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Redwald

A Tale of Mona: And other poems. By Louisa Stuart Costello

Costello, Louisa Stuart (1799-1870)

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Redwald;

A TALE OF MONA.

THE billows dash on the rocky shore,
And wildly rises their dismal roar,
The spirits shriek in the rushing blast,
And the clouds of darkest night o'ercast
A spot, which the arms of Ocean span;
'Tis the frowning-misty hills of Man.
Yet 'tis not fear of the tempest dread
Makes Mable start from her restless bed,

And gaze on the vivid lightning's gleam,
And breathless list to the sea-fowl's scream.
Oh ye who have known what 'tis to hear
The rage of elements warring near,
And thought of friends on the ocean wide,
And shrunk at dangers that might betide,
Ye will believe that amidst such woe
But little of rest could Mable know!
Oh, did she fear for a brother's fate,
Or a father absent that night so late?
Or who was the object that claim'd her sighs,
And bade in her breast such terrors arise?
Her brother was far in the distant wars,
But yet was not he of her grief the cause.
Her sire had been dead for many a day,
And her aged mother in slumber lay.
None knew the fears that robb'd her of rest,
The secret slept in her trembling breast.
But he whose steps did her thoughts pursue,
Was safe from the danger her fancy drew;
How little she deem'd that on Mona's shore
He slept in safety till night was o'er.
Oh! had she known on that stormy night
That form so dear might have met her sight,

Her whisp'ring heart would have said 'twas love
That made him the rage of the tempest prove.
Yes, love had brought him to Mona's isle,
But 'twas to seek for another's smile,
To catch one glance with the morning's ray,
And then to sail, with the light, away.
But Mable judg'd by her hopes so dear
That oaths are binding, and vows sincere,
And thought, as he call'd her at length his bride,
Nor life nor death could their fates divide:—
She knew not the pow'r new beauty bears,
That former bonds it asunder tears—
That the sight of charms never seen before
Had made him cherish her love no more!

The restless wave flow'd clear and fast,
Where oft the sun-beams lov'd to play,
And louder murmur'd as it pass'd
The mossy stones that stopt its way.

Why pauses here in mute surprise
The maid, who gaily from the wood,
So swiftly came with sparkling eyes,
To cross in haste the rapid flood?

Ah, maiden, backward wend thy way,
The storm that chas'd thy sleep last night
O'erturn'd the bridge, whose ruins grey
So oft have felt thy footsteps light!

Yet would she strive to cross the stream;
Is there no hand to lend its aid?
She smil'd—“Alas, 'twas but a dream—
“My senses were by sleep betray'd.

“And yet last night, when weary grown
“With list'ning to the wild wind's roar,
“I courted sleep my fears to drown,
“This was the face my vision bore.

“Methought this bridge, where oft I've stood
“And gaz'd in silence o'er its side,
“Was thus destroy'd—and thus the flood
“Was strewn with all its ruins wide.

“And I could wish the rest were true,
“The youth, whose form so heav'nly fair
“Still dwells on my deluded view—
“His gentle words—his tender air!

“Hence idle thought!” she softly sigh'd,
And turn'd her graceful steps again,
When seen across the narrow tide
Approach'd a stranger o'er the plain.

In gentle tone she heard him speak,
And while his voice her flight detain'd,
The crimson blush that dy'd her cheek
Told that her dream was well explain'd.

The stream is pass'd—the maiden gone—
Still does the stranger's eye pursue
Her steps—while bounding as the fawn,
She wav'd him, thankfully, adieu.

Oh, ne'er till then had Edith sigh'd
When ent'ring at that cottage door,
Oh, ne'er till then had Mable spy'd
A tear, where sparkled smiles before.

“What ails my friend?—and why those tears?
“Thy sorrows let thy Mable know;
“Whatever cause of grief appears,
“My heart, dear maid, must share thy woe!”

“'Tis past—'tis gone—my sadness grew
“For little cause, I blush to own;
“'Twas but a foolish dream, that threw
“A gloom where 'tis so seldom known.”

“Think on't no more—but let me tell
“The errand which at early morn
“Has bid me seek the distant dell
“My beauteous Mable's charms adorn.”

With playful smiles the tale was told,
The rural fete that claim'd her care
She said would be but dull and cold
If gentle Mable were not there.

“I cannot join your dance to-night,
“My mother's sick, and I must stay;
“For how could Mable taste delight
“If she should mourn I was away?”

“Now, shame on thee, deceitful maid,
“Your mother yonder meets my eye,
“Our meeting seek you to evade,
“That thus you will my wish deny?”

“Believe me, Edith, 'tis not so,
“I wait my brother here to see,
“And thus I must the joy forego
“Of joining in the dance with thee.

“And I had beg'd thou would'st remain
“And give him gentle welcome too,
“But that from what thou say'st 'tis plain
“Thou hast more pleasing cares in view.”

Again the colour left her cheek,
She leant on Mable's helping arm,
“What means this paleness, Edith?—speak,
“I fear—I know not what—of harm!”

“I dreamt I was your brother's bride,
“And that, alas! in vain I strive
“To banish fears I wish to hide,
“For ev'ry moment they revive!”

