Part 2 / Act 5 — TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.

Recorditi di me; che son la Pia, Sienna mi fe, disfecerni Maremma, Salsi colui che inanellata pria Disposando m’ avea con la sua gemma.’” Purgatorio, cant. v.

There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, Where glowing suns there purest light diffuse, Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise, And nature lavishes her warmest hues; But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath— Away! her charms are but the pomp of Death! He in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling, Where the cool shade its freshness round thee throws; His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling, With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose; And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh But woo thee still to slumber and to die. Mysterious danger lurks, a syren there, Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom, But stealing o’er thee in the scented air, And veil’d in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb; How may we deem, amidst their deep array, That heaven and earth but flatter to betray? Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure! Can it be That these but charm us with destructive wiles? Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in thee Danger is mask’d in beauty—death in smiles? Oh! still the Circe of that fatal shore, Where she, the Sun’s bright daughter, dwelt of yore! There, year by year, that secret peril spreads, Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign, And viewless blights o’er many a landscape sheds, Gay with the riches of the south, in vain; O’er fairy bowers and palaces of state Passing unseen, to leave them desolate. And pillar’d halls, whose airy colonnades Were form’d to echo music’s choral tone, Are silent now, amidst deserted shades, Peopled by sculpture’s graceful forms alone; And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves, Neglected temples, and forsaken groves. And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming, Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise. By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming Of old Arcadia’s woodland deities. Wild visions!—there no sylvan powers convene: Death reigns the genius of th’ Elysian scene. Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome! that bear Traces of mightier beings on your brow, O’er you that subtle spirit of the air Extends the desert of his empire now; Broods o’er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome, And makes the Cæsars’ ruin’d halls his home. Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power. His crown’d and chosen victims: o’er their lot Hath fond affection wept—each blighted flower In turn was loved and mourn’d, and is forgot. But one who perish’d, left a tale of woe, Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow. A voice of music, from Sienna’s walls, Is floating joyous on the summer air; And there are banquets in her stately halls, And graceful revels of the gay and fair, And brilliant wreaths the altar have array’d, Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid. To that young bride each grace hath Nature given Which glows on Art’s divinest dream: her eye Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven— Her cheek a tinge of morning’s richest dye; Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form Still breathes and charms, in Vinci’s colours warm.[195] But is she blest?—for sometimes o’er her smile A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast; And in her liquid glance there seems awhile To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past; Yet soon it flies—a cloud that leaves no trace, On the sky’s azure, of its dwelling-place. Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise Remembrance of some early love or woe, Faded, yet scarce forgotten—in her eyes Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow, Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, Where still some pining thought comes darkly o’er our mirth. The world before her smiles—its changeful gaze She hath not proved as yet; her path seems gay With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise Is still the joyous herald of her way; And beauty’s light around her dwells, to throw O’er every scene its own resplendent glow. Such is the young Bianca—graced with all That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give; Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall Such dreams as ne’er life’s early bloom survive; And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought. And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith Is brave and noble—child of high descent, He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, Mid slaughter’d heaps, the warrior’s monument; And proudly marshall’d his carroccio’s[196] way Amidst the wildest wreck of war’s array. And his the chivalrous commanding mien, Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly grace; Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, Of fiery passions, darting o’er his face, And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye— But e’en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes die. And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing, As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse; And veil the workings of each darker feeling, Deep in his soul concentrating its force; But yet he loves—Oh! who hath loved, nor known Affection’s power exalt the bosom all its own? The days roll on—and still Bianca’s lot Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot To wake her soul from life’s enchanted dream; And, if her brow a moment’s sadness wear, It sheds but grace more intellectual there. A few short years, and all is changed; her fate Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o’ercast. Have jealous doubts transform’d to wrath and hate, The love whose glow expression’s power surpass’d? Lo! on