Part I.
You ask me, Sisters, to relate The story of the wanton fate That over sea, with dole and strife And love and hate enthralled my life, Entwined with his, whose gentle eyes, That never lost their winsome smile, Illumed for me those sullen skies Which canopy the haunted Isle, A tale so wild, I pray you think, May ill beseem and prove amiss For such a hallowed place as this; A chain it is whose every link Is rusted with some earthly stain, The which you may esteem profane And from its hapless wearer shrink, I would not, Heaven knows, offend The sanctity of sinless ears, Nor vex the pious soul that hears Good angels on soft wings descend, Illumined, from the starry spheres, To tread these cloistered aisles and bend O’er dreaming couches lily pure. But since your suffrance makes secure, And since you kindly deign assent, And graciously with eager look Dispel the fluttering fears that shook My contrite heart, I am content.
Ave Maria.
Mystic Mother! who erewhile Sought me on the Demons’ Isle, Sought, and with compassion mild Shielded thy afflicted child; Shielded, and with vengeance new Scattered the Satanic crew: Blest Madonna! aid me now, Lift the pressure from my brow; Bid the thunder-cloud depart From my overladen heart; Tune my tongue, my lips inspire, Touch them with celestial fire; Shape the lay as meet to set, Like a modest violet, In Saint Cecilia’s coronet.
Three gallant ships that owned command Of Roberval’s imperial hand Thundered to France a proud farewell And sailed away from brusque Rochelle; Sailed on a breezy April day, Sailed westward for a land that lay, I heard the people wisely tell, Betwixt the ocean and Cathay. From shore to ship, from ship to shore A thousand parting signals flew; Ah! hopeful hearts, they little knew That many were there who never more Must see those faces that faded away, And were lost in the distance cold and gray. With troubled breast and tearful eye, In fear and doubt, I knew not why— Unheedful of the sea-winds chill— I watched the land recede until The mountain peaks had passed from sight, Like clouds absorbed in morning’s light, And ocean’s border touched the sky.
Long backward, over leagues of foam, My greyhound gazed,—poor Fida knew That he was borne afar from home, But not from friends, albeit few, His still, for better days or worse, His mistress and her Norman nurse. Far, out beyond the shining bay, The sister vessels held their way, Where, gifted with superior speed, The “Royal Griffin” takes the lead, As if she felt and understood The stern old Viceroy’s hasty mood. A man of courteous mien was he, And smooth as any summer sea When winds are laid; he could be so When naught befell to rouse the flow Of passions that with scanty rest Lay lava-like within his breast. But Heaven fend or man or woman Who set that fiery flood in motion;— His anger, like a storm-tossed ocean, Was fearful in its rage; no human Expostulation, no appeal Of speech, or tears, could make him feel The benediction that is felt By one whose soul, if prone to error, Will yield at last and kindly melt, And lay aside its robe of terror. He could be calm, could well repress His evil nature’s fierce excess, But only when upon him fell The shadow of superior power, Then like all tyrants he would cower And play the courtier passing well. But no superior save the king Had he in all the land of France; In Picardy, his single glance Was law, religion, everything.
His vassals prized his slightest nod, And feared him more than fiend or God. The modest maid, the peasant’s bride His foul approaches must not chide; I blush, as if it were a sin, To own him all too near of kin. Seven sunny years had barely flown When I, an only child, was left, Of sire and happy home bereft, To wipe a mother’s tears alone. A leader in the wars with Spain, The hero whom we wept was slain. Oh! I remember well his look, His stature tall and noble brow, Remember how he often strook And praised my long dark hair, and how On that last morn of clouded bliss He woke me with a parting kiss; His hurried prayer, his slow farewell, The window flowers, the little room, The dangling sword, the nodding plume, The long top-boots and shining spurs;— O, let this pass! O, let me quell A memory shot through years of gloom.
