Or a spirit, for one day given,
A gift of grace from purest heaven.

What harmonious, pensive changes
Wait upon her as she ranges
Round and through this pile of state,
Overthrown and desolate!
Now a step or two her way
Is through space of open day,
Where the enamoured sunny light
Brightens her that was so bright;
Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
Fall upon her like a breath,
From some lofty arch or wall,
As she passes underneath :
Now some gloomy nook partakes
Of the glory that she makes,-
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell
With perfect cunning framed as well
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread
Of the elder's bushy head;
Some jealous and forbidding cell,
That doth the living stars repel,

And where no flower hath leave to dwell.

The presence of this wandering doe
Fills many a damp, obscure recess
With lustre of a saintly show;
And, re-appearing, she no less
To the open day gives blessedness.
But say, among these holy places,
Which thus assiduously she paces,
Comes she with a votary's task,
Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
Fair pilgrim! harbors she a sense
Of sorrow or of reverence?

Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
Crushed as if by wrath divine?

For what survives of house where God
Was worshipped, or where man abode ;
For old magnificence undone;
Or for the gentler work begun
By nature, softening and concealing,
And busy with a hand of healing,-
The altar whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament,-
The dormitory's length laid bare,
Where the wild rose blossoms fair;
And sapling ash, whose place of birth
Is that lordly chamber's hearth?
-She sees a warrior carved in stone,
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,
And hands in resignation prest,
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast;
Methinks she passeth by the sight,
As a common creature might:
If she be doomed to inward care,
Or service, it must lie elsewhere.
-But hers are eyes serenely bright,
And on she moves-with pace how light!
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;
And in this way she fares, till at last
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave

In quietness she lays her down;
Gently as a weary wave

Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,
Against an anchored vessel's side;
Even so, without distress, doth she
Lie down in peace, and lovingly.

The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like the river in its flowing-
Can there be a softer sound?
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant creature lies
Couched upon the dewy grass,

Pensively with downcast eyes.
-When now again the people rear
A voice of praise, with awful cheer!
It is the last, the parting song;

And from the temple forth they throng-
And quickly spread themselves abroad-
While each pursues his several road.
But some, a variegated band

Of middle-aged, and old, and young,

And little children by the hand

Upon their leading mothers hung, Turn, with obeisance gladly paid, Towards the spot, where, full in view, The lovely doe, of whitest hue, Her sabbath couch has made.

It was a solitary mound,

Which two spears' length of level ground
Did from all other graves divide,
As if in some respect of pride,
Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighborhood,
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.

"Look, there she is, my child! draw near", She fears not: wherefore should we fear? She means no harm ;"-but still the boy, To whom the words were softly said, Hung back, and smiled and blushed for joy, A shame-faced blush of glowing red! Again the mother whispered low,

"

Now you have seen the famous doe; From Rylstone she hath found her way Over the hills this sabbath-day; Her work, whate'er it be, is done, And she will depart when we are gone; Thus doth she keep, from year to year, Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."

This whisper soft repeats what he
Had known from early infancy.
Bright is the creature-as in dreams
The boy had seen her-yea, more bright-
But is she truly what she seems ?—
He asks with insecure delight,
Asks of himself-and doubts-and still
The doubt returns against his will:
Though he, and all the standers-by,
Could tell a tragic history

Of facts divulged, wherein appear
Substantial motive, reason clear,

dril'd vine

Her paradise of leaves.

Then on his ear what sounds
Of harmony arose !

Far music and the distance-mellow'd song
From bowers of merriment;

The waterfall remote ;
The murmuring of the leafy groves;

The single nightingale
Perch'd in the rosier by, so richly ton'd,
That never from that most melodious bird,
Singing a love-song to his brooding mate,

Did Thracian shepherd by the grave
Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,
Though there the spirit of the sepulchre
All his own power infuse, to swell
The incense that he loves.

And, oh! what odors the voluptuous vale
Scatters from jasmine bowers,
From yon rose wilderness,

From cluster'd henna, and from orange groves,
That with such perfumes fill the breeze,
As Peris to their sister bear,
When from the summit of some lofty tree
She hangs encaged, the captive of the Dives.

They from their pinions shake
The sweetness of celestial flowers,
And as her enemies impure
From that impervious poison far away
Fly groaning with the torment, she the while
Inhales her fragrant food.

