3.
Now o’er thy head, my virgin love,
Rolls Ocean’s wave;
But fond regret, in myrtle grove,
Hath dug thy grave.
Sweet flowers, around her vacant urn
Your wreaths I’ll twine,
And pray such flowers, ere Spring’s return,
May garland mine!
“He! he!”—That love-lorn dirge—that heavenly
tongue—
That air, she taught him; ’t was Rosalvo sung!
Rosalvo, whom the waves, which wreck’d their bark,
Had borne, like her, for purpose sad and dark,
To that strange isle; though far remote the beach
From Irza’s grot, which Fate ordain’d him reach;
But now at length his curious search explores
These rude and slippery crags and distant shores;
And while he treads his dangerous path, the strains
Which Irza taught him soothe her lover’s pains.
She hears his steps, and hears them soon more near;
And loud she cries—“Rosalvo! Hear! oh, hear!
‘Tis Irza calls!” and now more quick, more nigh,
Down the steep rock she hears those footsteps fly.
Again she calls. He comes! He searches round;
He seeks the gate, and soon the gate is found.
Alas! ’t is found in vain! the marble guard
Seem’d rooted as the rock, whose mouth it barr’d.
Yet still, with labouring nerves, to move the stone
He struggles. Now he stops; and, hark! A groan!
But one; then all was hush’d! A sickening chill
Seized Irza’s heart, and seem’d her veins to thrill.
Fain had she call’d her youthful bridegroom’s name;
Her tongue Fear’s numbing fingers seem’d to lame.
Footsteps!—more near they drew:—slow rolled the
stone—
The infernal gaoler came, but came alone.
With anxious glance his eye explored the cell;
But when it fix’d on her’s, abash’d it fell.
He knelt, and seem’d to fear her frown. He bore
His club.‘T was splash’d with brains! ’t was wet with
gore!
She fear’d—she guess’d—she rush’d—she ran—she
flew,—
Nor dared the fiend her frantic course pursue.
“Rosalvo! speak! Rosalvo!” Shrill, yet sweet,
She wakes the echoes. What obstructs her feet?
‘T is he, the young, the good, the kind, the fair!
As some frail lily, which the passing share *
Or wanton boy hath wounded, droops its head,
Its whiteness wither’d, and its fragrance fled,
Low lay the youth, and from his temple’s wound
With precious streams bedew’d the ensanguin’d ground.
Then reason fled its seat! She shrieks! she raves!
And fills with hideous yells the ocean caves;
Rends her bright locks, and laughs to see them fly,
And bids them seek Rosalvo in the sky.
To dig his grave she fiercely ploughs the ground,
Loud shrieks his name, nor feels the flints that wound
Her bosom’s globes, and stain their snow with gore,
As wild she dashes down, and beats in rage the floor.
Now fail her strength, her spirits; mute she sits,
Silent and sad; then laughs and sings by fits.
A statue now she seems, or one just dead,
Her looks all gloom, her eyes two balls of lead:
Then simply smiles, and chaunts, with idiot glee,
“Ave Maria! Benedicite!”
Till, Nature’s powers revived by rest, again
The fury passions riot in her brain,
And all is rage, revenge, and helpless, hopeless pain.
Days, weeks, months pass. Time came with slow relief;
But still at length it came. No more her grief
Disturbs her brain: she knows “that groan was his!”
And fully feels herself the wretch she is.
She rises: towards the grotto’s mouth she goes,
Nor dares the fiend her wandering steps oppose.
She seeks the spot on which Rosalvo fell,
On which he died! She knows that spot too well!
But, lo! no corse was there! All smooth and green
A velvet turf o’erstrewn with flowers was seen,
And fenced with roses. “Oh! whose pious care
Hath deck’d this grave? Hear, gracious Heaven, his
prayer,
When most he needs!” While thus in doubt she stands,
She marks the fiend’s approach. His ebon hands
Sustain’d a gourd of flowers of various hue;
He pour’d them, kiss’d the turf, and straight withdrew
Hither each morn his blooming gifts he bore,
Smooth’d the green sod, and strew’d it o’er and o’er.
Hither, each morn, came Irza; on those flowers
She wept, she pray’d, she sang away her hours.
So mourns the nightingale on poplar spray *,
Her callow brood by shepherds borne away,
Weeps all the night, and from her green retreat
Fills the wide groves with warblings sad as sweet.