“What means this sad—this strange dismay
“At mention of my brother's name?
“And does my Edith dread the day
“When he his long-betroth'd shall claim?”

“Oh no, dear Mable, thou should'st know
“My parents' wishes still are mine,
“And soon my breast with love will glow
“If Ivan's heart be like to thine!”

[Fair Mable turn'd her head away,
And strove to hide her bosom's care,
Too well she knew love's tyrant sway
Stoops not a parent's yoke to bear.]

“His danger 'twas disturb'd my peace,
“And made me tremble while you spoke,
“From such a dream of strange distress
“No being ever yet awoke.

“Farewel—whate'er the reason be
“That Mable from her friend detains,
“May she from grief be ever free,
“While life, and length of life, remains!”

She's gone—as swift as o'er the sea
Darts the white sea-gull of her isle;
And soon she bounds in youthful glee,
And soon her cheek resumes its smile.

For she was of that lively mould
Which ev'ry diff'ring passion mov'd,
Her heart to feeling ne'er was cold,
Yet mirth and gaiety she lov'd.

But placid was fair Mable's mind,
Yet deeply felt she ev'ry pain:
One gave her sorrows to the wind—
The other own'd soft sadness' reign.

Not less her soul with virtue fill'd,
Tho' less in all her words exprest;
Her heart was one, which harshness chill'd,
When lov'd—the truest and the best!

The stars had ris'n more fair and bright
Than Mona saw for many a night,
And as they shed their rays on high,
They each in splendour seem'd to vie,
With di'monds of the purest light.

Amidst the awful stillness round,
The waves with sad and mournful sound
Dash'd on the rocks, as if they fear'd
Their sullen murmurs should be heard.

And now a boat, whose splashing oar
Directs its course to seek the shore,
Glides softly onwards, and conceal'd
By rocks the darkness half reveal'd,
Gives up its freight—a chief, whose feet
Are quickly led that step to meet,
That form, replete with ev'ry grace,
Which flies to hail his lov'd embrace!
But frowning was the chieftain's brow,
Where ne'er a scowl she mark'd till now;
And coldly did his piercing eye
Meet her's, who gaz'd in ecstacy,
And whose firm love forbade to know
The truth, which else had caus'd her woe.
“Thou art,” he said, and deeply sigh'd,
“My long belov'd and tender bride;
“How deeply then this heart must grieve
“That its sole joy is doom'd to leave!
“Judge of my tortur'd bosom's pain,
“I dare not meet thee here again!”
“My love! my husband! oh, what pow'r
“Of earth or Heaven, in direful hour,
“Can break the bonds that make us one,
“Until our earthly course be run?

“Oh! I will leave my native sky,
“My friends—my parent—ev'ry tie
“That nature binds around my heart,
“Rather than we shall ever part!
“If thou must leave this dreaded isle,
“Can I exist without thy smile?
“No! o'er the yet unfathom'd sea
“Thro' all the world I'll follow thee!”
“Then not a moment of delay,
“We must this instant haste away,
“For ever quit this hostile place,
“Or this must be our last embrace.
“That start explains my hopes were vain,
“Your falsehood is, alas! too plain;
“For now the trial is in view,
“You shrink from all your vows—adieu!”

“Hold! hold! too cruel—too unkind!
“No longer doubt a constant mind;
“Which, since it lov'd thee first, has known
“No joy, but in thy sight alone!—
“Without a pause I'll all resign,
“My hand—my heart—my fate is thine!”

Whose was that shriek—and whose that cry,
The spirits of the night, who fly
O'er Ocean's sad and ruffled breast,
On Mona's shadowy mounts to rest,
Alone can tell!—

A mist of grey
Has warn'd the stars to haste away;
Their sparkling forms so slowly fade,
And lose their lustre in its shade,
That ling'ring fondly o'er the sky,
The sun advances 'ere they die.

When Ivan landed, and once more
Breath'd on his own—his native shore,
His well-known cottage rose to view,
Crown'd by the mist of silvery blue;
The voice that answer'd to his call,
Like heavenly music seem'd to fall:
O'ercome by hope, and joy, and love,
His trembling lips refus'd to move!
When at the cottage door appear'd
The form so dear, and so rever'd,
Which hush'd his throbbing heart's alarms—
He press'd his mother in his arms!

“But why has Mable thus delay'd?”
When first his utt'rance came, he said,
“To make a brother fully blest,
“Who longs to clasp her to his breast?”
“She comes, no doubt—she hears thy voice,
“Oh, Mable, haste—with me rejoice;
“My child, thy brother waits thee here!”
But still was kept the silence drear,
No answer met their list'ning ear.
And now the walls her name resound,
Alas! no where was Mable found:
A thousand fears their minds invade,
In vain they seek the hapless maid.
“My son, beyond those meadows hie,
“And cross the stream which murmurs nigh,
“There, where it flows in many a wind,
“Young Edith's cottage thou shalt find;
“Perchance, grant Heaven the joy to send!
“My child this morning sought her friend.”
Ah! Edith, vainly dost thou seek
The fairest flow'rs at morning's break;
Vainly thou bidd'st their beauties blend
To form a garland for thy friend,

No more she'll thank thy tender care,
Oh! cease thy off'ring to prepare,
Those sweets for Mable bloom in vain,
For you can never meet again!
With woe is Ivan's bosom fraught,
Fled are the joys he fondly thought
Would bless his long delay'd return,
And bid him, henceforth cease to mourn:
Ere long the voice of mourning friends
O'er weeping Mona's isle extends;
He yields to fate's resistless doom,
And kneels beside a mother's tomb!

