion of her own good qualities ; Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, And such, indeed, she was in her moralities ; But then she had a devil of a spirit, And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, And let few opportunities escape Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. This was an easy matter with a man Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; And even the wisest, do the best they can, Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, That you might " brain them with their lady's fan ; 71 And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, And why and wherefore no one understands. Don Jose and the Donna Inez led For some time an unhappy sort of life, Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; They lived respectably as man and wife, Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, And gave no outward signs of inward strife, Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, And put the business past all kind of doubt. 154 DONNA INEZ. For Inez call'd some druggists, and physicians, And tried to prove her loving lord was mad, But as he had some lucid intermissions, She next decided he was only bad ; Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, No sort of explanation could he had, Save that her duty both to man and God Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; And then she had all Seville for abettors, Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted ;) The hearers of her case became repeaters, Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, Some for amusement, others for old grudges. And then this best and meekest woman bore With such serenity her husband's woes, Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose Never to say a word about them more — Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, And saw Ms agonies with such sublimity, That all the world exelaim'd, " What magnanimity ! DONNA JULIA. The darkness of her Oriental eye Accorded with her Moorish origin ; (Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, Her great great grandmamma chose to remain. Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, And love than either ; and there would arise A something in them which was not desire, But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul Which straggled through and chasten'd down the whole. 156 DOXXA JULIA. Her glossy hair was cluster' d o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth ; Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, Possess'd an air and grace by no means common : Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, Caress'd him often — such a thing might be Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; But I am not so sure I should have smiled When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; These few short years make wondrous alterations, Particularly amongst sunburnt nations. Whate'er the cause might 1 >e, they had become Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, And much embarrassment in either eye : There surely will be little doubt with some That Donna Julia knew the reason why, But as for Juan, he had no more notion Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gentle her small hand Withdrew itself froni his, but left behind A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland DONNA JULIA. 1 5 7 And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 'Twas but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand Wrought change with all Annida's fairy art Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. And if she met him, though she smiled no more, She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store She must not own, but cherish'd more the while For that compression in its burning core ; Even innocence itself has many a wile, And will not dare to trust itself with truth, And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. But passion most dissembles, yet betrays Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, And in whatever aspect it arrays Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, Are masks it often wears, and still too late. Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, And stolen glances sweeter for the theft, And burning blushes, though for no transgression, Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left ; All these are little preludes to possession, Of which young passion cannot be bereft, And merely tend to show how greatly love is Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 158 DOXNA JULIA. How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. Oh Love ! how perfect in thy mystic art, Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the strong. How self-deceitful is the sagest part Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along — The precipice she stood on was immense, So was her creed in her own innocence. HAIDEE Heu brow was overhung with coins of gold, That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd In braids behind ; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould, They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land. Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction ; for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, Ne'er with such force the swiftest arroAV flew ; 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 160 Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh Ever to have seen such ; for she was one Fit for the model of a statuary, (A race of mere impostors, wlien all's done — I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal. ) And such was she, the lady of the cave : Her dress was very different from the Spanish, Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; For, as you know, the Spanish women banish Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave Around them (what I hope will never vanish) The basrpiina and the mantilla, they Seem at the same time mystical and gay. But with our damsel this was not the case : Her dress was inany-color'd, finely spun ; Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, But through them gold and gems profusely shone : Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking, Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. And Haidee met the morning face to face ; Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, IIAIDEE. 