PART II.
Sweet is the gloom of forest shades,
Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades,
With all the thousand flowers that blow,
A waste of loveliness, below.
To him whose soul the world would fly,
For nature’s lonely majesty:
To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes,
To lover, lost in fairy dreams,
To hermit, whose prophetic thought
By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught,
And, in the visions of his rest,
Held bright communion with the blest:
’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike
Silence and sound with awe can strike.
The deep Eolian murmur made
By sighing breeze and rustling shade,
And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh,
And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby:
Or the dead stillness of the bowers,
When dark the summer-tempest lowers;
When silent nature seems to wait
The gathering thunder’s voice of fate;
When the aspen scarcely waves in air,
And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare—
Each, each alike is awful there,
And thrills the soul with feelings high,
As some majestic harmony.
But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced
Each green retreat in breathless haste—
Young Ella—linger’d not to hear
The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear.
The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play,
The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay—
These charm not now; her sire she sought,
With trembling frame, with anxious thought,
And, starting if a forest deer
But moved the rustling branches near,
First felt that innocence may fear.
She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell,
Where the free sunbeam never fell;
’Twas twilight there at summer noon,
Deep night beneath the harvest moon,
And scarce might one bright star be seen
Gleaming the tangled boughs between;
For many a giant rock around
Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d,
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high,
Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky.
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave,
Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave,
And the wild flower, on its brink that grew,
Caught not from day one glowing hue.
’Twas said, some fearful deed untold
Had stain’d that scene in days of old;
Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown
A shade yet deeper than its own;
And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom,
Perchance above some victim’s tomb,
O’ergrown with ivy and with moss,
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross,
Which, haply, silent record bore
Of guilt and penitence of yore.
Who by that holy sign was kneeling,
With brow unutter’d pangs revealing,
Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer,
And lifted eyes and streaming hair,
And cheek, all pale as marble mould,
Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold?
Was it some image of despair
Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear?
—Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought
To speak such agonies of thought!
Those deathlike features gave to view
A mortal’s pangs too deep and true!
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye,
As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh;
He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild,
Trembling he stood—before his child!
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung,
And to her father’s bosom clung.
“Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried,
“Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride?
Hence, leave me—leave me to await,
In solitude, the storm of Fate;
Thou know’st not what my doom may be,
Ere evening comes in peace to thee.”
“My father! shall the joyous throng
Swell high for me the bridal song?
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread,
The festal garland bind my head,
And thou in grief, in peril, roam,
And make the wilderness thy home?
No! I am here with thee to share
All suffering mortal strength may bear;
And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree,
In life, in death, in chains, or free—
Well, well I feel, in thee secure;
Thy heart and hand alike are pure!”
Then was there meaning in his look,
Which deep that trusting spirit shook;
So wildly did each glance express
The strife of shame and bitterness,—
As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence!
Is this the mien of Innocence?
This furrow’d brow, this restless eye—
Read thou this fearful tale, and fly!
Is it enough? or must I seek
For words, the tale of guilt to speak?
Then be it so—I will not doom
Thy youth to wither in its bloom;
I will not see thy tender frame
Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame.
No! though I teach thee to abhor
The sire so fondly loved before;
Though the dread effort rend my breast,
Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest!
Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn
Away in horror and in scorn;
Thy looks, that still through all the past
Affection’s gentlest beams have cast,
As lightning on my heart will fall,
And I must mark and bear it all!
Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved,
Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived!
“I linger—let me speed the tale
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail.
Why should I falter thus to tell
What heaven so long hath known too well?
Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d,
There hath a brother’s blood appeal’d!
He died—’twas not where banners wave,
And war-steeds trample on the brave;
He died—it was in Holy Land—
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand;
He sleeps not with his sires at rest,
With trophied shield and knightly crest;
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes,
—But I can tell thee where he lies!
It was a wild and savage spot,
But once beheld—and ne’er forgot!
