Читать книгу The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems - John Wilson - Страница 7

O Heavenly Queen! by Mariners beloved!

Refulgent Moon! when in the cruel sea

Down sank yon fair Ship to her coral grave,

Where didst thou linger then? Sure it behoved

A Spirit strong and pitiful like thee

At that dread hour thy worshippers to save;

Nor let the glory where thy tenderest light,

Forsaking even the clouds, with pleasure lay,

Pass, like a cloud which none deplores, away,

No more to bless the empire of the Night.

How oft to thee have home-sick sailors pour'd

Upon their midnight-watch, no longer dull

When thou didst smile, hymns wild and beautiful,

Worthy the radiant Angel they adored!

And are such hymnings breathed to thee in vain?

Gleam'st thou, as if delighted with the strain,

And won by it the pious bark to keep

In joy for ever?—till at once behind

A cloud thou sailest—and a roaring wind

Hath sunk her in the deep!

Or, though the zephyr scarcely blow,

Down to the bottom must she go

With all who wake or sleep,

Ere the slumberer from his dream can start,

Or the hymn hath left the singer's heart!

Oh! sure, if ever mortal prayer

Were heard where thou and thy sweet stars abide,

So many gallant spirits had not died

Thus mournfully in beauty and in prime!

But from the sky had shone an arm sublime,

To bless the worship of that Virgin fair,

And, only seen by Faith's uplifted eye,

The wretched vessel gently drifted by

The fatal rock, and to the crowded shore

In triumph and in pride th' expected glory bore.

Oh vain belief! most beauteous as thou art,

Thy heavenly visage hides a cruel heart.

When Death and Danger, Terror and Dismay,

Are madly struggling on the dismal Ocean,

With heedless smile and calm unalter'd motion,

Onward thou glidest through the milky way,

Nor, in thy own immortal beauty blest,

Hear'st dying mortals rave themselves to rest.

Yet when this night thou mount'st thy starry throne,

Brightening to sun-like glory in thy bliss,

Wilt thou not then thy once-loved Vessel miss,

And wish her happy, now that she is gone?

But then, sad Moon! too late thy grief will be,

Fair as thou art, thou canst not move the sea.

—Dear God! Was that wild sound a human cry,

The voice of one more loath to die

Than they who round him sleep?

Or of a Spirit in the sky,

A Demon in the deep?

No sea-bird, through the darkness sailing,

E'er utter'd such a doleful wailing,

Foreboding the near blast:

If from a living thing it came,

It sure must have a spectral frame,

And soon its soul must part:—

That groan broke from a bursting heart,

The bitterest and the last.

The Figure moves! It is alive!

None but its wretched self survive,

Yea! drown'd are all the crew!

Ghosts are they underneath the wave,

And he, whom Ocean deign'd to save,

Stands there most ghost-like too.

Alone upon a rock he stands

Amid the waves, and wrings his hands,

And lifts to Heaven his steadfast eye,

With a wild upbraiding agony.

He sends his soul through the lonesome air

To God:—but God hears not his prayer;

For, soon as his words from the wretch depart,

Cold they return on his baffled heart.

He flings himself down on his rocky tomb,

And madly laughs at his horrible doom.

With smiles the Main is overspread,

As if in mockery of the dead;

And upward when he turns his sight,

The unfeeling Sun is shining bright,

And strikes him with a sickening light.

While a fainting-fit his soul bedims,

He thinks that a Ship before him swims,

A gallant Ship, all fill'd with gales,

One radiant gleam of snowy sails—

His senses return, and he looks in vain

O'er the empty silence of the Main!

No Ship is there, with radiant gleam,

Whose shadow sail'd throughout his dream:

Not even one rueful plank is seen

To tell that a vessel hath ever been

Beneath these lonely skies:

But sea-birds he oft had seen before

Following the ship in hush or roar,

The loss of their resting-mast deplore

With wild and dreary cries.

What brought him here he cannot tell;

Doubt and confusion darken all his soul,

While glimmering truth more dreadful makes the gloom:

Why hath the Ocean that black hideous swell?

And in his ears why doth that dismal toll

For ever sound—as if a city-bell

Wail'd for a funeral passing to the tomb?

Some one hath died, and buried is this day;

A hoary-headed man, or stripling gay,

Or haply some sweet maid, who was a bride,

And, ere her head upon his bosom lay

Who deem'd her all his own—the Virgin died!