While Edith wept in ceaseless grief,
And mourn'd her Mable early flown;
When time to all had brought relief
Save her's and Ivan's heart alone;

A stranger came to Mona's shore,
Whose riches and whose gen'rous mind
Dispens'd relief to all who bore
The yoke of fortune too unkind.

The voice of all-resounding fame
In Mona's isle the story told,
And Edith heard of Redwald's name,
His wealth—his deeds—with int'rest cold.

Not long so coldly did she turn,
But listen'd when the youth was nam'd;
While on her cheek would blushes burn,
Nor longer was the speaker blam'd.

For Redwald was the stranger form
Her vision had so well pourtray'd,
The night of that appalling storm,
In all love's gentlest charms array'd.

He too it was that cross'd her way
That morn, the last of Mable's fate;
All join'd her bosom to betray
To love's soft vows, and fortune's hate!

The lustre of his dark blue eye
Aw'd all to fear, yet there exprest
Were looks, which tend'rest thoughts imply,
When he would soften beauty's breast.

The bright red rose which warm'd his cheek
Was often rais'd to crimson hue,
And passion's smother'd flame would speak,
And own how much its influence grew.

From Erin's isle the stranger came,
Her's were his failings—yet the good—
The virtues, common to her name,
Had not his greater faults withstood.

For not a spark beam'd on the way
To bid the trusting stranger know,
His smiles were meant but to betray
His love—his friendship—certain woe.

Well might young Edith vainly strive
To hear his vows with cold disdain,
Her heart to tenderness alive,
Shunn'd e'en to cause another's pain.

She lov'd, nor blush'd his pow'r to own,
One only fear disturb'd her breast,
She dreaded lest a parent's frown
Should on her dearest wishes rest.

But he she lov'd had store of gold—
That key to many a human mind;
All who such passport can unfold
Will still a ready welcome find.

And tho' her father promis'd fair
To make his Edith Ivan's bride,
His vows had melted into air,
Since wealth the question must decide.

Ere long, consent their hopes had crown'd,
The day was fix'd, and all agreed;
His joy her father freely own'd,
Nor gave his former promise heed.

But there was one, who not unmov'd
Heard of his falsehood—yet the pride
Of him who thus despairing lov'd,
Bade him his just resentment hide.

He would not meanly stoop to sue,
Nor beg, for what he might demand,
Tho' Edith rightly was his due—
To him belong'd her virgin hand.

But when he heard her heart confess'd
A kindred passion for his foe,
The pangs that robb'd his mind of rest
He wish'd not Edith e'er should know.

A prey to grief, he shunn'd her sight,
And as approach'd the dreaded-day,
He wander'd oft at dead of night,
And sadly sigh'd the hours away.

Three days her fate would now decide,
And Edith would become a bride;
Her heart a tender joy maintain'd,
Yet there a silent sadness reign'd,
She knew not why—and solitude
Was suited to indulge the mood.
How often in the happiest hour
Does sadness spread her chilling pow'r!—
The nearer bliss the heart attains
The more 'tis sensible of pains.
And Edith climb'd the mountain's side,
From whence was seen a landscape wide;
Beneath was heard the billows' sound,
And Man's fair plains extended round,

The evening mist—its deep'ning shade
Shed o'er each cottage, hill, and glade,
And shrouded with its dark grey hue
The coast of Erin from the view.
The more than melancholy gloom
Was like the silence of the tomb;—
She thought on Mable's early fate,
And on her own so happy state:
“Alas!” she said, “had'st thou, my friend,
“Remain'd thy tender care to lend,
“My present joy could'st thou have seen,
“How much more blest my heart had been!”
She sigh'd, and near her echo'd low
Another sigh of deepest woe,
A sudden chill her frame opprest,
And fear her shrinking heart possest;
She strove to fly—but found her feet
Refus'd to bear her trembling weight.
Breathless and mute awhile she stood,
And heard the roaring of the flood
Increase with fury, while the sky
Obscur'd, foretold a tempest nigh:
Spell-bound she seem'd, when on her ear
Fell sounds which once she lov'd to hear,

High beat her heart—that well-known strain
She ne'er had thought to hear again;
It was the air that Mable sung,
But yet the notes still sweeter rung
Than e'er she heard from Mable's tongue!
Yet, scarce she caught the airy strain
'Twas sunk, and all was hush'd again:
She look'd around in wild amaze,
When to her quick and startled gaze,
Close at her side a form appear'd,
That youthful friendship once endear'd;
'Twas Mable, such before her view
As when she bade her last adieu!
Ere Edith's hopes and doubts were fled,
A sudden change the form o'erspread,
Wet stream'd her garments, and her hair
Hung dripping o'er her shoulders bare,
Her cheek, as pale and cold as snow,
Was stamp'd with deep and deadly woe;
Her large dark eyes with splendour shone,
But such as earth has never known;
Their solemn, fix'd, and dread controul
Appall'd each sense of Edith's soul!
The figure rais'd a hand that seem'd
Embody'd shade—which dimly gleam'd,

