Were statues, pale and finely shaped and
As if all beauty save her life were there; And, like light clouds floating around each
The censers roll'd their volumes of perfume; And scented waters mingled with the breath Of flowers, which died as if they joy'd in death;
And the white vases, white as mountain
Look'd yet more delicate in the rich glow Of summer-blossoms hanging o'er each side, Like sunset-reddening o'er a silver tide. There was the tulip with its rainbow-globe; And, like the broidery on a silken robe Made for the beauty's festal midnight-hours, The sparkling jessamine shook its silver showers;
Like timid hopes the lily shrank from sight;
The rose leant as it languish'd with delight, Yet, bride-like, drooping in its crimson shame;
And the anemone, whose cheek of flame
Is golden, as it were the flower the sun
In his noon-hour most loved to look upon.
At first the pillar'd halls were still and lone, As if some fairy-palace all unknown To mortal eye or step. This was not long; Waken'd the lutes, and swell'd a burst of song,
And the vast mirrors glitter'd with the crowd Of changing shapes. The young, the fair, the proud,
Came thronging in; and the gay cavalier
Took some fair flower from the fairest near,
And gave it to the dark-eyed beauty's hand,
To mark his partner for the saraband;
And graceful steps pass'd on, whose tender
tread
Was as the rose-leaf in the autumn shed; And witching words, raising on the young cheek
Blushes that had no need of words to speak.
Many were lovely there; but, of that many,
Was one who shone the loveliest of any,
The young OLYMPIA. On her face the dyes
Were yet warm with the dance's exercise,
The laugh upon her full red lip yet hung,
And, arrow-like, flash'd light words from
her tongue.
She had more loveliness than beauty: hers
Was that enchantment which the heart
confers;
A mouth sweet from its smiles, a glancing eye,
Which had o'er all expression mastery; Laughing its orb, but the long dark lash made
Somewhat of sadness with its twilight shade, And suiting well the upcast look which seem'd
At times as it of melancholy dream'd;
| Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so changed, As each emotion o'er its surface ranged; And every word had its companion blush, But evanescent as the crimson flush That tints the daybreak; and her step was light
As the gale passing o'er the leaves at night; In truth those snow-feet were too like the wind,
Too slight to leave a single trace behind. She lean'd against a pillar, and one hand Smooth'd back the curls that had escaped the band
Of wreathed red roses,-soft and fitting chain
In bondage such bright prisoners to retain. The other was from the white marble known But by the clasping of its emerald zone: And lighted up her brow, and flash'd her eye, As many that were wandering careless by Caught but a sound, and paused to hear what more
Her lip might utter of its honey-store. She had that sparkling wit which is like light,
Making all things touch'd with its radiance bright;
And a sweet voice, whose words would chain all round, Although they had no other charm than sound.
And many named her name, and each with praise; Some with her passionate beauty fill'd their gaze,
Some mark'd her graceful step, and others spoke
Of the so many hearts that own'd the yoke Of her bewildering smile; meantime, her
Seem'd as that it no other love had known Than its sweet loves of nature, music, song, Which as by right to woman's world belong, And make it lovely for Love's dwelling-place. Alas! that he should leave his fiery trace! But this bright creature's brow seem'd all too fair,
Too gay, for Love to be a dweller there; For Love brings sorrow: yet you might descry
A troubled flashing in that brilliant eye,
A troubled colour on that varying cheek,
A hurry in the tremulous lip to speak
Avoidance of sad topics, as to shun
Somewhat the spirit dared not rest upon;
An unquiet feverishness, a change of place,
A pretty pettishness, if on her face
A look dwelt as in scrutiny to seek
What hidden meanings from its change
might break.
One gazed with silent homage, one who caught
Her every breath, and blush, and look, and thought;
One whose step mingled not with the gay crowd
That circled round her as of right allow'd,
But one who stood aloof with that lone pride
Which ever to deep passion is allied.
