APOSTROPHE.

“Thy voice is like a fountainLeaping up in sunshine bright,Andwenever weary countingIts clear droppings, lone and single,Or when in one full gush they mingle,Shooting in melodious light!”

“Thy voice is like a fountain

Leaping up in sunshine bright,

Andwenever weary counting

Its clear droppings, lone and single,

Or when in one full gush they mingle,

Shooting in melodious light!”

That is Lowell’s—a noble soul is his, and all on fire with poetry. We tender to him, though we have never met in the flesh, our good right hand, joining his herewith in cordial fellowship, the hearts of both being in our eyes the while:—we tender him our hand—he far away in his student’s room at Boston and we here in old Philadelphia—and we tell sneering worldlings and critics who are born only to be damned, that, for one so young, Lowell has written grandly; that he is full, even to overflowing, of purity, enthusiasm, imagination, and love for all God’s creatures; and being this, why should not we—aye! and all honest men beside—grasp him cheerily by the hand, and if need be, stand to our arms in his defence?

But the clock has struck six, and we will walk to the door to see if the tempest still rages. What a glorious night! The moon is out, sailing high up in heaven, with a calm mystic majesty that fills the soul with untold peace. Far away on the horizon floats a misty veil—while here and there, in the sky, a cloud still lingers, its dark body seeming like velvet on an azure ground, and its edges turned up with silver. There are a thousand stars on the frosty snow; for every tiny crystal that shoots out into the moonshine glistens all diamond-like; and, as you walk, ten thousand new crystals open to the light, until the whole landscape seems alive with millions of gems. Hark! how the hard crust crackles under the tread. If you put your ear to the ground you will hear a multitude of almost inarticulate sounds as if the sharp moon-beams were splintering the snow—but it is only the shooting of myriads of crystals. There have been icicles forming all day from yonder twig, and now as we shake the tree, you may hear them tinkling, one by one, to the ground, with a clear silvery tone, like the ringing of a bell miles off among the hills. Early in the afternoon, the snow melted on the river, but towards nightfall the stream became clogged, and now the frost is “breathing a blue film” from shore to shore—and to-morrow the whole surface will be smooth as glass, and the steel of the skater will be ringing sharp along the ice. How keen was that gust!—you may hear its dying cadence moaning away in the distance, like the wail of a lost child in a forest. Hush! was that a whistle down in the wood?

And now again all is still. Let us pause a moment and look around. The well-known landmarks of the scene have disappeared, giving place to an unbroken prospect of the purest white. We seem to have entered into a new world, and to have lost by the transition all our old and more selfish feelings, so that now, every emotion of our heart is softened down to a gentle calm, in unison with the beauty and repose around us. There is a dreaminess in the landscape, thus half seen by the light of the moon, giving full play to the imagination. The spirit spurns this mortal tenement of clay, and soars upwards to a brighter world, holding fancied communion with the myriads of beatified spirits, which it would fain believe, hover in the air and whisper unseen into our souls. Glorious thought, that God hath appointed such guardian watchers over a lost and sinful race! We would not surrender this belief—wild and visionary as it may seem to some—for all that sectarians have asserted or atheists denied. We love, in the still watches of the night, to think that the “loved and lost” are communing with our hearts—that though dead they yet live, and watch, as of old, over our erring path—that they soothe us in sorrow, hover around our beds of sickness, are the first to bear the parted soul upwards to the gates of Paradise—and that the angelic sounds we hear upon the midnight air, coming we know not whither, but seeming to pervade the whole firmament as with a celestial harmony, are but their songs of praise. Or may not these heavenly strains be the cadences which faintly float, far down from the battlements of heaven?

“Oft in bandsWhile they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk,With heavenly touch of instrumental soundsIn full harmonic numbers joined, their songsDivide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven.”

“Oft in bands

While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk,

With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds

In full harmonic numbers joined, their songs

Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven.”

The dream grows dim, the illusion is fading, our rhapsody dies upon our lips. We hear again thy voice—Hebe of our heart!—and we may not longer tarry in the night air. And so farewell!

APOSTROPHE.

———

BY ALBERT PIKE.

———

OhLiberty! thou child of many hopes,Nursed in the cradle of the human heart!While Europe in her glimmering darkness gropes,Do not from us, thy chosen ones, depart!Still be to us, as thou hast been, and art,The Spirit which we breathe! Oh, teach us stillThy arrowy truths unquailingly to dart,Until the Tyrant and Oppressor reel,And Despotism trembles at thy thunder-peal.Methinks thy sun-rise now is lighting upThe far horizon of yon hemisphereWith golden lightning. O’er the hoary topOf the blue mountain see I not appearThy lovely dawn; while Pain, and crouching Fear,And Slavery perish under tottering thrones?How long, oh Liberty! until we hearInstead of an insulted people’s moans,The crushed and writhing tyrants uttering their groans?Is not thy Spirit living still in France?Will it not waken soon in storm and fire?Will Earthquake not ’mid thrones and cities dance,And Freedom’s altar be the funeral pyreOf Tyranny and all his offspring dire?In England, Germany, Italia, Spain,And Switzerland thy Spirit doth inspireThe multitude—and though too long, in vain,They struggle in deep gloom, yet Slavery’s night shall wane!And shallwesleep while all the earth awakes?Shallweturn slaves while on the Alpine conesAnd vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaksThe morning light of liberty?—What thronesCan equal those which on our fathers’ bonesThe demagogue would build? What chains so gallAs those the self-made Helot scarcely ownsTill they eat deeply—till the live pains crawlInto his soul who causedhimselfto fall!Men’s freedom may be wrested from their hands,And they may mourn; but not like those who throwTheir heritage away—who clasp the bandsOn their own limbs, and crawl and blindly goLike timorous fawns to their own overthrow.Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficultTo think that we are free, yet be not so—To shatter down by one brief hour of guiltThe holy fane of Freedom that our fathers built.

OhLiberty! thou child of many hopes,

Nursed in the cradle of the human heart!

While Europe in her glimmering darkness gropes,

Do not from us, thy chosen ones, depart!

Still be to us, as thou hast been, and art,

The Spirit which we breathe! Oh, teach us still

Thy arrowy truths unquailingly to dart,

Until the Tyrant and Oppressor reel,

And Despotism trembles at thy thunder-peal.

Methinks thy sun-rise now is lighting upThe far horizon of yon hemisphereWith golden lightning. O’er the hoary topOf the blue mountain see I not appearThy lovely dawn; while Pain, and crouching Fear,And Slavery perish under tottering thrones?How long, oh Liberty! until we hearInstead of an insulted people’s moans,The crushed and writhing tyrants uttering their groans?

Methinks thy sun-rise now is lighting up

The far horizon of yon hemisphere

With golden lightning. O’er the hoary top

Of the blue mountain see I not appear

Thy lovely dawn; while Pain, and crouching Fear,

And Slavery perish under tottering thrones?

How long, oh Liberty! until we hear

Instead of an insulted people’s moans,

The crushed and writhing tyrants uttering their groans?

Is not thy Spirit living still in France?Will it not waken soon in storm and fire?Will Earthquake not ’mid thrones and cities dance,And Freedom’s altar be the funeral pyreOf Tyranny and all his offspring dire?In England, Germany, Italia, Spain,And Switzerland thy Spirit doth inspireThe multitude—and though too long, in vain,They struggle in deep gloom, yet Slavery’s night shall wane!

Is not thy Spirit living still in France?

Will it not waken soon in storm and fire?

Will Earthquake not ’mid thrones and cities dance,

And Freedom’s altar be the funeral pyre

Of Tyranny and all his offspring dire?

In England, Germany, Italia, Spain,

And Switzerland thy Spirit doth inspire

The multitude—and though too long, in vain,

They struggle in deep gloom, yet Slavery’s night shall wane!

