THE EXILE

I

They bore her to the northern snows

Whose floods down ice-domed caverns run,

From lands where that calm river flows

Whose depths decoy the vagrant sun,

Where palms o’er latticed shadows rise

With boughs that web the sultry skies.

II

Where roses climb the scent-steeped hills

And channelled leaves with dew-drops flash,

Bending beneath the trickled rills

That fall and the pink clusters splash;

Where aloe-flowers, all flaming red,

Like watch-fires o’er the summit spread.

123III

They bore her to a desert plain

Where the dry, creviced mosses cling,

Sand-sprinkled as by drizzling rain;

Where dark and ragged pine-boughs swing,

And the free cygnet in its flight

Darts with a meteor’s wingèd light.

IV

Her father, last of mighty lords

Whose deeds the war-like peasants tell,

Fearless had met the northern hordes

And in the battle’s frenzy fell.

Full-armed he sleeps, and still the brave

Salute him as they pass his grave.

V

Now young, she thinks not of her race

But feels its glory and its pride.

She still recalls her mother’s face

Who in her stately sorrow died,

And those large eyes her image keep,

And dream beside it in love’s sleep.

124VI

Eyes that are of the sultry zone—

That ofttimes in their musing moods

See rosy banks that seem their own

Where lies the waste: her olive-woods,

Her sky with cypress-skirted folds,

All that she loves, her heart remoulds.

VII

As in a desert one red rose

Seems like a garden full of bloom,

She charms the wilderness, and throws

Her own bright colours o’er its gloom;

Then at the falling cone’s rebound

Pomegranates gild the enchanted ground.

VIII

And lest when dear illusions come

They melt o’er-fast, she hides her eyes,

And feigns to see her native home,

And shouts in play her soul’s surprise.

So while the southern glory burns

The haunting vision still returns.

125IX

When spring bursts o’er the wintry plain

And violet skies dissolve in spray,

And marsh-pools echo drops of rain

That o’er the bud’s new secret play,

Her soul seems darting from her eyes

To snatch at nature’s rhapsodies.

X

The serf who toils upon the road

From waste to waste with back that bears

Across the steppes another’s load,—

With eyes that homeward gaze in tears,—

Chills not for long a heart that glows

In its own fire ’mid northern snows.

XI

Where plough may delve or harrow graze,

She tramps beside the sluggish team

As fain to urge its tardy pace:

And when she drifts into some dream

Her laugh, her look of childish glee,

Is still the joy of memory.

126XII

But fears flash o’er her mellow eyes

When gaunt sand-fountains, side by side,

Like giants in the distance rise,

Pass slowly by and onward glide,

Like shadows from her father’s land

That seek some rumoured icy strand.

XIII

Then day breaks through a sullen sky;

The keen air shivers;—doth she know

The blackened clouds now sailing by

Are freighted with the virgin snow?

Dark ships of winter that unload

The widespread famine they forbode.

XIV

The snow-flakes build a prison-wall

That slants high o’er her window sill;

She watches while they slowly fall,

Till heaven appears a sinking hill,

And darkness gathers o’er her mind:

Home is too far for hope to find.

127XV

In new despair she sees heaven’s sand

Has drifted o’er her cottage gate!

She fears that now her native land

Is like the desert desolate.

The snow still falls and still it clings,

Soft dropped like insects’ broken wings.

XVI

Through the strange dusk she hears the shriek

Of trees snapped by the dreaded wind;

The casements shake, the rafters creak;

Ah! could she now her mother find!

With timid wings too weak for flight

She hangs upon the edge of night.

XVII

A wind’s moan utters, ‘Stir and go’:

Upon its gust she seems to glide

Towards lands beyond the falling snow

But reaches not its further side.

She drops on the cold hilly steeps

And in her distant reverie sleeps.

128XVIII

No longer now the large-eyed child,

Who draws her charm so fresh from heaven,

Gives up its beauty to the wild;

The spell of infant faith is riven:

Where the sun’s tender rays were sown

Stones have sprung up and ice-fields grown.

XIX

The spring still comes, when shallow snows

Melt o’er a crisping flame of green

Wherein the nestled herbage glows

Through its white shell,—but there is seen

A heart that still unthawed remains;

An exile of the loveless plains.

XX

When winter’s sun through summer shines,

The joys are banished that she brought:

For home, not dreams of home, she pines;

Thought is the food of famished thought.

It is her heart-corroding hour:

The rose-tree is without a flower.

129XXI

She feeds in broken reveries

On her chilled soul: within the light

Of those black lashes, those dark eyes,

The paling cheek seems over-bright,

With lips, like hanging fruit, whose hue

Is ruby ’neath a bloom of blue.

XXII

The friends who love her as their own

Stir self-upbraidings in her breast,

For in their midst she is alone

And in their peace is without rest.

Is there some home by them forgot?

Exiles they seem and suffer not.

XXIII

Their native games to her impart

A fitful joy, that sad appears,

Only because her eyes and heart

Are vacant, and have room for tears.

She knows not yet ’tis love’s first throe:

The snowdrop breaking through the snow.

130XXIV

At length comes one whose love ere told

Seems wafted o’er a flowery plain,

And brings her back that charm of old:

The days of childhood live again;

Griefs softened into joys return;

In love’s new-kindled incense burn.

XXV

In silver-crimson trappings gay,

His tinkling barbs with billowy manes

Toss their strong necks before his sleigh—

And he has crossed the snowy plains.

She hails him, and, with heart aflame,

She wonders how such passion came.

XXVI

Beauty and man’s strong soul are his.

Be the earth bare, paved o’er with ice,

’Tis full even to its dome in bliss:

The desert is her paradise,

Where now the hourly deepening sky

Rains down on her love’s mystery.

131XXVII

She hears his love and hears no more.

As waves might cease to beat, as winds

Might drop away on some charmed shore,

The word a soul-deep echo finds—

All her fond life is without breath,

And sinks away in rapturous death.

XXVIII

New paths to home are overlaid

With such deep sunshine, not a tree

In densest woods can cast a shade.

Her glorious soul again is free,—

Free in those bonds of love that wind

In bliss about the heart they bind.

XXIX

Warmer than in its childhood’s flush

Her cheek in this new passion glows;

Not softer is the fitful blush

Of lily ’neath the swaying rose.

Her head droops not as when she pined,

Now bowed in love’s own southern wind.

132XXX

A sun of passion is above;

Her home is here,—in cloudless eyes

She sees the birth-place of her love,

And snows dissolve in burning skies.

Palm-leaves above her seem to bow

When bridal roses wreathe her brow.

133