PART THIRD. "Dear friend," she said, brushing away her tears, "If thou wilt rest thee on this smoothest rock And tell me who thou art, and whence did come, And wherefore lingering here, pleased will I listen." A smile stole o'er his pale, storm-beaten face.— "I know thee now, from mother Eve descended, By thy most feminine willingness to hear, The sorrows which did claim thy ready tears While they were but suspected. Sit thee down. Five years it is since, with three stately ships And sturdy crews to man them, one proud day I sailed away from the great three-linked isle, Under my fair Queen's sovereign patronage, For the far Frigid Zone—the wild, the fierce, The unknown Arctic seas—through their cold depths, Their intricate, unmarked, majestic ways, To find a North-West Passage: which wise men And skillful mariners, learned of the sea, Suspected, through the navigator's art Might to the world be opened. High my heart With courage and ambition swelled its tides, Knowledge I had and skill, with enterprise; And should I be successful, future times Should know my name, and future mariners Respect my fame and emulate my deeds. But one faint spot was there in my proud heart, And that was where my constant wife, at parting, Shed sorrowful tears, until they did strike through, A fear, into my breast, that nevermore That faithful brow should lean to it again. "To thee, if thou indeed hast safely passed The horrors and the beauties of the sea, I need not tell the ever-varying scenes Of this most fearful voyage. "Day by day I studied in my cabin over charts; Or, on the deck, learned of the sea and sky The subtle mariner's ever-changeful lore. Prosperous we were, till o'er the mystic bounds Of Oene's realms I sailed; save now and then Some noble sailor of my kindly crews With tears we left upon the bloomless shores Where birds nor flowers should ever bless his grave. On—on—beyond all shores—or sights of dwarfs Slaying the rein-deer by their snow-built huts:— On, through the thickening perils of the way! Methought I held within my brain the clue Through that bewildering labyrinth of ice. For weeks the Sun, a pale and sinking ghost, With feeble eyes had glared upon the Pole. Nor with his wavering arrows could o'erthrow Even the airy domes of delicate sprites, Sitting and decking their etherial robes And turning them, sparkling, to his sullen face. "Now from Oene's dominions, messengers, Borne by the flying winds, hourly arrived, Warning me from her shores. At last the Queen, Gathered together her enormous fleet; It bore down upon us with such grand array As I pray heaven never to see again. An hundred giant ships, whose rainbow sails And glittering masts towered a thousand feet Above our tiny vessels, weighed their anchors And slowly from their harbors drifted out. We heard the creaking of their cables—heard The shouting of their fierce and naked crews— We saw the green sea boil against their keels— Their viewless banners flapped against our faces— Their viewless darts pierced us on every side Till men fell on our decks, a stony heap. We strove, at least, to make a brave retreat, Toiling in mute dispair, or madly praying The winds to favor our poor, shattered sails. They closed around us upon every side. Two of the largest of their avenging fleet, Drawing together crushed in the embrace My stoutest vessel like some frailest shell; Then swung apart, with laughter on their decks, Showing me, where my noble friends had been, Only a seething gulf. The sweat of anguish Froze into hail upon my pallid brow, When, with another shriek of agony, The brother ship went down. At length the winds, Saving us only from more sudden death, Drove us upon the rocks beneath this mount. Five years had wasted all our store of food; But, seeing monsters like this beast of prey, Some of the least exhausted boldly forth Went to destroy them—I amid the rest,— But stupor and a drowsy sweetness came Over our eyes, and we lay down to sleep— Waking to hear the mocking laugh of ghouls, To find us chained, enslaved,—and, worse than all! Lost from our corporal bodies—spirits—dead! "I, as the leader of the intruding band, Am doomed to wander on this mountain side, A century, before my restless ghost, Freed from the thraldom of weird Oene's power, Regains its natural liberty, and soars Into the paradise of happy souls. This is the punishment those mortals bear, Who, venturing into this strange Arctic world, Are vanquished by its sovereign. She hath power, The source of which I know not, to retain The souls of mortals for an hundred years, Demanding service which they needs must pay. The gloomy caverns