And shallwesleep while all the earth awakes?Shallweturn slaves while on the Alpine conesAnd vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaksThe morning light of liberty?—What thronesCan equal those which on our fathers’ bonesThe demagogue would build? What chains so gallAs those the self-made Helot scarcely ownsTill they eat deeply—till the live pains crawlInto his soul who causedhimselfto fall!

And shallwesleep while all the earth awakes?

Shallweturn slaves while on the Alpine cones

And vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaks

The morning light of liberty?—What thrones

Can equal those which on our fathers’ bones

The demagogue would build? What chains so gall

As those the self-made Helot scarcely owns

Till they eat deeply—till the live pains crawl

Into his soul who causedhimselfto fall!

Men’s freedom may be wrested from their hands,And they may mourn; but not like those who throwTheir heritage away—who clasp the bandsOn their own limbs, and crawl and blindly goLike timorous fawns to their own overthrow.Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficultTo think that we are free, yet be not so—To shatter down by one brief hour of guiltThe holy fane of Freedom that our fathers built.

Men’s freedom may be wrested from their hands,

And they may mourn; but not like those who throw

Their heritage away—who clasp the bands

On their own limbs, and crawl and blindly go

Like timorous fawns to their own overthrow.

Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficult

To think that we are free, yet be not so—

To shatter down by one brief hour of guilt

The holy fane of Freedom that our fathers built.

AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT.

IN THREE CHIMERAS.

———

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.

