"Dear friend," she said, brushing away her tears,"If thou wilt rest thee on this smoothest rockAnd tell me who thou art, and whence did come,And wherefore lingering here, pleased will I listen."A smile stole o'er his pale, storm-beaten face.—"I know thee now, from mother Eve descended,By thy most feminine willingness to hear,The sorrows which did claim thy ready tearsWhile they were but suspected. Sit thee down.Five years it is since, with three stately shipsAnd sturdy crews to man them, one proud dayI sailed away from the great three-linked isle,Under my fair Queen's sovereign patronage,For the far Frigid Zone—the wild, the fierce,The unknown Arctic seas—through their cold depths,Their intricate, unmarked, majestic ways,To find a North-West Passage: which wise menAnd skillful mariners, learned of the sea,Suspected, through the navigator's artMight to the world be opened. High my heartWith courage and ambition swelled its tides,Knowledge I had and skill, with enterprise;And should I be successful, future timesShould know my name, and future marinersRespect my fame and emulate my deeds.But one faint spot was there in my proud heart,And that was where my constant wife, at parting,Shed sorrowful tears, until they did strike through,A fear, into my breast, that nevermoreThat faithful brow should lean to it again."To thee, if thou indeed hast safely passedThe horrors and the beauties of the sea,I need not tell the ever-varying scenesOf this most fearful voyage."Day by dayI studied in my cabin over charts;Or, on the deck, learned of the sea and skyThe subtle mariner's ever-changeful lore.Prosperous we were, till o'er the mystic boundsOfOene'srealms I sailed; save now and thenSome noble sailor of my kindly crewsWith tears we left upon the bloomless shoresWhere birds nor flowers should ever bless his grave.On—on—beyond all shores—or sights of dwarfsSlaying the rein-deer by their snow-built huts:—On, through the thickening perils of the way!Methought I held within my brain the clueThrough that bewildering labyrinth of ice.For weeks the Sun, a pale and sinking ghost,With feeble eyes had glared upon the Pole.Nor with his wavering arrows could o'erthrowEven the airy domes of delicate sprites,Sitting and decking their etherial robesAnd turning them, sparkling, to his sullen face."Now fromOene'sdominions, messengers,Borne by the flying winds, hourly arrived,Warning me from her shores. At last the Queen,Gathered together her enormous fleet;It bore down upon us with such grand arrayAs I pray heaven never to see again.An hundred giant ships, whose rainbow sailsAnd glittering masts towered a thousand feetAbove our tiny vessels, weighed their anchorsAnd slowly from their harbors drifted out.We heard the creaking of their cables—heardThe shouting of their fierce and naked crews—We saw the green sea boil against their keels—Their viewless banners flapped against our faces—Their viewless darts pierced us on every sideTill men fell on our decks, a stony heap.We strove, at least, to make a brave retreat,Toiling in mute dispair, or madly prayingThe winds to favor our poor, shattered sails.They closed around us upon every side.Two of the largest of their avenging fleet,Drawing together crushed in the embraceMy stoutest vessel like some frailest shell;Then swung apart, with laughter on their decks,Showing me, where my noble friends had been,Only a seething gulf. The sweat of anguishFroze into hail upon my pallid brow,When, with another shriek of agony,The brother ship went down. At length the winds,Saving us only from more sudden death,Drove us upon the rocks beneath this mount.Five years had wasted all our store of food;But, seeing monsters like this beast of prey,Some of the least exhausted boldly forthWent to destroy them—I amid the rest,—But stupor and a drowsy sweetness cameOver our eyes, and we lay down to sleep—Waking to hear the mocking laugh of ghouls,To find us chained, enslaved,—and, worse than all!Lost from our corporal bodies—spirits—dead!"I, as the leader of the intruding band,Am doomed to wander on this mountain side,A century, before my restless ghost,Freed from the thraldom of weirdOene'spower,Regains its natural liberty, and soarsInto the paradise of happy souls.This is the punishment those mortals bear,Who, venturing into this strange Arctic world,Are vanquished by its sovereign. She hath power,The source of which I know not, to retainThe souls of mortals for an hundred years,Demanding service which they needs must pay.The gloomy caverns underneath this mount,And those which in the hearts of icebergs lie,And many by the sea, are filled with thoseWho work their ransom out with tedious toil.For me—I am not put to any task—My punishment to gaze afar and seeHow cruelly all friends from distant shores,Who dare attempt my rescue, are restrained.Alas; the North-west Passage! When the dayGlinted o'er this pale land, before my sightIn devious tracery that Passage lay;Mocking me with its undeveloped truth,Wealth unappropriated, glory lost!Cruel is she who took from me that substanceWith which I might have conquered an escape,Leaving me, a forlorn old spirit, sere and grey.Musing through barren hours upon the past,I think with bitterness on those who onceWere friends and lovers—Queen, companions, Wife!Forgotten! yes, forgotten by them all!The luxuries of the world-taxing city,The kisses of their children, smiles of menRenowned of deeds which have not failed, like mine—Thisis the portion of that happier crowdWho set me on to dangerous enterprise.But ah! the worst part of it all, is this,—To be forgotten by my own best friends—To be to them as if I ne'er had been!My wife—my wife!"—he ended with bowed head."Art thou indeed a spirit?"Oliveasked,Shrinking a step aside. Then her kind heartO'ercome the transient awe, and stealing close,While smiling on him with sweet, wondering eyes,Began again:—"But art thou truly heWhose name is on the lip of the great world?—Of whom the wives and mothers, tearful, speakWhen sound the Northern wind-harps?—whose grand fate,Hath power to touch, not only hearts of men,But draw the golden drops from weeping purses?Oh! be content! if Fame and Love content thee.For thee, the hearts of mariners beat loud—For thee, ships chase the pathways of the sea—By thee the souls of nations, like one chordAre smote upon, and ring out sympathy;And men talk on the streets, and by their hearths,Of him who led to dismal, distant shoresThe Crusade of the Nineteenth Century.In that new world, where generous hearts are foundTo flourish on the air of liberty,A noble merchant fitted out a ship;And others joined him in his kindly plan,So deep the interest taken in thy fate.And oh, for thee, thou princely-fortuned man,A pale face from a northern window looks,Forever looks, with constancy sublime.At night, when spectral tints are in the North—By day, when winds blow down from that bleak source—That face peers from the window anxiously,As if the elements might come from theeBearing some message to her pining heart."As breaks the sunlight from a snow-filled cloud,Smiles struggled through the list'ner's wintry looks."As land-bird with a green twig in its beakIs welcome to the homesick ship which longHath tossed in foreign waters, so art thouWelcome to me, with this consoling tale.I am content. WeirdOene, keep me here!And I will while away a centuryIn dreaming of a love which hath not failed;Now knowing that the first to welcome meIn Heaven's ineffable bowers, will be my wife.""Since thou, SirJohn, protected me from harm,What I have said may be some small return.I do dislike to leave thee here, so lonely;But since I for myBerthowent in search,Nought stays my footsteps long. Where'er I go,Whether I be successful in my search,Or perish by the way, I trust againWe shall in spirit, if not in body, meet.I have seen this witching Pole-Queen; I have passedThis circling cold and stood in