My comely mother from the hour That chronicled his honoured death Wilted and drooped, a pale sweet flower, And three years gone I saw her breath Grow faint and fail. Dear sainted mother! ’Twas just before her spirit fled She did beseech her lordly brother To shield her orphaned Marguerite’s head. He promised with a ready grace And in his rude capricious way Thenceforth assigned me fitting place;— But I was volatile and gay, Ready of wit, of skilful hands, And minded not his curt commands.
Thus came to pass that on his ship,— A ringdove in a falcon’s grip,— I sailed the surging seas afar. But one was there, Eugene Lamar, My bliss, my bane—I cared not what, Who worshipped me, beside me sat, And with me paced the giddy deck, What time we watched the sea-mews peck The foam that fringed the crested wave. For me he ventured all, and gave His fortune to the winds; then why Should aught disturb, or cause one sigh To prophesy of lurking harm?
Exultant in their new-found charm, A motley throng of either sex, Of divers rank and variant age Now promenade the oaken decks, Proud of an ocean pilgrimage. We heeded not their boisterous glee, Their merry songs and dancing feet, Our happiness was too complete. The azure sky and emerald sea, And free-born winds their magic wrought, Till every feeling, every thought, Involved in tremulous ecstacy Made no account of sight or sound;— We twain another world had found, Whose warm excess of drowsing bliss Excluded all the chills of this.
Our ship sped on, fresh blew the wind, Her plodding mates lagged far behind; Like two white cloudlets waxing dim They hung on the horizon’s rim For many days, but hull and mast All wholly disappeared at last.
Mid-ocean crossed, the wind blew strong And like a Nereid’s dolorous song Wailed through the rigging; rose and fell The billows with portentous swell. Swift night came down, cold, wild and black, Red lightnings lit the inky rack Of hostile clouds; a storm it grew, And such a storm as men might rue. The prince of air his bondage broke, And loud in horrent thunder spoke; Our staunch craft felt the perilous strain, And like a thing in mortal pain Groaned audibly; strong sails, though furled, Were rent in shreds From their ash spar beds And wafted to some calmer world.
Two seamen from the yards were blown: An instant mid the tempest’s roar, Above the rattling thunder’s tone, A double shriek was heard—no more!— Their names, their fate, no stone records, For them no consecrated words, Nor bell, nor candle;—only this, “Two mortals, to the world unknown Were blown into the salt abyss.” All night the elements beset Our hapless bark; the mad waves leaped Like krakens on the deck, and reaped A harvest which they garner yet. Fierce down the hatchways snarled the sea, I heard the shout of Roberval Command them closed; ah me! ah me! What prayers! what shrieks! I never shall, While memory marks the flight of years, Forget that storm of phrenzied fears. Think not our sex alone gave way To craven doubt and blanched despair;— Great burly men, whose heads were gray, Gave wildest wings to desperate prayer. I dare believe they felt ashamed,— The blessed Saints whose names were named In phrase that seemed impiety.
What marvel if at such a time My lover groped his way to where My couch was spread, and tarried there? Was such devotedness a crime? Together on the floor we knelt In quiet hopefulness, and felt Assurance in our souls that He, Who walked the waves of Galilee, When, weak of faith and sore afraid, The sinking Peter cried for aid, Would manifest His sacred will; Would stretch His saving hand and bind The fury of the maddened wind, And bid the savage waves be still. My greyhound, ever near me, took A painful and bewildered look; All that dread night the narrow space He traversed with unwearied pace. The imminent danger well he knew, And watched the changes of my face, And moaned at its unwonted hue.
