University of Virginia Library

II. PART II.

Oh, lost and lov'd, and gone before!
I look and long with tearful eyes
For what will come to me no more,
The summer warmth of southern skies,
The sunny waves that rise and swell
And seem to me at times as near
As those that echo in a shell
Held to a child's attentive ear,
Oh, lost and lov'd! The magic thread
That binds my heart to scenes like these
Shines not alone from radiance shed
Thro' golden fruited orange-trees,
The murmur of that tideless sea,
The odour of those thousand flow'rs
Alone, had never lent to me
This day-dream of delicious hours!
Ah, thou wert there . . . ! Dear sunny clime
In which we lived our happy day,
No changes wrought by tide or time
Can steal thy borrow'd charms away!
For, turning back to Love and thee
These dismal hours reflect again
The radiance of that summer-sea
And dull the anguish of my pain.
Dear Land of Love! I sometimes dream
That I, unlov'd, am wand'ring there,
And wonder if its groves would seem
As fragrant, or its skies as fair—
I wonder too, if this dim light
This mock'ry of a summer sun,
Might not appear to me more bright
If shared by that belovèd one?
I know not, but at eventide,
After this faded sun has set,
When thro' the window, open wide,
I breathe the scented mignionette
And all the flow'rs thou loved'st so well,
The clematis and violet,
And drooping yellow asphodel,
Then mem'ry whispers to my heart
Of all the joys denied to me,
And wheresoever love, thou art
I fain would go and dwell with thee!

VII.

Constance had sought this land which, like herself,
Was bless'd (or cursed) by Heaven with the dow'r—
‘The fatal dow'r of Beauty,’ but alas
For her, altho' resembling Italy
In being born to this fair heritage—
E'en more unfortunate than that sweet land
She groan'd in faster fetters;—all in vain
For her Italia's liberators rose,
Mazzini, Garibaldi, and Cavour,
Breaking a bondage less inveterate
Than was her own; weighing upon the heart
The burden of a fatal servitude
Defies emancipation;—thus she sigh'd
A lovely slave in chains—(those chains that seem
To some like brittle bands of summer flow'rs,
As Love, descending airily on them
With the soft 'lighting of a butterfly,
Leaves no sad trace behind to mark the place
Where his white wings have press'd, whilst on another
More keenly sensitive, he burns a scar
Searing and withering unto the core
The hapless heart that never more is whole.)
How could she free herself from all the host
Of newly waken'd torments? How subdue
The multitude of restless enemies
Besieging her, and harassing her soul?
Love and Despair, and vascillating Hope,
And Self-reproach, and Jealousy, and Doubt?
How put to flight these fierce invading foes—
These tyrants—these Tedeschi of the heart?
The town near which sad Constance made a home
Was by the shores of that delightful sea
Tideless, and often bluer than the sky
Kissing its utmost edge; towards the hills
Which bounded it to westward, gardens grew
And olive-grounds, where nestling in the shade
Of orange-groves, and dim with treliss'd ways
O'errun with creepers, painted villas rose
With cool low rooms, paved with their octagons
Of shining crimson tiles, whilst on their walls
The cunning artist had depicted scenes
Repeating those the gay Venetian blinds
Shut out from view—long line of sunny sea
And orange-gardens, sombre cypress trees
And sparkling fountains; all the ceilings too
Seem'd mimic vaults of heav'n, altho' the art
Of mortal painter could not imitate
The cloudless blue of the Italian sky.
Ah, all the storms they ponder'd on were those
Braved on that beautiful capricious sea
Which Constance lov'd; of these they often talk'd
With holy brethren—brethren once who shared
Their ocean perils and their finny spoil.
Within the cloisters of the nunnery
Which stood still further hidden in the hills,
There may, perchance, have throbb'd some heavy hearts
Stricken by arrows with a sharper point,
Inflicting pangs far more incurable
Than those of hunger, thirst, or rheumatism,
But yet the placid features of the nuns
Seem'd to belie this pitying surmise,
As Constance heard them, in their modest tones,
Give her a smiling blessing as they pass'd.
Of one of these, the sympathetic voice,
And dreamy eyes, made Constance feel for her
As for a friend. This sister show'd her o'er
The convent garden, gave her flow'rs and fruit,
And praised the while the peaceful pray'rful life
Led by herself and all the sisterhood.
'Twas thus she lay for many weary days
Peop'ling an almost perfect solitude
With phantoms from the unforgotten past,
And seeming oftentimes to see in dreams
Her absent lover, with his earnest eyes
Gazing at her with anxious, loving looks,
And reading all the secrets of her soul.
When in our lives some evil change
Fills our sad eyes with transient tears,
If not from piety, we turn
From habit, to those stars that burn
With quiet sympathetic light
Up in the blue ethereal spheres—
Those far star-lands, where comets range
From time to time, and whence the sight
Uplifted, seems to meet the eyes
Of God, assuming planet guise,
Tho' heav'n-abiding, earthward bent
Towards our heavy eyes that weep:
Ah, little stars, your vigils keep
High in the distant firmament!
Visible witnesses to prove
That 'tis not only Death and Love
Which mortals may not comprehend,
For what you are, and whither tend
Your constellations, clustering
And clinging to the vault of heav'n
We know not, sadly wondering
All veil'd and blinded as we are,
Thoughtlessly worshipping that star
Maybe the omen of our end!
How dare we, till the clouds are riven
Shrouding our dull intelligence
Hope for encouragement from thence,
When e'en we know not what is best
For our own welfare day by day,
Obeying blindly the behest
Of hearts as changing as the waves,
Fickle and ignorant as they—
Mere puppets in some mighty hand
Luring us on to shoal or strand,
Or to mysterious ocean-caves,
Where our dead hearts may be the food
Of cruel syrens of the flood.
In vain I lift my tearful eyes
Towards th' impenetrable skies,
The careless stars vouchsafe no light
To show which path is wrong or right,
Without a hope, without a guide,
I seem a straw upon the tide
Of Life's inevitable stream;
All helpless to resist the flow
Of such a cataract, I seem
Without a will—would I could know
If it were best to trust my boat
Upon this mystic wave and float
Towards the ocean-gates, and be
Borne to the unfathomable sea?