Why starts the wilder'd dreamer at the sound,

And casts his haggard eyes around?

The utter agony hath seized him now,

For Memory drives him, like a slave, to know

What Madness would conceal:—His own dear Maid,

She, who he thought could never die, is dead.

"Drown'd!"—still the breaking billows mutter—"drown'd!"

With anguish loud was her death-bed!

Nor e'er—wild wish of utmost woe!

Shall her sweet corse be found.

Oft had he sworn with faithless breath,

That his love for the Maid was strong as death,

By the holy Sun he sware;

The Sun upon the Ocean smiles,

And, with a sudden gleam, reviles

His vows as light as air.

Yet soon he flings, with a sudden start,

That gnawing phrenzy from his heart,

For long in sooth he strove,

When the waters were booming in his brain,

And his life was clogg'd with a sickening pain,

To save his lady-love.

How long it seems since that dear night,

When gazing on the wan moonlight

He and his own betrothed stood,

Nor fear'd the harmless ocean-flood!

He feels as if many and many a day,

Since that bright hour, had pass'd away;

The dim remembrance of some joy

In which he revell'd when a boy.

The crew's dumb misery and his own,

When lingeringly the ship went down,

Even like some mournful tale appears,

By wandering sailor told in other years.

Yet still he knows that this is all delusion,

For how could he for months and years have lain

A wretched thing upon the cruel Main,

Calm though it seem to be? Would gracious Heaven

Set free his spirit from this dread confusion,

Oh, how devoutly would his thanks be given

To Jesus ere he died! But tortured so

He dare not pray beneath his weight of wo,

Lest he should feel, when about to die,

By God deserted utterly.

He cannot die: Though he longs for death,

Stronger and stronger grows his breath,

And hopeless woe the spring of being feeds;

He faints not, though his knell seems rung,

But lives, as if to life he clung,

And stronger as he bleeds.

He calls upon the grisly Power,

And every moment, every hour,

His sable banners wave;

But he comes not in his mortal wrath,

And long and dreary is the path

Of anguish to the grave.

His heart it will not cease to beat,

His blood runs free and warm;

And thoughts of more composed despair,

Incessant as the waves that bathe his feet,

Yet comfortless as the empty air,

Through all his spirit swarm.

But the weariness of wasting grief

Hath brought to him its own relief:

Each sense is dull'd! He lies at last

As if the parting shock were past.

He sleeps!—Prolong his haunted rest,

O God!—for now the wretch is blest.

A fair romantic Island, crown'd

With a glow of blossom'd trees,

And underneath bestrewn with flowers,

The happy dreamer sees.

A stream comes dancing from a mount,

Down its fresh and lustrous side,

Then, tamed into a quiet pool,

Is scarcely seen to glide.

Like fairy sprites, a thousand birds

Glance by on golden wing,

Birds lovelier than the lovely hues

Of the bloom wherein they sing.

Upward he lifts his wondering eyes,

Nor yet believes that even the skies

So passing fair can be.

And lo! yon gleam of emerald light,

For human gaze too dazzling bright,

Is that indeed the sea?

Adorn'd with all her pomp and pride,

Long-fluttering flags, and pendants wide,

He sees a stately vessel ride

At anchor in a bay,

Where never waves by storm were driven,

Shaped like the Moon when she is young in heaven,

Or melting in a cloud that stops her way.

Her masts tower nobly from the rocking deep,

Tall as the palm trees on the steep,

And, burning mid their crests so darkly green,

Her meteor-glories all abroad are seen,

Wakening the forests from their solemn sleep;

While suddenly the cannon's sound

Rolls through the cavern'd glens, and groves profound,

And never-dying echoes roar around.

Shaded with branching palm, the sign of peace,

Canoes and skiffs like lightning shoot along,

Countless as waves there sporting on the seas;

While still from those that lead the van, a song,

Whose chorus rends the inland cliffs afar,

Tells that advance before that unarm'd throng,

Princes and chieftains, with a fearless smile,

And outstretch'd arms, to welcome to their Isle

That gallant Ship of War.

And glad are they who therein sail,

Once more to breathe the balmy gale,

To kiss the steadfast strand:

They round the world are voyaging,

And who can tell their suffering

Since last they saw the land?

But that bright pageant will not stay:

Palms, plumes, and ensigns melt away,

Island, and ship!—Though utter be the change

(For on a rock he seems to lie

All naked to the burning sky)

He doth not think it strange.

