Euphrenia or the Test of Love :: :: University of Virginia Library

Euphrenia or the Test of Love

A poem by William Sharp

Sharp, William,1855-1905

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EUPHRENIA

CANTO FIRST.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

LI.

LII.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

LI.

LII.

LIII.

LIV.

LV.

LVI.

LVII.

LVIII.

LIX.

LX.

LXI.

LXII.

LXIII.

LXIV.

LXV.

CANTO THIRD

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107

CANTO THIRD

REALITY.

108

ARGUMENT.

The morning ramble—The rectory—The Rector—The garden— The breakfast—Love's embarrassments—The confession—The resolve—The meeting of Father and Son—The lovers' confidence —Pride and love opposed—The threat—The angry Sire—The struggle—The issue—The Father's determination —His pilgrimage—Freedom—The lovers' dwelling place— The châlet—Foreigners' ideas—The Husband's departure— The accident—The illness—The recovery—The Husband's return—The recognition—The reconciliation—England again —London—The ancestral hall—Congratulations—The spring morn—The advent of the “Heir”—Conclusion.

109

I.

Join we our hero in his walk.
How clear, how sweet the morn;
Raindrops, like jewels glistening,
Each pendant leaf adorn.
The sun has welcome in his smile,
The coy breeze woos the cheek,
Nature, with scarce dried tears, repents
The storm's untoward freak.
Slowly the frightened flowers ope
Their petals to the gale,
Greet blushingly their deity,
And all their sweets exhale.

110

II.

So looks enchanting woman when,
Her anger chased away,
The sunshine of her smile proclaims
The dawn of Love's fair day;
Her humid eyes alone announce
The tempest of the soul;
From her ripe lips the low soft sigh,
She cannot all control,
Sheds its warm fragrance round her path;
The trace of sorrow's tear
Renders her beauty more refined,
Her melting smile more dear.

III.

The feathered tribe their matin hymn
Are warbling in delight;
The soaring lark is winging
His bold aspiring flight;
Each note ecstatic, as he mounts,
Is ringing full and clear;
Like summons from the liquid sky
It bursts upon the ear;
Inviting all the lower world
To share his present joy,
And seek those brighter realms where life
Is free from earth's alloy.

111

IV.

At times the nightingale is heard,
But changed her brilliant note;
No longer does a flood of sound
Swell her melodious throat;
A thousand warblers drown that voice,
Which through the livelong night
Gave beauty to the darkness,
And heralded the light;
The peerless queen of song laments,
In sadness, her disgrace,
As to more noisy rivals she
Reluctantly gives place.

V.

Our youth, scarce conscious, bends his steps
Where yonder spreading tree
Stands in disdainful solitude
And giant majesty;
Curling above its massive head
The blue smoke slow ascends,
And to its verdure, deeply green,
A richer colour lends.
Mark you yon clustering ivy,
Yon vane and gable high,
While barns and stacks of quaintest form
Beyond it catch the eye.

112

VI.

It is the home of her he loves;
Yon moss-grown roof enshrines
A treasure to his mind more rich
Than all Golconda's mines;
A heart whose firm devotion,
Whose warm, unselfish truth,
Are mirrored in her deep blue eyes;
A form where graceful youth
Struggles with jealous nature,
Who would assert her right
To stamp the seal of womanhood
Upon that figure light.

VII.

How every look of those mild eyes,
How every murmured word,
Crowds thickly to his softened heart;
The stream of memory stirred,
A thousand traits of modest love
Straight to the surface rise,
A thousand nameless nothings,
Yet priceless in his eyes.
He muses on her loveliness,
But turns with sudden start,
As the dark shadow of his dream
Creeps o'er his conscious heart.

113

VIII.

Why does the moody frown of care
Darken that open brow?
So near the haven of his heart,
Can he be thoughtful now?
Ah me, ah me! if 'mongst the young
Love finds uncounted friends,
He must perforce content himself
With them his empire ends:
To parents' ears too oft his name
Is a forbidden word;
While wealth, state, station, interest,
To love are all preferred.

IX.

His father's eye, his father's frown,
How shall he dare to face?
Will that proud nobleman connive
At such a fell disgrace?
Admit a yeoman's daughter
To quarter on the shield,
Whose cognizance dates from the day
Of Hastings' bloody field?
Or, ere he meets that cold grey eye,
Shall he not counsel ask
Of one whose age and character
Well suit him for the task?

114

X.

Where shall fit monitor be found?
Surely he cannot err
Who, his soul tossed by doubts, consults
A Christian minister.
This thought inspires our youth's full heart,
As, with admiring eye,
He marks the verdant turf which belts
The neighbouring rectory.
Yes, none so fit as that good man;
His case demands far more
Than the false sophistry which oft
Forms worldly wisdom's store.

XI

He enters the well-kept domain,
When suddenly the chime
Struck by the neighbouring church's clock
Reminds him that the time
Is over-early—he retreats;
But ere he gains the lane,
The Rector's voice, in hearty tone,
Invites him to remain.
No sluggard he; too well he knew
That all the after day
Was nought, if morning's pliant hours
Pass unimproved away.

115

XII.

He was a tall and upright man,
O'er whose time-honoured head
The snows of three-score years and ten
Were plentifully shed.
But the bright eye, the ruddy cheek,
The cheerful smile, all showed
That Father Time on him had laid
His very lightest load;
Nor was he wholly free from care;
Each grief that touched his fold,
Provoked the sympathising tear
He knew not to withhold.

XIII.

No whistling boy who reverence made,
No hind who passed his gate,
But could of his benevolence
Some noble proof relate.
Sickness ne'er found him absent,
Trouble ne'er called in vain,
To stammer forth the many ills
Which form its motley train;
Stoutly he battled vice's band,
Abuse and insult braved,
While there was hope that by his means
A sinner might be saved.

116

XIV.

Nor to the wretched and the poor
Were all his cares confined;
The proper duties of the rich
He rigidly enjoined.
Himself still foremost in the work,
He laboured in the race,
Like one who felt that in this world
Man tarries briefest space.
Vain in his eyes all titles,
Creations of a breath,
Which, like the proud waves, soon subside
In the great ocean, death.

XV.

He was a humble Christian,
Who held in almost scorn
The paltry quibbles of the schools,
The controversial thorn
Which rends religion's sacred veil,
And all profanely shows
The stewards of Christ's dear legacy
Arrayed as bitter foes;
He kept the Christian's beaten track,
Which broad and open lies,
Avoided bigotry, and shunned
Bewildering sophistries.