VIII.

After long days of fever and of pain
There comes a lull, which almost mimics death,
When the weak frame, which a false energy
Has fired with transient force, revives to find
The languid level of that listless life
Which surely follows on the fever's track.
Then one by one upon the wak'ning sight
Dawn the familiar objects; gradually
The doubtful, semi-dormant mind renews
Its old impressions, by the contrast made
Terribly sharp, expressive and distinct.
She thought Theresa would be glad to see
How strong she was, and how her tender care
Had nurs'd her back to life. An exile here
She lifted up her grateful heart to God
Who thus had will'd that she should find a friend,
For in her desolation she had thought
That all the world abhorred and hated her.
Ah, when we deem we are deserted thus
What double tenderness and gratitude
We feel for those who even by mistake
Have thrown to us some little random word,
Some crumb of comfort! How the ready tears
Which would not rise to plead nor to resent,
Will flood our eyes when some kind stranger thus
Has heart to pity all the wounds of ours!
Much more did Constance feel indebted now
To this devoted woman, who had thus
Nursed her from Christian charity and love;—
She gently push'd the folding doors aside
And thinking but to see that placid face
She look'd into the sun-lit sitting-room.
Thus Constance could be strong, and cruel too—
So Denzil thought, as fearing to pursue
The trembling fugitive who thus in haste
Regain'd the precints of the sanctuary,
He made one stride towards the closing door
And there remain'd discomfited and sad
With disappointment.
I said “Ah, give me this! I shall not care
“What after-storms may beat, come blast and hail—
“Come all the ills that make the rest despair
I shall not care!”
I said “There is no good that can compare
“With this, that makes all other blessings pale,
“And if I lose e'en Heav'n, yet gain my pray'r
I shall not care!”

IX.

