—sine me sit nulla Venus.SULPICIA.
Our hearts, my love, were formed to beThe genuine twins of Sympathy,They live with one sensation;In joy or grief, but most in love,Like chords in unison they move,And thrill with like vibration.
How oft I've beard thee fondly say,Thy vital pulse shall cease to playWhen mine no more is moving;Since, now, to feel a joyaloneWere worse to thee than feeling none,So twined are we in loving!
On beds of snow the moonbeam slept,And chilly was the midnight gloom,When by the damp grave Ellen wept—Fond maid! it was her Lindor's tomb!
A warm tear gushed, the wintry air,Congealed it as it flowed away:All night it lay an ice-drop there,At morn it glittered in the ray.
An angel, wandering from her sphere,Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,To dew-eyed Pity brought the tearAnd hung it on her diadem!
My love and I, the other day,Within a myrtle arbor lay,When near us, from a rosy bed,A little Snake put forth its head.
"See," said the maid with thoughtful eyes—"Yonder the fatal emblem lies!"Who could expect such hidden harm"Beneath the rose's smiling charm?"
Never did grave remark occurLessà-proposthan this from her.
I rose to kill the snake, but she,Half-smiling, prayed it might not be.
"No," said the maiden—and, alas,Her eyes spoke volumes, while she said it—"Long as the snake is in the grass,"Onemay, perhaps, have cause to dread it:"But, when its wicked eyes appear,"And when we know for what they wink so,"One must beverysimple, dear,"To let it wound one—don't you think so?"
Is the song of Rosa mute?Once such lays inspired her lute!Never doth a sweeter songSteal the breezy lyre along,When the wind, in odors dying,Woos it with enamor'd sighing.
Is my Rosa's lute unstrung?Once a tale of peace it sungTo her lover's throbbing breast—Then was he divinely blest!Ah! but Rosa loves no more,Therefore Rosa's song is o'er;And her lute neglected lies;And her boy forgotten sighs.Silent lute—forgotten lover—Rosa's love and song are over!
Sic juvat perire.
When wearied wretches sink to sleep,How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!How sweet is death to those who weep,To those who weep and long to die!
Saw you the soft and grassy bed,Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast?'Tis there I wish to lay my head,'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.
Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,—None but the dews at twilight given!Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,—None but the whispering winds of heaven!
Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum.SECUNDUS, eleg. vii.
Still the question I must parry,Still a wayward truant prove:Where I love, I must not marry;Where I marry, can not love.
Were she fairest of creation,With the least presuming mind;Learned without affectation;Not deceitful, yet refined;
Wise enough, but never rigid;Gay, but not too lightly free;Chaste as snow, and yet not frigid:Fond, yet satisfied with me:
Were she all this ten times over,All that heaven to earth allows.I should be too much her loverEver to become her spouse.
Love will never bear enslaving;Summer garments suit him best;Bliss itself is not worth having,If we're by compulsion blest.
I filled to thee, to thee I drank,I nothing did but drink and fill;The bowl by turns was bright and blank,'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.
At length I bade an artist paintThy image in this ample cup,That I might see the dimpled saint,To whom I quaffed my nectar up.
Behold, how bright that purple lipNow blushes through the wave at me;Every roseate drop I sipIs just like kissing wine from thee.
And still I drink the more for this;For, ever when the draught I drain,Thy lip invites another kiss,And—in the nectar flows again.
So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,And may that eyelid never shineBeneath a darker, bitterer tearThan bathes it in this bowl of mine!
Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore,That from this hour I shall not love thee more.—"What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?"Because Ican notlove theemore—thannow!
I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies,And in thy breath his pinion dips,Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,And faints upon thy sighing lips:
I'll ask him where's the veil of sleepThat used to shade thy looks of light;And why those eyes their vigil keepWhen other suns are sunk in night?
And I will say—her angel breastHas never throbbed with guilty sting;Her bosom is the sweetest nestWhere Slumber could repose his wing!
