The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 5

Vaunt not, gay bird! thy gorgeous plume, Though on yon leafy tree it bloom Like a flower both rich and fair: Vain thy loud song and scarlet glow, To save from his unerring bow; The arrow finds thee there.

Dark are the caverns of the wave, Yet those, that sport there, cannot save, Though hidden from the day, With silvery sides bedropt with gold, Struggling they on the beach are roll'd O'er sh.e.l.ls as bright as they.

Their pastimes these, and labours too, From day to day unwearied they renew, In garments floating with a woodland grace: Oh! lovelier far than fabled sprites, They glide along through new delights, Like health and beauty vying in the race.

Yet hours of soberer bliss they know, Their spirits in more solemn flow At day-fall oft will run, When from his throne, with kingly motion, Into the loving arms of Ocean Descends the setting Sun.

"Oh! beauteous are thy rocky vales, Land of my birth, forsaken Wales!

Towering from continent or sea, Where is the Mountain like to thee?-- The eagle's darling, and the tempest's pride,-- Thou! on whose ever-varying side The shadows and the sun-beams glide In still or stormy weather.

Oh Snowdon! may I breathe thy name?

And thine too, of gigantic frame, Cader-Idris? 'neath the solar flame, Oh! proud ye stand together!

And thou, sweet Lake!"--but from its wave She turn'd her inward eye, For near these banks, within her grave, Her Mother sure must lie: Weak were her limbs, long, long ago, And grief, ere this, hath laid them low.

Yet soon Fitz-Owen's eye and voice From these sad dreams recal His weeping wife; and deeply chear'd She soon forgets them all.

Or, haply, through delighted tears, Her mother's smiling shade appears, And, her most duteous child caressing, Bestows on her a parent's blessing, And tells that o'er these holy groves Oft hangs the parent whom she loves.

How beauteous both in hours like these!

Prest in each other's arms, or on their knees, They think of things for which no words are found; They need not speak: their looks express More life-pervading tenderness Than music's sweetest sound.

He thinks upon the dove-like rest That broods within her pious breast; The holy calm, the hush divine, Where pensive, night-like glories s.h.i.+ne; Even as the mighty Ocean deep, Yet clear and waveless as the sleep Of some lone heaven-reflecting lake, When evening-airs its gleam forsake.

She thinks upon his love for her, His wild, empa.s.sion'd character, To whom a look, a kiss, a smile, Rewards for danger and for toil!

His power of spirit unsubdued, His fearlessness,--his fort.i.tude,-- The radiance of his gifted soul Where never mists or darkness roll: A poet's soul that flows for ever, Right onwards like a n.o.ble river, Refulgent still, or by its native woods Shaded, and rolling on through sunless solitudes.

In love and mercy, sure on him had G.o.d The sacred power that stirs the soul bestow'd; Nor fell his hymns on Mary's ear in vain; With brightening smiles the Vision hung O'er the rapt poet while he sung, More beauteous from the strain.

The songs he pour'd were sad and wild, And while they would have sooth'd a child, Who soon bestows his tears, A deeper pathos in them lay That would have moved a hermit gray, Bow'd down with holy years.

One song he had about a s.h.i.+p That perish'd on the Main, So woeful, that his Mary pray'd, At one most touching pause he made, To cease the hea.r.s.e-like strain: And yet, in spite of all her pain, Implored him, soon as he obey'd, To sing it once again.

With faultering voice then would he sing Of many a well-known far-off thing, Towers, castles, lakes, and rills; Their names he gave not--could not give-- But happy ye, he thought, who live Among the Cambrian hills.

Then of their own sweet Isle of Palms, Full many a lovely lay He sung;--and of two happy sprites Who live and revel in delights For ever, night and day.

And who, even of immortal birth, Or that for Heaven have left this earth, Were e'er more blest than they?

But shall that bliss endure for ever?

And shall these consecrated groves Behold and cherish their immortal loves?

Or must it come, the hour that is to sever Those whom the Ocean in his wrath did spare?

Awful that thought, and, like unto despair, Oft to their hearts it sends an icy chill; Pain, death they fear not, come they when they will, But the same fate together let them share; For how could either hope to die resign'd, If G.o.d should say, "One must remain behind!"

Yet wisely doth the spirit shrink From thought, when it is death to think; Or haply, a kind being turns To brighter hopes the soul that mourns In killing woe; else many an eye, Now glad, would weep its destiny.

Even so it fares with them: they wish to live Long on this island, lonely though it be.

