 | Art and Fashion |  |
105
THE WANDERER.
Three dreary years in peril tost—
Three years upon a polar sea:
Ice-wreck'd,—and half his comrades lost;
Once more his native land treads he.
Three years upon a polar sea:
Ice-wreck'd,—and half his comrades lost;
Once more his native land treads he.
While westward from the sandy height
He views where, far, his cottage lies,
A father's transport fills his sight,
A husband's joy o'erflows his eyes!
He views where, far, his cottage lies,
A father's transport fills his sight,
A husband's joy o'erflows his eyes!
He speeds by each remember'd way,
Each turning brings him still more near;
He sees his first-born child at play—
And calls—but cannot make him hear
Each turning brings him still more near;
He sees his first-born child at play—
And calls—but cannot make him hear
Fast as he speeds his child appears
Still distant as it was before;
At length, with bursting, grateful tears,
He sees his young wife at the door.
Still distant as it was before;
At length, with bursting, grateful tears,
He sees his young wife at the door.
106
She takes the sweet child by the hand,
She kisses him with loving joy;
The gazer deems in all the land
There's no such other wife or boy!
She kisses him with loving joy;
The gazer deems in all the land
There's no such other wife or boy!
She lifts him fondly to her cheek,
Then leaves the narrow wicket gate;
The Wanderer thinks he will not speak,
But gaze and wait—if love can wait!
Then leaves the narrow wicket gate;
The Wanderer thinks he will not speak,
But gaze and wait—if love can wait!
But from that gate, to open view,
Come never more those feet so light;
There grew no covert, that he knew,
Whose leaves might hide them from his sight.
Come never more those feet so light;
There grew no covert, that he knew,
Whose leaves might hide them from his sight.
A sudden terror fills his veins
And chills the rapture in his eyes;
With eager spring the gate he gains;
And calls, but not a voice replies.
And chills the rapture in his eyes;
With eager spring the gate he gains;
And calls, but not a voice replies.
The door—it does not stand ajar—
The casement, too, is closed and dark;
Across the path is thrown a bar—
And all wears desolation's mark!
The casement, too, is closed and dark;
Across the path is thrown a bar—
And all wears desolation's mark!
He shrieks in fear each name so dear—
The garden plot is waste and wild;
O God! why doth his wife not hear?
O love! why cometh not his child?
The garden plot is waste and wild;
O God! why doth his wife not hear?
O love! why cometh not his child?
107
He strains to catch the slightest trace
Of form or raiment; nought is seen;
As, with a wild and spectral face,
The gray boughs groan and intervene!
Of form or raiment; nought is seen;
As, with a wild and spectral face,
The gray boughs groan and intervene!
The leaves bend trembling to their root,
The frail grass mutters to the flower;
With ghost-like wing the long rays shoot,
While tolls the bell the vesper hour.
The frail grass mutters to the flower;
With ghost-like wing the long rays shoot,
While tolls the bell the vesper hour.
He turns bewilder'd at the sound—
Again his wife, his child, appear;
They move across the churchyard ground,
And beckon the pale Wanderer near.
Again his wife, his child, appear;
They move across the churchyard ground,
And beckon the pale Wanderer near.
A few steps more and he may hold
The twain within his trembling arms:
Why seems his sinking heart so cold?
What shakes him with these dread alarms?
The twain within his trembling arms:
Why seems his sinking heart so cold?
What shakes him with these dread alarms?
Pale, in the dreary moonlight, gleams
Each mound and monumental stone;
He stands distraught—as one that dreams—
Was he again alone—alone?
Each mound and monumental stone;
He stands distraught—as one that dreams—
Was he again alone—alone?
Alone—they've pass'd—yet nothing stirr'd!
He thought that thro' the spectral air
There rose one low, one little word,
Faint echo of some infant prayer!
He thought that thro' the spectral air
There rose one low, one little word,
Faint echo of some infant prayer!
108
He thought that name, which erst had mov'd
His pulses with a parent's joy,
Came softly—as in hours beloved—
When on his glad knee sat his boy!
His pulses with a parent's joy,
Came softly—as in hours beloved—
When on his glad knee sat his boy!
Yet all had fled: and on the stone
Beneath his feet two lines were read;
Sad lines, that to the eyes once shown,
Do break the heart; that's better dead!
Beneath his feet two lines were read;
Sad lines, that to the eyes once shown,
Do break the heart; that's better dead!
He press'd his hot lips to each name—
He kiss'd each letter o'er and o'er—
They scorch'd his sight, as if with flame;
They sear'd his worn heart to the core.
He kiss'd each letter o'er and o'er—
They scorch'd his sight, as if with flame;
They sear'd his worn heart to the core.
For this—he cried—for this was won
My way thro' tempests!—this—to bear;
Still—still, O God—Thy will be done!
Yet one—not one! not one to spare!
My way thro' tempests!—this—to bear;
Still—still, O God—Thy will be done!
Yet one—not one! not one to spare!
Morn stepp'd from out the mists of heaven,
And coldly lit each hallow'd spot;
Another morn to him was given—
Another world, where death was not!
And coldly lit each hallow'd spot;
Another morn to him was given—
Another world, where death was not!
| Art and Fashion | |