Old Year Leaves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Edgar's college rooms. Edgar seated at a table, holding in his hand an open letter, which informs him that he has succeeded in obtaining a much-coveted University honour.
Edgar.

Truly a grand—a noble thing is life,
And with what joy a young man's life is fraught,
When, with a mind matured, a happy heart,
And resolution firm, he gazes forth
Upon the boundless world! He knows its snares,

Its pitfalls, and its quicksands; yet to him
'Tis given to avoid them. He is not
A foolish simple boy fired with strange thoughts
Of schemes impracticable, which should cure
The ills that are the bane of social life
In these our modern days.

Yet though he feels
Not youth's enthusiasm, nor its sense—
So all-absorbing that success is sure:
Though conscious of his failures and his faults,
Though knowing well his many weaknesses,—
Yet hath he self-respect, and knoweth too
His capabilities;—and hopes, ay, longs
By steadfast effort to effect some good,
Which shall, however small, still serve to show
That all his life hath not been barrenness.
But these are stern thoughts—let them pass—there flows
The fresh untrammelled blood of buoyant life
Full joyous through my veins; my mind is clear,
My intellect is cultured, and I hope
My heart is happy. I have lately said
That life to such is gladness, let me not
Belie so recent words.

Ay, when I think
Of that great love which nestles in my soul,
Like a fair darling child of three years old
On her fond father's breast:—when it is true
That this love hath its guerdon, I should be
For ever gladsome: I remember well
The retinue of unreturning years
And many a day and hour which made them up,
Since she, who is my heart's desire, and I
Had our first meeting. We were children both—
Our parents were firm friends, and we were thrown
Often together: and as Dante loved
His Beatrice, so I Alethea,—
Save that his Beatrice was proudly cold,
While my Alethea was meek and kind;—
And that as children we ne'er thought of love,
Although we loved so young we cannot tell
When love at first began. What subtle joy
It is to think that we are one in heart,
Together soon to tread Life's hardened ways!
What peace to me to think—a brief time past—
There comes to me a help-meet truly meet,
No speaker of sham sentiment, or words
Of mawkish weary platitudes, but one

Who strengthens me to do the right, who strives
To urge me on to goodly deeds and great.
O how refreshing oft it is to leave
My studies stern, and theories dim and cold,
To commune with reality so bright!
How sweet to bring at last the rich reward
Of lengthened brain-wrought labour, and to say
‘Thy sympathy hath helped me to succeed.’

SCENE II.

A quiet summer evening. Alethea standing in a secluded part of the garden of her home adjacent to an old plantation. Time.—A few days before the day fixed for her marriage.
Alethea.
A few days more! Ah what a change for me,
A happy change! O kind few days that bring it—
A blissful change! Speed swift bright days that bring it,—
A change the sense of which thrills through my soul,
And makes it burst its bonds and soar in song.

A few days more, a few days more,
Ah what a change for me!
Then I shall enter through Love's door
To full felicity.

No more alone to bear one fear,
Or have an untold dread,
To leave my path, his sweet voice hear
And choose his path instead.

A few days more, then it will be
My duty to obey,—
A duty pleasant, joyous, free
As warbler's winsome lay.
I'll seek to do each fond behest,
To merit each fond smile,—
I'll strive to make his life more blest
His sadness to beguile.

He praises oft my sunny hair,
And lauds my peach-bloom cheeks,—
I would I were far far more fair
When thus my dear one speaks.
I feel unworthy him, and yet
He takes me for his wife,—
I'll yield to him—to pay my debt—
The service of my life.

How calming is this tranquil evening hour
Of sylvan solitude! The tall old oaks
Near which I stand have seen full many a year,
And sheltered many a maiden such as I
Beneath their branches, and in future time
Will shelter many more. My favourite flower,
The white convolvulus, climbs in the hedge
In spotless beauty as it used to do
In summers long gone by; and as it will,
Fanned by the breath of summers yet to come;
Nature is all unchanged, and yet to me
How changed it seems to-night! Despite my joy
A curious sense of sadness steals upon me,
When I reflect that guileless happy days
Of thoughtless youth are now for ever past,
That though life's grandest, highest, gift is mine,
A love returned tenfold, yet doubtless too
A share of sorrow is appointed me!

