Culprit Fay and Other Poems | Page 9

the Pallisado's lofty brows,
Were dark Omana waged the
war of hell,
Till, waked to wrath, the mighty spirit rose
And pent
the demons in their prison cell;
Full on their head the uprooted
mountain fell,
Enclosing all within its horrid womb
Straight from
the teeming earth the waters swell,
And pillared rocks arise in
cheerless gloom
Around the drear abode - their last eternal tomb!
XIV.
Be these your future themes - no more resign
The soul of song to laud
your lady's eyes;
Go! kneel a worshipper at nature's shrine!
For you
her fields are green, and fair her skies!
For you her rivers flow, her
hills arise!
And will you scorn them all, to pour forth tame
And
heartless lays of feigned or fancied sighs?
Still will you cloud the
muse? nor blush for shame
To cast away renown, and hide your head
from fame?
EXTRACTS FROM LEON. AN UNFINISHED POEM.
IT is a summer evening, calm and fair,
A warm, yet freshening glow
is in the air;
Along its bank, the cool stream wanders slow,
Like
parting friends that linger as they go.
The willows, as its waters
meekly glide,
Bend their dishevelled tresses to the tide,
And seem
to give it, with a moaning sigh,
A farewell touch of tearful sympathy.

Each dusky copse is clad in darkest green:
A blackening mass, just
edged with silver sheen
From yon clear moon, who in her glassy face

Seems to reflect the risings of the place.
For on her still, pale orb,
the eye may see
Dim spots of shadowy brown, like distant tree
Or

far-off hillocks on a moonlight lea.
The stars have lit in heaven their lamps of gold,
The viewless dew
falls lightly on the wold,
The gentle air, that softly sweeps the leaves,

A strain of faint, unearthly music weaves;
As when the harp of
heaven remotely plays,
Or cygnet's wail - or song of sorrowing fays

That float amid the moonshine glimmerings pale,
On wings of
woven air in some enchanted vale.
It is an eve that drops a heavenly balm,
To lull the feelings to a sober
calm,
To bid wild passion's fiery flush depart;
And smooth the
troubled waters of the heart;
To give a tranquil fixedness to grief,
A
cherished gloom, that wishes not relief.
Torn is that heart, and bitter are its throes,
That cannot feel on such a
night, repose;
And yet one breast there is that breathes this air,
An
eye that wanders o'er the prospect fair,
That sees yon placid moon,
and the pure sky
Of mild, unclouded blue; and still that eye
Is
thrown in restless vacancy around,
Or cast, in gloomy trance, on the
cold ground;
And still, that breast with maddening passion burns,

And hatred, love, and sorrow, rule by turns.
A lovely figure! and in happier hour,
When pleasure laugh'd abroad
from hall and bower,
The general eye had deem'd her smiling face

The brightest jewel in the courtly place:
So glossy is her hair's
ensabled wreath,
So glowing warm the eye that burns beneath
With
so much graceful sweetness of address,
And such a form of rounded
slenderness;
Ah! where is he on whom these beauties shine,
But
deems a spotless soul inhabits such a shrine?
And yet a keen observer might espy
Strange passions lurking in her
deep black eye,
And in the lines of her fine lip, a soul
That in its
every feeling spurned control.
They passed unnoted - who will stop to
trace
A sullying spot on beauty's sparkling face?
And no one

deemed, amid her glances sweet,
Hers was a bosom of impetuous
heat;
A heart too wildly in its joys elate,
Formed but to madly love -
or madly hate;
A spirit of strong throbs, and steadfast will;
To doat,
detest, to die for, or to kill;
Which, like the Arab chief, would fiercely
dare
To stab the heart she might no longer share;
And yet so tender,
if he loved again,
Would die to save his breast one moment's pain.
But he who cast his gaze upon her now,
And read the traces written
on her brow,
Had scarce believed hers was that form of light
That
beamed like fabled wonder on the sight;
Her raven hair hung down in
loosen'd tress
Before her wan cheek's pallid ghastliness;
And, thro'
its thick locks, showed the deadly white,
Like marble glimpses of a
tomb, at night.
In fixed and horrid musings now she stands,
Her
eyes now bent to earth, and her cold hands,
Prest to her heart, now
wildly thrown on high,
They wander o'er her brow - and now a sigh

Breaks deep and full - and, more composedly,
She half exclaims -
"No! no! - it cannot be;
"He loves not, never loved - not even when

"He pressed my wedded hand - I knew it then;
"And yet - fool that I
was - I saw he strove
"In vain to kindle pity into love.
"But
Florence! she so loved - a sister too!
"My earliest, dearest playmate -
one who grew
"Upon my very heart - to rend it so!
"His falsehood I
could bear - but hers! ah! no.
"She is not false - I feel she loves me
yet,
"And if my boding bosom could forget
"Its wild imaginings,
with what sweet pain
"I'd clasp my Florence to my