Old age itself to them would pleasure give, For lo! a sight, which it is heaven to see, Down yonder hill comes glancing beauteously, And with a silver voice most wildly sweet, Flings herself, laughing, down before her parents' feet.

Are they in truth her parents?--Was her birth Not drawn from heavenly sire, and from the breast Of some fair spirit, whose sinless nature glow'd With purest flames, enamour'd of a G.o.d, And gave this child to light in realms of rest; Then sent her to adorn these island bowers, To sport and play with the delighted hours, Till call'd again to dwell among the blest?

Sweet are such fancies:--but that kindling smile Dissolves them all!--Her native isle This sure must be: If she in Heaven were born, What breath'd into her face That winning human grace, Now dim, now dazzling like the break of morn?

For, like the timid light of infant day, That oft, when dawning, seems to die away, The gleam of rapture from her visage flies, Then fades, as if afraid, into her tender eyes.

Open thy lips, thou blessed thing, again!

And let thy parents live upon the sound; No other music wish they till they die.

For never yet disease, or grief, or pain, Within thy breast the living lyre hath found, Whose chords send forth that touching melody.

Sing on! Sing on! It is a lovely air.

Well could thy mother sing it when a maid: Yet strange it is in this wild Indian glade, To list a tune that breathes of nothing there, A tune that by his mountain springs, Beside his slumbering lambkins fair, The Cambrian shepherd sings.

The air on her sweet lips hath died, And as a harper, when his tune is play'd, Pathetic though it be, with smiling brow Haply doth careless fling his harp aside, Even so regardlessly upstarteth now, With playful frolic, the light-hearted maid, As if, with a capricious gladness, She strove to mock the soul of sadness, Then mourning through the glade.

Light as a falling leaf that springs Away before the zephyr's wings, Amid the verdure seems to lie Of motion reft, then suddenly With bird-like fluttering mounts on high, Up yon steep hill's unbroken side, Behold the little Fairy glide.

Though free her breath, untired her limb, For through the air she seems to swim, Yet oft she stops to look behind On them below;--till with the wind She flies again, and on the hill-top far s.h.i.+nes like the spirit of the evening star.

Nor lingers long: as if a sight Half-fear, half-wonder, urged her flight, In rapid motion, winding still To break the steepness of the hill, With leaps, and springs, and outstretch'd arms, More graceful in her vain alarms, The child outstrips the Ocean gale, In haste to tell her wondrous tale.

Her parents' joyful hearts admire, Of peac.o.c.k's plumes her glancing tire, All bright with tiny suns, And the gleamings of the feathery gold, That play along each wavy fold Of her mantle as she runs.

"What ails my child?" her mother cries, Seeing the wildness in her eyes, The wonder on her cheek; But fearfully she beckons still, Up to her watch-tower on the hill, Ere one word can she speak.

"My Father! Mother! quickly fly Up to the green-hill top with me, And tell me what you there descry; For a cloud hath fallen from the sky, And is sailing on the sea."

They wait not to hear that word again: The steep seems level as the plain, And up they glide with ease: They stand one moment on the height In agony, then bless the sight, And drop upon their knees.

"A s.h.i.+p!"--no more can Mary say, "A blessed s.h.i.+p!" and faints away.-- Not so the happy sight subdues Fitz-Owen's heart;--he calmly views The gallant vessel toss Her prow superbly up and down, As if she wore the Ocean Crown; And now, exulting in the breeze, With new-woke English pride he sees St George's blessed Cross.

Behold them now, the happy three, Hang up a signal o'er the sea, And shout with echoing sound, While, gladden'd by her parents' bliss, The child prints many a playful kiss Upon their hands, or, mad with glee, Is dancing round and round.

Scarce doth the thoughtless infant know Why thus their tears like rain should flow, Yet she must also weep; Such tears as innocence doth shed Upon its undisturbed bed, When dreaming in its sleep.

And oft, and oft, her father presses Her breast to his, and bathes her tresses, Her sweet eyes, and fair brow.

"How beautiful upon the wave The vessel sails, who comes to save!

Fitting it was that first she shone Before the wondering eyes of one, So beautiful as thou.

See how before the wind she goes, Scattering the waves like melting snows!

Her course with glory fills The sea for many a league!--Descending, She stoopeth now into the vale, Now, as more freshly blows the gale, She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills.

Oh! whither is she tending?

She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay; As for her crew, how blest are they!

See! how she veers around!

Back whirl the waves with louder sound; And now her prow points to the land: For the s.h.i.+p, at her glad lord's command, Doth well her helm obey."