underneath this mount, And those which in the hearts of icebergs lie, And many by the sea, are filled with those Who work their ransom out with tedious toil. For me—I am not put to any task— My punishment to gaze afar and see How cruelly all friends from distant shores, Who dare attempt my rescue, are restrained. Alas; the North-west Passage! When the day Glinted o'er this pale land, before my sight In devious tracery that Passage lay; Mocking me with its undeveloped truth, Wealth unappropriated, glory lost! Cruel is she who took from me that substance With which I might have conquered an escape, Leaving me, a forlorn old spirit, sere and grey. Musing through barren hours upon the past, I think with bitterness on those who once Were friends and lovers—Queen, companions, Wife! Forgotten! yes, forgotten by them all! The luxuries of the world-taxing city, The kisses of their children, smiles of men Renowned of deeds which have not failed, like mine— This is the portion of that happier crowd Who set me on to dangerous enterprise. But ah! the worst part of it all, is this,— To be forgotten by my own best friends— To be to them as if I ne'er had been! My wife—my wife!"—he ended with bowed head. "Art thou indeed a spirit?" Olive asked, Shrinking a step aside. Then her kind heart O'ercome the transient awe, and stealing close, While smiling on him with sweet, wondering eyes, Began again:—"But art thou truly he Whose name is on the lip of the great world?— Of whom the wives and mothers, tearful, speak When sound the Northern wind-harps?—whose grand fate, Hath power to touch, not only hearts of men, But draw the golden drops from weeping purses? Oh! be content! if Fame and Love content thee. For thee, the hearts of mariners beat loud— For thee, ships chase the pathways of the sea— By thee the souls of nations, like one chord Are smote upon, and ring out sympathy; And men talk on the streets, and by their hearths, Of him who led to dismal, distant shores The Crusade of the Nineteenth Century. In that new world, where generous hearts are found To flourish on the air of liberty, A noble merchant fitted out a ship; And others joined him in his kindly plan, So deep the interest taken in thy fate. And oh, for thee, thou princely-fortuned man, A pale face from a northern window looks, Forever looks, with constancy sublime. At night, when spectral tints are in the North— By day, when winds blow down from that bleak source— That face peers from the window anxiously, As if the elements might come from thee Bearing some message to her pining heart." As breaks the sunlight from a snow-filled cloud, Smiles struggled through the list'ner's wintry looks. "As land-bird with a green twig in its beak Is welcome to the homesick ship which long Hath tossed in foreign waters, so art thou Welcome to me, with this consoling tale. I am content. Weird Oene , keep me here! And I will while away a century In dreaming of a love which hath not failed; Now knowing that the first to welcome me In Heaven's ineffable bowers, will be my wife." "Since thou, Sir John , protected me from harm, What I have said may be some small return. I do dislike to leave thee here, so lonely; But since I for my Bertho went in search, Nought stays my footsteps long. Where'er I go, Whether I be successful in my search, Or perish by the way, I trust again We shall in spirit, if not in body, meet. I have seen this witching Pole-Queen; I have passed This circling cold and stood in the warm heart Of her domains—have pressed her magic isle With my poor human feet, and with my voice Have plead the cause of two young, eager souls. She was not kind, and yet not very cruel, She may relent, even of her hate towards thee. If I again have access to her ear, I'll not forget to plead thy cause, dear sir, As if it were mine own. Farewell!" "Farewell, And heaven bless thine innocence, sweet friend." With parting gesture full of tender grace And soft regret, she passed upon her way. A weary time it grew till on the summit Of Thug she stood, gazing bewildered round. No more she heard her lover's haunting call; But she herself cried out with aching voice, Whose sweetness dropped with every silver tone From the full note of hope to doubt and fear. Sudden a chill fell on her, and a shadow; Her breath congealed, and on those rosy lips The white rime gathered. From behind a rock, Which crowned the mountain, there advanced to view Wole , that old warrior who before Oene Rumbled his boastful story. In his hand He poised his massive spear in act to throw; Yet, seeing there, chilled in her loveliness, (Like some young rose-bud nipped by spring-time