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Nor spinning by the fountain-side,
(Some story of the days of old,

Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told
To him who would not be denied ;)
Not now, to while an hour away,
Gone to the falls in Valombrè,
Where 't is night at noon of day;

Nor wandering up and down the wood,
To all but her a solitude,

Where once a wild deer, wild no more,

Her chaplet on his antlers wore,
And at her bidding stood.

II.

The day was in the golden west;

And, curtain'd close by leaf and flower,

The doves had cooed themselves to rest

In Jacqueline's deserted bower;

Now he sigh'd heavily; and now,
His hand withdrawing from his brow,
He shut the volume with a frown,
To walk his troubled spirit down:
-When (faithful as that dog of yore1
Who wagg'd his tail and could no more)
Manchon, who long had snuff'd the ground,
And sought and sought, but never found,
Leapt up and to the casement flew,
And look'd and bark'd and vanish'd through.
"'Tis Jacqueline! "Tis Jacqueline!"
Her little brother laughing cried.
"I know her by her kirtle green,

She comes along the mountain-side;

Now turning by the traveller's seat,—
Now resting in the hermit's cave,-

Now kneeling, where the pathways meet,
To the cross on the stranger's grave.

The doves that still would at her casement peck, And, by the soldier's cloak, I know

And in her walks had ever flutter'd round

With purple feet and shining neck,

True as the echo to the sound.

That casement, underneath the trees,
Half open to the western breeze,
Look'd down, enchanting Garonnelle,
Thy wild and mulberry-shaded dell,
Round which the Alps of Piedmont rose,
The blush of sunset on their snows:
While, blithe as lark on summer-morn,
When green and yellow waves the corn,
When harebells blow in every grove,
And thrushes sing "I love! I love!"'!
Within (so soon the early rain
Scatters, and 't is fair again;
Though many a drop may yet be seen
To tell us where a cloud has been)
Within lay Frederic, o'er and o'er
Building castles on the floor,
And feigning, as they grew in size,
New troubles and new dangers;
With dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes,
As he and Fear were strangers.

St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled.
His eyes were on his loved Montaigne;
But every leaf was turn'd in vain.
Then in that hour remorse he felt,

And his heart told him he had dealt
Unkindly with his child.

A father may awhile refuse;
But who can for another choose?
When her young blushes had reveal'd
The secret from herself conceal'd,
Why promise what her tears denied,
That she should be De Courcy's bride?
-Wouldst thou, presumptuous as thou art,
O'er Nature play the tyrant's part,
And with the hand compel the heart?
Oh rather, rather hope to bind

The ocean-wave, the mountain-wind;

Or fix thy foot upon the ground
To stop the planet rolling round.

The light was on his face; and there
You might have seen the passions driven-
Resentment, Pity, Hope, Despair-
Like clouds across the face of Heaven.

1 Cantando "Io amo! Io amo!"-Tasso.

(There, there along the ridge they go)
D'Arcy, so gentle and so brave!

Look up-why will you not?" he cries,
His rosy hands before his eyes;
For on that incense-breathing eve
The sun shone out, as loth to leave.
"See to the rugged rock she clings!
She calls, she faints, and D'Arcy springs;
D'Arcy so dear to us, to all;

Who, for you told me on your knee,
When in the fight he saw you fall,
Saved you for Jacqueline and me!"

And true it was! And true the tale!
When did she sue and not prevail?
Five years before-it was the night

hat on the village-green they parted,
The lilied banners streaming bright
O'er maids and mothers broken-hearted;
The drum-it drown'd the last adieu,
When D'Arcy from the crowd she drew,
"One charge I have, and one alone,
Nor that refuse to take,
My father-if not for his own,
Oh for his daughter's sake!"
Inly he vow'd-"'t was all he could!"
And went and seal'd it with his blood.

Nor can ye wonder. When a child,
And in her playfulness she smiled,
Up many a ladder-path he guided
Where meteor-like the chamois glided,
Through many a misty grove.

They loved-but under Friendship's name;
And Reason, Virtue fann'd the flame;
Till in their houses Discord came,
And 't was a crime to love.
Then what was Jacqueline to do?
Her father's angry hours she knew,
And when to soothe, and when persuade;
But now her path De Courcy cross'd,
Led by his falcon through the glade-
He turn'd, beheld, admired the maid;
And all her little arts were lost!
De Courcy, lord of Argentiere!
Thy poverty, thy pride, St. Pierre,
Thy thirst for vengeance sought the snare.

