The Maiden, musing on the Warrior’s words,

Turn’d from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach’d

A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood,

In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye

Beam’d promise, but behind, withered and old,

And all unlovely. Underneath his feet

Lay records trampled, and the laurel wreath

Now rent and faded: in his hand he held

An hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands,

So pass the lives of men. By him they past

Along the darksome cave, and reach’d a stream,

Still rolling onward its perpetual waves,

Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascend

A Bark unpiloted, that down the flood,

Borne by the current, rush’d. The circling stream,

Returning to itself, an island form’d;

Nor had the Maiden’s footsteps ever reach’d

The insulated coast, eternally

Rapt round the endless course; but Theodore

Drove with an angel’s will the obedient bark.

They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes,

Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant

The pile was framed, for ever to abide

Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate

Stood eager Expectation, as to list

The half-heard murmurs issuing from within,

Her mouth half-open’d, and her head stretch’d forth.

On the other side there stood an aged Crone,

Listening to every breath of air; she knew

Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams,

Of what was soon to come, for she would mark

The paley glow-worm’s self-created light,

And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown,

And desolated nations; ever fill’d

With undetermin’d terror, as she heard

Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat

Of evening death-watch.

“Maid,” the Spirit cried,

Here, robed in shadows, dwells Futurity.

There is no eye hath seen her secret form,

For round the Mother of Time, unpierced mists

Aye hover. Would’st thou read the book of Fate,

Enter.”

The Damsel for a moment paus’d,

Then to the Angel spake: “All-gracious Heaven!

Benignant in withholding, hath denied

To man that knowledge. I, in faith assured,

That he, my heavenly Father, for the best

Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain

Contented.”

“Well and wisely hast thou said,

So Theodore replied; “and now O Maid!

Is there amid this boundless universe

One whom thy soul would visit? is there place

To memory dear, or visioned out by hope,

Where thou would’st now be present? form the wish,

And I am with thee, there.”

His closing speech

Yet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stood

Swift as the sudden thought that guided them,

Within the little cottage that she loved.

“He sleeps! the good man sleeps!” enrapt she cried,

As bending o’er her Uncle’s lowly bed

Her eye retraced his features. “See the beads

That never morn nor night he fails to tell,

Remembering me, his child, in every prayer.

Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man!

Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hour

Is come, as gently mayest thou wake to life,

As when thro’ yonder lattice the next sun

Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons!

Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin’d,

He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe

Blessings, and pleasant is the good man’s rest.

Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heard

Thy wonderous exploits? and his aged heart

Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet

Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude!

Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here,

And short and soon thy passage to that world

Where friends shall part no more!

“Does thy soul own

No other wish? or sleeps poor Madelon

Forgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star,”

The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eye

That look’d reproach; “seest thou that evening star

Whose lovely light so often we beheld

From yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazed

Into the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul,

Lost in the infinite, returned, and felt

The burthen of her bodily load, and yearned

For freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slar

Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance,

And we are there!”

He said and they had past

The immeasurable space.

Then on her ear

The lonely song of adoration rose,

Sweet as the cloister’d virgins vesper hymn,

Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes

Already lives in Heaven. Abrupt the song

Ceas’d, tremulous and quick a cry

Of joyful wonder rous’d the astonish’d Maid,

And instant Madelon was in her arms;

No airy form, no unsubstantial shape,

She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart,

Their tears of rapture mingled.

She drew back

And eagerly she gazed on Madelon,

Then fell upon her neck again and wept.

No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief,

The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness,

The languid eye: youth’s loveliest freshness now

Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament

Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm,

A deep and full tranquillity of bliss.

“Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!”

The well known voice of Madelon began,

“Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimage

So short on earth? and was it painful too,

Painful and short as mine? but blessed they

Who from the crimes and miseries of the world

Early escape!”

“Nay,” Theodore replied,

She hath not yet fulfill’d her mortal work.

Permitted visitant from earth she comes

To see the seat of rest, and oftentimes

In sorrow shall her soul remember this,

And patient of the transitory woe

Partake the anticipated peace again.”

“Soon be that work perform’d!” the Maid exclaimed,

“O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul,

Spurning the cold communion of the world,

Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently,

Yea even with joy, endure the allotted ills

Of which the memory in this better state

Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony,

When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp,

And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death,

The very horrors of that hour assume

A shape that now delights.”

“O earliest friend!

I too remember,” Madelon replied,

“That hour, thy looks of watchful agony,

The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eye

Endearing love’s last kindness. Thou didst know

With what a deep and melancholy joy

I felt the hour draw on: but who can speak

The unutterable transport, when mine eyes,

As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed

Amid this peaceful vale, unclos’d on him,

My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower,

A bower of rest.—See, Maiden, where he comes,

His manly lineaments, his beaming eye

The same, but now a holier innocence

Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume

The enlighten’d glance.”

They met, what joy was theirs

He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead

Has wet the midnight pillow with his tears.

    Fair was the scene around; an ample vale

Whose mountain circle at the distant verge

Lay softened on the sight; the near ascent

Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare,

Part with the ancient majesty of woods

Adorn’d, or lifting high its rocks sublime.

