See, before us, in our journey, broods a mist upon the ground;Thither leads the path we walk in, blending with that gloomy bound.Never eye hath pierced its shadows to the mystery they screen;Those who once have passed within it never more on earth are seen.Now it seems to stoop beside us, now at seeming distance lowers,Leaving banks that tempt us onward bright with summer-green and flowers.Yet it blots the way forever; there our journey ends at last;Into that dark cloud we enter, and are gathered to the past.Thou who, in this flinty pathway, leading through a stranger-land,Passest down the rocky valley, walking with me hand in hand,Which of us shall be the soonest folded to that dim Unknown?Which shall leave the other walking in this flinty path alone?Even now I see thee shudder, and thy cheek is white with fear,And thou clingest to my side as comes that darkness sweeping near."Here," thou sayst, "the path is rugged, sown with thorns that wound the feet;But the sheltered glens are lovely, and the rivulet's song is sweet;Roses breathe from tangled thickets; lilies bend from ledges brown;Pleasantly between the pelting showers the sunshine gushes down;Dear are those who walk beside us, they whose looks and voices makeAll this rugged region cheerful, till I love it for their sake.Far be yet the hour that takes me where that chilly shadow lies,From the things I know and love, and from the sight of loving eyes!"So thou murmurest, fearful one; but see, we tread a rougher way;Fainter glow the gleams of sunshine that upon the dark rocks play;Rude winds strew the faded flowers upon the crags o'er which we pass;Banks of verdure, when we reach them, hiss with tufts of withered grass.One by one we miss the voices which we loved so well to hear;One by one the kindly faces in that shadow disappear.Yet upon the mist before us fix thine eyes with closer view;See, beneath its sullen skirts, the rosy morning glimmers through.One whose feet the thorns have wounded passed that barrier and came back,With a glory on His footsteps lighting yet the dreary track.Boldly enter where He entered; all that seems but darkness here,When thou once hast passed beyond it, haply shall be crystal-clear.Viewed from that serener realm, the walks of human life may lie,Like the page of some familiar volume, open to thine eye;Haply, from the o'erhanging shadow, thou mayst stretch an unseen hand,To support the wavering steps that print with blood the rugged land.Haply, leaning o'er the pilgrim, all unweeting thou art near,Thou mayst whisper words of warning or of comfort in his earTill, beyond the border where that brooding mystery bars the sight,Those whom thou hast fondly cherished stand with thee in peace and light.
The moon is at her full, and, riding high,Floods the calm fields with light;The airs that hover in the summer-skyAre all asleep to-night.There comes no voice from the great woodlands roundThat murmured all the day;Beneath the shadow of their boughs the groundIs not more still than they.But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep;His rising tides I hear,Afar I see the glimmering billows leap;I see them breaking near.Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fairPure light that sits on high—Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to whereThe mother-waters lie.Upward again it swells; the moonbeams showAgain its glimmering crest;Again it feels the fatal weight below,And sinks, but not to rest.Again and yet again; until the DeepRecalls his brood of waves;And, with a sullen moan, abashed, they creepBack to his inner caves.Brief respite! they shall rush from that recessWith noise and tumult soon,And fling themselves, with unavailing stress,Up toward the placid moon.O restless Sea, that, in thy prison here,Dost struggle and complain;Through the slow centuries yearning to be nearTo that fair orb in vain;The glorious source of light and heat must warmThy billows from on high,And change them to the cloudy trains that formThe curtain of the sky.Then only may they leave the waste of brineIn which they welter here,And rise above the hills of earth, and shineIn a serener sphere.
Voices from the mountains speak,Apennines to Alps reply;Vale to vale and peak to peakToss an old-remembered cry:"ItalyShall be free!"Such the mighty shout that fillsAll the passes of her hills.All the old Italian lakesQuiver at that quickening word;Como with a thrill awakes;Garda to her depths is stirred;Mid the steepsWhere he sleeps,Dreaming of the elder years,Startled Thrasymenus hears.Sweeping Arno, swelling Po,Murmur freedom to their meads.Tiber swift and Liris slowSend strange whispers from their reeds."ItalyShall be free!"Sing the glittering brooks that slide,Toward the sea, from Etna's side.Long ago was Gracchus slain;Brutus perished long ago;Yet the living roots remainWhence the shoots of greatness grow;Yet again,Godlike men,Sprung from that heroic stem,Call the land to rise with them.They who haunt the swarming street,They who chase the mountain-boar,Or, where cliff and billow meet,Prune the vine or pull the oar,With a strokeBreak their yoke;Slaves but yestereve were they—Freemen with the dawning day.Looking in his children's eyes,While his own with gladness flash,"These," the Umbrian father cries,"Ne'er shall crouch beneath the lash!These shall ne'erBrook to wearChains whose cruel links are twinedRound the crushed and withering mind."Monarchs! ye whose armies standHarnessed for the battle-field!Pause, and from the lifted handDrop the bolts of war ye wield.Stand aloofWhile the proofOf the people's might is given;Leave their kings to them and Heaven!Stand aloof, and see the oppressedChase the oppressor, pale with fear,As the fresh winds of the westBlow the misty valleys clear.Stand and seeItalyCast the gyves she wears no moreTo the gulfs that steep her shore.
