Chapter IV: The isle is past. And still in tranquil pride (1)

Bears the rich bark its treasures o’er the tide.

And now the sun, ere yet his lamp he shrouds,

Stains the pure western sky with crimson clouds:

Now from the sea’s last verge he sheds his rays,

And sinks triumphant in a golden blaze.

Still o’er the heavens reflected splendours flow,

Which make the world of waters gleam and glow:

Wide and more wide each billow shines more bright,

Till all the empurpled ocean floats in light.

Soon as fair Irza marked the evening’s close,

Grave from her seat the young enthusiast rose,

Told o’er her beads, and when the string was said,

“Ave Maria!” sang the enraptured maid;

Her look so humble, so devout her air,

Each worldly wish appeared so lost in prayer,

All felt, no thought could to her mind be near,

That man her form could see, her voice could hear:

Hushed all the ship!--Each sailor checked his glee,

Clasped his hard hands, and bent his trembling knee;

And each (as rose that soft mysterious strain,

Best help in trouble, and sweet balm in pain)

Gazed on the maid with mingled awe and fear,

Damp on his cheek perceived the unwonted tear,

Then raised to Heaven his eyes in earnest prayer,

And half believed himself already there.

Low too Rosalvo knelt, nor knew, if now

For Mary’s grace, or Irza’s, rose his vow.

Scarce e’en the monk forbore to kneel; his child

Fondly he viewed, and sweetly, gravely smiled,

And blessed that God, as swelled each melting note,

Who gave such heavenly powers to human throat!

Melodious strains, oh! speed your flight above

On Neptune’s wings, and reach the ear of Love!

Oh! spread thy starry robe, celestial queen,

(For much thine aid she needs!) from ills to screen

Thy virgin-votaress!--Silence holds the deep,

And e’en the helmsman’s eyes are sealed by sleep:

Yet mark yon gathering clouds!--the moon is fled!--

Mark too that deathlike stillness, deep and dread!

And hark!--from yon black cloud an awful voice

Pours the wild chaunt, and bids the winds rejoice!

SONG OF THE TEMPEST-FIEND.

I marked her!--the pennants, how gaily they streamed!--

How well was she armed for resistance!

The waves that sustained her, how brightly they beamed

In the sun’s setting rays, and the sailors all seemed

To forget the storm-spirit’s existence.

But I marked her!--and now from the clouds I descend!

My spells to the billows I mutter!

I clap my black pinions! my wand I extend,

In darkness the sky and the ocean to blend,

And the winds mark the charms which I utter.

Now more and more rapid in eddies I whirl,

In my voice while the thunder-clap rumbles:

And now the white mountainous waves, as they curl,

I joy o’er the deck of the vessel to hurl,

And laugh, as she tosses and tumbles.

The crew is alarmed; but the tempest prevails,

No care from my fury delivers!

Ere there’s time for their furling the canvass, the sails

From the top to the bottom I split with my nails,

And they stream in the blast, rent in shivers!

The sky and the ocean, fierce battle they wage;

The elements all are in action!

No sailor the storm longer hopes to assuage:

What clamours, what hurry, what oaths, and what rage!

Oh, brave! what despair, what distraction!

Their heart-strings, they ache, while my ravage they view;

Each knee ’gainst its fellow is knocking!

My eyes, darting lightnings to dazzle the crew,

Burn and blaze; and those lightnings so forked and so blue

Make the darkness of midnight more shocking.

The morn to that vessel no succour shall bring!

Now high o’er the main-mast I hover;

Now I plunge from the sky to the deck with a spring,

And I shatter the mast with one flap of my wing;

It cracks! and it breaks! and goes over!

Hew away, gallant seamen! fatigue never dread;

You shall all rest to-night from your labours!

The ocean’s wide mantle shall o’er you be spread,

The white bones of mariners pillow your head,

And the whale and the shark be your neighbours.

For I swoop from aloft, and I blaze, and I burn,

While my spouts the salt billows are drinking:

And I drive ’gainst the vessel, and beat down the stern,

And pour in a flood, which shall never return,

And all cry--66 She’s sinking! she’s sinking!”--

The barge?--well remembered!--’tis strong, and ’tis large,

And will live in the billows’ commotion;

But now all my spouts from the clouds I discharge,

And down goes the vessel, and down goes the barge!

Hurrah! I reign lord of the ocean!

How their shrieks rose in chorus! Now all is at rest;

The tempest no longer is brewing!

My dreams by the harm newly done will be blest,

So I’ll sleep for a while on a thunder-cloud’s breast,

Then rouze to hurl round me fresh ruin.

Hushed is the storm: the heavens no longer frown;

And o’er that spot, where late the bark went down,

All bright and smiling flows the treacherous wave,

Like sunshine playing on a new-made grave.

Full rose the watery moon: it showed a plank,

To which, all deadly pale, with tresses dank,

And robes of white, on which the sea had flung

Loose wreaths of ocean-flowers, unconscious clung

A fair frail form:--‘twas Irza!--to the shore

Each following wave the virgin nearer bore;

And now the mountain surge overwhelmed the land,

Then flying left her on the wished-for strand.

Soon hope and love of life her powers renew;

Swift towards a cliff she speeds, which towers in view,

Nor waits the wave’s return’; and now again

Safe on the shore, and rescued from the main,

Prostrate she falls, and thanks the Sire of life,

Whose arm hath snatched her from the billowy strife.

That duty done, she rose, and gazed around:

Mossed are the rocks, and flowers bestrew the ground.

Not distant far, a group of fragrant trees

Bend with their golden fruit. The ocean-breeze

Shakes a gigantic palm, which o’er a cave

Its dark green foliage spreads, and wildly wave

Their blooming wreaths, all starred with midnight dews,

A thousand creeping plants of thousand hues.

Then flashed the dreadful truth on Irza’s view!

That cave--those trees--that giant palm she knew!

