Mazelli, and Other Poems
G >>
George W. Sands >> Mazelli, and Other Poems
Pages:
1 | 2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6
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 peaceful thought;
And so they turn not back to gaze,
Where faithful memory displays
Her record of departed days;
But oh! how loves the eye of age,
To move along its pictured page,
To scan and number, o'er and o'er,
The joys that may return no more;
The hopes that, blighted in their bloom,
By disappointment's chilly gloom,
Were given sadly to the tomb;
The loves so wildly once enjoyed,
By time's unsparing hand destroyed;
The bright imaginative dreams,
Portrayed by restless fancy's beams,
By restless fancy's beams portrayed,
Alas! but to delude and fade!
To count these o'er and o'er again
Is age's sole resort from pain.
Then, stranger, marvel not that I
Have claimed so long thy listening ear;
I could not pass in silence by
Themes to my memory so dear,
As those which make my story's close--
Mazelli's love, Mazelli's woes.
III.
Ascending from the golden east,
The sun had gained his zenith height,
The guests were gathered to the feast,
Prepared to grace the marriage rite;
The youthful and the old were there,
The rustic swain and bashful fair;
The aged, reverend and gray,
Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay,
Each told, to while the time away,
Some tale of his own wedding day;
The youthful, timorous and shy,
Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye,
That, in its stolen glances, sends
The language Love best, comprehends.
The noontide hour goes by, and yet
The bridegroom tarries--why? and where?
Sure he could not his vows forget,
When she who loves him is so fair!
And then his honour, faith, and pride,
Had bound him to a meaner bride,
If once his promise had been given;
But she, so pure, so far above
The common forms of earthly mould,
So like the incarnate shapes of love,
Conceived, and born, and nursed in heaven,
His love for her could ne'er grow cold!
And yet he comes not. Half way now,
From where, at his meridian height,
He pours his fullest, warmest light,
To where, at eve, in his decline,
The day-god sinks into the brine,
When his diurnal task is done,
Descends his ever burning throne,
And still the bridegroom is not, there--
Say, why yet tarries he, and where?
IV.
Within an arbour, rudely reared,
But to the maiden's heart endeared
By every tie that binds the heart,
By hope's, and love's, and memory's art,--
For it was here he first poured out
In words, the love she could not doubt,--
Mazelli silent sits apart.
Did ever dreaming devotee,
Whose restless fancy, fond and warm,
Shapes out the bright ideal form
To which he meekly bends the knee,
Conceive of aught so fair as she?
The holiest seraph of the sphere
Most holy, if by chance led here,
Might drink such light from those soft eyes,
That he would hold them far more dear
Than all the treasures of the skies.
Yet o'er her bright and beauteous brow
Shade after shade is passing now,
Like clouds across the pale moon glancing,
As thought on rapid thought advancing,
Thrills through the maiden's trembling breast,
Not doubting, and yet not at rest.
Not doubting! Man may turn away
And scoff at shrines, where yesterday
He knelt, in earnest faith, to pray,
And wealth may lose its charm for him,
And fame's alluring star grow dim,
Devotion, avarice, glory, all
The pageantries of earth may pall;
But love is of a higher birth
Than these, the earth-born things of earth,--
A spark from the eternal flame,
Like it, eternally the same,
It is not subject to the breath
Of chance or change, of life or death.
And so doubt has no power to blight
Its bloom, or quench its deathless light,--
A deathless light, a peerless bloom,
That beams and glows beyond the tomb!
Go tell the trusting devotee,
His worship is idolatry;
Say to the searcher after gold,
The prize he seeks is dull and cold;
Assure the toiler after fame,
That, won, 'tis but a worthless name,
A mocking shade, a phantasy,--
And they, perchance, may list to thee;
But say not to the trusting maid,
Her love is scorned, her faith betrayed,--
As soon thy words may lull the gale,
As gain her credence to the tale!
And still the bridegroom is not there--
Oh! why yet tarries he, and where?
V.
It was the holy vesper hour,
The time for rest, and peace, and prayer,
When falls the dew, and folds the flower
Its petals, delicate and fair,
Against the chilly evening air;
And yet the bridegroom was not there.
The guests, who lingered through the day,
Had glided, one by one, away,
And then, with pale and pensive ray,
The moon began to climb the sky,
As from the forest, dim and green,
A small and silent band was seen
Emerging slow and solemnly;
With cautious step, and measured tread,
They moved as those who bear the dead;
And by no lip a word was spoke,
Nor other sound the silence broke,
Save when, low, musical, and clear,
The voice of waters passing near,
Was softly wafted to the ear,
And the cool, fanning twilight breeze,
That lightly shook the forest trees,
And crept from leaf to trembling leaf,
Sighed, like to one oppressed with grief.
