II.
Scarce moved the zephyr’s wings, while breathed the song,
And waves in silence bore the bark along.
’Twas Irza sang! Rosalvo at her side
Gazed on his cherub-love, his destined bride,
Felt at each look his soul in softness melt,
Nor wished to feel more bliss than then he felt.
Gainst the high mast, intent on book and beads,
A reverend abbot leans, and prays, and reads:
Yet oft with secret glance the pair surveys,
Marks how she looks, and listens what he says.
An idle task! The terms which speak their love
Had served for prayer, and passed unblamed above.
He finds each tender phrase so free from harm,
So pure each thought, each look so chaste though warm,
Still to his book and beads he turns again,
Pleased to have found his guardian care so vain;
While oft a blush of shame his pale cheek wears,
To find his thoughts so much less pure than theirs.
Oh! they were pure! pure as the moon, whose ray
Loves on the shrines of virgin-saints to play;
Pure as the falling snow, ere yet its shower
Bends with its weight its own pale fragile flower.
Not fourteen years were Irza’s; nay, ’tis true,
Most maids at twelve know more than Irza knew:
And scarce two more had spread with silken down
Her youthful cousin’s cheek of glowing brown.
His tutor sage (in fact, not show, a saint)
Had kept his heart and mind secure from taint.
In liberal arts, in healthful manly sports,
In studies fit for councils, camps, and courts,
His moments found their full and best employ,
Nor left one leisure hour for guilty joy.
Since her blue dove-like eyes six springs had seen,
Immured in cloistered shades had Irza been,
From duties done her sole delight deriven,
And her sole care to please the queen of heaven.
None e’er approached her, save the pure and good:
Her promised spouse; that monk who near them stood;
Her viceroy uncle, and some guardian nun
Were all she e’er had seen by moon or sun.
No amorous forms, by wanton art designed,
Had e’er inflamed her blood, or stained her mind;
No hint in books, no coarse or doubtful phrase
E’er bade her curious thought explore the maze
No glowing dream by memory’s pencil drawn
Had e’er profaned her sleep, and made her blush at dawn.
With flowers she decked the virgin mother’s shrine,
Nor guessed a wonder made that name divine.
The very love, which lent her looks such fire,
Ne’er raised one blameful thought, nor loose desire;
Like streams of gold, which in alembic roll,
The flames she suffered but refined her soul;
Made it more free from stain, more light from dross,
With brighter lustre, and with softer gloss.
That, which she bore her bridegroom, well might claim
A brother’s love, and bear a sister’s name:
And e’en where now her lips in playful bliss
Sealed on Rosalvo’s eyes a balmy kiss,
Love’s highest, dearest grace she meant to show,
Nor thought he more could ask, nor she bestow.