161 Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, Cheeks to a lake, Whose waves in circles spread ; Or the Bed Sea — but the sea is not red. And down the cliff the island virgin came, And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, Taking her for a sister ; just the same Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, Although the mortal, cutite as fresh and fair, Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw That like an infant Juan sweetly slept ; And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, (For sleep is awful,) and on tiptoe crept And wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw, Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death Blent, with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath. He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, But the fair face which met his eyes forbade Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; Fur woman's face was never form'd in vain For Juan, so that even when he pray'd He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 16-2 IIAIPfiE. And thus upon his elbow he arose, And look'd upon the lady, in -whose cheek The pale contended with the purple rose, As with an effort she began to speak ; Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, Although she told him, in good modern Greek, "With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. Now Juan could not understand a word, Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, And her voice was the warble of a bird, So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, That finer, simpler music, ne'er was heard ; The sort of sound we echo with a tear, Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, Whence Melody descends as from a throne. Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely ami, Lockless— so pliable from the pure gold, That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, The limb which it adorn'd its only mould ; 1G3 So beautiful — its very shape would charm, And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin That e'er by precious metal was held in. Around, as princess of her father's land, A like gold bar above her instep roll'd, Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand ; Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold Below her breast was fasten'd with a band Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd Above the prettiest ankle in the world. Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal Her person if allow'd at large to run, And still they seem resentfully to feel The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began To offer his young pinion as her fan. Round her she made an atmosphere of life, The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, They were so soft and beautiful, and rife With all we can imagine of the skies, And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — Too pure even for the purest human ties ; Her overpowering presence made you feel It would not be idolatry to kneel. 11S4 Her eyelashes, though dart as night, were tinged, (It is the country's custom,) but in vain ; For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, The glossy rebels inock'd the jetty stain, And in their native beauty stood avenged : Her nails were toueh'd with henna ; but again The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for They could not look more rosy than before. The henna should be deeply dyed to make The skin relieved appear more fairly fair ; She had no need of this, day ne'er will break On mountain tops more heavenly white than her ; The eye might doubt if it were well awake, She was so like a vision ; I might err, But Shakspeare also says, 'tis very silly " To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." ZOE. The other female's dress was not unlike, But of inferior materials : she Had not so many ornaments to strike, Her hair had silver only, hound to he Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less free ; Her hair was thicker, hut less long ; her eyes As "black, hut quicker, and of smaller size. She knew that the best feelings must have victual, And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, And felt her veins chill'd by the neighboring sea ; And so, she cook'd their hreakfast to a tittle ; I can't say that she gave them any tea, But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, hread, fish, honey, With Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 166 zoe. And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, And -without word, a sign her finger drew on Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; And the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one, Because her mistress would not let her break That sleep which seem'd as it woidd ne'er awake. GULBEYAZ. Her presence was as lofty as her state ; " Her beauty of that overpowering kind, Whose force description only would abate : I'd rather leave it much to your own mind, Than lessen it by what I could relate Of forms and features ; it would strike you blind Could I do justice to the full detail ; So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. She spake some words to her attendants, who Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too, "Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen ; They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, Which might have call'd Diana's chorus " cousin," As far as outward show may correspond ; I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 168 (U'LBEYAZ. They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, But not by the same door through which came in Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, At some small distance, all he saw within This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring Marvel and praise ; for both or none things win ; And I must say, I ne'er could see the very Great happiness of the " Nil Admirari" Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then A second time desired him to kneel down, And hiss the lady's foot ; which maxim when He heard repeated, Juan with a frown Drew himself up to his full height again, And said, " It grieved him, but he could not stoop To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat He mutter'd (but the List was given aside) About a bow-string— quite in vain ; not yet Would Juan bend, though 'twere to Mahomet's bride There's nothing in the Av<>rld like etiquetk In kingly chambers or imperial halls, As also at the race and county balls. He stood like Atlas, with a world of words About his ears, and nathless would nut bend ; The blood of all his line's Castilian lords Boil'd in his viens, and rather than descend GULBEYAZ. 169 To staiu his pedigree a thousand swords A thousand times of him had made an end ; At length perceiving the "foot " could not stand, Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. Here was an honorable compromise, A half-way house of diplomatic rest, Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise ; And Juan now his willingness express'd, To use all fit and proper courtesies, Adding, that this was commonest and best, For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, As if well used to the retreating trade ; And taking hints in good part all the while, He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, And looking on him with a sort of smile, Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction, As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. When he was gone, there was a sudden change I know not what might be the lady's thought, But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange, And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range The verge of Heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought, A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, Of half voluptuousness and half command. 