The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 3

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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 sh.o.r.e, Where friends and parents dwell:-- But far, alas! from such sh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+p whose shadow lay Unmoved upon the watery way.

In the madness of that dismal hour, When the shrieking s.h.i.+p 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.

So lightly doth this little boat Upon the scarce-touch'd billows float, So careless doth she seem to be Thus left by herself on the homeless sea, That, while the happy lovers gaze On her, the hope of happier days Steals unawares, like Heaven's own breath O'er souls that were prepared for death.

They gaze on her, till she appears To understand their grateful tears; To lie there with her idle sail Till Heaven should send some gracious gale, Some gentle spirit of the deep, With motion soft and swift as sleep, To waft them to some pleasant cave In the unknown gardens of the wave, That, hid from every human eye, Are happy in the smiling sky, And in their beauty win the love Of every orb that s.h.i.+nes above.

Fitz-Owen from his dream awakes, And gently in his arms he takes His gentle Maid, as a shepherd kind Brings from the killing mountain wind A snow-white lamb, and lets it rest In sleep and beauty on his breast.

And now the gentle fearless Maid Within the boat at rest is laid: Her limbs recline as if in sleep, Though almost resting on the deep; On his dear bosom leans her head, And through her long hair, wildly spread O'er all her face, her melting eyes Are lifted upwards to the skies, As if she pray'd that Heaven would save The arms that fold her, from the grave.

The boat hath left the lonesome rock, And tries the wave again, And on she glides without a fear, So beauteous is the Main.

Her little sail beneath the sun Gleams radiant as the snow, And o'er the gently-heaving swell Bounds like a mountain-roe.

In that frail bark the Lovers sit, With steadfast face and silent breath, Following the guiding hope of life, Yet reconciled to death.

His arm is round her tender side, That moves beneath the press, With a mingled beat of solemn awe And virgin tenderness.

They speak not:--but the inward flow Of faith and dread, and joy and wo, Each from the other hears: Long, long they gaze with meeting eyes, Then lift them slowly to the skies Steep'd in imploring tears.

And ever, as the rock recedes, They feel their spirits rise; And half forget that the smiling sea Caused all their miseries.

Yet safe to them is the trackless brine As some well-known and rural road Paced in their childhood;--for they love Each other, and believe in G.o.d.

And well might the refulgent day These Ocean Pilgrims chear, And make them feel as if the glades Of home itself were near.

For a living sentiment of joy, Such as doth sleep on hill and vale When the friendly sun comes from his clouds The vernal bloom to hail,-- Plays on the Ocean's sparkling breast, That, half in motion, half at rest, Like a happy thing doth lie; Breathing that fresh and fragrant air, And seeming in that slumber fair The Brother of the Sky.

Hues brighter than the ruby-stone With radiance gem his wavy zone, A million hues, I ween: Long dazzling lines of snowy white, Fantastic wreath'd with purple light, Or bathed in richest green.

The flying fish, on wings of gold, Skims through the sunny ray, Then, like the rainbow's dying gleam, In the clear wave melts away.

And all the beauteous joy seems made For that dauntless Youth and sainted Maid, Whom G.o.d and Angels love: Comfort is in the helm, the sail, The light, the clouds, the sea, the gale, Around, below, above.

And thus they sail, and sail along, Without one thought of fear; As calm as if the boatman's song Awoke an echoing chear, O'er the hills that stretch in sylvan pride On the Bala Lake's romantic side.

And lo! beneath the mellowing light, That trembles between day and night Before the Sun's decline, As to the touch of fairy-hand Upstarting dim the nameless land Extends its mountain line.

It is no cloud that steadfast lies Between the Ocean and the Skies; No image of a cloud, that flings Across the deep its shadowy wings; Such as oft cheats with visions fair The heart of home-sick mariner.

It is the living Earth! They see From the sh.o.r.e a smile of amity That gently draws them on, Such a smile as o'er all Nature glows At a summer evening's fragrant close, When the winds and rain are gone.

The self-moved boat appears to seek With gladsome glide a home-like creek, In the centre of a bay, Which the calm and quiet hills surround, And touch'd by waves without a sound, Almost as calm as they.

And, what if here fierce savage men Glare on them from some darksome den?-- What would become of this most helpless Maid?

Fitz-Owen thinks:--but in her eye So calmly bright, he can descry That she is not afraid Of savage men, or monsters wild, But is sublimely reconciled To meet and bear her destiny.

A gentle ripling on the sand-- One stroke of the dexterous oar-- The sail is furl'd: the boat is moor'd: And the Lovers walk the sh.o.r.e.

To them it is an awful thought, From the wild world of waters brought By G.o.d's protecting hand, When every Christian soul was lost, On that unknown, but beauteous coast, As in a dream to stand.

While their spirits with devotion burn, Their faces to the sea they turn, That lately seem'd their grave; And bless, in murmurs soft and low, The beautiful, the halcyon glow, That bathes the evening wave.

Before the setting sun they kneel, And through the silent air, To Him who dwells on that throne of light They pour their souls in prayer.

Their thoughts are floating, like the clouds That seek the beauteous West, Their gentleness, their peace the same, The same their home of rest.

Now Night hath come with the cooling breeze, And these Lovers still are on their knees.

THE ISLE OF PALMS.

