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 Shadeafter 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. Whymove 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 blendingThe 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.
