And with it came the convent's heavy bell, Tolling for a departed soul; and then He knew that ISABELLE was dead! Next day They laid her in her grave;-and the moon rose Upon a mourner weeping there:-that tomb Was ROLAND's death-bed!
But the war-storm came on the mountain gale, And man's heart beat high, though his cheek was pale For blood and dust lay on the white hair, And the maiden wept o'er her last despair; The hearth was cold, and the child was prest A corpse to the murder'd mother's breast; And fear and guilt, and sorrow and shame, Darken'd wherever the war-fiend came.
On pale lips breathing blessings which the tear Belie in speaking! I have blighted all- All-all their hopes, and my own happiness!"
"LEANDRO!" said a sweet and gentle voice; And a soft hand press'd on his throbbing brow, And tears like twilight dew fell on his cheek. He look'd upon the maiden :-'twas the one With whom his first pure love had dwelt, the
Who was the sun and starlight of his youth! She stood beside him, lovely as a saint Looking down pity upon penitence- Perhaps less bright in colour and in eye Than the companion of his infancy :- But was that cheek less fair because he knew That it had lost the beauty of its spring With passionate sorrowing for him? She stood One moment gazing on his face, as there Her destiny was written; and then took A little crucifix of ebony, And placed it in his bosom from her own:- Over the white walls, which the vine had hung "And this, LEANDRO!-this shall be thy guide! With its thick leaves and purple fruit: a pair Thy youth has been a dream of passion; guilt Of pigeons, like the snow, were on the roof And evil has been round thee :-go thy way! Nestled together; and a plaining sound The showers of thy youth will clear to summer. Came from a fountain murmuring through the My prayers be with thee !"-" Prayers!-O! no-
IT stood beneath a large old chestnut tree, And had stood there for years: -the moonlight
Less like the voice of sorrow than of love. Tall trees were gather'd round:-the dark green beech;
The sycamore, with scarlet colours on, The herald of the autumn; dwarf rose trees, Cover'd with their last wealth; the poplar tall, A silver spire; olives with their pale leaves;
And some most graceful shrubs, amid whose boughs
Were golden oranges; and hollow oaks, Where the bees built their honey palaces.
It was a silent and a lovely place,
Have I then lost thy love-thy precious love? The only green leaf of my heart is wither'd!" She blush'd a deep-red blush; her eloquent eyes Met his almost reproachfully, and her face Was the next moment hidden on his bosom. But there was happiness even in that farewell, Affection and deep confidence,
Tenderness, hope, -for Love lights Hope-and tears,
Delicious tears! the heart's own dew.
Where Peace might rest her white wings. But LEANDRO kept that little cross like life :
From out the cottage, not as one who comes
To gaze upon the beauty of the sky And fill his spirit with a calm delight;
But with a quick though noiseless step, as one Who fears the very echo of that step
May raise a sceptre. When he reach'd the fount, He sat down by its side, and turn'd to gaze Upon the cottage: from his brow the sweat
And when beneath the sky of Mexico,
When earth and even heaven were strange to him,-
The trees, the flowers were of another growth; The birds wore other plumes; the very stars Were not those he had look'd upon in boyhood.
'Tis something, if in absence we can see The footsteps of the past :-it soothes the heart
Pour'd down like summer rain; there came no To breathe the air scented in other years
By lips belov'd; to wander through the groves From his white lips, but you might hear his Where once we were not lonely, where the rose heart
Beating in the deep silence. But at length A voice came to his sorrow "Never-never Shall I look on their face again! Farewell! I cannot bear that word's reproach, nor look
Reminds us of the hair we used to wreath With its fresh buds where every hill and vale, And wood and fountain, speak of time gone by ;- And Hope springs up in joy from Memory's
LEANDRO felt not these: - that crucifix Was all that wore the look of other days'Twas as a dear companion. Parents, home, And more than all, BIANCA, whose pure reign, Troubled by the wild passions of his youth, Had now regain'd its former influence,All seem'd to hear the vows he made for her, To share his hopes, feel for his deep remorse, And bless him, and look forward.