1 Argus.

2 Called in the language of the country pas de l'Echelle.

The day was named, the guests invited;
The bridegroom, at the gate, alighted;
When up the windings of the dell
A pastoral pipe was heard to swell,
And io, an humble Piedmontese,
Whose music might a lady please,
This message through the lattice bore,
(She listen'd, and her trembling frame
Told her at once from whom it came)
"Oh let us fly-to part no more!"

III.

That morn ('t was in Ste Julienne's cell,
As at Ste Julienne's sacred well
Their dream of love began),

That morn, ere many a star was set,
Their hands had on the altar met
Before the holy man.

-And now the village gleams at last;
The woods, the golden meadows pass'd,
Where, when Toulouse, thy splendor shone
The Troubadour would journey on
Transported-or, from grove to grove,
Framing some roundelay of love,
Wander till the day was gone.
"All will be well, my Jacqueline!
Oh tremble not-but trust in me.
The good are better made by ill,
As odors crush'd are sweeter still;
And gloomy as thy past has been,
Bright shall thy future be!"

So saying, through the fragrant shade
Gently along he led the maid,

While Manchon round and round her play'd:
And, as that silent glen they leave,
Where by the spring the pitchers stand,
Where glow-worms light their lamps at eve,
And fairies dance-in fairy-land,

(When Lubin calls, and Blanche steals round,
Her finger on her lip, to see;

And many an acorn-cup is found
Under the greenwood tree)
From every cot above, below,

They gather as they go

Sabot, and coif, and collerette,

The housewife's prayer, the grandam's blessing!
Girls that adjust their locks of jet,
And look and look and linger yet,
The lovely bride caressing;

Babes that had learnt to lisp her name,
And heroes he had led to fame.

But what felt D'Arcy, when at length Her father's gate was open flung? Ah, then he found a giant's strength; For round him, as for life, she clung! And when, her fit of weeping o'er, Onward they moved a little space, And saw an old man sitting at the door, Saw his wan cheek, and sunken eye That seem'd to gaze on vacancy, Then, at the sight of that beloved face, At once to fall upon his neck she flew; But not encouraged-back she drew, And trembling stood in dread suspense, Her tears her only eloquence!

All, all-the while-an awful distance keeping;
Save D'Arcy, who nor speaks nor stirs;
And one, his little hand in hers,
Who weeps to see his sister weeping.

Then Jacqueline the silence broke.
She clasp'd her father's knees and spoke,
Her brother kneeling too;

While D'Arcy as before look'd on,
Though from his manly cheek was gone
Its natural hue.

"His praises from your lips I heard,
Till my fond heart was won;
And, if in aught his Sire has err'd,
Oh turn not from the Son!-

She, whom in joy, in grief you nursed;
Who climb'd and call'd you father first,
By that dear name conjures

On her you thought-but to be kind!
When look'd you up, but you inclined?
These things, for ever in her mind,
Oh are they gone from yours?
Two kneeling at your feet behold;

One-one how young;-nor yet the other old.
Oh spurn them not-nor look so cold-
If Jacqueline be cast away,

Her bridal be her dying day.

Well, well might she believe in you!—
She listen'd, and she found it true."

He shook his aged locks of snow;
And twice he turn'd, and rose to go.
She hung; and was St. Pierre to blame,
If tears and smiles together came?
"Oh no-begone! I'll hear no more."
But as he spoke, his voice relented.
That very look thy mother wore

When she implored, and old Le Roc consented.
True, I have done as well as suffer'd wrong,

Yet once I loved him as my own!

-Nor can'st thou, D'Arcy, feel resentment long;
For she herself shall plead, and I atone.
Henceforth," he paused awhile, unmann'd,
For D'Arcy's tears bedew'd his hand;
"Let each meet each as friend to friend,

All things by all forgot, forgiven.

And that dear Saint-may she once more descend
To make our home a heaven!-

But now, in my hands, your's with her's unite.
A father's blessing on your heads alight!
-Nor let the least be sent away.

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All hearts shall sing Adieu to sorrow!
St. Pierre has found his child to-day;
And old and young shall dance to-morrow."
Had Louis' then before the gate dismounted,
Lost in the chase at set of sun;

Like Henry, when he heard recounted?
The generous deeds himself had done,
(That night the miller's maid Colette
Sung, while he supp'd, her chansonnette)
Then-when St. Pierre address'd his village-train,
Then had the monarch with a sigh confess'd
A joy by him unsought and unpossess'd,
-Without it what are all the rest?-
To love and to be loved again.