Pietra’s brow a sullen gloom Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom. Oh! can he meet that eye, of light serene, Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth, And view that bright intelligence of mien Form’d to express but thoughts of loftiest worth, Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign? —How shall he e’er confide in aught on earth again? In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze. Transient, yet fill’d with meaning, stern and wild, Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys, Then turns away, and fixes on her child So dark a glance as thrills a mother’s mind With some vague fear scarce own’d, and undefined. There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave Of the blue deep which bathes Italia’s shore, Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave Gray rocks with foliage richly shadow’d o’er, And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood, Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood. Fair is that house of solitude—and fair The green Maremma, far around it spread, A sun-bright waste of beauty; yet an air Of brooding sadness o’er the scene is shed, No human footstep tracks the lone domain, The desert of luxuriance glows in vain. And silent are the marble halls that rise ’Mid founts, and cypress walks and olive groves: All sleep in sunshine, ’neath cerulean skies, And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves; Yet every trace of man reveals alone, That there life once hath flourish’d—and is gone. There, till around them slowly, softly stealing, The summer air, deceit in every sigh, Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing, Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by; And strains of mirth and melody have flow’d Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode. And thither doth her Lord remorseless bear Bianca with her child. His alter’d eye And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear, While his dark spirit seals their doom—to die; And the deep bodings of his victim’s heart Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part. It is the summer’s glorious prime—and blending Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending, Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep, And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, That lovely shore of solitude and light. Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing, Deck’d with young flowers the rich Maremma glows, Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing, And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows, And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb. Yes! ’tis thy tomb, Bianca! fairest flower! The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale, Which, o’er thee breathing with insidious power, Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale; And fatal in its softness, day by day, Steals from that eye some trembling spark away. But sink not yet; for there are darker woes, Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading— Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading! Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot: ’Tis agony—but soon to be forgot! What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, Than hourly to behold the spoiler’s breath Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, O’er Infancy’s fair cheek the blight of death? To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o’ercast The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last! Such pangs were thine, young mother! Thou didst bend O’er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head; And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed, And watch his patient, supplicating eye Fix’d upon thee—on thee!—who couldst no aid supply! There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe Through those dark hours: to thee the wind’s low sigh, And the faint murmur of the ocean’s flow, Came like some spirit whispering—“He must die!” And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast, His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest. ’Tis past—that fearful trial!—he is gone! But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep; The hour of nature’s charter’d peace comes on, And thou shalt share thine infant’s holy sleep. A few short sufferings yet—and death shall be As a bright messenger from heaven to thee. But ask not—hope not—one relenting thought From him who doom’d thee thus to waste away, Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught, Broods in dark triumph o’er thy slow decay; And coldly, sternly, silently can trace The gradual withering of each youthful grace. And yet the day of vain remorse shall come, When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise As an accusing angel—and thy tomb, A martyr’s shrine, be hallow’d in his eyes! Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting. Lift thy meek eyes to heaven—for all on earth, Young sufferer! fades before thee. Thou art lone: Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth, Thine hour of death is all Affliction’s own! It is our task to suffer—and our fate To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late. The season’s glory fades—the vintage lay Through joyous Italy resounds no more; But mortal loveliness hath pass’d away, Fairer than aught in summer’s glowing store. Beauty and youth are gone—behold them such As death hath made them with his blighting touch! The summer’s breath came o’er them—and they died! Softly it came to give luxuriance birth, Call’d forth young nature in her festal pride, But bore to them their summons from the earth! Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, And wake to life and light all flowers—but these. No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave; But o’er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling The dew-drops glisten and the wild-flowers wave— Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb!