———

Chimera I.Ananthem of a sister choristry!And like a windward murmur of the seaO’er silver shells, so solemnly it falls!A dying music, shrouded in deep walls,That bury its wild breathings! And the moon,Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon,Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud,Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud,Do minister unto her sickly trance,Fanning the life into her countenance.And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few,In the deep chasms of everlasting blue,Unmarshall’d and ungather’d, one and one,Like outposts of the lunar garrison.A train of holy fathers windeth byThe arches of an aged sanctuary,With cowl, and scapular, and rosary,On to the sainted oriel, where stood,By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood—A weeping group of virgins!—one or twoBent forward to a bier of solemn hue,Whereon a bright and stately coffin lay,With its black pall flung over:—AgathèWas on the lid—a name. And who? No more!’Twas only Agathè.’Tis o’er, ’tis o’er—Her burial!—and, under the arcades,Torch after torch into the moonlight fades,And there is heard the music, a brief while,Over the roofings of the imaged aisle,From the deep organ, panting out its last,Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.A lonely monk is loitering withinThe dusky area, at the altar seen,Like a pale spirit, kneeling in the lightOf the cold moon, that looketh wan and whiteThrough the deviced oriel; and he laysHis hands upon his bosom, with a gazeTo the chill earth. He had the youthful lookWhich heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shookAt every gust of the unholy breezeThat entered through the time-worn crevices.A score of summers only o’er his browHad passed—and it was summer, even nowThe one-and-twentieth—from a birth of tears,Over a waste of melancholy years!Andthatbrow was as wan as if it wereOf snowy marble, and the raven hair,That would have clustered over, was all shorn,And his fine features stricken pale as morn.He kiss’d a golden crucifix, that hungAround his neck, and, in a transport, flungHimself upon the earth, and said, and saidWild, raving words, about the blessed dead;And then he rose, and in the moon-shade stood,Gazing upon its light in solitude,And smote his brow, at some idea wildThat came across; then, weeping like a child,He faltered out the name of Agathè,And look’d unto the heaven inquiringly,And the pure stars.“Oh, shame! that ye are metTo mock me, like old memories, that yetBreak in upon the golden dream I knewWhile she—shelived; and I have said adieuTo that fair one, and to her sister, Peace,That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou ceaseTo feed upon my quiet, thou Despair,That art the mad usurper, and the heirOf this heart’s heritage? Go, go—return,And bring me back oblivion and an urn!And ye, pale stars, may look, and only findThe wreck of a proud tree, that lets the windCount o’er its blighted boughs: for such was heThat loved, and loves, the silent Agathè.”And he hath left the sanctuary, like oneThat knew not his own purpose—the red sunRose early over incense of bright mist,That girded a pure sky of amethyst.And who was he? A monk. And those who knew,Yclept him Julio; but they were few.And others named him as a nameless one,—A dark, sad-hearted being, who had noneBut bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,That fed the wildest of all curses—madness!But he was, what none knew, of lordly line,That fought in the far land of Palestine,Where, under banners of the Cross, they fell,Smote by the armies of the infidel.And Julio was the last; alone, alone,A sad, unfriended orphan, that had goneInto the world to murmur and to die,Like the cold breezes that are passing by!And few they were that bade him to their board;His fortunes now were over, and the swordOf his proud ancestry dishonor’d—leftTo moulder in its sheath—a hated gift!Ay! it was so; and Julio would fainHave been a warrior; but his very brainGrew fever’d at the sickly thought of death.And to be stricken with a want of breath!—To be the food of worms—inanimate,And cold as winter—and as desolate!And then to waste away, and be no moreThan the dark dust!—the thought was like a soreThat gather’d in his heart; and he would say,“A curse be on their laurels,” and decayCame over them; the deeds that they had doneHad fallen with their fortunes; and anonWas Julio forgotten, and his line—No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!But loved not death; his purpose was betweenLife and the grave; and it would vibrate thereLike a wild bird, that floated far and fairBetwixt the sun and sea.He went, and came—And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same—A strange, strange youth; and he would look all nightUpon the moon and stars, and count the flightOf the sea waves, and let the evening windPlay with his raven tresses, or would bindGrottos of birch, wherein to sit and sing;And peasant girls would find him sauntering,To gaze upon their features, as they met,In laughter, under some green arboret.At last he became a monk, and, on his knees,Said holy prayers, and with wild penancesMade sad atonement; and the solemn whimThat, like a shadow, loiter’d over him,Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursedWith none of the mad thoughts that were at firstThe poison of his quiet; but he grewTo love the world and its wild laughter too,As he had known before: and wish’d againTo join the very mirth he hated then.He durst not break the vow—he durst not beThe one he would—and his heart’s harmonyBecame a tide of sorrow. Even so,He felt hope die—in madness and in wo!But there came one—and a most lovely oneAs ever to the warm light of the sunThrew back her tresses—a fair sister girl,With a brow changing between snow and pearl;And the blue eyes of sadness, filled with dewOf tears—like Heaven’s own melancholy blue—So beautiful, so tender; and her formWas graceful as a rainbow in a storm:Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow—Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrowTheir brightness from the sun; but she was brightIn her own self—a mystery of light!With feelings tender as a star’s own hue,Pure as the morning star! as true, as true:For it will glitter in each early sky,And her first love be love that lasteth aye!And this was Agathè—young Agathè—A motherless, fair girl: and many a dayShe wept for her lost parent. It was sadTo see her infant sorrow; how she badeThe flow of her wild spirits fall awayTo grief, like bright clouds in a summer dayMelting into a shower; and it was sadAlmost to think she might again be glad—Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fallOf her bright tears. Yet in her father’s hallShe had lived almost sorrowless her days;But he felt no affection for the gazeOf his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled,He bade no father’s welcome to the child,But even told his wish, and will’d it done,For her to be sad-hearted—and a nun!And so it was. She took the dreary veil,A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew paleUpon her cheek; she felt, as summer feelsThe winds of autumn, and the winter chillsThat darken his fair suns—it was away,Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathè!The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymnSung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim,Gray aisle, was heard a solitary tread,As of one musing sadly on the dead—’Twas Julio. It was his wont to beOften alone within the sanctuary;But now, not so—another: it was she!Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saintBefore a crucifix; but sad and faintThe tone of her devotion, as the trillOf a moss-burden’d melancholy rill.And Julio stood before her;—’twas as yetThe hour of the pale twilight—and they metEach other’s gaze, till either seem’d the hueOf deepest crimson; but the ladye threwHer veil above her features, and stole byLike a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone,A dreamer!——“is the sister ladye gone?”He started at the silence of the airThat slumber’d over him—she is not there.And either slept not through the live-long night,Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright,Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they roseIn sorrow from the pallet of repose:For the dark thought of their sad destinyCame o’er them, like a chasm of the deep sea,That was to rend their fortunes; and at eveThey met again, but, silent, took their leave,As they did yesterday: another night,And neither spoke awhile—a pure delight,Had chasten’d love’s first blushes: silentlyGazed Julio on the gentle Agathè—At length, “Fair Nun!” she started, and held fastHer bright hand on her lips—“the past, the past,And the pale future! there be some that lieUnder those marble urns—I know not why,But I were better in that holy calm,Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am.The past!—ay! it hath perish’d; never, never,Would I recall it to be blest for ever;The future it must come—I have a vow”—And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow,“True, true, I have a vow; is not the moonAbroad, fair nun?”—“indeed! so very soon?”Said Agathè, and “I must then away.”“Stay, love! ’tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!”But she was gone:—yet they met many a timeIn the lone chapel, after vesper chime—They met in love and fear.One weary day,And Julio saw not his loved Agathè;She was not in the choir of sisterhoodThat sang the evening anthem; and he stoodLike one that listen’d breathlessly awhile;But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.She was not there; and after all were gone,He linger’d: the stars came—he linger’d on,Like a dark fun’ral image on the tombOf a lost hope. He felt a world of gloomUpon his heart—a solitude—a chill.The pale moon rose, and still he linger’d still.And the next vesper toll’d; nor yet, nor yet—“Can Agathè be faithless and forget?”It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,“Poor Julio! thy Agathè is dead;”And started. He had loiter’d in the trainThat bore her to the grave: he saw her lainIn the cold earth, and heard a requiemSung over her. To him it was a dream:A marble stone stood by the sepulchre;He look’d, and saw, and started—she was there!And Agathè had died: she that was bright—She that was in her beauty! a cold blightFell over the young blossom of her brow,And the life’s blood grew chill—she is not now.She died like Zephyr falling amid flowers!Like to a star within the twilight hoursOf morning—and she was not! Some have thoughtThe Lady Abbess gave her a mad draughtThat stole into her heart, and sadly rentThe fine chords of that holy instrument,Until its music falter’d fast away,And she—she died—the lovely Agathè!Again, and through the arras of the gloomAre the pale breezes moaning: by her tombBends Julio, like a phantom, and his eyeIs fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lieAt ebb within the sea. Oh! he is wan,As winter skies are wan, like ages gone,And stars unseen for paleness; it is cast,As foliage in the raving of the blast,All his fair bloom of thoughts. Is the moon chill,That in the dark clouds she is mantled still?And over its proud arch hath Heaven flungA scarf of darkness. Agathè was young!And there should be the virgin silver there,The snow-white fringes delicately fair!He wields a heavy mattock in his hands,And over him a lonely lanthorn standsOn a near niche, shedding a sickly fallOf light upon a marble pedestal,Whereon is chisel’d rudely, the essayOf untaught tool, “Hic jacet Agathè,”And Julio hath bent him down in speed,like one that doeth an unholy deed.There is a flagstone lieth heavilyOver the ladye’s grave; I wist of threeThat bore it of a blessed verity!But he hath lifted it in his pure madnessAs it were lightsome as a summer gladness,And from the carved niche hath ta’en the lampAnd hung it by the marble flagstone damp.And he is flinging the dark, chilly mouldOver the gorgeous pavement: ’tis a cold,Sad grave; and there is many a relic thereOf chalky bones, which, in the wasting air,Fell mouldering away: and he would dashHis mattock through them with a cursed clashThat made the lone aisle echo. But anonHe fell upon a skull—a haggard one,With its teeth set, and the great orbless eyeRevolving darkness, like eternity.And in his hand he held it till it grewTo have the fleshy features and the hueOf life. He gazed, and gazed, and it becameLike to his Agathè—all, all the same!He drew it nearer,—the cold, bony thing!—To kiss the worm-wet lips. “Aye! let me cling—Cling to thee now forever!”—but a breathOf rank corruption, from its jaws of death,Went to his nostrils, and he madly laugh’d,And dash’d it over on the altar shaft,Which the new-risen moon, in her gray light,Had fondly flooded, beautifully bright!Again he wentTo his world work beside the monument.“Ha! leave, thou moon! where thy footfall hath beenIn sorrow amid heaven! there is sinUnder thy shadow, lying like a dew;So come thou, from thy awful arch of blue,Where thou art ever as a silver throneFor some pale spectre-king! come thou alone,Or bring a solitary orphan starUnder thy wings! afar, afar, afar,To gaze upon this girl of radiancy,In her deep slumbers—wake thee, Agathè!”And Julio hath stolen the dark chestWhere the fair nun lay coffin’d, in the restThat wakes not up at morning; she is thereAn image of cold calm! One tress of hairLingereth lonely on her snowy brow;But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now;And their long lashes delicately restOn the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west,That fall upon a colorless sad cloud.Humility lies rudely on the proud,But she was never proud; and there she is,A yet unwither’d flower the autumn breezeHath blown from its green stem! ’Tis pale, ’Tis pale,But still unfaded, like the twilight veilThat falleth after sunset; like a streamThat bears the burden of a silver gleamUpon its waters; and is even so,—Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low!Beauty in death! a tenderness uponThe rude and silent relics, where aloneSat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead!The look of being where the breath is fled!The unwarming sun still joyous in its light!A time—a time without a day or night!Death cradled upon beauty, like a beeUpon a flower, that looketh lovingly!Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness,Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness!And there she is; and Julio bends o’erThe sleeping girl—a willow on the shoreOf a Dead Sea! that steepeth its fair boughInto the bitter waters,—even nowTaking a foretaste of the awful tranceThat was to pass on his own countenance!Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lipsOver her brow; the shade of an eclipseIs passing to his heart, and to his eyeThat is not tearful; but the light will dieLeaving it like a moon within a mist,—The vision of a spell-bound visionist!He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek,That left no trace—no flush—no crimson streakBut was as bloodless as a marble stone,Susceptible of silent waste alone.And on her brow a crucifix he laid,—A jewel’d crucifix, the virgin maidHad given him before she died,—the moonShed light upon her visage—clouded soon,Then briefly breaking from its airy veil,Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.But Julio gazed on, and never liftedHimself to see the broken clouds, that driftedOne after one, like infant elves at play,Amid the night winds, in their lonely way—Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep,And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deepOver their couches of green moss and flowers,And solitary fern, and heather bowers.The heavy bell toll’d two, and, as it toll’d,Julio started, and the fresh-turn’d mouldHe flung into the empty chasm with speed,And o’er it dropt the flagstone.—One could readThat Agathè lay there; but still the girlLay by him, like a precious and pale pearl,That from the deep sea-waters had been rent—Like a star fallen from the firmament!He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch,To westward of the solitary church:And he hath clasp’d around the melting waist,The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is pressedTo hers—life warming the cold chill of death!And over his pale palsy breathing breathHis eye is sunk upon her—“Thou must leaveThe worm to waste for love of thee, and grieveWithout thee, as I may not.—Thou must go,My sweet betrothed, with me—but not below,Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude,But where is light, and life, and one to broodAbove thee till thou wakest.—Ha? I fearThou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here,Where there are none but winds to visit thee,And convent fathers, and a choristryOf sisters, saying, ‘Hush!’—But I will singRare songs to thy pure spirit, wanderingDown on the dews to heaven: I will tuneThe instrument of the ethereal noon,And all the choir of stars, to rise and fallIn harmony and beauty musical.”He is away—and still the sickly lampIs burning next the altar; there’s a damp,Thin mould upon the pavement, and, at morn,The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn,And mutter deep anathemas, becauseOf the unholy sacrilege, that wasWithin the sainted chapel,—for they guess’d,By many a vestige sad, how the dark restOf Agathè was broken,—and anonThey sought for Julio. The summer sunArose and set, with his imperial discToward the ocean-waters, heaving briskBefore the winds,—but Julio came never:He that was frantic as a foaming river—Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tideOf a great tempest, that hath fought and diedAlong the forest ramparts, and doth stillIn its death-struggle desperately reelRound with the fallen foliage—he was gone,And none knew whither—still were chanted onSad masses, by pale sisters, many a day,And holy requiem sung for Agathè!