And still fresh woes succeed. She feels again
Mysterious pangs, nor doubts her cause of pain.
Too sure, while lost in maniac state she lay,
Her sense, her wits, her feeling all away,
The fiend once more had seized the unguarded hour
To force her weakness, and abuse his ower.
“Qualis populeâ,” &c.—Virgil.
Again Lucina came. That new-born cry,
Shuddering, again she heard; her fearful eye
Wander’d around awhile, nor dared to stay.
“There, there he lies! my child!” With fresh essay
Once more she turn’d. But when at length her sight
Dwelt on its face, her wonder—her delight—
Can ne’er by tongue be told, by fancy guess’d!
Frantic she caught, she kiss’d, and lull’d him on her breast.
Oh! who can paint how Irza loved that child!
Grieved when he moan’d, and smiled whene’er he smiled!
His dimpled arm soft on the rushes lay;
Through his fine skin the blood was seen to play;
That skin than down of swans more smooth and white;
Nor e’er shone summer sky so blue and bright,
As shone the eyes of that same cherub elf;
In small the model of her beauteous self.
The scant gold locks which gilt his ivory brow,
Were sun-beams gleaming on a globe of snow;
And on his coral lips the red which stood,
Shamed the first rose, whose milk was Paphia’s blood.
By fairy-thefts since nurses were beguiled,
Never stole fairy yet a lovelier child!
In Nature’s costlier charms no babe array’d,
At length a mother’s fears and throes repaid:
Not when Lucina first in myrtle grove,
To Beauty’s kiss presented new-born Love;
And while, with wond’ring eyes, the immortal boy
Imbibed new light, and pour’d ecstatic joy:
He kiss’d and drain’d by turns her fragrant breast,
Till amorous ring-doves coo’d the god to rest.
Mothers may love as much, but never more,
Nor e’er did mother love so well before,
As Irza loved that child! Her sable lord
Mark’d well that love; and now, to health restored,
He felt her child to home would chain her feet,
Nor roll’d the stone to close her lone retreat.
Still, when he went, he with him bore away
That fav’rite babe, nor fear’d she far would stray.
Arm’d with his club, she now might safely rove
Through verdant vale, or weep in shadowy grove;
For soon the dwarfs were used to bear her sight,
Knew that dread club, nor dared indulge their spite.
Still from afar off looks of rage they cast,
And shrilly squeal’d and clamour’d as she pass’d;
But by their flight when near she came, ’t was seen,
They own’d allegiance, and confess’d their queen.
One morn her savage lord, in quest of food,
Forsook tho cave, and sought th’ adjacent wood;
And as her darling boy he with him bore,
Irza, unwatch’d, might pace the sounding shore.
Listless and slow she moved, and climb’d with pain
A tow’ring cliff, which beetled o’er the main.
Now three full years had flown, since Irza’s eye
Had dwelt on human form, and since reply
From human tongue had blest her ear.‘Tis true,
Throned on a rock, which spread before her view
The sea’s wide-stretching plains, she once descried
A gallant vessel plough the neighbouring tide.
By cries to draw it near she long essay’d,
And oft a palm-bough waved in sign for aid:
But all her cries and all her signs were vain;
On sail’d the bark, nor e’er return’d again!
On that same rock she sat, and eyed the wave,
And wish’d she there had found her wat’ry grave!
Fain had she sought one then, plunged from the steep.
And buried all her sufferings in the deep;
But faith alike and reason bade her shun
That wish, nor break a thread which God had spun.
Hark!—was it fancy?—hark again!—the shores
Echo the sound of fast approaching oars.
Oh! how she gazed!—a barge (by friars ’twas mann’d)
Cut the smooth waves, and sought the rocky strand.
Soon (while his wither’d hands a crosier hold,
All rich with gems, and rough with sculptured gold),
Landing alone, a reverend monk appear’d:—
His jewell’d cross—his flowing silver beard—
“‘Tis he!—‘tis he!”—swift down the steep she flies,
Falls at the stranger’s feet, and frantic cries,
Down her pale cheek while tears imploring roll,
“Help, father abbot! save me! save my soul!”