Whose hollow trunk, when children, they had oft Call'd home in playfulness. He bore her there; And of fresh flowers and the dry leaves he made A bed for his pale love. She waked at last, But not to consciousness: her wandering eyes Fix'd upon him, and yet she knew him not!- Fever was on her lip and in her brain, And as LEANDRO watch'd, his heart grew sick To hear her rave of outrage, wrongs, and death;- How they were waken'd from their midnight sleep
Once more the white sail bore him o'er the sea, And he saw SPAIN again. But war was there- And his road lay through ruin'd villages. Though cold, the ashes still were red, for blood Had quench'd the flames; and aged men sat down, And would not leave the embers, for they said They were too old to seek another home. LEANDRO met with one whom he had known In other days, and ask'd of his own valley;- It yet was safe, unscath'd by the war-storm. He knelt down in deep thankfulness; and then, Through death and danger, sought the grove once
His way had been through a thick beechen wood;
The moon, athwart the boughs, had pour'd her light,
Like hope, to guide him onwards.
One more turn, and he should gaze upon his
He paused in his heart's overflowing bliss, And thought how he should wake them from their dreams-
Perchance of him!-of his BIANCA's blush! He heard the music of the fountain come- A sweet and welcome voice upon the wind- He bounded on with the light steps of hope, Of youth and happiness. He left the wood, And look'd upon a heap of mingled blood And blacken'd ashes wet upon the ground!
He was awaken'd from his agony By the low accents of a woman's voice ;He look'd, and knew BIANCA. She was laid Beside the fountain, while her long black hair Hung like a veil down to her feet: her eyes,
["The BAYADERE" was taken from some faint recollecSo large, so dark, so wild, shone through the tion of a tale I had either read or heard; and meeting with
Glaring like red insanity. She saw Her lover, shriek'd, and strove to fly- But fell:-her naked feet were gash'd with wounds. "And have I met thee but to see thee die!" LEANDRO cried, as he laid the pale face Upon his breast, and sobb'd like a young child. In vain he dash'd the cold stream on her face,- Still she lay like a corpse within his arms At length he thought him of a giant tree,
the word "Bayadere" many years after, recalled it to my memory as a subject exquisitely poetical. I have been, since, told it was a poem of Goëthe's. This poem has never been, to my knowledge, translated; and, being ignorant of the German language, I am unable to say whether the tale conforms to the original or not.]
THERE were seventy pillars around the hall, Of wreath'd gold was each capital, And the roof was fretted with amber and gems, Such as light kingly diadems;
Like the leaves, and of the sighs Like the winds of summer skies,
The floor was marble, white as the snow Ere its pureness is stain'd by its fall below: In the midst play'd a fountain, whose starry Blushes like the birds of spring,
Fell, like beams, on the radiant flowers, Whose colours were gleaming, as every one Burnt from the kisses just caught from the sun; And vases sent forth their silvery clouds,
Like those which the face of the young moon shrouds.
But sweet as the breath of the twilight hour When the dew awakens the rose's power.
At the end of the hall was a sun-bright throne, Rich with every glorious stone;
Soon seen and soon vanishing; He of hopes, and he of fears, He of smiles, and he of tears- Young CAMDEO, he has brought A sweet dream of colour'd thought, One of love and woman's power, TO MANDALLA's sleeping hour.
Joyless and dark was his jewell'd throne, When MANDALLA awaken'd and found him alone.
Whose leaf was of emerald, whose fruit was of And dim was the home of his native star
But though graced as for a festival, There was something sad in that stately hall: There floated the breath of the harp and flute,- But the sweetest of every music is mute: There are flowers of light, and spiced perfume, - But there wants the sweetest of breath and of bloom:
And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, For the smiling of woman shineth not here. With urns of odour o'er him weeping, Upon the couch a youth is sleeping: His radiant hair is bound with stars, Such as shine on the brow of night, Filling the dome with diamond rays, Only than his own curls less bright. And such a brow, and such an eye As fit a young divinity;
A brow like twilight's darkening line, An eye like morning's first sunshine, Now glancing through the veil of dreams As sudden light at daybreak streams. And richer than the mingled shade By gem, and gold, and purple made, His orient wings closed o'er his head;
Like that bird's, bright with every dye, Whose home, as Persian bards have said, Is fix'd in scented Araby.
Some dream is passing o'er him now- A sudden flush is on his brow; And from his lip come murmur'd words, Low, but sweet as the light lute chords When o'er its strings the night winds glide To woo the roses by its side. He, the fair boy-god, whose nest Is in the water-lily's breast; He of the many-arrow'd bow, Of the joys that come and go
While the light of woman and love was afar; And lips of the rosebud, and violet eyes Are the sunniest flowers in Paradise. He veil'd the light of his glorious race In a mortal's form and a mortal's face, And 'mid earth's loveliest sought for one Who might dwell in his hall and share in his throne.
