Ten Books on Architecture by Vitruvius (good books to read for women .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Vitruvius
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And in that smile the lovely shape grows dim.
Hath no more fear! in one wild start
He bursts the spell that bound him, with a cry
That rings in the far sky;
He does not fear to rouse his enemy!
The hollow rocks reply;
He shouts, and wildly, with a desperate voice,
As if he did rejoice
That death had done his worst;
And in his very desperation blessed,
He felt that life could never more be cursed;
And from its gross remains he still might wrest
A something, not a joy, but needful to his breast!
His hope is in the thought that he shall gain
Sweet vengeance for the slain—
For her, the sole, the one
More dear to him than daylight or the sun,
That perished to be pure! No more! no more!
Hath that stern mourner language! But the vow,
Late breathed before those spectre witnesses,
His secret spirit mutters o'er and o'er,
As 't were the very life of him and his—
Dear to his memory, needful to him now!
A moment and his right hand grasped his brow-
Then, bending to the waters, his canoe,
Like some etherial thing that mocks the view,
Glides silent from the shore.
Amid New England's scenery wild and bold,
A lonely spot scarce visited by men,
Where high the frowning hills their summits hold,
And stand, the storm-beat battlements of old—
Returned at evening from the fruitless chase,
Weary and sad, and pierced with autumn's cold
And laid him mournful in his rocky place,
The grief-worn warrior chief—last of his once proud race.
And sighed as on his cavern floor he lay;
His bosom heaved with passion's varying storm,
While he to melancholy thoughts gave way,
And mused on deeds of many a by-gone day.
Scenes of the past before his vision rose—
The fearless clans o'er whom he once held sway,
The bloody battle-field and vanquished foes,
His wide extended rule, which few had dared oppose.
His warlike sons and cherished daughters dear;
Together o'er his hunting-grounds they roam,
Together they their honored sire revere;
But trickles down his cheek the burning tear,
As fades the spectral vision from his eye:
Low at his shrine he bows with listening ear,
And up to the Great Spirit sends a cry,
To bear him to his rest, and bid his sorrows die.
And join his kindred and the warrior band,
Where fruits for him in rich luxuriance grow,
Nor comes the pale-face to that spirit-land:
Ere he departs for aye, he fain would stand
Again upon his favorite rock and gaze
O'er the wide realm where once he held command,
Where oft he hunted in his younger days,
Where, in the joyful dance, he sang victorious lays.
And gained the fearful eminence he sought;
As on surrounding scenes his eye was cast,
His troubled spirit racked with frenzied thought,
And urged by ruin on his empire brought,
He uttered curses on the pale-faced throng,
With whom in vain his scattered warriors fought
And on the sighing breeze that swept along,
He poured the fiery words that filled his vengeful song:
On thy ruin now rests, like the sun's fading rays;
'Tis the last that I give—like the dim orb of day,
My life shall go down, and my spirit away.
The place where my kindred, my brothers were slain;
The graves of my fathers, whose wigwams were here;
The land where I hunted the swift-bounding deer.
No more are these mountains and forests my home,
No more, on the face of the beautiful tide,
Shall the red man's canoe in tranquillity glide.
Like mist on the hills in the sun's burning ray,
Like the leaves of the forest our warriors have perished;
Our homes have been sacked by the stranger we cherished.
And pour on the white man his mildew and blight
May his fruits be destroyed by the tempest and hail,
And the fire-bolts of heaven his dwellings assail.
And the pestilence seize him with death-dealing power;
May his warriors all perish and he in his gloom,
Like the hosts of the red men, be swept to the tomb.
Died mournful on the evening breeze away,
Ere down the precipice he plunged along
Mid ragged cliffs that in his passage lay:
All torn and mangled by the fearful fray,
Naught save the echo of his fall arose.
The winds that still around that summit play,
The sporting rill that far beneath it flows,
Chant, where the Indian fell, their requiem o'er his woes.
O'erhung with tapestry of ivy green,
The grim old king Decay, who rules the scene,
Throned on a crumbling column by the wall,
Beneath a ruined arch of ancient fame,
Mocking the desolation round about,
Blotting with his effacing fingers out
The inscription, razing off its hero's name—
And lo! the ancient mistress of the globe,
With claspéd hands, a statue of despair,
Sits abject at his feet, in fetters bound—
A thousand rents in her imperial robe,
Swordless and sceptreless, her golden hair
Dishevelled in the dust, for ages gathering round! R. H. S.
