But sensual as he was, a feeling yet,
A sentiment of honour, still remained:
He was her father's guest, and that restrain'd
His passion,—and he owed a deeper debt
To the old warrior: then he knew her vow'd
To heaven from infancy;—and he was proud,
And valued high his name and noble birth,
To which hers was a thing of little worth.
And she was pure, and maiden virtue hath
A power to turn the lion from her path.
Her charms, they were not cast in common mould;
They were majestic, but not harsh nor bold;
She was surpassing tall; her floating hair
Was ring'd and glossy, and her temples fair:
She had her mother's wild Arabian eyes,
Temper'd with thoughts of her high destinies;
Had she been born a princess in the land,
Admiring bards had said, those eyes command.
Her lips were parted rubies,—on her cheek,
Blended with tint of Afric's ardent skies,
There was a hue like to the peachy streak
Scatter'd amidst the clouds when daylight dies,
Or bloom that on the wind-kiss'd myrtle lies.
Then in her mind the chivalry of the Moor,
Refined to sweet enthusiasm, warmly dwelt;
She own'd the passions too of that wild shore,
Though in her heart they were as yet unfelt;
And she had all the ardour of those climes;
Which in her grandsire's veins arose to crimes.
Her hopes were not capricious, fleeting dreams,
She loved, she pray'd, she hated, in extremes;
Till now her soul had taken one only bent,
Alas! it fell in its idolatry ;-
'Twas fix'd on heaven-'tis mortal now, and lent
To earthly love, but yet 'tis innocent.
How long, Leontio, 'tis for thee to will,
It shall remain in its first purity;
Thou art the arbiter-be generous still.
That eve within the grove was fraught with ill;
The veil removed, the weakness of her breast
Betray'd to light,—his triumph all the rest.
Love lit the splendour of her wandering eye;
Love in those pulses throbb'd tumultuously:
Already had his hopes attain'd their goal;
He was the load-star of the vestal's soul.
Oh! who shall fix the delicate lines, that keep
The bounds 'twixt love and passion's vortex deep?
Woman, 'tis not for thee,—devoted thing!
Whose very virtues are thy ruining.
Thy heart when launch'd a venture on the wave,
Soon founders on the smooth but treacherous coast;
The sage ones scoff, no hand is stretch'd to save,-
The fragile, fair, ill-fated bark is lost:
Man by the wreck is gainer,—thine the cost,-
He guiles thee by expressions, falseness all,-
Once let him feel his power, and thou must fall!
Air-wing'd the moments,― rapturous were the hours,
The vestal maid now pass'd within those bowers;
Not as of with book or rosary,
Or culling for the shrine their rarest flowers :
Leontio, monarch of her heart was nigh,
And he had power to make those hours speed on,
Till listening love believed not they were gone.
Skill'd in the lore of that romantic land,
His fancy framed it forth with magic wand:
Of deeds chivalrous, high, heroic, bold,
In lofty tone, and figured speech he told;
And passion-sovereign passion, glowing warm,
Gave to each varied tale it subtle charm.
At first Helena listen'd with alarm,
To theme and language fraught, she fear'd, with harm :
Oft as he spoke she felt the crimson creep
Upon her brow, and dye her bosom deep;
She could not meet that unconstrained look,
Which more than all the words he uttered spoke;
And while she felt the flame within her burn,
Would strive his wanderings heavenward all to turn.
But she had learnt things she could not unlearn;
And soon the poison crept into her mind,
And left its foul and withering blight behind.
To him no longer sung she convent chaunt,
Her hallow'd lute was tuned to old romaunt.
The hour, the clime, the grove, all redolent
With bloom, in this most dreamy luxury blent;
Commingling deep to fan their fatal flame,
Like the Medina wind that o'er them came. (3)
But oh! how dreadful were the gleams which yet
Came o'er Helena's heart, of keen regret ;
There was a pang there which Leontio's love,
With all its blandishment could not remove.
Sparks of those holier feelings she had nursed,
Yet from their dying embers brightly burst.
Then shuddering, pale, she felt his arms entwine
Her form, once fair Religion's hallow'd shrine;
And with one bound, she from his clasp would start,
With all the force of virtue in her heart.
But what infatuation lull'd to rest
Suspicion in her Spanish father's breast?
Was he with blind enthusiasm so elate,
That he believed her all immaculate?
'Twas strange, but it is true, he deem'd her vow
Froze up those tides in other hearts that glow;
'Twas pity all and heavenly charity
That brighten'd in her large up-gazing eye;
'Twas filial duty urged her thus to tend Upon the wounded youth, her father's friend: 'Twas fit employ for votary of the cell, 'Twas well perform'd, and it became her well. He knew not of those secret moments given To earthly love, which he thought vow'd to heaven ;
|