 | [Poems by Drake in] The life and works of Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820) |  |
201
Extracts from Leon, A Tale
“But oh, damned minutes tells he o'er,
Who doats, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves.”
OTHELLO, III, iii
Who doats, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves.”
OTHELLO, III, iii
[OMITTED]
It is a summer evening, calm and fair,
A warm, yet refreshing glow is in the air;
Along its bank, the cool stream wanders slow,
Like parting friends that linger as they go.
The willows, as its waters meekly glide,
Bend their dishevelled tresses to the tide,
And seem to give it, with a moaning sigh,
A farewell touch of tearful sympathy.
Each dusky copse is clad in darkest green;
A blackening mass, just edged with silver sheen
From yon clear moon, who in her glassy face
Seems to reflect the risings of the place.
For on her still, pale orb, the eye may see
Dim spots of shadowy brown, like distant tree
Or far-off hillocks on a moonlight lea.
The stars have lit in heaven their lamps of gold,
The viewless dew falls lightly on the wold;
The gentle air, that softly sweeps the leaves,
A strain of faint, unearthly music weaves;
As when the harp of heaven remotely plays,
Or cygnets wail—or song of sorrowing fays
That float amid the moonshine glimmerings pale,
On wings of woven air in some enchanted vale.
A warm, yet refreshing glow is in the air;
Along its bank, the cool stream wanders slow,
Like parting friends that linger as they go.
The willows, as its waters meekly glide,
Bend their dishevelled tresses to the tide,
And seem to give it, with a moaning sigh,
A farewell touch of tearful sympathy.
Each dusky copse is clad in darkest green;
A blackening mass, just edged with silver sheen
From yon clear moon, who in her glassy face
Seems to reflect the risings of the place.
For on her still, pale orb, the eye may see
Dim spots of shadowy brown, like distant tree
Or far-off hillocks on a moonlight lea.
The stars have lit in heaven their lamps of gold,
The viewless dew falls lightly on the wold;
The gentle air, that softly sweeps the leaves,
A strain of faint, unearthly music weaves;
As when the harp of heaven remotely plays,
Or cygnets wail—or song of sorrowing fays
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On wings of woven air in some enchanted vale.
It is an eve that drops a heavenly balm,
To lull the feelings to a sober calm,
To bid wild passion's fiery flush depart,
And smooth the troubled waters of the heart;
To give a tranquil fixedness to grief,
A cherished gloom, that wishes not relief.
To lull the feelings to a sober calm,
To bid wild passion's fiery flush depart,
And smooth the troubled waters of the heart;
To give a tranquil fixedness to grief,
A cherished gloom, that wishes not relief.
Torn is that heart, and bitter are its throes,
That cannot feel on such a night, repose;
As yet one heart there is that breathes this air,
An eye that wanders o'er the prospect fair,
That sees yon placid moon, and the pure sky
Of mild, unclouded blue; and yet that eye
Is thrown in restless vacancy around,
Or cast in gloomy trance on the cold ground;
And still, that breast with maddening passion burns,
And hatred, love, and sorrow rule by turns.
A lovely figure! and in happier hour,
When pleasure laughed abroad from hall and bower,
The general eye had deemed her smiling face
The brightest jewel in the courtly place.
So glossy is her hair's ensabled wreath,
So glowing warm the eye that burns beneath,
With so much graceful sweetness of address,
And such a form of rounded tenderness;
Ah! where is he on whom these beauties shine,
But deems a spotless soul inhabits such a shrine?
That cannot feel on such a night, repose;
As yet one heart there is that breathes this air,
An eye that wanders o'er the prospect fair,
That sees yon placid moon, and the pure sky
Of mild, unclouded blue; and yet that eye
Is thrown in restless vacancy around,
Or cast in gloomy trance on the cold ground;
And still, that breast with maddening passion burns,
And hatred, love, and sorrow rule by turns.
A lovely figure! and in happier hour,
When pleasure laughed abroad from hall and bower,
The general eye had deemed her smiling face
The brightest jewel in the courtly place.