the warm heartOf her domains—have pressed her magic isleWith my poor human feet, and with my voiceHave plead the cause of two young, eager souls.She was not kind, and yet not very cruel,She may relent, even of her hate towards thee.If I again have access to her ear,I'll not forget to plead thy cause, dear sir,As if it were mine own. Farewell!""Farewell,And heaven bless thine innocence, sweet friend."With parting gesture full of tender graceAnd soft regret, she passed upon her way.A weary time it grew till on the summitOf Thug she stood, gazing bewildered round.No more she heard her lover's haunting call;But she herself cried out with aching voice,Whose sweetness dropped with every silver toneFrom the full note of hope to doubt and fear.Sudden a chill fell on her, and a shadow;Her breath congealed, and on those rosy lipsThe white rime gathered. From behind a rock,Which crowned the mountain, there advanced to viewWole, that old warrior who beforeOeneRumbled his boastful story. In his handHe poised his massive spear in act to throw;Yet, seeing there, chilled in her loveliness,(Like some young rose-bud nipped by spring-time frost,)The maiden whom his Queen herself did spare,The frown rolled from his forehead as a cloudRolls from a rugged crag. The spear remainedMoveless in air, while through his frosty glanceMelted a softness never known before.The life so nearly frozen in her veinsFlew back and thrilled her heart, as on her kneesShe dropped, and lifting up her pleading handsCrying—"Slay me, at once, greatWole, slay me!With those keen looks, or tell me of my lover!If this great mountain rested on my breastIt could not crush me worse than this suspense,Kill me or free me from it! What, to thee—Thou greatest warrior of this shadowy land,Whose conquests like the snows upon this mountLie white and venerable on thy fame,Unsoiled by one defeat—what is to thee,One prisoner, if she who loves him well,Comes kneeling at thy feet, to ask him back?Thou'lt give him her, I know, since to achieveRenown like thine there must be generous heart.""Look!" cried the warrior and outstretched his spear—"'Tis not auspicious hour for such a plea."Following the motion of his hand she sawFrom the horizon phantom suns and moonsShoot swiftly, or along the red edge roll.Dim on the distant verge of ghostly shoresPale fleets of paler shades, and flying hostsOf spectral horsemen on their vanishing steeds,Fled either way before the coming morn;While fairies that, on snow-flakes, sailed aboutDown through the valleys darted out of sight;And meteors, coursing higher in the sky,Exploded in their wrath, dropping down deadThe fiery ghouls who rode their shining wings.Sudden, whileOlivegazed, she thought a flameSprang from her feet, when looking, startled, down,She saw the glory of the rising sunTouching the pinnacle of sparkling iceOn which she stood. Silent and rapt she gazedWhile thousand golden flames on thousand spiresWere low and lower lit; and here and thereSome broad plain glimmered into sudden white—And frozen cataracts which, in daring leapsMidway between vast depths were holden tight,Gleamed out like streams of gold:—Thus, one by one,The wonders of that soulless land appeared,While grey and ghast, behind the sparkling towersOf gorgeous Thug, the ancient Night stooped down.Wolegnashed his teeth and turned again to smiteThe helpless girl who pleaded; but the lightWhich angered him had beautified her so,That his cold breath grew moist upon his beard.The sunlight melting in her eyes and flushingHer cheeks with rosy redness, crowned her hairWith lustrous splendor, and about her formFell like a robe of glory, warm and soft."Mortal!" he cried, while in the agony'Twixt admiration and inherent hate,The sullen throbbing of his heart was seenThrilling his moistened beard—"Pass from my sight!Thou makest old Thug's warrior drop his spear,And should that fair face beam on me eternal,Eternal I would swear the sun was goodAndOenewas no Queen. Yet I would rather,Crush thee beneath my feet, than be this traitor."He would have thrust her rudely from his path.But she arose from off her bended knee,Turning her fair face from him, so her hairHid its too touching beauty from his sight;Clasping her suppliant hands upon her bosomShe spoke out wildly, as one weary waitingFor long-expected good;—"Oh, cruelWole!Where is myBerthoin this mountain hidden?—Shaping fantastic dreams of heartlessOene,With aching hands into a tangible beauty.How can'st thou keep two yearning souls apart?Ifthoucould'st feel what love is, mighty masterOf loveless War, then thou would'st pity me!""Thou shalt behold thy lover, southern girl,"WasWole'sreply, and reaching round the rockTook up a horn shorn from some monster's headAnd blew in it a blast meant to be angry:Yet strangely pining from the curves it came,And went down wailing through the pallid sunlight,For it was born of the tumultuous sighStirred in his bosom by the lovely stranger.Soon the sound smote against a pinnacleWhich someway down the mountain had just caughtThe radiance of the morning, and now stoodA ruby palace on a crystal base,With emrald towers and columns sapphire-hued:While at the summons, swift was lifted upA shining net-work from behind the columns,And out there flew two fair, unearthly sprites,With wings like birds of Paradise, and bodiesOf shape uncertain; for so swiftly shiftedTheir rainbow hues amid enwreathing mists,ThatOlivelikened them to those vagariesBorn to the eyes that gaze upon the sprayOf cataracts dashing in the sun. Their flyingMade music like the flowing on of streams,They came and hovered in the air before her,While she regarded them with timid looksOf fear and pleasure, seeing not their features,But floating hair of gold, and beamy brightnessAs of white foreheads and blue, humid eyes.Next moment she was lifted from the earth,Encircled, as it were, by many rainbows,And rushing, bird-like, through the airy space:While a monotonous, soft and sleepy hummingRose all around and filled her drowsy ears.Brief time it was, 'till, with bewildered eyes,She saw her fairies vanish in a mist,Floating away in music, while she stoodAlone, far down the mountain oppositeThe side that with such toil she just had climbed.She stood alone—and where? the roses shrankFrom her wan cheeks to view her new distress,—Before her a dark chasm, and above herA crowd of close and overhanging rocks,All dripping, black, and hopelessly down-leant.A glimmering hope now broke upon her sense—Seeing an arch, and, far beyond, the gleamOf lights that from some cavern stole away.Under the arch she passed and found herselfWalking an ever-widening vista down,Fading from twilight to auroral glowsAnd brightening into more than noon-day breadthAnd gorgeousness of light, until she pausedBeneath the grand arch of that grand succession,Standing amazed, one slender hand upheldShading her eyes, half blinded by that viewOf Arctic-Nature and of Arctic-Art.In limitless magnificence the caveBefore her spread, a world within a world.She entered in, like Eve in ParadiseSearching for Adam; and yet, oft beguiledFrom the great love-thought, by the sights she saw.If she glanced upward to the sparkling dome,The lamps, swinging like suns as far above,Shone down upon her beautiful young face,Smiling to see them dwarfed within her eyes.The crystal floor doubled her bashful feet;She saw no walls; but the refulgent spaceWas here and there disturbed by artful groups.Once, by a fountain passing, dulcet murmurs,Wooed her aside to listen; and, again,Temples, which mimicked the frost's fairy work,Burning with gems, attracted her to gaze.Music, from hidden sources, beat the airWith wings of melody that flew abroadBeyond th' enchanted sense, and darting backSwept with a sweet vibration near her face.Thrice o'er her brow she drew her languid hand,That, if it were a dream, she might dispelThe gay enchantment; and thrice murmured