PR 4112 B532p A I — en m — s -^— X o m -. m 1 ESS DC 1 o m ~ — ^ 1 — ID 1 " — 1 3 m — CD 1 o 1 6 I _ > 1 5 m ■^— ' I =- 65 1 = D 7 = — - > 1 3C 1 -< 1 8 = — > 1 6 p = O 1 ^^™ i — 1 *"» ^^™ -< 1 3 THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES POETICAL MEMOIRS THE EXILE, A TALE. YARMOUTH : PRINTED UY CHAHLES SLOMAN, k:\g-sikeet. ^POETICAL MEMOIRS. THE EXILE, A TALE. BY JAMES BIRD, AUTHOR OF THE VALE OF SLAUGHDEN ; MACHIN, OR THE DISCOVERY OF MADEIRA; AND OF COSMO, DUKE OF TUSCANY. Brunette and fayre, my heart did share, At last a wyfe I tooke : Then all the wayes of my younge dayes, I noted in a booke 1 Old English Bili.au. LONDON: BALDWIN, CKADOCK, AND JOY. PATERNOSTER-ROW. MDCCCXXIII. /5f INTRODUCTION. What ! write my Life? — my Life ! — and can this be From such a Bard — a modest Bard — like me? To write, regardless of the wreaths of fame, My Own Memoirs, and print them with my Name! And no Apology? — no Preface here? No page inscribed to Commoner, or Peer ? 'Tis even so ! — Ye Critics ! spare your Rods ; Ye more than Men — ye less than Demi-gods! On your goose-quills the public feeling rides, Ye Thunderbolts — ye cruel Vaticides! I own your power, I know ye are the Lords Of Poets, armed with Tomohawks and Swords, With which — O, barbarous! — ye, furious, fall On rhyming heads — may Heaven forgive ye all ! Well — if ye flog me — when your rage is o'er, I'll kiss the Rod, and write — two Cantos more! April, 1823. 8G6150 POETICAL MEMOIRS, CANTO FIRST. POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO FIRST. I. My Own Memoirs! — a most egregious theme! I wonder how I came to think of this, Perhaps no more than a delirious dream, With much of sorrow, and with some of bliss ; So, gentle Reader! sure thou wilt not deem The Bard presumptuous! — Did not Jacques the Swiss Write his "Confessions?" — Did not Bishop Burnet Write his "Own Times?" — and so, if I can turn it b2 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO I VI. How changed! — how fallen! — since that happy time, When care, nor grief, nor fear, was aught to me! Ere my heart fixed on love — my head on rhyme — When fondly nursed upon my Mother's knee, Unchanged hy sorrow, and unstained by crime, I learned to lisp " The Little Busy Bee"; Oh! then each flower of life could yield me honey! But since, Iv'e wanted joy — and hope — and money! VII. t( Money's the root of every evil " — sure ! If so, I almost wish I were a sinner! The poison that will kill, will sometimes cure — If money sells our peace, it buys our dinner; Oli ! gT>ld will oft the hungry Bard allure, And make him sing as sweetly as Corinna! As to myself — the fact is not atrocious — I never wear my purse pecuuiosus! C\NTO I. POETICAL MEMOIRS. VIII. Thou potent, magic, bright, accursed gold! Whom the world worships! — At, thy splendid shrine Man's virtue, honour, conscience — all are sold! The monarch's love, the peasant's prayer, is thine, Thou lead'st astray the timid and the bold, All, all are groveling at thy dirty mine, Thou glittering master-key of hearts! — Thy sway Rules universal like the God of day! IX. Iv'e heard our neighbours say, that, when a hoy, My hair was flaxen, and my face was pale, Expressing more of thoughtfulness than joy, And, like a fragile lily of the vale, Which ruffling storm and tempest may destroy, Which e'en most bend beneath the gentlest gale, I grew but weakly; now, my riper years Have- brought more strength — more sorrows — and more fears! POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO I X. My Father sent me to the village school, But there, I fancy, that I did not shine, or, At least, not love to sit and plod by rule — And I was self-opinioned, though a minor. In early life we often play the fool, As Morland 1 did, when over-powered with wine; or Mad Napoleon, when he marched to Russia; Or Voltaire, when he robbed the King of Prussia! XI. Our village "Tutor" was a long, thin man; He wore a pig-tail — tails are out of fashion — He taught his pupils on a novel plan, To raise up virtue, and to keep down passion; His greatest fault, at least I thought so then, Was, that he sometimes laid the birch too rash on, Long did I bear memorials of his rage, Stripes! — stripes! — the wages of my pupilage! CANTO I. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 9 XII. The lily's hue soon left me, and the sun Embrowned my face, whose masculine contour Began to say — "dame nature's work is done;" In sooth, methought I was a boy no more, And deemed rny own importance just begun; And then I felt rny young beard o'er and o'er, And eke my whiskers, and I found the girls Began to gaze upon me — through their curls. XIII. 'Tis somewhat dangerous when ladies gaze On boys who fancy they are men; — the fair, With one bright glance, may make the young heart blaze, Like a hot roman-rocket in the air ! When once our hearts are lost in Cupid's maze They're apt to hope for pleasure, transport there, For joy and kisses — things I dare not utter — Besides, it always keeps them in a flutter! JO POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO I. XIV. Oh! there is heavenly beautv in bright eves! They are the soul's interpreters — their spell Binds the charmed spirit, and ten thousand spies Lie closely ambushed in their citadel, From which they quickly sally, and surprise The unguarded heart, which dares not then rebel: But swears allegiance unto Love, and brings Its willing homage to that King of Kings. XV. I recollect, when I was first in love, My heart was captured by a dark eye's glance ; Awhile I languished like a turtle dove, But when, designedly, or else by chance, Maria pressed my hand (I wore no glove) My soul seemed sinking to a heavenly trance; My very marrow melted in my bones, For I, two days before, had read — " Tom Jones." CANTO r. POETICAL MEMOIRS. \\ XVI. Oh ! Fielding! — Fielding! — we shall never see A novel like thy " Foundling !" — thy old 'Square, Though lost in England now, shall ever he A model which we view not, but admire: — And then thy hero! — who so blest as he? His heart all passion, and his brain all fire ! — Thy heroine too! — nor time, nor change shall rifle Her lasting charms, that were not formed — for Blifill XVII. And I had lost my heart — so fast the chain Of love had bound it, that, it only beat For one, who sought not to increase its pain, Who often sighed but to augment its heat; And then I felt love would a despot reign, And so I told Maria, when, at her feet, I wore to love her till stern death should sever Me and my verse — for ever and for ever! 12 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO f XVIII. 'Twas then I first began to write in rhyme. — Should any genius wish to be a Poet, Oh ! let him fall in love in iC early time," And try to write — and he'll be sure to do it. Love is the basis of the true sublime, For Petrarch, Ovid, Rousseau, Sappho, shew it: And who will dare to doubt such evidence? No living being with one grain of sense : XIX. For notwithstanding Petrarch's love was frail — Poor Ovid banished — wild Rousseau no saint — And Sappho swallowed by a Lesbian whale — They all possessed the magic art to paint Love's mighty power, in many a tender tale; And therefore, hopeless would be all complaint, And all appeal, against this grand quartetto, Whose wits were sharper than a new stiletto. CANTO I. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 13 XX. I loved Maria! perchance the maid loved too! Once, on a visit at my "father's hall," She made me happy as pure love may do, And she seemed blessed as Eve, before her fall ; One night, how like a boy ! I sought to woo The blushing beauty at our rustic ball ; Oh ! we were gazed at by the whispering throng- Maria, alarmed, cried "parlew doacement !" XXI. Oh ! the sweet whisper of first love ! it tells Soft as the softest Zephyr's lullaby, Of kindling transport, while the fond heart swells With joy and hope ! yet, reader ! think not I, Who love the presence of accomplished belles, Can sanction whispering in company, For that is not polite, and so might yield Contempt and censure — vide Chesterfield. 14 1'OETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO I. XXII. Not that I deem it always right to follow The sage Lord Chesterfield's "Advice" — No ! no ! His head was solid, but his heart was holloiv, His first, his latest pride, to form a heau Of one dull boy! — He urged him (like Apollo) To smile, forsooth ! on ready friend or foe, To veil his feelings, cringe, and bow polite, A simpering, sneaking, dandy hypocrite ! XXIII. And now Maria inspired my soul with song, I wooed sweet Poesy, and sought the shade, Far from the busy and tumultuous throng; To muse, enraptured, on the lovely maid, I lonely ranged the verdant woods among, And there to string' my youthful harp essayed, Where flowers were blooming, and where streams were rippling, I rhymed — a melancholv, love-sick stripling! CANTO I. POETICAL MEMOIRS. ]5 There is a bliss the young heart feels, To every other heart unknown, When love's bright mirror first reveals A glittering world it deems its own! And thou, Maria! hast wrought the spell, The charm of which no Bard can tell, Unless he love and doat like me, On one so young — so fair as thee ! Alone thy image fills my breast, Where hope and fear and rapture meet, And, like that leaf which cannot rest, My heart is beating — still must beat! Thy voice, thy sigh, thy smile, thy look, To me unfold love's magic book, O'er which I've pored, till I can see I \\> heart-prints in the face of thee! 16 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO I. If this delightful dream can last, I'll reck not of the joy or woe, The hopes or fears of moments past, Nor heed the present as they go ! Perchance the Roman Chief 2 might say With truth, that, he had lost a day; Maria! — it is not thus with me — I cannot lose a day with thee ! No ! no ! — the moments are not lost, When to the beating heart is given All which that heart can love the most, The rapture of its earthly Heaven! This, this is joy! — I feel it now! Maria ! my hope, my Heaven art thou ! And, while I live, my life shall be A life of truth, dear love ! to thee ! CANTO I. POETICAL MEMOIRS. ]f XXIV. I wrote this song when I was just sixteen — No doubt, full many a song soars high above This humble one of mine. Who hath not seen The eagle soar beyond the modest dove? But, as 'twas written when my life was green, I like it much — I gave it to my love, And begged she would not shew it to my Mother, She promised that, and bade me — write another,. XXV. Nova-, had my Mother known that I had written A " Song of Love," perchance she might have thought That lines with so much fire — so little wit in — Were certain tokens of a mind distraught; And that a boy like me, so deeply smitten, Should, like a bird, be caged as soon as caught, And might have shut me up, had I gone on so, As Tasso was shut up by Duke Alphonso! ]g POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO I. XXVI. Were I to fall in love a thousand times, I would not tell my Mother of it ! — for All Mothers look on love and love-sick rhymes, As fulsome thing's their Children should abhor, Forgetting that, delightful love sublimes The youthful heart, and calms the bosom's war; Forgetting too, that, in their teens, their hearts Were pierced and mangled by Love's burning darts ! XXVII. I've heard an anxious Mother say, that love Was a mere phantasy — a dream — a bubble — Weaning our hearts from nobler things above, Dazzling our eyes, and making us see double — She said all this, and gravely tried to prove It fact! — She might have spared herself the trouble, For, had she sworn that all she said Was true, I would not have believed it so— would you? CANTO I. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 19 XXVIIT. I must allow that love, when slighted, brings Sad disappointment — leaves the heart forlorn; And, though he shakes sweet honey from his wings, He leaves his dupe to taste it from a thorn : And thorns, alas! are sharp and dangerous things, By whieh our tender feelings may be torn; Yet, love's the very top — the crown — the attic Of all the passions, that are deemed extatic ! XXIX. Nay, 'tis the king of every passion — -joy Is too tumultuous — grief is often deadly — Hope may deceive us — and despair destroy — Revenge torment us — and a nameless medley Of other feelings have some base alloy — But love is pure, (unless we love like Sedley ■"',) It is the magnet that attracts us all — Old, young, rich, poor, man, maiden, great and small! c2 20 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO I. XXX. But, to Maria — Alas ! how oft we build Our house of hope upon the faithless sand, While the soft rays of smiling pleasure gild Our happy hours; and when our hearts are fanned By passion's breath, oh ! then we deemed fulfilled Our dreams of joyance, till affliction's hand Sweeps all away, and leaves us to despair — To weep for all we've borne, and still must bear ! XXXI. Yes! yes! the sun-beams of our happiest day Oft set beneath a dark inclement sky, Through which there breaks no bright, no cheering ray, To gild the tempest that comes rushing by, And sweeps the flowers of earthly joy away, Leaving our hearts to break — our hopes to die ! While sad, despairing, in our lone distress, We tread life's path — the path of wretchedness! CANTO I. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 21 XXXII. And thus it was with me : the rose's bloom, Fast from Maria's lovely cheek had fled, A warning voice seemed echoing" from the tomb, Drear, low, and deep — as though the mouldering dead Called the young victim to that long, long home, Where man's last foe, the dainty worm, is fed, The lawless epicure! — the loathsome thing — That strips the bones of Peasant and of King ! XXXIII. She wasted slowly; life's reluctant tide Ebbed in her veins; her soft and lovely cheek, Which erst with sweet and blushing roses vied, Pale, cold as snow on lofty Iiecla's Peak, Proclaimed her destined for an early bride, And Death her bridegroom! — Oh! 'twas vain to seek A refuge from his flcshlcss arms — their clasp, Once felt, endures till life's faint parting gasp! 22 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO I XXXIV. Though her form faded, yet, her speaking eye Was bright and beautiful, and softly beamed, An emblem of the soul which could not die, And through the wreck of ruined beauty, seemed To scorn the fiat of mortality! Oh ! false, delusive light ! for I had deemed Thy ray would last for ever! — That is gone And I am left in darkness — and alone! XXXV. When the young heart hath lost the dearest, last, And only tie, to which it clung below; When every hope, nay, every wish is past, Save the sad wish to leave this world of woe ; Then, like a green leaf seared by autumn's blast. The withering mourner to his grave must go ! That dark, but certain refuge of despair, The grave! the grave! we only triumph there! CANTO I. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 23 XXXVI. Oh! hapless grief ! to view the form we prize Above all thought, slow sinking to decay ! To mark the pallid cheek, the tearful eyes, As fade the lingering hues of health away, And time, relentless, snaps the gentle ties That bound our hearts to hope, whose feeble ray But glimmers o'er life's waste — then sinks for ever, And leaves the heart a wound that closes — never ! XXXVII. Maria, farewell ! — Oh ! thou art lost to me ! Too early laid within thy cold, cold grave; Yet, still thy cherished memory shall be A light to guide me o'er life's stormy wave ; My soul, devoted, long hath worshipped thee, And loved thy beauty, which it could not save ! Of all I felt my verse no more can tell, But I could think for ever, Love! — farewell! NOTES TO CANTO FIRST. Note 1, page 8, stanza x. In early life we often play the fool, As Morland did, when overpowered with wine Poor Morland! What a lack of worldly wisdom he had ! Many of the best pictures of this incomparable artist were painted in ale-houses, to discharge his reckoning; and it not unfrequently happened, that interested persons, by the temp- tation of "a cup of sack," became possessed of pieces of inestimable value! Note 2, page 16. Perchance the Roman Chief might say f-Vith truth, that, he had lost a day. The celebrated exclamation of Titus, ' 'Amici ! diem perdi- dimus!" Friends! we have lost a day! is too well known to require further notice. Note 3, page 19, stanza xxix. love is pure, (unless we love like Sedley.J Sir Charles Sedley was one of the wits of the Court of Charles II. He was far from being proof against the fashionable licentiousness which prevailed at the restoration, and during the reign, of that Monarch. His Poems are not remarkable for their purity, nor for their excellence. POETICAL MEMOIRS, CANTO SECOND. POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO SECOND. J. I recollect, when I was quite a boy, (Tis nearly thirty years ago, I fancy) My Mother told me to avoid the toy The world calls Woman, but not much I can say About her sage advice, or my sweet joy, When first I met the rosy smile of Nancy! I know I deemed it an eternal honour And prayed to heaven to shower its gifts upon her. 30 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO If. II. Much hath been written upon lovely Woman, Concerning dark eyes, and soft snowy necks; A charming - theme, and, I am certain no man Was ever fonder of the gentle sex Than I am ; and we know the rhyming Roman Loved well his lass, whom he would sometimes vex, For which, his conscience gave him sharp rebukes in His habitation bordering on the Euxine ! 1 III. Now, since it is the fashion of my rhyme To turn one stanza in a sprightly humour, And then another stately and sublime, And then another sprightly, then a few more Moving ones, I deem it no great crime, If I indite a flowing verse of two more Serious than the last. — Sweet Muse ! now move More gravely — Woman is the light of love ! CANTO IT. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 3] IV. Oh, Woman ! Woman ! thou art formed to bless The heart of restless Man, to chase his care, And charm existence by thy loveliness; Bright as the sun-beam, as the morning' fair, If but thy foot fall on a wilderness, Flowers spring, and shed their roseate blossoms there, Shrouding the thorns that in thy path-way rise, And scattering o'er it hues of Paradise ! V. Thy voice of love is music to the ear, Soothing and soft, and gentle as a stream That strays 'mid summer flowers; thy glittering tear Is mutely eloquent; thy smile a beam Of light ineffable, so sweet, so dear, It wakes the heart from sorrow's darkest dream, Shedding a hallowed lustre o'er our late, And when it beams we are not desolate! 32 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO II. VI. No! no! when Woman smiles we feel a charm Thrown bright around us, binding us to earth; Her tender accents, breathing forth the balm Of pure affection, give to transport birth ; Then life's wide sea is billowless and calm: Oh! lovely Woman! thy consummate worth Is far above thy frailty — far above All earthly praise — thou art the light of love! VII. As I grew up, I found that spinning rhymes Was not the only thing I had to think of, And that the spring, which every thought sublimes, Was not the only spring I had to drink of; For, in a charming reverie, sometimes, When I was fondly musing on the brink of Sweet Castalia, I awoke, and found That I was toiling on unfruitful ground ! CANTO ir. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 33 VIII. My Father told me that, to pen a Sonnet Or so, was well enough ; but, if my brain Spun out long Odes, whate'er I said upon it, (He hoped his strictures would not give me pain,) I tell you boy, said he, the more you con it, You'll find but little pleasure, and less gain: An over dose of verse, quite sets me loathing, And will not bring you meat, nor drink, nor clothing! IX. Now, though my Father was no Poet, still, I've often thought he was a Prophet. — Yes! Though long I've laboured on the Pbocian hill, Long written tinkling verses, numberless — Led by the fickle Muses at their will, Through all the mazes of their wilderness, And toiled ;t> hard as Pindar, Pope, or Pliny 2 , The cheating jades have never paid one guinea n 34 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO II. X. But when I publish these, "My Own Memoirs," I think the public, if they do their duty, To whom I've often tendered my devoirs, Will see, at once, their value and their beauty, And buy them rapidly — by tens — by scores — Else, from my rhyming cranium to my shoe-tie, I soon shall be (I could not stoop to beg) Nudior Ovo — like a Scotsman's leg! XI. My Father's lecture laid my lyre asleep, It rested tranquil and unstrung awhile, And I began to fear that it would keep Eternal silence, had not Nancy's smile Awaked its strings, and made my young heart leap Into my mouth, (I then was free from bile) But for this blessed chance, my lyre had slumbered Till the full portion of my days were numbered! CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 35 XII. I first met Nancy by the heaving sea, (A very likely place to lose one's heart in) Where every rolling - billow seems to be A type of our emotion, to take part in Our passions, foes to our tranquillity, While to our souls Love steers without a chart in, And if he gets moored there, we are not able To weigh his anchor, or to cut his cable ! XIII. I gazed intensely upon Nancy's face; — I did not think it quite polite to do it, But there was so much beauty — so much grace- It could not fail to charm a youthful Poet; Besides, I felt I could not leave the place, And that my soul clung like a bur-dock tc it! And so I lingered on the spot awhile, And once, or twice, methought I saw her smile. d2 3(5 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO 11. XIV. To ascertain this fact, I just glanced under Her parasol, — (she held it somewhat slanting) Oh ! then I saw more cause for joy and wonder, Such sweetly blushing flowers of nature's planting; I dared not trust my tongue, for that might blunder, And she seemed conscious too, that she was granting An unbecoming favour — so, she tripped off: — I stood — like Cupid, with his two wings clipped off! XV. I could not fly, nor could I then pursue, So I had time to ponder o'er my fate; Fool! thus to let her vanish from my view, And not one word ! — Repentance came too late, And I grew sad — was threatened by the blue Devils — the very things I always hate — I stood reflecting, till the moon-beams gave Their tender light, to gild the rolling wave. CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 37 XVI. 