II.

Scarce moved the zephyr’s wings, while breathed the song,

And waves in silence bore the bark along.

’Twas Irza sang! Rosalvo at her side

Gazed on his cherub-love, his destined bride,

Felt at each look his soul in softness melt,

Nor wished to feel more bliss than then he felt.

Gainst the high mast, intent on book and beads,

A reverend abbot leans, and prays, and reads:

Yet oft with secret glance the pair surveys,

Marks how she looks, and listens what he says.

An idle task! The terms which speak their love

Had served for prayer, and passed unblamed above.

He finds each tender phrase so free from harm,

So pure each thought, each look so chaste though warm,

Still to his book and beads he turns again,

Pleased to have found his guardian care so vain;

While oft a blush of shame his pale cheek wears,

To find his thoughts so much less pure than theirs.

Oh! they _were_ pure! pure as the moon, whose ray

Loves on the shrines of virgin-saints to play;

Pure as the falling snow, ere yet its shower

Bends with its weight its own pale fragile flower.

Not fourteen years were Irza’s; nay, tis true,

Most maids at twelve know more than Irza knew:

And scarce two more had spread with silken down

Her youthful cousin’s cheek of glowing brown.

His tutor sage (in fact, not show, a saint)

Had kept his heart and mind secure from taint.

In liberal arts, in healthful manly sports,

In studies fit for councils, camps, and courts,

His moments found their full and best employ,

Nor left one leisure hour for guilty joy.

Since her blue dove-like eyes six springs had seen,

Immured in cloistered shades had Irza been,

From duties done her sole delight deriven,

And her sole care to please the queen of heaven.

None e’er approached her, save the pure and good:

Her promised spouse; that monk who near them stood;

Her viceroy uncle, and some guardian nun

Were all she e’er had seen by moon or sun.

No amorous forms, by wanton art designed,

Had e’er inflamed her blood, or stained her mind;

No hint in books, no coarse or doubtful phrase

E’er bade her curious thought explore the maze

No glowing dream by memory’s pencil drawn

Had e’er profaned her sleep, and made her blush at dawn.

With flowers she decked the virgin mother’s shrine,

Nor guessed a wonder made that name divine.

The very love, which lent her looks such fire,

Ne’er raised one blameful thought, nor loose desire;

Like streams of gold, which in alembic roll,

The flames she suffered but refined her soul;

Made it more free from stain, more light from dross,

With brighter lustre, and with softer gloss.

That, which she bore her bridegroom, well might claim

A brother’s love, and bear a sister’s name:

And e’en where now her lips in playful bliss

Sealed on Rosalvo’s eyes a balmy kiss,

Love’s highest, dearest grace she meant to show,

Nor thought he more could ask, nor she bestow.

III

From Goa’s precious sands to Lisbon’s shore.

The viceroy’s countless wealth that vessel bore:

In heaps there jewels lay of various dyes,

Ingots of gold, and pearls of wondrous size;

And there (two gems worth all that Cortez won)

He placed his angel niece and only son.

Sebastian sought the Moors! With loyal zeal

Rosalvo cased his youthful limbs in steel;

To die or conquer by his sovereign’s side

He came; and with him came his destined bride.

E’en now in Lisbon’s court for Irza’s hair

Virgins the myrtle’s nuptial crown prepare,

And Hymen waves his torch from Cintra’s towers,

Hails the dull bark, and chides the slow-winged hours.

Seldom in this bad world two hearts we see

So blest, and meriting so blest to be;

Then oh! ye winds, gently your pinions move,

And speed in safety home the bark of love.

Brood, Halcyon, brood: thy sea-spell chaunt again,

And keep the mirror of the enchanted main,

Where his white wing the exulting tropic dips,

Calm as their hearts, and smiling as their lips.

The charm prevails! Hushed are the waves and still;

The expanded sails light favouring zephyrs fill.

Wafting with motion scarce perceived; and now

In rapture Irza from the vessel’s prow

Gazed on an isle with verdure gay and bright,

Which seemed (so green it shone in solar light)

An emerald set in silver. Long her eyes

Dwelt on its rocks; and “Oh! dear friend,” she cries,

And clasps Rosalvo’s hand,--“admire with me

Yon isle, which rising crowns the silent sea!

How bold those mossy cliffs, which guard the strand,

Like spires, and domes, and towers in fairy-land!

How green the plains! how balsam-fraught the breeze!

How bend with golden fruit the loaded trees;

While, fluttering midst their boughs in joyful notes,

Myriads of birds attune their warbling throats!

Blooms all the ground with flowers! and mark, oh! mark

That giant palm, whose foliage broad and dark

Plays on the sun-clad rock!--Beneath, a cave

Spreads wide its sparry mouth: while loosely wave

A thousand creepers, dyed with thousand stains,

Whose wreaths enrich the trees, and cloathe the plains.

Dear friend, how blest, if passed my life could be

In that fair isle, with God alone and thee,

Far from the world, from man and fiend secure,

No guilt to harm us, and no vice to lure!

Bright round the virgin’s shrine would blush and bloom

That world of flowers, which pour such rich perfume;

And sweet yon caves repeat with mellowing swell

Eve’s closing hymn, when chimed the vesper-bell.”

The pilot heard--“Oh! spring of life,” he cried,

“How bright and beauteous seems the world untried!

I too, like you, in youth’s romantic bowers

Dreamt not of wasps in fruit, nor thorns in flowers;

And when on banks of sand the sunbeams shone,

I deemed each sparkling flint a precious stone.

Ah! noble lady, learn, that isle so fair,

The fields all roses, and all balm the air,

That isle is one, where every leaf’s a spell,

Where no good thing e’er dwelt, nor e’er shall dwell.

No fisher, forced from home by adverse breeze,

Would slake his thirst from yon infernal trees:

No shipwrecked sailor from the following waves

Would seek a shelter in those haunted caves.

There flock the damned! there Satan reigns, and revels!

And thence yon isle is called (( The Isle of Devils!”

Nor think, on rumour’s faith this tale is given:

Once, hot in youthful blood, when hell nor heaven

Much claimed my thoughts, (the truth with shame I tell;

Holy St. Francis, guard thy votary well! )

In quest of water near that isle I drew:

When lo! such monstrous forms appalled my view,

Such shrieks I heard, sounds all so strange and dread,

That from the strand with shuddering haste I fled,

Plyed as for life my oars, nor backward bent my head.

And though since then hath flown full many a year,

Still sinks my heart, still shake my limbs with fear,

Soon as yon awful island meets mine eye!

Cross we our breasts! say, ‘Ave!’ and pass by!”