I see it now—that haunted scene
My spirit’s dwelling still hath been;
And he is there—I see him laid
Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade.
The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh
Bears witness with its crimson dye!
I see th’ accusing glance he raised,
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed;
—Ne’er will that parting look forgive!
I still behold it—and I live!
I live! from hope, from mercy driven,
A mark for all the shafts of heaven!
“Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won
My birth-right; and my child, my son,
Heir to high name, high fortune born,
Was doom’d to penury and scorn,
An alien midst his fathers’ halls,
An exile from his native walls.
Could I bear this? The rankling thought,
Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought;
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile,
Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile,
And when his accents lisp’d my name,
They woke my inmost heart to flame!
I struggled—are there evil powers
That claim their own ascendant hours?
—Oh! what should thine unspotted soul
Or know or fear of their control?
Why on the fearful conflict dwell?
Vainly I struggled, and I fell—
Cast down from every hope of bliss—
Too well thou know’st to what abyss!
“’Twas done!—that moment hurried by
To darken all eternity.
Years roll’d away, long evil years,
Of woes, of fetters, and of fears;
Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d
By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d.
For, long a captive in the lands
Where Arabs tread their burning sands,
The haunted midnight of the mind
Was round me while in chains I pined,
By all forgotten, save by one
Dread presence—which I could not shun.
—How oft, when o’er the silent waste
Nor path nor landmark might be traced,
When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray,
The Wanderers of the Desert lay,
And stars, as o’er an ocean shone,
Vigil I kept—but not alone!
That form, that image, from the dead,
Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread!
I’ve seen it in the fiery blast,
I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d;
Beside the Desert’s fount it stood,
Tinging the clear cold wave with blood;
And e’en when viewless, by the fear
Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near!
—Was near!—I feel th’ unearthly thrill,
Its power is on my spirit still!
A mystic influence, undefined,
The spell, the shadow of my mind!
“Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on;
One last farewell, and then begone!
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow,
And let me read thine aspect now!
No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed
Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed.
Slow came the day that broke my chain,
But I at length was free again;
And freedom brings a burst of joy,
E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy.
I thought upon my own fair towers,
My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers,
And in a father’s visions, press’d
Thee and thy brother to my breast.
—’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet
Recall the moment when we met?
Thy step to greet me lightly sprung,
Thy arms around me fondly clung;
Scarce aught than infant seraph less
Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness.
But he was gone—that son for whom
I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom;
He for whose sake alone were given
My peace on earth, my hope in heaven—
He met me not. A ruthless band,
Whose name with terror fill’d the land,
Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild
Had reft the father of his child.
Foes to my race, the hate they nursed,
Full on that cherish’d scion burst.
Unknown his fate.—No parent nigh,
My boy! my first-born! didst thou die?
Or did they spare thee for a life
Of shame, of rapine, and of strife?
Livest thou, unfriended, unallied,
A wanderer lost, without a guide?
Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom
Blest were the darkness of the tomb!
“Ella! ’tis done—my guilty heart
Before thee all unveil’d—depart!
Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly
From one so stain’d, so lost as I;
Yet peace to thine untainted breast,
E’en though it hate me!—be thou blest!
Farewell! thou shalt not linger here—
E’en now th’ avenger may be near:
Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare,
The dagger, may be ambush’d there;
One hour—and haply all is o’er,
And we must meet on earth no more.
No, nor beyond!—to those pure skies
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise;
Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot,
Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not!
Speak once! to soothe this broken heart,
Speak to me once! and then depart!”
But still—as if each pulse were dead,
Mute—as the power of speech were fled,
Pale—as if life-blood ceased to warm
The marble beauty of her form;
On the dark rock she lean’d her head,
That seem’d as there ’twere riveted,
And dropt the hands, till then which press’d
Her burning brow, or throbbing breast.
There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye,
And from her lip there breathed no sigh,
And on her brow no trace there dwelt
That told she suffer’d or she felt.
