Once more my harp awakens; once again,
Tho' all unworthy be my hand to twine
Th' etherial blossomings of poetry,
I would call forth its numbers, yet would feel
Its music fall like sunlight on my soul.
Oh, lovely phantom! tho' they say that thou
Art but a light to lead my steps aside;
That thy romance is but a wayward dream;
That few are thy true votaries, and they
Drain to the dregs the cup of bitterness;
And speak in mockery of the glorious wreath,
Whose holiest resting place is in the grave;
Tell of the cold contempt that ever waits
On those who call on thee, and call in vain.—
All this I know and feel, most deeply feel,
How few the favour'd ones on whom thou breathest
The heart's aroma, immortality.
Yet still I love thee, passionately love!
Yet would I dwell on thy fair picturings,
Although thy brightest hues may be no more
Than tulip tints, that colour but to fade.
Sweet Spirit of the Harp! thou canst create
An airy world of beauty and delight,
Far from the chill realities of life,
Where sorrow closely follows pleasure's steps;
Rapture, companion of thy wanderings!
Still, thou enchanting power, my love is thine.—
But yet there is a dearer bliss, than dwells
E'en in these fond illusions;—ah! canst thou,
From whom it came, paint the deep joy, or tell
What the young minstrel feels, when first the song
Has been rewarded by the thrilling praise
Of one too partial, but whose lightest word
Can bid the heart beat quick with happiness—
Recall thine earliest and thy dearest wish—
Recall the first bright vision of thy youth,
The hope, which was, ah! more than life to thee!
Where blended timid fear, whate'er it was
That thy young spirit priz'd, and thou mayst tell,
Were mine the fairest laurel Bard e'er gain'd,
In days when Greece was proud to grace the lyre;
Were mine the fame, before whose glory life
Sinks into nothingness, they could not be
So precious as the slightest wreath of thine:
It is my thought of pride, my cherish'd prize,
To breathe one song not quite unworthy thee.
But, Hope! thy charmed voice I may not trust;
To list to thy sweet promises, is but
To throw the seeds of pleasure to the wind.
What can I look upon but vivid dreams,
That sprang like flowers, and like flowers perish'd,
Leaving no trace, save a few whither'd leaves
Trodden to earth, and mouldering round the stem.
Alas! each sunny vision I have known,
Has pass'd away like to an infant's smile—
Bathed the next moment in the bitterest tears.
And shall I raise my hall of joy again,
My fairy dwelling, on th' unstable sand?
With tremulous hand, I scarce dare wake the strings;
They too may tell the vanity of hope.
Morn came in joy, and eve in tenderness;
Still Adelaide was lonely in her bower,
While on Orlando hung her every thought.
She sang the songs which once he had call'd sweet,
Cherish'd his favorite flowers, and oft would trace
The haunts his step had sought, and pour'd her soul
In faithful orisons for him to heaven..mw-parser-output .wst-bar{text-decoration:line-through}.mw-parser-output .wst-bar-inner{color:transparent}——
Love for the absent, is as love that dwells
O'er the remembrance of the cherish'd dead;
The same deep feeling—kind, affectionate;
A veil thrown o'er each fault, a purer light
Around each virtue; now like relics priz'd;
'Tis the same feeling, save we do not mourn
With sorrow that can never solace know—
Save that we look with soothing confidence
To the blest moment, when we meet once more!
How we do love the absent! absence is
The moonlight of affection; then the heart,
Sheds o'er each thought a visionary charm,
A chastened pensive beauty; and the shade
That hangs around, like dim futurity,
Tho' the eye may not pierce it, yet it may
Image ideal loveliness, and trace
Bright shapes, which if the shadows were dispell'd,
Might be but blanks; for never yet did life
Present the path of pleasantness we dream'd;
Tho' like the assurance the sweet moonlight gives
Of the reflected sun, our hopes shine forth,
And tell us all that fancy paints is true.