Scarce evident to mortal sight,
Like the pale glimmering beam of light
That breaks the mists of morn away,
And comes the first to promise day.
She wav'd it thrice, then slowly said,
In accents heard but from the dead:
“False to the oath thy father swore,
“Return and seek thy home once more,
“He who the first shall meet thee there,
“Tho' calm his looks—his words tho' fair,
“They shall his guilt no longer hide,
“For by his hand lost Mable died!”
The vision ceas'd, and sternly frown'd,
Then melted in the mist around.
As swift as lightning from on high,
Which cleaves the azure vaulted sky,
So Edith flew—impell'd by dread,
The ground scarce felt her rapid tread,
E'en so she darted down the hill,
While ev'ry nerve with terror's thrill
Beat high—her spirits ebbing fast,
She gain'd the cottage door at last,
Which open'd as her step drew nigh,
And Redwald met her eager eye!

She look'd a moment wildly round,
Then sunk exhausted on the ground.
He sprung, with sudden fear imprest,
And rais'd her to his throbbing breast,
Long lay she senseless in his arms,
While o'er her hung with fond alarms
Her weeping parents, who in vain
Strove to restore her life again.
And Redwald gaz'd in dread and woe,
Until returning life's faint glow
Gave to her cheek its roseate dies:—
At length she slowly rais'd her eyes,
On him she fix'd her stedfast view,
But shudd'ring soon the glance withdrew,
And with a start of wild alarm
She grasp'd her mother's helping arm,
While tears that bath'd her cheeks so cold
The anguish of her bosom told:
“Oh, Redwald, hasten from my view,
“Thy sight my terrors all renew,
“In mercy not a moment stay,
“Depart, before my words betray
“The guilty secret, dark and dread,
“Which rous'd the slumbers of the dead!”

A livid hue on Redwald's cheek
Was spread—he vainly strove to speak,
A deadly mist his sight o'ercame,
And scarcely could his trembling frame
Support the fears he could not chase,
Which shook his firmness to its base!
At length he said—“My love, explain,
“Nor idly cause my bosom pain;
“Say what the hidden cause may be,
“That accusation lights on me!”
“Meet me at morn,” she whisper'd low,
“And then the cause shall Redwald know;
“Nor think that Edith idly strove
“To wound a heart she's bound to love!”
Oh! faithless sleep! too like the world, unkind,
Thou giv'st no comfort to the tortur'd mind,
The long—long night of solitude and woe
Thou wilt not let the wretched suff'rer know
The balm thou can'st so freely yield to those
Who tir'd with happiness seek thy repose!
Vainly did Edith close her tearful eyes
Before her sight would fearful visions rise,

Then would she start, and 'midst the stillness round
Hear the deep bell, with sad and hollow sound,
Proclaim each passing hour;—the time was near
When shadowy morning's earliest tints appear,
Ere pitying slumber would its pow'r bestow,
And yield a blest forgetfulness of woe.
Not her's the only eye that did not close—
Not her's alone the soul o'ercome with woes!
Can love unrecompens'd in calmness rest,
And flies not slumber from the guilty breast?
Redwald that fatal night severely felt
That with the guilty peace has never dwelt;
Stern, restless, conscience every deed recals,
And the sad mind with madd'ning thought appals!
He could not—dar'd not—still in Mona stay,
Fear'd e'en to linger till returning day;
His servants, ready at the hasty word,
In silence wonder'd, yet obey'd their lord,
And ere the morning streak'd the sky with gold
'Twixt him and Edith Ocean's billows roll'd!
And Ivan thou, when wandering that night,
Thy only guide, the pale moon's silver light,
Alas! too well—too deeply did'st thou feel
'Tis pain to love—but tortune to conceal!

Now, on a neighbouring hill's wild summit plac'd,
He, 'midst the shades, his Edith's cottage trac'd—
Long'd to behold her, tho' of hope forlorn,
And distant gaz'd despairing till the dawn!
Long—long did Edith at th' appointed time
Wait him, whose name stain'd with imputed crime
She hop'd to clear; his innocence to prove,
And once more hail him worthy of her love.
All day suspense disturb'd her fearful mind,
She watch'd each sound—and ev'ry rustling wind
She thought his step. At length the evening came,
And yet no tidings cheer'd her with his name.
Till weary'd out she sought the lonely shore,
To weep in secret, and her grief deplore;
Close by a rock by which she lov'd to lean,
And gaze upon the lovely moonlight scene,
Where oft' the waves, reflecting ev'ry ray,
Gleam'd as a thousand lights were dancing 'midst the spray.
'Twas there she stopt—a sudden gleam display'd
A figure gliding 'midst the rock's deep shade,
Which near her swift approaching, soon she knew
The form of Ivan stood before her view.

