University of Virginia Library

CANTO FIRST.

THE LOVERS.

I.

The time, eve's pensive, soul-felt hour;
The season, balmy May;
No sound disturbed the stillness of
The gently fading day;
Around was spread a varied scene,
That harmonized full well—
The verdant wood, the winding stream,
Green hill, and mossy dell—
A landscape that is sought in vain,
Though fairer realms there be,
Except within thy “sea-girt isle,”
My own, my dear Countrie.

II.

Clad in a robe of golden hue,
The sun had sunk to rest,
Some traces of his glorious course
Still lingered in the West;
Above the river's glassy face
Light wreaths of vapour lay
(The incense offered by the stream
To the bright God of day);
The air's transparent brilliancy
Permits the eye to trace
The outline of the distant hills,
No longer lost in space.

III.

Beneath the shadow of the wood
Two forms are faintly seen;
A nearer view proclaims the one
A youth of noble mien;
And standing by him is a maid,
Whose face and form might vie
With any traced by limner's hand,
Or sung by minstrelsie:
The encircled waist, the resting head
The hour, the spot declare
That these are votaries of love,
That seek a refuge there.

IV.

Yet something doth betoken
A difference of degree;
The pride of birth breaks forth in him,
More lowly far is she;
His name, with sound familiar,
Falls on the list'ner's ear;
While hers is as an unknown word
Beyond her hamlet's sphere;
His father is a belted Earl;
Hers but a yeoman true;
Too oft assortment such as this
Doth make a maiden rue.

V.

'Twere long to tell how first they met;
Some timely service shown
Had forced the maid, scarce consciously,
Her gratitude to own;
That springe, oft set for woman's love,
Doth seldom miss its prey;
From gratitude to love there lies
A broad and beaten way;
And, as the mutual flame gained strength,
More frequently they met,
Till meeting formed their only joy,
Parting their sole regret.

VI.

Those happy evening meetings!
How long appeared the day;
The sun was hateful to their eyes,
Save when his parting ray
With mellow light the landscape tinged
And deeper grew the shade,
Till twilight's veil enabled them,
Unseen, to seek the glade,
Their right-well-chosen trysting place;
Oaks stood like sentries round;
Well might the legend favour find
That called it “fairy ground”;
Or it had been in other days
A Druid's sacred grot,
And superstition still attached
Her mystery to the spot.

VII.

Oft in her course the conscious moon
Was witness to their vows,
Darting her prying beams aslant
The friendly shelt'ring boughs;
Or, at her zenith height arrived,
The traitorous orb revealed
The glow of happiness and love
The maid would have concealed,
But that her gentle trusting heart
No longer owned control,
So thoroughly, so cunningly,
Had love usurped the whole.
Here, 'neath the trembling foliage,
Their faltering tongues confessed
The ever-changing hopes and fears
That fill a lover's breast.

VIII.

Here too they parted, sad and loath,
Until the morrow's night
With the loved object once again
Should bless their raptured sight.
How changed the scene! the murm'ring breeze
Seemed sadly to complain;
The dewy ev'ning wept as if
It shared their mutual pain;
The lengthened kiss, the pressure fond,
The oft repeated word,
Proved that the measured hints of time
No longer were unheard;
And, after parting, yet again
They turned with eager pace,
As if by some attraction drawn
To join in close embrace.

IX.

Now, sigh to sigh re-echoing,
Reluctantly they part;
While every falling footstep strikes
A knell to either heart;
Each returns home stealthily,
And seeks, unseen, to gain
Their chamber's silence, and indulge
In memory's pleasing pain:
Again live o'er that stolen hour,
Each look, each accent weigh;
And gild the ideal future
With hope's illusive ray.

X.

Ah! happy time, ah! heaven on earth!
Why should experience tear
The graceful veil through which the world
Assumed a shape so fair?
Why not in happy ignorance
Let us be cheated still?
Thou worst of pedants, who wouldst make
Of every joy an ill!
By thy harsh hateful lesson,
Alas! we only gain
The fatal knowledge that the world
Is hollow, false, and vain.

XI.

Thus oftentimes these lovers met,
In innocence complete;
The maiden's guileless heart knew naught
Of caution or deceit;
Her gentle eyes are raised to his,
And all her actions prove
The unsuspecting confidence
That marks a virgin's love:
Nor ever had his answ'ring glance
Compelled her to look down;
His eyes spoke only sentiments
Responsive to her own.

XII.

