Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 54, No. 338, December 1843

Still on his smooth shore reclining,
Lay the Caspian as in sleep;
While the Térek, softly shining,
To the old sea murmur'd deep:—

"Lo! a gift upon my water—
Lo! no common offering—
Floating from the field of slaughter,
A Kabárdinetz[22 - A mountaineer of the tribe of Kabárda.] I bring.
All in shining mail he's shrouded—
Plates of steel his arms enfold;
Blood the Koran verse hath clouded,
That thereon is writ in gold:
His pale brow is sternly bended—
Gory stains his wreathed lip dye—
Valiant blood, and far-descended—
'Tis the hue of victory!
Wild his eyes, yet nought he noteth;
With an ancient hate they glare:
Backward on the billow floateth,
All disorderly, his hair."

Still the Caspian, calm reclining,
Seems to slumber on his shore;
And impetuous Térek, shining,
Murmurs in his ear once more:—

"Father, hark! a priceless treasure—
Other gifts are poor to this—
I have hid, to do thee pleasure—
I have hid in my abyss!
Lo! a corse my wave doth pillow—
A Kazáichka[23 - A Kazák girl.] young and fair.
Darkly pale upon the billow
Gleams her breast and golden hair;
Very sad her pale brow gleameth,
And her eyes are closed in sleep;
From her bosom ever seemeth
A thin purple stream to creep.
By my water, calm and lonely,
For the maid that comes not back,
Of the whole Stanilza,[24 - Village of Kazáks.] only
Mourns a Grébenskoi Kazák.

"Swift on his black steed he hieth;
To the mountains he is sped.
'Neath Tchetchén's kinjál[25 - Kinjál, a large dagger, the favourite weapon of the mountain tribes of the Caucasus, among which the Tchetchénetzes are distinguished for bravery.] now lieth,
Low in dust, that youthful head."

Silent then was that wild river;
And afar, as white as snow,
A fair head was seen to quiver
In the ripple, to and fro.

In his might the ancient ocean,
Like a tempest, 'gan arise;
And the light of soft emotion
Glimmer'd in his dark-blue eyes;

And he play'd, with rapture flushing,
And in his embraces bright,
Clasp'd the stream, to meet him rushing
With a murmur of delight.

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN

PART VI

"Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
Have I not in the pitched battle heard
Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"

    Shakspeare.

My first questions to Lafontaine, when I had his wound looked to, were of course for those whom he had left in England.

"Ah, ha!" said he with a laugh, which showed the inextinguishable Frenchman, "are you constant still? Well, then, Madame la Comtesse is constant too; but it is to her boudoir, or the gaieties of Devonshire House, or perhaps to her abhorrence of Monsieur le Mari."

"Le Mari!" I repeated the words with an involuntary start.

"Bah! 'tis all the same. She is affianced, and among us that tie is quite as legitimate as marriage, and, our libellers say, a little stronger. But they certainly are not married yet, for Mademoiselle Clotilde either is, or affects, the invalid; and considering the probability that she abhors the man and the match, I think, on the whole, that she acts diplomatically in informing the vainest colonel, in or out of France, that she is sick of any thing rather than of him."

"But your Mariamne—how go on your interests there?" The question brought a smile and a sigh together, before he could find an answer.

"How she is, what she is doing, or intends to do, or even what she is, are matters that I can no more answer than I can why the wind blows. She torments me, and takes a delight in tormenting me. I have been on the point of throwing up my commission a hundred times since I saw you, and flying to America, or the world's end. She controls me in every thing, insists on knowing all my movements from hour to hour, finds them out when I attempt to conceal them as matter of duty, tortures me for the concealment, and then laughs at me for the confession. She is intolerable."

"And yet you have obtained a lengthening of your chain, or how come here? How long have you been in Paris?"

"Just two days; and busy ones, or I should have found you out before. Yes, I had Mariamne's full permission to come; though to this moment I cannot account for the change. I had received a sudden order from Montrecour, who is deep in the emigrant affairs, to set out with letters which could not be sent by the courier. But I dared not leave London without asking her permission; and I acknowledge asking her at the same time to run away with me, and give herself a lawful title to be my tyrant for life. Applying to Mordecai was out of the question. Her answer was immediate; contemptuous in the extreme as to my proposal, yet almost urgent on me to accept the mission, and lose no time between London and Paris. Her postscript was the oddest part of all. It was a grave recommendation to discover you, in whatever height or depth of the capital you might exist; whether you figured in the court or the cloister; were the idol of the maids of honour, or the model of the monks of La Trappe; to remind you that you had forgotten every body on the other side of the Channel who was worth remembering, including herself; and commending me, as a truant and a trifler, to your especial, grave, and experienced protection. Apropos! She sent me a letter, to be delivered to you with my own hands. But for yourself it had nearly failed in the delivery."

He gave me the letter. It was, like the writer, a pretty melange; trifles gracefully expressed; strong sense expressed like trifles; feeling carried off with a laugh; and palpable and fond anxiety for Lafontaine couched in the most merciless badinage. While I gave this missive a second, and even a third perusal—for it finished with some gentle mention of the being whose name was a charm to my wearied spirit—my eyes accidentally fell on Lafontaine. His were fixed on me with an expression of inconceivable distress. At length his generous nature broke forth.

"Marston, if I were capable of jealousy, I should be jealous of you and of Mariamne. What can be the caprice which dictated that letter? what can be the interest which you evidently take in it? I wish that the bullet which laid me at your door this evening had finished its work, and put an end to an existence which has been a perpetual fever. I shall not ask what Mariamne has said to you—but I am miserable."

"Yes, but you shall ask, and shall have all you ask," said I, giving him the letter. "It is the language of the heart, and of a heart strongly attached to you. I can see affection in every line of it. Of course she mingles a little coquetry with her sentiment; but was there ever a pretty woman, who was not more or less a coquette? She is a gem: never think it the less pure because it sparkles. Rely upon your little Mariamne."