The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Vow of the Peacock Second Canto
SECOND CANTO.
Oh! fairest of the viewless powers
That guide the fairy fall of night,
The last and loveliest of the hours
That blush away the lingering light.
The twilight, when our earth seems blending
Its human passion with the skies;
And rosy clouds, above ascending,
Wear mortal colours while they rise,
Till, purified, they disappear
Amid the high pale atmosphere.
The twilight melts upon the air,—
But what hath it with earth to do?
Only the spreading sea is there,
With heaven above to close the view.
But yet a passionate emotion
Stirs the warm depths of sky and ocean;
And not a cloud, and not a surge,
But bears a blush upon its verge.
Softly the crimson shadows fall
Around the cabin's tapestried wall;
Where, with the rich light round her dying,
On silken couch the queen is lying;
For, with its proud, yet graceful state,
That ship is worthy of its freight.
Upon her arm Irene bends,
Her long gold hair like light descends;
While the soft shades of evening fling
A richer darkness on each ring.
She looks around, 'tis not to watch
The purple phantasies of eve;
She listens, it is not to catch
The music which the waters weave;
For, with a low, perpetual sound,
The haunted waves are dashing round.
A face is present to her eye,
A voice is ringing in her ear;
Ah! love brings many an object nigh
The heart alone can see and hear.
Her broidery aside is flung,
Aside the small seed pearls she strung;
She will not touch her lute's hush'd chords,
She will not list her maiden's words.
The shadows on her eyelids press
Of Love's delicious idleness.
Amid her train there was a page,
A Moorish youth of tender age
A delicate, pale orphan flung
Too soon the world's rude paths among:
Friendless, save one old harper's care;
Too young to strive, too weak to bear
The many evils that await
The lonely path—the low estate.
Irene's tenderness was moved,
And soon her gentle page she loved.
He was so timid, and so weak,
The tears so soon on his dark cheek,
O'er which the frequent blushes came,
Like night lit up with sudden flame;
And with a voice!—such tones may dwell
Where the wave whispers to the shell,
Half song, half sigh—such music hung
On that young Moor's enchanted tongue.
He sat apart—around his head
Was bound a shawl of deepest red,
Which hid his brow, and gave his eye
A wilder light with its fierce dye;
A foreign lute was in his hand—
Small, dark—his southern sun had tann'd
All colours, those, the soft and frail,
Into an olive, clear and pale.
She marked the lute, and bade him sing
One of those songs so much his own;
Where a sweet sadness woke the string,
Till sorrow's self might claim the tone.
'Tis strange, the happy and the young,
At whose feet life its flowers hath flung—
Whose future like a dream appears,
Yet only ask the lute for tears.
Instinct of sorrow, that prepares
Its sympathy before it shares.
He took his lute—his voice was low,
So lapsing waters softly flow
Amid the drooping flowers around,
As if they turned their sighs to sound.
Ah, magic! of a voice that seems
To haunt the soul with hopes and dreams;
Which gives to minstrel words the power
And passion of their early hour,
When in their sweetness first they came,
And turned the heart they filled to flame;—
Such soft, sad voice can give the lay
All that its poet meant to say.
SONG.
Oh! cast that shadow from thy brow,
My dark-eyed love! be glad awhile:
Has Leila's song no music now?
Is there no charm in Leila's smile?
There are young roses in my hair,
And morn and spring are on their bloom;
Yet you have breathed their fragrant air,
Like some cold vapour from the tomb.
There stands the vase of crystal light,
Vein'd with the red wine's crimson stains:
Has the grape lost its spell to-night?
For there the cup, untouch'd, remains.
I took my lute for one sad song;
I sang it, though my heart was wrung—
The sad, sweet notes we've loved so long—
You listened not, though Leila sung.
I pressed my pale, pale cheek to thine;
Though it was wet with many tears,
No pressure came to answer mine,—
No murmur breathed to soothe my fears.
Ah! silent still? then know I all!
I know that we shall part at last!
In mercy, gentle Heaven, recall
Only the memory of the past.
Ah! never did the first June flower
Bare purer bosom to the bee,
Than that which yielded to love's power,
And gave its sweetest wealth to thee.
'Twas a new life—the earth—the sky—
Seemed to grow fairer for thy sake;
But this is gone—oh, destiny!
My heart is withered—let it break!
My garden will lie desolate;
My flowers will die; my birds will pine:
All I once loved I now shall hate;—
With thee changed every thing of mine.
