4596740Poems — Maritorne; or, the Pirate of MexicoLucretia Maria Davidson
MARITORNE; OR, THE PIRATE OF MEXICO.
On Barritaria's brow the watch-fires glow, Their beacons beaming on the Gulf below, As if to dare some death-devoted hand To quench in blood the boldly blazing brand; Some Orlean herald armed with threat'ning high To daunt the Pirate Chieftain's haughty eye, To bid him bend to tame and vulgar law, And bow to painted things with trembling awe. Such herald well may come, but woe betide The self-devoted messenger of pride! Such herald well may come, but far and near The name of Maritorne is joined with fear; His vessels proudly ride the Gulf at will, Whilst he is Chief of Barritaria's Isle. The iron hand of power is raised in vain, Whilst Maritorne is master of the main. 'Tis his to sacrifice, 'tis his to spare: He moves in silence, and is everywhere. His victims must with pompous boldness bleed, But if he pities, who may tell the deed? 'Tis done in secret, that no eye may mark One thought more gentle, or one act less dark. And he, the Governor of yon fair land, Whose tongue speaks freedom, but whose guilty hand Grasps the half-loosened manacles again, And adds, unseen, fresh links to slavery's chain; Hated full deeply, dreaded and abhorred, The Pirate Chief, the haughty island lord. And cause enough, deep hidden in his breast, Had he, the moody leader of the West, To hate that fearful man, who stood alone Feared, dreaded, and detested, though unknown. That cause was smothered or burst forth to light, Wreathed in the incense of a patriot's right, To drive the bold intruder from the shore, Where war and bloodshed must appear no more; But deep within his heart the crater glowed From whence this gilded stream of lava flowed; 'Twas wounded pride, which, writhing inly, bled, And called for vengeance on the offender's head; For Maritorne, with bold, unbending brow, Had scorned his power—that were enough; but lo! There on the very threshold of his home, There had the traitor Pirate dared to come, And thence had borne his own, his only child, Mate all unfit for Maritorne the wild; And when the maiden cursed him in her breast, Those curses came not o'er him,—he was blest: For but to gaze upon her, and to feel That she whom he adored was near him still, Was bliss! was heaven itself! and he whose eye Bent not to aught of dull mortality, Shrunk with a tremulous delight whene'er The voice of Laura rose upon his ear; That voice had power to quell the fiend within, Whose touch had turned his very soul to sin. That fiend was vengeance; e'en his virtues bowed Before the altar which to vengeance glowed. His virtues! yes; for even fiends may boast A shadow of the glory they have lost. But O! like them, his crimes were dark and deep, For vengeance was awake,—can vengeance sleep; Yes; sleep, as tigers sleep, with half-shut eye, Crouching to spring upon the passer-by, With parched tongue cleaving to his blackened cell, Stiff'ning with thirst, and jaws which hunger fell Hath sharply whetted, quivering to devour The reckless wretch abandoned to his power. Yes: thus may vengeance sleep in breast like his, Where thoughts of wild revenge are thoughts of bliss. Thus may it sleep, like Ætna's burning breast, To burst in thunders when 'tis dreaded least; For his had been the joyless, thankless part Of one who warmed a viper at his heart, And clasped the venomed reptile to his breast Till wounded by the ingrate he caressed. Such had been Maritorne's accursed fate, Ere he became the hardened child of hate. At first, his breast was torn with anguish wild; He cursed himself, then bitterly reviled The world as hollow-hearted, false, unkind; He cursed himself, and doubly cursed mankind; And then his heart grew callous, and like steel Grasped in his hand, had equal power to feel. 'Twas like yon mountain snow-crest, chill though bright, Cold to the touch, but dazzling to the sight, Till when the hour. of darkness gathers, then The sunbeam fades, the ice grows dim again. He had a friend, one on whom fancy's eye Had deeply, rashly stamped fidelity: Traitor had better seemed—worm—viper—aught— The vilest, veriest wretch e'er named in thought; For he was sin's own son, and all that e'er Angels above may hate or mortals fear. There was a fascination in his eye Which those who felt, might seek in vain to fly. There was a blasting glance of mockery there; There was a calm, contemptuous, biting sneer Forever on his lip, which made men fear, And, fearing, shun him, as a bird will shun A gilded bait, though glittering in the sun; But still the mask of friendship he could wear; The smile, the warm professions all were there; Let him who trusts to these alone, beware! A lurking devil may be crouching there. Shame on mankind that they will stoop to use Wiles which the imps of darkness would refuse. Henceforth let friendship drop her robes of light, And following desolation's blasting flight ······ ······ There paced the Pirate Chief with giant stride, Deep chorus keeping to the Mexic tide; His sable plumes were hovering o'er his brow, As if to hide the depth of thought below. He paused—'twas but the dashing of the spray; Again! 'twas but the night-watch on his way. He only muttered, gnashed his teeth, and smiled; Fit mirth were that, so ghastly and so wild, To grace a Pirate Chieftain's scornful lip; 'Twas like St. Helmo's night-fire o'er the deep. The beacon blaze is burning on the shore, But burns it not more dimly than before? Perchance the drowsy sentinel is sleeping, His weary vigils negligently keeping. So thought the Chief, but still his wary eye Was fixed intently between earth and sky, As if its quick, keen glance would light the flame, And blast the sleeper with remorse and shame. He starts; suspicion flashes on his brain— He grasps his dagger—by St. Mark—again! His bugle brightly glittered on his breast; His lip the gilded bauble gently pressed; One breath, one sigh, and rock and hill and sea Will echo back the warlike minstrelsy. The figure which had slowly passed between Himself and yonder blaze, sank where 'twas seen, As though the earth had gaped with sudden yawn, And drank both fire and form in silence down; The beacon was extinguished, rock and tree And beetling cliff, and wildly foaming sea, Were hid in darkness, for the deep red