A day-dream by the dark-blue deep;Was it a dream, or something more?I sat where Posilippo's steep,With its gray shelves, o'erhung the shore.On ruined Roman walls aroundThe poppy flaunted, for 'twas May;And at my feet, with gentle sound,Broke the light billows of the bay.I sat and watched the eternal flowOf those smooth billows toward the shore,While quivering lines of light belowRan with them on the ocean-floor:Till, from the deep, there seemed to riseWhite arms upon the waves outspread,Young faces, lit with soft blue eyes,And smooth, round cheeks, just touched with red.Their long, fair tresses, tinged with gold,Lay floating on the ocean-streams,And such their brows as bards behold—Love-stricken bards—in morning dreams.Then moved their coral lips; a strainLow, sweet and sorrowful, I heard,As if the murmurs of the mainWere shaped to syllable and word."The sight thou dimly dost behold,Oh, stranger from a distant sky!Was often, in the days of old,Seen by the clear, believing eye."Then danced we on the wrinkled sand,Sat in cool caverns by the sea,Or wandered up the bloomy land,To talk with shepherds on the lea."To us, in storms, the seaman prayed,And where our rustic altars stood,His little children came and laidThe fairest flowers of field and wood."Oh woe, a long, unending woe!For who shall knit the ties againThat linked the sea-nymphs, long ago,In kindly fellowship with men?"Earth rears her flowers for us no more;A half-remembered dream are we;Unseen we haunt the sunny shore,And swim, unmarked, the glassy sea."And we have none to love or aid,But wander, heedless of mankind,With shadows by the cloud-rack made,With moaning wave and sighing wind."Yet sometimes, as in elder days,We come before the painter's eye,Or fix the sculptor's eager gaze,With no profaner witness nigh."And then the words of men grow warmWith praise and wonder, asking whereThe artist saw the perfect formHe copied forth in lines so fair."As thus they spoke, with wavering sweepFloated the graceful forms away;Dimmer and dimmer, through the deep,I saw the white arms gleam and play.Fainter and fainter, on mine ear,Fell the soft accents of their speech,Till I, at last, could only hearThe waves run murmuring up the beach.
FROM THE SPANISH OF RIOJA.
I.
Fabius, this region, desolate and drear,These solitary fields, this shapeless mound,Were once Italica, the far-renowned;For Scipio, the mighty, planted hereHis conquering colony, and now, o'erthrown,Lie its once-dreaded walls of massive stone,Sad relics, sad and vain,Of those invincible menWho held the region then.Funereal memories alone remainWhere forms of high example walked of yore.Here lay the forum, there arose the fane—The eye beholds their places, and no more.Their proud gymnasium and their sumptuous bathsResolved to dust and cinders, strew the paths;Their towers, that looked defiance at the sky,Fallen by their own vast weight, in fragments lie.
II.
This broken circus, where the rock-weeds climb,Flaunting with yellow blossoms, and defyThe gods to whom its walls were piled so high,Is now a tragic theatre, where TimeActs his great fable, spreads a stage that showsPast grandeur's story and its dreary close.Why, round this desert pit,Shout not the applauding rowsWhere the great people sit?Wild beasts are here, but where the combatant;With his bare arms, the strong athleta where?All have departed from this once gay hauntOf noisy crowds, and silence holds the air.Yet, on this spot, Time gives us to beholdA spectacle as stern as those of old.As dreamily I gaze, there seem to rise,From all the mighty ruin, wailing cries.
III.
The terrible in war, the pride of Spain,Trajan, his country's father, here was born;Good, fortunate, triumphant, to whose reignSubmitted the far regions, where the mornRose from her cradle, and the shore whose steepsO'erlooked the conquered Gaditanian deeps.Of mighty Adrian here,Of Theodosius, saint,Of Silius, Virgil's peer,Were rocked the cradles, rich with gold, and quaintWith ivory carvings; here were laurel-boughsAnd sprays of jasmine gathered for their brows,From gardens now a marshy, thorny waste.Where rose the palace, reared for Cæsar, yawnFoul rifts to which the scudding lizards haste.Palaces, gardens, Cæsars, all are gone,And even the stones their names were graven on.
IV.
