MACEDOINE:

BY THE AUTHOR OF OTHER THINGS.

"I tell it as 'twas whispered unto me,
By a strange voice not of this world I ween."

The Baron has gone to a distant land
Beyond the far wave the sun sets on;
Last eve but one he kissed his hand
To his lady, the lovely Marion,
As he urged his proud courser along the plain
That leads to the sea, from his wide domain,
In the van of a gallant vassal train.
In sooth, her lord is a noble knight
As e'er couched lance in tourney or fight—
But yet the lady loved him not,
And heaven ne'er blest their lonely lot.
"No little voices, no fairy footfalls
Broke the deep hush of their silent halls;"
For Coldness hung over their bridal couch,
And chilled their hearts with his icy touch.
The lady scarce smiled when her lord was nigh—
And when she did, her pensive eye
Had somewhat in its look the while
Which seemed to chide the moment's guile,
And check the mimic play of mirth
To which the lip alone gave birth.
Like light that sports on frozen streams
That warm not in its wintry beams,
Is the smile of the lip that would fain seem glad—
Albeit the heart is gloomy and sad.

* * * * *

I watched the lady from afar,
As she sat in the western balcony—
Oh! none more beautiful could be;
The sun had sunk upon the sea,
And twilight came with the evening star.
The lady leaned o'er the balustrade,—
I ween 'twas not the voice of the breeze
That came from the grove of orange trees;
For the lady started as half afraid,
And her cheek turned pale, then flushed blood-red,
As the voice of lips invisible said:
"Meet me to-night by the bastioned wall,
When the midnight moon looks over the sea—
When the mermaid sleeps in her ocean hall,
And the world seems made but for you and me."

* * * * *

'Twas a lovely night—the moonlit sea
Was smooth and fair as beauty's brow;
And down in the coral caves below,
Where white pearls lie, and seaflowers grow,
The mermaid was dreaming quietly.
And lo! a knight and a lady fair
Stood in the shade of the bastioned wall:
I watched them as they lingered there—
Oh! they were to each other all
In the wide, wide world their hearts held dear;
He clasped her trembling to his breast,
And kissed from her lids the glittering tear.
She sighed, and pointed to the west,
And again her tears flowed unreprest;

* * * * *

II.

SONG.

Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.
Let him drink—and remember his misery no more.

Proverbs—Chap. xxxi. 6 and 7.

This is a dark and dreary world
To which we're vainly clinging—
We spurn at life, yet dread the fate
Each hour is nearer bringing.
It is not love—it is not hope,
That binds us to our sorrow—
But wild vague fears—a shrinking dread
Of an unearthly morrow:
Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine—
A truce to sober thinking—
And pledge the joy that lingers yet—
The deep, deep joy of drinking.
Oh! 'tis a dark and fearful curse
Hangs o'er this brief existence—
The knowledge of a fixed doom
That mocks our poor resistance.
In vain the path is strewed with flowers,
The truth will ne'er forsake us—
A grisly demon dogs our steps,
And must at last o'ertake us:
Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine—
Avaunt all idle thinking—
And pledge the joy that yet remains—
The deep, deep joy of drinking.

III.

RUINS.

Ye grey and mouldering walls!—ye ivied towers!
From whence the midnight-loving bird doth pour
Her dreary note upon the solemn hour!
Ye dim arcades!—ye fancy-haunted bowers!
Ruined—but how majestic in decay!
I love thee well; and gazing thus on thee
In twilight solitude, it seems to me
A spirit voice comes stealing up this way—
The voice of vanished years—and many a tale
It tells my musing mind of gallant lords
And ladies gay—of moonlight-whispered words,
And deeds of high renown—of crimes that pale
The cheek to dream—and the malignant scowl
Of evil eyes beneath the monkish cowl.

IV.

SONNET.

Oh! I could almost weep to think that thou
Whom heaven hath moulded in a form as fair
As fancy pictures those of upper air,
Shouldst thus belie the promise of that brow
Where truth seems to repose, pure as its snow.
Alas! that treachery should lurk beneath
Such smiles!—a hidden serpent in a wreath
Of Eden flowers!—what art thou, wouldst thou know?
In all thy pride of charms?—A living tomb
Of buried hopes—the grave of ruined hearts
Which trusted, loved thee,—dreaming not that arts
Which taught the soul excess of bliss, would doom
The worshipper to—no! not Death, but worse—
And yet thou art too fair a thing to curse.