University of Virginia Library

Through night till morning did Monthermer tend
Beside the couch of his unconscious friend,
Whom medic skill had cheated to repose,
A deep though short oblivion of his woes.
How alter'd now the flattering prospect gay
That sped from learn'd Toulouse Monthermer's way!
The mission thence how joy'd had he procured,
That sent him with the olive branch to Lourde!
The first, the exulting delegate of peace,
And happy herald of his friend's release.
E'en when, arrived, he found not whom he sought,
Impatience yielded to a pleasing thought;
Suggesting then, on Glenville's ear how strange
Would sound the clamour that announc'd the change,
When the loud cannon's peace-proclaiming voice
For righteous Bourbon bade the land rejoice.
He smiled to think with what perturbed haste
Would then the wanderer's return be traced;
And there indeed his fancy pictured true—
But what a scene the rest had given to view!

When Glenville languid and unnerv'd awoke,
Upon his sight Monthermer's figure broke
Like fancy's imagery. His eager gaze
Was full of doubt and question and amaze.
But when he heard the kind familiar tone
And mark'd the expressive smile so dearly known,
He feebly rose, his proffer'd hand to clasp,
Not with the wonted fervency of grasp,
Not with the generous burst of sudden joy,
But with a trembling hand and anxious eye,
As though he fear'd some lurking ill behind
The sudden joy that dawn'd upon his mind.
Then o'er his memory past the evening storm,
The dreadful din, the lovely lifeless form.
There stood his friend indeed, but where was she?
Alvine? perchance, alas, she ceas'd to be.
Dead! dead Alvine? how conscience strengthens fear!
He durst not ask—for, oh! he durst not hear.
His eye again in hopeless misery sunk,
And back in horrour of himself he shrunk.
Monthermer hasten'd to relieve his pain,
He told she liv'd; and told it o'er again;
For Glenville sprung to listen at the word,
As though he doubted, or he had not heard.
Monthermer strove his wounded heart to calm,
And every accent fell like healing balm;
And when at length he somewhat grew composed,
The cause that brought himself to Lourde disclosed.

But now the Sire appear'd. Unhappy man!
With him the night had past, as it began,
In anguish, all apart; for at his sight
His daughter's frenzy rose to double height.
Shock'd as she was when first he made approach,
He durst not further on her view encroach,
But hardly through the lingering hours forbore,
And stood impatient hearkening at her door;
Though every wild delirious sound that came
Grated on every fibre of his frame.
But Glenville also his attention claim'd,
And still uncertainty his mind inflam'd.
From Glenville now he therefore sought to know
What first drew down so vast a weight of woe.
Of this, did Glenville but as much unfold
As prudent shame permitted to be told;
But thus, continuing, said: “And if till now
My heart to thee have ne'er revealed its vow
Of love for One to whom 'tis fondly tied,
By bonds no chance nor time can e'er divide:
If thy paternal thought have never guess'd
The secret passion that hath sway'd my breast,
O let the memory of last night declare
In witness of the tenderness I bear!
And let me now solicit at thy hand
The fairest flower that blooms in all the land;
And let us chase by love's propitious power,
The fearful clouds from yesternight that lower.”

Thus, and sincerely, ran his eager tongue.
His every word the father's bosom wrung.
How pleasing late had that avowal been!
For who more worthy of his child Alvine?
But now! some burning tears in answer gush'd,
And forth in silent wretchedness he rush'd.

But much must here of the result be past:
The mournful progress of a mind o'ercast;
The various schemes her reason to recall;
The test of each, and impotence of all;
The shock of Glenville on detecting first
How curst a wretch he was, and justly curst;
On finding next that e'en his presence fail'd
To draw one sign where memory prevail'd.
For not a form, a face, a voice she knew;
And not a creature her attention drew,
Her Sire excepted, whom she dreaded still
As some assassin menacing to kill.

Monthermer's zealous unremitting care
Was all that shielded Glenville from despair.
But ere one moon her monthly circuit made,
Himself, alas! required the care he paid.
For each, an English packet letters brought,
And both with import of affliction fraught.
Monthermer's told him of his father dead,
With hint that grief the mortal hour had sped;
The grief of an unbending haughty mind,
His fortunes swallowed up in pomp to find.
Here was enough to sting a heart more stern
Than his, but more of woe was yet to learn.
A letter, brought by Glenville now, declar'd
What well had been in such a moment spar'd,
Except indeed 'tis true of all distress
That one great grief makes every other less.
The news of Adela the Bride it bore—
And twice Monthermer read it calmly o'er:
And where his own once-mentioned name was trac'd—
Euphemia's tears had half the lines effac'd.