'Tis sweet to wander on the lonely shore, When all around is silent, and at rest, Save the wind's whistle, and the billow's roar, Or sea-bird, screaming from her rocky nest; While moon and stars a flood of splendour pour, That gilds the rock, the shore, the wave's white crest, And glittering bark that sails majestic by, Her couch the wave — her canopy the sky! XVII. I love Ihe sacred stillness of the Night, When her fair Queen leads forth the host of Heaven ; Then all is peace — the soul's unclouded light Burns with ethereal flame; and then are given Thoughts that refine the spirit, and excite The hope that is immortal; and the leaven Of earth is purified; then joy and love Beam forth, serenely as the orbs above. 38 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO II. XVIII. But, Nancy! Nancy! where art thou, my dear? She had not left me more than forty minutes, Before I strung my lyre, and, void of fear, Began to sing - like twenty thousand linnets; Could any tuneful sea-nymph ever hear A song like mine, it would he sure to win its Heart. — Now, I cannot recollect the song, But know 'twas very sweet, and very long. XIX. How strange it is — yet not more strange than true — That he who sips of the Castalian water, Whene'er a lovely woman meets his view, It matters not if widow — wife — or daughter, He straightway versifies her lip, her hlue Or bright black eye, till he has fairly wrought her Through old iYpollo's subtle, fine Alembic, In short Trochaic, or in long Iambic. CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 39 XX. Oft-times I strayed .along the shore — expected, Nay, fondly hoped, that Nancy Mould come there; Ahsent in mind, I walked — ran — stopped- — reflected — Turned round — moved on — and sighed in dumb despair — Then laughed — then, stooping on the beach, collected The pebbles — O ! that made the seaman stare, Who, from his passing bark, would cry, amazed, A smart lad that — what pity that he's crazed!" (.C XXI. Alas! what ills the Poet's soul environ! All Poets have been crazed — both high and low — From moonstruck Dryden 3 down to Scott — to Byron- And should he say that's more than I can know, I'll fight him with hot powder, or cold iron, Although I've heard that he can deal a blow, And that he's strong and brave as was St. Dennis, And that — he kept a Tailor s Wife at Venice. 40 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO II. XXII. At length, methought I should behold once more The peerless Nancy — from a jutting rock I heard her sweet voice echoing on the shore ; I felt my heart beat — nay, I heard it knock Against my side — but soon all hope was o'er, For when she came in view, a sudden shock Unhinged my soul — I saw, with much alarm, A great tall fellow leaning on her arm. XXIII. Perhaps his leaning on the lady's arm Was Love's phenomenon — I can't explain it, I only state the fact, (my thoughts are calm,) And I defy the Critics to arraign it; And, though the gentle fair might mean no harm, Nor the less gentle and unlikely swain, it Was "passing strange;" — yes, I could write a homily On this most unaccountable anomaly. •CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 41 XXIV. I moved not — spoke not — saw the pair advance. And I despaired — though I was loth to smother The light of hope within my soul — "Perchance," Said I, "this fine gallant may prove her brother, Or some young friend, who met her here by chance, And she may yet love me, and not another." I wished to grasp this thought, like one who wishes To grasp a straw, before he's food for fishes ! XXV. I marked her beauty as she passed me by, Her form so lovely, and her face so fair, The living passion of her fine dark eye, The curling tresses of her auburn hair, Her ruby lip, her neck of ivory, And all the nameless winning graces there — I saw — and faithful memory treasures yet, Cbarms which 1 dare not love, nor can forget! 42 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO II. XXVT. Now, though I scorn to wish a creature harm, I must confess I could but wish that he, The beau, who fondly leaned on Nancy's arm, Were at the bottom of the rolling sea; Yes! but for him, my bosom had been calm, Which, Nancy! now, I fear it ne'er can be! For, once my tide of passion flows too high, I know not when 'twill ebb again — not I ! XXVII. Zeno. Cleanthes, Varro, Epictetus, And all the Stoicks, taught us to despise Fate's hand, however roughly it might treat us, And, not to feel at all, they deemed most wise. Now they who know their Alphas from their Betas, Esteem such dogmas little less than lies — Indeed, I find the whole menage of passion, Joy — grief — hope — fear — despair — arc all in fashion. CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 43 XXVIII. And so is love ! a little, blind, sly rogue! From Adam's time till now his name hath been Worshipped, adored, and very much in vogue — Yes! yes! — and so 'twill ever be, I ween, For love impels our hearts to disembogue The torpid blood that nourishes the spleen, And leaves them light as bubbles formed of soap: Critics! the simile will pass, I hope? XXIX. I deem the Critics very useful men, But now they swarm so thick within their hive, No starveling Poet can assume his pen, But he is lashed, and flogged, and flayed alive; And they have dared to lash me now and then, In fact, I almost wonder I survive The cruel stripes which I received from one; But let us say — the- Critics will be done. 44 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTQ ff XXX. Now, in the inmost temple of my heart, I worshipped Nancy's image, where it dwelt A hallowed form, from every form apart, The bound of all I hoped— of all I felt! O, sweet and soul-refining- Love! thou art A potent Godhead, at whose shrine I've knelt, Till, from my bosom every care hath flown, And left me in a Heaven of thine own ! XXXI. Talk not to me of Houries in the skies, Talk not to me of frigid, thin-lipped Russians; O, tell me not of Donnas with dark eyes, Of maids of Tuscany, nor formal Prussians, Nor French belles chattering fast as lightning flies, Nor lazy Greek girls, lolling upon cushions : Give me the gentle, lovely, British fair, Take all the rest on earth — for aught I care! CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 45 XXXII. My love increased — 1 found I must reveal it — And so I told sweet Nancy "all about it," I urged my passion, hoped that she could feel it, And begged her love — I could not live without it — Then prayed that she would let her dear lips seal it, She shook her head as though she seemed to doubt it, But still she smiled— and, oh! that soft smile told More than her lips would venture to unfold! XXXIII. And then she sighed: — I deem love's sigh the pure And fine quintessence of the heart, distilled By the great heat impassioned souls endure, Ere the sweet blossoms of young love are killed By cold disdain, which time can never cure, Or ere the hitter cup of life is filled, Of which we all must drink, and find, alas ! The sweetest moments poisoned as they pass! 4(3 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO II. XXXIV. Long was I happy in my Nancy's smile, In transport when she said she loved me dearly, I could not deem her heart was formed for guile, In fact, at one time, we were married — nearly: I reckoned though without my host, the while, Which I've repented, hourly — daily — yearly — Foolish repentance ! when all hope had fled, Hope only felt on parting love's death-bed! XXXV. And yet I had full cause to hope !— for Nancy Had often told me that my form, my face, Exactly filled the measure of her fancy; That love's wild flower grew on the warmest place Within her heart, and bloomed there like a pansy 4 ; My features too, she said, stood out with grace, Especially one of them, that's termed the nasal — I bowed — and swore to live and die her vassal. CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 47 XXXVI. When once love's flame is dying in the heart. You'll find his embers, ere they all expire, Will scorch — and scorch — and scorch the tender part, A greater torment than his greatest fire! And if you sigh, and bid the big tear start, They cannot grant you what you most desire: So, if the old love should not prove a true one, The best A\ay is to — look out for a new one. XXXVII. By this I mean not to commend the fickle Heart, ranging east, and south, and north, and west— To revel on each sweet that chance may tickle ts changing passions, which can never rest — Fast flies the hour, and time's relentless sickle Will reap the brightest charms — "Probatim est." — I quoted tins, because it came so pat in, Not that my head is over-stocked with Latin. 48 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO IT. XXXVIII. I know not how it was, it came to pass That Nancy soon pretended to be jealous, And all, forsooth ! because I told a lass, For whose esteem I felt a little zealous, I merely urged her to consult her glass, And that would tell her why she crazed the fellows- I said no more, and only once I kissed her — That was enough ! — it raised a burning blister XXXIX. On Nancy's heart! — and so she said, " Good bye! Thou shalt no longer hold me in thy power, Thou faithless, trifling, busy, Spanish fig, Buzzing about and lighting on each flower! I'll trust no more thy word, thy smile, thy sigh; So, Sir! remember this — our parting hour!" I thought this merely rage — extravaganza — You'll find it different in the next sweet stanza. CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 49 XL. I heard her fatal words — quick heaved my sighs — I soon believed that Nancy meant to part The nearest, dearest, and long 1 - cherished ties, Which softly, sweetly, bound us heart to heart. Unmanned by anger, sorrow, and surprise, I strove to reach my home, but could not start, Bound as I was by love's relaxing fetter, At length I reached it, where I found — a Letter. XLI. I broke the seal, (a Cupid without wings,) Hope fled at once! — for Nancy plainly said Among some other and provoking things, That now she scorned to seek the marriage-bed ; That men's professions were like viper's stings, And that she looked upon our sex with dread, The loathsome things! which she should always hate, Beloved too early, and despised too late! E 50 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO II. XLII. I wrote directly to her, and expected The favour of an answer by next mail : It did not come — I thought myself neglected — I waited longer, almost thought her frail — And then again more calmly I reflected, And deemed that Nancy's truth could never fail- And so I thought my letter had miscarried, Till I one morning heard that — she was married! XLIII. This was the acme of defection ! — this The rout of love's allies! — the quick retreat Of Cupid's royal guard from fields of bliss! The sure destruction, capture, or defeat Of hordes of feelings that had fought amiss ! It was in vain for Cupid now to beat Up for recruits! — his troops all killed or vanished, Himself disgraced, and from his empire banished! CANTO II. POETICAL MEMOIRS. 