FRAGMENT.

“When cold and raw the wind doth blowBleak in the morning early,When all the hills are cover’d with snowThen it is winter fairly.”

“When cold and raw the wind doth blow

Bleak in the morning early,

When all the hills are cover’d with snow

Then it is winter fairly.”

I have known the snow so deep and so drifted, as to block up the parlor windows of the house we then inhabited, precluding all possibility of opening the shutters; and as to clear it away was no trifling task, we were more than once obliged to breakfast by candle-light at eight o’clock.

In the “blue serene” of the clear and intensely cold mornings, which usually succeeded a deep fall of snow, I have seen the whole atmosphere glittering with minute particles of ice: to breathe which must, in delicate lungs, have caused a sensation similar to laceration with a sharp knife. No one afflicted with pulmonary disease should live at West Point.

The scenery, in its winter aspect, looked somewhat like a panorama done in Indian ink, or rather like a great etching: except that the sky formed a blue background to the snowy mountains, on which the leafless branches of the denuded forest seemed pencilled in black and gray. We had our winter walks too: and I never felt a more pleasant glow from exercise than in climbing Mount Independence, through the snow, to visit Fort Putnam. In addition to the ordinary steepness of the road, it was now in many places rendered slippery by broad sheets of ice, beneath which we saw the living waters of a mountain brook gliding and murmuring along under their glassy coating. The snow had drifted high among the recesses of the old fortress, and lay white and thick along the broken and roofless edges of its dark gray walls, while here and there, amid the desolation, lingered the evergreen of a lonely cedar. Long bright icicles suspended their transparent and glittering fringes from the arches of the dismantled casements, whose entrances were now even less accessible than usual, being blocked up with mounds of snow that covered the heaps of fallen stones.

One of our favorite winter walks was to the cascade; and on entering the close woods that led thither, we always felt a sensible access of warmth in the atmosphere, which was very agreeable when compared to the unsheltered bleakness of the plain. In looking down from the heights, through the steeps of the forest, we saw glimpses of the river, as it lay far below us; its solid waters now of a bluish-white, shining beneath the wintry sun. Yet the cascade still poured its resistless torrent freely among the snow-covered rocks, roaring, frothing, and pitching from ledge to ledge. An old pine tree had thrown itself horizontally across the upper fall, its dark green foliage almost touching the water, and its rough trunk forming a bridge for the passage of the minks, foxes, ground squirrels, and other petty denizens of the wild. As the foaming torrent threw up its misty spray, this tree became incrusted with ice of the most brilliant transparency; looking like an immense chandelier, with multitudes of long crystal drops depending from its feathery branches.

The last winter I spent at West Point a funeral took place in the middle of December. It was that of a gentleman attached to the institution, and he died after a long and painful illness. The river had closed at a very early period, and the little world of West Point was locked up in ice and snow. Three o’clock was the time appointed for the melancholy procession to take up its line of march; the coffin, covered with a pall, having been previously carried into the chapel, and the funeral service performed over it by the chaplain.

It was a clear, cold afternoon, and the sun was already sinking behind the mountains, whose giant shadows, magnificently colored with crimson and purple, were projected far forward upon the frozen snow that covered the plain; as a range of painted windows cast down their glowing tints upon a white marble pavement.

When the funeral began to move from the chapel, the band (preceding the coffin) commenced one of the mournful airs that are usually appropriated to “the march of death.” The muffled drums were struck only at long intervals, and their heavy notes were deadened still more by the chillness of the atmosphere; while Willis’s bugle sounded almost like music from the world of spirits. Next came the soldiers, then the cadets, afterwards the officers, and lastly the commandant; all walking with their arms inverted. I saw the sad and lonely procession moving slowly through the snow, and directing its course to the cemetery, which is about a mile from the plain. Shaded with ancient trees, the grave yard occupies the summit of a promontory that impends above the river; and the Cadet’s Monument crowned by its military trophy in white marble, forms one of the land marks of the shore. I heard (and it always seems to me the most affecting part of the ceremonial) the volley which was fired over the grave, after that cold and narrow cell had been covered in with clods of frozen earth mingled with snow.

A very extraordinary circumstance connected with military funerals is the custom, that when all is over, and the procession is returning with recovered arms, and marching in quick time, the music always performs a lively air; frequently one that is designated in the army as, “So went the merry man home to his grave.” This revolting practice is said to have originated in the same principle that is set forth in the commencing lines of the well-known song, said to have been sung by General Wolfe at his supper table on the night before the battle in which he was killed:

“Why, soldiers why,Shouldwebe melancholy boysWhose business ’tis to die.”

“Why, soldiers why,

Shouldwebe melancholy boys

Whose business ’tis to die.”

The horrors ofeverywar are, and must be so terrible, that its practice admits of no palliation, except when the struggle is in defence of our native land. How ought we then to rejoice that in this our own favored country, no hecatombs of human victims can be immolated to swell the pride, to gratify the ambition, or to feed the rapacity of a few of their fellow men. Surely the people of another century will regard with amazement the tales of blood and carnage that defile the pages of history. They will wonder that rational beings could be found who were willing to engage in these atrocious contests, undertaken “for the glory of heroes, the splendor of thrones.” Where are now the Buonapartes and the Bourbons, for whose sake forty thousand lives were destroyed in the dreadful day of Waterloo, “on that tremendous harvest field where death swung the scythe.”

May we not hope that the war-times will pass away with the king-times.

(To be concluded.)

FRAGMENT.

———

BY ALBERT PIKE.

———

We are all mariners on this sea of life;And they who climb above us up the shrouds,Have only, in their over-topping place,Gained a more dangerous station, and footholdMore insecure. The wind that passeth overAnd harmeth not the humble crowd below,Whistles amid the shrouds, and shaketh downThese overweening climbers of the ocean,Into the great gigantic vase of death.

We are all mariners on this sea of life;

And they who climb above us up the shrouds,

Have only, in their over-topping place,

Gained a more dangerous station, and foothold

More insecure. The wind that passeth over

And harmeth not the humble crowd below,

Whistles amid the shrouds, and shaketh down

These overweening climbers of the ocean,

Into the great gigantic vase of death.

DREAMS OF THE LAND AND SEA.

A NIGHT SCENE AT SEA.

———

BY DR. REYNELL COATES.

———

Oh night,And storm, and darkness, ye are wonderous strong,Yet lovely in your strength—as is the lightOf a dark eye in woman!——Byron.

Oh night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wonderous strong,

Yet lovely in your strength—as is the light

Of a dark eye in woman!——

Byron.

But few among those who constitute the educated portion of society on shore, enjoy much opportunity of feeling the grandeur,—the awful variety of night. Women are necessarily debarred from the privilege of partaking freely of its mysterious but ennobling influence by the restraints unfortunately requisite for their protection; and, in order to reap the full advantage of such communion, we must bealonewith the queen of the ebon wand and starry diadem. As for those of the bolder sex,—by them, the hours of shade are usually devoted to study, pleasure, or dissipation, and only the few possessing the poetic temperament become familiar with her changeful moods.

But, on the ocean, the closeness of the cabin drives the novice frequently on deck, even in stormy weather and at unseasonable hours; and when once this compulsory introduction has been effected, it is surprising how rapidly the traveller, of either sex, becomes enamored of solitude and night—of starlight and the storm.

The changes in the heavens,—and the waters too—are quite as numerous and far more impressive by night than by day.—There is no sameness in the sea for those who are blest with capacity to feel the beauties of Nature.

Let us lounge away an hour of this lovely evening here, by the companion-way. We are between the trades, and time would hang heavily on our hands but for the baffling winds and tempting cats-paws that keep us perpetually on the alert to gain or save a mile of southing.[2]At present, we are suffering all the tedium of a calm. How dark!—How absolutely black the sky appears, contrasted with the brightness of a tropical moon! And yon dazzling star, waving its long line of reflected rays athwart the glassy billows, rivalling the broad glare of the moonlight!—What diamond ever equalled it in lustre, or surpassed it in variety of hues, as its ray changes from red to yellow, and from yellow to the most delicate blue?

The sails are flapping against the mast and the ship rolls so gently that one might well suppose no gale had ever ruffled this smooth summer ocean. To see the sailors lolling on the watch, the observer would infer they lead the idlest lives that mortals could enjoy; but alas! such moments are like angel visits with the crew. Poor fellows! How rich to them is the delight of a single hour of freedom spent in spinning their “tough yarns” under the lea of the long-boat, in singing or in music! That clarionet is admirably played, for rough and tarry fingers:—and how softly the notes float on the damp night air! The mate, in his impatience, iswhistling for a wind; and that “old salt,” in whom many years of service have implanted deeply all the superstitions of his class, is muttering to himself with discontented glances, “You’ll have a cap-full, and more than you want of it before long,—and in the wrong quarter too.—I never knew any good to come of this whistling for wind.”

And, in truth, to judge from appearances, the prophecy is likely, in this case, to be fulfilled. Already the moon begins to be encircled by a wide halo of vapor. It is almost imperceptible at present; but, even while we speak, it gathers, and thickens, and seems to become more palpable. Now it assumes the faint tints of the lunar rain-bow; and all around a silvery veil is falling over the face of the heavens.

Slight fleeces of denser mist are collecting in columns and squadrons across the sky, giving it a mottled aspect. They are still too thin materially to check the full-flooding of the moonlight; but, as they gradually enlarge themselves, a slow, gliding motion is perceived among them. They are wafted gently southward; but the breeze—if breeze there be to-night—will come from the opposite quarter; for the higher and lower currents of our atmosphere are almost invariably found thus at variance with each other. The signs of the weather augur nothing favorable to our success in speedily reaching the southern trades.