The morn broke fair but other storm, More dreadful than the wrath of heaven, Or rage of hell, began to form; The high-bred gossips, envy-driven Did look askance, and whisper blame, And young Lamar’s and Marguerite’s name Were caught at, with but slight excuse, As playthings for their wanton use. Soon drifting round my uncle’s ears The idle tale in wrath he hears, And starting from his proud repose His fury like a whirlwind rose And suddenly upon us burst. I heard my name most foully curst And coupled with a word of shame; My tear-drenched cheeks grew all aflame; Beside me, where I trembling stood, My watchful Fida whined and growled; The glaring maniac on him scowled, His eyes two throbbing balls of blood, And choking with some fiery word, Drew forth and waved his gleaming sword, Then smote the faithful brute;—his neck Received the edge; athwart the deck The severed head the slayer spurned: O God! I saw a sea of gore, From which my eyes in horror turned;— I swooned and wrecked of nothing more. When from that death-like sleep I woke Lamar’s moist eyes were near my face, Some tender words he softly spoke,— My languid arms his neck embrace, My lips their wonted banquet share, And breathe again the vital air. Ah! never since that hour when whirled Around with me a crimson world Have I forgot or ceased to mourn The playmate of my childhood’s years; (Pardon, I pray, these silly tears.) His long slim neck had often borne My cheek, when tired with romping play Under a chestnut’s shade we lay, His taper head flexed backward, till His loving eyes had gazed their fill.
Harsh prelude this! a warning fit Of coming woes. The brow hard-knit, The curling lip and heaving chest Of Roberval presaged the rest. But what his dark design might be Eluded anxious scrutiny; We only knew some purpose dire, Like a swollen adder cirqued with fire, Lay coiled within his vengeful heart, Ready against our lives to dart. “Fear not, my love!” Eugene exclaimed, “Faint not, true heart! whose peace is spilt; The evil tongues that have defamed Thy innocence shall own their guilt. If blame there be ’tis I alone Have erred, nor do I shrink to bear Thy kinsman’s wrath, but how atone For wrong committed unaware? Let unjust Roberval decree What punishment his ire may crave; However tends his evil course, He cannot, dearest one, divorce My constant soul from thine—from thee, For even from the silent grave I verily believe my love Would issue through the cope above, And mingling with the volant air Pursue thy beauty always, where On any spot of land or sea My Marguerite might chance to be.” His voice failed—tremulous, his eyes Such passion held as well might save A world from wreck; our wedded sighs Made interlude to honied speech, And bound us closer, each to each.
On flew the ship; a bounteous gale Fed to repletion every sail, And Tethys, turbulent no more, Advanced her banners, green and white, (In sooth it was a goodly sight) Toward the wild Hesperian shore. At length glad signs of land were seen, Strange birds, a friendly escort, came And perched upon the spars, so tame, So numbed and wearied with the keen Cold journey it had been no feat To clasp their wings; but who could treat Those little rovers of the sea, That claimed our hospitality, With less than Christian charity?
Westward across the ridgy waste My uncle gazed as if in haste To reach the promised port, but no!— His thought to other ends was set, As soon the traitor meant to show. With sudden stride, his hot brow wet In oozing wrath, he gave command: “Steer north-by-west!” The wonderland Of Nurumbega hove in sight, And outlined in a purple light The dreaded Isle of Demons lay; Thither the Griffin bore away. I saw the treacherous villain smile, And as the ship was drawing near The marge of that unholy Isle I saw the sailors quake with fear. A boat was launched, provisioned, stored With arms and ammunition, oared And quickly manned;—for what? for where Let my false guardian’s tongue declare. “Go! wretched girl,” he fiercely said, As, from the ship, myself and nurse He hurried, “go, and take my curse, All evil light upon thy head!
