"Shall I not play the messenger, and urgeThy cause before her, if, by inquiry,I find the Queen still visiting old Thug?""Oh, if thou would'st and yet—what should I gain?Nothing, nothing!—still, I should hear fromhim—Should know the worst. I'll pray for thy success,And thank thee from my heart, if thou wilt go!"Long time SirJohn, misled by wicked sprites,Searched for the Queen! until, by some kind chance,He wandered through a grotto by the sea,Where silver pendules from the ceiling hungAnd gossip ripples whispered at the door.Here, on a seat from solid crystal hewnSatOene,—Berthoat her feet,—her handNestled amid the ringlets of his hair,Like some white dove amid the wav'ring shade;Her eyes bent softly on his countenance;The crimson of his fiery southern bloodBurned through the brown of his defiant cheek;His eyes were downcast, that their sullen fireShould not too much betray him, as he lay,A half-tamed lion at his mistress' feet,Restless, yet yielding to the golden chain.In a low voice, which, like a pent-up stream,Chafed at its boundaries, he made replyTo her incessant questions of the world,Of human life and love, of death, and heaven.When bold SirJohnintruded on the sceneOeneresumed her native haughtiness."I've come to plead the cause of a sweet child,Who, like a wild-bird newly caught and caged,Within her cell is fretting. Noble Queen,I'm not an eloquent nor fair young man,To please a gentle fancy; but my tongueAnd mind shall do thy bidding, should there beAught which my humble wisdom could expound.The meanwhile he who now instructs thee, hastesTo ope the prison door and let the birdFlutter to her true home within his breast."Scarce were these words with a firm purpose said,When all the scene was changed. Where erst a Queen,In shape most loveable, did blushing sit,A terrible and yet a glorious formRose in portentious wrath; her star-crowned headPaled the chaste lustre of the silvery dome.It was no shame to him thatBerthofled,Dismayed, before the anger of her eyes,For they were awful. Parted from SirJohn,And flying through a dark, unknown ravine,He lost himself in tangled labyrinths:Stumbling o'er rocks—only by daring leapsSaving himself from dropping into chasmsWhich opened suddenly across his path.From tortuous windings underneath the ground,At length released, he thenceforth knew the way,And sped across the mountain to the caveWhereOlivepined, weeping despairing tears.Like a swift arrow through the sunlight shotHe passed athwart its glory, till he reachedHer prison—heard her sudden cry of joy—Touched the elaborate spring which bound her in,And freed her, while she gazed in mute surprise."Love! look not thus incredulous of hope!This temple was thy lover's handiwork—This curious spring he wrought,—and what he didHe can undo. My sweetest! it is I:—Thy living, breathingBerthostands before thee!This happiness, at least, I owe the Queen,Who, since repentant, may her gift resume,Should Heaven not grant us now a quick escape.But once—this once—though death should press me next—Come to my arms—to thy dear bosom draw me,So fondly close!—and feed my famished lipsWith kisses worth a life of wo to gain!Nay, pause not to inquire—'tis better thusTo feel the throbbing of thy timid heart,Than to waste breath in words.—"How did it come?I know not: I was tranced in sleep profound,And when I woke I was my former self.QueenOenehoped my gratitude would growTo love, in time; and I was grateful—wouldHave given her everything but what was thine,And that alone she coveted. Come, sweet!Fly from this land forlorn:—if miraclesAre still in fashion, one might serve us well.Cling to my guiding hand; trust all to me;My soul is so elate I would not flinchFrom meeting every imp of this dark land—The touch of thy soft hand is such a triumph!"Even while his accents lingered, they were goneBy an obscure and solitary path,Until they came upon some rough-hewn steps,Which wandered round and down, interminable.—A stairway leading to the upper worldFor the ascent of gnomes, who dwelt beneathIn those huge tidal caves which underlaidOld Thug, upheaved from earth in ancient times.Silent the lovers fled; their locks grew wetWith mildew, and their breath came gaspingly.A sound of gibbering gnomes, of elfish song—Mingling high discords with the patient clinkOf instruments of toil—of laughter strange—Warned them of the wild laborers they must meet.A moment more, and the pale fugitivesStood at the bottom of those countless steps,Peering into the lowest deep of all.A hell-like spot! and spirits of the doomedWere scarce more haggard than the clumsy elvesWho here pursued their coarse and perilous toil.'Tis in these horrible caverns, deep and wide,Each day the ocean sinks, when, rushing roundWith the swift world, he falls into this snare;From whence with groans, and anger impotent,He backward struggles to his bed of sandAnd lies there panting; while the credulous earth,Dreaming of love, looks on him with a smile,Saying—"He pineth for the sweet-faced Moon;"—Thus had he just receded, when the pairStood peering shuddering