Calm to his friend the letter he resign'd,
Nor once, to outward evidence, repin'd.
There came no moist suffusion o'er his eyes,
Nor did a murmur from his lips arise.
Calm from his friend and mute he turn'd away:
Nor even much seem'd alter'd from that day;
Save that he seldom spoke, and never smiled,
And that his look at times was something wild.
And that, more oft than he before was wont,
He lov'd the loneliest solitudes to haunt.

There is a grief that shuts up all the heart,
And leaves no vent whence weak complaint may part.
A high and solemn dignity of grief,
That cannot find in vain lament relief.
Short is the pouring of the impetuous cloud,
And transient too the sorrow that is loud.
Go, ask some wailer of the recent morn,
Where are the pains by which his breast was torn?
Where are the clamours he so idly sent?
Gone! as the rage of summer tempests spent.
But uncomplaining misery is deep,
And bears a memory that will not sleep.
Time hath indeed a talismanic skill
To dull the sharpest, soothe the wildest ill.
The slow magician works his silent course,
And sorrow yields unconscious of his force.
But even Time o'er such a grief in vain
Will strive oblivion's victory to gain.
Blunt in the breast he may its keener sense,
But never rase the sad impression thence.

What was Monthermer now? a lonely wretch,
To whom no human hand could comfort stretch.
His little day of happiness was o'er,
And he was conscious it would rise no more.
Yet, though Affliction struck with arm so rude,
The gallant spirit scorn'd to be subdued.
A sacred guarding melancholy stole
To all the soft recesses of his soul,
And help'd with magnanimity to bear
Woes that might well a soul so feeling tear.
True, all his high-built hopes to earth were hurl'd;
His dearest feelings outcast of the world.
But his high mind superior regions sought,
Guided by inbred piety of thought.
Freed from the trammels that enslav'd it here,
It dar'd expatiate in a loftier sphere,
And look to refuge in their native heaven,
For feelings high that not in vain were given.
Yet deem not hence, without acutest pain
Could he that manly fortitude sustain;
Though dumb he suffer'd as the Spartan youth
While at his heartstrings gnaw'd the vulpine tooth.
Within him burn'd a slow consuming flame,
That tried the spirit and wore down the frame;
And they who look'd attentive on his face
Might there the mournful lines of ravage trace;
And they who read that face intent had guess'd—
That he would soon for ever be at rest.

Now duty broke upon his pensive trance,
(The troops prepared to quit the coast of France)
Glenville permission had obtained to stay;
But He for Calais hasten'd on his way:
Engaging first, at Glenville's earnest prayer,
That he would soon again to Lourde repair.
All ways were now indifferently drear,
For what on earth remain'd his heart to cheer?
One bosom-friend indeed he did possess,
But him he left in utter wretchedness:
To see Alvine's regards distracted roll,
To watch the wanderings of her darkling soul,
To wait for reason's least returning ray,
To watch, wait, weep, in vain, from day to day.

Monthermer had the destined harbour reach'd;
The troops embark'd, the sail for England stretch'd.
Morn roll'd away the involving mists of blue,
And Dover's cliffs smiled welcome on the view!
O how familiarly they smiled on those,
The gallant hearts long absent from repose!
To war's red land not now the victors roam:
Proud England hails her vindicators home!
The veteran's soul expands to fuller scope,
In all the juvenility of hope;
The youth sees reason in his wildest schemes;
Anticipation riots in extremes.
All feel the breast with self-importance thrill'd,
And all had wishes that seem now fulfill'd.
Friends, sisters, lovers, parents, children, wives—
The life of each shall joy a hundred lives.

But ah, to him, the bravest of those brave,
What can his country yield—except a grave?
Monthermer hath no heart's ally to greet,
No brother's smile, no parent's tear to meet.
Woe's sport Monthermer is, and fortune's scorn—
And is he then thus wretchedly forlorn?
Is there not one of all yon gazing host,
Now plainly seen in crowds along the coast,
Not one whose heart at his approach will leap,
Whose eyes for him the tears of joy will weep?
If thus it be, how like a deadly knell
To him must all this joyous tumult swell!