Why move they with such cautious care?
What precious burden do they bear?
Hush, questioner! the dead are there;--
The victim of revenge and hate,
Of fierce Ottali's fiery pride,
With that stern minister of fate,
As cold and lifeless by his side.
VI.
Still onward, solemnly and slow,
And speaking not a word, they go,
Till pausing in their way before
Mazelli's quiet cottage door,
They gently lay their burden down.
Whence comes that shriek of wild despair
That rises wildly on the air?
Whose is the arm so fondly thrown
Around the cold, unconscious clay,
That cannot its caress repay?
Such wordless wo was in that cry,
Such pain, such hopeless agony,
No soul, excluded from the sky,
Whom unrelenting justice hath
Condemned to bear the second death,
E'er breathed upon the troubled gale
A wilder or a sadder wail;--
It rose, all other sounds above,
The dirge of peace, and hope, and love!
VII.
And day on weary day went by,
And like the drooping autumn leaf,
She faded slow and silently,
In her deep, uncomplaining grief;
For, sick of life's vacuity,
She neither sought nor wished relief.
And daily from her cheek, the glow
Departed, and her virgin brow
Was curtained with a mournful gloom,--
A shade prophetic, of the tomb;
And her clear eyes, so blue and bright,
Shot forth a keen, unearthly light,
As if the soul that in them lay,
Were weary of its garb of clay,
And prayed to pass from earth away;
Nor was that prayer vain, for ere
The frozen monarch of the year,
Had blighted, with his icy breath,
A single bud in summer's wreath,
They shrouded her, and made her grave,
And laid her down at Lodolph's side;
And by the wide Potomac's wave,
Repose the bridegroom and the bride.
'Tis said, that, oft at summer midnight, there,
When all is hushed and voiceless, and the air,
Sweet, soothing minstrel of the viewless hand,
Swells rippling through the aged trees, that stand
With their broad boughs above the wave depending,
With the low gurgle of the waters blending
The rustle of their foliage, a light boat,
Bearing two shadowy forms, is seen to float
Adown the stream, without or oar or sail,
To break the wave, or catch the driving gale;
Smoothly and steadily its course is steered,
Until the shadow of yon cliff is neared,
And then, as if some barrier, hid below
The river's breast, had caught its gliding prow,
Awhile, uncertain, o'er its watery bed,
It hangs, then vanishes, and in its stead,
A wan, pale light burns dimly o'er the, wave
That rolls and ripples by Mazelli's grave.
Notes To Mazelli
Note 1.
"And how its long and rocky chain
Was parted suddenly in twain,
Where through a chasm, wide and deep,
Potomac's rapid waters sweep,
While rocks that press the mountain's brow
Nod O'er his waves far, far below."
"The passage of the Potomac, through the Blue Ridge, is perhaps,
one of the most stupendous scenes in nature. You stand on a very
high point of land. On your right comes up the Shenandoah, having
ranged along the foot of the mountain a hundred miles to seek a
vent. On your left approaches the Potomac, seeking a vent also.
In the moment of their junction, they rush together against the
mountain, rend it asunder, and pass off to the sea.
"The first glance at this scene hurries our senses into the opinion
that this earth has been created in time; that the mountains were
formed first; that the rivers began to flow afterwards; that, in
this place particularly, they have been dammed up by the Blue Ridge
Mountains, and have formed an ocean which filled the whole valley;
that, continuing to rise, they have at length broken over at this
spot, and have torn the mountain down from its summit to its base.
"The piles of reckon each hand, but particularly on the Shenandoah,
the evident marks of their disrupture and avulsion from their beds
by the most powerful agents of nature, corroborate the impression.
But the distant finishing which nature has given to this picture,
is of a very different character. It is a true contrast to the
foreground. It is as Placid and delightful as that is wild and
tremendous.
"For, the mountain being cloven asunder, she presents to the eye,
through the cleft, a small catch of smooth blue horizon, at an
infinite distance in the plain country, inviting you, as it were,
from the riot and tumult roaring around, to pass through the breach,
and participate of the calm below."--Jefferson's Notes on Virginia.
Note 2.
"Save the plaintive song of the whip-poor-will."
That the Indian mind and language are not devoid of poetry,
the names they have given to this bird (the whip-poor-will)
sufficiently evidence. Some call it the "Muckawis," others
the "Wish-ton-wish," signifying "the voice of a sigh," and
"the plaint for the lost." Those, who in its native glens at
twilight, have listened to its indescribably melancholy song,
will know how beautifully appropriate these names are.
Note 3.
"They, the foul slaves' of lust and gold,
Say that our blood and hearts are cold."