While in his memory faint recallings swim,

He fain would think it is a dream

That thus distracts his view,

Until some unimagined pain

Shoots shivering through his troubled brain;

—Though dreadful, all is true.

But what to him is anguish now,

Though it burn in his blood, and his heart, and his brow,

For ever from morn to night?

For lo! an Angel shape descends,

As soft and silent as moonlight,

And o'er the dreamer bends.

She cannot be an earthly child,

Yet, when the Vision sweetly smiled,

The light that there did play

Reminded him, he knew not why,

Of one beloved in infancy,

But now far, far away.

Disturb'd by fluttering joy, he wakes,

And feels a death-like shock;

For, harder even than in his dream,

His bed is a lonely rock.

Poor wretch! he dares not open his eye,

For he dreads the beauty of the sky,

And the useless unavailing breeze

That he hears upon the happy seas.

A voice glides sweetly through his heart,

The voice of one that mourns;

Yet it hath a gladsome melody—

Dear God! the dream returns!

A gentle kiss breathes o'er his cheek,

A kiss of murmuring sighs,

It wanders o'er his brow, and falls

Like light upon his eyes.

Through that long kiss he dimly sees,

All bathed in smiles and tears,

A well-known face; and from those lips

A well-known voice he hears.

With a doubtful look he scans the Maid,

As if half-delighted, half-afraid,

Then bows his wilder'd head,

And with deep groans, he strives to pray

That Heaven would drive the fiend away,

That haunts his dying bed.

Again he dares to view the air:

The beauteous ghost yet lingers there,

Veil'd in a spotless shroud:

Breathing in tones subdued and low,

Bent o'er him like Heaven's radiant bow,

And still as evening-cloud.

"Art thou a phantom of the brain?"

He cries, "a mermaid from the main?

A seraph from the sky?

Or art thou a fiend with a seraph's smile,

Come here to mock, on this horrid Isle,

My dying agony?"—

Had he but seen what touching sadness fell

On that fair creature's cheek while thus he spoke,

Had heard the stifled sigh that slowly broke

From her untainted bosom's lab'ring swell,

He scarce had hoped, that at the throne of grace

Such cruel words could e'er have been forgiven,

The impious sin of doubting such a face,

Of speaking thus of Heaven.

Weeping, she wrings his dripping hair

That hangs across his cheek;

And leaves a hundred kisses there,

But not one word can speak.

In bliss she listens to his breath:

Ne'er murmur'd so the breast of death!

Alas! sweet one! what joy can give

Fond-cherish'd thoughts like these!

For how mayst thou and thy lover live

In the centre of the seas?

Or vainly to your sorrows seek for rest,

On a rock where never verdure grew,

Too wild even for the wild sea-mew

To build her slender nest!

Sublime is the faith of a lonely soul,

In pain and trouble cherish'd;

Sublime the spirit of hope that lives,

When earthly hope has perish'd.

And where doth that blest faith abide?

O! not in Man's stern nature: human pride

Inhabits there, and oft by virtue led,

Pride though it be, it doth a glory shed,

That makes the world we mortal beings tread,

In chosen spots, resplendent as the Heaven!

But to yon gentle Maiden turn,

Who never for herself doth mourn,

And own that faith's undying urn

Is but to woman given.

Now that the shade of sorrow falls

Across her life, and duty calls,

Her spirit burns with a fervent glow,

And stately through the gloom of woe

Behold her alter'd form arise,

Like a priestess at a sacrifice.

The touch of earth hath left no taint

Of weakness in the fearless saint.

Like clouds, all human passions roll,

At the breath of devotion, from her soul,

And God looks down with a gleam of grace,

On the stillness of her heavenward face,

Just paler in her grief.

While, hark! like one who God adores,

Such words she o'er her lover pours,

As give herself relief.

"Oh! look again on her who speaks

To thee, and bathes thy sallow cheeks

With many a human tear!

No cruel thing beside thee leans,

Thou knowest what thy Mary means,

Thy own true love is here.

Open thine eyes! thy beauteous eyes!

For mercy smile on me!

Speak!—but one word! one little word!

'Tis all I ask of thee.

If these eyes would give one transient gleam,

To chear this dark and dreadful dream,

If, while I kiss thy cheek,

These dear, dear lips, alas! so pale,

Before their parting spirit fail,

One low farewell would speak—

This rock so hard would be a bed

Of down unto thy Mary's head,

And gently would we glide away,

Fitz-Owen! to that purer day

Of which thou once didst sing;

Like birds, that, rising from the foam,

Seek on some lofty cliff their home,

On storm-despising wing.