And I will say—her cheeks that flush,Like vernal roses in the sun,Have ne'er by shame been taught to blush,Except for what her eyes have done!
Then tell me, why, thou child of air!Does slumber from her eyelids rove?What is her heart's impassioned care?Perhaps, oh sylph! perhaps, 'tislove.
Come, tell me where the maid is found.Whose heart can love without deceit,And I will range the world around,To sigh one moment at her feet.
Oh! tell me where's her sainted home,What air receives her blessed sigh,A pilgrimage of years I'll roamTo catch one sparkle of her eye!
And if her cheek be smooth and bright,While truth within her bosom lies,I'll gaze upon her morn and night,Till my heart leave me through my eyes.
Show me on earth a thing so rare,I'll own all miracles are true;To make one maid sincere and fair,Oh, 'tis the utmost Heaven can do!
Che con le lor bugie pajon divini.MAURO D'ARCANO.
I do confess, in many a sigh,My lips have breathed you many a lie;And who, with such delights in view,Would lose them for a lie or two?
Nay,—look not thus, with brow reproving;Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving.If half we tell the girls were true,If half we swear to think and do,Were aught but lying's bright illusion,This world would be in strange confusion.If ladies' eyes were, every one,As lovers swear, a radiant sun,Astronomy must leave the skies,To learn her lore in ladies' eyes.Oh, no—believe me, lovely girl,When nature turns your teeth to pearl,Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire,Your amber locks to golden wire,Then, only then can Heaven decree,That you should live for only me,Or I for you, as night and morn,We've swearing kist, and kissing sworn.And now, my gentle hints to clear,For once I'll tell you truth, my dear.Whenever you may chance to meetSome loving youth, whose love is sweet,Long as you're false and he believes you,Long as you trust and he deceives you,So long the blissful bond endures,And while he lies, his heart is yours:But, oh! you've wholly lost the youthThe instant that he tells you truth.
Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,'Twill chase that pensive tear;'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,But, oh! 'tis more sincere.
Like her delusive beam,'Twill steal away thy mind:But, truer than love's dream,It leaves no sting behind.
Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;These flowers were culled at noon;—Like woman's love the rose will fade,But, ah! not half so soon.For though the flower's decayed,Its fragrance is not o'er;But once when love's betrayed,Its sweet life blooms no more.
Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna.MARTIAL,lib. xiv. epig. 89.
"Oh! love the Lamp" (my Mistress said),"The faithful Lamp that, many a night,"Beside thy Lais' lonely bed?"Has kept its little watch of light.
"Full often has it seen her weep,"And fix her eye upon its flame."Till, weary, she has sunk to sleep,"Repeating her beloved's name.
"Then love the Lamp—'twill often lead"Thy step through learning's sacred way;"And when those studious eyes shall read,"At midnight, by its lonely ray,"Of things sublime, of nature's birth,"Of all that's bright in heaven or earth,Oh, think that she, by whom 'twas given,"Adores thee more than earth or heaven!"
Yes—dearest Lamp, by every charmOn which thy midnight beam has hung;The head reclined, the graceful armAcross the brow of ivory flung;
The heaving bosom, partly hid,The severed lips unconscious sighs,The fringe that from the half-shut lidAdown the cheek of roses lies;
By these, by all that bloom untold,And long as all shall charm my heart,I'll love my little Lamp of gold—My Lamp and I shall never part.
And often, as she smiling said,In fancy's hour thy gentle raysShall guide my visionary treadThrough poesy's enchanting maze.Thy flame shall light the page refined,Where still we catch the Chian's breath,Where still the bard though cold in death,Has left his soul unquenched behind.Or, o'er thy humbler legend shine,Oh man of Ascra's dreary glades,To whom the nightly warbling NineA wand of inspiration gave,Plucked from the greenest tree, that shadesThe crystal of Castalia's wave.