Mark! How the broad glare of the moon-beams on the water fades away as the vapors in the upper air increase in density! The starlight reflection has disappeared; and the bright little orb from which it was derived, still struggling hard to make itself conspicuous, shines on with fitful ray.—And now, it is extinct.—Even the waters have lost their azure hue, and all things above and below are rapidly becoming gray.

The swell is momentarily rising, though you discover no cause for the change. Though we feel not a puff of wind the sails flap less heavily against the mast, and occasionally they are buoyed up and bellied out for many seconds, as if lifted by the breath of some unseen spirit.

Listen to the voice of the waves!—For the sea has a voice as well as the winds—not only where it speaks in thunders, booming upon the level beach, or roars among the time-worn rocks of an iron-bound coast, but far off in its loneliness, also, where no barrier opposes its will. Who knows not the mild tone of the breeze of spring from the melancholy moan of the autumnal gale?—As different is the dull plash of the lazy billow in a settled calm from the threatening sound that precedes a storm.

But the steward is ringing his supper-bell. Let us go below, and if I mistake not, you will find all nature dressed in another garb when we return on deck.

An hour has passed,—and what a change!—The ship close hauled on a wind, no longer rolls listlessly over the swell; but, laboring slowly up each coming wave, she staggers and shivers from stem to stern, as the crest of the watery mountain dashes against the weather bow,—then, rushing down into the trough of the sea and plunging deep into the succeeding billow, she strains every shroud and back-stay with the sudden jerk of the masts, and sends a broad sheet of crackling foam to leeward from beneath the bows.

How different is this disagreeable motion from that which we enjoy when the wind is on the beam or the quarter!—Then, we glide gently over the sea-hills, and every wave seems playfully bent on urging us forward:—Now, we are opposed unceasingly by wind and swell, and must contest laboriously each foot of the battle-ground, till the strength of our enemies is exhausted—conscious the while, that every league we loose in this strange, fitful region, may cost us a week’s delay in the recovery.

This is “a young gale” that bids fair to prove precocious; for it is rapidly advancing towards maturity. But it cannot last. Nothing but a calm displays much tendency to permanence between the trades.

The heavens are dark as midnight:—no star or planet penetrates the gloom with a friendly ray:—yet the color of the overhanging vault is by no means uniform. Broad tracts or patches of intense obscurity cover the chief part of the field of view; but, at intervals, you may perceive long, moving, dusky lines dividing these heavy masses, made visible by a strange and unaccountable half illumination. As they sweep hurriedly by, on their northward course, seemingly almost within reach from the mast head, we are made painfully conscious that the wings of the tempest are hovering over us in dangerous proximity.

Except the lamps in the binnacle, there is no obvious source of light above or around us: yet the outlines of the vessel, with all the labyrinth of spars and rigging, are dimly traceable in the murky air. Whence do we derive this power of vision? you will naturally inquire.—A glance at the surface of the water will explain it.

Every wave, as it combs and breaks, bears on its summit a high crest of foam, visible at a great distance by its own moonlight, or soft silvery radiation. Each little ripple carries its tiny lantern. Wherever the sea is disturbed by the motion of the vessel, and especially at the bow, where the waters are rudely disparted, or in the wake, where they rush together violently as she shoots along, a gentle, milky light is broadly diffused; and here and there a brilliant spark is seen beneath the surface shining distinct and permanent, like a star submerged, or gleaming and disappearing alternately, like the fire-flies of June.

The phosphorescence of the sea is unusually feeble at present, but it is sufficient to prevent a total darkness, and by its aid we trace the dim forms of surrounding objects, while a slight reflection from the clouds betrays the threatening aspect of the weather.

Do you observe those singular luminous appearances resembling masses of pale fire, or torch lights, hurrying from place to place, turning and meandering in all directions, some feet beneath the waves, like comets liberated from their proper spheres, and wandering without rule in the abyss of waters? They are produced by fish that are playing about the vessel, and were we adepts in the sport we might chance to strike one with the grains by the glare of his own torch. But this requires the skill and long experience of many voyages. To strike a fish by day is difficult enough; for, even then, he is not to be found where he appears. When you look obliquely from the vessel’s side at any object in the water, refraction changes its apparent place to a much greater distance than the real one, and brings the image nearer to the surface. Success in reaching such an object requires your aim to be directed towards a point considerably below the spot at which your game is seen. At night the difficulty is much enhanced;—for it is not the fish itself that emits the light. The agitation produced by his rapid motions awakens the thousands of luminous animalcules swarming in every cubic foot of water, and, as they fire their little tapers in succession, they fall into the rear, while the fish darts onward under cover of the obscurity, leaving a brilliant wake which serves but to deceive, or sometimes to guide, his enemies, and to attract his prey.

But hark!—How the wind howls through the shrouds and whistles around the slender rigging!—The gale increases, and another change comes over the night scene. Do you observe how pitchy the gloom has grown to windward?—All traces of the clouds in that direction are lost.—Ha!—A flash of lightning!—Here it comes in earnest!—The pouring rain obscures even the phosphoric glimmering of the waves, and now we have “night and storm and darkness,” in all their terrible beauty! Who dares attempt to paint the scene in words!—On every hand,—above—around—within—all is confusion! The crew spring to their stations, while the loud command and the scarce audible response are mingled with the dash of waves, the roar of the blast, and the creaking of the wracked timbers in one discordant, unintelligible burst of sound.

You stand, or ratherhangby the mizzen shrouds, the centre of an invisible world where the maddened elements and hardy men contend for life or conquest. You hear them, but you see them not,—save when the electric flash tinges sea and cloud with momentary brilliance. Your eye detects the foot of the nearest mast, but you endeavor in vain to trace the tall spar upwards towards the lofty perch of those brave fellows on the yard, whose shrill voices—heard as if from a mile in the distance, in answer to the trumpet of the captain,—just reach the ear amid the din of a thousand unearthly voices, and add to the wizard wildness of the scene.

The storm swells loud and more loudly; but the yielding ship has risen from the first awful impression of its force and now careers furiously before it. The brailed but unfurled topsails flap with a dull and hollow thunder, as they whirl and rebound under the restraint of the clue-lines and the iron hands of the desperate crew. See that ghastly ball of purple flame leaping from spar to spar, like the visible spirit of the tempest![3]—Now it is on the foremast head,—now it glares on the bowsprit,—and again, it springs to the mainyard and flashes full in the face of you startled reefer, casting the hue of death over his boyish features, rendered clearly visible for a moment in the demon torchlight.

The first flurry of the squall is passed;—we are again on a wind!—but still wave follows wave, rolling on with an angry roar;—and each in turn, as it reaches the vessel, strikes the bow with a resounding crash. Every plank in the firmly-bolted hull trembles beneath the blow, while the billow sweeps off under the lea, hissing and frothing in baffled rage to find the gallant bark invulnerable to its power.—Ever and anon the vivid lightning gilds the wide circle of a boiling sea, covered with broad streaks of foam driven onward for miles in narrow belts before the wind, while the sharp, sudden thunder follows on the instant, with a single detonation, like the discharge of an enormous cannon. Here are no hills and valleys to awake the long reverberating echoes—no solid earth to fling back the war-note of the storm in proud defiance to the clouds!

The binnacle lamps are shining on a portion of the quarter-deck, and light up the form of the helmsman at the wheel. Firm and unmoved amid the elemental jar, he stands like a guardian spirit in the centre of an illuminated sphere, contrasted so strongly with the palpable darkness around, that the imponderable air itself is made to appear material and tangible. On him depends our fate. One error!—one instance of momentary neglect, and the mountain swell might overtop our oaken bulwarks, leaving us a shattered and unmanagable wreck upon the desert waste of waters!

But listen!—what mean those indescribable sounds making themselves audible at intervals above the roar of the gale? Look out into the gloom, and strive to penetrate the mingled rain and spray!

Do you not see from time to time, those undefined and monstrous shapes,—blacker than night itself,—rising from the deep and giving utterance to noises like the puff of a steam engine combined with the snorting of some mammoth beast? Even here, while winds and waves are raging—in this chaos of air and ocean, where the barriers of heaven and earth seem broken down, and spray and foam—the sea—the rain—the clouds—are whirled together in one wide mass of inextricable confusion—even here, there are beings whose joy is in the tempest, sporting their ungainly gambols—fearless of the scathing bolt and glorying in the pealing thunder!

We are surrounded by an army of the grampus whales. Their breathing adds a fiend-like wildness to the voices of the night,—and their dusky forms looming through the obscurity as they thrust their misshapen backs above the surface of the sea, give an almost infernal aspect to the scene,if scene that may be called which is but half perceivedin dimness that appears,

“Not light, but rather darkness visible.”

But come below!—We are happily exempt from the necessity of dangerous exposure, and the force of the salt spray that has been driven in our faces with stinging effect for the last half hour begins to weaken the impression of this magnificent display of Omnipotence. Man would find room for selfishness and vanity amid “the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds.”—Your complexion is in danger! So if you would avoid the hard looks of a weather-beaten tar, it is time to seek the shelter of the cabin. There I can amuse you with pictures of other night scenes by sea and land, until this short-lived tropical squall is over, or you feel inclined to retire to your state room. In another hour we shall probably be bounding along merrily, with all sail set, and the moon beams sparkling and playinghide-and-go-seekamong the little rippling waves with which a six-knot breeze roughens a subsiding swell!

[2]The scene of this sketch is laid in the tropical Atlantic, between the northern and southern trade-winds;—a region of calms and baffling winds.

[2]

The scene of this sketch is laid in the tropical Atlantic, between the northern and southern trade-winds;—a region of calms and baffling winds.

[3]The corposant, an electric ball or brush of light, sometimes witnessed during storms at sea.

[3]

The corposant, an electric ball or brush of light, sometimes witnessed during storms at sea.

AGATHÈ.—A NECROMAUNT.

IN THREE CHIMERAS.

———

BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.