Half scorning, yet half envying the gay ring
That gather'd round with gentle blandishing,
He stood aloof; and, cold and stern and high,
Looked as he mock'd at their idolatry:
Yet long'd his knee to bend before the shrine
Of the sweet image his heart own'd divine;
While, half in anger that she had not known
What even to himself he would not own.
He knew not how a woman's heart will keep
The mystery of itself, and like the deep
Will shine beneath the sunbeam, flash and
flow
O'er the rich bark that perishes below.
She felt he gazed upon her, and her cheek
Wore added beauty in its crimson break;
And softer smiles were on her lip, like those
The summer-moonlight sheds upon the rose;
And her eye sparkled, like the wine-cup's
brim,
Mantling in light, though it turn'd not to
Again the dancers gather'd; from them one
Took gaily her fair hand, and they are gone.
LEONI follow'd not, yet as they pass'd
How Could OLYMPIA's light step be the last?
Yet pass'd she quickly by him, and the haste
From her wreathed hair one fragrant rose
displaced.
LEONI Saw it fall; he is alone,
And he may make the fairy-gift his own.
He took the flower, and to his lip 't was
press'd,
One moment, and 't is safe within his breast; But while he linger'd dreaming o'er its bloom,
OLYMPIA'S step again is in the room
With the young cavalier, who urged her
And said her rose beside the column lay,
For there he miss'd it, and some flattering
Fill'd up the whisper which he only heard.
LEONI flung it down in carelessness,
As he had mark'd them not, and held it less
From knowledge of his act than vacant
thought,
While the mind on some other subject
wrought.
In haste he left them both, but he could hear
The pleading of the gallant cavalier
For that rose as a gift. He might not tell
What answer from the maiden's lip then fell,
But when they met again he mark'd her hair
Where it had wreathed,-the rose-bud was
not there.
'Mid darkness and decay; those smiles that press,
Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness: For peace broods quiet on her dovelike wings,
And this false gaiety a radiance flings,
Dazzling but hiding not; and some who
dwelt
Upon her meteor-beauty, sadness felt;
Its very brilliance spoke the fever'd breast;
Thus glitter not the waters when at rest.
The scene is changed, the maiden is alone To brood upon Hope's temple overthrown; The hue has left her lip, the light her eye. And she has flung her down as if to die. Back from her forehead was the rich hair swept,
Which yet its festal braid of roses kept.
She was in solitude: the silent room
Was in the summer's sweet and shadowy
gloom;
The sole light from the oratory came, Where a small lamp sent forth its scented flame
Beneath the Virgin's picture; but the wind Stole from the casement, for the jasmine. twined
With its luxuriant boughs, too thickly grew. To let the few dim star-beams wander through.
In her hand was a rose; she held the flower As if her eye were spell-bound by its power. It was spell-bound; coldly that flower repress'd
Sweet hopes,-ay, hopes, albeit unconfess'd Check'd, vainly check'd, the bitter grief
That rose flung down because that rose was hers!
And at the thought paleness in blushes fled. Had he, then, read her heart, and scorn'd when read?
Oh! better perish, than endure that thought She started from her couch; when her eye caught
The Virgin's picture. Seem'd it that she took Part in her votary's suffering; the look Spoke mild reproof, touch'd with grave tenderness,
Pitying her grief, yet blaming her excess.
OLYMPIA turn'd away, she might not bear
To meet such holy brow, such placid air.
At least not yet; for she must teach her
breast
A lesson of submission, if not rest,
And still each throbbing pulse, ere she might
And pray for peace she had not sought to feel.
They pass'd and repass'd: he, cold, silently,
As was his wont; but she, with flashing eye,
And blush lit up to crimson, seem'd to wear
More than accustom'd gladness in her air.
Ah! the heart overacts its part; its mirth,
Like light, will all too often take its birth Of the young moon, now rising on the night
She sought the casement, lured by the soft light
The cool breeze kiss'd her, and a jasmine-
spray
Caught in her tresses, as to woo her stay.
And there were sights and sounds that well
might fling
A charmed trance on deepest suffering.
