The form of that young maid, in all Its beauty, was before me still; And oft I thought, if thus to call Her image to my mind at will, If but the memory of that one Bright look of hers, for ever gone, Was to my heart worth all the rest Of woman-kind, beheld, possest— What would it be, if wholly mine, Within these arms, as in a shrine, Hallow'd by Love, I saw her shineAn idol, worshipp'd by the light Of her own beauties, day and nightIf 'twas a blessing but to see And lose again, what would this be? My oars were lifted, and my boat Lay rock'd upon the rippling stream; While my vague thoughts, alike afloat, Drifted through many an idle dream, With all of which, wild and unfix'd As was their aim, that vision mix'd, That bright nymph of the Temple—now, With the same innocence of brow She wore within the lighted fane- ; That must eclipse even light like hers! Cold, dead, and blackening, 'mid the gloom Of those eternal sepulchres. Scarce had I turn'd my eyes away From that dark death-place, at the thought, When by the sound of dashing spray From a light oar my ear was caught, While past me, through the moonlight, sail'd A little gilded bark that bore Two female figures, closely veil'd And mantled, towards that funeral shore. They landed-and the boat again Put off across the watery plain. Shall I confess - to thee I may— That never yet hath come the chance Of a new music, a new ray From woman's voice, from woman's glance, Which let it find me how it might, In joy or grief—I did not bless, And wander after, as a light Leading to undreamt happiness. And chiefly now, when hopes so vain Were stirring in my heart and brain, When Fancy had allur'd my soul Into a chase, as vague and far As would be his, who fix'd his goal In the horizon, or some starAny bewilderment, that brought More near to earth my high-flown thought— The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure, Less high and heavenly, but more sure, Came welcome-and was then to me What the first flowery isle must be To vagrant birds blown out to sea. Quick to the shore I urg'd my bark, And, by the bursts of moonlight, shed Between the lofty tombs, could mark Those figures, as with hasty tread They glided on-till in the shade Of a small pyramid, which through Some boughs of palm its peak display'd, They vanish'd instant from my view. I hurried to the spot-no trace At length, exploring darkly round To the bliss-loving Moon, whose eye Alone beheld me, sprung in there. Downward the narrow stairway led Through many a duct obscure and dread, A labyrinth for mystery made, With wanderings onward, backward, round, Scarce had I ask'd myself, "Can aught A glimpse of light, remote, but clear- Through which I now, all hope, descended. Never did Spartan to his bride With warier foot at midnight glide. It seem'd as echo's self were dead Oh listen to the scene, now rais'd Before my eyes- then guess the awe, The still, rapt awe with which I gaz'd, 'Twas a small chapel, lin'd around With the fair, spangling marble, found In many a ruin'd shrine that stands Half seen above the Libyan sands. The walls were richly sculptur'd o'er, And character'd with that dark lore, Of times before the Flood, whose key Was lost in the'"Universal Sea."While on the roof was pictur'd bright The Theban beetle, as he shines, When the Nile's mighty flow declines, And forth the creature springs to light, With life regenerate in his wings :Emblem of vain imaginings! Of a new world, when this is gone, In which the spirit still lives on! Direct beneath this type, reclin'd Grav'd on the altar's front were seen A branch of lotus, broken in two, As that fair creature's life had been, And a small bird that from its spray Was winging, like her soul, away. But brief the glimpse I now could spare, To the wild, mystic wonders round; For there was yet one wonder there, Of her who on that altar slept; And near it stood, when first I cameBending her brow, as if she kept Sad watch upon its silent flameA female form, as yet so plac'd Between the lamp's strong glow and me, That I but saw, in outline trac'd, The shadow of her symmetry. Yet did my heart-I scarce knew why- I saw 'twas she-the same-the same- Upon the crystal, o'er the breast Another type of that blest home, As if, intent on heaven, those eyes Saw then nor roof nor cloud between Their own pure orbits and the skies; And, though her lips no motion made, And that fix'd look was all her speech, I saw that the rapt spirit pray'd Deeper within than words could reach. Strange power of Innocence, to turn To its own hue whate'er comes near, And make even vagrant Passion burn With purer warmth within its sphere! She who, but one short hour before, Had come, like sudden wild-fire, o'er My heart and brain-whom gladly, even From that bright Temple, in the face Of those proud ministers of heaven, I would have borne, in wild embrace, And risk'd all punishment, divine And human, but to make her mine ;She, she was now before me, thrown By fate itself into my arms Though but to gaze thus was delight, Yet seem'd it like a wrong, a guilt, To win by stealth so pure a sight: And rather than a look profane Should then have met those thoughtful eyes, Or voice or whisper broke the chain That link'd her spirit with the skies, I would have gladly, in that place, From which I watch'd her heavenward face, Let my heart break, without one beat That could disturb a prayer so sweet. Gently, as if on every tread, My life, my more than life, depended, Back through the corridor that led To this blest scene I now ascended, The sun had freshly risen, and down His beams into that living sea. Newly put on as if for pride Of the high homage paid this night My mind's first impulse was to fly At once from this entangling netNew scenes to range, new loves to try, Or, in mirth, wine, and luxury Of every sense, that night forget. But vain the effort-spell-bound still, I linger'd, without power or will To turn my eyes from that dark door, Which now enclos'd her 'mong the dead; Oft fancying, through the boughs, that o'er The sunny pile their flickering shed, "Twas her light form again I saw Starting to earth-still pure and bright, Thus seen by morning's natural light, But no, alas-she ne'er return'd: Nor yet-though still I watch-nor yet, Though the red sun for hours hath burn'd, And now, in his mid course, hath met The peak of that eternal pile He pauses still at noon to bless, Standing beneath his downward smile, Like a great Spirit, shadowless!Nor yet she comes- while here, alone, Saunt'ring through this death-peopled place, Where no heart beats except my own, Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown, By turns I watch, and rest, and trace These lines, that are to waft to thee My last night's wondrous history. That time, too—oh, 'tis like a dream— I sprung as Genius of the Stream, But met, and welcom'd mine, instead— But the free hearts, that lov'd again, To the least breath that round it sighs- Yet so it is-and the same thirst For something high and pure, above This withering world, which, from the first, Made me drink deep of woman's love These songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are still common in the Greek isles. As the one joy, to heaven most near Farewell; whatever may befall Or bright, or dark-thou'lt know it all. LETTER IV FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRÆTORIAN PREFECT. REJOICE, my friend, rejoice:—the youthful Chief And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood, No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace? Fools!-did they know how keen the zest that's given To earthly joy, when season'd well with heaven; Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best allyWould they not change their creed, their craft, for ours? Leave the gross daylight joys that, in their bowers, Languish with too much sun, like o'erblown flowers, For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school- Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they Alone despise the craft of us who pray ;— Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we fall— How far gross Man can vulgarise the sky; Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep, Believe!-oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care At fam'd Arsinoë 1-make my keepers bless, With their last throb, my sharp-fang'd Holiness. Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze, Think'st thou, with all their wondrous spells, even And such the' advance in fraud since Orpheus' But, to my point-a youth of this vain school, To these earth-hidden temples, track'd his way, Instant, the' Initiate's Trials were prepar'd,— 1 For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented, see the Epicurean, chap. x. time That earliest master of our craft sublime So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud, Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light, pris'd, And all that bard or prophet e'er devis'd For man's Elysium, priests have realis'd. Here, at this moment-all his trials past, 2 Pythagoras. |