Fair Ursula sits alone in an apartment which seems fitted up for the reception of some goddess. She is not weeping, but her dark eyes are humid with tears. An air of melancholy rests on her young face, like a shadow on a rose-leaf, while her little hands are folded despairingly on her lap. The hem of her snowy robe sweeps the rich surface of the carpet, from out which one dainty little foot, in its fairy slipper of black satin, peeps forth, wantonly crushing the beautiful bouquet which has fallen from the hands of the unhappy fair one.
Every thing in this inviting apartment is arranged with the most exquisite taste and elegance. On tables of unique pattern are scattered the most costly gems of art and vertu—choice paintings adorn the walls—flowers, rare and beautiful, lift their heads proudly above the works of art which surround them, and in splendid Chinese cages, birds of gorgeous plumage have learned to caress the rosy lips of their young mistress, or perch triumphantly on her snowy finger. Here are books, too, and music—a harp—a piano—while through a half open door leading from a little recess over which a multaflora is taught to twine its graceful tendrils, a glimpse may be caught of rosy silken hangings shading the couch where the queen of this little realm nightly sinks to her innocent slumbers.
Eighteen summers have scarce kissed the brow of the fair maid, and already the canker worm of sorrow is preying upon her heart-strings. Poor thing, so young and yet so sad! What can have caused this sadness! Perhaps she loves one whose heart throbs not with answering kindness—perhaps loves one faithless to her beauty, or loves where cruel fate has interposed the barrier of a parent's frown!
No—her heart is as free and unfettered as the wind.
Ah! then perhaps her bosom friend, the chosen companion of her girlhood has proved unkind—some delightful project of pleasure perhaps frustrated, or, I dare say she has found herself eclipsed at Madame Raynor's soirée by some more brilliant belle—no, no, none of these surmises are true, plausible as they appear! Then what is it? Perhaps—but you will never guess, and you will laugh incredulously when I tell you that poor, poor dear darling Ursula weeps because—because—
She is an heiress!
That is it—yes, weeps because she is the uncontrolled mistress of one hundred thousand dollars in houses, lands and gold, bright gold!
Poor little dear—looking upon fortune as a serious mis-fortune, and even envying those whose daily toil can alone bring them the necessaries of life; for, have they friends—they are true friends—there is no selfishness in the bond which unites them—while she, unhappy child that she is, owes to her rank and riches her thousand friends and the crowd of satellites worshiping before her! What a foolish notion to enter her little head! True, it is foolish. Lovers, too, in plenty sigh at her feet, and in the soft moonlight the air is tremulous with sighs and music, as from beneath her window steals the soft serenade. But Ursula curls her lip disdainfully, and orders her maid to shut out the sweet sounds. Ever that hateful gold comes between her and her lovers, and then she wishes her lot was humble, that she might be loved for herself alone!
Do you wish a portrait of the unhappy little heiress? Behold her then:
A perfect little sylph, resting on the tiniest of feet, with hands so charming that you would feel an almost irresistible desire to fold them caressingly within your own—the rich complexion of a brunette with the bloom of Hebe on her cheek—her hair like burnished jet—eyes large, lustrous and black—but (alas that there should be a but!) poor Ursula had an unfortunate cast in her left eye—in others words she squinted—yes, absolutely squinted!
Dear, dear what a pity!
Yet stop, don't judge the little heiress too hastily, for after all it was not a bad squint—indeed, if you knew her, you would say it was really a becoming squint, such a roguish, knowing look did it give her! Nevertheless, it was a squint, and poor Ursula, notwithstanding the bewitching form and features her mirror threw back, fancied this a deformity which cast aside all her graces. And here again the gold jaundiced her imagination and whispered, "were it not for me what a horrible squint you would have in the straight forward eyes of the world!
When her parents died Ursula Lovel was but an infant, yet as tender and affectionate as parents had been the good uncle and aunt to whose love and guardianship she was bequeathed. They had no children, and gladly took the little orphan to their bosoms with pity and love—and Ursula required all their watchful care, for she was ever a feeble child, giving no indications of that sprightly beauty and perfect health she now exhibited. Then indeed the squint was truly a deformity, for her thin, sallow countenance only made it far more conspicuous.
People should be more guarded what they say before children. One good old lady by a careless remark instilled into the mind of little Ursula a jealousy and distrust, which, but for the good sense maturer years brought
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