CANTO THIRD.

Oh! many are the beauteous isles Unknown to human eye, That, sleeping 'mid the Ocean-smiles, In happy silence lie.

The s.h.i.+p may pa.s.s them in the night, Nor the sailors know what a lovely sight Is resting on the Main; Some wandering s.h.i.+p who hath lost her way, And never, or by night or day, Shall pa.s.s these isles again.

There, groves that bloom in endless spring Are rustling to the radiant wing Of birds, in various plumage bright As rainbow-hues, or dawning light.

Soft-falling showers of blossoms fair Float ever on the fragrant air, Like showers of vernal snow, And from the fruit-tree, spreading tall, The richly ripen'd cl.u.s.ters fall Oft as sea-breezes blow.

The sun and clouds alone possess The joy of all that loveliness; And sweetly to each other smile The live-long day--sun, cloud, and isle.

How silent lies each shelter'd bay!

No other visitors have they To their sh.o.r.es of silvery sand, Than the waves that, murmuring in their glee, All hurrying in a joyful band Come dancing from the sea.

How did I love to sigh and weep For those that sailed upon the deep, When, yet a wondering child, I sat alone at dead of night, Hanging all breathless with delight O'er their adventures wild!

Trembling I heard of dizzy shrouds, Where up among the raving clouds The sailor-boy must go; Thunder and lightning o'er his head!

And, should he fall--O thought of dread!

Waves mountain-high below.

How leapt my heart with wildering fears, Gazing on savage islanders Ranged fierce in long canoe, Their poison'd spears, their war-attire, And plumes twined bright, like wreaths of fire, Round brows of dusky hue!

What tears would fill my wakeful eyes When some delicious paradise (As if a cloud had roll'd On a sudden from the bursting sun) Freshening the Ocean where it shone, Flung wide its groves of gold!

No more the pining Mariner In feverish anguish raves, For like an angel, kind and fair, That smiles, and smiling saves, The glory charms away distress, Serene in silent loveliness Amid the dash of waves.

And wouldst thou think it hard to dwell Alone within some sylvan cell, Some fragrant arch of flowers, Raised like a queen with gracious smile In the midst of this her subject isle, This labyrinth of bowers?

Could the fair earth, and fairer skies, Clouds, breezes, fountains, groves, To banish from thy heart suffice, All thought of deeper loves?

Or wouldst thou pine thy life away, To kiss once more the blessed ray That s.h.i.+nes in human eyes?

What though the cl.u.s.tering roses came Like restless gleams of magic flame, As if they loved thy feet, To win thee like a summer sprite, With purest touches of delight, To the Fairy Queen's retreat!

Oh! they would bloom and wither too, And melt their pearls of radiant dew, Without one look from thee: What pleasure could that beauty give, Which, of all mortal things that live, None but thyself may see?

And where are the birds that cheer'd thine eyes With wings and crests of rainbow dyes, That wont for aye to glide Like sun-beams through the shady bowers, Charming away the happy hours With songs of love or pride?

Soon, soon thou hatest this Paradise; It seems the soul hath fled That made it fairer than the skies, And a joyful beauty shed O'er the tremor of the circling wave, That now with restless moans and sighs, Sounds like the dirge-song of the dead, Dim breaking round a grave.

But she thou lovest is at thy side, The Island Queen becomes thy bride, And G.o.d and Nature sanctify the vow; Air, Earth, and Ocean smile once more, And along the forest-fringed sh.o.r.e, What mirth and music now!

What warm and heavenly tints illume The land that lately seem'd a tomb Where thou wert left to die!

So bathed in joy this earth appears To him, who, blind for lingering years, At last beholds the sky.

Thy heart was like an untouch'd lyre, Silent as death--Let the trembling wire The hand that knows its spirit feel; And list! What melting murmurs steal Like incense to the realms above, Such sounds as parted souls might love.

And now if a home-bound vessel lay At anchor in yon beauteous bay, 'Till the land-breeze her canva.s.s wings should swell, From the sweet Isle thou scarce would'st part, But, when thou didst, thy lingering heart Would sadly say, "Farewell!"

In such a fairy Isle now pray'd Fitz-Owen and his darling Maid.

The setting sun, with a pensive glow, Had bathed their foreheads bending low, Nor ceased their voice, or the breath of their prayer, Till the moonlight lay on the mellow'd air.

Then from the leaves they calmly rose, As after a night of calm repose, And Mary lean'd her face With a sob of joy on her Lover's breast, Who with kind tones the Maiden press'd In a holy pure embrace.

And gently he kiss'd her tearful eyes, And bade her heart lie still, For there was a power in the gracious skies, To s.h.i.+eld their saints from ill.

Then, guided by the moon-light pale, They walk'd into a sylvan vale, Soft, silent, warm, and deep; And there beneath her languid head, The silken wither'd leaves he spread, That she might sweetly sleep.

Then down he sat by her tender side, And, as she lay, with soft touch dried The stealing tears she could not hide; Till sleep, like a faint shadow, fell O'er the husht face he loved so well, And smiling dreams were given To cheer her heart; then down he laid His limbs beside the sleeping Maid, In the face of the starry Heaven.

Sleep fell upon their wearied souls With a power as deep as death, Scarce trembled Mary's floating hair In her Lover's tranquil breath.