The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 7

It is not doom'd that she must mourn For ever;--One may yet return Who soon will dry her tears: And now that seven long years are flown, Though spent in anguish and alone, How short the time appears!

She looks upon the billowy Main, And the parting-day returns again; Each breaking wave she knows; And when she listens to the tide, Her child seems standing by her side; So like the past it flows.

She starts to hear the city-bell; So toll'd it when they wept farewell!

She thinks the self-same smoke and cloud The city domes and turrets shroud; The same keen flash of ruddy fire Is burning on the lofty spire; The grove of masts is standing there Unchanged, with all their ensigns fair; The same, the stir, the tumult, and the hum, As from the city to the sh.o.r.e they come.

Day after day, along the beach she roams, And evening finds her there, when to their homes All living things have gone.

No terrors hath the surge or storm For her;--on glides the aged form, Still restless and alone.

Familiar unto every eye She long hath been: her low deep sigh Hath touch'd with pity many a thoughtless breast: And prayers, unheard by her, are given, That in its mercy watchful Heaven Would send the aged rest.

As on the smooth and harden'd sand, In many a gay and rosy band, Gathering rare sh.e.l.ls, delighted children stray, With pitying gaze they pa.s.s along, And hush at once the shout and song, When they chance to cross her way.

The strangers, as they idly pace Along the beach, if her they meet, No more regard the sea: her face Attracts them by its solemn grace, So mournful, yet so sweet.

The boisterous sailor pa.s.ses by With softer step, and o'er his eye A haze will pa.s.s most like unto a tear; For he hath heard, that, broken-hearted, Long, long ago, that mother parted With her lost daughter here.

Such kindness soothes her soul, I ween, As through the harbour's busy scene, She pa.s.ses weak and slow.

A comfort sad it brings to see That others pity her, though free Themselves from care or woe.

The playful voice of streams and rills, The echo of the cavern'd hills, The murmur of the trees, The bleat of sheep, the song of bird, Within her soul no more are heard; There, sound for aye the seas.

Seldom she hears the ceaseless din That stirs the busy port. Within A murmur dwells, that drowns all other sound: And oft, when dreaming of her child, Her tearful eyes are wandering wild, Yet nought behold around.

But hear and see she must this day; Her sickening spirit must obey The flas.h.i.+ng and the roar That burst from fort, and s.h.i.+p, and tower, While clouds of gloomy splendour lower O'er city, sea, and sh.o.r.e.

The pier-head, with a restless crowd, Seems all alive; there, voices loud Oft raise the thundrous cheer, While, from on board the s.h.i.+ps of war, The music bands both near and far, Are playing, faint or clear.

The bells ring quick a joyous peal, Till the very spires appear to feel The joy that stirs throughout their tapering height: Ten thousand flags and pendants fly Abroad, like meteors in the sky, So beautiful and bright.

And, while the storm of pleasure raves Through each tumultuous street, Still strikes the ear one darling tune, Sung hoa.r.s.e, or warbled sweet; Well doth it suit the First of June, "Britannia rule the Waves!"

What s.h.i.+p is she that rises slow Above the horizon?--White as snow, And cover'd as she sails By the bright suns.h.i.+ne, fondly woo'd In her calm beauty, and pursued By all the Ocean gales?

Well doth she know this glorious morn, And by her subject waves is borne, As in triumphal pride: And now the gazing crowd descry, Distinctly floating on the sky, Her pendants long and wide.

The outward forts she now hath pa.s.s'd; Loftier and loftier towers her mast; You almost hear the sound Of the billows rus.h.i.+ng past her sides, As giant-like she calmly glides Through the dwindled s.h.i.+ps around.

Saluting thunders rend the Main!

Short silence!--and they roar again, And veil her in a cloud: Then up leap all her fearless crew, And cheer till sh.o.r.e, and city too, With echoes answer loud.

In peace and friends.h.i.+p doth she come, Rejoicing to approach her home, After absence long and far: Yet with like calmness would she go, Exulting to behold the foe, And break the line of war.

While all the n.o.ble s.h.i.+p admire, Why doth One from the crowd retire, Nor bless the stranger bright?

So look'd the s.h.i.+p that bore away Her weeping child! She dares not stay, Death-sickening at the sight.

Like a ghost, she wanders up and down Throughout the still deserted town, Wondering, if in that noisy throng, Amid the shout, the dance, the song, One wretched heart there may not be, That hates its own mad revelry!

One mother, who hath lost her child, Yet in her grief is reconciled To such unmeaning sounds as these!