frost,) The maiden whom his Queen herself did spare, The frown rolled from his forehead as a cloud Rolls from a rugged crag. The spear remained Moveless in air, while through his frosty glance Melted a softness never known before. The life so nearly frozen in her veins Flew back and thrilled her heart, as on her knees She dropped, and lifting up her pleading hands Crying—"Slay me, at once, great Wole , slay me! With those keen looks, or tell me of my lover! If this great mountain rested on my breast It could not crush me worse than this suspense, Kill me or free me from it! What, to thee— Thou greatest warrior of this shadowy land, Whose conquests like the snows upon this mount Lie white and venerable on thy fame, Unsoiled by one defeat—what is to thee, One prisoner, if she who loves him well, Comes kneeling at thy feet, to ask him back? Thou'lt give him her, I know, since to achieve Renown like thine there must be generous heart." "Look!" cried the warrior and outstretched his spear— "'Tis not auspicious hour for such a plea." Following the motion of his hand she saw From the horizon phantom suns and moons Shoot swiftly, or along the red edge roll. Dim on the distant verge of ghostly shores Pale fleets of paler shades, and flying hosts Of spectral horsemen on their vanishing steeds, Fled either way before the coming morn; While fairies that, on snow-flakes, sailed about Down through the valleys darted out of sight; And meteors, coursing higher in the sky, Exploded in their wrath, dropping down dead The fiery ghouls who rode their shining wings. Sudden, while Olive gazed, she thought a flame Sprang from her feet, when looking, startled, down, She saw the glory of the rising sun Touching the pinnacle of sparkling ice On which she stood. Silent and rapt she gazed While thousand golden flames on thousand spires Were low and lower lit; and here and there Some broad plain glimmered into sudden white— And frozen cataracts which, in daring leaps Midway between vast depths were holden tight, Gleamed out like streams of gold:—Thus, one by one, The wonders of that soulless land appeared, While grey and ghast, behind the sparkling towers Of gorgeous Thug, the ancient Night stooped down. Wole gnashed his teeth and turned again to smite The helpless girl who pleaded; but the light Which angered him had beautified her so, That his cold breath grew moist upon his beard. The sunlight melting in her eyes and flushing Her cheeks with rosy redness, crowned her hair With lustrous splendor, and about her form Fell like a robe of glory, warm and soft. "Mortal!" he cried, while in the agony 'Twixt admiration and inherent hate, The sullen throbbing of his heart was seen Thrilling his moistened beard—"Pass from my sight! Thou makest old Thug's warrior drop his spear, And should that fair face beam on me eternal, Eternal I would swear the sun was good And Oene was no Queen. Yet I would rather, Crush thee beneath my feet, than be this traitor." He would have thrust her rudely from his path. But she arose from off her bended knee, Turning her fair face from him, so her hair Hid its too touching beauty from his sight; Clasping her suppliant hands upon her bosom She spoke out wildly, as one weary waiting For long-expected good;— "Oh, cruel Wole ! Where is my Bertho in this mountain hidden?— Shaping fantastic dreams of heartless Oene , With aching hands into a tangible beauty. How can'st thou keep two yearning souls apart? If thou could'st feel what love is, mighty master Of loveless War, then thou would'st pity me!" "Thou shalt behold thy lover, southern girl," Was Wole's reply, and reaching round the rock Took up a horn shorn from some monster's head And blew in it a blast meant to be angry: Yet strangely pining from the curves it came, And went down wailing through the pallid sunlight, For it was born of the tumultuous sigh Stirred in his bosom by the lovely stranger. Soon the sound smote against a pinnacle Which someway down the mountain had just caught The radiance of the morning, and now stood A ruby palace on a crystal base, With emrald towers and columns sapphire-hued: While at the summons, swift was lifted up A shining net-work from behind the columns, And out there flew two fair, unearthly sprites, With wings like birds of Paradise, and bodies Of shape uncertain; for so swiftly shifted Their rainbow hues amid enwreathing mists, That Olive likened them to those vagaries Born to the eyes that gaze upon the spray Of cataracts dashing in the sun. Their flying Made music like the flowing on of streams, They came and hovered in the air before her, While she regarded them with timid