Fabius, if tears prevent thee not, surveyThe long-dismantled streets, so thronged of old,The broken marbles, arches in decay,Proud statues, toppled from their place and rolledIn dust, when Nemesis, the avenger, came,And buried, in forgetfulness profound,The owners and their fame.Thus Troy, I deem, must be,With many a mouldering mound;And thou, whose name alone remains to thee,Rome, of old gods and kings the native ground;And thou, sage Athens, built by Pallas, whomJust laws redeemed not from the appointed doom.The envy of earth's cities once wert thou—A weary solitude and ashes now!For Fate and Death respect ye not; they strikeThe mighty city and the wise alike.
V.
But why goes forth the wandering thought to frameNew themes of sorrow, sought in distant lands?Enough the example that before me stands;For here are smoke-wreaths seen, and glimmering flame,And hoarse lamentings on the breezes die;So doth the mighty ruin cast its spellOn those who near it dwell.And under night's still sky,As awe-struck peasants tell,A melancholy voice is heard to cry,"Italica is fallen!" the echoes thenMournfully shout "Italica" again.The leafy alleys of the forest nighMurmur "Italica," and all around,A troop of mighty shadows, at the soundOf that illustrious name, repeat the call,"Italica!" from ruined tower and wall.
Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by,Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea,I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight,A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more,And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.Behold, the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now,There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow;His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hourOf human strength and action, man's courage and his power.I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day,And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throwsA look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,Moves mournfully away from amid the young and fair.O glory of our race that so suddenly decays!O crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!O breath of summer blossoms that on the restless airScatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not where!I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn;But still the sun shines round me: the evening bird sings on,And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate,In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out,The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.O frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strowsIts fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!So come from every region, so enter, side by side,The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride.Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray,And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eyeOf Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die.I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart,Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.
Oh country, marvel of the earth!Oh realm to sudden greatness grown!The age that gloried in thy birth,Shall it behold thee overthrown?Shall traitors lay that greatness low?No, land of Hope and Blessing, No!And we, who wear thy glorious name,Shall we, like cravens, stand apart,When those whom thou hast trusted aimThe death-blow at thy generous heart?Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo!Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No!And they who founded, in our land,The power that rules from sea to sea,Bled they in vain, or vainly plannedTo leave their country great and free?Their sleeping ashes, from below,Send up the thrilling murmur, No!Knit they the gentle ties which longThese sister States were proud to wear,And forged the kindly links so strongFor idle hands in sport to tear?For scornful hands aside to throw?No, by our fathers' memory, No!Our humming marts, our iron ways,Our wind-tossed woods on mountain-crest,The hoarse Atlantic, with its bays,The calm, broad Ocean of the West,And Mississippi's torrent-flow,And loud Niagara, answer, No!Not yet the hour is nigh when theyWho deep in Eld's dim twilight sit,Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say,"Proud country, welcome to the pit!So soon art thou, like us, brought low!"No, sullen group of shadows, No!For now, behold, the arm that gaveThe victory in our fathers' day,Strong, as of old, to guard and save—That mighty arm which none can stay—On clouds above and fields below,Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No!
July, 1861.
Lay down the axe; fling by the spade;Leave in its track the toiling plough;The rifle and the bayonet-bladeFor arms like yours were fitter now;And let the hands that ply the penQuit the light task, and learn to wieldThe horseman's crooked brand, and reinThe charger on the battle-field.Our country calls; away! away!To where the blood-stream blots the green.Strike to defend the gentlest swayThat Time in all his course has seen.See, from a thousand coverts—see,Spring the armed foes that haunt her track;They rush to smite her down, and weMust beat the banded traitors back.Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave,And moved as soon to fear and flight,Men of the glade and forest! leaveYour woodcraft for the field of fight.The arms that wield the axe must pourAn iron tempest on the foe;His serried ranks shall reel beforeThe arm that lays the panther low.And ye, who breast the mountain-stormBy grassy steep or highland lake,Come, for the land ye love, to formA bulwark that no foe can break.Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mockThe whirlwind, stand in her defence;The blast as soon shall move the rockAs rushing squadrons bear ye thence.And ye, whose homes are by her grandSwift rivers, rising far away,Come from the depth of her green land,As mighty in your march as they;As terrible as when the rainsHave swelled them over bank and bourneWith sudden floods to drown the plainsAnd sweep along the woods uptorn.And ye, who throng, beside the deep,Her ports and hamlets of the strand,In number like the waves that leapOn his long-murmuring marge of sand—Come like that deep, when, o'er his brim,He rises, all his floods to pour,And flings the proudest barks that swim,A helpless wreck, against the shore!Few, few were they whose swords of oldWon the fair land in which we dwell;But we are many, we who holdThe grim resolve to guard it well.Strike, for that broad and goodly land,Blow after blow, till men shall seeThat Might and Right move hand in hand,And glorious must their triumph be!
September, 1861.