Then, turning to a purer lore,We'll cull the sage's deep-hid store,From Science steal her golden clue,And every mystic path pursue,Where Nature, far from vulgar eyes,Through labyrinths of wonder flies.'Tis thus my heart shall learn to knowHow fleeting is this world below,Where all that meets the morning light,Is changed before the fall of night!
I'll tell thee, as I trim thy fire,"Swift, swift the tide of being runs,"And Time, who bids thy flame expire,"Will also quench yon heaven of suns."
Oh, then if earth's united powerCan never chain one feathery hour;If every print we leave to-dayTo-morrow's wave will sweep away;Who pauses to inquire of heavenWhy were the fleeting treasures given,The sunny days, the shady nights,And all their brief but dear delights,Which heaven has made for man to use,And man should think it crime to lose?Who that has culled a fresh-blown roseWill ask it why it breathes and glows,Unmindful of the blushing ray,In which it shines its soul away;Unmindful of the scented sigh,With which it dies and loves to die.
Pleasure, thou only good on earth[2]One precious moment given to thee—Oh! by my Lais' lip, 'tis worthThe sage's immortality.
Then far be all the wisdom hence,That would our joys one hour delay!Alas, the feast of soul and senseLove calls us to in youth's bright day,If not soon tasted, fleets away.Ne'er wert thou formed, my Lamp, to shedThy splendor on a lifeless page;—Whate'er my blushing Lais saidOf thoughtful lore and studies sage,'Twas mockery all—her glance of joyTold me thy dearest, best employ.And, soon, as night shall close the eyeOf heaven's young wanderer in the west;When seers are gazing on the sky,To find their future orbs of rest;Then shall I take my trembling way,Unseen but to those worlds above,And, led by thy mysterious ray,Steal to the night-bower of my love.
[1] It does not appear to have been very difficult to become a philosopher amongst the ancients. A moderate store of learning, with a considerable portion of confidence, and just wit enough to produce an occasional apophthegm, seem to have been all the qualifications necessary for the purpose.
[2] Aristippus considered motion as the principle of happiness, in which idea he differed from the Epicureans, who looked to a state of repose as the only true voluptuousness, and avoided even the too lively agitations of pleasure, as a violent and ungraceful derangement of the senses.
Mon ame sur mon lèvre étoit lors toute entière.Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre étoit;Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit.VOITURE.
How heavenly was the poet's doom,To breathe his spirit through a kiss:And lose within so sweet a tombThe trembling messenger of bliss!
And, sure his soul returned to feelThat itagaincould ravished be;For in the kiss that thou didst steal,His life and soul have fled to thee.
"Good night! good night!"—And is it so?And must I from my Rosa go?Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more,And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er,Till the first glance of dawning lightShall find us saying, still, "Good night."
And still "Good night," my Rosa, say—But whisper still, "A minute stay;"And I will stay, and every minuteShall have an age of transport in it;Till Time himself shall stay his flight,To listen to our sweet "Good night."
"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh,And tell me it is time to fly:And I will vow, will swear to go,While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!"Till slumber seal our weary sight—And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!"
Why does azure deck the sky?'Tis to be like thy looks of blue.Why is red the rose's dye?Because it is thy blushes' hue.All that's fair, by Love's decree,Has been made resembling thee!
Why is falling snow so white,But to be like thy bosom fair!Why are solar beams so bright?That they may seem thy golden hair!All that's bright, by Love's decree,Has been made resembling thee!
Why are nature's beauties felt?Oh! 'tis thine in her we see!Why has music power to melt?Oh! because it speaks like thee.All that's sweet, by Love's decree,Has been made resembling thee!
Like one who trusts to summer skies,And puts his little bark to sea,Is he who, lured by smiling eyes,Consigns his simple heart to thee.
For fickle is the summer wind,And sadly may the bark be tost;For thou art sure to change thy mind,And then the wretched heart is lost!