Until a sultry evening,
That closed a sultry day;
The sun sank red and threatening;
All lurid was his ray;
The blushing clouds reflected back
His angry parting beams;
The coppery mass, with livid spots,
Some conflagration seems;
The large raindrops, the wind's low moan,
The air o'ercharged and warm,
Are heralds unmistakable,
That speak the coming storm.

XIII.

Why do the maiden's downcast eyes
So often seek the ground?
Why gazes she so hurriedly
And anxiously around?
Why should she seek her home to-night
At this unwonted hour?
She dreads, perchance, the gathering clouds
That round her darkly lour;
Or do his heightened colour
And brightly flashing eye
Inspire her with a vague alarm,
Albeit she knows not why?

XIV.

His arm, whose twining, fond support
She almost woo'd till now,
Seems to imprison her slight form
Too closely to allow
The action of her beating heart;
His voice, whose lightest word,
In her unfathomed depth of soul,
Some gushing well-spring stirred,
Has lost those tones harmonious,
No longer low and clear,
Its harsh and altered character
Awake instinctive fear.

XV.

A prey to doubts, till now unknown,
The maiden marked the change;
Which, to her gentle nature, showed
Mysteriously strange;
She tried by soft caresses to
Recall his usual mood;
But only added fuel to
The fever of his blood;
Till, frightened at his vehemence,
She homeward bent her way,
Nor could his oft-repeated prayer
Prevail on her to stay.

XVI.

He sought forgiveness humbly,
His wild and eager air
Was changed to sigh and sorrow,
To entreaty and despair;
The lightnings of his eyes no more
Brought blushes to her brow;
The tongue, erewhile so eloquent,
Where was its witchery now?
That too persuasive mute appeal
Her heart could not repel;
He sealed his pardon on her lips,
Ere he would say farewell.

XVII.

They parted, yes, they parted;
Alas! not as they met;
Love's sunshine had been darken'd by
The shadow of regret;
And Hope and Fear, alternately,
With all their powers try,
Within their battle-field, the heart,
To gain the mastery;
Till, wearied with the doubtful strife,
The rivals quit the plain,
And calm reflection takes the place
Vacated by the twain.

XVIII.

He seeks the ancestral mansion,
But in his speaking face
The stamp of feelings uncontrolled
Has left its searing trace;
The lips compressed, the frowning brow,
The eyes all downward bent,
Betray the man who has been galled,
And foiled in his intent;
While the flushed cheek, the heaving chest,
The low convulsive sigh,
Show that, within his inmost heart,
Passion doth lurking lie.

XIX.

His bosom's ruder feelings calmed,
The drooping eyelids prove
The presence of those soft alarms,
Which haunt the course of love!
The loss of that pure virgin heart,
The dread of her disdain,
Strike, like the sudden thought of death,
Across his reeling brain;
He finds, too late, that he who 'lists
Beneath Love's banner may
Receive the wound he would inflict,
Nor quit unscathed the fray.

XX.

Thus long in musing mood he stood,
And watched the threatened storm,
Its fitful violence awoke
The soul's undying worm;
The lightning's fierce and livid flash,
So short and yet so bright,
Which rendered blacker tenfold
The darkness of the night,
Suggested to his conscious heart
Unbridled passion's joy
Blazing in lawless wantonness,
To wither and destroy.

XXI.

The answering burst of thunder
That followed in its train,
Arousing, with electric peal,
Alike earth, air, and main;
The fitful gust, the moaning cry,
The shrieking of the wind,
The angry lashing of the rain,
Presented to his mind,
The exulting shout of vengeance,
The victim's wild complaint,
Earth's universal hatred,
Let loose without restraint.

XXII.

Awed by the elemental strife,
Nor able to control
The current of reproachful thought
That sweeps across his soul,
He seeks a book, but o'er the page
His glances idly stray,
No interest, nor meaning do
The characters convey;
In the sealed volume of his heart,
He reads, with fear intense,
The wiles which Guilt would fain array
'Gainst helpless Innocence.

XXIII.

Could storied page or poet's lay
Have soothed the youth's unrest;
Could subtle reason's power have quelled
The tumult of his breast;
Could science have delighted,
Or eloquence have charmed,
History have raised an interest,
Or patriotism warmed;
Each in that chamber had its place;
It was the owner's care
To add to the collected store
All that was good or rare.

XXIV.

