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Poem	Low in the West, a banner floating wide Of God's own colors hangs in dreamy pride; A wealth of purple stains and gleams of gold, A crimson splendor o'er each waving fold; A heap of gold—a rim of amethyst, A hanging cloud by glancing sunbeams kissed. Afar upon the tinted, azure skies A tiny cloud of rosy color lies; A coral on a velvet robe of blue, A warm, bright wave upon the skies' pale hue. Oh! such the sunset sky of Italy, The land of dreams, of love and melody; The country of the passions and the heart, The mother of th' ideal and of art. Oh, painter! still your heart's wild throb and cry, You cannot paint this sunset tough you try; The canvas cannot rival Nature's skies, Before her hand each human effort dies. Oh! you must dip your brush in waves of gold If you would paint for me that amber fold. Oh! poet, seize your pen—'tis all in vain, You cannot paint in words that crimson stain; Though all your soul in quivering rapture lies, Your pen brings not those clouds to other eyes. Though Art has power, still Nature is the queen, Her hand alone commands this glorious scene. Back from the shore there stands a villa old And quaint, upon a sloping flower-wreathed hill, Along the side thee flows a singing rill; Beyond, the frowning rocks rise clear and bold. More like a palace is this lonely home, With marble terraces and princely lands; Rare paintings fill each high and finished room, And marble statues made by master hands. Without, a view of waves, and skies, and flowers; Within a dim, luxurious sense of hours, Of ease and wealth; a spot where one could dwell Forever 'neath some strange, enchanted spell. Upon the steps a woman stands—alone, Her lovely face, a trifle paler grown Since last we looked upon its haunting grace. Yet still the same child mouth, the radiant eyes, The dauntless pride, that time cannot efface. Before her gazes the earth in beauty lies; Awhile she stands and gaze on the scene With dreamy, far-off looks and thoughtful mien. Then wends her way to where the flowers lie, She lingers here, she cannot pass them by, And as she bends to touch each smiling flower, Her hands seem gifted with a magic power That draws unto herself their clinging love, As human tendrils drawn to God above. At last with ling'ring steps she takes her way To where great massive rocks like near the bay; Upon a rock which seems a resting place, Just formed by Nature for some tired queen, She half reclines, and upward lifts her face To drink in all the glory of the scene. Low on her cheeks the veiling lashes sweep That hid the languid fire within her eyes, Like shadows fall'n on flowers that softly sleep Beneath Night's falling dews and bending skies. Her dark brown hair, with gleams of flitting gold, Her queenly head encircles as a crown; A wealth of hair whose careless waves enfold The quivering sunlight, and its rays chain down. But soon she starts, for even at her side There stands a youthful from with fearless pride; At first upon her face a deep surprise, And then a haughty look within her eyes, As turning round she views the handsome face So near her own with careless, easy grace. "Why come you here?" she says, "why follow me? Oh! from thy presence can I ne'er be free?" "Arline!" he tosses back his sunny hair, Half kneels before her with a humble air; "Forgive me, for the fault indeed is mine To love too well, and for thy face to ever pine. But oh! Arline, without thee life is naught, An idle dream, with only longings fraught; And once, Arline, you listened to my prayer, Nor turned away with cold and haughty air." She looks upon him with a face aglow: "Why bring back memories of the long ago? The past is dead, wake not its depths again, Lest such remembrance bring thee only pain. 'Tis true that once a careless, heedless child, Bewildered by the world, by fame beguiled, I have allowed my heart to hear thy prayer." "Yes, yes, Arline," he speaks with eager air, "I know full well your love was mine, and I Now claim the hand your heart cannot deny." "Lorraine, how can you speak such words to me? My love was never thine, my heart is free; You know full well I was but kind, Lorraine, When from thy love I fled to save thee pain. When first I met the world a vision came So bright—of glorious power and wealth and fame; A part of that bright dream your worship seemed, That you could claim my heart I little dreamed. Yet soon I woke and with an earnest will I sought thy mind with deeper thoughts to fill. It mattered not, your heart's bright flame still burned;— What were your flowers, your jeweled love to me?— I loved thee not; each one I would have spurned, Had not my woman's heart been kind to thee. At last to fly from thee, the season o'er, I refuge sought upon this lonely shore; And though the riches of the world were thine, They could not win for thee one thought of mine." His face grows darker with a fiery pride, His eyes flash forth the love he cannot hide; He rises to his feet, across his soul A passionate fury his will cannot control, Bursts forth: "Arline, you know not what is love! To tell me this, for by the fates above, You shall be mine! See, yonder is my boat, Upon the waves with me you soon shall float. Hush! rouse me not or you shall see What angry might your scorn has wrought in me." "Lorraine!" she meets his gaze with fearless eyes, Though on each cheek a burning crimson lies. She folds her arms and stands before him there A womanly woman, pure, and good, and fair. She says no word, but who can tell the power An earnest woman wields in such an hour? He turns away—a silence falls—the night Is coming on, the sun has taken