Then from her lips for ever fled the smile:

--“Mother of God!” she shrieked, “the Demon-Isle!”--

Long on a broken crag she knelt, and prayed,

And wearied every saint for strength and aid;

Then speechless, heedless, senseless lay; when, lo!

Strange mutterings near her roused from torpid woe

Her soul to fresh alarms. Her head she reared,

And near her face an hideous face appeared;

But straight ’twas gone!--In trembling haste she rose,

And saw a ring of monstrous dwarfs inclose

Her rugged couch. Not Teniers’ hand could paint

Forms more grotesque to scare the tempted saint,

Than here, as on they pressed in circling throng,

With gnashing teeth seemed for her blood to long,

And grinned, and glared, and gloated! Quicker grew

Her breath! Death hemmed her round! As yet, ‘tis true,

Far off they kept; but soon, more daring grown,

More near they crept, oft sharpening on some stone

Their long crookt claws; and still, as on they came,

They screeched and chattered; and their eyes of flame,

Twinkling and goggling, told, what pleasure grim

‘Twould give to rack and rend her limb from limb:

--“Heaven take my soul!” she cried,--when, hark! a

moan,

So full, so sad, so strange--not shriek--not groan--

Something scarce earthly--breathed above her head--

‘Twas heard, and instant every imp was fled.

What was that sound? What pitying saint from high

Had stooped to save her? Now to heaven her eye

Grateful she raised. Almighty powers!--a form,

Gigantic as the palm, black as the storm,

All shagged with hair, wild, strange in shape and show,

Towered on the loftiest cliff, and gazed below.

On her he gazed, and gazed so fixed, so hard,

Like knights of bronze some hero’s tomb who guard.

Bright wreaths of scarlet plumes his temples crowned,

And round his ankles, arms, and wrists were wound

Unnumbered glassy strings of crystals bright,

Corals, and shells, and berries red and white.

On her he gazed, and floods of sable fires

Rolled his huge eyes, and spoke his fierce desires,

As on his club, a torn-up lime, he leaned.--

“Help, Heaven!” thought Irza, “‘tis the master-fiend!”

Not long he paused: he now with one quick bound

Sprang from the cliff, and lighted on the ground.

Back fled the maid in terror; but her fear

Was needless. Humbly, slowly crept he near,

Then kissed the earth, his club before her laid,

And of his neck her footstool would have made:

But from his touch she shrank. He raised his head,

And saw her limbs convulsed, her face all dread,

And felt the cause his presence! Sad and slow

He rose, resumed his club, and turn’d to go.

Reproachful was his look, but still ’twas kind;

He climb’d the rock, but oft he gazed behind;

He reach’d the cave; one look below he threw;

Plaintive again he moan’d, and with slow steps withdrew.

She is alone; she breathes again!--Fly, fly!--

Ah! wretched girl, too late! with frenzied eye,

(Scarce gone the master-fiend) his imps she sees,

Pour from the rocks, and drop from all the trees

With yell, and squeak, and many a horrid sound,

And form a living fence to hedge her round:

--“Now then,” she cried, 4 c all’s over!--oh! farewell,

Farewell, Rosalvo!” On her knee she fell,

And told her beads with trembling hands. Yet still

On came the throng; and soon, with wanton skill

(Lured by its coral glow and cross of gold),

One snatch’d her chaplet, nor forsook his hold,

Though hard she struggled: while more bold, more fierce

Another seized her arm, and dared to pierce

With his sharp teeth its snow. The pure blood stream’d

Fast from the wound, and loud the virgin scream’d;

And strait again was heard that sad strange moan,

And instant all the dwarfs again were flown.

Scarce conscious that she lived, scarce knowing why,

Half grieved, half grateful, Irza raised her eye:

Still on the rock (not dared he down to spring)

Dark and majestic stood the demon-king;

Then lowly knelt, and raised his arm to wave

An orange bough, and court her to his cave.

Lost are her friends; no help, no hope is nigh;

What can she do, and whither can she fly?

To him already twice her life she owes,

And but his presence now restrains her foes.

On wings of flame the sun had left the main;

And peeping from the trees, the imps too plain

Shot darts of rage from their green orbs of sight:

She heard their gibberings, and she mark’d their spite;

And, while they eyed her form, their care she saw

To grind their teeth, and whet each cruel claw.

Demons alike, the monarch-demon’s breast

Appear’d least fierce; of ills she chose the best,

Sought, where profaned her coral rosary lay,

Then slowly mounted where he show’d the way.

Cautious he led her tow’rds his lone abode,

And clear’d each stone that might impede her road.

With pain she trod: she reach’d the cave; but there

No more their weight her wearied limbs could bear.

Exhausted, fainting, anguish, terror, thirst,

Fatigue o’erpower’d her frame: her heart must burst,

Her eyes grow dim! Sunk on the rock she lies,

And sinking, prays she never more may rise.

Long in this deathlike swoon she lay: at length

Exhausted nature show’d forth all its strength,

And call’d her back to life. Her opening eyes

Beheld a grotto vast in depth and size,

Whose high straight sides forbade all hopes of flight:

The fractured roof gave ample space for light,

Through which in gorgeous guise the day-star shone

On many a lucid shell and brilliant stone.

Through pendent spars and crystals as it falls,

Each beam with rainbow hues adorns the walls,

Gilds all the roof, emblazes all the ground,

And scatters light, and warmth, and splendour round.

Gently on pillowing furs reposed her head;

With many a verdant rush her couch was spread;

A gourd with blushing fruits was near her placed,

Whose scent and colour woo’d alike her taste;

And round her strewn there bloom’d unnumber’d flowers

Charming her sense with aromatic powers.

One only object chill’d her blood with ear:

Far off removed (but still, alas! too near),

Scarce breathing, lest a breath her sleep might break,

There stood the fiend, and watch’d to see her wake.

In sooth, if credit outward show might crave,

Than Irza, ne’er had nymph an humbler slave.