SCENE III.

A dull autumn morning. Alethea at a window looking out on the depressing prospect. Time.—Several months after.
Alethea.

The blow is softened now by kindly Time,
And I can breathe again. On this the day
Poor Edgar starts for clearer sunnier skies
I first can ponder on these dreary weeks
Which lately heavily have passed away.
How different from the glad and trustful days
I thought they would have proved!

When first I heard
That he was stricken by a sickness sore,
A sickness nigh to death, I scarcely felt
Deep sorrow, but a paralysing pain
My senses dulled. I had no power to think,
And life seemed dead within me; but at length
Came slowly back to me the happy thought,

Yes—happy even 'mid such grief as mine:
My loved one needed help, and oh what joy
Was mine to give it, and I almost blessed
The form of his distress, that at the least
It did not keep me from him. For what woe
Unspeakable must be endured by those
Whose loved ones have been smitten, and who know
That they are suffering helpless and alone,
And that the same disease which tortures keeps
Apart from them the dear ones whose kind voice
And sympathetic touch is their chief stay.
If such a case of misery were mine,
Contagion's direst mischief I would brave
If I could thereby comfort those I love.

A chill received when heated and fatigued
One day in Summer's youth-time (when the breeze
Had Winter's breath still on it) was enough
To lay my Edgar low. Physicians came
And went, with faces grave and measured tread;
The case was serious, they said, and none
Could tell the issue. They were clever men

Nor meant to be unkind; yet when I saw
Them watch his pangs of pain and laboured breathing
With interest all professional and cold,
It wellnigh made me mad.

The crisis came
And passed;—the point once turned, he slowly gained
A little strength. The cautious doctors said
His youth would grapple on the side of life,
And he might yet recover. But for him
Should be no more of hard and brain-wrought toil
Or anxious eager thought:—his life must pass
In quiet,—and his winters he must spend
For several years abroad. Thus he will leave
Chill England's shores to-day. Ah cruel blast
And muddy cold grey sky that drives him from me!
Oh callous North-wind, couldst thou not restrain
Thy blighting force and let my darling live
In the same land as I? Life-giving Sun,
Oh why dost thou not shine, when, if thou didst,
It would rejoice so many yearning hearts!

SCENE IV.

Early morning. Edgar standing on a balcony enjoying the fresh balmy air and watching the last traces of the sunrise die away in the sky.
Edgar.

So yesterday was Christmas-day, and yet
Such weather joyous and unwinter-like,—
In truth such weather as in recent years
We northerners but rarely have received
In sunless seasons which we summer call
Merely from force of custom.

Many trees
Retain their leaves—and fair it is to see
Green leaves at Christmas-time, while gorgeous flowers,
Which never bloom in Britain save when placed
In houses cramped and stifling with damp heat,
Display their beauty in the open air.
A few days since I saw—exquisite sight!

An avenue of fine camellia plants,
And all in fullest flower! and as I looked
Up the long vista while the luscious red
Commingled in my vision with the white,
And as I further gazed upon the scene
Of which they were the centre, and drank in
Its wondrous loveliness, I felt deep joy
That still amid its mingled pain and grief
Such sweetness is preserved on earth to soothe
And elevate men's thoughts. They who have lived
Only in climates where the fickle weather
Is changeful as the winds, can never know
The bliss of living where, come calm or storm,
No blighting blast can reach to wither up
Our vital energies and make our life
A misery. This is not such a clime
As Italy's in winter, where the sun
Makes summer as its warm rays penetrate,
But in the shade the cutting searching wind
Blows keenly from the snowy Apennines;
Nor such a clime as that whose azure waves
Reflect with dazzling force the Day-king's heat
Upon the olive-groves and pine-clad crags

Of the gay Riviera;—but whose warmth
Dies with the day, and night is damp and cold.
Here winds are never cold nor ever harm
With treacherous touch the trustful invalid,
Who, lured by the soft sunlight, walks abroad.
Here balmy night is pleasant and as mild
As is the day, while the defiled sea-shore
Appears, at least at night, most beautiful
Viewed from a distance; and the dotted lights
From many a cottage on the lone crag-sides
Vie with the stars from out the deep blue sky
In forming a fair circlet round the bay
Like flashing jewels round the shapely arm
Of youth-dowered maid.