Such odors flow'd upon the world,
When, at Mohammed's nuptials, word
Went forth in heaven, to roll
The everlasting gates of paradise
Back on their living hinges, that its gales

Might visit all below; the general bliss Thrill'd every bosom, and the family Of man, for once, partook one common joy. 165. The Apparition of Yedillian. SOUTHEY.

O HAPPY sire, and happy daughter! Ye on the banks of that celestial water Your resting place and sanctuary have found. What! hath not then their mortal taint defil'd The sacred, solitary ground? Vain thought! the Holy Valley smil'd Receiving such a sire and child; Ganges, who seem'd asleep to lie, Beheld them with benignant eye, And rippled round melodiously, And roll'd her little waves to meet And welcome their beloved feet. The gales of Swerga thither fled, And heavenly odors there were shed

About, below, and overhead;
And earth, rejoicing in their tread,
Hath built them up a blooming bower,
Where every amaranthine flower
Its deathless blossom interweaves
With bright and undecaying leaves.
Three happy beings are there here,
The sire, the maid, the Glendoveer;
A fourth approaches,-who is this
That enters in the Bower of Bliss ?
No form so fair might painter find
Among the daughters of mankind;
For death her beauties hath refin'd,
And unto her a form hath given
Framed of the elements of heaven;
Pure dwelling-place for perfect mind.
She stood and gaz'd on sire and child :
Her tongue not yet hath power to speak,
The tears were streaming down her cheek;
And when those tears her sight beguil'd,
And still her faltering accents fail'd,

The spirit, mute and motionless,
Spread out her arms for the caress,
Made still and silent with excess
Of love and painful happiness.
The maid that lovely form survey'd;
Wistful she gaz'd, and knew her not;
But nature to her heart convey'd
A sudden thrill, a startling thought,
A feeling many a year forgot,
Now like a dream anew recurring,
As if again in every vein
Her mother's milk was stirring.
With straining neck and earnest eye
She stretch'd her hands imploringly,

As if she fain would have her nigh,
Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace,
At once with love and awe opprest.
Not so Ladurlad; he could trace,
Though brighten'd with angelic grace,
His own Yedillian's earthly face;
He ran and held her to his breast!
Oh joy above all joys of heaven,
By death alone to others given

This moment hath to him restor❜d
The early-lost, the long-deplor'd.
They sin who tell us love can die.
With life all other passions fly,

All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions of the earth,
They perish where they have their birth;
But love is indestructible.

Its holy flame for ever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth; Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceiv'd, at times opprest, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in heaven its perfect rest; It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest time of love is there. Oh! when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of wo, the watchful night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight!

Their golden summits, in the noon-day light, Shone o'er the dark-green deep that roll'd between; [seen For domes, and pinnacles, and spires, were Peering above the sea,-a mournful sight! Well might the sad beholder ween from thence

What works of wonder the devouring wave Had swallowed there, when monuments so brave

Bore record of their old magnificence.

And on the sandy shore, beside the verge Of ocean, here and there, a rock-hewn fane

Resisted in its strength the surf and surge That on their deep foundations beat in vain.

In solitude the ancient temples stood,
Once resonant with instrument and song,
And solemn dance of festive multitude;
Now as the weary ages pass along,
Hearing no voice, save of the ocean flood,
Which roars for ever on the restless shores;
Or, visiting their solitary caves,
'The lonely sound of winds, that moan around

Accordant to the melancholy waves.
Wondering, he stood awhile to gaze
Upon the works of elder days.
The brazen portals open stood,
Even as the fearful multitude

Had left them, when they fled

The mighty gateway's storied roof was Dwarfing the puny piles of younger time. With the deeds of days of yore

That ample roof was sculptur'd o'er, And many a godlike form there met his eye, And many an emblem dark of mystery. Through these wide portals oft had Baly rode Triumphant from his proud abode, When, in his greatness, he bestrode

The Aullay, hugest of four-footed kind,

The Aullay horse, that, in his force, With elephantine trunk, could bind And lift the elephant, and on the wind Whirl him away, with sway and swing, Even like a pebble from the practis'd sling. Those streets, which never, since the days of

By human footstep had been visited; [yore, Those streets, which never more

A human foot shall tread, Ladurlad trod. In sun-light, and sea-green, The thousand palaces were seen

Of that proud city, whose superb abodes Seem'd rear'd by giants for the immortal gods.