117

XVI.

Such was the man to whom the youth
Determined to apply;
Upon his ripened judgment
He knew he might rely;
To his indulgent ear he felt
He could his love confide;
To him, as preacher of “the Word,”
He would bow down his pride:
And then his dream, that warning dream!
Yet must it all be told;
Aye, e'en his inmost thoughts he would
To that good man unfold.

XVII.

His course of action once resolved,
He gazes with delight
On all the flowering beauties
Which proudly court the sight.
Roses of each variety
And every hue are there;
The blushing bud with cloak of moss
Smiles on her sisters fair,
Feigning to hide her mantling cheek
Beneath her rustic hood,
Yet panting to display her charms
In all their plenitude.

118

XVIII.

Here, too, the modest “pompon” smiles
In innocence serene,
The gem of all her beauteous tribe,
The rose's fairy queen;
Fragrant, retiring, graceful,
The timid one would fain,
Beneath the shelter of her leaves,
Escape the gaze profane;
Forgetting that her balmy breath
Will guide the spoiler's hand,
And bring sad ruin on the bower
Her modesty has planned.

XIX.

The garden's various charms admired,
The good man takes his arm,
And with complacent pride points out
The treasures of his farm.
Now is our hero quite at home;
Here, with a judge's eye,
He scans the stock, and on each breed
Descants right learnedly.
But in a garden, pshaw!
Full well each flower he knew,
Yet cull the common from the rare
Was more than he could do.

119

XX.

Then came the breakfast, and if I
Must tell the simple truth,
The summons was most welcome
To our half-famished youth;
And such a breakfast; not the meal
Composed of tea and toast,
But one that spoke substantially
In favour of the host.
I have no time for long details,
But this I can declare,
That all things fitting the repast
Were in great plenty there.

XXI.

The cloth removed, the host withdrew,
Leaving our youth, the while,
The postman's latest freight of news
His leisure to beguile;
Though, sooth to say, our hero felt
A fluttering at his heart;
'Twas no slight undertaking his,
A love tale to impart.
He pondered in what words his case
Might be most fitly stated,
But found his logic was at fault,
His eloquence checkmated.

120

XXII.

He taxed his ingenuity,
But somehow the affair
Appeared more awkward than before;
At length, in blank despair,
He thought of flight; he would defer
His visit till next day.
Vain subterfuge! his case he found
Admitted no delay,
As o'er his memory flashed the thought
That towards the hour of five,
With railroad punctuality,
His father would arrive.

XXIII.

Procrastination would not do,
This fact was very clear;
And after all, from that good man
He had not much to fear;
Besides—but here the butler came,
And, in his blandest tone,
Informed him that the rector was,
At present, quite alone.
An unctuous man that butler,
His full and shining face
Made many a hungry curate
Half envy him his place.

121

XXIV.

He follows the sleek servitor,
Resolved to brave his fate;
And with the worthy clergyman
Finds himself tête-à-tête.
Skilled in the weakness of the heart,
The experienced man pretends
That with his lordship he will use
The privilege of friends.
“Five minutes more and he is free,”
Five minutes he well knew
Would smooth the awkward opening of
An awkward interview.

XXV.

It was a well-proportioned room,
With three bow windows, which
Gave entrance to a balcony
In choice exotics rich:
Venetian blinds, fixed firmly down,
Permitted the fresh air
To enter freely, but kept out
The day's too searching glare:
A cool, subdued, refreshing tone
Pervaded all the place,
Hiding the tell-tale blush which clothed
The youth's ingenuous face.

122

XXVI.

The tempered light, and more than all,
The churchman's ready tact,
Gave boldness to the penitent,
Who felt that he must act
His part with loyalty and truth;
He hastened to commence.
Soon, by his theme inspired, he spoke
With heartfelt eloquence;
Deaf to all else, he failed to note
His hearer's smothered sigh,
As the dear name of her he loved
Escaped unconsciously.

XXVII.

Now with love's fluent energy,
With truth's persuasive tongue,
He spoke of her as one on whom
His very being hung;
Dwelt on those nobler qualities
Which stand time's searching test,
Called her among all womankind
The noblest, truest, best.
Insensibly the worthy man
Loses his troubled air,
As in the thorny case he finds
The heart at least is there.

123

XXVIII.

Long years roll back, again he sees
A pure and blushing bride,
Whose graceful air of bashfulness
Struggles with happy pride;
Yet a few years, and that fair girl,
So envied, so admired,
The last sad office of the Church
Too soon, alas! required.
He could not, without trembling, see
That gentle being's child
Exposed to danger and disgrace
At which his soul recoiled.

XXIX.

But when the youth, with awestruck voice,
His warning dream unfolds,
The secret finger of design
The astonished priest beholds.
Swept from his thoughts is worldly rank,
Forgotten mortal grade;
'Tis his to battle Satan's host,
To rush to virtue's aid;
Love, eloquence, conviction,
Religion, all combine
To win the restless heart of youth
To duty's sacred shrine.

124

XXX.

Their converse o'er, with altered mien
Slowly the youth returns;
Determination's serious air
All hesitation spurns.
He dreads no more the frown of pride,
The jargon of the world;
To battle with a prejudice
His banner is unfurled.
Backed by that good man's counsel he
No longer courts delay,
But like a youthful warrior pants
To join the coming fray.

XXXI.

Again the noble mansion
Receives its anxious heir;
The spacious centre hall he treads
With thoughtful look of care.
He gazes round abstractedly,
But notes nor knight, nor dame,
Who by the painter's subtle art
Preserve a short-lived fame;
Unnoticed all, the courtier's smile,
The soldier's eagle eye;
Nay, e'en soft beauty in its pride
Is passed unheeded by.

125

XXXII.

Too tempest-tossed the youth's full heart
To cherish thoughts like these;
His hurried footsteps indicate
A mind but ill at ease.
He chafes at time's slow progress,
Although each minute passed
Brings nearer still the moment
On which his fate is cast;
Shudders to think how short a space
Will clear the pitying gloom
Which shrouds the future, yet would fain
Anticipate his doom.

XXXIII.

At length, though slow the pace of time,
He hears the clock strike five,
The hour by his father named
At which he should arrive;
The carriage stops—my lord alights—
Nods to the butler, who
Has gained an elbowed precedence
Among the flunkey crew;
Stretches two fingers to his son,
Accepts his arm, and now
Enters the mansion of his sires
'Midst ranks who lowly bow.