She knelt before the altar, while around
Swell'd deep, slow, solemn music. She was robed,
As a young bride, in rich and rare attire:
The brilliants flash'd, amid the auburn waves
Of her luxuriant hair, and rosy wreathes
Fell with the glossy curls upon her neck.
And bright the sparkling zone round her slight waist,
Fastening the foldings of her snowy robe.—
She knelt, and hid her face; and when she rose,
Her cheek was pale, and bore the trace of tears,
Wearing that look of faded loveliness
Which tells the blight of misery hath pass'd,
And that the heart is withering silently!
She gaz'd upon the glass which stood beside—
It gave a lovely semblance back; a form
Of matchless grace; a face where beauty dwelt;
But sorrow's records there were deeply trac'd.
The eloquence of that soft countenance
Bore the dark characters of grief; the look
She wildly gave, seem'd agony; the tears
That did but tremble 'neath the eyelash, fell
Upon the delicate hand that press'd her brow.
Well might that glance be agony; so fair,
In life's most happy season! yet to her
The future was a blank, the past despair!
She had long loved but too devotedly;—
The dream was over, and she shrank away
From the now joyless world: he who had been
To her the light, the breath of life, was gone.
Memory to her was as a faded flower,
Whose lingering fragrance just recalls how sweet,
How beautiful it has been, but to keep
Regret alive, and make its wither'd state—
More wither'd from its former loveliness.
They laid aside her gems and costly vest,
And robed her in the simple garb of black.
And those fair tresses, braided o'er her brow
Like golden clusters round pure ivory,
Bright as the locks the Egyptian queen once gave—
A tender offering, worthy her and love—
Were sever'd from her head; and then they threw
The eternal veil upon her face. Yet still
She seem'd scarce conscious of the scene around:
Even that irrevocable vow, which breaks
All earthly ties, call'd no emotion forth;
Her soul held but one feeling, desolate,
The recklessness of cold and fix'd despair.
The anthem ceas'd, the long last vow is said,
And she is lost for ever to the world!
Many a look on that sweet votary dwelt,
Marvelling that one, in youth's enchanted hour,
Should turn away from life, when life's so fair
As it does ever seem at morning's rise;
When fancy's fairy pencil tints the scene,
Where the warm eye of expectation roves,
Led on by hope, whose wild and gladsome light
Is as a meteor glancing over all;—
At this joy-breathing moment, turn away,
And bid the opening rosebud pine in shade.
Vain idle wonder! little do they know
How recklessly the eye of sorrow dwells
On youth and loveliness! What charm has life
To her whose spirit sinks in one deep thought,
One feeling, where all others are absorb'd;
One lone grief, like the deadly plant which grows
And spreads its venom'd leaves, until around
Nought but a noxious poison'd spot is left,
Where blossoms, fruit, nor even weeds appear;
All lost in that one baleful influence.——
Such, Adelaide, thy fate, e'en in thy morn!
Thy summer-day, when all seem'd fair around,
The desolating pow'r was hov'ring near;
And the sweet altar, where love's pure light shone,
Was levell'd with the dust; while the fond heart,
That had uprear'd it, sunk beneath the shock!
She who doth bend her o'er her lover's urn,
And pour the hopeless tears that wail the dead;
Tho' deep, tho' wild her misery may be,
Grief has for her a gentle anodyne.
There is a flower blooms upon the grave,
A life spring, even in the desert found,
A sunny ray upon the vale of tears—
The memory of his faithfulness; the bliss,
That his last thought was her's; that her's the name
That trembled, even in death, upon his lips.
But where's the balm to soothe the heart that pines
'Neath love's unkindness? where's the spell can charm
Sorrow like that away? Who could have dream'd,
A bud so fair would bring such bitter fruit?