Oh! speak not now—it mocks my heart;
How can hope live when love is o'er?
I only feel that we must part;
I only know—we meet no more!
Never that youthful Moor had lent
The plaining lute o'er which he bent
More sweetness than he gave those chords—
The lady hath not heard the words.
Upon her cheek the rose is bright,
Her eyes are lit with inward light;
Leoni's stately step is near,
What other music can she hear?
Her heart that distant sound has stirr'd,
Ere others but its echo heard.
He comes to say that they can see
The island darkening on the air;
The while their welcome seems to be,
The perfume which these breezes bear—
Breezes that bring from myrtle groves
The memory of their former loves,
When the first poets filled the earth
With dreams which in themselves have birth.
Irene lean'd and watched the isle,
At least she seemed to watch the while;
But the faint smile her rose-lip wore
Was never given to sea or shore.
She looked, but saw not—that soft eye
Had sweeter fancies flitting by.
She felt the look she could not meet,
She dropped beneath Leoni's gaze;
Ah! never words can be so sweet
As silence which itself betrays.
Yes, love has happy hours, which rise
O'er earth as over Paradise.
Hours which o'er life's worst darkness fling
Colours as from an angel's wing,
Which gild the common, soothe the drear,
Bring heaven down to earth's cold sphere;
But never has it such an hour
As in its first unspoken power.
No hue has faded from its bloom,
No light has fallen from its plume—
No after-fear, no common care,
Has weighed on its enchanted air.
Mortality forgets its thrall;
It stands a thing apart from all—
A thing, alas! too soon to be
Numbered amid the things that were,
As morning hues upon the sea
Fade as they never had been there.
But ere those charmed lights depart—
There is no future for the heart.
They leaned upon that vessel's side,
That youthful lady and the knight,
Till one by one from ocean's tide
The stars had risen into light.
She told him of that lovely clime,
She told him of her childhood's time;
Not much the words, but soft and low,
Straight to the heart such accents go;
And all was hushed, as sky and sea
Shared in the sweet tranquillity.
With half a song and half a sigh
The rippling waves went murmuring by.
The loosened sails were lightly stirr'd,
Like wings of some lone forest bird
That cannot sweep from spray to spray,
Nor waken music on its way.
While all around seems spell or sleep,
Why doth that dark page turn and weep?
Ah! never yet was scene so fair,
But some heart watched in its despair.
The ranks are set, the hosts are met,
The morning sunbeams shine
O'er tents with dews of night-fall wet
O'er the long warrior line.
By heaven it is a glorious thing
Upon the gallant steed to spring,
With white plume dancing o'er the crest,
With spur on heel, and spear in rest,
And sword impatient of its light,
A sun that reddens into night.
To feel the energy of strife,
The life that is so much of life,
The pulse's quickened beat—the eye,
Whose dark light kindles to defy.
By heaven it is a glorious pride
To lead the stormy battle tide.
Aye, let the crimson banner spread
So soon to wear a darker red—
Let the proud trumpet wake the air
As victory's sounding wing were there:
It is in death and danger's hour
That most existence feels its power.
And is this all?—the flush and glow—
When war's wild waves at morning flow?
Ah, no! night cometh, and she flings
The weight and darkness of her wings.
The tide has ebbed—the beach is left,
Of its bright panoply bereft;
The glittering waves that caught the sun—
Their light is past, their course is done:
The field is fought—who walketh there?—
The shadow victory casts—Despair!
For the proud chief, in shining mail,
Comes the young orphan mute and pale;
For the red banner's radiant fold,
Some maiden rends her locks of gold;
For the war steed, with bit of foam,
The image of a desolate home.
While wandering o'er the ghastly plain,
Some mother seeks her child in vain.
Ah, War! if bright thy morning's rise,
Dark is thine evening sacrifice.
But for the orphan's sacred cause,
His sword the Count Leoni draws;
And it is for a maiden's right
He leads the thickest of the fight.
It matters not who soonest fled—
Who longest fought—what numbers bled;
Enough, that evening's setting sun
Reddened above a battle won.
Dismounted from his weary steed,
That well had served the struggle's need;
A page the noble creature led,
With panting chest and drooping head.
His master came—in battle stained,
But still his stately step retained.
