Part 5 (1/2)

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.