The Exile

They bore her to the northern snowsWhose floods down ice-domed caverns run,From lands where that calm river flowsWhose depths decoy the vagrant sun,Where palms o’er latticed shadows riseWith boughs that web the sultry skies.

Where roses climb the scent-steeped hillsAnd channelled leaves with dew-drops flash,Bending beneath the trickled rillsThat fall and the pink clusters splash;Where aloe-flowers, all flaming red,Like watch-fires o’er the summit spread.

They bore her to a desert plainWhere the dry, creviced mosses cling,Sand-sprinkled as by drizzling rain;Where dark and ragged pine-boughs swing,And the free cygnet in its flightDarts with a meteor’s wingèd light.

Her father, last of mighty lordsWhose deeds the war-like peasants tell,Fearless had met the northern hordesAnd in the battle’s frenzy fell.Full-armed he sleeps, and still the braveSalute him as they pass his grave.

Now young, she thinks not of her raceBut feels its glory and its pride.She still recalls her mother’s faceWho in her stately sorrow died,And those large eyes her image keep,And dream beside it in love’s sleep.

Eyes that are of the sultry zone—That ofttimes in their musing moodsSee rosy banks that seem their ownWhere lies the waste: her olive-woods,Her sky with cypress-skirted folds,All that she loves, her heart remoulds.

As in a desert one red roseSeems like a garden full of bloom,She charms the wilderness, and throwsHer own bright colours o’er its gloom;Then at the falling cone’s reboundPomegranates gild the enchanted ground.

And lest when dear illusions comeThey melt o’er-fast, she hides her eyes,And feigns to see her native home,And shouts in play her soul’s surprise.So while the southern glory burnsThe haunting vision still returns.

When spring bursts o’er the wintry plainAnd violet skies dissolve in spray,And marsh-pools echo drops of rainThat o’er the bud’s new secret play,Her soul seems darting from her eyesTo snatch at nature’s rhapsodies.

The serf who toils upon the roadFrom waste to waste with back that bearsAcross the steppes another’s load,—With eyes that homeward gaze in tears,—Chills not for long a heart that glowsIn its own fire ’mid northern snows.

Where plough may delve or harrow graze,She tramps beside the sluggish teamAs fain to urge its tardy pace:And when she drifts into some dreamHer laugh, her look of childish glee,Is still the joy of memory.

But fears flash o’er her mellow eyesWhen gaunt sand-fountains, side by side,Like giants in the distance rise,Pass slowly by and onward glide,Like shadows from her father’s landThat seek some rumoured icy strand.

Then day breaks through a sullen sky;The keen air shivers;—doth she knowThe blackened clouds now sailing byAre freighted with the virgin snow?Dark ships of winter that unloadThe widespread famine they forbode.

The snow-flakes build a prison-wallThat slants high o’er her window sill;She watches while they slowly fall,Till heaven appears a sinking hill,And darkness gathers o’er her mind:Home is too far for hope to find.

In new despair she sees heaven’s sandHas drifted o’er her cottage gate!She fears that now her native landIs like the desert desolate.The snow still falls and still it clings,Soft dropped like insects’ broken wings.

Through the strange dusk she hears the shriekOf trees snapped by the dreaded wind;The casements shake, the rafters creak;Ah! could she now her mother find!With timid wings too weak for flightShe hangs upon the edge of night.

A wind’s moan utters, ‘Stir and go’:Upon its gust she seems to glideTowards lands beyond the falling snowBut reaches not its further side.She drops on the cold hilly steepsAnd in her distant reverie sleeps.

No longer now the large-eyed child,Who draws her charm so fresh from heaven,Gives up its beauty to the wild;The spell of infant faith is riven:Where the sun’s tender rays were sownStones have sprung up and ice-fields grown.

The spring still comes, when shallow snowsMelt o’er a crisping flame of greenWherein the nestled herbage glowsThrough its white shell,—but there is seenA heart that still unthawed remains;An exile of the loveless plains.

When winter’s sun through summer shines,The joys are banished that she brought:For home, not dreams of home, she pines;Thought is the food of famished thought.It is her heart-corroding hour:The rose-tree is without a flower.

She feeds in broken reveriesOn her chilled soul: within the lightOf those black lashes, those dark eyes,The paling cheek seems over-bright,With lips, like hanging fruit, whose hueIs ruby ’neath a bloom of blue.

The friends who love her as their ownStir self-upbraidings in her breast,For in their midst she is aloneAnd in their peace is without rest.Is there some home by them forgot?Exiles they seem and suffer not.

Their native games to her impartA fitful joy, that sad appears,Only because her eyes and heartAre vacant, and have room for tears.She knows not yet ’tis love’s first throe:The snowdrop breaking through the snow.

At length comes one whose love ere toldSeems wafted o’er a flowery plain,And brings her back that charm of old:The days of childhood live again;Griefs softened into joys return;In love’s new-kindled incense burn.

In silver-crimson trappings gay,His tinkling barbs with billowy manesToss their strong necks before his sleigh—And he has crossed the snowy plains.She hails him, and, with heart aflame,She wonders how such passion came.

Beauty and man’s strong soul are his.Be the earth bare, paved o’er with ice,’Tis full even to its dome in bliss:The desert is her paradise,Where now the hourly deepening skyRains down on her love’s mystery.

She hears his love and hears no more.As waves might cease to beat, as windsMight drop away on some charmed shore,The word a soul-deep echo finds—All her fond life is without breath,And sinks away in rapturous death.

New paths to home are overlaidWith such deep sunshine, not a treeIn densest woods can cast a shade.Her glorious soul again is free,—Free in those bonds of love that windIn bliss about the heart they bind.

Warmer than in its childhood’s flushHer cheek in this new passion glows;Not softer is the fitful blushOf lily ’neath the swaying rose.Her head droops not as when she pined,Now bowed in love’s own southern wind.

A sun of passion is above;Her home is here,—in cloudless eyesShe sees the birth-place of her love,And snows dissolve in burning skies.Palm-leaves above her seem to bowWhen bridal roses wreathe her brow.