126

XXXIV.

A demigod to their dull eyes;
Yet the deep lines of care,
Proclaiming the heart's history,
Show scantiest joy is there.
The clear grey eye, the tall thin form,
The lip's cold curl attest
The presence of a man who bears
A viper in his breast;
The cynic smile, the sallow hue,
The lofty forehead prove
A being who may all command—
Except his fellows' love.

XXXV.

The social after-dinner hour,
The wine, one might have thought,
Would raise our hero's courage—
But no; he rather sought
To banish local subjects
(For to the conscious heart
The most remote allusion strikes
Like blow from sudden dart)—
Prated of clubs, of theatres, balls,
Or the last noble fool
Who had by debts, or cards, or friends,
Been driven from his stool.

127

XXXVI.

His lordship took his candle,
Yawned out a faint good-night,
Leaving our hesitating swain
In most despondent plight.
To-morrow, yes, to-morrow,
He should be better able
To cope with pride's resistance,
Than o'er the dinner table.
Dull, silly boy! he might have known
That Cupid's best ally
Presided o'er the occasion he
Permitted to slip by.

XXXVII.

But all too soon to-morrow came,
And our young hero found
Himself and sire tête-à-tête,
On this most ticklish ground;
His lordship coolly listened,
With calm, unruffled mien;
No sign of anger or surprise
Could at first sight be seen;
Just as in climates tropic
Clear sky in ev'ry part is
When the “White Squall” o'ertakes ye;
And then “Stand clear, my hearties!”

128

XXXVIII.

The novice told his simple tale:
How first his passion grew;
How struggling into life appeared,
Each hour, some beauty new.
A pitying smile the sire vouchsafed,
As, warming with his theme,
The youth, with Love's ripe eloquence,
Explained his modest scheme:
Some cottage in a brighter clime,
Some quiet sheltered spot,
With her he loved, was all he sought,
He knew no happier lot.

XXXIX.

The father smiled to hear him speak
As Love has ever done,
But his smile was cold and cheerless
As glance of wintry sun,
Which, lighting up the landscape,
Serves but to plainly show
The world-wide desolation, which
Till then we did not know;
Trusting some green spot might exist,
Till undeceived by this,
We pay illusion's penalty
With tears of bitterness.

129

XL.

But when he told his lifelike dream,
With bated breath and low,
That cynic visage grew as pale
As if the warm blood's flow
Was stopp'd by death's arresting hand.
Nought but the restless eye
Show'd life still subject to the nod
Of ruthless destiny;
A nervous twitching of the lip
Proved, more than all beside,
How strong the feeling which could thus
In part arrest life's tide.

XLI.

But, with an iron power, the will
Drove nature from her throne;
The worldly noble would have blushed
To be compelled to own
Such maudlin weakness; and again
The sceptic, smiling sneer
Resumed its place, and the thin lips
Dismissed their hue of fear;
A low, half-stifled oath escaped,
When he found out that he
Was not sole “confidant” of this
Bare-faced agacerie.

130

XLII.

He cursed within his inmost heart
The dull and meddling priest,
Who prated of morality
To greatest as to least;
Who would not unto noble birth
Some privilege accord;
But measured sin with equal scale
In peasant and in lord.
Nor could his haughty temper brook
That any one should dare
Proffer advice, ere he thought fit
His pleasure to declare.

XLIII.

Yet on the surface nothing showed,
There all appeared at rest,
Nothing betrayed the passions
That struggled in his breast.
There pride and anger revelled,
And disappointment's sting
Served o'er the other feelings
Its venomed hue to fling;
As some volcano's lofty top
Smiles o'er the verdant plain,
Hiding the seething torrent
Its breast can scarce retain.

131

XLIV.

The longest tale must have an end;
Now must the lover wait
The fiat of his haughty sire,
Must learn from him his fate.
All on a single word depends,
And, with attentive ear,
His heart upon his lips, he waits
That little word to hear.
But too world-wise that father
To risk, by Yes or No,
The issue of a scheme which he
Yet hopes to overthrow.

XLV.

Deprive the tiger of his prey,
The scorpion of its sting,
Urge patience to a starving man,
Preach meekness to a king;
Arrest the progress of the wave,
The storm's wild force withstand,
Stay the relentless march of time,
Or death's unsparing hand.
These are as nothing to the task
Of him who dreams he can
Quench by an idle word the lusts
That choke the soul of man.

132

XLVI.

Thus contradiction's rugged path
The sire tried to shun,
By raillery and ridicule
He sought to bend his son;
Laughed at his inexperience,
And wondered much to find
That he to female artifice
Could be so very blind;
Could yield himself so thoroughly
Dupe to a woman's scheme,
As of a mésalliance
E'en for an hour to dream.

XLVII.

In philosophic vein he sketched
The passion's headlong race,
How the loved object of the hour
Too soon must cede its place,
As captious fancy ranges;
How woman's smile or pout
Serves to instal the giver,
And drive a rival out;
Laid bare the pangs he must endure
Who yields to passion's voice,
Mistaking mere desire for love,
A fancy for a choice.

133

XLVIII.

He showed that all appears to youth
To wear a constant smile;
While manhood's keener sight detects
At once its hollow guile:
Told him that in a few short years,
The scales which sealed his eyes
Would fall, and let him view the world
Stripped of its false disguise;
That he who barters all for love
Must be prepared to see
A manhood soured by goading cares,
An age of misery.

XLIX.

He hinted, distantly, 'tis true,
That it was scarcely wise
To rivet Hymen's fetters
Where Cupid's would suffice.
But here the indignant lover
Favoured the worldly peer
With something like a sermon,
Which merely raised a sneer,
Succeeded by an argument,
In which the ire parental
Glanced casually at certain facts
All bearing on the rent roll.

134

L.

This last threat only served to make
The matter ten times worse;
Finding persuasion useless,
The father had recourse
To his authority, and gave
His son to understand
That he must instantly prepare
To quit his native land,
And travel for a year or two.
The East he recommended,
As offering a tour to which
His own views always tended.

LI.

Stunned by this telling blow, the youth
At first made no reply,
While the stern father plumed himself
Upon his victory
Somewhat too early; for the youth,
In husky, choking voice,
Pleaded a right to what he termed
The privilege of choice;
And, goaded by his sire's cold sneer,
Vowed he would not consent
To what he could regard as nought
But downright banishment.

