THE LEGEND OF THE FLOURE OF
AUTHOR OF THE "WANDERER'S LEGACY," "SAPPHO,"
WHO hath not known and loved thee too,
Thou sweet memorial flower!
Rearing thy crest of the turquoise blue
In the young spring's balmiest bower.
Not the rose of June, the garden's queen,
Nor the lily her rival there,
Nor the sunflower that aye to her God hath been
Faithful as woman fair,
Hath so fond or so sad a celebrity
As the lays of romance have given to thee,
Linking thee with those golden times
When e'en discourteous thoughts were crimes,
When nought beneath the heavens above
Was held so dear as woman's love.
There is a legend, wild and sweet,
Writ on chivalric page,
A tale with love and woe replete,
This meek flower's heritage.
And could I touch with skilful hand
The rich romantic lute,
Or like some minstrels of the land
Breathe an enchanted flute,
Such legend no unworthy theme
Of lady's list'ning ear might seem.
Or could I with a painter's art
A picture to the eye impart,
Then would my gifted pencil trace
The vale, in its Arcadian grace,
Where, in an age that now doth dwell
Alone in antique chronicle,
The tragic theme of this brief song
Was acted and remember'd long.
But though no power have I to call
Shapes from oblivion's icy thrall,
Gaze thou on fancy's magic glass,
Behold the vision ere it pass,
And say what seest thou? I will be
A true interpreter to thee.
The calm clear bosom of a lake
Curv'd into many a bay,
O'er which no breezes rise to break
Waves into silver spray.
An amphitheatre of hills
Sloping to gentle shores,
And sending down unnumber'd rills
With tributary stores;
Such the fair features of the scene
Mantled in summer's festive green.
An island like an emerald gem,
On some proud monarch's diadem,
Decks the bright lake, and birds and flowers
Live in its cool umbrageous bowers;
And gracefully the swan sails round,
The genius of the mystic ground.
A grove of ancient cedars forms
The lakes far boundary,
Whose giant height might mock the storms
Of winter's wildest sky;
Gloomy and grand their foliage throws
Shade on the water's deep repose;
While on their stately stems a gleam
The crimson west yet pours,
Like the strange splendour of a dream,
Or a bard's Aonian hours.
And lo! down wending through a glade,
Where art and nature have displayed
Their rival powers, allied by love,
Two figures in the sunlight move :
I see the plumed crest of a knight
And a maiden's robe of stainless white.
He is of chivalry the pride,
And she his young betrothed bride.
From yonder lordly mansion, hid
The old ancestral woods amid,
Save one grey turret, dimly seen,
The high o'erarching boughs between,
The lovers stealthily have come
Here in the calm clear eve to roam.
What though the sounds of proud joyance,
Of harpings, and the echoing dance,
Ring blithely on the stirless air,
Telling of mirth and music there;
The song, and the dance, and the festival,
How gladly have they left them all
To rove by the lovely sunset lake,
Whose slumberous chain not a breath doth break.
Though the wine-cup sparkles, and torches shine
Through those halls like the flash of an Indian mine,
A holier, heavenlier atmosphere
Of love's own light is around them here;
And love's own spirit about them floats,
Pour'd in the ring-dove's melting notes,
In the lay of the impassion'd nightingale,
In the linnet's fond connubial tale,
In the scents that a thousand flowers exhale,
The rose and the myrtle's mingling breath,
And the meek crush'd violet's odorous death,
And the nymphlike lily, offering up
Pure incense in her crystal cup.
High born and nursing fancies wild,
Now maiden coy, now sportive child;
'Oh, I could soon a volume swell,
With portraiture of Isabel.
For aye the same, yet changeful ever,
Like the wild flow of mountain river;
She was a sweet enigma seal'd
To be by love alone reveal'd,
For in her bosom's pure recess
Dwelt all a woman's tenderness.
It was their bridal-eve, the morrow
Would fuller bliss from Hymen borrow;
Though never, e'en in wedded joy,
Might sweeter thoughts their minds employ. How did his ravish'd soul rejoice
In the rich music of her voice!
And gazed he with idolatry
On the clear radiance of her eye,
As though in its deep fount he sought
To read some still unutter'd thought,
Or win from her some fond request
That might put fealty to test.
His prayer was granted-on the isle,
Where brightest lay the evening's smile,
A starry flower of turquoise blue
Midst the white water-lilies grew;
And-was it fate that did inspire
The maiden with that strange desire ?
Or was it wantonness of power,
Too oft fair woman's dangerous dower,
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