OR THE PIRATE OF MEXICO.
(Written in her seventeenth year.)

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 arm'd 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.
'T is his to sacrifice —'t is 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?
'T is 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 abhorr'd,
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, tho' unknown;
That cause was smother'd or burst forth to light,
Wreath'd 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 glow'd
From whence this gilded stream of lava flow'd;
'T was wounded pride, which, writhing inly, bled,
And called for vengeance on the offender's head;
For Maritorne, with bold unbending brow,
Had scorn'd his power — that were enough; — but lo!
There, on the very threshold of his home,
There had the traitor Pirate dar'd to come,
And thence had borne his own, his only child,
Mate all unfit for Maritorne the wild;
And when the maiden curs'd 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 ador'd was near him still,
Was bliss! was Heav'n 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 pow'r to quell the fiend within,
Whose touch had turn'd his very soul to sin.
That fiend was vengeance; — e'en his virtues bow'd
Before the altar which to vengeance glow'd.
His virtues! yes; for even fiends may boast
A shadow of the glory they have lost, —
But oh! 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 parch'd tongue cleaving to his blacken'd cell,
Stiff'ning with thirst, and jaws which hunger fell
Hath sharply whetted, quiv'ring to devour
The reckless wretch abandon'd to his pow'r.
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't is dreaded least;
For his had been the joyless, thankless part,
Of one who warm'd a viper at his heart,
And clasp'd the venom'd reptile to his breast
Till wounded by the ingrate he caress'd.
Such had been Maritorne's accursed fate,
Ere he became the harden'd child of hate.
At first his breast was torn with anguish wild,
He curs'd himself, then bitterly revil'd
The world, as hollow-hearted, false, unkind;
He curs'd himself, and doubly curs'd mankind;
And then his heart grew callous, and like steel
Grasp'd in his hand, had equal power to feel.
'T was like yon mountain snow-crest, chill tho' 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 stamp'd fidelity:
Traitor had better seem'd — 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, migh seek in vain to fly.
There was blasting glance of mockery there,
There was a calm, contemptuous, biting sneer
For ever 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 hov'ring o'er his brow,
As if to hide the depth of thought below.
He paus'd —'t was but the dashing of the spray —
Again! —'t was but the night-watch on his way.
He only mutter'd, gnashed his teeth and smil'd,
Fit mirth were that, so ghastly and so wild,
To grace a Pirate Chieftain's scornful lip,
'T was 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 fix'd 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 press'd —
One breath, one sigh, and rock and hill and sea,
Will echo back the warlike minstrelsy.
The figure which had slowly pass'd between
Himself and yonder blaze, sank where't was seen,
As tho' the earth had gaped with sudden yawn,
And drank both fire and form in silence down;
The beacon was extinguish'd, 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,
'T was like the breaking of spell or charm;
It scream'd o'er the dark wave, it rose to the hill,
And the answering echoes re-echoed 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't was washed by the wave;
By the side of the Pirate, with outstretch'd hand,
The bold intruder look'd 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 whisper'd of more than fear might dream;
And is it for this — for a woman like thee?
He angrily mutter'd and turn'd to the sea —
And is it for this I have sounded the call
Whose notes may never unanswer'd 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 turn'd to the spot,
And pointed the chief where the light was not;
The murmur ran thro' 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 extinguish'd, no blaze met the eye;
Thus much for the moment — thy honour 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 mark'd not unmoved,
But t' was one which he did not, nor ever had loved
There are spies who are waiting in ambush for thee;
I mark'd out the cavern —'t was 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, unharm'd,
To yonder proud city all chain'd and unarm'd;
This swears he, by all that is sacred to do,
I heard it, and hasten'd 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 't is 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-condemn'd in the land of the blest.
And he, its wild wearer, how heard he the tale?
His eye flash'd the darker, his lip grew more pale;
But when it was finish'd and Clara knelt down,
Where, where was his anger, and where was his frown?
On her forehead he printed a passionate kiss —
Oh 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 beacon light glow'd;
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, tho' distant, full and clear.
Come they to Barritaria's Isle as midnight foes?
'T is well! — the world but roughly with them goes.
Come they to Barritaria's Isle to join
Their traitor arms, proud Maritorne, with thine?
Oh, 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 dishonour? 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 kiss'd 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 toss'd his bait still further down the flood;
But be that as it may, 't was heard no more,
And list'ning silence hover'd 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,
'T was like its chief, in silence and alone,
Gazing upon the shadow which it cast
O'er ev'ry rippling wave which gently pass'd.
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, —'t was in vain to fly
While vengeance whisper'd curses in his ear,
And thought, the demon thought receiv'd them there.
But it had ever been his lot to throw
O'er those who pass'd him, shades of gloom and woe;
His love for Laura had been deeply curs'd,
Hatred's black phial o'er his brow had burst;
He felt himself detested, and he knew
That she whom he adored abhorr'd him too.
But oh the hapless, the ill-fated one,
She who could love him for himself alone,
Love him, with all his 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 . . .