135

LII.

As water pent within a space
Resents its narrow bounds,
And bursting with appalling noise
The startled ear astounds;
Headlong the foaming torrent leaps,
Uprooting in its path
Whatever may oppose its course;
E'en such the father's wrath,
When he perceived that from that hour
He could no more pretend
To order with a father's voice,
Or counsel as a friend.

LIII.

No longer master of himself,
His fury knew no bound,
His voice came from his quivering lips
With a sharp, hissing sound.
With knitted brow and close-clenched teeth,
And fire-flashing eye
(Each nerve seemed trembling 'neath the weight
Of this indignity),
He glared with fury on his son,
And in sarcastic tone,
Told him 'twixt wealth and beggary
The choice would be his own.

136

LIV.

He swore with awful energy,
That never from that hour
Would he hold converse with a son
Who thus defied his power;
He sternly bade him recollect,
Ere yet it was too late,
That with his favour he would lose
Both fortune and estate;
That he had power over all
Except that useless toy,
An unsupported title,
Of which he wished him joy.

LV.

With bitter words and threatening brow
The father quits the place,
Leaving the astounded lover
To ponder on the case.
His proud heart swells when thinking o'er
The cruel threats and taunts
To which he has been subjected,
And now he wildly pants
To escape the galling thraldom
That holds him like a vice,
A prisoner to the creaking car
Of purblind prejudice.

137

LVI.

Needless to trace the struggle—
On one side haughty power,
While on the other youth and hope,
With beauty for a dower.
Which conquered? Is it age that asks?
Hast then forgot the day
When through thy veins love's fire chased
In all its lightning play?
Which conquered? cry those coral lips.
Fair angel! canst thou ask?
Traitress! what risk would man not run
In thy soft smile to bask?

LVII.

Which conquered? Love! earth spurning love!
Not that vile traitor who
Usurps his name, and oh! too oft!
Assumes his semblance too.
Which conquered? Could Love contemplate
An age of blank despair;
Kindle the fire in the fane,
Nor place a vestal there?
Never! The youth who can do this
Must find some fitter name,
And not palm off his forgery
As Love's ethereal flame.

138

LVIII.

Love conquered, and a week's short space
Saw her a trembling bride,
While on his open brow was stamped
A lover's hopeful pride.
The father heard the news, and smiled,
But smiled as foeman may,
Who sees his enemy approach
In battle's proud array
The spot where some fell ambuscade
Renders retreat in vain,
And knows that soon those nodding plumes
Must sweep the ensanguined plain.

LIX.

So the stern Earl the future scans;
And, patient, waits the day
When, sated with possession,
His son will dearly pay
The price of disobedience.
He gloats with savage joy
When he contrasts the penitent
With the rash, self-willed boy,
And longs for that triumphant hour,
When, passion's fever o'er,
He may remind him of his choice,
And spurn him from his door.

139

LX.

In cheerless, solitary state,
He broods o'er hopes destroyed;
The dream of his declining years
Is faded, baseless, void.
Who shall decry his anger?
What though a brain-sick boy
May choose to barter all his hopes
For love's too short-lived joy;
Must age approve the shallow choice?
Must stern experience try
To unlearn the lessons of the past,
A life's philosophy?

LXI.

Was he not wrong, that cold, stern man?
Who says that he was not?
Was he not smarting from the sting
Of what he deemed a blot
On his escutcheon? More than this.
Hourly compelled to hear
Those kind condolences of friends
Which fall upon the ear
So like self-gratulation,
How doth the proud heart beat
When forced to accept the world's base coin
From every fool we meet!

140

LXII.

Heart-sick and disappointed,
Each object to his eye
Seems hateful, and in sheer disgust
He now resolves to try
Whether in travel's rapid whirl
He may not haply find
An antidote to his ennui—
A solace for the mind;
Whether by constant change of scene
He may not drive away
The memory of blasted hopes
That haunts him night and day.

LXIII.

In such a soul as his the thought
Was herald to the deed,
To things that pleaded for delay
He gave but little heed;
The duties of his large estate,
All worthless in his eyes
Since the transgression of his son,
A lawyer's care supplies.
For him the future's nothing,
The past a useless token,
The wine of life exhausted,
The crystal goblet broken.

141

LXIV.

He hies him from his island home,
He sees its pale cliffs fade,
While Gallia's dark and frowning coast
More clearly is displayed.
He lands 'twixt files of soldiers who,
It can but be confessed,
Seem rather meant to watch a foe
Than to receive a guest;
He braves the Douane's harsh ordeal,
And notes, with haughty scorn,
That to “Milor Anglais” its bolts
Are instantly withdrawn.

LXV.

Paris receives the lordly guest,
Paris the bright, the gay,
Where taste, in queenly state enshrined,
Holds undisputed sway.
Fearing no rival, east and west
Her laws unchallenged fly;
Admiring Europe owns with smiles
Her proud supremacy.
Rank, beauty, fortune, fashion
All press around her throne,
Striving to glean her graces,
And add them to their own.

142

LXVI.

But Paris and its gaieties
He views with jaundiced eye,
And quits fair France's capital
With many a smothered sigh.
He thinks of bygone times, when he
Had fluttered for a while
The cynosure of glancing eyes,
The aim of many a smile;
Of days when youth could not believe
That pleasure's draught could be
Succeeded by the sickening void
Of palled satiety.

LXVII.

Seeking relief, now here, now there,
The outraged father flees;
But to a mind diseased, alas!
Change brings but little ease.
What boots it to the broken heart
That nature's gayest smile
Welcomes the pilgrim of despair!
Though banished for a while,
Sorrow regains its mansion;
We feel, with rising sigh,
That the bright gladness of the hour
But mocks our misery.

143

LXVIII.

By impulse or by hazard swayed,
Heedless the wanderer strays;
Now shivers under Russia's snows,
Now pants beneath the rays
That warm the south's more favoured soil,
And to its people lend
Those strange impulsive characters
Which through the land extend;
Fanned by enthusiasm's breath,
Impetuous, daring, brave,
Wanting its quickening influence,
A listless, soulless slave.

LXIX.