Chimera I.

Ananthem of a sister choristry!And like a windward murmur of the seaO’er silver shells, so solemnly it falls!A dying music, shrouded in deep walls,That bury its wild breathings! And the moon,Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon,Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud,Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud,Do minister unto her sickly trance,Fanning the life into her countenance.And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few,In the deep chasms of everlasting blue,Unmarshall’d and ungather’d, one and one,Like outposts of the lunar garrison.

Ananthem of a sister choristry!

And like a windward murmur of the sea

O’er silver shells, so solemnly it falls!

A dying music, shrouded in deep walls,

That bury its wild breathings! And the moon,

Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon,

Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud,

Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud,

Do minister unto her sickly trance,

Fanning the life into her countenance.

And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few,

In the deep chasms of everlasting blue,

Unmarshall’d and ungather’d, one and one,

Like outposts of the lunar garrison.

A train of holy fathers windeth byThe arches of an aged sanctuary,With cowl, and scapular, and rosary,On to the sainted oriel, where stood,By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood—A weeping group of virgins!—one or twoBent forward to a bier of solemn hue,Whereon a bright and stately coffin lay,With its black pall flung over:—AgathèWas on the lid—a name. And who? No more!’Twas only Agathè.

A train of holy fathers windeth by

The arches of an aged sanctuary,

With cowl, and scapular, and rosary,

On to the sainted oriel, where stood,

By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood—

A weeping group of virgins!—one or two

Bent forward to a bier of solemn hue,

Whereon a bright and stately coffin lay,

With its black pall flung over:—Agathè

Was on the lid—a name. And who? No more!

’Twas only Agathè.

’Tis o’er, ’tis o’er—Her burial!—and, under the arcades,Torch after torch into the moonlight fades,And there is heard the music, a brief while,Over the roofings of the imaged aisle,From the deep organ, panting out its last,Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.

’Tis o’er, ’tis o’er—

Her burial!—and, under the arcades,

Torch after torch into the moonlight fades,

And there is heard the music, a brief while,

Over the roofings of the imaged aisle,

From the deep organ, panting out its last,

Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.

A lonely monk is loitering withinThe dusky area, at the altar seen,Like a pale spirit, kneeling in the lightOf the cold moon, that looketh wan and whiteThrough the deviced oriel; and he laysHis hands upon his bosom, with a gazeTo the chill earth. He had the youthful lookWhich heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shookAt every gust of the unholy breezeThat entered through the time-worn crevices.

A lonely monk is loitering within

The dusky area, at the altar seen,

Like a pale spirit, kneeling in the light

Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white

Through the deviced oriel; and he lays

His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze

To the chill earth. He had the youthful look

Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook

At every gust of the unholy breeze

That entered through the time-worn crevices.

A score of summers only o’er his browHad passed—and it was summer, even nowThe one-and-twentieth—from a birth of tears,Over a waste of melancholy years!Andthatbrow was as wan as if it wereOf snowy marble, and the raven hair,That would have clustered over, was all shorn,And his fine features stricken pale as morn.

A score of summers only o’er his brow

Had passed—and it was summer, even now

The one-and-twentieth—from a birth of tears,

Over a waste of melancholy years!

Andthatbrow was as wan as if it were

Of snowy marble, and the raven hair,

That would have clustered over, was all shorn,

And his fine features stricken pale as morn.

He kiss’d a golden crucifix, that hungAround his neck, and, in a transport, flungHimself upon the earth, and said, and saidWild, raving words, about the blessed dead;And then he rose, and in the moon-shade stood,Gazing upon its light in solitude,And smote his brow, at some idea wildThat came across; then, weeping like a child,He faltered out the name of Agathè,And look’d unto the heaven inquiringly,And the pure stars.

He kiss’d a golden crucifix, that hung

Around his neck, and, in a transport, flung

Himself upon the earth, and said, and said

Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead;

And then he rose, and in the moon-shade stood,

Gazing upon its light in solitude,

And smote his brow, at some idea wild

That came across; then, weeping like a child,

He faltered out the name of Agathè,

And look’d unto the heaven inquiringly,

And the pure stars.

“Oh, shame! that ye are metTo mock me, like old memories, that yetBreak in upon the golden dream I knewWhile she—shelived; and I have said adieuTo that fair one, and to her sister, Peace,That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou ceaseTo feed upon my quiet, thou Despair,That art the mad usurper, and the heirOf this heart’s heritage? Go, go—return,And bring me back oblivion and an urn!And ye, pale stars, may look, and only findThe wreck of a proud tree, that lets the windCount o’er its blighted boughs: for such was heThat loved, and loves, the silent Agathè.”And he hath left the sanctuary, like oneThat knew not his own purpose—the red sunRose early over incense of bright mist,That girded a pure sky of amethyst.

“Oh, shame! that ye are met

To mock me, like old memories, that yet

Break in upon the golden dream I knew

While she—shelived; and I have said adieu

To that fair one, and to her sister, Peace,

That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease

To feed upon my quiet, thou Despair,

That art the mad usurper, and the heir

Of this heart’s heritage? Go, go—return,

And bring me back oblivion and an urn!

And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find

The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind

Count o’er its blighted boughs: for such was he

That loved, and loves, the silent Agathè.”

And he hath left the sanctuary, like one

That knew not his own purpose—the red sun

Rose early over incense of bright mist,

That girded a pure sky of amethyst.

And who was he? A monk. And those who knew,Yclept him Julio; but they were few.And others named him as a nameless one,—A dark, sad-hearted being, who had noneBut bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,That fed the wildest of all curses—madness!

And who was he? A monk. And those who knew,

Yclept him Julio; but they were few.

And others named him as a nameless one,—

A dark, sad-hearted being, who had none

But bitter feelings, and a cast of sadness,

That fed the wildest of all curses—madness!

But he was, what none knew, of lordly line,That fought in the far land of Palestine,Where, under banners of the Cross, they fell,Smote by the armies of the infidel.And Julio was the last; alone, alone,A sad, unfriended orphan, that had goneInto the world to murmur and to die,Like the cold breezes that are passing by!

But he was, what none knew, of lordly line,

That fought in the far land of Palestine,

Where, under banners of the Cross, they fell,

Smote by the armies of the infidel.

And Julio was the last; alone, alone,

A sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone

Into the world to murmur and to die,

Like the cold breezes that are passing by!

And few they were that bade him to their board;His fortunes now were over, and the swordOf his proud ancestry dishonor’d—leftTo moulder in its sheath—a hated gift!Ay! it was so; and Julio would fainHave been a warrior; but his very brainGrew fever’d at the sickly thought of death.And to be stricken with a want of breath!—To be the food of worms—inanimate,And cold as winter—and as desolate!And then to waste away, and be no moreThan the dark dust!—the thought was like a soreThat gather’d in his heart; and he would say,“A curse be on their laurels,” and decayCame over them; the deeds that they had doneHad fallen with their fortunes; and anonWas Julio forgotten, and his line—No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!