The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest The bee from the midst of its honey quest, And open the leaves of the lotus lay To welcome the noon of the summer day. It was glory, and light, and beauty all, When MANDALLA closed his wing in Bengal. He stood in the midst of a stately square,
As the waves of the sea roll'd the thousands there;
Their gathering was round the gorgeous car Where sat in his triumph the Subadar; For his sabre was red with the blood of the slain, And his proudest foes were slaves in his chain; And the sound of the trumpet, the sound of his
Rose in shouts from the crowd as onwards he
With gems and gold on each ataghan, A thousand warriors led the van, Mounted on steeds black as the night,
But with foam and with stirrup gleaming in light;
And another thousand came in their rear, On white horses, arm'd with bow and spear, With quivers of gold on each shoulder laid, And with crimson belt for each crooked blade. Then follow'd the foot ranks, their turbans
Like flashes of light from a mountain cloud,
For white were the turbans as winter snow,
And death-black the foreheads that darken'd below; Scarlet and white was each soldier's vest, And each bore a lion of gold on his breast, For this was the chosen band that bore The lion standard, it floated o'er Their ranks like morning; at every wave Of that purple banner, the trumpets gave A martial salute to the radiant fold That bore the lion king wrought in gold. And last the elephant came, whose tower Held the lord of this pomp and power: And round that chariot of his pride,
Like chains of white sea-pearls, Or braids enwove of summer flowers, Glided fair dancing girls;
And as the rose leaves fall to earth, Their light feet touch'd the ground,- But for the zone of silver bells
You had not heard a sound, As, scattering flowers o'er the way, Whirl'd round the beautiful array But there was one who 'mid them shone A planet lovely and alone, A rose, one flower amid many, But still the loveliest of any : Though fair her arm as the moonlight, Others might raise an arm as white; Though light her feet as music's fall, Others might be as musical; But where were such dark eyes as hers? So tender, yet withal so bright, As the dark orbs had in their smile
Mingled the light of day and night. And where was that wild grace which shed A loveliness o'er every tread, A beauty shining through the whole, Something which spoke of heart and soul. The Almas had pass'd lightly on, The arm'd ranks, the crowd, were gone, Yet gazed MANDALLA on the square As she he sought still glided there,- O that fond look, whose eyeballs' strain, And will not know its look in vain ! At length he turn'd, his silent mood Sought that impassion'd solitude, The Eden of young hearts, when first Love in its loneliness is nurst. He sat him by a little fount; A tulip tree grew by its side, A lily with its silver towers Floated in silence on the tide; And far round a banana tree Extended its green sanctuary; And the long grass, which was his seat, With every motion grew more sweet, Yielding a more voluptuous scent At every blade his pressure bent.
And there he linger'd, till the sky
Lost somewhat of its brilliancy,
And crimson shadows roll'd on the west, And raised the moon her diamond crest, And came a freshness on the trees, Harbinger of the evening breeze, When a sweet far sound of song, Borne by the breath of flowers along, A mingling of the voice and lute,
Such as the wind-harp, when it makes Its pleasant music to the gale
Which kisses first the chords it breaks. He follow'd where the echo led,
Till in a cypress-grove he found A funeral train, that round a grave Pour'd forth their sorrows' wailing sound; And by the tomb a choir of girls,
With measured steps and mournful notes, And snow-white robes, while on the air, Unbound their wreaths, each dark curl floats, Paced round and sang to her who slept Calm, while their young eyes o'er her wept. And she, that loveliest one, is here, The morning's radiant Bayadere: A darker light in her dark eyes,
For tears are there, a paler brow Changed but to charm the morning's smile, Less sparkling, but more touching now. And first her sweet lip prest the flute,
A nightingale waked by the rose, And when that honey breath was mute, Was heard her low song's plaintive close, Wailing for the young blossom's fall, The last, the most beloved of all. As died in gushing tears the lay, The band of mourners pass'd away : They left their wreaths upon the tomb, As fading leaves and long perfume Of her were emblems; and unbound Many a cage's gilded round, And set the prisoners free, as none Were left to love now she was gone, And azure wings spread on the air,
And songs, rejoicing songs, were heard; But, pining as forgotten now,