5 J XLIV. And now I deemed all women were deceivers, From mother Eve to Nancy ! — she, indeed, Had made me one among the true believers In love's seducing' but fallacious creed, Which kept my heart in motion, like a weaver's Restless shuttle ! — but she proved a reed, A broken, frail one! — and, to crown her crime, The fool she married could not — make a rhyme! XLV. At length my spirit soared o'er love's affliction; I thought a woman could be true, and so, Began to hold her "lasting love" no fiction; In sooth, I undertook to prove it too, By means of glowing words, and measured diction, The wheels on which poetic tandems go! Driving one verse before another — then Changing their feet, and driving on again! e 2 52 POETICAL MEMOIRS. CANTO II. XLVI. I thought awhile — I deem it right to think, Ere I begin to manufacture rhymes, Lest I should lose the sweet harmonious link, That holds together the poetic chimes ; That gone, the Poet's fame hangs o'er the brink Of dark oblivion, where 'tis lost sometimes; — Then comes the Critic with his lash, and quarrels With every line — and blasts the Poet's laurels. XLVII. I thought awhile, — and then I siezed a quill — And then a pen-knife with a blade of steel — I scraped it, cut it, nibbed it to my will — And then preferred a short, but strong appeal, To sundry Muses on their sacred hill: Their potent spell I soon began to feel; So, as my heart was free, my spirit flexile, I wrote a short tale, which I called, " The Exile." NOTES TO CANTO SECOND. Note 1, page 30, stanza ii. the rhyming Roman. Ovid was banished to the banks of the Euxine Sea, by order of the Emperor Augustus. Note 2, page 33, stanza ix. And toiled as hard as Pindar, Pope, or Pliny. Should it be affirmed that Pliny was not a Poet, I must beg to observe that he would, perhaps, have been more fortunate, had he attempted to explore Parnassus rather than Vesuvius ! His unfortunate death was occasioned by the sulphureous exhalation, from the burning lava of this moun- tain, in the year 79. 54 NOTES TO CANTO SECOND. Note 3, pag3 39, stanza xxi. All Poets have been crazed — both high and low — From moon-struck Dryden Dryden is not only celebrated as a Poet, but as an Astro- loger also ! Jt is well known that he calculated the nativi- ties of his sons ; and it has been asserted, as a remarkable fact, that his prediction relating to his son Charles was fulfilled. That Lunatic and Poet were formerly considered as synonymous terms, may be inferred from the expression of Horace. Aut insanit homo, aut versus facit. There goes a madman, or a bard ! Note 4, page 46, stanza xxxv. That love's wildfloiver grew on the warmest place Within her heart, and bloomed there like a pansy. Pansy, or Pancy, a flower — a kind of violet. THE EXILE. A TALE. Here, on the brink, the very verge of liberty, Although contention rise upon the clouds, Mix heaven with earth, and roll the ruin onward; Here will I fix, and breast me to the shock, Till I, or Denmark fall! GUSTAVUS VASA. THE EXILE. Bright o'er the rocks of Scandinavia fell The chequered sunbeams of the morn. O'er dell, And mountain steep, and crag, and snowy tract, Tumultuous lake, and foaming cataract, O'er waving pine, and birch, and gushing stream, O'er mossy tower and turret of Drontheim, Bright was the morn : and lovely were the maids Of northern land; dark eyes, and auburn braids, 58 THE EXILE. And snowy bosoms, and tall forms were there; Though fair the morn, they were as morning- fair. In that remote, that wild, romantic clime, Dwelt nature's proudest spirit, grand, sublime; There, were huge rocks, high mountains, echoing caves, Wild glens, dark woods, and ever-rolling waves, And bold brave men, but they, alas ! were slaves ! Yes ! the proud Tyrant of the North had thrown The Despot's chain around them, and their own Dear native land was conquered; freedom's hour Had passed away; vindictive Harold's 1 power Bowed to the dust the souls of men, who, long Victorious, triumphed in that land of song, Where Bards had sung, and Heroes fought for fame, Till Harold sealed their bondage and their shame ! Yet, there was one, whose firm, undaunted soul, No chain could bind, no tyranny controul, One, young and brave, and nobly born, whose sword Owned not the vengeful Harold for its lord ! THE EXILE. 59 One, in whose patriot breast, the love of fame, Of valour, freedom, country, were the same! Such was Regnier! — the faithful and the brave — Who scorned the tyrant, as he scorned the slave ! But there were feelings of a gentler kind, Dear to his heart, whose cherished spell could bind His soul to Scandinavia's hills, though fate Had dimmed his glory, and though desolate The halls of freedom, by his fathers reared, By fame ennobled, and by time endeared: Yes, there was one, whose image dwelt apart From all the world, within his trusting heart; There had it dwelt in sorrow and in joy, No fate could change it, and no time destroy j On that aloiu' his faith could rest; it led To one fond hope, when other hopes had fled! Oh! how the heart will cling to something dear, When hope betrays us, and despair is near, GO THE EXILE. When all is dark around us, save some star, That shines resplendent, though it shines afar; We hail its light with rapture, and we bless The friendly star, the star of happiness! The ceaseless, Meandering, and inconstant sun, Amid the countless realms he shines upon, Ne'er warmed a lovelier cheek, a brighter eye, Nor softer lip, that mocked the rose-bud's dye, Than when the brightness of his envious beam Shone on the lovely Moina of Drontheim ! SAveet was her youthful smile, her form was fair, Dark were the waving ringlets of her hair, Her voice was like soft music, when it swells O'er the calm lake, where plaintive echo dwells ; Regnier had seen that smile— had heard the tone Of that sweet voice, whose melody alone Could soothe the feelings of his troubled breast And lull each wilder passion into rest ! THE EXILE. 61 When hope deceived him, or when man betrayed, Dear was the magic of the smile, which played On Moina's lip ; and, in her voice, there dwelt The spirit of true love, whose sigh could melt His soul to tenderness, though Harold's pride Had launched his passions on the roughest tide Of life's wide sea, where every rolling wave Bore down the coward, and opposed the brave ! Regnier defied the Tyrant's power — his hand Grasped freedom's sword, to guard his native land; His war-horn sounded, and its echoes ran From rock to rock — from patriot man to man — While brightly gleamed o'er Scandinavia's realm, The sword— the spear— the hauberk— and the helm- And warriors swore to live from despots free, Or die, dear heaven-born Liberty, for thee! G2 THE EXILE. Yes ! when the heartless Victor on his throne Soared to ambition, stooped to vice alone, Obscured the light of freedom's purest gem, And sternly tore it from his diadem; When his dark path was marked with blood, that flowed From young, and warm, and valiant hearts, that glowed With love of liberty — of home — of fame; When Harold mocked at glory — laughed at shame; When to fair Moina's love his heart aspired, By pride exalted, and by beauty fired ; Then roused Regnier, he clashed his shield?] uprose Brave fearless men, obdurate Harold's foes; Then rang the Mild-rocks with the shout, that told Their swords were ready, and their hearts were bold ; Their spadas 3 pointed, and their helmets plumed, Their corselets polished, and their spears resumed; Their souls exalted, unrestrained by fear; Their hope was— freedom! and their chief— Regnier! THE EXILE. 63 The moon is up, and o'er the deep blue sky Sails many a cloud, as sweeps the night-wind by, That shakes the pines upon their craggy steep, While starts the rein-deer from her careless sleep, Roused by the foaming mountain-torrent's shock, That thundering, leaps from echoing rock to rock, Loud o'er the deep and hollow caverns dashing, Wild o'er the broken trunks of dark pines crashing; Fierce in their wrath, the tyrant waters break Opposing crags; peak thunders after peak; — While rocks, and pines, and earth, and frozen snow, Roll, in wild uproar, to the gulf below! The moon-beam sleeps upon the valley now, How strange a contrast to the mountain's brow ! — Regnier stood lonely gazing on the scene, And sternly mused on what his fate had been — Deep in his heart remembrance had engraved, His honour wronged — his native land enslaved — (}4 THE EXILE. Affections blighted — hopes destroyed — the flower Which love had cherished in his happier hour, Now in full beauty drooping- on its stem, And shall it bloom on Harold's diadem? — Dear, faithful Moina! she, whose smile of love Had charmed Regnier, and raised his soul above The changes of the world; her eyes had told Those tender tales of feeling, which unfold The secrets of the heart, though lips deny To be the heralds of love's victory ! And mubt he lose the nectared cup, whose brim O'erflows with joy, long pledged in faith to him, Dashed from his lips by one his soul must hate, One known too early — and opposed too late? On this he mused, and every thought was pain, That rushed, like fire, upon his burning brain. His firm hand rested on his sword — the blade Was half unsheathed — his burnished helm arrayed THE EXILE. (35 With si.ble plumes, that o'er his dark eye threw A darker shade; his cheek's fast changing hue, And brow that lowered, and strong arm raised on high, Pale quivering lip, quick breath, and flashing eye, Told of the storm which raged within his breast, Fierce as the mountain flood that knew no rest, On which he gazed, as from its rocky source It rolled, resistless, in its mighty course! He loved that torrent's roar; its strength, its rage, Seemed part of him — his bosom's heritage — Tumultuous, wild, and restless, as his soul, That feared no danger — bowed to no controuU He sought his tower upon the lofty rock, Which long had triumphed o'er the ceaseless shock Of wind and wave — the tower in which had dwelt His warlike Sires; their valiant hearts had felt F 66 THE EXILE. The glow of freedom, and their fearless Son Swore to defend the glory they had won ! Bright o'er his hall hung massy spear and shield, Borne from the foe in many a hloody field ; Around the gothic porch hung bows, oft bent By warrior's hands; along the battlement The trusty centinel was pacing slow, While hoarsely rolled the sweeping wave below. Around Regnier pressed bold, undaunted men, From pine-wood forest, and from mountain glen } He pledged the wine-cup to his valiant band, Arose, and slowly waved his gallant hand : "Brave hearts! this meteor of our northern sky Would blast us all! and we must fight, or die! 'Tvvere well to die ! but let us die with fame, Retrieve our glory, and expunge our shame; Cursed be the slave! — the slave! — that hated word, At whose dread sound each keen and vengeful sword THE EXILE. 