And few they were that bade him to their board;

His fortunes now were over, and the sword

Of his proud ancestry dishonor’d—left

To moulder in its sheath—a hated gift!

Ay! it was so; and Julio would fain

Have been a warrior; but his very brain

Grew fever’d at the sickly thought of death.

And to be stricken with a want of breath!—

To be the food of worms—inanimate,

And cold as winter—and as desolate!

And then to waste away, and be no more

Than the dark dust!—the thought was like a sore

That gather’d in his heart; and he would say,

“A curse be on their laurels,” and decay

Came over them; the deeds that they had done

Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon

Was Julio forgotten, and his line—

No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!

Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!But loved not death; his purpose was betweenLife and the grave; and it would vibrate thereLike a wild bird, that floated far and fairBetwixt the sun and sea.

Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!

But loved not death; his purpose was between

Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there

Like a wild bird, that floated far and fair

Betwixt the sun and sea.

He went, and came—And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same—A strange, strange youth; and he would look all nightUpon the moon and stars, and count the flightOf the sea waves, and let the evening windPlay with his raven tresses, or would bindGrottos of birch, wherein to sit and sing;And peasant girls would find him sauntering,To gaze upon their features, as they met,In laughter, under some green arboret.

He went, and came—

And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same—

A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night

Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight

Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind

Play with his raven tresses, or would bind

Grottos of birch, wherein to sit and sing;

And peasant girls would find him sauntering,

To gaze upon their features, as they met,

In laughter, under some green arboret.

At last he became a monk, and, on his knees,Said holy prayers, and with wild penancesMade sad atonement; and the solemn whimThat, like a shadow, loiter’d over him,Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursedWith none of the mad thoughts that were at firstThe poison of his quiet; but he grewTo love the world and its wild laughter too,As he had known before: and wish’d againTo join the very mirth he hated then.

At last he became a monk, and, on his knees,

Said holy prayers, and with wild penances

Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim

That, like a shadow, loiter’d over him,

Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed

With none of the mad thoughts that were at first

The poison of his quiet; but he grew

To love the world and its wild laughter too,

As he had known before: and wish’d again

To join the very mirth he hated then.

He durst not break the vow—he durst not beThe one he would—and his heart’s harmonyBecame a tide of sorrow. Even so,He felt hope die—in madness and in wo!

He durst not break the vow—he durst not be

The one he would—and his heart’s harmony

Became a tide of sorrow. Even so,

He felt hope die—in madness and in wo!

But there came one—and a most lovely oneAs ever to the warm light of the sunThrew back her tresses—a fair sister girl,With a brow changing between snow and pearl;And the blue eyes of sadness, filled with dewOf tears—like Heaven’s own melancholy blue—So beautiful, so tender; and her formWas graceful as a rainbow in a storm:Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow—Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrowTheir brightness from the sun; but she was brightIn her own self—a mystery of light!With feelings tender as a star’s own hue,Pure as the morning star! as true, as true:For it will glitter in each early sky,And her first love be love that lasteth aye!

But there came one—and a most lovely one

As ever to the warm light of the sun

Threw back her tresses—a fair sister girl,

With a brow changing between snow and pearl;

And the blue eyes of sadness, filled with dew

Of tears—like Heaven’s own melancholy blue—

So beautiful, so tender; and her form

Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm:

Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow—

Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow

Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright

In her own self—a mystery of light!

With feelings tender as a star’s own hue,

Pure as the morning star! as true, as true:

For it will glitter in each early sky,

And her first love be love that lasteth aye!

And this was Agathè—young Agathè—A motherless, fair girl: and many a dayShe wept for her lost parent. It was sadTo see her infant sorrow; how she badeThe flow of her wild spirits fall awayTo grief, like bright clouds in a summer dayMelting into a shower; and it was sadAlmost to think she might again be glad—Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fallOf her bright tears. Yet in her father’s hallShe had lived almost sorrowless her days;But he felt no affection for the gazeOf his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled,He bade no father’s welcome to the child,But even told his wish, and will’d it done,For her to be sad-hearted—and a nun!

And this was Agathè—young Agathè—

A motherless, fair girl: and many a day

She wept for her lost parent. It was sad

To see her infant sorrow; how she bade

The flow of her wild spirits fall away

To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day

Melting into a shower; and it was sad

Almost to think she might again be glad—

Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall

Of her bright tears. Yet in her father’s hall

She had lived almost sorrowless her days;

But he felt no affection for the gaze

Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled,

He bade no father’s welcome to the child,

But even told his wish, and will’d it done,

For her to be sad-hearted—and a nun!

And so it was. She took the dreary veil,A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew paleUpon her cheek; she felt, as summer feelsThe winds of autumn, and the winter chillsThat darken his fair suns—it was away,Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathè!

And so it was. She took the dreary veil,

A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale

Upon her cheek; she felt, as summer feels

The winds of autumn, and the winter chills

That darken his fair suns—it was away,

Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathè!

The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymnSung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim,Gray aisle, was heard a solitary tread,As of one musing sadly on the dead—’Twas Julio. It was his wont to beOften alone within the sanctuary;But now, not so—another: it was she!Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saintBefore a crucifix; but sad and faintThe tone of her devotion, as the trillOf a moss-burden’d melancholy rill.And Julio stood before her;—’twas as yetThe hour of the pale twilight—and they metEach other’s gaze, till either seem’d the hueOf deepest crimson; but the ladye threwHer veil above her features, and stole byLike a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!

The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn

Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim,

Gray aisle, was heard a solitary tread,

As of one musing sadly on the dead—

’Twas Julio. It was his wont to be

Often alone within the sanctuary;

But now, not so—another: it was she!

Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint

Before a crucifix; but sad and faint

The tone of her devotion, as the trill

Of a moss-burden’d melancholy rill.

And Julio stood before her;—’twas as yet

The hour of the pale twilight—and they met

Each other’s gaze, till either seem’d the hue

Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw

Her veil above her features, and stole by

Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!

Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone,A dreamer!——“is the sister ladye gone?”He started at the silence of the airThat slumber’d over him—she is not there.

Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone,

A dreamer!——“is the sister ladye gone?”

He started at the silence of the air

That slumber’d over him—she is not there.

And either slept not through the live-long night,Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright,Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they roseIn sorrow from the pallet of repose:For the dark thought of their sad destinyCame o’er them, like a chasm of the deep sea,That was to rend their fortunes; and at eveThey met again, but, silent, took their leave,As they did yesterday: another night,And neither spoke awhile—a pure delight,Had chasten’d love’s first blushes: silentlyGazed Julio on the gentle Agathè—At length, “Fair Nun!” she started, and held fastHer bright hand on her lips—“the past, the past,And the pale future! there be some that lieUnder those marble urns—I know not why,But I were better in that holy calm,Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am.The past!—ay! it hath perish’d; never, never,Would I recall it to be blest for ever;The future it must come—I have a vow”—And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow,“True, true, I have a vow; is not the moonAbroad, fair nun?”—“indeed! so very soon?”Said Agathè, and “I must then away.”“Stay, love! ’tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!”

And either slept not through the live-long night,

Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright,

Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose

In sorrow from the pallet of repose:

For the dark thought of their sad destiny

Came o’er them, like a chasm of the deep sea,

That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve

They met again, but, silent, took their leave,

As they did yesterday: another night,

And neither spoke awhile—a pure delight,

Had chasten’d love’s first blushes: silently

Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathè—

At length, “Fair Nun!” she started, and held fast

Her bright hand on her lips—“the past, the past,

And the pale future! there be some that lie

Under those marble urns—I know not why,

But I were better in that holy calm,

Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am.