o'erThe spells learned of her nurse in infancy,Which would all witchcraft render innocent;But that great cavern of the northern worldWas not by nurse's spells to be dissolved,Growing more wond'rous, as she wondered more.Now, 'neath her feet, the floor less polished grew,And fountains dashed from the unsculptured rock;She saw half-finished grottoes, fewer lights,And heard a discord in the melodyAs if of hammers and the shouts of workmen;Meanwhile her heart loudly began to beat."Bertho! I have come,Bertho!" she cried out,As the next moment, 'mid a swarthy groupOf dusky laborers, a familiar formRaised itself from a shaft of phorphyry,And turned itself to hear that throbbing heart.A light too glad for smiles came o'er the face,The shadowy face, uplifted from its toil,And, "Olive!" echoed back her eager cry.The fairest sight that cavern ever sawWas that young girl holding her glowing armsTo clasp her love; her sweet mouth all a-tremble,Her dark eyes flashing joy and tender tears,Her bosom fluttering in its snowy foldsWith sudden pleasure;—but, what clasped she?A shadow! Pale and silent she shrank back;Her lover folded up his hopeless arms;His face a melancholy so profound put onThatOliveto his side again drew near."Is this one mystery of this mystic world—This world of phantoms?" sighed the stricken girl."Oh! why did hope keep life within my breast,And passion thrill me with strange fortitude?Why did I save the kisses of my lipsFor him who nevermore can give them back?Why did I smile to think my arms were softWhen thus this spirit fades within their clasp?Bertho!—that scornful Queen did tell me this.And yet I did not comprehend her words.There is no warmth nor beauty in this land!Its people have no hearts—know not of love—Their thoughts are colder than their beds of snow.Indeed, this is no world!—but some vain dream,Troubling my sleep, and I cannot awake.Love then, is a deceitful fantasy—Berthois dead—is dead—and yet not dead!Life is not life"—Her wild, distrustful wordsHere ended, as she saw the bitternessWhich stormed across the spirit's anguished face:—"Forbear, poor child! thy pitiful complaints!When through these long years of distasteful toilI thought of thee, unceasing, day and night,Calling on heaven to bend thy steps towards me,I thought not that this spirit, weary, worn,And from the covering of its body torn,Its feeling could retain and substance lose.Fool that I was! to sigh for human love!Why art thou here to madden me with looks,—Those womanly, caressing looks which fillMy soul with wild desires! Back, to thy home,In that gold-girdled circle of daylight,That island of elysian loveliness,Where thou and I did'st one time idly dream!There breathe the passionate breath of orange-flowers—Walk in the sunlight till thy brows are flushedWith its warm kisses—plunge thy snowy feetIn the embracing waves and silver sand—Shake down magnolia-blossoms on thy hair—Answer the nightingales' delicious songWith thy sweet cries—and, on bright eves, look upAnd charm the moon upon her lingering wayWith that soft fire of thine entrancing eyes!Thou wilt not for regret or tears find time.Some lover, clothed in human dignityAnd tangible robes of life, will haunt thy steps,Drawing up, with magnetic looks, the smilesWhich lie deep down in thy now tearful orbs;And, wiling from their blissful hiding-place,The bashful dimples to thy blushing cheeks,And,—it may be—with human eloquence,Beguile thy hand to rest within his own,Sitting, as we have sat,—thy glossy hairRippling in golden waves across his breast.""Can he be mad as well as dead?" the girlMurmured aside! and then her sorrowing browShe lifted proudly, while a sudden fireSprang to her lips and eyes—her trembling voiceSteadied itself on her unfaltering love.—"Forgive me,Bertho, that my woman's heart,Finding thee thus, should, for an instant, only,Shrink back from thee in awe and deep regret.My love, which has endured so much, grows strongIn its endurance; and it only asksThat I may never from thy side be driven.Talk not of islands in a sunny sea,Or fragrant blooms, or singing nightingales!I love them not. My father's marble floorsWere colder than the icy plains I've passed,When thy dear footsteps fled them. Be content.Love like our own needs not the warmth of sighsOr soft caresses to keep pure the fireUpon the sacred shrine; 'twill burn as bright,Though never by the breath of kisses fanned;'Tis not a fading blossom—nor a birdThat only sings amid the orange-flowers.What have I still?—thy spirit, which isThou.What have I lost?—thy body, which I lovedBut as the garment which adorned thy soul.Thou art myBerthostill! I, thy fondOlive,Who comes to share thy banishment with thee.Be of good cheer. Only one centuryCanOenethrall thee. In the meanwhile, IShall die, and be a spirit, as thou art.Until that time I will abide with thee;We will on one another patient wait,Till, hand in hand we leave these dismal shoresAnd celebrate our marriage-day in heaven."PART THIRD.Tumultuous music filled the spacious cave.Oenewas coming with her virgin train,Impatient to behold what further charms,Her prisoned laborers at their tasks had wrought.Blowing on quaintly curved and curious shellsWhich made a sea-like music—mingled upOf sweet, unsyllabled sounds, and long-drawn sighs,Heavy with memories of coral reefs,Murmuring shores, caverns, and surging deeps—There flew, midway between the roof and floor,A band of sprites which lived in air or sea;With eyes like twinkling stars, and winged feet,And sparkling fins down either shoulder-blade,And cheeks puffed out and flushing with their toil.Announced by these, the courtly train approachedThe spot whereBerthoand hisOlivestood,Close by an emrald rock, within whose breastA living spring slept like a smiling child.Around the brimBerthohad sculptured mossAnd rare similitudes of southern flowers;Shaped violets from sapphires, and from stalks,Hung ruby roses, bright, but without soul,As perfumeless as was that frigid land.Oene, resplendent as a wintry moon,Bent her proud eyes upon the waiting pair:—"So! thou hast found thy lover, southern maid?Are, then, these sunbeams which flow from thy head,Pinions as well as tresses bearing theeAcross the perilous chasm which guards our cave?""Yes! I have found my lover, nobleOene;And I am happy working by his side.See! this sweet spring which we have brimmed with flowers—A mirror for thy beautiful face, O Queen!In adding my slight labor to his own,In hopes that thou would'st never banish me,But leave me by his side to aid his work,I've found a consolation very sweet,And have been happy.""ButIhave not been!"SpokeBerthowith a moody passionateness,"And never can be till I am restoredTo the full use of all my natural powers.Happy! when hearing this young creature's laugh—Seeing the dimples, begging for a kiss,Peep from her cheeks, and hide themselves again—Feeling her soft breath warming o'er my brow—Yet be this bodiless ghost of what I was!O, Queen! wilt thou not give me back that shape—Which thou dids't cruelly bereave me of—That I, again, may feel my bounding heartThrobbing against the bosom of my bride?Then thou shalt find what grateful souls can do.For I will court invention, study art,To decorate this favorite cave anew;And she I love will serve thee patientlyUnnumbered years, till we our freedom earn."The sternness of his tone had melted downTo liquid sweetness, and his fiery eyesGrown humid, as he fixed them on the QueenIn soft entreaty.From her lofty brow,So pale and passive, had the shadow rolled,As slightly and unconsciously she bentTo his quick utterance. A sudden rayStole from the twilight of her deepening eyes,And a warm redness into either cheek,Troubling its cold repose, shot quickly up.A moment of suspense, and then she spoke:"'Tis true that I thy body might restore,Since but suspension of its human powers,And not its loss or injury, I control.But what assurance have I that this boonMay not prove dangerous? Mortals have what we,With all our vast machinery and weird powersMoving the earth, the sea and air, have not—And that is—soul. A soul and body, too,Might circumvent us—work us desperate harm;—At least 'tis wise to fear the things unknown,And to be chary how we give them scope.As long as thy body's powers restrain,Thy spirit to my will in bondage is;Thou hast no wherewithal to make ado—No weapon at thy service—art a slave,—And shall I give to thee a master's place?Yet, thou hast wakened in me a new thought.What is this love of which you mortals tell?