Oliver Newman A New-England Tale (Unfinished): With Other Poetical Remains. By the late Robert Southey |
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 | Oliver Newman |  |
“A man of caustic speech!” the Governor said,
Following him with his eye, as forth he went:
“Yet hath this humour no unkind intent;
His commendation, sir, shall have its weight,
The rest we take as it is meant.”
Following him with his eye, as forth he went:
“Yet hath this humour no unkind intent;
His commendation, sir, shall have its weight,
The rest we take as it is meant.”
The youth
To that urbane accoil, with grateful eye,
And gentle motion of the bending head,
Return'd a mute reply.
There was a troubled meaning in his look,
And o'er his brow an ashy paleness spread,
As forth he took
A little casket, and, with trembling hand
Presenting it to Leverett, said:
“Thus I discharge my mother's last command;
On her death-bed she told me I should need
No other friend with you in my behalf to plead.”
To that urbane accoil, with grateful eye,
And gentle motion of the bending head,
Return'd a mute reply.
There was a troubled meaning in his look,
And o'er his brow an ashy paleness spread,
As forth he took
A little casket, and, with trembling hand
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“Thus I discharge my mother's last command;
On her death-bed she told me I should need
No other friend with you in my behalf to plead.”
The Governor's countenance changed, as he received
That message from the dead;
And when he open'd and contemplated
The sad bequest,
Tears fill'd his eyes, which could not be represt.
It was a woman's picture, in her youth
And bloom portray'd, by Cooper's perfect skill.
The eyes, which death had quench'd,
Kept there their life and living lustre still;
The auburn locks, which sorrow's withering hand,
Forestalling time, had changed to early grey,
Disparting from the ivory forehead, fell
In ringlets which might tempt the breath of May;
The lips, now cold as clay,
Seem'd to breathe warmth and vernal fragrance there;
The cheeks were in their maiden freshness fair.
Thus had the limner's art divine preserved
A beauty which from earth had pass'd away;
And it had caught the mind which gave that face
Its surest charm, its own peculiar grace.
A modest mien,
A meek, submissive gentleness serene,
A heart on duty stay'd,
Simple, sincere, affectionate, sedate,
Were in that virgin countenance portray'd:
She was an angel now; and yet,
More beautiful than this fair counterfeit,
Even in heaven, her spirit scarce could be,
Nor seem from stain of ill, and evil thoughts, more free.
Time was, when Leverett had worn
That picture like a relic in his breast;
And duly, morn and night,
With Love's idolatry
Fix'd on its beauties his adoring sight,
And to his lips the precious crystal prest.
Time was, when, in the visions of his rest,
That image of delight
Came with sweet smiles, and musical voice, to bless
His sleep, and all his dreams were happiness.
And still, though course of time, and fatal force
Of circumstance, grave thoughts, and worldly cares
(Ah! how unlike the blissful hopes of youth,
From which it had been worse than death to part!)
Had fortified as well as heal'd his heart,
That vision, in her beauty and her truth,
Sometimes would visit him; and he,
With a confused but conscious faculty,
Knowing full well
That this, which seem'd, too surely could not be,
Struggled against the spell.
Unchanged and unimpair'd by thirty years,
Her image came, but only to distress
The heart she wont to bless,
Till from the painful unreality
He woke, disturb'd in spirit, and in tears.
But he was master of his waking soul,
And could control
All unbecoming passion, and all feeling
That needs repressing or concealing.
Howbeit he sought not to restrain
His deep emotion now, nor turn'd aside
His natural tears to hide, which freely fell;
But wiping them away a moment, eyed
Oliver's pale countenance and anxious brow,
Perusing there his mother's lineaments:
Then took his hand, and said, “Thou need'st not tell
Thy hapless name and perilous secret now,
I know them but too well.”
That message from the dead;
And when he open'd and contemplated
The sad bequest,
Tears fill'd his eyes, which could not be represt.
It was a woman's picture, in her youth
And bloom portray'd, by Cooper's perfect skill.
The eyes, which death had quench'd,
Kept there their life and living lustre still;
The auburn locks, which sorrow's withering hand,
Forestalling time, had changed to early grey,
Disparting from the ivory forehead, fell
In ringlets which might tempt the breath of May;
The lips, now cold as clay,
Seem'd to breathe warmth and vernal fragrance there;
The cheeks were in their maiden freshness fair.
Thus had the limner's art divine preserved
A beauty which from earth had pass'd away;
And it had caught the mind which gave that face
Its surest charm, its own peculiar grace.
A modest mien,
A meek, submissive gentleness serene,
A heart on duty stay'd,
Simple, sincere, affectionate, sedate,
Were in that virgin countenance portray'd:
40
More beautiful than this fair counterfeit,
Even in heaven, her spirit scarce could be,
Nor seem from stain of ill, and evil thoughts, more free.
Time was, when Leverett had worn
That picture like a relic in his breast;
And duly, morn and night,
With Love's idolatry
Fix'd on its beauties his adoring sight,
And to his lips the precious crystal prest.
Time was, when, in the visions of his rest,
That image of delight
Came with sweet smiles, and musical voice, to bless
His sleep, and all his dreams were happiness.
And still, though course of time, and fatal force
Of circumstance, grave thoughts, and worldly cares
(Ah! how unlike the blissful hopes of youth,
From which it had been worse than death to part!)
Had fortified as well as heal'd his heart,
That vision, in her beauty and her truth,
Sometimes would visit him; and he,
With a confused but conscious faculty,
Knowing full well
That this, which seem'd, too surely could not be,
Struggled against the spell.
Unchanged and unimpair'd by thirty years,
Her image came, but only to distress
The heart she wont to bless,
Till from the painful unreality
He woke, disturb'd in spirit, and in tears.
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And could control
All unbecoming passion, and all feeling
That needs repressing or concealing.
Howbeit he sought not to restrain
His deep emotion now, nor turn'd aside
His natural tears to hide, which freely fell;
But wiping them away a moment, eyed
Oliver's pale countenance and anxious brow,
Perusing there his mother's lineaments:
Then took his hand, and said, “Thou need'st not tell
Thy hapless name and perilous secret now,
I know them but too well.”
| Oliver Newman | |