Where sat their mother;-and that mother's face
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place
Where so it ever smiled!-Perchance the prayer
Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair;
The blessing from her voice, the very tone
Of her "Good-night," might breathe from boyhood
gone!-
He started and look'd up;-thick cypress boughs
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red
In the broad stormy firelight;-savage brows,
With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'erspread, Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars Look'd thro' the branches as thro' dungeon bars, Shedding no hope.-He knew, he felt his doomOh! what a tale to shadow with its gloom That happy hall in England!-Idle fear! Would the winds tell it?-Who might dream or hear The secret of the forests?-To the stake
They bound him; and that proud young soldier
His father's spirit in his breast to wake,
Trusting to die in silence! He, the love
Of many hearts!-the fondly rear'd,-the fair,
Gladdening all eyes to see!-And fetter'd there
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand
Flamed up to light it, in the chieftain's hand.
He thought upon his God.-Hush! hark!-a cry
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity,-
A step hath pierced the ring!-Who dares intrude
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood?—
A girl-a young slight girl-a fawn-like child
Of green savannas and the leafy wild,
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower,
Happy because the sunshine is its dower;
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed,-
For hers had mourn'd a playmate brother dead.
She had sat gazing on the victim long,
Until the pity of her soul grew strong;
And, by its passion's deepening fervour sway'd,
Ev'n to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid
His bright head on her bosom, and around
His form her slender arms to shield it wound
Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye
And clear-toned voice that said, "He shall not die!"
"He shall not die!"-the gloomy forest thrill'd
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell
On the fierce throng; and heart and hand were still'd,
Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell.
They gazed, their dark souls bow'd before the maid,
She of the dancing step in wood and glade!
And, as her check flush'd through its olive hue,
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew,
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young mien —
Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen;
And seeming, to their child-like faith, a token
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken.
They loosed the bonds that held their captive's breath; From his pale lips they took the cup of death; They quench'd the brand beneath the cypress tree; "Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art free!"
Of friends, of hopes forsaken? - Come to me!
I am thine own. -Have trusted hearts proved false?
Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me!
Why didst thou ever leave me? Know'st thou all
I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear,
For thy sake? Know'st thou that thy voice had power
To shake me with a thrill of happiness
By one kind tone?-to fill mine eyes with tears
Of yearning love? And thou-oh! thou didst throw
That crush'd affection back upon my heart;-
Yet come to me!-it died not.
SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell
Through the stain'd window of her lonely cell,
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna-brow,
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw
Bright waves of gold-the autumn forest's hue-
Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread
By painting's touch around some holy head,
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye,
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky,
What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe,
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below
The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal
What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel,
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years,
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears!
But she had told her griefs to Heaven alone,
And of the gentle saint no more was known,
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade,
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim,
And ancient solitude; where hidden streams
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams,
Music for weary hearts! 'Midst leaves and flowers
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers,
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed,
Came, and brought hope; while scarce of mortal birth
He deem'd the pale fair form, that held on earth
Communion but with grief.
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone
Gleam'd thro' the dark trees o'er a sparkling well,
And a sweet voice, of rich, yet mournful tone,
Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there
Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer.
And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again
Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain,
That made the cypress quiver where it stood
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set,
Other and wilder sounds in tumult met
The floating song. Strange sounds!- the trumpet's peal,
Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel, The rallying war-cry. In the mountain-pass, There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine-branches crash'd before the flying. VOL. V.
And all was changed within the still retreat,
Costanza's home:-there enter'd hurrying feet,
Dark locks of shame and sorrow; mail-clad men,
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen,
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-roof, bore
A wounded warrior in: the rocky floor
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword,
As there they laid their leader, and implored
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him; then for flight,
Through the wide forest and the mantling night,
Sped breathlessly again.
They pass'd-but he,
The stateliest of a host-alas! to see
What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep
Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep,
Thus changed!-a fearful thing! His golden crest
Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast -
Some costly love-gift-rent :—but what of these?
There were the clustering raven-locks-the breeze
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers,
Might scarcely lift them-steep'd in bloody showers
So heavily upon the pallid clay
Of the damp cheek they hung! the eye's dark ray-
Where was it?-and the lips!-they gasp'd apart,
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art,
Still proudly beautiful! but that white hue—
Was it not death's?—that stillness-that cold dew
On the scarr'd forehead? No! his spirit broke
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke
To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay,
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken,
The haughty chief of thousands- the forsaken
Of all save one!-She fled not. Day by day-
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