And who is He, that fondly presses
Close to his heart the silken tresses
That hide her soften'd eyes,
Whose heart her heaving bosom meets,
And through the midnight silence beats
To feel her rising sighs?
Worthy the Youth, I ween, to rest
On the fair swellings of her breast,
Worthy to hush her inmost fears,
And kiss away her struggling tears:
For never grovelling spirit stole
A woman's unpolluted soul!
To her the vestal fire is given;
And only fire drawn pure from Heaven
Can on Love's holy shrine descend,
And there in clouds of fragrance blend.
Well do I know that stately Youth!
The broad day-light of cloudless truth
Like a sun-beam bathes his face;
Though silent, still a gracious smile,
That rests upon his eyes the while,
Bestows a speaking grace.
That smile hath might of magic art,
To sway at will the stoniest heart,
As a ship obeys the gale;
And when his silver voice is heard;
The coldest blood is warmly stirr'd,
As at some glorious tale.
The loftiest spirit never saw
This Youth without a sudden awe;
But vain the transient feeling strove
Against the stealing power of love.
Soon as they felt the tremor cease,
He seem'd the very heart of peace.
Majestic to the bold and high,
Yet calm and beauteous to a woman's eye!
To him, a mountain Youth, was known
The wailing tempest's dreariest tone.
He knew the shriek of wizard caves,
And the trampling fierce of howling waves.
The mystic voice of the lonely night,
He had often drunk with a strange delight,
And look'd on the clouds as they roll'd on high,
Till with them he sail'd on the sailing sky.
And thus hath he learn'd to wake the lyre,
With something of a bardlike fire;
Can tell in high empassion'd song,
Of worlds that to the Bard belong,
And, till they feel his kindling breath,
To others still and dark as death.
Yet oft, I ween, in gentler mood
A human kindness hush'd his blood,
And sweetly blended earth-born sighs
With the Bard's romantic extacies.
The living world was dear to him,
And in his waking hours more bright it seem'd,
More touching far, than when his fancy dream'd
Of heavenly bowers, th' abode of Seraphim:
And gladly from her wild sojourn
Mid haunts dim-shadow'd in the realms of mind,
Even like a wearied dove that flies for rest
Back o'er long fields of air unto her nest,
His longing spirit homewards would return
To meet once more the smile of human kind.
And when at last a human soul he found,
Pure as the thought of purity,—more mild
Than in its slumber seems a dreaming child;
When on his spirit stole the mystic sound,
The voice, whose music sad no mortal ear
But his can rightly understand and hear,
When a subduing smile like moonlight shone
On him for ever, and for him alone,
Why should he seek this lower world to leave!
For, whether now he love to joy or grieve,
A friend he hath for sorrow or delight,
Who lends fresh beauty to the morning light,
The tender stars in tenderer dimness shrouds,
And glorifies the Moon among her clouds.
How would he gaze with reverent eye
Upon that meek and pensive maid,
Then fix his looks upon the sky
With moving lips as if he pray'd!
Unto his sight bedimm'd with tears,
How beautiful the saint appears,—
Oh! all unlike a creature form'd of clay,
The blessed angels with delight
Might hail her "Sister!" She is bright
And innocent as they.
Scarce dared he then that form to love!
A solemn impulse from above
All earthly hopes forbade,
And with a pure and holy flame,
As if in truth from Heaven she came,
He gazed upon the maid.
His beating heart, thus fill'd with awe,
In her the guardian spirit saw
Of all his future years;
And, when he listened to her breath
So spiritual, nor pain nor death
Seem'd longer worth his fears.
She loved him! She, the Child of Heaven!
And God would surely make
The soul to whom that love was given
More perfect for her sake.
Each look, each word, of one so good
Devoutly he obey'd,
And trusted that a gracious eye
Would ever guide his destiny,
For whom in holy solitude
So sweet an Angel pray'd.
Those days of tranquil joy are fled,
And tears of deep distress
From night to morn hath Mary shed:
And, say! when sorrow bow'd her head
Did he then love her less?
Ah no! more touching beauty rose
Through the dim paleness of her woes,
Than when her cheek did bloom
With joy's own lustre: something there,
A saint-like calm, a deep repose,
Made her look like a spirit fair
New risen from the tomb.
For ever in his heart shall dwell
The voice with which she said farewell
To the fading English shore;
It dropp'd like dew upon his ear,
And for the while he ceased to hear
The sea-wind's freshening roar.
"To thee I trust my sinless child:
"And therefore am I reconciled
"To bear my lonely lot,
"The Gracious One, who loves the good,
"For her will smooth the Ocean wild,
"Nor in her aged solitude
"A parent be forgot."
The last words these her Mother spake,
Sobbing as if her heart would break
Beside the cold sea-shore,
When onwards with the favouring gale,
Glad to be free, in pride of sail
Th' impatient Vessel bore.
Oh! could she now in magic glass
Behold the winged glory pass
With a slow and cloud-like motion,
While, as they melted on her eye,
She scarce should ken the peaceful sky
From the still more peaceful Ocean!
And it may be such dreams are given
In mercy by indulgent Heaven,
To solace them that mourn:
The absent bless our longing sight,
The future shows than truth more bright,
And phantoms of expir'd delight
Most passing sweet return.
Mother! behold thy Child: How still
Her upward face! She thinks on thee:
Oh, thou canst never gaze thy fill!
