Idyls and Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

‘She recollects it,’
Laertes said, ‘She must:—there was a chain,
Your ten year's gift to the young maid of ten,
Gold network, pendant amber-drops; she wore
I saw, at Arthur's—why not now? why, Blanche?
She wears it oft.’
Arthur.

‘So! smiles at last, Ulysses!
Ulysses smiled but seldom.—But I tire
To hear this southern legend.’

And the traveller,
As one well-pleased, pursuing, ‘That the wish
Young haunts to view, wrought on him: how he sail'd,
Though tless of war, that raged 'twixt Moor and Frank,
And woke, one morn, close prisoner in Algiers,
A garden-slave amongst untasted fruits,
And all above, around, the watchful sun,
That eyed him as in days of yore it eyed
Brown Hannibal in Carthage. Long he served
(No news from England, none if any lived),
Slave of his slaves, the Moor: yet ere the grapes
Had mellow'd through from topaz to full ruby,
He found himself, he said, in sober truth,
All seriousness, enacting a romance,
Such as his youth had wept o'er, with the joy
Of reading it in story.

But his hearers
By smiles the while and looks outran the tale
Their parted lips drank in.

Edwin.

‘My master's daughter—
O for thine aid, Saavedra, to set forth
The dark luxuriance of those Eastern charms:
Fairness with ripeness reconciled: charms deep,
Charms deep and full tho' girlhood scarce had faded—
My master's daughter, earnest half, half sport,
It seem'd, oft met me. Such a maid before
Or in my dreams, or waking hours, I knew not,
('Twas in the mist of earlier days, perchance,
When Arthur's youth, with mine, was 'mong the Moors,)
Methought had met mine eyes. I cannot say,
For all was strange and wild.

With broken sounds
Of English utterance—but whence learn'd, she said not—
Broken, yet clear: sweet tones, methought, tho' broken,
She turn'd my willing eyes where, one blue rim,
Ocean lay dark with hope and mystery.
It seem'd, she long had waited, in the thought
To fly her home, and found the wish now granted.
Then answering smiles and recognition aiding,
Our plot was soon prepared.

And now the boat
In the palmetto-grove, beneath the rock,

Swung ready: oars were out, and sails, half spread,
Beat with desire. All things on Ada call'd,
Yet lingering. And I thought, the rising fear
Of danger, and discovery, haunting me,
‘She comes not, and she cares not: 'tis the freak
Of reckless girlhood,’—angry thought! yet ere
The cloud of wrath around my temples curl'd,
A gentle voice had summon'd me, and led
Up cedarn alley, past the jasmine bush,
That out on air its slumberous odours hung,
Thro' latticed corridors—where one faint lamp
Gleam'd thro' the gauze-hung window. Sleep within
Breathed tremulous in dim silence. Ada lean'd
Half on the sill, and with one hand drew back
The veil above: then on my neck her arm
Dropp'd, as she said, ‘My father,’—with a tone
Breathing full tide of love, regretful love,
That thro' sweet childhood's days ran back, and paused,
And maiden hope, that would not brook repression.
My looks turn'd on her, fearful so to read
A failing purpose. In one long embrace,
The first and last, her arms met mine: with tears
And mingled sobs, the voice of loving weakness,
That must confess itself, and seek an aid
She would, or would not. ‘Think not that with love,’
He said, (half turn'd toward Blanche, reverted half,
As tho' he spoke to th' interspace 'twixt her
And Arthur)—‘Think not that with love, dear friends,
Such love as man feels once, and but for once,
I met her lock'd embrace; or that her heart
Lay beating with aught more than the deep fears,
Deep joys, of flight. I know not of her fate:
Yet sure 'twas love, that nerved her.—

But my soul
Rose, and in words of settled firmness, told
Of danger, that discover'd plans must breed,
And of one dearer than a father's love,
My brother, who awaited me. At this
She started, as from dreaming—and with eyes
Reverted oft, oft failing, downward led
Our fourfold steps, and so the boat was gain'd.’
—He paused: for round the circle, as they sat,
Flash'd a responsive smile, that long repress'd,

Now struggled into daylight. With surprise,
As one chagrin'd, he knows not how, that feels
The central circle of the labyrinth
Thro' which the voice of friends had summon'd him,
Barr'd from his footsteps, and the while he hears
Light laughter and quick rustling feet around,
He added, ‘Well; ye should have heard the tale,
A summer's tale, of Ada, and our flight,
And how she fled me, sudden: and the chase,
Long fruitless chase—thro' France. But I reserve
My words for calmer audience.’

Blanche threw out
An asking look on Arthur: but ‘Not yet,
Not yet,’ he sign'd, in playful earnestness,
Observed of Edwin.—And ‘It must be so;
For such reserve, on such a morn as this,
No lesser cause suffices:’—and he rose
Mastering himself to calm: then hastier steps
Within the thicket bore him.

And sweet Blanche,
Repentant of unseasonable smiles,
Went downcast thro' the garden; as in chase
Of one she found not.

‘'Tis fit time,’ at last
The old man said; ‘none fitter, we should tell
Where Ada's flight was stay'd, when from Algiers
Young Cupid's runaway, thro' France she went,
Provence, Auvergne, wild Brittany—to thee,
Mindful of earlier days, and promise given,
She scarce knew when. And some excuse the Fair
Herself, methinks, for flight itself, requires,
For unexplain'd desertion. Think not, Arthur,
My hasty-kindling friend, think not I blame
The delicate maiden mind, that shunn'd to break
Word of thy love, her hopes,—so long delay'd,
Uncertain long—to Edwin: who, in youth,
Knew not the pledge that bound her. But the hour
To lift the veil has reach'd us: who so fit
As thou to tell?’