—Which puts such tender sweetness in your tonesSuch brightness in your looks, and makes you turnUpon each other such delighted eyes?Your words have stirred strange pleasure in my heart:I, too, would know what love is. I commandThat thou shalt teach me,Bertho. Let the girlReturn, uninjured, to her southern bowers;Whilst thou remain to teach me this new lore.Perchance, in finding Love, I'll gain a soul,And learn of immortality; and allThe vague, sad intuitions that now mock me,Make real, and I become what I have dreamed.Make these things come to pass, and thou shalt have,Thy body and thy freedom, and a place,The highest of my chieftains. Follow me!"These ominous words of the enamored Queen,Spoken as though she knew not what it wasThat one should think of disobedience,PoorOliveheard, with looks of agonyFixed on the speaker's face—that Northern face,Wild in its power and in its beauty weird.The starry halo of that tintless crown,The midnight blackness of her plentiful hair,Set off the splendor of the countenanceOn which the maiden bent her pale regard.A jealous terror urged her on to say—"Love is not taught, QueenOene; 'tis a giftMysterious as life, and more divine;The congregated glories of this cave,With all its jewelled lamps and sparkling roofCould never purchase one of its small joys.Love, in exchange, takes nothing but itself,Power cannot claim it—fear cannot command—It is a tribute Queens cannot exact.The humblest peasant, singing in her hut,Is often richer than the proudest princess:It is the gift God left the human raceTo keep them from despair, when sin and shame,Pain, poverty, and death, and madness cameAmong the people. When a youthful pair,Look in each other's eyes and say—"We love"—The common earth grows to a heavenly world.Singing of birds, shining of summer suns,Blooming of flowers and brightness of the moon,Have a new charm to their elated sense;They hear the music of the Universe,Walking, with light feet, to the harmony;Careless of care and disbelieving pain,Grateful for life—and all, becausethey love.Thus havewesaid those irrecallable words—Solemnly smiling in each other's eyes—Berthoand I—and never to unsay!Therefore, sweet Queen, command him not, I pray,To an impossible thing, which needs compelRebellion to the will which he respects.I am a princess, yet will not refuse,The humblest service which thy pride requires,If I fromBerthoam not forced to part."ImperiousOeneturned her scornful eyesQuickly toBertho's, as in inquiry;While he, gathering resolve fromOlive'sfaceOf love and anguish, answered the mute look:"I cannot teach thee love, since it is learnedOnly when one heart from another takesThe sweet contagion; but, my bride and IMay humbly teach thee other human lore.Thou say'st thou hast no soul. This cannot be,Since reason and all mental gifts are thine;Within the lovely calyx sleeps the germ,—A flower as yet unblossomed. Warmth and lightFrom the great spiritual Sun alone it wantsTo bud and bloom into the fullest life.Shall we expound this marvellous mystery?—Tell thee of Endless Life which still unfoldsTill it doth circle every star in heaven?—And light within thy spotless bosom's shrineThe silvery flame of Christ's unwavering love—A love which we, indeed, would gladly teach,The parent of all other, whose pure fireDoth hallow and exalt our earthly hopes.We'll learn those peerless lips to syllable,God!—A word that thrills the Universe with awe!Thou shalt no more a lovely heathen be,But a sweet Woman, and a child of Heaven."A slow, soft light, into the wondering eyesIntently fixed upon the speaker, came—A deeper glow than from their slumberous blueHad ever startled; as she slightly bent,With earnest air, her crowned, resplendent head."Speak on!" she bade, "my thirsty heart is heldTo catch your words, as lillies catch the dew—So eager that it fain would overbrimWith the fresh gathering. It has waited long;And now, it shall be filled to bright excess.Speak on! I am impatient. But, first sayThat I shall then be worthier of love,—When I have mastered all these subtle thingsThat thou wilt love me better than this girl.I'll have thee for my teacher—thee alone;She shall return to her gay, foreign home,Laded with many a costly gift from me;I'll bid my warriors wait upon her steps,—My North-Lights shall illuminate her way,No frost shall nip the redness of her cheeks,And no rude wind shall bluster round her feet.""The frost of fear already nips her cheeksAt thought of living separate from me;At the mere word she droops, a blighted flower.Nay, gracious Queen? accept of both our hearts,And our united service,"Berthoplead.Down on her knees sankOlive, bending lowHer suppliant head, murmuring "Accept our hearts;"—But the same beauty which had conqueredWoleAngered the jealous Queen; she could not brookThe glistening of those unbound locks of gold;A pain, before unknown, stung her proud heart;While the fierce consciousness of absolute powerUrged her to tyrannous deeds. She waved her hand,And while her maidens shrank as if in dread,The finny sprites blew the shrill note of war,At which an hundred warriors gathered round.Olivethey seized and shut her in a cell—The very temple she had so admired—Where, heedless of her piteous shrieks and tearsThey left her to her grief; whileBerthowent,Securely guarded by their threatening spears,Following his conqueror's receding steps.PoorOlive, the forlornest captive birdThat ever beat its heart out in a cage,Fluttered the pinions of her restless willIn vain against her dungeon. What cared sheThat this same dungeon had an emrald floorAnd lattice-work of gold, or that the springWhich closed the door, was on a jewel hinged?The lustre of the cave flowed through her cell,And she could strain her weary eyes to catchGlimpses of splendor, which but mocked her state.The tiresome days rolled round, never relievedBy the refreshing shadows of the night;Until the lamps so often counted o'er,Seemed burning in her brain; and she had fearsThat madness lurked within her feverish veins.The ghouls who chanced to pass her, never spake;At last, with joy, the stranger of the mountShe saw approaching:"Ah! SirJohn," she cried—Her pale face, peering through the lattice-work—"Thou find'st me in a miserable plight—A closer prisoner by far than thou.""Why, thou bright bird, hasOenecaged thee here—Prisoned an oriole in her Arctic bowers?'Tis well we meet. As I was solacingMy banishment, by wandering here and there,Greeting old Thug by the day's sickly smile,I chanced within this cavern, where surpriseAnd pleasure lured me on from scene to scene.What tyrant holds thee in this glittering cell?""FromOene'sanger I am suffering,—Yes, dear sirJohn, from more than angry hate—From that implacable passion, worst of all,And cruelest of purpose, jealousy.I'd trust the tenderness of hungry wolves,The beauty of the cobra, or the talkOf waters to the rocks—but not the willOf woman, when to jealous thoughts aroused.She binds me here and bears my love away,To tempt him with a thousand sweetest wiles—With beauty, wealth, ambition, vanity,And all that easiest moves a man's proud heart.How shall I know ifBertho—even he—Has truth or virtue beyond this rich price?Or, she may torture him,—by pain compelConsent to her soft wish and queenly will.Alas, SirJohn, I am very miserable!"