“Edith,” he cry'd, in tone of fond alarm,
“Say, art thou fearless of th' approach of harm?
“Why thus alone—thus unprotected roam
“So late, and distant from thy peaceful home?”
The warm tear started in her dark blue eye,
Her bosom heav'd a melancholy sigh:
“Because I have no friend to guard my fate,
“Neglected, wretched, and most desolate!
“Because I love to gaze upon the wave
“Which oft' I deem is our lost Mable's grave!”
Awhile in silent gloom did Ivan stand,
Then starting—caught in trembling haste her hand,
The moon's bright lustre beam'd around his form,
And awful was his tone—he rais'd his arm,
And as he pointed tow'rds the starry Heav'n,
Unearthly grandeur to his frame seem'd giv'n:
“And know'st thou not,” he cry'd, “who gave the blow,
“What villain caus'd a brother's tears to flow?
“Can'st thou this pale—this wasted form behold,
“And yet the secret wilt thou not unfold!
“Well may'st thou start and wonder I should know
“That thou art mistress of the tale of woe;—

“'Twas from the rev'rend seer, whose wondrous pow'r
“Is known in Mona, I in blessed hour
“Learnt that thy lips the secret could reveal,
“And give the wretch to my avenging steel.
“By all my suff'rings from thy beauty's pow'r,
“By my firm love, which never till this hour
“I dar'd to tell thee!—by my mother's shade,
“And by that lov'd and deeply injur'd maid,
“Who once was dear to thee—the deed proclaim,
“And speak the vile—the hateful murd'rer's name!”
Pale as the light around, so soft and still,
Was Edith's cheek—her breast as marble chill;
A shiv'ring horror seiz'd her shrinking frame—
How could she breathe her still lov'd Redwald's name,
Oh! could she give him up to death and shame?
A thousand thoughts and fears perplex'd her brain—
She turn'd to Ivan, who, in breathless pain,
Gaz'd on her face—at length she silence broke,
And gath'ring strength and calmness thus she spoke:
“If awful visitation from the tomb
“May be believ'd, our hapless Mable's doom
“Came ere the law of nature had decreed,
“And murd'rous hands perform'd the fatal deed.

“Her spirit mourns the burial rites unpaid,
“And these sad eyes beheld the fearful shade—
“It bade me seek again my own abode,
“In strange unearthly tone its accents flow'd;
“Which, as they chill'd my soul, I heard declare,
“That Mable's murderer should meet me there!
“One I did meet, whose name this heart, tho' weak,
“Shall never prompt my fearful tongue to speak;
“It might be all deception, and my sight
“Have been deluded by the shades of night!”
“No! Edith, no! to pass regardless, dread,
“A solemn warning from the restless dead;
“My throbbing brain at once the truth descries,
“And double horror meets my tortur'd eyes!
“Oh! how I could reproach thee for the grief
“My heart has borne, nor ever hop'd relief!
“By all the sacred vows that angels knew,
“Which should have taught thy father to be true,
“Can'st thou forget that thou wert justly mine—
“And did I not my happiness resign?
“Did I not yield thee all—and leave thee free
“To choose another, tho' 'twas death to me?
“And is it hard a recompence to spare.
“For all my sorrows—and my deep despair?

“Yes—yes! the cause thy looks too surely prove,
“The murd'rer is thy Redwald—is thy love!”
A thrilling voice repeated Redwald's name,
From the high summit of the rock it came;
Yet vainly gaz'd the awe-struck—trembling maid,
No form was visible amid the shade,
To which she scarcely dar'd to raise her head,
To see perchance a spectre of the dead!
She stood awhile—mute 'midst the silence drear,
Forgetting all her grief in withering fear,
Till with a sudden agonizing pain
The sad remembrance darted on her brain;
Her bosom heav'd with strong convulsive swell,
And on the ground at Ivan's feet she fell!
Wildly he hasten'd from the rocky shore,
And tow'rds her home his lovely burthen bore;
There gave her to her parents' fond embrace,
And rush'd in madd'ning sorrow from the place!
For many a day from that unhappy hour
Did Edith lay, o'ercome with sickness' pow'r,
And long her anxious friends in anguish mourn'd
Ere to her faded cheek the rose return'd.

And now fresh grief replac'd her mother's care,
Her father sunk in sadness and despair,
That thus his only child was doom'd to prove
The pangs of struggling 'gainst unworthy love,
And he the cause! pale, dying as he laid,
He summon'd to his side the weeping maid,
And sorrowing Ivan, too, his call obey'd,
When thus he spoke: “My child! alas, too late
“Repentance beams upon me for your fate,
“For all your grief to me the cause you owe,
“Too long I've liv'd to load my child with woe!
“My broken vow to Ivan's gen'rous sire,
“Has drawn upon me Heaven's indignant ire:
“But yet, altho' I err'd, my ev'ry care
“Was still for thee—then hear my latest pray'r—
“Be Ivan's wife, no more his bliss deny,
“So shall thy father in contentment die!”
He ceas'd—a flush of anxious hope was spread
O'er Ivan's brow—his eyes in trembling dread
He dar'd not raise, the lovely form to view,
Which shrinking from his love, his fancy drew:—
“Hold—hold! my father, oh, my friend!” he cry'd,
“Too well I feel she ne'er can be my bride;
“I dare not hope it, and resign the hand
“Possess'd but by a dying sire's command!”