Hence to the Demons’ Isle, a place Than which, save hell, there is no worse, And ponder o’er thy rank disgrace; There only foul-faced devils dwell, As every seaman here can tell. Hence! and prefer thy dainty charms To glad some princely demon’s arms. Dishonour on my house, my name, Confusion, everlasting shame, Thou and thy paramour have wrought; For him, I swear he shall be taught What torture means;—the crippled crone Who all your secret sins has known And pandered to, let her partake The punishment assigned to you, A penance to such service due. And when your threads of life shall break, Then may you both for ages ache, Conjoined in purgatorial fires, Sure antidote to lewd desires.” His insults pierced like barbs of steel; My patience I no longer nursed, I bade the tyrant do his worst:— O, if he thought to see me kneel, And for his mercy humbly sue, ’Twas little of his niece he knew; His curse, his terrors, I defied, And told him in his teeth, he lied! I even dared predict his fate;[1] “Foredoomed,” I said, “to all men’s hate, Like Cain or Judas thou shalt die Unhoused, where none will pause to sigh Denied the pity you deny.” He winced and wondered, powerless To check such unexpected scorn. A strength miraculous, new born In uncontrollable excess, From God or fiend I questioned not, Through all my rigid being shot. The boat received and swiftly bore Its convicts to the fearful shore. There all my fortitude departed, And lorn and lost and broken-hearted I stood upon the windy beach, And stretched my hands as if to reach The idol of my widowed soul. “Farewell! dear friend Eugene, farewell! Those breakers that between us roll Shall sound for me a fitting knell When thou art borne I know not where.” Thus did my sorrow load the air. He saw, he seemed to hear my wail, And springing from the forward rail Leapt in the sea, and bravely smote With lusty arms the foamy flood, Oh! how my hot impetuous blood Surged through my veins; while still remote He battled shoreward gallantly; Now borne upon a toppling wave, And blinded by the surfy spray, Now lost to sight, now seen again, While on the ship some fearless men Loud shouts of exultation gave; Then others into tumult broke, Whose cheers the Island echoes woke. But Roberval, whose stormy face Flamed like a furnace, fiendish, base, With levelled arquebuse took aim Straight at the swimmer, shrieks of “Shame!” He heeded not; the bullets sped, And whistled past my hero’s head. A few more strokes and he is safe!
The jagged rocks his strong limbs chafe, But soon the slippery sands are gained And I am to his bosom strained. Their coifs the women, wild with gladness, Stripped from their heads and, in their madness, Flung to the waves, an offering fair In witness of the Virgin’s care, My solace in the gulphs of sadness. From stem to stern the furor ruled, And Roberval, chagrined, befooled, His sails reset, and sailed away, But half avenged; and we were left Of all the peopled world bereft, To hell’s dark brood a helpless prey. But for that he I loved was still Linked to my fate, for good or ill, My thanks to gracious Heaven I wept. The poor old nurse behind us crept, And kneeling on the salty ground, A benediction even there, In answer to her silent prayer, Deep in her withered heart she found. The ship was gone, and with it went All hope of ever seeing more The glory of our native shore; I knew our cruel banishment Was purposed for a lingering death, A dirige of painful breath. Was it in mercy he bestowed The food and arms, a goodly load? Nay, these were meant to stretch the doom That made the Isle an open tomb. “Mourn not—sweetheart!” Eugene began, “Here where the sea-winds rudely fan Thy queenly brow, a queen to me Henceforward thou shalt truly be; And if thou choose to reign alone I’ll be thy faithful paladin, And many a noble trophy win In honour of thy virgin throne. Then come, while yet the lord of day Dispenses light and gentle heat, And let us hand and hand survey The wonders of our new retreat. This little kingdom, Marguerite! Encircled by the shining sea, Is large enough for thee and me.” ’Twas thus in cheerful mood he sought To lure the current of my thought From cypress shades to run abroad In pleasant ways, approved of God; Nor sought in vain: my spirit caught The hue, the blessedness, the glow That love’s endearing words bestow, And like a lark that sudden springs From barren lands and soaring sings, Rose heavenward on hopeful wings.
But hark! the vesper angelus In holy accents, tremulous, Now calls us to the Virgin’s shrine. If still your wishes fair incline To follow this capricious clue To-morrow after open dawn I’ll join you on the eastern lawn, Under the lindens, and pursue My story to its tragic close.