So glossy is her hair's ensabled wreath,
So glowing warm the eye that burns beneath,
With so much graceful sweetness of address,
And such a form of rounded tenderness;
Ah! where is he on whom these beauties shine,
But deems a spotless soul inhabits such a shrine?
And yet a keen observer might espy
Strange passions lurking in her deep black eye,
And in the lines of her fine lip, a soul
That in its every feeling spurned control.
They passed unnoted—who will stop to trace
A sullying spot on beauty's sparkling face?
And no one deemed, amid her glances sweet,
Hers was a bosom of impetuous heat;
A heart too wildly in its joys elate,
Formed but to madly love—or madly hate;
A spirit of strong throbs, and steadfast will;
To doat, detest, to die for, or to kill;
Which, like the Arab chief, would fiercely dare
To stab the heart she might no longer share;
And yet so tender, if he loved again,
Would die to save his breast one single pain.
Strange passions lurking in her deep black eye,
203
That in its every feeling spurned control.
They passed unnoted—who will stop to trace
A sullying spot on beauty's sparkling face?
And no one deemed, amid her glances sweet,
Hers was a bosom of impetuous heat;
A heart too wildly in its joys elate,
Formed but to madly love—or madly hate;
A spirit of strong throbs, and steadfast will;
To doat, detest, to die for, or to kill;
Which, like the Arab chief, would fiercely dare
To stab the heart she might no longer share;
And yet so tender, if he loved again,
Would die to save his breast one single pain.
And he who cast his gaze upon her now,
And read the traces written on her brow,
Had scarce believed hers was that form of light
That beamed like fabled wonder on the sight;
Her raven hair hung down in loosened tress
Before her wan cheek's pallid ghastliness;
And, through its thick locks, showed the deadly white
Like marble glimpses of a tomb, at night.
In fixed and horrid musings now she stands,
Her dark eyes bent to earth, and her cold hands
Prest to her heart, now wildly thrown on high
They wander o'er her brow—and then a sigh
Breaks deep and full—and, more composedly
She half exclaims—“No! No!—it cannot be;
He loves not, never loved—not even when
He pressed my wedded hand—I knew it then;
And yet, fool that I was, I saw he strove
In vain to kindle pity into love.
But Florence! she so loved, a sister too!
My earliest, dearest playmate—one who grew
Upon my very heart—to rend it so!
His falsehood I could bear—but hers! ah! no.
She is not false—I feel she loves me yet,
And if my boding bosom could forget
Its wild imaginings, with what sweet pain
I'd clasp my Florence to my breast again.”
With that came many a thought of days gone by,
Remembered joys of mirthful infancy;
And youth's gay frolic, and the short-lived flow
Of showering tears, in childhood's fleeting woe,
And life's maturer friendship, and the sense
Of heart-warm, open, fearless confidence;
All these came thronging with a tender call,
And her own Florence mingled with them all.
And softened feelings rose amid her pain,
While from her eyes the clouds melted in gentle rain.
And read the traces written on her brow,
Had scarce believed hers was that form of light
That beamed like fabled wonder on the sight;
Her raven hair hung down in loosened tress
Before her wan cheek's pallid ghastliness;
And, through its thick locks, showed the deadly white
Like marble glimpses of a tomb, at night.
In fixed and horrid musings now she stands,
Her dark eyes bent to earth, and her cold hands
Prest to her heart, now wildly thrown on high
They wander o'er her brow—and then a sigh
Breaks deep and full—and, more composedly
She half exclaims—“No! No!—it cannot be;
204
He pressed my wedded hand—I knew it then;
And yet, fool that I was, I saw he strove
In vain to kindle pity into love.
But Florence! she so loved, a sister too!
My earliest, dearest playmate—one who grew
Upon my very heart—to rend it so!
His falsehood I could bear—but hers! ah! no.
She is not false—I feel she loves me yet,
And if my boding bosom could forget
Its wild imaginings, with what sweet pain
I'd clasp my Florence to my breast again.”
