The Portland Sketch Book

by Unknown

THE WIDOWED BRIDE.

By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

The Morn awoke in Hindostan,
And blushing, left the couch of Night,
While soon her rosy smiles began,
To flood the dewy earth with light.
While yet the sultry day was young,
Came forth a happy bridal band,
With sunny smiles and English tongue,
Which spoke them of a distant land;
They gathered round an altar-stone,
Erected to the one Most High,
Standing in solitude alone,
Mid signs of dark idolatry.
Then two came slowly from the crowd;
He with a bearing bold and proud,
A haughty smile and flashing eye,
Darkling with love's intensity;
While she, the high-born English bride,
Drew closer to that one dear side;
Her eyelids drooped, her cheek grew pale
As snow, beneath the bridal veil,
As if the weight of her own bliss
Were all too much of happiness,
To thrill her heart and light her eye
Beneath another's scrutiny.
On crimson cushions dropped with gold
The youthful pair together bow;
Before that priest in surplice-fold
They clasp their trembling fingers now;
A prayer is heard—the oath is said—
That gentle creature lifts her head—
A voice has thrilled into her heart,
Like music breathed to it apart,—
To lie there an abiding spell,
To haunt forever memory's cell—
To mingle with her latest breath
And light the very wing of death.
Her vow was uttered timidly—
With half a murmur, half a sigh;
Yet the low faltering sound confessed
The love that brooded in her breast.

The golden ring is on her hand—
She is pronounced a wedded bride;
Oh say, why does she lingering stand
So long that altar-stone beside?
And whence the misty tears that dim
The sunny azure of her eye?
Why leans her slender form on him?
Why does she sob so bitterly?
Well may she weep, that fair young bride;
For up the Ganges' golden tide,
Mid jungles deep, where beasts of prey
With pestilence hold deadly sway,
Where the wild waters fiercest sweep,
And serpents in their venom sleep,
Beneath each dewy leaf and flower,
That gentle bride must build her bower.

In the cool shadow of the shore,
With snowy streamers floating wide,
To the light dipping of the oar,
The budgerow swept o'er the tide;
The soft breeze ling'ring at her prow,
Where many a garland graceful hung,
In hues of purple, gold and snow,
And on the rippling waters flung
An odor sweet and delicate,
As that which all imprisoned lies,
Unknown to man as his own fate,
Within the flowers of Paradise.

Beneath an awning's silken shade,
Where the light breeze its music made,
With woven fringe and silken cord,
Sat the young bride with her brave lord.
Her hand in his was ling'ring still,
And every throb of his full heart
Met her young pulses with a thrill,
And sent the blood up with a start,
To that round cheek but late so pale
And blanched beneath the bridal veil.
A tear still trembled in her eye,
Like dews that in the violet lie;
But breaking through its lovely sheen,
The brightness of her soul was seen,
Like light within the amethyst,
Which told how truly she was blest;
Though as she met his ardent gaze,
Like the veined petal of a flower
Her eyelids drooped, as from the blaze
Of some loved, high, but dreaded power.
As bound by some subduing spell,
In beauty at his side she bowed.
The bridal robe around her fell,
Like fragments of a summer cloud;
The loosened veil had backward swept,
And deeply in her glossy hair,
Like light, the orange blossoms slept,
As if they sought new beauty there;
And pearls lay softly on her neck,
Like hailstones melting over snow,
Save when the blood, that dyed her cheek.
Diffused abroad its rosy glow,
And playing on her bosom-swell,
With every heart-pulse rose or fell.

