The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 14, Pages 122-123
THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.
The Champions had come from their fields of war,
Over the crests of the billows far,
They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,
Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars.
They sat at their feast round the Norse king's board,
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour'd
The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high,
And they flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.
The Scalds had chanted, in Runic rhyme,
Their songs of the sword and the olden time,
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung,
Had breathed from the walls where the bright spears hung.
But the swell was gone from the quivering string.
They had summon'd a softer voice to sing,
And a captive girl, at the warrior's call,
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall.
Lonely she stood—in her mournful eyes
Lay the clear midnight of the southern skies,
And their drooping lids—oh! the world of woe,
The cloud of dreams, that sweet veil below!
Stately she stood—though her fragile frame
Seem'd struck with the blight of some inward flame,
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn,
Under the waves of her dark hair worn.
And a deep flush pass'd, like a crimson haze,
O'er her marble cheek, by the pine-fire's blaze;
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath,
But a token of fever, at strife with death!
She had been torn from her home away,
With her long locks crown'd for her bridal day,
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the Exile by foreign streams.
They bade her sing of her distant land—
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,
Till the spirit, its blue skies had given her, woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.
Faint was the strain in its first wild flow,
Troubled its murmur, and sad and low;
But it swell'd into deeper power ere long,
As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong.
"They bid me sing of Thee, mine own, my sunny land! of Thee!
Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful sounding sea?
Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?—In silence let me die,
In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure deep sapphire sky!
How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth?
Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the North?
"Yet thus it shall be once, once more! my spirit shall awake,
And through the mists of death break out, my Country! for thy sake!
That I may make thee known, with all the glory and the light,
And the beauty never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight!
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,
Thy soul flow o'er my lips again—yet once, my Sicily!