looks Of fear and pleasure, seeing not their features, But floating hair of gold, and beamy brightness As of white foreheads and blue, humid eyes. Next moment she was lifted from the earth, Encircled, as it were, by many rainbows, And rushing, bird-like, through the airy space: While a monotonous, soft and sleepy humming Rose all around and filled her drowsy ears. Brief time it was, 'till, with bewildered eyes, She saw her fairies vanish in a mist, Floating away in music, while she stood Alone, far down the mountain opposite The side that with such toil she just had climbed. She stood alone—and where? the roses shrank From her wan cheeks to view her new distress,— Before her a dark chasm, and above her A crowd of close and overhanging rocks, All dripping, black, and hopelessly down-leant. A glimmering hope now broke upon her sense— Seeing an arch, and, far beyond, the gleam Of lights that from some cavern stole away. Under the arch she passed and found herself Walking an ever-widening vista down, Fading from twilight to auroral glows And brightening into more than noon-day breadth And gorgeousness of light, until she paused Beneath the grand arch of that grand succession, Standing amazed, one slender hand upheld Shading her eyes, half blinded by that view Of Arctic-Nature and of Arctic-Art. In limitless magnificence the cave Before her spread, a world within a world. She entered in, like Eve in Paradise Searching for Adam; and yet, oft beguiled From the great love-thought, by the sights she saw. If she glanced upward to the sparkling dome, The lamps, swinging like suns as far above, Shone down upon her beautiful young face, Smiling to see them dwarfed within her eyes. The crystal floor doubled her bashful feet; She saw no walls; but the refulgent space Was here and there disturbed by artful groups. Once, by a fountain passing, dulcet murmurs, Wooed her aside to listen; and, again, Temples, which mimicked the frost's fairy work, Burning with gems, attracted her to gaze. Music, from hidden sources, beat the air With wings of melody that flew abroad Beyond th' enchanted sense, and darting back Swept with a sweet vibration near her face. Thrice o'er her brow she drew her languid hand, That, if it were a dream, she might dispel The gay enchantment; and thrice murmured o'er The spells learned of her nurse in infancy, Which would all witchcraft render innocent; But that great cavern of the northern world Was not by nurse's spells to be dissolved, Growing more wond'rous, as she wondered more. Now, 'neath her feet, the floor less polished grew, And fountains dashed from the unsculptured rock; She saw half-finished grottoes, fewer lights, And heard a discord in the melody As if of hammers and the shouts of workmen; Meanwhile her heart loudly began to beat. " Bertho ! I have come, Bertho !" she cried out, As the next moment, 'mid a swarthy group Of dusky laborers, a familiar form Raised itself from a shaft of phorphyry, And turned itself to hear that throbbing heart. A light too glad for smiles came o'er the face, The shadowy face, uplifted from its toil, And, " Olive !" echoed back her eager cry. The fairest sight that cavern ever saw Was that young girl holding her glowing arms To clasp her love; her sweet mouth all a-tremble, Her dark eyes flashing joy and tender tears, Her bosom fluttering in its snowy folds With sudden pleasure;—but, what clasped she? A shadow! Pale and silent she shrank back; Her lover folded up his hopeless arms; His face a melancholy so profound put on That Olive to his side again drew near. "Is this one mystery of this mystic world— This world of phantoms?" sighed the stricken girl. "Oh! why did hope keep life within my breast, And passion thrill me with strange fortitude? Why did I save the kisses of my lips For him who nevermore can give them back? Why did I smile to think my arms were soft When thus this spirit fades within their clasp? Bertho !—that scornful Queen did tell me this. And yet I did not comprehend her words. There is no warmth nor beauty in this land! Its people have no hearts—know not of love— Their thoughts are colder than their beds of snow. Indeed, this is no world!