With that came many a thought of days gone by,
Remembered joys of mirthful infancy;
And youth's gay frolic, and the short-lived flow
Of showering tears, in childhood's fleeting woe,
And life's maturer friendship, and the sense
Of heart-warm, open, fearless confidence;
All these came thronging with a tender call,
And her own Florence mingled with them all.
And softened feelings rose amid her pain,
While from her eyes the clouds melted in gentle rain.
A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face;
It fled—and deeper paleness took its place;
Then a cold shudder thrilled her—and, at last,
Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast,
As if she scorned herself, that she could be
A moment lulled by that sweet sophistry;
For in that little minute memory's sting
Gave word and look, sigh, gesture—everything,
To bid these dear delusive phantoms fly,
And fix her fears in dreadful certainty.
It traced the very progress of their love,
From the first meeting in the locust grove;
When from the chase Leon came bounding there,
Backing his courser with a noble air;
His brown cheek flushed with healthful exercise,
And his warm spirits leaping in his eyes;
It told how lovely looked her sister then,
To long-lost friends, and home just come again;
How on her cheek the tear of meeting lay,
(That tear which only feeling hearts can pay;)
While the quick pleasure glistened in her eye,
Like clouds and sunshine in an April sky;
And then it told, as their acquaintance grew,
How close the unseen bonds of union drew
Their souls together, and how pleased they were
The same blythe pastimes and delights to share;
How the same chord in each at once would strike
Their taste, their wishes, and their joys alike.
It fled—and deeper paleness took its place;
Then a cold shudder thrilled her—and, at last,
Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast,
As if she scorned herself, that she could be
A moment lulled by that sweet sophistry;
For in that little minute memory's sting
Gave word and look, sigh, gesture—everything,
To bid these dear delusive phantoms fly,
And fix her fears in dreadful certainty.
205
From the first meeting in the locust grove;
When from the chase Leon came bounding there,
Backing his courser with a noble air;
His brown cheek flushed with healthful exercise,
And his warm spirits leaping in his eyes;
It told how lovely looked her sister then,
To long-lost friends, and home just come again;
How on her cheek the tear of meeting lay,
(That tear which only feeling hearts can pay;)
While the quick pleasure glistened in her eye,
Like clouds and sunshine in an April sky;
And then it told, as their acquaintance grew,
How close the unseen bonds of union drew
Their souls together, and how pleased they were
The same blythe pastimes and delights to share;
How the same chord in each at once would strike
Their taste, their wishes, and their joys alike.
All this was innocent, but soon there came
Blushes and starts of consciousness and shame;
That, when she entered, upon either cheek
The hasty blood in guilty red would speak
Of something that should not be known—and still
Sighs half suppressed seemed struggling with the will.
It told how oft at eve was Leon gone
In moody wandering to the wood alone;
And in the night, how many a broken dream
Of bliss, or terror, seemed to shake his frame.
How Florence too, in long abstracted fit
Of soul-wrapt musing, for whole hours would sit;
Nor even the power of music, friend, or book,
Could chase her deep forgetfulness of look;
And how, when questioned—with an indrawn sigh,
In vague and far-off phrase, she made reply,
And smiled and struggled to be gay and free,
And then relapsed in dreaming reverie.
How when of Leon she was forced to speak,
Unbidden crimson mantled in her cheek;
And when he entered, how her eye would swim,
And strive to look on everyone but him;
Yet, by unconscious fascination led,
In quick short glance each moment towards him fled.
How he, too, seemed to shun her speech and gaze,
And yet he always lingered where she was;
Though nothing in his aspect or his air
Told that he knew she was in presence there;
But an appearance of constrained distress,
And a dull tongue of moveless silentness,
And a down-drooping eye of gloom and sadness,
Oh! how unlike his former face of gladness.
'Tis plain! too plain! and I am lost, she cried;
And in that thought her last good feeling died.
Blushes and starts of consciousness and shame;
That, when she entered, upon either cheek
The hasty blood in guilty red would speak
Of something that should not be known—and still
Sighs half suppressed seemed struggling with the will.
It told how oft at eve was Leon gone
In moody wandering to the wood alone;
And in the night, how many a broken dream
Of bliss, or terror, seemed to shake his frame.