Yet this may be the mere disease Of grief with her: for why destroy The few short hours of human joy, Though Reason own them not?--"Shout on," she cries, "Ye thoughtless, happy souls! A mother's sighs Must not your bliss profane.

Yet blind must be that mother's heart Who loves thee, beauteous as thou art, Thou Glory of the Main!"

Towards the church-yard see the Matron turn!

There surely she in solitude may mourn, Tormented not by such distracting noise.

But there seems no peace for her this day, For a crowd advances on her way, As if no spot were sacred from their joys.

--Fly not that crowd! for Heaven is there!

It breathes around thee in the air, Even now, when unto dim despair Thy heart was sinking fast: A cruel lot hath long been thine; But now let thy face with rapture s.h.i.+ne, For bliss awaiteth thee divine, And all thy woes are past.

Dark words she hears among the crowd, Of a s.h.i.+p that hath on board Three Christian souls, who on the coast Of some wild land were wreck'd long years ago, When all but they were in a tempest lost, And now by Heaven are rescued from their woe, And to their country wondrously restored.

The name, the blessed name, she hears, Of that beloved Youth, Whom once she called her son; but fears To listen more, for it appears Too heavenly for the truth.

And they are speaking of a child, Who looks more beautifully wild Than pictured fairy in Arabian tale; Wondrous her foreign garb, they say, Adorn'd with starry plumage gay, While round her head tall feathers play, And dance with every gale.

Breathless upon the beach she stands, And lifts to Heaven her clasped hands, And scarcely dares to turn her eye On yon gay barge fast-rus.h.i.+ng by.

The das.h.i.+ng oar disturbs her brain With hope, that sickens into pain.

The boat appears so wondrous fair, Her daughter must be sitting there!

And as her gilded prow is dancing Through the land-swell, and gaily glancing Beneath the sunny gleams, Her heart must own, so sweet a sight, So form'd to yield a strange delight, She ne'er felt even in dreams.

Silent the music of the oar!

The eager sailors leap on sh.o.r.e, And look, and gaze around, If 'mid the crowd they may descry A wife's, a child's, a kinsman's eye, Or hear one family sound.

--No sailor, he, so fondly pressing Yon fair child in his arms, Her eyes, her brow, her bosom kissing, And bidding her with many a blessing To hush her vain alarms.

How fair that creature by his side, Who smiles with languid glee, Slow-kindling from a mother's pride!

Oh! Thou alone may'st be The mother of that fairy-child: These tresses dark, these eyes so wild, That face with spirit beautified, She owes them all to thee.

Silent and still the sailors stand, To see the meeting strange that now befel.

Unwilling sighs their manly bosoms swell, And o'er their eyes they draw the sun-burnt hand, To hide the tears that grace their cheeks so well.

They lift the aged Matron from her swoon, And not one idle foot is stirring there; For unto pity melts the sailor soon, And chief when helpless woman needs his care.

She wakes at last, and with a placid smile, Such as a saint might on her death-bed give, Speechless she gazes on her child awhile, Content to die since that dear one doth live.

And much they fear that she indeed will die!

So cold and pale her cheek, so dim her eye;-- And when her voice returns, so like the breath It sounds, the low and tremulous tones of death.

Mark her distracted daughter seize Her clay-cold hands, and on her knees Implore that G.o.d would spare her h.o.a.ry head; For sure, through these last lingering years, By one so good, enough of tears Hath long ere now been shed.

The Fairy-child is weeping too; For though her happy heart can slightly know What she hath never felt, the pang of woe, Yet to the holy power of Nature true, From her big heart the tears of pity flow, As infant morning sheds the purest dew.

Nought doth Fitz-Owen speak: he takes His reverend mother on his filial breast, Nor fears that, when her worn-out soul finds rest In the new sleep of undisturbed love, The gracious G.o.d who sees them from above, Will save the parent for her children's sakes.

Nor vain his pious hope: the strife Of rapture ends, and she returns to life, With added beauty smiling in the lines By age and sorrow left upon her face.

Her eye, even now bedimm'd with anguish, s.h.i.+nes With brightening glory, and a holy sense In her husht soul of heavenly providence, Breathes o'er her bending frame a loftier grace.

--Her Mary tells in simple phrase, Of wildest perils past in former days, Of s.h.i.+pwreck scarce remember'd by herself: Then will she speak of that delightful isle Where long they lived in love, and to the elf Now fondly clinging to her grandam's knee, In all the love of quick-won infancy, Point with the triumph of a mother's smile.