And where was he, Orlando? where was he,
When Adelaide breathed vows, which should have been
His own? He stood before the altar too,
And by his side there was a youthful fair;
She was most beautiful, the island queen,
For whose dear love the Grecian wanderer sigh'd,
When on him smil'd the daughter of the sun,
And proffer'd immortality was not
More perfect in her loveliness, as o'er
Her vermil cheek she drew the bridal veil,
To hide the rose-light blush's soft consent.
She was most beautiful; but the black hair,
Like raven plumage on the polish'd front;
The ebon arch, pencill'd so gracefully;
And the dark splendour of those glancing eyes,
Meltingly bright, like to her native heaven
When the night comes, in moonlight and in stars,
Told that she was the child of eastern climes.
The sultry noon had pass'd, the fresh'ning flowers
Rais'd their declined heads, while the cool gale
Left on each leaf a dewy kiss, and bore
Their perfum'd souls away; the rose, which hid
All day her cheek of fragrance from the sun,
In the protecting shadow of the palm,
Now gave rich offerings forth. There was no sound
To break the beauty of eve's light repose,
Save when the fountain threw its sparkling foam
And silver waters o'er the marble floor,
So soft it fell, like music; or the boughs
Whisper'd together yet more softly still.
And when the young Zoraide awoke her lute,
Fit answer to an evening fair as this,
It looked like fairy land; and she who lean'd
Beside the fount, whose azure mirror gave
A fresh existence to her loveliness,
Seemed one of those etherial forms, the flowers,
In the wild magic of Arabian tale.
I may not name Arabia, and not pay
The slight meed of my homage to its songs:
How oft I've linger'd o'er the page, which told
Of him, the wand'rer of the sea, and all
The marvels he beheld! and when Gulnare
Unveil'd the glories of the ocean depth,
Or where the Persian and his ill-starr’d love,
United in the grave, found sweet repose!
And him, the Fortunate, whose gorgeous hall
Kings could not match—Aladdin, who possest
The mystic lamp; alas! that days like these,
Of fairy wonders, now should be no more.
How have I shudder'd, when the warning voice
Pass'd o'er the careless city, but in vain!
When the dread curse came down, and one alone
Liv'd (fearful life!) in the sad solitude.
I've hung on the strange witchery, till I've deem'd
The bright creations visible, and seen
Th' enchanted palaces before me rise:
A few brief moments, and how chang'd the scene!
The song is broken off, the shatter'd lute
Spends its last breath in dying murmurings,
Lost in the clang of arms; the fountain wave
Is red with gore, its crystal beauty gone ;
And flowers, trodden on the blood-stain'd earth,
Shed their last odorous sigh upon the dead;
While she, their fairy mistress, captive now,
Is pale and senseless in yon warrior's arm!
The hour of fear is over, and Zoraide
Has listened to the Christian warrior's tale,
And her young heart is won. Came there no thought
Of shame and sorrow, false one, when thy lip
Proffer'd again the vows of changeless faith?
Alas! alas! too often conscience sleeps,
When pleasure's syren numbers lull its rest.—
Oh, Love! when, as thy birthright, there was giv'n
To thee each fairest, each endearing gift,
What demon came, and hid amid thy wreath
The heart-consuming worm, Inconstancy?
'Tis well; for were thy blissfulness less fleet,
It were a joy to render life too dear.
Whoe'er could brook to leave their earthly home,
If it were love's unchangeable abode?
There are some moments in our path of life,
Like showers mid drought, or sunshine amid showers,
Awakening every feeling of delight
With which the soul can thrill in rapturous joy.
Such is the warrior's happiness, when, come
From the dark fields of death, he sees once more
The treasures lost so long, now found again;
Sees gladness in each face, and hears the words
Of heart-breathed welcome, from each lip he loves;
When the dim eye of age again grows bright
To look upon him; and within his arms
Reclines the cherish'd one, whose tender smile,
And soft eyes melting with delicious tears,
Eagerly dwell on the dear stranger's face.—
Happiness, soon thy dwelling may be found!