"Dear friend," she said, brushing away her tears,"If thou wilt rest thee on this smoothest rockAnd tell me who thou art, and whence did come,And wherefore lingering here, pleased will I listen."
A smile stole o'er his pale, storm-beaten face.—"I know thee now, from mother Eve descended,By thy most feminine willingness to hear,The sorrows which did claim thy ready tearsWhile they were but suspected. Sit thee down.Five years it is since, with three stately shipsAnd sturdy crews to man them, one proud dayI sailed away from the great three-linked isle,Under my fair Queen's sovereign patronage,For the far Frigid Zone—the wild, the fierce,The unknown Arctic seas—through their cold depths,Their intricate, unmarked, majestic ways,To find a North-West Passage: which wise menAnd skillful mariners, learned of the sea,Suspected, through the navigator's artMight to the world be opened. High my heartWith courage and ambition swelled its tides,Knowledge I had and skill, with enterprise;And should I be successful, future timesShould know my name, and future marinersRespect my fame and emulate my deeds.But one faint spot was there in my proud heart,And that was where my constant wife, at parting,Shed sorrowful tears, until they did strike through,A fear, into my breast, that nevermoreThat faithful brow should lean to it again.
"To thee, if thou indeed hast safely passedThe horrors and the beauties of the sea,I need not tell the ever-varying scenesOf this most fearful voyage.
"Day by dayI studied in my cabin over charts;Or, on the deck, learned of the sea and skyThe subtle mariner's ever-changeful lore.Prosperous we were, till o'er the mystic boundsOfOene'srealms I sailed; save now and thenSome noble sailor of my kindly crewsWith tears we left upon the bloomless shoresWhere birds nor flowers should ever bless his grave.On—on—beyond all shores—or sights of dwarfsSlaying the rein-deer by their snow-built huts:—On, through the thickening perils of the way!Methought I held within my brain the clueThrough that bewildering labyrinth of ice.For weeks the Sun, a pale and sinking ghost,With feeble eyes had glared upon the Pole.Nor with his wavering arrows could o'erthrowEven the airy domes of delicate sprites,Sitting and decking their etherial robesAnd turning them, sparkling, to his sullen face.
"Now fromOene'sdominions, messengers,Borne by the flying winds, hourly arrived,Warning me from her shores. At last the Queen,Gathered together her enormous fleet;It bore down upon us with such grand arrayAs I pray heaven never to see again.An hundred giant ships, whose rainbow sailsAnd glittering masts towered a thousand feetAbove our tiny vessels, weighed their anchorsAnd slowly from their harbors drifted out.We heard the creaking of their cables—heardThe shouting of their fierce and naked crews—We saw the green sea boil against their keels—Their viewless banners flapped against our faces—Their viewless darts pierced us on every sideTill men fell on our decks, a stony heap.We strove, at least, to make a brave retreat,Toiling in mute dispair, or madly prayingThe winds to favor our poor, shattered sails.They closed around us upon every side.Two of the largest of their avenging fleet,Drawing together crushed in the embraceMy stoutest vessel like some frailest shell;Then swung apart, with laughter on their decks,Showing me, where my noble friends had been,Only a seething gulf. The sweat of anguishFroze into hail upon my pallid brow,When, with another shriek of agony,The brother ship went down. At length the winds,Saving us only from more sudden death,Drove us upon the rocks beneath this mount.Five years had wasted all our store of food;But, seeing monsters like this beast of prey,Some of the least exhausted boldly forthWent to destroy them—I amid the rest,—But stupor and a drowsy sweetness cameOver our eyes, and we lay down to sleep—Waking to hear the mocking laugh of ghouls,To find us chained, enslaved,—and, worse than all!Lost from our corporal bodies—spirits—dead!
"I, as the leader of the intruding band,Am doomed to wander on this mountain side,A century, before my restless ghost,Freed from the thraldom of weirdOene'spower,Regains its natural liberty, and soarsInto the paradise of happy souls.This is the punishment those mortals bear,Who, venturing into this strange Arctic world,Are vanquished by its sovereign. She hath power,The source of which I know not, to retainThe souls of mortals for an hundred years,Demanding service which they needs must pay.The gloomy caverns underneath this mount,And those which in the hearts of icebergs lie,And many by the sea, are filled with thoseWho work their ransom out with tedious toil.For me—I am not put to any task—My punishment to gaze afar and seeHow cruelly all friends from distant shores,Who dare attempt my rescue, are restrained.Alas; the North-west Passage! When the dayGlinted o'er this pale land, before my sightIn devious tracery that Passage lay;Mocking me with its undeveloped truth,Wealth unappropriated, glory lost!Cruel is she who took from me that substanceWith which I might have conquered an escape,Leaving me, a forlorn old spirit, sere and grey.Musing through barren hours upon the past,I think with bitterness on those who onceWere friends and lovers—Queen, companions, Wife!Forgotten! yes, forgotten by them all!The luxuries of the world-taxing city,The kisses of their children, smiles of menRenowned of deeds which have not failed, like mine—Thisis the portion of that happier crowdWho set me on to dangerous enterprise.But ah! the worst part of it all, is this,—To be forgotten by my own best friends—To be to them as if I ne'er had been!My wife—my wife!"—he ended with bowed head.
"Art thou indeed a spirit?"Oliveasked,Shrinking a step aside. Then her kind heartO'ercome the transient awe, and stealing close,While smiling on him with sweet, wondering eyes,Began again:—"But art thou truly heWhose name is on the lip of the great world?—Of whom the wives and mothers, tearful, speakWhen sound the Northern wind-harps?—whose grand fate,Hath power to touch, not only hearts of men,But draw the golden drops from weeping purses?Oh! be content! if Fame and Love content thee.For thee, the hearts of mariners beat loud—For thee, ships chase the pathways of the sea—By thee the souls of nations, like one chordAre smote upon, and ring out sympathy;And men talk on the streets, and by their hearths,Of him who led to dismal, distant shoresThe Crusade of the Nineteenth Century.In that new world, where generous hearts are foundTo flourish on the air of liberty,A noble merchant fitted out a ship;And others joined him in his kindly plan,So deep the interest taken in thy fate.And oh, for thee, thou princely-fortuned man,A pale face from a northern window looks,Forever looks, with constancy sublime.At night, when spectral tints are in the North—By day, when winds blow down from that bleak source—That face peers from the window anxiously,As if the elements might come from theeBearing some message to her pining heart."
As breaks the sunlight from a snow-filled cloud,Smiles struggled through the list'ner's wintry looks.
"As land-bird with a green twig in its beakIs welcome to the homesick ship which longHath tossed in foreign waters, so art thouWelcome to me, with this consoling tale.I am content. WeirdOene, keep me here!And I will while away a centuryIn dreaming of a love which hath not failed;Now knowing that the first to welcome meIn Heaven's ineffable bowers, will be my wife."
"Since thou, SirJohn, protected me from harm,What I have said may be some small return.I do dislike to leave thee here, so lonely;But since I for myBerthowent in search,Nought stays my footsteps long. Where'er I go,Whether I be successful in my search,Or perish by the way, I trust againWe shall in spirit, if not in body, meet.I have seen this witching Pole-Queen; I have passedThis circling cold and stood in the warm heartOf her domains—have pressed her magic isleWith my poor human feet, and with my voiceHave plead the cause of two young, eager souls.She was not kind, and yet not very cruel,She may relent, even of her hate towards thee.If I again have access to her ear,I'll not forget to plead thy cause, dear sir,As if it were mine own. Farewell!"
