Part 3 (1/2)

Sweet seraph! lovely was thy form, When, shrouded in the misty storm That swept o'er Snowden's side, The Cambrian shepherd, through the gloom, Like a spirit rising from the tomb, With awe beheld thee glide; And lovely wert thou, Child of Light!

When, gazing on the starry night Within Llanberris Lake, Thy spirit felt, in a hush like death, The fading earth's last whisper'd breath The holy scene forsake.

Oh! lovelier still, when thy noiseless tread Around thy aged mother's bed Fell soft as snow on snow, When thy heart, from love, repress'd its sighs, And from thy never-closing eyes Forbade the tears to flow.

But now unto thy looks are given The beauty and the power of Heaven: The sternness of this dismal Isle Is soften'd by thy saintly smile, And he, who lay like a madman, bound In fetters of anguish to the ground, And heard and saw, in fearful strife, The sounds and the sights of unearthly life, Now opens his eyes, that glisten mild Like the gladsome eyes of a waken'd child, For the hideous trance is fled; And his soul is fill'd with the glory bright, That plays like a wreath of halo-light Around his Mary's head.

Most awful is the perfect rest That sits within her eye, Awful her pallid face imprest With the seal of victory.

Triumphant o'er the ghastly dreams That haunt the parting soul, She looks like a bird of calm, that floats Unmoved when thunders roll, And gives to the storm as gentle notes As e'er through suns.h.i.+ne stole.

Her lover leans on her saviour breast, And his heart like hers is still: Ne'er martyr'd saints more meekly bow'd To their Creator's will.

As calm they sit, as they had steer'd To some little favourite Isle, To mark upon the peaceful waves The parting sunbeams smile; As if the lightly feather'd oar In an hour could take them to the sh.o.r.e, Where friends and parents dwell:-- But far, alas! from such sh.o.r.e are they, And of friends, who for their safety pray, Have ta'en a last farewell.

But why thus gleams Fitz-Owen's eye?

Why bursts his eager speech?

Lo! as if brought by angel hands Uninjur'd on the beach, With oars and sails a vessel lies: Salvation from the gracious skies!

He fears it is a dream; that woe Hath surely crazed his brain: He drives the phantom from his gaze, But the boat appears again.

It is the same that used to glide When the wind had fallen low, Like a child along its parent's side, Around the guardian prow Of the mighty s.h.i.+p whose shadow lay Unmoved upon the watery way.

In the madness of that dismal hour, When the shrieking s.h.i.+p went down, This little boat to the rocky Isle Hath drifted all alone.

And there she lies! the oars are laid As by the hand of pleasure, Preparing on the quiet tide To beat a gladsome measure.

The dripping sail is careless tied Around the painted mast, And a gaudy flag with purple glows, Hung up in sportive joy by those Whose sports and joys are past.

So lightly doth this little boat Upon the scarce-touch'd billows float, So careless doth she seem to be Thus left by herself on the homeless sea, That, while the happy lovers gaze On her, the hope of happier days Steals unawares, like Heaven's own breath O'er souls that were prepared for death.

They gaze on her, till she appears To understand their grateful tears; To lie there with her idle sail Till Heaven should send some gracious gale, Some gentle spirit of the deep, With motion soft and swift as sleep, To waft them to some pleasant cave In the unknown gardens of the wave, That, hid from every human eye, Are happy in the smiling sky, And in their beauty win the love Of every orb that s.h.i.+nes above.

Fitz-Owen from his dream awakes, And gently in his arms he takes His gentle Maid, as a shepherd kind Brings from the killing mountain wind A snow-white lamb, and lets it rest In sleep and beauty on his breast.

And now the gentle fearless Maid Within the boat at rest is laid: Her limbs recline as if in sleep, Though almost resting on the deep; On his dear bosom leans her head, And through her long hair, wildly spread O'er all her face, her melting eyes Are lifted upwards to the skies, As if she pray'd that Heaven would save The arms that fold her, from the grave.

The boat hath left the lonesome rock, And tries the wave again, And on she glides without a fear, So beauteous is the Main.

Her little sail beneath the sun Gleams radiant as the snow, And o'er the gently-heaving swell Bounds like a mountain-roe.

In that frail bark the Lovers sit, With steadfast face and silent breath, Following the guiding hope of life, Yet reconciled to death.

His arm is round her tender side, That moves beneath the press, With a mingled beat of solemn awe And virgin tenderness.

They speak not:--but the inward flow Of faith and dread, and joy and wo, Each from the other hears: Long, long they gaze with meeting eyes, Then lift them slowly to the skies Steep'd in imploring tears.

And ever, as the rock recedes, They feel their spirits rise; And half forget that the smiling sea Caused all their miseries.

Yet safe to them is the trackless brine As some well-known and rural road Paced in their childhood;--for they love Each other, and believe in G.o.d.

And well might the refulgent day These Ocean Pilgrims chear, And make them feel as if the glades Of home itself were near.

For a living sentiment of joy, Such as doth sleep on hill and vale When the friendly sun comes from his clouds The vernal bloom to hail,-- Plays on the Ocean's sparkling breast, That, half in motion, half at rest, Like a happy thing doth lie; Breathing that fresh and fragrant air, And seeming in that slumber fair The Brother of the Sky.

Hues brighter than the ruby-stone With radiance gem his wavy zone, A million hues, I ween: Long dazzling lines of snowy white, Fantastic wreath'd with purple light, Or bathed in richest green.

The flying fish, on wings of gold, Skims through the sunny ray, Then, like the rainbow's dying gleam, In the clear wave melts away.

And all the beauteous joy seems made For that dauntless Youth and sainted Maid, Whom G.o.d and Angels love: Comfort is in the helm, the sail, The light, the clouds, the sea, the gale, Around, below, above.

And thus they sail, and sail along, Without one thought of fear; As calm as if the boatman's song Awoke an echoing chear, O'er the hills that stretch in sylvan pride On the Bala Lake's romantic side.

And lo! beneath the mellowing light, That trembles between day and night Before the Sun's decline, As to the touch of fairy-hand Upstarting dim the nameless land Extends its mountain line.

It is no cloud that steadfast lies Between the Ocean and the Skies; No image of a cloud, that flings Across the deep its shadowy wings; Such as oft cheats with visions fair The heart of home-sick mariner.

It is the living Earth! They see From the sh.o.r.e a smile of amity That gently draws them on, Such a smile as o'er all Nature glows At a summer evening's fragrant close, When the winds and rain are gone.

The self-moved boat appears to seek With gladsome glide a home-like creek, In the centre of a bay, Which the calm and quiet hills surround, And touch'd by waves without a sound, Almost as calm as they.

And, what if here fierce savage men Glare on them from some darksome den?-- What would become of this most helpless Maid?

Fitz-Owen thinks:--but in her eye So calmly bright, he can descry That she is not afraid Of savage men, or monsters wild, But is sublimely reconciled To meet and bear her destiny.

A gentle ripling on the sand-- One stroke of the dexterous oar-- The sail is furl'd: the boat is moor'd: And the Lovers walk the sh.o.r.e.

To them it is an awful thought, From the wild world of waters brought By G.o.d's protecting hand, When every Christian soul was lost, On that unknown, but beauteous coast, As in a dream to stand.