All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d,
Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d;
And long her sire, in wild dismay,
Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away.
But life return’d. O’er that cold frame
One deep convulsive shudder came;
And a faint light her eye relumed,
And sad resolve her mien assumed.
But there was horror in the gaze,
Which yet to his she dared not raise;
And her sad accents, wild and low,
As rising from a depth of woe,
At first with hurried trembling broke,
But gather’d firmness as she spoke.
—“I leave thee not—whate’er betide,
My footsteps shall not quit thy side;
Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill,
But yet thou art my father still!
And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed,
For some kind spirit, tenfold need,
To speak of heaven’s absolving love,
And waft desponding thought above.
Is there not power in mercy’s wave
The blood-stain from thy soul to lave?
Is there not balm to heal despair,
In tears, in penitence, in prayer?
My father! kneel at His pure shrine
Who died to expiate guilt like thine,
Weep—and my tears with thine shall blend,
Pray—while my prayers with thine ascend,
And, as our mingling sorrows rise,
Heaven will relent, though earth despise!”
“My child, my child! these bursting tears,
The first mine eyes have shed for years,
Though deepest conflicts they express,
Yet flow not all in bitterness!
Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart
From desolation’s slumber start;
Thy voice of pity and of love
Seems o’er its icy depths to move
E’en as a breeze of health, which brings
Life, hope, and healing, on its wings.
And there is mercy yet! I feel
Its influence o’er my spirit steal;
How welcome were each pang below,
If guilt might be atoned by woe!
Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven?
Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven?
Oh! if it yet avail to plead,
If judgment be not yet decreed,
Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry,
Till pardon shall be seal’d on high!
Yet, yet I shrink!—Will Mercy shed
Her dews upon this fallen head?
—Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free
Descend forgiveness, won by thee!”
They knelt—before the Cross, that sign
Of love eternal and divine;
That symbol, which so long hath stood
A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood,
Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved
By the warm tears of nations saved.
In one deep prayer their spirits blent,
The guilty and the innocent;
Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth,
Age, soil’d with every stain of earth,
Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry,
One sacrifice of agony.
—Oh! blest, though bitter be their source—
Though dark the fountain of remorse,
Blest are the tears which pour from thence,
Th’ atoning stream of penitence!
And let not pity check the tide
By which the heart is purified;
Let not vain comfort turn its course,
Or timid love repress its force!
Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand,
To bear luxuriance o’er the land;
Forbid the life-restoring rains
To fall on Afric’s burning plains;
Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer
The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode;
But check thou not one holy tear
Which Penitence devotes to God!
Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er
Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there—
So rude, that scarce might human eye
Sustain their dread sublimity—
So awful, that the timid swain,
Nurtured amidst their dark domain,
Had peopled with unearthly forms
Their mists, their forests, and their storms,—
She, whose blue eye of laughing light
Once made each festal scene more bright;
Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest,
Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest,
By torrent wave and mountain brow,
Is wandering as an outcast now,
To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief
His shame, his terror, and his grief.
Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower,
That blooms in solitary grace,
And, faithful to its mouldering tower,
Waves in the banner’s place?
From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d,
Time wins his heritage at last;
The day of glory hath gone by,
With all its pomp and minstrelsy:
Yet still the flower of golden hues
There loves its fragrance to diffuse,
To fallen and forsaken things
With constancy unalter’d clings,
And, smiling o’er the wreck of state,
With beauty clothes the desolate.
—E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid,
In all her light of youth array’d,
Forsaking every joy below
To soothe a guilty parent’s woe,
And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime,
To the dark ruin made by crime.
Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes
Smile on a purer sacrifice;
Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine,
More nobly brighter hopes resign!
O’er her own pangs she brooded not,
Nor sank beneath her bitter lot;
No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth
Still rose more buoyantly from earth,
And drew from an eternal source
Its gentle, yet triumphant force:
Roused by affliction’s chastening might
To energies more calmly bright,
Like the wild harp of airy sigh,
Woke by the storm to harmony!