He watched her every glance; her frown he fear’d;

And if his pains to meet her wish appear’d,

All pains seem’d far o’er-paid, all cares appeased,

And so she found but pleasure, he was pleased.

One power he claim’d, but claim’d that power alone:

Still, when he left her side, a mass of stone

Barr’d up the grotto, nor allow’d her feet

To pass the limits of her bright retreat.

But when in quest of food not forced to stray,

In Irza’s sight he wore the livelong day,

And show’d her living springs and noontide shades,

Spice-breathing groves, and flower-enamell’d glades.

For her he still selects the sweetest roots,

The coolest waters, and the loveliest fruits;

To deck her charms the softest furs he brings,

And plucks their plumage from flamingo wings;

Bids blooming shrubs, to shade her, bend in bowers,

And strews her couch with fragrant herbs and flowers

While many an ivy-twisted grate restrains

The splendid tenants of the etherial plains.

Then, when she sought her lonesome grot at eve,

And waved her hand, and warn’d him take his leave,

Her will was his: he breathed his plaintive moan,

Gazed one last look, then gently roll’d the stone.

Perhaps, such constant care and worship paid,

More fit for angel than for mortal maid,

At length had won her, with more grateful mind

To view his gifts, and pay respect so kind;

But, as her giant-gaoler she esteem’d

Some prince of subterraneous fire, she deem’d

His favours snares, his presents only given

To shake her faith, and steal her soul from heaven.

Still then her loathing heart remain’d the same,

Joy’d when he went, and shudder’d when he came;

And when to share his fruits by hunger press’d,

Ever she bless’d them first, and cross’d her breast.

Days creep--months roll--no change! no hope! and oh!

Rosalvo lost, what hope can life bestow?

Death, only death, she feels, can end her woes;

Nor doubts death soon will bring that wish’d-for close;

For now her frame, her mind, confess disease;

Painful and faint she moves; her tottering knees

Scarce bear her weight; and oft, by humour moved,

Her sickening soul now loathes what late it loved.

It comes! the moment comes! Her frame is rent

By sharper pangs; her nerves, too strongly bent,

Seem on the point to break; her forehead burns;

Her curdling blood is fire, is ice by turns;

Her heart-strings crack!--“This hour is sure her last!’

Fainting she sinks, and hopes “that hour is pass’d!”

Wake, Irza, wake to grief most strange and deep!

Still must thou live, and only live to weep!

Oh, lift thine aching head, thy languid eyes,

And mark what hideous stranger near thee lies.

“Guard me, all blessed saints!”--A monster child

Press’d her green couch; and, as it grimly smiled,

Its shaggy limbs, and eyes of sable fire,

Betray’d the crime, and claim’d its hellish sire!

“Lost! lost! My soul is lost!” the affrighted maid,

(Ah, now a maid no more!) distracted, said,

And wrung her hands. Those words she scarce could say;

Yet would have pray’d, but fear’d’t was sin to pray!

That only veil which ne’er admits a stain,

The veil of ignorance, was rent in twain:

In spite of virtue, cloisters, horror, youth,

She knows, and feels, and shudders at the truth.

That night accursed!--In death-like swoon she slept--

Then near her couch if that dark demon crept--

Oh! where was then her guardian angel’s aid?

And would not heavenly Mary save her maid?

Deprived of sense--betray’d by place and time--

Then was she doom’d to share the unconscious crime?

Debased, deflower’d, and stamp’d a wretch for life,

A monster’s mother, and a demon’s wife?

Oh! at that thought her soul what passions tear!

How then she beats her breast, how rends her hair,

And bids, with golden ringlets scatter’d round,

Stream all the air, and glitter all the ground!

Sighs, sobs, and shrieks the place of words supply;

And still she mourns to live, and prays to die,

Till heart denies to groan, and eyes to flow;

Then, on her couch of rushes sinking low,

Languid and lost she lies, in silent, senseless woe.

What lifts her burning head? why opes her eye?

What makes her blood run back? A faint shrill cry!

Too well, alas! that cry was understood:

The monster pined for want, and claim’d its food.

Then in her heart what rival passions strove!

How shrinks disgust, how yearns maternal love!

Now to its life her feelings she prefers;

Now Nature wakes, and makes her own--“’Tis hers!”

Loathing its sight, she melts to hear its cries,

And, while she yields the breast, averts her eyes.

Not so the demon-sire: the child he raised,

He kiss’d it--danced it--nursed it--knelt, and gazed,

Till joyful tears gush’d forth, and dimm’d his sight:

Scarce Irza’s self was view’d with more delight.

He held it tow’rds her--horror seem’d to thrill

Her frame. He sigh’d, and clasp’d it closer still.

Once, and but once, his features wrath express’d:

He saw her shudder, as it drain’d her breast;

And, while reproach half mingled with his moan,

Snatch’d it from her’s, and press’d it to his own.

Three months had pass’d; still lived the monster-brat:

Its sire had sought the wood; alone she sat:

She sheds no tears--no tears are left to shed;

Unmoisten’d burn her eyes--her heart seems dead--

Her form seems marble. Lo! from far the sound

Of music steals, and fills the caves around.

She starts!--scarce breathing--trembling;--“Oh! for

wings!”--

But hark! for nearer now the minstrel sings. .

SONG.

1.

When summer smiled on Goa’s bowers

They seem’d so fair;

All light the skies, all bloom the flowers,

All balm the air!

The mock-bird swell’d his amorous lay,

Soft, sweet, and clear; .

And all was beauteous, all was gay,

For she was near.

2.

But now the skies in vain are bright

With Summer’s glow;

The pea-dove’s call to Love’s delight

Augments my woé;

And blushing roses vainly bloom;

Their charms are fled,

And all is sadness, all is gloom,

For she is dead!

3.

Now o’er thy head, my virgin love,

Rolls Ocean’s wave;

But fond regret, in myrtle grove,

Hath dug thy grave.

Sweet flowers, around her vacant urn

Your wreaths I’ll twine,

And pray such flowers, ere Spring’s return,

May garland mine!

