Marguerite; or, The Isle of Demons and Other Poems

You ask me, Sisters, to relate The story of the wanton fate That over sea, with dole and strife And love and hate enthralled my life, Entwined with his, whose gentle eyes, That never lost their winsome smile, Illumed for me those sullen skies Which canopy the haunted Isle, A tale so wild, I pray you think, May ill beseem and prove amiss For such a hallowed place as this; A chain it is whose every link Is rusted with some earthly stain, The which you may esteem profane And from its hapless wearer shrink, I would not, Heaven knows, offend The sanctity of sinless ears, Nor vex the pious soul that hears Good angels on soft wings descend, Illumined, from the starry spheres, To tread these cloistered aisles and bend O’er dreaming couches lily pure. But since your suffrance makes secure, And since you kindly deign assent, And graciously with eager look Dispel the fluttering fears that shook My contrite heart, I am content.

Ave Maria.

Mystic Mother! who erewhile Sought me on the Demons’ Isle, Sought, and with compassion mild Shielded thy afflicted child; Shielded, and with vengeance new Scattered the Satanic crew: Blest Madonna! aid me now, Lift the pressure from my brow; Bid the thunder-cloud depart From my overladen heart; Tune my tongue, my lips inspire, Touch them with celestial fire; Shape the lay as meet to set, Like a modest violet, In Saint Cecilia’s coronet.

Three gallant ships that owned command Of Roberval’s imperial hand Thundered to France a proud farewell And sailed away from brusque Rochelle; Sailed on a breezy April day, Sailed westward for a land that lay, I heard the people wisely tell, Betwixt the ocean and Cathay. From shore to ship, from ship to shore A thousand parting signals flew; Ah! hopeful hearts, they little knew That many were there who never more Must see those faces that faded away, And were lost in the distance cold and gray. With troubled breast and tearful eye, In fear and doubt, I knew not why— Unheedful of the sea-winds chill— I watched the land recede until The mountain peaks had passed from sight, Like clouds absorbed in morning’s light, And ocean’s border touched the sky.

Long backward, over leagues of foam, My greyhound gazed,—poor Fida knew That he was borne afar from home, But not from friends, albeit few, His still, for better days or worse, His mistress and her Norman nurse. Far, out beyond the shining bay, The sister vessels held their way, Where, gifted with superior speed, The “Royal Griffin” takes the lead, As if she felt and understood The stern old Viceroy’s hasty mood. A man of courteous mien was he, And smooth as any summer sea When winds are laid; he could be so When naught befell to rouse the flow Of passions that with scanty rest Lay lava-like within his breast. But Heaven fend or man or woman Who set that fiery flood in motion;— His anger, like a storm-tossed ocean, Was fearful in its rage; no human Expostulation, no appeal Of speech, or tears, could make him feel The benediction that is felt By one whose soul, if prone to error, Will yield at last and kindly melt, And lay aside its robe of terror. He could be calm, could well repress His evil nature’s fierce excess, But only when upon him fell The shadow of superior power, Then like all tyrants he would cower And play the courtier passing well. But no superior save the king Had he in all the land of France; In Picardy, his single glance Was law, religion, everything.

His vassals prized his slightest nod, And feared him more than fiend or God. The modest maid, the peasant’s bride His foul approaches must not chide; I blush, as if it were a sin, To own him all too near of kin. Seven sunny years had barely flown When I, an only child, was left, Of sire and happy home bereft, To wipe a mother’s tears alone. A leader in the wars with Spain, The hero whom we wept was slain. Oh! I remember well his look, His stature tall and noble brow, Remember how he often strook And praised my long dark hair, and how On that last morn of clouded bliss He woke me with a parting kiss; His hurried prayer, his slow farewell, The window flowers, the little room, The dangling sword, the nodding plume, The long top-boots and shining spurs;— O, let this pass! O, let me quell A memory shot through years of gloom.

My comely mother from the hour That chronicled his honoured death Wilted and drooped, a pale sweet flower, And three years gone I saw her breath Grow faint and fail. Dear sainted mother! ’Twas just before her spirit fled She did beseech her lordly brother To shield her orphaned Marguerite’s head. He promised with a ready grace And in his rude capricious way Thenceforth assigned me fitting place;— But I was volatile and gay, Ready of wit, of skilful hands, And minded not his curt commands.

Thus came to pass that on his ship,— A ringdove in a falcon’s grip,— I sailed the surging seas afar. But one was there, Eugene Lamar, My bliss, my bane—I cared not what, Who worshipped me, beside me sat, And with me paced the giddy deck, What time we watched the sea-mews peck The foam that fringed the crested wave. For me he ventured all, and gave His fortune to the winds; then why Should aught disturb, or cause one sigh To prophesy of lurking harm?

Exultant in their new-found charm, A motley throng of either sex, Of divers rank and variant age Now promenade the oaken decks, Proud of an ocean pilgrimage. We heeded not their boisterous glee, Their merry songs and dancing feet, Our happiness was too complete. The azure sky and emerald sea, And free-born winds their magic wrought, Till every feeling, every thought, Involved in tremulous ecstacy Made no account of sight or sound;— We twain another world had found, Whose warm excess of drowsing bliss Excluded all the chills of this.

Our ship sped on, fresh blew the wind, Her plodding mates lagged far behind; Like two white cloudlets waxing dim They hung on the horizon’s rim For many days, but hull and mast All wholly disappeared at last.