How beautiful such piety!
There in her lover's guardian arms
She rests: and all the wild alarms
Of waves or winds are hush'd, no more to rise.
Of thee, and thee alone, she thinks:
See! on her knees thy daughter sinks:
Sure God will bless the prayer that lights such eyes!
Didst thou e'er think thy child so fair?
The rapture of her granted prayer
Hath breathed that awful beauty through her face:
Once more upon the deck she stands,
Slowly unclasps her pious hands,
And brightening smiles, assured of heavenly grace.
Oh, blessed pair! and, while I gaze,
As beautiful as blest!
Emblem of all your future days
Seems now the Ocean's rest!
Beyond the blue depths of the sky,
The Tempests sleep;—and there must lie,
Like baleful spirits barr'd from realms of bliss.
But singing airs, and gleams of light,
And birds of calm, all-glancing bright,
Must hither in their gladness come.
—Where shall they find a fitter home
Than a night-scene fair as this?
And when, her fairy voyage past,
The happy Ship is moor'd at last
In the loved haven of her Indian Isle,
How dear to you will be the beams
Of the silent Moon! What touching dreams
Your musing hearts beguile!
Though haply then her radiance fall
On some low mansion's flowery wall,
Far up an inland vale,
Yet then the sheeted mast will tower,
Her shrouds all rustling like a shower,
And, melting as wild music's power,
Low pipe the sea-born gale.
Each star will speak the tenderest things,
And when the clouds expand their wings,
All parting like a fleet,
Your own beloved Ship, I ween,
Will foremost in the van be seen,
And, rising loud and sweet,
The sailor's joyful shouts be heard,
Such as the midnight silence stirr'd
When the wish'd-for breezes blew,
And, instant as the loud commands,
Sent upwards from a hundred hands
The broad sails rose unto the sky,
And from her slumbers suddenly
The Ship like lightning flew!
But list! a low and moaning sound
At distance heard, like a spirit's song,
And now it reigns above, around,
As if it call'd the Ship along.
The Moon is sunk; and a clouded grey
Declares that her course is run,
And like a God who brings the day,
Up mounts the glorious Sun.
Soon as his light has warm'd the seas,
From the parting cloud fresh blows the Breeze;
And that is the spirit whose well-known song
Makes the vessel to sail in joy along.
No fears hath she;—Her giant-form
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,
Majestically calm, would go
Mid the deep darkness white as snow!
But gently now the small waves glide
Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The Main she will traverse for ever and aye.
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!
—Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last.
Five hundred souls in one instant of dread
Are hurried o'er the deck;
And fast the miserable Ship
Becomes a lifeless wreck.
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,
Her planks are torn asunder,
And down come her masts with a reeling shock,
And a hideous crash like thunder.
Her sails are draggled in the brine
That gladdened late the skies,
And her pendant that kiss'd the fair moonshine
Down many a fathom lies.
Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues
Gleam'd softly from below,
And flung a warm and sunny flush
O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down
To sleep amid colours as bright as their own.
Oh! many a dream was in the Ship
An hour before her death;
And sights of home with sighs disturb'd
The sleepers' long-drawn breath.
Instead of the murmur of the sea
The sailor heard the humming tree
Alive through all its leaves,
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage-door,
And the swallow's song in the eaves.
His arms inclosed a blooming boy,
Who listen'd with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had pass'd;
And his wife—by turns she wept and smiled,
As she look'd on the father of her child
Return'd to her heart at last.
—He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.
Astounded the reeling deck he paces,
Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;—
The whole Ship's crew are there.
Wailings around and overhead,
Brave spirits stupefied or dead,
And madness and despair.
Leave not the wreck, thou cruel Boat,
While yet 'tis thine to save,
And angel-hands will bid thee float
Uninjured o'er the wave,
Though whirlpools yawn across thy way,
And storms, impatient for their prey,
Around thee fiercely rave!
Vain all the prayers of pleading eyes,
Of outcry loud, and humble sighs,
Hands clasp'd, or wildly toss'd on high
To bless or curse in agony!
Despair and resignation vain!
Away like a strong-wing'd bird she flies,
That heeds not human miseries,
And far off in the sunshine dies
Like a wave of the restless main.
Hush! hush! Ye wretches left behind!
Silence becomes the brave, resign'd
To unexpected doom.
How quiet the once noisy crowd!
The sails now serve them for a shroud,
And the sea-cave is their tomb.
And where is that loveliest Being gone?
Hope not that she is saved alone,
Immortal though such beauty seem'd to be.
She, and the Youth that loved her too,
Went down with the ship and her gallant crew—
No favourites hath the sea.
Now is the Ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;
The Ship hath melted quite away,
Like a struggling dream at break of day.
No image meets my wandering eye
But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky.
Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull
Bedims the waves so beautiful;
While a low and melancholy moan
Mourns for the glory that hath flown.
Oh! that the wild and wailing strain
Were a dream that murmurs in my brain!
What happiness would then be mine,
When my eyes, as they felt the morning shine,
Instead of the unfathom'd Ocean-grave
Should behold Winander's peaceful wave,
And the Isles that love her loving breast,
Each brooding like a Halcyon's nest.
It may not be:—too well I know
The real doom from fancied woe,
The black and dismal hue.
Yea, many a visage wan and pale
Will hang at midnight o'er my tale,
And weep that it is true.