What were the lines I strung
Together, to employ an idle hour?

Christmas in the summer sunshine! O how beautiful it seems,—
Clothed in gladness are its moments, realising poets' dreams,

While its hours pass swiftly from us, how we wish they were for aye,
That their bright and buoyant pleasure with its guilelessness might stay.

Christmas in the summer sunshine! softly blows the scented breeze
And its coming stirs the frondage of the stately staid palm-trees.
Calm the noble realm of Ocean, fair the dotted fishing skiffs,
And the verdant cactus growing on the gaunt uprising cliffs.

All of Flora's cultured beauty freely is revealed to view,
And among the vine-clad ridges of sweet wild-flowers not a few,
Soft azaleas, rich gardenias, ope their blossoms to the air,
With the rose, and trained geranium:—while its wild type too is there.

Fitting the moon's glorious radiance for the people as they pass
On the eve of merry Christmas, to and from the midnight mass;
And for strolling serenaders who invade the silent hours
With what doubtless they consider some of music's choicest flowers.

Christmas in the summer sunshine! neither snow nor frost are here,
Which, though they may charm the healthy, fill the invalid with fear;
And in sooth, with dear ones round him, spends he happily the day,
Pining not for that loved treasure—his chill home so far away.

Yet! 'tis the far away that makes me sad,
For distance is indeed a barrier,
Let bards say what they will; for though I hope
Hale health is coming back, I sometimes feel

As though I had not very long to live;
And if 'tis so, it seems a cruel fate
To have to spend my few remaining days
So far away from those my heart holds dear,
But chiefly from the one my whole soul loves.

SCENE V.

A quiet spot in the garden of Edgar's home. Several months afterwards. Edgar and Alethea.
Edgar.

The doctors think that I shall ne'er be well.
They do not say so openly, but still
It is not hard to understand the drift
Of their calm-spoken diplomatic phrases
About ‘much care’ and ‘quiet’ and ‘escape
From English winters to the sunny south;’
And when I asked if my complaint were cured,
They hesitated, hemmed, then, smiling, said,
‘Alleviated were the better term.’
Ah, it is hard to hear a cruel fate
Thus subtly hinted at in civil words
And courteous commonplaces, and to have
One's hopes annihilated in soft tones,
Meant to be pitiful, perchance, but which
Seem by their wily softness but to scorn

And counterfeit a kindness not heart-felt.
'Tis bitter to reflect my roll of years
Will probably be briefer than of those
My comrades—and no better men than I
(And this when life to me was ever sweet).
'Tis bitter to reflect that theirs may be
The bright career of steadfast earnest toil
Towards some right worthy goal, which, gained at last,
Rewards them with a name, while unto me
'Tis given but to spend in listless calm
My few remaining days.

But bitterer still
It is, that I must loose you now, my love,
From cherished vows which we have interchanged.
For 'twere not right that I should link your fate
With mine as now it is, and bring perchance
On others—innocent—the hopeless bane
Of cureless sickness which I feel myself.
Grief is the rule of this our carthly life,
And joy but the exception; wherefore then
Should I expect of joy a greater share
Than is apportioned unto thousands who
Have suffered, still are suffering, or will suffer

As helplessly as I:—and surely too
My mind should be far calmer than is his
Who sowed himself the seeds of his disease,
Whose every pang is now intensified
By keen remorse, and seething in whose soul
No thought save one—the ever-gnawing thought
But for himself what he would now have been.
Yet oh, Alethea, 'tis crushing grief
To lose you, darling, were it not my duty,
My duty thought and prayed about for weeks,
I could not say the word to set you free.