—but some vain dream, Troubling my sleep, and I cannot awake. Love then, is a deceitful fantasy— Bertho is dead—is dead—and yet not dead! Life is not life"— Her wild, distrustful words Here ended, as she saw the bitterness Which stormed across the spirit's anguished face:— "Forbear, poor child! thy pitiful complaints! When through these long years of distasteful toil I thought of thee, unceasing, day and night, Calling on heaven to bend thy steps towards me, I thought not that this spirit, weary, worn, And from the covering of its body torn, Its feeling could retain and substance lose. Fool that I was! to sigh for human love! Why art thou here to madden me with looks,— Those womanly, caressing looks which fill My soul with wild desires! Back, to thy home, In that gold-girdled circle of daylight, That island of elysian loveliness, Where thou and I did'st one time idly dream! There breathe the passionate breath of orange-flowers— Walk in the sunlight till thy brows are flushed With its warm kisses—plunge thy snowy feet In the embracing waves and silver sand— Shake down magnolia-blossoms on thy hair— Answer the nightingales' delicious song With thy sweet cries—and, on bright eves, look up And charm the moon upon her lingering way With that soft fire of thine entrancing eyes! Thou wilt not for regret or tears find time. Some lover, clothed in human dignity And tangible robes of life, will haunt thy steps, Drawing up, with magnetic looks, the smiles Which lie deep down in thy now tearful orbs; And, wiling from their blissful hiding-place, The bashful dimples to thy blushing cheeks, And,—it may be—with human eloquence, Beguile thy hand to rest within his own, Sitting, as we have sat,—thy glossy hair Rippling in golden waves across his breast." "Can he be mad as well as dead?" the girl Murmured aside! and then her sorrowing brow She lifted proudly, while a sudden fire Sprang to her lips and eyes—her trembling voice Steadied itself on her unfaltering love.— "Forgive me, Bertho , that my woman's heart, Finding thee thus, should, for an instant, only, Shrink back from thee in awe and deep regret. My love, which has endured so much, grows strong In its endurance; and it only asks That I may never from thy side be driven. Talk not of islands in a sunny sea, Or fragrant blooms, or singing nightingales! I love them not. My father's marble floors Were colder than the icy plains I've passed, When thy dear footsteps fled them. Be content. Love like our own needs not the warmth of sighs Or soft caresses to keep pure the fire Upon the sacred shrine; 'twill burn as bright, Though never by the breath of kisses fanned; 'Tis not a fading blossom—nor a bird That only sings amid the orange-flowers. What have I still?—thy spirit, which is Thou . What have I lost?—thy body, which I loved But as the garment which adorned thy soul. Thou art my Bertho still! I, thy fond Olive , Who comes to share thy banishment with thee. Be of good cheer. Only one century Can Oene thrall thee. In the meanwhile, I Shall die, and be a spirit, as thou art. Until that time I will abide with thee; We will on one another patient wait, Till, hand in hand we leave these dismal shores And celebrate our marriage-day in heaven." PART THIRD. Tumultuous music filled the spacious cave. Oene was coming with her virgin train, Impatient to behold what further charms, Her prisoned laborers at their tasks had wrought. Blowing on quaintly curved and curious shells Which made a sea-like music—mingled up Of sweet, unsyllabled sounds, and long-drawn sighs, Heavy with memories of coral reefs, Murmuring shores, caverns, and surging deeps— There flew, midway between the roof and floor, A band of sprites which lived in air or sea; With eyes like twinkling stars, and winged feet, And sparkling fins down either shoulder-blade, And cheeks puffed out and flushing with their toil. Announced by these, the courtly train approached The spot where Bertho and his Olive stood, Close by an emrald rock, within whose breast A living spring slept like a smiling child. Around the brim Bertho had sculptured moss And rare similitudes of southern flowers; Shaped violets from sapphires, and from stalks, Hung ruby roses, bright, but without soul, As perfumeless as was that frigid land. Oene , resplendent as a wintry moon, Bent her proud eyes upon the waiting pair:— "So! thou hast found thy lover, southern maid? Are, then, these sunbeams which flow from thy head, Pinions as well as tresses bearing thee Across the perilous chasm which guards our cave?" "Yes! I have found my lover, noble Oene ; And I am happy working by his side. See! this sweet spring which we have brimmed with flowers— A mirror for thy beautiful face, O Queen! In adding my slight labor to his own, In hopes that thou would'st never banish me, But leave me by his side to aid his work, I've found a consolation very sweet, And have been happy." "But I have not been!" Spoke Bertho with a moody passionateness, "And never can be till I am restored To the full use of all my natural powers. Happy! when hearing this young creature's laugh— Seeing the