The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 2

Oh! sure, if ever mortal prayer Were heard where thou and thy sweet stars abide, So many gallant spirits had not died Thus mournfully in beauty and in prime!

But from the sky had shone an arm sublime, To bless the wors.h.i.+p of that Virgin fair, And, only seen by Faith's uplifted eye, The wretched vessel gently drifted by The fatal rock, and to the crowded sh.o.r.e In triumph and in pride th' expected glory bore.

Oh vain belief! most beauteous as thou art, Thy heavenly visage hides a cruel heart.

When Death and Danger, Terror and Dismay, Are madly struggling on the dismal Ocean, With heedless smile and calm unalter'd motion, Onward thou glidest through the milky way, Nor, in thy own immortal beauty blest, Hear'st dying mortals rave themselves to rest.

Yet when this night thou mount'st thy starry throne, Brightening to sun-like glory in thy bliss, Wilt thou not then thy once-loved Vessel miss, And wish her happy, now that she is gone?

But then, sad Moon! too late thy grief will be, Fair as thou art, thou canst not move the sea.

--Dear G.o.d! Was that wild sound a human cry, The voice of one more loath to die Than they who round him sleep?

Or of a Spirit in the sky, A Demon in the deep?

No sea-bird, through the darkness sailing, E'er utter'd such a doleful wailing, Foreboding the near blast: If from a living thing it came, It sure must have a spectral frame, And soon its soul must part:-- That groan broke from a bursting heart, The bitterest and the last.

The Figure moves! It is alive!

None but its wretched self survive, Yea! drown'd are all the crew!

Ghosts are they underneath the wave, And he, whom Ocean deign'd to save, Stands there most ghost-like too.

Alone upon a rock he stands Amid the waves, and wrings his hands, And lifts to Heaven his steadfast eye, With a wild upbraiding agony.

He sends his soul through the lonesome air To G.o.d:--but G.o.d hears not his prayer; For, soon as his words from the wretch depart, Cold they return on his baffled heart.

He flings himself down on his rocky tomb, And madly laughs at his horrible doom.

With smiles the Main is overspread, As if in mockery of the dead; And upward when he turns his sight, The unfeeling Sun is s.h.i.+ning bright, And strikes him with a sickening light.

While a fainting-fit his soul bedims, He thinks that a s.h.i.+p before him swims, A gallant s.h.i.+p, all fill'd with gales, One radiant gleam of snowy sails-- His senses return, and he looks in vain O'er the empty silence of the Main!

No s.h.i.+p is there, with radiant gleam, Whose shadow sail'd throughout his dream: Not even one rueful plank is seen To tell that a vessel hath ever been Beneath these lonely skies: But sea-birds he oft had seen before Following the s.h.i.+p in hush or roar, The loss of their resting-mast deplore With wild and dreary cries.

What brought him here he cannot tell; Doubt and confusion darken all his soul, While glimmering truth more dreadful makes the gloom: Why hath the Ocean that black hideous swell?

And in his ears why doth that dismal toll For ever sound,--as if a city-bell Wail'd for a funeral pa.s.sing to the tomb?

Some one hath died, and buried is this day; A h.o.a.ry-headed man, or stripling gay, Or haply some sweet maid, who was a bride, And, ere her head upon his bosom lay Who deem'd her all his own,--the Virgin died!

Why starts the wilder'd dreamer at the sound, And casts his haggard eyes around?

The utter agony hath seized him now, For Memory drives him, like a slave, to know What Madness would conceal:--His own dear Maid, She, who he thought could never die, is dead.

"Drown'd!"--still the breaking billows mutter,--"drown'd!"

With anguish loud was her death-bed!

Nor e'er,--wild wish of utmost woe!

Shall her sweet corse be found.

Oft had he sworn with faithless breath, That his love for the Maid was strong as death, By the holy Sun he sware; The Sun upon the Ocean smiles, And, with a sudden gleam, reviles His vows as light as air.

Yet soon he flings, with a sudden start, That gnawing phrenzy from his heart, For long in sooth he strove, When the waters were booming in his brain, And his life was clogg'd with a sickening pain, To save his lady-love.

