To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled—
I heard her heart beat-if 'twere not my own.
Sandoval. A rude and scaring note my friend!
Earl Henry.
Oh! no!
I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love:
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,
Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy.
The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
Like eyes suffused with rapture.-Life was in us:
We were all life, each atom of our frames
A living soul-I vowed to die for her:
With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,
Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it :
That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,
A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure,
Deep self-possession, an intense repose.
Sandoval [with a sarcastic smile.] No other than as eastern sages paint,
The god, who floats upon a lotos leaf,
Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,
Feared as an alien, and too vast for man?
For suddenly, impatient of its silence,
Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.
I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them.
Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice ;-
"Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?"
I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed
The purpose and the substance of my being,
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,
I would exchange my unblenched state with hers.—
Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower
1 now will go-all objects there will teach me
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her—
Say nothing of me-I myself will seek her-
Nay, leave me friend! I cannot bear the torment
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye.-
[Earl Henry retires into the wood.] Sandoval [alone.] O Henry! always striv'st thou
By thine own act-yet art thou never great
But by the inspiration of great passion.
The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up
And shape themselves: from earth to heaven
they stand,
As though they were the pillars of a temple,
Built by Omnipotence in its own honour!
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit
Is fled the mighty columns were but sand,
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins!
WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER INNOCENCE.
MYRTLE-LEAF that ill besped,
Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soiled beneath the common tread,
Far from thy protecting spray!
When the partridge o'er the sheaf
Whirred along the yellow vale,
Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!
Love the dalliance of the gale.
Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!
Heave and flutter to his sighs,
While the flatterer, on his wing,
Wooed and whispered thee to rise.
Gaily from thy mother-stalk
Wert thou danced and wafted high
Soon on this unsheltered walk
Flung to fade, to rot and die.
TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE THEATRE.
MAIDEN, that with sullen brow
Sits behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorched and mildewed bough,
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!
Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,
Fearful saw his pleading look,
Anxious heard his fervid phrase.
Soft the glances of the youth,
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;
But no sound like simple truth,
But no true love in his eye.
Loathing thy polluted lot,
Hie thee, maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping mother's cot,
With a wiser innocence.
Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is woe:
With a musing melancholy
Inly armed, go, maiden! go.
Mother sage of self-dominion,
Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion
Is the memory of past folly.
Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
While she moults the firstling plumes,
That had skimmed the tender corn,
Or the beanfield's odorous blooms.
Soon with renovated wing
Shall she dare a loftier flight,
Upward to the day-star spring,
And embathe in heavenly light.
LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM.
NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast, In intricacies of laborious song.
These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;
But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain
Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment.
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