The sweet child then will tell her tale Of her own blossom'd bower, and palmy vale, And birds with golden plumes, that sweetly sing Tunes of their own, or borrow'd from her voice; And, as she speaks, lo! flits with gorgeous wing Upon her outstretch'd arm, a fearless bird, Her eye obeying, ere the call was heard, And wildly warbles there the music of its joys.

Unto the blessed matron's eye How changed seem now town, sea, and sky!

She feels as if to youth restored, Such fresh and beauteous joy is pour'd O'er the green dancing waves, and sh.e.l.ly sand.

The crowded masts within the harbour stand, Emblems of rest: and yon s.h.i.+ps far away, Brightening the entrance of the Crescent-bay, Seem things the tempest never can destroy, To longing spirits harbingers of joy.

How sweet the music o'er the waves is borne, In celebration of this glorious morn!

Ring on, ye bells! most pleasant is your chime; And the quick flash that bursts along the sh.o.r.e, The volumed smoke, and city-shaking roar, Her happy soul now feels to be sublime.

How fair upon the human face appears A kindling smile! how idle all our tears!

Short-sighted still the moisten'd eyes of sorrow: To-day our woes can never end, Think we!--returns a long-lost friend, And we are blest to-morrow.

Her anguish, and her wish to die, Now seem like worst impiety, For many a year she hopeth now to live; And G.o.d, who sees the inmost breast, The vain repining of the sore-distrest, In mercy will forgive.

How oft, how long, and solemnly, Fitz-Owen and his Mary gaze On her pale cheek, and sunken eye!

Much alter'd since those happy days, When scarcely could themselves behold One symptom faint that she was waxing old.

That evening of her life how bright!

But now seems falling fast the night.

Yet the Welch air will breathe like balm Through all her wasted heart, the heavenly calm That mid her native mountains sleeps for ever, In the deep vales,--even when the storms are roaring, High up among the cliffs: and that sweet river That round the white walls of her cottage flows, With gliding motion most like to repose, A quicker current to her blood restoring, Will cheer her long before her eye-lids close.

And yonder cheek of rosy light, Dark-cl.u.s.tering hair, and star-like eyes, And Fairy-form, that wing'd with rapture flies, And voice more wild than songstress of the night E'er pour'd unto the listening skies; Yon spirit, who, with her angel smile, Shed Heaven around the lonely isle, With Nature, and with Nature's art, Will twine herself about the heart Of her who hoped not for a grand-child's kiss!

These looks will scare disease and pain, Till in her wasted heart again Life grow with new-born bliss.

Far is the city left behind, And faintly-smiling through the soft-blue skies, Like castled clouds the Cambrian hills arise: Sweet the first welcome of the mountain-wind!

And ever nearer as they come, Beneath the hastening shades of silent Even, Some old familiar object meets their sight, Thrilling their hearts with sorrowful delight, Until through tears they hail their blessed home, Bathed in the mist, confusing earth with heaven.

With solemn gaze the aged matron sees The green roof laughing beneath greener trees; And thinks how happy she will live and die Within that cot at last, beneath the eye Of them long wept as perish'd in the seas.

And what feel they? with dizzy brain they look On cot, field, mountain, garden, tree, and brook, With none contented, although loving all; While deep-delighted memory, By faint degrees, and silently, Doth all their names recall.

And looking in her mother's face, With smiles of most bewitching grace, In a wild voice that wondering pleasure calms, Exclaims the child, "Is this home ours?

Ah me! how like these lovely flowers To those I train'd upon the bowers Of our own Isle of Palms!"

Husht now these island-bowers as death!

And ne'er may human foot or breath, Their dew disturb again: but not more still Stand they, o'er-shadowed by their palmy hill, Than this deserted cottage! O'er the green, Once smooth before the porch, rank weeds are seen, Choking the feebler flowers: with blossoms h.o.a.r, And verdant leaves, the unpruned eglantine In wanton beauty foldeth up the door.

And through the cl.u.s.tering roses that entwine The lattice-window, neat and trim before, The setting sun's slant beams no longer s.h.i.+ne.

The hive stands on the ivied tree, But murmurs not one single bee; Frail looks the osier-seat, and grey, None hath sat there for many a day; And the dial, hid in weeds and flowers, Hath told, by none beheld, the solitary hours.

No birds that love the haunts of men, Hop here, or through the garden sing; From the thick-matted hedge, the lonely wren Flits rapid by on timid wing, Even like a leaf by wandering zephyr moved.

But long it is since that sweet bird, That twitters 'neath the cottage eaves, Was here by listening morning heard: For she, the summer-songstress, leaves The roof by laughter never stirr'd, Still loving human life, and by it still beloved.