O Constellations of the early night,That sparkled brighter as the twilight died,And made the darkness glorious! I have seenYour rays grow dim upon the horizon's edge,And sink behind the mountains. I have seenThe great Orion, with his jewelled belt,That large-limbed warrior of the skies, go downInto the gloom. Beside him sank a crowdOf shining ones. I look in vain to findThe group of sister-stars, which mothers loveTo show their wondering babes, the gentle Seven.Along the desert space mine eyes in vainSeek the resplendent cressets which the TwinsUplifted in their ever-youthful hands.The streaming tresses of the Egyptian QueenSpangle the heavens no more. The Virgin trailsNo more her glittering garments through the blue.Gone! all are gone! and the forsaken Night,With all her winds, in all her dreary wastes,Sighs that they shine upon her face no moreNow only here and there a little starLooks forth alone. Ah me! I know them not,Those dim successors of the numberless hostThat filled the heavenly fields, and flung to earthTheir quivering fires. And now the middle watchBetwixt the eve and morn is past, and stillThe darkness gains upon the sky, and stillIt closes round my way. Shall, then, the NightGrow starless in her later hours? Have theseNo train of flaming watchers, that shall markTheir coming and farewell? O Sons of Light!Have ye then left me ere the dawn of dayTo grope along my journey sad and faint?Thus I complained, and from the darkness roundA voice replied—was it indeed a voice,Or seeming accents of a waking dreamHeard by the inner ear? But thus it said:O Traveller of the Night! thine eyes are dimWith watching; and the mists, that chill the valeDown which thy feet are passing, hide from viewThe ever-burning stars. It is thy sightThat is so dark, and not the heavens. Thine eyes,Were they but clear, would see a fiery hostAbove thee; Hercules, with flashing mace,The Lyre with silver chords, the Swan uppoisedOn gleaming wings, the Dolphin gliding onWith glistening scales, and that poetic steed,With beamy mane, whose hoof struck out from earthThe fount of Hippocrene, and many more,Fair clustered splendors, with whose rays the NightShall close her march in glory, ere she yield,To the young Day, the great earth steeped in dew.So spake the monitor, and I perceivedHow vain were my repinings, and my thoughtWent backward to the vanished years and allThe good and great who came and passed with them,And knew that ever would the years to comeBring with them, in their course, the good and great,Lights of the world, though, to my clouded sight,Their rays might seem but dim, or reach me not.
Softly breathes the west-wind beside the ruddy forest,Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies.Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November,Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies.Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows,Spared the potted flowers that the old world gave the new.Spared the autumn-rose and the garden's group of pansies,Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue.On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered;Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee,Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside themDrops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson,Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green.Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealingWith the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me;Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here;Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me,Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year!Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are withered;Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast—When, upon the hillside, all hardened into iron,Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast.Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longerWith delight on Nature, or hope on human kind;Oh, may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me,Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mind!
Lord, who ordainest for mankindBenignant toils and tender cares!We thank Thee for the ties that bindThe mother to the child she bears.We thank Thee for the hopes that rise,Within her heart, as, day by day,The dawning soul, from those young eyes,Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray.And grateful for the blessing givenWith that dear infant on her knee,She trains the eye to look to heaven,The voice to lisp a prayer to Thee.Such thanks the blessed Mary gave,When, from her lap, the Holy Child,Sent from on high to seek and saveThe lost of earth, looked up and smiled.All-Gracious! grant, to those that bearA mother's charge, the strength and lightTo lead the steps that own their careIn ways of Love, and Truth, and Right.