flight, Upon the skies a veiling shadow lies. She moves not—from her face the color dies And leaves it pale and calm. Unto her side He comes again: "Forgive my hasty pride, Arline, for me thou are too purely good, And far above me is thy womanhood." For answer she extends her jeweled hand, He takes it with a loving awe, as though It were a sacred thing, and thus they stand. At last he speaks: "Arline, before I go The secrets of thy life I'll tell to thee, That you may see 'tis not unknown to me. You say you ne'er have loved—'tis false, before You sought for fame, upon a wild, dark shore, You lived and loved"—to Arline's questioning eyes There came a startled look—a vague surprise— "The one you loved, Arline, no more loves you, Although, perchance, you dream that he is true." Why grow so pale, Arline, why stand so still? Have you no woman's pride? no woman's will? Why should you care? the world is yours and fame, And worldly hearts will love you all the same. It matters not, you parted long ago, To meet no more. Why bend your head so low! Lorraine is watching you with searching eyes, Before his gaze your poor heart quivering lies; He still speaks on, his words are sure, though slow, They find the truth he long has sought to know. Back from her face she sweeps the heavy hair, And looks up with a proud, unconquered air; Ah! few have wills like hers to do or die, To hide each wound, to still each longing cry. "Lorraine, the secrets of my life are mine, You have no right to solve its mystery; Why seek to penetrate my heat's design? How sensitive a human heart can be, You do not seem to know nor even care; You tell me that you love, yet love is rare And generous, its truth you ne'er can know, If thus within the dust you trail it low." The night has come, the clouds are hanging low, Their splendor gone, the wind begins to blow, It shifts the clouds across the gloomy sky, Now lashed to foam the troubled waters lie. The sails are hurrying home, the sea bird flies Around and round with frightened, screaming cries. From rock to rock across the frowning hill, And deep within the vale, a muttering sound Of far-off thunder rolls along the ground, A herald of the storm, then all is still. And yet they heed it not, "Arline! Arline!" He cries with flashing eyes, "my peerless queen, I cannot give you up, you must be mine; You thrill my heart, your beauty divine. What matters it though you have loved before, You cannot love him now, that dream is o'er. Look up, Arline, within your starry eyes There lies for me the only paradise; I care not for the heaven or earth below— If you are mine, what care I more to know? A woman's love can make man what it will, For love and thee my heart is throbbing still. Oh! quick, Arline, for see on yonder height The lightning circles round with flashing light, It grows so dark—I scarce can see your face, Give me your hand, I'll lead you to the place Where waits my boat; before the storm comes on We'll reach the farther coast, for I am strong And young." His face is close to hers—she starts And with a shudder shuts her frightened eyes; A silence as of death—the storm-cloud parts; A sheet of lightning flashes o'er the skies, It blinds his eyes, then all is dark again. Where is Arline? She is not there, in vain His search—how fierce the storm, how black the night! Another lurid flash—what fearful sight Is this? Arline upon the ground, her head Against the rocks, as pallid as the dead. And look! on one fair temple lies a stain Of blood, and on her dusky veil of hair, The crimson moisture too—what cruel pain The rocks have caused; and yet how pale and fair She lies, unconscious of the rain and storm. "Oh, God! what fearful sight is this to see!" Half frantic he attempts to lift her form Into his arms—but no, it shall not be, For suddenly a hand is laid on his With iron grasp; upon the stormy air A voice rings out, "To touch her do not dare, Or you shall pay the penalty of this; If she is dead 'tis by your hand alone— One pitying thought your dark soul does not own. Begone, or here beneath this angry sky, Upon these rocks one of us two must die. Ah! think you not, you fair-faced, proud Lorraine, I know you not; and well I know the pain You gave Arline; her lovely grace is far Above you as the highest, holiest star That decks God's throne; then go and leave her here, For sacred as the dead she is to me." 'Tis Adrian—he drops upon one knee And looks upon her face with dread and fear, Then tenderly he wipes away the red, Dark stains, and with a strong, yet tender grace, Uplifts her to his arms. Her marble face Lies close unto his own—he bends his head And is he any less the man because one tear Falls on that wayward face so proud and dear? What thoughts are his! they parted long ago To meet again, but how? Ah! who can know What bitterness he feels—that slender form Within his arms. Beneath the fierce wild storm He hurries to her stately home, and there Her followers wait with hushed and frightened air. Oh! can it be that she is dead, Arline— The idol of his heart, the world's proud queen? No, no; it must not be, her white lids move, She wakes once more to life and song and love. The pale lips quiver with a sudden pain, The lashes half unveil the eyes again. He gives her up, and leaves her to their care— When she awakes she must not find him there. Oh! brave, warm heart, your love indeed is true, You give your all though naught is given you. True love is like the watching stars of night, They shine for aye though eyes see not their light. And Adrian, fear not, God hears your cry, In His strong hand your fears and sorrows lie.
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