Ranged, in due order, on the shelves,
Up from the floor beneath,
Lay all that human intellect
Has power to bequeath;
The old and ponderous volumes,
Which formed the lower tier,
A pyramid of lighter works
Seemed, atlas-like, to bear;
E'en as the sages of the past
Have never ceased to be
At once a prop and stepping stone
To their posterity.

XXV.

A solitary lamp relieved
The centre of the room,
Giving the scarce distinguished walls
A character of gloom;
While, here and there, the time-dy'd oak
Reveal'd some figure grim,
Which seem'd unto the youth to scowl
Malignantly on him:
Others grinned hideous welcome;
And one, with leering eye,
Seemed conscious of his inmost thoughts,
By sin's freemasonry.

XXVI.

He rose and paced the noble room,
Expecting, but in vain,
By exercise to chase away
These phantoms of the brain;
But every footfall conjured up
A dull and hollow sound;
He felt like one who walks, by night,
Within a charnel ground;
And when he uttered words aloud,
To banish such weak fears,
A thousand echoes, mockingly,
Resounded in his ears.

XXVII.

At length his mind's complexion
Assumed a healthier tone;
His eyes, with hardier, prouder glance,
Around the room were thrown;
Again he sought a book's relief,
And, 'neath his hand, he found
That “Sacred Volume” on which faith
Its only hope doth ground;
He opened it; each word divine
Said to his soul “be still”:
He felt it was a talisman
To shield him from all ill.

XXVIII.

He thought of her who, formerly,
With all a mother's joy,
Had tried untiringly to teach
Its lessons to her boy:
Might not that guide, though taken hence,
Her earthly labour done,
From the bright mansions of the blessed
Look down upon her son?
His heart o'erflowed, and welcome tears,
Falling as dews from heaven,
Cooled the strong fever of the mind,
Too full of earthly leaven.

XXIX.

The recollection of the days when,
Free from passion's thrall,
He passed his childhood's happy years—
The happiest of all—
Soothed him, and o'er his spirit threw
A mild and holy calm;
Lost in the mazes of the past,
The present ceased to charm;
Till he confounds, insensibly,
The present with the past,
As nature, o'er his tired soul,
Sleep's grateful mantle cast.

XXX.

And she, the gentle, loving one,
When by her instinct taught
To fly from him who hitherto
Had owned her every thought—
Her home she entered silently,
And, shunning question, fled;
In the wild tumult of her soul,
Scarce hearing what was said:
Once in her chamber's refuge hid,
She proved the sad relief
Which tears, unchecked and unobserved,
Afford to woman's grief.

XXXI.

All to her view seemed sadly changed,
Yet why she could not tell;
She felt like one who suffers 'neath
The influence of a spell;
She tried to think, before the attempt
Her very senses reeled;
She saw the danger unto which
Till now her eyes were sealed;
No more the sunny prospect smiled,
Her vision of the morn;
But, in its place, a gloomy gulf
Seemed bottomless to yawn.

XXXII.

More calm, at length she checked her tears,
And felt, with rising sigh,
The want of a fond mother's heart,
On which she might rely;
That Altar which received her griefs
In childhood's peaceful days,
When sorrow's dew was quickly dried
By joy's absorbing rays:
Till now she never truly felt
The value of that friend
On whom alone, in doubt and fear,
A daughter can depend.

XXXIII.

Many a circumstance, till now
Buried in memory's store,
Before her mental vision rose
As vivid as of yore;
Those words of caution and advice,
Which seemed so needless then,
Struck like an echo from the tomb,
And mutely spoke again;
Could that mild voice advise her now,
Banish her doubts and fears!
Useless, alas! her vain regrets,
Futile her bitter tears.

XXXIV.

Sudden upon her startled ear
The pealing thunder broke;
Its warning tones within her soul
A host of terrors woke;
In the fantastic lightning's play
She traced a giant form,
Who, throned on clouds of darkness, rode,
The demon of the storm;
Or shuddered, as a brilliant flash
Seemed, serpent-like, to dart
Full on the mansion which enshrined
The treasure of her heart.

XXXV.

No longer mistress of her fears,
She sought relief in prayer.
Her hands pressed on her aching eyes
Shut out the lightning's glare;
She prayed for pardon; prompted by
The monitor within,
She now, for the first time, perceived
Her secret was a sin;
Yet he had asked for secrecy,
And her soft nature knew
No words to wound the heart of one
So noble and so true.

XXXVI.