Hear now a legend of the days of old—The days when there were goodly marvels yet,When man to man gave willing faith, and lovedA tale the better that 'twas wild and strange.Beside a pleasant dwelling ran a brookScudding along a narrow channel, pavedWith green and yellow pebbles; yet full clearIts waters were, and colorless and cool,As fresh from granite rocks. A maiden oftStood at the open window, leaning out,And listening to the sound the water made,A sweet, eternal murmur, still the same,And not the same; and oft, as spring came on,She gathered violets from its fresh moist bank,To place within her bower, and when the herbsOf summer drooped beneath the mid-day sun,She sat within the shade of a great rock,Dreamily listening to the streamlet's song.Ripe were the maiden's years; her stature showedWomanly beauty, and her clear, calm eyeWas bright with venturous spirit, yet her faceWas passionless, like those by sculptor gravedFor niches in a temple. Lovers oftHad wooed her, but she only laughed at love,And wondered at the silly things they said.'Twas her delight to wander where wild-vinesO'erhang the river's brim, to climb the pathOf woodland streamlet to its mountain-springs,To sit by gleaming wells and mark belowThe image of the rushes on its edge,And, deep beyond, the trailing clouds that slidAcross the fair blue space. No little fountStole forth from hanging rock, or in the sideOf hollow dell, or under roots of oak;No rill came trickling, with a stripe of green,Down the bare hill, that to this maiden's eyeWas not familiar. Often did the banksOf river or of sylvan lakelet hearThe dip of oars with which the maiden rowedHer shallop, pushing ever from the prowA crowd of long, light ripples toward the shore.Two brothers had the maiden, and she thought,Within herself: "I would I were like them;For then I might go forth alone, to traceThe mighty rivers downward to the sea,And upward to the brooks that, through the year,Prattle to the cool valleys. I would knowWhat races drink their waters; how their chiefsBear rule, and how men worship there, and howThey build, and to what quaint device they frame,Where sea and river meet, their stately ships;What flowers are in their gardens, and what treesBear fruit within their orchards; in what garbTheir bowmen meet on holidays, and howTheir maidens bind the waist and braid the hair.Here, on these hills, my father's house o'erlooksBroad pastures grazed by flocks and herds, but thereI hear they sprinkle the great plains with cornAnd watch its springing up, and when the greenIs changed to gold, they cut the stems and bringThe harvest in, and give the nations bread.And there they hew the quarry into shafts,And pile up glorious temples from the rock,And chisel the rude stones to shapes of men.All this I pine to see, and would have seen,But that I am a woman, long ago."Thus in her wanderings did the maiden dream,Until, at length, one morn in early spring,When all the glistening fields lay white with frost,She came half breathless where her mother sat:"See, mother dear," she said, "what I have found,Upon our rivulet's bank; two slippers, whiteAs the midwinter snow, and spangled o'erWith twinkling points, like stars, and on the edgeMy name is wrought in silver; read, I pray,Sella, the name thy mother, now in heaven,Gave at my birth; and sure, they fit my feet!""A dainty pair," the prudent matron said,"But thine they are not. We must lay them byFor those whose careless hands have left them here;Or haply they were placed beside the brookTo be a snare. I cannot see thy nameUpon the border—only charactersOf mystic look and dim are there, like signsOf some strange art; nay, daughter, wear them not."Then Sella hung the slippers in the porchOf that broad rustic lodge, and all who passedAdmired their fair contexture, but none knewWho left them by the brook. And now, at length,May, with her flowers and singing birds, had gone,And on bright streams and into deep wells shoneThe high, midsummer sun. One day, at noon,Sella was missed from the accustomed meal.They sought her in her favorite haunts, they lookedBy the great rock and far along the stream,And shouted in the sounding woods her name.Night came, and forth the sorrowing household wentWith torches over the wide pasture-grounds,To pool and thicket, marsh and briery dell,And solitary valley far away.The morning came, and Sella was not found.The sun climbed high; they sought her still; the noon,The hot and silent noon, heard Sella's name,Uttered with a despairing cry, to wastesO'er which the eagle hovered. As the sunStooped toward the amber west to bring the closeOf that sad second day, and, with red eyes,The mother sat within her home alone,Sella was at her side. A shriek of joyBroke the sad silence; glad, warm tears were shed,And words of gladness uttered. "Oh, forgive,"The maiden said, "that I could e'er forgetThy wishes for a moment. I just triedThe slippers on, amazed to see them shapedSo fairly to my feet, when, all at once,I felt my steps upborne and hurried onAlmost as if with wings. A strange delight,Blent with a thrill of fear, o'ermastered me,And, ere I knew, my splashing steps were setWithin the rivulet's pebbly bed, and IWas rushing down the current. By my sideTripped one as beautiful as ever lookedFrom white clouds in a dream; and, as we ran,She talked with musical voice and sweetly laughed.Gayly we leaped the crag and swam the pool,And swept with dimpling eddies round the rock,And glided between shady meadow-banks.The streamlet, broadening as we went, becameA swelling river, and we shot alongBy stately towns, and under leaning mastsOf gallant barks, nor lingered by the shoreOf blooming gardens; onward, onward