OLDEN DEITIES.

“My dear, dear Miss North—How can I give you any idea of the gratitude I feel for the last and greatest of your many kindnesses; you have made me so happy that I have not words to express myself, and not only me, but my dear mother, who says that you have done her more good than could have been effected by a whole college of physicians, for her health, at the prospect of a pleasant home, and freedom from incessant mental labour, begins already to come back again. We have given up our school, and are preparing to act upon the arrangements you have made for us. I have received a delightfully kind letter from your uncle,—he begs me to consider him asmine; in which he says he will come for us very soon, and requests me to enclose any communication for you to him. He speaks flatteringly of the satisfaction our company will give him while you are on your travels beyond the Atlantic. He little knows how impossible it will be to supplyyourplace!” etc. etc.

Sutton read no more. It was signed L. Thompson, and that was sufficient. He unconsciously thrust the letter into his pocket, and hurried to the house. How was he to back out?—it now struck him that less importance could be attached to his actions by others than himself, and he grew nervous at the thought of how he had committed himself:—that he had paid the most unequivocal attentions to—a schoolmistress! The artist’s triumph indeed relieved him on that score, but a new sting was planted, and a more miserable dandy was, perhaps, not that day in existence, than Bromwell Sutton when he applied for lodgings at the G⁠—— Hotel.

“Our work is finished at last!” said the painter, a few days after this happy riddance, bringing down the piece, which had afforded them so much enjoyment, for the inspection of Miss Thompson. She was gathering up some books from the parlor tables with a thoughtful and pensive countenance.

“Then I must take a ‘last lingering look’ at it,” returned she; “I may never see it nor its original again.”

Oakley looked at her anxious and inquiringly, and she continued, “We leave here to-day; an unexpected letter reached us this morning, urging us to be ready at any hour.”

“And what am I to do without you?” asked the artist, in a very natural and love-like way, and he followed the question with a short oration, unnecessary to repeat. But before he had finished it, a carriage stopped at the door, and in half a minute an elderly gentleman presented himself in the entry.

“My uncle!” exclaimed Miss Thompson, running forward to conceal her confusion, and the old gentleman, after kissing her heartily, said quickly, “Are you ready, my dear? Where’s your mamma? I hope you have your trunks packed, as I have hardly a minute to allow you. I have urgent business awaiting me at home, and have only been able to fulfil my engagement to come for you, by travelling with all the speed possible. Quick—tell your mother, and put on your things.”

To the disappointment of her suitor, she ran up stairs, while the old gentleman busied himself in seeing the trunks secured behind the carriage. But immediately, with her mother, she came down, fully equipped, and while the old lady was shaking hands with the uncle, she had an opportunity to give him a single look, which one was sufficient: “Good bye, Mr. Wallis,” said she holding out her hand in passing him, “we have been such good friends, that I feel very sorry to part with you.”

“Where shall I find you?” asked Oakley, in a low voice. She slipped a card into his hand as he assisted her into the carriage, and was driven away. He looked at the card. “Valeria North, B⁠——,” he exclaimed; “Is it possible!”

“Yes—didn’t you know that before?” said Wallis, “and that old gentleman is the celebrated jurist Judge North. When Sutton finds it out, he’ll be more fretted than he was at the portrait. She is a charming girl, isn’t she? I recognized her the minute she arrived, having had a glimpse of her before she left the Springs last summer, but as she seemed to wish to be quiet, and to escape attention, it was not my business to blab. I’ll go up to Smith’s and have some fun with Sutton.” He walked up street, and the artist commenced preparations for an immediate departure.

“Why Sutton,” said Wallis, when he reached the room of that personage; “what possessed you to fly off, the other day, with such terrible frowns at the pretty girl you had been courting so long? It was outrageous, and what is the worst, you can’t have a chance to make it up,—she left town to-day, for good.”

“Did she?—a pleasant journey to her!” said Sutton, brightening up astonishingly.

“What!—she jilted you, did she?”

“She! I found her out in good time for that!—though if it had not been for a lucky accident, I might have got myself into a confounded scrape; it would have been a fine mess, if I had been deceived into proposing to a schoolmistress!”

“Schoolmistress!—what do you mean?”

“Why, look here—you were a pretty sap to suppose her an heiress, and to make me believe it:—read this—I found it by chance, and, somehow, it got into my pocket.”

He handed the letter to Wallis, who, after looking over it, remarked, “I see nothing to the contrary in that. I suppose it came enclosed in an envelope from her uncle. Can it be possible that you presumed she had written instead of received it! ha! ha!”

The mystified dandy gave him a stare.

“And you never suspected that it was Miss North whose acquaintance you cut so cavalierly! It was, positively;—she gave her card to Mr. Oakley before she went away.”

“I don’t believe it!—why would she call herself Thompson?”

“She didn’t call herself Thompson—that was inferred to be her name, as it was her mother’s. I recollect very well of hearing at Saratoga that the old lady had had two husbands. The last was a Mr. Thompson. What an opportunity you have lost of making one of the greatest matches in the country!”

“It was all the fault of that rascally painter,” said Sutton, in much vexation; “I had commenced declaring myself the very day he excited me by his abominable caricature, and if it had not been for that I would have had an explanation.”

“I would make him repent it, if I were you—I’d challenge him.”

“But, you know that’s out of the question—a gentleman degrades himself by challenging an inferior,” and he walked up and down the room in great agitation.

“And then about that letter—does she know you found it?”

“No, no—I’m perfectly safe there—you won’t tell, will you? After all, it is not yet too late to make it up. I can go after her to B——; she will, no doubt, take it as a compliment to be followed, and, you know, it will be in my favor that I was so devoted before I knew who she was, won’t it? You might be of great service to me, my dear fellow,” he added, thinking to prevent Wallis from informing on him by making him his ally; “you have been in my confidence and knew how much I was smitten with her. She is, perhaps, offended by my desertion, and if you would go along, as she has a particular regard for you, you might help to effect a reconciliation. If you’ll go, I’ll pay your expenses.”

Wallis, who had no objection to take a trip and see the end of the comedy, on such easy terms, replied, “Anything to oblige you, if you can wait two or three weeks. I have particular business on hands now, but when I am through with it, I’ll go with pleasure.”

Sutton was obliged to submit to the delay, and in due time they arrived at B⁠——. After arranging their dress, they sallied out to make inquiry about Miss North, when an acquaintance of Sutton encountered them, and stopped them for a talk. While they stood in the street, an elegantly dressed young man passed them, and looking back, in a familiar voice saluted Wallis. It was Oakley. “How do you do, Mr. Sutton—happy to see you,” said he, turning towards them, and saluting Sutton with a very low bow. The dandy returned a nod, and the painter having ascertained their lodgings, proceeded on his way.

“What a remarkably fine looking fellow that is,” said Sutton’s acquaintance; “I should have been pleased if you had introduced me.”

“Oh he is not such an acquaintance as one introduces—I have merely patronized him a little as a strolling painter.”

“Norman Oakley!—are you not under a mistake? He is the son of one of the wealthiest gentlemen in New England—a very highly gifted young man—a finished orator—a fine amateur painter—in every respect an admirable and enviable fellow. By the by, it is said there is a recent engagement between him and our bellepar excellence, Miss North. She has been travelling through different parts of the country, preparatory to making a tour in Europe, and, this summer, they met accidentally somewhere and fell in love, quite ignorant of anything relating to each other but mutual personal attractions—so the story goes. They are to be married shortly, so that the lady may have the pleasure of a legal protector for her Atlantic trip.”

Sutton could bear no more, and, excusing himself, he hurried back to the hotel at such a rate that Wallis, finding it difficult to keep up with him, strolled off in another direction. When they met again the disappointed lover was prepared for a retreat homeward.

“Come, Sutton, that would be outrageous!” said Wallis; “you ought to have a settlement with Oakley, now that you find he is fully on a level with yourself!”

“I wouldn’t dirty my fingers with him—I wouldn’t let the mynx know that I thought her worth fighting about; for they would be sure to attribute it to that, instead of to the picture. I am off, forthwith. Do you go back to G⁠——?”

“Yes, in a few days—but, the fact is, I met Oakley again, after you had left me, and got an invitation to the wedding. He said he would take me to see Miss North this evening if I wished it, but I declined, on the plea that I would be only in the way. But he said there was a charming little girl there, Miss Thompson—a relative of Valeria’s step-father, who would appropriate my company, if I pleased. From his remarking that she is to remain with the judge after the departure of his niece, I presumed her to be the writer of the letter in your possession.Aproposof that letter—he questioned me as to whether you had found it, and hinted that Miss North intended it for your hands, knowing the effect it would have on you, from your aversion to poverty, low caste, &c., that she even tore off the date to mislead you the more easily—hand it here till we see if that is true.”

Sutton deigned no reply, and before Wallis was ready for his evening visit, he had travelled the first fifty miles of his journey homeward.

OLDEN DEITIES.

Open thy gate, oh, Past!—A mighty trainComes sweeping onward from its spectral clime,August and king-like! Lo! from out the MainOne rears aloft a port and brows sublime,Yet faded much with tearful wo and time;And one with lightnings quivering in his hand,And eye that speaks the thunder of command,Walks steadfastly, and, seeming as in ire,He lists attentively a harper, who,Bending above the bright chords of a lyre,Tells how neglect from certain era grewIn mortal breasts t’wards the Olympian Sire.I hail ye Gods! Your reign, though haply brief,Showed that poor man at least hadsomebelief.

Open thy gate, oh, Past!—

A mighty trainComes sweeping onward from its spectral clime,August and king-like! Lo! from out the MainOne rears aloft a port and brows sublime,Yet faded much with tearful wo and time;And one with lightnings quivering in his hand,And eye that speaks the thunder of command,Walks steadfastly, and, seeming as in ire,He lists attentively a harper, who,Bending above the bright chords of a lyre,Tells how neglect from certain era grewIn mortal breasts t’wards the Olympian Sire.I hail ye Gods! Your reign, though haply brief,Showed that poor man at least hadsomebelief.