in, hearing afarThe painful sighs, which shook his savage breast.The dwarfish elves, with waning lamps in hand,Creeping like worms along the slimy floor,Pursued the ebbing tide collecting spoils.The lovers saw from what exhaustless minesWere gathered up the overwhelming wealth—The jewels and the curious costly toysWhich gracedOeneand all her splendid court;For there the sea,—forever wrecking treasures,Gulping down golden argosies at once—Leaves them behind him in his angry flight."Art thou afraid, my darling?"Berthoasked—"I'll bear thee safely through this hideous place.HereLucifer, I think, must love to linger;The shrieking of the ocean hath a soundLike the united wail of hopeless souls;Here darkness dwells in everlasting sleep;For these poor, puny lights which wander round,Scarce make the drowsy lashes of his lidsTremble o'er his blind eyes;—the heated earthGives forth the odors of her burning heart,In whose incessant fires her vitals wither.See! where those wretched gnomes are dragging chests,Banded with iron! most like, is heaped withinThe ingots of some drowned West-Indian:And look! ah heaven! how beautiful and strange,To see the delicate corpse of this young girlLike marble petrified, the raven hairGrown rankly long, trailing around her limbs,And clinging to her lovely, breathless breast!—That rude dwarf clutching from her helpless handsThe jewels which some friend or lover gave.If we had time to give our fancies range,What a wild story we would make of this!"Thrilling with pity,Olivehid her eyes.Twelve hours of desperate flight, and they emergedFrom darkness to a dead shore, shrouded white,—Saw the green ocean rolling, saw the Sun,Pale, like a wounded God, and weary, hangLow in the southern sky—saw mountains crownedWith snow and fire—saw motionless cataractsHanging like frozen rainbows over chasms—And icebergs settling downward towards the sunAs if to pierce him with their glist'ning spears.Remotely, to the North, the Polar SeaHung like a roseate cloud along the skyFringing with lovely tints the dim horizon,Holding unseen its island star within."A miracle!" quothBertho; "Love, observeHow all these waves set from the shore, and glideLike a broad river, 'twixt these frozen banks.The current which ran northward with thy boat,Has overtopped the Pole, and flows away,A liquid belt, girdling the earth. Alas!We have no trusty boat in which to launch,Once more, our fortunes on the promising deep."Wearied, they flung themselves upon the shore,And, hand in hand, sat gazing on the seaWith home-sick longing.Wole, the eager-eyed,From his far height espied them where they sat,And sent four of his people to their aid(Such power hath youth and beauty through the world!)Bearing a skiff, contrived of ribs of whales,For frame work,—these, inwove with fibrous moss,And lined with furs of savage Arctic beastsWhich he had slain. When, with this welcome giftThe slaves appeared, and bowed atOlive'sfeet,The tears sprang to her eyes; her heart was touchedBy this rude warrior's magnanimity.They put to sea. Scarce were they free from land,When, o'er the plain they sawOeneadvance,Alone and melancholy, to the shore.Her anger was subdued by greater grief;While something new and holier than sorrowRestrained revenge. It was the Love DivineWhich sacrifices self to others' good.Some word, SirJohnhad uttered when her wrathWould have consumed him, fell upon her heartLike rain on a thirsty garden—there sprang upThe amaranthine flower of charityWhose seed was dropped from heaven; the nameless pain,The want, which she had ever felt, was gone;She knew the immortal meaning of the Soul,And blessed the speaker for the 'perfect work.'Speedily from her sight they floated out;But, long time, while gazing, they saw her standIn desolate beauty, silent on the beach.The plaintive music of a horn wound downFromWole'sgrey fortress; all the fading sceneLay, like a sad thought in a musing breastCalled up by the enchantment of sweet sound—A thought, no more—all,—save those lustrous eyesShining upon them like two troubled stars—Vaguely receding into things that were:While, high and low, in whispering melodiesBorne by the uncertain winds, a farewell came:—Oh, when for love we pineWe sleep in bloomless bowers;But Life is a thing divineWhen the love we crave is ours.Shut close your feathery wingsYe silvery birds of snow—Across the ocean's rippled ringsLet no wild tempest blow;From valleys bleak and caverns hollowLet no rude spirit dare to follow.Oh, who hath drunk of loveWill drink forevermore;While ever, the golden rim above,The draught will bubble o'er.Let no fierce storm assailThese lovers in their flight,But only a soft and steady galePursue them day and night;Nor jutting rock nor whirlpool hollowCan seize them while our wishes follow.Oh, love is a singing birdThat flutters everywhere;His music in our souls is heard,Charming us unaware.Over the restless seaThe while these lovers glide,This bird will pour his music freeAnd soothe the sleepless tide:—While tempests crouch in caverns hollowLet this sweet bird the lovers follow.