dimples, begging for a kiss, Peep from her cheeks, and hide themselves again— Feeling her soft breath warming o'er my brow— Yet be this bodiless ghost of what I was! O, Queen! wilt thou not give me back that shape— Which thou dids't cruelly bereave me of— That I, again, may feel my bounding heart Throbbing against the bosom of my bride? Then thou shalt find what grateful souls can do. For I will court invention, study art, To decorate this favorite cave anew; And she I love will serve thee patiently Unnumbered years, till we our freedom earn." The sternness of his tone had melted down To liquid sweetness, and his fiery eyes Grown humid, as he fixed them on the Queen In soft entreaty. From her lofty brow, So pale and passive, had the shadow rolled, As slightly and unconsciously she bent To his quick utterance. A sudden ray Stole from the twilight of her deepening eyes, And a warm redness into either cheek, Troubling its cold repose, shot quickly up. A moment of suspense, and then she spoke: "'Tis true that I thy body might restore, Since but suspension of its human powers, And not its loss or injury, I control. But what assurance have I that this boon May not prove dangerous? Mortals have what we, With all our vast machinery and weird powers Moving the earth, the sea and air, have not— And that is— soul . A soul and body, too, Might circumvent us—work us desperate harm;— At least 'tis wise to fear the things unknown, And to be chary how we give them scope. As long as thy body's powers restrain, Thy spirit to my will in bondage is; Thou hast no wherewithal to make ado— No weapon at thy service—art a slave,— And shall I give to thee a master's place? Yet, thou hast wakened in me a new thought. What is this love of which you mortals tell?— Which puts such tender sweetness in your tones Such brightness in your looks, and makes you turn Upon each other such delighted eyes? Your words have stirred strange pleasure in my heart: I, too, would know what love is. I command That thou shalt teach me, Bertho . Let the girl Return, uninjured, to her southern bowers; Whilst thou remain to teach me this new lore. Perchance, in finding Love, I'll gain a soul, And learn of immortality; and all The vague, sad intuitions that now mock me, Make real, and I become what I have dreamed. Make these things come to pass, and thou shalt have, Thy body and thy freedom, and a place, The highest of my chieftains. Follow me!" These ominous words of the enamored Queen, Spoken as though she knew not what it was That one should think of disobedience, Poor Olive heard, with looks of agony Fixed on the speaker's face—that Northern face, Wild in its power and in its beauty weird. The starry halo of that tintless crown, The midnight blackness of her plentiful hair, Set off the splendor of the countenance On which the maiden bent her pale regard. A jealous terror urged her on to say— "Love is not taught, Queen Oene ; 'tis a gift Mysterious as life, and more divine; The congregated glories of this cave, With all its jewelled lamps and sparkling roof Could never purchase one of its small joys. Love, in exchange, takes nothing but itself, Power cannot claim it—fear cannot command— It is a tribute Queens cannot exact. The humblest peasant, singing in her hut, Is often richer than the proudest princess: It is the gift God left the human race To keep them from despair, when sin and shame, Pain, poverty, and death, and madness came Among the people. When a youthful pair, Look in each other's eyes and say—"We love"— The common earth grows to a heavenly world. Singing of birds, shining of summer suns, Blooming of flowers and brightness of the moon, Have a new charm to their elated sense; They hear the music of the Universe, Walking, with light feet, to the harmony; Careless of care and disbelieving pain, Grateful for life—and all, because they love . Thus have we said those irrecallable words— Solemnly smiling in each other's eyes— Bertho and I—and never to unsay! Therefore, sweet Queen, command him not, I pray, To an impossible thing, which needs compel Rebellion to the will which he respects. I am a princess, yet will not refuse, The humblest service which thy pride requires, If I from Bertho am not forced to part." Imperious Oene turned her scornful eyes Quickly to Bertho's , as in inquiry; While he, gathering resolve from Olive's face Of love and anguish, answered the mute look: "I cannot teach thee love, since it is learned Only when one heart from another takes The sweet contagion; but, my bride and I May humbly teach thee other human lore. Thou say'st thou hast no soul. This cannot be, Since reason and all mental gifts are thine; Within the lovely calyx sleeps the germ,— A flower as yet unblossomed. Warmth and light From the great spiritual Sun alone it wants To bud and bloom into the fullest life. Shall we expound this marvellous mystery?