How long it seems since that dear night, When gazing on the wan moonlight He and his own betrothed stood, Nor fear'd the harmless ocean-flood!

He feels as if many and many a day, Since that bright hour, had pa.s.s'd away; The dim remembrance of some joy In which he revell'd when a boy.

The crew's dumb misery and his own, When lingeringly the s.h.i.+p went down, Even like some mournful tale appears, By wandering sailor told in other years.

Yet still he knows that this is all delusion, For how could he for months and years have lain A wretched thing upon the cruel Main, Calm though it seem to be? Would gracious Heaven Set free his spirit from this dread confusion, Oh, how devoutly would his thanks be given To Jesus ere he died! But tortured so He dare not pray beneath his weight of wo, Lest he should feel, when about to die, By G.o.d deserted utterly.

He cannot die: Though he longs for death, Stronger and stronger grows his breath, And hopeless woe the spring of being feeds; He faints not, though his knell seems rung, But lives, as if to life he clung, And stronger as he bleeds.

He calls upon the grisly Power, And every moment, every hour, His sable banners wave; But he comes not in his mortal wrath, And long and dreary is the path Of anguish to the grave.

His heart it will not cease to beat, His blood runs free and warm; And thoughts of more composed despair, Incessant as the waves that bathe his feet, Yet comfortless as the empty air, Through all his spirit swarm.

But the weariness of wasting grief Hath brought to him its own relief: Each sense is dull'd! He lies at last As if the parting shock were past.

He sleeps!--Prolong his haunted rest, O G.o.d!--for now the wretch is blest.

A fair romantic Island, crown'd With a glow of blossom'd trees, And underneath bestrewn with flowers, The happy dreamer sees.

A stream comes dancing from a mount, Down its fresh and l.u.s.trous side, Then, tamed into a quiet pool, Is scarcely seen to glide.

Like fairy sprites, a thousand birds Glance by on golden wing, Birds lovelier than the lovely hues Of the bloom wherein they sing.

Upward he lifts his wondering eyes, Nor yet believes that even the skies So pa.s.sing fair can be.

And lo! yon gleam of emerald light, For human gaze too dazzling bright, Is that indeed the sea?

Adorn'd with all her pomp and pride, Long-fluttering flags, and pendants wide, He sees a stately vessel ride At anchor in a bay, Where never waves by storm were driven, Shaped like the Moon when she is young in heaven, Or melting in a cloud that stops her way.

Her masts tower n.o.bly from the rocking deep, Tall as the palm trees on the steep, And, burning mid their crests so darkly green, Her meteor-glories all abroad are seen, Wakening the forests from their solemn sleep; While suddenly the cannon's sound Rolls through the cavern'd glens, and groves profound, And never-dying echoes roar around.

Shaded with branching palm, the sign of peace, Canoes and skiffs like lightning shoot along, Countless as waves there sporting on the seas; While still from those that lead the van, a song, Whose chorus rends the inland cliffs afar, Tells that advance before that unarm'd throng, Princes and chieftains, with a fearless smile, And outstretch'd arms, to welcome to their Isle That gallant s.h.i.+p of War.

And glad are they who therein sail, Once more to breathe the balmy gale, To kiss the steadfast strand: They round the world are voyaging, And who can tell their suffering Since last they saw the land?

But that bright pageant will not stay: Palms, plumes, and ensigns melt away, Island, and s.h.i.+p!--Though utter be the change (For on a rock he seems to lie All naked to the burning sky) He doth not think it strange.

While in his memory faint recallings swim, He fain would think it is a dream That thus distracts his view, Until some unimagined pain Shoots s.h.i.+vering through his troubled brain; --Though dreadful, all is true.

But what to him is anguish now, Though it burn in his blood, and his heart, and his brow, For ever from morn to night?

For lo! an Angel shape descends, As soft and silent as moonlight, And o'er the dreamer bends.

She cannot be an earthly child, Yet, when the Vision sweetly smiled, The light that there did play Reminded him, he knew not why, Of one beloved in infancy, But now far, far away.

Disturb'd by fluttering joy, he wakes, And feels a death-like shock; For, harder even than in his dream, His bed is a lonely rock.

Poor wretch! he dares not open his eye, For he dreads the beauty of the sky, And the useless unavailing breeze That he hears upon the happy seas.