1 Louis the Fourteenth.

2 Alluding to a popular story related of Henry the Fourth of France; similar to ours of "The King and Miller of Mansfield."

The Voyage of Columbus.

PREFACE.

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THE following Poem (or to speak more properly, what remains of it ') has here and there a lyrical turn of thought and expression. It is sudden in its transitions, and full of historical allusions; leaving much to be imagined by the reader.

The subject is a voyage the most memorable in the annals of mankind. Columbus was a person of extraordinary virtue and piety, acting under the sense of a divine impulse; and his achievement the discovery of a New World, the inhabitants of which were shut out from the light of Revelation, and given up, as they believed, to the dominion of malignant spirits.

Many of the incidents will now be thought extravagant; yet they were once perhaps received with something more than indulgence. It was an age of miracles; and who can say that among the venerable legends in the library of the Escurial, or the more authentic records which fill the great chamber in the Archivo of Simancas, and which relate entirely to the deep tragedy of America, there are no volumes that mention the marvellous things here described? Indeed the story, as already told throughout Europe, admits of no heightening. Such was the religious enthusiasm of the early writers, that the Author had only to transfuse it into his verse; and he appears to have done little more; though some of the circumstances which he alludes to as well known, have long ceased to be so. By using the language of that day, he has called up Columbus "in his habit as he lived;" and the authorities, such as exist, are carefully given by the Translator.

INSCRIBED ON THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.

UNCLASP me, Stranger; and unfold,
With trembling care, my leaves of gold
Rich in Gothic portraiture-
If yet, alas, a leaf endure,

In RABIDA's monastic fane,

I cannot ask, and ask in vain.

The language of Castile I speak;
'Mid many an Arab, many a Greek,
Old in the days of Charlemain;
When minstrel-music wander'd round,
And Science, waking, bless'd the sound.
No earthly thought has here a place,
The cowl let down on every face;

1 The Original, in the Castilian language, according to the inscription that follows, was found among other MSS. in an old religious house near Palos, situated on an island formed by the river Tinto, and dedicated to our Lady of Rábida. The writer describes himself as having sailed with Columbus; but his style and manner are evidently of an after-time.

Shakspeare.

Yet here, in consecrated dust,
Here would I sleep, if sleep I must.
From Genoa when Columbus came,
(At once her glory and her shame)
"T was here he caught the holy flame.
"T was here the generous vow he made;
His banners on the altar laid.-

One hallow'd morn, methought, I felt
As if a soul within me dwelt!
But who arose and gave to me
The sacred trust I keep for thee,
And in his cell at even-tide
Knelt before the cross and died-
Inquire not now. His name no more
Glimmers on the chancel-floor,
Near the lights that ever shine
Before St. Mary's blessed shrine.

To me one little hour devote,
And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee;
Read in the temper that he wrote,
And may his gentle spirit guide thee!
My leaves forsake me, one by one;
The book-worm through and through has gone,
Oh haste-unclasp me, and unfold;
The tale within was never told!

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

THERE is a spirit in the old Spanish Chroniclers of the sixteenth century that may be compared to the freshness of water at the fountain-head. Their simplicity, their sensibility to the strange and the wonderful, their very weaknesses, give an infinite value, by giving a life and a character to every thing they touch; and their religion, which bursts out everywhere, addresses itself to the imagination in the highest degree. If they err, their errors are not their own. They think and feel after the fashion of the time; and their narratives are so many moving pictures of the actions, manners, and thoughts of their contemporaries.

What they had to communicate, might well make them eloquent; but, inasmuch as relates to ColumNo National bus, the inspiration went no farther.

Poem appeared on the subject; no Camoëns did honor to his Genius and his Virtues. Yet the materials, that have descended to us, are surely not unpoetical; and a desire to avail myself of them, to convey in some instances as far as I could, in others as far as I dared, their warmth of coloring and wildness of imagery, led me to conceive the idea of a Poem written not long after his death, when the great consequences of the Discovery were beginning

35

And ere his coming sung on either shore,
Him could not I exalt-by Heaven design'd
To lift the veil that cover'd half mankind!
Yet, ere I die, I would fulfil my vow;
Praise cannot wound his generous spirit now.

to unfold themselves, but while the minds of men Him, by the Paynim bard descried of yore, (b) were still clinging to the superstitions of their fathers. The Event here described may be thought too recent for the Machinery; but I found them together.' A belief in the agency of Evil Spirits prevailed over both hemispheres; and even yet seems almost necessary to enable us to clear up the Darkness, and, in this instance at least,

To justify the ways of God to Men.