“He! he!”--That love-lorn dirge--that heavenly

tongue--

That air, she taught him‘t was Rosalvo sung!

Rosalvo, whom the waves, which wreck’d their bark,

Had borne, like her, for purpose sad and dark,

To that strange isle; though far remote the beach

From Irza’s grot, which Fate ordain’d him reach;

But now at length his curious search explores

These rude and slippery crags and distant shores;

And while he treads his dangerous path, the strains

Which Irza taught him soothe her lover’s pains.

She hears his steps, and hears them soon more near;

And loud she cries--“Rosalvo! Hear! oh, hear!

‘Tis Irza calls!” and now more quick, more nigh,

Down the steep rock she hears those footsteps fly.

Again she calls. He comes! He searches round;

He seeks the gate, and soon the gate is found.

Alas! ‘t is found in vain! the marble guard

Seem’d rooted as the rock, whose mouth it barr’d.

Yet still, with labouring nerves, to move the stone

He struggles. Now he stops; and, hark! A groan!

But one; then all was hush’d! A sickening chill

Seized Irza’s heart, and seem’d her veins to thrill.

Fain had she call’d her youthful bridegroom’s name;

Her tongue Fear’s numbing fingers seem’d to lame.

Footsteps!--more near they drew:--slow rolled the

stone--

The infernal gaoler came, but came alone.

With anxious glance his eye explored the cell;

But when it fix’d on her’s, abash’d it fell.

He knelt, and seem’d to fear her frown. He bore

His club.’T was splash’d with brains! ‘twas wet with

gore!

She fear’d--she guess’d--she rush’d--she ran--she

flew,--

Nor dared the fiend her frantic course pursue.

“Rosalvo! speak! Rosalvo!” Shrill, yet sweet,

She wakes the echoes. What obstructs her feet?

‘T is he, the young, the good, the kind, the fair!

As some frail lily, which the passing share *

Or wanton boy hath wounded, droops its head,

Its whiteness wither’d, and its fragrance fled,

Low lay the youth, and from his temple’s wound

With precious streams bedew’d the ensanguin’d ground.

Then reason fled its seat! She shrieks! she raves!

And fills with hideous yells the ocean caves;

Rends her bright locks, and laughs to see them fly,

And bids them seek Rosalvo in the sky.

To dig his grave she fiercely ploughs the ground,

Loud shrieks his name, nor feels the flints that wound

Her bosom’s globes, and stain their snow with gore,

As wild she dashes down, and beats in rage the floor.

Now fail her strength, her spirits; mute she sits,

Silent and sad; then laughs and sings by fits.

A statue now she seems, or one just dead,

Her looks all gloom, her eyes two balls of lead:

Then simply smiles, and chaunts, with idiot glee,

“Ave Maria! Benedicite!”

Till, Nature’s powers revived by rest, again

The fury passions riot in her brain,

And all is rage, revenge, and helpless, hopeless pain.

Days, weeks, months pass. Time came with slow relief;

But still at length it came. No more her grief

Disturbs her brain: she knows “that groan was his!”

And fully feels herself the wretch she is.

She rises: towards the grotto’s mouth she goes,

Nor dares the fiend her wandering steps oppose.

She seeks the spot on which Rosalvo fell,

On which he died! She knows that spot too well!

But, lo! no corse was there! All smooth and green

A velvet turf o’erstrewn with flowers was seen,

And fenced with roses. “Oh! whose pious care

Hath deck’d this grave? Hear, gracious Heaven, his

prayer,

When most he needs!” While thus in doubt she stands,

She marks the fiend’s approach. His ebon hands

Sustain’d a gourd of flowers of various hue;

He pour’d them, kiss’d the turf, and straight withdrew

Hither each morn his blooming gifts he bore,

Smooth’d the green sod, and strew’d it o’er and o’er.

Hither, each morn, came Irza; on those flowers

She wept, she pray’d, she sang away her hours.

So mourns the nightingale on poplar spray *,

Her callow brood by shepherds borne away,

Weeps all the night, and from her green retreat

Fills the wide groves with warblings sad as sweet.

And still fresh woes succeed. She feels again

Mysterious pangs, nor doubts her cause of pain.

Too sure, while lost in maniac state she lay,

Her sense, her wits, her feeling all away,

The fiend once more had seized the unguarded hour

To force her weakness, and abuse his ower.

“Qualis populeâ,” &c.--Virgil.

Again Lucina came. That new-born cry,

Shuddering, again she heard; her fearful eye

Wander’d around awhile, nor dared to stay.

“There, there he lies! my child!” With fresh essay

Once more she turn’d. But when at length her sight

Dwelt on its face, her wonder--her delight--

Can ne’er by tongue be told, by fancy guess’d!

Frantic she caught, she kiss’d, and lull’d him on her breast.

Oh! who can paint how Irza loved that child!

Grieved when he moan’d, and smiled whene’er he smiled!

His dimpled arm soft on the rushes lay;

Through his fine skin the blood was seen to play;

That skin than down of swans more smooth and white;

Nor e’er shone summer sky so blue and bright,

As shone the eyes of that same cherub elf;

In small the model of her beauteous self.

The scant gold locks which gilt his ivory brow,

Were sun-beams gleaming on a globe of snow;

And on his coral lips the red which stood,

Shamed the first rose, whose milk was Paphia’s blood.

By fairy-thefts since nurses were beguiled,

Never stole fairy yet a lovelier child!

In Nature’s costlier charms no babe array’d,

At length a mother’s fears and throes repaid:

Not when Lucina first in myrtle grove,

To Beauty’s kiss presented new-born Love;

And while, with wond’ring eyes, the immortal boy

Imbibed new light, and pour’d ecstatic joy:

He kiss’d and drain’d by turns her fragrant breast,

Till amorous ring-doves coo’d the god to rest.

