Mazelli, and Other Poems | Page 8

last soul-exhaling groan,?To him is music's sweetest tone!?And he, whose fate it is to die,?Ere Morning's banner flouts the sky,?The eye shall see, the arm shall know,?That guides and deals th' avenging blow;?And ere his spirit goes to rest,?Right well his scornful heart shall learn,?How fiercely, in a savage breast,?The flames of love and hate may burn."?He spake, and down the mountain's side,?With quick, impatient step, he hied,?Threading the forest's lonely gloom,?A ruthless minister of doom.
VII.
'Twas midnight; calmly slept the Earth,?And the mysterious eyes above,?Gazed down with chastened looks of love,?Not, as when first they hymned her birth,?With ardent songs of holy mirth,?But mournfully serene and clear;--?As on some erring one we gaze,?Whose feet have strayed from wisdom's ways,?But who, in error, still is dear.?Far o'er yon swiftly flowing stream?Fair fell the young moon's silver beam,?And gazing on its restless sheen,?Stood one whose garb, and port, and mien,?Bespoke him of a foreign land,?One born to win, and hold command;?The master mind, the leading one,?Where deeds of manly might were done.?Yet, by the hallowed glow, that came?O'er lip and cheek, o'er eye and brow,?He who beheld, might guess that now?His thoughts were not of wealth and fame:?Whence could that veiling radiance shine,?Save from Affection's holy shrine??And this was he, who from afar,?Had come to bear away his bride;?And love had been the guiding star,?That lit him o'er the trackless tide;?"To-morrow, on its sunny wing,?My bridal hour soon shall bring;?And those bright orbs which o'er me shed?Such gentle radiance from on high,?Shall shine upon my nuptial bed,?When next they walk along the sky.?0! what are all the pomps of earth,?Of honour, glory, greatness, worth,?Beside the bliss which Love confers?Upon his humblest followers!"?He said, and from the river turned;--?An eye, that with fierce hatred burned,?Met his, and this reply was made:?"Thou, haughty one, shalt be a shade?Ere dawns the coming morrow's sun."?Then, ere the point he could evade,?He felt the sharp steel pierce his breast,?While he, who the foul deed had done?Stood calmly by, and saw him sink?In death, beside the water's brink,?Saw, gush by gush, the crimson blood?Pour out, and mingle with the flood;?Then drew his dagger from its rest,?And gazing on its fearful hue,?Said, "Thou hast yet one task to do.?He who, death-wounded, welters there,?Came hither, o'er the deep to bear?Far off from her paternal nest,?The white dove I have watched so long.?The falcon's wing was bold and strong,?Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight;?Strike one more blow, and thou to-night?May'st rest;" then laid his bosom bare,?And buried deep the dagger there,?And by his victim's lifeless trunk,?Without a sigh or groan he sunk.
Canto III.
I.
With plumes to which the dewdrops cling,?Wide waves the morn her golden wing;?With countless variegated beams?The empurpled orient glows and gleams;?A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds?The mountain's soaring summit shrouds;?Along the wave the blue mist creeps,?The towering forest trees are stirred?By the low wind that o'er them sweeps,?And with the matin song of bird,?The hum of early bee is heard,?Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn,?The coming of the bright-eyed morn;?And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn,?Her couch the fair Mazelli quits,?And gaily, fleetly as a fawn,?Along the wildwood paths she flits,?Hieing from leafy bower to bower,?Culling from each its bud and flower,?Of brightest hue and sweetest breath,?To weave them in her bridal wreath.?Now, pausing in her way, to hear?The lay of some wild warbler near,?Repaying him, in mocking tone,?With music sweeter than his own;?Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending,?Her image in its waves to see,?With its sweet, gurgled music blending,?A song of tenfold melody;?Now, chasing the gay butterfly,?That o'er her pathway passed her by,?With grace as careless, glee as wild,?As though she were some thoughtless child;?Now, seated on some wayside stone,?With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown,?In silent thoughtfulness, she seems?To hold communion with her heart,?Beguiling fancy with the dreams?That from its Pure recesses start.
II.
There is a silent power, that o'er?Our bosoms wields a wizard might,?Restoring bygone years to light,?With the same vivid glow they wore,?Ere time had o'er their features cast?The shadowy shroud that veils the past:--?To those who walk in wisdom's way,?'Tis welcome as an angel's smile;?But those who from her counsels stray,?Whose hearts are full of craft and guile,?To them 'tis as a constant goad--?A weight that doubles Sorrow's load,--?A silent searcher of the breast,?Which will not let the guilty rest.?In childhood's pleasant -season born,?It haunts us in all after time;?From youth's serene and sunny morn?To manhood's stern meridian prime.?From manhood, till the weight of years,?And life's dull constant toil, and tears,?And passion's ever raging storm,?Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form.?True, youth, of hope and love possessed,?By friends--youth has no foes--caressed,?Finds in the present--happy boy!--?Enough of gaiety and joy;?And man, whose visionary brain?Begets that idle phantom train?Of shadows--Power, Wealth, and Fame,--?A scourge--a bubble--and a name--?So often and so vainly sought--?Has little time for