For stood the palace close on the sea-shore;
Not like those northern ones, where breakers
roar,
And rugged rocks and barren sands are
blent,―
At once both desolate and magnificent;
But there the beach had turf, and trees that
grew
Down to the water-side, and made its blue
Mirror for their dark shapes. Is nought so
But must there come somewhat of shadow there?
Whate'er thou touchest there must be some shade,
Fair earth, such destiny for thee is made.
It was a night to gaze upon the sea,
Marvel, and envy its tranquillity;
It was a night to gaze upon the earth,
And feel mankind were not her favourite
birth;
It was a night to gaze upon the sky,
Pine for its loveliness, and pray to die.
OLYMPIA felt the hour; from her cheek fled
Passion's untranquil rose, she bow'd her head:
For the thick tears like hasty childhood's
And she was wretched; she, the young, the fair,
The good, the kind, bow'd down in her
despair.
Ay, bitterest of the bitter, this worst pain,—
To know love's offering has been in vain ;
| Rejected, scorn'd, and trampled under foot,
Its bloom and leaves destroy'd,not so its root.
He loves me not,- no other word or sound
An echo in OLYMPIA's bosom found.
She thought on many a look, and many a
tone,
From which she gather'd hope,-now these
were gone,
Life were too burthensome, save that it led
To death; and peace, at least, was with the
One pang remain'd: perchance, though un-
confess'd,
Some secret hope yet linger'd in her breast;
But this too was destroy'd. She learn'd next
Sea-winds and waters had LEONI borne
Afar to other lands; and she had now
But only to her hapless fate to bow.
She changed, she faded, she the young,
the gay,
Like the first rose Spring yields to pale decay.
Still her lip wore the sweetness of a smile,
But it forgot its gaiety the while.
Her voice had ever a low gentle tone,
But now 't was tremulous as Sorrow's own;
Her step fell softer as it were subdued
She hid her face, for tears are shed with To suit its motion to her alter'd mood;
shame.
Her heart had spent its tempest, like the
cloud
When summer-rain bursts from its stormy
shroud;
Pale, sad, but calm, she turn'd, and bent
the knee,
In meekest prayer, Madonna fair, to thee.
Where might the maiden's soul, thus crush'd
and riven,
Turn from its mortal darkness, but to Heaven?
It is in vain to say that love is not
The life and colour of a woman's lot.
It is her strength; for what, like love's caress,
Will guard and guide her own weak tender-
ness?
It is her pride, fleeting and false the while,
To see her master suing for her smile.
Calls it not all her best affections forth,—
Pure faith,devotedness, whose fruitless worth
Is all too little felt? Oh! man has power
Of head and hand,-heart is a woman's
dower.
Youth, beauty, rank, and wealth, all these
combined,
Can these be wretched? Mystery of the mind!
Whose happiness is in itself, but still
Has not that happiness at its own will.
As if her every movement, gesture, look,
Their bearing from the spirit's sadness took;
And yet there was no word which told that
grief
Prey'd on the heart as blight preys on the
leaf.
But meeker tenderness to those around,
A soothing, sharing love, as if she found
Her happiness in theirs; more mild, more
kind,
As if a holier rule were on her mind.
I cannot choose but marvel at the way
In which our lives pass on, from day to day
Learning strange lessons in the human heart,
And yet like shadows letting them depart.
Is misery so familiar that we bring
Ourselves to view it as a usual thing?
Thus is it; how regardless pass we by
The cheek to paleness worn, the heavy cyc!
| We do too little feel each other's pain;
We do relax too much the social chain
That binds us to cach other; slight the care-
There is for grief in which we have no share.
OLYMPIA felt all this; it loosed one more Of her heart's ties, and earth's illusions
The aspect of their truth,-a gloomy show,
But what it well befits the soul to know.
It taught the lesson of how vain the toil To build our hopes upon earth's fragile soil. Oh! only those who suffer, those may know How much of piety will spring from woe.
