Mazelli, and Other Poems, George W. Sands [primary phonics .TXT] 📗

breeze
Bore from his lips some words like these.

V.

"The words I speak are no complaint
And if I breathe out my despair,
It is not that my heart grows faint,
Or shrinks from what 'tis doomed to bear.
Though every sorrow which may shake
Or rend man's heart, should pierce my own,
Their strength united, should not make
My lip breathe one complaining tone.
If I must suffer, it shall be
With a firm heart, a soul elate,
A wordless scorn, which silently
Shall mock the stern decrees of fate.
The weak might bend, the timid shrink,
Until misfortune's storm blew by,
But I, a chieftain's son, should drink
Its proffered cup without a sigh.
And it will scarcely, to my lip,
Seem harsher than yon fountain's flow,
For I have held companionship
With Misery, from my youth till now--
Have felt, by turns, each pang, each care,
Her hapless sons are doomed, to bear;--
I caught my mother's parting breath,
When passed she to the spirit land;
And from the fatal field of death,
Where, leading on his fearless band,
With fiery and resistless might,
He fell, though victor in the fight,
Pierced by the arrow of some foe,
I saw my father's spirit go.
And I have seen his warrior men,
From mountain, valley, hill, and glen,
Departing one by one, since then,
As from the dry and withered spray,
The wilted leaves are blown away,
Upon some windy autumn day:
I, only I, am left to be
The last leaf of the blighted tree,
Which the first wind that through the sky
Goes carelessly careering by,
Will, in its wild, unheeded mirth,
Rend from its hold, and dash to earth:
Thus, here alone have I remained,
An outcast, where I should have reigned.

VI.

"How shall I to myself alone,
The weakness of my bosom own?
Why, mindful of my fame and pride,
When my brave brethren had died;
Why, with my friendly, ready knife,
Drew I not forth my useless life?
Was it a coward fear of death,
That bade me treasure up my breath?
Or had life yet some genial ray,
That wooed me in its warmth to stay?
Had earth yet one whose smile could stir,
My spirit with deep love for her?
Yes, though within me hope was dead,
And wild Ambition's dreams were fled;
Though o'er my blighted heart, Despair
Desponded, love still nestled there;
Love! how the pale-faced scorner's lip
Would sneer, to hear me name that name;
Yet was it deep within my soul
A secret but consuming flame;
Whose overruling mastership,
Defied slow Reason's dull control!
And felt for one of that vile race,
To whom my tribe had given place;
Was nursed in silence and in shame!
Shame, for the weakness of a heart,
Yet bleeding from th' oppressor's blow,
Which could bestow its better part
Upon the offspring of a foe!
They, the mean delvers of the soil,
The wielders of the felling axe,--
Because we will not stoop to toil,
Nor to its burdens bond our backs;
Because we scorn Seduction's wiles,
Her lying words and forged smiles,
They, the foul slaves of lust and gold,
Say that our blood and hearts are cold.(3)
But ere the morrow's dawning light
Has climbed yon eastern craggy height,
One, whose fierce eye and haughty brow,
Are lit with pride and pleasure now,
Shall learn, at point of my true steel,
How much the Red man's heart may feel,--
How fearlessly he strikes the foe,
When love and vengeance prompt the blow!
Though scorned by him, I know an art
Could stop the beatings of his heart,
Ere his own lips could say, 'Be still!'
A single arrow from my bow,
Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,(4)
Would in an instant lay him low;
So deadly is the icy chill,
With which the life-blood it congeals,
The wounded warrior scarcely feels
Its fatal touch ere he expire:
But, when Revenge would glut his ire,
He stops not with immediate death
The current of his victim's breath;
With gasp, and intervening pause,
The lifeblood from its source he draws,
Marks, in the crimson stream that flows,
How near life verges to its close,--
And its last soul-exhaling groan,
To him is music's sweetest tone!
And he, whose fate it is to die,
Ere Morning's banner flouts the sky,
The eye shall see, the arm shall know,
That guides and deals th' avenging blow;
And ere his spirit goes to rest,
Right well his scornful heart shall learn,
How fiercely, in a savage breast,
The flames of love and hate may burn."
He spake, and down the mountain's side,
With quick, impatient step, he hied,
Threading the forest's lonely gloom,
A ruthless minister of doom.

VII.