22 170 GULBEYAS. Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; Her very uod was not an inclination ; There was a self-will even in her small feet, As though they were quite conscious of her station — They trod as upon necks ; and to complete Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine !) To hear and to obey " had been from birth The law of all around her ; to fulfil All fantasies which yielded joy or mirth, Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth : Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion We should have found out the " perpetual motion." Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; "What e'er she did not see, if she supposed It might be seen, with diligence was sought, And when 'twas found straightway the bargain closed : There was no end unto the things she bought, Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, The women pardon 1 d all except her face. b K AT INK A. And yet they Lad their little jealousies, Like all the rest ; but upon tliis occasion, Whether there are such things as sympathies Without our knowledge or our approbation, Although they could not see through his disguise, All felt a soft kind of concatenation, Like magnetism, or devilism, or what You please — we Avill not quarrel about that : But certain 'tis they all felt for their new Companion something newer still, as 'twere A sentimental friendship through and through, Extremely pure, which made them all concur In wishing her their sister, save a few Who wish'd they Lad a brother just like her, Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 172 KATINKA. Of those who had most genius for this sort Of sentimental friendship, there were three, Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu ; in short, (To save description,) fair as fair can be Were they, according to the best report, Though differing in stature and degree, And clime and time, and country and complexion ; They all alike admired their new connection. Lolah was dusk as India and as warm ; Katinka Avas a Georgian, white and red, With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, But rather skim the earth. DUDU. A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudii, Yet very fit to " murder sleep," in those Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. She was not violently lively, but Stole on yotu' spirit like a May-day breaking ; Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut, They put beholders in a tender taking ; She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, The mortal and the marble still at strife, And timidly expanding into life. Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, As if she pitied her for being there, 174 dud u. A pretty stranger without friend or guide, And all abasli'd, too, at the general stare Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, "With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, Not very dashing, hut extremely winning, With the most regulated chamis of feature, Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature Which they hit off at once in the beginning, Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, And pleasing, or unpleasing, still are like. But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth, Which, if uot happiness, is much more nigh it Than are your mighty passions and so forth, W T hich some call " the sublime : " I wish they'd tiy it : I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women ; And pity lovers rather more than seamen. But she was pensive more than melancholy, And serious more than pensive, and serene, It may be, more than either — not unholy Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; She never thought about herself at all. LADY PINCHBECK. But first of little Leila we'll dispose ; For like a day-dawn she was young and pure, Or like the old comparison of snows, "Which are more pure than pleasant to he sure. Like many people everybody knows, Don Juan was delighted to secure A goodly guardian for his infant charge, Who might not profit much by being at large. Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, (I wish that others would find out the same ;) And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, For silly wards will bring their guardians blame So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor To make his little wild Asiatic tame, Consulting " the Society for Vice Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 17(1 LADY PINCHBECK. Olden she was — but had been very young ; Virtuous she Avas — and had been, I believe ; Although the world has such an evil tongue That but my chaster ear will not receive An echo of a syllable that's wrong : In fact, there's nothing makes me so much grieve, As that abominable tittle-tattle, Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talked about — As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about ; She merely Avas deem'd amiable and witty, And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd al »out : Then she was given to charity and pity, And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) For being a most exemplary wife. High in high circles, gentle in her own, She was the mild reprover of the young, Whenever — which means every day — they'd shown An awkward inclination to go wrong. The quantity of good she did 's unknown, Or at the least would lengthen out my song : In brief, the little orphan of the East Had raised an interest in her, which increased. AURORA RABY. And then there Avas — hut why should I go on, Unless the ladies should go off? — there was Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, Of the best class, and better than her class, — Aurora Baby, a young star who shone O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! Blood is not water ; and where shall we find Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie By death, when Ave are left, alas ! behind, To feel, in friendless palaces, a home Is Avauting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 23 178 AURORA RABY. Early in years, and yet more infantine In figure, she had something of sublime In her eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; Mournful — but mornful of another's crime, She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, And grieved for those who could return no more. She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, And deem'cl that fallen worship far more dear Perhaps because 'twas fallen: her sires were proud Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd To novel power ; and as she Avas the last, She held their old faith and old feelings fast. She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, And kept her heart serene within its zone. There was awe in the homage which she drew ; Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne Apart from the surrounding world, and strong In its own strength — most strange in one so young ! Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue, Beyond the charmers we have already cited ; AURORA RACY. 179 Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog Against her being mentionM as well fitted, By many virtues, to be worth the trouble Of single gentlemen who would be double. And this omission, like that of the bust Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. This he express'd half smiling and half serious ; When Adeline replied with some disgust, And with an air, to say the least, imperious, She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Baby ? " Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme Of such discussion. She was there a guest ; A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, "Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — She had so much, or little, of the child. The dashing and proud air of Adeline Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. Juan was something she could not divine, Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 180 AURORA RABY. His fame too, — for lie had that kind of fame, Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; Faults which attract because they are not tame ; Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind : — These seals upon her wax made no impression, Such was her coldness or her self-possession. Juan knew naught of such a character- High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be, Nor would be thus : — the difference in them Was such as lies between a flower and gem. DUCHESS OF FITZ-FULKE. She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, Desirable, distinguish'*:!, celebrated For several winters in the grand, grand monde. I'd rather not say what might be related Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; Besides, there might be falsehood in what's stated. Her late performance had been a dead set At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. This noble personage began to look A little black upon this new flirtation ; But such small licenses must lovers brook, Mere freedoms of the female corporation. "Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 'Twill but precipitate a situation Extremely disagreeable, but common To calculators when they count on Avoman. 182 DUCHESS OF FITZ-FULKE. The circle smiled, then wMsper'd, and then sneer'd ; The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd ; Some would not deem such women could he found ; Some ne'er believed one halt* of what they heard ; Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd profound : And several pitied with sincere regret Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. But what is odd, none ever named the duke, Who, one might think, was something in the affair True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumor'd, took But small concern about the Avhen, or where, Or what his consort did : if he could brook Her gayeties, none had a right to stare : Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, Which ever meets, and therefore can't fall out. Lo ! a monk, array'd In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear'd, Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; His garments only a slight murmur made ; He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by, Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. DUCHESS OF FITZ-FULKE. L83 Juan was petrified ; lie had heard a hint Of such a spirit in these halls of old, But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper, And did he see this ? or was it a vapor \ Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd— the thing of air, Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place : And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, Yet could not speak or move; hut, on its base As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; He tax d his tongue for words, which were not granted, To ask the reverend person what he wanted. The third time, after a still longer pause, The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the hall Was long, and thus far there was no great cause To think his vanishing unnatural : Doors there were many, through which, by the laws Of physics, bodies whether short or tall Might come or go ; but Juan could not state Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. He stood — Iioav long, he knew not, but it seem'd An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd ; Then by degrees recalled his energies, 184 DUCHESS OF FITZ-FULKE. And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream, But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise, "•"Waking already, and return'd at length Back to Lis chamber, shorn of half Lis strength. TLe door flew wide, not swiftly, — but, as fly Tbe sea-gulls, with a steady, sober fligbt — And tLen sprung back ; nor close — but stood awry, Half letting in long shadows on tlie ligLt, Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, For he had two, both tolerably bright, And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood The sable friar in Lis solemn hood. Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken TLe nigLt before ; but being sick of sLaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken ; And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; His own internal gLost began to awaken Within him, and to quell Lis corporal quaking — Hinting tLat soul and body on tbe wLole Were odds against a disembodied soul. And tLen Lis dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce, And he arose, advanced — the shade retreated : But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, Folio w'd, Lis veins no longer cold, but heated, Resolved to trust the mystery carte and tierce, At whatsoever risk of being defeated : DUCHESS OF FITZ-FULKE. 185 The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! It touch'd no soul, no body, but the wall, On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, Checker'd with all the tracery of the hall ; He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers AVhen he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity. But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glared, And rather variably for stony death ; Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared, The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath : A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder ! It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. He found, as people on most trials must, That he had made at first a silly blunder, And that in his confusion he had caught Only the wall, instead of what he sought, 24 186 DUCHESS OF FITZ-FULKE. The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole Forth into something much like flesh and blood ; Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, And they reveal' d — alas ! that e'er they should ! In full, voluptuous, but not oV/'grown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-Fulke ! / -: s5 o+ ■' o . i * Op -o V =U .V. N * 4 >** 5 v ■ . i ~Q? r~. , > ■ ■ '^> ** ^ - vV" J & :\ % % % % -* "&, A S * ^ % .«* Q* V V & °-<- % & f#> % \.t f % <-