As if his heart was by that effort torn
From life—and left of ev'ry joy forlorn,
He rais'd his eyes, but diff'rent far the maid
Appear'd from what his fearful thoughts pourtray'd,
From her sad kneeling posture she had ris'n,
And her white hands were gently rais'd to Heav'n,
She spoke—“That God who hears my sacred vow,
“Knows that my vanquish'd heart has ceas'd to bow—
“Has ceas'd to feel a single glow of love
“For worthless Redwald! tho' it long has strove
“Against remembrance of the happy hours
“When bliss too transient strew'd my way with flow'rs,
“I would not—could not offer thee my heart,
“If for another love still held a part;
“Then, tho' too poor for constancy like thine,
“To thee my hand I joyfully resign!”
She gave that hand, which Ivan fondly prest,
Then wept in silence on her father's breast.
His languid dying arms o'er each he spread,
And in that faint embrace his spirit fled.

The morning rose of Edith's bridal day,
Fairer than Mona e'er had hail'd before;
Those mists which erst obscur'd the sun's bright ray
Seem'd to have fled—there to return no more.

'Twas the same day a year before had shewn
So big with sadness to young Edith's heart;
That fatal day had guilty Redwald flown—
And now she blest the pow'r that bade them part.

The gay procession o'er the hills was seen,
And Ivan led his fair—his gentle bride,
Of all their gaiety the lovely queen,
And thought no grief could e'er again betide.

Near to the shore the little chapel stood,
Where they their mutual vows of faith should pay;
And at its foot appear'd the roaring flood,
Which often dash'd it with the feathery spray.

Within its walls the joyful crowd was rang'd,
Each face with cheerful pleasure seem'd to glow,
To hear those sacred vows of love exchang'd,
The sweetest—purest that the world can know!

And now the solemn words the priest had spoke,
Repeated gently fell from Edith's tongue,
When a loud voice amidst the silence broke,
And thro' the vaulted roof re-echo'd rung.

The door was burst—with rude and clam'rous noise
In rush'd impetuously an armed band,
And shrieks arose from many a female voice,
While vainly struggling 'gainst no pitying hand:

Unarm'd was Ivan, soon by numbers held,
He saw their ruffian chief with rapid stride,
Approach the altar—raging he beheld
'Twas Redwald clasp'd his pale, his fainting bride!

“She's mine, nor Heav'n nor fate shall part us more,
“'Tis Redwald braves thee—and thou faithless fair,
“I can revenge e'en as I can adore,
“Come fly with me, and all my wrongs repair.”

“Turn, coward, turn!” but vainly Ivan strove,
Like lightning fled the chief—and in his arms
Bore the dear object of his madd'ning love,
And vanish'd swiftly 'midst the loud alarms:

But desp'rate, furious, strength, now nerv'd his hand,
One sudden effort dash'd his guards away—
He burst thro' those who still his flight detain'd,
And bounding forth pursu'd his flying prey.

His swift approach did Redwald quickly mark,
And climb'd the rocks, the neighb'ring spot to gain,
Where waited for his prize the destin'd bark,
To bear them both far distant o'er the main.

Sudden a shout of triumph met his ear,
And turning he beheld with kindling rage
The conq'ring peasants wildly rushing near—
His troop all flying fearful to engage!

Within his arms lay Edith's lifeless form,
Breathless he stood, upon the rocky height,
While all assembled his pursuers swarm,
And of his coward slaves prevent the flight.

And now he could not from the rock descend,
Below—on ev'ry side they block'd his way,
And his last falt'ring hope was at an end,
He saw his boat had darted from the bay!

Releas'd was Edith from his straining fold,
He turn'd to grapple with his rival's hold;
Returning life now shed its dawning ray,
She saw the fierce encounter with dismay,
With shrinking fear beheld their deadly blows!
And now on Redwald pour'd a host of foes;
All hands were rais'd—some arm'd with daggers keen,
And some with weapons seiz'd in haste were seen.
With frantic rage he look'd a moment round,
Then caught the trembling Edith from the ground,
His sword amidst the shouting foe he flung,
And from the giddy height with her he sprung:
Her bosom Ocean, to receive them spreads,
And then for ever closes o'er their heads!
And where was Ivan? did his struggling heart,
Burst at that moment, and bid life depart!
Or did he follow headlong from the steep,
And die with Edith in the foaming deep?
Such was the deed his eager soul impell'd,
But strongly by th' affrighted crowd with-held,
With toil and rage, and with despair oppress'd,
A burning fire consum'd his tortur'd breast;
Convuls'd—he sunk exhausted on the ground,
And his soul strove to burst its earthly bound—

A thick and deadly mist o'ercame his sight,
And with one groan his spirit took its flight!
Oh, Death, most blest, thou art the only balm
For the soul's wounds! thou comforter in pain,
When all is lost that gave the world a charm,
And nought but woe can e'er be felt again!
No more the scenes which once look'd fair and gay,
Shall please the eye, whose light is fled away!
Alike is midnight's gloom, or brilliant morn,
For all is dark, and joyless, and forlorn!
Except that bless'd forgetfulness is found,
Which binds the senses in fantastic round;
When the mind wanders from its native state,
And wildly laughs at all the frowns of fate!
Until it finds that wish'd oblivious shore,
Where all its miseries at length are o'er!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

LAMENTATION OF Lady Arabella Stuart; IN THE TOWER.