The past!—ay! it hath perish’d; never, never,

Would I recall it to be blest for ever;

The future it must come—I have a vow”—

And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow,

“True, true, I have a vow; is not the moon

Abroad, fair nun?”—“indeed! so very soon?”

Said Agathè, and “I must then away.”

“Stay, love! ’tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!”

But she was gone:—yet they met many a timeIn the lone chapel, after vesper chime—They met in love and fear.

But she was gone:—yet they met many a time

In the lone chapel, after vesper chime—

They met in love and fear.

One weary day,And Julio saw not his loved Agathè;She was not in the choir of sisterhoodThat sang the evening anthem; and he stoodLike one that listen’d breathlessly awhile;But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.She was not there; and after all were gone,He linger’d: the stars came—he linger’d on,Like a dark fun’ral image on the tombOf a lost hope. He felt a world of gloomUpon his heart—a solitude—a chill.The pale moon rose, and still he linger’d still.And the next vesper toll’d; nor yet, nor yet—“Can Agathè be faithless and forget?”

One weary day,

And Julio saw not his loved Agathè;

She was not in the choir of sisterhood

That sang the evening anthem; and he stood

Like one that listen’d breathlessly awhile;

But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.

She was not there; and after all were gone,

He linger’d: the stars came—he linger’d on,

Like a dark fun’ral image on the tomb

Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom

Upon his heart—a solitude—a chill.

The pale moon rose, and still he linger’d still.

And the next vesper toll’d; nor yet, nor yet—

“Can Agathè be faithless and forget?”

It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,“Poor Julio! thy Agathè is dead;”And started. He had loiter’d in the trainThat bore her to the grave: he saw her lainIn the cold earth, and heard a requiemSung over her. To him it was a dream:A marble stone stood by the sepulchre;He look’d, and saw, and started—she was there!And Agathè had died: she that was bright—She that was in her beauty! a cold blightFell over the young blossom of her brow,And the life’s blood grew chill—she is not now.

It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,

“Poor Julio! thy Agathè is dead;”

And started. He had loiter’d in the train

That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain

In the cold earth, and heard a requiem

Sung over her. To him it was a dream:

A marble stone stood by the sepulchre;

He look’d, and saw, and started—she was there!

And Agathè had died: she that was bright—

She that was in her beauty! a cold blight

Fell over the young blossom of her brow,

And the life’s blood grew chill—she is not now.

She died like Zephyr falling amid flowers!Like to a star within the twilight hoursOf morning—and she was not! Some have thoughtThe Lady Abbess gave her a mad draughtThat stole into her heart, and sadly rentThe fine chords of that holy instrument,Until its music falter’d fast away,And she—she died—the lovely Agathè!

She died like Zephyr falling amid flowers!

Like to a star within the twilight hours

Of morning—and she was not! Some have thought

The Lady Abbess gave her a mad draught

That stole into her heart, and sadly rent

The fine chords of that holy instrument,

Until its music falter’d fast away,

And she—she died—the lovely Agathè!

Again, and through the arras of the gloomAre the pale breezes moaning: by her tombBends Julio, like a phantom, and his eyeIs fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lieAt ebb within the sea. Oh! he is wan,As winter skies are wan, like ages gone,And stars unseen for paleness; it is cast,As foliage in the raving of the blast,All his fair bloom of thoughts. Is the moon chill,That in the dark clouds she is mantled still?And over its proud arch hath Heaven flungA scarf of darkness. Agathè was young!And there should be the virgin silver there,The snow-white fringes delicately fair!

Again, and through the arras of the gloom

Are the pale breezes moaning: by her tomb

Bends Julio, like a phantom, and his eye

Is fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lie

At ebb within the sea. Oh! he is wan,

As winter skies are wan, like ages gone,

And stars unseen for paleness; it is cast,

As foliage in the raving of the blast,

All his fair bloom of thoughts. Is the moon chill,

That in the dark clouds she is mantled still?

And over its proud arch hath Heaven flung

A scarf of darkness. Agathè was young!

And there should be the virgin silver there,

The snow-white fringes delicately fair!

He wields a heavy mattock in his hands,And over him a lonely lanthorn standsOn a near niche, shedding a sickly fallOf light upon a marble pedestal,Whereon is chisel’d rudely, the essayOf untaught tool, “Hic jacet Agathè,”And Julio hath bent him down in speed,like one that doeth an unholy deed.

He wields a heavy mattock in his hands,

And over him a lonely lanthorn stands

On a near niche, shedding a sickly fall

Of light upon a marble pedestal,

Whereon is chisel’d rudely, the essay

Of untaught tool, “Hic jacet Agathè,”

And Julio hath bent him down in speed,

like one that doeth an unholy deed.

There is a flagstone lieth heavilyOver the ladye’s grave; I wist of threeThat bore it of a blessed verity!But he hath lifted it in his pure madnessAs it were lightsome as a summer gladness,And from the carved niche hath ta’en the lampAnd hung it by the marble flagstone damp.

There is a flagstone lieth heavily

Over the ladye’s grave; I wist of three

That bore it of a blessed verity!

But he hath lifted it in his pure madness

As it were lightsome as a summer gladness,

And from the carved niche hath ta’en the lamp

And hung it by the marble flagstone damp.

And he is flinging the dark, chilly mouldOver the gorgeous pavement: ’tis a cold,Sad grave; and there is many a relic thereOf chalky bones, which, in the wasting air,Fell mouldering away: and he would dashHis mattock through them with a cursed clashThat made the lone aisle echo. But anonHe fell upon a skull—a haggard one,With its teeth set, and the great orbless eyeRevolving darkness, like eternity.And in his hand he held it till it grewTo have the fleshy features and the hueOf life. He gazed, and gazed, and it becameLike to his Agathè—all, all the same!He drew it nearer,—the cold, bony thing!—To kiss the worm-wet lips. “Aye! let me cling—Cling to thee now forever!”—but a breathOf rank corruption, from its jaws of death,Went to his nostrils, and he madly laugh’d,And dash’d it over on the altar shaft,Which the new-risen moon, in her gray light,Had fondly flooded, beautifully bright!

And he is flinging the dark, chilly mould

Over the gorgeous pavement: ’tis a cold,

Sad grave; and there is many a relic there

Of chalky bones, which, in the wasting air,

Fell mouldering away: and he would dash

His mattock through them with a cursed clash

That made the lone aisle echo. But anon

He fell upon a skull—a haggard one,

With its teeth set, and the great orbless eye

Revolving darkness, like eternity.

And in his hand he held it till it grew

To have the fleshy features and the hue

Of life. He gazed, and gazed, and it became

Like to his Agathè—all, all the same!

He drew it nearer,—the cold, bony thing!—

To kiss the worm-wet lips. “Aye! let me cling—

Cling to thee now forever!”—but a breath

Of rank corruption, from its jaws of death,

Went to his nostrils, and he madly laugh’d,

And dash’d it over on the altar shaft,

Which the new-risen moon, in her gray light,

Had fondly flooded, beautifully bright!

Again he wentTo his world work beside the monument.“Ha! leave, thou moon! where thy footfall hath beenIn sorrow amid heaven! there is sinUnder thy shadow, lying like a dew;So come thou, from thy awful arch of blue,Where thou art ever as a silver throneFor some pale spectre-king! come thou alone,Or bring a solitary orphan starUnder thy wings! afar, afar, afar,To gaze upon this girl of radiancy,In her deep slumbers—wake thee, Agathè!”

Again he went

To his world work beside the monument.

“Ha! leave, thou moon! where thy footfall hath been

In sorrow amid heaven! there is sin

Under thy shadow, lying like a dew;

So come thou, from thy awful arch of blue,

Where thou art ever as a silver throne

For some pale spectre-king! come thou alone,

Or bring a solitary orphan star

Under thy wings! afar, afar, afar,

To gaze upon this girl of radiancy,

In her deep slumbers—wake thee, Agathè!”