Night veil’d the mountains of the vine, And storms had roused the foaming Rhine, And, mingling with the pinewood’s roar, Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, While glen and cavern, to their moans Gave answer with a thousand tones: Then, as the voice of storms appall’d The peasant of the Odenwald,[198] Shuddering he deem’d, that, far on high, ’Twas the wild huntsman rushing by, Riding the blast with phantom speed, With cry of hound and tramp of steed, While his fierce train, as on they flew, Their horns in savage chorus blew, Till rock, and tower, and convent round, Rang to the shrill unearthly sound. Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced The forest paths, in secret haste; Far other sounds were on the night, Though lost amidst the tempest’s might, That fill’d the echoing earth and sky With its own awful harmony. There stood a lone and ruin’d fane, Far in the Odenwald’s domain, Midst wood and rock, a deep recess Of still and shadowy loneliness. Long grass its pavement had o’ergrown, The wild-flower waved o’er the altar stone, The night-wind rock’d the tottering pile, As it swept along the roofless aisle, For the forest boughs and the stormy sky Were all that minster’s canopy. Many a broken image lay In the mossy mantle of decay, And partial light the moonbeams darted O’er trophies of the long-departed; For there the chiefs of other days, The mighty, slumber’d, with their praise: ’Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven A tribute to their bier had given, Long since a sound but the moaning blast Above their voiceless home had pass’d. —So slept the proud, and with them all The records of their fame and fall; Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest, Adorn’d the dwelling of their rest, And emblems of the Holy Land Were carved by some forgotten hand. But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced; And the scatter’d leaves of the northern pine Half hid the palm of Palestine. So slept the glorious—lowly laid, As the peasant in his native shade; Some hermit’s tale, some shepherd’s rhyme, All that high deeds could win from time! What footsteps move, with measured tread, Amid those chambers of the dead? What silent, shadowy beings glide Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside, Peopling the wild and solemn scene With forms well suited to its mien? Wanderer, away! let none intrude On their mysterious solitude! Lo! these are they, that awful band, The secret Watchers of the land, They that, unknown and uncontroll’d, Their dark and dread tribunal hold. They meet not in the monarch’s dome, They meet not in the chieftain’s home; But where, unbounded o’er their heads, All heaven magnificently spreads, And from its depths of cloudless blue The eternal stars their deeds may view! Where’er the flowers of the mountain sod By roving foot are seldom trod; Where’er the pathless forest waves, Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves; Where’er wild legends mark a spot, By mortals shunn’d, but unforgot, There, circled by the shades of night, They judge of crimes that shrink from light; And guilt, that deems its secret known To the One unslumbering eye alone, Yet hears their name with a sudden start, As an icy touch had chill’d its heart, For the shadow of th’ avenger’s hand Rests dark and heavy on the land. There rose a voice from the ruin’s gloom, And woke the echoes of the tomb, As if the noble hearts beneath Sent forth deep answers to its breath. “When the midnight stars are burning, And the dead to earth returning; When the spirits of the blest Rise upon the good man’s rest; When each whisper of the gale Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale; In the shadow of the hour That o’er the soul hath deepest power, Why thus meet we, but to call For judgment on the criminal? Why, but the doom of guilt to seal, And point th’ avenger’s holy steel? A fearful oath has bound our souls, A fearful power our arm controls! There is an ear awake on high E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die; There is an eye whose beam pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades: That ear hath heard our awful vow, That searching eye is on us now! Let him whose heart is unprofaned, Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain’d— Let him, whose thoughts no record keep Of crimes in silence buried deep, Here, in the face of heaven, accuse The guilty whom its wrath pursues!” ’Twas hush’d—that voice of thrilling sound! And a dead silence reign’d around. Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form Tower’d like a phantom in the storm; Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, With its dark folds his face to shroud, Through pillar’d arches on he pass’d, With stately step, and paused at last, Where, on the altar’s mouldering stone, The fitful moonbeam brightly shone; Then on the fearful stillness broke Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke: “Before that eye whose glance pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades; Heard by that ear awake on high E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die— With all a mortal’s awe I stand, Yet with pure heart and stainless hand. To heaven I lift that hand, and call For judgment on the criminal; The earth is dyed with bloodshed’s hues— It cries for vengeance. I accuse!” “Name thou the guilty! say for whom Thou claim’st th’ inevitable doom! “Albert of Lindheim—to the skies The voice of blood against him cries; A brother’s blood—his hand is dyed With the deep stain of fratricide. One hour, one moment, hath reveal’d What years in darkness had conceal’d, But all in vain—the gulf of time Refused to close upon his crime; And guilt that slept on flowers shall know The earthquake was but hush’d below! —Here, where amidst the noble dead, Awed by their fame, he dare not tread; Where, left by him to dark decay, Their trophies moulder fast away, Around us and beneath us lie The relics of his ancestry— The chiefs of Lindheim’s ancient race, Each in his last low dwelling-place. But one is absent—o’er his grave The palmy shades of Syria wave; Far distant from his native Rhine, He died unmourn’d, in Palestine! The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, To perish by a brother’s hand! Peace to his soul! though o’er his bed No dirge be pour’d, no tear be shed, Though all he loved his name forget, They live who shall avenge him yet!” “Accuser! how to thee alone Became the fearful secret known?” “There is an hour when vain remorse First wakes in her eternal force; When pardon may not be retrieved, When conscience will not be deceived. He that beheld the victim bleed, Beheld, and aided in the deed— When earthly fears had lost their power Reveal’d the tale in such an hour, Unfolding, with his latest breath, All that gave keener pangs to death.” “By Him, th’ All-seeing and Unseen, Who is for ever, and hath been, And by th’ Atoner’s cross adored, And by th’ avenger’s holy sword, By truth eternal and divine, Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?” —“The cross upon my heart is prest, I hold the dagger to my breast; If false the tale whose truth I swear, Be mine the murderer’s doom to bear!” Then sternly rose the dread reply— “His days are number’d—he must die! There is no shadow of the night So deep as to conceal his flight; Earth doth not hold so lone a waste But there his footsteps shall be traced; Devotion hath no shrine so blest That there in safety he may rest. Where’er he treads, let Vengeance there Around him spread her secret snare! In the busy haunts of men, In the still and shadowy glen, When the social board is crown’d, When the wine-cup sparkles round; When his couch of sleep is prest, And a dream his spirit’s guest; When his bosom knows no fear, Let the dagger still be near, Till, sudden as the lightning’s dart, Silent and swift it reach his heart! One warning voice, one fearful word, Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, Then vainly may the guilty fly, Unseen, unaided,—he must die! Let those he loves prepare his tomb, Let friendship lure him to his doom! Perish his deeds, his name, his race, Without a record or a trace! Away! be watchful, swift, and free, To wreak th’ invisible’s decree. ’Tis pass’d—th’ avenger claims his prey: On to the chase of death—away!” And all was still. The sweeping blast Caught not a whisper as it pass’d; The shadowy forms were seen no more, The tombs deserted as before; And the wide forest waved immense In dark and lone magnificence. In Lindheim’s towers the feast had closed The song was hush’d, the bard reposed; Sleep settled on the weary guest, And the castle’s lord retired to rest. To rest! The captive doom’d to die May slumber, when his hour is nigh; The seaman, when the billows foam, Rock’d on the mast, may dream of home; The warrior, on the battle’s eve, May win from care a short reprieve: But earth and heaven alike deny Their peace to guilt’s o’erwearied eye; And night, that brings to grief a calm, To toil a pause, to pain a balm, Hath spells terrific in her course, Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse— Voices, that long from earth had fled, And steps and echoes from the dead; And many a dream whose forms arise Like a darker world’s realities! Call them not vain illusions—born, But for the wise and brave to scorn! Heaven, that the penal doom defers, Hath yet its thousand ministers, To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, In shade, in silence, and alone, Concentrating in one brief hour Ages of retribution’s power! —If thou wouldst know the lot of those, Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, Ah! seek them not where pleasure’s throng Are listening to the voice of song; Seek them not where the banquet glows, And the red vineyard’s nectar flows: There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek, The eye of feverish joy may speak, And smiles, the ready mask of pride, The canker-worm within may hide. Heed not those signs! they but delude; Follow, and mark their solitude! The song is hush’d, the feast is done, And Lindheim’s lord remains alone— Alone in silence and unrest, With the dread secret of his breast; Alone with anguish and with fear, —There needs not an avenger here! Behold him!