67 Should from its scabbard start, to crush the foe Who forged our chains, and who would bind them, too !" As flash the lightnings from a stormy cloud Quick flashed the warriors' swords, and pealing loud O'er vaulted halls, while echo 'woke with fear, Arose the shout for glory and Regnier! Loud was the shout, but louder was the cry That now rang o'er the watch-tower from on high; A rashing sound was heard — a fearful din Of arms without, while flashed the swords within. Another crash — along the echoing porch Gleamed sword, and spear, and glittering helm, and torch : Regnier beheld his foes! their daring Chief Clenched his firm sword in wrath; he gave one brief And hasty glance around him, soon his eye Fell on Regnier, who scorned to crouch, or fly. A moment stood the Chiefs — a moment more — They sprang — -they met! the midnight thunder's roat' f2 G8 THE EXILE. Peals not more awful than the sound, which then Was heard from living- and from dying- men, As rushed the warriors to the bloody fray, More strong than tigers, and more fell than they ! Still fought the Chiefs! Stern Harold's shield was cleft, His hauberk pierced, his burnished helm bereft Of every plume, his waving locks, that shone Like golden sun-beams on a cloudless noon, Were steeped in blood! — Regnier pressed firmly on; His strong arm plunged — his trusty sword had gone To Harold's heart, had not his foot slipped o'er The gathering blood upon the marble floor! Hark to the shout!—" Regnier has fallen!" — "There!" He springs again! The Lion from his lair Springs not more fierce : he marked his foe, who pressed O'er heaps of dead, more furious than the rest; — All closed around Regnier, a maddening host, He staggered — fell — all hope of mercy lost — THE EXILE. (J9 And he disdained to ask it at the hand Of him, the spoiler of his native land — Of him, whose throne was reared in blood, whose name Was linked with guilt, with tyranny, with shame. "Hold! let him die not yet!" fierce Harold cried, "Off! Off! far deeper, deadlier woes, betide This fallen victim of my rage ! this slave ! Alone, encompassed by the foaming wave, That rolls for ever on that isle of fire, Where warring storm and tempest, in their ire, O'er the dark barren rocks infuriate break, There let him linger, till the vulture's beak Shall mock the tortures of his dying day, And tear him, limb from limb! — away! — away!" 70 THE EXILE. Fair Moina wept, while, trembling on her tongue, The cruel doom, her fatal sorrow hung 1 ; " Oh! he is banished ! banished! " — words of wo£! That found her heart forlorn, and left it so! She had been happy; o'er her brighter days Gleamed the false light of hope, the voice of praise Had charmed her with its music, and long dwelt Within her soul deep transport, while she knelt At love's devoted shrine, and worshipped there, Her heart so faithful, and her form so fair, She seemed a being of a happier sphere, If not of Heaven, too bright to linger here ! Yet still she lingers, like a rose, that sheds Its latest perfume o'er the blighted heads Of flowers, once fragrant, fragrant now no more ! Her joy is vanished, and her hope is o'er; Its light departed with that manly form Beloved, lamented. Horror's darkest storm THE EXILE. 71 Had wrought her desolation, crushed, and blighted The only flower in which her soul delighted! When dear, confiding, faithful Woman's heart, Doomed in the fullness of its hope to part From one more loved than all beneath the sky, For whom it beats, so fond, so doatingly; When its short dream of earthly joy is o'er, When hope can cheat, and bliss can charm no more ; Oh ! then that heart must feel how vain, how weak Arc tears ; one only fate remains — to break ! Far in the North, on that dark isle of fire, Whose rocks long echoed to the runic lyre; There, ere the Bard had raised its earliest fame, Or native Hero gloried in its name ; There, sternly musing o'er the wrongs he felt, And nursing hopes of future vengeance, dwelt 72 THE EXILE. The banished Man ! — Around him billows roar, The bleak rock frowns upon the bleaker shore ; The vulture hov'ring o'er her craggy peak, Above him screams, and whets her thirsty beak, Then restless, dips it in the foaming flood, And screams more dreadful, for — it is not blood! Aloft a dark Volcano flames, and throws Its burning lava o'er the hissing snows, While near him roars the Geyser 4 , spouting high Its foaming waters, boiling to the sky; Swift o'er the rocks wild, livid meteors glare, And bursting fire-balls hiss along the airj Beneath him yawn unnumbered clefts, dark, deep, Where the winds howl, and where the billows sweep Through vaulted caves, like whirlwinds rushing past, Each maddening wave more maddening than the last! While fire, and snows, and winds, and waters mock The shuddering Exile of the lonely rock! THE EXILE. 73 It was not thus, when, o'er the field he spurred The swiftest courser of the fight, and heard The victor triumph, and the vanquished ciy, While rose the bright star of his victory : It was not thus, when, in the festive hall He shone the bravest, and the pride of all : It was not thus, when, in young Moina's bower Bright love enchanted, beauty graced the hour, While warm confiding hearts, responsive beat With joy — how near to pain! that pain how sweet! But, parted now, perchance for ever! care Hath pierced their hearts, and left his poignard there ! Oh! Moina! Moina! thou must weep, and drink Thy cup of woe, the poison at whose brink Stands ever full to meet thy lips, to sear Thy withering heart, the heart that loves Regnier! And thou, Regnier! alone! the long, long day Crawls slowly on, to wear thy life away; 74 THE EXILE. The loitering sun seems in his course to creep So faint, so heavily, his cradled sleep On western waves seems longer, longer still, To bring fresh torture, but it doth not kill ! Thy sword rests idly, and thy shield reclines Against thy rock, a targe that only shines! Thy spear is broken, and thy helm hath lost Its dreadful plume, the terror of a host ! Thy Harp, that Harp to which dear Moina sung, While love's sweet accents trembled on her tongue, Now, harshly tuned, breathes not so soft a tone, Its wild notes murmur like the hollow moan Of rising storms, while caverned rocks reply, And new-born echoes bear them to the sky I THE EXILE. ~5 I. "The lonely harp, the barren rock, The withered flower, the leafless tree, The lightning's flash, the tempest's shock, Are all that now remain to me! Though wronged, I bow not; fate can bring No deeper wound, no deadlier sting; What, though the poison saps my life? I scorn the pang, and dare the strife; Though lost, forsaken, banished, hurled From all I loved, from all the world ; Though lonely sinking to my grave, I shall not die a willing slave ! II. "Yet, slaves there are! aye, slaves, who kneel, To lick the dust beneath the feet Of him, who, had he met my steel, That dust had been his winding-sheet! And is it not enough, that now The souls of free-born men must bow? J(y THE EXILE. And is it not enough, that pride Hath bared oppression's arm, and dyed With guiltless blood the swords of men, Meet inmates for the lions' den? And is it not enough, to know And weep my Country's overthrow! III. No, not enough ! for yet there breathes cc The Man from whom my wrongs I bear, Around whose heart a serpent wreathes, Twined by the hand of slaughter there ! So dear the patriot blood he spilt, So high his pride, so deep his guilt, That, though around me howls the storm, Yet, could I view the Tyrant's form From off this wild and sea-girt shore, Not winds that rage, nor waves that roar, Nor love, nor hate, nor fear, should part My sword of vengeance and his heart!" THE EXILE. 77 Thus sang Regnier: his song had once been heard Free as the carol of that early bird, Which sings its matins in the gilded bowers Of radiant light, what time the rosy hours 'Wake to Apollo's golden harp; — but now His song is changed, his heart is seared, his brow Marked by care's hand of fire, and deeply there Lurk the life-wasting scorpions of despair! Yet was he brave, and Avept not at the fate That sternly bound him to the desolate And barren rock; but for his country's weal His heart felt all that patriot hearts can feel; And memory dwelt on her, the young, the fair, His earliest rapture, and his latest care; His star, the brightest of all stars, which shone Through sorrow's night, unchanging and alone, And by that leading star attracted still, Though fate hath scourged him with her deadliest ill, "8 THE EXILE. To that Lis soul, o'er life's dark ocean driven. Turns like the magnet to its polar heaven! Hour rolled on hour- — long day succeeded day- And many a night wore heavily away — And oft, when starting from his restless sleep, He heard the mournful rolling of the deep, And with it came a voice so strange, he deemed The tone was human, and that still he dreamed Of those sweet voices which had charmed his ear In happier days: — thus thought the lone Regnier, When from the cave, beneath the ice-clad hill, Arose the wild cry of the Marmenill 5 . And still Regnier lived on, a lonely slave, No hope in life, no refuge in the grave; Still lived he on, remote from all the ties Of earthly love, and life's sweet harmonies. Alone ! — alone ! — the eagle on her rock, With drooping crest, amid the tempest's shock, THE EXILE. jg The sea-bird hov'ring on her restless wing, The wild beast of the wood, the creeping thing, The veriest reptile of the earth, is now More free than him, o'er whose aspiring brow The plumes of victory once waved, while fame Taught echoing lands to blazon forth his name ! Far, far from all that charmed his life's bright morn 7 Barred from the world, its pity, or it3 scorn, No hope to soothe him in his deep despair, No hand to ward his fate, no heart to share, No love to cheer him in his lone distress, No eye to watch him, and no tongue to bless! He dwelt all desolate — his hapless doom Was sealed for ever, and his only home Was now the gloomy, deep, and rocky cave 6 Through whose long, vaulted passages, the wave Rushed, echoing wildly, in that vast recess Of hollow rock, that awful wilderness 80 THE EXILE. Of sparry domes, and aisles, and pillared halls, And echoing cells, where floods and water-falls Roared like the vollied thunder, while in fear, The firm earth shook! — Alas! alas! Regnier! Is this thy frightful dwelling — this thy fate — Degraded, exiled, lone, and desolate ! The night-wind sank, and, o'er the northern sky Spread glowing fires, whose golden tracery Hung o'er the silver clouds, while all the host Of Heaven retired, in matchless splendour lost, And sea, and land, seemed kindling into flame, So deeply bright that dazzling glory came". Hushed was lone echo in her hollow cave, Asleep the zephyr, and at rest the wave, Still was the Geyser's roar, the sea-bird's Aving, And Hecla's spirit, darkly slumbering, Deep silence reigned, that silence seemed to mock The Exile's beating heart — the jarring shock THE EXILE. gl Of worldly passions, had so long oppressed That troubled heart, it could not hope for rest ! Regnier was pacing on the rocky shore, And on that land which he might view no more, His memory fondly dwelt, though lost to him All earthly hope, though to its baneful brim His cup of woe was filled, he cherished yet His country's freedom — but its sun had set' He gazed intently o'er the sea; his eye All wild, seemed searching far beyond the sky Which bound his sight; his dear, his native land, His home, his early love, his faithful band Who fought for him and freedom, these came o'er His memory now! — alas! no more, no more, lie dared to hope, he dared not think again — Dark frenzied dreams were burning through his brain, Strange thoughts of death — of Odin's timeless grave — His hand might slaughter — though it could not save — G g2 THE EXILE. And then he gazed on that huge rock, sublime? From which bold desperate men, in after time Plunged down to darkness, and untimely passed To Odin's hall — their first hope and their last^! Regnier stood pondering on that dreamless sleep? The sleep of death ; and, o'er the wide, the deep Unbounded waters of the restless sea Once more he gazed— an awful mockery, Of something wished, not hoped for, seemed to rise Within his soul — his fixed and doubting eyes Still gazed — and gazed — until he closed in pain Their burning orbs. Oh ! should he gaze again And lose that dream of hope! — once more — once more- His eyes unclosed — lo ! bearing to the shore, A distant bark came rippling o'er the tide. As darts the eagle in her towering pride, Regnier sprang swiftly on the rock— then rushed The life-blood from his heart, and o'er his flushed THE EXILE. 