University of Virginia Library

I.

She sat beside the lattice and look'd forth
Upon the waters. A smooth stream went by,
Playfully murmuring, and along its banks
Making a pleasant music. 'Twas the hour,
When, shooting through the light wave, his canoe
Bore him that loved her; when, in other days,
Her own love, deeply hallow'd by its truth,
Was sanctified by hope and trust in heaven—
In heaven and him! It was the hour, and there,
The waters lay in light—the silvery light
Of the May moon, that gliding through the trees,
Pour'd down her rich smile on them. A sweet breeze
Came from the opposite shore, and would have borne
The birdlike streamer of his little bark,
And made her sail swell out, as if it knew
And felt the love-assignéd office. 'Twas the hour,
But still he came not. A sad servitor
That ever watch'd her heart, and had a look
Of frowning sorrow, and was named Despair,
Rebuked her eyes that look'd for him in vain,
And bade her hope not. Wherefore look'd she then,
Thus ever, and still earnestly with hope,
That seem'd but a sweet sorrow? Who shall tell
If thought was in that fondness?—if the mind
Went with the unconscious eye; and, in that glance
Of sad abstraction, if the expression strong,
Had reason for its guide? It was, alas!
But the sad habit of her form that now
Kept her a watcher. Her fond eyes look'd forth,
Unmonitor'd by mind, from memory!—
She saw not the bright waters—not the moon—
Not the fair prospect!—All was vacancy,
To that unheeding mourner! She had gazed
Till all grew dark before her!—She had thought,
Till thought had swoll'n to madness!—She had felt,
Till feeling, like some fever, ate away
The heart it fed on.

II.

'Twas a cruel tale,
Told by the villagers, of an early love,
And childish indiscretion:—such a tale,
As erring but fond natures, aptly leave
In every valley where warm spirits dwell,
And sunny maidens. Rosalie was young—
Lovely as young. A childish excellence,
Infantile grace, with archness intermix'd,
Play'd in her look, and sparkled in her eye,
Which glow'd with ravishing fires, from a dark orb,
That had a depth like heaven! A cheek, fair
And delicate as a rose-leaf newly blown;—
A brow like marble—lofty and profuse,
With the rich brown of her o'ergathering hair!—
These were her beauties—nor through these, alone,
Was she held worthy to be sought of love
In frequent worship. The rich, rosy lips,
That play'd and parted ever with a smile,
Becoming, with mix'd dignity and love,—
Had music there a dweller. Many a night,
Her wild song, o'er those waters, silenced them,
And their rough murmurs, to the spell-bound ears
Of her enamor'd hearers. She would sing,
As if song were an element, and she,
The gay, glad bird, just fitted to extend
Her bright wings o'er its bosom and go forth,—
Bringing rich notes to earth from the high heaven,
To which sweet echoes ever bore them back!
And in her rustic home, and, with the crowd
That came about her ever, 'twas a sway,
Queen-like and undisputed, which she bore,
And which they gave her;—nor, in this abused;—
The power she wielded had its spells in love,
And gentleness, and true thought—never in scorn,
Or any wayward impulse or caprice,
Solicitous to humble or deny:—
The queen of loveliness, she was no less
The queen of modesty and maiden grace,
Unchallenged in each subject's heart, and there,
Having a home or palace, at her will.

III.

What wonder, then, if many lovers came
To woo that maiden? Never maiden yet
Had sway like hers in the secluded vale,
Where stood her dwelling. From afar and near
Came the tall rustics in their Sunday garb
To see and seek her. From the distant hills,
Where fame and fond report had made her known,
They came on mix'd pretences. Having seen,
Their feet grew fasten'd, and their amorous hearts
Dissolved away to weakness, while they bow'd,
And spoke their several loves,—but spoke in vain.
Not proud, nor coy, the maiden yet was choice,
And sought a kindred spirit for her own,
When she should give her heart,—and him she found—
So thought she fondly—for the youth was fair—
A gentle youth, to whom a better sphere,
And an occasional travel in far lands,
Had taught the polish of the citizen,
Subduing the rude manners, and bestowing
The grace of social life—the symmetry
Of movement and expression, while it takes
The sharp, rough edge from language, and refines,
To unobtrusive sweetness, the discourse,
That soothes the ear it never should assail.
He had departed from his native home,
Leaving his father's hills in early youth,
When Rosalie—herself a native there—
Was yet a child. Returning, she was then
A child no longer. With the rest he saw,
And, with a better fortune than the rest,
He sought her out and wooed her. 'Tis a tale—
A chronicle of sorrow, not of shame,
Sacred in memory, in the heart secure,
And sweetly dear, though sad!

