University of Virginia Library

TALES OF NIGHT,

IN RHYME.

MATRIMONIAL MAGIC.

INTRODUCTION.

SECOND NUPTIALS.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

Long since, to th' wood return'd the crow;
Don, bounding o'er his bank, is loud;
And thick above the melting snow,
Night's blackness hides the pouring cloud.
No azure islands heaven, no star
O'er Thrybergh's grey oaks peeps afar,
Piercing the deluge of the sky,
Through which the blast wades drearily.
But on the hill, a blaze with light,
Deserted Mary's cottage gleams,
And there the elms, distinct and bright,
Wave fast their bare arms in the beams.
Is this the widow's wedding night?
'Tis now ten years since William went,
The slave of jealous discontent,
To fight the Yankees, in despite,
Rather than stay at home and fight;
And now six months are passed, or more,
Since Mathew Hall arriv'd, and told
That William's limbs lie stiff and cold,
On wintry Champlain's forest shore.
And does the widow wed again?
Oh! widowhood is weary pain,
Of ills the worst that can befall!
And, loving him, as he loves her,
Say, does she wed the messenger
Of late good tidings, Mathew Hall?

II.

The scar'd fox in the coppice hoar,
Hears the dance shake the oaken floor;
Joy revels on the green hill's side;
And Mary is again a bride.
As wave on Canklow's forehead fair
Th' autumnal maple's locks of gold,
In many a curl, her flaxen hair,
Above the flowing tear, is roll'd.
Sad? and a bride! A mourning bride,
She sits her new-espous'd beside,
And her tears bathe his hand the while!
What may such ill-tim'd tears betide?
Or, is she far too bless'd to smile?

III.

The fiddle's shriek was superseded:
The tale, the joke, the laugh succeeded,
And scandal stoop'd at folly's ear.
Soft-touching, with his finger's end,
Her, who, erewhile, was Mary Bray,
Said Mathew then unto his dear:
“How strange that my expected friend
Came not to give the bride away!
What stays his coming? cans't thou say?”

IV.

“The flood,” she answer'd, “is abroad,
And peril haunts the buried road.
The ferryman hath left his boat,
Which hath not, this day, earn'd a groat,
And now in Mexbro, with his wench,
Tipsy, he sits on the alehouse bench.”

V.

“Yet,” then said he, with look of fear,
“I would, I would, my friend were here!
For much indeed—now mark thou me!—
Imports his coming, love, to thee:
He is a man of mystery!
And come he will, or soon, or late,
To question thee with words of fate.
Tell him no lies, my loving mate!
For, on thy answers truth depend
The weal of husband, wife, and friend.”

VI.

“Thou shalt be well obey'd,” replied,
While faster stream'd her tears, the bride.
Then thus, once more, spake Mathew Hall!
“A wedding? or a funeral?
Weeping! and on thy wedding day?
Weeping! and still for William Bray?
By heaven thou hast shed tears for him
Enough old Martha's drake to swim!
Of this no more, no more, I pray!—
Ho! where is now the blasant Muse?
Is she to scare the pigs afraid?
A song! a song! nor man, nor maid,
Who hopes to wed, to sing refuse.
But pensive Harry shall sing first,
The cross'd in love, the sorrow-nurs'd.
Harry, thou ne'er did'st rightly pray
Till sulky Sarah jilted thee.
Religion, ancient sages say,
Religion, from the realms above,
Came down, to soothe the mourner, love;
And passion then was piety.
Indulge me, Harry, in my whim—
(Solemn th' occasion!) sing a hymn;
A hymn, a psalm, a—any thing;
Ev'n call it what thou wilt—but sing!”

VII.

Pensive and pale, arose the youth,
The child of feeling and of truth,
And modestly, and yet with pride,
His ancient fiddle laid aside,
Which not its weight in gold could buy.
True, it was clumsy to the eye;
True, its dark side some cracks display'd;
Yet was there more than music in't;
For why? 'twas by his grand-sire made,
The Genius, fam'd so far and wide,
Th' inventor of the butter-print!
The worm of death was in his breast.
Sarah, the faithless, met his eye,
Which grief and mute reproach express'd;
Then, gazing, self-condemn'd, on earth,
She heav'd, or seem'd to heave, a sigh;
But, lo, she saw the hairy hide
Of big-boned Jacob at her side,
Her amorous mate! and, in its birth,
The infant, frail repentance, died.
At first, the Minstrel's voice was low,
As whisper'd prayer of fear, or woe;
But soon, distinct, and deep, and clear,
The soul-felt accents met the ear,
Full of that fervour of the heart
Which bids all earthly toys depart,
Taught by calamity to scorn
All that of human pride is born.

VIII. THE LOVER'S SONG.

IX.

