Mazelli and Other Poems(马兹里)

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Mazelli, and Other Poems

Mazelli, and Other

Poems

By George W. Sands

Mazelli, and Other Poems

Canto I.

"Stay, traveller, stay thy weary steed, The sultry hour of noon is

near, Of rest thy way-worn limbs have need, Stay, then, and, taste its

sweetness here. The mountain path which thou hast sped Is steep, and

difficult to tread, And many a farther step 'twill cost, Ere thou wilt find

another host; But if thou scorn'st not humble fare, Such as the pilgrim

loves to share,-- Not luxury's enfeebling spoil, But bread secured by

patient toil-- Then lend thine ear to my request, And be the old man's

welcome guest. Thou seest yon aged willow tree, In all its summer

pomp arrayed, 'Tis near, wend thither, then, with me, My cot is built

beneath its shade; And from its roots clear waters burst To cool thy lip, and

quench thy thirst:-- I love it, and if harm should, come To it, I think that

I should weep; 'Tis as a guardian of my home, So faithfully it seems to

keep Its watch above the spot where I Have lived so long, and mean to die.

Come, pardon me for prating thus, But age, you know, is garrulous; And in

life's dim decline, we hold Thrice dear whate'er we loved of old,-- The

stream upon whose banks we played, The forest through whose shades we

strayed, The spot to which from sober truth We stole to dream the dreams

of youth, The single star of all Night's zone, Which we have chosen as our

own, Each has its haunting memory Of things which never more may be."

II.

Thus spake an aged man to one Who manhood's race had just begun.

His form of manhood's noblest length Was strung with manhood's stoutest

strength, And burned within his eagle eye The blaze of tameless energy--

Mazelli, and Other Poems

Not tameless but untamed--for life Soon breaks the spirit with its strife

And they who in their souls have nursed The brightest visions, are the first

To learn how Disappointment's blight Strips life of its illusive light; How

dreams the heart has dearest held Are ever first to be dispelled; How hope,

and power, and love, and fame, Are each an idly sounding name, A

phantom, a deceit, a wile, That woos and dazzles to beguile. But time had

not yet tutored him, The youth of hardy heart and limb, Who quickly drew

his courser's bit; For though too haughty to submit, In strife for mastery

with men, Yet to a prayer, or a caress, His soul became all

gentleness,-- An infant's hand might lead him then: So answered he,--"In

sooth the way My steed and I have passed to-day, Is of such weary,

winding length, As sorely to have tried our strength, And I will bless the

bread and salt Of him who kindly bids me halt." Then springing lightly to

the ground, His girth and saddle he unbound, And turning from the path

aside, The steed and guest, the host and guide, Sought where the old man's

friendly door Stood ever open to the poor: The poor--for seldom came the

great, Or rich, the apers of their state, That simple, rude abode to see, Or

claim its hospitality.

III.

From where the hermit's cottage stood, Beneath its huge old

guardian tree, The gazer's wand'ring eye might see, Where, in its maze

of field and wood, And stretching many a league away, A broad and

smiling valley lay:-- Lay stilly calm, and sweetly fair, As if Death had not

entered there; As if its flowers, so bright of bloom, Its birds, so gay of

song and wing, Would never lose their soft perfume, Would never,

never cease to sing. Fat flocks were in its glens at rest, Pure waters

wandered o'er its breast, The sky was clear, the winds were still, Rich

harvests grew on every hill, The sun in mid-day glory smiled, And nature

slumbered as a child.

Mazelli, and Other Poems

IV.

