"Speak on!" she bade, "my thirsty heart is held
To catch your words, as lillies catch the dew—
So eager that it fain would overbrim
With the fresh gathering. It has waited long;
And now, it shall be filled to bright excess.
Speak on! I am impatient. But, first say
That I shall then be worthier of love,—
When I have mastered all these subtle things
That thou wilt love me better than this girl.
I'll have thee for my teacher—thee alone;
She shall return to her gay, foreign home,
Laded with many a costly gift from me;
I'll bid my warriors wait upon her steps,—
My North-Lights shall illuminate her way,
No frost shall nip the redness of her cheeks,
And no rude wind shall bluster round her feet."
"The frost of fear already nips her cheeks
At thought of living separate from me;
At the mere word she droops, a blighted flower.
Nay, gracious Queen? accept of both our hearts,
And our united service," Bertho plead.
Down on her knees sank Olive, bending low
Her suppliant head, murmuring "Accept our hearts;"—
But the same beauty which had conquered Wole
Angered the jealous Queen; she could not brook
The glistening of those unbound locks of gold;
A pain, before unknown, stung her proud heart;
While the fierce consciousness of absolute power
Urged her to tyrannous deeds. She waved her hand,
And while her maidens shrank as if in dread,
The finny sprites blew the shrill note of war,
At which an hundred warriors gathered round.
Olive they seized and shut her in a cell—
The very temple she had so admired—
Where, heedless of her piteous shrieks and tears
They left her to her grief; while Bertho went,
Securely guarded by their threatening spears,
Following his conqueror's receding steps.
Poor Olive, the forlornest captive bird
That ever beat its heart out in a cage,
Fluttered the pinions of her restless will
In vain against her dungeon. What cared she
That this same dungeon had an emrald floor
And lattice-work of gold, or that the spring
Which closed the door, was on a jewel hinged?
The lustre of the cave flowed through her cell,
And she could strain her weary eyes to catch
Glimpses of splendor, which but mocked her state.
The tiresome days rolled round, never relieved
By the refreshing shadows of the night;
Until the lamps so often counted o'er,
Seemed burning in her brain; and she had fears
That madness lurked within her feverish veins.
The ghouls who chanced to pass her, never spake;
At last, with joy, the stranger of the mount
She saw approaching:
"Ah! Sir John," she cried—
Her pale face, peering through the lattice-work—
"Thou find'st me in a miserable plight—
A closer prisoner by far than thou."
"Why, thou bright bird, has Oene caged thee here—
Prisoned an oriole in her Arctic bowers?
'Tis well we meet. As I was solacing
My banishment, by wandering here and there,
Greeting old Thug by the day's sickly smile,
I chanced within this cavern, where surprise
And pleasure lured me on from scene to scene.
What tyrant holds thee in this glittering cell?"
"From Oene's anger I am suffering,—
Yes, dear sir John, from more than angry hate—
From that implacable passion, worst of all,
And cruelest of purpose, jealousy.
I'd trust the tenderness of hungry wolves,
The beauty of the cobra, or the talk
Of waters to the rocks—but not the will
Of woman, when to jealous thoughts aroused.
She binds me here and bears my love away,
To tempt him with a thousand sweetest wiles—
With beauty, wealth, ambition, vanity,
And all that easiest moves a man's proud heart.
How shall I know if Bertho—even he—
Has truth or virtue beyond this rich price?
Or, she may torture him,—by pain compel
Consent to her soft wish and queenly will.
Alas, Sir John, I am very miserable!"
"Shall I not play the messenger, and urge
Thy cause before her, if, by inquiry,
I find the Queen still visiting old Thug?"
"Oh, if thou would'st and yet—what should I gain?
Nothing, nothing!—still, I should hear from him—
Should know the worst. I'll pray for thy success,
And thank thee from my heart, if thou wilt go!"