Now from the Switzer's Heaven-reared wall
He views the fertile plains
O'er which, by military sway,
The haughty Austrian reigns.
Yet, if the unalterable past
May haply aid us read
The hidden future, we may hope
To see Italia freed;
May trust that, at no distant day,
Her slavery will cease,
While she a resting place may find
With liberty and peace.

144

LXX.

O Liberty! thou word profaned!
Ne'er will thy smile be given
To noisy demagogues, by whom
Thy zone is rudely riven.
Too coy a maiden thou,
Thy godlike front to show
To men who rashly strive to tear
The veil from that pure brow.
Thy smallest favours must be stored
With more than miser's care,
Ere yet thy worshippers can hope
Thy confidence to share.

LXXI.

Why tremble, sons of Italy?
Why dread the tyrant's nod?
Remember that a nation's shout
Echoes the voice of God!
Link'd by the love of country,
Shake off your selfish fears!
See, through the gloom of slavery,
The ray of hope appears!
Win, step by step, the toilsome path,
Regard nor right nor left,
Till ye have gained the immortal prize
Of which ye are bereft.

145

LXXII.

In the great struggle to be free
Be patriotism your guide;
Attack that strong ally who now
Fights on the tyrant's side—
The giant bully, ignorance,
By whom he gains far more
Than by the sabre's flashing stroke,
Or culverin's loud roar.
Call to your aid the conquering mind,
And tyranny will be
Forced to succumb before the might
Of peaceful Liberty.

LXXIII.

But while the angry father roams,
How fares the truant son?
Tried by the touchstone, Time, does he
Repent of what is done?
Voyons un peu! You see that house?—
Not that huge stone affair;
Hofer, or Tell, or some one else,
Raised freedom's standard there;—
That cottage cover'd by a vine,
There, halfway down the hill,
That villa—not the term you say!
Well, châlet, if you will.

146

LXXIV.

Châlet, or villa, there it stands,
And there our wedded pair
Have seen three winters' breaths replaced
By spring's more genial air.
Nor is that all; for once within
The garden you will see
That though we left them only two,
Somehow we find them three.
Why round the lady's graceful neck
Those chubby arms entwine,
The gentle reader's sympathy
Par hazard may divine.

LXXV.

The wife's bright smile proclaims, methinks,
A bosom free from care,
Nor does the husband, on the whole,
Appear “the worse for wear.”
More bronzed, a shade more thoughtful, yes,
But certainly improved;
Nor is the lady quite the sylph
She was when first he loved.
But place the gain against the loss,
And you will find the amount
Is more than balanced, when the child
Is “carried to account.”

147

LXXVI.

That little casket doth contain
A jewel pure and bright,
A gem whose perfect loveliness
Is watched with fond delight.
Each day, each hour, the heaven-sent gift
Discloses some new trait,
As leaf by leaf the gentle bud
Expands to open day.
On that frail flower how much depends?
Oh, wondrous, mystic tie!
A father's heart, a mother's soul,
Within thy fastenings lie.

LXXVII.

How do they live? You're quite correct,
They do not live on air;
A rich old maiden aunt of his
Was privy to the affair.
A disappointment in her youth
Rendered her somewhat blind
To differences of station,
To love's heroics kind:
She feeds the hymeneal lamp,
So 'tis reported here,
And trusts to time to reconcile
The rebel and the peer.

148

LXXVIII.

Certain it is that once a year
The husband duly hies
From hence, and visits England's coast,
But whether the supplies
Depend on his migration
Is past my art to tell.
He regularly stops a month,
That I can vouch for well,
Because, while he is absent,
Myself and Mistress Bull
Do all we can in order that
The wife may not feel dull.

LXXIX.

'Twas pretty that same Swiss retreat;
Within those modest walls
More tranquil happiness was found
Than usually falls
To Hymen's votaries; but then,
The lady did not try
To hoist the banner of revolt,
Female supremacy.
Her gentle, loving, grateful heart
Desired no better task
Than to anticipate his wish
Ere he himself could ask.

149

LXXX.

Each to the other all in all,
Twin partners in the crime,
The way they bore their banishment
Was something quite sublime.
To see them scamper o'er the hills,
Or scale the mountain's side,
Or, floating in their tiny skiff,
Across the waters glide,
A stranger to their story
Had judged in half a minute,
Not that they wept their error,
But rather gloried in it.

LXXXI.

The homely Swiss, who saw them
Thus constantly together,
Conceived some curious notions
Regarding Hymen's tether
Amongst us bilious Britons;
Of one thing they were certain,
That, when o'er nuptial brows
Once fell the marriage curtain,
Each victim made a promise
To keep the fellow martyr
Within a distance measured
With the bride's wedding garter.

150

LXXXII.

To balance such strict tenure,
Should their affections alter,
The husband was at liberty,
Forthwith, to place a halter
Loosely around the fair one's neck,
Provided she were willing,
And thus accoutred sell her
By auction for a shilling.
His absence was regarded
As legal recreation,
A matrimonial license,
Or Benedict's vacation.

LXXXIII.

Some people hold it folly
To venture an opinion
On foreign countries until you
Have lived 'neath their dominion;
But at this bold assertion
Your humble servant cavils.
You think you know your own land,
But in your wide-world travels
You'll hear, and that not seldom,
The boasted laws of Britain
Expounded in a fashion
You never would have hit on.

151

LXXXIV.

You grumble at the taxes,
But you will greatly wonder
How the Exchequer's ruler
Contrives to keep them under,
On hearing that he pampers
A host of foreign minions;
Maintains a local paper in
Each potentate's dominions;
Whose duty is to always keep
That country in hot water,
That perfide Albion may engross
The entire trade and barter.

LXXXV.

Strange countries should be seen,
Like mountains, from a distance;
For what, at first, seems adverse,
Grants in the end assistance;
As, near them, Turner's pictures
Are dabs of red and yellow,
Yet, further off, these colours
Harmoniously mellow,
And that which, scanned too closely,
Was colour'd hocus-pocus,
Becomes “A Hero's Triumph”
When view'd from a right focus.

152

LXXXVI.

But where's our hero? Really
This continental fashion
Of viewing things Britannic
Has put me in a passion;
Caused me to utter “treason”
'Gainst England's greatest artist;
Proved me, in taste's dominions,
A dilletante Chartist.
It's well I curbed my anger,
He's in the act of starting,
And now, with fond injunctions,
Gives the last kiss at parting.

LXXXVII.