And now, their rustic banquet done, And sheltered from the noontide

sun By the old willow's pleasant shade, The guest and host the scene

surveyed; Marked how the mountain's mighty base The valley's course

was seen to trace; Marked how its graceful azure crest Against the sky's

blue arch was pressed, And how its long and rocky chain Was parted

suddenly in twain, Where through a chasm, wide and deep, Potomac's

rapid waters sweep, While rocks that press the mountain's brow, Nod o'er

his waves far, far below;(1) Marked how those waves, in one broad blaze,

Threw back the sun's meridian rays, And, flashing as they rolled along,

Seemed all alive with light and song; Marked how green bower and

garden showed Where rose the husbandman's abode, And how the village

walls were seen To glimmer with a silvery sheen, Such as the Spaniard

saw, of yore, Hang over Tenuchtitlan's walls, When maddened with the

lust of gore, He came to desecrate her halls; To fire her temples, towers,

and thrones, And turn her songs of peace to groans. They gazed, till from

the hermit's eye A tear stole slow and silently; A tear, which Memory's

hand had taken From a deep fountain long congealed; A tear, which

showed how strongly shaken The heart must be, which thus revealed,

Through time's dim shadows, gathering fast, Its recollections of the past;

Then, as a sigh escaped his breast, Thus spake the hermit to his guest.

"Thou seest how fair a scene is here; It seems as if 'twere planned

above, And fashioned from some happier sphere, To be the home of

peace and love. Yet man, too fond of strife, to dwell In meek

contentment's calm repose, Will turn an Eden to a hell, And triumph in

his brother's woes! And passion's lewd and lawless host, Delight to rave

and revel most Where generous Nature stamps and strews Her fairest

forms, and brightest hues: And Discord here has lit her brand, And

Hatred nursed her savage brood, And stern Revenge, with crimson hand,

Mazelli, and Other Poems

Has written his foul deeds in blood. But those who loved and suffered then,

Have given place to other men: Of all who live, to me alone The story, of

their fate is known; Give heed, and I will tell it thee, Tho' mournful must

the story be.

VI.

I mind as if 'twere yesterday, The hour when first I stood beside

The margin of yon rushing tide, And watched its wild waves in their play;

These locks that now are thin and gray, Then clustered thick and dark as

thine, And few had strength of arm like mine. Thou seest how many a

furrow now Time's hand hath ploughed athwart my brow: Well, then it was

without a line;-- And I had other treasures too, Of which 'tis useless

now to vaunt; Friends, who were kind, and warm, and true; A heart,

that danger could not daunt; A soul, with wild dreams wildly stirred; And

hope that had not been deferred. I cannot count how many years Have

since gone by, but toil and tears, And the lone heart's deep agony, I feel

have sadly altered me;-- Yet mourn I not the change, for those I loved or

scorned, my friends or foes, Have fallen and faded, one by one, As

time's swift current hurried by, Till I, of all my kith alone, Am left to

wait, and wish to die.

VII.

How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears, And names his work

immortal; years Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride, Stern Desolation's

brood abide; The owl within his bower sits, The lone bat through his

chamber flits; Where bounded by the buoyant throng, With measured step,

and choral song, The wily serpent winds along; While the Destroyer

stalketh by, And smiles, as if in mockery. How strong a band hath Time!

Love weaves His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves, (Methinks his

fittest crown would be A chaplet from the cypress tree;) With hope his

breast is swelling high, And brightly beams his laughing eye; But soon his

Mazelli, and Other Poems

hopes are mixed with fears, And soon his smiles are quenched in tears:

Then Disappointment's blighting breath Breathes o'er him, and he droops

to death; While the Destroyer glideth by, And smiles, as if in mockery.

How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins The eager youth to her

embrace; With tameless ardour he begins, And follows up the bootless

race; Ah! bootless--for, as on he hies, With equal speed the phantom flies,

Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone, He faints, and sinks, and dies

unknown; While the Destroyer passeth by, And smiles, as if in mockery.

Gaze, stranger, on the scene below; 'Tis scarce a century ago, Since

here abode another race, The men of tomahawk and bow, The savage

sons of war and chase; Yet where, ah! where, abide they now? Go search,

and see if thou canst find, One trace which they have left behind, A single

mound, or mossy grave, That holds the ashes of the brave; A single

lettered stone to say That they have lived, and passed away. Men soon will

cease to name their name, Oblivion soon will quench their fame, And the

wild story of their fate, Will yet be subject of debate, 'Twixt antiquarians

sage and able, Who doubt if it be truth or fable.