A mighty train

Comes sweeping onward from its spectral clime,

August and king-like! Lo! from out the Main

One rears aloft a port and brows sublime,

Yet faded much with tearful wo and time;

And one with lightnings quivering in his hand,

And eye that speaks the thunder of command,

Walks steadfastly, and, seeming as in ire,

He lists attentively a harper, who,

Bending above the bright chords of a lyre,

Tells how neglect from certain era grew

In mortal breasts t’wards the Olympian Sire.

I hail ye Gods! Your reign, though haply brief,

Showed that poor man at least hadsomebelief.

RUSSIAN REVENGE.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.

———

BY ESTHER WETHERALD.

———

A tragical occurrence, which, from its singular and romantic circumstances, would lead one to believe that the men of northern Russia are as susceptible of the tender passion, and as revengeful when disappointed, as those of more southern climes, recently caused a great sensation at Novogorod.

Instead of giving a cold recital of facts, we will place before the reader the depositions of those concerned; thus making him acquainted with the details of the crime, and also with the judicial forms of that country in criminal cases. There, all is decided from the depositions without pleading. These we are about to lay before you are remarkable for their simplicity and precision, having been taken by a man of uncommon ability, Mr. Polechko, Captain Isprawnik of the District, Oustiaje. He is an old officer of dragoons, but having lost a limb in the battle of Smolensk, he entered into the civil service, and has since acquired a handsome fortune.

Report addressed to M. Polechko, Captain Isprawnik, of the District of Oustiaje, by Mikita Muranow, Mayor of the village of Trehmiria.“On the 20th of April, 1839, Nadiejda Yakovlevna, daughter of Yakov Osipovitch, fisherman of Trehmiria, came to my house in tears: she was in such great distress that I could only learn from her, that an assassination had been committed at the village. I went with her to her father’s, and there I found extended upon a bed, a man, pale and livid, nearly cold, but still breathing. Yakov and his wife were endeavoring to staunch the blood which flowed from his wounds. On the floor beside the bed were his garments soaked with water. The young girl could not attend to my questions, so great was her emotions; but Yakov told me that his daughter had gone out before daylight to withdraw the sweep-nets which at this season are placed along the isles and shores of the Volga. The fisherman himself was engaged in spreading nets by the light of a lantern, when he heard cries, and recognized the voice of his daughter. He ran along the shore, and thought he saw in the dim twilight, a large boat passing down the river with all the rapidity of the current. A moment afterwards his daughter’s boat approached the shore, and in it was a man, whom she had taken from the water in a state of insensibility. After having carried him to his cabin, he recognized in him, Ivan Semenov, cornet in the regiment of the lancers of Archanguelk, who, two years before, had been quartered in this village.—This is what I have learned from the fisherman.“Ivan Semenov’s wounds are so numerous and deep, that I can scarcely dare to hope he will be alive when you reach this place.—Please to bring a physician with you.”

Report addressed to M. Polechko, Captain Isprawnik, of the District of Oustiaje, by Mikita Muranow, Mayor of the village of Trehmiria.

“On the 20th of April, 1839, Nadiejda Yakovlevna, daughter of Yakov Osipovitch, fisherman of Trehmiria, came to my house in tears: she was in such great distress that I could only learn from her, that an assassination had been committed at the village. I went with her to her father’s, and there I found extended upon a bed, a man, pale and livid, nearly cold, but still breathing. Yakov and his wife were endeavoring to staunch the blood which flowed from his wounds. On the floor beside the bed were his garments soaked with water. The young girl could not attend to my questions, so great was her emotions; but Yakov told me that his daughter had gone out before daylight to withdraw the sweep-nets which at this season are placed along the isles and shores of the Volga. The fisherman himself was engaged in spreading nets by the light of a lantern, when he heard cries, and recognized the voice of his daughter. He ran along the shore, and thought he saw in the dim twilight, a large boat passing down the river with all the rapidity of the current. A moment afterwards his daughter’s boat approached the shore, and in it was a man, whom she had taken from the water in a state of insensibility. After having carried him to his cabin, he recognized in him, Ivan Semenov, cornet in the regiment of the lancers of Archanguelk, who, two years before, had been quartered in this village.—This is what I have learned from the fisherman.

“Ivan Semenov’s wounds are so numerous and deep, that I can scarcely dare to hope he will be alive when you reach this place.—Please to bring a physician with you.”

Report of Nicolas Peterowitch Polechko, Captain Isprawnik of the District of Oustiaje, to the chancery of the Governor of Novogorod.“I arrived on the night of the 20th of April, at the village of Trehmiria, with the physician of the district, M. Frants Frantsovitch, Mayor; we found in the cabin of the fisherman, Yakov Osipovitch, M. Ivan Prokovitch Semenov, lately a cornet in the regiment of Archanguelk. He had received fifteen wounds, but the physician assured me they were not mortal, and that he would certainly recover. The wounded man told me that his assassins were Paul Ivanovitch Hortinja, quarter-master, and Pierre Alexiecivitch Tsaryna, soldier in the regiment of the lancers of Archanguelk. At the time he was wounded, the Cornet Semenov was on his way to Rybinsk, in a boat which belonged to his father, and which was loaded with linen.“I left the physician with the wounded man, and without losing a moment, hastened to Rybinsk. There, aided by the police, I sought out the assassins, one of whom, the quarter-master, Hortinja, was known to me. At the wharf I learned that a boat, laden with linen, and having two men on board, arrived that morning, the 21st of April; and that the cargo was shortly afterwards sold to an Armenian merchant of Astracan. I then proceeded to the residence of the buyer, Jerome Smilabej, who confessed that he had bought the linen, which was worth 20,000 roubles, for 10,000—that he had this day paid 4,000 and was to pay the other 6,000 on the 1st of May at Astracan. I did not place much confidence in what he told me, for I knew this race of merchants were liars, and that they encouraged and protected crime when they expected to profit by it. Besides, I observed considerable embarrassment on his countenance. I then asked him where the linen was? He said he had despatched it to Astracan.“ ‘Impossible!’ observed I. ‘You bought it this morning, and the steamboat does not go until to-morrow.’“He said he had sent it on in the same boat, having bought it with the cargo.“ ‘And what rowers did you employ?’ asked I.“He turned pale, and stammered, ‘I employed the same who brought it here.’“At this reply, I seized him by the collar, threatening to conduct him to the police office, when, suddenly, the door of the room in which we were, opened, and a man rushed upon me, poignard in hand. I recognized Hortinja, and drew my sword to parry his blows. I also placed myself between him and the door, crying a ‘murderer! an assassin!’ Fortunately for me, the Armenian, instead of trying to aid Hortinja, hid himself under the bed. The men of the house soon came to my assistance, but it was some time before we could disarm and bind the assassin. In the struggle he wounded three men besides myself. I bear three marks of his steel upon my breast.“After securing Hortinja, we drew the Armenian from under the bed, and he then confessed that the other accomplice was half a league from Rybinsk with the boat, waiting for his comrade. I immediately sent for some of the police, and Tsaryna was arrested without offering any resistance.”

Report of Nicolas Peterowitch Polechko, Captain Isprawnik of the District of Oustiaje, to the chancery of the Governor of Novogorod.

“I arrived on the night of the 20th of April, at the village of Trehmiria, with the physician of the district, M. Frants Frantsovitch, Mayor; we found in the cabin of the fisherman, Yakov Osipovitch, M. Ivan Prokovitch Semenov, lately a cornet in the regiment of Archanguelk. He had received fifteen wounds, but the physician assured me they were not mortal, and that he would certainly recover. The wounded man told me that his assassins were Paul Ivanovitch Hortinja, quarter-master, and Pierre Alexiecivitch Tsaryna, soldier in the regiment of the lancers of Archanguelk. At the time he was wounded, the Cornet Semenov was on his way to Rybinsk, in a boat which belonged to his father, and which was loaded with linen.

“I left the physician with the wounded man, and without losing a moment, hastened to Rybinsk. There, aided by the police, I sought out the assassins, one of whom, the quarter-master, Hortinja, was known to me. At the wharf I learned that a boat, laden with linen, and having two men on board, arrived that morning, the 21st of April; and that the cargo was shortly afterwards sold to an Armenian merchant of Astracan. I then proceeded to the residence of the buyer, Jerome Smilabej, who confessed that he had bought the linen, which was worth 20,000 roubles, for 10,000—that he had this day paid 4,000 and was to pay the other 6,000 on the 1st of May at Astracan. I did not place much confidence in what he told me, for I knew this race of merchants were liars, and that they encouraged and protected crime when they expected to profit by it. Besides, I observed considerable embarrassment on his countenance. I then asked him where the linen was? He said he had despatched it to Astracan.

“ ‘Impossible!’ observed I. ‘You bought it this morning, and the steamboat does not go until to-morrow.’

“He said he had sent it on in the same boat, having bought it with the cargo.

“ ‘And what rowers did you employ?’ asked I.

“He turned pale, and stammered, ‘I employed the same who brought it here.’

“At this reply, I seized him by the collar, threatening to conduct him to the police office, when, suddenly, the door of the room in which we were, opened, and a man rushed upon me, poignard in hand. I recognized Hortinja, and drew my sword to parry his blows. I also placed myself between him and the door, crying a ‘murderer! an assassin!’ Fortunately for me, the Armenian, instead of trying to aid Hortinja, hid himself under the bed. The men of the house soon came to my assistance, but it was some time before we could disarm and bind the assassin. In the struggle he wounded three men besides myself. I bear three marks of his steel upon my breast.

“After securing Hortinja, we drew the Armenian from under the bed, and he then confessed that the other accomplice was half a league from Rybinsk with the boat, waiting for his comrade. I immediately sent for some of the police, and Tsaryna was arrested without offering any resistance.”