This tribute's from a wretched elf,Who hails thee, emblem of himself.The book of life, which I have traced,Has been, like thee, a motley wasteOf follies scribbled o'er and o'er,One folly bringing hundreds more.Some have indeed been writ so neat,In characters so fair, so sweet,That those who judge not too severely,Have said they loved such follies dearly!Yet still, O book! the allusion stands;For these were penned byfemalehands:The rest—alas! I own the truth—Have all been scribbled so uncouthThat Prudence, with a withering look,Disdainful, flings away the book.Like thine, its pages here and thereHave oft been stained with blots of care;And sometimes hours of peace, I own,Upon some fairer leaves have shone,White as the snowings of that heavenBy which those hours of peace were given;But now no longer—such, oh, suchThe blast of Disappointment's touch!—No longer now those hours appear;Each leaf is sullied by a tear:Blank, blank is every page with care,Not even a folly brightens there.Will they yet brighten?—never, never!Thenshut the book, O God, for ever!
Say, why should the girl of my soul be in tearsAt a meeting of rapture like this,When the glooms of the past and the sorrow of yearsHave been paid by one moment of bliss?
Are they shed for that moment of blissful delight,Which dwells on her memory yet?Do they flow, like the dews of the love-breathing night,From the warmth of the sun that has set?
Oh! sweet is the tear on that languishing smile,That smile, which is loveliest then;And if such are the drops that delight can beguile,Thou shalt weep them again and again.
Light sounds the harp when the combat is over,When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom;When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.But, when the foe returns,Again the hero burns;High flames the sword in his hand once more:The clang of mingling armsIs then the sound that charms,And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour;—Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over—When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom—When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,Lay lulled on the white arm of Beauty to rest,When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining,And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.But, when the battle came,The hero's eye breathed flame:Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;While, to his waking ear,No other sounds were dearBut brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,And Beauty once more lulled the War-God to rest;When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
Fill high the cup with liquid flame,And speak my Heliodora's name.Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,And let the sound my lips adore,Live in the breeze, till every tone,And word, and breath, speaks her alone.
Give me the wreath that withers there,It was but last delicious night,It circled her luxuriant hair,And caught her eyes' reflected light.Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow,'Tis all of her that's left me now.And see—each rosebud drops a tear,To find the nymph no longer here—No longer, where such heavenly charmsAs hersshouldbe—within these arms.
Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me,Thou wilt never find any sincerer;I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee,I can never meet any that's dearer.Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh,That our loves will be censured by many;All, all have their follies, and who will denyThat ours is the sweetest of any?
When your lip has met mine, in communion so sweet,Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?—Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?—No, rather 'twas heaven that did it.So innocent, love, is the joy we then sip,So little of wrong is there in it,That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip,And I'd kiss them away in a minute.
Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed,From a world which I know thou despisest;And slumber will hover as light o'er our bed!As e'er on the couch of the wisest.And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven,And thou, pretty innocent, fearest,I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of heaven,'Tis only our lullaby, dearest.
And, oh! while, we lie on our deathbed, my love,Looking back on the scene of our errors,A sigh from my Bessy shall plead then above,And Death be disarmed of his terrors,And each to the other embracing will say,"Farewell! let us hope we're forgiven."Thy last fading glance will illumine the way,And a kiss be our passport to heaven!
—— vo cercand' io,Donna quant' e possibile in altruiLa desiata vostra forma vera.PETRARC,Sonett. 14.
Yes, if 'twere any common love,That led my pliant heart astray,I grant, there's not a power aboveCould wipe the faithless crime away.
But 'twas my doom to err with oneIn every look so like to theeThat, underneath yon blessed sunSo fair there are but thou and she
Both born of beauty, at a birth,She held with thine a kindred sway,And wore the only shape on earthThat could have lured my soul to stray.
Then blame me not, if false I be,'Twas love that waked the fond excess;My heart had been more true to thee,Had mine eye prized thy beauty less.
Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;And every smile on my cheek should turnTo tears when thou art nigh.But, between love, and wine, and sleep,So busy a life I live,That even the time it would take to weepIs more than my heart can give.Then bid me not to despair and pine,Fanny, dearest of all the dears!The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine,Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine,Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine,If dimmed too often with sighs.They lose the half of beauty's light,Who view it through sorrow's tear;And 'tis but to see thee truly brightThat I keep my eye-beam clear.Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,Fanny, dearest—the hope is vain;If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,I shall never attempt it with rain.
No—Lady! Lady! keep the ring:Oh! think, how many a future year,Of placid smile and downy wing,May sleep within its holy sphere.
Do not disturb their tranquil dream,Though love hath ne'er the mystery warmed;Yet heaven will shed a soothing beam,To bless the bond itself hath formed.
But then, that eye, that burning eye,—Oh! it doth ask, with witching power,If heaven can ever bless the tieWhere love inwreaths no genial flower?
Away, away, bewildering look,Or all the boast of virtue's o'er;Go—hie thee to the sage's book,And learn from him to feel no more.
I cannot warn thee: every touch,That brings my pulses close to thine,Tells me I want thy aid as much—Even more, alas, than thou dost mine.
Yet, stay,—one hope, one effort yet—A moment turn those eyes a way,And let me, if I can, forgetThe light that leads my soul astray.
Thou sayest, that we were born to meet,That our hearts bear one common seal;—Think, Lady, think, how man's deceitCan seem to sigh and feign to feel.
When, o'er thy face some gleam of thought,Like daybeams through the morning air,Hath gradual stole, and I have caughtThe feeling ere it kindled there;
The sympathy I then betrayed,Perhaps was but the child of art,The guile of one, who long hath playedWith all these wily nets of heart.
Oh! thine is not my earliest vow;Though few the years I yet have told,Canst thou believe I've lived till now,With loveless heart or senses cold?
No—other nymphs to joy and painThis wild and wandering heart hath moved;With some it sported, wild and vain,While some it dearly, truly, loved.
The cheek to thine I fondly lay,To theirs hath been as fondly laid;The words to thee I warmly say,To them have been as warmly said.
Then, scorn at once a worthless heart,Worthless alike, or fixt or free;Think of the pure, bright soul thou art,And—love not me, oh love not me.
Enough—now, turn thine eyes again;What, still that look and still that sigh!Dost thou not feel my counsel then?Oh! no, beloved,—nor do I.
They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite,That you're not a true daughter of ether and light,Nor have any concern with those fanciful formsThat dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms;That, in short, you're a woman; your lip and your eyeAs mortal as ever drew gods from the sky.But Iwillnot believe them—no, Science, to youI have long bid a last and a careless adieu:Still flying from Nature to study her laws,And dulling delight by exploring its cause,You forget how superior, for mortals below,Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.Oh! who, that has e'er enjoyed rapture complete,Would askhowwe feel it, orwhyit is sweet;How rays are confused, or how particles flyThrough the medium refined of a glance or a sigh;Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it,Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?
As for you, my sweet-voiced and invisible love,You must surely be one of those spirits, that roveBy the bank where, at twilight, the poet reclines,When the star of the west on his solitude shines,And the magical fingers of fancy have hungEvery breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue.Oh! hint to him then, 'tis retirement aloneCan hallow his harp or ennoble its tone;Like you, with a veil of seclusion between,His song to the world let him utter unseen,And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres,Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears.
Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love,In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove,To have you thus ever invisibly nigh,Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh!Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care,I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air,And turn with distaste from the clamorous crew,To steal in the pauses one whisper from you.Then, come and be near me, for ever be mine,We shall hold in the air a communion divine,As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwellIn the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.And oft, at those lingering moments of night,When the heart's busy thoughts have put slumber to flight,You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love,Such as angel to angel might whisper above.Sweet spirit!—and then, could you borrow the toneOf that voice, to my ear like some fairy-song known,The voice of the one upon earth, who has twinedWith her being for ever my heart and my mind,Though lonely and far from the light of her smile,An exile, and weary and hopeless the while,Could you shed for a moment her voice on my ear.I will think, for that moment, that Cara is near;That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak,And kisses my eyelid and breathes on my cheek,And tells me the night shall go rapidly by,For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh.
Fair spirit! if such be your magical power,It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour;And, let fortune's realities frown as they will,Hope, fancy, and Cara may smile for me still.
Annulus ille viri.OVID."Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15.
The happy day at length arrivedWhen Rupert was to wedThe fairest maid in Saxony,And take her to his bed.
As soon as morn was in the sky,The feast and sports began;The men admired the happy maid,The maids the happy man.
In many a sweet device of mirthThe day was past along;And some the featly dance amused,And some the dulcet song.
The younger maids with IsabelDisported through the bowers,And decked her robe, and crowned her headWith motley bridal flowers.
The matrons all in rich attire,Within the castle walls,Sat listening to the choral strainsThat echoed, through the halls.
Young Rupert and his friends repairedUnto a spacious court,To strike the bounding tennis-ballIn feat and manly sport.
The bridegroom on his finger woreThe wedding-ring so bright,Which was to grace the lily handOf Isabel that night.
And fearing he might break the gem,Or lose it in the play,Hie looked around the court, to seeWhere he the ring might lay.
Now, in the court a statue stood,Which there full long had been;It might a Heathen goddess be,Or else, a Heathen queen.
Upon its marble finger thenHe tried the ring to fit;And, thinking it was safest there,Thereon he fastened it.
And now the tennis sports went on,Till they were wearied all,And messengers announced to themTheir dinner in the hall,
Young Rupert for his wedding-ringUnto the statue went;But, oh, how shocked was he to findThe marble finger bent!
The hand was closed upon the ringWith firm and mighty clasp;In vain he tried and tried and tried,He could not loose the grasp!
Then sore surprised was Rupert's mind—As well his mind might be;"I'll come," quoth he, "at night again,"When none are here to see."
He went unto the feast, and muchHe thought upon his ring;And marvelled sorely what could meanSo very strange a thing!
The feast was o'er, and to the courtHe hied without delay,Resolved to break the marble handAnd force the ring away.
But, mark a stranger wonder still—The ring was there no moreAnd yet the marble hand ungrasped,And open as before!
He searched the base, and all the court,But nothing could he find;Then to the castle hied he backWith sore bewildered mind.
Within he found them all in mirth,The night in dancing flew:The youth another ring procured,And none the adventure knew.
And now the priest has joined their hands,The hours of love advance:Rupert almost forgets to thinkUpon the morn's mischance.
Within the bed fair IsabelIn blushing sweetness lay,Like flowers, half-opened by thedawn,And waiting for the day.
And Rupert, by her lovely side,In youthful beauty glows,Like Phoebus, when he bends to castHis beams upon a rose.
And here my song would leave them both,Nor let the rest be told,If 'twere not for the horrid taleIt yet has to unfold.
Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and himA death cold carcass found;He saw it not, but thought he feltIts arms embrace him round.
He started up, and then returned,But found the phantom still;In vain he shrunk, it clipt himround,With damp and deadly chill!
And when he bent, the earthy lipsA kiss of horror gave;'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults,Or from the mouldering grave!
Ill-fated Rupert!—wild and loudThen cried he to his wife,"Oh! save me from this horrid fiend,"My Isabel! my life!"
But Isabel had nothing seen,She looked around in vain;And much she mourned the mad conceitThat racked her Rupert's brain.
At length from this invisibleThese words to Rupert came:(Oh God! while he did hear the wordsWhat terrors shook his frame!)