No more his glittering armour shone—
His helm and glancing plume were gone;
And heat and toil their darkness threw
O'er curls that lost their sunny hue;
The azure scarf which he had worn,
Afar amid the struggle borne;
By all and by himself forgot,
One only marked he wore it not.
The Moorish page! upon his brow
Is seen the only shadow now.
Forth comes the Queen—the first to yield
Due honour to the glorious field,
Which gives the sceptre to her hand,
And, more—gives back her native land.
She came—the purple evening air
Grew as her sweet face shone more fair;
She came—the flowers beneath her feet
Sprang up amid the grass more sweet.
Leoni kneels more graceful far
Than in the morning pomp of war.
Dust—paleness—blood—a charm confer;
Irene felt they were for her.
Such service might the proudest move,
And gratitude excuses love.
With queenly step, but eye that bent
Too conscious on the earth beneath;
Herself she led him to the tent
Where hung the victor's laurel wreath.
Herself unclasped the bands of steel,
Herself unbound the armed heel;
And murmured broken thanks the while,
The soft blush brightening with a smile;
Then bade him rest. Ah, looks like those
Were never heralds of repose.
He slept not; but the dreams that steep
Such sweet unrest are more than sleep.
Night came—the deep and purple time
Of summer in a southern clime.
The curtains of the tent were swayed
As the night wind among them played;
And he could see the distant sky,
Where stars in crowds uncounted lie:
And all seemed bright excepting one;
He fancied he could see it pale,
As if forsaken by its sun,
Its golden light began to fail.
A deeper sympathy there came
For that expiring shadowy flame,
Deserted by its radiant tide,
Than all the brighter stars beside.
And while his fancy worked and brought
Phantoms of many a gloomy thought,
Upon the air a song arose,
An old song with a mournful close:
A song of days far hence removed,
In childhood heard, in childhood loved.
A fitful song it was, and low
And indistinct as waters flow
When sighing leaves and flowers are near,
And yet he held his breath to hear.
SONG.
Take that singing bird away!
It has too glad a lay
For an ear so lorn as mine!
And its wings are all too light,
And its feathers all too bright,
To rest in a bosom like mine!
But bring that bird again
When winter has changed its strain:
Its pining will be sweet to me
When soil and stain are on its breast,
And its pinions droop for rest;—
Oh, then, bring that bird to me!
Together, poor bird, will pine
Over beauty and hope's decline;
Yet I'll envy in pitying thee:
Never may the months restore
The sweet spring they brought before
To me—but they will to thee!
The lute was hushed—but soon again
The singer's voice took up the strain.
One word, although that word may pass
Almost neglected by,
With no more care than what the glass
Bears of a passing sigh:
One word to breathe of love to thee,
One low, one timid word,
To say thou art beloved by me,
But rather felt than heard.
I scarcely wish thy heart were won;
Mine own, with such excess,
Would like the flower beneath the sun
Die with its happiness.
I pray for thee on bended knee,
But not for mine own sake;
My heart's best prayers are all for thee—
It prays itself to break.
Farewell! farewell! I would not leave
A single trace behind;
Why should a thought, if me to grieve,
Be left upon thy mind?
I would not have thy memory dwell
Upon one thought of pain;
And sad it must be the farewell
Of one who loved in vain.
Farewell! thy course is in the sun,
First of the young and brave;
For me,—my race is nearly run,
And its goal is the grave.
There was a sadness in the words,
There was a memory on the chords,
That to the listening warrior brought
Thoughts that he fain would not have thought.
And sudden to his lip there came
A dear, yet half forgotten name;
Forgotten as all else had been
In the sweet eyes of that young queen.
Amenaïde had often sung
The mournful airs on which he hung.
Up sprung the soldier from his rest;
His brow upon his hands he prest.
Oh, misery for the heart to prove
The strife of honour and of love!
Pale was Leoni's cheek next day,
When forth he led his brave array
In triumph through the crowded street,
Where thousands their young sovereign meet,
With loud acclaim and greeting hand,
As if she had not left their land:
Deserted in her hour of need,
With life and death upon her speed.
But now she comes—the fair, the bright,
As if her reign were a delight.
Its path of flowers, its way through song,
Rolls her triumphal car along;
Noble or vassal, each one vies
To catch the sunshine of her eyes:
And yet beneath her silver veil
The maiden's cheek is lovely pale.
Ah, on such gentle cheek is laid
The shadow of a lover's shade!
Her smile had to Leoni flown—
Alas! his answered not her own.