still,The same strong impulse bore me, till, at last,We entered the great deep, and passed belowHis billows, into boundless spaces, litWith a green sunshine. Here were mighty grovesFar down the ocean-valleys, and betweenLay what might seem fair meadows, softly tingedWith orange and with crimson. Here aroseTall stems, that, rooted in the depths below,Swung idly with the motions of the sea;And here were shrubberies in whose mazy screenThe creatures of the deep made haunt. My friendNamed the strange growths, the pretty coralline,The dulse with crimson leaves, and, streaming far,Sea-thong and sea-lace. Here the tangle spreadIts broad, thick fronds, with pleasant bowers beneath;And oft we trod a waste of pearly sands,Spotted with rosy shells, and thence looked inAt caverns of the sea whose rock-roofed hallsLay in blue twilight. As we moved along,The dwellers of the deep, in mighty herds,Passed by us, reverently they passed us by,Long trains of dolphins rolling through the brine,Huge whales, that drew the waters after them,A torrent-stream, and hideous hammer-sharks,Chasing their prey. I shuddered as they came;Gently they turned aside and gave us room."Hereat broke in the mother: "Sella dear,This is a dream, the idlest, vainest dream.""Nay, mother, nay; behold this sea-green scarf,Woven of such threads as never human handTwined from the distaff. She who led my wayThrough the great waters, bade me wear it home,A token that my tale is true. 'And keep,'She said, 'the slippers thou hast found, for thou,When shod with them, shalt be like one of us,With power to walk at will the ocean-floor,Among its monstrous creatures, unafraid,And feel no longing for the air of heavenTo fill thy lungs, and send the warm, red bloodAlong thy veins. But thou shalt pass the hoursIn dances with the sea-nymphs, or go forth,To look into the mysteries of the abyssWhere never plummet reached. And thou shalt sleepThy weariness away on downy banksOf sea-moss, where the pulses of the tideShall gently lift thy hair, or thou shalt floatOn the soft currents that go forth and windFrom isle to isle, and wander through the sea.'"So spake my fellow-voyager, her wordsSounding like wavelets on a summer shore,And then we stopped beside a hanging rock,With a smooth beach of white sands at its foot,Where three fair creatures like herself were setAt their sea-banquet, crisp and juicy stalks,Culled from the ocean's meadows, and the sweetMidrib of pleasant leaves, and golden fruitsDropped from the trees that edge the southern isles,And gathered on the waves. Kindly they prayedThat I would share their meal, andIpartookWith eager appetite, for long had beenMy journey, and I left the spot refreshed."And then we wandered off amid the grovesOf coral loftier than the growths of earth;The mightiest cedar lifts no trunk like theirs,So huge, so high toward heaven, nor overhangsAlleys and bowers so dim. We moved betweenPinnacles of black rock, which, from beneath,Molten by inner fires, so said my guide,Gushed long ago into the hissing brine,That quenched and hardened them, and now they standMotionless in the currents of the seaThat part and flow around them. As we went,We looked into the hollows of the abyss,To which the never-resting waters sweepThe skeletons of sharks, the long white spinesOf narwhal and of dolphin, bones of menShipwrecked, and mighty ribs of foundered barks.Down the blue pits we looked, and hastened on."But beautiful the fountains of the seaSprang upward from its bed: the silvery jetsShot branching far into the azure brine,And where they mingled with it, the great deepQuivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering airAhove a furnace. So we wandered throughThe mighty world of waters, till at lengthI wearied of its wonders, and my heartBegan to yearn for my dear mountain-home.I prayed my gentle guide to lead me backTo the upper air. 'A glorious realm,' I said,'Is this thou openest to me; but I strayBewildered in its vastness; these strange sightsAnd this strange light oppress me. I must seeThe faces that I love, or I shall die.'"She took my hand, and, darting through the wavesBrought me to where the stream, by which we came,Rushed into the main ocean. Then beganA slower journey upward. WearilyWe breasted the strong current, climbing throughThe rapids, tossing high their foam. The nightCame down, and in the clear depth of a pool,Edged with o'erhanging rock, we took our restTill morning; and I slept, and dreamed of homeAnd thee. A pleasant sight the morning showed;The green fields of this upper world, the herdsThat grazed the bank, the light on the red clouds,The trees, with all their host of trembling leaves,Lifting and lowering to the restless windTheir branches. As I woke, I saw them allFrom the clear stream; yet strangely was my heartParted between the watery world and this,And as we journeyed upward, oft I thoughtOf marvels I had seen, and stopped and turned,And lingered, till I thought of thee again;And then again I turned and clambered upThe rivulet's murmuring path, until we cameBeside the cottage-door. There tenderlyMy fair conductor kissed me, and I sawHer face no more. I took the slippers off.Oh! with what deep delight my lungs drew inThe air of heaven again, and with what joyI felt my blood bound with its former glow;And now I never leave thy side again!"So spoke the maiden Sella, with large tearsStanding in her mild eyes, and in the porchReplaced the slippers. Autumn came and went;The winter passed; another summer warmedThe quiet pools; another autumn tingedThe grape with red, yet while it hung unplucked,The mother ere her time was carried forthTo sleep among the solitary hills.A long, still sadness