It was in truth a blithe, inspiring scene,
To any breast less scath'd than his had been.
To cliffs on high, and pier and beach below,
The murmuring tides of eager people flow.
There mariner, exciseman, trader, squire,
And fop, and damsel fair in trim attire.
There kerchiefs gay wave white from snowy hands,
And shouts of welcome ring along the sands.
Across the harbour blows a sprightly gale,
And refluent tide forbids approaching sail.
Mock'd by the gale, and yet so near the strand,
The stately ships are laying off the land.
The boats, a fleet, far chequering all the tide,
Both to and fro the restiff billows ride.
Those fraught with visiters of all degrees,
With voy'gers, anxious for debarking, these.
Among the latter groups, Monthermer shows
The only face that not with pleasure glows.

The bounding boats are pressing for the pier,
And now a vessel, hauling out, are near,
When, bearing through with ill-directed course,
One thwart the halser tilts with sudden force.
All whom it bore are cast upon the waves,
But them immediate succour promptly saves.
One woman only sinks, at once opprest,
A clasped infant clinging to her breast.
Monthermer marks the spot, and from his boat
Leaps headlong, and again is seen to float,
One arm the burden dragging. But too strong
The angry gathering waters round him throng.
His cramp'd enfeebled frame they soon exhaust,
And outward now beneath the pier-wall tost,
Ere boat can reach, the victims must be lost.
Deep cries of pity from the crowd resound,
But who to dare their rescue shall be found?
Touch'd to the soul at the disastrous sight,
With large reward such effort to requite,
A Lady offers; and the standers-by
Proclaim the boon with clear and anxious cry.
Two vent'rous boatmen whelm them in the surge,
Plunge down, and soon successfully emerge.
In vain the billows loud their prey assert,
Their force they break with lusty arm alert.
Adroitly buoyant each maintains his prize,
Till hastening boat a safe retreat supplies,
While shouts of joyful admiration rise.
To place appointed by the lady's care
The soldier's wife and infant straight they bear.
They lodge Monthermer at a neighbouring inn,
Where soon due efforts his recovery win.
Thus speedily restored, Monthermer heard
The double debt to one unknown incurr'd.
They could not solve his question of her name,
But told that recent visiter she came.

Her dwelling known, he sought, without delay,
The tribute due of gratitude to pay;
Though better in the ocean had he been,
Shut out from life and all its loathed scene.
Arrived, the purpose of his call was said,
And to her presence a domestic led.

With youthful grace at his approach she rose,
Her eyes one moment upon his repose,
Then, as surpris'd and suddenly o'erjoy'd,
“Thank Heav'n! thank Heav'n!” in touching voice she cried;
And two bright tears came starting, to enhance
Her sweet and tender sorcery of glance.
Monthermer heard and saw in dumb surprise
That silver sound, those dark dissolving eyes.
And ne'er did his or any eye behold
A form more harmonized in beauty's mould;
With every charm, so full yet so refined,
Voluptuously, delicately join'd.
Her cheek was fairest pale. No tongue can speak
One half the interest of that fair pale cheek.
The boasted brilliance of the rose-flush'd face
Match'd with that cheek would shrink from its disgrace.
Her long-lash'd eyes with pensive charm were fraught,
Instinct with mild irradiancy of thought;
The brightest eyes wherein the graces dwell
Would dully meet those dark orbs' powerful spell.

Monthermer for some moments silent kept,
Gazed on her charms, and marvell'd that she wept:
And while he gazed, he half alarmed felt—
His frozen heart might yet to beauty melt.
Not the luxuriance of her raven hair,
Though every lock a charmed influence bear;
Not the white heaven of her ingenuous brow,
Though to that shrine might woman-hater bow;
Not the enchantment of her dark eye's ray,
Though floats its iris in a flood of day;
Not the smooth jetty hemispheres above,
Though well might fable term them bows of love;
Not the ripe lips where blushing odour blows,
Though from her cheek they've pilfer'd every rose;
Not her pale cheek, her neck, her form, her air,
Though all, though each, beyond all language rare;
Not all the sweet assemblage of her charms,
Could more in him wake tremulous alarms,
But that some touching elegance of mind,
Some soft seduction, nameless, undefined,
Is in her every feature so inwreath'd,
In every look so exquisitely breath'd,
A pure ethereous essence seems the whole,
One blended beam of beauty and of soul.