Fly from the heartless pleasures of the world,
Those passing lights, that dazzle to deceive!
Seek that bright spot of blessedness, thy home—
All that this life can give of pure and dear—
Changeless affection, kindness still the same,
The ear that listens but to soothe thy grief—
That never tedious thinks thy tale of joy;
The look, that shares thy hope and soothes thy fear;
The smile still fondly answering thy own;
Each dream of bliss, and each desire of love,
Is in the magic circle of thy hearth.
Full gallantly Orlando stemm'd the tide,
The stormy tide of battle; he had been
Amid the bravest champions of the Cross!
At length the gloomy night of warfare clos'd,
And the sweet smile of peace dawn'd o'er the sky,
And homeward turn'd the warriors. Italy
First greeted them again; but as they sought
Orlando and his beautiful Zoraide,
His natal towers, it chanc'd their mountain guide
Unheedful wander'd from the purpos'd path
Around the dark wood twined; ages had pass'd
Since those huge trees were saplings of the spring,
And trembled when the slightest breeze pass'd by.
Now they rose giants, in their hour of pride,
Stood in their strength, and braved the blast of heaven:
Naked they stood and desolate; the oaks,
Which, garb'd in summer foliage, had been
The glory of the forest, worn and bare,
Were now like monuments of time's decay;
The leaves were gone from all, save where the pine
Threw the wide shadow of its unchang'd green.
I could not envy it that fadeless state.—
Ah ! who would be the last, the only one
That ruin spares—no; if the blight must pass
O'er all around, let it pass o'er me too!
The moon was darken'd by a clouded heaven;
No sweets, no music, rose to welcome her;
The birds did seem to dread such solitude:
Nor flowers could spring upon that dank cold earth.
Fierce o'er the snowy mountains swept the wind,
With wild lament; it seem'd the unearthly wail
Of unforgiven souls, or as the yell
Of evil spirits riding on the gale.——
They gain'd an opener space; at distance seen,
Uprose a lighted tower; and where's the chief
Would not throw wide the hospitable gate,
And gladly hail the swords of Palestine?
Free was the welcome, fairly spread the feast;
Proudly the host receiv'd his honour'd guest:
But chill the damp upon Orlando’s heart—
Was it a dream!—he stood in Ethlin's hall!
The wine cup circles; thro' the festal train
The sound of mirth and revelry is heard;
The minstrels strike the harp, and proudly raise
The song of triumph; round the cheerful board
Are gallant warriors! many a one is there,
Whose fame were fitting theme for minstrel song.
But turn we from these flowers of chivalry,
To yonder chief, who leans abstractedly,
As if some shadow on his spirit hung;
Some dreaming mood, that comes when present scenes
Recall long absent thoughts, and bring to mind
What yet would be most willingly forgotten.
Orlando! there is gloom upon thy brow!
Can Ethlin's be a hall of joy to thee?
Beside thee sits thy young and lovely bride—
Who does not envy thee so fair a prize;
The bard is telling of thy glorious deeds,
And many a lady's eye is bent on thee.
The voice of pleasure is not heard; in vain
The goblet sparkles, and the song is breathed;
Even beauty's smile glanced unregarded by!
Came not the days long past upon thy soul,
Weighing the spirit down, like fearful forms,
The dreary shapes that crowd a fever'd dream?
He thought on Adelaide;—oh! where was she?
Her place was vacant, and all seemed so strange!
She was the last fair scion of her race;
The lofty pillars of proud Ethlin's line
Were broken all; and now another lord
Bore sway, in that too well remember'd hall.
They spoke of him, the late chief of these towers;
He too had pass'd unto his place of rest.
And then, with kindling cheek, Orlando heard
Yet once again, the name of Adelaide:
They told, a lonely orphan, she had sought
The convent's silent shade: some secret grief
Had prey'd upon her; and it had been said,
She was a victim at the sacred shrine—
Rather the bride of sorrow than of heaven.