“In consequence of an order from the Imperial Attorney, I, Nicolas Petrovitch Polechko, Captain Isprawnik of the District Oustiaje, went on the 26th of the month to the village of Trehmiria, where I proceeded to the inquiry in the following order:

“The first person I examined was Ivan Prokovitch Semenov, who declared himself to be 28 years of age, son of Prokop Karlovitch Semenov, a merchant of Kostroma, who possessed a factory in that neighborhood, where he manufactured much linen, which formed the principal part of his commerce.

“Semenov entered the military service in 1830, in the regiment of the Lancers of Archanguelk. He was appointed cornet of the said regiment in 1836. He commanded the second division of the third squadron, in which Hortinja was quarter-master, and Tsaryna a common soldier. In 1836, the division of Cornet Semenov was cantoned in the village of Trehmiria. In 1837, he handed in his resignation that he might return home to his father. On the 12th of November, 1838, Hortinja and Tsaryna came to Kostroma, to the house of Prokop Semenov. The former said he had left the army, the latter that he had obtained a six months’ leave of absence. The Cornet Semenov welcomed them as old comrades. He engaged Hortinja in the service of his father, and gave Tsaryna a handsome present to enable him to pass the six months amongst his relations. Hortinja behaved so well that he gained the confidence of old Semenov, who sent him twice in the spring to Rybinsk with linen. After having sold the cargo and the boat, he brought back the money with the greatest exactness. On the 15th of April, another cargo of linen was ready to go to Rybinsk, and this time young Semenov was to go with him to that city, and from there make a voyage to Astracan. On the evening before their departure Tsaryna arrived, and as he had been a sailor before he entered the army, he begged the Cornet Semenov to employ him instead of engaging another sailor, telling him that it was time he was on his way to rejoin his regiment, which he said was cantoned at Novogorod-la-Grande. Semenov consented, and set out next day in the boat with Hortinja, Tsaryna, a peasant sailor, and a servant. On the second day the sailor and servant were both taken so violently ill with the cholic, that they were obliged to leave the boat and remain behind at the village of Bahorka.

“On the 19th, Semenov remarked that Hortinja and Tsaryna had secret conferences, and seemed to be concerting something. At night, after having in vain tried to sleep, he left the cabin and took a seat on the prow of the vessel. He had scarcely done so when he saw a light at some distance, and said to his companions, “My friends, we are near Trehmiria, and I bet that is old Yakov spreading his nets.” The two men did not reply, and Semenov continued “By God, if the old fisherman’s nets attracted fishes as well as the eyes of Nadiejda did the lancers of Archanguelk, he would be rich in a short time.” Hardly had he spoken these words when he was struck in the back with a knife. He tried to turn round, but was knocked down by his assassins. He still struggled, but was wounded repeatedly. He called for assistance, and thought he heard a voice which replied. He was then thrown into the river. This was all he remembered, he could not tell how he got into the bark of Nadiejda. After the wounded man had given the above deposition, I put to him the following questions:

Q. “Have you inflicted military punishment on Hortinja and Tsaryna?”

R. “You know captain, it is impossible to get along in the army without making use of the baton; during the year of my command, Hortinja was beaten nine or ten times, and Tsaryna from forty to fifty, but I never ordered more than a hundred blows of the baton at once; so that the officers of the regiment laughed at my moderation, and called me scholar, and French officer.”

Q. “Have you not excited the jealousy of some comrade?”

R. “Not that I am aware of.”

Q. “Were you not acquainted with this Nadiejda who saved your life?”

R. “I knew her to be the most beautiful girl of Trehmiria, and of irreproachable virtue; my lancers told me this, Hortinja one of the first. I could not hope to have her for a mistress—and for a wife.⁠—”

Q. “That is sufficient. Knew you not that Hortinja paid his court to her?”

R. “I did not; all the lancers found her beautiful and attractive.”

Q. “Do you suffer much from your wounds?”

R. “No, captain, I feel much better, and hope I shall soon be well; the guilty man’s hand struck feebly, therefore I hope he will not be punished severely.”

Thus closed the examination of Semenov. I then proceeded to that of the quarter-master Hortinja.

Paul Ivanovitch Hortinja was born in 1787 in the city of Smolensk—entered the army in 1806 in which he remained thirty-two years and a half—was quarter-master 15 years and four months. He has made eighteen campaigns, been engaged in forty-nine battles, and a hundred and thirty-seven combats—has received the cross of Saint George, and five medals. He left the service in the month of October 1838. His discharge and certificates give him a very high character.

Q. “What cause had you for disliking Cornet Semenov?”

R. “Not any. I always found him good and kind as a father. I have said so to my soldiers. We had no better officer.”

Q. “And what then caused you to commit so abominable a crime?”

R. “O father! (a common expression of the Russian soldier) my crime is abominable, but harken, I will tell you every thing. I, an old man—having attained my fiftieth year, I loved for the first time—a child—this Nadiejda; I loved her as our fathers loved the glorious empress Catharine (here he made the sign of the cross.) I was quarter-master, and had saved something—she was a poor peasant slave, I wished to marry her, and offered to buy her of her master Count Strogonof—I was to pay him 500 roubles. Her father consented to it, but she refused me disdainfully, without my being able to comprehend why. In the mean time Tsaryna came to see me, and said, thou art sorrowful comrade, but thou should’st not be so. Nadiejda is the mistress of the cornet; she is almost always at the house where he lodges; this is well known—thou only appearest to doubt it. My heart died within me at these words—my head turned round, but I said nothing, for the Cornet Semenov was my officer. I began to watch Nadiejda closely, and I saw that she did often go to the house where he lodged. I thought not then of revenge. It was at this time that the cornet gave in his resignation, and returned to Kostroma. I then saw the tears of Nadiejda. I saw that grief undermined her health and tarnished the lustre of her cheek, but I loved her still. A year passed thus—I repeated my offer of marriage, she refused me again, and this time she told me she loved young Semenov, and swore she would never marry any one.

“At this time Tsaryna became my friend and confidant; he represented the cornet as the seducer of this young girl, and I resolved to avenge her. I obtained my discharge—he, his leave of absence, and we went to Kostroma.

“The kind reception the cornet gave us, joined to his confidence and frankness, disarmed me, and I determined to abandon my criminal project. Things were in this state, when young Semenov resolved to go to Astracan. Tsaryna requested that he might fill the place of the second sailor, and his request was complied with. The evening before our departure he spoke to me of our old project—I was angry—he praised the beauty of Nadiejda—spoke to me of her misfortune—of my shame; I said nothing, but God only knows what infernal tortures my poor heart sustained; (here he paused a moment in great emotion) we set out; on the second day of our navigation, the first sailor and the servant were taken sick, but as truly as I pray God to save my soul and pardon my crime, I am ignorant of the cause of their malady. I advised the cornet to employ another sailor, but he thought it unnecessary, for the navigation was easy and the current rapid.

“Tsaryna was constantly speaking to me of Nadiejda; when we came in sight of the village of Trehmiria I was moved, troubled, and when the cornet spoke of her I was no longer master of myself, I drew my knife and struck him.”

Q. “Did you strike him once, or several times?”

R. “I do not know, I had lost my reason.”

Q. “Did Tsaryna aid you to commit the crime?”

R. “I cannot tell, I only remember that he cried out. Some one is coming! a bark, a bark!”

Q. “And what did you do then?”

R. “I was furious, desperate, distracted. When the day dawned, I saw the shores, the river, but I saw neither the cornet, nor the village of Trehmiria. I wished to throw myself into the water, but had not sufficient energy, and suffered myself to be persuaded to live, and seek my safety in flight.”

Q. “When you arrived at Rybinsk, how did you manage to sell your cargo so quickly?”

R. “I knew Jerome Smilabej, and to him I confided my crime. He consented to save us, provided we abandoned the cargo to him, and he promised to arrange every thing for us, and conduct us to a place of safety.”

Q. “Why didst thou attack me?”

R. “I had promised the Armenian in case of unforeseen danger to defend his life as my own. The moment of danger had come, and I fulfilled my promise.”

Q. “Thou sayest that Tsaryna urged thee to commit crime, and aided thee to execute it—that the Armenian protected criminals, and appropriated to himself wealth which did not belong to him?”

R. “I neither denounce nor accuse any one. I have spoken the truth. I seek not to deny my crime nor to cast the consequences upon others. I am a great criminal!”

He is thirty-two years of age; entered the military service in 1828 as a recruit in the lancers of Archanguelk. He denies any participation in the crime.

Q. “Yet you were the first to tell the quarter-master Hortinja that a great intimacy existed between the Cornet Semenov and the girl Nadiejda.”

R. “I was joking when I said Semenov and Nadiejda were too intimate. The quarter-master was wicked as the devil; he pounded our very bones with the baton. I revenged myself by contradicting his ridiculous passion for a girl young enough to be his grand-daughter.”

Q. “Why did you rejoin Hortinja at Kostroma?”

R. “I met him there by chance.”

Q. “And why did you choose to return at the time that Semenov was going to Rybinsk?”

R. “In order to save my money.”

Q. “Why did you give to the servant of Semenov, and to the first sailor, a poison, which produced cholic and vomiting?”

R. “They were very fond of brandy—they were like a cask without bottom; to play them a trick I put snuff into the liquor: is it my fault they have such delicate stomachs?”

Q. “Why did you provoke Hortinja to assassinate the cornet?”

R. “I did not. The quarter-master is subject to visions, he dreams so many other things, that he may have dreamed that also.”

Q. “Why, then, did you not defend him?”

R. “The cornet was in citizen’s dress, the quarter-master in uniform, and I am a soldier.”

Q. “What do you mean by that?”

R. “That the soldier must respect the uniform more than the citizen’s dress.”

Q. “Why did you throw the cornet into the water?”

R. “To save him from the fury of the quarter-master. I also saw a boat coming towards us.”

Q. “Why did you apprize Hortinja of its coming?”

R. “From joy that I could save the cornet.”

Q. “And why did you not denounce the crime of Hortinja when you arrived at Rybinsk?”

R. “Because I am a soldier, and he is a quarter-master.”

All my questions, all my expedients, the bastinado included, drew no other confession from him. Confronted with Hortinja, he replied to his indignation by sneers; in the presence of soldiers who had heard his provocations he denied them: only at the sight of Nadiejda did he turn pale, grind his teeth, and reply nothing, absolutely nothing!