Alethea.
The word to set me free! that were indeed
Most difficult to say, for we are bound
Indissolubly:—and though, Edgar dear,
You tell me that for us all hope is o'er
Of earthly union: yet there still remains
A radiant future seen through mists of tears,
Since present life is not our whole existence.
Your name means ‘happy honour,’ and mine own
‘Truth:’—if we live our little span of days
Worthy of such high names, it will be well

With us, whate'er may come. Yet when I look
On your poor face and mark the touch of pain,
Then, though I feel that doubtless you are right
In that you say, it makes me doubly sad
To think the fate that makes you suffer so,
Remorseless and unsatisfied, compels
You thus to blight your life; but if fond love
And sympathy can cheer, you yet may find
Some earthly joy remaining even to you.

SCENE VI.

Midwinter in a certain little island abroad. A pretty room with opened windows overlooking a lovely garden, and a still lovelier prospect beyond. Time.—A few years afterwards, towards sunset, and only a few days before Edgar's death. Edgar and Alethea.
Edgar.
Truly a grand, a noble thing is life—
This most I feel when I am passing from it;
And life is fair, whatever cynics say.
But yesterday I lay upon my couch
And looked upon the clear wide-stretching bay,
Far, far beneath me shimmering in the sun.
I saw th' exquisite azure of the sky,
The dainty outlines of palm-branches shown
More clearly by the strong light showered upon them,
The countless clustering vines and varied trees
In all the gentle ever-pleasing glow

Of vegetation almost tropical,
Which makes each cultivated garden here
Appear a paradise. Banana-trees
I saw with all their load of luscious fruit
The graceful guava-trees with light-green leaves
The loquats with their deeper verdant tints,—
The little plant they call ‘Brazilian cherry,’
With bright green leaves, and fruit of strawberry size,—
The stately yam-tree with its blossoms white
And lily-like;—fair to the eye indeed,
A tree whose oval leaves afford good shade
In summer. Surely it is strangely sweet
To loiter in such gardens when cool Night
Has conquered the fierce ardour of the day,—
And see the meek moon rise o'er azure seas,—
And view the tranquil heavens don their jewels,
And hear machêtes swift tingling forth an air
Of music,—haply a soft mazy dance.
Yet, dear Alethea, it is decreed
That I must leave you, darling, but although
'Tis sad to leave you and this beauteous world,
'Tis sweet to die amid such loveliness.

And daily I thank God that He hath not
Condemned me to this sickness slow and sure
Immured in one close room from day to day,
Through the long, lagging, weary winter-time,
But given me the means wherewith to dwell
In climate such as this where balmy air
And sunshine even in winter, are not wanting;
A climate where the invalid can pass,
However languid, many happy hours
Communing with God's fair earth out of doors.
Do you remember, dear, some years ago
You told me if fond love and sympathy
Could soothe me that I surely should be cheered?
And you have kept your word: I have been cheered,
And comforted, and though no marriage-bond
Has been between us as we once had hoped,
Our souls have been as one. Take my poor thanks
For coming thus to sojourn where I dwelt
And giving me your loving tireless care
'Mid all my pain and suffering, made less hard
To bear by your kind presence.

Alethea.
I am glad
It was my lot to render you this service,—
A service small indeed compared with love
Such as I bear you, darling.

Edgar.
When I die,
Let me be buried in my native land,
Not here, although I love this sea-girt shore,
Where graveyards are embowered mid beauteous trees,
And overlook mayhap light rippling waves
As blue as the deep azure heavens above them,
Round whose rude tombs the scented roses cling.
And still bloom on throughout the sunny year.
But let me rather lie where chilling rain
And bitter sleet shall in the winter-time
Beat on my resting-place. For what care I
Though placid snows spread o'er my quiet grave
Their spotless mantle, though wild wintry winds

Sweep o'er it, be it only undisturbed.
And if 'twere here, perchance it would not be
For ever left in pcace. Alethea,
For Time we shall be separated soon,
But do not grieve o'ermuch. For me 'twill be
A glad release from pain, and you and I
Shall meet in yon pure Home of Love at last.