Thou gloomy witness of my wayward fate,
Let my sad heart its sorrows breathe to thee—
Thy stony walls are kinder than the great;
Thou art more pitying than mankind to me!

Tho' well I know to thee 'twere vain to sue;
Thy senseless frame can never soothe my care;
Yet James no more of tender mercy knew,
When at his feet I pour'd the useless pray'r.

His mind, where feeling never held her throne,
Was far more deaf than thee to all my woe;
Truth—Virtue—Nature—from his breast is flown:
Ne'er knew that heart with ought but pride to glow.

Oh, when I bade him think on Mary's fate,
Did not his mother's sorrows move his soul?
Could nought dispel his stern—his cruel hate,
Which bound me thus beneath his fierce controul!

Oh! all ye shades which once these walls immur'd,
Look down while hapless Arabella sighs!
Ye gentle pair whom early death secur'd,
Sad on the wind methinks I hear your cries.

Each dismal gust that sweeps these turrets by,
Reminds my shudd'ring thoughts of horror's deeds!
Now murder'd Clarence' groans around me fly—
Now fancy shapes where royal Henry bleeds.

Alas! what shade arises 'midst the gloom,
And bows her white neck to the headsman's blow;—
Oh, lovely Anna! such thy dreadful doom!
A monarch's falsehood brought thy beauty low.

The vision fading from my tearful eyes,
But bids my mind on equal sorrows rest;
Thy fate, fair Grey! anew recals my sighs,
And sheds fresh torment on my aching breast!

No more my throbbing sight can bear to view—
Soon dreary shades I join your beck'ning train;
Depart awhile, but for a short adieu,
For soon I feel that we shall meet again.

Come, courteous sleep, and yield thy dewy pow'r,
Nor let me longer dwell on sights so dread,
But for awhile believe my sorrows o'er,
And shew me where my Seymour rests his head!

Wrap in forgetfulness my wand'ring mind,
Spurn lurking horror from my wounded breast;
Ne'er let me wake again, such griefs to find,
But bid calm death steal silent on my rest!

To the Sea.

Oh wide expanse, so awful and sublime!
I gaze with wrapt and melancholy eye,
As 'midst the silent gloom of lonely eve,
I mark thy billows slowly rolling by.

That swelling wave, which wet my ling'ring feet,
Has haply pass'd o'er many a woeful scene—
Has wash'd, perhaps, the dismal wreck'd remains
Of some tall bark that grac'd thy surface green!

Has heedless pass'd where desp'rate shrieks arose,
Where sinking beings stretch'd their hands in vain;
Or stopp'd its course awhile, and swelling high,
Dash'd o'er their forms, and onward rush'd again!

Beneath its dreadful force perhaps there fell
The only hope of friends, far—far away!
There, with them sunk, beneath its direful swell
The last sad glimpse of fleeting pleasure's ray.

One tender form is present to my view,
Which vainly struggles 'midst the rushing tide,
Then fades from sight, where waves on waves pursue,
And bids the deep the dismal story hide!

Could not a mother's and a sister's sighs
Join with the wind, and waft thee to the shore?
Could not a helpless, orphan, brother's cries
Melt the hard fates, and thou return once more!

No! thou art lost—nor those sad rites allow'd
To weep beside thy flow'r-strewn, mournful, grave,
For where the billows sweep with moaning loud,
Thy bones are whit'ning low in Ocean's cave!

Tho' stormy sea, thou bidd'st these thoughts arise,
Yet will I linger by thy rocky side:
Whilst to his wat'ry bier my fancy flies,
And views his tomb, altho' on earth deny'd!

A TRIBUTE TO THE SPIRIT OF ROBERT BURNS.

Oh, why are Coila's banks so gay?
Why there do still the maids delay?
Their sweetest joy is fled away—
The minstrel's song;
For he who sung, no more would stay
Their groves among.

Oh! if ye yet will linger there,
Come join to mine a gentle pray'r,
And we'll a simple wreath prepare
For Ayr's sweet swain,
Of heather bells and daisies fair,
That starr'd the plain.

We'll hang the garland on a tree,
And mark the cooing wood-dove flee
From ancient haunts in cheerful glee,
To rest her there;
And there the throstle we shall see,
And lark repair.

Each ev'ning shall the nightingale
To list'ning fairies tell her tale,
Who will, till morning's dawn, bewail
In whisp'ring moan,
For him, the pride of Scottish dale,
So early flown!

We'll bid the gale sweep softly by,
And 'midst the waving rushes sigh,
And breathe to wand'ring travellers nigh
His fav'rite name,
Who, joining in sweet sympathy,
Repeat the same.

Here shall the wood nymphs oft be seen
Smoothing the lawn so fair and green,
Where sportive fawns before had been
Amid the shade;
And haunt where, in the peaceful scene,
His wreath is laid.

WRITTEN ON Her Birth-Day,

Oct. 9, 1816.

Can that poor bard, whose sighs keep dreary time,
Breathe forth a lay to grace her natal hour?
Can she delight to sing in sounding rhyme,
Who weeps within a solitary bow'r?
Yet still soft poesy! she owns thy pow'r,
And grateful, loves to hear thy praise arise;
Like that fond, pensive, ever faithful, flow'r,
Which tho' forlorn, still dwells with dewy eyes
On him, who once was kind, and in his presence dies!