VIII.

I said I minded well the time, When first beside yon stream I stood;

Then one interminable wood, In its unbounded breadth sublime, And in

its loneliness profound, Spread like a leafy sea around. To one of foreign

land and birth, Nursed 'mid the loveliest scenes of earth, But now from

home and friends exiled, Such wilderness were doubly wild;-- I thought it

so, and scarce could I My tears repress, when standing by The river's brink,

I thought of mine Own native stream, the glorious Rhine! For, near to it,

with loving eye, My mother watched my infancy; Along its banks my

childhood strayed, With its strong waves my boyhood played. And I could

see, in memory, still My father's cottage on the hill, With green vines

trailing round and o'er Wall, roof and casement, porch and door: Yet soon I

learned yon stream to bless, And love the wooded wilderness. I could not

then have told thee how The change came o'er my heart, but now I know

Mazelli, and Other Poems

full well the charm that wrought, Into my soul, the spell of thought-- Of

tender, pensive thought, which made Me love the forest's deepest shade,

And listen, with delighted ear, To the low voice of waters near, As gliding,

gushing, gurgling by, They utter their sweet minstrelsy. I scarce need give

that _charm_ a name; Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,-- Ah! where is

mind, or heart, or soul, That has not bowed to its control?

IX.

See, where yon towering, rocky ledge, Hangs jutting o'er the river's

edge, There channelled dark, and dull, and deep, The lazy, lagging waters

sleep; Thence follow, with thine eagle sight, A double stone's cast to the

right, Mark where a white-walled cottage stands, Devised and reared by

cunning hands, A stately pile, and fair to see! The chisel's touch, and

pencil's trace, Have blent for it a goodly grace; And yet, it much less

pleaseth me, Than did the simple rustic cot, Which occupied of yore that

spot. For, 'neath its humble shelter, grew The fairest flower that e'er drank

dew; A lone exotic of the wood, The fairy of the solitude, Who dwelt amid

its loneliness To brighten, beautify, and bless. The summer sky's serenest

blue, Would best portray her eye's soft hue; From her white brow were

backward rolled Long curls of mingled light and gold; The flush upon her

cheek of snow, Had shamed the rose's harsher glow; And haughty love had,

haughtier grown, To own her breast his fairest throne. The eye that once

behold her, ne'er Could lose her image;--firm and bright, All-beautiful,

and pure, and clear, 'Twas stamped upon th' enamoured sight;

Unchangeable, for ever fair, Above decay, it lingered there! As it has

lingered on mine own, These many years, till it has grown, In its

mysterious strength, to be A portion of my soul and me.

Not in the peopled solitude Of cities, does true love belong; For it is

of A thoughtful mood, And thought abides not with the throng. Nor is it

Mazelli, and Other Poems

won by glittering wealth, By cunning, nor device of art, Unheralded, by

silent stealth, It wins its way into the heart. And once the soul has

known its dream, Thenceforth its empire is supreme, For heart, and brain,

and soul, and will, Are bowed by its subduing thrill. My love, alas! not

born to bless, Had birth in nature's loneliness; And held, at first, as a sweet

spell, It grew in strength, till it became A spirit, which I could not

quell,-- A quenchless--a volcanic flame, Which, without pause, or time

of rest, Must burn for ever in my breast. Yet how ecstatically sweet, Was

its first soft tumultuous beat! I little thought that beat could be The

harbinger of misery; And daily, when the morning beam Dawned earliest

on wood and stream, When, from each brake and bush were heard, The

hum of bee, and chirp of bird, From these, earth's matin songs, my ear

Would turn, a sweeter voice to hear-- A voice, whose tones the very air

Seemed trembling with delight to bear; From leafy wood, and misty

stream, From bush, and brake, and morning beam, Would turn away my

wandering eye, A dearer object to descry, Till voice so sweet, and form so

bright, Grew part of hearing and of sight.