Nadiejda Yakovlevna is twenty-one years of age. She confessed frankly that she had loved, and still loved passionately the cornet Semenov, but assured me that no intimacy had existed between them, and that the cornet was even ignorant of the passion he had inspired. She said the soldier Tsaryna had paid his court to her, and not being able to obtain her love had sworn to her that he would revenge himself upon the one who had obtained it. At first his suspicions rested on Hortinja, and he said he would soon get rid of the old rascal. Some time after he came to her and said, “Harken, Nadiejda! be mine, or I swear by St. Nicholas thou shalt witness the death of Semenov.” She cared little for his threats, knowing him to be a coward. About this time the cornet left Trehmiria. Tsaryna renewed his declarations, but still without success. Before setting out for Kostroma, he said, “The old one will do what I have threatened; before I return I will be revenged, I swear it by St. Nicholas.” She had never heard Hortinja threaten the life of the cornet; he was sad and melancholy—he even wept, but he was a man incapable of committing a crime unless provoked to it.

This is her account of the night in which she saved the cornet:

“I had a presentiment which oppressed my heart; before I lay down I found a cat upon my bed. A bad sign! As soon as I fell asleep I had horrible dreams. I awoke and cried out, ‘Wo to me!’ My father then ordered me to go upon the Volga and draw away the nets; there I heard cries, and thought I recognised the voice of Semenov. It was more than a year since I had seen him, and I knew him in spite of the obscurity. I rowed towards his boat, and as I neared it, I heard the splash of a body thrown into the water. Fortunately, I was close by and succeeded in drawing him out of the river. It was Semenov.”

The inquiry was completed by a few other declarations of less consequence.

The Armenian merchant tried to excuse himself, and said that he endeavored to save the two men in order that they might have time for repentance. In other things he confirmed what Hortinja had said.

The fisherman Yakov gave an account of the manner in which Tsaryna had threatened him, because he would not give him his daughter.

The inquiry terminated on the thirteenth of May, and the depositions were on the same day laid before the criminal tribunal of Novogorod by the captain Isprawnik.

On the twenty-ninth of May the tribunal pronounced the decree which condemns:

Paul Ivanovitch Hortinja to perpetual banishment in Siberia, and ten years labor in the mines.

Jerome Smilabej, Armenian merchant, to one year and six days imprisonment, a fine of one thousand rubles, and the costs.

Pierre A. Tsaryna, being a soldier, was sent before the military tribunal.

On the fourth of June, the military tribunal of the first corps of the army, assembled at Novogorod, condemned Pierre A. Tsaryna to pass three times through the rods of a squadron, and afterwards to be transported to Siberia, where he must labor in the mines for the rest of his life.

These decrees have been submitted to the emperor, and confirmed by him with this change: Hortinja is perpetually banished, but will not be obliged to labor in the mines.

On the third of June, the decree was executed on Pierre A. Tsaryna, who was so severely beaten that there is little hope of his recovery; he has been taken to the hospital of Novogorod.

L’Abeille du Nord, a Russian journal of St. Petersburg, reached us at the same time with the letter of our correspondent. It gives an account of this affair, and also adds that the emperor has deigned to decorate the girl Nadiejda with a medal of gold on the ribbon of Saint Waldimir.

The Cornet Semenov married Nadiejda Yakovlevna as soon as the trial was concluded.

PERDITI.

PART SECOND.

———

BY WM. WALLACE, ESQ., AUTHOR OF “BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE,” “MARCHES FOR THE DEAD,” ETC., ETC.

———

AMERICAN BATTLE SHIP.I.Out on the sounding sea,With a flag of stars and a row of steel,’Mid the tempest scowl and the battle peal⁠—The great ship of the free!Away from her moorings—away o’er the wave⁠—How proudly she bears the glad hearts of the brave!In the sun-burst of morning, the darkness of night,Like a goddess she strives with the gales:Behold her alone in her glorious might,With her banners of beauty and streamers of light,Like a condor when out on his terrible flight,Where the breath of the tempest prevails.Hark, hark! ’tis her thunder! her flags are all out,And the lightning’s the wreath she will wear;Now it shines on her mast—now ’tis hurried about,’Mid the ring of the sword and the rapturous shout,By the breath of the sulphury air.Why thus is she wrapt in the black-curling smoke?Why thus have her thunders tumultuously brokeO’er the halls of the dark-rolling wave?Why thus have her star-crested flags been unfurl’dLike the wings of some god from the sky to the world?She battles abroad for the brave!Proud hope of our land! we have given thy formTo the lord of the breeze and the god of the storm;We have hung from the top of the high soaring mastA broad sheet of stripes with the birdWho cradles his wing in the home of the blast,When the cloud-troops are angrily hurrying past,And the voice of the thunder is heard:We have wet thy scarred decks with the hallowèd bloodOf those who have battled for us on the flood,And blessed thee with hearts, which the freemen aloneCan possess, when we saw thee sit firm on thy throneOf the dark-rolling waters.Go forth, gallant one!⁠—Go forth in thy glory and pomp o’er the main,And burst with the might of thy sure-pointed gunThe palace, the cell and the tyrannous chain.The breezes shall kiss thee: the stars shall illumeThy pathway when dangers are there,And around thee the laurels of triumph shall bloom,Like the plumage of angels abroad on the gloomOf the battle’s tempestuous air.Aye! the great god of freedom who holds in his handThis universe blazing around,Who walks on the billows which hear his command,And straight in deep quiet are found:Aye! he who has yoked, in the ether afar,The lightning-maned steeds of the storm to his car,Shall guide thee all safe o’er the foam,And at last, by the torch of his bright beacon-star,Restore thee once more to thy home!II.But such! ah! such is not my theme⁠—Illumined by a grosser fireThan that which some will truly deemBefitting well the patriot’s lyre.And yet how could I pass thee by⁠—Thou of the fearless soul and eye?⁠—Thou who hast watched my boyhood’s hoursAmid thy sacred rocks and rills,Where liberty with glory towersUnshaken on her thousand hills!Genius of freedom! let me standWith thee upon my native land;Still let me hear thy thunder-voiceBid every child of thine rejoice;Still let me see on yonder mastThe banner of the heart unfurl’d⁠—The playmate of the ocean-blast,The hope or terror of the world.And when the minstrel’s form is cold,His brightest meed of praise shall be,As o’er his grave yon starry foldBy wind and tempest is unroll’d,“Freedom! thy minstrel sang of thee!”——’Tis dark around! yet darker stillWithin that melancholy clime,Where tireless, sleepless vulture-illSits blackly brooding over crime;The tempest has a deeper moan;The night-wind has a wilder tone;The thunder glares his troubled eyeAmid the hollows of the sky;And sheeted lightnings swiftly streamFrom yonder cloud’s tremendous rack,And then with swifter stride they seemIn pallid horror hurrying back.Groans in the dark tide of the air:Groans in the withered space around:Groans in the tempest’s sickly glare:Groans struggling under ground!And look! Lo! blacker clouds are swellingAround the thunder’s opened dwelling,Which with a Vulcan-torch illumesThis realm of everlasting glooms;Set in the distance—see it standAbove that melancholy land⁠—Wild, gloomy, solitary, grand!Heckla of spirits—placed afar,The lamp of ghastly heath and rill,As if like some malignant star’Twould make them all more ghastly still.

AMERICAN BATTLE SHIP.

Out on the sounding sea,With a flag of stars and a row of steel,’Mid the tempest scowl and the battle peal⁠—The great ship of the free!

Out on the sounding sea,

With a flag of stars and a row of steel,

’Mid the tempest scowl and the battle peal⁠—

The great ship of the free!

Away from her moorings—away o’er the wave⁠—How proudly she bears the glad hearts of the brave!In the sun-burst of morning, the darkness of night,Like a goddess she strives with the gales:Behold her alone in her glorious might,With her banners of beauty and streamers of light,Like a condor when out on his terrible flight,Where the breath of the tempest prevails.Hark, hark! ’tis her thunder! her flags are all out,And the lightning’s the wreath she will wear;Now it shines on her mast—now ’tis hurried about,’Mid the ring of the sword and the rapturous shout,By the breath of the sulphury air.

Away from her moorings—away o’er the wave⁠—

How proudly she bears the glad hearts of the brave!

In the sun-burst of morning, the darkness of night,

Like a goddess she strives with the gales:

Behold her alone in her glorious might,

With her banners of beauty and streamers of light,

Like a condor when out on his terrible flight,

Where the breath of the tempest prevails.

Hark, hark! ’tis her thunder! her flags are all out,

And the lightning’s the wreath she will wear;

Now it shines on her mast—now ’tis hurried about,

’Mid the ring of the sword and the rapturous shout,

By the breath of the sulphury air.

Why thus is she wrapt in the black-curling smoke?Why thus have her thunders tumultuously brokeO’er the halls of the dark-rolling wave?Why thus have her star-crested flags been unfurl’dLike the wings of some god from the sky to the world?She battles abroad for the brave!

Why thus is she wrapt in the black-curling smoke?

Why thus have her thunders tumultuously broke

O’er the halls of the dark-rolling wave?

Why thus have her star-crested flags been unfurl’d

Like the wings of some god from the sky to the world?

She battles abroad for the brave!

Proud hope of our land! we have given thy formTo the lord of the breeze and the god of the storm;We have hung from the top of the high soaring mastA broad sheet of stripes with the birdWho cradles his wing in the home of the blast,When the cloud-troops are angrily hurrying past,And the voice of the thunder is heard:We have wet thy scarred decks with the hallowèd bloodOf those who have battled for us on the flood,And blessed thee with hearts, which the freemen aloneCan possess, when we saw thee sit firm on thy throneOf the dark-rolling waters.