And Julio hath stolen the dark chestWhere the fair nun lay coffin’d, in the restThat wakes not up at morning; she is thereAn image of cold calm! One tress of hairLingereth lonely on her snowy brow;But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now;And their long lashes delicately restOn the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west,That fall upon a colorless sad cloud.Humility lies rudely on the proud,But she was never proud; and there she is,A yet unwither’d flower the autumn breezeHath blown from its green stem! ’Tis pale, ’Tis pale,But still unfaded, like the twilight veilThat falleth after sunset; like a streamThat bears the burden of a silver gleamUpon its waters; and is even so,—Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low!

And Julio hath stolen the dark chest

Where the fair nun lay coffin’d, in the rest

That wakes not up at morning; she is there

An image of cold calm! One tress of hair

Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow;

But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now;

And their long lashes delicately rest

On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west,

That fall upon a colorless sad cloud.

Humility lies rudely on the proud,

But she was never proud; and there she is,

A yet unwither’d flower the autumn breeze

Hath blown from its green stem! ’Tis pale, ’Tis pale,

But still unfaded, like the twilight veil

That falleth after sunset; like a stream

That bears the burden of a silver gleam

Upon its waters; and is even so,—

Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low!

Beauty in death! a tenderness uponThe rude and silent relics, where aloneSat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead!The look of being where the breath is fled!The unwarming sun still joyous in its light!A time—a time without a day or night!Death cradled upon beauty, like a beeUpon a flower, that looketh lovingly!Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness,Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness!

Beauty in death! a tenderness upon

The rude and silent relics, where alone

Sat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead!

The look of being where the breath is fled!

The unwarming sun still joyous in its light!

A time—a time without a day or night!

Death cradled upon beauty, like a bee

Upon a flower, that looketh lovingly!

Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness,

Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness!

And there she is; and Julio bends o’erThe sleeping girl—a willow on the shoreOf a Dead Sea! that steepeth its fair boughInto the bitter waters,—even nowTaking a foretaste of the awful tranceThat was to pass on his own countenance!

And there she is; and Julio bends o’er

The sleeping girl—a willow on the shore

Of a Dead Sea! that steepeth its fair bough

Into the bitter waters,—even now

Taking a foretaste of the awful trance

That was to pass on his own countenance!

Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lipsOver her brow; the shade of an eclipseIs passing to his heart, and to his eyeThat is not tearful; but the light will dieLeaving it like a moon within a mist,—The vision of a spell-bound visionist!

Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lips

Over her brow; the shade of an eclipse

Is passing to his heart, and to his eye

That is not tearful; but the light will die

Leaving it like a moon within a mist,—

The vision of a spell-bound visionist!

He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek,That left no trace—no flush—no crimson streakBut was as bloodless as a marble stone,Susceptible of silent waste alone.And on her brow a crucifix he laid,—A jewel’d crucifix, the virgin maidHad given him before she died,—the moonShed light upon her visage—clouded soon,Then briefly breaking from its airy veil,Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.

He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek,

That left no trace—no flush—no crimson streak

But was as bloodless as a marble stone,

Susceptible of silent waste alone.

And on her brow a crucifix he laid,—

A jewel’d crucifix, the virgin maid

Had given him before she died,—the moon

Shed light upon her visage—clouded soon,

Then briefly breaking from its airy veil,

Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.

But Julio gazed on, and never liftedHimself to see the broken clouds, that driftedOne after one, like infant elves at play,Amid the night winds, in their lonely way—Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep,And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deepOver their couches of green moss and flowers,And solitary fern, and heather bowers.The heavy bell toll’d two, and, as it toll’d,Julio started, and the fresh-turn’d mouldHe flung into the empty chasm with speed,And o’er it dropt the flagstone.—One could readThat Agathè lay there; but still the girlLay by him, like a precious and pale pearl,That from the deep sea-waters had been rent—Like a star fallen from the firmament!

But Julio gazed on, and never lifted

Himself to see the broken clouds, that drifted

One after one, like infant elves at play,

Amid the night winds, in their lonely way—

Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep,

And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deep

Over their couches of green moss and flowers,

And solitary fern, and heather bowers.

The heavy bell toll’d two, and, as it toll’d,

Julio started, and the fresh-turn’d mould

He flung into the empty chasm with speed,

And o’er it dropt the flagstone.—One could read

That Agathè lay there; but still the girl

Lay by him, like a precious and pale pearl,

That from the deep sea-waters had been rent—

Like a star fallen from the firmament!

He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch,To westward of the solitary church:And he hath clasp’d around the melting waist,The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is pressedTo hers—life warming the cold chill of death!And over his pale palsy breathing breathHis eye is sunk upon her—“Thou must leaveThe worm to waste for love of thee, and grieveWithout thee, as I may not.—Thou must go,My sweet betrothed, with me—but not below,Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude,But where is light, and life, and one to broodAbove thee till thou wakest.—Ha? I fearThou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here,Where there are none but winds to visit thee,And convent fathers, and a choristryOf sisters, saying, ‘Hush!’—But I will singRare songs to thy pure spirit, wanderingDown on the dews to heaven: I will tuneThe instrument of the ethereal noon,And all the choir of stars, to rise and fallIn harmony and beauty musical.”

He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch,

To westward of the solitary church:

And he hath clasp’d around the melting waist,

The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is pressed

To hers—life warming the cold chill of death!

And over his pale palsy breathing breath

His eye is sunk upon her—“Thou must leave

The worm to waste for love of thee, and grieve

Without thee, as I may not.—Thou must go,

My sweet betrothed, with me—but not below,

Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude,

But where is light, and life, and one to brood

Above thee till thou wakest.—Ha? I fear

Thou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here,

Where there are none but winds to visit thee,

And convent fathers, and a choristry

Of sisters, saying, ‘Hush!’—But I will sing

Rare songs to thy pure spirit, wandering

Down on the dews to heaven: I will tune

The instrument of the ethereal noon,

And all the choir of stars, to rise and fall

In harmony and beauty musical.”

He is away—and still the sickly lampIs burning next the altar; there’s a damp,Thin mould upon the pavement, and, at morn,The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn,And mutter deep anathemas, becauseOf the unholy sacrilege, that wasWithin the sainted chapel,—for they guess’d,By many a vestige sad, how the dark restOf Agathè was broken,—and anonThey sought for Julio. The summer sunArose and set, with his imperial discToward the ocean-waters, heaving briskBefore the winds,—but Julio came never:He that was frantic as a foaming river—Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tideOf a great tempest, that hath fought and diedAlong the forest ramparts, and doth stillIn its death-struggle desperately reelRound with the fallen foliage—he was gone,And none knew whither—still were chanted onSad masses, by pale sisters, many a day,And holy requiem sung for Agathè!

He is away—and still the sickly lamp

Is burning next the altar; there’s a damp,

Thin mould upon the pavement, and, at morn,

The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn,

And mutter deep anathemas, because

Of the unholy sacrilege, that was

Within the sainted chapel,—for they guess’d,

By many a vestige sad, how the dark rest

Of Agathè was broken,—and anon

They sought for Julio. The summer sun

Arose and set, with his imperial disc

Toward the ocean-waters, heaving brisk

Before the winds,—but Julio came never:

He that was frantic as a foaming river—

Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tide

Of a great tempest, that hath fought and died

Along the forest ramparts, and doth still

In its death-struggle desperately reel

Round with the fallen foliage—he was gone,

And none knew whither—still were chanted on

Sad masses, by pale sisters, many a day,

And holy requiem sung for Agathè!

(End of the first Chimera.)

THE QUEEN OF MAY.