———

Chimera III.Another moon! And over the blue nightShe bendeth, like a holy spirit bright,Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold;As on she floateth with her image coldEnamell’d on the deep, a sail of cloudIs to her left, majestically proud!Trailing its silver drapery awayIn thin and fairy webs, that are at playLike stormless waves upon a summer sea,Dragging their length of waters lazily.Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist,A lonely one, that bendeth in the mistOf moonlight, with a wide and raven pallFlung round him.—Is he mortal man at all?For, by the meagre firelight that is underThose eyelids, and the vision shade of wonderFalling upon his features, I would guessOf one that wanders out of blessedness!Julio! raise thee! By the holy mass!I wot not of the fearless one would passThy wizard shadow. Where the raven hairWas shorn before, in many a matted layerIt lieth now; and on a rock besideThe sea, like merman at the ebb of tide,Feasting his wondrous vision on decay,So art thou gazing over Agathè!Ah me! but this is never the fair girl,With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl,That was as beautiful as is the formOf sea-bird at the breaking of a storm.The eye is open, with convulsive strain⁠—A most unfleshly orb! the stars that waneHave nothing of its hue; for it is castWith sickly blood, and terribly aghast!And sunken in its socket like the lightOf a red taper in the lonely night!And there is not a braid of her bright hairBut lieth floating in the moonlight air,Like the long moss beside a silver spring,In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring.The worm hath ’gan to crawl upon her brow⁠—The living worm! and with a ripple now,Like that upon the sea, are heard belowThe slimy swarms all ravening as they go,Amid the stagnate vitals, with a crush;And one might hear them echoing the hushOf Julio, as he watches by the sideOf the dead ladye, his betrothéd bride!And ever and anon a yellow groupWas creeping on her bosom, like a troopOf stars, far up amid the galaxy,Pale, pale, as snowy showers, and two or threeWere mocking the cold finger, round and roundWith likeness of a ring; and, as they woundAbout its bony girth, they had the hueOf pearly jewels glistening in the dew.That deathly stare! it is an awful thingTo gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will springBefore it to the heart: it telleth howThere must be waste where there is beauty now.The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snowOf that once heaving bosom? even so,The cold, pale dewy chalk, with yellow shadeAmid the leprous hues; and o’er it play’dThe straggling moonlight and the merry breeze,Like two fair elves that by the murmuring seasWoo’d smilingly together; but there fellNo life-gleam on the brow, all terribleBecoming, through its beauty, like a cloudThat waneth paler even than a shroud,All gorgeous and all glorious before;For waste, like to the wanton night, was o’erHer virgin features, stealing them away⁠—Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè?“Enough! enough! oh God! but I have pray’dTo thee, in early daylight and in shade,And the mad-curse is on me still—and still!I cannot alter the eternal will—But—but—I hate thee Agathè! I hateWhat lunacy hath made me consecrate:I amnotmad!—not now!—I do not feelThat slumberous and blessed opiate stealUp to my brain—oh! that it only would,To people this eternal solitudeWith fancies, and fair dreams, and summer-mirth,Which is not now—and yet my mother earthI would not love to lie above thee soAs Agathè lies there—Oh! no! no! no!To have these clay worms feast upon my heart!And all the light of being to departInto a dismal shadow! I could dieAs the red lightnings, quenching amid skyTheir wild and wizard breath; I could awayLike a blue billow bursting into spray:But never—never have corruption hereTo feed her worms and let the sunlight jeerAbove me so. ’Tis thou! I owe thee, moon,To-night’s fair worship; so be lifting soonThy veil of clouds, that I may kneel as oneThat seeketh for thy virgin benison!”He gathers the cold limpets as they creepOn the gray rocks beside the lonely deep,And with a flint breaks through into the shell,And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well.And he hath lifted water in a clamAnd tasted sweetly from a stream that swamDown to the sea; and now is turn’d awayAgain, again, to gaze on Agathè!There is a cave upon that isle—a caveWhere dwelt a hermit-man: the winter waveRoll’d to its entrance, casting a bright moundOf snowy shells and fairy pebbles round;And over were the solemn ridges strewnOf a dark rock, that, like the wizard throneOf some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hungWild thorn and bramble in confusion flungAmid the startling crevices—like skyThrough gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by.A cataract fell over, in a streakOf silver, playing many a wanton freak;Midway, and musical, with elfin gleeIt bounded in its beauty to the sea,Like dazzling angel vanishing away.In sooth, ’twas pleasant in the moonlight grayTo see that fairy fountain leaping so,Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe!The hermit had his cross and rosary:I ween like other hermits so was he,A holy man and frugal, and at nightHe prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the lightOf the fair moon went wandering besideThe lonely sea, to hear the silver tideRolling in gleesome music to the shore;The more he heard he loved to hear the more.And there he is, his hoary beard adriftTo the night winds, that sportingly do liftIts snow-white tresses; and he leaneth onA rugged staff, all weakly and alone,A childless, friendless man!He is besideThe ghastly Julio and his ghastlier bride.’Twas wond’rous strange to gaze upon the two!And the old hermit felt a throbbing throughHis pulses—“Holy Virgin! save me, save!”He deem’d of spectre from the midnight wave,And cross’d him thrice, and pray’d and pray’d again:“Hence! hence!” and Julio started as the strainOf exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:“I knew thee, father, that thou beest hereTo gaze upon this girl, as I have been.By yonder moon! it was a frantic sinTo worship so an image of the clay;It was like beauty—but is now away⁠—What lived upon her features, like the lightOn yonder cloud, all tender and all bright;But it is faded as the other must,And she that was all beauty is all dust.“Father! thy hand upon this brow of mineAnd tell me is it cold? But she will twineNo wreath upon these temples—never, never!For there she lieth like a streamless riverThat stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me here,If I be madly throbbing in the fearFor that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and seeHow dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly!And where it is have been the living huesOf beauty, purer than the very dews.So, father! seest thou that yonder moonWill be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon?And I, that feel my being wear away,Shall droop beside to darkness: so, but sayA prayer for the dead, when I am goneAnd let the azure tide that floweth onCover us lightly with its murmuring surf,Like a green sward of melancholy turf;Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rearA cenotaph on this lone island here,Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree,And carve an olden rhyme for her and meUpon its brow.”He bends, and gazes yetBefore his ghastly bride! the anchoretSate by him, and hath press’d a cross of woodTo his wan lips * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *“My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale.Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale.Alas! I fear that thou hast strangely beenA child of curse, and misery, and sin.And this,—is she thy sister?”—“nay! my bride.”“Anon! and thou?”—“True, true! but then she died,And was a virgin, and is virgin still,Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fillOf light from the great sun. But now, go by,And leave me to my madness, or to die!This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and foldMe round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold,That are so writhing your eternal gyresBefore the moon, which, with a myriad tiarsIs crowning you, as ye do fall and kissHer pearly feet, that glide in blessedness!Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die!Let me be mangled sore with agony!And be so cursed; so stricken by the spellOf my heart’s frenzy, that a living hellBe burning there!—back! back if thou art mad—Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad.Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see!In truth it is a piteous thing for theeTo become childless—well a-well, go by!Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh,And I will bury her below the moon:It may be but a trance or midnight swoon.And she may wake. Wake, Ladye! ha! methoughtIt was likeher.—Like her! and is it not?My angel girl? my brain, my stricken brain!⁠—I know thee now!—I know myself again.”He flings him on the ladye, and anon,With loathly shudder, from that wither’d oneHath torn him back. “Oh me! no more—no more!Thou virgin mother! is the dream not o’er,That I have dreamt, but I must dream againFor moons together, till this weary brainBecome distemper’d as the winter sea!Good father! give me blessing; let it beUpon me as the dew upon the moss.Oh me! but I have made the holy crossA curse; and not a blessing! let me kissThe sacred symbol; for, by this—by this!I sware, and sware again, as now I will⁠—Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still,If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bringThe light of comfort, on some angel wingTo one that lieth lone; do—do it now;By all the stars that open on thy browLike silver flowers! and by the herald moonThat listeth to be forth at nightly noon,Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true,As I have perjured me, that I renewAllegiance to thy God, and bind me o’erTo this same penance, I have done before!That night and day I watch, as I have beenLong watching, o’er the partner of my sin!That I taste never the delight of food,But these wild shell-fish, that may make the moodOf madness stronger, till it grapple death⁠—Despair—eternity!”He saith, he saith,And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse,Lieth all frenzied; one would see remorse,And hopeless love, and hatred, struggling there,And lunacy, that lightens up despair,And makes a gladness out of agony.Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee,That hast the soul at will, and givest it play,Amid the wildest fancies far away;That thronest reason, on some wizard throneOf fairy land, within the milky zone,⁠—Some spectre star, that glittereth beyondThe glorious galaxies of diamond.Beautiful lunacy! that shapest flightFor love to blessed bowers of delight,And buildest holy monarchies withinThe fancy, till the very heart is queenOf all her golden wishes. Lunacy!Thou empress of the passions! though they be,A sister group of wild, unearthly forms,Like lightnings playing in their home of storms!I see thee, striking at the silver stringsOf the pure heart, and holy music springsBefore thy touch, in many a solemn strain,Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main!But say, is melancholy by thy side,With tresses in a raven shower, that hideHer pale and weeping features? Is she neverFlowing before thee, like a gloomy river,The sister of thyself? But cold and chill,And winter-born, and sorrowfully still,And not like thee, that art in merry mood,And frolicsome amid thy solitude?Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crownOf hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending downTo mirror thy young image in a spring:And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thingAs soulless as thyself. ’Tis tender, too,The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hueOf health! the pearly radiance of the brow!All, all as tender,—beautiful as thou!And wilt thou say, my sister, there is noneWill answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone,A pure, pure being! but the God on highIs with thee ever, as thou goest by.Thou Poetess! that harpest to the moon,And, in soft concert to the silver tune,Of waters play’d on by the magic wind,As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined,Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,⁠—I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth,How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love,That came, like seraph, from the stars above.And was so sadly wedded unto Sin,That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin.Sorrow with mirthful Lunacy! that beTogether link’d for time, I deem of yeThat ye are worshipped as none others are,⁠—One as a lonely shadow,—one a star!Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now,To his wild purpose, to his holy vow?He seeth only in his ladye-brideThe image of the laughing girl, that diedA moon before—the same, the very same—The Agathè that lisp’d her lover’s name,To him and to her heart: that azure eye,That shone through sunny tresses, waving by:The brow, the cheek, that blush’d of fire and snow,Both blending into one ethereal glow:And the same breathing radiancy, that swamAround her, like a pure and blessed calmAround some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss’dHer wormy lips, he felt that he was blest!He felt her holy being stealing throughHis own, like fountains of the azure dew,That summer mingles with his golden light;And he would clasp her, till the weary night,Was worn away.* * * * * ** * * * * *And morning rose in formOf heavy clouds, that knitted into stormThe brow of Heaven, and through her lips the windCame rolling westward, with a tract behindOf gloomy billows, bursting on the sea,All rampant, like great lions terribly,And gnashing on each other: and anon,Julio heard them, rushing one by one,And laugh’d and turn’d. The hermit was awayFor he was old and weary, and he layWithin his cave, and thought it was a dream,A summer’s dream! and so the quiet streamOf sleep came o’er his eyelids, and in truthHe dreamt of that strange ladye and the youthThat held a death-wake on her wasting form;And so he slept and woke not till the stormWas over.But they came—the wind, and sea,And rain and thunder, that in giant glee,Sang o’er the lightnings pale, as to and froThey writhed, like stricken angels!—white as snowRoll’d billow after billow, and the tideCame forward as an army deep and wide,To charge with all its waters. There was heardA murmur far and far, of those that stirr’dWithin the great encampment of the sea,And dark they were, and lifted terriblyTheir water-spouts like banners. It was grandTo see the black battalions, hand in handStriding to conflict, and their helmets bentBelow their foamy plumes magnificent!And Julio heard and laugh’d. “Shall I be kingTo your great hosts, that ye are murmuringFor one to bear you to your holy war?There is no sun, or moon, or any star,To guide your iron footsteps as ye go,But I, your king, will marshal you to flowFrom shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell,That I may ride before you terrible;And bring my sceptre of the amber weed,And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall leadYour summer hosts, when these are ambling low,In azure and in ermine, to and fro.”He said, and madly, with his wasted handSwept o’er the tuneless harp, and fast he spannedThe silver chords, until a rush of soundCame from them, solemn—terrible—profound;And then he dash’d the instrument awayInto the waters, and the giant playOf billows threw it back unto the shore,A shiver’d, stringless frame—its day of music o’er!The tide, the rolling tide! the multitudeOf the sea surges, terrible and rude,Tossing their chalky foam along the bedOf thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread.And fast retreating to the gloomy gorgeOf waters, sounding like a Titan forge!It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide!But Julio is bending to his bride,And making mirthful whispers to her ear,A cataract! a cataract is near,Of one stupendous billow, and it breaksTerribly furious, with a myriad flakesOf foam, that fly about the haggard twain;And Julio started, with a sudden pain,That shot into his heart; his reason flewBack to her throne: he rose, and wildly threwHis matted tresses over on his brow.Another billow came, and even nowWas dashing at his feet. There was no shadeOf terror, as the serpent waters play’dBefore him, but his eye was calm as death.Another, yet another! and the breathOf the weird wind was with it, like a rockUnriveted it fell—a shroud of smokePass’d over—there was heard, and died away,The voice of one shrill-shrieking “Agathè!”The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the sideOf the far waste of waters, flapping wideHis wet and weary wings; but he is gone,The stricken Julio! a wave-swept stoneStands there, on which he sat, and nakedlyIt rises looking to the lonely sea;But Julio is gone, and Agathè!The waters swept them madly to their core⁠—The dead and living with a frantic roar!And so he died, his bosom fondly setOn hers; and round her clay-cold waist were metHis bare and wither’d arms, and to her browHis lips were press’d. Both, both are perish’d now!He died upon her bosom in a swoon:And fancied of the pale and silver moon,That went before him in her hall of blue;He died like golden insect in the dew,Calm, calm and pure; and not a chord was wrungIn his deep heart—but love. He perish’d young,But perish’d wasted by some fatal flameThat fed upon his vitals: and there cameLunacy, sweeping lightly, like a stream,Along his brain—he perish’d in a dream!In sooth I marvel notIf death be only a mysterious thought,That cometh on the heart and turns the browBrightless and chill, as Julio’s is now;For only had the wasting struggle beenOf one wild feeling, till it rose withinInto the form of death, and nature feltThe light of the immortal being meltInto its happier home beyond the sea,And moon, and stars, into eternity!The sun broke through his dungeon, long enthrall’dBy dismal clouds, and on the emeraldOf the great living sea was blazing downTo gift the lordly billows with a crownOf diamond and silver. From his caveThe hermit came, and by the dying waveLone wander’d, and he found upon the sand,Below a truss of sea-weed, with his handAround the silent waist of AgathèThe corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it layBeside the wasted girl. The fireless eyeWas open, and a jewell’d rosaryFlung round the neck; but it was gone—the crossThat Agathè had given.Amid the mossThe hermit scoop’d a solitary graveBelow the pine-trees, and he sang a stave,Or two, or three, of some old requiemAs in their narrow home he buried them;And many a day before that blessed spotHe sate, in lone and melancholy thought,Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess’dOf some dark secret shadowing his breast.And yet, to see him, with his silver hairAdrift and floating in the sea-borne air,And features chasten’d in the tears of woe,In sooth, ’twas merely sad to see him so!A wreck of nature floating far and fast,Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last!And he is wandering by the shore again,Hard leaning on his staff; the azure mainLies sleeping far before him, with his seasFast folded in the bosom of the breeze,That like the angel Peace, hath dropt his wingsAround the warring waters. Sadly singsTo his own heart that lonely hermit-man,A tale of other days when passion ranAlong his pulses like a troubled stream,And glory was a splendor and a dream!He stoop’d to gather up a shining gemThat lay amid the shells, as bright as them,It was a cross, the cross that AgathèHad given to her Julio; the playOf the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face,And on the glistening jewels—but the traceOf some old thought came burning to the brainOf the pale hermit, and he shrunk in painBefore the holy symbol. It was notBecause of the eternal ransom wroughtIn ages far away, or he had bentIn pure devotion, sad and reverent;But now, he startled as he look’d uponThat jewell’d thing, and wildly he is goneBack to the mossy grave, away, away:“My child, my child! my own, own Agathè!”It is her father,—he,—an alter’d man!His quiet had been wounded, and the banOf misery came over him, and frozeThe bright and holy tides, that fell and roseIn joy amid his heart. To think of her,That he had injured so, and all so fair,So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,⁠—It was a very dismal thought, in truth,That he had left her hopelessly, for aye,Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die!And so he could not bear to have it be;But sought for some lone island in the sea,Where he might dwell in doleful solitude,And do strange penance in his mirthful mood,For this same crime, unnaturally wild,That he had done unto his saintly child.And ever he did think, when he had laidThese lovers in the grave, that, through the shadeOf ghostly features melting to decay,He saw the image of his Agathè.And now the truth had flash’d into his brain:And he has fallen, with a shriek of pain,Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss;For long ago he gave that blessed crossTo his fair girl, and knew the relic still,By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at willBefore it of the one that was not now,But, like a dream, had floated from the browOf time, that seeth many a lovely thingFade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steelTo woman’s earnest tears, and bade her feelThe curse of virgin solitude,—a veil;And saw the gladsome features growing paleUnmoved: ’tis rent like some eternal towerThe sea hath shaken, and its stately powerLies lonely, fallen, scatter’d on the shore;’Tis rent like some great mountain, that beforeThe Deluge stood in glory and in might,But now is lightning-riven, and the nightIs clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn,Like coffins, here and there: ’tis rent! the throneWhere passions, in their awful anarchy,Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh,That took the being, on its troubled wings,Far to the land of deep imaginings!All three are dead! that desolate green isleIs only peopled by the passing smileOf sun and moon, that surely have a sense,They look so radiant with intelligence,⁠—So like the soul’s own element,—so fair!The features of a God lie veiled there!And mariners that have been toiling farUpon the deep, and lost the polar star,Have visited that island, and have seenThat lover’s grave: and many there have beenThat sat upon the grey and crumbling stone,And started as they saw a skeletonAmid the long sad moss, that fondly grewThrough the white wasted ribs: but never knewOf those who slept below, or of the taleOf that brain-stricken man, that felt the paleAnd wandering moonlight steal his soul away,⁠—Poor Julio, and the Ladye Agathè!We found them,—children of toil and tears,Their birth of beauty shaded;We left them in their early yearsFallen and faded.We found them, flowers of summer hue,Their golden cups were lighted,With sparkles of the pearly dew⁠—We left them blighted!We found them,—like those fairy flowersAnd the light of morn lay holyOver their sad and sainted bowers⁠—We left them lonely.We found them,—like twin stars, alone,In brightness and in feeling;We left them,—and the curse was onTheir beauty stealing.They rest in quiet, where they are:Their life time is the storyOf some fair flower—some silver star,Faded in glory!