Yes! that thou hear'st thy Mary's voice,

That lovely smile declares!

Here let us in each other's arms

Dissolve our life in prayers.

I see in that uplifted eye,

That thou art not afraid to die;

For ever brave wert thou.

Oh! press me closer to thy soul,

And, while yet we hear the Ocean roll,

Breathe deep the marriage vow!

We hoped far other days to see;

But the will of God be done!

My husband! behold yon pile of clouds

Like a city, round the Sun:

Beyond these clouds, ere the phantoms part,

Thou wilt lean in bliss on my loving heart."—

Sweet seraph! lovely was thy form,

When, shrouded in the misty storm

That swept o'er Snowden's side,

The Cambrian shepherd, through the gloom,

Like a spirit rising from the tomb,

With awe beheld thee glide;

And lovely wert thou, Child of Light!

When, gazing on the starry night

Within Llanberris Lake,

Thy spirit felt, in a hush like death,

The fading earth's last whisper'd breath

The holy scene forsake.

Oh! lovelier still, when thy noiseless tread

Around thy aged mother's bed

Fell soft as snow on snow,

When thy heart, from love, repress'd its sighs,

And from thy never-closing eyes

Forbade the tears to flow.

But now unto thy looks are given

The beauty and the power of Heaven:

The sternness of this dismal Isle

Is soften'd by thy saintly smile,

And he, who lay like a madman, bound

In fetters of anguish to the ground,

And heard and saw, in fearful strife,

The sounds and the sights of unearthly life,

Now opens his eyes, that glisten mild

Like the gladsome eyes of a waken'd child,

For the hideous trance is fled;

And his soul is fill'd with the glory bright,

That plays like a wreath of halo-light

Around his Mary's head.

Most awful is the perfect rest

That sits within her eye,

Awful her pallid face imprest

With the seal of victory.

Triumphant o'er the ghastly dreams

That haunt the parting soul,

She looks like a bird of calm, that floats

Unmoved when thunders roll,

And gives to the storm as gentle notes

As e'er through sunshine stole.

Her lover leans on her saviour breast,

And his heart like hers is still:

Ne'er martyr'd saints more meekly bow'd

To their Creator's will.

As calm they sit, as they had steer'd

To some little favourite Isle,

To mark upon the peaceful waves

The parting sunbeams smile;

As if the lightly feather'd oar

In an hour could take them to the shore,

Where friends and parents dwell:—

But far, alas! from such shore are they,

And of friends, who for their safety pray,

Have ta'en a last farewell.

But why thus gleams Fitz-Owen's eye?

Why bursts his eager speech?

Lo! as if brought by angel hands

Uninjur'd on the beach,

With oars and sails a vessel lies:

Salvation from the gracious skies!

He fears it is a dream; that woe

Hath surely crazed his brain:

He drives the phantom from his gaze,

But the boat appears again.

It is the same that used to glide

When the wind had fallen low,

Like a child along its parent's side,

Around the guardian prow

Of the mighty Ship whose shadow lay

Unmoved upon the watery way.

In the madness of that dismal hour,

When the shrieking Ship went down,

This little boat to the rocky Isle

Hath drifted all alone.

And there she lies! the oars are laid

As by the hand of pleasure,

Preparing on the quiet tide

To beat a gladsome measure.

The dripping sail is careless tied

Around the painted mast,

And a gaudy flag with purple glows,

Hung up in sportive joy by those

Whose sports and joys are past.

So lightly doth this little boat

Upon the scarce-touch'd billows float,

So careless doth she seem to be

Thus left by herself on the homeless sea,

That, while the happy lovers gaze

On her, the hope of happier days

Steals unawares, like Heaven's own breath

O'er souls that were prepared for death.

They gaze on her, till she appears

To understand their grateful tears;

To lie there with her idle sail

Till Heaven should send some gracious gale,

Some gentle spirit of the deep,

With motion soft and swift as sleep,

To waft them to some pleasant cave

In the unknown gardens of the wave,

That, hid from every human eye,

Are happy in the smiling sky,

And in their beauty win the love

Of every orb that shines above.

Fitz-Owen from his dream awakes,

And gently in his arms he takes

His gentle Maid, as a shepherd kind

Brings from the killing mountain wind

A snow-white lamb, and lets it rest

In sleep and beauty on his breast.