Monthermer his oppressive silence broke,
His thanks with earnest incoherence spoke,
And now the sum she paid he would present,
When thus the fair arrested his intent:
(The voice came o'er him like the native strain
That exile never thought to hear again.)

“An orphan once two generous brothers had,
In them alone her days were griev'd or glad.
Forth to the wars they went in evil hour,
And left her lonely in her mournful bower.
One ne'er return'd; and one, by absence chang'd,
Came fickle back with memory estrang'd:
His once regarded sister was forgot—
She stood before him, and he knew her not!”

“Blest powers of Heaven! athwart the heaviest gloom
That ever prest misfortune tow'rds the tomb,
Breaks there a gleam to light me on the brink,
And raise one smile of joy ere yet I sink!
Blest powers of Heaven!” Monthermer ardent cried,
“How could I stand thus blindly at thy side!”

It was Euphemia! she whom evermore
His bosom still in fond remembrance bore:
But whom, unjustly, his o'er-clouded mind
Had thought, ne'er more the same soft friend to find;
Near as she was that fiend of subtle work,
Who stabb'd his peace with passion-poison'd dirk.
It was Euphemia! the propitious saint
Who to the ocean's sinking victims faint
Stretch'd out her guardian hand, defeated death,
And fann'd anew the weak expiring breath.

She whom he left, almost an embryon bud,
Scarce blushing to the dawn in April blood,
A perfect pure white rose he now beheld,
By May's mild sun and genial zephyrs swell'd.

He, as of yore, the maiden had caress'd,
But felt he durst not snatch her to his breast.
She, as of old, her brother had embrac'd,
But found, betwixt, some viewless barrier plac'd.
Her fears for Glenville now enquiry seiz'd,
Which he, so far as truth allow'd, appeas'd.
Already Glenville's letters had explain'd
The cause by which at Lourde he was detain'd;
But as, to cheat his sister's fond concern,
Hopes he had given of his prompt return,
To meet him with the expected troops she thought,
And had, for this, the port of Dover sought;
Her aunt her sole companion. At that name
The daughter's image o'er Monthermer came;
His lip pale writhing strove in vain to hide
The smile of bitterness and scoff of pride.
Yet 'twas a look from weakness all exempt,
No love was there; but deeply mark'd contempt.
He only wonder'd, as his thought compared
That maid with her who had his love ensnared,
He only wonder'd his deluded eye
Could choose a demon with an angel nigh.

With quick, alarm'd, inquisitive review,
Upon his face her glance Euphemia threw;
And though at once his first approach had shown
The admiring sign to beauty ever known;
And though the further interview had proved
She yet at least was as a sister loved,
That instant strong vicissitude of look,
For baffled love's despair she now mistook:
Her own sad heart's lone consciousness return'd,
And quench'd the timid hope that dimly burn'd.
Monthermer now excus'd his further stay,
For call to London summon'd him away.
But soon, he said, on his return to Lourde,
For which his word to Glenville stood assur'd,
He should again that harbour visit; then
Euphemia too he should behold again.

Unhappy and confused, Euphemia heard,
And something would have said, but seem'd deterr'd,
A faint and unconnected answer fell,
And then Monthermer bade the maid farewell.

Farewell he bade—and not an hour had given
To heart so tender ever—now so riven!
Though on his stay Euphemia had no power,
Sure Glenville's sister might have claim'd an hour.
But he was chang'd—Alas, the dismal change,
That wrought, on soul so warm, with force so strange!
But he was wretched—Yet, e'en thus, at least
Her presence would have not his griefs increas'd.
But he was deeply wretched—at a blow,
Fortune had laid all, all his best hopes low!
An only parent he had lost—and well
The woe of such a loss herself could tell.
He loved, and hope was past—oh, there again—
Well, well she knew that poignancy of pain.
And was there One of her own sex, indeed,
Who such a heart could e'er have left to bleed?
How wan and worn he look'd! how grief-consumed!
Was that the figure which so nobly bloom'd?
Where was the voice with gaiety that rung?
Where the wild wit once salient from his tongue?
Where was the fiery glance of fancy now?
The poet's spirit breathing from his brow?
All, all were quell'd—except the mind's fine tone
Alive to every danger but his own.
And he was gone! and whither did he go?
That too might swell the catalogue of woe.
She knew the Father had embarrass'd died,
And left his son to pay the debts of pride.
The son, 'twas said, as prodigally blind,
Had oft with folly flown, and prudence left behind,
Perhaps then prest by many a galling claim
That lofty mind endur'd a debtor's shame,
While he revolted at the only course
Which ready friendship gave to his resource.
O with what joy herself relief had plann'd,
Could she but cheat his pride and veil the hand!
O with what joy for him she'd have resign'd
All wealth—could wealth yield peace to such a mind!