Arthur.
‘So would I; but the fear
Restrain'd me, lest the sight of all that bliss,
Bliss undeserved, which Heaven had stored for me—
(Excuse me, father! if I plead his cause,

Using the style he would)—should pierce his heart
With thought of all he was, and all he hoped,
In th' unforgotten days of youthfulness.’
—Whereto in answer, with a smile that breathed
The ineffaceable sweetness of a life
Calm'd by pure thoughts, the sire of Blanche replied:
‘I know it; I know it all. Ah, deem not Blanche
(I know her heart—none better: who should better?)
Indifferent, or forgetful, has received
Our long-expected exile. 'Neath the calm
Of that first greeting—'neath the words of mirth,
(Oft our best aid in weakness)—lay the soul
Fluttering and panting in that strong influx
Of inexpressive bliss. 'Tis often so:
These calm streams run the deepest. Edwin's heart
Well match'd with hers, thou know'st—more quick in mood,
E'en now perchance, with sudden jealousy
Touch'd toward his brother—left so long with her
For whom he cares to live: more self-tormenting,
As less capacious of that vast reliance,
Undoubting love, unfearing, woman's strength
And weakness. Let us rise. Bring Ada forth:
—Your brother with a brother's love will greet
His southern fugitive: from her bright lips
Fitliest will learn her story: and what else
Woman, on woman's love most eloquent,
A willing tongue in willing ears may pour.’

[Exeunt.
Edwin
(alone).

O treasure—lost, when found! O sweetest most
When most, most lost! How could I hope—and yet
If any loved, she once:—mine own confess'd:
Confess'd mine own: I cannot dare unthink it—
That it should be—O God—that it should be so—
That it should be so!—that the most beloved
Should by the most beloved, save her alone!— —
—O curse! that out of sweetest bitterest bringing,
Hast waited on me long, and fall'n at length,
After such sweetness known—after such hours!
For was she not mine own—my love confess'd—
At that last kiss—the dearest, still the last,
When with bare tender feet, and long drawn stream

Of locks dishevell'd, thro' the dawn she came,
To bid farewell, that could not be farewell,
Before her love the tide of loving thoughts
And girlish fancy pouring—

Yet I see her:
Blanche, yet I see thee—recollection yet
Will not disown her treasures—as thou wast,
Child among children, when he first, and I
On that blind day of wrath, were brought to thee:
There as thou wast among thy youthful stores,
The maps, the pictured leaves:—each childly toy,
Each treasure—free for our delight display'd,
Orphans, and sad.

But O that hours like these
Had never been—or ever!—That delight
Had ne'er so jarr'd the balance of the soul,
The calmness of an unforeseeing heart,
Untried in bliss too blissful—or that Love
Had ta'en me by the hand, and led me up,
Raised step by step, to that still eminence
Where neither storm of passion, nor the mists
Of doubt, nor any frore indifference,
Violate the warm purpureal atmosphere,
And mar the everlasting smile of heaven!

But I must wander thro' the void of life
Alone—thrice orphan'd: love alone unchanged:
Unchanged:—yet so to me from earth shut out,
No longer portion'd with his loveliness.
Ah! valleys—fields and valleys—ah! dark glade,
Once peopled with the voiceful playfulness
Of those who thought them children—Love himself
A child among them—so it seem'd—and were not!
O vain regret—O mockery of tears!
O Love, why hast thou so deserted me!
Say, was it sin that I should love her so—
And did the sin deserve such punishment?
Sweet sin, resolved in sorrow, such, so deep,
That e'en those fancy tells of—those who yet
Can weep their own eternal chastisement,
May mock my woe, that might find way thro' tears,
But knows the boasted comfort comfortless:—
O vain regret—O mockery of tears!

[A pause.

He paused. The rush of song, from those within
The sun-illumined veil of budding boughs,
(Translucent green and amber:—leaf on leaf
Inscribing tiny fans of pencill'd shade),
Flooded the calm. To more considerate grief
That anguish'd soul insensibly was strung:
Till sadder tones of human utterance,
The appeal of reason, and the pangs of thought,
Th' inevitable burden, and the sting
That happy memories bring,
When Man recalls the vision of the Boy,
With those unthinking lays, and accents rife
In overbrimming joy,
Blended the discords of our human life.

Edwin.
Rich thy childhood's promise, dearest, with thine earlier years advancing:
Rich its bright fulfilment, as the golden days pass onward glancing.
When a child, I've often watch'd thee, with thy maiden thoughtlessness
Love for love returning freely, in a sweet unconsciousness.
Like a fountain overflowing ceaselessly with pure delight:
Turning everything to brightness, robing it in cheerful light.
Like an angel-presence, with thy lightning smiles and day-long gladness,
Sunny smiles and radiant hair—no child of mortal gloom or sadness.
Fearless for thine own sweet self, while all around were fearing for thee:
Thought of danger at thy blithesome presence fled away before thee.
Thou wast gayest of the gay, love; thou wast bravest of the brave:
Young amongst the young and bright: but wise and thoughtful with the grave.
Ah, that I from boyhood should have known and watch'd this living treasure!
Ah, that I thro' countless days should here have placed my deepest pleasure!

Ah, that all should be in vain! that I should see the prize with sorrow!
Ah, that such a dreamful night of joy should wake to such a morrow!