IV.

We linger now,—
We would not hasten in our narrative,
To its sad close. But on their early loves,—
The hours when they were happy—with no thought
To promise the thick sorrow that o'ercame
And tore their hearts asunder—let us pause.
She loved but him of all the valley round,
She saw but him of all the suitors there,
She heard but his discourse, knew but his form,
And had no thought, no feeling for the rest!
The sunset hour still brought him o'er the lake,—
The sunset hour still found her watching there,
Where now we see her. From the opposite shore,
Her eye could note his little, light canoe,
When first emerging from the reedy banks,
It broke the quiet waters into smiles.
She saw him trim his sail, and every change
Of movement she discerned; and, through her heart,
Seeing, as through a glass, where every hope
Had lent some light, and every love gave power,
She thought the very smile upon his lips
Grew visible to her gaze. Thus, day by day,
For months, in a sweet silence of discourse,
They moved and met each other with their hearts,
Having no other speech. But the time came,—
Too soon, perchance, though slow to youthful hope,—
When love should shape his language. 'Twas an hour,
In early spring—Love's season and the flowers',
Season of budding eyes, and blessing hearts!—
Nature was in her sweet virginity,
When they walk'd forth i' the garden. Lovely buds,
Clustering in leafy cells, gave promise meet
Of untold fruitage—brightly the sun shone,
Yet inoppressive, for his slanting rays
Came broken through the forest. All around,
Young flower and humming insect, bird and breeze,
Partaking of youth's happiest harmonies,
Murmur'd in gladness to the delicate sense
That flowed in its fresh feelings. Rosalie
Hung on her lover's arm, yet undeclared
His passion for her. The young maiden's heart
Gush'd with its sweet o'erfulness, while the tear
Of an unstudied joy upon her cheek,
Trembled in light, and then exhaled away
In odor,—till he grew a worshipper,
Yet had no words, save in his eloquent eyes,
Which spoke that language of sublimer love,
Too pure for common syllables, too like
The high devotion of an innocent heart,
Looking through gentle fears, and blessing hopes,
As to its God! Together they walk'd on,
Till the groves thicken'd, and the silent trees,
Closed round them like a dwelling; with no eye
To peer into that holy home of love,
Scaring its trembling, tried inhabitants!
He spoke—he spoke at last! He spoke of love,
And the breeze echoed him, and murmur'd “love;”
And every flower and leaf had a sweet name,
Love-written, upon them; and a print of hearts,
United, grew, like flower and leaf together,—
And Rosalie and Albert, thence, were one!

V.

Silent before so long, their prison'd souls
Then gush'd in mutual language, and pour'd forth,
In homage to each other, the fond thoughts,
The dreams by night, the fancies through the day,
Which had possess'd and purified them long.
Their thoughts were so much music, and they spoke,
In sweetest measures;—even as the bird just 'scaped
From the close caging of some gentle dame,
Showing its freedom's consciousness in song
Not less than flight. Love was their monitor—
Love their companion—Love their pleasant charge.
In Rosalie it spoke in gentlest sighs,
A broken language,—in a start of song,
Capricious, wild, that suddenly came forth,
Even as the playful robin from the brake,
As suddenly retiring into shade,
And trembling at his own audacity.
She was a sweet dependant, and her arm
On Albert's, hung so fondly—and her head
Droop'd with her joy, like some dew-laden flower
Upon his bosom; and he loved the more
For such dependence. Noble and erect,
He clasp'd her to his heart, and his eye gleam'd
With pride and pleasure while surveying hers.
His sweet, melodious voice, deep, organ-like,
Went to her heart at every utter'd word,
Making his love a power, whose sway, secure,
And conscious of its own security,
Forbore to wrong, and with exaction sweet,
Solicited the boon, as 't were a boon,
When, in her heart, the spelling passion there
Proclaim'd it his own right. He was a man
Among the thousand! Unassuming, he
Might yet assume, unquestion'd. Gentleness,
And a strange strength—a calm, o'erruling strength,
Were mix'd within him so, that neither took
Possession from the other—neither rose
In mastery or in passion; but still grew
Harmoniously together.—In his strength,
The mighty oak had likeness—while gentleness,
Wound round him like the rosy parasite,
The flush spring gives it, wreathing its great might
With sweetest color, and adorning grace.
His soul, refined beyond the rustic world,
Had yet no city vices. He had kept,
Its whiteness unprofaned, and he could lift
His heart to heaven in faith—his eye on man,
Having no fear—his hope to Rosalie,
As to an object of abiding love,
Without one taint of base or sinful thought.