It has been advanced by some writers, that the almost miraculous
fortitude often displayed by Indians, under the most intense
suffering, is to be accounted for by their insensibility to pain,
resulting, they allege, from a defective nervous organization. From
the absence of a display of gallantry and tenderness between the
sexes, they argue also, in them, the nonexistence of love, and
its kindred passions. This we think unjust, as it robs them of
the honours of a system of education, which is life-long, and whose
sole object is to attain the mastery of all feeling, physical or
mental. The view taken of this subject by Robertson, in his History
of America, to us, seems most accordant with truth. He says: "The
amazing steadiness with which the Americans endure the most exquisite
torments, has induced some authors to suppose that, from the peculiar
feebleness of their frame, their sensibility is not so acute as
that of other people; as women, and persons of a relaxed habit, are
observed to be robust men, whose nerves are more firmly braced. But
the constitution of the Americans is not so different in its texture,
from that of the rest of the human species, as to account for this
diversity in their behaviour. It flows from a principle of honour,
instilled early and cultivated with such care, as to inspire him
in his rudest state with a heroic magnanimity, to which philosophy
hath endeavoured in vain to form him, when more highly improved and
polished. This invincible constancy he has been taught to consider
as the chief distinction of a man, and the highest attainment of
a warrior. The ideas which influence his conduct, and the passions
which take possession of his heart, are few. They operate of course
with more decisive effect, than when the mind is crowded with a
multiplicity of objects, or distracted by the variety of its
pursuits; and when every motive that acts with any force in forming
the sentiments of a savage, prompts him to suffer with dignity, he
will bear what might seem impossible for human patience to sustain.
But whenever the fortitude of the Americans is not roused to exertion
by their ideas of honour, their feelings of pain are the same with
those of the rest of mankind."
Note 4.
"Bathed in the poisonous manchenille."
The slightest wound from an arrow dipped in the juice of the
Manchenille, causes certain and speedy death. "If they only pierce
the skin, the blood fixes and congeals in a moment, and the strongest
animal falls motionless to the ground."--Robertson's America.
S. L. Sawtelle.
Dear Sir:
To you, who have given me friendship in adversity, counsel in
perplexity, and hope in despondency, permit me, as an expression
of my deep and lasting gratitude, to inscribe the "Misanthrope."
With sentiments of the highest respect,
Your obt. servt.,
George W. Sands.
Frederick City, September 1849.
Dramatis Personae.
Werner--Misanthrope.
Manuel--a cottager.
Albert--his son.
Rebecca--wife to Manuel.
Rose--his daughter.
Spirits.
An aerial chorus.
THE MISANTHRAPE RECLAIMED
A Dramatic Poem
ACT I.
A fountain near the summit of a mountain, from which, through a
deep glen, a stream descends to the valley below. A city seen in
the distance. Time, midnight. Werner standing near the fountain.
Werner (solus).
Eternal rocks and hills!
Mighty and vast; and you, ye giant oaks,
Whose massy branches have for centuries
Played with the breeze and battled with the storm,
He, who so oft has trod your rugged paths,
And laid him down beneath your shades to rest,
Returns to be your dweller once again.
I sooner far would make your wilds my home,
With nought but your rude eaves to shield me from
The winter's cold or summer's heat, than be
One of the hundred thousand human flies
That swarm within yon filthy city's walls.
Here, I at least may live in solitude,
Free from a forced communion with a race,
Whose presence makes me feel that I am bound,
By nature, to the thing I loathe the most,
Earth's stateliest, proudest, meanest reptile, man!
The beauty of a god adorns his form,
The foulness of a fiend is in his heart;
The viper's, or the scorpion's filthy nest
Nurses a far less deadly, poisonous brood
Than are the hellish lusts, the avarice,--
The pride--the hate--the double-faced deceits--
That make his breast their dwelling.
If he be not beneath hell's wish to damn,
Too lost for even fiends to meddle with,
How must they laugh to hear him, in his pride,
Baptize his vices, virtues; making use
Of holy names to designate his crimes;
Giving his lust the sacred name of love;
Calling his avarice a goodly sin,
Care for his household; naming his deceit
Praiseworthy caution; boasting of his hate,
When be no more can cloak it, as a proof
Of strength of mind and honesty of heart.
For all of goodness that remains on earth,
The name of virtue might be banished from it.
Fathers, who waste in shameful riotings
The bread for which their children cry at home;
Mothers, who put aside th' unconscious babe
That they may wrong its father; children, who
Grow old in crime ere they have spent their youth;
These are its habitants.
I cannot brook the thought, that I belong
To their vile race. My sufferings have been great,
And keen enough to prove my immortality;
For dust could not have borne what I have suffered.