———

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

———

Likeflights of singing-birds went byThe rosy hours of girlhood’s day;When in my native bowers,Of simple buds and flowers,They wove a crown and hailed me Queen of May!Like airy nymphs the lasses cameSpring’s offerings at my feet to lay;The crystal from the fountains,The green boughs from the mountains,They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May!Around the May-pole on the green,A fairy ring, they tript away!—All merriment and pleasure,To chords of tuneful measure,They bounded by the happy Queen of May!Though years have past, and time has strewnMy raven locks with flakes of gray,Fond memory brings the hoursOf birds and blossom-showers,When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May!

Likeflights of singing-birds went byThe rosy hours of girlhood’s day;When in my native bowers,Of simple buds and flowers,They wove a crown and hailed me Queen of May!

Likeflights of singing-birds went by

The rosy hours of girlhood’s day;

When in my native bowers,

Of simple buds and flowers,

They wove a crown and hailed me Queen of May!

Like airy nymphs the lasses cameSpring’s offerings at my feet to lay;The crystal from the fountains,The green boughs from the mountains,They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May!

Like airy nymphs the lasses came

Spring’s offerings at my feet to lay;

The crystal from the fountains,

The green boughs from the mountains,

They brought to cheer and shade the Queen of May!

Around the May-pole on the green,A fairy ring, they tript away!—All merriment and pleasure,To chords of tuneful measure,They bounded by the happy Queen of May!

Around the May-pole on the green,

A fairy ring, they tript away!—

All merriment and pleasure,

To chords of tuneful measure,

They bounded by the happy Queen of May!

Though years have past, and time has strewnMy raven locks with flakes of gray,Fond memory brings the hoursOf birds and blossom-showers,When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May!

Though years have past, and time has strewn

My raven locks with flakes of gray,

Fond memory brings the hours

Of birds and blossom-showers,

When in girlhood I was crowned the Queen of May!

DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA.

———

BY DR. REYNELL COATES.

———

“ ’Tis all but a dream at the best!”

Dreamsof the Land and Sea! Why should I style them dreams? They are pictures of actual scenes, though some of them relate to events removed far back in the dimness of years, and the touches of the brush have felt the mellowing influence of time.

While striving to avoid whatever is irrelevant or out of keeping, I have not endeavored to confine myself, in these sketches, within the limits of simple narrative, but have ventured occasionally to mingle facts with speculations on their causes, or to follow their consequences to probable results: nor have I totally discarded the imagination—although the scenes are invariably drawn from nature, and the principal personages are real characters—the accessory actors only are sometimes creatures of the brain. In many of the descriptions, the reader will perceive the evidences of a desire to place in prominent relief the works of nature and her God, while art, and all its vanities, is made to play a subordinate part; for nothing can be more impertinently obtrusive than the pigmy efforts of the ambitious, struggling for distinction by attempting either to mar or to perfect the plans of the Great Architect of Creation, or carvea nameupon the columns of his temple.

Yet such is the social disposition of man, that no scene, however grand or beautiful, can awaken pleasurable emotion unless it is linked directly with humanity. There is deep oppression in the sense of total loneliness,—and few can bear the burden calmly, even for an hour! A solitary foot-print in the desert,—a broken oar upon the shelterless beach,—the tinkling of a cow-bell in the depth of the forest,—the crowing of the cock heard far off in the valley as we sink exhausted on the mountain side when the gloom of night settles heavily down upon our path-way,—who that has been a wanderer has not felt the heart-cheering effect of accidents like these! They tell us that, though our solitude be profound, there is sympathy near us,or there has been recently.

In deference, then, to this universal feeling, I have selected for these articles such sketches only as are interwoven with enough of human life to awaken social interest, even while grappling with the tempest—riding the ocean wave, or watching the moon-beams as they struggle through the foliage of scarce trodden forests, and fall half quenched, upon the withered leaves below.

But why should I style them dreams? There are many valid reasons. To the writer, the past is all a dream! But of this the world knows nothing, nor would it care to know. The scenes described are distant, and distance itself is dreamy! What can be more like the color of a dream than yon long range of mountains fading into the sky behind its veil of mist!

Let us ascend this lofty peak! ’Tis sunset! Cast your glance westward, where

“——Parting dayDies like the Dolphin——.”

“——Parting day

Dies like the Dolphin——.”

The sun slowly retires behind the far off hills. Inch after inch, the shadows climb the summit where you stand. He is gone!—yet you are not in darkness! His beams, which reach you not, still gild the motionless clouds, and these emblems of obscurity reflect on you the memory of his glory:—and, oh! how exquisitely pencilled in the clear obscure stands forth yon range, clad with towering trees, where each particular branch, and almost every leaf, seems separately portrayed against the paling sky,—miraculously near!

This is a vision of thepast. Its strength is owing to the depth of shade,—not to the intensity of light:—for, when the sun at noon-day, poured its full tide of rays upon the scene, the sky was brighter, and rock and river glinted back the flashing beams until the eye was pained:—but where were then those lines of beauty? The details were distinct. Then you might gaze on the forest in its reality, and could almost penetrate its secret paths, despite their dark green canopy!—but where were the broad effect, the bold, sweeping outlines that now give unity and grandeur to the fading scene? Thesoulof creation is before you—more palpable thanits merecorporeal elements are hid from sight. It resembles the master-piece of some great artist whose pencil portrays, in simple light and shade, a noble picture. All there islife! Those countenances!—those various attitudes arespeaking! The shrubbery waves in the wind, and over the tremulous waters of that lovely lake, the very song of yonder mountain maid seems floatingupon the canvass. Do you not hear the music? ’Tis but a dream of boyhood! Approach the painting! There is norealoutline there! The brush has been rudely dashed athwart the piece surcharged with heavy colors. Masses of many hues roughen the surface, and all is meaningless confusion.

Stand back a-pace! Again the cottage, lake and mountain start from the surface,truer than truth itself.

Panting with sighs and toil, man reaches by painful steps, the mid-land height of life, as we have climbed this summit, and when fainting by the way, it has beenhisresource, asours, to cast himself upon the bosom of his “mother,” earth[2]—look back anddream! We have no other mother now! But when you nestled to a parent’s breast, and felt the present impress of her love, knew you its breadth and depth as this vision shows it?

Memory is like the painter or the sun-set—its images appear more real than the substantial things they picture, and glow the richer as the gloom of oblivion gathers around them.

Turn your eyes eastward! Night sits upon the landscape. No ray of the past illuminates it. The very elevation on which you stand increases the darkness with its shadow, while it widens your distance from every object vaguely and fearfully looming through the evening mist.

This is a vision of thefuture. That height of land which seems to reach the clouds, upon whose dusky flank the overawed imagination figures cave and precipice, torrent and cataract, is but a gentle slope, with just enough of rudeness to render still more beautiful by contrast, the village spire, the moss-roofed mill, the waving grain that crowns its very top. Such it is seen by day.

Thus, when, in middle life, man peers into the future, what frightful shadows haunt him. Coming events magnified to giants by the obscurity around, stalk menacingly forward. Danger threatens him at every step, and there is naught beyond but that black back-ground—Death! The heavens shed no light upon the future. He is descending the hill of life, and their glories are fading behind him. He strives to borrow from the past a gleam to guide him onward, but in vain! Too often his own ambition has prompted him to choose the lofty path that now condemns him to redoubled darkness. Yet, although these spectres of the gloom are most frequently mere creatures of the brain, which day-light would dispel, they govern his career and cover him with dread. Thedreamistruthto him—and it is onlytruth itselfthat he esteems adream! Why can he not wait for sun-rise! Then should he see even the grave overhung with the verdure of spring, and death arrayed in all the glory of a morn of promise!

There is reality in dreams!—Come, then, and let us dream together!—our visions may be dark sometimes, but we will not forget that the sun will rise on the morrow.

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