In that bright hour of joy and pride,
Two hearts had bitter thoughts to hide:
So waves fling up their sunlit glow,
While rocks and darkness lurk below.
Oh, weary day that seemed so long!
Oh, hours that dragged their weight along!
At last 'twas night; escaped from all
The crowds that made her splendid thrall,
The young queen sought a garden wild,
Where she had roamed a happy child—
A child that neither hopes nor fears,
Unconscious of its coming years.
She sought a little fountain playing,
With lilies mid its waters straying;
A fairy thing, that sang by night,
And gave the stars again their light.
'Twas somewhat desolate, for wide
The myrtles swept from every side,
And weeds around the margin meet—
But there the very weeds are sweet.
She sat her down, her glittering dress
Contrasting with the dark recess;
The orange buds that clustered there,
Shed their sweet leaves amid her hair;
And to the wave below her face
Lent, like a fairy gift, its grace.
Transient and fair,—e'en now 'tis past,
Some other shadow there is cast.
She started from her mossy seat,
And both stood silent, pale, and still—
Only was heard the heart's loud beat,
Only was heard the plaining rill.
Like statues placed in that lone nook,
To mock it with the human look;
And paint upon the moonlit air
The ghastly aspect of despair!
There was heart-broken silence first,
Then passionate those accents burst,
Whose utter agony of woe,
Once—only once—the heart can know!
She bade him go—for true she read
The beating of that noble heart;
Better it rested with the dead,
Than see its stainless life depart.
She bade him go—although the word
Was scarcely from her pale lip heard—
One desperate prayer, one wild caress,
And she is left in loneliness.
The darkest hours of night were spent
Before Leoni sought his tent;
Then, feverish, down he lay to ask
For sleep, as if sleep were a task;
When, lo! upon his pillow laid,
A letter, fastened by a braid
Of silken hair and golden hue,—
Ah, writing both and hair he knew!
THE LETTER.
A few last words—they are not much
To ask, my early friend, of thee;
My friend—at least thou still art such—
The dearest earth can hold for me.
Once, and once only, let me speak
Of all that I have felt for years;
You read it not upon my cheek,
You dreamed not of it in my tears.
And yet I loved thee with a love
That into every feeling came;
I never looked on heaven above
Without a prayer to bless thy name.
I had no other love to share,
That which was thine—and thine alone;
A few sad thoughts it had to spare
For those beneath the funeral stone.
But every living hope was thine,
Affection with my being grew;
Thy heart was as a home and shrine,
Familiar, and yet sacred too.
How often have I watched the spot
On which thy step had only moved;
My memory remembers not
The hour when thou wert not beloved.
I never had a grief or care
I sought not from thine eyes to hide:
In joy I said, "Ah! would he were
My pleasure sharing at my side."
I bent above each old romance,
And seemed to read thy history there;
I saw, in each brave knight, thy glance
Distinct upon the kindled air.
Whene'er I sang, our songs they seemed
To paint thee only in the lay;
Of only thee at night I dreamed,
Of only thee I thought by day.
The wind that wandered round our towers
Brought echoes of thy voice to me;
Our old hall's solitary hours
Were peopled with sweet thoughts of thee.
And yet we part—this very hour!
Ah!—only if my beating heart
Could break for both—there is no power
Could force me with your love to part.
There is no shape that pain could take,
No ill that would not welcome be,
If suffered but for thy dear sake;
But they must be unshared by thee.
I cannot watch the cold decline
Of love that wastes itself away:
I am too used to warm sunshine,
To bear the moonlight's paler ray.
I am too proud—vain hope to feel
I could not brook thy secret sighs;
I love—how could I bear to read
Reproach or sorrow in thine eyes?
Oh, vain it were that honour kept
Sacred the early vow it made,
Or pity like a phantom wept
O'er the dark urn where love was laid.
Farewell, farewell. I do resign
All hope of love—all early claim;
I only ask that I may pine
Upon the memory of thy name.
Alas! I linger ere I go,
So drowning wretches grasp the wave;
I cannot quite endure to throw
The last cold earth on young Love's grave.
No more; another word would be
A prayer to keep me still thine own.
So long my heart has beat for thee,
How can it beat at once alone?
Farewell,—it is the heart's farewell,—
My summer-shine of love past o'er,
Only the pang of death can tell
That of the words—we meet no more.
He moved not, spoke not, but he grew
More death-like in his pallid hue:
He hid his face, he could not bear
To think of that young heart's despair.