83 And burning check, hope's rosy hand had spread Her seal of promise, that she had not fled His beating heart for ever, where she reared Her early temple, now the more endeared, Returning - thus, with incense on her wing, To light its altar with her worshipping! On came the bark — and now the rising moon In cloudless glory on that kyule shone; Soft blew the breeze — the willing current bore Her swiftly, nearer, nearer to the shore : llcgnier in breathless silence gazed, and then He heard the dash of oars — the tongues of men — Beside the steep, and broken rocks, beheld The lonely bark, along the shore impelled, While near her prow a youthful Minstrel sate, His cheek was blanched, as though the hand of fate Had pressed it heavily, and planted there Deep rooted thorns (*f sorrow, and despair ' <. 2 g4 THE EXILE. Pale Mere his lips, his dark and tearful eye, Intently rested on the soft, blue sky, As though his soul on Heaven alone had doatedj His long brown hair upon the night-breeze floated, His cloak was folded on his heaving breast, The silent harp, on which his white hand pressed, Hung from his belt — upon his arm bright shone The golden sylas 9 , glittering like the moon, And bracelet, twined with some dark braided tress, To him the token of lost happiness! Not thus with him who paced the deck — his eye Lowered, the dark emblem of barbarity; Its mildest beam was dreadful, but its flash Of deadliest ire, beneath the trembling lash, Was like the tempest's blasting Are, whose light Bursts from the black, the frowning clouds of night! His shaggy brow, and lip that curled with scorn, His demon smile of guilty passions born, THE EXILE. 35 Proclaimed him one, whose heart by vice deformed, Hard as the flint, by no kind feeling warmed; In manhood callous, wayward in life's prime, Then lured by evil, and now stained by crime ! The slave of cruelty — remorseless — bold — Resolved on guilt, for vengeance, or for gold! Such was stern Eric — and his ruthless band Were lawless slaves — the waving of his hand, And stern fixed eye, e'en though his lips were still, Could urge them on to plunder, or to kUl ! Their bark was moored — upon the rocks they sprung, Hushed was the breeze — and mute was every tongue — Bright was the moon-beam on the rocky cave, Whose sparkling roof, reflected in the wave, Showed like a sea-nymph's grotto, or a cell O'er laid with stars, while rays of splendour fell On glittering pillars, and on countless gems, That mocked the brightest of earth's diadems! gg THE EXILE. The band approached, while firmly stood Regnier, By hope elated, and unmoved by fear; Oh ! when he heard the human voice once more, In echoing tones, low murmuring on the shore, Such strange emotions filled his heart — so new, So close to pain, so near to rapture too, Emotions mingling in their wild excess, The depth of woe — the height of happiness ! The band moved slow — they sought the cavern's porch, They passed — the light of many a flaming toi'ch, Glared o'er the hollow roof: low echoes ran Along the rocks, as man paced after man — Close by Regnier they paused — he stood unseen Within his cave, behind the rugged screen Of lava stone — while hoping, doubting, now He marked proud Eric's bold and ruffian brow, And savage eye, as livid torch-light fell On features meet for haggard fiends, that dwell THE EXILE. S7 Among the damned ! — The Minstrel stood apart, In pensive mood, as though his youthful heart Could claim no kindred with the souls of men, Fierce as infuriate tigers in their den ! With cautious haste they sp read their rough repast, Dark gathering frowns stern Eric's brow o'er cast, As ghastly smiling in his heartless scorn, He proudly spoke: — "Fill high the bowl! the horn! Pledge to the brave! and, comrades, pledge it well! Deep vengeance lurks within this hydromel ! And thou, pale Minstrel ! with thy downcast eye, More fit to sing a nursling's lullaby, Than sound the harp, amid the strife of swords, Why stand'st thou there! — lies all thy boast in words? None shewed such zealous eagerness as thou To serve thy Lord — and dost thou faulter now? Brave Harold marvelled at thy youth — thy zeal To crush his foe — well, soon thy glittering steel, 88 THE EXILE. Dyed in the heart's blood of that daring foe, May prove thy boasting - , and thy valour too! Nay, cower not, boy! the glorious deed would quell The hopes of daring traitors, who rebel, And mock at Harold's power — away with fear! Health to the brave! — destruction to Regnier! Pledge it again ! fill high the sparkling flood! I love the pledge — it is the pledge of blood!" Night's loneliest spirit walked the earth, and bent His darkest frown on sea and firmament, While stars shrunk back appalled, and trembling, hid Their forms behind dark clouds: — the weary lid Of Eric's eye was closed in sleep, and all Was dreadful silence in that rocky hall Where slept his band ; but wakeful and unblest, Denied the sweet forgetfulness of rest. Deep mused Regnier — sleep brought no balm for him, His soul was faint, his weary eyes were dim THE EXILE. 89 With scorching tears — they were his first — his last — They fell a mournful tribute to the past, As o'er his soul the light of days gone by Beamed like a star, a lone one in the sky, When storm and tempest lower : — the tear was dashed Away in haste, and wild his dark eye flashed, As quickly starting from the rugged stone He grasped his sword — " I will not die alone ! " Along the deep and dreary cave, his tread Was soft and slow, while in the vault that led To Eric's hall of sleep, his sword was gleaming — "This! this! may rouse the guilty from their dreaming!' On paced Regnier, through long and gloomy cells, While babbling echoes, night's lone centinels, Awoke, and told his footsteps as he passed — A murmuring sound swept by — the hollow blast Howled through the cave — be paused — but all around Was still as death — he turned, a mournful sound 90 THE EXILE. Seemed lingering yet — in sooth, he thought his ear Heard a soft, sweet, and gentle voice — " Regnier!" He paused again — but, save the night wind's sigh No sound arose — he deemed it phantasy, And pressing onward, near the long dark cave, Where slept his foes, the guilty and the brave, More firmly grasped his sword, unawed by fear, When, once again he heard the voice — "Regnier!" High beat his heart, as pausing, doubting still, His name was heard, low mingling with the thrill Of harp-strings, warbling to a voice so sweet, It seemed the Heaven where love and music meet! I. a Regnier ! — Regnier ! — beware ! — beware ! With blood-red fangs, to tear his prey, The tameless wolf hath left his lair, His spring is death ! — away ! away ! THE EXILE. 91 There is light in the sky, 'tis the moon's waning beam, There are friends in thy land, there are swords in Drontheim ; There are hearts true to thee, there are hearts ever bra^e, There's a breeze in the cloud, there's a boat on the wave ; Speed ! swift as the roe, to the desolate shore, Or the lips of thy Moina shall bless thee no more ! II. " Away ! ere Eric's burning eye, Unsealing from its heavy sleep, Shall brighter flash to see thee die; Oh ! if thou fall, the bard must weep ! Haste away ! haste away! to the land of thy birth, Where the free ones, the brave ones, the proud ones of earth, Wait in hope for the light of thy sword, which may yet Brighter gleam, ere the sun of thy glory be set; Speed ! swift as the roc, to the desolate shore, Or the lips of thy Molna shall bless thee no more!" 92 THE EXILE. The last, soft, lingering echo died away, Mute was the harp, and silent was the lay; And, as the name of her he loved most dear, Fell from the Harper's trembling lips, Regnier Stood spell-bound, wondering at the stranger's theme- Like one who 'wakes from some delirious dream He wildly started, turned, and quick retraced Willi broken steps, the long and dreary waste Of hollow rocks, through which the moaning breeze Sang wild, low murmuring, like summer bees O'er nectared flower-cups wassailing. — In doubt Now paused Regnier — a footstep's sound without Was faintly heard, while, down the rock descending, He marked a slender form, its dark eyes bending In silent sorrow on the earth, alone, A round white arm, on which the star-light shone, It waved, and waved — Regnier impatient sprung, But, ere he gained the form, loud echoes rung THE EXILE. 93 O'er all the cave, deep peal still answering peal; Unawed by fear, he firmly grasped his steel, While Eric's stern and ruffian voice arose In deadly curses on proud Harold's foes, As gleamed his sword along the caverned path : Firm stood Regnier, regardless of his wrath, He scorned to yield, to parley, or to fly, Resolved to nobly live, or bravely die, Dared his proud foe with bold, unshrinking form, And, like the oak that bends not to the storm, Undaunted stood, as stands the lasting rock The tempest's fury, and the billow's shock ! Flashed Eric's sword, as rushing on, he met The brave Regnier, whose heart was dauntless yet! Yes! though long hours of suffering and of grief, And pain, and loneliness, had seared the leaf Of hope's frail stem, his soul was still the same Unqucnched, unquenchable, and deathless flame, 94 THE EXILE. As when it burned in earlier, happier years, Amid the strife of bucklers and of spears ! Loud rang' the cave as steel met steel — while fire Gleamed from their swords — and from their eyes, in ire, Their souls flashed forth, like meteors of the sky Denouncing* death! their sable plumes on high Waved crimsoned o'er with blood, for shattering now The helm was cleft on Eric's bleeding- brow, And faintly staggering- to the craggy wall, He fell — while rocks re-echoed to his fall ! Still struggling hard, he grasped his shivered brand, And madly plunged with weak, though desperate hand, While blanched his cheek, and on his cold brow stood Death's clammy dew, with life's congealing blood! He raged in agony, and fiercely called To rouse his band, in chains of sleep enthralled j His lips, stern quivering in their wrath, defied Earth, Heaven, and Hell! and from his heart of pride THE EXILE. 