How Florence too, in long abstracted fit
Of soul-wrapt musing, for whole hours would sit;
206
Could chase her deep forgetfulness of look;
And how, when questioned—with an indrawn sigh,
In vague and far-off phrase, she made reply,
And smiled and struggled to be gay and free,
And then relapsed in dreaming reverie.
How when of Leon she was forced to speak,
Unbidden crimson mantled in her cheek;
And when he entered, how her eye would swim,
And strive to look on everyone but him;
Yet, by unconscious fascination led,
In quick short glance each moment towards him fled.
How he, too, seemed to shun her speech and gaze,
And yet he always lingered where she was;
Though nothing in his aspect or his air
Told that he knew she was in presence there;
But an appearance of constrained distress,
And a dull tongue of moveless silentness,
And a down-drooping eye of gloom and sadness,
Oh! how unlike his former face of gladness.
'Tis plain! too plain! and I am lost, she cried;
And in that thought her last good feeling died.
That thought of hopeless horror seemed to dart
A thousand stings at once into her heart;
But a strong effort quelled it, and she gave
The next to hatred, vengeance, and the grave.
Her face was calmly stern, and but a glare
Within her eyes—there was no feature there
That told what lashing fiends her inmates were;
Within—there was no thought to bid her swerve
From her intent—but every strained nerve
Was settled and bent up with terrible force,
To some deep deed, far, far beyond remorse;
No glimpse of mercy's light her purpose crost,
Love, nature, pity in its depths were lost;
Or lent an added fury to the ire
That seared her soul with unconsuming fire;
All that was dear in the wide earth was gone,
She loved but two, and these she doted on
With passionate ardor—and the close strong press
Of woman's heart-cored, clinging tenderness;
These links were torn, and now she stood alone,
Bereft of all, her husband, sister—gone!
Ah! who can tell that ne'er has known such fate,
What wild and dreadful strength it gives to hate?
What had she left? revenge! revenge! was there;
He crushed remorse and wrestled down despair;
Held his red torch to memory's page, and threw
A bloody stain on every line she drew;
She felt dark pleasure with her frenzy blend,
And hugged him to her heart, and called him friend.
A thousand stings at once into her heart;
But a strong effort quelled it, and she gave
The next to hatred, vengeance, and the grave.
Her face was calmly stern, and but a glare
Within her eyes—there was no feature there
That told what lashing fiends her inmates were;
Within—there was no thought to bid her swerve
From her intent—but every strained nerve
207
To some deep deed, far, far beyond remorse;
No glimpse of mercy's light her purpose crost,
Love, nature, pity in its depths were lost;
Or lent an added fury to the ire
That seared her soul with unconsuming fire;
All that was dear in the wide earth was gone,
She loved but two, and these she doted on
With passionate ardor—and the close strong press
Of woman's heart-cored, clinging tenderness;
These links were torn, and now she stood alone,
Bereft of all, her husband, sister—gone!
Ah! who can tell that ne'er has known such fate,
What wild and dreadful strength it gives to hate?
What had she left? revenge! revenge! was there;
He crushed remorse and wrestled down despair;
Held his red torch to memory's page, and threw
A bloody stain on every line she drew;
She felt dark pleasure with her frenzy blend,
And hugged him to her heart, and called him friend.
When sorrowing clouds the face of heaven deform,
And hope's bright star sets darkly in the storm,
Around us ghastly shapes and phantoms swim,
And all beyond is formless, vague, and dim,
Or life's cold barren path before us lies,
A wild and weary waste of tears and sighs;
From the lorn heart each sweetening solace gone,
Abandoned, friendless, withered, and lone;
And when with keener pangs we bleed to know
That loved hands have struck the deepest blow;
That friends we deemed most true, and held most dear,
Have stretched the pall of death o'er pleasure's bier;
Repaid our trusting faith with serpent guile,
Cursed with a kiss, and stabbed beneath a smile;
What then remains for souls of tender mould?
One last and silent refuge, calm though cold—
A resting place for misery's gentle slave;
Hearts break but once, no wrongs can reach the grave.