Whate'er his lot, her's must not be
The same in mutual misery.
No, he would seek and bear her home,
And watch o'er every hour to come.
In look or word, she should not guess
His depths of silent wretchedness.
Let her be happy—he would make
His heart the ruin for her sake.
At length he slept—the heavy sleep
Of those who have such vigils kept;
Who comes above his rest to weep,
And watch the warrior as he slept?
A maiden, beautiful and pale,
Shrouded beneath a pilgrim's veil,
Which, backward flowing as she kneels,
A face—an angel's face reveals,
Save that it has a look of care
Which angel-beauty cannot wear.
It was Amenaïde,—she sought,
To see that worshipped face again,
Although its presence only brought
A keener bitterness to pain.
The moorish garb is laid aside,
That sex and loveliness belied,
For she has joined a pilgrim band,
Who journey to the Holy Land,
To rest each mortal grief and care
Beside the Saviour's sepulchre.
She bent above the sleeper's face,
'Tis the last time her eyes will trace
The features graven in her heart,
With life, life only to depart.
A sad and solemn look she wore,
For hope and passion are no more;
And on her pallid brow appears
The tenderness of prayers and tears;
The quiet of unchanging gloom,
The shadow of an early tomb.
She starts! some other step is near,
A stranger must not find her here;
The heavy curtains round will hide
Her last sad vigil at his side.
The darkness favours her escape,
She holds her breath—a muffled shape
Glides slow and silent through the shade
To where the sleeping chief is laid;
Then listens, but there is no sound,
Then flings a cautious glance around;
Then glitters the assasin brand,
She sees him raise his desperate hand!
She flings herself before the foe,
Too late to ward, she meets the blow.
Wild on the air her death shriek rings,
Leoni from his slumber springs,
And page and guard attendant nigh,
Come hurrying at that fearful cry.
Leoni looks not on his foe,
Only he sees the life-blood flow
Of her it is too late to know.
Gently he bears her to the bed,
Where still his arm supports her head:
A faint smile meets his anxious eye,
She murmurs, "It is sweet to die."
The effort was too much to speak,
Her languid head sinks down more weak;
Her hand relaxes its faint hold,
Her sweet mouth sinks, the white and cold;
The light within her eyes grows dim,
They close—their last look was on him.
DIRGE.
They laid her where earliest flowers were bending,
With lives like her own life, so fair and so frail;
They laid her where showers of sweet leaves were descending,
Like tears when the branches were stirred by the gale.
They laid her where constant the south winds awaken
An echo that dwells in that lone myrtle-grove,
That the place of her rest might be never forsaken
By murmurs of sorrow, and murmurs of love.
They raised the white marble, a shrine for her slumbers,
Whose memories remain, when the summers depart;
There a lute was engraven, and more than its numbers,
The strings that were broken appealed to the heart.
The bride brought her wreath of the orange-flowers hither,
And cast the sweet buds from her tresses of gold;
Like her in their earliest beauty to wither,
Like her in their sunshine of hope to grow cold.
The wild winds and waters together bewailing,
Perpetual mourners lamented her doom;
Still sadness amid nature's sounds is prevailing,
Ah! what is all nature but one general tomb?
But vainly the spring's gentle children were dying,
And the tears of the morning amid the long grass,
And vain, vainer still was the human heart's sighing,
That one so beloved, and so lovely, should pass.
The grave is an altar, whereon the heart proffers
Its feverish pleasures, its troubles, its woes;
Stern, silent, and cold, the dark sanctuary proffers
Its gloomy return of unbroken repose.
How much of the sorrow that life may inherit,
That early departure to slumber will save;
The hope that drags onward the world weary spirit,
Rests but when its fever is quenched in the grave.
Weep not for the dead with a fruitless recalling,
Their soul on the wings of the morning hath fled;
Mourn rather for those whom yet life is enthralling,
Ah! weep for the living—weep not for the dead.
Months passed, and at Leoni's side
The bright Irene stood a bride;
They wore a joy somewhat subdued,
With shadows from another mood:
They gave the young, the lost, the fair,
Tears that the happy well may spare.
Here ends my lay; for what have I
With life's more sunny side to do?
From night I only ask its sigh,
From morn I only ask its dew:
My lute was only made to pine
Upon the weeping cypress-tree;
Its only task and hope, Love mine,
To breathe its mournful songs to thee.