Mothers may love as much, but never more,

Nor e’er did mother love so well before,

As Irza loved that child! Her sable lord

Mark’d well that love; and now, to health restored,

He felt her child to home would chain her feet,

Nor roll’d the stone to close her lone retreat.

Still, when he went, he with him bore away

That fav’rite babe, nor fear’d she far would stray.

Arm’d with his club, she now might safely rove

Through verdant vale, or weep in shadowy grove;

For soon the dwarfs were used to bear her sight,

Knew that dread club, nor dared indulge their spite.

Still from afar off looks of rage they cast,

And shrilly squeal’d and clamour’d as she pass’d;

But by their flight when near she came, ‘twas seen,

They own’d allegiance, and confess’d their queen.

One morn her savage lord, in quest of food,

Forsook tho cave, and sought th’ adjacent wood;

And as her darling boy he with him bore,

Irza, unwatch’d, might pace the sounding shore.

Listless and slow she moved, and climb’d with pain

A tow’ring cliff, which beetled o’er the main.

Now three full years had flown, since Irza’s eye

Had dwelt on human form, and since reply

From human tongue had blest her ear.’Tis true,

Throned on a rock, which spread before her view

The sea’s wide-stretching plains, she once descried

A gallant vessel plough the neighbouring tide.

By cries to draw it near she long essay’d,

And oft a palm-bough waved in sign for aid:

But all her cries and all her signs were vain;

On sail’d the bark, nor e’er return’d again!

On that same rock she sat, and eyed the wave,

And wish’d she there had found her wat’ry grave!

Fain had she sought one then, plunged from the steep.

And buried all her sufferings in the deep;

But faith alike and reason bade her shun

That wish, nor break a thread which God had spun.

Hark!--was it fancy?--hark again!--the shores

Echo the sound of fast approaching oars.

Oh! how she gazed!--a barge (by friars ’twas mann’d)

Cut the smooth waves, and sought the rocky strand.

Soon (while his wither’d hands a crosier hold,

All rich with gems, and rough with sculptured gold),

Landing alone, a reverend monk appear’d:--

His jewell’d cross--his flowing silver beard--

“‘Tis he!--‘tis he!”--swift down the steep she flies,

Falls at the stranger’s feet, and frantic cries,

Down her pale cheek while tears imploring roll,

“Help, father abbot! save me! save my soul!”

‘Twas he indeed! that bark which ne’er return’d,

Well on the cliff* her fair wild form discern’d,

But deem’d some island-fiend had spread a snare

To lure them with a form so wild and fair.

Yet oft in Lisbon would those seamen tell,

How angled for their souls the prince of hell;

And warmly paint, their leisure to beguile,

The fallen angel of th’ enchanted isle.

At length this wonder reach’d the abbot’s ear,

And prompt affection made the wonder clear:--

“’Twas Irza! shipwreck’d Irza! none but she

So heav’nly fair, so lonely lost could be!”

Straight he prepares anew that sea to brave,

Which once already seem’d to yawn his grave;

Nor ask, how chanced it that he reach’d the shore:

It was through a miracle and nothing more.

Whether on monkish frock as safe rode he,

As night-hags skim in sieves o’er Norway’s sea;

Or like Arion plough’d the wat’ry plain,

Horsed on some monster of the astonish’d main,

Some shark, some whale, some kraken, some sea-cow--

St. Francis saved him, and it boots not how.

And now again the saint his priest survey’d,

From waves and winds imploring heavenly aid;

Resolved for Irza’s sake to brave the worst

Which fate could offer on that isle accurst.

Far off his ship was anchor’d; on that strand

Not India’s wealth could make a layman land!

Therefore with none but monks he mann’d his barge,

Which bore of beads and bells a sacred charge;

Whole heaps of relics lent by Cintra’s nuns,

And holy water (blest at Rome) by tons!

His toils were all o’erpaid! he saw again

His fav’rite child, and kindly soothed her pain;

And while her tale he heard, oft dropp’d a tear,

And sign’d his beard-swept breast in awe and fear:

Then bade her speed the friendly bark to gain,

And fly the infernal monarch’s green domain;

Nor yield her tyrant time to cast a spell,

And rouse to cross her flight the powers of hell.

Then first from Irza’s cheek the glow of red,

By hope of rescue raised, grew faint, and fled;

Trembling she nam’d her cherub-boy, confess’d

A mother’s fondness fill’d his mother’s breast;

Described how fair he look’d, how sweet he smiled,

And fear’d her flight might quite destroy her child.

Then rose the abbot’s ire--ee Oh, guilty care!”

Frowning, he cried, and shook his hoary hair:

“Fair is the imp? and shall he therefore breathe

To win new subjects for the realms beneath?

The fiends most dangerous are those spirits bright,

Who toil for hell, and show like sons of light;

And still when Satan spreads his subtlest snares,

The baits are azure eyes, the lines are golden hairs.

Name thou the brat no more! To Cintra’s walls

Fly, where thy footsteps mild repentance calls.

I’ll hear no plaint! kneel not! I’m deaf to prayer!

Swift, brethren, to the barge this maniac bear;

Speed! speed!--no tears!--no struggling!--no delay

Row, brethren, row, and waft us swift away!”

The monks obeyed. Then, then in Irza’s soul

What various passions raged, and mock’d control!

Now how she mourn’d, now how she wept for joy,

How loathed the sire, and how adored the boy!

The barge is gain’d; they row. When, lo! from high

Her ear again receives that well-known cry,

That sad, strange moan! she starts, and lifts her eye.

There, on a rock which fenced the strand, once more

She saw her demon-husband stand: he bore

Her beauteous babe; and, while he view’d the barge,

Keen anguish seem’d each feature to enlarge,

And shake each giant limb. With piteous air

His arms he spread, his hands he clasp’d in prayer;

Knelt, wept, and while his eye-balls seem’d to burn,

Oft show’d the child, and woo’d her to return.

His suit the monks disdain; the barge recedes;

More humbly now he kneels, more earnest pleads.