Proud hope of our land! we have given thy form

To the lord of the breeze and the god of the storm;

We have hung from the top of the high soaring mast

A broad sheet of stripes with the bird

Who cradles his wing in the home of the blast,

When the cloud-troops are angrily hurrying past,

And the voice of the thunder is heard:

We have wet thy scarred decks with the hallowèd blood

Of those who have battled for us on the flood,

And blessed thee with hearts, which the freemen alone

Can possess, when we saw thee sit firm on thy throne

Of the dark-rolling waters.

Go forth, gallant one!⁠—Go forth in thy glory and pomp o’er the main,And burst with the might of thy sure-pointed gunThe palace, the cell and the tyrannous chain.The breezes shall kiss thee: the stars shall illumeThy pathway when dangers are there,And around thee the laurels of triumph shall bloom,Like the plumage of angels abroad on the gloomOf the battle’s tempestuous air.Aye! the great god of freedom who holds in his handThis universe blazing around,Who walks on the billows which hear his command,And straight in deep quiet are found:Aye! he who has yoked, in the ether afar,The lightning-maned steeds of the storm to his car,Shall guide thee all safe o’er the foam,And at last, by the torch of his bright beacon-star,Restore thee once more to thy home!

Go forth, gallant one!⁠—

Go forth in thy glory and pomp o’er the main,

And burst with the might of thy sure-pointed gun

The palace, the cell and the tyrannous chain.

The breezes shall kiss thee: the stars shall illume

Thy pathway when dangers are there,

And around thee the laurels of triumph shall bloom,

Like the plumage of angels abroad on the gloom

Of the battle’s tempestuous air.

Aye! the great god of freedom who holds in his hand

This universe blazing around,

Who walks on the billows which hear his command,

And straight in deep quiet are found:

Aye! he who has yoked, in the ether afar,

The lightning-maned steeds of the storm to his car,

Shall guide thee all safe o’er the foam,

And at last, by the torch of his bright beacon-star,

Restore thee once more to thy home!

II.

But such! ah! such is not my theme⁠—Illumined by a grosser fireThan that which some will truly deemBefitting well the patriot’s lyre.And yet how could I pass thee by⁠—Thou of the fearless soul and eye?⁠—Thou who hast watched my boyhood’s hoursAmid thy sacred rocks and rills,Where liberty with glory towersUnshaken on her thousand hills!

But such! ah! such is not my theme⁠—

Illumined by a grosser fire

Than that which some will truly deem

Befitting well the patriot’s lyre.

And yet how could I pass thee by⁠—

Thou of the fearless soul and eye?⁠—

Thou who hast watched my boyhood’s hours

Amid thy sacred rocks and rills,

Where liberty with glory towers

Unshaken on her thousand hills!

Genius of freedom! let me standWith thee upon my native land;Still let me hear thy thunder-voiceBid every child of thine rejoice;Still let me see on yonder mastThe banner of the heart unfurl’d⁠—The playmate of the ocean-blast,The hope or terror of the world.And when the minstrel’s form is cold,His brightest meed of praise shall be,As o’er his grave yon starry foldBy wind and tempest is unroll’d,“Freedom! thy minstrel sang of thee!”

Genius of freedom! let me stand

With thee upon my native land;

Still let me hear thy thunder-voice

Bid every child of thine rejoice;

Still let me see on yonder mast

The banner of the heart unfurl’d⁠—

The playmate of the ocean-blast,

The hope or terror of the world.

And when the minstrel’s form is cold,

His brightest meed of praise shall be,

As o’er his grave yon starry fold

By wind and tempest is unroll’d,

“Freedom! thy minstrel sang of thee!”

——

’Tis dark around! yet darker stillWithin that melancholy clime,Where tireless, sleepless vulture-illSits blackly brooding over crime;The tempest has a deeper moan;The night-wind has a wilder tone;The thunder glares his troubled eyeAmid the hollows of the sky;And sheeted lightnings swiftly streamFrom yonder cloud’s tremendous rack,And then with swifter stride they seemIn pallid horror hurrying back.

’Tis dark around! yet darker still

Within that melancholy clime,

Where tireless, sleepless vulture-ill

Sits blackly brooding over crime;

The tempest has a deeper moan;

The night-wind has a wilder tone;

The thunder glares his troubled eye

Amid the hollows of the sky;

And sheeted lightnings swiftly stream

From yonder cloud’s tremendous rack,

And then with swifter stride they seem

In pallid horror hurrying back.

Groans in the dark tide of the air:Groans in the withered space around:Groans in the tempest’s sickly glare:Groans struggling under ground!And look! Lo! blacker clouds are swellingAround the thunder’s opened dwelling,Which with a Vulcan-torch illumesThis realm of everlasting glooms;Set in the distance—see it standAbove that melancholy land⁠—Wild, gloomy, solitary, grand!Heckla of spirits—placed afar,The lamp of ghastly heath and rill,As if like some malignant star’Twould make them all more ghastly still.

Groans in the dark tide of the air:

Groans in the withered space around:

Groans in the tempest’s sickly glare:

Groans struggling under ground!

And look! Lo! blacker clouds are swelling

Around the thunder’s opened dwelling,

Which with a Vulcan-torch illumes

This realm of everlasting glooms;

Set in the distance—see it stand

Above that melancholy land⁠—

Wild, gloomy, solitary, grand!

Heckla of spirits—placed afar,

The lamp of ghastly heath and rill,

As if like some malignant star

’Twould make them all more ghastly still.