How! the last kiss! don't worry!
The month once fairly over,
The husband will fly homeward
As quickly as a lover;
But his own serious face,
His little daughter's wonder,
Might lead an ignoramus
Into an awkward blunder.
These, with his wife's moist eyes,
Which 'tis scarce fair to mention,
I fear have caused the reader
A pang of apprehension.

153

LXXXVIII.

Now the malle poste relentless
Has borne away our hero,
The lady's spirits sinking
Down to a mental zero.
But one short month! no longer!
Yet that month always lingers,
As if old Time would hold it
For ever in his fingers.
Her husband there, the hours fly,
Like barb by rider goaded;
But in his absence creep along,
As doth an ass o'erloaded.

LXXXIX.

She wander'd through the lonesome house
With slow and listless pace,
But miss'd at every turn the form
Whose image filled the place.
His whip, his gun, all idle hung;
Nay, e'en his pipe was there;
It was the only vice he had;
Indeed 'tis hardly fair
To mention this last article,
But truth compels my pen
To state a fact which proves that he
Had faults like other men.

154

XC.

Wedlock had altogether failed
To wean him from this folly;
He would persist it banished
The demon Melancholy.
And by this artful statement
Enlisted in its favour
His wife, who (silly woman)
Declared she liked the flavour;
But you and I both know, ma'am,
That by this mean admission
She lost her only outpost
For future opposition.

XCI.

O favoured weed, whose worship
Can boast of names whose lustre
Dazzles your foes and dumbfounds
The pedant monarch's bluster!
Shall man reject a blessing
Which bounteous nature offers?
An argument sufficient
To silence paltry scoffers.
Dear, much-abused tobacco!
(Not that abuse will hurt you)
Accept a poet's tribute
To your consoling virtue.

155

XCII.

Had he but known you, grim Macbeth
Had spared his vain demand,
A “sweet oblivious antidote”
Was ready to his hand.
Misfortune's startling lineaments
Are softened by your aid,
Trouble's grim physiognomy
In a new light displayed;
Your presence banishes despair
And its attendant train;
You are a cordial to the heart,
A solace to the brain.

XCIII.

During the loved one's wanderings,
In her all-partial eyes,
Even an idle habitude
Assumed a pleasing guise.
How oft beside the crackling fire,
In confidential chat,
Armed with his pipe, in happiest mood,
For hours they had sat;
How many a day-dream they had shared,
Dreams from all sorrow free,
The circling vapour shutting out
Life's stern reality.

156

XCIV.

What with her household duties,
And memories of the past,
The first week of the dreaded month
Came to an end at last.
'Twas something truly to have cut
One portion from the four,
Although impatience brought to mind
That there were still three more.
When lo! this tedious sameness,
So dull and uninviting,
Was changed by an occurrence
As sudden as exciting.

XCV.

Following its tortuous course,
Until it reached the valley,
The mountain road, diverging,
Passed very near the châlet.
This route showed signs of traffic,
A thing by no means common,
The sound of wheels was heard,
And forthwith every woman
Rushed to the nearest casement,
With laudable intention
Of trying to enlarge
Her sphere of comprehension.

157

XCVI.

Enveloped in a cloud of dust,
A carriage was descried,
Quite at the mercy of two steeds,
Who all control defied.
Down the steep hill the startled brutes
Dashed on at furious rate,
Bearing a luckless voyageur
Resistless towards his fate;
Till, unseen, or unheeded,
A chance obstruction shattered
The doomed calèche, and its contents
In wild confusion scattered.

XCVII.

The driver's rude displacement
Resulted in his falling
Into a quickset hedgerow;
And though the fellow's bawling
Announced at least a fracture,
The brambles' intervention
Saved him from any damage,
At least that's worth the mention;
While on the open highway,
Which had been lately mended,
Pale, bleeding, and unconscious,
The traveller lay extended.

158

XCVIII.

There seemed at first no reason
Why the “blind dame's” assistance
Merited thanks; but softly—
At scarce a furlong's distance
The road approached a precipice,
From whose o'erhanging summit,
Deeper than fathoms fifty,
You might have dropped a plummet.
O'er this the horses bounded,
Blinded by rage and terror,
And a dark, shapeless object
Alone proclaimed their error.

XCIX.

Yet bad as was the accident,
Its sequel showed that often
Philosophy in practice
Life's greatest ills can soften.
'Tis a sad world, no doubt,
Yet its worst phases show us,
Looked at through wisdom's optics,
A deeper depth below us;
Though in this case the victim
Could scarcely be expected
To give Fate thanks for being
So suddenly ejected.

159

C.

All helpless lies the stranger,
While round him shrilly rises,
In various idiom uttered,
A legion of surmises.
Who he can be? where come from?
The universal question;
To which, with wondrous quickness,
Each offers a suggestion,
Until the mansion's mistress
Issues her verbal warrant
To bring the sufferer in,
Which stops the wordy torrent.

CI.

One neighbour proffers nostrums
Culled from the floral herbal;
This hastens to advise the mayor
To draw up Procès verbal.
Madame's own handmaid faints outright,
So much the sight has shocked her;
The busy gardener runs full speed
To fetch the village doctor;
The lady and her nurse,
Mid'st much expostulation,
First stanch the wound, and then attack
Suspended animation.

160

CII.

Hartshorn and sal-volatile
And all things efficacious
Are tried upon the patient,
But each turns out fallacious;
Although with Friars' balsam,
And rags in great profusion,
And that best thing, cold water,
They stop the blood's effusion
Till the arrival of the leech,
Who lint and rag displaces,
Then clears the room, and closes
The door in all their faces.

CIII.

At length the medico appeared,
With that important air
Which even doctors will assume
Where accidents are rare;
Parried a host of questions
With singular adroitness.
Wishing to render fully
The duties of politeness,
He sought the lady's presence,
And all the symptoms stated;
Though I suspect the danger
Was somewhat overrated.

161

CIV.

There was cerebral pressure,
The symptoms served to prove it;
But local applications,
He trusted, would remove it.
He could detect no fracture
In his examination,
But greatly dreaded the effects
Of nervous irritation;
Hinted how fortunate it was
That he had been selected,
As in less practised hands this fact
Might not have been detected.

CV.

Whether the doctor's remedies
Or nature's kindly powers
Deserve the credit I know not;
But after two long hours,
The sufferer awoke to pain,
And staring wildly round him,
Was in the act of speaking,
When his attendant bound him,
By sundry signs, to silence—
An order which the stranger
Wisely obeyed, not wishing
To aggravate his danger.