They cast their eyes around the isle: But what a change is there!

For ever fled that lonely smile That lay on earth and air, That made its haunts so still and holy, Almost for bliss too melancholy, For life too wildly fair.

Gone--gone is all its loneliness, And with it much of loveliness.

Into each deep glen's dark recess, The day-s.h.i.+ne pours like rain, So strong and sudden is the light Reflected from that wonder bright, Now tilting o'er the Main.

Soon as the thundering cannon spoke, The voice of the evening-gun, The spell of the enchantment broke, Like dew beneath the sun.

Soon shall they hear th' unwonted cheers Of these delighted mariners, And the loud sound of the oar, As bending back away they pull, With measured pause, most beautiful, Approaching to the sh.o.r.e.

For her yards are bare of man and sail, Nor moves the giant to the gale; But, on the Ocean's breast, With storm-proof cables, stretching far, There lies the stately s.h.i.+p of War; And glad is she of rest.

Ungrateful ye! and will ye sail away, And leave your bower to flourish and decay, Without one parting tear?

Where you have slept, and loved, and pray'd, And with your smiling infant play'd For many a blessed year!

No! not in vain that bower hath shed Its blossoms o'er your marriage-bed, Nor the sweet Moon look'd down in vain, Forgetful of her heavenly reign, On them whose pure and holy bliss Even beautified that wilderness.

To every rock, and glade, and dell, You now breathe forth a sad farewell.

"Say! wilt thou ever murmur on With that same voice when we are gone, Beloved stream!--Ye birds of light!

And in your joy as musical as bright, Still will you pour that thrilling strain, Unheard by us who sail the distant main?

We leave our nuptial bower to you: There still your harmless loves renew, And there, as they who left it, blest, The loveliest ever build your nest.

Farewell once more--for now and ever!

Yet, though unhoped-for mercy sever Our lives from thee, where grief might come at last; Yet whether chain'd in tropic calms, Or driven before the blast, Most surely shall our spirits never Forget the Isle of Palms."

"What means the s.h.i.+p?" Fitz-Owen cries, And scarce can trust his startled eyes, "While safely she at anchor swings, Why doth she thus expand her wings?

She will not surely leave the bay, Where sweetly smiles the closing day, As if it tempted her to stay.

O cruel s.h.i.+p! 'tis even so: No sooner come than in haste to go.

Angel of bliss! and fiend of wo!"-- --"Oh! let that G.o.d who brought her here, My husband's wounded spirit chear!

Mayhap the s.h.i.+p for months and years Hath been among the storms, and fears Yon lowering cloud, that on the wave Flings down the shadow of a grave; For well thou know'st the bold can be By shadows daunted, when they sail the sea.

Think, in our own lost s.h.i.+p, when o'er our head Walk'd the sweet Moon in un.o.bscured light, How oft the sailors gazed with causeless dread On her, the glory of the innocent night, As if in those still hours of heavenly joy, They saw a spirit smiling to destroy.

Trust that, when morning brings her light, The sun will shew a glorious sight, This very s.h.i.+p in joy returning With outspread sails and ensigns burning, To quench in bliss our causeless mourning."

--"O Father! look with kinder eyes On me,"--the Fairy-infant cries.

"Though oft thy face hath look'd most sad, At times when I was gay and glad, These are not like thy other sighs.

But that I saw my Father grieve, Most happy when yon thing did leave Our sh.o.r.es, was I:--Mid waves and wind, Where, Father! could we ever find So sweet an island as our own?

And so we all would think, I well believe, Lamenting, when we look'd behind, That the Isle of Palms was gone."

Oh blessed child! each artless tone Of that sweet voice, thus plaintively Breathing of comfort to thyself unknown, Who feelest not how beautiful thou art, Sinks like an anthem's pious melody Into thy father's agitated heart, And makes it calm and tranquil as thy own.

A shower of kisses bathes thy smiling face, And thou, rejoicing once again to hear The voice of love so pleasant to thine ear, Thorough the brake, and o'er the lawn, Bounding along like a sportive fawn, With laugh and song renew'st thy devious race; Or round them, like a guardian sprite, Dancing with more than mortal grace, Steepest their gazing souls in still delight.

For how could they, thy parents, see Thy innocent and fearless glee, And not forget, but one short hour ago, When the s.h.i.+p sail'd away, how bitter was their woe?

--Most like a dream it doth appear, When she, the vanish'd s.h.i.+p, was here:-- A glimpse of joy, that, while it shone, Was surely pa.s.sing-sweet:--now it is gone, Not worth one single tear.