And hope's bright star sets darkly in the storm,
Around us ghastly shapes and phantoms swim,
And all beyond is formless, vague, and dim,
Or life's cold barren path before us lies,
A wild and weary waste of tears and sighs;
From the lorn heart each sweetening solace gone,
Abandoned, friendless, withered, and lone;
And when with keener pangs we bleed to know
That loved hands have struck the deepest blow;
That friends we deemed most true, and held most dear,
Have stretched the pall of death o'er pleasure's bier;
208
Cursed with a kiss, and stabbed beneath a smile;
What then remains for souls of tender mould?
One last and silent refuge, calm though cold—
A resting place for misery's gentle slave;
Hearts break but once, no wrongs can reach the grave.
But ye, mild spirits of afflicted worth!
Sweet is your slumber in the quiet earth;
And soon the voice of heaven shall bid you rise
To meet rewarding smiles in yonder skies.
But where, for solace, shall the bosom turn
For death too strong—for tears—too proudly stern?
When shall the lulling dews of peace descend
On hearts that cannot break and will not bend?
Ah! never, never—they are doomed to feel
Pains that no balm from heaven or earth can heal;
To live in groans, and yield their parting breath
Without a joy in life—or hope in death.
Yet, for a while, one living hope remains,
That nerves each fibre and the soul sustains;
One desperate hope, whose agonizing throes
Are bitterer far than all the worst of woes;
A hope of crime and horrors, wild and strange
As demon thoughts—that hope is thine, revenge!
'Twas this that gave, oh! Ellinor, to thee
A strength to bear thy matchless misery.
Though the hot blood ran boiling in her brain,
And rolled a tide of fire through every vein,
Though many a rushing voice of blighted bliss
Struck on her mental ears, like adders' hiss;
That hope gave gloomy fierceness to her eye,
Dashed down the tear, repressed the unloading sigh;
Fixed her wan quivering lip, and steeled her breast
To crush the hearts that robbed her own of rest.
Sweet is your slumber in the quiet earth;
And soon the voice of heaven shall bid you rise
To meet rewarding smiles in yonder skies.
But where, for solace, shall the bosom turn
For death too strong—for tears—too proudly stern?
When shall the lulling dews of peace descend
On hearts that cannot break and will not bend?
Ah! never, never—they are doomed to feel
Pains that no balm from heaven or earth can heal;
To live in groans, and yield their parting breath
Without a joy in life—or hope in death.
Yet, for a while, one living hope remains,
That nerves each fibre and the soul sustains;
One desperate hope, whose agonizing throes
Are bitterer far than all the worst of woes;
A hope of crime and horrors, wild and strange
As demon thoughts—that hope is thine, revenge!
'Twas this that gave, oh! Ellinor, to thee
A strength to bear thy matchless misery.
Though the hot blood ran boiling in her brain,
And rolled a tide of fire through every vein,
Though many a rushing voice of blighted bliss
Struck on her mental ears, like adders' hiss;
That hope gave gloomy fierceness to her eye,
209
Fixed her wan quivering lip, and steeled her breast
To crush the hearts that robbed her own of rest.
She wound her way within a heavy shade
Of arching boughs, in broad-spread leaves arrayed;
Which, clustering close and thick, shut out the light,
And tinged with black the shadowy robe of night;
Save here and there a melancholy spark
Of flickering moonshine glimmered through the dark,
Cheerless and dim, as when upon a pall,
Through suffering tears, the looks of sorrow fall;
But opening farther on, on either side
A wider space the severing trees divide;
And longer gleams upon the pathway meet,
And the soft grass is wet beneath her feet.
And now emerging from the darksome shade,
She pressed the silken carpet of the glade.
Beyond the green, within its western close,
A little vine-hung, leafy arbor rose,
Where the pale lustre of the moony flood
Dimmed the vermillioned woodbine's scarlet bud;
And glancing through the foliage fluttering round,
In tiny circles gemmed the freckled ground.
