Poems (Truesdell)/A Legend of the South

by Helen Truesdell

POEMS.

A LEGEND OF THE SOUTH.

PAST FIRST.

'Twas eve, sweet eve: a southern sky
Had flung its thousand lights on high,
And many a fair and lovely scene
Silvered beneath the moon's pale beam;
While, stretching southward far away,
Lake Pontchartrain in beauty lay,
'Mid scenes so fair, when on her strand
You'd almost deem it fairy land;
And just beside, a noble wood.
Draped in the moonlight, proudly stood,
Where Pan, the god of sylvan shades,
Held revels 'mid these woodland glades.
The broad magnolia's leaves unfold
Beside the aster's flowers of gold;
The columbine and lupine wreathed
Garlands, which fragrance only breathed;
And birds of every hue and wing,
Gayly amid the flowerets sing.
No dreary winter visits here,
But spring, sweet spring-time, all the year.
And now my strain is sung to thee,
I'll tell a tale as told to me:—

'Tis said, amid those lovely wilds
 A lonely hermit dwells,
Apart from man, and shunning all,
 To none his tale he tells.

'Tis told by those who near him live.
 That many years before,
He came from Italy's fair clime,
 And sought our Western shore.

Cleft in the hollow of a rock,
 His lonely home is made;
The wild vines wreathe their tendrils round,
 And form a vernal shade.

At early morn he seeks for game,
 For well he loves the chase,
The red deer trembles when he sees
 The time-worn hermit's face.

And oft he climbs the loftiest steeps,
 Where soaring eagles feed,
To gaze upon a stormy sky,
 As if he sought to read

The destiny of one so strange,
 Self-exiled from his home—
An alien from his own sweet land,
 Amid our shades to roam.

A poet and an artist, he
 Dwelt 'neath his native sky;
Amid those glorious works of art
 Too beautiful to die.

Fame and ambition made for him
 A halo round his brow;
Alas, for all those lovely dreams!
 Where have they flown to, now?

He loved—it is a simple tale,
 And one that's often told;
For she he loved was beautiful,
 And rich in lands and gold.

The daughter of a lordly Louse,
 A Baron's only pride—
For whose fair hand the proudest peers
 Of many a realm had sighed.

'Twas in his studio first they met:
 Her friends had brought her there,
To see if art could picture forth
 A sculptured form so fair.

With trembling hand and heart of fire,
 He sought her form to trace;
But ah, despair was on his brow,
 For who could give that face?—

The heavenly beauty of the mind,
 The spirit's sparkling light,
The eye whose gentle radiance shone,
 Soft as the stars of night.

Enshrined within his heart of hearts
 Each look of hers now lay—
A breath of summer o'er his soul,
 Too soon to pass away.

PART SECOND.

'Tis night, a night in Italy:
 How to the mind it brings
Bright visions of that lovely land's
 All high and glorious things!

'Neath a myrtle and an orange grove,
 On a bed of violets sweet,
Salt this gentle high-born maiden,
 With the artist at her feet.

The sunlight from the mountains
 Had faded quite away,
And the misty shades of evening
 Were gathering thick and gray,

When from Her father's castle
 That maiden fair was seen
To glide, with noiseless footsteps,
 Along the shadowy green.

Is this the Baron's daughter,
 The peerless Isabel,
Who wanders in the moonlight
 Alone by lake and fell?

Her lover's watching for her,
 He's waited for her long,
With a heart of burning eloquence,
 And lips and tone of song.

And oh! what wondrous tenderness
 Is falling from his tongue,
And with what fond and earnest faith
 Unto his words she clung.

"Love me ever," said the maiden,
 And her voice was soft and low,
Like the sighing of the south winds
 Amid the myrtle's bough.

PART THIRD.

Grim and silent, in the moonlight,
 An ancient chapel stood,
Where dwelt a priestly anchorite—
 The humble and the good.

With swift and quiet footsteps
 The lovers bent their way,
Ah! toward this ruined chapel,
 Guided by the moon's soft ray.

They have passed the lonely threshold,
 The holy man is there,
Before him is a crucifix,
 Beside, a book of prayer.

There's a deadly pallor resting
 Upon the maiden's brow,
As they kneel with pious fervor,
 To take the solemn vow

That binds them to each other.
 The words were scarcely said,
When through the vaulted chapel
 Rang a voice as from the dead—

"Forbear, forbear, my children!"
 All turned in wild alarm,
And, lo! beside the doorway
 Stood a proud and noble form.

The face was deeply shaded,
 But amid the gathering gloom,
The maiden knew her father,
 By the waving of his plume.

"Forbear!" again he uttered,
 And his voice was stern and deep,
"Let thy words be all unspoken,
 That vow thou must not keep.

"Ye are both, O God! my children,
 The same by birth and name—
Thine, thine will be the anguish,
 But mine has been the shame."

Then he told how he had wandered
 To a distant land away,
To a fair and smiling valley,
 Called the Valley of Glenstray;

Where he wooed an humble maiden,
 And won her for his bride;
Fearing his father's anger,
 But more his mother's pride,

He had wedded her in secret;
 They had never told the tale,
Though his gentle bride grew sorrowful
 While her brow grew sad and pale.

The beautiful and timid girl
 Drooped daily by his side,
Yet still he would not claim her
 As his own, his wedded bride.

But the Friend unto the wretched
 Came swiftly to her aid,
And soon all quietly she slept
 Within the church-yard's shade.

But ere she died, she'd given
 Unto his arms a son—
"Thou, thou," exclaimed the father,
 "Art that wronged, forsaken one!"

Pale, pale as death, the maiden
 Sank fainting to the floor,
While with wild and speechless agony
 Her brother bent him o'er.

That face of matchless beauty,
 That fair and fragile form,
Lay like a blighted lily
 Smitten by a sudden storm.

Oh who can tell the agony
 That filled that brother's breast,
As on his sister's snowy brow
 One holy kiss he prest!

Then turned away all sorrowful,
 All sorrowful and lone,
Bound to a far-off distant land,
 Forever from his own.

And soon within a noble ship,
 Upon a bounding sea,
He came unto our own fair land,
 The beautiful, the free!

And here upon our Southern shore,
 Where breezes softly play,
'Mid orange bowers almost as fair
 As those of Italy.

Cleft in the hollow of a rock,
 His lonely home is made;
The wild vines wreathe their tendrils round,
 And form a vernal shade.