95 Deep vengeance hung upon his parting breath, Accursed in life — and more accursed in death! Regnier one moment on the vanquished gazed, When, from behind dark rocky pillars blazed The light of torches — short and hurried words, The tramp of Eric's band, the clash of swords, And shouts of wrath were heard, as rushed the slaves Along the vast and deep-resounding caves ; Close by Regnier a softer footstep fell, A gentle voice sighed mournfully — "Farewell! Farewell for ever! — by this rash delay All, all is lost! — Regnier! — away! — away!" He turned, and marked the trembling Minstrel's brow, Like marble eold, and pale as mountain snow; The earnest mien, that spoke a soul sincere, The soft dark eye, in which the crystal tear Stood, like a rounded dew-drop, and the hand That trembling pointed to the ocean strand, gg THE EXILE. All urged Regnier with trusting- heart to fly, And risk his fate on faith, or treachery. The lightning's flash, the comet of the sky, The eagle darting with bold wing on high, The ibex bounding o'er the mountain steep, Flies not more swift than to the rolling deep The Minstrel bounded with Regnier. — In haste They reached the bark, that o'er the billowy waste Shot like an arrow, as the panting gale Rushed to the swelling bosom of the sail ! From Eric's band arose the maddening cry Of hopeless rage, while to the reckless sky Their flashing swords and desperate hands were tossed, Their dreams of gold, their hopes of vengeance lost, Left with guilt's scorpion in their hearts of stone, In pain to wither, and to waste alone, THE EXILE. CfJ To die by piece- meal on the scythe of Time, The Lords of tyranny — the Slaves of crime! The white foam sparkled in the dancing ray* As dashed the keel along the billowy way, Regnicr gazed earnestly — the Minstrel's eye Shrunk from that gaze, while slow and silently Half o'er his pallid check he drew his vest, And wrapt its folds yet closer to his breast. Soft sailed the bark, as sails a cloud on high, Fair was the breeze, and fairer was the sky, Now drifting onward to that long-lost shore, Regnier had deemed he should behold no more, To that dear land where dwelt his hope — his all — Which raised his glory, and which marked his fall! Still on the Minstrel's slender form he gazed, By night's dim beam — his pleading hand was raised, While mutely eloquent, bis anxious eye Urged the young Bard to chant the quick reply. n 98 THE EXILE. REG M Ell. Who art thou, silent Minstrel? speak! — Thy arm is young 1 , thy form is weak, And hy the stars' uncertain light, The tear-drop in thy eye is bright; And by thy Harp's low murmuring - , Thy hand is trembling' on the string ; What led thee thus to dare the sea Alone — and, most of all, with me? W r ho urged thee on thy daring plan, To rescue thus the banished Man ? MINSTREL. Nay, ask me not — if weak my form, It raav not break beneath the storm ; And if the tear is in my eye, It may not fall in agony; And if my hand is on the string, Perchance its melting tones may bring THE EXILE. Sweet balm to soothe the Exile's breast, E'en while my own may know no rest. But freedom's star is beaming now, In glory's sky; — and who but thou Can fly to save thy native land, Where, faithful still, thy fearless band Undaunted wield the sword and spear, To fight for glory and Regnier: And Moina REGNIER. Ha! — say on — say on; How fares that loved, that lovely one ! MINSTREL. The flow'ret's beauty soon is lost, If rent by storm, or scathed by frost; And when the withering leaf is seen Lone, drooping on the blasted bough, What boots it that it once was green, If pale, and seared, and blighted now? n 2 100 THE EXILE. REGNIER. Nay, mock me not with mystic strain, But let me wake to joy or pain; Yes! speak of Moina ! tell me all To crown my hope, or seal my fall. Oh! lives she still my heart to hless? Howe'er that wayward heart may err, In joy, in woe, in loneliness, Its warmest sigh was breathed for her ! All, all, for which hencath the sky, I hope to live, or dare to die, Are Moina's love, and Norway's right. MINSTREL. If hoth should set in endless night! Stern Harold — REGNIER. Speak thou not of him ! Though hard of heart, and strong of limb, THE EXILE. 101 My arm shall meet him in the field, Where meet the brave ; and, ere I yield My Country's freedom in the strife I'll seal it with the blood of life ! No more of this : — ere yonder cloud Wide hanging like a sombre shroud, Beneath the waning moon, shall spread Its shade around, and overhead; Or ere the wild uncertain gale Shall urge our hands to furl the sail, Or ply with ceaseless skill the oar, Oh 1 speak of Moina's love once more ! MINSTREL. I marked her in that fatal hour, When fell thy glory, and thy power, And she sat weeping in her bower, O'er which the setting sun-beams threw Their parting lustre, as they played 102 THE EXILE. With changing gleam, and varied hue r More fair and brighter than the maid, REGNIER. Nay, say not so ! MINSTREL. The scalding tear Fell fast, for love of brave Regnier, At least I deemed it so — perchance Such thought was kindled by romance; Her slender hand upheld her cheek, She deeply sighed, nor strove to speak, But woman's sigh will sometimes rise, Uncalled by grief's realities; And woman's tear will sometimes start, Though love hath never reached the heart : But, Moina wept— and, if that tear Was shed for love, and shed for thee; If Moina to thy heart was dear, How blest that trusting heart might be ! THE EXILE. 103 Oli ! had'st thou seen her desperate hand Unloose her tresses' silver band, And seen them all disheveled How, And scattered in her frenzied woe; Or had'st thou heard her piercing shriek Of wild despair — that stunning cry — Thou would'st have deemed her heart must break, And in that storm of passion die ! The sun sank down behind the hill, The eve was fair, the breeze was still, And not a leaf in Moina's bower, Disturbed the silence of the hour; As now she sat in mute despair, With all her weeping maidens there : Quick through the twilight's deepening gloom I marked a warrior's dancing plume, A frown was on his brow, the while His lip was mantling with a smile, 204 THE exile. In sooth, I ween that smile might be Revealed for her — the frown for thee; Bright beamed his eye, his air was proud, As low to Moina's form he bowed; I saw the pleading warrior stand, And strive to sieze her trembling hand; I gazed again — and then 1 knew Proud Harold stood before my view J I heard a shriek — a ery of fear, And then the name of lost Regnier On Moina's lips — my hope was o'er — I fled in haste — ItEGNIER. No more ! no more ! Blow, blow, thou wind ! roll, roll, thou sea I Swift gallant bark, o'er billows fly ! One only hope remains to me, To meet my Country's foe and die 1 THE EXILE. 105 Oh ! could I meet that foe e'en now, That tyrant, with the haughty brow, That spoiler of our land, who came, A deadly scourge, a wasting flame! And Moina, dear ! — Oh ! dear for ever ! Though freedom, joy, and hope are gone, Yet will I cease to love thee, never ! Sail on, thou lagging bark ! sail on ! Still blew the gale, and still in haste The bark rushed o'er the liquid waste, And ere the morn with rosy hand Withdrew night's veil from sea and land, Wide o'er the sky began to lour The shadows of the dark Mistour 10 . The growing darkness spread, and soon The sky, the stars, the silver moon, Were lost in gloom, and nought was seen Where late their splendid light had been. KK> THE EXILE. Regnier unmoved in darkness sate, As though he scorned the change of fate, His hand was resting on the helm, His thought on Scandinavia's realm, On freedom lost, on Harold's power, And then he thought on Moina's bower : Unheeding still the spreading gloonij So like the darkness of the tomb, He could not view the Minstrel's plume. Oh ! he had longed for morning's ray, To chase the shades of night away, That he might read with searching eye, That stranger Minstrel's history, And note the form, the face, the mien, Of him, who had his rescue been. But though the ever-changing sun Had left the wave he slept upon, Ainkl the gloom his beams were lost, And while o'er foaming billows tost, THE EXILE. \QJ On rushed in haste the lonely hark, All, all around, was drear and dark; Oh! darker than the darkest night, When not a star reveals its light, When hidden 'neath the tempest-cloud, The moon hath wrapped her in its shroud ! Though howled the gale, and rolled the wave, Regnier was firm, Regnier was brave ; Though danger ruled the dreary hour, He recked not of the dark Mistour; But oft between the gusts was heard, His cheering voice, his anxious word, When past the fitful gale had gone, " Sail on, thou lagging bark ! — sail on ! " Proud Harold stood upon a mountain's brow. Armed and alone, and sternly silent, now 108 THE EXILE. He mused, while gazing o'er the rolling tide, On Moina's beauty, and on Gida's 11 pride; Gida, whose soul, ambition urged to claim, Not Harold's heart alone, or Harold's name, But suppliant kingdoms at her feet to bowj To her he breathed the rash, unbroken vow, For which his long and golden locks, unshorn, Swept from the grass the dew-drops of the morn, While gently waved by flitting zephyr's breath, They flowing curled in many a glossy wreath. He mused on Gida — but his heart still turned To Moina's beauty, and more wildly burned: Oh ! now he deemed his hour of triumph nigh, As spread the sun-beams o'er the orient sky, He gazed on tower, on turret, and on wall, And marked Drontheim, and doomed that citv's fall ; And hoped that soon his longing soul might share, The smiles of glory, and of beauty there ! THE EXILE. 