Beside the porch, beneath the friendly screen
Of two tall trees, a mossy bank was seen;
And all around, amid the silvery dew,
The wild-wood pansy reared her petals blue;
And gold cups and the meadow cowslip red,
Upon the evening air their mingled odors shed.
Of arching boughs, in broad-spread leaves arrayed;
Which, clustering close and thick, shut out the light,
And tinged with black the shadowy robe of night;
Save here and there a melancholy spark
Of flickering moonshine glimmered through the dark,
Cheerless and dim, as when upon a pall,
Through suffering tears, the looks of sorrow fall;
But opening farther on, on either side
A wider space the severing trees divide;
And longer gleams upon the pathway meet,
And the soft grass is wet beneath her feet.
And now emerging from the darksome shade,
She pressed the silken carpet of the glade.
Beyond the green, within its western close,
A little vine-hung, leafy arbor rose,
Where the pale lustre of the moony flood
Dimmed the vermillioned woodbine's scarlet bud;
And glancing through the foliage fluttering round,
In tiny circles gemmed the freckled ground.
Beside the porch, beneath the friendly screen
Of two tall trees, a mossy bank was seen;
And all around, amid the silvery dew,
The wild-wood pansy reared her petals blue;
And gold cups and the meadow cowslip red,
Upon the evening air their mingled odors shed.
Unheeded all the grove's deep gloom had been,
Unseen the moonlight brightness of the green;
In vain the stream's blue burnish met her eye,
Lovely its wave, but passed unnoticed by.
The airs of heaven had breathed around her brow
Their cooling sighs—she felt them not—but now
That lonely bower appeared, and with a start
Convulsive shudders thrilled her throbbing heart.
For there, in days, alas! for ever gone,
When love's young torch with beams of rapture shone,
When she had felt her heart's impassioned swell,
And almost deemed her Leon loved as well;
There had she sat, beneath the evening skies,
Felt his warm cheek and heard his murmured sighs;
Hung on his breast, caressing and carest,
Her husband smiled, and Ellinor was blest.
And when his injured country's rights to shield,
Blazed his red banner on the battlefield,
There had she lingered in the shadows dim,
And sat till morning watch, and thought of him;
And wept to think that she might not be there,
His toils, his dangers, and his wounds to share.
And when the foe had bowed beneath his hand,
And to his home he led his conquering band,
There she first caught his long-expected face,
And sprung to smile and weep in his embrace.
Unseen the moonlight brightness of the green;
In vain the stream's blue burnish met her eye,
Lovely its wave, but passed unnoticed by.
210
Their cooling sighs—she felt them not—but now
That lonely bower appeared, and with a start
Convulsive shudders thrilled her throbbing heart.
For there, in days, alas! for ever gone,
When love's young torch with beams of rapture shone,
When she had felt her heart's impassioned swell,
And almost deemed her Leon loved as well;
There had she sat, beneath the evening skies,
Felt his warm cheek and heard his murmured sighs;
Hung on his breast, caressing and carest,
Her husband smiled, and Ellinor was blest.
And when his injured country's rights to shield,
Blazed his red banner on the battlefield,
There had she lingered in the shadows dim,
And sat till morning watch, and thought of him;
And wept to think that she might not be there,
His toils, his dangers, and his wounds to share.
And when the foe had bowed beneath his hand,
And to his home he led his conquering band,
There she first caught his long-expected face,
And sprung to smile and weep in his embrace.
These scenes of bliss across her memory fled,
Like lights that haunt the chambers of the dead,
She saw the bower, and read the image there
Of joys that had been, and of woes that were;
She clenched her hand in agony, and cast
A glance of tears upon it as she past,
A look of weeping sorrow—'twas the last!
She checked the gush of feeling, turned her face,
And faster sped along her hurried pace.
No longer now from Leon's lips were heard
The sigh of bliss, the rapture-breathing word;
No longer now upon his features dwelt
The glance that sweetly thrills, the looks that melt;
No speaking gaze of fond attachment told,
But all was dull and gloomy, sad and cold.
Yet he was kind, or labored to be kind,
And strove to hide the workings of his mind;
And cloaked his heart, to soothe his wife's distress
Under a mask of tender gentleness.
