Then thou hast seen me in that hour, When every nerve of life was new, When pleasures fanned youth's infant flower, And Hope her witcheries round it threw.
That hour is fading, it has fled, And I am left in darkness now; A wand'rer towards a lowly bed, The grave, that home of all below.
WRITTEN WHILE CONFINED TO HER BED, DURING HER LAST ILLNESS.
There is a something which I dread, It is a dark, a fearful thing; It steals along with withering tread, Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. That thought comes o'er me in the hour Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness; 'Tis not the dread of death - 't is more, It is the dread of madness.
Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause, Forgetful of their feverish course; May this hot brain, which burning, glows With all a fiery whirlpool's force,
Be cold, and motionless, and still, A tenant of its lowly bed, But let not dark delirium steal
(Written in her seventeenth year.)
ON Barritaria's brow the watch-fires glow, Their beacons beaming on the gulf below, As if to dare some death-devoted hand To quench in blood the boldly blazing brand; Some Orlean herald arm'd with threat'ning high To daunt the Pirate-chieftain's haughty eye, To bid him bend to tame and vulgar law, And bow to painted things with trembling awe. Such herald well may come, -but woe betide The self-devoted messenger of pride! Such herald well may come, but far and near The name of Maritorne is joined with fear; His vessels proudly ride the Gulf at will, Whilst he is Chief of Barritaria's Isle. The iron hand of power is raised in vain, Whilst Maritorne is master of the main. 'Tis his to sacrifice - 't is his to spare - He moves in silence, and is everywhere. His victims must with pompous boldness bleed, But if he pities, who may tell the deed? 'Tis done in secret, that no eye may mark One thought more gentle, or one act less dark. And he, the governor of yon fair land,
Whose tongue speaks freedom, but whose guilty hand
Grasps the half-loosened manacles again, And adds unseen fresh links to slavery's chain, Hated full deeply, dreaded and abhorr'd, The Pirate-chief, the haughty island lord. And cause enough, deep hidden in his breast, Had he, the moody leader of the west, To hate that fearful man, who stood alone Feared, dreaded, and detested, tho' unknown; That cause was smother'd or burst forth to light, Wreath'd in the incense of a patriot's right, To drive the bold intruder from the shore, Where war and bloodshed must appear no more; But deep within his heart the crater glow'd From whence this gilded stream of lava flow'd; 'T was wounded pride, which, writhing inly, bled, And called for vengeance on the offender's head; For Maritorne, with bold unbending brow, Had scorn'd his power-that were enough;-but lo! There, on the very threshold of his home, There had the traitor Pirate dar'd to come, And thence had borne his own, his only child, Mate all unfit for Maritorne the wild; And when the maiden curs'd him in her breast Those curses came not o'er him he was blestFor but to gaze upon her, and to feel That she whom he ador'd was near him still, Was bliss! was Heav'n itself! and he whose eye Bent not to aught of dull mortality Shrunk with a tremulous delight whene'er The voice of Laura rose upon his ear; That voice had pow'r to quell the fiend within, Whose touch had turn'd his very soul to sin. That fiend was vengeance;-e'en his virtues bow'd Before the altar which to vengeance glow'd. His virtues! yes; for even fiends may boast A shadow of the glory they have lost,
But oh! like them, his crimes were dark and deep, For vengeance was awake, can vengeance sleep? Yes; sleep, as tigers sleep, with half-shut eye, Crouching to spring upon the passer-by, With parch'd tongue cleaving to his blacken'd cell, Stiff'ning with thirst, and jaws which hunger fell Hath sharply whetted, quiv'ring to devour The reckless wretch abandon'd to his pow'r. Yes: thus may vengeance sleep in breast like his, Where thoughts of wild revenge are thoughts of bliss. Thus may it sleep, like Ætna's burning breast, To burst in thunders when 't is dreaded least; For his had been the joyless, thankless part, Of one who warm'd a viper at his heart, And clasp'd the venom'd reptile to his breast Till wounded by the ingrate he caress'd. Such had been Maritorne's accursed fate, Ere he became the harden'd child of hate. At first his breast was torn with anguish wild, He curs'd himself, then bitterly revil'd The world, as hollow-hearted, false, unkind; He curs'd himself, and doubly curs'd mankind; And then his heart grew callous, and like steel Grasp'd in his hand, had equal power to feel. 'T was like yon mountain snow-crest, chill tho' bright, Cold to the touch, but dazzling to the sight, Till when the hour of darkness gathers, then The sunbeam fades, the ice grows dim again. He had a friend, one on whom fancy's eye Had deeply, rashly stamp'd fidelity: Traitor had better seem'd-worm-viper-aught- The vilest, veriest, wretch e'er named in thought, For he was sin's own son, and all that e'er
Angels above may hate or mortals fear. There was a fascination in his eye
Which those who felt, migh seek in vain to fly.
There was blasting glance of mockery there, There was a calm, contemptuous, biting sneer For ever on his lip, which made men fear, And fearing shun him, as a bird will shun A gilded bait, though glittering in the sun; But still the mask of friendship he could wear, The smile, the warm professions all were there; Let him who trusts to these alone-beware! A lurking devil may be crouching there. Shame on mankind that they will stoop to use Wiles which the imps of darkness would refuse. Henceforth let friendship drop her robes of light, And following desolation's blasting flight
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There paced the Pirate Chief with giant stride, Deep chorus keeping to the Mexic tide; His sable plumes were hov'ring o'er his brow, As if to hide the depth of thought below. He paus'd-'t was but the dashing of the spray- Again!'t was but the night-watch on his way. He only mutter'd, gnashed his teeth and smil'd, Fit mirth were that, so ghastly and so wild, To grace a Pirate Chieftain's scornful lip, 'T was like St. Helmo's night-fire o'er the deep. The beacon blaze is burning on the shore, But burns it not more dimly than before? Perchance the drowsy sentinel is sleeping, His weary vigils negligently keeping. So thought the Chief, but still his wary eye Was fix'd intently between earth and sky, As if its quick keen glance would light the flame, And blast the sleeper with remorse and shame. He starts - suspicion flashes on his brain - He grasps his dagger - by St. Mark - again!
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