He heard no more, but left the mirthful group,
And sought again the groves, where once young love
Had borne the halcyon hours upon his wing,
Roaming in that strange mood, when conscious wrong
Presses upon the heart;—when feelings rise,
We may not brook another's eye should see;
When memory haunts us, as a spectred form
On which we dare not gaze, and solitude
Is what we tremble at, yet what we seek.
'Tis soothing, oh! most soothing to the heart,
To rove 'mid scenes where once we have been blest!
Each tree, each blossom, has a thrilling charm;
They seem memorials of those happier hours:
The very sigh that tells they are no more,
Is sweet unto the spirit; former days,
And former feelings, rise upon the soul,
Dear as they once have been. Again the heart
Throbs warmly, fondly, as 'twas wont to do.
Thou, who art yet with young hopes undecay'd,
With unscath'd happiness, thy bosom guest,
Unchill'd by sorrow; 'tis not thine to tell
How soon the warmth, the purity will fade,
Of thy once lovely wild imaginings!
Thou canst not tell how dear they'll be to thee,
'Mid coming clouds; or how thy thoughts will fear
To catch from the remembrance of the past,
A faint reflection of thy former bliss!
Thine eye is looking now to future hours,
Where hope has traced for thee a fairy land;
Pass but a little while, and thou wilt shrink
From the cold visions of futurity,
Which thou, alas! hast learnt to know too well;
And turn to that dear time, ere sadness threw
Its shadow o'er thy prospect; when thy soul
Shed over all its own romantic light;
Ere falsehood, disappointment, grief, and wrong,
Wither'd the feelings of thy opening youth—
Leaving thee, like the bud the worm hath scath'd,
Bloom on its cheek—the canker in its heart.
Orlando rov'd around; not his the bliss
That breathes from recollections like the sigh
Exhaling fragrance from the faded rose.
Ah! how unlike the calm and lovely nights,
When last with Adelaide he wander'd here!
Then the moon glanced upon a summer sky—
A smiling queen amid her starry court—
And all around was loveliness, and love.
Now the departing autumn's shadowy hours
Were passing in their gloom. Dark season! thou
Alone dost give a stern unkind farewell!—
Fair is the young spring, with her golden hair
And braids of dewy flowers, and her brow
Has the soft beauty of a timid girl;
And, like a blushing bride, the summer comes,
While the sun smiles upon his favorite child:
When first thou dost magnificent succeed
To the bright chariot of the circling year,
The valleys laugh, and plenty greets thy steps;
Around thee then the cheerful cornfields wave,
And purple clusters sparkle on the vine;
Then the rich tints are colouring the leaves,
Like the pavilion of an eastern king,
And flowers breathe their latest, sweetest sigh.
Soon is thy beauty gone! the leaves and flowers,
That welcom'd thee at first, are quickly gone,
Like faithless friends that flee adversity;
Then round thee blow the keen winds, like reproach,
That ever wait upon the sunless day.—
Thy brow is sad, thy sky is lost in clouds,
And darkness is around thee as a robe.
Spring blushes into summer; summer goes,
And leaves a glorious trace of light behind;—
E'en winter softens into sunny spring;—
But thou, pale melancholy season! thou
Alone departest in thine hour of wrath?
How chang'd the scene from what it once had been!
Now loneliness hung o'er it like a cloud!
The myrtle bower they'd twin'd so gracefully,
No trace of it was left; and that white rose,
That wreath'd so fondly round the blasted pine,
Was gone—the tree stood now quite desolate.
Beneath, half-hidden by the briars round,
And green with moss, there was a broken harp:
Time had been, when those now so silent chords
Were sweet as hope's soft prophecy of love;
Now his heart died within him, as the breeze
Waked, faintly wak'd, the few remaining strings.
He turn'd him from the grove, where each thing was
A witness of the sorrow he had caus'd;
Yet still he wander'd on: at length his step
Paus'd 'mid the silent dwellings of the dead.