—Why that sudden start? Thou hear’st the beating of thy heart! Thou hear’st the night-wind’s hollow sigh, Thou hear’st the rustling tapestry! No sound but these may near thee be; Sleep! all things earthly sleep—but thee. No! there are murmurs on the air, And a voice is heard that cries—“Despair!” And he who trembles fain would deem ’Twas the whisper of a waking dream. Was it but this? Again, ’tis there: Again is heard—“Despair! Despair!” ’Tis past—its tones have slowly died In echoes on the mountain side; Heard but by him, they rose, they fell. He knew their fearful meaning well, And shrinking from the midnight gloom, As from the shadow of the tomb, Yet shuddering, turn’d in pale dismay, When broke the dawn’s first kindling ray, And sought, amidst the forest wild, Some shade where sunbeam never smiled. Yes! hide thee, guilt! The laughing morn Wakes in a heaven of splendour born! The storms that shook the mountain crest Have sought their viewless world of rest. High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, Soars the young eagle in the blaze, Exulting, as he wings his way, To revel in the fount of day; And brightly past his banks of vine, In glory, flows the monarch Rhine; And joyous peals the vintage song His wild luxuriant shores along, As peasant bands, from rock and dell, Their strains of choral transport swell; And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, Aspiring to the realm of storms, And woods around, and waves below, Catch the red Orient’s deepening glow, That lends each tower, and convent spire, A tinge of its ethereal fire. Swell high the song of festal hours! Deck ye the shrine with living flowers! Let music o’er the waters breathe! Let beauty twine the bridal wreath! While she, whose blue eye laughs in light, Whose cheek with love’s own hue is bright, The fair-hair’d maid of Lindheim’s hall, Wakes to her nuptial festival. Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar To worlds the soul would fain explore, When, for her own blest country pining, Its beauty o’er her thought is shining, Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye Was all one beam of ecstasy! Whose glorious brow no traces wore Of guilt, or sorrow known before! Whose smile, undimm’d by aught of earth, A sunbeam of immortal birth, Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying, Where love and joy are both undying! E’en thus—a vision of delight, A beam to gladden mortal sight, A flower whose head no storm had bow’d, Whose leaves ne’er droop’d beneath a cloud,— Thus, by the world unstain’d, untried, Seem’d that beloved and lovely bride; A being all too soft and fair One breath of earthly woe to bear! Yet lives there many a lofty mind, In light and fragile form enshrined; And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye Hide strength to suffer and to die! Judge not of woman’s heart in hours That strew her path with summer flowers, When joy’s full cup is mantling high, When flattery’s blandishments are nigh; Judge her not then! within her breast Are energies unseen, that rest! They wait their call—and grief alone May make the soul’s deep secrets known. Yes! let her smile midst pleasure’s train, Leading the reckless and the vain! Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, Besprinkled with the martyr’s blood; Her voice the patriot’s heart hath steel’d, Her spirit glow’d on battle-field; Her courage freed from dungeon’s gloom The captive brooding o’er his doom; Her faith the fallen monarch saved, Her love the tyrant’s fury braved; No scene of danger or despair, But she hath won her triumph there! Away! nor cloud the festal morn With thoughts of boding sadness born! Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, Fair daughter of a noble line! Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, Watching, while soft the morning air Parts on thy brow the sunny hair, Yon bark, that o’er the calm blue tide Bears thy loved warrior to his bride— Him, whose high deeds romantic praise Hath hallow’d with a thousand lays. He came—that youthful chief,—he came That favour’d lord of love and fame! His step was hurried—as if one Who seeks a voice within to shun; His cheek was varying, and express’d The conflict of a troubled breast; His eye was anxious—doubt, and dread, And a stem grief, might there be read: Yet all that mark’d his alter’d mien Seem’d struggling to be still unseen. —With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, Young Ella met the brow austere, And the wild look, which seem’d to fly The timid welcome of her eye. Was that a lover’s gaze, which chill’d The soul, its awful sadness thrill’d? A lover’s brow, so darkly fraught With all the heaviest gloom of thought? She trembled—ne’er to grief inured, By its dread lessons ne’er matured, Unused to meet a glance of less Than all a parent’s tenderness, Shuddering she felt, through every sense, The deathlike faintness of suspense. High o’er the windings of the flood, On Lindheim’s terraced rocks they stood, Whence the free sight afar might stray O’er that imperial river’s way, Which, rushing from its Alpine source, Makes one long triumph of its course, Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, Midst Nature’s noblest pageantry. But they, o’er that majestic scene, With clouded brow and anxious mien, In silence gazed!