He that in mountain-holds hath sought
A refuge for unconquer’d thought,
A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child
Might rear her altars in the wild,
And fix her quenchless torch on high,
A beacon for Eternity;
Or they, whose martyr spirits wage
Proud war with Persecution’s rage,
And to the deserts bear the faith
That bids them smile on chains and death;
Well may they draw, from all around,
Of grandeur clothed in form and sound,
From the deep power of earth and sky,
Wild nature’s might of majesty,
Strong energies, immortal fires,
High hopes, magnificent desires!
But dark, terrific, and austere,
To him doth nature’s mien appear,
Who midst her wilds would seek repose
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes!
For him the wind hath music dread,
A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead;
The forest’s whisper breathes a tone
Appalling, as from worlds unknown;
The mystic gloom of wood and cave
Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave;
In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart
A blaze that seems to search his heart;
The pure, eternal stars of night
Upbraid him with their silent light;
And the dread spirit, which pervades
And hallows earth’s most lonely shades,
In every scene, in every hour,
Surrounds him with chastising power—
With nameless fear his soul to thrill,
Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still!
’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day,
And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way;
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound,
Foretold the tempest gathering round;
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread
With a tinge of wild and stormy red,
That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers
Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers.
But they, who far from cities fled,
And shrunk from the print of human tread,
Had reach’d a desert scene unknown,
So strangely wild, so deeply lone,
That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d
And undefined, their souls oppress’d.
Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d,
Lay like the ruins of a world,
Left by an earthquake’s final throes
In deep and desolate repose—
Things of eternity whose forms
Bore record of ten thousand storms!
While, rearing its colossal crest
In sullen grandeur o’er the rest,
One, like a pillar, vast and rude,
Stood monarch of the solitude.
Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand
Th’ enduring monument was plann’d;
Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by,
Had shaped its rough immensity,
To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood,
A temple meet for rites of blood.
But they were gone, who might have told
That secret of the times of old;
And there, in silent scorn it frown’d,
O’er all its vast coevals round.
Darkly those giant masses lower’d,
Countless and motionless they tower’d;
No wild-flower o’er their summits hung,
No fountain from their caverns sprung;
Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear
Murmur’d a sound of waters near,
With music deep of lulling falls,
And louder gush, at intervals.
Unknown its source—nor spring nor stream
Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam,
But ceaseless, from its hidden caves,
Arose that mystic voice of waves.[199]
Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene,
One chosen spot of gentler mien
Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye
Of shelter from the tempest nigh.
Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore,
The sculptured saint that crown’d its door:
Less welcome now were monarch’s dome,
Than that low cell, some hermit’s home.
Thither the outcasts bent their way,
By the last lingering gleam of day;
When from a cavern’d rock, which cast
Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d,
A form, a warrior form of might,
As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight.
His port was lofty—yet the heart
Shrunk from him with recoiling start;
His mien was youthful—yet his face
Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace;
Nor chivalrous nor tender thought
Its traces on his brow had wrought
Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye,
But calm and cold severity,
A spirit haughtily austere,
Stranger to pity as to fear.
It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil
O’er that dark brow and visage pale,
Leaving the searcher nought to guess,
All was so fix’d and passionless.
He spoke—and they who heard the tone
Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown.
“I’ve sought thee far in forest bowers,
I’ve sought thee long in peopled towers,
I’ve borne th’ dagger of th’ Unknown
Through scenes explored by me alone;
My search is closed—nor toils nor fears
Repel the servant of the Seers;
We meet—’tis vain to strive or fly:
Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!”
Then with clasp’d hands the fair-hair’d maid
Sank at his feet, and wildly pray’d:—
“Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel!
Oh! thou art human, and canst feel!
Hear me! if e’er ’twas thine to prove
The blessing of a parent’s love;
By thine own father’s hoary hair,
By her who gave thee being, spare!