A voice glides sweetly through his heart, The voice of one that mourns; Yet it hath a gladsome melody-- Dear G.o.d! the dream returns!

A gentle kiss breathes o'er his cheek, A kiss of murmuring sighs, It wanders o'er his brow, and falls Like light upon his eyes.

Through that long kiss he dimly sees, All bathed in smiles and tears, A well-known face; and from those lips A well-known voice he hears.

With a doubtful look he scans the Maid, As if half-delighted, half-afraid, Then bows his wilder'd head, And with deep groans, he strives to pray That Heaven would drive the fiend away, That haunts his dying bed.

Again he dares to view the air: The beauteous ghost yet lingers there, Veil'd in a spotless shroud: Breathing in tones subdued and low, Bent o'er him like Heaven's radiant bow, And still as evening-cloud.

"Art thou a phantom of the brain?"

He cries, "a mermaid from the main?

A seraph from the sky?

Or art thou a fiend with a seraph's smile, Come here to mock, on this horrid Isle, My dying agony?"-- Had he but seen what touching sadness fell On that fair creature's cheek while thus he spoke, Had heard the stifled sigh that slowly broke From her untainted bosom's lab'ring swell, He scarce had hoped, that at the throne of grace Such cruel words could e'er have been forgiven, The impious sin of doubting such a face, Of speaking thus of Heaven.

Weeping, she wrings his dripping hair That hangs across his cheek; And leaves a hundred kisses there, But not one word can speak.

In bliss she listens to his breath: Ne'er murmur'd so the breast of death!

Alas! sweet one! what joy can give Fond-cherish'd thoughts like these!

For how mayst thou and thy lover live In the centre of the seas?

Or vainly to your sorrows seek for rest, On a rock where never verdure grew, Too wild even for the wild sea-mew To build her slender nest!

Sublime is the faith of a lonely soul, In pain and trouble cherish'd; Sublime the spirit of hope that lives, When earthly hope has perish'd.

And where doth that blest faith abide?

O! not in Man's stern nature: human pride Inhabits there, and oft by virtue led, Pride though it be, it doth a glory shed, That makes the world we mortal beings tread, In chosen spots, resplendent as the Heaven!

But to yon gentle Maiden turn, Who never for herself doth mourn, And own that faith's undying urn Is but to woman given.

Now that the shade of sorrow falls Across her life, and duty calls, Her spirit burns with a fervent glow, And stately through the gloom of woe Behold her alter'd form arise, Like a priestess at a sacrifice.

The touch of earth hath left no taint Of weakness in the fearless saint.

Like clouds, all human pa.s.sions roll, At the breath of devotion, from her soul, And G.o.d looks down with a gleam of grace, On the stillness of her heavenward face, Just paler in her grief.

While, hark! like one who G.o.d adores, Such words she o'er her lover pours, As give herself relief.

"Oh! look again on her who speaks To thee, and bathes thy sallow cheeks With many a human tear!

No cruel thing beside thee leans, Thou knowest what thy Mary means, Thy own true love is here.

Open thine eyes! thy beauteous eyes!

For mercy smile on me!

Speak!--but one word! one little word!

'Tis all I ask of thee.

If these eyes would give one transient gleam, To chear this dark and dreadful dream, If, while I kiss thy cheek, These dear, dear lips, alas! so pale, Before their parting spirit fail, One low farewell would speak,-- This rock so hard would be a bed Of down unto thy Mary's head, And gently would we glide away, Fitz-Owen! to that purer day Of which thou once didst sing; Like birds, that, rising from the foam, Seek on some lofty cliff their home, On storm-despising wing.

Yes! that thou hear'st thy Mary's voice, That lovely smile declares!

Here let us in each other's arms Dissolve our life in prayers.

I see in that uplifted eye, That thou art not afraid to die; For ever brave wert thou.

Oh! press me closer to thy soul, And, while yet we hear the Ocean roll, Breathe deep the marriage vow!

We hoped far other days to see; But the will of G.o.d be done!

My husband! behold yon pile of clouds Like a city, round the Sun: Beyond these clouds, ere the phantoms part, Thou wilt lean in bliss on my loving heart."--