ROSANI.“Fit time!”—he cried with quivering brow,Tale such as mine was uttered now;When all the elements are stirredTo hear a spirit’s fearful word.Let lightnings flash—let thunders roll,What terrors have they for the soulThat flees the golden eye of day,And hates its beams e’en more than they!I’ve revell’d in their light beforeIn many a sea, on many a shore⁠—On many a rock—on many a deck⁠—Yes! challenged them amid the wreck⁠—When they and the remorseless seaSeem’d smiling on my agony.Yet! have I loved a milder glowThan yonder lurid fires bestow:There was a moment! glorious time!When I, amid my native bow’rs,Unmoved by care—unsoiled by crime⁠—Would watch the sunshine beam for hours;It glowed of my own self a part,For all was sunshine in the heart,Which seemed an angel who had left,He knew not how, the stainless blue,And smiled, so long of light bereft,To find an angel wandering, too.But when I saw the bannered storm⁠—Like giant rousing from his sleep⁠—Uplift o’er heaven his awful form,And from the thunder-chamber sweepTo his dread bridal with the flameBefore their altar of the cloud,While all his minstrel-tempests cameAround the shrine, in terror bowed,⁠—I’ve smiled with other smile than this,For then, I, leaping from the sod,Saw, in their rude but meaning bliss,The wondrous glory of a God:⁠—Yes! e’en when others quailed to seeThe red volcano light our clime,I’ve joyed, for in its ministryI only saw a torch sublime,Lighting with its tremendous glareThe glorious pages of His book,Which men might read if they would dareUpon those awful leaves to look.Like thee I joyed alone to rangeAmid the beautiful and bright,A thing like them of love and light⁠—Like thee my spirit had its change.The spell was wove! It thundered outIn many a wild and bitter curse⁠—And thenceforth I was hurl’d aboutHopeless amid the universe.Long years! oh! how your shadows pressMy brow in very weariness:Here! here ye stretch and ever gloomLike funeral-foliage of the tomb,Whose leaves—the favorites of painMust ever life from sorrow gain.Long years! long years! I feel againYour star-eyed hopes around me glowBright as the plumage of a trainOf pilgrim-angels furled below.We are together: Ila, seeThe light of heaven’s own heraldry⁠—And hark!—the evening breeze is here;His silver lips no longer mute,⁠—He breathes—a minstrel-worshipper⁠—An avè from his leafy lute:Shall we not join him? Dearest, pressThy lip to mine, while, as of old,We hear with love’s sweet tendernessThat glorious vesper music rolled.We are together in those bowersGlad as the rosy-footed hoursAnd all as pure.—I see her nowA creature less of earth than skies,With day’s pure sunshine on her browAnd heaven’s own midnight in her eyes.And thus we trod the path of life,Without nor cloud, nor grief, nor strife⁠—Like pensile stars whose golden lightMeets on the sable bridge of nightAnd glows with such a wedded beamIn calm or stormy weather,That men when looking upwards deemThey are but one, for thus they seem,So close they shine together.Ha! whence this change? My Ila! whyThat icy mien and tearful eye?No more for me thou cullest the flow’r;⁠—No more with me thou seekest the bow’r;⁠—No more thy sweet lips press my own;⁠—No more thy warm hands link with mine,When Daylight, stooping from his throne,Has furl’d his wing by evening’s shrine.She answered not! yet sorrow thereHas held a bridal with despair,And pale her cheek as if with woWhich none but she must ever know.In vain I questioned—her replyA sad reproachfulness of eye,So firm yet tender in its look,It ever, sorrowing, seemed to say“Why torture me!”—I could not brookSuch gaze, but gladly turned away,Leaving my Ila to her moodIn our old castle’s solitude.Days rolled away!—And who art thouWith princely step and lofty brow?What dost thou here within our halls,Sir knight! unwelcome to these walls?Days roll’d away!—I sought my sire;He met me but with glance of ire,And freezing mystery of air,Which seemed to say—“Ila?—beware!”And then he cried, “away! away!Mad boy, she weds the knight to-day!”I spoke not; slowly round me cameA wavering sheet of cloud and flame,Which seem’d to sear my very brain:How long ’twas thus I cannot say,Nor when I woke to life again.They called me mad: I heard the chainClanking around my limbs, and nearThe hum of voices meet my ear,And eyes amid the darkness shoneSo bright, so angry and so lone⁠—Methought they were the eyes of thoseWhom men have named their demon-foes,Drawing a life from human woes.Yes! I was mad, and in my strengthI spurned the dungeon’s hated ground,Hurled from my limbs the chain, at length,And thus my birth-right freedom found.I saw the glorious stars again⁠—Once more I gazed upon the mainWhose billows e’en in boyhood wereMy playmates, when their crested formsRushed up like ministers of FearAmid their temple of the storms.Once more I heard the Ocean’s shockAgainst the castellated rock;And saw, oh! gallant, blessed sight!My barque along the heaving tide,Like lover resting through the nightUpon the bosom of his bride.The sail’s unfurl’d! How free! How brave!On! on my vessel, o’er the wave!The night-winds kiss thee, as in joyTo meet once more their ocean-boy.Oh! I had loved thee, glorious sea,And oft thy waters laved my brow,But never have I gazed on theeWith such a bounding heart as now.Roll on! Roll on! thy dark blue foamShall henceforth be to me a home.For days I skimmed the ocean blue,And deeper still my gladness grew;And oft my joy was uttered outTo heaven in that delirious shoutWhich only he can swell whose lifeIs passed amid the ocean’s strife.And others soon around me came;And men soon shook before my name.What trophies glittered on our deck,How foemen sank with many a wreck,Let that old ocean’s caverns tell,⁠—In sooth our spirits loved them well⁠—They lay beneath us like a spell.A sail! How looks she in the dark?“Bravely! She is a royal barque!”Give thanks! Hurrah! I ween the waveBefore the morn shall be her grave!Out with the guns!—“Ho, sir! she veers!⁠—Again! again! Hurrah! she nears!”She came so nigh, that we could seeThe pilot’s lonely ministry.Sudden as lightning from its lairFire glowed around her deck;⁠—Ha! ship, that rode so proudly there⁠—Thou art a very wreck!Once more the frowning guns were out;Their thunder told in shriek and shout!“The barque’s on fire!”—with one wild cry!That pierced the very wave and sky,Her crew leaped in the tide;But as she heavily floated by⁠—Oh! God what met my startled eye?The chieftain and his bride!Yes, he and Ila shrined in flameWere wildly calling on my name:⁠—At one mad bound I cleared my deck,And stood upon that burning wreck:Through flame and smoke I fearless flew!A moment—I have reached the two!I grasped him! and the lurid waveRevenged me well—it was his grave.I bore her in my arms—the smokeAnd flame in vain around me broke⁠,—I felt them curling o’er my brow,As fierce they swept from stern to plow;⁠—I struggled on!—one effort more⁠—I leaped upon my vessel’s side!Thank God! the final strife was o’er,And I had won my ocean-bride!In one dread shock the crackling mastCame thundering down beneath the blast:⁠—The flaming wreck slow drives away⁠—Dim and more dim we marked the ray;And now unloosing every sail⁠—We feel our vessel, like a steedGladdening to serve his rider’s need,Dart out before the gale.Slowly the thrill of feeling cameAlong my Ila’s pallid frame;I marked the rising crimson swellUpon the cheek I loved too well,And heard, how joyously! the sighWhich told me that she could not die,At least not then:—she rose at last;One piercing look around she cast,And shrieked!—her memory, ah! too soonHad lighted up those scenes of old,When I, beneath far different moonThan that which brightly rose aboon,My love so passionately told.She spake not still; but day by dayI saw her calmly sink awayLike some sweet flower or rainbow-formWhose life is withered by the storm.But when I saw her pallid lipsDarkling beneath the death-eclipse,She waved me to her side and said⁠—I cannot speak her words—the deadWould stir within their very tombTo hear such tale!—Enough! she died,And I beheld in that sea-roomA sister in my ocean-bride.Oh! how I blessed the God above,That she went down unsoiled by loveWhose reckless and unholy fireSprings from the heart of low desire.My sire had framed a cunning tale—To shroud his crime, and this the baal!He brought her to our castle’s hall⁠—Saying she was a homeless child,Whom he had found beneath the wallIn all her orphan-freedom wild.Of that she told me, on the dayShe died, thus much I dared to say.And Ila sleeps within the wave,And round her peaceful ocean-tombThe pale flowers of the coral-graveIn all their quiet beauty bloom.Sleep on! sleep on in that deep rest⁠—Thou of the stainless brow and breast,⁠—Oh! holy as the stars that shineIn all their seraph splendor set,Like torches of a templed-shrineIn midnight’s azure coronet.She was avenged! That very hourIn which the tide received her form,The deep-blue sky began to lourBeneath the scowling of the storm;And soon the thunder, vast and dark,Shook his red arm above our barque,Whose deck deserted—sails all rentAnd loose around the shivered mast,Like reeling clouds were blindly sentBefore the fury of the blast.“The boats! the boats!”They’re riding wellAlong that billow’s crested swell.“Save! save yourselves,” I sternly cried,Undaunted on the plunging deck,“I go to seek my ocean-bride,But comrades ye must leave the wreck!”An instant—they were safe! and IAlone stood challenging the skyAnd rolling waves.With fearless formI dared the spirit of the storm:His red lips answered me—the flameLeaped burning through my blackened frame!—And I was here.—“No more! No more!”He cried, “that agony was o’er:⁠—But this!”He darkly gazed around,Then quivering sank upon the ground;And Lorro on his dread distressGazed sorrowing—mute and motionless.The tempest with his train has fled,And yet no moon hath lit her fire;Nought lights the darkness, deep and dread,Save that dim-burning Vulcan-pyre.With its drear, wavering, ghastly light,Still heavier than the heavy night:Most terrible!The task is done!How gladly mounts the trembling soul,Like light returning to its sun,When Heaven’s own streams of glory roll!Joy, spirit! joy! I’ve broke the spell;Land of the lost! dread land, farewell.——Soulof that shadowy realm, where TimeHath thrown his last-expiring wave,When the Immortal glooms sublimeAnd terrible above the grave,⁠—Dread image o’er whose phantasm weHave hung a shroud of mystery,And then for countless ages shookBefore its dark, eternal look.Bold scorner of the groan or tear⁠—Swaying between the star and storm⁠—Thou art a mighty thing of fear,Yet glory crowns thy mystic form.Vast, potent, melancholy, dim,Past ruler of the cherubim,And king-like in thy ruin still,Thou livest despite of sleepless ill.Oh! once all splendid in that time,Ere thy great banners were unfurl’dLike thunder flashes in the climeFrom which the rebel hosts were hurl’d,How art thou fallen—fallen now!⁠—The burning seal upon thy browWhich towered in its own glory bright⁠—A mighty pyramid of light.And battling still? Thine essence gleamsLike the dim flashing of a cloud;Oh! how unlike its heavenly beamsEre sin that angel-beauty bowed,And changed thee to a giant curseBreathed through the shuddering universe⁠—A deathless, hopeless agony⁠—An aching immortality.

ROSANI.

“Fit time!”—he cried with quivering brow,Tale such as mine was uttered now;When all the elements are stirredTo hear a spirit’s fearful word.Let lightnings flash—let thunders roll,What terrors have they for the soulThat flees the golden eye of day,And hates its beams e’en more than they!I’ve revell’d in their light beforeIn many a sea, on many a shore⁠—On many a rock—on many a deck⁠—Yes! challenged them amid the wreck⁠—When they and the remorseless seaSeem’d smiling on my agony.

“Fit time!”—he cried with quivering brow,

Tale such as mine was uttered now;

When all the elements are stirred

To hear a spirit’s fearful word.

Let lightnings flash—let thunders roll,

What terrors have they for the soul

That flees the golden eye of day,

And hates its beams e’en more than they!

I’ve revell’d in their light before

In many a sea, on many a shore⁠—

On many a rock—on many a deck⁠—

Yes! challenged them amid the wreck⁠—

When they and the remorseless sea

Seem’d smiling on my agony.

Yet! have I loved a milder glowThan yonder lurid fires bestow:There was a moment! glorious time!When I, amid my native bow’rs,Unmoved by care—unsoiled by crime⁠—Would watch the sunshine beam for hours;It glowed of my own self a part,For all was sunshine in the heart,Which seemed an angel who had left,He knew not how, the stainless blue,And smiled, so long of light bereft,To find an angel wandering, too.

Yet! have I loved a milder glow

Than yonder lurid fires bestow:

There was a moment! glorious time!

When I, amid my native bow’rs,

Unmoved by care—unsoiled by crime⁠—

Would watch the sunshine beam for hours;

It glowed of my own self a part,

For all was sunshine in the heart,

Which seemed an angel who had left,

He knew not how, the stainless blue,

And smiled, so long of light bereft,

To find an angel wandering, too.

But when I saw the bannered storm⁠—Like giant rousing from his sleep⁠—Uplift o’er heaven his awful form,And from the thunder-chamber sweepTo his dread bridal with the flameBefore their altar of the cloud,While all his minstrel-tempests cameAround the shrine, in terror bowed,⁠—I’ve smiled with other smile than this,For then, I, leaping from the sod,Saw, in their rude but meaning bliss,The wondrous glory of a God:⁠—Yes! e’en when others quailed to seeThe red volcano light our clime,I’ve joyed, for in its ministryI only saw a torch sublime,Lighting with its tremendous glareThe glorious pages of His book,Which men might read if they would dareUpon those awful leaves to look.

But when I saw the bannered storm⁠—

Like giant rousing from his sleep⁠—

Uplift o’er heaven his awful form,

And from the thunder-chamber sweep

To his dread bridal with the flame

Before their altar of the cloud,

While all his minstrel-tempests came

Around the shrine, in terror bowed,⁠—

I’ve smiled with other smile than this,

For then, I, leaping from the sod,

Saw, in their rude but meaning bliss,

The wondrous glory of a God:⁠—

Yes! e’en when others quailed to see

The red volcano light our clime,

I’ve joyed, for in its ministry

I only saw a torch sublime,

Lighting with its tremendous glare

The glorious pages of His book,

Which men might read if they would dare

Upon those awful leaves to look.