Chimera III.

Another moon! And over the blue nightShe bendeth, like a holy spirit bright,Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold;As on she floateth with her image coldEnamell’d on the deep, a sail of cloudIs to her left, majestically proud!Trailing its silver drapery awayIn thin and fairy webs, that are at playLike stormless waves upon a summer sea,Dragging their length of waters lazily.

Another moon! And over the blue night

She bendeth, like a holy spirit bright,

Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold;

As on she floateth with her image cold

Enamell’d on the deep, a sail of cloud

Is to her left, majestically proud!

Trailing its silver drapery away

In thin and fairy webs, that are at play

Like stormless waves upon a summer sea,

Dragging their length of waters lazily.

Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist,A lonely one, that bendeth in the mistOf moonlight, with a wide and raven pallFlung round him.—Is he mortal man at all?For, by the meagre firelight that is underThose eyelids, and the vision shade of wonderFalling upon his features, I would guessOf one that wanders out of blessedness!Julio! raise thee! By the holy mass!I wot not of the fearless one would passThy wizard shadow. Where the raven hairWas shorn before, in many a matted layerIt lieth now; and on a rock besideThe sea, like merman at the ebb of tide,Feasting his wondrous vision on decay,So art thou gazing over Agathè!

Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist,

A lonely one, that bendeth in the mist

Of moonlight, with a wide and raven pall

Flung round him.—Is he mortal man at all?

For, by the meagre firelight that is under

Those eyelids, and the vision shade of wonder

Falling upon his features, I would guess

Of one that wanders out of blessedness!

Julio! raise thee! By the holy mass!

I wot not of the fearless one would pass

Thy wizard shadow. Where the raven hair

Was shorn before, in many a matted layer

It lieth now; and on a rock beside

The sea, like merman at the ebb of tide,

Feasting his wondrous vision on decay,

So art thou gazing over Agathè!

Ah me! but this is never the fair girl,With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl,That was as beautiful as is the formOf sea-bird at the breaking of a storm.The eye is open, with convulsive strain⁠—A most unfleshly orb! the stars that waneHave nothing of its hue; for it is castWith sickly blood, and terribly aghast!And sunken in its socket like the lightOf a red taper in the lonely night!

Ah me! but this is never the fair girl,

With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl,

That was as beautiful as is the form

Of sea-bird at the breaking of a storm.

The eye is open, with convulsive strain⁠—

A most unfleshly orb! the stars that wane

Have nothing of its hue; for it is cast

With sickly blood, and terribly aghast!

And sunken in its socket like the light

Of a red taper in the lonely night!

And there is not a braid of her bright hairBut lieth floating in the moonlight air,Like the long moss beside a silver spring,In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring.The worm hath ’gan to crawl upon her brow⁠—The living worm! and with a ripple now,Like that upon the sea, are heard belowThe slimy swarms all ravening as they go,Amid the stagnate vitals, with a crush;And one might hear them echoing the hushOf Julio, as he watches by the sideOf the dead ladye, his betrothéd bride!

And there is not a braid of her bright hair

But lieth floating in the moonlight air,

Like the long moss beside a silver spring,

In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring.

The worm hath ’gan to crawl upon her brow⁠—

The living worm! and with a ripple now,

Like that upon the sea, are heard below

The slimy swarms all ravening as they go,

Amid the stagnate vitals, with a crush;

And one might hear them echoing the hush

Of Julio, as he watches by the side

Of the dead ladye, his betrothéd bride!

And ever and anon a yellow groupWas creeping on her bosom, like a troopOf stars, far up amid the galaxy,Pale, pale, as snowy showers, and two or threeWere mocking the cold finger, round and roundWith likeness of a ring; and, as they woundAbout its bony girth, they had the hueOf pearly jewels glistening in the dew.That deathly stare! it is an awful thingTo gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will springBefore it to the heart: it telleth howThere must be waste where there is beauty now.The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snowOf that once heaving bosom? even so,The cold, pale dewy chalk, with yellow shadeAmid the leprous hues; and o’er it play’dThe straggling moonlight and the merry breeze,Like two fair elves that by the murmuring seasWoo’d smilingly together; but there fellNo life-gleam on the brow, all terribleBecoming, through its beauty, like a cloudThat waneth paler even than a shroud,All gorgeous and all glorious before;For waste, like to the wanton night, was o’erHer virgin features, stealing them away⁠—Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè?

And ever and anon a yellow group

Was creeping on her bosom, like a troop

Of stars, far up amid the galaxy,

Pale, pale, as snowy showers, and two or three

Were mocking the cold finger, round and round

With likeness of a ring; and, as they wound

About its bony girth, they had the hue

Of pearly jewels glistening in the dew.

That deathly stare! it is an awful thing

To gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will spring

Before it to the heart: it telleth how

There must be waste where there is beauty now.

The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snow

Of that once heaving bosom? even so,

The cold, pale dewy chalk, with yellow shade

Amid the leprous hues; and o’er it play’d

The straggling moonlight and the merry breeze,

Like two fair elves that by the murmuring seas

Woo’d smilingly together; but there fell

No life-gleam on the brow, all terrible

Becoming, through its beauty, like a cloud

That waneth paler even than a shroud,

All gorgeous and all glorious before;

For waste, like to the wanton night, was o’er

Her virgin features, stealing them away⁠—

Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè?

“Enough! enough! oh God! but I have pray’dTo thee, in early daylight and in shade,And the mad-curse is on me still—and still!I cannot alter the eternal will—But—but—I hate thee Agathè! I hateWhat lunacy hath made me consecrate:I amnotmad!—not now!—I do not feelThat slumberous and blessed opiate stealUp to my brain—oh! that it only would,To people this eternal solitudeWith fancies, and fair dreams, and summer-mirth,Which is not now—and yet my mother earthI would not love to lie above thee soAs Agathè lies there—Oh! no! no! no!To have these clay worms feast upon my heart!And all the light of being to departInto a dismal shadow! I could dieAs the red lightnings, quenching amid skyTheir wild and wizard breath; I could awayLike a blue billow bursting into spray:But never—never have corruption hereTo feed her worms and let the sunlight jeerAbove me so. ’Tis thou! I owe thee, moon,To-night’s fair worship; so be lifting soonThy veil of clouds, that I may kneel as oneThat seeketh for thy virgin benison!”

“Enough! enough! oh God! but I have pray’d

To thee, in early daylight and in shade,

And the mad-curse is on me still—and still!

I cannot alter the eternal will—

But—but—I hate thee Agathè! I hate

What lunacy hath made me consecrate:

I amnotmad!—not now!—I do not feel

That slumberous and blessed opiate steal

Up to my brain—oh! that it only would,

To people this eternal solitude

With fancies, and fair dreams, and summer-mirth,

Which is not now—and yet my mother earth

I would not love to lie above thee so

As Agathè lies there—Oh! no! no! no!

To have these clay worms feast upon my heart!

And all the light of being to depart

Into a dismal shadow! I could die

As the red lightnings, quenching amid sky

Their wild and wizard breath; I could away

Like a blue billow bursting into spray:

But never—never have corruption here

To feed her worms and let the sunlight jeer

Above me so. ’Tis thou! I owe thee, moon,

To-night’s fair worship; so be lifting soon

Thy veil of clouds, that I may kneel as one

That seeketh for thy virgin benison!”

He gathers the cold limpets as they creepOn the gray rocks beside the lonely deep,And with a flint breaks through into the shell,And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well.And he hath lifted water in a clamAnd tasted sweetly from a stream that swamDown to the sea; and now is turn’d awayAgain, again, to gaze on Agathè!There is a cave upon that isle—a caveWhere dwelt a hermit-man: the winter waveRoll’d to its entrance, casting a bright moundOf snowy shells and fairy pebbles round;And over were the solemn ridges strewnOf a dark rock, that, like the wizard throneOf some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hungWild thorn and bramble in confusion flungAmid the startling crevices—like skyThrough gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by.A cataract fell over, in a streakOf silver, playing many a wanton freak;Midway, and musical, with elfin gleeIt bounded in its beauty to the sea,Like dazzling angel vanishing away.In sooth, ’twas pleasant in the moonlight grayTo see that fairy fountain leaping so,Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe!

He gathers the cold limpets as they creep

On the gray rocks beside the lonely deep,

And with a flint breaks through into the shell,

And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well.

And he hath lifted water in a clam

And tasted sweetly from a stream that swam

Down to the sea; and now is turn’d away

Again, again, to gaze on Agathè!

There is a cave upon that isle—a cave

Where dwelt a hermit-man: the winter wave

Roll’d to its entrance, casting a bright mound

Of snowy shells and fairy pebbles round;

And over were the solemn ridges strewn

Of a dark rock, that, like the wizard throne

Of some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hung

Wild thorn and bramble in confusion flung

Amid the startling crevices—like sky

Through gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by.

A cataract fell over, in a streak

Of silver, playing many a wanton freak;

Midway, and musical, with elfin glee

It bounded in its beauty to the sea,

Like dazzling angel vanishing away.

In sooth, ’twas pleasant in the moonlight gray

To see that fairy fountain leaping so,

Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe!

The hermit had his cross and rosary:I ween like other hermits so was he,A holy man and frugal, and at nightHe prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the lightOf the fair moon went wandering besideThe lonely sea, to hear the silver tideRolling in gleesome music to the shore;The more he heard he loved to hear the more.And there he is, his hoary beard adriftTo the night winds, that sportingly do liftIts snow-white tresses; and he leaneth onA rugged staff, all weakly and alone,A childless, friendless man!

The hermit had his cross and rosary:

I ween like other hermits so was he,

A holy man and frugal, and at night

He prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the light

Of the fair moon went wandering beside

The lonely sea, to hear the silver tide

Rolling in gleesome music to the shore;

The more he heard he loved to hear the more.

And there he is, his hoary beard adrift

To the night winds, that sportingly do lift

Its snow-white tresses; and he leaneth on

A rugged staff, all weakly and alone,

A childless, friendless man!