"Farewell,And heaven bless thine innocence, sweet friend."
With parting gesture full of tender graceAnd soft regret, she passed upon her way.A weary time it grew till on the summitOf Thug she stood, gazing bewildered round.No more she heard her lover's haunting call;But she herself cried out with aching voice,Whose sweetness dropped with every silver toneFrom the full note of hope to doubt and fear.
Sudden a chill fell on her, and a shadow;Her breath congealed, and on those rosy lipsThe white rime gathered. From behind a rock,Which crowned the mountain, there advanced to viewWole, that old warrior who beforeOeneRumbled his boastful story. In his handHe poised his massive spear in act to throw;Yet, seeing there, chilled in her loveliness,(Like some young rose-bud nipped by spring-time frost,)The maiden whom his Queen herself did spare,The frown rolled from his forehead as a cloudRolls from a rugged crag. The spear remainedMoveless in air, while through his frosty glanceMelted a softness never known before.The life so nearly frozen in her veinsFlew back and thrilled her heart, as on her kneesShe dropped, and lifting up her pleading handsCrying—"Slay me, at once, greatWole, slay me!With those keen looks, or tell me of my lover!If this great mountain rested on my breastIt could not crush me worse than this suspense,Kill me or free me from it! What, to thee—Thou greatest warrior of this shadowy land,Whose conquests like the snows upon this mountLie white and venerable on thy fame,Unsoiled by one defeat—what is to thee,One prisoner, if she who loves him well,Comes kneeling at thy feet, to ask him back?Thou'lt give him her, I know, since to achieveRenown like thine there must be generous heart."
"Look!" cried the warrior and outstretched his spear—"'Tis not auspicious hour for such a plea."
Following the motion of his hand she sawFrom the horizon phantom suns and moonsShoot swiftly, or along the red edge roll.Dim on the distant verge of ghostly shoresPale fleets of paler shades, and flying hostsOf spectral horsemen on their vanishing steeds,Fled either way before the coming morn;While fairies that, on snow-flakes, sailed aboutDown through the valleys darted out of sight;And meteors, coursing higher in the sky,Exploded in their wrath, dropping down deadThe fiery ghouls who rode their shining wings.
Sudden, whileOlivegazed, she thought a flameSprang from her feet, when looking, startled, down,She saw the glory of the rising sunTouching the pinnacle of sparkling iceOn which she stood. Silent and rapt she gazedWhile thousand golden flames on thousand spiresWere low and lower lit; and here and thereSome broad plain glimmered into sudden white—And frozen cataracts which, in daring leapsMidway between vast depths were holden tight,Gleamed out like streams of gold:—Thus, one by one,The wonders of that soulless land appeared,While grey and ghast, behind the sparkling towersOf gorgeous Thug, the ancient Night stooped down.
Wolegnashed his teeth and turned again to smiteThe helpless girl who pleaded; but the lightWhich angered him had beautified her so,That his cold breath grew moist upon his beard.The sunlight melting in her eyes and flushingHer cheeks with rosy redness, crowned her hairWith lustrous splendor, and about her formFell like a robe of glory, warm and soft.
"Mortal!" he cried, while in the agony'Twixt admiration and inherent hate,The sullen throbbing of his heart was seenThrilling his moistened beard—"Pass from my sight!Thou makest old Thug's warrior drop his spear,And should that fair face beam on me eternal,Eternal I would swear the sun was goodAndOenewas no Queen. Yet I would rather,Crush thee beneath my feet, than be this traitor."
He would have thrust her rudely from his path.But she arose from off her bended knee,Turning her fair face from him, so her hairHid its too touching beauty from his sight;Clasping her suppliant hands upon her bosomShe spoke out wildly, as one weary waitingFor long-expected good;—
"Oh, cruelWole!Where is myBerthoin this mountain hidden?—Shaping fantastic dreams of heartlessOene,With aching hands into a tangible beauty.How can'st thou keep two yearning souls apart?Ifthoucould'st feel what love is, mighty masterOf loveless War, then thou would'st pity me!"
"Thou shalt behold thy lover, southern girl,"WasWole'sreply, and reaching round the rockTook up a horn shorn from some monster's headAnd blew in it a blast meant to be angry:Yet strangely pining from the curves it came,And went down wailing through the pallid sunlight,For it was born of the tumultuous sighStirred in his bosom by the lovely stranger.
Soon the sound smote against a pinnacleWhich someway down the mountain had just caughtThe radiance of the morning, and now stoodA ruby palace on a crystal base,With emrald towers and columns sapphire-hued:While at the summons, swift was lifted upA shining net-work from behind the columns,And out there flew two fair, unearthly sprites,With wings like birds of Paradise, and bodiesOf shape uncertain; for so swiftly shiftedTheir rainbow hues amid enwreathing mists,ThatOlivelikened them to those vagariesBorn to the eyes that gaze upon the sprayOf cataracts dashing in the sun. Their flyingMade music like the flowing on of streams,They came and hovered in the air before her,While she regarded them with timid looksOf fear and pleasure, seeing not their features,But floating hair of gold, and beamy brightnessAs of white foreheads and blue, humid eyes.Next moment she was lifted from the earth,Encircled, as it were, by many rainbows,And rushing, bird-like, through the airy space:While a monotonous, soft and sleepy hummingRose all around and filled her drowsy ears.Brief time it was, 'till, with bewildered eyes,She saw her fairies vanish in a mist,Floating away in music, while she stoodAlone, far down the mountain oppositeThe side that with such toil she just had climbed.She stood alone—and where? the roses shrankFrom her wan cheeks to view her new distress,—Before her a dark chasm, and above herA crowd of close and overhanging rocks,All dripping, black, and hopelessly down-leant.A glimmering hope now broke upon her sense—Seeing an arch, and, far beyond, the gleamOf lights that from some cavern stole away.Under the arch she passed and found herselfWalking an ever-widening vista down,Fading from twilight to auroral glowsAnd brightening into more than noon-day breadthAnd gorgeousness of light, until she pausedBeneath the grand arch of that grand succession,Standing amazed, one slender hand upheldShading her eyes, half blinded by that viewOf Arctic-Nature and of Arctic-Art.In limitless magnificence the caveBefore her spread, a world within a world.
She entered in, like Eve in ParadiseSearching for Adam; and yet, oft beguiledFrom the great love-thought, by the sights she saw.If she glanced upward to the sparkling dome,The lamps, swinging like suns as far above,Shone down upon her beautiful young face,Smiling to see them dwarfed within her eyes.The crystal floor doubled her bashful feet;She saw no walls; but the refulgent spaceWas here and there disturbed by artful groups.Once, by a fountain passing, dulcet murmurs,Wooed her aside to listen; and, again,Temples, which mimicked the frost's fairy work,Burning with gems, attracted her to gaze.Music, from hidden sources, beat the airWith wings of melody that flew abroadBeyond th' enchanted sense, and darting backSwept with a sweet vibration near her face.Thrice o'er her brow she drew her languid hand,That, if it were a dream, she might dispelThe gay enchantment; and thrice murmured o'erThe spells learned of her nurse in infancy,Which would all witchcraft render innocent;But that great cavern of the northern worldWas not by nurse's spells to be dissolved,Growing more wond'rous, as she wondered more.