Here where the yew, dark emblem of despair!
Threw its black shadow, Ethlin's race repos'd.
Here lay the vet'ran—his long warfare o'er;
The youthful hero, fallen like the pine
In its first summer; and the maiden's tomb,
Whose beauty was but as a fairy dream.
There was one grave—he knew it well again,
For he had often knelt with Adelaide,
When the affectionate tribute of her tears
Were offer'd to the dead;—what was that voice
Waking the silent night? he look'd around:
A maiden, by her dark veil half conceal'd,
Was leaning on the tomb, breathing low sounds,
Like griefs low accents wailing o'er the sod.
He gaz'd upon her—it was Adelaide!——
In the wild dream of phrenzy, she had fled
Her convent's cell, and sought her brother's urn:
She sank on the cold turf! the moonlight fell
Upon her pallid face.—Alas! how chang'd
From the fair rose he left! Her faded cheek
Wore a strange ghastly hue; her eye was dim—
Ah! how unlike its once so lovely light!—
Half clos'd and rayless; and the drooping lash
Hung heavily upon the glossy blue:
Her form was wasted, and her gasping lip
Had lost its rosy beauty; she was now
But the last shade of blighted loveliness!——
He knelt beside her, but she knew him not—
The chill of death was freezing round her heart;
Her hand was ice, the life pulse was unheard;
But at his passionate and wild lament,
A ray yet glanc'd upon her vacant eye,
Which to Orlando turn'd, as it would close
In gazing on the face she had so lov'd;—
Then faintly strove to breathe forgiving sounds,
Low, inarticulate. Upon her neck
He threw himself;—that murmur was her last—
The lip he press'd was cold!
A curse was laid upon him!—gold and power,
Beauty and fame were his, yet still there hung
That shadow on his brow; and never smile
Was seen to lighten o'er his face: he mov'd
As if beneath the influence of some spell,
Darkening his soul; his sleep was not repose.
Then wild creations haunted him, and shapes
Of terror and of evil; and a form,
A wan and wasted form, rose on his dreams,
Till rest was agony! There was a fire,
By day and night, consuming at his heart;
A withering seal was set on every thought—
All ministers of bitterness; he shunn'd
The haunts of pleasure; still that dying look
Of sweet forgiveness, and the last faint tone
Of her he had deserted, tortur'd him.
She mark'd the change (his fair Zoraide), and strove,
With all a woman's winning tenderness,
To soothe his gloomy spirit, but in vain—
The shadow of his soul fell o'er her too:
Her cheek grew pale with frequent tears, that wore
The rose away. Oh! burning are the drops
That wounded love will shed—like to the dew
Falling from off the poison tree, the blight
Still following the touch;—ah! other tears
Soften and bless—but these destroy the heart.
She was alone, a stranger in the land;
All her hopes dwelt upon him; she was as
A sunborn flower of her native plains,
Borne to far northern climes; it languishes
When its bright lover, the all-glorious sun,
That erst looked smiling on its beauty, turns
A cold and clouded glance—its drooping head
Sickens and pines. Thus fared it with Zoraide—
Passing as flits a morning dream away.
What was his life thenceforth?—a fiery page,
Traced with unreal characters; a night
Gleaming with meteor flashes. They had laid
Zoraide (for thus she wish'd it) by the side
Of her sweet rival: there he leant:—morn came,
And found him bending there; the evening dew
Fell damp upon his brow; his sole employ
To braid these graves with fairest blossomings,
While visions wild, and fearful images
Of woe—the relics of reality—
Usurp'd the throne of the etherial mind:
This might not be for long. When first he twin'd
His offerings round those tombs, the bee had just
Wak'd his soft music in the violet;
And when the autumn's amber clusters shone
Upon the green leav'd vines, Orlando slept
In the dark shadowy dwellings of the dead!