He is besideThe ghastly Julio and his ghastlier bride.’Twas wond’rous strange to gaze upon the two!And the old hermit felt a throbbing throughHis pulses—“Holy Virgin! save me, save!”He deem’d of spectre from the midnight wave,And cross’d him thrice, and pray’d and pray’d again:“Hence! hence!” and Julio started as the strainOf exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:“I knew thee, father, that thou beest hereTo gaze upon this girl, as I have been.By yonder moon! it was a frantic sinTo worship so an image of the clay;It was like beauty—but is now away⁠—What lived upon her features, like the lightOn yonder cloud, all tender and all bright;But it is faded as the other must,And she that was all beauty is all dust.

He is beside

The ghastly Julio and his ghastlier bride.

’Twas wond’rous strange to gaze upon the two!

And the old hermit felt a throbbing through

His pulses—“Holy Virgin! save me, save!”

He deem’d of spectre from the midnight wave,

And cross’d him thrice, and pray’d and pray’d again:

“Hence! hence!” and Julio started as the strain

Of exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:

“I knew thee, father, that thou beest here

To gaze upon this girl, as I have been.

By yonder moon! it was a frantic sin

To worship so an image of the clay;

It was like beauty—but is now away⁠—

What lived upon her features, like the light

On yonder cloud, all tender and all bright;

But it is faded as the other must,

And she that was all beauty is all dust.

“Father! thy hand upon this brow of mineAnd tell me is it cold? But she will twineNo wreath upon these temples—never, never!For there she lieth like a streamless riverThat stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me here,If I be madly throbbing in the fearFor that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and seeHow dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly!And where it is have been the living huesOf beauty, purer than the very dews.So, father! seest thou that yonder moonWill be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon?And I, that feel my being wear away,Shall droop beside to darkness: so, but sayA prayer for the dead, when I am goneAnd let the azure tide that floweth onCover us lightly with its murmuring surf,Like a green sward of melancholy turf;Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rearA cenotaph on this lone island here,Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree,And carve an olden rhyme for her and meUpon its brow.”

“Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine

And tell me is it cold? But she will twine

No wreath upon these temples—never, never!

For there she lieth like a streamless river

That stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me here,

If I be madly throbbing in the fear

For that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and see

How dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly!

And where it is have been the living hues

Of beauty, purer than the very dews.

So, father! seest thou that yonder moon

Will be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon?

And I, that feel my being wear away,

Shall droop beside to darkness: so, but say

A prayer for the dead, when I am gone

And let the azure tide that floweth on

Cover us lightly with its murmuring surf,

Like a green sward of melancholy turf;

Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rear

A cenotaph on this lone island here,

Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree,

And carve an olden rhyme for her and me

Upon its brow.”

He bends, and gazes yetBefore his ghastly bride! the anchoretSate by him, and hath press’d a cross of woodTo his wan lips * * ** * * * * ** * * * * *“My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale.Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale.Alas! I fear that thou hast strangely beenA child of curse, and misery, and sin.And this,—is she thy sister?”—“nay! my bride.”“Anon! and thou?”—“True, true! but then she died,And was a virgin, and is virgin still,Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fillOf light from the great sun. But now, go by,And leave me to my madness, or to die!This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and foldMe round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold,That are so writhing your eternal gyresBefore the moon, which, with a myriad tiarsIs crowning you, as ye do fall and kissHer pearly feet, that glide in blessedness!Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die!Let me be mangled sore with agony!And be so cursed; so stricken by the spellOf my heart’s frenzy, that a living hellBe burning there!—back! back if thou art mad—Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad.Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see!In truth it is a piteous thing for theeTo become childless—well a-well, go by!Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh,And I will bury her below the moon:It may be but a trance or midnight swoon.And she may wake. Wake, Ladye! ha! methoughtIt was likeher.—Like her! and is it not?My angel girl? my brain, my stricken brain!⁠—I know thee now!—I know myself again.”

He bends, and gazes yet

Before his ghastly bride! the anchoret

Sate by him, and hath press’d a cross of wood

To his wan lips * * *

* * * * * *

“My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale.

Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale.

Alas! I fear that thou hast strangely been

A child of curse, and misery, and sin.

And this,—is she thy sister?”—“nay! my bride.”

“Anon! and thou?”—“True, true! but then she died,

And was a virgin, and is virgin still,

Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fill

Of light from the great sun. But now, go by,

And leave me to my madness, or to die!

This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and fold

Me round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold,

That are so writhing your eternal gyres

Before the moon, which, with a myriad tiars

Is crowning you, as ye do fall and kiss

Her pearly feet, that glide in blessedness!

Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die!

Let me be mangled sore with agony!

And be so cursed; so stricken by the spell

Of my heart’s frenzy, that a living hell

Be burning there!—back! back if thou art mad—

Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad.

Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see!

In truth it is a piteous thing for thee

To become childless—well a-well, go by!

Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh,

And I will bury her below the moon:

It may be but a trance or midnight swoon.

And she may wake. Wake, Ladye! ha! methought

It was likeher.—Like her! and is it not?

My angel girl? my brain, my stricken brain!⁠—

I know thee now!—I know myself again.”

He flings him on the ladye, and anon,With loathly shudder, from that wither’d oneHath torn him back. “Oh me! no more—no more!Thou virgin mother! is the dream not o’er,That I have dreamt, but I must dream againFor moons together, till this weary brainBecome distemper’d as the winter sea!Good father! give me blessing; let it beUpon me as the dew upon the moss.Oh me! but I have made the holy crossA curse; and not a blessing! let me kissThe sacred symbol; for, by this—by this!I sware, and sware again, as now I will⁠—Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still,If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bringThe light of comfort, on some angel wingTo one that lieth lone; do—do it now;By all the stars that open on thy browLike silver flowers! and by the herald moonThat listeth to be forth at nightly noon,Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true,As I have perjured me, that I renewAllegiance to thy God, and bind me o’erTo this same penance, I have done before!That night and day I watch, as I have beenLong watching, o’er the partner of my sin!That I taste never the delight of food,But these wild shell-fish, that may make the moodOf madness stronger, till it grapple death⁠—Despair—eternity!”

He flings him on the ladye, and anon,

With loathly shudder, from that wither’d one

Hath torn him back. “Oh me! no more—no more!

Thou virgin mother! is the dream not o’er,

That I have dreamt, but I must dream again

For moons together, till this weary brain

Become distemper’d as the winter sea!

Good father! give me blessing; let it be

Upon me as the dew upon the moss.

Oh me! but I have made the holy cross

A curse; and not a blessing! let me kiss

The sacred symbol; for, by this—by this!

I sware, and sware again, as now I will⁠—

Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still,

If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bring

The light of comfort, on some angel wing

To one that lieth lone; do—do it now;

By all the stars that open on thy brow

Like silver flowers! and by the herald moon

That listeth to be forth at nightly noon,

Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true,

As I have perjured me, that I renew

Allegiance to thy God, and bind me o’er

To this same penance, I have done before!

That night and day I watch, as I have been

Long watching, o’er the partner of my sin!

That I taste never the delight of food,

But these wild shell-fish, that may make the mood

Of madness stronger, till it grapple death⁠—

Despair—eternity!”

He saith, he saith,And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse,Lieth all frenzied; one would see remorse,And hopeless love, and hatred, struggling there,And lunacy, that lightens up despair,And makes a gladness out of agony.Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee,That hast the soul at will, and givest it play,Amid the wildest fancies far away;That thronest reason, on some wizard throneOf fairy land, within the milky zone,⁠—Some spectre star, that glittereth beyondThe glorious galaxies of diamond.

He saith, he saith,

And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse,

Lieth all frenzied; one would see remorse,

And hopeless love, and hatred, struggling there,

And lunacy, that lightens up despair,

And makes a gladness out of agony.

Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee,

That hast the soul at will, and givest it play,

Amid the wildest fancies far away;

That thronest reason, on some wizard throne

Of fairy land, within the milky zone,⁠—

Some spectre star, that glittereth beyond

The glorious galaxies of diamond.

Beautiful lunacy! that shapest flightFor love to blessed bowers of delight,And buildest holy monarchies withinThe fancy, till the very heart is queenOf all her golden wishes. Lunacy!Thou empress of the passions! though they be,A sister group of wild, unearthly forms,Like lightnings playing in their home of storms!I see thee, striking at the silver stringsOf the pure heart, and holy music springsBefore thy touch, in many a solemn strain,Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main!But say, is melancholy by thy side,With tresses in a raven shower, that hideHer pale and weeping features? Is she neverFlowing before thee, like a gloomy river,The sister of thyself? But cold and chill,And winter-born, and sorrowfully still,And not like thee, that art in merry mood,And frolicsome amid thy solitude?

Beautiful lunacy! that shapest flight

For love to blessed bowers of delight,

And buildest holy monarchies within

The fancy, till the very heart is queen

Of all her golden wishes. Lunacy!

Thou empress of the passions! though they be,

A sister group of wild, unearthly forms,

Like lightnings playing in their home of storms!

I see thee, striking at the silver strings

Of the pure heart, and holy music springs

Before thy touch, in many a solemn strain,

Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main!

But say, is melancholy by thy side,

With tresses in a raven shower, that hide

Her pale and weeping features? Is she never

Flowing before thee, like a gloomy river,

The sister of thyself? But cold and chill,

And winter-born, and sorrowfully still,

And not like thee, that art in merry mood,

And frolicsome amid thy solitude?

Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crownOf hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending downTo mirror thy young image in a spring:And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thingAs soulless as thyself. ’Tis tender, too,The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hueOf health! the pearly radiance of the brow!All, all as tender,—beautiful as thou!And wilt thou say, my sister, there is noneWill answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone,A pure, pure being! but the God on highIs with thee ever, as thou goest by.

Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crown

Of hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending down

To mirror thy young image in a spring:

And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thing

As soulless as thyself. ’Tis tender, too,

The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hue

Of health! the pearly radiance of the brow!

All, all as tender,—beautiful as thou!