The river’s liquid radiance roll’d beneath,

Beside the bower of Madelon it wound

A broken stream, whose shallows, tho’ the waves

Roll’d on their way with rapid melody,

A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove

Its gay green foliage starr’d with golden fruit;

But with what odours did their blossoms load

The passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweet

Rose from the marble’s perforated floor,

Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen

Inhaled the cool delight, [8] and whilst she asked

The Prophet for his promised paradise,

Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys.

A goodly scene! fair as that faery land

Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne

From Camlan’s bloody banks; or as the groves

Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say,

Enoch abides, and he who rapt away

By fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire,

Past in his mortal form the eternal ways;

And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there

The beatific vision, sometimes seen

The distant dawning of eternal day,

Till all things be fulfilled.

“Survey this scene!”

So Theodore address’d the Maid of Arc,

“There is no evil here, no wretchedness,

It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earth

Their nature’s gentlest feelings. Yet not here

Centering their joys, but with a patient hope,

Waiting the allotted hour when capable

Of loftier callings, to a better state

They pass; and hither from that better state

Frequent they come, preserving so those ties

That thro’ the infinite progressiveness

Complete our perfect bliss.

“Even such, so blest,

Save that the memory of no sorrows past

Heightened the present joy, our world was once,

In the first æra of its innocence

Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man.

Was there a youth whom warm affection fill’d,

He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruits

His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck’d

The sunny bank, he gather’d for the maid,

Nor she disdain’d the gift; for Vice not yet

Had burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear’d

Those artificial boundaries that divide

Man from his species. State of blessedness!

Till that ill-omen’d hour when Cain’s stern son

Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold,

Accursed bane of virtue! of such force

As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon’s locks,

Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood

Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh

Grew stiff with horror, and the heart forgot

To beat. Accursed hour! for man no more

To Justice paid his homage, but forsook

Her altars, and bow’d down before the shrine

Of Wealth and Power, the Idols he had made.

Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide,

Her legion fiends rush’d forth. Oppression came

Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath

Blasts like the Pestilence; and Poverty,

A meagre monster, who with withering touch

Makes barren all the better part of man,

Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earth

Which God had fram’d for happiness, became

One theatre of woe, and all that God

Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends

His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best

Hath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE!

For by experience rous’d shall man at length

Dash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-like

And burst his fetters, only strong whilst strong

Believed. Then in the bottomless abyss

Oppression shall be chain’d, and Poverty

Die, and with her, her brood of Miseries;

And Virtue and Equality preserve

The reign of Love, and Earth shall once again

Be Paradise, whilst Wisdom shall secure

The state of bliss which Ignorance betrayed.”

“Oh age of happiness!” the Maid exclaim’d,

Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest age

Arrive! and happy thou my Theodore,

Permitted thus to see the sacred depths

Of wisdom!”

“Such,” the blessed Spirit replied,

Beloved! such our lot; allowed to range

The vast infinity, progressive still

In knowledge and encreasing blessedness,

This our united portion. Thou hast yet

A little while to sojourn amongst men:

I will be with thee! there shall not a breeze

Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing

I will not hover near! and at that hour

When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose,

Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved!

I will be with thee in thine agonies,

And welcome thee to life and happiness,

Eternal infinite beatitude!”

He spake, and led her near a straw-roof’d cot,

Love’s Palace. By the Virtues circled there,

The cherub listen’d to such melodies,

As aye, when one good deed is register’d

Above, re-echo in the halls of Heaven.

Labour was there, his crisp locks floating loose,

Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye,

And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph Health

Still follow’d on his path, and where he trod

Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was Hope,

The general friend; and Pity, whose mild eye

Wept o’er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form,

Majestic Chastity, whose sober smile

Delights and awes the soul; a laurel wreath

Restrain’d her tresses, and upon her breast

The snow-drop hung its head, [9] that seem’d to grow

Spontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maid

Love went submiss, wilh eye more dangerous

Than fancied basilisk to wound whoe’er

Too bold approached; yet anxious would he read

Her every rising wish, then only pleased

When pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais’d.

“Glory to thee whose vivifying power

Pervades all Nature’s universal frame!

Glory to thee Creator Love! to thee,

Parent of all the smiling Charities,

That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers!

Glory to thee Preserver! to thy praise

The awakened woodlands echo all the day

Their living melody; and warbling forth

To thee her twilight song, the Nightingale

Holds the lone Traveller from his way, or charms

The listening Poet’s ear. Where Love shall deign

To fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure sheds

Her roseate dews; Content will sojourn there,

And Happiness behold Affection eye

Gleam with the Mother’s smile. Thrice happy he

Who feels thy holy power! he shall not drag,

Forlorn and friendless, along Life’s long path

To Age’s drear abode; he shall not waste

The bitter evening of his days unsooth’d;

But Hope shall cheer his hours of Solitude,

And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast,

That bears that talisman; and when he meets

The eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hears

The bosom-thrilling music of her voice;

The joy he feels shall purify his Soul,

And imp it for anticipated Heaven.”

[8] In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this apartment.—Sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to Florian’s Gonsalvo of Cordova.

[9] “The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the Virgin.”—P.H.