Like thee I joyed alone to rangeAmid the beautiful and bright,A thing like them of love and light⁠—Like thee my spirit had its change.The spell was wove! It thundered outIn many a wild and bitter curse⁠—And thenceforth I was hurl’d aboutHopeless amid the universe.

Like thee I joyed alone to range

Amid the beautiful and bright,

A thing like them of love and light⁠—

Like thee my spirit had its change.

The spell was wove! It thundered out

In many a wild and bitter curse⁠—

And thenceforth I was hurl’d about

Hopeless amid the universe.

Long years! oh! how your shadows pressMy brow in very weariness:Here! here ye stretch and ever gloomLike funeral-foliage of the tomb,Whose leaves—the favorites of painMust ever life from sorrow gain.Long years! long years! I feel againYour star-eyed hopes around me glowBright as the plumage of a trainOf pilgrim-angels furled below.

Long years! oh! how your shadows press

My brow in very weariness:

Here! here ye stretch and ever gloom

Like funeral-foliage of the tomb,

Whose leaves—the favorites of pain

Must ever life from sorrow gain.

Long years! long years! I feel again

Your star-eyed hopes around me glow

Bright as the plumage of a train

Of pilgrim-angels furled below.

We are together: Ila, seeThe light of heaven’s own heraldry⁠—And hark!—the evening breeze is here;His silver lips no longer mute,⁠—He breathes—a minstrel-worshipper⁠—An avè from his leafy lute:Shall we not join him? Dearest, pressThy lip to mine, while, as of old,We hear with love’s sweet tendernessThat glorious vesper music rolled.We are together in those bowersGlad as the rosy-footed hoursAnd all as pure.—I see her nowA creature less of earth than skies,With day’s pure sunshine on her browAnd heaven’s own midnight in her eyes.And thus we trod the path of life,Without nor cloud, nor grief, nor strife⁠—Like pensile stars whose golden lightMeets on the sable bridge of nightAnd glows with such a wedded beamIn calm or stormy weather,That men when looking upwards deemThey are but one, for thus they seem,So close they shine together.

We are together: Ila, see

The light of heaven’s own heraldry⁠—

And hark!—the evening breeze is here;

His silver lips no longer mute,⁠—

He breathes—a minstrel-worshipper⁠—

An avè from his leafy lute:

Shall we not join him? Dearest, press

Thy lip to mine, while, as of old,

We hear with love’s sweet tenderness

That glorious vesper music rolled.

We are together in those bowers

Glad as the rosy-footed hours

And all as pure.—I see her now

A creature less of earth than skies,

With day’s pure sunshine on her brow

And heaven’s own midnight in her eyes.

And thus we trod the path of life,

Without nor cloud, nor grief, nor strife⁠—

Like pensile stars whose golden light

Meets on the sable bridge of night

And glows with such a wedded beam

In calm or stormy weather,

That men when looking upwards deem

They are but one, for thus they seem,

So close they shine together.

Ha! whence this change? My Ila! whyThat icy mien and tearful eye?No more for me thou cullest the flow’r;⁠—No more with me thou seekest the bow’r;⁠—No more thy sweet lips press my own;⁠—No more thy warm hands link with mine,When Daylight, stooping from his throne,Has furl’d his wing by evening’s shrine.

Ha! whence this change? My Ila! why

That icy mien and tearful eye?

No more for me thou cullest the flow’r;⁠—

No more with me thou seekest the bow’r;⁠—

No more thy sweet lips press my own;⁠—

No more thy warm hands link with mine,

When Daylight, stooping from his throne,

Has furl’d his wing by evening’s shrine.

She answered not! yet sorrow thereHas held a bridal with despair,And pale her cheek as if with woWhich none but she must ever know.In vain I questioned—her replyA sad reproachfulness of eye,So firm yet tender in its look,It ever, sorrowing, seemed to say“Why torture me!”—I could not brookSuch gaze, but gladly turned away,Leaving my Ila to her moodIn our old castle’s solitude.Days rolled away!—And who art thouWith princely step and lofty brow?What dost thou here within our halls,Sir knight! unwelcome to these walls?Days roll’d away!—I sought my sire;He met me but with glance of ire,And freezing mystery of air,Which seemed to say—“Ila?—beware!”And then he cried, “away! away!Mad boy, she weds the knight to-day!”I spoke not; slowly round me cameA wavering sheet of cloud and flame,Which seem’d to sear my very brain:How long ’twas thus I cannot say,Nor when I woke to life again.They called me mad: I heard the chainClanking around my limbs, and nearThe hum of voices meet my ear,And eyes amid the darkness shoneSo bright, so angry and so lone⁠—Methought they were the eyes of thoseWhom men have named their demon-foes,Drawing a life from human woes.Yes! I was mad, and in my strengthI spurned the dungeon’s hated ground,Hurled from my limbs the chain, at length,And thus my birth-right freedom found.I saw the glorious stars again⁠—Once more I gazed upon the mainWhose billows e’en in boyhood wereMy playmates, when their crested formsRushed up like ministers of FearAmid their temple of the storms.Once more I heard the Ocean’s shockAgainst the castellated rock;And saw, oh! gallant, blessed sight!My barque along the heaving tide,Like lover resting through the nightUpon the bosom of his bride.The sail’s unfurl’d! How free! How brave!On! on my vessel, o’er the wave!The night-winds kiss thee, as in joyTo meet once more their ocean-boy.Oh! I had loved thee, glorious sea,And oft thy waters laved my brow,But never have I gazed on theeWith such a bounding heart as now.Roll on! Roll on! thy dark blue foamShall henceforth be to me a home.For days I skimmed the ocean blue,And deeper still my gladness grew;And oft my joy was uttered outTo heaven in that delirious shoutWhich only he can swell whose lifeIs passed amid the ocean’s strife.And others soon around me came;And men soon shook before my name.What trophies glittered on our deck,How foemen sank with many a wreck,Let that old ocean’s caverns tell,⁠—In sooth our spirits loved them well⁠—They lay beneath us like a spell.

She answered not! yet sorrow there

Has held a bridal with despair,

And pale her cheek as if with wo

Which none but she must ever know.

In vain I questioned—her reply

A sad reproachfulness of eye,

So firm yet tender in its look,

It ever, sorrowing, seemed to say

“Why torture me!”—I could not brook

Such gaze, but gladly turned away,

Leaving my Ila to her mood

In our old castle’s solitude.

Days rolled away!—And who art thou

With princely step and lofty brow?

What dost thou here within our halls,

Sir knight! unwelcome to these walls?

Days roll’d away!—I sought my sire;

He met me but with glance of ire,

And freezing mystery of air,

Which seemed to say—“Ila?—beware!”

And then he cried, “away! away!

Mad boy, she weds the knight to-day!”

I spoke not; slowly round me came

A wavering sheet of cloud and flame,

Which seem’d to sear my very brain:

How long ’twas thus I cannot say,

Nor when I woke to life again.

They called me mad: I heard the chain

Clanking around my limbs, and near

The hum of voices meet my ear,

And eyes amid the darkness shone

So bright, so angry and so lone⁠—

Methought they were the eyes of those

Whom men have named their demon-foes,

Drawing a life from human woes.

Yes! I was mad, and in my strength

I spurned the dungeon’s hated ground,

Hurled from my limbs the chain, at length,

And thus my birth-right freedom found.

I saw the glorious stars again⁠—

Once more I gazed upon the main

Whose billows e’en in boyhood were

My playmates, when their crested forms

Rushed up like ministers of Fear

Amid their temple of the storms.

Once more I heard the Ocean’s shock

Against the castellated rock;

And saw, oh! gallant, blessed sight!

My barque along the heaving tide,

Like lover resting through the night

Upon the bosom of his bride.

The sail’s unfurl’d! How free! How brave!

On! on my vessel, o’er the wave!

The night-winds kiss thee, as in joy

To meet once more their ocean-boy.

Oh! I had loved thee, glorious sea,

And oft thy waters laved my brow,

But never have I gazed on thee

With such a bounding heart as now.

Roll on! Roll on! thy dark blue foam

Shall henceforth be to me a home.

For days I skimmed the ocean blue,

And deeper still my gladness grew;

And oft my joy was uttered out

To heaven in that delirious shout

Which only he can swell whose life

Is passed amid the ocean’s strife.

And others soon around me came;

And men soon shook before my name.

What trophies glittered on our deck,

How foemen sank with many a wreck,

Let that old ocean’s caverns tell,⁠—

In sooth our spirits loved them well⁠—

They lay beneath us like a spell.

A sail! How looks she in the dark?“Bravely! She is a royal barque!”Give thanks! Hurrah! I ween the waveBefore the morn shall be her grave!Out with the guns!—“Ho, sir! she veers!⁠—Again! again! Hurrah! she nears!”She came so nigh, that we could seeThe pilot’s lonely ministry.Sudden as lightning from its lairFire glowed around her deck;⁠—Ha! ship, that rode so proudly there⁠—Thou art a very wreck!Once more the frowning guns were out;Their thunder told in shriek and shout!“The barque’s on fire!”—with one wild cry!That pierced the very wave and sky,Her crew leaped in the tide;But as she heavily floated by⁠—Oh! God what met my startled eye?The chieftain and his bride!Yes, he and Ila shrined in flameWere wildly calling on my name:⁠—At one mad bound I cleared my deck,And stood upon that burning wreck:Through flame and smoke I fearless flew!A moment—I have reached the two!I grasped him! and the lurid waveRevenged me well—it was his grave.I bore her in my arms—the smokeAnd flame in vain around me broke⁠,—I felt them curling o’er my brow,As fierce they swept from stern to plow;⁠—I struggled on!—one effort more⁠—I leaped upon my vessel’s side!Thank God! the final strife was o’er,And I had won my ocean-bride!In one dread shock the crackling mastCame thundering down beneath the blast:⁠—The flaming wreck slow drives away⁠—Dim and more dim we marked the ray;And now unloosing every sail⁠—We feel our vessel, like a steedGladdening to serve his rider’s need,Dart out before the gale.