VI.

True joy, still born of heaven, is bless'd with wings,
And, tired of earth, it plumes them back again,
And so we lose it. A sad change came o'er
The fortunes of that pair, whose loves have been
Our theme of story:—a sad change, that oft
Comes o'er love's fortunes in all lands and homes,
Nor spares the humblest. Rosalie was young
In fancy, as in years. Truly she loved,
And yet not wisely. Had her heart replied
To any question of its love for him,
To whom she pledged it, she had warmly spoke
For its devotion; but her fancy, quick,
Roving, and playful, was not yet subdued
To that sweet-tempered, fond exclusiveness,
Which shuts out every object from the thought,
Save of that one to whom all thought is given.
The early train of her admirers gone—
The crowd that flatter'd her with looks and words,
That gave her homage, and pronounced her praise,
In sweet eulogium, vanish'd,—she grew sad.
The praises of her lover were in looks,
And constant, sweet devotion—seldom in words:—
And sometimes, too, he spoke her chidingly,
Though still in truest love. He spoke to her
As one who lived forever in his thought,
A part of him and it—the dearest part;
But yet he spoke her truly,—with no burst
Of fraudulent praise, that runs away with truth,
And gives habitual error place for sway,
In the deluded bosom. Calm, serene,—
His thoughts were clear and honest; and his words,
Still chosen most gently, were not yet disguised
To please the ear of tingling vanity.
Though loving him beyond all other men,
She would have had him, like the rest that came,
A flattering wooer. His substantial worth,
She valued truly; but, not yet content,
She deem'd it might be mingled with those sweets,—
False sweets that lead to sadness!—which were dear
To youthful fancy and a thoughtless heart;—
And, in the wantonness of her sportive moods,
Still craving this frail incense, she would turn
Capriciously away, when most he sought
Her ear and presence; and, in gayest crowds,
Lose the dear hour so rich in love's esteem,
And barter truest pleasures and noblest thoughts,—
Trifling with feelings which should be secure
As they are sacred,—for the idlest game
That ever butterfly pursued in May.

VII.

Yet did he not reproach her. At the first
He gently pray'd that she might live for him,
And know and love him better. Much he strove
To teach her, that, thus bound for life together,
Her study, like his own, should be to make
Her heart familiar with its offices—
Those offices of sweet domestic love,
Which cannot dream of gay society,
And the insidious flattery of the crowd
Having no fireside duties. Fondly still,
With indirect speech, he told his wishes o'er,
And whisper'd counsels such as love might hear,
And none but love could utter. But her ear
Turn'd from him, with a playful, sad caprice,
And she would leave him,—or, in mood more wild,
Reply in tones impatient,—till at last
The youth grew into sadness, as he fear'd,
When they were wedded, that her love might change
Even into hatred, as he could not bring
His nature to a level with the herd
Whose flatteries so misled her. He grew sad,
And yet he sought her; still entreating her
With his own love, which was all earnestness,
Not to make forfeit of the better faith,
The substance for the shade, and sacrifice,
For the capricious freedom of the hour,
The holy, hopeful, best security,
That grows in heart of confidence alone.
Oh! very earnest was he in these prayers;
His soul, the very safety of his being,
Were treasured in that passion! Few his friends,—
An orphan without kindred;—slight the ties
That bound him to all others. None of strength
Did he acknowledge, save the one with her;
And that was his whole life. Wonder not, then,
He trembled at her sad infirmity:—
The loss of Rosalie was loss of all.