Good-bye, good-bye! ah, easy little word
When two fond, foolish, lovers, say it o'er,
And make it but the plausible excuse
To meet once more to say it once again!
Ah, sweet indeed those make-believe farewells,
With that dear head on our too happy breast,
And those sweet eyes the brighter for their tears,
And that fond, flutt'ring, heart, that starts and throbs,
But will not break at any rate to-night!
Good-bye, good-bye! and once again good-bye!
She had indeed, in agitated tones,
(With many timid glances at the door,
As tho' she fear'd the eye of Miss L'Estrange,)
Implor'd of Geoffrey Denzil to depart—
And she had held his hand, and said ‘goodbye’
And sad ‘God-bless-yous,’ and her eyes were wet,
Yet Denzil did not leave her, for he said
(Making his conscience readily his dupe,
And almost in a voice of indignation,)
“How can I leave you in a foreign land,
“Deserted, ill, and suff'ring, and for me
“Bearing humiliation and disgrace?
“The common laws of cold civility—
“Humanity,—the merest loosest bond
“Of careless passing friendship, would demand
“That having met you here, by accident,
“I stay at least till you are strong and well.”
And Constance, loving, temporising, weak,
Had felt a burden lifted from her heart,
And echo'd softly Geoffrey Denzil's words,
“When I am well . . .” and thus it was he stay'd.
How had they met? Was Constance cold and stern,
And Geoffrey like the Spartan youth of old
Who nursed without complaint his gnawing fox?
I do not know exactly how they met—
Perchance as mortals made of moulded ice,
Without emotion, or as you or I
Had met again, after suspense and doubt
Our own true love, on an Italian eve,
Alone, save for a little crescent moon
No thicker than an eye-lash, or a “C”—
(A waning moon, for when she first appears
She forms a sulky “C” that turns its back
And will not be a letter, come what may,
Whilst Denzil on this happy ev'ning saw
On looking up, for very joy, to heav'n,
Her dear initial shining in the sky
Seeming to bid him hope!) . . . . .
Constance was working, and she did not speak,
And Geoffrey, stretch'd full length upon the grass,
Had just been reading, now he paused, and propped
His small uplifted head upon his hand,
And Constance felt his eloquent grey eyes
Fix'd on her own, which droop'd upon her work.
He spoke at length, but did not speak of love,
For it is possible to love, and lie
Upon the sward at the Belovèd's feet,
And yet give utt'rance but to careless talk
Of bird, or tree or flow'r, or even things
Seemingly more removed than these from love.
Thus Denzil spoke, for by a mutual bond
These two had bound themselves that whilst they stay'd
Together in the South, (he at the town,
And she amongst the olives,) they would shun
That fatal subject, and that they would be
Dear and united friends and nothing more.
They watch'd each other keenly, fearing lest
One or the other should o'erpass the bounds,
And proving himself (or herself) too weak,
Should break the compact,—slave to mem'ries past
Or to some dream of futures false and fair.
He told her how a distant relative
Had died, and he was summon'd to return
To England, which he had but lately left;
How, on arriving there, he found some chance,
(Some wish to spite the kinsman who till then
Had hoped to be his heir,) had made him leave
To Geoffrey Denzil half his property—
How he, too sad to be rejoiced at this,
(Since now he had surprised his fatal love,
And made a vow that he would never harm
But keep as pure as is the driven snow
The mem'ry of his idol)—had resolved
That, as he needs must visit Denzil Place,
To take some papers from an iron safe,
Relating to his new inheritance,
He would not do so till the silent night—
So, saying as a pretext, at the inn,
That he desired they would not tell Sir John
Of his arrival, lest the good old man
Should deem he trespass'd, staying at the Hall
When Denzil was in England; he arranged
To ride there when the household were in bed,
Awaited only by his ancient nurse,
Who, telling him the house was plunged in sleep,
Had led him to the silent library
And left him to his search; the rest we know.
His letter was a lover's rhapsody,
To be deliver'd if his love surviv'd
Her husband and himself; for in his heart
Had lurk'd a wish that she might some day know
How he had lov'd her once. Therein he told
The guilty reason of his sudden flight,
And after telling how he strove in vain
To school his wayward heart, he wrote these words,
Which Constance partly read at Denzil Place—
“That you should be another's—you who seem
“Created to be mine in ev'ry sense
“In which a woman may belong to man—
“Whom, after all these waiting years, I meet
“At last; it almost seems too hard to bear,
“But so it is, and I must go from hence!”

X.