It was in vain—for ah! how light and frail
To love's keen eye is falsehood's gilded veil?
Sweet winning words may for a time beguile,
Professions lull, and oaths deceive a while;
But soon the heart, in vague suspicion tost,
Must feel a void unfilled, a something lost;
Something scarce heeded, and unprized till gone,
Felt while unseen, and, though unnoticed, known.
A hidden witchery, a nameless charm,
Too fine for actions and for words too warm;
That passing all the worthless forms of art,
Eludes the sense, and only woos the heart.
A hallowed spell, by fond affection wove,
The mute, but matchless eloquence of love!
Like lights that haunt the chambers of the dead,
She saw the bower, and read the image there
Of joys that had been, and of woes that were;
She clenched her hand in agony, and cast
A glance of tears upon it as she past,
A look of weeping sorrow—'twas the last!
She checked the gush of feeling, turned her face,
And faster sped along her hurried pace.
211
The sigh of bliss, the rapture-breathing word;
No longer now upon his features dwelt
The glance that sweetly thrills, the looks that melt;
No speaking gaze of fond attachment told,
But all was dull and gloomy, sad and cold.
Yet he was kind, or labored to be kind,
And strove to hide the workings of his mind;
And cloaked his heart, to soothe his wife's distress
Under a mask of tender gentleness.
It was in vain—for ah! how light and frail
To love's keen eye is falsehood's gilded veil?
Sweet winning words may for a time beguile,
Professions lull, and oaths deceive a while;
But soon the heart, in vague suspicion tost,
Must feel a void unfilled, a something lost;
Something scarce heeded, and unprized till gone,
Felt while unseen, and, though unnoticed, known.
A hidden witchery, a nameless charm,
Too fine for actions and for words too warm;
That passing all the worthless forms of art,
Eludes the sense, and only woos the heart.
A hallowed spell, by fond affection wove,
The mute, but matchless eloquence of love!
[OMITTED]
Oh! there were times when to my heart there came
All that the soul can feel or fancy frame;
The summer party in the open air,
When sunny eyes and cordial hearts were there;
When light came sparkling through the greenwood eaves
Like mirthful eyes that laugh upon the leaves;
Where every bush and tree in all the scene
In wind-kissed wavings shake their wings of green,
And all the objects round about dispense
Reviving freshness to the awakened sense;
The golden corslet of the humble-bee,
The antic kid that frolics round the lea;
Or purple lance-flies circling round the place,
On their light shards of green, an airy race;
Or squirrel glancing from the nut-wood shade
An arch black eye, half pleased and half afraid;
Or bird, quick-darting through the foliage dim,
Or perched and twittering on the tendril slim;
Or poised in ether sailing slowly on,
With plumes that change and glisten in the sun
Like rainbows fading into mist—and then,
On the bright cloud renewed and changed again;
Or soaring upward, while his full, sweet throat
Pours clear and strong a pleasure-speaking note;
And sings in nature's language wild and free,
His song of praise for light and liberty.
All that the soul can feel or fancy frame;
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When sunny eyes and cordial hearts were there;
When light came sparkling through the greenwood eaves
Like mirthful eyes that laugh upon the leaves;
Where every bush and tree in all the scene
In wind-kissed wavings shake their wings of green,
And all the objects round about dispense
Reviving freshness to the awakened sense;
The golden corslet of the humble-bee,
The antic kid that frolics round the lea;
Or purple lance-flies circling round the place,
On their light shards of green, an airy race;
Or squirrel glancing from the nut-wood shade
An arch black eye, half pleased and half afraid;
Or bird, quick-darting through the foliage dim,
Or perched and twittering on the tendril slim;
Or poised in ether sailing slowly on,
With plumes that change and glisten in the sun
Like rainbows fading into mist—and then,
On the bright cloud renewed and changed again;
Or soaring upward, while his full, sweet throat
Pours clear and strong a pleasure-speaking note;
And sings in nature's language wild and free,
His song of praise for light and liberty.