VIII.

One night there was a bridal in the vale,
A rustic bridal. Mirth and pleasant cheer,
Sweet music and gay lights, laughter and glee,
Assembled young and old. All that could make
A dear occasion dearer, mingled then,
And the vale rang with joy. Our lovers came,
And revell'd with the rest. Never before
Had Rosalie look'd lovelier. 'Mid the crowd,
She was beheld of all the crowd alone—
She was the bright star to which every eye
Seemed turn'd as in devotion—the gay light
Of every fancy—the fair queen who sway'd
O'er every heart, even then, as in the time
When all were wooers, and no heart, preferr'd,
Had bound her to itself. In her sweet song,
They gather'd round, and had fond memories
Of hours when hope was theirs. They praised her strains
And watch'd the eloquent pleasure in her eye
That said their praise was sweet. From song to song
They led her with beguiling flatteries,
And when the dance began, they crowded round,
Contending for her hand.
There was one dance,
Brought from a foreign land—a winning dance,
Whose sweet voluptuous twinings witch the heart
Into a sad forgetfulness, and arouse
Strange fevers and wild fancies in the blood.
'Twas from a land where vice, in many a form,
Had sapped society, and torn away
The pillars of religion; where the name
Of wife is but another name for all
Of shame and prostitution; where the pride
Of virtue is unknown; where character
Is but a thing of barter and stale use,
And fashion makes a crime necessity.

IX.

“You will not mingle, dearest Rosalie,
Among these waltzers?” It was thus he spoke,
As he beheld the suitors for her hand
Crowding around, impatient to enwrap
Her form in the impassion'd, free caress
Of that voluptuous motion.
“And why not!”.
Straightway she answer'd.
“Was it not your thought,
No less than mine, dear Rosalie, that this dance
Better belong'd to races like th' Italian,
Than a frank, earnest people such as ours,
In whom simplicity, the soul of virtue,
Forbids the goad of passion, lest we drive
The blood to fearful phrensies! Didst thou not
Join with me in the thought, that the pure heart
Must shrink from the embrace with stranger forms;—
Embrace so free as this—as if each touch
Took something from its purity;—for virtue
Is like the down upon the peach;—the flush
Of beauty on the flower;—the golden lustre
That flecks with delicate variety
The slight wing of the butterfly;—one touch
Being fatal to the excellence, whose glory
Lives in its very unapproachableness.
The barriers of opinion in a people,
Belong to their necessity and nature—
Subject them to the abuse of foreign custom,
And we make forfeit all security.
Custom makes barriers still for chastity,—
O'erthrow these barriers, idle though they seem,
And Passion saps the citadel.—Dear Rosalie,
Thou wilt not join these waltzers?”
“But I will!”
Thus the capricious damsel, to the youth,
Who earnestly besought her, still replied—
As, turning from him, she bestow'd her hand
On one who seized it with triumphant joy,
Having the victory—for he had urged
The cause of that fond movement; and, to her,
The pledged wife of another, had discuss'd
The question of that nice propriety,
Which woman must not argue, and yet feel!
“But I will dance it, Albert, as I please,
Or not, if so it please me. And why not?—
I am not yet a bond-woman methinks,
And such constraint as this, would best beseem
A petty household tyranny,—the rule
Of modern Blue Beard, than the free regard
Of one who seeks for sympathies, not slaves.”
And, with these words, she join'd the whirling group,
While Albert turn'd away and left the hall.

X.