Now, 'neath her feet, the floor less polished grew,And fountains dashed from the unsculptured rock;She saw half-finished grottoes, fewer lights,And heard a discord in the melodyAs if of hammers and the shouts of workmen;Meanwhile her heart loudly began to beat.
"Bertho! I have come,Bertho!" she cried out,As the next moment, 'mid a swarthy groupOf dusky laborers, a familiar formRaised itself from a shaft of phorphyry,And turned itself to hear that throbbing heart.
A light too glad for smiles came o'er the face,The shadowy face, uplifted from its toil,And, "Olive!" echoed back her eager cry.
The fairest sight that cavern ever sawWas that young girl holding her glowing armsTo clasp her love; her sweet mouth all a-tremble,Her dark eyes flashing joy and tender tears,Her bosom fluttering in its snowy foldsWith sudden pleasure;—but, what clasped she?A shadow! Pale and silent she shrank back;Her lover folded up his hopeless arms;His face a melancholy so profound put onThatOliveto his side again drew near.
"Is this one mystery of this mystic world—This world of phantoms?" sighed the stricken girl."Oh! why did hope keep life within my breast,And passion thrill me with strange fortitude?Why did I save the kisses of my lipsFor him who nevermore can give them back?Why did I smile to think my arms were softWhen thus this spirit fades within their clasp?Bertho!—that scornful Queen did tell me this.And yet I did not comprehend her words.There is no warmth nor beauty in this land!Its people have no hearts—know not of love—Their thoughts are colder than their beds of snow.Indeed, this is no world!—but some vain dream,Troubling my sleep, and I cannot awake.Love then, is a deceitful fantasy—Berthois dead—is dead—and yet not dead!Life is not life"—
Her wild, distrustful wordsHere ended, as she saw the bitternessWhich stormed across the spirit's anguished face:—
"Forbear, poor child! thy pitiful complaints!When through these long years of distasteful toilI thought of thee, unceasing, day and night,Calling on heaven to bend thy steps towards me,I thought not that this spirit, weary, worn,And from the covering of its body torn,Its feeling could retain and substance lose.Fool that I was! to sigh for human love!Why art thou here to madden me with looks,—Those womanly, caressing looks which fillMy soul with wild desires! Back, to thy home,In that gold-girdled circle of daylight,That island of elysian loveliness,Where thou and I did'st one time idly dream!There breathe the passionate breath of orange-flowers—Walk in the sunlight till thy brows are flushedWith its warm kisses—plunge thy snowy feetIn the embracing waves and silver sand—Shake down magnolia-blossoms on thy hair—Answer the nightingales' delicious songWith thy sweet cries—and, on bright eves, look upAnd charm the moon upon her lingering wayWith that soft fire of thine entrancing eyes!Thou wilt not for regret or tears find time.Some lover, clothed in human dignityAnd tangible robes of life, will haunt thy steps,Drawing up, with magnetic looks, the smilesWhich lie deep down in thy now tearful orbs;And, wiling from their blissful hiding-place,The bashful dimples to thy blushing cheeks,And,—it may be—with human eloquence,Beguile thy hand to rest within his own,Sitting, as we have sat,—thy glossy hairRippling in golden waves across his breast."
"Can he be mad as well as dead?" the girlMurmured aside! and then her sorrowing browShe lifted proudly, while a sudden fireSprang to her lips and eyes—her trembling voiceSteadied itself on her unfaltering love.—"Forgive me,Bertho, that my woman's heart,Finding thee thus, should, for an instant, only,Shrink back from thee in awe and deep regret.My love, which has endured so much, grows strongIn its endurance; and it only asksThat I may never from thy side be driven.Talk not of islands in a sunny sea,Or fragrant blooms, or singing nightingales!I love them not. My father's marble floorsWere colder than the icy plains I've passed,When thy dear footsteps fled them. Be content.Love like our own needs not the warmth of sighsOr soft caresses to keep pure the fireUpon the sacred shrine; 'twill burn as bright,Though never by the breath of kisses fanned;'Tis not a fading blossom—nor a birdThat only sings amid the orange-flowers.What have I still?—thy spirit, which isThou.What have I lost?—thy body, which I lovedBut as the garment which adorned thy soul.Thou art myBerthostill! I, thy fondOlive,Who comes to share thy banishment with thee.Be of good cheer. Only one centuryCanOenethrall thee. In the meanwhile, IShall die, and be a spirit, as thou art.Until that time I will abide with thee;We will on one another patient wait,Till, hand in hand we leave these dismal shoresAnd celebrate our marriage-day in heaven."
Tumultuous music filled the spacious cave.Oenewas coming with her virgin train,Impatient to behold what further charms,Her prisoned laborers at their tasks had wrought.Blowing on quaintly curved and curious shellsWhich made a sea-like music—mingled upOf sweet, unsyllabled sounds, and long-drawn sighs,Heavy with memories of coral reefs,Murmuring shores, caverns, and surging deeps—There flew, midway between the roof and floor,A band of sprites which lived in air or sea;With eyes like twinkling stars, and winged feet,And sparkling fins down either shoulder-blade,And cheeks puffed out and flushing with their toil.Announced by these, the courtly train approachedThe spot whereBerthoand hisOlivestood,Close by an emrald rock, within whose breastA living spring slept like a smiling child.Around the brimBerthohad sculptured mossAnd rare similitudes of southern flowers;Shaped violets from sapphires, and from stalks,Hung ruby roses, bright, but without soul,As perfumeless as was that frigid land.Oene, resplendent as a wintry moon,Bent her proud eyes upon the waiting pair:—"So! thou hast found thy lover, southern maid?Are, then, these sunbeams which flow from thy head,Pinions as well as tresses bearing theeAcross the perilous chasm which guards our cave?"
"Yes! I have found my lover, nobleOene;And I am happy working by his side.See! this sweet spring which we have brimmed with flowers—A mirror for thy beautiful face, O Queen!In adding my slight labor to his own,In hopes that thou would'st never banish me,But leave me by his side to aid his work,I've found a consolation very sweet,And have been happy."
"ButIhave not been!"SpokeBerthowith a moody passionateness,"And never can be till I am restoredTo the full use of all my natural powers.Happy! when hearing this young creature's laugh—Seeing the dimples, begging for a kiss,Peep from her cheeks, and hide themselves again—Feeling her soft breath warming o'er my brow—Yet be this bodiless ghost of what I was!O, Queen! wilt thou not give me back that shape—Which thou dids't cruelly bereave me of—That I, again, may feel my bounding heartThrobbing against the bosom of my bride?Then thou shalt find what grateful souls can do.For I will court invention, study art,To decorate this favorite cave anew;And she I love will serve thee patientlyUnnumbered years, till we our freedom earn."
The sternness of his tone had melted downTo liquid sweetness, and his fiery eyesGrown humid, as he fixed them on the QueenIn soft entreaty.