How silent and how beautiful they stand, Like things of nature! the eternal rocks

Themselves not firmer. Neither hath the

sand [doors, slime defil'd their pavements and their Drifted within their gates, and chok'd their

Nor

O

[floors. not in rage,

Did then the ocean wage
thou fair city, that he spares thee thus?
His war for love and envy,
Art thou Varounin's capital and court,
Where all the sea-gods for delight resort,
A place too godlike to be held by us,

So thought Ladurlad, as he look'd around,
The poor degenerate children of the earth?
Weening to hear the sound

Of mermaid's shell, and song Of choral throng from some imperial hall, Wherein the immortal powers, at festival, Their high carousals keep.

But all is silence dread, Silence profound and dead, The everlasting stillness of the deep. Through many a solitary street, And silent market-place, and lonely square, Arm'd with the mighty curse, behold him fare. And now his feet attain that royal fane Where Baly held of old his awful reign. What once had been the garden spread around, Fair garden, once which wore perpetual green, [were found, Where all sweet flowers through all the year And all fair fruits were through all seasons

Who circles earth and heaven upon his way, Behold from eldest time a goodlier sight Than were the groves which Baly, in his might, Made for his chosen place of solace and delight.

It was a garden still beyond all price, Even yet it was a place of paradise :— For where the mighty ocean could not spare, There had he, with his own creation, Sought to repair his work of devastation. And here were coral bowers, And grots of madrepores,

And banks of spunge, as soft and fair to eye As e'er was mossy bed

Whereon the wood-nymphs lay

And bring Count Julian's sword.
The worth which thou hast shown avenging
him

Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest
For battle unequipped ;-haste there, and strip
Yon villain of his armor!

Late he spake,

Here, too, were living flowers

[head.

Which, like a bud compacted, Their purple cups contracted, And now in open blossoms spread, Stretch'd like green anthers many a seeking And arborets of jointed stone were there, And plants of fibres, fine as silkworm's thread;

Yea, beautiful as mermaid's golden hair

Upon the waves dispread:
Others that, like the broad banana growing,
Rais'd their long wrinkled leaves of purple hue,
Like streamers wide out-flowing.
And whatsoe'er the depths of ocean hide
From human eyes, Ladurlad there espied,
Trees of the deep, and shrubs, and fruits, and
As fair as ours,
[flowers,
Wherewith the sea-nymphs love their locks
to braid,

When to their father's hall, at festival
Repairing, they, in emulous array,
Their charms display,

To grace the banquet, and the solemn day.

§ 167. Roderick in Battle. SOUTHEY. My horse!

My noble horse! he cried, with flattering hand
Patting his high-arch'd neck; the renegade,-
I thank him for't,-hath kept thee daintily!
Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still,
Thy pride and strength! Orelio, my good horse,
Once more thou bearest to the field thy lord,
He who so oft hath fed and cherish'd thee,
He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen,
Thou wert by all men honored. Once again
Thou hast thy proper master! Do thy part
As thou wert wont; and bear him gloriously,
My beautiful Orelio,-to the last-
The happiest of his fields !-Then he drew
The scimitar, and, waving it aloft, [forth
Rode towards the troops; its unaccustomed
shape

Disliked him. Renegade in all things! cried
The Goth, and cast it from him; to the chiefs
Then said, If I have done ye service here,
Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword!
The trustiest blade, that e'er in Bilbilis

With stern regard of joy, The African Under unhappy stars was born, he cried, Who tastes thy edge!-Make ready for the charge! [the field. They come-they come !-On, brethren, to The word is Vengeance!

Vengeance was the word From man to man, and rank to rank it past, By every heart enforced, by every voice Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe. The enemy in shriller sounds returned Their Akbar and the Prophet's trusted name. The horsemen lowered their spears, the infantry

Deliberately, with slow and steady step, Advanced; the bow-strings twang'd, and arrows hissed,

And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts
Met in the shock of battle, horse and man
Conflicting; shield struck shield, and sword
and mace

And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung; Armor was riven, and wounds were interchanged,

And many a spirit from its mortal hold
Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the chiefs
Of Julian's army in that hour support
Their old esteem ; and well Count Pedro there
Enhanced his former praise; and by his side,
Rejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife,
Alphonso through the host of infidels
Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death.
But there was worst confusion and uproar,
There widest slaughter and dismay, where,
proud

Of his recovered lord, Orelio plunged
Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath

his feet
The living and the dead. Where'er he turns
The Moors divide and fly. What man is this
Appalled they say, who to the front of war,
Bareheaded, offers thus his naked life?
Replete with power he is, and terrible,
Like some destroying angel! Sure his lips
Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he

comes

Strong in his immortality! Fly! fly!