PELAYO:

OR,

THE CAVERN OF COVADONGA.

CANTO THIRD.

I.

Hark! hark! whence comes that silv'ry tone,
That murmurs, now, in gentle moan,
Now, swelling louder, on the wind is borne,
Rejoicing at the first red streak of morn?—
And list!-the distant, seraph voice
Seems, now to wail, now to rejoice,
Stealing the raptured sense away,
With sounds of heavenly melody!—
"T is hush'd!-but, on the sighing gale
Fond Echo whispers still the tale,

And, loving yet the sound, e'en though 't is gone,
Repeats it oft, in many a varying tone,

As though her wooing voice could wake again
The mellow softness of that rapturous strain.
It was the Statue's greeting voice that spoke.
Aurora's kiss the stony form awoke !

And sculptured Memnon's note*
On the morning air did float,

The marble statue of Memnon, placed in the temple of Serapis, at Thebes, was fabulously believed by the ancients to utter sweet and harmonious sounds soon as the first beams of the rising sun appeared, as though rejoicing at its mother, Aurora's coming.

To welcome his sweet mother's beaming smile-
That round high heaven's portal gleam'd the while,
Just as the rosy gate she open'd wide,
That dazzling Sol, her Father-God, might ride
His fiery chariot through the sky-
Leaving its golden track on high.

Till ev'ry cloud reflects the dye!

.II.

It is a glorious sight, to see
The morning sun ride joyously,
Within his gemm'd and golden car,
Chasing away each silver star,
That twinkles, trembles, from afar,
And glitters in the vault of blue,

And gives it half its radiant hue.

"Tis dawn! the airy tapestry of morning light Dispels, with its gray mist, the darker shades of

night;

And the pale moon smiles adieu.

The white clouds part their fleecy breast, To welcome now their heavenly guest! While he flings o'er their floating snow, A veil of gold-and diamond's glow; The flowers sport their dewy diadem, The sun hath given jewels bright to them— There's scarce a plant, or tree, or thing of earth, or

air,

That welcomes not, O, Morn! thy radiant face and

fair!

III.

Rich was her princely chamber, and adorn'd
With all the luxuries that mark a queen!-
But 'mid the proud array of art, yet mourn'd
Nature's fair child-for all, that once had been!
The hours-the days-the scenes-long flown!
Forever past-forever gone!

And she-this empty grandeur gladly would exchange,

Once more, in Covadonga's lovely wilds to range.
The day-the fatal day-had come,

That seal'd young Ormesinda's doom!
And there she sat, in mute despair,
Knowing the dreadful hour near—
Disdaining yet, to shed a tear :-

Through all that livelong night, as motionless she 'd been

Even as now!-and when the morn began to gleam, And the first, faint streak of day,

Lighted the proud display

Of wealth, that round her lay,

There, still unmov'd, she sat! as one whose soul had fled

Whose body lived—although the broken heart was dead :

The gloom of dark, and fix'd despair,
Sat on that brow, so high, and fair ;-

Rigid, and cold, her figure frail,

Her lips, compress'd, and thin, and pale;

Here was indeed, "the wreck of Beauty's shrine," (For Beauty's self, lost maiden, once was thine ;)

All gone, the dazzling splendour of the eye

That turns, with spell-bound stare, upon the sky,
All fled, the lovely look of high disdain !
And in its place, the agony of pain—
The torturing wildness of a wilder'd brain!
Her chill, cold hands, were closely prest
Upon as chill, as cold, a breast!

Yet, in that form-still, beauty linger'd there,
In spite of all the ravage of despair!

'T was something in her noble air,
Surviving sorrow, time and care!
Though you may bend the tall oak tree,
And lop its spreading branches free,

Still will it bear its lonely majesty!

Thus, too, the rose, whose stem is broke, whose verdure reft

Its perfumed sweets retains-for fragrance still is

left.

IV.

Oh! who, 'mong earthly sufferers! can tell
The deep, deep anguish of the heart, so well
As she, who knows that mute despair,
When bursts no sigh-when flows no tear—
And the very brain-is dry, and sear!
When, not a sound escapes the pallid lips,
And the fix'd, and swollen eye, no longer weeps!
When the very blood, within the veins,
Curdling, and cold, as ice remains !

And ev'ry pulse, grown chill

So slowly beats---so still

You scarce might feel its thrill !-

From such a heart-the sunny smile of hope is reft,
Within the care-worn statue-form, alone is left

That breath, which chains to earth a soul,
Longing to soar, beyond control,

And freed from shackles here-to heaven rise-
And find a calmer home, within the skies!

V.

And thus, felt she, fair offspring of adversity!
Though born in splendour-nurs'd in tears—
For sorrow dimm'd her dawning years!
And, now, had come the fatal hour,

When most she knew stern sorrow's power:
For, on that day, her doom was fix'd for life!
Or, as the hated chief's reluctant wife,
Or, here, as haplessly to dwell

The slave, and creature of his will!
If once the timid dove is guest
Within the savage vulture's nest,
What mortal hand shall dare to save the
Or, from his talons tear the prize away?

VI.

prey,

But, still firm, as the mount upon its base,

Not, e'en despair could make her heart give place
To thoughts unworthy of her race!

And, think not that she waver'd--no! she spurn'd to

be his wife,

And rather there would dwell-his slave-the slave of

all-through life,