Ended his ditty sadly sweet;
Resum'd his fiddle and his seat;
Applauded by the noiseless tear,
Although no plaudit met his ear;
Sigh'd he, the meekest child of woe.
His cheek, late pallid as the snow,
Now burn'd with feeling's hectic glow,
(Consumption's banner there display'd,)
Beautiful, as a dying maid;
Or, blushing merit in distress;
Or, like the rose, the splendour less,
Oh, not the white one, but the pale,
That droops, the mourner of the vale,
Carnation'd faintly, in the gale!

X.

“My drooping Mary!” Mathew said,
“I like this lay of Harry's well;
Though not by practis'd poet made,
(He's not, like Charles, there, one of th' trade,)
'Tis sad, and true. But can'st thou tell
What of the murderer, John, became?
Well may'st thou tremble at his name.
Mary, I slew the accursed man,
The wretch, who killed thy sister Ann.
We met—'twas in the ranks of death,—
With set teeth, and suspended breath:
On me the conscious traitor scowl'd;
On him my startled eye was rowl'd;
He rush'd to slay, but paus'd aghast;
Through him my cranshing bayonet pass'd;
He shriek'd, and fell! with dreadful stare
He lay, and look'd a hopeless prayer.
I, shuddering, turn'd—I could not bear
To look upon the horror there.”

XI.

Then, deeply skill'd in Ford and Quarles,
Up rose the village Homer, Charles,
A wight uncouth, unshav'd, unclean,
In stature tall, of visage mean,
To sing, or say, and sans persuasion,
His poem, written for th' occasion.
Contempt rode in his half shut eye,
And, on his curl'd lip, vanity;
While, from the depth of lungs up drawn,
Preluding to his song, a yawn,
From mouth to mouth, with solemn boom,
Went in procession round the room.

XII. THE POET'S SONG.

XIII.

“A Milton!” loudly Mathew cried;
“A Milton!” ten harsh throats replied;
And Charles look'd round, with scornful air,
Prouder than Punch at country fair:
While Jacob, by th' applauding laugh
Rous'd from his wonted stupor, gaz'd
On poet, groom, and all, amaz'd.
But bride's maid Nancy's well-timed tear,
More eloquent than words by half,
Paid to his powers, so loudly prais'd,
Applause, the sweetest and most dear.
The song had pathos! and she slept
Till it was ended; then she wept—
It was a way she had, a whim.
Unseen, he thought, for sly was he
(Yet not, perchance, more sly than she)
He watch'd, and saw her—prying thing!—
Pass the rich bride-cake through the ring;
Doubtless, in hope to dream of him!

XIV.

Then Mathew to his umber'd cheek,
Acquainted long with sun and wind,
Press'd drooping Mary's forehead meek;
And, “Bride!” he said, “now, now a treat!
(Nay, drive the mourner from thy mind!)
After the Epic, somewhat long,
Of our judicious man of song,
(Thy William's friend, also a prophet
That weeping love would soon tire of it,)
Give us a ballad short and sweet,
And, if more gay than sad, no worse;
Sadness—like dulness—is a curse.”

XV.

He ended, sneering at the poet,
Who, although stung, seem'd not to know it:
She rose not from her Mathew's side,
But met his warm kiss, and complied.

XVI.

THE BRIDE'S SONG.

XVII.

She ceas'd, but not the flowing tear;
Nor was she then sole weeper there.
What Mathew felt he would not own,
But cough'd, to keep the woman down;
Nor did he vainly cough, or long;
Rather than weep, he sung a song.

XVIII. THE BRIDEGROOM'S SONG.

“A widow, who, dwelling on ocean's wild shore,
Had mourn'd her dead husband six months, perhaps, more,
Saw a gallant approaching, with comical air:
He touch'd her soft hand, while he swore she was fair;
He talk'd of her husband—she could not but cry;
Then he took up her apron, to wipe her sad eye,
But, wondering to see it so suddenly dry,
Said, “Come, kiss me!” and—What could she do, but comply?”

XIX.

He ceas'd, and from the room withdrew,
While Mary blush'd shame's deepest hue,
And, like a daisy bent with dew,
Look'd, in confusion, on the ground.
Fast then the brimful horn went round.
Who miss'd the bridegroom, save the bride?
An hour had pass'd; he came not back:
She writh'd, like victim stretch'd on rack,
And twitch'd, as if on wasps she sate,
Her wriggling bum from side to side.
And now the ale in Jacob's pate
Confused his brain with eddying swirl:
Snake-like, began he to uncurl.
“The bridegroom,” snigger'd he, “is gone,
And shall the bride sit there alone?”
He rose, and placed her on his knee;
While, in the hell of jealousy,
That almost turn'd her blood to tinder,
Grim Sarah smok'd, like steak on cinder,
And froth'd, and fired, with ire and heat.
But Mary, who disliked her seat,
Dealt on his mouth and ruby nose,
With Amazonian fist, her blows,
And laid him, bleeding, at her feet.
Oh, holy wedded love! divine
Discord in unison! 'tis thine
Our hope, our stay, our shield to prove,
When ills assail! and, wedded love,
When tender Sarah saw his blood,
She felt thy power, as good wife should.
Hideous, she rush'd to claw the victor;
But Mary stepp'd aside, and kick'd her;
And Sarah prone on Jacob fell,
Who wish'd her (so th' unmarried tell,
And so he fondly said) in hell,—
Meaning that pillow peaceable,
Where, calm at last, the married sleep,
Of whom, and second nuptials, too,
The widow'd think the lone night through,
And, finding joy in sorrow, weep.