Next morning came a letter to the maid,
And this its language:
“Dearest Rosalie,—
Still dear, though, from this moment, I resign
All claim to call thee so exclusively—
I leave thee. When this scrawl thou read'st, my feet
Shall be beyond these mountains—other climes
Will soon receive me, and on distant waves,
The foreign bark shall bear me,—still from thee.
Farewell—farewell.
“Oh, it had been my thought,
That, from the moment thou didst give thyself
To my fond pleadings, I should cease to be
What I am now—a weary wanderer!
“That hope is gone forever. Thou hast said
The words which have unlink'd our mutual hearts,
They being no longer kindred. Thou hast broken
The flowery twines of love, in thoughtlessness—
Ah! may it be a sorrow but to one!
“And I must bear that sorrow. Thou to me,
Wast all—art all! I may not hope again,
To find thee in another—and I dare not
Seek for another in thee. Those cruel words—
Why didst thou speak them!—they have doom'd us both
To isolation;—me, to the worse doom,
Of hopelessness. 'Tis nothing now I live for—
Yet never heart could love thee, as did mine.
And still I love thee—love thee recklessly,
As loving thee in vain. Henceforth, I live,
As one denied. I cannot love another—
I would not pray such freedom. I have not
The elastic temper of the froward boy,
To change capricious with the monthly moon,
Nor share the blight with each sweet star that sets.
My mind is too subdued—my character,
Too fix'd—too firm! I must be resolute
In love, as in all other qualities,—
Having no changing moods—earnest in all,
Unvarying as the needle, and as true,
Though the storms howl. Such is my nature now.
Vicissitude has tried me—poverty
Counsell'd, and taught me due stability—
Affliction chasten'd; travel, here and there,
'Mong strangers in far wilds and realms unknown,
Taught me their several sorrows, and prepared me,
To better love the quiet walks of home!
“I have no home. It had been in thy heart,
But thou denied'st it lodgment—better pleased
To make a tenant there of idlest moods,
Enjoyments light and worthless, when in mine,
Thou hadst a temple—pure, inviolate,
Sacred to love—and strong—sacred to thee!—
Would thine had been to me but thus devote,
I then had been a hermit. In its cells,
My thoughts and feelings had been saintly forms,
Filling each several niche. Morning and night,
Had found me there a doting worshipper,
And I had hung it round with sweetest store,
The dearest flowers of love—the purest sweets
That follow young enjoyment, and that make,
For twin hearts, of the gloomy caves of earth,
A happy home like heaven.
“Thou hast decreed,
And all these dreams are vanish'd. I would be
Thy tyrant, Rosalie!—ah, happy she
Who loves the gentle tyranny of truth.
Thou wouldst not be a bond-woman!—dear to me,
The sweet bond-service I had pledged to thee.
Thou'dst do or not, as so it pleasured thee—
Ah, me! how different from thy thought was mine!
To do thee pleasure—ay, at mine own pain,—
Was sure to be my sweetest pleasure still;—
And to make slaves of my best sympathies,—
Slaves in thy service,—seem'd to my poor heart,
Their happiest office.
“We have differ'd much—
Too much for love! If these be thoughts of mine,
And thou dost scorn them, having thoughts unlike,—
We are not fit for each other! We must part—
And it is wisdom! When I gave my love,
And pledged my best affections unto thee—
I pledged thee what, next to thy sacred love,
I valued more than all the world beside.
Thou hast not so esteem'd my offering—
Thou hast not so esteem'd my principles,
Nor yet maintain'd thine own, as that we should
Keep bound with true respect, and mutual pride:—
'Tis well we part.
“Yet think not, Rosalie—
The wayward, sad caprice of the last night,
Sole cause of my resolve. I might have sigh'd
And sorrow'd o'er that error, yet forgiven:—
The sin lies deeper. When thou show'st another,
That difference grows betwixt thy heart and mine,
Thou dost invite a foreign arbitration—
Thou makest our secret thought a public thing,
And to the prying eye, and busy tongue
Of peevish envy, and a tattling scorn,
Thou dost unveil the sacred, vestal fire,
Which the mysterious love design'd for us—
For those who love alone!
“If, in my heart,
Or in my deed, or language, I had done
A wrong to thee or thine—where shouldst thou seek
Arbitrament?—where carry up thy cause,
In fond appeal?—where clamor for redress?—
Where, but in my heart!—in our secret shade,
In sacred moments, when, to love devote,
We met in mutual fondness! There, hadst thou come,
And said, as late in public thou didst say,
‘Thou art my tyrant—thou wouldst 'slave me quite,
Make me thy bond-woman, and of sympathies
Generous and freely given, make wretched slaves!’—
Ah, Rosalie! hadst thou but thought of this,
I had not now—but let it pass—no more,—
It is all idle now!
“Once more, farewell!
Be happy, and forget me, Rosalie;—
And shouldst thou love another, let my words
Sink in thy memory, so that thou shalt say
Nothing in rashness—so that ye may keep
The troth between ye as a sacred thing,
Beyond the gaze of the herd, beyond its speech,
Beyond its judgment!—value it beyond
The moment-pleasure always, till thy heart,
Shall grow into a kindred life and thought,
With him to whom thou giv'st it.
“And I pray,—
'Twill be no wrong to him, dear Rosalie—
That, in thy happier moments, when with him,
Thou joy'st in life's most dear realities,—
The pleasant fireside, the cheerful friend,
The gladsome child, and the indulgent lord,—
Thou wilt bestow me one sad memory—
One blessing—and forgive me, that, in thus
Tearing myself away from thee and life,
Perchance, I wound thy pride, or touch thy heart,
With unavoidable pain. Forgive me this,
And other errors, as, this dreary night,
When all is sleepless sorrow at my heart,
I do forgive thee, who art cause of all!
Farewell—farewell.” And thus the letter closed.

