His heart it will not cease to beat,
His blood runs free and warm;
And thoughts of more composed despair,
Incessant as the waves that bathe his feet,
Yet comfortless as the empty air,
Through all his spirit swarm.
But the weariness of wasting grief
Hath brought to him its own relief:
Each sense is dull'd! He lies at last
As if the parting shock were past.
He sleeps!—Prolong his haunted rest,
O God!—for now the wretch is blest.
A fair romantic Island, crown'd
With a glow of blossom'd trees,
And underneath bestrewn with flowers,
The happy dreamer sees.
A stream comes dancing from a mount,
Down its fresh and lustrous side,
Then, tamed into a quiet pool,
Is scarcely seen to glide.
Like fairy sprites, a thousand birds
Glance by on golden wing,
Birds lovelier than the lovely hues
Of the bloom wherein they sing.
Upward he lifts his wondering eyes,
Nor yet believes that even the skies
So passing fair can be.
And lo! yon gleam of emerald light,
For human gaze too dazzling bright,
Is that indeed the sea?
Adorn'd with all her pomp and pride,
Long-fluttering flags, and pendants wide,
He sees a stately vessel ride
At anchor in a bay,
Where never waves by storm were driven,
Shaped like the Moon when she is young in heaven,
Or melting in a cloud that stops her way.
Her masts tower nobly from the rocking deep,
Tall as the palm trees on the steep,
And, burning mid their crests so darkly green,
Her meteor-glories all abroad are seen,
Wakening the forests from their solemn sleep;
While suddenly the cannon's sound
Rolls through the cavern'd glens, and groves profound,
And never-dying echoes roar around.
Shaded with branching palm, the sign of peace,
Canoes and skiffs like lightning shoot along,
Countless as waves there sporting on the seas;
While still from those that lead the van, a song,
Whose chorus rends the inland cliffs afar,
Tells that advance before that unarm'd throng,
Princes and chieftains, with a fearless smile,
And outstretch'd arms, to welcome to their Isle
That gallant Ship of War.
And glad are they who therein sail,
Once more to breathe the balmy gale,
To kiss the steadfast strand:
They round the world are voyaging,
And who can tell their suffering
Since last they saw the land?
But that bright pageant will not stay:
Palms, plumes, and ensigns melt away,
Island, and ship!—Though utter be the change
(For on a rock he seems to lie
All naked to the burning sky)
He doth not think it strange.
While in his memory faint recallings swim,
He fain would think it is a dream
That thus distracts his view,
Until some unimagined pain
Shoots shivering through his troubled brain;
—Though dreadful, all is true.
But what to him is anguish now,
Though it burn in his blood, and his heart, and his brow,
For ever from morn to night?
For lo! an Angel shape descends,
As soft and silent as moonlight,
And o'er the dreamer bends.
She cannot be an earthly child,
Yet, when the Vision sweetly smiled,
The light that there did play
Reminded him, he knew not why,
Of one beloved in infancy,
But now far, far away.
Disturb'd by fluttering joy, he wakes,
And feels a death-like shock;
For, harder even than in his dream,
His bed is a lonely rock.
Poor wretch! he dares not open his eye,
For he dreads the beauty of the sky,
And the useless unavailing breeze
That he hears upon the happy seas.
A voice glides sweetly through his heart,
The voice of one that mourns;
Yet it hath a gladsome melody—
Dear God! the dream returns!
A gentle kiss breathes o'er his cheek,
A kiss of murmuring sighs,
It wanders o'er his brow, and falls
Like light upon his eyes.
Through that long kiss he dimly sees,
All bathed in smiles and tears,
A well-known face; and from those lips
A well-known voice he hears.
With a doubtful look he scans the Maid,
As if half-delighted, half-afraid,
Then bows his wilder'd head,
And with deep groans, he strives to pray
That Heaven would drive the fiend away,
That haunts his dying bed.
Again he dares to view the air:
The beauteous ghost yet lingers there,
Veil'd in a spotless shroud:
Breathing in tones subdued and low,
Bent o'er him like Heaven's radiant bow,
And still as evening-cloud.
"Art thou a phantom of the brain?"
He cries, "a mermaid from the main?
A seraph from the sky?
Or art thou a fiend with a seraph's smile,
Come here to mock, on this horrid Isle,
My dying agony?"—
Had he but seen what touching sadness fell
On that fair creature's cheek while thus he spoke,
Had heard the stifled sigh that slowly broke
From her untainted bosom's lab'ring swell,
He scarce had hoped, that at the throne of grace
Such cruel words could e'er have been forgiven,
The impious sin of doubting such a face,
Of speaking thus of Heaven.
Weeping, she wrings his dripping hair
That hangs across his cheek;
And leaves a hundred kisses there,
But not one word can speak.
In bliss she listens to his breath:
Ne'er murmur'd so the breast of death!
Alas! sweet one! what joy can give
Fond-cherish'd thoughts like these!
For how mayst thou and thy lover live
In the centre of the seas?
Or vainly to your sorrows seek for rest,
On a rock where never verdure grew,
Too wild even for the wild sea-mew
To build her slender nest!
Sublime is the faith of a lonely soul,
In pain and trouble cherish'd;
Sublime the spirit of hope that lives,
When earthly hope has perish'd.
