A Wreath of Virginia Bay Leaves | Page 6

gay a morn!?The heavy gate at length unbarr'd,?We rode within the busy yard,?Well scatter'd o'er with many a pack;?For on that wild, romantic track,?The long and heavy-laden trains?Toil seaward from the valley's plains.?And often on its silence swells?The distant tinkle of the bells,?While muleteers' shrill, angry cries?From the dim road before you rise;?And such were group'd in circles round?Playing at mont�� on the ground;?Each swarthy face that met my eye?To thought of honesty gave lie.?In each fierce orb there was a spark?That few would care to see by dark--?And many a sash I saw gleam thro'?The keen cuchillo into view.?Within; the place was rude enough--?The walls of clay--in color buff--?A pictur'd saint--a cross or so--?A hammock swinging to and fro--?A gittern by the window laid?Whereon the morning breezes play'd,?And its low tones and broken parts?Seem'd like some thoughtless minstrel's arts--?A rugged table in the floor--?Ran thro' this homely comedor.?Here, weary as you well may think,?An hour or so we made abode,?To give our mules both food and drink,?Before we took again the road;?And honestly, our own repast?Was that of monks from lenten fast.?The meal once o'er; our stores replaced;?We gather'd where the window fac'd?Upon the vale, and gaz'd below?Where mists from a mad torrent's flow?Were dimly waving to and fro.?Meanwhile, the old guitar replied?To the swift fingers of our guide:?His voice was deep, and rich, and strong,?And he himself a child of song.?At first the music's liquid flow?Was soft and plaintive--rich and low;?The murmur of a fountain's stream?Where sleeping water-lilies dream;?Or, like the breathing of love-vows?Beneath the shade of orange-boughs;?And then more stirring grew his song--?A strain which swept the blood along!?And as he sang, his eyes so sad--?Which lately wore the look of pain,?Danc'd with a gleam both proud and glad,?Awaken'd by his fervid strain--?His face now flush'd and now grew pale--?The song he sang, was this, my tale.
A fort above Laguayra stands,?Which all the town below commands.?The damp moss clings upon its walls--?The rotting drawbridge slowly falls--?Its dreary silentness appalls!?The iron bars are thick with rust?And slowly moulder into dust;?The roofless turrets show the sky,?The moats below are bare and dry--?No captain issues proud behest--?The guard-room echoes to no jest;?As I have said, within those walls?The very silentness appalls!?In other days it was not so--?The Spanish banner, long ago,?Above the turrets tall did flow.?And many a gallant soldier there?With musket or with gleaming spear,?Pac'd on the battlements that then?Were throng'd with tall and proper men.?But this was many a year ago--?A long shot back for mem'ry's bow!?The Governor here made his home?Beneath the great hall's gilded dome.?And here his lady-wife he brought?From Spain, across the sea;?And sumptuous festival was made,?Where now the tangled ivy's shade?Is hanging drearily.?The lady was both fair and young--?Fair as a poet ever sung;?And well they lov'd; so it is told;--?Had plighted troth in days gone by,?Ere he had won his spurs of gold,?Or, gain'd his station high.?And often from the martial keep?They'd sail together on the deep;?Or, wander many a weary mile?In lonely valley, or defile.
Well; once upon this road, a pair,?A lady and a cavalier,?Were riding side by side.?And she was young and "passing fair,"?With crimson lips and ebon hair--?She was the gallant's bride!?And he was cast in manly mould,?His port was high, and free, and bold--?Fitting a cavalier!?But now bent reverently low?His crest's unsullied plume of snow?Play'd 'mid the lady's hair.
This knight with orders on his breast,?The Governor, as you have guess'd--?The lady was his wife, and they,?Alone were on the road that day;--?Their horses moving at a walk,?And they engaged in earnest talk,?Low words and sweet they spoke;?The lady smil'd, and blush'd, and then,?Smiling and blushing, spoke again;?When sleeping echo woke--?Woke with the shouts of a wild band?Who urg'd with spur and heavy hand?Their steeds along the way.
Gave but one look the cavalier--?Murmur'd a vow the lady fair--?His right arm is around her thrown?Her form close-gather'd to his own;?While his brave steed, white as the snow,?Darts like an arrow from the bow;?His hoofs fall fast as tempest rain?Spurning the road that rings again.?Onward the race!--now fainter sounds?The yell and whoop; but still like hounds?The pirate band behind him rush?Breaking the mountains solemn hush.?On speeds he now--his steed so white?Far in advance, proclaims his flight;?God speed him and his bride!?But ah! that chasm's fearful gape?Seems to forbid hope of escape,?He cannot turn aside.
He bends his head; is it in pray'r??Is it to shed a bitter tear??Or utter craven vow??No; 'tis to gaze into those eyes?Which are to him love-litten skies--?To kiss his lady's brow.?And must he on? full well he knew?That none were spar'd by that wild crew--?Never a lady fair.?And now a shout, a fierce halloo,?Told that they were again in view--?Close to his ear a bullet sings,?And then the distant carbine rings.
Why pales the cavalier??And why does he now