At length arrived those last unwelcome days
Which heralded that last sad day of all,
When those who, haply, never should have met,
Felt bound in honor, or, to say farewell,
Or else to let the angry world go by
And cling together; she to bear the shame,
And he the keen reproach of having caused
Such shame in her. For Constance, who was weak,
And influenced above all influence
By him she lov'd, had deem'd it would be best
(Now she could never more on bended knee
Appeal to God but as a guilty thing,)
That she should honestly avow her love,
And live to be his wife, at least in heart,
Who vow'd to her his life's fidelity.
Often in vain she look'd across the sea
When Denzil left her at the ev'ning hour,
Hoping to read upon the pink expanse
Some sign or symbol telling how to act.
She often long'd to open wide her arms
And say to Denzil, “Geoffrey, I am your's
“In life—in death!” if it were but to see
The cloud uplift which shrouded that dear brow!
But, as he left those happy olive-grounds,
And ere he vaulted o'er the boundary
Dividing town from country, 'neath the shade
Sister Theresa, in her quiet dress
Would glide in silence thro' the garden gate,
And seeking Constance, in an earnest voice
Would strive to exorcise the sinful thought,
And seem to treat the sacred name of Love
As a mere thing of naught—a childish thing.
“There are some moments in our lives” she said
“When we can almost see (both seem so plain!)
“The fair good angels pointing out one way,
“And on the other side the pow'rs of hell
“Who strive to drag us trembling to the brink
“Of some abyss! Not that I deem your friend,”
(She added, in a calm prosaic tone,)
“Poor Mr. Denzil, who seems kind at heart,
“A demon in disguise, but lawless love
“Must needs assume to all discerning eyes
“A shape of dread, a form to be abhorred.”
For, all went wrong, he said, now she was gone—
The servants left—his Aunt was, oh, so cross!
She finally had quarrell'd with Sir John
And left him all alone to grief and gout—
His father said all luck had left the house
Since she was taken ill and went abroad!
“I swear if any child were born of you,”
He said to her one balmy afternoon,
“I would not press you, Constance, but you leave—
“In leaving home for me, what do you leave?
“A kind old man, but he can be replaced—
“You cannot even know the pleasant pang
“A bride may feel, who leaves the loving breast
“Of her fond mother for the folding arms
“Of her Belov'd;—you are not kith or kin,
“But mated by mischance, who might have been
“Father and daughter, child and grandfather—
“The long, dull years that seem your married days,
“To him are but a little speck of time—
“A fleeting moment in an old man's life
“Who liv'd and lov'd long, long ere you were born!
“Ah, he may miss you, as those fathers miss
“Or as those grandfathers, a two years' child,
“But think of what we are! Friends—friends till death,
“And lovers—loving till this heart of mine
“Ceases to beat, and husband, dear, and wife,
“If you will let me call you by that name
“And wear my ring upon your little hand.
“I say again, if round about your knees
“Were rosy faces grouped, and tiny hands
“And piping voices, ever and anon
“Clasping and calling you to stay at home,
“I had been base indeed to bid you stray
“And leave for me those sunny little heads
“But now—!”
(Here Constance press'd against her brow
A trembling hand, whilst with the other one
She gently push'd away her tempter's lips,
And tried to think he was a “Pow'r of Hell.”)
“Nay, I would rather,” Denzil wildly cried,
“Much as I loathe the superstitious creed
“That dooms a woman to a life unlov'd
“Of penance and seclusion, that you went
“And prison'd your sweet youth within the walls
“Of yonder convent, than that you should go
“Seeking yourself, and of your own free will
“The hateful life you used to live before!”
Then soften'd by her scared bewilder'd look,
He added, “I am mad, and seem to you
“To utter foolish words;—do what is best
“For you, my darling; should you feel one day
“The bitterness of parting with all joy,
“(Such as I feel to-day), come back to me
“And we will try to make, despite the World,
“A new fair life together; I shall wait.”
Thus torn and tortured with conflicting doubts
Did Constance travel thro' these latter days
(For such she deem'd they were,) in Italy.
Her lover's passionate entreaties now
Tearing her gentle heart; and then the Nun's,
Who seemed to see to ev'ry complication
One only answer, one sure remedy
Against the Future's perils, and implored
That she would forthwith give herself to God,
And “'prison her sweet youth” (as Denzil said)
Within the quiet convent in the hills.
Sad and remorseful, Constance mark'd the change
Her resolution wrought in Denzil's face
And voice and bearing, and she wonder'd much
How any one so weak and frail as she
Could thus subdue and conquer one so strong,
Who ne'er had seem'd disturb'd by greater things.
Thus wand'ring listlessly, they reach'd at last
A garden they had often sought before,
Where Constance used to sketch, for here it seem'd
That Nature, Art, and Past and Present join'd
To make an earthly Eden;—it had been
Long years ago, a Roman residence
Of some importance, and tho' ruin'd now
And desolate, its beauty still survived
To lure all lovers of the picturesque.
(Deem it not strange that they should roam so late
Fair reader, who hast never left thy home
After the few first flittings of the bat!
For, where the sun is lavish with his beams
As in these southern lands, this is the hour
When those who dread his fierce meridian heat,
Go forth, approved by custom, 'neath the rays
Of a more temperate planet; hence they stay'd.)
Upon the terrace, like a row of ghosts,
They saw the moonlit glories of the past
Silv'ry and silent, and from time to time
Some echo reach'd them wafted from the town
Of song or music, but these died away
At last, in silence, and the croaking frogs,
And now and then a falling leaf or fruit,
Or the clear piping of a nightingale,
Alone recall'd their spirits back to earth.
For both seem'd lost in some absorbing dream
Impossible to utter or translate
Into material language; thus for hours
They scarcely spoke, until they heard the chimes
Of midnight, echo from the noisy spires
Of all the many churches of the town.
Then Constance, frighten'd at the flight of time,
Would fain have hurried to her quiet home,
But ere she rose, the ghastly haunting dread
That this might be her last and only hope
Of playing truant thus, induced her still
A little while to linger: Denzil then
Awaking from his mournful reverie,
Held fast her hands, as one in shipwreck clings
To spar or mast, or as a miser grasps
Some cherish'd treasure he is soon to lose,
Whilst all the pent-up anguish in his heart
He strove to ease by his impassion'd words
Of love and mad reproach, for by those chimes
He knew how soon they needs must say farewell.