XI.

She had no tears—no language. From her lips
There broke no sound of sorrow, but her eye,
As if her sense yet lack'd the news it brought,
Did reperuse that fatal messenger,
In fear and hope. A little while she paused,
And then she sought her chamber, with no word
To those around. She had no strength for speech,
And did not dare, in the uncertain mood
Of her sad spirit, to look up and meet
The curious eyes that watch'd her. Much they sought,
By various questions and inquisitive glance,
To learn her secret;—for the tale was known—
How soon love's errors and misfortunes grow
The pastime of the cold and common crowd!—
That Albert had departed from the vale,
In foreign journey. And she turn'd away—
She sought to be alone with her own heart,
And long and sad their secret conference.
Her heart rebuked itself, her mind rebuked,
And all her feelings, self-retributive,
Reproach'd her with her error. Long the strife
They waged within her bosom, till she sank
In prayer, self-humbled—prostrate on the floor,
In true contrition.
“In a heedless hour,”
'Twas thus she murmur'd,—“in a heedless hour,
My erring spirit, with a fond caprice,
Hath sported with its happiness too much;—
Father, forgive me—be the punishment
Forborne in mercy—teach him to forgive,
And, oh, restore him to me. In my grief
I do not heed the shame of such a prayer.
Restore him—teach him also to forgive.”
When she came forth again, her look was changed—
Her heart had been subdued. She had been weak,
She was now strengthen'd; yet her sorrow grew
From that same strengthening; for the scales were gone
That dimm'd her vision; and the full extent
Of her own loss grew clear and palpable!
Her error had been one of wantonness—
The last that love hath ever yet forgiven,
True love, that worships with a lofty heart
And even mood. She felt that she had erred,
And fear'd that he—the man of all the world
Whom most she loved—calm, true, and resolute,
Might prove inflexible. No trifler he,
Capricious with sweet feelings and fond ties,—
But stern, unbending in his principles!
His rigid purpose, noble and severe,
Tenacious pride, and changeless character,
Had been her boast, and best security!
It was her joy that no caprice of mood,
No passing influence of the idle time,
No popular show, no clamor from the crowd,
Could move him, erring, from the path of right,
Love's path and hers,—those sacred principles,
Which make all happiness, or make it naught!
How could she hope a change in such a man,
How love him still, if so that he could change,
Even to pity her? Her thought approved,
Though her heart grieved, his rigor and resolve.

XII.