162

CVI.

Long time he lies as 'neath the spell
Of some oppressive dream,
So fitful, vague, and shadowy
Does every object seem.
Nature is too unhinged to note
The hours as they pass;
Half-coined impressions in the brain
Form a chaotic mass;
A ministering angel now
His craving thirst supplies,
Hovers a moment near his couch,
And all as quickly flies.

CVII.

And now the fever fiend is gone,
And the mad pulse's play
To a mere languid echo
Dies gradually away.
A soothing sense of comfort
Induces wholesome rest;
Calmed is the oppressive heaving
Which lately stirred his breast.
With slow and sullen step the foe
Withdraws him from the strife,
Watching each opportunity
To wrest the prize from Life.

163

CVIII.

The leech's wary tactics,
And a sound constitution,
Induced the “fatal sisters”
To change their resolution.
The patient mended daily,
Found his digestion quicken,
Discarded arrow-root for broth,
And that in turn for chicken.
And, just a fortnight from the day
That saw them all despairing,
The invalid was well enough
To take a carriage airing.

CIX.

But first he sought the “lady fair,”
And eloquently paid
His meed of heartfelt gratitude;
Owned that her timely aid
And generous care had saved a life
On which he set small store
(A deep sigh proved how true his words);
Still he should evermore
Feel that he owed the boon to her,
And hoped to see the day
When fate might place it in his power
Her kindness to repay.

164

CX.

His hostess, proud of her success,
Beguiled the vacant hours,
And to amuse his leisure
Exerted all her powers.
The views, the lake, the rapids,
Were each in turn inspected;
The “Horse's Leap” (lately so named)
Be sure was not neglected.
Here through the convalescent's frame
Shot something like a spasm,
As, with a dizzy brain, he strove
To pierce the yawning chasm.

CXI.

The morn was given to rambles,
The eve to conversation,
In which the guest made patent
His powers of narration.
He strove to amuse his hearer,
Nor vain was the endeavour;
His hostess smiled, or shuddered,
But interested ever,
Listened to his adventures
In desert, camp, and city,
Expressing admiration,
Astonishment, or pity.

165

CXII.

He spoke of climes where rarely
The traveller's footstep strays;
Where Central Asia's nomad race
No tyrant's will obeys.
Here he had shared the Tartar's tent,
And oft, in wayward mood,
Braved the grim monarch of the woods,
In this, his solitude.
The threatened danger loomed in vain,
Advice was thrown away,
He seemed to live but in the chase,
The tumult, or the fray.

CXIII.

The lady marvelled at his words,
But doubted not the tale;
So lifelike was the narrative,
That it could hardly fail
To force conviction on the mind,
E'en had the hearer been
An old and practised actor
In this world's changeful scene.
Oft to her lips the question rose,
Why in life's autumn he
Should find delight in scenes so fraught
With craft and cruelty?

166

CXIV.

But in his deeply-furrowed brow
And half-checked sigh she read,
That all which formed the charm of life
From him had long since fled;
And in her woman's heart she felt
That these pursuits could be
Nought but attempts to drown the sense
Of mental agony.
Had he outlived his happiness,
And felt himself alone,
Or had deception's poison turned
A once warm heart to stone?

CXV.

She knew not; but she pitied
That lone and sorrowing man,
And quite a drama of romance
Through her rich fancy ran.
But just as woman's colouring
Had sketched his former life,
The postman's boisterous summons
Recalled the anxious wife.
She seized the missive long looked for,
Glanced once at the direction,
Then hurried off to indulge
The dictates of affection.

167

CXVI.

She tore it open quickly,
That you will doubtless credit,
But won't believe she kissed it
E'en oftener than she read it.
Then, conscious of her rudeness,
She hastily descended,
Fearing her guest might feel himself
Or slighted or offended;
And to excuse her brusquerie,
And little show of sorrow,
Announced that she expected
Her husband on the morrow.

CXVII.

The morrow came, and various signs
Threatened a busy day,
The guest,—who dreaded nought so much
As being in the way,—
Provided with a book, withdrew
Into a shady bower,
Where, in his convalescence, he
Had spent many an hour.
Here he could plan his movements,
For with returning vigour
The wish to hurry onward
Seized him with tenfold rigour.

168

CXVIII.

He would but thank the husband
For all the wife's attention,
And judge if he were worthy her;
Though here his apprehension
Suggested some misgivings,
For female prizes often
Fall to the share of blockheads,
And but too rarely soften
A heart that's worth the winning;
Perhaps 'tis nature's plan
To mix the evil with the good
In all that touches man.

CXIX.

But while the impatient guest
His future schemes thinks over,
With beating heart the wife awaits
The advent of the rover.
Her longing eyes at length are blest—
The vehicle draws nearer;
The features of its occupant
Become, each moment, clearer.
'Tis he, 'tis he! oh, happiness!
A truce to love's alarms,
Another moment, and the wife
Is folded in his arms.

169

CXX.

Now comes the exchange of news—
The history of the stranger,
The accident, his piteous plight,
His illness, and his danger;
His look, his age, his bearing,
His manners, and his nation;
Her own ideas, moreover,
As to his social station.
Here, to her great surprise,
Her mem'ry gives her warning
That her guest has not proffered
The greetings of the morning.

CXXI.

The husband, hearing where he is,
Hospitably proposes,
In laughing mood, to visit
This “love among the roses.”
The wife, who was at all times
Proud of her partner's graces,
The task of introduction
Most readily embraces.
Her kind heart breathes a prayer
That her joy may not darken
The guest's lone state, and make him
To thoughts despondent hearken.

170

CXXII.

The child, with all an infant's glee,
Delighted, leads the way,
Determined to astonish him
With the superb display
Of all her late-acquired stores.
Great friends they were, these two;
Many the strolls which they had shared,
And gambols not a few;
And oft, when no inducement else
Could cheat the child to rest,
Close nestling to that cold, stern man,
She slept upon his breast.

CXXIII.

Soon at the entrance of the bower
The happy couple stand;
The ardent youth, with manly air,
Frankly extends his hand.
But scarcely has the lady named
Her “husband,” ere she sees
A sight that pales her damask cheek,
And seems her blood to freeze.
The guest, now haughty and erect,
Fire darting from his eyes,
Glares on his new-found host, who stands
The image of surprise.

