The Exile, I–XXIV

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

Where roses climb the scent-steeped hills And channelled leaves with dew-drops flash, Bending beneath the trickled rills That 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 plain Where the dry, creviced mosses cling, Sand-sprinkled as by drizzling rain; Where dark and ragged pine-boughs swing, And the free cygnet in its flight Darts with a meteor’s wingèd light.

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

Now young, she thinks not of her race But feels its glory and its pride. She still recalls her mother’s face Who 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 moods See rosy banks that seem their own Where 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 rose Seems like a garden full of bloom, She charms the wilderness, and throws Her own bright colours o’er its gloom; Then at the falling cone’s rebound Pomegranates gild the enchanted ground.

And lest when dear illusions come They 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 burns The haunting vision still returns.

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

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

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

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

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

The snow-flakes build a prison-wall That 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 sand Has drifted o’er her cottage gate! She fears that now her native land Is 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 shriek Of 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 flight She hangs upon the edge of night.

A wind’s moan utters, ‘Stir and go’: Upon its gust she seems to glide Towards lands beyond the falling snow But reaches not its further side. She drops on the cold hilly steeps And 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 sown Stones have sprung up and ice-fields grown.

The spring still comes, when shallow snows Melt o’er a crisping flame of green Wherein the nestled herbage glows Through its white shell,—but there is seen A 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 reveries On her chilled soul: within the light Of those black lashes, those dark eyes, The paling cheek seems over-bright, With lips, like hanging fruit, whose hue Is ruby ’neath a bloom of blue.

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

Their native games to her impart A fitful joy, that sad appears, Only because her eyes and heart Are 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 told Seems 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.