My mind has pierced far, far beyond the length
Of mortal vision, and discovered things
Of which men scarcely dream, and paid in pain,
The price of what it learned and bought with pangs
By which a thousand ages were compressed
Into one hour of agony: a power
Which is a terror to possess, and yet
This one thought only irks me.
Methinks the peaceful earth will scarcely give
My dust a resting-place within its bosom,
But cast it forth as if too vile, to mingle
With clay that ne'er has been the slave of sin.
What! other watchers here at this lone hour?
[An evil spirit enters, singing.
The world is half hidden,
By midnight's dark shadow;
The filly, witch-ridden,
Skims over the meadow;
The house-dog is barking,
The night-owl is hooting,
The glow-worm is sparkling,
The meteor is shooting;
And forms, which lie
So stiff and still,
In their shrouds so chill,
Through the live-long day,
Now burst their clay,
And flit through the sky,
On their dusky pinions:
Hell's dominions
Keep holiday.
Sisters, sisters, wherever your watches
Are kept, fleet hither to me,
Fleet hither, fleet hither, and leave earth's wretches
Alone to their misery.
[A chorus of evil spirits answer as they enter from different
parts of the mountain.
We come!
Vice needs no assistance,
She meets no resistance,
Virtue's existence
Is only in name;
Drinking and eating,
Intriguing and cheating,
Carousing, completing
Their ruin and shame;
Old age unrepenting,
Manhood unrelenting,
Youth sighing and winning,
Deceiving and sinning,
Deserting, repining,
All men are the same.
Ho! ho!
Earth quakes with the weight of the anguish she bears,
Her plains and her valleys are deluged with tears,
And her sighs, if united, were deeper by far,
Than the thunderbolt's peal, when the clouds are at war.
There is, not a bosom, that bears not within
Its chambers, the blot and the burden of sin;
Not a mind, but in many an hour bath felt
The curse of its nature, the pangs of its guilt.
These earth-worms! whose sire would have had us to bow
To his dust-moulded Godship! what--what are they now?
In the scale of true goodness, they sink far below
The poor, patient ox, that they yoke to the plough.
Let them revel awhile, in the false glaring light
Of deception, that blindness but seems to make bright;
Let them gather awhile of time's perishing flowers;
The revenge of eternity! This shall be ours!
Ho! ho!
[They settle near the fountain. The first Spirit addresses them.
The night is advancing,
Come, let us, dancing
In dewy circles deftly tread;
And while we dance round,
New schemes shall be found,
To ruin the living, and trouble the dead.
[They form a circle on the margin of the stream, and dance round
singing.
I.
Life is but a fleeting day,
Half of which man dreams away;
Night! we follow in thy train--
Sleep! supreme o'er thee we reign;
Ours the dreams that come when thou
Sit'st upon the unconscious brow;
Reason then deserts her throne,
We then reign, and we alone.
II.
Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow,
Far beyond the Atlantic's billow,
Love's apple, and when we have found it,
Draw the magic circle round it;(1)
Fearless pluck it, then no charm
That it bears may do us harm;
Place it near the sleeper's head,
It will bring love's visions nigh,
And when the pleasing, dreams are fled,
The waking, pensive maid will sigh,
Till her bosom has possessed,
The form that made her dreams so blest.
And when a maiden finds a lover,
Her happy days are nearly over:
Nature hath unchaste desires,
Love awakes her slumbering fires,
And the bosom that is true in
Love is ever near its ruin;
Passion's pleading melts the frost
Of chilliest hearts, and all is lost:
For, once vice blots a maiden's name,
She soon forgets her maiden shame.
III.
Haunt the debauchee with dreams,
Of the victim of his schemes;
Paint her with dishevelled hair,
Streaming eyes, and bosom bare,
And with aspect pale and sad,
As a spectre's from the dead,
Weeping o'er her new-born, child,
Her name reproached, her fame despoiled:
Let her groanings reach his ear,
Pierce his heart, and rouse his fear
Of the retribution given,
To such deeds as his, by Heaven.
IV.
Around the drunkard's tattered couch,
Let pale-faced want and misery crouch,
His children shivering o'er the hearth,
Cheered by no sound of social mirth,
Upbraiding, with their timid glances,
The author of their sad mischances;
And she to whom the holy vow
Of the altar bound him, now
With sunken eye, and beauty faded,
Tresses silvered, brow o'ershaded,
Clinging to him fondly still,
With a love that mocks each ill,
Which would vainly strive to tear
Her soul from one who once was dear.
Now haste we, each our task to do,
Ere the starry hours wane through!
[They fly off, singing as they disappear.
Pages:
1 | 2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6