XI.

And he was right, for never written words
Sent such a thrill thro' Geoffrey Denzil's heart
As these few lines which flutter'd to the ground
Dropp'd from poor Constance's wan, nerveless hand.
The message was from Roland, and ran thus—
“My father's horse, on Monday afternoon,
“Stumbled and threw him, and he died to-day.”
They did not speak—but thro' each startled brain
Rush'd an unutterable flood of thoughts
Conflicting—unexpected, love, remorse,
Astonishment, and the delirious hope
Of an unhoped-for Future! . . . . . .
In two short years from that eventful day,
Beneath the shade of scented orange boughs
And flow'ring myrtles, near a cypress tree
Clung round with roses, Constance sat and mused
In a fair garden. Her's were blissful dreams,
And from her heart a never-ending hymn
Of gratitude and praise rose up to heav'n—
Above the feath'ry palms and calm blue sky
Reflected in the glitt'ring tideless sea.
For time had made her Geoffrey Denzil's wife,
And she was once again in Italy—
Nor did this sacred second marriage-ring
Encircling her slight finger, exorcise
(As rings, alas! have oft been known to do!)
Aught of the tenderness she felt before
When it was bitterness and shame to love.
And Denzil, with his independent heart
Scorning the laws and customs of the world,
Learnt it was not alone the guilty zest
With which some natures seek forbidden fruit
That heretofore had made him deem he lov'd.
For now that they were lawful man and wife
The love he felt for her intensified
And deepen'd with the days—the happy days!
And with these days were blended happy nights—
Oh, bless'd experience, but to few vouchsafed!
The treble unity of heart and mind
And all those pulses of material life,
Which throb in harmony to one great end—
The sweet, perpetual, intermingling
Of sense and soul,—the mutual interchange
Of all that each can render—each receive!
Oh, for but half a year of such a dream
How willingly would I exchange the rest—
Those future years of loveless solitude
Which Heaven may predestine me to live!
For days which darken into blissful nights
When, heart to heart, in one another's arms
We sink not into blank forgetfulness,
Since e'en in sleep the senses realize
The sacred presence of our best belov'd!
For nights that fade into the happy dawn
When, after this sweet half-unconsciousness,
We wake to know we were not duped by dreams,
But that we hold against our grateful heart
Our dearest treasure! oh, for days and nights
Such as I sometimes dream of, give me grief
And after-pangs of bitter suffering,
But let me glory in the unknown joy
Of some such days and nights before I die!
“Ah, unregenerate! will you always doubt?
“And yet,” she added, grasping at a straw,
“You know at any rate, pray'r does no harm—
“If wasted, it is wasted, but the air
“Is all the purer for our purer thought—
“It is no superstition that degrades
“Like some that men have follow'd long ago—
“I feel so grateful when I see the sun
“Shining as now, on such a lovely scene—
“My inward intimate existence yearns
“To give some proof of gratitude to God
“And so to Him I lift my heart in pray'r.”
And thus the days went on, until at last
One of the little pray'rs that Constance pray'd
Was granted to her, and her grateful heart
Began to realize the long'd-for bliss
Of knowing that some soul-begotten ray
Of light and life, intense—intangible—
Meeting with Denzil's warm impatient lips
In those dear days and those mysterious nights,
Had wrought in her that wond'rous miracle,
Ever recurring, yet for ever new,
Incomprehensible and beautiful,—
That inexplicable, sweet, incarnation
Of two-fold love, first-felt, a flutt'ring hope
Faint as the plash of muffled elfin oars
In some unfathomable mystic lake,
Or as the fancied murmur of the waves
To one who has been dreaming of the sea.
Ah, my own love! The years may pass,
The Winter and the Summer days,
The city's fog, the dreamy haze
That hovers o'er the country grass
Hanging betwixt the earth and sky
When black against its pink and gold
At eventide, the trees enroll'd
Stand like some dark conspiracy;
Sable accomplices of Night
In the forced murder she has done,
Helping to hide the dying sun
Dragg'd down from his imperial height
And sinking in his gory bed—
My love! all hours and days may go
And leave no trace, yet in the glow
Of dying suns, and moons that shed
A calmer light; and in the stars
And indefatigable waves,
And in the faint gold streak that laves
The last forsaken ocean bars—
There art thou ever; all in vain
I ask some sign of life from thee
Yet I believe thou liv'st to me
In all I love in life, again,
And somewhere, in land, sky or sea,
I have a hope I cannot kill
That there my loving or my will
May give thee back again to me!