From her lofty brow,So pale and passive, had the shadow rolled,As slightly and unconsciously she bentTo his quick utterance. A sudden rayStole from the twilight of her deepening eyes,And a warm redness into either cheek,Troubling its cold repose, shot quickly up.A moment of suspense, and then she spoke:
"'Tis true that I thy body might restore,Since but suspension of its human powers,And not its loss or injury, I control.But what assurance have I that this boonMay not prove dangerous? Mortals have what we,With all our vast machinery and weird powersMoving the earth, the sea and air, have not—And that is—soul. A soul and body, too,Might circumvent us—work us desperate harm;—At least 'tis wise to fear the things unknown,And to be chary how we give them scope.As long as thy body's powers restrain,Thy spirit to my will in bondage is;Thou hast no wherewithal to make ado—No weapon at thy service—art a slave,—And shall I give to thee a master's place?Yet, thou hast wakened in me a new thought.What is this love of which you mortals tell?—Which puts such tender sweetness in your tonesSuch brightness in your looks, and makes you turnUpon each other such delighted eyes?Your words have stirred strange pleasure in my heart:I, too, would know what love is. I commandThat thou shalt teach me,Bertho. Let the girlReturn, uninjured, to her southern bowers;Whilst thou remain to teach me this new lore.Perchance, in finding Love, I'll gain a soul,And learn of immortality; and allThe vague, sad intuitions that now mock me,Make real, and I become what I have dreamed.Make these things come to pass, and thou shalt have,Thy body and thy freedom, and a place,The highest of my chieftains. Follow me!"
These ominous words of the enamored Queen,Spoken as though she knew not what it wasThat one should think of disobedience,PoorOliveheard, with looks of agonyFixed on the speaker's face—that Northern face,Wild in its power and in its beauty weird.The starry halo of that tintless crown,The midnight blackness of her plentiful hair,Set off the splendor of the countenanceOn which the maiden bent her pale regard.A jealous terror urged her on to say—
"Love is not taught, QueenOene; 'tis a giftMysterious as life, and more divine;The congregated glories of this cave,With all its jewelled lamps and sparkling roofCould never purchase one of its small joys.Love, in exchange, takes nothing but itself,Power cannot claim it—fear cannot command—It is a tribute Queens cannot exact.The humblest peasant, singing in her hut,Is often richer than the proudest princess:It is the gift God left the human raceTo keep them from despair, when sin and shame,Pain, poverty, and death, and madness cameAmong the people. When a youthful pair,Look in each other's eyes and say—"We love"—The common earth grows to a heavenly world.Singing of birds, shining of summer suns,Blooming of flowers and brightness of the moon,Have a new charm to their elated sense;They hear the music of the Universe,Walking, with light feet, to the harmony;Careless of care and disbelieving pain,Grateful for life—and all, becausethey love.Thus havewesaid those irrecallable words—Solemnly smiling in each other's eyes—Berthoand I—and never to unsay!Therefore, sweet Queen, command him not, I pray,To an impossible thing, which needs compelRebellion to the will which he respects.I am a princess, yet will not refuse,The humblest service which thy pride requires,If I fromBerthoam not forced to part."
ImperiousOeneturned her scornful eyesQuickly toBertho's, as in inquiry;While he, gathering resolve fromOlive'sfaceOf love and anguish, answered the mute look:
"I cannot teach thee love, since it is learnedOnly when one heart from another takesThe sweet contagion; but, my bride and IMay humbly teach thee other human lore.Thou say'st thou hast no soul. This cannot be,Since reason and all mental gifts are thine;Within the lovely calyx sleeps the germ,—A flower as yet unblossomed. Warmth and lightFrom the great spiritual Sun alone it wantsTo bud and bloom into the fullest life.Shall we expound this marvellous mystery?—Tell thee of Endless Life which still unfoldsTill it doth circle every star in heaven?—And light within thy spotless bosom's shrineThe silvery flame of Christ's unwavering love—A love which we, indeed, would gladly teach,The parent of all other, whose pure fireDoth hallow and exalt our earthly hopes.We'll learn those peerless lips to syllable,God!—A word that thrills the Universe with awe!Thou shalt no more a lovely heathen be,But a sweet Woman, and a child of Heaven."
A slow, soft light, into the wondering eyesIntently fixed upon the speaker, came—A deeper glow than from their slumberous blueHad ever startled; as she slightly bent,With earnest air, her crowned, resplendent head.
"Speak on!" she bade, "my thirsty heart is heldTo catch your words, as lillies catch the dew—So eager that it fain would overbrimWith the fresh gathering. It has waited long;And now, it shall be filled to bright excess.Speak on! I am impatient. But, first sayThat I shall then be worthier of love,—When I have mastered all these subtle thingsThat thou wilt love me better than this girl.I'll have thee for my teacher—thee alone;She shall return to her gay, foreign home,Laded with many a costly gift from me;I'll bid my warriors wait upon her steps,—My North-Lights shall illuminate her way,No frost shall nip the redness of her cheeks,And no rude wind shall bluster round her feet."
"The frost of fear already nips her cheeksAt thought of living separate from me;At the mere word she droops, a blighted flower.Nay, gracious Queen? accept of both our hearts,And our united service,"Berthoplead.
Down on her knees sankOlive, bending lowHer suppliant head, murmuring "Accept our hearts;"—But the same beauty which had conqueredWoleAngered the jealous Queen; she could not brookThe glistening of those unbound locks of gold;A pain, before unknown, stung her proud heart;While the fierce consciousness of absolute powerUrged her to tyrannous deeds. She waved her hand,And while her maidens shrank as if in dread,The finny sprites blew the shrill note of war,At which an hundred warriors gathered round.Olivethey seized and shut her in a cell—The very temple she had so admired—Where, heedless of her piteous shrieks and tearsThey left her to her grief; whileBerthowent,Securely guarded by their threatening spears,Following his conqueror's receding steps.
PoorOlive, the forlornest captive birdThat ever beat its heart out in a cage,Fluttered the pinions of her restless willIn vain against her dungeon. What cared sheThat this same dungeon had an emrald floorAnd lattice-work of gold, or that the springWhich closed the door, was on a jewel hinged?The lustre of the cave flowed through her cell,And she could strain her weary eyes to catchGlimpses of splendor, which but mocked her state.
The tiresome days rolled round, never relievedBy the refreshing shadows of the night;Until the lamps so often counted o'er,Seemed burning in her brain; and she had fearsThat madness lurked within her feverish veins.The ghouls who chanced to pass her, never spake;At last, with joy, the stranger of the mountShe saw approaching:
"Ah! SirJohn," she cried—Her pale face, peering through the lattice-work—"Thou find'st me in a miserable plight—A closer prisoner by far than thou."
"Why, thou bright bird, hasOenecaged thee here—Prisoned an oriole in her Arctic bowers?'Tis well we meet. As I was solacingMy banishment, by wandering here and there,Greeting old Thug by the day's sickly smile,I chanced within this cavern, where surpriseAnd pleasure lured me on from scene to scene.What tyrant holds thee in this glittering cell?"
"FromOene'sanger I am suffering,—Yes, dear sirJohn, from more than angry hate—From that implacable passion, worst of all,And cruelest of purpose, jealousy.I'd trust the tenderness of hungry wolves,The beauty of the cobra, or the talkOf waters to the rocks—but not the willOf woman, when to jealous thoughts aroused.She binds me here and bears my love away,To tempt him with a thousand sweetest wiles—With beauty, wealth, ambition, vanity,And all that easiest moves a man's proud heart.How shall I know ifBertho—even he—Has truth or virtue beyond this rich price?Or, she may torture him,—by pain compelConsent to her soft wish and queenly will.Alas, SirJohn, I am very miserable!"