"Shall I not play the messenger, and urgeThy cause before her, if, by inquiry,I find the Queen still visiting old Thug?"
"Oh, if thou would'st and yet—what should I gain?Nothing, nothing!—still, I should hear fromhim—Should know the worst. I'll pray for thy success,And thank thee from my heart, if thou wilt go!"
Long time SirJohn, misled by wicked sprites,Searched for the Queen! until, by some kind chance,He wandered through a grotto by the sea,Where silver pendules from the ceiling hungAnd gossip ripples whispered at the door.Here, on a seat from solid crystal hewnSatOene,—Berthoat her feet,—her handNestled amid the ringlets of his hair,Like some white dove amid the wav'ring shade;Her eyes bent softly on his countenance;The crimson of his fiery southern bloodBurned through the brown of his defiant cheek;His eyes were downcast, that their sullen fireShould not too much betray him, as he lay,A half-tamed lion at his mistress' feet,Restless, yet yielding to the golden chain.In a low voice, which, like a pent-up stream,Chafed at its boundaries, he made replyTo her incessant questions of the world,Of human life and love, of death, and heaven.
When bold SirJohnintruded on the sceneOeneresumed her native haughtiness.
"I've come to plead the cause of a sweet child,Who, like a wild-bird newly caught and caged,Within her cell is fretting. Noble Queen,I'm not an eloquent nor fair young man,To please a gentle fancy; but my tongueAnd mind shall do thy bidding, should there beAught which my humble wisdom could expound.The meanwhile he who now instructs thee, hastesTo ope the prison door and let the birdFlutter to her true home within his breast."
Scarce were these words with a firm purpose said,When all the scene was changed. Where erst a Queen,In shape most loveable, did blushing sit,A terrible and yet a glorious formRose in portentious wrath; her star-crowned headPaled the chaste lustre of the silvery dome.It was no shame to him thatBerthofled,Dismayed, before the anger of her eyes,For they were awful. Parted from SirJohn,And flying through a dark, unknown ravine,He lost himself in tangled labyrinths:Stumbling o'er rocks—only by daring leapsSaving himself from dropping into chasmsWhich opened suddenly across his path.From tortuous windings underneath the ground,At length released, he thenceforth knew the way,And sped across the mountain to the caveWhereOlivepined, weeping despairing tears.Like a swift arrow through the sunlight shotHe passed athwart its glory, till he reachedHer prison—heard her sudden cry of joy—Touched the elaborate spring which bound her in,And freed her, while she gazed in mute surprise.
"Love! look not thus incredulous of hope!This temple was thy lover's handiwork—This curious spring he wrought,—and what he didHe can undo. My sweetest! it is I:—Thy living, breathingBerthostands before thee!This happiness, at least, I owe the Queen,Who, since repentant, may her gift resume,Should Heaven not grant us now a quick escape.But once—this once—though death should press me next—Come to my arms—to thy dear bosom draw me,So fondly close!—and feed my famished lipsWith kisses worth a life of wo to gain!Nay, pause not to inquire—'tis better thusTo feel the throbbing of thy timid heart,Than to waste breath in words.—
"How did it come?I know not: I was tranced in sleep profound,And when I woke I was my former self.QueenOenehoped my gratitude would growTo love, in time; and I was grateful—wouldHave given her everything but what was thine,And that alone she coveted. Come, sweet!Fly from this land forlorn:—if miraclesAre still in fashion, one might serve us well.Cling to my guiding hand; trust all to me;My soul is so elate I would not flinchFrom meeting every imp of this dark land—The touch of thy soft hand is such a triumph!"
Even while his accents lingered, they were goneBy an obscure and solitary path,Until they came upon some rough-hewn steps,Which wandered round and down, interminable.—A stairway leading to the upper worldFor the ascent of gnomes, who dwelt beneathIn those huge tidal caves which underlaidOld Thug, upheaved from earth in ancient times.Silent the lovers fled; their locks grew wetWith mildew, and their breath came gaspingly.A sound of gibbering gnomes, of elfish song—Mingling high discords with the patient clinkOf instruments of toil—of laughter strange—Warned them of the wild laborers they must meet.A moment more, and the pale fugitivesStood at the bottom of those countless steps,Peering into the lowest deep of all.A hell-like spot! and spirits of the doomedWere scarce more haggard than the clumsy elvesWho here pursued their coarse and perilous toil.