—for Ella’s heart Fear’d its own terrors to impart; And he, who vainly strove to hide His pangs, with all a warrior’s pride, Seem’d gathering courage to unfold Some fearful tale, that must be told. At length his mien, his voice, obtain’d A calm, that seem’d by conflicts gain’d, As thus he spoke—“Yes! gaze a while On the bright scenes that round thee smile; For, if thy love be firm and true, Soon must thou bid their charms adieu! A fate hangs o’er us, whose decree Must bear me far from them or thee; Our path is one of snares and fear, I lose thee, if I linger here! Droop not, beloved! thy home shall rise As fair, beneath far-distant skies; As fondly tenderness and truth Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. But speak! and, when yon hallow’d shrine Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more To tread thine own loved mountain shore, But share and soothe, repining not, The bitterness of exile’s lot?” “Ulric! thou know’st how dearly loved The scenes where first my childhood roved; The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme Above our own majestic stream, The halls where first my heart beat high To the proud songs of chivalry. All, all are dear—yet these are ties Affection well may sacrifice; Loved though they be, where’er thou art, There is the country of my heart! Yet is there one, who, reft of me, Were lonely as a blasted tree; One, who still hoped my hand should close His eyes, in Nature’s last repose; Eve gathers round him—on his brow Already rests the wintry snow; His form is bent, his features wear The deepening lines of age and care; His faded eye hath lost its fire;— Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire? Yet tell me all—thy woes impart, My Ulric! to a faithful heart, Which sooner far—oh! doubt not this— Would share thy pangs, than others’ bliss!” “Ella, what wouldst thou?—’tis a tale Will make that cheek as marble pale! Yet what avails it to conceal All thou too soon must know and feel? It must, it must be told—prepare, And nerve that gentle heart to bear. But I—oh, was it then for me The herald of thy woes to be! Thy soul’s bright calmness to destroy, And wake thee first from dreams of joy? Forgive!—I would not ruder tone Should make the fearful tidings known, I would not that unpitying eyes Should coldly watch thine agonies! Better ’twere mine—that task severe, To cloud thy breast with grief and fear. “Hast thou not heard, in legends old, Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, Of those who meet in cave or glen, Far from the busy walks of men; Those who mysterious vigils keep, When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep, To judge of crimes, like Him on high, In stillness and in secrecy? Th’ unknown avengers, whose decree ’Tis fruitless to resist or flee? Whose name hath cast a spell of power O’er peasant’s cot and chieftain’s tower? Thy sire—oh, Ella! hope is fled! Think of him, mourn him, as the dead! Their sentence, theirs, hath seal’d his doom, And thou may’st weep as o’er his tomb! Yes, weep!—relieve thy heart oppress’d, Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast! Thy cheek is cold—thy tearless eye Seems fix’d in frozen vacancy. Oh, gaze not thus!—thy silence break: Speak! if ’tis but in anguish, speak!” She spoke at length, in accents low, Of wild and half-indignant woe: —“He doom’d to perish! he decreed By their avenging arm to bleed! He, the renown’d in holy fight, The Paynim’s scourge, the Christian’s might! Ulric! what mean’st thou?—not a thought Of that high mind with guilt is fraught! Say, for which glorious trophy won, Which deed of martial prowess done, Which battle-field, in days gone by, Gain’d by his valour, must he die? Away! ’tis not his lofty name Their sentence hath consign’d to shame— ’Tis not his life they seek. Recall Thy words, or say he shall not fall!” Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief Gave pleading softness to her grief: “And wilt thou not, by all the ties Of our affianced love,” she cries, “By all my soul hath fix’d on thee, Of cherish’d hope for years to be, Wilt thou not aid him? wilt not thou Shield his gray head from danger now? And didst thou not, in childhood’s morn, That saw our young affection born, Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, Sharing his parent smile with me? Kind, gentle Ulric! best beloved! Now be thy faith in danger proved! Though snares and terrors round him wait, Thou wilt not leave him to his fate! Turn not away in cold disdain! —Shall thine own Ella plead in vain? How art thou changed! and must I bear That frown, that stern, averted air? What mean they?” “Maiden, need’st thou ask? These features wear no specious mask. Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye With characters of mystery? This—this is anguish! Can it be! And plead’st thou for my sire to me? Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give, He must not meet my sight—and live! Well may’st thou shudder! Of the band Who watch in secret o’er the land, Whose thousand swords ’tis vain to shun, Th’ unknown, th’ unslumbering—I am one! My arm defend him! What were then Each vow that binds the souls of men, Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal’d By rites that may not be reveal’d? —A breeze’s breath, an echo’s tone, A passing sound, forgot when gone! Nay, shrink not from me—I would fly, That he by other hands may die! What! think’st thou I would live to trace Abhorrence in that angel face? Beside thee should the lover stand, The father’s life-blood on his brand? No! I have bade my home adieu, For other scenes mine eyes must view. Look on me, love! Now all is known, O Ella! must