— Tell thee of Endless Life which still unfolds Till it doth circle every star in heaven?— And light within thy spotless bosom's shrine The silvery flame of Christ's unwavering love— A love which we, indeed, would gladly teach, The parent of all other, whose pure fire Doth hallow and exalt our earthly hopes. We'll learn those peerless lips to syllable, God !— A word that thrills the Universe with awe! Thou shalt no more a lovely heathen be, But a sweet Woman, and a child of Heaven." A slow, soft light, into the wondering eyes Intently fixed upon the speaker, came— A deeper glow than from their slumberous blue Had ever startled; as she slightly bent, With earnest air, her crowned, resplendent head. "Speak on!" she bade, "my thirsty heart is held To catch your words, as lillies catch the dew— So eager that it fain would overbrim With the fresh gathering. It has waited long; And now, it shall be filled to bright excess. Speak on! I am impatient. But, first say That I shall then be worthier of love,— When I have mastered all these subtle things That thou wilt love me better than this girl. I'll have thee for my teacher—thee alone; She shall return to her gay, foreign home, Laded with many a costly gift from me; I'll bid my warriors wait upon her steps,— My North-Lights shall illuminate her way, No frost shall nip the redness of her cheeks, And no rude wind shall bluster round her feet." "The frost of fear already nips her cheeks At thought of living separate from me; At the mere word she droops, a blighted flower. Nay, gracious Queen? accept of both our hearts, And our united service," Bertho plead. Down on her knees sank Olive , bending low Her suppliant head, murmuring "Accept our hearts;"— But the same beauty which had conquered Wole Angered the jealous Queen; she could not brook The glistening of those unbound locks of gold; A pain, before unknown, stung her proud heart; While the fierce consciousness of absolute power Urged her to tyrannous deeds. She waved her hand, And while her maidens shrank as if in dread, The finny sprites blew the shrill note of war, At which an hundred warriors gathered round. Olive they seized and shut her in a cell— The very temple she had so admired— Where, heedless of her piteous shrieks and tears They left her to her grief; while Bertho went, Securely guarded by their threatening spears, Following his conqueror's receding steps. Poor Olive , the forlornest captive bird That ever beat its heart out in a cage, Fluttered the pinions of her restless will In vain against her dungeon. What cared she That this same dungeon had an emrald floor And lattice-work of gold, or that the spring Which closed the door, was on a jewel hinged? The lustre of the cave flowed through her cell, And she could strain her weary eyes to catch Glimpses of splendor, which but mocked her state. The tiresome days rolled round, never relieved By the refreshing shadows of the night; Until the lamps so often counted o'er, Seemed burning in her brain; and she had fears That madness lurked within her feverish veins. The ghouls who chanced to pass her, never spake; At last, with joy, the stranger of the mount She saw approaching: "Ah! Sir John ," she cried— Her pale face, peering through the lattice-work— "Thou find'st me in a miserable plight— A closer prisoner by far than thou." "Why, thou bright bird, has Oene caged thee here— Prisoned an oriole in her Arctic bowers? 'Tis well we meet. As I was solacing My banishment, by wandering here and there, Greeting old Thug by the day's sickly smile, I chanced within this cavern, where surprise And pleasure lured me on from scene to scene. What tyrant holds thee in this glittering cell?" "From Oene's anger I am suffering,— Yes, dear sir John , from more than angry hate— From that implacable passion, worst of all, And cruelest of purpose, jealousy. I'd trust the tenderness of hungry wolves, The beauty of the cobra, or the talk Of waters to the rocks—but not the will Of woman, when to jealous thoughts aroused. She binds me here and bears my love away, To tempt him with a thousand sweetest wiles— With beauty, wealth, ambition, vanity, And all that easiest moves a man's proud heart. How shall I know if Bertho — even he — Has truth or virtue beyond this rich price? Or, she may torture him,—by pain compel Consent to her soft wish and queenly will. Alas, Sir John , I am very miserable!"