Poems (Campbell)/Agnes and the Water-Sprite
AGNES AND THE WATER-SPRITE.
'Twas on a gloomy April day,On Brassa's hills the mist was grey, And cold and chilling was the wind;When Agnes on the rocky shoreSat list'ning to the billows' roar, In musing pensiveness reclin'd.
Fair Agnes was the loveliest maidThat e'er o'er Brassa's mountains stray'd; For fairy form, and angel face,And auburn tresses unconfin'dThat sported wanton to the wind, Had deck'd her with each outward grace.
Oft while the gentle Agnes sung,The rocks with vocal music rung; While Echo, from her mossy cave,Catching the wild notes, warbled high,Or softly as they seem'd to die, Repeats them to the list'ning wave.
"Oh! why," she sings, "does Donald stay,From me, from love, from friends away, A truant thus from sweet repose,To roam the sea's inconstant breast,Whose angry billows never rest, The sport of every storm that blows!
When last upon the foaming tideI saw the vessel proudly ride, That bore my sinking heart away,While parting on the moonlight shore,He vow'd to love me evermore, And softly whisp'ring, thus did say:—
By the pale moon, and azure sky,By Heav'n's eternal majesty, I swear I'll never love but thee!Ye sacred guardians of the good,That watch us on the troubled flood, Forsake me if I perjur'd be?—
There in the sacred face of Heav'n,My solemn vows in turn were giv'n; And if those vows were false, I pray'dThat he who won my faithless heartShould act, like me, th' inconstant's part, And leave me wretched and betray'd."
Thus Agnes sung in artless lays,Her Donald's love, her Donald's praise, Nor dream'd a list'ning ear was nigh; When, lo! beside the billowy floodA brighter form than mortal stood, And view'd her with enraptur'd eye.
Like golden threads, or sunny beams,His hair in many a ringlet streams Adown his shoulders fair;Bright was his bloom, and his dark eyeLike star in bleak December's sky, And heav'nly was his air.
A jetty courser, dark as night,Beside him stood in harness bright, And neighing paw'd the sand;With wild impatience toss'd his mane,While gracefully the silken rein Slung from his master's hand.
While Agnes gaz'd with wond'ring eyes,And thought some angel from the skies Had deign'd on earth to tread,The graceful stranger silence broke,Soft music warbled as he spoke, And thus address'd the maid:—
"Shalt thou, oh! loveliest of thy kind!Be to this wint'ry isle confin'd, And in some lowly cell,With all these bright immortal charms,Be doom'd to some rude native's ar ms, With want and woe to dwell?
Oh! fly with me, my lovely maid,Nor be by vulgar fools betray'd;— Fly on the wings of loveWith me to some more blessed clime,Where forests rear their heads sublime, Where waves the spicy grove.
Why wilt thou here the absence mournOf one who never may return? Perhaps the wand'rer nowFrom thy lov'd image falsely flies,And for another fair-one sighs, Forgetful of his vow.
Not such the youth who bows beforeThy matchless charms, and shall adore While life his bosom warms;Oh! come, and bless my happy land,Where all shall bow at thy command, And worship all thy charms.
The sands upon my shores are gold,Where ocean's gentlest waves are roll'd, The rocks refulgent shineWith coral, pearl, and sapphire blue,And precious stones of ev'ry hue, And diamonds from the mine.
There orange groves extend their shade,To screen thy beauties, lovely maid, From noon-day's scorching heat: And pleasant bow'rs of rare perfume,Where nature's loveliest roses bloom, Shall be thy cool retreat."
He ceased,—to Agnes' inmost soulThe voice of adulation stole, And won her changing heart;Yet conscience whisper'd Donald's nameWith all his worth, and constant flame; While rising to depart.
The stranger seiz'd her yielding hand,And lightly springing from the strand, With Agnes at his side,With many a soothing word of loveHe strove her terrors to remove, As o'er the sands they ride.
With hope and dread her bosom burn'd,And many a wistful look she turn'd Upon her native shore;———"Scenes of my childish days, farewellIn happier clime shall Agnes dwell, And never see you more."
The courser left the sandy shore,And sprung amid the ocean's roar, With many a hideous yell;Chang'd was the spirit's heav'nly form,His native waves and roaring storm Had broke the magic spell.
Mix% with the waves the courser seem'd;In trembling agony she scream'd, And gaz'd with wild affright,While the dark fiend the waves did quaff,And with a loud and hellish laugh, Evanish'd from her sight.
Dread was the storm, and hoarse the waveRebellow'd 'neath the rocky cave, While echo sadly moans;And oft amid the tempest's roarWas heard upon the dreary shore, The dying Agnes' groans.
And oft at midnight's moony sceneA faded form of ghastly mien Across the waves doth glide;And oft upon the passing galesA plaintive voice the ear assails, When wand'ring by the tide.