"Husband, husband, I've the ring"Thou gavest to-day to me;"And thou'rt to me for ever wed,"As I am wed to thee!"
And all the night the demon layCold-chilling by his side,And strained him with such deadly grasp,He thought he should have died.
But when the dawn of day was near,The horrid phantom fled,And left the affrighted youth to weepBy Isabel in bed.
And all that day a gloomy cloudWas seen on Rupert's brows;Fair Isabel was likewise sad,But strove to cheer her spouse.
And, as the day advanced, he thoughtOf coming night with fear:Alas, that he should dread to viewThe bed that should be dear!
At length the second night arrived,Again their couch they prest;Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er,And looked for love and rest.
But oh! when midnight came, againThe fiend was at his side,And, as it strained him in its grasp,With howl exulting cried:—
"Husband, husband, I've the ring,"The ring thou gavest to me;"And thou'rt to me for ever wed,"As I am wed to thee!",
In agony of wild despair,He started from the bed;And thus to his bewildered wifeThe trembling Rupert said;
"Oh Isabel! dost thou not see"A shape of horrors here,"That strains me to its deadly kiss,"And keeps me from my dear?"
"No, no, my love! my Rupert, I"No shape of horrors see;"And much I mourn the fantasy"That keeps my dear from me."
This night, just like the night before,In terrors past away.Nor did the demon vanish thenceBefore the dawn of day.
Said Rupert then, "My Isabel,"Dear partner of my woe."To Father Austin's holy cave"This instant will I go."
Now Austin was a reverend man,Who acted wonders maint—Whom all the country round believedA devil or a saint!
To Father Austin's holy caveThen Rupert straightway went;And told him all, and asked him howThese horrors to prevent.
The father heard the youth, and thenRetired awhile to pray:And, having prayed for half an hourThus to the youth did say:
"There is a place where four roads meet,"Which I will tell to thee;"Be there this eve, at fall of night,"And list what thou shalt see.
"Thou'lt see a group of figures pass"In strange disordered crowd,"Travelling by torchlight through the roads,"With noises strange and loud.
"And one that's high above the rest,"Terrific towering o'er,"Will make thee know him at a glance,"So I need say no more.
"To him from me these tablets give,"They'll quick be understood;"Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight,"I've scrawled them with my blood!"
The night-fall came, and Rupert allIn pale amazement wentTo where the cross-roads met, as heWas by the Father sent.
And lo! a group of figures cameIn strange disordered crowd.Travelling by torchlight through the roads,With noises strange and loud.
And, as the gloomy train advanced,Rupert beheld from farA female form of wanton mienHigh seated on a car.
And Rupert, as he gazed uponThe loosely-vested dame,Thought of the marble statue's look,For hers was just the same.
Behind her walked a hideous form,With eyeballs flashing death;Whene'er he breathed, a sulphured smokeCame burning in his breath.
He seemed the first of all the crowd,Terrific towering o'er;"Yes, yes," said Rupert, "this is he,"And I need ask no more."
Then slow he went, and to this fiendThe tablets trembling gave,Who looked and read them with a yellThat would disturb the grave.
And when he saw the blood-scrawled name,His eyes with fury shine;"I thought," cries he, "his time was out,"But he must soon be mine!"
Then darting at the youth a lookWhich rent his soul with fear,He went unto the female fiend,And whispered in her ear.
The female fiend no sooner heardThan, with reluctant look,The very ring that Rupert lost,She from her finger took.
And, giving it unto the youth,With eyes that breathed of hell,She said, in that tremendous voice,Which he remembered well:
"In Austin's name take back the ring,"The ring thou gavest to me;"And thou'rt to me no longer wed,"Nor longer I to thee."
He took the ring, the rabble past.He home returned again;His wife was then the happiest fair,The happiest he of men.
[1] I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story; I rather hope—though the manner of it leads me to doubt—that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the"speciosa miracula"of true poetic imagination.