Did they not, o’er thy infant years,
Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears!
Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers,
As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!”
But cold th’ Avenger’s look remain’d,
His brow its rigid calm maintain’d:
“Maiden! ’tis vain—my bosom ne’er
Was conscious of a parent’s care;
The nurture of my infant years
Froze in my soul the source of tears;
’Tis not for me to pause or melt,
Or feel as happier hearts have felt.
Away! the hour of fate goes by:
Thy prayers are fruitless—he must die!”
“Rise, Ella! rise!” with steadfast brow
The father spoke—unshrinking now,
As if from heaven a martyr’s strength
Had settled on his soul at length:
“Kneel thou no more, my noble child,
Thou by no taint of guilt defiled;
Kneel not to man!—for mortal prayer,
Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare?
Since hope of earthly aid is flown,
Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone,
And know, to calm thy suffering heart,
My spirit is resign’d to part.
Trusting in Him who reads and knows
This guilty breast, with all its woes.
Rise! I would bless thee once again,
Be still, be firm—for all is vain!”
And she was still. She heard him not—
Her prayers were hush’d, her pangs forgot;
All thought, all memory pass’d away,
Silent and motionless she lay,
In a brief death, a blest suspense
Alike of agony and sense.
She saw not when the dagger gleam’d
In the last red light from the west that stream’d;
She mark’d not when the life-blood’s flow
Came rushing to the mortal blow;
While, unresisting, sank her sire,
Yet gather’d firmness to expire,
Mingling a warrior’s courage high
With a penitent’s humility.
And o’er him there th’ Avenger stood,
And watch’d the victim’s ebbing blood,
Still calm, as if his faithful hand
Had but obey’d some just command,
Some power whose stern, yet righteous will
He deem’d it virtue to fulfil,
And triumph’d, when the palm was won,
For duty’s task austerely done.
But a feeling dread and undefined,
A mystic presage of the mind,
With strange and sudden impulse ran
Chill through the heart of the dying man;
And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath,
And it seem’d as fear suspended death,
And nature from her terrors drew
Fresh energy and vigour new.
“Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne’er
Was conscious of a parent’s care;
Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood’s years,
Froze in thy soul the source of tears:
The time will come, when thou, with me,
The judgment throne of God wilt see—
Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then,
By His blest love who died for men,
By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow,
Avenger! I adjure thee now!
To him who bleeds beneath thy steel,
Thy lineage and thy name reveal.
And haste thee! for his closing ear
Hath little more on earth to hear—
Haste! for the spirit, almost flown,
Is lingering for thy words alone.”
Then first a shade, resembling fear,
Pass’d o’er th’ Avenger’s mien austere;
A nameless awe his features cross’d,
Soon in their haughty coldness lost.
“What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild,
And bid them tell thee of their child!
Ask the rude winds, and angry skies,
Whose tempests were his lullabies!
His chambers were the cave and wood,
His fosterers men of wrath and blood;
Outcasts alike of earth and heaven,
By wrongs to desperation driven!
Who, in their pupil, now could trace
The features of a nobler race?
Yet such was mine!—if one who cast
A look of anguish o’er the past,
Bore faithful record on the day
When penitent in death he lay.
But still deep shades my prospects veil;
He died—and told but half the tale.
With him it sleeps—I only know
Enough for stern and silent woe,
For vain ambition’s deep regret,
For hopes deceived, deceiving yet,
For dreams of pride, that vainly tell
How high a lot had suited well
The heir of some illustrious line,
Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!”
Then swift through Albert’s bosom pass’d
One pang, the keenest and the last,
Ere with his spirit fled the fears,
The sorrows, and the pangs of years;
And, while his gray hairs swept the dust,
Faltering he murmur’d, “Heaven is just!
For thee that deed of guilt was done,
By thee avenged, my son! my son!”
—The day was closed—the moonbeam shed
Light on the living and the dead,
And as through rolling clouds it broke,
Young Ella from her trance awoke—
Awoke to bear, to feel, to know
E’en more than all an orphan’s woe.