And wilt thou say, my sister, there is none

Will answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone,

A pure, pure being! but the God on high

Is with thee ever, as thou goest by.

Thou Poetess! that harpest to the moon,And, in soft concert to the silver tune,Of waters play’d on by the magic wind,As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined,Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,⁠—I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth,How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love,That came, like seraph, from the stars above.And was so sadly wedded unto Sin,That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin.Sorrow with mirthful Lunacy! that beTogether link’d for time, I deem of yeThat ye are worshipped as none others are,⁠—One as a lonely shadow,—one a star!

Thou Poetess! that harpest to the moon,

And, in soft concert to the silver tune,

Of waters play’d on by the magic wind,

As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined,

Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,⁠—

I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth,

How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love,

That came, like seraph, from the stars above.

And was so sadly wedded unto Sin,

That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin.

Sorrow with mirthful Lunacy! that be

Together link’d for time, I deem of ye

That ye are worshipped as none others are,⁠—

One as a lonely shadow,—one a star!

Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now,To his wild purpose, to his holy vow?He seeth only in his ladye-brideThe image of the laughing girl, that diedA moon before—the same, the very same—The Agathè that lisp’d her lover’s name,To him and to her heart: that azure eye,That shone through sunny tresses, waving by:The brow, the cheek, that blush’d of fire and snow,Both blending into one ethereal glow:And the same breathing radiancy, that swamAround her, like a pure and blessed calmAround some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss’dHer wormy lips, he felt that he was blest!He felt her holy being stealing throughHis own, like fountains of the azure dew,That summer mingles with his golden light;And he would clasp her, till the weary night,Was worn away.* * * * * ** * * * * *And morning rose in formOf heavy clouds, that knitted into stormThe brow of Heaven, and through her lips the windCame rolling westward, with a tract behindOf gloomy billows, bursting on the sea,All rampant, like great lions terribly,And gnashing on each other: and anon,Julio heard them, rushing one by one,And laugh’d and turn’d. The hermit was awayFor he was old and weary, and he layWithin his cave, and thought it was a dream,A summer’s dream! and so the quiet streamOf sleep came o’er his eyelids, and in truthHe dreamt of that strange ladye and the youthThat held a death-wake on her wasting form;And so he slept and woke not till the stormWas over.

Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now,

To his wild purpose, to his holy vow?

He seeth only in his ladye-bride

The image of the laughing girl, that died

A moon before—the same, the very same—

The Agathè that lisp’d her lover’s name,

To him and to her heart: that azure eye,

That shone through sunny tresses, waving by:

The brow, the cheek, that blush’d of fire and snow,

Both blending into one ethereal glow:

And the same breathing radiancy, that swam

Around her, like a pure and blessed calm

Around some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss’d

Her wormy lips, he felt that he was blest!

He felt her holy being stealing through

His own, like fountains of the azure dew,

That summer mingles with his golden light;

And he would clasp her, till the weary night,

Was worn away.

* * * * * *

And morning rose in form

Of heavy clouds, that knitted into storm

The brow of Heaven, and through her lips the wind

Came rolling westward, with a tract behind

Of gloomy billows, bursting on the sea,

All rampant, like great lions terribly,

And gnashing on each other: and anon,

Julio heard them, rushing one by one,

And laugh’d and turn’d. The hermit was away

For he was old and weary, and he lay

Within his cave, and thought it was a dream,

A summer’s dream! and so the quiet stream

Of sleep came o’er his eyelids, and in truth

He dreamt of that strange ladye and the youth

That held a death-wake on her wasting form;

And so he slept and woke not till the storm

Was over.

But they came—the wind, and sea,And rain and thunder, that in giant glee,Sang o’er the lightnings pale, as to and froThey writhed, like stricken angels!—white as snowRoll’d billow after billow, and the tideCame forward as an army deep and wide,To charge with all its waters. There was heardA murmur far and far, of those that stirr’dWithin the great encampment of the sea,And dark they were, and lifted terriblyTheir water-spouts like banners. It was grandTo see the black battalions, hand in handStriding to conflict, and their helmets bentBelow their foamy plumes magnificent!

But they came—the wind, and sea,

And rain and thunder, that in giant glee,

Sang o’er the lightnings pale, as to and fro

They writhed, like stricken angels!—white as snow

Roll’d billow after billow, and the tide

Came forward as an army deep and wide,

To charge with all its waters. There was heard

A murmur far and far, of those that stirr’d

Within the great encampment of the sea,

And dark they were, and lifted terribly

Their water-spouts like banners. It was grand

To see the black battalions, hand in hand

Striding to conflict, and their helmets bent

Below their foamy plumes magnificent!

And Julio heard and laugh’d. “Shall I be kingTo your great hosts, that ye are murmuringFor one to bear you to your holy war?There is no sun, or moon, or any star,To guide your iron footsteps as ye go,But I, your king, will marshal you to flowFrom shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell,That I may ride before you terrible;And bring my sceptre of the amber weed,And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall leadYour summer hosts, when these are ambling low,In azure and in ermine, to and fro.”

And Julio heard and laugh’d. “Shall I be king

To your great hosts, that ye are murmuring

For one to bear you to your holy war?

There is no sun, or moon, or any star,

To guide your iron footsteps as ye go,

But I, your king, will marshal you to flow

From shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell,

That I may ride before you terrible;

And bring my sceptre of the amber weed,

And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall lead

Your summer hosts, when these are ambling low,

In azure and in ermine, to and fro.”

He said, and madly, with his wasted handSwept o’er the tuneless harp, and fast he spannedThe silver chords, until a rush of soundCame from them, solemn—terrible—profound;And then he dash’d the instrument awayInto the waters, and the giant playOf billows threw it back unto the shore,A shiver’d, stringless frame—its day of music o’er!The tide, the rolling tide! the multitudeOf the sea surges, terrible and rude,Tossing their chalky foam along the bedOf thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread.And fast retreating to the gloomy gorgeOf waters, sounding like a Titan forge!It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide!But Julio is bending to his bride,And making mirthful whispers to her ear,A cataract! a cataract is near,Of one stupendous billow, and it breaksTerribly furious, with a myriad flakesOf foam, that fly about the haggard twain;And Julio started, with a sudden pain,That shot into his heart; his reason flewBack to her throne: he rose, and wildly threwHis matted tresses over on his brow.Another billow came, and even nowWas dashing at his feet. There was no shadeOf terror, as the serpent waters play’dBefore him, but his eye was calm as death.Another, yet another! and the breathOf the weird wind was with it, like a rockUnriveted it fell—a shroud of smokePass’d over—there was heard, and died away,The voice of one shrill-shrieking “Agathè!”

He said, and madly, with his wasted hand

Swept o’er the tuneless harp, and fast he spanned

The silver chords, until a rush of sound

Came from them, solemn—terrible—profound;

And then he dash’d the instrument away

Into the waters, and the giant play

Of billows threw it back unto the shore,

A shiver’d, stringless frame—its day of music o’er!

The tide, the rolling tide! the multitude

Of the sea surges, terrible and rude,

Tossing their chalky foam along the bed

Of thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread.

And fast retreating to the gloomy gorge

Of waters, sounding like a Titan forge!

It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide!

But Julio is bending to his bride,

And making mirthful whispers to her ear,

A cataract! a cataract is near,

Of one stupendous billow, and it breaks

Terribly furious, with a myriad flakes

Of foam, that fly about the haggard twain;

And Julio started, with a sudden pain,

That shot into his heart; his reason flew

Back to her throne: he rose, and wildly threw

His matted tresses over on his brow.

Another billow came, and even now

Was dashing at his feet. There was no shade

Of terror, as the serpent waters play’d

Before him, but his eye was calm as death.

Another, yet another! and the breath

Of the weird wind was with it, like a rock

Unriveted it fell—a shroud of smoke

Pass’d over—there was heard, and died away,

The voice of one shrill-shrieking “Agathè!”

The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the sideOf the far waste of waters, flapping wideHis wet and weary wings; but he is gone,The stricken Julio! a wave-swept stoneStands there, on which he sat, and nakedlyIt rises looking to the lonely sea;But Julio is gone, and Agathè!The waters swept them madly to their core⁠—The dead and living with a frantic roar!And so he died, his bosom fondly setOn hers; and round her clay-cold waist were metHis bare and wither’d arms, and to her browHis lips were press’d. Both, both are perish’d now!

The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the side

Of the far waste of waters, flapping wide

His wet and weary wings; but he is gone,

The stricken Julio! a wave-swept stone

Stands there, on which he sat, and nakedly

It rises looking to the lonely sea;

But Julio is gone, and Agathè!

The waters swept them madly to their core⁠—

The dead and living with a frantic roar!

And so he died, his bosom fondly set

On hers; and round her clay-cold waist were met

His bare and wither’d arms, and to her brow

His lips were press’d. Both, both are perish’d now!

He died upon her bosom in a swoon:And fancied of the pale and silver moon,That went before him in her hall of blue;He died like golden insect in the dew,Calm, calm and pure; and not a chord was wrungIn his deep heart—but love. He perish’d young,But perish’d wasted by some fatal flameThat fed upon his vitals: and there cameLunacy, sweeping lightly, like a stream,Along his brain—he perish’d in a dream!

He died upon her bosom in a swoon:

And fancied of the pale and silver moon,

That went before him in her hall of blue;

He died like golden insect in the dew,

Calm, calm and pure; and not a chord was wrung

In his deep heart—but love. He perish’d young,

But perish’d wasted by some fatal flame

That fed upon his vitals: and there came

Lunacy, sweeping lightly, like a stream,

Along his brain—he perish’d in a dream!

In sooth I marvel notIf death be only a mysterious thought,That cometh on the heart and turns the browBrightless and chill, as Julio’s is now;For only had the wasting struggle beenOf one wild feeling, till it rose withinInto the form of death, and nature feltThe light of the immortal being meltInto its happier home beyond the sea,And moon, and stars, into eternity!