'Twas thus Euphemia, as her thoughts revolv'd
His fate, of censure his neglect absolv'd.
'Twas thus that in his sorrow's dark profound
All harsh complaint the kind Enthusiast drown'd.
Sweet mourner! little did she yet suspect
How small her cause to tax him with neglect.
That morn's adventure had occurr'd, to prove
The change of, surely, not a fickle love.
But for Euphemia—How to look on Her—
The Beauty, Sister, Friend, Deliverer—
And think on young endearments flown so fast;
And what a jewel from his hand had past.
And what a glittering artificial lie
His heart had taken to its treasury!
Though then perhaps, this gem beyond all price
Had blest his bosom's nobler avarice!
How thus to look and thus to think was He,
Nor feel within—the goad of agony?
Yet if a hope were left—but hope was none—
The chance, the possibility was gone.
What! should he think at such a shrine to lay
A heart degraded, trampled, spurn'd away?
And would she deign, from beauty's throne aloft,
Receive oblation by her cousin scoff'd?
For hope so big his bosom had not room—
There Vanity and Joy fill'd up one tomb.
Yet more: Should he (from fortune's sortilege
When to have drawn, he seem'd, a flattering pledge,
Who to another offer'd homage prone)
Now that a blank his fortune's lot was known,
(At least till rents resign'd for many a year,
Of debts his clogg'd inheritance should clear,
Which honour call'd imperious to be paid,
And duteous reverence to a father's shade)
Should he aspire, with meanness, to espouse
The splendid dower of Glenville's noble house?
In brief, alas! his destiny to sum:
'Twas misery now, and misery to come.

With such dark thoughts he reach'd the capital,
Where new distresses were prepared to fall.
There came the petty populace of trade,
With eked-out schedules, fretful to be paid.
While lived (in seeming opulence,) the Sire,
The Son could nought too prodigal require.
Nor ever then for payment did they sue,
For this would prejudice their gains they knew.
Since credit, clad in masquerade with skill,
Is a gross figure in the tradesman's bill.
But now, his Sire's embarrassments expos'd,
With fearful haste the rash account they clos'd,
And hurried eager to his door to flock;
Not with the finger delicate of knock,
The eye submiss, and vigilant of beck,
The practised flexibility of neck,
And glozing tongue, and all-obsequious ear,
And civil soft lubricity of leer—
But with the heavy loud-colliding hand,
And tone abrupt of insolent demand,
And steady stare, and ear to terms obtuse,
And scorn of decency no more of use.
Then some, with dread of durance to o'erawe,
Or grind him with the millstone of the law,
Deputed the Attorney! and the Prig
Behind his bulwark sure—the Judge's wig—
By subtle, sharp, exasperating dint,
Half threat and personality of hint,
Strove hard the blood's quick ferment to exalt,
And stir a case of battery and assault:
Pleas'd his own back should chastisement provoke,
So Law adjudg'd him gold to heal the stroke.
The fanfaron Attorney! but the arm
Of anger deign'd not reach to do him harm;
Scarce e'en could anger's eye the creature mark,
Within his cobweb habitation dark.

But thus besieg'd with pertinacious zeal,
Monthermer now was first condemn'd to feel
The power of vulgar care's infernal fangs,
To search a noble mind with cruel pangs.
He thought affliction had exhausted all
Her rage; that he had drain'd her cup of gall.
But to be hunted down like truant slave,
To be the prey of usurer and knave,
Whithersoe'er he moved, within, without,
Prest, pester'd, dunn'd, by rabble and by rout;
And know not where, if e'en thus humble made,
His one friend distant far, to turn for aid—
This was with poisonous stuff so base, so low,
To drug the deep but sacred well of woe,
That rack'd at once, and glutted with disgust—
The high indignant heart had well nigh burst.