THE ARGUMENT.

*

"Twas night. The Moon, o'er the wide wave, disclosed

Her awful face; and Nature's self reposed; When, slowly rising in the azure sky, Three white sails shone-but to no mortal eye, Entering a boundless sea. In slumber cast, Columbus, having wandered from kingdom to king- The very ship-boy, on the dizzy mast, dom, at length obtains three ships and sets sail on the Half breathed his orisons! Alone unchanged, Atlantic. The compass alters from its ancient direc- Calmly, beneath, the great Commander (2) ranged, tion; the wind becomes constant and unremitting; Thoughtful, not sad; and, as the planet grew, night and day he advances, till he is suddenly stop- His noble form, wrapt in his mantle blue, ped in his course by a mass of vegetation, extending Athwart the deck a deepening shadow threw. as far as the eye can reach, and assuming the ap-"Thee hath it pleased-Thy will be done!" he said, (3) pearance of a country overwhelmed by the sea. Then sought his cabin; and, their capas' spread, Alarm and despondence on board. He resigns him- Around him lay the sleeping as the dead, self to the care of Heaven, and proceeds on his When, by his lamp, to that mysterious Guide, voyage; while columns of water move along in his On whose still counsels all his hopes relied, path before him. That Oracle to man in mercy given, Meanwhile the deities of America assemble in Whose voice is truth, whose wisdom is from heaven, (4) council; and one of the Zemi, the gods of the island- Who over sands and seas directs the stray, ers, announces his approach. “In vain," says he," have And, as with God's own finger, points the way, we guarded the Atlantic for ages. A mortal has He turn'd; but what strange thoughts perplex'd his soul, baffled our power; nor will our votaries arm against When, lo, no more attracted to the Pole, him. Yours are a sterner race. Hence; and, while The Compass, faithless as the circling vane, we have recourse to stratagem, do you array the na- Flutter'd and fix'd, flutter'd and fix'd again! tions round your altars, and prepare for an extermi- At length, as by some unseen hand imprest nating war." They disperse while he is yet speaking; It sought with trembling energy the West!? and, in the shape of a condor, he directs his flight to "Ah no," he cried, and calm'd his anxious brow, the fleet. His journey described. He arrives there." Ill, nor the signs of ill, 'tis thine to show, A panic. A mutiny. Columbus restores order; continues on his voyage; and lands in a New World. Ceremonies of the first interview. Rites of hospitality. The ghost of Cazziva.

Two months pass away, and an Angel, appearing in a dream to Columbus, thus addresses him; "Return to Europe; though your Adversaries, such is the will of Heaven, shall let loose the hurricane against you. A little while shall they triumph; insinuating themselves into the hearts of your followers, and making the World, which you came to bless, a scene of blood and slaughter. Yet is there cause for rejoicing. Your work is done. The cross of Christ is planted here; and, in due time, all things shall be made perfect!"

CANTO I.

Night-Columbus on the Atlantic-the Variation
of the Compass, etc.

WHO the great Secret of the Deep possess'd
And, issuing through the portals of the West,
Fearless, resolved, with every sail unfurl'd
Planted his standard on the Unknown World?

1 Perhaps even a contemporary subject should not be rejected as such, however wild and extravagant it may be, if the manners be foreign and the place distant-major è longinquo reverentia. "L'éloignement des pays," says Racine, "répare en quelque sorte la trop grande proximité des temps; car le peuple ne met guère de différence entre ce qui est, si j'ose ainsi parler, à mille ans de lui, et ce qui en est à mille lieues."

Thine but to lead me where I wish'd to go!"

Columbus err'd not. (5) In that awful hour,
Sent forth to save, and girt with godlike power,
And glorious as the regent of the Sun,
An Angel came! He spoke, and it was done!
He spoke, and, at his call, a mighty Wind, (6)
Not like the fitful blast, with fury blind,
But deep, majestic, in its destined course,
Sprung with unerring, unrelenting force,
From the bright East. Tides duly ebb'd and flow'd;
Stars rose and set; and new horizons glow'd;
Yet still it blew! As with primeval sway
Still did its ample spirit, night and day,
Move on the waters-All, resign'd to Fate,
Folded their arms and sat; (7) and seem'd to wait
Some sudden change; and sought, in chill suspense,
New spheres of being, and new modes of sense;
As men departing, though not doom'd to die,
And midway on their passage to eternity.