171

Alarmed, she turns to him she loves,
But, to her great amaze,
An innate sense of conscious guilt
His pallid cheek betrays.

CXXIV.

Short time endured this scene most strange,
Yet long enough to show
That she had succoured one who held
Her husband as a foe.
Shocked at the thought, with close-locked hands,
And eyes dissolved in tears,
She would have sunk upon the earth
O'erpowered by her fears,
But that the guest, all tenderly,
Received her in his arms,
Then pressed his lips to that pale brow,
Now damp with love's alarms,
Resigned that fainting burthen,
As loath with it to part,
And clasped the wonder-stricken child
With phrenzy to his heart.

CXXV.

One glance at that fair infant face
His anger served to tame;
One single word broke from his lips,
That word, a simple name.

172

His outstretched hands forgiveness spoke;
“Father,” the youth replied,
And knelt him at his father's feet,
Forgotten all his pride.
He heard that well-known voice express
Deep gratitude to Heaven,
And rose, his only grief removed,
His single fault forgiven.

CXXVI.

That hour plucked from an aching heart
The canker of despair,
Relieved it from the venomed brood
That long had 'gendered there.
Those ties, which late seemed torn apart,
Contract with tenfold force;
Love drives fell hatred from its seat,
And banishes remorse.
The clouds of anger are dispelled,
Affection's genial ray
Invites the bosom's buried germs
To bloom in open day.

CXXVII.

The lady, smiling through her tears,
Clings to her husband's breast,
The joy, too big for utterance,
In her soft eyes expressed.

173

For though she had, within her heart,
Confined the secret pain,
Oft, with the blush of conscious worth,
She thought of the disdain
She had excited; better she
Had listened to her pride,
Flung the much-envied honour back,
And, blessing him, have died!

CXXVIII.

Thus had she communed with herself
And oh! the joy to know
That she to his best interests
No longer was a foe.
Now would her husband take his place
Amid the noble throng,
Emerge from that obscurity
Which clothed his name too long;
Shine 'midst the brightest—he, her own,
Her treasure, her adored;
To all that he had lost for her
So happily restored.

CXXIX.

Thus passed a week, a happy week;
And now they quit the scene
With grateful hearts and moistened eyes;
For like an island green

174

In memory's waste that spot remained;
To each it told a tale
Of that pure joy so seldom known
In life's unquiet vale.
The sire longed impatiently
To instal the wedded pair,
And in affection's circle
To claim a father's share.

CXXX.

Again on English soil they stand;
Each bosom feels the glow
Of satisfaction, while content
Is stamped on every brow.
The softened father feels no more
The sting of wounded pride;
The son, with happiness elate,
Walks proudly by his side;
The wife, her heart too full for words,
Yet radiant with her joy,
Feels (this sole cloud of care blown o'er)
A bliss without alloy.

CXXXI.

They reach the busy capital,
But care not now to move
In fashion's vortex; sweeter far
The birthplace of their love—

175

The scene where every object
Hints to the teeming brain
Their passion's past emotions,
Its pleasure and its pain.
The father gives a glad assent,
As, with a blushing grace,
The wife elects the “Ancestral Hall”
Her chosen dwelling place.

CXXXII.

Long had that noble mansion worn
The livery of neglect,
Nor could the closest scrutiny
A sign of life detect.
The long lines of its windows dark,
Its jealous portals shut,
Its terrace, foul with cankering moss,
Marked by no human foot,
Its walks, obscured by tangled weeds,
Its face so blank and cold,—
A history of abandonment
That dull exterior told.

CXXXIII.

Changed is its aspect; yet, once more,
It wears a joyous air;
All who can claim the privilege
In crowds are flocking there.

176

Carriage and horseman throng the drive,
On the same errand bent,
To welcome back the wanderers
With smile and compliment.
From their dull sleep, long undisturbed,
The echoes wake again,
And make their soft responses heard
Throughout the wide domain.

CXXXIV.

His late-found daughter by his side,
The peer, with courtly grace,
Receives the host of visitors
Who occupy the place.
To each he makes the lady known,
And, with delight elate,
Marks the sensation which such charms
Are certain to create.
The men all vote her perfect,
The softer sex proclaim
Her face and figure well enough,
But think her somewhat tame.

CXXXV.

Pass we some months; 'tis early spring,
A fresh and sunny morn,
The dewdrops glisten on the grass
Which clothes the spacious lawn;

177

The neighbouring spire is musical
With joyous peal and loud.
Again long lines of carriages
The mansion's portals crowd;
But this time sunburnt peasants,
And village matrons, too,
Are flocking to the stately hall,
All with one end in view.

CXXXVI.

What clothes each face with wreathing smiles?
Can the same impulse move
The rustic and the titled dame,
The eagle and the dove?
Render the proud one affable?
Banish the sulky scowl
With which the poor regard the rich?
Reduce to its control
Such warring elements as these?
Yet, to the gazer's eye,
One sentiment pervades the breast
Of every passer by.

CXXXVII.

Yes, there is one which all must feel;
'Tis when the light of day
Upon the new-born infant sheds
Its doubly welcome ray;

178

When the delighted mother's ear
First hears that plaintive cry;
When the long-cherished dream gives place
To sweet reality.
Nature asserts her magic power,
Or high or low the lot,
It flourishes to Time's full end,
Life's freshest, brightest spot.

CXXXVIII.

A son is born! A son, an heir!
Then forth the tidings go,
And all for many miles around
The joyful advent know.
'Tis this that brings the smiling throng,
For this the bells resound;
'Tis this that sends the circling cup
In quick succession round.
What gratulations, wishes, vows!
All tongues, from peer to nurse,
The welcome stranger's attributes
Unceasingly rehearse.

CXXXIX.

Here's to the heir's good health! Huzza!
May he, through life's short span,
Approve himself, in the best sense,
Truly a noble man.

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May he regard as nought the chance
Which cast his lot so high;
May he upon the world look round
With philosophic eye;
Feel that high station is a trust,
Wealth but “the talent” lent,
To be the stay of virtue's cause,
Not vice's instrument.

CXL.

So ends my strain. Present and past
Are in the poet's power;
But closed to reader and to bard
The future's mystic hour.
Though in rude verse my tale be sung,
In simple language dressed,
Yet may its moral haply find
An echo in each breast.
Could this be so, how pure a joy
Would this torn bosom swell,
And cheat of half its mournfulness
That last sad word, FAREWELL.