Up went the sun; his burning rays
Broke o'er the stream like sparkling fire,
Till the broad Ganges seemed a-blaze,
With gorgeous light, save where the spire
Of some lone slender minaret,
Threw its clear shadow on the stream,
Or grove-like banian firmly set,
Broke with its boughs the fiery gleam;
Or where a white pagoda shone
Like snow-drift through the shadowy trees;
Or ancient mosque stood out alone,
Where the wild creeper sought the breeze;
Or where some dark and gloomy rock
Shot o'er the deep its ragged cliffs,
Inhabited by many a flock
Of vultures, and its yawning rifts
Alive with lizards, glowing, bright,
As if a prism's changing light
Within the gloomy depths were flung,
Where like rich jewels newly strung,
The sleeping serpent stretched its length,
And nursed its venom into strength.

Where the broad stream in shadow lay,
The bridal barque kept on her way,
While every breeze that swept them o'er,
Brought loads of incense from the shore;
Where each luxuriant jungle lay
A wilderness of tangled flowers,
And budding vines in wanton play
Fell from the trees in leafy showers,
Flinging their graceful garlands o'er
The rippling stream and reedy shore;
The lily bared its snowy breast,
Swayed its full anthers like a crest,
And softly from its pearly swell,
A shower of golden powder fell
Among the humbler flowers that lay
And blushed their fragrant lives away;
There oleanders lightly wreathed
Their blossoms in a coronal,
And the rich baubool softly breathed
A perfume from its golden bell;
There flower and shrub and spicy tree
Seemed struggling for sweet mastery;
And many a bird with gorgeous plume,
Fluttered along the flowery gloom,
Or on the spicy branches lay,
Uttering a sleepy roundelay;
While insects rushing out like gems,
Or showery sparks at random flung,
Through ripening fruit and slender stems
There to the breathing blossoms clung,
Studded the glowing boughs and threw
O'er the broad bank a brilliant hue.

On—on they went; a fanning breeze
Came sighing through the balmy trees,
And undulating o'er the stream
Rose tiny wavelets, like the gleam
Of molten gold, and crested all
With a bright trembling coronal,
Like that which Brahmins in their dream
Lavish upon the sacred stream.
Then all grew still. The sultry air
Lay stagnant in the jungles there—
The sun poured down his fervent heat;
The river lay a burnished sheet;
The floweret closed its withered bell;
From the parched leaf the insect fell;
The panting birds all tuneless clung
To the still boughs, where late they sung;
The dying blossoms felt the calm,
And the still air was thick with balm.
All things grew faint in that hot noon,
As Nature's self lay in a swoon.

And she, that gentle, loving fair,
How brooks her form the sultry air?
Most patiently—but see her now!
What fear convulses her pale brow?
And why that half-averted eye,
Watching his look so anxiously?
The scarlet burning in his cheek—
Those lips all parched and motionless?
Oh! do they fell disease bespeak?
Or only simple weariness?
One look! the dreadful certainty
Wrings from her heart a stifled cry;
And now half phrensied with despair,
She rends the blossoms from her hair,
And leaping to the vessel's side
She drenched them in the sluggish tide;
Then to the cushions where he lay,
Senseless and fevered with disease,
Panting his very life away,
She rushed, and sinking to her knees,
Raised softly up his throbbing head,
And pillowed it upon her breast—
Then on his burning forehead laid
The dripping flowers, and wildly pressed
Her pallid mouth upon his brow,
And drew him closer to her heart,
As if she thought each trembling throe
Could unto his, new life impart.
Wildly to his she laid her cheek,
And backward threw her loosened hair,
That not a glossy curl might break
From off his face the sluggish air.
The noon swept by, and there was she
Counting his pulses as they rose,
Striving with broken melody
To hush him to a short repose,
Bathing his brow and twining still
Her fingers in his burning hand,
Her heart's blood stopping with a chill
Whene'er he could not understand,
Nor answer to her gentle clasp;
But dashed that little hand away,
Or crushed it with delirious grasp,
Entreating tenderly her stay.
Father of heaven! and must he die?
She breathed in her heart's agony,
As up with every painful breath,
Came to his lips the foam of death,
And o'er his swollen forehead played,
Like serpents by the sun betrayed,
The corded veins whose purple swell,
With his hot pulses rose and fell.