But when he found no tears their course delay,

And still the boat pursued its watery way;

Then, ‘gainst his grief and rage no longer proof,

He gnash’d his teeth, he stamp’d his iron hoof,

Whirl’d the boy wildly round and round his head,

Hash’d it against the rocks, and howling fled.

Loud shrieks the mother! changed to stone she stands,

And silent lifts to heav’n her clay-cold hands:

Then, sinking down, stretch’d on the deck she lies,

Hid her pale face, and closed her aching eyes.

But hark! why shout the monks?--C£ Again,” they said,

“Again the demon comes!” with desperate dread

Starts the poor wretch, and lifts her anguish’d head.

Yes! there the infant-murderer stood once more,

But now far different were the looks he wore.

No bending knee, no suppliant glance was seen,

Proud was his port, and stern and fierce his mien.

His blood-stain’d eye-balls glared with vengeful ire;

His spreading nostrils seem’d to snort out fire.

Swiftly from crag to crag he following sprung,

While round his neck his shaggy offspring clung;

And now, like some dark tow’r, erect he stood,

Where the last rock hung frowning o’er the flood:--

“Look! look!” he seem’d to say, with action wild,

“Look, mother, look! this babe is still your child!

With him as me all social bonds you break,

Scorn’d and detested for his father’s sake:

My love, my service only wrought disdain,

And nature fed his heart from yours in vain!

Then go, Ingrate, far o’er the ocean go,

Consign your friend, your child to endless woe!

Renounce us! hate us! pleased, your course pursue,

And break their hearts who lived alone for you!”

His eyes, which flash’d red fire--his arms spread wide,

Her child raised high to heaven--too plain implied,

Such were his thoughts, though nature speech denied.

And now with eager glance the deep he view’d,

And now the barge with savage howl pursued;

Then to his lips his infant wildly press’d,

And fondly, fiercely, clasp’d it to his breast:

Three piteous moans, three hideous yells he gave,

Plunged headlong from the rock, and made the sea his

grave.

Where, screen’d by orange groves and myrtle bowers,

Saint-favour’d Cintra rears her gothic towers;

A nun there dwells, most holy, sad, and fair,

Her only business penance, fasts, and prayer;

Her only joy with flowers the shrines to dress,

Weep with the suff’ring, and relieve distress.

A poor lay-sister she; yet golden rain

Showers from her hand to glad each barren plain:

In other eyes she lights up joy, but ne’er

Those eyes of hers were seen a smile to wear:

From other breasts she plucks the thorn of grief,

But feels, her own admits of no relief.

Where age and sickness count the hours by groans,

Uncalled, she comes to hear and hush their moans.

There, ever humble, watchful, patient, kind,

No nauseous task, no servile care declined,

O’er the sick couch, all day, all night she hangs,

Till health or death relieves the sufferer’s pangs.

No thanks she takes, no praise from man receives,

Her duty done, the rest to God she leaves;

But only when her care redeems a life,

Parting she says--“Pray for a demon’s wife!”

With blessings still, whene’er that nun they view,

The young, the aged her sainted steps pursue,

And cry, with bended knee and suppliant air,

ee Sister of mercy, name us in thy prayer!”

With beads the night, in gracious acts the day,

So wore her youth, so wears her age away.

Now cease, my lay! thy mournful task is o’er;

Irza, farewell! I wake thy lute no more.

“Was such her fate? and did her days thus creep

So sad, so slow, till came the long last sleep?

And did for this her hands with roses twine

The Saviour’s altars and the Virgin’s shrine?

Pure, beauteous, rich, did all these blessings tend,

But from the world in prime of life to send

This gifted maid, in prayer to waste her hours,

And weep a fancied crime in cloister’d bowers?”

Oh, blind to fate! perhaps that fancied crime

Which bade her quit the world in youthful prime,

Snatch’d her from paths, where beauty, wealth, and fame

Had proved but snares to load her soul with shame,

And spared her pangs from wilful guilt which flow,

The only serious ills that man can know!

Ah! what avails it, since they ne’er can last,

If gay or sad our span of days be past?

Pray, mortals, pray, in sickness or in pain,

Not long nor blest to live, but pure from stain.

A life of pleasure, and a life of woe,

When both are past, the difference who can show?

But all can tell, how wide apart in price

A life of virtue, and a life of vice.

Then still, sad Irza, tread your thorny way,

Since life must end, and merits ne’er decay.

Wounded past hope, still prize the pleasure pure,

To heal those hearts which yet can hope a cure;

Nor doubt, the soul which joys in noble deeds

Shall reap a rich reward when most it needs.

When comes that day to conscious guilt so dread,

Angels unseen shall bathe your burning head:

The prayers of orphans fan with balmy breath,

And widow’s blessings drown the threats of death;

Each sigh your pity hush’d shall swelling rise

In loud hosannas when you mount the skies;

And every tear on earth to sorrow given,

Be precious pearls to wreathe your brows in heaven!

APRIL 17.

Piansi i riposi di quest’ umil vita,

E sospirai la mia perduta pace!”

I regret the loss of our dead calm and our crawling pace of a knot and a half an hour; for during the last four days we have had nothing but gales and squalls, mountainous waves, the vessel rolling and pitching incessantly, and the sea perpetually pouring in at the windows and down through the hatchway. Into the bargain, we are now sufficiently towards the north to find the weather perishingly cold, and we have neither wood nor coals enough on board to allow a fire for the cabin.

But, among all our inconveniences, that which is the most intolerable undoubtedly arises from the sick apothecary. It seems that his complaint is the consequence of dram-drinking, which has affected his liver. Since his coming on board, he has continued to indulge his taste; and growing worse (as might be expected), he has now thought proper to put himself in a state of salivation: the consequence is, that what with the mercury and what with the man, aided by the concomitant effluvia of our cargo of sugar, rum, and coffee, for a combination of villanous smells, Falstaff’s buck-basket was nothing to the cabin of the Sir Godfrey Webster. I could almost fancy myself Slawken-bergius’s Don Diego just returned from the Promontory of Noses, and that I had exchanged my snub for a proboscis; so much do all my other senses appear to be absorbed in that of smelling, and so completely do I seem to myself to be nose all over. As to the poor apothecary, his mercury annoys us without any signs as yet of its benefiting himself. He grows worse daily, and I greatly doubt his ever reaching England.