XII.

Alas, I would in this uncertain world
All prosper'd where it seem'd that all went well!
I would that never without urgent cause,
Those who are bless'd and loving, wronging none,
Should, as it were, be cheated of their dues
And robb'd by Fate of their hard-earn'd content.
There are some good and worthy on the earth
But who seem destin'd for some hidden end
To be for ever spokes in ev'ry wheel—
Encumbrances in ev'rybody's path—
The millstones of the world, of sterling stuff
But wearisome to wear around the neck—
That these the great tho' too impatient gods
Should sometimes prematurely set aside
I do not wonder, knowing it is hard
In this vast varying community
To be alike benevolent to all
Or satisfy the cravings of all hearts.
Now, when this worthy man was sacrificed,
I was ashamed I could not sorrow more,
But, feeling as it were ‘behind the scenes’
I thought “Well, well, since some one must have died
(For Death intrudes in fiction as in fact,)
I almost think he can be spared the best—
So now they will be happy all their lives!
And I may tell of how they liv'd and lov'd,
And how they henceforth kept the decalogue
And died respected at a ripe old age!
But she had rashly said “Ah, let me live
“Only to know this blessèd hope is true,
“Then come what may,” and her unthinking words
Were register'd by the relentless Fates.—
The day she long'd and pray'd for dawn'd at last,
And Constance kiss'd the cheek of Geoffrey's child,
And he was near her, but no time was given
Him to rejoice in what she deem'd a joy,
For in her struggle with this second life
His little wife pass'd from him into death.
Half stupified he watch'd her lying there
So calm and still, who but some hours ago
Was warm with life;—so sudden it all seem'd,—
The words we say at parting left unsaid,
And round about him all the many things
Inanimate, yet seeming now to cry
With eager voices, “No, she is not dead!”
All in a row the little high-heel'd shoes
Those fairy feet would never wear again,—
Upon a chair her hat and parasol,
Whilst the white dress she wore but yesterday
Was flutt'ring in the flower-scented air
From where it hung upon the looking-glass—
The glass that never more would mirror back
That well-known earnest face, for she was dead!
Sooner than here in England, dawn'd that day
Of desolation, when upon the stair
Sounded the grating footsteps of strange men,
The sable-suited myrmidons of Death,
Coming to bear away that silent form
And hide it from the watching of wet eyes.
Geoffrey was sitting in the shrouded room,
Gazing with haggard eyes and bloodless lips
On the sweet face of what was Constance once—
As one entranced, he scarcely realized
This new and terrible calamity;
But when he heard strange voices in the house,
Guessing their ghastly meaning, from his breast
Escaped a stifled groan of agony,
And all his soul in startled consciousness
Awoke to know the greatest of all griefs
Had fall'n upon him; then he wildly cried—
He look'd towards the cradle, where the babe
With upturn'd face of lily fairness, slept
The sleep of innocence; in vain he strove
To trace some likeness to his buried love
In those impassive features, scarcely yet
Deserving such a name;—the fast closed eyes
Wanting as yet the mother's silken fringe
Of curling eyelashes on either lid—
The open mouth, a tiny triangle,
He bent to kiss, but tho' he seem'd to breathe
The perfume of the blue starch-hyacinth,
Yet nothing met the longing of his lips
Of her—his wife—the mother of his child!
Then, half in anger with the helpless cause
Of his chang'd life, and wholly in despair,
He cover'd with his hands his haggard face
And knew the bitterest of human griefs.
And so they buried Constance out of sight,
And Geoffrey Denzil never saw again
His darling's face; but he remembers her
As last he saw her; scatter'd all around
Her sleeping form, the scented southern flow'rs,
The single rose, and double violet,
And mignionette, and bright anemone,
And in her hand she held a faded wreath
Of English evergreens—box, laurel, fir,
And one dark spray of sad funereal yew
To which a single shrivell'd berry clung,—
These were the leaves that Constance gather'd once
Before she quitted silent Denzil Place,
Whereon her husband read her written words—
“This wreath of leaves was gather'd in the garden
“Of Eden; to be kept for evermore.”
And so he laid them there, that, if indeed
That sleeping form should ever rise from death
(As she believ'd,) and soar triumphantly
To other brighter realms, she then should find
On waking into glorious second life,
This little faded memory of earth
Still clinging to her pale unfolding hand,
And like her, maybe, re-awakening
To life and freshness; so that, 'midst the flow'rs
Of Heaven's garden, some soft falling seed,
(Perchance the little shrivell'd yew-berry,)
From these sad sprays of Earth, translated thus,
Might, taking root, uprise and bloom again,
Reminding one amongst the seraph-band
Of those faint, fleeting moments pass'd and gone,
When she had lov'd, and wander'd 'neath the shade
Amongst the haunted groves of Denzil Place.
Thus, a faint spark, if left at liberty
To nestle in the hollow of an oak,
May gently light a beacon in its heart,
Or leave a mark upon the glowing wood—
Whilst up towards heav'n the evanescent flame
Will die in smoke, so soft, and blue, and vague,
It seems beyond belief so faint a thing
Could leave so deep a trace upon the tree!
Thus thro' the years, the father looking back,
The little daughter full of child-like hope,—
Strangers in thought, yet by a mutual love
Uniting hearts, together hand in hand,
These two walked on towards the hoped-for Heaven.

