Beautiful Females Sleeping.
There was deep silence in the chamber: dim
And distant from each other burn'd the lights,
And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb
Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites,
They would have walk'd there in their spriteliest trim,
By way of change from their sepulchral sites,
And show themselves as ghosts of better taste
Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste.
Many and beautiful lay those around,
Like flowers of different hue and clime and root, In some exotic garden sometimes found,
With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot.
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound,
And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath.
One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm,
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd
Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ;
And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud
The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm,
As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud,
Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night
All bashfully to struggle into light.
This is no bull, although it sounds so; for
'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. A third's all pallid aspect offered more
The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd,
Through the heaved breast, the dream of some far shore Beloved and deplored: while slowly stray'd
(As night dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges
The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes
A fourth as marble, statue-like and still,
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep;
While cold and pure, as looks a frozen rill,
Or the snow minaret on Alpine steep,
Or Lot's wife done in salt-or what you will;My similes are gather'd in a heap,
So pick and choose-perhaps you'll be content With a carved lady on a monument.
Childe Harold's Adieu to England.
"Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild seamew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-Good night!
"A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate :
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.
"Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage?
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."
"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind:
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind:
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend save these alone,
But thee-and One above.
"My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again."—
"Enough, enough, my little lad;
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.
"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Or shiver at the gale?"-
"Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call, What answer shall she make?""Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.
"For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh fears will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.
"And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.
"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go,
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native land-good night!"
They make obeisance, and retire in haste,
Too soon to seek again the watery waste:
Yet they repine not-so that Conrad guides,
And who dare question aught that he decides?
That man of loneliness and mystery,
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh;
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew,
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue;
Still sways their souls with that commanding art
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart.
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain?
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind?
The power of thought-the magic of the mind!
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill,
That moulds another's weakness to its will;
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown,
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own.
Such hath it been-shall be--beneath the sun
The many still must labour for the one!
'Tis Nature's doom-but let the wretch who toils
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils.
Oh! if he knew the weight of splendid chains,
How light the balance of his humbler pains!
Unlike the heroes of each ancient race,
Demons in act, but gods at least in face,
In Conrad's form seems little to admire,
Though his dark eyebrows shade a glance of fire:
Robust but not Herculean-to the sight
No giant frame sets forth his common height;
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again,
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men;
They gaze and marvel how-and still confess
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess.
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale
The sable curls in high profusion veil;
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals
The haughtier thought it curbs but scarce conceals.
Though smooth his voice, and calm his gentle mien,
Still seems there something he would not have seen:
His features' deepening lines and varying hue
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view,
As if within that murkiness of mind
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined;
Such might it be-that none could truly tell-
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell.
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy
The full encounter of his searching eye:
He had the skill, when cunning's gaze would seek
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,
At once the observer's purpose to espy,
And on himself roll back his scrutiny,
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray
Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day.
There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering fled-and Mercy sigh'd farewell!
|