In sooth I marvel not

If death be only a mysterious thought,

That cometh on the heart and turns the brow

Brightless and chill, as Julio’s is now;

For only had the wasting struggle been

Of one wild feeling, till it rose within

Into the form of death, and nature felt

The light of the immortal being melt

Into its happier home beyond the sea,

And moon, and stars, into eternity!

The sun broke through his dungeon, long enthrall’dBy dismal clouds, and on the emeraldOf the great living sea was blazing downTo gift the lordly billows with a crownOf diamond and silver. From his caveThe hermit came, and by the dying waveLone wander’d, and he found upon the sand,Below a truss of sea-weed, with his handAround the silent waist of AgathèThe corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it layBeside the wasted girl. The fireless eyeWas open, and a jewell’d rosaryFlung round the neck; but it was gone—the crossThat Agathè had given.

The sun broke through his dungeon, long enthrall’d

By dismal clouds, and on the emerald

Of the great living sea was blazing down

To gift the lordly billows with a crown

Of diamond and silver. From his cave

The hermit came, and by the dying wave

Lone wander’d, and he found upon the sand,

Below a truss of sea-weed, with his hand

Around the silent waist of Agathè

The corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it lay

Beside the wasted girl. The fireless eye

Was open, and a jewell’d rosary

Flung round the neck; but it was gone—the cross

That Agathè had given.

Amid the mossThe hermit scoop’d a solitary graveBelow the pine-trees, and he sang a stave,Or two, or three, of some old requiemAs in their narrow home he buried them;And many a day before that blessed spotHe sate, in lone and melancholy thought,Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess’dOf some dark secret shadowing his breast.And yet, to see him, with his silver hairAdrift and floating in the sea-borne air,And features chasten’d in the tears of woe,In sooth, ’twas merely sad to see him so!A wreck of nature floating far and fast,Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last!

Amid the moss

The hermit scoop’d a solitary grave

Below the pine-trees, and he sang a stave,

Or two, or three, of some old requiem

As in their narrow home he buried them;

And many a day before that blessed spot

He sate, in lone and melancholy thought,

Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess’d

Of some dark secret shadowing his breast.

And yet, to see him, with his silver hair

Adrift and floating in the sea-borne air,

And features chasten’d in the tears of woe,

In sooth, ’twas merely sad to see him so!

A wreck of nature floating far and fast,

Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last!

And he is wandering by the shore again,Hard leaning on his staff; the azure mainLies sleeping far before him, with his seasFast folded in the bosom of the breeze,That like the angel Peace, hath dropt his wingsAround the warring waters. Sadly singsTo his own heart that lonely hermit-man,A tale of other days when passion ranAlong his pulses like a troubled stream,And glory was a splendor and a dream!He stoop’d to gather up a shining gemThat lay amid the shells, as bright as them,It was a cross, the cross that AgathèHad given to her Julio; the playOf the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face,And on the glistening jewels—but the traceOf some old thought came burning to the brainOf the pale hermit, and he shrunk in painBefore the holy symbol. It was notBecause of the eternal ransom wroughtIn ages far away, or he had bentIn pure devotion, sad and reverent;But now, he startled as he look’d uponThat jewell’d thing, and wildly he is goneBack to the mossy grave, away, away:“My child, my child! my own, own Agathè!”

And he is wandering by the shore again,

Hard leaning on his staff; the azure main

Lies sleeping far before him, with his seas

Fast folded in the bosom of the breeze,

That like the angel Peace, hath dropt his wings

Around the warring waters. Sadly sings

To his own heart that lonely hermit-man,

A tale of other days when passion ran

Along his pulses like a troubled stream,

And glory was a splendor and a dream!

He stoop’d to gather up a shining gem

That lay amid the shells, as bright as them,

It was a cross, the cross that Agathè

Had given to her Julio; the play

Of the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face,

And on the glistening jewels—but the trace

Of some old thought came burning to the brain

Of the pale hermit, and he shrunk in pain

Before the holy symbol. It was not

Because of the eternal ransom wrought

In ages far away, or he had bent

In pure devotion, sad and reverent;

But now, he startled as he look’d upon

That jewell’d thing, and wildly he is gone

Back to the mossy grave, away, away:

“My child, my child! my own, own Agathè!”

It is her father,—he,—an alter’d man!His quiet had been wounded, and the banOf misery came over him, and frozeThe bright and holy tides, that fell and roseIn joy amid his heart. To think of her,That he had injured so, and all so fair,So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,⁠—It was a very dismal thought, in truth,That he had left her hopelessly, for aye,Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die!And so he could not bear to have it be;But sought for some lone island in the sea,Where he might dwell in doleful solitude,And do strange penance in his mirthful mood,For this same crime, unnaturally wild,That he had done unto his saintly child.And ever he did think, when he had laidThese lovers in the grave, that, through the shadeOf ghostly features melting to decay,He saw the image of his Agathè.

It is her father,—he,—an alter’d man!

His quiet had been wounded, and the ban

Of misery came over him, and froze

The bright and holy tides, that fell and rose

In joy amid his heart. To think of her,

That he had injured so, and all so fair,

So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,⁠—

It was a very dismal thought, in truth,

That he had left her hopelessly, for aye,

Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die!

And so he could not bear to have it be;

But sought for some lone island in the sea,

Where he might dwell in doleful solitude,

And do strange penance in his mirthful mood,

For this same crime, unnaturally wild,

That he had done unto his saintly child.

And ever he did think, when he had laid

These lovers in the grave, that, through the shade

Of ghostly features melting to decay,

He saw the image of his Agathè.

And now the truth had flash’d into his brain:And he has fallen, with a shriek of pain,Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss;For long ago he gave that blessed crossTo his fair girl, and knew the relic still,By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at willBefore it of the one that was not now,But, like a dream, had floated from the browOf time, that seeth many a lovely thingFade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.

And now the truth had flash’d into his brain:

And he has fallen, with a shriek of pain,

Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss;

For long ago he gave that blessed cross

To his fair girl, and knew the relic still,

By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at will

Before it of the one that was not now,

But, like a dream, had floated from the brow

Of time, that seeth many a lovely thing

Fade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.

The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steelTo woman’s earnest tears, and bade her feelThe curse of virgin solitude,—a veil;And saw the gladsome features growing paleUnmoved: ’tis rent like some eternal towerThe sea hath shaken, and its stately powerLies lonely, fallen, scatter’d on the shore;’Tis rent like some great mountain, that beforeThe Deluge stood in glory and in might,But now is lightning-riven, and the nightIs clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn,Like coffins, here and there: ’tis rent! the throneWhere passions, in their awful anarchy,Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh,That took the being, on its troubled wings,Far to the land of deep imaginings!

The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steel

To woman’s earnest tears, and bade her feel

The curse of virgin solitude,—a veil;

And saw the gladsome features growing pale

Unmoved: ’tis rent like some eternal tower

The sea hath shaken, and its stately power

Lies lonely, fallen, scatter’d on the shore;

’Tis rent like some great mountain, that before

The Deluge stood in glory and in might,

But now is lightning-riven, and the night

Is clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn,

Like coffins, here and there: ’tis rent! the throne

Where passions, in their awful anarchy,

Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh,

That took the being, on its troubled wings,

Far to the land of deep imaginings!

All three are dead! that desolate green isleIs only peopled by the passing smileOf sun and moon, that surely have a sense,They look so radiant with intelligence,⁠—So like the soul’s own element,—so fair!The features of a God lie veiled there!

All three are dead! that desolate green isle

Is only peopled by the passing smile

Of sun and moon, that surely have a sense,

They look so radiant with intelligence,⁠—

So like the soul’s own element,—so fair!

The features of a God lie veiled there!

And mariners that have been toiling farUpon the deep, and lost the polar star,Have visited that island, and have seenThat lover’s grave: and many there have beenThat sat upon the grey and crumbling stone,And started as they saw a skeletonAmid the long sad moss, that fondly grewThrough the white wasted ribs: but never knewOf those who slept below, or of the taleOf that brain-stricken man, that felt the paleAnd wandering moonlight steal his soul away,⁠—Poor Julio, and the Ladye Agathè!

And mariners that have been toiling far

Upon the deep, and lost the polar star,

Have visited that island, and have seen

That lover’s grave: and many there have been

That sat upon the grey and crumbling stone,

And started as they saw a skeleton

Amid the long sad moss, that fondly grew

Through the white wasted ribs: but never knew

Of those who slept below, or of the tale

Of that brain-stricken man, that felt the pale

And wandering moonlight steal his soul away,⁠—

Poor Julio, and the Ladye Agathè!

We found them,—children of toil and tears,Their birth of beauty shaded;We left them in their early yearsFallen and faded.

We found them,—children of toil and tears,

Their birth of beauty shaded;

We left them in their early years

Fallen and faded.

We found them, flowers of summer hue,Their golden cups were lighted,With sparkles of the pearly dew⁠—We left them blighted!

We found them, flowers of summer hue,

Their golden cups were lighted,

With sparkles of the pearly dew⁠—

We left them blighted!

We found them,—like those fairy flowersAnd the light of morn lay holyOver their sad and sainted bowers⁠—We left them lonely.

We found them,—like those fairy flowers

And the light of morn lay holy

Over their sad and sainted bowers⁠—

We left them lonely.

We found them,—like twin stars, alone,In brightness and in feeling;We left them,—and the curse was onTheir beauty stealing.

We found them,—like twin stars, alone,

In brightness and in feeling;

We left them,—and the curse was on

Their beauty stealing.

They rest in quiet, where they are:Their life time is the storyOf some fair flower—some silver star,Faded in glory!

They rest in quiet, where they are:

Their life time is the story

Of some fair flower—some silver star,

Faded in glory!

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