settled on that homeAmong the mountains. The stern father thereWept with his children, and grew soft of heart,And Sella, and the brothers twain, and oneYounger than they, a sister fair and shy,Strewed the new grave with flowers, and round it setShrubs that all winter held their lively green.Time passed; the grief with which their hearts were wrungWaned to a gentle sorrow. Sella, now,Was often absent from the patriarch's board;The slippers hung no longer in the porch;And sometimes after summer nights her couchWas found unpressed at dawn, and well they knewThat she was wandering with the race who makeTheir dwelling in the waters. Oft her looksFixed on blank space, and oft the ill-suited wordTold that her thoughts were far away. In vainHer brothers reasoned with her tenderly:"Oh leave not thus thy kindred!" so they prayed;"Dear Sella, now that she who gave us birthIs in her grave, oh go not hence, to seekCompanions in that strange cold realm below,For which God made not us nor thee, but stayTo be the grace and glory of our home."She looked at them with those mild eyes and wept,But said no word in answer, nor refrainedFrom those mysterious wanderings that filledTheir loving hearts with a perpetual pain.And now the younger sister, fair and shy,Had grown to early womanhood, and oneWho loved her well had wooed her for his bride,And she had named the wedding-day. The herdHad given its fatlings for the marriage-feast;The roadside garden and the secret glenWere rifled of their sweetest flowers to twineThe door-posts, and to lie among the locksOf maids, the wedding-guests, and from the boughsOf mountain-orchards had the fairest fruitBeen plucked to glisten in the canisters.Then, trooping over hill and valley, cameMatron and maid, grave men and smiling youths,Like swallows gathering for their autumn flight,In costumes of that simpler age they came,That gave the limbs large play, and wrapped the formIn easy folds, yet bright with glowing huesAs suited holidays. All hastened onTo that glad bridal. There already stoodThe priest prepared to say the spousal rite,And there the harpers in due order sat,And there the singers. Sella, midst them all,Moved strangely and serenely beautiful,With clear blue eyes, fair locks, and brow and cheekColorless as the lily of the lakes,Yet moulded to such shape as artists giveTo beings of immortal youth. Her handsHad decked her sister for the bridal hourWith chosen flowers, and lawn whose delicate threadsVied with the spider's spinning. There she stoodWith such a gentle pleasure in her looksAs might beseem a river-nymph's soft eyesGracing a bridal of the race whose flocksWere pastured on the borders of her stream.She smiled, but from that calm sweet face the smileWas soon to pass away. That very mornThe elder of the brothers, as he stoodUpon the hillside, had beheld the maid,Emerging from the channel of the brook,With three fresh water-lilies in her hand,Wring dry her dripping locks, and in a cleftOf hanging rock, beside a screen of boughs,Bestow the spangled slippers. None beforeHad known where Sella hid them. Then she laidThe light-brown tresses smooth, and in them twinedThe lily-buds, and hastily drew forthAnd threw across her shoulders a light robeWrought for the bridal, and with bounding stepsRan toward the lodge. The youth beheld and markedThe spot and slowly followed from afar.Now had the marriage-rite been said; the brideStood in the blush that from her burning cheekGlowed down the alabaster neck, as mornCrimsons the pearly heaven half-way to the west.At once the harpers struck their chords; a gushOf music broke upon the air; the youthsAll started to the dance. Among them movedThe queenly Sella with a grace that seemedCaught from the swaying of the summer sea.The young drew forth the elders to the dance,Who joined it half abashed, but when they feltThe joyous music tingling in their veins,They called for quaint old measures, which they trodAs gayly as in youth, and far abroadCame through the open windows cheerful shoutsAnd bursts of laughter. They who heard the soundUpon the mountain footpaths paused and said,"A merry wedding." Lovers stole awayThat sunny afternoon to bowers that edgedThe garden-walks, and what was whispered thereThe lovers of these later times can guess.Meanwhile the brothers, when the merry dinWas loudest, stole to where the slippers lay,And took them thence, and followed down the brookTo where a little rapid rushed betweenIts borders of smooth rock, and dropped them in.The rivulet, as they touched its face, flung upIts small bright waves like hands, and seemed to takeThe prize with eagerness and draw it down.They, gleaming through the waters as they went,And striking with light sound the shining stones,Slid down the stream. The brothers looked and watched,And listened with full beating hearts, till nowThe sight and sound had passed, and silentlyAnd half repentant hastened to the lodge.The sun was near his set; the music rangWithin the dwelling still, but the mirth waned;For groups of guests were sauntering toward their homesAcross the fields, and far, on hillside paths,Gleamed the white robes of maidens. Sella grewWeary of the long merriment; she thoughtOf her still haunts beneath the soundless sea,And all unseen withdrew and sought the cleftWhere she had laid the slippers. They were gone!She searched the brookside near, yet found them not.Then her heart sank within her, and she ranWildly from place to place, and once againShe searched the secret cleft, and next she stoopedAnd with spread palms felt carefully beneathThe tufted herbs and bushes, and again,And yet again, she searched the rocky cleft."Who could have taken them?" That question