'Tis in these horrible caverns, deep and wide,Each day the ocean sinks, when, rushing roundWith the swift world, he falls into this snare;From whence with groans, and anger impotent,He backward struggles to his bed of sandAnd lies there panting; while the credulous earth,Dreaming of love, looks on him with a smile,Saying—"He pineth for the sweet-faced Moon;"—Thus had he just receded, when the pairStood peering shuddering in, hearing afarThe painful sighs, which shook his savage breast.The dwarfish elves, with waning lamps in hand,Creeping like worms along the slimy floor,Pursued the ebbing tide collecting spoils.The lovers saw from what exhaustless minesWere gathered up the overwhelming wealth—The jewels and the curious costly toysWhich gracedOeneand all her splendid court;For there the sea,—forever wrecking treasures,Gulping down golden argosies at once—Leaves them behind him in his angry flight.
"Art thou afraid, my darling?"Berthoasked—"I'll bear thee safely through this hideous place.HereLucifer, I think, must love to linger;The shrieking of the ocean hath a soundLike the united wail of hopeless souls;Here darkness dwells in everlasting sleep;For these poor, puny lights which wander round,Scarce make the drowsy lashes of his lidsTremble o'er his blind eyes;—the heated earthGives forth the odors of her burning heart,In whose incessant fires her vitals wither.See! where those wretched gnomes are dragging chests,Banded with iron! most like, is heaped withinThe ingots of some drowned West-Indian:And look! ah heaven! how beautiful and strange,To see the delicate corpse of this young girlLike marble petrified, the raven hairGrown rankly long, trailing around her limbs,And clinging to her lovely, breathless breast!—That rude dwarf clutching from her helpless handsThe jewels which some friend or lover gave.If we had time to give our fancies range,What a wild story we would make of this!"Thrilling with pity,Olivehid her eyes.
Twelve hours of desperate flight, and they emergedFrom darkness to a dead shore, shrouded white,—Saw the green ocean rolling, saw the Sun,Pale, like a wounded God, and weary, hangLow in the southern sky—saw mountains crownedWith snow and fire—saw motionless cataractsHanging like frozen rainbows over chasms—And icebergs settling downward towards the sunAs if to pierce him with their glist'ning spears.Remotely, to the North, the Polar SeaHung like a roseate cloud along the skyFringing with lovely tints the dim horizon,Holding unseen its island star within.
"A miracle!" quothBertho; "Love, observeHow all these waves set from the shore, and glideLike a broad river, 'twixt these frozen banks.The current which ran northward with thy boat,Has overtopped the Pole, and flows away,A liquid belt, girdling the earth. Alas!We have no trusty boat in which to launch,Once more, our fortunes on the promising deep."
Wearied, they flung themselves upon the shore,And, hand in hand, sat gazing on the seaWith home-sick longing.Wole, the eager-eyed,From his far height espied them where they sat,And sent four of his people to their aid(Such power hath youth and beauty through the world!)Bearing a skiff, contrived of ribs of whales,For frame work,—these, inwove with fibrous moss,And lined with furs of savage Arctic beastsWhich he had slain. When, with this welcome giftThe slaves appeared, and bowed atOlive'sfeet,The tears sprang to her eyes; her heart was touchedBy this rude warrior's magnanimity.They put to sea. Scarce were they free from land,When, o'er the plain they sawOeneadvance,Alone and melancholy, to the shore.Her anger was subdued by greater grief;While something new and holier than sorrowRestrained revenge. It was the Love DivineWhich sacrifices self to others' good.Some word, SirJohnhad uttered when her wrathWould have consumed him, fell upon her heartLike rain on a thirsty garden—there sprang upThe amaranthine flower of charityWhose seed was dropped from heaven; the nameless pain,The want, which she had ever felt, was gone;She knew the immortal meaning of the Soul,And blessed the speaker for the 'perfect work.'
Speedily from her sight they floated out;But, long time, while gazing, they saw her standIn desolate beauty, silent on the beach.The plaintive music of a horn wound downFromWole'sgrey fortress; all the fading sceneLay, like a sad thought in a musing breastCalled up by the enchantment of sweet sound—A thought, no more—all,—save those lustrous eyesShining upon them like two troubled stars—Vaguely receding into things that were:While, high and low, in whispering melodiesBorne by the uncertain winds, a farewell came:—
Oh, when for love we pineWe sleep in bloomless bowers;But Life is a thing divineWhen the love we crave is ours.Shut close your feathery wingsYe silvery birds of snow—Across the ocean's rippled ringsLet no wild tempest blow;From valleys bleak and caverns hollowLet no rude spirit dare to follow.
Oh, who hath drunk of loveWill drink forevermore;While ever, the golden rim above,The draught will bubble o'er.Let no fierce storm assailThese lovers in their flight,But only a soft and steady galePursue them day and night;Nor jutting rock nor whirlpool hollowCan seize them while our wishes follow.
Oh, love is a singing birdThat flutters everywhere;His music in our souls is heard,Charming us unaware.Over the restless seaThe while these lovers glide,This bird will pour his music freeAnd soothe the sleepless tide:—While tempests crouch in caverns hollowLet this sweet bird the lovers follow.