‘Twas he indeed! that bark which ne’er return’d,
Well on the cliff* her fair wild form discern’d,
But deem’d some island-fiend had spread a snare
To lure them with a form so wild and fair.
Yet oft in Lisbon would those seamen tell,
How angled for their souls the prince of hell;
And warmly paint, their leisure to beguile,
The fallen angel of th’ enchanted isle.
At length this wonder reach’d the abbot’s ear,
And prompt affection made the wonder clear:—
“’Twas Irza! shipwreck’d Irza! none but she
So heav’nly fair, so lonely lost could be!”
Straight he prepares anew that sea to brave,
Which once already seem’d to yawn his grave;
Nor ask, how chanced it that he reach’d the shore:
It was through a miracle and nothing more.
Whether on monkish frock as safe rode he,
As night-hags skim in sieves o’er Norway’s sea;
Or like Arion plough’d the wat’ry plain,
Horsed on some monster of the astonish’d main,
Some shark, some whale, some kraken, some sea-cow—
St. Francis saved him, and it boots not how.
And now again the saint his priest survey’d,
From waves and winds imploring heavenly aid;
Resolved for Irza’s sake to brave the worst
Which fate could offer on that isle accurst.
Far off his ship was anchor’d; on that strand
Not India’s wealth could make a layman land!
Therefore with none but monks he mann’d his barge,
Which bore of beads and bells a sacred charge;
Whole heaps of relics lent by Cintra’s nuns,
And holy water (blest at Rome) by tons!
His toils were all o’erpaid! he saw again
His fav’rite child, and kindly soothed her pain;
And while her tale he heard, oft dropp’d a tear,
And sign’d his beard-swept breast in awe and fear:
Then bade her speed the friendly bark to gain,
And fly the infernal monarch’s green domain;
Nor yield her tyrant time to cast a spell,
And rouse to cross her flight the powers of hell.
Then first from Irza’s cheek the glow of red,
By hope of rescue raised, grew faint, and fled;
Trembling she nam’d her cherub-boy, confess’d
A mother’s fondness fill’d his mother’s breast;
Described how fair he look’d, how sweet he smiled,
And fear’d her flight might quite destroy her child.
Then rose the abbot’s ire—ee Oh, guilty care!”
Frowning, he cried, and shook his hoary hair:
“Fair is the imp? and shall he therefore breathe
To win new subjects for the realms beneath?
The fiends most dangerous are those spirits bright,
Who toil for hell, and show like sons of light;
And still when Satan spreads his subtlest snares,
The baits are azure eyes, the lines are golden hairs.
Name thou the brat no more! To Cintra’s walls
Fly, where thy footsteps mild repentance calls.
I’ll hear no plaint! kneel not! I’m deaf to prayer!
Swift, brethren, to the barge this maniac bear;
Speed! speed!—no tears!—no struggling!—no delay
Row, brethren, row, and waft us swift away!”
The monks obeyed. Then, then in Irza’s soul
What various passions raged, and mock’d control!
Now how she mourn’d, now how she wept for joy,
How loathed the sire, and how adored the boy!
The barge is gain’d; they row. When, lo! from high
Her ear again receives that well-known cry,
That sad, strange moan! she starts, and lifts her eye.
There, on a rock which fenced the strand, once more
She saw her demon-husband stand: he bore
Her beauteous babe; and, while he view’d the barge,
Keen anguish seem’d each feature to enlarge,
And shake each giant limb. With piteous air
His arms he spread, his hands he clasp’d in prayer;
Knelt, wept, and while his eye-balls seem’d to burn,
Oft show’d the child, and woo’d her to return.
His suit the monks disdain; the barge recedes;
More humbly now he kneels, more earnest pleads.
But when he found no tears their course delay,
And still the boat pursued its watery way;
Then, ’gainst his grief and rage no longer proof,
He gnash’d his teeth, he stamp’d his iron hoof,
Whirl’d the boy wildly round and round his head,
Hash’d it against the rocks, and howling fled.
Loud shrieks the mother! changed to stone she stands,
And silent lifts to heav’n her clay-cold hands:
Then, sinking down, stretch’d on the deck she lies,
Hid her pale face, and closed her aching eyes.
But hark! why shout the monks?—C£ Again,” they said,
“Again the demon comes!” with desperate dread
Starts the poor wretch, and lifts her anguish’d head.