clearedThe mystery. She remembered suddenlyThat when the dance was in its gayest whirl,Her brothers were not seen, and when, at length,They reappeared, the elder joined the sportsWith shouts of boisterous mirth, and from her eyeThe younger shrank in silence. "Now, I knowThe guilty ones," she said, and left the spot,And stood before the youths with such a lookOf anguish and reproach that well they knewHer thought, and almost wished the deed undone.Frankly they owned the charge: "And pardon us;We did it all in love; we could not bearThat the cold world of waters and the strangeBeings that dwell within it should beguileOur sister from us." Then they told her all;How they had seen her stealthily bestowThe slippers in the cleft, and how by stealthThey took them thence and bore them down the brook,And dropped them in, and how the eager wavesGathered and drew them down; but at that wordThe maiden shrieked—a broken-hearted shriek—And all who heard it shuddered and turned paleAt the despairing cry, and "They are gone,"She said, "gone—gone forever! Cruel ones!'Tis you who shut me out eternallyFrom that serener world which I had learnedTo love so well. Why took ye not my life?Ye cannot know what ye have done!" She spakeAnd hurried to her chamber, and the guestsWho yet had lingered silently withdrew.The brothers followed to the maiden's bower,But with a calm demeanor, as they came,She met them at the door. "The wrong is great,"She said, "that ye have done me, but no powerHave ye to make it less, nor yet to sootheMy sorrow; I shall bear it as I may,The better for the hours that I have passedIn the calm region of the middle sea.Go, then. I need you not." They, overawed,Withdrew from that grave presence. Then her tearsBroke forth a flood, as when the August cloud,Darkening beside the mountain, suddenlyMelts into streams of rain. That weary nightShe paced her chamber, murmuring as she walked,"O peaceful region of the middle sea!O azure bowers and grots, in which I lovedTo roam and rest! Am I to long for you,And think how strangely beautiful ye are,Yet never see you more? And dearer yet,Ye gentle ones in whose sweet companyI trod the shelly pavements of the deep,And swam its currents, creatures with calm eyesLooking the tenderest love, and voices softAs ripple of light waves along the shore,Uttering the tenderest words! Oh! ne'er againShall I, in your mild aspects, read the peaceThat dwells within, and vainly shall I pineTo hear your sweet low voices. Haply nowYe miss me in your deep-sea home, and thinkOf me with pity, as of one condemnedTo haunt this upper world, with its harsh soundsAnd glaring lights, its withering heats, its frosts,Cruel and killing, its delirious strifes,And all its feverish passions, till I die."So mourned she the long night, and when the mornBrightened the mountains, from her lattice lookedThe maiden on a world that was to herA desolate and dreary waste. That dayShe passed in wandering by the brook that oftHad been her pathway to the sea, and stillSeemed, with its cheerful murmur, to inviteHer footsteps thither. "Well mayst thou rejoice,Fortunate stream!" she said, "and dance alongThy bed, and make thy course one ceaseless strainOf music, for thou journeyest toward the deep,To which I shall return no more." The nightBrought her to her lone chamber, and she kneltAnd prayed, with many tears, to Him whose handTouches the wounded heart and it is healed.With prayer there came new thoughts and new desires.She asked for patience and a deeper loveFor those with whom her lot was henceforth cast,And that in acts of mercy she might loseThe sense of her own sorrow. When she roseA weight was lifted from her heart. She soughtHer couch, and slept a long and peaceful sleep.At morn she woke to a new life. Her daysHenceforth were given to quiet tasks of goodIn the great world. Men hearkened to her words,And wondered at their wisdom and obeyed,And saw how beautiful the law of loveCan make the cares and toils of daily life.Still did she love to haunt the springs and brooksAs in her cheerful childhood, and she taughtThe skill to pierce the soil and meet the veinsOf clear cold water winding underneath,And call them forth to daylight. From afarShe bade men bring the rivers on long rowsOf pillared arches to the sultry town,And on the hot air of the summer flingThe spray of dashing fountains. To relieveTheir weary hands, she showed them how to tameThe rushing stream, and make him drive the wheelThat whirls the humming millstone and that wieldsThe ponderous sledge. The waters of the cloud,That drench the hillside in the time of rains,Were gathered, at her bidding, into pools,And in the months of drought led forth again,In glimmering rivulets, to refresh the vales,Till the sky darkened with returning showers.So passed her life, a long and blameless life,And far and near her name was named with loveAnd reverence. Still she kept, as age came on,Her stately presence; still her eyes looked forthFrom under their calm brows as brightly clearAs the transparent wells by which she satSo oft in childhood. Still she kept her fairUnwrinkled features, though her locks were white.A hundred times had summer, since her birth,Opened the water-lily on the lakes,So old traditions tell, before she died.A hundred cities mourned her, and her deathSaddened the pastoral valleys. By the brook,That bickering ran beside the cottage-doorWhere she was born, they reared her monument.Ere long the current parted and flowed roundThe marble base, forming a little isle,And there the flowers that love the running stream,Iris and orchis, and the cardinal-flower,Crowded and hung caressingly aroundThe stone engraved with Sella's honored name.