Mazelli, and Other Poems - George W. Sands (great novels TXT) 📗

/> I pointed him to where our cottage stands,
Assuring him that thou and my sweet sister,--
Fair as aught earthly, and as pure as fair,--
Would entertain him as a welcome guest:
And so we parted.

Rebecca.
Thou didst well to mind
The lesson I so often have repeated.
It is our first of duties to give aid
To those who beg for succour at our hands;
For we ourselves, whatever we possess,
Are but the stewards of the bounteous Lord
Who giveth to his creatures all good gifts.
But it is time that thou shouldst seek the hills,
So take thy crook and pipe and hie away.

[Exeunt.

Scene III. The side of a mountain. Werner descending.
Enter a shepherd boy, followed by his flock, singing.

I.

When the Morning starts up from her couch on the deep,
Where through the dim night hours, she pillows her sleep,
I start from my slumbers, and hie me away
Where the white torrent dashes its feathery spray,--
I quaff the fresh stream as it bursts from the hill,--
I pluck the fresh flowers that spring by the rill,--
I watch the gray clouds as they curl round the peak
That rises high over them, barren and bleak;
And I think how the worldling who courts fortune's smile,
In his heart, like that peak, may be lonely the while;
And then my own heart sings aloud in its joy,
That Heaven has made me a free shepherd boy!

II.

When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high,
Where the tall giant ice-cliffs ire piled to the sky,
Where, shunning the verdure of valleys and dells,
The brave eagle builds, and the shy chamois dwells,--
I list to its gay tones, as by me they float,
And I echo them merrily back, note for note;
With the wild bird a song full as gladsome I sing,
I crown me with flowers, and sit a crowned king,--
My flock are my subjects, my dog my vizier,
And my sceptre--a mild one--the crook that I bear;
No wants to perplex me, no cares to annoy,
I live an unenvying, free shepherdhoy!

Werner (meets and addresses him).

Thou'rt merry, lad.

Albert.

Ay, I have cause to be so.
(Aside.)
It is the wanderer of my last night's dream,
The same pale brow, and darkly mournful eye,
And weary gait, and melancholy voice,--
If he seeks friendly guidance, food, or shelter,
He shall not want them long.

Werner.

So thou hast cause
For merriment,--then thou perchance hast wealth,
Broad, fruitful lands, and tenements, and all
Which wealth confers.

Albert.

Nay, I have none of these,
And yet have more than all which thou hast named.
I have a father, whose unsullied name
No tongue has ever spoken with reproach,
A mother, whose idea is with me
A holy thing, and a dear sister, who
Is fair as pure, and pure as is the snow
Upon the summit of the tallest peak
Of these my native mountains. I have health,
And strength, and food, and raiment, and employ,
And should I not then have a joyous heart?

Werner.

Yea, verily thou shouldst.

Albert.

And there is yet,
Among the blessings Heaven has given to me,
One which I have not named to thee; it is
An humble home, whose hospitable door
Was never closed against the wayfarer,--
If thou hast need of aught which it affords,
Seek it, my mother and my sister will
Delight to minister unto thy wants.
There where the wide-armed willows cluster thickest
Upon the green banks of yon crystal stream,
Our cottage stands. The path to it is short
And easily traversed,--so, now, farewell.

Werner.

Stay yet a moment. That which thou hast proffered,
Is what I sought. Thou hast a noble heart,
One fit to fill the bosom of a king,--
I fain would give thee guerdon,--here is gold.

Albert.

Keep it for those who covet it. If ever
Thou meet'st with one, bowed down by suffering,
Who calls on thee for pity and relief,
Then if thou heed'st his prayer for my sake,
I shall be well repaid. Again, farewell.

{Exeunt.

Scene IV. After a lapse of time. A rustic arbour near the
cottage of Manuel. Enter Rose and Werner.

Rose.

Nay, let my silent blushes plead with thee
That thou wilt be as silent.

Werner.

Rather let
My ardent love, which will not be repressed,
Plead with thee for acceptance of my suit;
For I do love thee with such passionate love,
That life itself, if weighed against that love,
Were scarce a feather in the scale.

Rose.

Alas!
I'm but a simple shepherd's simple child,
Unused to courtly speeches, and they say
That in the world thy name and rank are high,
And that when such as thou do proffer love
And faith to lowly maidens, 'tis a jest,--
And that when they have won our honest love,
They cast it from them with unpitying hands,
As idly as they would a withered flower.

Werner.