CONCLUSION.

The other day, in somewhat pensive mood,
I saunter'd down a dusty Sussex lane
Late in the afternoon; the sun was hot,
And tho' the road was shaded by the oaks
In the off-lying hedgerows near the park,
Yet still I long'd for those intenser shades
I saw afar, between the iron gates
Of Denzil Place, (for I had sought the scene
Of this sad simple story, and could see
The woods of Denzil Place and Farleigh Court,)
But ere I reach'd the tempting tangled shade
I heard the clattering of coming steeds,
And round the tufted angle of the lane
A youth and maiden suddenly appear'd
Beaming with life and laughter. As they pass'd
I watch'd them curiously, for both of them
Were beautiful, and something made me feel
A deeper interest than e'er inspired
The sight of any other youth or maid.
So this fair being with the golden hair
Was Violet Denzil, born in Italy,
The child of Love and Beauty! and the youth
Was that brave handsome boy who used to romp
And ramble with his lovely stepmother
Thro' fields and woodlands in the years gone by;
And they would marry, (so the parson thought,
And who should be so good a judge as he,
Who doubtless had wise reasons for such thought?)
Ah, here, if marriage of the young and fair,—
If blooming cheeks and lovely sunny head,
Wedding with brave brown eyes and stalwart frame
And manly heart, e'er promised happiness,
Then should these two, who like some glowing dream
Of Prince and Princess in a fairy-tale,
So gaily gallopp'd past me, on the road
To Life and Love; then should these two be bless'd
With ev'ry earthly good;—around their knees
May happy children laugh and sport in glee,
And children's children, in the after years—
Good little Geoffreys and fair Constances,
Who must not sin like naughty grandpapa,
Or pretty grandmama, who died so young,
And whose sweet picture, in a muslin dress
“With coral-color'd sash and shady hat,
And looking like an angel,” they will see
Hanging within the walls of Denzil Place.

EPILOGUE.