Oh! ne’er did moonbeam’s light serene
With beauty clothe a sadder scene!
There, cold in death, the father slept—
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept!
Yes! she might weep—but one stood nigh,
With horror in his tearless eye,
That eye which ne’er again shall close
In the deep quiet of repose;
No more on earth beholding aught
Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought.
But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid
His deeper woe had scarce survey’d,
Till his wild voice reveal’d a tale
Which seem’d to bid the heavens turn pale!
He call’d her, “Sister!” and the word
In anguish breathed, in terror heard,
Reveal’d enough: all else were weak—
That sound a thousand pangs could speak.
He knelt beside that breathless clay,
Which, fix’d in utter stillness, lay—
Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace,
Each line of that unconscious face;
Knelt, till his eye could bear no more
Those marble features to explore;
Then, starting, turning, as to shun
The image thus by Memory won,
A wild farewell to her he bade,
Who by the dead in silence pray’d;
And, frenzied by his bitter doom,
Fled thence—to find all earth a tomb!
Days pass’d away—and Rhine’s fair shore
In the light of summer smiled once more;
The vines were purpling on the hill,
And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still.
There came a bark up the noble stream,
With pennons that shed a golden gleam,
With the flash of arms, and the voice of song,
Gliding triumphantly along;
For warrior-forms were glittering there,
Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air;
And as the tones of oar and wave
Their measured cadence mingling gave,
’Twas thus th’ exulting chorus rose,
While many an echo swell’d the close:—
“From the fields where dead and dying
On their battle-bier are lying,
Where the blood unstanch’d is gushing,
Where the steed uncheck’d is rushing,
Trampling o’er the noble-hearted,
Ere the spirit yet be parted;
Where each breath of heaven is swaying
Knightly plumes and banners playing,
And the clarion’s music swelling
Calls the vulture from his dwelling;
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!
To his own fair woods, enclosing
Vales in sunny peace reposing,
Where his native stream is laving
Banks, with golden harvests waving,
And the summer light is sleeping
On the grape, through tendrils peeping;
To the halls where harps are ringing,
Bards the praise of warriors singing,
Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly,
Joyous voices mingling sweetly;
Where the cheek of mirth is glowing,
And the wine-cup brightly flowing,
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!”
He came—he sought his Ella’s bowers,
He traversed Lindheim’s lonely towers;
But voice and footstep thence had fled,
As from the dwellings of the dead,
And the sounds of human joy and woe
Gave place to the moan of the wave below.
The banner still the rampart crown’d,
But the tall rank grass waved thick around
Still hung the arms of a race gone by
In the blazon’d halls of their ancestry,
But they caught no more, at fall of night,
The wavering flash of the torch’s light,
And they sent their echoes forth no more
To the Minnesinger’s[200] tuneful lore,
For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone,
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone;
And the soul of the chord lay mute and still,
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill,
And woke from its depths a dream-like moan,
For life, and power, and beauty gone.
The warrior turn’d from that silent scene,
Where a voice of woe had welcome been;
And his heart was heavy with boding thought,
As the forest-paths alone he sought.
He reach’d a convent’s fane, that stood
Deep bosom’d in luxuriant wood;
Still, solemn, fair—it seem’d a spot
Where earthly care might be all forgot,
And sounds and dreams of heaven alone
To musing spirit might be known.
And sweet e’en then were the sounds that rose
On the holy and profound repose.
Oh! they came o’er the warrior’s breast
Like a glorious anthem of the blest;
And fear and sorrow died away
Before the full majestic lay.
He enter’d the secluded fane,
Which sent forth that inspiring strain;
He gazed—the hallow’d pile’s array
Was that of some high festal day;
Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound,
Flowers of all scents were strew’d around;
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh,
Blest on the altar to smile and die;
And a fragrant cloud from the censer’s breath
Half hid the sacred pomp beneath;
And still the peal of choral song
Swell’d the resounding aisles along;
Wakening, in its triumphant flow,
Deep echoes from the graves below.