Days, weeks, and months pass'd onwards, and once more
LEONI stood upon his native shore. Slight change there was in him: perchance his brow
Wore somewhat of more settled shadow now; Somewhat of inward grief, too, though repress'd,
Was in his scornful speech and bitter jest;
For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all
In which it has no part, or one of gall.
I will say that he loved her, but say not
That his, like hers, was an all-blighted lot;
For ever in man's bosom will man's pride
An equal empire with his love divide.
It was one glorious sunset, lone and mute, Save a young page who sometimes waked his lute
With snatches of sad song; LEONI paced His stately hall, and much might there be traced
What were the workings of its owner's mind.
Red wine was in a silver vase enshrined,
But rudely down the cup was flung, undrain'd,
So hastily, the leaf below was stain'd;
For many an open'd volume lay beside,
As each for solace had in vain been tried:
And now, worn, wearied, with his solitude,
He strode, half sad, half listless in his mood,
Listening the lute or the deep ocean-wave,
When an attendant enter'd in and gave
A packet to his hand. Careless he gazed,
And broke the seal. Why! the red flush
has raised
Its passion to his brow-what! is the name
There written?- from OLYMPIA, then, it
"One word, LEONI, 't is my first and last, And never spoken but that life is past. It is earth's lingering dreaming, that I pine To know these lines will meet one look of thine;
If possible upon thy heart to fling
One gentle memory, one soft thought to cling
To thy more mournful hours; to bid thee take
A pledge too dearly treasured for thy sake,
And one of mine. Ah! this may be forgiven;
"T is the last weakness of the bride of Heaven,
Which I shall be or ere this comes to tell
How much thou hast been loved. Farewell,
He took her gift: well known the pledges there,
A wither'd rose, a tress of silken hair.
SUNNY and blue was the minstrel's eye,
Like the lake when noontide is passing by;
And his hair fell down in its golden rings,
As bright and as soft as his own harp-strings
Yet with somewhat wild upon lip and cheek,
As forth the enthusiast spirit would break
To wander at times through earth and air,
And feed upon all the wonders there.
A changeful prelude his light notes rung,
As remembering all they had ever sung.
Now the deep numbers rolled along,
Like the fiery sweep of a battle-song;
Now sad, yet bold, as those numbers gave
Their last farewell to the victor's grave;
Then was it soft and low, as it brought
The depths of the maiden's lovelorn
thought:-
Harp of Erin! hath song a tone
Not to thy gifted numbers known?—
But the latest touch was light and calm,
As the voice of a hymn, the night-falling
balm;
Holy and sweet, as its music were given
Less from a vision of earth than of heaven.
THE IRISH MINSTREL'S LEGEND.
ROSE up the young moon; back she flung
The veil of clouds that o'er her hung:
Thus would fair maiden fling aside
Her bright curls in their golden pride;
On pass'd she through the sky of blue,
Lovelier as she pass'd it grew;
At last her gentle smiles awake
The silence of the azure lake.
Lighted to silver, waves arise,
As conscious of her radiant eyes.
Hark! floats around it music's tone,
Sweeter than mortal ear hath known:
Such, when the sighing night-wind grieves
Amid the rose's ruby leaves,
That too soon his reluctant wing
Conscious the nightingale is nigh,
To his own fair flower bring;
Must rival song and rival sigh
Such as the lute, touch'd by no hand
Save by an angel's, wakes and weeps;
Such is the sound that now to land
From the charmed water sweeps.
The spirit band are on the lake.
Around the snowy foam-wreaths break,
First, a gay train form'd of the hues
Of morning-skies and morning-dews:
A saffron-light around them play'd
As eve's last cloud with them delay'd;
Such tints, when gazing from afar,
The dazed eye sees in midnight-star.