“Ah, sweet,” cried he, who, of a thousand sweets,
Hath sung most sweetly—“sweet, when winter frowns
And folds his ice-chain round us—sweet to dream
Of spring's enamoring charms, and gentle reign!
The hopeless heart thus cherishes the form
Of that which was a hope; even as we seal
The ashes of the loved one in an urn
We keep beside us, till we half forget
That it is ashes. Memory thus endows,
Even as a god, the insensate clay with life,
And hallows to the lone one, in a dream,
The old sweet faith, the perish'd love, and all,
That made earth worthy to its worshipper!
But if hope come not, in alliance close
With that creative genius, till we think
The past may be the future—if it be
That memory comes alone!—no guardian she,
But a stern tyrant, taught in cruel arts,
And sleepless as the agony of guilt.”
It was a sweet hope, counsell'd her to hope
Against conviction.
“He will come again,—
'Tis but awhile—he cannot long forbear—
He must forgive me, as, so help me heaven,
I had forgiven him even crueller wrongs,
And harsher words, than these.”
He did not come!—
That night—the next—the next—and weeks, went by,
Till hope grew sad and sicken'd in her heart,
And on her face a visible hand was laid,
As of a burning grief, a sleepless woe,
That would not be appeased.
And soon her friends
Beheld the change upon her, and they spoke
Harshly of Albert: then she chided them
Most sadly into silence, and forbade
That they should speak again upon her griefs,
Still was she not ungrateful for the care
That sought to comfort; and, as day by day,
Her face grew paler and her step more slow,
Her heart became more gentle than its wont,
And with a meekness, dovelike, and from heaven,
She won a fresher love from all that knew.

XIII.

And what of him—so sudden and so stern,
So quick of apprehension, so resolved,
So little merciful to his own heart,
So stern a judge of hers—what now of him?
What art may paint his feelings to the sense,
What eye perceive them, as, that fatal night,
He fled the insensate revel! He felt crush'd,
And the devoted feelings of his heart,
So long her homagers, now all recall'd,
Came home rebellious from that sweeter realm,
Where they had spent the hours so joyously.
They came to torture, and he fled with them,
Even as a fugitive—he fled from them,
Or strove to fly; but they pursued him close,
And tore him as he fled! In foreign lands
He made himself a home—if that may be
A home, which is a prison-house and scourge!
He made himself new comrades, day by day,
And fled from each in turn. He still went on,
And sought new dwellings, only to behold
Smiles change to frowns—seeking new friends and flowers,
To find the one grow cold—the other die.
The curse of hopelessness, and a premature blight,
Clung to him in his journey, and the doom
Of desolation was unchanged to him!—
In crowds, in camps, in cities, and in fields,
Where'er he fled, whatever home he sought,
'Twas written still, and Albert was alone.

XIV.

A bloody war waged in a neighbor land,
And the perpetual strife in his own mood
There led him, as if seeking sympathy,
To fields of danger. In the ranks of war
He soon became a leader. Fierce his ire,
Hot his pursuit, impetuous in assault,
Desperate in daring, and in perilous strife
Fatal his muscular arm. His men grew fond,
And joy'd in such a leader. Rash, not bold,
He hourly sought new dangers. Numbers stood
Between him and his aim. He counted not
The dense array, but, striking right and left,
He plunged where foes were thickest. Walls arose,
High, steep, and massive—ranging cannon poured
The rattling shot, like hail, upon his path,—
But did not stop him. Soon the walls were gained,
The banner of the foe beneath his foot,
His voice in victory shouting.
Where was death?
The foe he struck could answer, but the chief,
Who sought for the grim enemy in vain,
Went through the strife unharméd. The sharp sword
Swept by him edgeless—the directed ball,
Fatal, if sent against another breast,
Swerved harmlessly from his,—his doom was still
To live, though thousands perish'd—but alone!
And she!—the news was brought her that he fought
The battles of the Texians. That he stood
Upon the Alamo's walls, when the fierce tribes
Of Mexico, in numbers overspread
And crowded down the defenders—it was said,
That, striking to the last, each stroke a death,
The gallant chief was slain by many hands,
O'erpower'd, not conquer'd;—and the tale was told
By one most thoughtless, in a sudden tone,
That went even like an ice-bolt to her heart,
And froze its hope forever. From that hour,
The last sad change, foretelling all the rest,
Came o'er the maiden. Much they strove to cheer,
Or chide, her prisoner-mood, but all in vain.
They led her to the revel, with fond hope,
By change to cheer her; but she sicken'd there!—
The idle song of love, which fill'd her ears,
Was then a sadness! It reminded her
Of those she once had sung, when he was by
A listener in the moonlight. From the dance
She shrank away in horror!—What a throng
Of images most fearful came with it!
New suitors sought her, but they left her soon
As hopeless as herself! Nothing could change
The spirit of that mourner—nothing move
Her sorrow from its deep devotedness!—
Life's harmonies had gone, its strings that once,
Beneath Hope's finger, did discourse so long,
And such sweet music, gave but discord forth,—
Despair, not Hope, the one musician now!