APRIL 19. (Sunday.)

I have not been able to ascertain exactly the negro notions concerning the _Duppy_; indeed, I believe that his character and qualities vary in different parts of the country. At first, I thought that the term Duppy meant neither more nor less than a ghost; but sometimes he is spoken of as “the Duppy,” as if there were but one, and then he seems to answer to the devil. Sometimes he is a kind of malicious spirit, who haunts burying-grounds (like the Arabian gouls), and delights in playing tricks to those who may pass that way. On other occasions, he seems to be a supernatural attendant on the practitioners of Obeah, in the shape of some animal, as familiar imps are supposed to belong to our English witches; and this latter is the part assigned to him in the following “Nancy-story:”--

“Sarah Winyan was scarcely ten years old, when her mother died, and bequeathed to her considerable property. Her father was already dead; and the guardianship of the child devolved upon his sister, who had always resided in the same house, and who was her only surviving relation. Her mother, indeed, had left two sons by a former husband, but they lived at some distance in the wood, and seldom came to see their mother; chiefly from a rooted aversion to this aunt; who, although from interested motives she stooped to flatter her sister-in-law, was haughty, ill-natured, and even suspected of Obeahism, from the occasional visits of an enormous black dog, whom she called Tiger, and whom she never failed to feed and caress with marked distinction. In case of Sarah’s death, the aunt, in right of her brother, was the heiress of his property. She was determined to remove this obstacle to her wishes; and after treating her for some time with harshness and even cruelty, she one night took occasion to quarrel with her for some trifling fault, and fairly turned her out of doors. The poor girl seated herself on a stone near the house, and endeavoured to beguile the time by singing--

‘Ho-day, poor me, O!

Poor me, Sarah Winyan, O!

They call me neger, neger!

They call me Sarah Winyan, O!’

“But her song was soon interrupted by a loud rushing among the bushes; and the growling which accompanied it announced the approach of the dreaded Tiger. She endeavoured to secure herself against his attacks by climbing a tree: but it seems that Tiger had not been suspected of Obeahism without reason; for he immediately growled out an assurance to the girl, that come down she must and should! Her aunt, he said, had made her over to him by contract, and had turned her out of doors that night for the express purpose of giving him an opportunity of carrying her away. If she would descend from the tree, and follow him willingly to his own den to wait upon him, he engaged to do her no harm; but if she refused to do this, he threatened to gnaw down the tree without loss of time, and tear her into a thousand pieces. His long sharp teeth, which he gnashed occasionally during the above speech, appeared perfectly adequate to the execution of his menaces, and Sarah judged it most prudent to obey his commands. But as she followed Tiger into the wood, she took care to resume her song of

‘Ho-day, poor me, O!’

in hopes that some one passing near them might hear her name, and come to her rescue. Tiger, however, was aware of this, and positively forbad her singing. However, she contrived every now and then to loiter behind; and when she thought him out of hearing, her

‘Ho-day! poor me, O!’

began again; although she was compelled to sing in so low a voice, through fear of her four-footed master, that she had but faint hopes of its reaching any ear but her own. Such was, indeed, the event, and Tiger conveyed her to his den without molestation. In the meanwhile, her two half-brothers had heard of their mother’s death, and soon arrived at the house to enquire what was become of Sarah. The aunt received them with every appearance of welcome; told them that grief for the loss of her only surviving parent had already carried her niece to the grave, which she showed them in her garden; and acted her part so well, that the youths departed perfectly satisfied of the decease of their sister. But while passing through the wood on their return, they heard some one singing, but in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish the words. As this part of the wood was the most unfrequented, they were surprised to find any one concealed there. Curiosity induced them to draw nearer, and they soon could make out the

‘Ho-day! poor me, O!

Poor me, Sarah Winyan, O!’

“There needed no more to induce them to hasten onwards; and upon advancing deeper into the thicket, they found themselves at the mouth of a large cavern in a rock. A fire was burning within it; and by its light they perceived their sister seated on a heap of stones, and weeping, while she chanted her melancholy ditty in a low voice, and supported on her lap the head of the formidable Tiger. This was a precaution which he always took when inclined to sleep, lest she should escape; and she had taken advantage of his slumbers to resume her song in as low a tone as her fears of waking him would allow. She saw her brothers at the mouth of the cave: the youngest fortunately had a gun with him, and he made signs that Sarah should disengage herself from Tiger if possible. It was long before she could summon up courage enough to make the attempt; but at length, with fear and trembling, and moving with the utmost caution, she managed to slip a log of wood between her knees and the frightful head, and at length drew herself away without waking him. She then crept softly out of the cavern, while the youngest brother crept as softly into it: the monster’s head still reposed upon the block of wood; in a moment it was blown into a thousand pieces; and the brothers, afterwards cutting the body into four parts, laid one in each quarter of the wood.”

From that time only were dogs brought into subjection to men; and the inhabitants of Jamaica would never have been able to subdue those ferocious animals, if Tiger had not been killed and quartered by Sarah Winyan’s brothers. As to the aunt, she received the punishment which she merited, but I cannot remember what it was exactly. Probably, the brothers killed and quartered _her_ as well as her four-footed ally; or, perhaps, she was turned into a wild beast, and supplied the vacancy left by Tiger, as was the case with the celebrated Zingha, queen of Angola; who, although she embraced Christianity on her death-bed, and died according to the most orthodox forms of the Romish religion, still had conducted herself in such a manner while alive, that shortly after her decease, the kingdom being ravaged by a hyena, her subjects could not be persuaded but that the soul of this most Christian queen had transmigrated into the body of the hyena. Yet this was surely doing the hyena great injustice; for she, at least, had never been in the habit of composing ointments by pounding little children in a mortar with her own hands; an amusement which Zingha had introduced at the court of Angola. It took surprisingly; shortly, no woman thought her toilette completed, unless she had used some of this ointment. Pounding children became all the rage; and ladies who aspired to be the leaders of fashion, pounded their own.