Linger'd one solitary bird: A beautiful and pearl-white dove, Alone in its remembering love. It was a strange and lovely thing To mark the drooping of its wing, And how into the grave it prest, Till soil'd the dark earth stain its breast; And darker as the night-shades grew, Sadder became its wailing coo, As if it miss'd the hand that bore, As the cool twilight came, its store Of seeds and flowers. There was one Who, like that dove, was lingering lone,
The Bayadere: her part had been
Only the hired mourner's part
But she had given what none might buy,
The precious sorrow of the heart. She woo'd the white dove to her breast, It sought at once its place of rest: Round it she threw her raven hair,- It seem'd to love the gentle snare, And its soft beak was raised to sip The honey-dew of her red lip. Her dark eyes fill'd with tears, to feel The gentle creature closer steal Into her heart with soft caress,
As it would thank her tenderness;
To her 'twas strange and sweet to be Beloved in such fond purity, And sigh'd MANDALLA to think that sin Could dwell so fair a shrine within. "O, grief to think that she is one Who like the breeze is woo'd and won! Yet sure it were a task for love
To come like dew of the night from above Upon her heart, and wash away, Like dust from the flowers, its stain of clay, And win her back in her tears to heaven Pure, loved, and humble, and forgiven: Yes! freed from the soil of her earthly thrall Her smile shall light up my starry hall!"
The moonlight is on a little bower, With wall and with roof of leaf and of flower, Built of that green and holy tree Which heeds not how rude the storm may be. Like a bridal canopy overhead
The jasmines their slender wreathings spread, One with stars as ivory white,
The other with clusters of amber light;
Rose trees four grew by the wall,
Beautiful each, but different all:
One with that pure but crimson flush That marks the maiden's first love-blush; By its side grew another one,
Pale as the snow of the funeral stone; The next was rich with the damask dye Of a monarch's purple drapery;
And the last had leaves like those leaves of gold Work'd on that drapery's royal fold.
And there were four vases, with blossoms fill'd, Like censers of incense, their fragrance distill'd; Lilies, heap'd like the pearls of the sea, Peep'd from their large leaves' security; Hyacinths with their graceful bells, Where the spirit of odour dwells
Like the spirit of music in ocean shells; And tulips, with every colour that shines In the radiant gems of Serendib's mines; One tulip was found in every wreath, That one most scorch'd by the summer's breath,
Whose passionate leaves with their ruby glow
Hide the heart that lies burning and black below.
And there, beneath the flower'd shade
By a pink acacia made,
MANDALLA lay, and by his side,
With eye, and breath, and blush that vied With the star and with the flower
In their own and loveliest hour, Was that fair Bayadere, the dove
Yet nestling in her long black hair: She has now more than that to love, And the loved one sat by her there.
And by the sweet acacia porch They drank the softness of the breeze.- O more than lovely are love's dreams,
'Mid lights and blooms and airs like these! And sometimes she would leave his side, And like a spirit round him glide:
A light shawl now wreath'd round her brow, Now waving from her hand of snow, Now zoned around her graceful waist, And now like fetters round her placed; And then, flung suddenly aside, Her many curls, instead, unbound, Waved in fantastic braids, till loosed, Her long dark tresses swept the ground: Then, changing from the soft slow step, Her white feet bounded on the wind Like gleaming silver, and her hair
Like a dark banner swept behind; Or with her sweet voice, sweet like a bird's When it pours forth its first song in spring, The one like an echo to the other,
She answer'd the sigh of her soft lute-string, And with eyes that darken'd in gentlest tears, Like the dewy light in the dark-eyed dove, Would she sing those sorrowing songs that breathe Some history of unhappy love. "Yes, thou art mine!" MANDALLA said,- "I have lighted up love in thy youthful heart; I taught thee its tenderness, now I must teach Its faith, its grief, and its gloomier part; And then, from my earth stains purified,
In my star and my hall shalt thou reign my bride."
It was an evening soft and fair, As surely those in Eden are, When, bearing spoils of leaf and flower, Enter'd the Bayadere her bower: Her love lay sleeping, as she thought, And playfully a bunch she caught Of azure hyacinth bells, and o'er
His face she let the blossoms fall: "Why I am jealous of thy dreams, Awaken at thy Aza's call."
No answer came from him whose tone Had been the echo of her own.
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