THE DEMON OF THE MIRROR.

———

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

It was sunset on the mountain,

It was twilight on the plain;

And the Night was slowly creeping,

Like a captive from his keeping,

Up the Fading East again,

Where on rosy shores of sunlight broke the surges of his main.

Where the orange branches mingled

On the sunny garden-side,

In a rare and rich pavilion

Sat the beautiful Sicilian—

Sat the Count Alberto’s bride,

Musing sadly on his absence, in the balmy eveningtide.

Like a star, in ocean mirrored,

Beamed her liquid, tender eye;

But within her bearing queenly,

Deepest passion slept serenely

As the flame in summer’s sky,

Which to fiercest being wakens, when we dream it least is nigh!

She had grown, in soul and beauty,

Like her own delicious clime—

With the warmth and radiance showered

On its gardens, citron-bowered,

And its winds that woo in rhyme:

With its fiery tropic fervors, and its Etna-throes sublime!

Near her stood the fair Bianca,

Once a shepherd’s humble child,

Who with tender hand was twining

Through her tresses, raven-shining,

Pearls of lustre pure and mild;

And the lady in the mirror saw their braided gleam, and smiled.

Falling over brow and bosom,

Swept her dark and glossy hair;

And the flash on Etna faded,

As Bianca slowly braided

With her fingers small and fair,

While a deeper shadow gathered o’er the chamber’s scented air.

On the jeweled mirror gazing,

Spoke the lady not a word,

When, within its picture certain,

Slowly moved the silken curtain,

Though the breezes had not stirred,

And its faintly falling rustle on the marble was unheard.

Breathless, o’er her tender musing

Came a strange and sudden fear.

With a nameless, chill foreboding,

All her fiery spirit goading,

Listened she with straining ear;

Through the dusky laurel foliage, all was silent, far and near!

Not a stealthy footfall sounded

On the tesselated floor;

Yet she saw, with secret terror,

Count Alberto, in the mirror,

Stealing through the curtained door,

Like a fearful, shadowy spirit, whom a curse is hanging o’er.

What! so soon from far Palermo?

Has he left the feast of pride—

Has he left the knightly tourney

For the happy homeward journey

And the greeting of his bride?

Coldly, darkly, in her bosom, the upspringing rapture died!

With a glance of tender meaning

On the maid he softly smiled,

And the answering smile, and token

In her glowing blushes spoken,

Well betrayed the shepherd’s child!

To her gaze, within the mirror, stood that picture dim and wild!

Moved again the silken curtain,

As he passed without a sound;

Then the sunset’s fading ember

Died within the lonely chamber,

And the darkness gathered round,

While in passion’s fierce delirium was the lady’s bosom bound.

Threat’ning shadows seemed to gather

In the twilight of the room,

And the thoughts, vibrating changeful

Through her spirit, grew revengeful

With their whisperings of doom:

Starting suddenly, she vanished far amid the deep’ning gloom.

In the stillness of the forest

Falls a timid, trembling gleam,

With a ruby radiance sparkling

On the rill that ripples darkling

Through the thicket, like a dream:

’Tis from out the secret chamber, where are met the Holy Vehm!^[3]

Wizard rocks around the entrance

Dark and grim, like sentries, stand;

And within the ghostly grotto

Sits the gloomy Baron Otto,

Chieftain of the dreaded band,

Who in darkness and in secret ruled Sicilia’s Sunny land.

As in sable vestments shrouded

Sat the ministers of doom,

Came a step by terror fleetened,

And the dank, foul air was sweetened

With the orange-buds’ perfume,

And the starry eyes of jewels shone amid the sullen gloom!

Then uprose the gloomy Otto—

Sternly wrinkled was his brow;

“Why this sudden, strange intrusion

On the Holy Vehm’s seclusion?

Why thus wildly comest thou,

Noble lady, claiming vengeance from the Brothers of the Vow?”

“There is one among your order

Whom I dare to sue for aid:

Will a brother’s dagger falter,

When the bridegroom from the altar

Hath his bosom’s vow betrayed,

And the princely bride is slighted for a low-born peasant maid?”

Straight the summoned one departed

Out into the starry air;

Cold the silence seemed, and dreary,

And the moments grew more weary,

While the lady waited there

With a deep, uncertain anguish, which her spirit scarce could bear.

Mingled thoughts of love and vengeance

Madly battled in her brain;

All her bosom’s passionate feeling

Struggled with the dread revealing,

Till her eyes o’ergushed in rain—

Then anon they flashed and kindled, and her soul grew stern again!

Once a sweet and happy vision

Nigh her fiery will had won—

When the silver lamp of Hesper

Twinkled through the silent vesper,

And their bosoms beat as one,

Thrilling o’er with too much fervor, like a blossom in the sun.

Olden words in music echoed

Through her heart’s forsaken bowers;

But its buds of love were rifled,

And the spirit voice was stifled,

Which would tell of tender hours;

Nevermore may second sunshine bid re-bloom its perished flowers!

Still that dark foreboding lingered

Over all her pride and hate,

Like a stifling mist, that ever

Hangs above a burning river

With its dull and stagnant weight:

Slowly o’er the spectral Future crept the shadows of her fate!

Now the eastern stars had mounted,

And the midnight watch was o’er,

When the long suspense was broken

By a hasty watchword spoken,

And a dark form passed the door.

Blood was on his golden scabbard, and the sable robe he wore.

“By this blade, most noble lady,

Have I done thy will aright!”

Then, upstarting from her languor,

Cried she, in returning anger:

“Where reposed the trait’rous knight?

Didst thou tear him from her clasping—strike him down before her sight?”

“Nay, not so: in bright Palermo,

Where the tourney’s torches shine—

In the gardens of the palace,

Did the green earth, from its chalice,

Drink his bosom’s brightest wine,

And the latest name that faltered on his dying lips, was thine!”

With a scream, as agonizing

In its horror and despair,

As if life’s last hold were started,

Ere the soul in torture parted,

Stood she, pale and shuddering, there,

With her face of marble lifted in the cavern’s noisome air.

“God of Heaven! that fearful image,

On the mirror’s surface thrown!

Not Alberto, but a demon,

Looked on her as on a leman,

And the guilt is mine alone!

Now that demon-shadow haunts me, and its curse is made my own!

“See! its dead, cold eyes are glaring

Through the darkness, steadily;

And it holds a cloudy mirror,

Imaging that scene of terror,

Which was bloody death to thee!

Mocking now thy noble features, turns its fearful gaze on me!

“And I see, beneath their seeming,

How the demon features glow!

Ghastly shadows rise before me,

And the darkness gathers o’er me,

With its never-ending wo—

Now I feel, avenging spirits! how your spells of madness grow!”

With a shriek, prolonged and painful,

Through the wood she fled afar,

Where the air was awed and fearful,

And between the boughs the tearful

Shining of a dewy star

Pierced alone the solid darkness which enclosed her as a bar.

Night by night, in gloom and terror,

From the crag and from the glen

Came those cries, the quiet breaking,

Till the shepherd-dogs, awaking,

Bayed in loud and mournful pain,

And the vintager, benighted, trembled on the distant plain.

Years went by, and stranger footsteps

Rang in castle, bower and hall;

Yet the shrieks, at midnight ringing,

Spoke the curse upon it clinging,

And they left it to its fall,

And an utter desolation slowly settled over all.

Still, when o’er the brow of Etna

Livid shades begin to roll,

Tell the simple herdsmen, daunted

By the twilight, terror-haunted,

How she felt the fiend’s control,

And they sign the cross in saying—“God in mercy keep her soul!”