light Which faintly sketched them on the brow of night, Was dim as was the moon's pale tremulous glow, For tempest-clouds were rallying round her brow; ······ ······ The sound of a footstep is on the shore, It dies away in the surge's roar; It is heard again as the angry spray Rolls back and foams its shame away; And shrill and clear was the call of alarm,— 'Twas like the breaking of spell or charm; It screamed o'er the dark wave, it rose to the hill. And the answering echoes reëchoed it still. A rushing sound as of coming waves, A glittering band as if burst from their graves, Are the answers which wake at the bidding clear Of him, the Lord of the Isle of Fear. But scarce had the summons in silence died, When the foot which had waked the tumult wide, Was pressing the sand where it yielding gave To the lightest tread as 'twas washed by the wave By the side of the Pirate, with outstretched hand, The bold intruder looked round on the band; But none saw the face of that being save he; In wonder he gazed; in his eye you might see Surprise, and shame, and a fiend-like gleam, Which whispered of more than fear might dream; "And is it for this—for a woman like thee?" He angrily muttered and turned to the sea— "And is it for this I have sounded the call Whose notes may never unanswered fall; Whose lowest tone is the knell of more Than can crowd at once upon Hell's broad shore? And is it for this I must idly stand To trace the wave with my sword on the strand? Speak! tell me, or now, by the blood on its blade, I will give to that pale cheek a deadlier shade." "The beacon! the beacon!"—she turned to the spot, And pointed the Chief where the light was not. The murmur ran through the waiting crowd; It was loud at first, but it grew more loud, Till "the Beacon! the Beacon!" rang on to the sky, But its light was extinguished, no blaze met the eye. "Thus much for the moment; thy honor is clear; If it suffers, then look for thy recompense here;" And she threw back her mantle and gave to the light Which glared from the torches all flamingly bright, A form which e'en Maritorne marked not unmoved, But 'twas one which he did not, nor ever had loved. "There are spies who are waiting in ambush for thee I marked out the cavern; 'twas near to the sea; They are few, they are bold, they are guided by one Who has sworn ere the dawn of another day's sun To lead thee in triumph, unwounded, unharmed, To yonder proud city all chained and unarmed; This swears he by all that is sacred to do, I heard it and hastened thus breathless to you. For pardon I sue not; O punish my crime! Here, here is my bosom, and now is the time! The last moment beheld me imploring for breath, Now 'tis not worth asking, I sue but for death." The ocean was roaring too loudly to hear The words she was speaking, the Chief bent his ear; His dark plume was resting half fearfully there, Upon the white brow of the beautiful Clare, As a being all guilty and trembling would rest Self-accused, self-condemned, in the land of the blest. And he, its wild wearer, how heard he the tale? His eye flashed the darker, his lip grew more pale; But when it was finished and Clara knelt down, Where, where was his anger, and where was his frown? On her forehead he printed a passionate kiss. "O Clara, forgive me! remember not this, But forget not that thou, and thou only, shalt know The cause of my madness, my guilt, and my woe. If I fall, thou wilt read it in letters of blood 'Neath the stone, near 'the rock, where the beaconlight glowed; If I live,"—and he hastily bowed himself,—"then The Fiend and the pirate were masters again." ······ ······ A light is on the waters, and the dip Of distant oars is heard from steep to steep: The hum of voices float upon the air, Soft, yet distinct, though distant, full and clear. Come they to Barritaria's Isle as midnight foes? 'Tis well! the world but roughly with them goes. Come they to Barritaria's Isle to join Their traitor arms, proud Maritorne, with thine? O, better had they never left yon shore, To which they may return again no more; Fools! think they he is bleeding in a strife Where every drop writes guilt upon his life For gold, for fame, for power, for aught on' earth Which vulgar minds might think were richly worth A life of bloodshed and dishonor? No! They read not right who read yon pirate so; The plash of troubled waters, and the sound Of moving vessels grating o'er the ground, The quick low hum of voices, the faint gush Of light waves gurgling as with sudden rush They feebly kissed the bark, then sunk away, As half-repenting them such welcome gay, Were caught, perchance, by some lone fisher's ear, Who plied his line or net at midnight here; Perhaps he started from his drowsy mood, And tossed his bait still further down the flood; But be that as it may, 'twas heard 'no more, And listning silence hovered o'er the shore. And yonder fire the battle sign is beaming, Far o'er the dusky waters redly streaming, The shadow of the Pirate-ship lies there, Its banners feebly dancing in the air; Its broad sails veering idly to and fro, Now glitt'ring 'neath the full moon's silver glow, Now black'ning in the shade of night's dull frown; 'Twas like its Chief, in silence and alone, Gazing upon the shadow which it cast O'er every rippling wave which gently passed. And such had been his joyless, gloomy lot, Forgetting all mankind, by all forgot, Save that accursed one whose blasting eye Was glaring on him,—'twas in vain to fly While vengeance whispered curses in his ear, And thought, the demon thought, received them there, But it had ever been his lot to throw O'er those who passed him, shades of gloom and woe; His love for Laura had been deeply cursed; Hatred's black phial o'er his brow had burst; He felt himself detested, and he knew That she whom he adored, abhorred him too. But O, the hapless, the ill-fated one, She who could love him for himself alone, Love him with all the crimes upon his head, Love when the crowd with detestation fled,— A deep dark shade, a wild, a with'ring blast Fell o'er her destiny; the die was cast; She was a wretched one, a sweet flower faded, Whose wand'ring tendrils round the night-shade braided, Clung to its baleful breast,—hung drooping there, Self-sacrificed, it drank the poisoned air And with'ring 1825.[Unfinished.]