XX.

Then Mary to the window drew,
And, hid behind the curtain blue,
Look'd out into the dismal night.
Gone was the universal white;
Wild heaven with skurrying clouds was spread;
And through the darkness rush'd the light
Oft, as the wan moon, overhead,
Like murder chas'd by conscience, fled;
And lovely was th' illumin'd cloud,
As, on the tip of virgin dead,
The smile that mocks her stainless shroud.
And, as a maniac bends aghast,
Smiting his clench'd hands high and fast,
Did many a huge tree, in the blast
Wave, crashing loud, his branches vast,
Between her and the light.
Afar, she saw the river deep,
And Mexbro, by his side, asleep;
And all the snow was in the stream,
Roaring beneath the fitful beam;
But the wild rain had ceas'd to pour.
Then o'er her heart chill terror crept,
And fancy, sad enthusiast, wept,
And heard the distant waters roar.
“Did Mathew, on that gloomy shore,
Where the voic'd billows wail of woe,
As, dread, in frantic whirls, they flow,
Seek him, the man of mystery?
But little good bodes he to me.
Ah!—ne'er be that thought realiz'd!—
Wedded in vain, and vainly priz'd,
Deep in the wave lies Mathew, drown'd?”
She look'd, but vainly look'd around:
Yet some one mov'd, or seem'd to move,
She thought, between the house and grove:
On tiptoe stood the anxious dame!
But o'er the moon, like envy, came
Darkness—and all was dread and woe.
Thus, Empress of Britannian bowers,
The hawthorn shakes her lovely flowers
Beneath th' half-shaded beam of noon,
Which, glimmering on the pale wave, soon
Vanishes with the dying breeze,
And the cloud deepens o'er the trees,
While green-isled Morley, dark and still,
Listens beneath the glooming hill.
But, while she stood entranc'd in woe,
The door flew open wide; and, lo,
A stranger enter'd! “Mathew? No!”
With clench'd hands, and retracted form,
Like sapling bent beneath the storm,
Or statue of Despair, she stood.
“Where is thy husband, Mathew Hall?”
Exclaim'd, in seeming sullen mood,
That age-bent stranger, broad and tall,
With spade-like beard of reddish grey.
The bride, who scarce knew what to say,
Stood mute awhile, then, half afraid,
“Art thou my husband's friend?” she said.
“I am,” quoth he, with alter'd tone,
“His best, his worst, his only one.”
Forthwith, unask'd, he took his seat;
While Jacob, once more on his feet,
Warbled a stave, with gruntle sweet,
Such as was used in times pass'd long,
Ere notes and tunes were known in song.

XXI. JACOB'S SONG.

“Said young Nell to her husband old,
While on stout Jem she smil'd;
“Thy back and belly both are cold,
And time hath thee beguil'd;
And Joe, when back won't warm the bed,
Nor belly warm the broth,
Is't not high time that grace were said?
Alack, alack for both!”

XXII.

Then to the stranger Jacob brought
The punch he lov'd; and, at a draught,
The stranger drain'd the vase of bliss.
“What emptyness in this world is!”
Sigh'd Jacob, as with drowthy scowl,
Angry, he ey'd the empty bowl.
“My thirsty friend! thou canst, I see,
Make with thine old acquaintance free.
I hope thou wilt, to bless our ears,
And melt our eyes in music's tears,
Honour the wedding with a song,
Sad as thy phiz, but not so long.”
The reverend man his wrath controll'd,
And answer'd calmly: “Though I'm old,
I still have music in my soul.”
And wonder soon, on every face,
Hearken'd his deep and mellow bass.

XXIII. THE STRANGER'S SONG.

XXIV.

He ceas'd. The bride, perturb'd, amaz'd,
Still on the age-bent stranger gaz'd,
And felt his accents in her soul.
Soon his sad gloom became a scowl;
And, “Say, and truly say,” he cried,
“Why thy first husband left thy side?
And why, in late apostacy,
Thou hast espous'd a worse than he,
Who (like the friendless winds, that roam
O'er heaven's broad desert) hath no home,
But flies to mourn, yet not to weep,
While earth to him is, as the cloud
On which, in vain to slumber bow'd,
The thunder would, but cannot, sleep?”