CANTO II.

The Voyage continued.

"WHAT vast foundations in the Abyss are there, (8)
As of a former world? Is it not where
Atlantic kings their barbarous pomp display'd; (9)
Sunk into darkness with the realms they sway'd,

1 The capa is the Spanish cloak.
2 Herrera, dec. 1, lib. i, c. 9.

When towers and temples, through the closing wave,
A glimmering ray of ancient splendor gave-
And we shall rest with them.-Or are we thrown"
Each gazed on each, and all exclaim'd as one)
"Where things familiar cease and strange begin,
All progress barr'd to those without, within?
-Soon is the doubt resolved. Arise, behold-

We stop to stir no more-nor will the tale be told."
The pilot smote his breast; the watchman cried
"Land!" and his voice in faltering accents died. (10)
At once the fury of the prow was quell'd;
And (whence or why from many an age withheld) (11)
Shrieks, not of men, were mingling in the blast;
And armed shapes of godlike stature pass'd!
Slowly along the evening-sky they went,
As on the edge of some vast battlement;
Helmet and shield, and spear and gonfalon
Streaming a baleful light that was not of the sun!

Long from the stern the great adventurer gazed
With awe not fear; then high his hands he raised.
"Thou Ail-supreme-in goodness as in power,
Who, from his birth to this eventful hour,
Hast led thy servant (12) over land and sea,
Confessing Thee in all, and all in Thee,
Oh still"-He spoke, and lo, the charm accurst
Fled whence it came, and the broad barrier burst!
A vain illusion! (such as mocks the eyes

Of fearful men, when mountains round them rise
From less than nothing) nothing now beheld,
But scatter'd sedge-repelling, and repell'd!

And once again that valiant company
Right onward came, plowing the Unknown Sea.
Already borne beyond the range of thought,
With Light divine, with Truth immortal fraught,
From world to world their steady course they keep, (13)
Swift as the winds along the waters sweep,
'Mid the mute nations of the purple deep.
-And now the sound of harpy-wings they hear;
Now less and less, as vanishing in fear!

And, see, the heavens bow down, the waters rise,
And, rising, shoot in columns to the skies, (14)
That stand-and still, when they proceed, retire,
As in the desert burn'd the sacred fire;
Moving in silent majesty, till Night

Descends, and shuts the vision from their sight.

CANTO III.

An Assembly of Evil Spirits.

THOUGH changed my cloth of gold for amice grey-(15)

In my spring-time, when every month was May,
With hawk and hound I coursed away the hour,
Or sung my roundelay in lady's bower.

And though my world be now a narrow cell,
(Renounced for ever all I loved so well)
Though now my head be bald, my feet be bare,
And scarce my knees sustain my book of prayer,
Oh I was there, one of that gallant crew,
And saw-and wonder'd whence his Power He drew,
Yet little thought, though by his side I stood,
Of his great Foes in earth and air and flood,
Then uninstructed. But my sand is run,
And the Night coming-and my Task not done!-
T was in the deep immeasurable cave
Of Andes, (16) echoing to the Southern wave,

D

'Mid pillars of Basalt, the work of fire,
That, giant-like, to upper day aspire;
"T was there that now, as wont in heaven to shine,
Forms of angelic mould, and grace divine,
Assembled. All, exiled the realms of rest,
In vain the sadness of their souls suppress'd;
Yet of their glory many a scatter'd ray
Shot through the gathering shadows of decay.
Each moved a God; and all, as Gods possess'd
One half the globe; from pole to pole confess'd! (17)
Oh could I now-but how in mortal verse
Their numbers, their heroic deeds rehearse!
These in dim shrines and barbarous symbols reign,
Where Plata and Maragnon meet the main. (18)
Those the wild hunter worships as he roves,
In the green shade of Chili's fragrant groves;
Or warrior-tribes with rites of blood implore,
Whose night-fires gleam along the sullen shore
Of Huron or Ontario, inland seas, (19)
What time the song of death is in the breeze!

"T was now in dismal pomp and order due,
While the vast concave flash'd with lightnings blue,
On shining pavements of metallic ore,
That many an age the fusing sulphur bore,
They held high council. All was silence round,
When, with a voice most sweet yet most profound,
A sovereign Spirit burst the gates of night,
And from his wings of gold shook drops of liquid
light!

Merion, commission'd with his host to sweep
From age to age the melancholy deep!
Chief of the Zemi, whom the isles obey'd,
By Ocean sever'd from a world of shade. (20)

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