And now the gentle fearless Maid

Within the boat at rest is laid:

Her limbs recline as if in sleep,

Though almost resting on the deep;

On his dear bosom leans her head,

And through her long hair, wildly spread

O'er all her face, her melting eyes

Are lifted upwards to the skies,

As if she pray'd that Heaven would save

The arms that fold her, from the grave.

The boat hath left the lonesome rock,

And tries the wave again,

And on she glides without a fear,

So beauteous is the Main.

Her little sail beneath the sun

Gleams radiant as the snow,

And o'er the gently-heaving swell

Bounds like a mountain-roe.

In that frail bark the Lovers sit,

With steadfast face and silent breath,

Following the guiding hope of life,

Yet reconciled to death.

His arm is round her tender side,

That moves beneath the press,

With a mingled beat of solemn awe

And virgin tenderness.

They speak not:—but the inward flow

Of faith and dread, and joy and wo,

Each from the other hears:

Long, long they gaze with meeting eyes,

Then lift them slowly to the skies

Steep'd in imploring tears.

And ever, as the rock recedes,

They feel their spirits rise;

And half forget that the smiling sea

Caused all their miseries.

Yet safe to them is the trackless brine

As some well-known and rural road

Paced in their childhood;—for they love

Each other, and believe in God.

And well might the refulgent day

These Ocean Pilgrims chear,

And make them feel as if the glades

Of home itself were near.

For a living sentiment of joy,

Such as doth sleep on hill and vale

When the friendly sun comes from his clouds

The vernal bloom to hail—

Plays on the Ocean's sparkling breast,

That, half in motion, half at rest,

Like a happy thing doth lie;

Breathing that fresh and fragrant air,

And seeming in that slumber fair

The Brother of the Sky.

Hues brighter than the ruby-stone

With radiance gem his wavy zone,

A million hues, I ween:

Long dazzling lines of snowy white,

Fantastic wreath'd with purple light,

Or bathed in richest green.

The flying fish, on wings of gold,

Skims through the sunny ray,

Then, like the rainbow's dying gleam,

In the clear wave melts away.

And all the beauteous joy seems made

For that dauntless Youth and sainted Maid,

Whom God and Angels love:

Comfort is in the helm, the sail,

The light, the clouds, the sea, the gale,

Around, below, above.

And thus they sail, and sail along,

Without one thought of fear;

As calm as if the boatman's song

Awoke an echoing chear,

O'er the hills that stretch in sylvan pride

On the Bala Lake's romantic side.

And lo! beneath the mellowing light,

That trembles between day and night

Before the Sun's decline,

As to the touch of fairy-hand

Upstarting dim the nameless land

Extends its mountain line.

It is no cloud that steadfast lies

Between the Ocean and the Skies;

No image of a cloud, that flings

Across the deep its shadowy wings;

Such as oft cheats with visions fair

The heart of home-sick mariner.

It is the living Earth! They see

From the shore a smile of amity

That gently draws them on,

Such a smile as o'er all Nature glows

At a summer evening's fragrant close,

When the winds and rain are gone.

The self-moved boat appears to seek

With gladsome glide a home-like creek,

In the centre of a bay,

Which the calm and quiet hills surround,

And touch'd by waves without a sound,

Almost as calm as they.

And, what if here fierce savage men

Glare on them from some darksome den?—

What would become of this most helpless Maid?

Fitz-Owen thinks:—but in her eye

So calmly bright, he can descry

That she is not afraid

Of savage men, or monsters wild,

But is sublimely reconciled

To meet and bear her destiny.

A gentle ripling on the sand—

One stroke of the dexterous oar—

The sail is furl'd: the boat is moor'd:

And the Lovers walk the shore.

To them it is an awful thought,

From the wild world of waters brought

By God's protecting hand,

When every Christian soul was lost,

On that unknown, but beauteous coast,

As in a dream to stand.

While their spirits with devotion burn,

Their faces to the sea they turn,

That lately seem'd their grave;

And bless, in murmurs soft and low,

The beautiful, the halcyon glow,

That bathes the evening wave.

Before the setting sun they kneel,

And through the silent air,

To Him who dwells on that throne of light

They pour their souls in prayer.

Their thoughts are floating, like the clouds

That seek the beauteous West,

Their gentleness, their peace the same,

The same their home of rest.

Now Night hath come with the cooling breeze,

And these Lovers still are on their knees.