XXV.

XXVI.

“Renounce him then, at once for me!”
Exclaim'd that man of mystery.
“Dost thou not know me, woman, say?
Behold thy husband, William Bray!”
And round her neck his arms he threw,
And cried, “What now? Why this ado?”
And kiss'd, as he would kiss her through.
But she cuff'd, kick'd, and bawl'd, “Away!
Off, dotard, off! or thou shalt rue
My biting tooth, and tearing nail.”
Then glowr'd she—neither pleas'd, nor civil,—
Like one who thinks he sees the devil,
And knows him by his horns and tail.
“Thou?—thou my husband, William Bray?
Why thou art, as a badger, grey!”
Quoth he, “I am, and well I may;
I have been absent many a day.”
“But,” shrilly yell'd she in dismay,
“Thou art as ugly as thou'rt grey,
With whiskers red, as reynard's tail,
And square beard, like a windmill sail.—
Why dost thou still, so goat-like, eye me?—
Thou William?—Devil, I defy thee.”

XXVII.

She said, and cross'd herself, in fear,
And surely thought a fiend was near,
And, trembling, hoped, (for doubts came o'er her,)
It was the devil that stood before her!
Then grinn'd the sage, a slyish grin;
And she, to bear suspense unable,
Flew at him, overturning th' table,
And seem'd, in tooth and claw, a dragon,
Resolv'd to leave him not a rag on.
Lord, what a pickle he was in!
His bones almost fled out of's skin;
For, in a second, the virago
Had left him scarce a thread to take to.
And first the long beard left his chin,
Then fell to earth his cloak so big,
His cat-skin cap, his worsted wig;
And, like enchantress, self-enchanted,
Gaz'd Mary—on the man she wanted!
He stoop'd no more like toothless eighty,
Or porter beneath burden weighty,
But stood before her strait and young;
And locks of darkest auburn hung,
Cluster'd, above his martial brow,
While love laugh'd on his lip below.
Oh, love, thou still play'st queer tricks many,
Though old and tame, I play not any!

XXVIII.

“Twice-wedded widow! do not bawl—
Twice woo'd! twice won! turn not away—
Behold thy husband, Mathew Hall!
Behold thy husband, William Bray!—
Oh, dearest, and in trouble tried,
Receive me to thy faithful side!
Oh, then most constant, when untrue!
Forgiveness is contrition's due;
Forgive!—and I will quit thee never,
But spurn suspicion, and for ever,
Cast o'er thy faults affection's mist,
And humbly kiss thy gentle fist.”

XXIX.

She hung upon his bosom, weak;
She look'd the love she could not speak.
He smil'd the rose back to her cheek:
“Thou fond and full heart! do not break.”
He seal'd with kisses warm her lips;
And—as the half-flying redbreast sips
A dewdrop from the lily's breast,
Then, perching on it, trills his song;—
So kiss'd he off her tears, to rest
Soothing the heart-throb, tortur'd long.
Like fairy, shod with gossamer,
Joy, unexpected, came to her,
For pass'd woe to atone.
Her lip lay on his neck embrac'd:
As if an angel's glance had chas'd
Her darkness, it was gone.
And who shall boast a heroine like mine?
Not more than woman, yet almost divine,
Minerva-like in battle she appears,
Venus in love, and Niobe in tears;
Before her Laila, Constance fade to air;
And ten to nothing! she shall thrash Gulnare!

XXX.

Then all said—what they had to say;
And all shook hands with William Bray,
Save Jacob, who, in drink profound,
Lay stretch'd out huge along the ground.
To earth, and earth's love reconcil'd,
The broken heart of Harry smil'd,
Through tears, like those which saints in heaven
Shed to behold a foe forgiven.
It was, indeed, a glorious wedding!
Charles, all on fire to write upon it,
Swore 'twas a subject for a sonnet,
And, bard-like, in his haste to write,
Forgot to wish his love good night;
But Nancy stay'd to see the bedding.
And learnedly the learn'd have shown
The stocking then, once more, was thrown:
And ancient Night relax'd her brow,
And felt, 'tis said, she scarce knew how,
While, with her grey tongue's watery tip,
She lick'd her greenish gums and lip;
And clapp'd her glasses on her nose,
Right loath a sight o' th' fun to lose;
And stoop'd, and star'd, with twinkling eye,
And crisp'd with smiles her cheek awry,
Like crumpled dish-clout laid to dry,
And squeez'd her thumb, with gripe uncouth,
And broke her blue and only tooth;
Then thought, like many a matron staid,
Of many a prank that love had play'd,
In times gone by, beneath her shade;
Forgot her crutch, her age, her pain,
And liv'd her young years o'er again.