'Twas midnight; calmly slept the Earth,
And the mysterious eyes above,
Gazed down with chastened looks of love,
Not, as when first they hymned her birth,
With ardent songs of holy mirth,
But mournfully serene and clear;--
As on some erring one we gaze,
Whose feet have strayed from wisdom's ways,
But who, in error, still is dear.
Far o'er yon swiftly flowing stream
Fair fell the young moon's silver beam,
And gazing on its restless sheen,
Stood one whose garb, and port, and mien,
Bespoke him of a foreign land,
One born to win, and hold command;
The master mind, the leading one,
Where deeds of manly might were done.
Yet, by the hallowed glow, that came
O'er lip and cheek, o'er eye and brow,
He who beheld, might guess that now
His thoughts were not of wealth and fame:
Whence could that veiling radiance shine,
Save from Affection's holy shrine?
And this was he, who from afar,
Had come to bear away his bride;
And love had been the guiding star,
That lit him o'er the trackless tide;
"To-morrow, on its sunny wing,
My bridal hour soon shall bring;
And those bright orbs which o'er me shed
Such gentle radiance from on high,
Shall shine upon my nuptial bed,
When next they walk along the sky.
0! what are all the pomps of earth,
Of honour, glory, greatness, worth,
Beside the bliss which Love confers
Upon his humblest followers!"
He said, and from the river turned;--
An eye, that with fierce hatred burned,
Met his, and this reply was made:
"Thou, haughty one, shalt be a shade
Ere dawns the coming morrow's sun."
Then, ere the point he could evade,
He felt the sharp steel pierce his breast,
While he, who the foul deed had done
Stood calmly by, and saw him sink
In death, beside the water's brink,
Saw, gush by gush, the crimson blood
Pour out, and mingle with the flood;
Then drew his dagger from its rest,
And gazing on its fearful hue,
Said, "Thou hast yet one task to do.
He who, death-wounded, welters there,
Came hither, o'er the deep to bear
Far off from her paternal nest,
The white dove I have watched so long.
The falcon's wing was bold and strong,
Yet thou hast stayed him in his flight;
Strike one more blow, and thou to-night
May'st rest;" then laid his bosom bare,
And buried deep the dagger there,
And by his victim's lifeless trunk,
Without a sigh or groan he sunk.

Canto III.

I.

With plumes to which the dewdrops cling,
Wide waves the morn her golden wing;
With countless variegated beams
The empurpled orient glows and gleams;
A gorgeous mass of crimson clouds
The mountain's soaring summit shrouds;
Along the wave the blue mist creeps,
The towering forest trees are stirred
By the low wind that o'er them sweeps,
And with the matin song of bird,
The hum of early bee is heard,
Hailing with his shrill, tiny horn,
The coming of the bright-eyed morn;
And, with the day-beam's earliest dawn,
Her couch the fair Mazelli quits,
And gaily, fleetly as a fawn,
Along the wildwood paths she flits,
Hieing from leafy bower to bower,
Culling from each its bud and flower,
Of brightest hue and sweetest breath,
To weave them in her bridal wreath.
Now, pausing in her way, to hear
The lay of some wild warbler near,
Repaying him, in mocking tone,
With music sweeter than his own;
Now, o'er some crystal stream low bending,
Her image in its waves to see,
With its sweet, gurgled music blending,
A song of tenfold melody;
Now, chasing the gay butterfly,
That o'er her pathway passed her by,
With grace as careless, glee as wild,
As though she were some thoughtless child;
Now, seated on some wayside stone,
With time's green, messy veil o'ergrown,
In silent thoughtfulness, she seems
To hold communion with her heart,
Beguiling fancy with the dreams
That from its Pure recesses start.

II.

There is a silent power, that o'er
Our bosoms wields a wizard might,
Restoring bygone years to light,
With the same vivid glow they wore,
Ere time had o'er their features cast
The shadowy shroud that veils the past:--
To those who walk in wisdom's way,
'Tis welcome as an angel's smile;
But those who from her counsels stray,
Whose hearts are full of craft and guile,
To them 'tis as a constant goad--
A weight that doubles Sorrow's load,--
A silent searcher of the breast,
Which will not let the guilty rest.
In childhood's pleasant -season born,
It haunts us in all after time;
From youth's serene and sunny morn
To manhood's stern meridian prime.
From manhood, till the weight of years,
And life's dull constant toil, and tears,
And passion's ever raging storm,
Have dimmed the eye and bowed the form.
True, youth, of hope and love possessed,
By friends--youth has no foes--caressed,
Finds in the present--happy boy!--
Enough of gaiety and joy;
And man, whose visionary brain
Begets that idle phantom train
Of shadows--Power, Wealth, and Fame,--
A scourge--a bubble--and a name--
So often and so vainly sought--
Has little time for peaceful thought;
And so they turn not back to gaze,
Where faithful memory displays
Her record of departed days;
But oh! how loves the eye of age,
To move along its pictured page,
To scan and number, o'er and o'er,
The joys that may return no more;
The hopes that, blighted in their bloom,
By disappointment's chilly gloom,
Were given sadly to the tomb;
The loves so wildly once enjoyed,
By time's unsparing hand destroyed;
The bright imaginative dreams,
Portrayed by restless fancy's beams,
By restless fancy's beams portrayed,
Alas! but to delude and fade!
To count these o'er and o'er again
Is age's sole resort from pain.
Then, stranger, marvel not that I
Have claimed so long thy listening ear;
I could not pass in silence by
Themes to my memory so dear,
As those which make my story's close--
Mazelli's love, Mazelli's woes.

III.

Ascending from the golden east,
The sun had gained his zenith height,
The guests were gathered to the feast,
Prepared to grace the marriage rite;
The youthful and the old were there,
The rustic swain and bashful fair;
The aged, reverend and gray,
Yet hale, and garrulous, and gay,
Each told, to while the time away,
Some tale of his own wedding day;
The youthful, timorous and shy,
Spoke less with lip than tell-tale eye,
That, in its