A Wreath of Virginia Bay Leaves | Page 7

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 set his teeth
And
draw his dagger from its sheath?
He breasts his charger at the leap--

He pricketh him full sharp and deep:
He leaps, and then with
heaving flank
Gains footing on the other bank:
A moment--'mid the

pass's gloom,
Vanish both veil and dancing plume--
It seems a
dream. No! there is proof,
The clatter of a flying hoof,
And too, the
lady's steed remains,
With empty seat, and flying reins;
And then is
borne to that wild rout,
A long and proud triumphant shout.
And he
who led the pirate band,
Urg'd on his horse, with spur and hand;

The long locks drifted from his brow,
Like midnight waves from
storm-vexed prow;
And darkly flashed his eyes of jet
Beneath the
brows which almost met.
Stern was his face; but war and crime,

--For he had sinn'd in many a clime--
Had plough'd it deeper far than
time.
He was their chief: will he draw rein?
Will he the yawning rift
refrain?
And with his halting band remain?
He rais'd up in his
stirrups, high,
Better the chasm to descry,
And measure with his
hawk-like eye,
While his dark steed begrim'd with toil,
Tried madly,
vainly, to recoil!
A mutter'd curse--a sabre goad--
Full at the leap
the robber rode:
Great God! his horse near dead and spent,
Scarce
halfway o'er the chasm went.
That fearful rush, and daring bound,

Was followed by a crashing sound--
A sudden, awful knell!
For
down, more than a thousand feet,
Where mist and mountain torrent
meet,
That reckless rider fell.
His band drew up:--they could not speak,
For long, and loud his
charger's shriek
Was heard in an unearthly scream,
Above that
roaring mountain stream--
Like fancied sound in fever'd dream,

When the sick brain with crazy skill
Weaves fantasies of woe and ill.

Some said: no steed gave forth that yell,

And hinted solemnly
of--hell!
And others said, that from his vest
A miniature with
haughty crest
And features like the lady's 'pressed,
Fell on the
rugged bank:
But who he was, none knew or tell;
They simply point out where he fell
When horse and horseman sank.

Like Ravenswood he left no trace--
Tradition only points the place.
Rude is my hand, and rude my lay--
Rude as the Inn, time-worn and

grey,
Where resting, on the mountain-way,
I heard the tale which I
have tried
To tell to thee; and saw the wide
Deep rift--ten yards
from side to side--
Great God! it was a fearful ride
The robber took
that day.
THREE SUMMER STUDIES.
I.
The cock hath crow'd. I hear the doors unbarr'd;
Down to the
moss-grown porch my way I take,
And hear, beside the well within
the yard,
Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake,
And
gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen--all
Responding to yon strutting
gobbler's call.
The dew is thick upon the velvet grass--
The porch-rails hold it in
translucent drops,
And as the cattle from th' enclosure pass,
Each
one, alternate, slowly halts and crops
The tall, green spears, with all
their dewy load,
Which grow beside the well-known pasture-road.
A lustrous polish is on all the leaves--
The birds flit in and out with
varied notes--
The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves--
A
partridge-whistle thro' the garden floats,
While yonder gaudy peacock
harshly cries,
As red and gold flush all the eastern skies.
Up comes the sun: thro' the dense leaves a spot
Of splendid light
drinks up the dew; the breeze
Which late made leafy music dies; the
day grows hot,
And slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees:

The burnish'd river like a sword-blade shines,
Save where 'tis
shadow'd by the solemn pines.
II.
Over the farm is brooding silence now--
No reaper's song--no raven's
clangor harsh--
No bleat of sheep--no distant low of cow--
No croak

of frogs within the spreading marsh--
No bragging cock from litter'd
farm-yard crows,
The scene is steep'd in silence and repose.
A trembling haze hangs over all the fields--
The panting cattle in the
river stand
Seeking the coolness which its wave scarce yields.
It
seems a Sabbath thro' the drowsy land:
So hush'd is all beneath the
Summer's spell,
I pause and listen for some faint church bell.
The leaves are motionless--the song-bird's mute--
The very air seems
somnolent and sick:
The spreading branches with o'er-ripen'd fruit

Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick,
While now and then a
mellow apple falls
With a dull sound within the orchard's walls.
The sky has but one solitary cloud,
Like a dark island in a sea of light;

The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed
Seem fairly
dancing in my dazzled sight,
While over yonder road a dusty haze

Grows reddish purple in