Nay, maiden, let me tell thee of the past,
Let me lay bare my heart beneath thy gaze,
And thou wilt pity if thou canst not love.
I loved in youth with love as fond and deep
As ever made the heart of man its slave,
But, ere my hopes could ripen to fruition,
Death came and made my worshipped one his prize;
And though my peace departed when she died,
Yet I was proud, and would not bond to sorrow,
But with calm brow and eye, and smiling lip,
I mingled with the giddy thoughtless world,
Seeking from out its varied realms to wring
Some recompense for that which I had lost.
Wealth, fame, and power, I sought for and obtained,
Yet found them only gilded mockeries.
The paths of hidden knowledge I essayed,
And trod their mazy windings till they led
My footsteps--whither I may not disclose,--
But all availed me nothing, still my heart
Ached with the dreary void lost love had made,
Ached ever till that void was filled by thee!
Since first fate led me to your kindly door,
Three times the moon with full-orbed light hath shone,
Thrice thirty times, with song of merry birds
And breath of fragrance, Morn has blest the earth
And all its dwellers with her radiant presence;
Thrice thirty times, with star-bound brow, dim Night
Hath kept her tearful watch above the earth;
And every time the full-orb'd moon hath shone,
And every time the merry Morn hath smiled,
And every time dim Night with star-bound brow
Above the earth hath kept her tearful watch,
My heart has added to its store of love,
Its pure, deep, fervent, passionate love for thee!
By all my hopes of heaven, my words are true.
Dost thou not pity now?

Rose.

Ay, more! My heart,
And its full treasury of maiden love,
Never before surrendered to another,
I pledge to thee, as thine, for evermore!

[Exeunt.

An Aerial Chorus.

Seek the dell and seek the bower,
Pluck the bud and pluck the flower,
Search for buds of sweetest breath,
Search for flowers of brightest hue;
Fit to weave the bridal wreath,
Of a maid so fair and true.

She has bowed the haughty heart,
Won the stubborn will from guile,
With no aid of other art
Than the sweet spell of her smile!

Seek the dell and seek the bower,
Pluck the bud and pluck the flower,
Search for buds of sweetest breath,
Search for flowers of brightest hue;
Fit to weave the bridal wreath,
Of a maid so fair and true!

[Exeunt.


Note to the Misanthrope

"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 circles round it."

Considering the Mandrake, many fabulous notions were entertained
by the ancients; and they never attempted to extract it from the
earth, without the previous performance of such ceremonies as they
considered efficacious in preventing the numerous accidents, dangers,
and diseases, to which they believed the person exposed who was
daring enough to undertake its extraction. The usual manner of
obtaining it was this:--When found, three times a circle was drawn
around it with the point of a naked sword, and a dog was then
attached to it and beaten, until by his struggles it was disengaged
from the earth.

It was supposed to be useful in producing dreams, philters, charms
&c.; and also to possess the faculties of exciting love, and
increasing population.

The Emperor Adrian, in a letter to Calexines, writes that he is
drinking the juice of the Mandrake to render him amorous: hence
it was called Love-apple.

It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant.


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

TO ISABEL
A Beautiful Little Girl.

Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower,
Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep;
Mild as the spirit of the dream whose power
Bears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleep
Brightens the hues of summer's first-born flower
Pure as the tears repentant mourners weep
O'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,--
Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child.

Thy presence is a spell of holiness,
From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,--
Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless,
As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,--
Thy voice is music, at whose sounds Distress
Unbinds her writhing victim from the rack
Of misery, and charmed by what she hears,
Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears.

And when I look upon thee, bearing now
The promise of such loveliness, I ask
If time will blight, that promise; if thy brow,
So sunny now, will learn to wear the mask
Of hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thou
Art learning in thy soul the bitter task
Time teaches to all bosoms, when the glow
Of hope is o'er--but this I may not know.

My path will not be near to thine through life,--
Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee;
Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife,
And all that sorrow has of agony;
My future, as my past was, will be rife
With heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;"
Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years,
Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears.

'Tis meet that it should be so,--I have made
A wreck of my own happiness, and cast
Across my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shade
That wrinkled age flings over all at last
But let it go,--I have too long delayed
The remedy, and what is past is past;--
And could I live those vanished moments o'er,
My heart would wander as it strayed before.

I know not how it is,--my heart is stern,
And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness;
Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn,
And in my bosom's innermost recess,
Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burn
With a wild strength which nothing can repress!
Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the cold
And heavy clay--clod mingle with her mould?

Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom,
Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move,
I trace the lineaments of one