I fly alone?” But she was changed. Scarce heaved breath; She stood like one prepared for death, And wept no more; then, casting down From her fair brows the nuptial crown, As joy’s last vision from her heart, Cried, with sad firmness, “We must part! ’Tis past! These bridal flowers, so frail They may not brook one stormy gale, Survive—too dear as still thou art— Each hope they imaged;—we must part! One struggle yet—and all is o’er: We love—and may we meet no more! Oh! little know’st thou of the power Affection lends in danger’s hour, To deem that fate should thus divide My footsteps from a father’s side! Speed thou to other shores—I go To share his wanderings and his woe. Where’er his path of thorns may lead, Whate’er his doom, by heaven decreed, If there be guardian powers above To nerve the heart of filial love, If courage may be won by prayer, Or strength by duty—I can bear! Farewell!—though in that sound be years Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, Though the soul vibrate to its knell Of joys departed—yet, farewell! Was this the maid who seem’d, erewhile, Born but to meet life’s vernal smile? A being, almost on the wing, As an embodied breeze of spring? A child of beauty and of bliss, Sent from some purer sphere to this— Not, in her exile, to sustain The trial of one earthly pain; But, as a sunbeam, on to move, Wakening all hearts to joy and love? That airy form, with footsteps free, And radiant glance—could this be she? From her fair cheek the rose was gone, Her eye’s blue sparkle thence had flown; Of all its vivid glow bereft, Each playful charm her lip had left. But what were these? on that young face, Far nobler beauty fill’d their place! ’Twas not the pride that scorns to bend, Though all the bolts of heaven descend; Not the fierce grandeur of despair, That half exults its fate to dare; Nor that wild energy which leads Th’ enthusiast to fanatic deeds: Her mien, by sorrow unsubdued, Was fix’d in silent fortitude; Not in its haughty strength elate, But calmly, mournfully sedate. ’Twas strange, yet lovely to behold That spirit in so fair a mould, As if a rose-tree’s tender form, Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm. One look she cast, where firmness strove With the deep pangs of parting love; One tear a moment in her eye Dimm’d the pure light of constancy; And pressing, as to still her heart, She turn’d in silence to depart. But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought, Then started from his trance of thought: “Stay thee! oh, stay!—It must not be— All, all were well resign’d for thee! Stay! till my soul each vow disown, But those which make me thine alone! If there be guilt—there is no shrine More holy than that heart of thine: There be my crime absolved—I take The cup of shame for thy dear sake. Of shame!—oh no! to virtue true, Where thou art, there is glory too! Go now! and to thy sire impart, He hath a shield in Ulric’s heart, And thou a home! Remain, or flee, In life, in death—I follow thee!” “There shall not rest one cloud of shame, O Ulric! on thy lofty name; There shall not one accusing word Against thy spotless faith be heard! Thy path is where the brave rush on, Thy course must be where palms are won: Where banners wave, and falchions glare, Son of the mighty! be thou there! Think on the glorious names that shine Along thy sire’s majestic line; Oh, last of that illustrious race! Thou wert not born to meet disgrace! Well, well I know each grief, each pain, Thy spirit nobly could sustain; E’en I unshrinking see them near, And what hast thou to do with fear? But when have warriors calmly borne The cold and bitter smile of scorn? ’Tis not for thee! thy soul hath force To cope with all things—but remorse; And this my brightest thought shall be, Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. Go! break thou not one solemn vow; Closed be the fearful conflict now; Go! but forget not how my heart Still at thy name will proudly start, When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell, Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well!” —And thus they parted. Why recall The scene of anguish known to all? The burst of tears, the blush of pride, That fain those fruitless tear’s would hide; The lingering look, the last embrace, Oh! what avails it to retrace? They parted—in that bitter word A thousand tones of grief are heard, Whose deeply-seated echoes rest In the fair cells of every breast. Who hath not known, who shall not know, That keen yet most familiar woe? Where’er affection’s home is found, It meets her on the holy ground; The cloud of every summer hour, The canker-worm of every flower. “Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, That mortal agony of love? The autumn moon slept bright and still On fading wood and purple hill; The vintager had hush’d his lay, The fisher shunn’d the blaze of day, And silence, o’er each green recess, Brooded in misty sultriness. But soon a low and measured sound Broke on the deep repose around; From Lindheim’s tower a glancing oar Bade the stream ripple to the shore. Sweet was that sound of waves which parted The fond, the true, the noble-hearted; And smoothly seem’d the bark to glide, And brightly flow’d the reckless tide, Though, mingling with its current, fell The last warm tears of love’s farewell.