APRIL 20.

EPIGRAM.--(From the French.)

“Whose can that little monster be?

Its parents really claim one’s pity!”

“Madam, that child belongs to me.”--

“Well, I protest, she’s vastly pretty!”

APRIL 21.

The weather gets no better, the apothecary gets no worse, and both are as foul and as disagreeable as they can well be. As to the man, it is wonderful that he is still alive, for he has swallowed nothing for the last three weeks except drams and laudanum. He drinks, and he stinks, and he does nothing else earthly or celestial. The quantity of spirits which he pours down his throat incessantly should, of itself, be sufficient to finish him; but he seems to have accustomed himself to drams, as Mithridates used himself to poisons, till his stomach is completely proof against them; or like the Scythian princess, who was fed upon ratsbane pap from her infancy, for the express purpose of one day or other poisoning Alexander in her embraces; and who arrived at such perfection, that although the venom did no harm to her own constitution, she killed a condemned criminal with a single kiss. The consequence was, that hemp fell fifty per cent, and Jack Ketch’s nose was put out of joint completely; for the devil a culprit of any pretensions to taste could be found in all Scythia, who could be prevailed upon to be executed except by her royal highness’s own lips. I am afraid this story is not strictly historical, and that we should look for it in vain in Quintus Curtius.

APRIL 23.

A gale of wind began to show itself on Monday night; it has continued to blow ever since with increasing violence, and is now become very serious. The captain says that he never experienced weather so severe at this season: this is only my usual luck. Certainly nothing can be more disagreeable than a ship on these occasions. The sea breaks over the vessel every minute, and it is really something awful to see the waves raised into the air by the force of the gale, hovering for a while over the ship, and then coming down upon us swop, to inundate every thing below deck as well as upon it. The wind is piercingly cold; the floors and walls are perpetually streaming. But a fire is quite out of the question; and, indeed, at one time to-day, our eating appeared to be out of the question too; for at four o’clock the cook sent us word, that the sea put the kitchen-fire out as fast as he could light it; that he was almost frozen, having been for the last eight hours up to his waist in water; and that we must make up our minds to get no dinner to-day. However, the steward coaxed him, and encouraged him, and poured spirits down his throat, and at last a dinner of some kind was put upon the table; but it had not been there ten minutes, before a tremendous sea poured itself down the companion stairs and through the hatchway, set every thing on the table afloat, deluged the cabin, ducked most of the company, and drove us all into the other room. I was lucky enough to escape with only a sprinkling; but Mrs. Walker was soaked through from head to foot. We can only cross the cabin by creeping along by the sides as if we were so many cats. Walking the deck, even for the sailors, is absolutely out of the question; and the little cabin-boy has so fairly given up the attempt, that he goes crawling about upon all fours. Even our Spanish mastiff, Flora, finds it impossible to keep her four legs upon deck. Every five minutes up they all go, away rolls the dog over and over; and when she gets up again, shakes her ears, and howls in a tone of the most piteous astonishment.

APRIL 24.

Though the gale was itself sufficiently serious, its effects at first were ludicrous enough; but yesterday it produced a consequence truly shocking and alarming. Edward Sadler, the second mate, was at breakfast in the steerage: the boatswain had been cutting some beef with a large case-knife, which he had afterwards put down upon the chest on which they were sitting: a sudden heel of the ship threw them all to the other side of the cabin: the knife fell with its haft against the ladder; and poor Edward falling against it, at least three inches of the blade were forced into his right side. The wound was dressed without the loss of a moment; but, from its depth, the jaggedness of the weapon with which it was made, and from a pain which immediately afterwards seized the poor fellow in his chest, the apothecary thinks that his recovery is very improbable: he says that the liver is certainly perforated, and so probably are the lungs. If the latter have escaped, it must have been only by the breadth of a hair. Every one in the ship is distressed beyond measure at this accident, for the young man is a universal favourite. He is but just one and twenty, good-looking, with manners much superior to his station; and so unusually steady, as well as active, that if Providence grants him life, he cannot fail to raise himself in his profession.

APRIL 25.

Edward complains no longer of the pain in his chest; he sleeps well, eats enough, has no fever, and every symptom is so favourable, that Dr. Ashman encourages us to hope that he has received no material injury. Our ship-carpenter has always appeared to be the sulkiest and surliest of sea-bears: yet, on the day of Edward’s accident, he passed every minute that he could command by the side of his sofa, kneeling, and praying, and watching him as if he had been his son; and every now and then wiping away his “own tears” with the dirtiest of all possible pocket-handkerchiefs. So that what Goldsmith said of Dr. Johnson may be applied to this old man: “He has nothing of a bear but his skin.” After tearing every sail in the ship into shivers, and being as disagreeable as ever it could be, the gale has at length abated. Yesterday it was a storm, and we were going to Ireland, Lisbon, Brest--in short, every where except to England; to-day, it is a dead calm, and we are going nowhere at all.

APRIL 26. (Sunday.)

The gale has returned with increased violence, and we are once more at our old trade of dead lights; however, for this time, the wind, at least, is in our favour.

APRIL 28.

The wounded mate is so much recovered as to come upon deck for a few hours to-day, and may now be considered as completely out of danger; although Dr. Ashman is positive (from his difficulty of breathing at first, and the subsequent pain in his chest) that his lungs must actually have been wounded, however slightly. We are now nearly abreast of Scilly; we fell in with several Scilly boats to-day, from whom we obtained a very acceptable supply of fish, vegetables, and newspapers.

APRIL 29.