They scatter'd flowers, and the stream
Grew like a garden, each small billow
Shining with the crimson gleam
The young rose flung upon its pillow;
And from their hands, and from their hair, | She grew up a neglected child,
Blossoms and odours fill'd the air;
And some of them bore wreathed shells,
Blush-dyed, from their coral cells,
Whence the gale at twilight brought
The earliest lesson music caught:
And gave they now the sweetest tone,
That unto sea-born lyre was known;
For they were echoes to the song
That from spirit-lips was fleeting,
And the wind bears no charm along
Such as the shell and voices meeting.
On pass'd they to the lulling tune,
Meet pageant for the lady moon.
A louder sweep the music gave:
The chieftain of the charmed wave,
Graceful upon his steed of snow,
Rises from his blue halls below;
And rode he like a victor knight
Thrice glorious in his arms of light.
But, oh! the look his features bear
Was not what living warriors wear;
The glory of his piercing eye
Was not that of mortality ;
Earth's cares may not such calm allow,
Man's toil is written on his brow:
But here the face was passionless,
The holy peace of happiness,
With that grave pity spirits feel
In watching over human weal;
An awful beauty round him shone
But for the good to look upon.
Close by his side a maiden rode,
Like spray her white robe round her flow'd;
No rainbow-hues about her clung,
Such as the other maidens flung;
And her hair hath no summer-crown,
But its long tresses floating down
Are like a veil of gold which cast
A sunshine to each wave that past.
She was not like the rest: her cheek
Was pale and pure as moonlight snows;
Her lip had only the faint streak
The bee loves in the early rose;
And her dark eye had not the blue
The others had clear, wild, and bright;
But floating starry, as it drew
Its likeness from the radiant night.
And more she drew my raised eye
Than the bright shadows passing by;
A meeker air, a gentler smile,
A timid tenderness the while,
Held sympathy of heart, and told
The lady was of earthly mould.
Blush'd the first blush of coming day,
Faded the fairy-band away.
They pass'd, and only left behind
A lingering fragrance on the wind,
And on the lake, their haunted home,
One long white wreath of silver foam.
Heard I in each surrounding vale
What was that mortal maiden's tale:
Last of her race, a lonely flower,
She dwelt within their ruin'd tower.
Orphan without one link to bind
Nature's affection to her kind;
As pure, as beautiful, as wild
As the field-flowers which were for years
Her only comrades and compeers.
Time pass'd, and she, to woman grown,
Still, like a wood-bird, dwelt alone.
Save that, beside a peasant's hearth,
Tales of the race which gave her birth
Would sometimes win the maiden's ear;
And once, in a worst hour of fear,
When the red fever raged around,
Her place beside the couch was found
Of sickness, and her patient care,
And soothing look, and holy prayer,
And skill in herbs, had power sublime
Upon the sufferer's weary time:
But, saving these, her winter-day
Was pass'd within the ruins gray;
And ever summer-noons were spent
Beside the charmed lake, and there
Her voice its silver sweetness sent
To mingle with the air.
Thus time pass'd on. At length, one day
Beside her favourite haunt she lay,
When rush'd some band who wish'd to
make
Her prisoner for her beauty's sake.
She saw them ere they gain'd her seat.
Ah! safety may she gain?
Though mountain-deer be not more fleet,
Yet here flight is in vain.
The lake-oh, it is there to save!
She plunges—is it to a grave?
Moons waned; again is come the night
When sprites are free for earthly sight.
They see the mortal maiden ride
In honour by the chieftain's side,
So beautiful, so free from sin,
Worthy was she such boon to win:
The spirit-race that floated round
Were not more pure, more stainless found;
Her utmost loveliness and grace
Were sole signs of her human race :
Happy, thus freed from earthly thrall,
She skims the lake, fairest of all.
SCARLET robe broider'd with gold;
A turban's snowy, but gem-set fold,
And its heron-plume fasten'd by diamond-
clasp;
Rubies red on his dagger-hasp;
Eyes dark as a midnight-dream,
Yet flashing wild with starry beam;
Swarthy cheek untouch'd by red,
Told far had CLEMENZA's summons sped:
Since the Moorish bard had brought his
claim,
'Mid these Northern halls, to the meed of
fame.
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