But gloomy strains awake her sleeping lyre,
For early dreams a pleasing prospect show'd—
They once a golden vision might inspire,
And peace o'er all the flatt'ring picture glow'd.

Yet, tho' on life's uncertain dreary road
Small store of years their low'ring course have roll'd,
Too soon the bard its darkest paths has trod,
And sorrow has her dismal story told
To one who thought not e'er to meet such greeting cold!

Her youth, by few of pleasure's garlands crown'd,
Droops 'neath misfortune's wither'd, leafless, band!
For friends when most requir'd are rarely found—
The name is little known in that sad land,
Where stern adversity with sceptred hand
Spreads her unwelcome, soul-appalling, sway,
Love and society desert her strand,
And 'midst gay crowds remembrance chase away,
For little do they love with pain and woe to stay!

PARAPHRASE OF DAVID'S LAMENTATION

Over Saul and Jonathan.

Oh lament! for the beauty of Israel is slain,
And the mighty are fall'n in death on the plain!
Oh, tell not in Gath the sad, heart-rending, tale—
Let not Askelon know the dear loss we bewail!
Lest their daughters rejoice with loud songs and with mirth,
And our tears and our woe to their triumph give birth.
Ye mountains of Gilboa, no more let us view
Your summits, all sparkling with fresh fall'n dew!
No more let the rain on your meadows be shed,
No longer the altars for off'rings be spread;
For there was the shield of the mighty destroy'd,
That shield which so fiercely in fight was employ'd!
Alas! for there Saul's fatal death blow was giv'n,
As tho' he had ne'er been anointed of Heav'n!

From the arm of the strong—from the blood of the foe,
When shrunk the bold arrow from Jonathan's bow?
Where the battle rag'd loudest the bright sword of Saul,
Like lightning, in heaps made his enemies fall.
They were lovely and pleasant in life's short career,
And death has not sunder'd two bosoms so dear!
More swift than the wings of the eagle they flew,
And stronger than lions their courage we knew!

Ye daughters of Israel, lament over Saul,
His kindness—his gifts, to your mem'ry recal;
He deck'd your apparel with jewels and gold,
And gave the rich scarlet your limbs to enfold.
Oh! how are the mighty in battle laid low!
Oh Jonathan! for thee sincere is our woe!
My brother! my friend! and my tenderest care,
My love was more strong than for women we bear.
The mighty are fallen in battle afar,
And broken, and perish'd the weapons of war!

IMITATION OF AMANTE IRRESOLUTO.

Canzonetta Pastorale.

Alas, my heart, without a guide
Thou wand'rest near love's treacherous shore;
Say, wilt thou stem the glittering tide,
Or haste its beauties to explore?
Ah! yon fair vale too much delights me,
And I must go where love invites me!

Oh, she who knows how much I've lov'd her,
She, who triumphs where she will,
Reigns in beauty—but I've prov'd her
Cruel, wav'ring, faithless, still!
Why should her frowns, her scorn delight me?—
I'll fly—tho' love himself invite me.

Too true, no smile my bosom calms,
Too true, she's cruel, false and vain!
But ah! not less her magic charms!—
Still, still I cannot quit my chain.
No, no, her ev'ry look delights me,
I go—I fly where love invites me!

Oh, how could I in anger name her!
Joy and beauty round her grow;
I was cruel e'er to blame her—
I was false to call her so.
With all her faults she still delights me,
With joy I haste where love invites me.

LINES COMPOSED ON THE SEA SHORE, AT THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

Oft when the sun with many a ling'ring glance
That tells the world his time of rest is nigh,
Darts o'er the silver of the blue expanse,
His crimson rays of glory thro' the sky;
I stay, in lonely silence on the shore,
While round the wide, majestic, waters flow,
Now gently rippling, now with sudden roar,
Still, while they cherish, seem to chide my woe!
The deep red streaks that mark'd yon purple cloud
Are quickly fading in the gloom of night;
And now the Heav'ns, envelop'd in her shroud
Beam with the last faint ray of setting light;
And sky and sea in misty line are join'd;
No breath disturbs the stillness—nor a sound,
Save the soft moaning of the waves confin'd
By the dark barriers of the rocks around.

The stars begin their lustre to disclose,
And one fair star, oh! how supremely bright!
Conspicuous in its dazzling beauty glows,
Tinging the billows with its silver light.
Where are my thoughts when all these scenes I see?
Where flies my fancy?—to what distant shore?
Oh then, Eliza! my fond soul's with thee—
Oh then I deeply feel—thou'rt here no more!
Then I review the many happy days
With thee I've known, but ne'er can know again!
Thy looks, thy words, my busy mind pourtrays,
Thy ev'ry virtue—and my endless pain.
Oh! when shall peace return within this breast?
Which, once, admitted but her gentle form,
Shall this sad, troubled, bosom never rest,
Nor time allay its all-o'erwhelming storm!
There is no balm, alas! to ease my grief,
No charm that can my wounded peace restore,
This soul no more may seek to find relief,
For we have parted—and I hope no more!

FINIS.