I lay aside my pen,—my story ends,
“Of some few years in some few English lives;”
Warning of evils wrought by bosom friends
To some few English husbands and their wives,—
A simple story—unimprov'd by rhymes,
And unembellish'd with that mystic glow
Which hovers o'er the tales of olden times,
The chivalresque romaunts of long ago.
Yet I would say, to compensate for this,
(Had but my Constance lov'd the man she ought,
And had my Geoffrey's been a lawful kiss,)
That I had felt and understood each thought
Portray'd in them; and that they liv'd and mov'd
And had their being outside the gilded rim
Of this poor book, and that they sinn'd and lov'd,
And that in truth I knew both her and him.—
Or wholly in the flesh, or as, may be,
A sculptor recognises, blent in one
From many models borrow'd, arm or knee
Or rounded throat or bosom;—and the sun
Has shone in very truth on ev'ry scene
My humble pen has striven to portray,
And Denzil Place and Farleigh Court have been
With all their inmates, and I know the day
When Constance first saw Geoffrey Denzil ride
Thro' long arcades of evergreens, and when
She knelt in love and anguish by his side
And told him all her aching heart knew then.
Not by these names were known this erring pair,
(Nor yet that injured husband, kind and old)—
But he was human, she alas, was fair—
And ‘good Sir Johns’ are always manifold.
You search in vain for moral or advice—
For flow'ry language,—complicated plot,—
Or cunning metaphor, or neat and nice
And pointed epigram,—you find them not
I tremble for my reader's kind good will,
And hang a bashful head, yet seem to see
(No doubt with partial eyes,) a moral still
Which lingers here, if only seen by me.
Poor Constance was not born so bad and base
As needs must seem a guilty faithless wife,
And had her heart been harder, or her face
Less fair, she might have liv'd a blameless life.
She was the eager champion of the poor,
And Denzil was her helper in the cause,
High were their motives, and their conduct pure,
And if his soul despised our human laws
It was because they seem'd less just and true
Than those that he had fashion'd as his own,—
He would have form'd a new religion, too,
E'en better,—broader,—than this present one.
He did not forge, as weapon to obtain
His evil purpose, any cunning scheme
Such as some men have form'd, who wish'd to gain
The love of other women,—for his dream
Had been to veil his idol in the shrine
His love and reverence had rais'd on high,
And worship her as tho' a thing divine
Almost too sacred for the human eye
To light upon;—whilst she had seen with grief
In him the signs of a persistent will
To war against all orthodox belief,
Yet hoped, with patience, to convert him still,
So sought his side, nor ever miss'd the chance
Of tender word of counsel, wise and strong
Beyond her years, or sweet reproachful glance
At any word or action seeming wrong.
No naughty novels did my Geoffrey lend,—
No Ernest Feydeaus, and no Paul de Kocks,
He was the “working man of England's friend”
And talk'd of Progress whilst she knitted socks,
'Twas thus they fell . . . . . ! E'en as they sagely plann'd
The reformation of the human kind,
They saw their boasted bulwarks blown as sand
At the remorseless mercy of the wind!
“Captain or Colonel, Knight, or man-at-arms”
So may you fall, whilst gazing at the sky,
Blind to the many dangers and alarms
Which close beside you in your pathway lie!
And you, fair lady, who could never err
Save from your beauty, or your ‘melting mood’
Which dreads all cruelty,—be warn'd by her
And be a little cruel to be good!
She did not fall from love of deadly sin,
Nor did her breast for guilty pleasures glow,
And pure had been the heart that beat within,
Save for her fatal fear of saying “no.”
But ah, forgive her! in the coming years
She cannot cross your path, or cause your cheek
To blush for her delinquencies,—her tears
Are dried for ever, and her voice will speak
To Geoffrey Denzil not one loving word
Of all the many he remembers yet,
Nor is her fairy footfall ever heard
Now or for ever;—so forgive, forget
Her many faults and failings, she is dead,
And many miss her, and would fain recall
Her and her frailties, and would e'en, instead,
Exaggerate her virtues:—faults and all
Some foolish people lov'd her. She is gone
Like this sad autumn day, of which the hue
Suits well this landscape;—all the sculptured stone
Of these two Denzil dragons, wet with dew
Is glist'ning from a newly risen moon
Charming the hazy distance 'neath her reign
Of silv'ry sad enchantment. Very soon
Thro' ev'ry quaint Elizabethan pane
Glimmers a twinkling light. Farewell old home!
Old house with windows looking like the eyes
Of some old friend, who smiles at those who come
And sighs for those who go;—but mostly sighs
For her who never more will come or go,
And never more may look upon thy face!
Farewell sad witness of her shame and woe,
Farewell to Constance and to Denzil Place.