And when within, with poetry and song,
Music and books led the glad hours along,
Worlds of the visioned minstrel, fancy-wove,
Tales of old time, of chivalry and love;
Or converse calm, or wit-shafts sprinkled round,
Like beams from gems too light and fine to wound;
With spirits sparkling as the morning's sun,
Light as the dancing wave he smiles upon,
Like his own course—alas! too soon to know
Bright suns may set in storms, and gay hearts sink in woe.
Music and books led the glad hours along,
Worlds of the visioned minstrel, fancy-wove,
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Or converse calm, or wit-shafts sprinkled round,
Like beams from gems too light and fine to wound;
With spirits sparkling as the morning's sun,
Light as the dancing wave he smiles upon,
Like his own course—alas! too soon to know
Bright suns may set in storms, and gay hearts sink in woe.
[OMITTED]
2. Leon—Part II
“The course of true love never did run smooth.”
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, I, i
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM, I, i
I wish I had a little quiet spot,
Some wild-wood dell and bower-enshaded grot,
Where never glimpse of human face was seen,
And none but fairy feet have trod the green,
That with one trusting friend who loved me well,
Unseen, unknown, I might forever dwell;
And, far from woman's spell, sequestered move
Beyond the doubts, the fears, the crimes, the woes of love.
Poor son of sorrow, child of sighs and tears,
Born in wild hopes, and nursed in wilder fears,
Short are the joys that glad thy weeping eyes
As rainbow tints that vanish while they rise,
Glimpses of heaven that only serve to show
The double deepness of succeeding woe.
Oh, why, sweet cherub of celestial birth,
In mercy sent to light and warm the earth,
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Crushed by cold prudence, or in passion tossed?
Still the warm hearts that bend to thy control,
Must bend in sorrow, or in frenzy roll,
And reason only wakes to tell despair
How blest they might have been, how curst they are.
But why should dark foreboding dreams destroy
The fleeting forms of momentary joy?
Why damp the bliss with such presagings sad
While eyes around are bright, and hearts are glad?
For her, in every corner of the place,
Dressed up in smiles is seen each happy face,
Grandsire and crone, brisk youth and maiden gay,
And children pranked in holiday array
Around the castle stand, or sit, or trip,
Joy in each eye and smiles on every lip;
While talk and whisper buzzes far and wide,
Of the brave bridegroom and the bonny bride.
Some crowd the gates, some lie along the grass
On the green road through which the train will pass;
Some, more impatient to behold the band
Around the chapel archway take their stand,
Or, climbing to the windows, strive in vain
To send their glances through the painted pane.
The nearest bend their ears toward the lay,
And strive to hear, although they cannot see;
While some more daring, forward thrust their chin,
And set the door acrack and peep within.
Oh, 'tis an awful and glorious sight!
The dim sun flings his stained light,
The flame-tipped columns of the altar torch
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And lustres, with their branchy arms outspread,
From pendant drops ten thousand sparkles shed;
The velvet surface of the pulpit pall
In gentle waves and crimson flashes fall,
While the gay arches of the ceiling throw
Broad massy shades and darkening streaks below.
Then might you see, with nod, and smile, and stoop
Of knights and dames, a gallant joyous group
Filling the space and glancing here and there.
A brilliant eye, or turning smooth and fair
A neck of marble white, or with a bow
Shaking the plume that quivers on the brow.
Within the altar paling stands the choir,
With mitred priest, the cowled and shaven friar,
And novice boy, who, with a holy look
Carries the pyx, or bears the sacred book,
Or, as the words of reverent praise are spoke,
Heaves to the Saviour-cross the curling incense smoke.
But hark! from yonder sable-curtained dome
In long low strains the female voices come,
Swell, sink, subside, and as the murmur dies,
Full, clear, and strong the solemn chantings rise,
And gentle organ stops, with breathing sound,
Like songs of distant angels, float around;
And now they mingle, pause, and now alone
Peals in deep majesty the lengthened tone;
Slowly, as sinks the faint receding wail,
The stolèd priest advances to the pale.
[OMITTED]
| [Poems by Drake in] The life and works of Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820) | |