109 High on her rocks, above the rolling flood, Amid the dark, eternal mountains, stood The towering city, on whose walls alone Waved freedom's banner, where unclouded shone The star of glory, for its latest beam Was lingering yet o'er heroes of Drontheim ! There met the last bold patriots of their land, The brave, the faithful, and devoted band, Whose souls unawed in danger's stormiest hour, Owned not the conqueror's, nor the tyrant's power; Undaunted men, who would not stoop to shame, Who loved their country, and their country's fame j And, though their Chief was exiled from their shore, His name but urged them to the combat more, It formed the spell that raised their hearts from fear, And still they fought for freedom and Regnier ! And still defied stern Harold's power, though small The patriot band, to triumph or to fall ; 310 THE EXILE. Though now by mountains, and by waves enclosed, By foes surrounded, and by hosts opposed, They swore to bow not to the Tyrant's will, But firmly fixed on death or glory, still, Armed in Drontheim, whose citadel might be Their welcome grave — their own Thermopylae ! Manned were her towers, and guarded were her walls, Quick paced brave warriors through her echoing halls, While through the darkness of the murky night, Their polished armour, and their torches' light, Gleamed on the features of the breathless fair, Who weaved for warriors braided wreaths of hair, The last sad tokens of their mute despair! And where was she, the hope of all, the beam Of love, the brightest, fairest of Drontheim? Oh ! where was Moina ? — In that fearful hour Lone was her home, deserted was her bower, Not with the maids her noble form was seen, Her eye of beauty, nor her matchless mien, THE EXILE. HI Though anxious eyes searched round, they searched in vain, No Moina stood amid the lovely train; Though anxious tongues called "Moina! — Moina!" — still No answer came — hut, from the lofty hill, And rugged passes of the mountain glen, They heard the tramp of steeds, the shouts of men : Oh ! then they knew that, with the morning's ray, Their swords would mingle in the bloody fray; Tlu y knew that Harold and his band were nigh, And longed to meet their countless foes — and die! What boat floats on the wave? — Whose footstep falls Upon the rocks, beneath the guarded walls? What warrior bears with cautious hand the torch? What slender form ascends the tower's dark porch? Hark ! loud and louder, on the night-air swells The mingling shout from trusty centinels, ] 12 1" HE EXILE. That shout was heard, and hurrying- warriors came, With flashing- swords — then, like the spreading flame, From man to man, the cry of triumph rung, " Regnier ! "— " Our chief! "— " Regnier ! "—from every tongue, Till echo, starting from her cell in fear, From porch and tower hurled back the sound — "Regnier! " Yes ! yes ! their long-lost, exiled Chief was there, With heart still fearless, and with sword still bare, With arm still strong, and soul still unsubdued Ey time, by peril, or by solitude ! And near him stood the faithful Minstrel now, Whose dark hair shaded o'er his pallid brow; The warriors gazed, but knew him not — his eye Turned from their gaze, and shunned their scrutiny. Regnier's quick glance searched wistfully among The lovely forms, that joined the gathering throngj THE EXILE. 113 But oh ! he saw not there the light that shone, Once bright for him, and beamed for him alone; He saw not her for whom he lived — his heart Sank faintly now, as, with convulsive start, He asked in hurried accents of despair, With trembling lips—" Say, where is Moinaf— where!" But none replied— not one!— dejected, all Held mournful silence in the spacious hall: Rcgnicr still gazed ; but tearful, downcast eyes, And pale averted cheeks, and struggling sighs, Told him his fate— and realized his fear — « Dead! dead!— or hath the spoiler's hand been here?'' He said no more— but stood, as though a trance Had bound his spirit, till the Minstrel's glance, And Minstrel's voice awoke him—" Noble Chief! I know thou lov'st— I feel that silent grief, That deep-drawn sigh of bitterness — but now Thy foes are gathering on the mountain's brow, H4 THE EXILE. Remember ! Lochlin's Tyrant comes, the Dane, Thy own proud foe, thy Country's deadliest bane ' 7 Remember Harold ! " — Oh ! that hated word Aroused his lion-heart — he grasped his sword, "Aye! I remember! — Oh! too w r ell ! too well!" — Firm was his soul, and mighty was the spell That bound him until death, to guard from shame, His Own, his Moina's, and his Country's Name! Bright in the lustre of the morning's beam, Shone helms, and spears, and hauberks in Drontheim; Swords were unsheathed, and spadas flashing now, Each warrior's plume was waving o'er his brow, The faint "farewell!" the deep despair had proved Of wives who doated, and of maids who loved ! On moved Regnier, and, as he passed the tower Where Moina dwelt in life's unclouded hour, He paused, and gazed upon the moss-grown wall, The lonely portal, and the silent hall, THE EXILE. 115 - The marble step, down which her feet had sprung, While "welcome, dearest!" trembled on her tongue. Oh ! it were madness longer to delay, To dream of love and rapture passed away ! He raised his spear, and nobly waved his hand, The sign for war, the signal to his band: Loud pealed their shouts, as rushing from the gate, They clashed their swords, and dared the arm of fate! Now Harold's host in fury met the shock, While earth, and sea, and sky, and echoing rock, Resounded loud, as, mingling on the shore, Arose the cries of vengeance, and the roar Of gathering battle, and the stunning crush, Of shattering armour, and the maddening rush Of men and steeds, while shrieks and shouts around, Swelled the wild uproar, louder than the sound Of mighty floods, from lofty mountains hurled, When rolls the storm, and earthquake shakes the world! i 2 \ ]g THE EXILE. Regnier led furious on — his patriot band, The last bold heroes of their conquered land, Rushed to the strife, with wild, triumphant cry, And desperate joy, for oh ! to bravely die In glorious war, to share unsullied graves, Ere Harold's hand had chained them as his slaves, Ere their free souls to conquest's arm should bow, This formed their hope, their glorious triumph now! Fast from Regnier's brave arm in terror fled His coward foes, o'er dying and o'er dead; And still the faithful Minstrel by his side Was seen; though mightier rolled the battle's tide, Still was he there, as though his life's bright charm, Dwelt in the prowess of that mighty arm! Now paused Regnier — he gazed around — his sight Sought Harold's plume, amid the raging fight — He marked his foe 1 and, from the rocky glen, Heard his loud voice urge back his flying men, THE EXILE. 117 His host of countless slaves! — quick sprang Regnier, While clashing sword, and shield, and ringing spear, Opposed his arm, but with the whirlwind's strength, He forced his way through scattering foes — at length He gained the Tyrant! and his lordly eye A moment flashed upon him haughtily; He thought of Moina, and that thought, like fire Burned in his brain! as rushing in his ire, He met the shock of Harold's blade, while rose Shouts from his band and curses from his foes! Long fought the heroes, while their hosts, in awe Paused in their wrath, to view that doubtful war, That desperate struggle of the brave, whose strife, Begun with rage, could only end with life ! Stern Harold's soul turned faint — his arm grew weak- With bleeding brow, and cold, and pallid cheek, And giddy brain, he fell to earth ! while loud Pealed cries of vengeance from the rushing crowd, 1J8 THE EXILE. As gathering round their wounded Chief, they pressed, And mad with rage assailed Regnier, whose breast Shrunk not from battle, though unnumbered swords, Aimed at his heart, by Vassals and by Lords, Were rife with death ! — though men, and plunging steeds, Still forced him back, they fell around, like reeds All strown, and shattered by the storm ! — His hand Yet dealt round slaughter, though his struggling band, O'erpowered, gave way, and to the city gate By numbers forced, undaunted met their fate, While through the portal rushed the conquering throng, And furious steeds drove scattering crowds along, Loud rang the hoofs o'er slippery stones, and splashed In gathering blood, as through the streets they dashed With maddening haste ! then rose from tower and hall, From turret, portal, battlement, and wall, Groans of despair ! the shrieks of woe ! the cry Of dying wretches in their agony ! THE EXILE. 119 Faint, bleeding, pale, Regnier had reached the home. Where love's bright flower had charmed him in its bloom, He breathless leaned against the portal stone, And though his joys, his hopes on earth, were gone, He loved to die upon that spot, where beamed His Moina's smile, when in his youth he dreamed Of endless bliss — of joy that could not fade Within that heaven which hope and love had made! There, where his Moina once in beauty dwelt, Beside the faint, and dying Warrior, knelt The faithful Minstrel — loosely flowed his hair, His crest was scattered, and his brow was bare ; He gazed upon the Chief, o'er whose hot brain, Passed burning thoughts, until it throbbed again ! " Minstrel, I die ! — and, oh ! if Moina live, Bear her my last farewell ! — and say, I give My heart's last sigh to her in death — alone I loved, adored hec, and her beauty shone ]20 THE EXILE. My heart's true leading-star — now all is o'er? Oh ! I had fondly hoped to view once more Her lovely form — to bless her ere I died." "She lives! she lives!" the trembling- Minstrel cried, "She lives! and, oh! delightful thought! lives here! Look up, my love! my true, my own Regnier! Behold this faded cheek, this eye, this brow, Thy Minstrel once — thy faithful Moina now !" The Warrior gazed — he marked the snowy breast That wildly heaved beneath the parted vest, The cold pale cheek of beauty, and the eye That beamed with love, and love's fidelity; "It is — it is my faithful Moina! yes! My own dear love — in life, in loneliness, In death! — and oh! I die most happy! — fate Leaves not my last sad hour all desolate, For thou art near me, Moina! and, with thee, I dread not death, I reck not agony! THE EXILE. 121 Now, now I shall be free ! — the silent grave Brings rest to all — tin? tyrant and the slave; Yet, could I live, with love, with thee to dwell! Vain, vain that rapturous thought! — farewell! — farewell! Dear Moina! grasp my pale hand — there! 'tis cold! Death's serpent twines with many a venomed fold Around my heart! — quick fades my wandering sight, I die ! I die ! a long, cold, moonless night Is closing o'er me, dearest !" — That fond word Died on his lips, and nought but sighs were heard, While Moina gazed upon his features, pale And livid lips, that moved, as though a tale Of love hung on them, which they could not break! Yet Moina spoke not, but a fearful shriek Burst from her heart, o'erwhelmed by sorrrow's storm ! She sank to earth, and clasped his lifeless form; His bleeding bosom, in her wild despair, She frenzied kissed, and, in his raven hair, 122 THE EXILE. Damp with his blood, her slender fingers twined, While on his breast her throbbing brow reclined : And there, on that dear breast, her heart, so true, Now lone, and desolate, and broken, drew Its latest sigh !— Thus died the fair— the brave- In life, one heart, one soul— in death, one grave They early shared— and with that Hero, dead, His Country's hope— his Country's freedom fled ! NOTES TO THE EXILE. Note 1, page 58. •freedom's hour Had passed away, vindictive Harold 's power Bowed to the dust the souls of men, ivho, long Victorious, triumphed in that land of song. Harold Harfagre, King of Denmark, completed the con- quest of Norway about the year 870. So great was the tyranny of this prince, that, not satisfied with having subdued the country, he was disposed to exercise such absolute authority over the Norwegians, which, far from submitting to, says Mallet, " they had not even a name for it." Many princes, dukes or carls, retired into the Orkneys, the isles of Faro, and Shetland ; indeed, the greatest part of the 124 NOTES TO THE EXILE. Norwegian nobility, perceiving that it was in vain to oppose their strength to that of Harold, determined to abandon a country where they were obliged to live depressed, impover- ished, and obscure. The celebrated Ingulph was one of the first who went into this voluntary exile, and a multitude of noble families of Norway joined him. The illustrious fugitives were conducted by Ingulf to Iceland, which country before that time was uninhabited — See U Introduction a I ' Histoire de Danncmarc, 8