Εικόνες σελίδας
PDF
Ηλεκτρ. έκδοση

And answer'd with her voice her lone guitar.
It pleased her for a while :-it soothes the soul
To pour its thoughts in melancholy words;
And if aught can charm sorrow, music can.
The song she chose was one her youth had loved,
Ere yet she knew the bitterness of grief,
But thought tears luxury

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

Oh, take that starry wreath away;
Fling not those roses o'er my lute!
The brow that thou wouldst crown is pale,
The chords thou wouldst awaken, mute.
Look on those broken gems that lie

Beside those flowers, withering there;
Those leaves were blooming round my lute,
Those gems were bright amid my hair.
And they may be a sign to tell

Of all the ruin love will make:

He comes in beauty, and then leaves
The hope to fade, the heart to break!"

The song died in low sobs :-"I ever felt
That it would come to this,-that I should be
Forsaken and forgotten! I would give
Life- —more than life—those precious memories
Of happiness and Fernand! I'd forget
That I have been beloved,-all I have known
Of rapture-all the dreams that long have been
My sole existence, but to feel again
As I felt ere I loved-ere I had given

My every hope as passion's sacrifice."

Her face was hidden in her hands; but tears
Trickled through her slight fingers,-tears, those late
Vain tributes to remorse! At length she rose,
And paced with eager steps her scented bower,

Then trimm'd her lamp, and gather'd flowers and leaves, Twin'd them in wreaths, and placed them gracefully;

Then felt the vanity of all her care,

And scatter'd them around. The morning broke,
And hastily she left the shade, to hide

From all her anxious heart-her misery!

That day she knew her fate,- heard that Fernand
Was now betrothed to the high-born Blanche.
Hermione wept not, although her heart

Swell'd nigh to bursting; but she hid her thoughts,—
Next morning she was gone!

The palace was all lustre, like a dome,

A fairy dome; the roofs were all one blaze
With lamp and chandelier, the mirrors shone
Like streams of light, and, waving gracefully,
The purple draperies hung festoon'd with wreaths,
That shed their incense round.

Open'd in some new splendour.

Hall after hall

Proud the feast
The Duke to-night gives for his peerless child;
And Castile's noblest are all met to greet
Blanche and her gallant lover. Princely forms,
And ladies beautiful, whose footsteps fell
Soft as the music which they echoed; light,
And melody, and perfume, and sweet shapes,
Mingled together like a glorious dream.
Hermione is there! She has forsaken

Her woman's garb; her long dark tresses float
Like weeds upon the Tagus, and no one

Can in that pale and melancholy boy
Recal the lovely woman. All in vain

She look'd for him she sought; but when one past
With raven hair, and tall, her heart beat high,
Then sank again, when her so eager glance
Fell on a stranger's face. At length she reach'd
A stately room, richer than all the rest,

For there were loveliest things, though not of life:
Canvas, to which the painter's soul had given

A heaven of beauty; and statues, which were touch'd
With art so exquisite, the marble seem'd
Animate with emotion. It is strange,
Amid its deepest feelings, how the soul
Will cling to outward images, as thus
It could forget its sickness! There she gazed,
And envied the sad smile, the patient look

Of a pale Magdalen: it told of grief,

But grief long since subdued.

Half curtain'd round

By vases fill'd with fragrant shrubs, were shapes
Of Grecian deities and nymphs: she drew
Sad parallels with her of Crete, who wept
O'er her Athenian lover's perjury.
She left the hall of paintings, and pursued
A corridor which open'd to the air,
And enter'd in the garden: there a while,
Beneath the shadow of a cypress tree,

She breathed the cooling gale. Amid the shade
Of those bright groves were ladies lingering,
Who listen'd to most gentle things, and then
Blush'd like the roses near them; and light groups
Of gladsome dancers gliding o'er the turf,
Like elfin revelling by the moonlight.
She look'd up to the lovely face of heaven,-
It was unclouded, and the rolling moon
Past o'er the deep blue sky, like happiness,
Leaving a trace of light; she gazed around,
-And all was fair, and gaily beautiful ;~
There was no gloom but that within her heart.
Ah! this is very loneliness, to feel

So wholly, wholly destitute, without one thing
That has a portion in our wretchedness!

Then two came by:-that voice to her was death

[ocr errors]

It was her false Fernand's! A lovely girl
Hung on his arm, so soft, so delicate,

It seem'd a breath might sweep her from the earth;
And Fernand bent with so much tenderness,
To catch the music of the timid voice,

Which dared not breathe its love-word audibly.
Hermione rush'd thence, as if her step

Had been upon the serpent's lair. That night
She brooded o'er her wrongs, and bitterly
Pray'd for revenge!-And this is woman's fate:
All her affections are call'd into life

By winning flatteries, and then thrown back
Upon themselves to perish; and her heart,
Her trusting heart, fill'd with weak tenderness,
Is left to bleed, or break!

The marriage-feast was spread, the guests were round,
The halls were fill'd with mirth, and light, and song.
High o'er the rest the youthful pair were placed,
Beneath a canopy of fretted gold

And royal purple. With a shout they drank
Health and long blessedness to the fair bride!
And Fernand call'd for wine, to pledge them back
His thanks. A slender page approach'd, and held
The golden cup.
There is a marble look

In the dark countenance of that pale boy,

Ill suiting one so youthful. Fernand drain'd

The liquor to the dregs; yet while he drank,
He felt the eagle glance of that strange page
Fix on him like a spell. With a wild laugh
Of fearless taunting, he took back the cup :-
That laugh rang like a demon's curse! The sounds
Of revelry one moment paused-they heard
Muttered the words, "Vengeance!" "Hermione !"
Blanche broke the silence by her shriek-Fernand
Had fallen from his seat, his face was black

With inward agony.-That draught bore fate!
That page had poison'd him! In dread they turn'd
To where the murderer was: she had not moved,
But stood with fixed eyes; the clouds of death
Were on her face-she too had pledged that cup !

THE DEAD SOLDIER.

From the German.

He sleeps! the hour of mortal pain
And warrior pride alike are past;
His blood is mingling with the rain,
His cheek is withering in the blast.

This morn there was a bright hue there,
The flush of courage stern and high;
The steel has drain'd its current clear,
The storm has bleach'd its gallant dye.

This morn these icy hands were warm;
That lid, half shewing the glazed ball,
Was life!-Thou chill and clay-faced form,
Is this the one we loved? This all?

Woman, away, and weep no more!

Can the dead give thee love for love?
Can the grave hear?-His course was o'er,
The spirit winged its way above.

Wilt thou for dust and ashes weep?
Away! thy husband lies not here:

« ΠροηγούμενηΣυνέχεια »