The Monk - Matthew Gregory Lewis [95]
Elvira put a paper into Lorenzo’s hand, and retired from the chamber. The youth examined the contents, and found them to be as follows:
THE EXILE.
Farewell, oh native Spain! farewell for ever!
These banished eyes shall view thy coasts no more:
A mournful presage tells my heart, that never
Gonzalvo’s steps again shall press thy shore.
Hushed are the winds; while soft the vessel sailing
With gentle motion plows the unruffled main,
I feel my bosom’s boasted courage failing,
And curse the waves which bear me far from Spain.
I see it yet! Beneath yon blue clear heaven
Still do the spires, so well-beloved, appear.
From yonder craggy point the gale of even
Still wafts my native accents to mine ear.
Propped on some moss-crowned rock, and gaily singing,
There in the sun his nets the fisher dries;
Oft have I heard the plaintive ballad, bringing
Scenes of past joys before my sorrowing eyes.
Ah! happy swain! he waits the accustomed hour,
When twilight-gloom obscures the closing sky;
Then gladly seeks his loved paternal bower,
And shares the feast his native fields supply.
Friendship and Love, his cottage guests, receive him
With honest welcome and with smile sincere:
No threatening woes of present joys bereave him;
No sigh his bosom owns, his cheek no tear.
Ah! happy swain! such bliss to me denying,
Fortune thy lot with envy bids me view;
Me, who, from home and Spain an exile flying,
Bid all I value, all I love, adieu.
No more mine ear shall list the well-known ditty
Sung by some mountain girl, who tends her goats,
Some village-swain imploring amorous pity,
Or shepherd chanting wild his rustic notes.
No more my arms a parent’s fond embraces,
No more my heart domestic calm must know;
Far from these joys, with sighs which memory traces,
To sultry skies and distant climes I go.
Where Indian suns engender new diseases,
Where snakes and tigers breed, I bend my way
To brave the feverish thirst no art appeases,
The yellow plague, and madding blaze of day.
But not to feel slow pangs consume my liver,
To die by piece-meal in the bloom of age,
My boiling blood drunk by insatiate fever,
And brain delirious with the day-star’s rage,
Can make me know such grief, as thus to sever,
With many a bitter sigh, dear land! from thee;
To feel this heart must dote on thee for ever,
And feel that all thy joys are torn from me!
Ah me! how oft will fancy’s spells, in slumber,
Recall my native country to my mind!
How oft regret will bid me sadly number
Each lost delight, and dear friend left behind!
Wild Murcia’s vales and loved romantic bowers,
The river on whose banks a child I played,
My castle’s antient halls, its frowning towers,
Each much-regretted wood, and well-known glade;
Dreams of the land where all my wishes centre,
Thy scenes, which I am doomed no more to know,
Full oft shall memory trace, my soul’s tormentor,
And turn each pleasure past to present woe.
But, lo! the sun beneath the waves retires;
Night speeds apace her empire to restore;
Clouds from my sight obscure the village-spires,
Now seen but faintly, and now seen no more.
Oh! breathe not, winds! Still be the water’s motion!
Sleep, sleep, my bark, in silence on the main!
So, when to-morrow’s light shall gild the ocean,
Once more mine eyes shall see the coast of Spain.
Vain is the wish! My last petition scorning,
Fresh blows the gale, and high the billows swell:
Far shall we be before the break of morning:
Oh! then, for ever, native Spain, farewell!
Lorenzo had scarcely time to read these lines, when Elvira returned to him: the giving a free course to her tears had relieved her, and her spirits had regained their usual composure.
“I have nothing more to say, my lord,” said she; “you have heard my apprehensions, and my reasons for begging you not to repeat your visits. I have thrown