Why, from its woodland birthplace torn,
Doth summer’s rose that scene adorn?
Why breathes the incense to the sky?
Why swells th’ exulting harmony?
—And see’st thou not yon form, so light
It seems half floating on the sight,
As if the whisper of a gale,
That did but wave its snowy veil,
Might bear it from the earth afar,
A lovely but receding star?
Know that devotion’s shrine e’en now
Receives that youthful vestal’s vow—
For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise,
A jubilee of sacrifice!
Mark yet a moment! from her brow
Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow,
Ere yet a darker mantle hide
The charms to heaven thus sanctified:
Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam,
That ne’er shall fade from memory’s dream.
A moment! oh! to Ulric’s soul,
Poised between hope and fear’s control,
What slow, unmeasured hours went by,
Ere yet suspense grew certainty.
It came at length. Once more that face
Reveal’d to man its mournful grace;
A sunbeam on its features fell,
As if to bear the world’s farewell;
And doubt was o’er. His heart grew chill:
’Twas she—though changed—’twas Ella still!
Though now her once-rejoicing mien
Was deeply, mournfully serene;
Though clouds her eye’s blue lustre shaded,
And the young cheek beneath had faded,
Well, well he knew the form, which cast
Light on his soul through all the past!
’Twas with him on the battle-plain,
’Twas with him on the stormy main:
’Twas in his visions, when the shield
Pillow’d his head on tented field;
’Twas a bright beam that led him on
Where’er a triumph might be won—
In danger as in glory nigh,
An angel-guide to victory!
She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze
Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze.
Was it some vain illusion, wrought
By frenzy of impassion’d thought?
Some phantom, such as Grief hath power
To summon in her wandering hour?
No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d—
Too deeply loved, too late return’d!
—A fever’d blush, a sudden start,
Spoke the last weakness of her heart;
’Twas vanquish’d soon—the hectic red
A moment flush’d her check, and fled.
Once more serene—her steadfast eye
Look’d up as to Eternity;
Then gazed on Ulric with an air,
That said—the home of Love is there!
Yes! there alone it smiled for him,
Whose eye before that look grew dim.
Not long ’twas his e’en thus to view
The beauty of its calm adieu;
Soon o’er those features, brightly pale,
Was cast th’ impenetrable veil;
And, if one human sigh were given
By the pure bosom vow’d to heaven,
’Twas lost, as many a murmur’d sound
Of grief, “not loud, but deep,” is drown’d,
In hymns of joy, which proudly rise
To tell the calm untroubled skies
That earth hath banish’d care and woe,
And man holds festivals below!
[199] The original of the scene here described is presented by the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse:—“Des masses énormes de rochers, entassées l’une sur l’autre depuis le sommet de la montagne jusqu’à son pied, viennent y présenter un aspect superbe qu’ aucune description ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des géans, qui en se livrant un combat du haut des montagnes, lancèrent les uns sur les autres ces énormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beaucoup de peine, jusqu’au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant un sentier qui passe à côté de cette chaine de rochers. On entend continuellement un bruit sourd, qui parait venir d’un ruisseau au dessous des rochers; mais on a beau descendre, on se glissant à travers les ouvertures qui s’y trouvent, on ne découvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensäule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu’à la moitié de la montagne; c’est un bloc de granit taillé, d’une longueur de 30 pieds et d’un diamétre de 4 pieds. Il y a plus de probabilité de croire que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une colonne pour l’ériger en l’honneur de leur dieu Odin, que de prétendre, comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains aient eu le dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On voit un peu plus haut un autre bloc d’une forme presque carrée, qu’ on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel du géant,) qui, à en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, était destiné à servir de piédestal à la colonnade susdite.”—Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin.
[200] Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the German minstrels in the Middle Ages.