A sail! How looks she in the dark?

“Bravely! She is a royal barque!”

Give thanks! Hurrah! I ween the wave

Before the morn shall be her grave!

Out with the guns!—“Ho, sir! she veers!⁠—

Again! again! Hurrah! she nears!”

She came so nigh, that we could see

The pilot’s lonely ministry.

Sudden as lightning from its lair

Fire glowed around her deck;⁠—

Ha! ship, that rode so proudly there⁠—

Thou art a very wreck!

Once more the frowning guns were out;

Their thunder told in shriek and shout!

“The barque’s on fire!”—with one wild cry!

That pierced the very wave and sky,

Her crew leaped in the tide;

But as she heavily floated by⁠—

Oh! God what met my startled eye?

The chieftain and his bride!

Yes, he and Ila shrined in flame

Were wildly calling on my name:⁠—

At one mad bound I cleared my deck,

And stood upon that burning wreck:

Through flame and smoke I fearless flew!

A moment—I have reached the two!

I grasped him! and the lurid wave

Revenged me well—it was his grave.

I bore her in my arms—the smoke

And flame in vain around me broke⁠,—

I felt them curling o’er my brow,

As fierce they swept from stern to plow;⁠—

I struggled on!—one effort more⁠—

I leaped upon my vessel’s side!

Thank God! the final strife was o’er,

And I had won my ocean-bride!

In one dread shock the crackling mast

Came thundering down beneath the blast:⁠—

The flaming wreck slow drives away⁠—

Dim and more dim we marked the ray;

And now unloosing every sail⁠—

We feel our vessel, like a steed

Gladdening to serve his rider’s need,

Dart out before the gale.

Slowly the thrill of feeling cameAlong my Ila’s pallid frame;I marked the rising crimson swellUpon the cheek I loved too well,And heard, how joyously! the sighWhich told me that she could not die,At least not then:—she rose at last;One piercing look around she cast,And shrieked!—her memory, ah! too soonHad lighted up those scenes of old,When I, beneath far different moonThan that which brightly rose aboon,My love so passionately told.She spake not still; but day by dayI saw her calmly sink awayLike some sweet flower or rainbow-formWhose life is withered by the storm.But when I saw her pallid lipsDarkling beneath the death-eclipse,She waved me to her side and said⁠—I cannot speak her words—the deadWould stir within their very tombTo hear such tale!—Enough! she died,And I beheld in that sea-roomA sister in my ocean-bride.Oh! how I blessed the God above,That she went down unsoiled by loveWhose reckless and unholy fireSprings from the heart of low desire.My sire had framed a cunning tale—To shroud his crime, and this the baal!He brought her to our castle’s hall⁠—Saying she was a homeless child,Whom he had found beneath the wallIn all her orphan-freedom wild.Of that she told me, on the dayShe died, thus much I dared to say.

Slowly the thrill of feeling came

Along my Ila’s pallid frame;

I marked the rising crimson swell

Upon the cheek I loved too well,

And heard, how joyously! the sigh

Which told me that she could not die,

At least not then:—she rose at last;

One piercing look around she cast,

And shrieked!—her memory, ah! too soon

Had lighted up those scenes of old,

When I, beneath far different moon

Than that which brightly rose aboon,

My love so passionately told.

She spake not still; but day by day

I saw her calmly sink away

Like some sweet flower or rainbow-form

Whose life is withered by the storm.

But when I saw her pallid lips

Darkling beneath the death-eclipse,

She waved me to her side and said⁠—

I cannot speak her words—the dead

Would stir within their very tomb

To hear such tale!—Enough! she died,

And I beheld in that sea-room

A sister in my ocean-bride.

Oh! how I blessed the God above,

That she went down unsoiled by love

Whose reckless and unholy fire

Springs from the heart of low desire.

My sire had framed a cunning tale

—To shroud his crime, and this the baal!

He brought her to our castle’s hall⁠—

Saying she was a homeless child,

Whom he had found beneath the wall

In all her orphan-freedom wild.

Of that she told me, on the day

She died, thus much I dared to say.

And Ila sleeps within the wave,And round her peaceful ocean-tombThe pale flowers of the coral-graveIn all their quiet beauty bloom.Sleep on! sleep on in that deep rest⁠—Thou of the stainless brow and breast,⁠—Oh! holy as the stars that shineIn all their seraph splendor set,Like torches of a templed-shrineIn midnight’s azure coronet.She was avenged! That very hourIn which the tide received her form,The deep-blue sky began to lourBeneath the scowling of the storm;And soon the thunder, vast and dark,Shook his red arm above our barque,Whose deck deserted—sails all rentAnd loose around the shivered mast,Like reeling clouds were blindly sentBefore the fury of the blast.“The boats! the boats!”They’re riding wellAlong that billow’s crested swell.“Save! save yourselves,” I sternly cried,Undaunted on the plunging deck,“I go to seek my ocean-bride,But comrades ye must leave the wreck!”An instant—they were safe! and IAlone stood challenging the skyAnd rolling waves.With fearless formI dared the spirit of the storm:His red lips answered me—the flameLeaped burning through my blackened frame!—And I was here.—“No more! No more!”He cried, “that agony was o’er:⁠—But this!”He darkly gazed around,Then quivering sank upon the ground;And Lorro on his dread distressGazed sorrowing—mute and motionless.

And Ila sleeps within the wave,

And round her peaceful ocean-tomb

The pale flowers of the coral-grave

In all their quiet beauty bloom.

Sleep on! sleep on in that deep rest⁠—

Thou of the stainless brow and breast,⁠—

Oh! holy as the stars that shine

In all their seraph splendor set,

Like torches of a templed-shrine

In midnight’s azure coronet.

She was avenged! That very hour

In which the tide received her form,

The deep-blue sky began to lour

Beneath the scowling of the storm;

And soon the thunder, vast and dark,

Shook his red arm above our barque,

Whose deck deserted—sails all rent

And loose around the shivered mast,

Like reeling clouds were blindly sent

Before the fury of the blast.

“The boats! the boats!”

They’re riding well

Along that billow’s crested swell.

“Save! save yourselves,” I sternly cried,

Undaunted on the plunging deck,

“I go to seek my ocean-bride,

But comrades ye must leave the wreck!”

An instant—they were safe! and I

Alone stood challenging the sky

And rolling waves.

With fearless form

I dared the spirit of the storm:

His red lips answered me—the flame

Leaped burning through my blackened frame!—

And I was here.—

“No more! No more!”

He cried, “that agony was o’er:⁠—

But this!”

He darkly gazed around,

Then quivering sank upon the ground;

And Lorro on his dread distress

Gazed sorrowing—mute and motionless.

The tempest with his train has fled,And yet no moon hath lit her fire;Nought lights the darkness, deep and dread,Save that dim-burning Vulcan-pyre.With its drear, wavering, ghastly light,Still heavier than the heavy night:Most terrible!The task is done!How gladly mounts the trembling soul,Like light returning to its sun,When Heaven’s own streams of glory roll!Joy, spirit! joy! I’ve broke the spell;Land of the lost! dread land, farewell.

The tempest with his train has fled,

And yet no moon hath lit her fire;

Nought lights the darkness, deep and dread,

Save that dim-burning Vulcan-pyre.

With its drear, wavering, ghastly light,

Still heavier than the heavy night:

Most terrible!

The task is done!

How gladly mounts the trembling soul,

Like light returning to its sun,

When Heaven’s own streams of glory roll!

Joy, spirit! joy! I’ve broke the spell;

Land of the lost! dread land, farewell.

——

Soulof that shadowy realm, where TimeHath thrown his last-expiring wave,When the Immortal glooms sublimeAnd terrible above the grave,⁠—Dread image o’er whose phantasm weHave hung a shroud of mystery,And then for countless ages shookBefore its dark, eternal look.Bold scorner of the groan or tear⁠—Swaying between the star and storm⁠—Thou art a mighty thing of fear,Yet glory crowns thy mystic form.Vast, potent, melancholy, dim,Past ruler of the cherubim,And king-like in thy ruin still,Thou livest despite of sleepless ill.Oh! once all splendid in that time,Ere thy great banners were unfurl’dLike thunder flashes in the climeFrom which the rebel hosts were hurl’d,How art thou fallen—fallen now!⁠—The burning seal upon thy browWhich towered in its own glory bright⁠—A mighty pyramid of light.And battling still? Thine essence gleamsLike the dim flashing of a cloud;Oh! how unlike its heavenly beamsEre sin that angel-beauty bowed,And changed thee to a giant curseBreathed through the shuddering universe⁠—A deathless, hopeless agony⁠—An aching immortality.

Soulof that shadowy realm, where Time

Hath thrown his last-expiring wave,

When the Immortal glooms sublime

And terrible above the grave,⁠—

Dread image o’er whose phantasm we

Have hung a shroud of mystery,

And then for countless ages shook

Before its dark, eternal look.

Bold scorner of the groan or tear⁠—

Swaying between the star and storm⁠—

Thou art a mighty thing of fear,

Yet glory crowns thy mystic form.

Vast, potent, melancholy, dim,

Past ruler of the cherubim,

And king-like in thy ruin still,

Thou livest despite of sleepless ill.

Oh! once all splendid in that time,

Ere thy great banners were unfurl’d

Like thunder flashes in the clime

From which the rebel hosts were hurl’d,

How art thou fallen—fallen now!⁠—

The burning seal upon thy brow

Which towered in its own glory bright⁠—

A mighty pyramid of light.

And battling still? Thine essence gleams

Like the dim flashing of a cloud;

Oh! how unlike its heavenly beams

Ere sin that angel-beauty bowed,

And changed thee to a giant curse

Breathed through the shuddering universe⁠—

A deathless, hopeless agony⁠—

An aching immortality.

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