EPIGRAM.
FROM SAVERIO BETTINELLI.
Before the shrine Aurelia pours her prayer—
“Oh, let my suffering consort prove thy care!”
The anxious spouse returned—the husband died:
“Good saint! I did not ask so much!” she cried.
THE PICTURED ROCKS.[14]
Earth hath her wondrous scenes—but few like this.
Lo! how yon cliffs do spurn the swelling deep,
Lifting their huge bare walls to middle heaven,
As if they sought to reach it! On their front,
Vast and unbroken, hangs no jutting crag
Which beetling might arrest the weary eye,
Or give a shelter to the shrieking bird
That sought a resting place. The short gray moss
Grows in their crevices—and here and there
Some stunted shrub hangs midway from the top,
Stretching its blighted branches in the air,
Or scattering withered leaves. Their summits shoot
Far upward to the sky—and sometimes there
The eagle on his heavenward path will pause
To rest his wearied wing, and gaze below
Into the broad white lake, where snowy sails
Swell in the summer breeze. But mortal foot
Hath never climbed those heights. At their deep base
The everlasting surge hath worn itself
A pathway in the solid rock; and there,
Far in those caverned chambers, where the warm
Sweet sun-light enters not, is heard the war
Of hidden waves, imprisoned tempests—bursting
Anon like thunder, then with low deep moan
Falling upon the ear—the mournful wail,
As Indian legends say, of spirits accurst.
There is a tale that once was current here,
Which lent a wild and fearful interest
To these stern rocks.—While yet the vales beyond
Lay trackless by intruding stranger’s step,
While the blithe savage in his untamed pride
Roved the free woods, and dreamed not of the day
When pale invaders should profane his home—
An Indian maiden bloomed—among those tribes
Renowned for loveliness. Her step was light
As the young fawn’s; her dark bright eye spoke love,
And youth, and happiness. Her fairy song
Was first to greet the morning—first at eve
Hailed with delight, when her young comrades left
Their forest huts to dance in the green glade,
Or pluck the wild flowers on the hillock sheen.
She was beloved by rivals of her tribe,
And for a season smiled alike on both.
The one was bright and joyous as herself;
He loved to bring her flowers—to snare with her
The fish that sparkled in the silvery stream;
To range the wood or shore, and rifle thence
Some delicate feather, or some purple shell,
To please a maiden’s fancy.—But his rival
Bore a stern brow, a fierce unyielding soul.
His was the skill to wield the hunter’s bow,
Or the keen tomahawk. He trod the wood
To wring some trophy of barbarian strength;
To make its wide depths echo with the shriek
Of slaughtered foes. His name was feared and hated
Among the neighbouring tribes. The maid was proud
That one so stern and terrible as he
Should own her power—and though she loved him not,
She still would smile and listen when he told
His fierce exploits, and boasted deeds sublime.
Time passed, and she grew weary of his gloom,
And laughed to scorn his face of sullenness;
And when at dusky eve his step was heard
Approaching, she would quit her cottage home
To shun his sight;—and seek the thicket’s shade
To meet her gentler lover.
One bright sun-set
She waited for his coming. Hours passed on,
And the gray twilight faded from the hills,
And from the sheltered valley. Still he came not.
She turned to seek her home—when at her side
A figure stood, panting with breathless haste.
’Twas he, the dark browed youth. His eye was wild,
Blood on his forehead—and his reeking weapon
Of the same crimson hue. She shrunk aghast,
For her fears told what blood had dyed that blade.
With unresisted might he bore her thence,
Fleet as the eagle, to the dusky shore.
Ere she had power to shriek—to strive—to pray—
She was upon the wide and silent waters
Alone with him. The night was gathering fast,
And as their bark shot onward, o’er them rose
Those massive rocks, shadowy and stern as now—
On whose bleak sides the winds swept tremulously,
And the dark wave broke on the stormy barrier
Foaming and furious. As they neared the cliff,
The sky was black with clouds—and hopelessly
The maiden struggled with her fearful foe.
They touched the frowning rock.—He rose to moor
His vessel to its side. A blasted bough,
Sole remnant of the cedar’s giant pride,
He caught—it fell—the billow urged them on,
And high above the rushing waters’ moan
Sounded her shriek—as o’er the dashing waves
They entered that wild chasm.
They were seen
No more; nor when the sunny morn looked forth,
Was trace e’er found of that ill-fated pair,
The maiden and the murderer. Some have said
That both soon perished in the cavern’s depths—
Others, that still at midnight may be seen
That bark with its dread tenants, gliding slow
O’er the hushed wave! Yet—false or sooth the tale—
No wandering peasant now at twilight’s hour,
When silence hallows the pure lake’s repose,
Or when the tempest with his wings of darkness
Broods o’er the deep—will pass that fearful spot.