And where doth that blest faith abide?
O! not in Man's stern nature: human pride
Inhabits there, and oft by virtue led,
Pride though it be, it doth a glory shed,
That makes the world we mortal beings tread,
In chosen spots, resplendent as the Heaven!
But to yon gentle Maiden turn,
Who never for herself doth mourn,
And own that faith's undying urn
Is but to woman given.
Now that the shade of sorrow falls
Across her life, and duty calls,
Her spirit burns with a fervent glow,
And stately through the gloom of woe
Behold her alter'd form arise,
Like a priestess at a sacrifice.
The touch of earth hath left no taint
Of weakness in the fearless saint.
Like clouds, all human passions roll,
At the breath of devotion, from her soul,
And God looks down with a gleam of grace,
On the stillness of her heavenward face,
Just paler in her grief.
While, hark! like one who God adores,
Such words she o'er her lover pours,
As give herself relief.
"Oh! look again on her who speaks
To thee, and bathes thy sallow cheeks
With many a human tear!
No cruel thing beside thee leans,
Thou knowest what thy Mary means,
Thy own true love is here.
Open thine eyes! thy beauteous eyes!
For mercy smile on me!
Speak!—but one word! one little word!
'Tis all I ask of thee.
If these eyes would give one transient gleam,
To chear this dark and dreadful dream,
If, while I kiss thy cheek,
These dear, dear lips, alas! so pale,
Before their parting spirit fail,
One low farewell would speak,—
This rock so hard would be a bed
Of down unto thy Mary's head,
And gently would we glide away,
Fitz-Owen! to that purer day
Of which thou once didst sing;
Like birds, that, rising from the foam,
Seek on some lofty cliff their home,
On storm-despising wing.
Yes! that thou hear'st thy Mary's voice,
That lovely smile declares!
Here let us in each other's arms
Dissolve our life in prayers.
I see in that uplifted eye,
That thou art not afraid to die;
For ever brave wert thou.
Oh! press me closer to thy soul,
And, while yet we hear the Ocean roll,
Breathe deep the marriage vow!
We hoped far other days to see;
But the will of God be done!
My husband! behold yon pile of clouds
Like a city, round the Sun:
Beyond these clouds, ere the phantoms part,
Thou wilt lean in bliss on my loving heart."—
Sweet seraph! lovely was thy form,
When, shrouded in the misty storm
That swept o'er Snowden's side,
The Cambrian shepherd, through the gloom,
Like a spirit rising from the tomb,
With awe beheld thee glide;
And lovely wert thou, Child of Light!
When, gazing on the starry night
Within Llanberris Lake,
Thy spirit felt, in a hush like death,
The fading earth's last whisper'd breath
The holy scene forsake.
Oh! lovelier still, when thy noiseless tread
Around thy aged mother's bed
Fell soft as snow on snow,
When thy heart, from love, repress'd its sighs,
And from thy never-closing eyes
Forbade the tears to flow.
But now unto thy looks are given
The beauty and the power of Heaven:
The sternness of this dismal Isle
Is soften'd by thy saintly smile,
And he, who lay like a madman, bound
In fetters of anguish to the ground,
And heard and saw, in fearful strife,
The sounds and the sights of unearthly life,
Now opens his eyes, that glisten mild
Like the gladsome eyes of a waken'd child,
For the hideous trance is fled;
And his soul is fill'd with the glory bright,
That plays like a wreath of halo-light
Around his Mary's head.
Most awful is the perfect rest
That sits within her eye,
Awful her pallid face imprest
With the seal of victory.
Triumphant o'er the ghastly dreams
That haunt the parting soul,
She looks like a bird of calm, that floats
Unmoved when thunders roll,
And gives to the storm as gentle notes
As e'er through sunshine stole.
Her lover leans on her saviour breast,
And his heart like hers is still:
Ne'er martyr'd saints more meekly bow'd
To their Creator's will.
As calm they sit, as they had steer'd
To some little favourite Isle,
To mark upon the peaceful waves
The parting sunbeams smile;
As if the lightly feather'd oar
In an hour could take them to the shore,
Where friends and parents dwell:—
But far, alas! from such shore are they,
And of friends, who for their safety pray,
Have ta'en a last farewell.
But why thus gleams Fitz-Owen's eye?
Why bursts his eager speech?
Lo! as if brought by angel hands
Uninjur'd on the beach,
With oars and sails a vessel lies:
Salvation from the gracious skies!
He fears it is a dream; that woe
Hath surely crazed his brain:
He drives the phantom from his gaze,
But the boat appears again.
It is the same that used to glide
When the wind had fallen low,
Like a child along its parent's side,
Around the guardian prow
Of the mighty Ship whose shadow lay
Unmoved upon the watery way.
In the madness of that dismal hour,
When the shrieking Ship went down,
This little boat to the rocky Isle
Hath drifted all alone.
And there she lies! the oars are laid
As by the hand of pleasure,
Preparing on the quiet tide
To beat a gladsome measure.
The dripping sail is careless tied
Around the painted mast,
And a gaudy flag with purple glows,
Hung up in sportive joy by those
Whose sports and joys are past.