Yes! there the infant-murderer stood once more,
But now far different were the looks he wore.
No bending knee, no suppliant glance was seen,
Proud was his port, and stern and fierce his mien.
His blood-stain’d eye-balls glared with vengeful ire;
His spreading nostrils seem’d to snort out fire.
Swiftly from crag to crag he following sprung,
While round his neck his shaggy offspring clung;
And now, like some dark tow’r, erect he stood,
Where the last rock hung frowning o’er the flood:—
“Look! look!” he seem’d to say, with action wild,
“Look, mother, look! this babe is still your child!
With him as me all social bonds you break,
Scorn’d and detested for his father’s sake:
My love, my service only wrought disdain,
And nature fed his heart from yours in vain!
Then go, Ingrate, far o’er the ocean go,
Consign your friend, your child to endless woe!
Renounce us! hate us! pleased, your course pursue,
And break their hearts who lived alone for you!”
His eyes, which flash’d red fire—his arms spread wide,
Her child raised high to heaven—too plain implied,
Such were his thoughts, though nature speech denied.
And now with eager glance the deep he view’d,
And now the barge with savage howl pursued;
Then to his lips his infant wildly press’d,
And fondly, fiercely, clasp’d it to his breast:
Three piteous moans, three hideous yells he gave,
Plunged headlong from the rock, and made the sea his
grave.
Where, screen’d by orange groves and myrtle bowers,
Saint-favour’d Cintra rears her gothic towers;
A nun there dwells, most holy, sad, and fair,
Her only business penance, fasts, and prayer;
Her only joy with flowers the shrines to dress,
Weep with the suff’ring, and relieve distress.
A poor lay-sister she; yet golden rain
Showers from her hand to glad each barren plain:
In other eyes she lights up joy, but ne’er
Those eyes of hers were seen a smile to wear:
From other breasts she plucks the thorn of grief,
But feels, her own admits of no relief.
Where age and sickness count the hours by groans,
Uncalled, she comes to hear and hush their moans.
There, ever humble, watchful, patient, kind,
No nauseous task, no servile care declined,
O’er the sick couch, all day, all night she hangs,
Till health or death relieves the sufferer’s pangs.
No thanks she takes, no praise from man receives,
Her duty done, the rest to God she leaves;
But only when her care redeems a life,
Parting she says—“Pray for a demon’s wife!”
With blessings still, whene’er that nun they view,
The young, the aged her sainted steps pursue,
And cry, with bended knee and suppliant air,
ee Sister of mercy, name us in thy prayer!”
With beads the night, in gracious acts the day,
So wore her youth, so wears her age away.
Now cease, my lay! thy mournful task is o’er;
Irza, farewell! I wake thy lute no more.
“Was such her fate? and did her days thus creep
So sad, so slow, till came the long last sleep?
And did for this her hands with roses twine
The Saviour’s altars and the Virgin’s shrine?
Pure, beauteous, rich, did all these blessings tend,
But from the world in prime of life to send
This gifted maid, in prayer to waste her hours,
And weep a fancied crime in cloister’d bowers?”
Oh, blind to fate! perhaps that fancied crime
Which bade her quit the world in youthful prime,
Snatch’d her from paths, where beauty, wealth, and fame
Had proved but snares to load her soul with shame,
And spared her pangs from wilful guilt which flow,
The only serious ills that man can know!
Ah! what avails it, since they ne’er can last,
If gay or sad our span of days be past?
Pray, mortals, pray, in sickness or in pain,
Not long nor blest to live, but pure from stain.
A life of pleasure, and a life of woe,
When both are past, the difference who can show?
But all can tell, how wide apart in price
A life of virtue, and a life of vice.
Then still, sad Irza, tread your thorny way,
Since life must end, and merits ne’er decay.
Wounded past hope, still prize the pleasure pure,
To heal those hearts which yet can hope a cure;
Nor doubt, the soul which joys in noble deeds
Shall reap a rich reward when most it needs.
When comes that day to conscious guilt so dread,
Angels unseen shall bathe your burning head:
The prayers of orphans fan with balmy breath,
And widow’s blessings drown the threats of death;
Each sigh your pity hush’d shall swelling rise
In loud hosannas when you mount the skies;
And every tear on earth to sorrow given,
Be precious pearls to wreathe your brows in heaven!