Had then Monthermer, stay of the distrest,
Youth of the open hand and generous breast,
The birth-exalted, and the talent-grac'd,
The star of Fashion, and elect of Taste,
The love of Ladies, and of Beaux the guide,
The oracle of Wits, the Soldier's pride,
The gallant ever, and, till now, the gay,
The chivalrous Adornment of the day—
Had He no friends, of all the flattering breed,
To yield him succour in his utmost need?
O yes!—a hundred ardent friends had He—
To share his riot in the hour of glee,
To urge his waste, to revel at his charge,
And render quittance in professions large.
O yes!—and twice a hundred such he had;
But they, for warmth of weather, light were clad;
And at adversity's approach succumb'd,
Like insects of the sun by frost benumb'd.
Monthermer knew them, nor relax'd so much
Of self-respect, as seek relief from such.
But hardly driven for immediate means,
And dull at finding debt's elusive screens,
He saw at last, in spite of all his scorn,
His Agents' favour was the hope forlorn:
And Them he sought, with awkward phrase and face
Of one unpractised to solicit grace:
When, scarcely credible to tell, he found
His wish with absolute concession crown'd.
And this in speech to courteous rule as true
As e'en if They his favour had to sue.
Blest Agents these! at what prodigious time
Fell they from Heaven? or be they Imps of rhyme?
Mere specious counterfeits from Fancy's mint,
To pass for sterling currency in print?
And coin'd by Fancy in her wilds of air
Because she loves the wonderful and rare?
Blest Agents these! Monthermer, half in fear,
Doubted his eyes could see, or ears could hear.
So liberal grown! he wonder'd how or whence?
But soon the riddle was reduced to sense.
A sum far more than equal to have paid
His next advance in military grade,
Had there been left him since his sire's decease,
By one that, banish'd long by hard caprice,
Nought from the ties of kindred could release;
His father's sister, whom he never more
Had thought to know, nor scarce in memory bore.
Here then was subsidy to stop the pace
Of simultaneous ruin and disgrace;
Remission of the penalty abhorr'd
Of jingling beggar's chime on favour's chord;
And the dear proof (which, though with some alloy
Stamp'd on his mind a golden trace of joy)
The heart-sustaining proof, 'mid all its dearth,
He was not quite an alien upon earth;
Not quite abscinded, in his fate's decree,
From all blest bond of consanguinity.

To her at once the o'erflowing thanks he penn'd,
Due to the generous relative and friend.
Then, freed a while from pestilence and plague
Of want, and all its less appendants, vague
And mocking definition, that corrode
The hapless bosom where they find abode,
He sped to reach his patrimonial hall,
Whence filial duty heard a solemn call,
Demanding tears of pious love to lave
The arid marble o'er a father's grave.