XV.

A little longer, and our strain is done—
The story of love's sorrow is soon told,
A word will tell it always. Rosalie,—
'Twas but a few days when we saw her last,
There, sitting by her lattice, looking forth
Upon these waters. See the lattice now;—
How vacant, and how cheerless it appears.
We seek her elsewhere. But a week ago,
She sat, where last we saw her. It was night,
A soft and mellow evening, calm and clear.
A thousand beautiful forms were in the sky,
Light forms of fleece, that hung around the moon,
Like robes of regal splendor;—a sweet breath
Of perfume fill'd the air, and pleasant sounds,
Of winds and waters meeting, rose aloft,
In harmony to the spirit.
“The guitar”—
Feebly, to one who tended her, she spoke,—
“Bring it, I pray thee:”—
And the damsel brought
The well-known instrument, so cherish'd once
When he was by, and yet untouch'd so long.
She play'd a soft, prelusive, pensive air,
And then the notes grew wanton. Fitfully,
Shadows of ancient melodies arose,
And vanish'd from the strings; until her hand
Seem'd resting only on the instrument,
Which sounded with the beatings of her pulse,
Unprompted by her will;—but, suddenly,
Her mood grew firm, and, most commandingly,
A bold and ranging melody she framed,
With nicest variations; and, awhile,
The strain was like the first flight of a bird,
Waking, at morning, with rejoicing wing,
And soaring, soaring upward, even to heaven.
Then, as the high tones of the instrument,
Grew soften'd as by distance, with her voice
She coupled sweetest thoughts, most gently framed
By suited language. Mournfully, she sang
A ditty of the saddest circumstance—
Of fortune long denied, and tenderest love,
That should have been, like some well-treasured flower,
Worn in the genial bosom, left to pale
Its leaves in hopeless blight; and, at the close,
Fondly and gently, thus she spoke of him!
“Yet, will I not reproach thee, though thou hast
Dealt most unkindly, Albert. 'Twas a fault,
A most unmaidenly fault—those words of mine:—
Yet might have been forgiven—should have been
Chidden, and then forgotten. 'Twas a child,
That spoke with little thought:—thou shouldst have known
My heart was with thee.
“But, 'tis over now;—
Thou wilt forgive me when I am no more,
And, as thy nature is all gentleness,
Even when thy word is sternest, well I know
Thou wilt reproach thyself, that thou hast been
So rigid with me.”
A faint cry below,
Broke in upon her speech—a cry of woe—
And, in another moment, through the leaves,
Came darting a strange form—yet not so strange,
When the next glance survey'd him. It was he—
'Twas Albert—and he came all penitent,
And sorrowing for his sternness. In his arms,
She sank most fondly, and yet speechlessly.
“Forgive me, dearest Rosalie!” he cried:
“Too long forgetful of thy worth and claims,
I come to thee at last;—forgive me all—
I was too rash—too cruel,—thou hast been
The sufferer at my hands, and I have wrong'd thee
Beyond atonement,—yet, I pray thee smile:
Look up and say—look up, my well beloved,
And bless me with thy smile—and, with thy words,
Say, thou forgivest me.”
The dim eyes unclosed,
The bosom heaved in sighs—a bright smile spread,
From the sweet lips, and from the kindling eye,
Over her pallid face, and then it pass'd,
Even like some soft and rosy cloud at eve,
Suddenly, from the sight.
“I am forgiven!—
That eye hath said it—from those lips it came,
Even though they spoke not,—and this heaving breast,
Sent me its pardon in that gentle sigh.
Yet, speak to me, beloved,—speak to me!—
What means this silence?—speak to me—but once!
But once!—Help, there!—some water—quickly bring,
Or she will die in my arms!—God!—she is dead,
And I have slain her!”
Truly, had he said.
The parted breath that would have spoke in mercy,
Had made its way to heaven. He was alone—
The destiny of Albert was not done—
And forth he fled—and still he fled, alone.