XI.

Yet my fond love I never told, But kept it, as the miser keeps, In

his rude hut, his hoarded heaps Of gleaming gems, and glittering gold:

Gloating in secret o'er the prize, He fears to show to other eyes; And so

passed many months away, Till once I heard a comrade say:-- "To-morrow

brings her bridal day; Mazelli leaves the greenwood bower, Where she has

grown its fairest flower, To bless, with her bright, sunny smile, A stranger

from a distant isle, Whom love has lured across the sea, O'er hill and

glen, through wood and wild, Far from his lordly home, to be Lord of

the forest's fairest child." It was as when a thunder peal Bursts, crashing

from a cloudless sky, It caused my brain and heart to reel And throb,

with speechless agony: Yet, when wild Passion's trance was o'er, And

Thought resumed her sway once more, I breathed a prayer that she might

be Saved from the pangs that tortured me; That her young heart might

Mazelli, and Other Poems

never prove The sting of unrequited love. My task I then again began, But

ah! how much an altered man,-- A single hour, a few hot tears, Had done

the wasting work of years.

XII.

Nor was it I alone, to whom Those words had been as words of doom,

By some malicious fiend rehearsed: Another one was standing by, With

princely port, and piercing eye, Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume;

I thought his heaving heart would burst, His labouring bosom's heave and

swell, So strongly, quickly, rose and fell! A long, bright blade hung at his

side, Its keen and glittering edge he tried; He bore a bow, and this he drew,

To see if still its spring were true; But other sign could none be caught, Of

what he suffered, felt, or thought. And then with firm and haughty stride,

He turned away, and left my side; I watched him, as with rapid tread,

Along the river's marge he sped, Till the still twilight's gathering gloom

Hid haughty form, and waving plume.

Mazelli, and Other Poems

Canto II.

He stood where the mountain moss outspread Its smoothness

beneath his dusky foot; The chestnut boughs above his head, Hung

motionless and mute. There came not a voice from the wooded hill,

Nor a sound from the shadowy glen, Save the plaintive song of the whip-

poor-will,(2) And the waterfall's dash, and now and then, The

night-bird's mournful cry. Deep silence hung round him; the misty light Of

the young moon silvered the brow of Night, Whose quiet spirit had

flung her spell O'er the valley's depth, and the mountain's height, And

breathed on the air, till its gentle swell Arose on the ear like some loved

one's call; And the wide blue sky spread over all Its starry canopy.

And he seemed as the spirit of some chief, Whose grave could not give

him rest; So deep was the settled hue of grief, On his manly front

impressed: Yet his lips were compressed with a proud disdain, And his

port was erect and high, Like the lips of a martyr who mocks at pain,

As the port of a hero who scorns to fly, When his men have failed in

fight; Who rather a thousand deaths would die, Than his fame

should suffer blight.

II.

And who by kith, and who by name, Is he, that lone, yet haughty

one? By his high brow, and eye of flame, I guess him old Ottalli's son.

Ottalli! whose proud name was here In other times, a sound of fear! The

fleet of foot, and strong of hand, Chief of his tribe, lord of the land, The

forest child, of mind and soul Too wild and free to brook control! In chase

was none so swift as he, In battle none so brave and strong; To friends,

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Mazelli,andOtherPoems1Mazelli,andOtherPoemsByGeorgeW.SandsMazelli,andOtherPoems2CantoI.I."Stay,traveller,staythywearysteed,Thesultryhourofnoonisnear,Ofrestthyway-wornlimbshaveneed,Stay,then,and,tasteitssweetnesshere.ThemountainpathwhichthouhastspedIssteep,anddifficulttotread,Andmanyafartherstep'twil...

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Mazelli and Other Poems(马兹里)

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