Sunk in reflection's gloom he journey'd on,
And of the day the larger half was gone,
When first, distinguish'd through imbowering wood,
Before his view the gothic turrets stood.
The adjacent village reach'd, dismiss'd he there
Attendance, for a while he wish'd to bear
The growing weight of pious grief alone,
And trace the dear paternal haunts, unknown.
Scenes once of happiness! why, why so fast
Did memory then oppress him with the past?
The long dark avenue he gain'd.—The wind
All low among the ancient trees repined.
Monthermer heard in every rustling noise
An old familiar sympathising voice.
It seem'd to own his welcome step again;
It seem'd to greet him in its mournful strain;
It seem'd to tell him too, that such was all
His lonely welcome to his father's hall.
He reach'd the stately pile. The sun's slope track
Glanc'd on the glass which threw its lustre back.
But chief the chapel's gorgeous-painted frames
Shone in a rich variety of flames.
In that small chapel's yet uncrowded space
Slept all the far-famed worthies of his race.
The great ones of their time! the high of birth!
In the brief compass of that spot of earth.
'Twas there his father slept—Monthermer crost
The path, in one o'erwhelming feeling lost.
The postern he approach'd—and wish'd it then
Could give his Sire's last dwelling to his ken.
He tried, and though he had not hoped so much,
At once it yielded to his gentle touch.
He enter'd softly, and the door reclos'd—
Silent was all within, as death which there repos'd.
And all that by the smother'd light he saw,
Ting'd o'er his mind with deep religious awe.
He now advanc'd—sudden some murmur near,
Like heavy sigh, struck startling on his ear!
He look'd around—no living creature stirr'd—
'Twas fancy!—no! for it again was heard—
He thought it came, like spirits' hollow moans,
From yonder drear receptacle of bones!
Fix'd to the spot with reverential dread,
He thought a while to see the troubled dead—
He thought to see indeed his father rise,
In the pale pomp of his funereal guise!
Some instants thus he stood in chill amaze—
Then with mute step stole on, and eager gaze—
When, by a pillar, in the thickest gloom—
Appear'd a female, bending o'er the tomb,
Which fresh escutcheon show'd his Sire's to be—
But what mysterious visitant was she?
Wherefore in rapt devotion bent she here?
Heav'd the lone sigh, and pour'd the secret tear?
While yet he stood in wonder at her side,
Her accidental glance his form descried—
And shock'd as though a spectre crost her view,
Back, lightening-like and shuddering, she drew.
Her eye, her attitude of terror say:
What thing of night is this that haunts my way?
Then, as she look'd with scrutiny more near,
It seem'd that looking but increas'd her fear,
That o'er her frame more cold convulsions ran;
And thus, in broken accents, she began:
“What!—is it Thou?—ah, well I know thee yet—
Though many a year hath past since last we met—
And now to meet thee thus—Relentless still?
Say—art thou come to banish—or to kill?
To drive a hated mourner far away—
Or make an altar of thy tomb—and slay?
Is anger then immortal?—Is its breath
A lamp eternal in thy vault of death?
And doth it e'en disturb thy jealous sleep,
That, o'er thy grave, regret, affection weep?
Say rather, thou art come to bless at last—
To sooth the unkind remembrance of the past—
Say that thy soften'd spirit could not rest
In peace—ere the rejected one was blest.
'Tis thus—for on that well remember'd brow
Appear the traits of kind compassion now!”—
Monthermer listen'd without power to speak,
And mark'd the wilder'd eye, and deathlike cheek,
Himself scarce master of a strange alarm;
But strove at length her terrors to disarm.
“Peace, Lady, peace! no rude intent had I
Into the sanctuary of grief to pry.
Chance at this moment hither brought my feet;
Surprise, 't is true, arrested my retreat,
Surprise the obscure but touching prospect gave—
Of stranger mourning at my father's grave.”
“Thy father's grave!” her echoing voice replied;
Her thought seem'd then her memory to chide;
Her hand too then was lifted to her face,
As if a conscious dizziness to chase—
“Thy father's grave!”—and nearer and more near
She drew—but slowly, as if yet in fear—
Then lightly touch'd him with extended arm,
As doubting still 'twas no material form—
Then thus, convinc'd, exclaim'd:—“'Tis true! 'tis true!
O ever welcome to my longing view!
But doubly welcome now!—Thou know'st me not!
Long have I been forsaken and forgot—
Yet it is right to meet in such a spot,
To tie anew neglected nature's knot—
Or—will the offspring like the Father prove,
Who shut his breast against a sister's love?”—

Monthermer sprung to her embrace at once,
No answer did or could his lips pronounce.
But that spontaneous, long, and full caress
Told more than utterance ever could express.

With fond and curious eye she now survey'd
His features o'er, and thus pursuing said:
“'Tis scarcely strange a face so wondrous like
My brother's, should with consternation strike
My cheated senses. Such his very mien,
When, years ago, by me the last time seen.
Just such was he! The same commanding brow!
But not so wan—no, not so wan as thou!
Hath sorrow that young cheek already paled?
I too by her have sorely been assail'd—
Of children, husband, brother, all bereft—
The grave hath all—Thou only now art left.
Thou too art lone on earth as well as I—
Each must to each the place of all supply.
My son, my friend, my brother, must thou be—
A friend, a mother, shalt thou find in me.
Too late I know the intolerable load
That prest thy father to this last abode.
Had but his pride once deign'd his griefs to own,
Then had a sister to his solace flown.
And me he spurn'd!—but all resentment died
When death's cold hand congeal'd that pulse of pride.
Hither his corse to honour then I came;
When dead at least a sister's right to claim,
A cold embrace—his obsequies to tend—
And mourn a brother—who was, once, a friend.
The adjoining town hath since my dwelling given,
And hither, by resistless impulse driven,
Frequent I come—the paths of youth to tread,
And hold communion with the kindred dead.
Thy hoped return hath still my parting check'd;
I could not treat his offspring with neglect.
And thou art come at last—And it is well,
We thus should meet where all our fathers dwell.
And here, thus fervent o'er this grave, I swear,
Henceforth their son shall be my only care.”

Monthermer o'er the tomb inclin'd—The tears
Of filial piety were mix'd with Her's.
Fresh floods of grief in sad succession fall—
And that sepulchral marble drinks them all.