Calmed by her pious exercise,
Her virgin couch she sought,
But sleep was powerless 'gainst a mind
So occupied by thought;
She tried to think of earlier scenes;
Alas! the attempt was vain;
The sterile past served but to bring
The present back again;
She could not school her memory,
Nor banish from its seat
The thought of him who first had taught
Her maiden heart to beat.

XXXVII.

Nature's great boon at length prevailed,
The maiden sank to rest;
Kind sleep, with pitying finger,
Her throbbing eyelids pressed:
The phantoms of the night retired
As soon as rising day—
Smiling upon the sleeping girl
With soft and rosy ray—
Revealed the scene around her,
And slowly brought to view
Her chamber's simple ornaments,
Albeit they were few.

XXXVIII.

The curtains sheltering her couch
Of virgin, spotless white,
Shaded a form as angel's pure,
A face as seraph's bright;
Her head thrown slightly backward,
And draperied by her hair,
Pressed on her pillow tenderly;
Her forehead smooth and fair;
The fringes of her close-veiled eyes
Swept her soft velvet cheek;
Her lips were gently parted,
As if about to speak;
A rising blush, a murmured word,
A soft, half sobbing sigh,
Proved sleep scarce equal to the task
Of conquering memory.

XXXIX.

One careless arm thrown round her head
Disclosed a neck of snow;
The ripening beauties of her form
Swell'd gracefully below;
The light and clinging covering
An outline helped to trace,
Suggestive, in its harmony,
Of modesty and grace;
All spoke of purity and peace;
The quiet of the hour,
The fragrant breath of morning,
The perfume of the flower,
Which, round her lattice twining close,
Seemed jealous that the day
Should dare to throw his searching eyes
Where its loved mistress lay.

XL.

Quit we the chamber noiselessly,
With blessings on that brow,
And to the sleeping youth return,
And suffer time to show
The issue of the encounter;
For conflict must there be,
Where Love would try conclusions
With Pride, his enemy;
Love rears the airy fabric high,
Love sanctifies the place;
But, like a secret enemy,
Pride undermines the base.

XLI.

The youth slept on, and all was still,
Except the flickering light
By the expiring lamp sent forth,
Then all was solemn night.
Silence and darkness jointly reigned,
Until the midnight chime,
Borne on the fitful gust, proclaimed
The ceaseless march of Time;
Told that another day was gone,
Another morrow come,
Another step in man's career
Of progress to the tomb.

XLII.

The last chime past, the chamber's gloom
Was suddenly dispelled;
The crowded shelves, which until now
Had inert volumes held,
Were peopled, and each single work
Its proper guardian owned;
Naught could be seen, where books had been,
But shadowy forms enthroned,
Their eyes of flame shed o'er the place
A wild, unearthly light,
Revealing evanescent shades
Unknown to mortal sight.

XLIII.

The sages of antiquity—
The giants of the past,
Around the peopled chamber
Their curious glances cast;
With look profound, and eagle eye,
They scanned the lettered throng;
Or smiled approvingly upon
The nobler sons of song;
Or changed a mute intelligence
With him the first to trace
The unerring laws of nature,
And pierce the realms of space.

XLIV.

There might be seen the ascetic monk,
With fast and vigil worn,
Whose sallow, sickly cheek matched well
The parchment soiled and torn;
Here the more modern churchman,
Who, with a ruddier hue,
Reflects his gorgeous binding
In colours no less true:
A new arrival looks askant,
Supposing he must be
“The observed of all observers”
In this society.

XLV.

The Catholic, the Protestant,
Rome, and the rebel crew,
And that late innovation,
The compound of the two,
Are strangely mixed, while unbelief,
With cold and withering sneer,
Seems half suspicious of the host
Of Orthodoxy near;
Though, in their want of unity,
He fancies he may find
Some converts, who, to views extreme,
Are not at all inclined.

XLVI.

Naught breaks the silence of the night;
Each spirit seems to wait
Some warning signal, which shall serve
To open the debate;
Their flashing eyes all turn on one
Who differs from the rest,
Love, Might, Dominion, Majesty,
Are all in him expressed;
As, in the centre of the room,
With mild and thoughtful look,
Watching the sleeping youth, appears
The Spirit of “the Book.”

XLVII.

XLVIII.

He ceased with shrill and mocking laugh,
And triumph in his eye,
As round the room he boldly looked
For one who should reply;
The Spirit of “the Book” remained,
But deigned no further word,
Though, from his steadfast, meaning look,
Contempt might be inferred;
The Church's servants, as was fit,
Their sacred armour don,
And only differ as to who
Shall lead their forces on.

XLIX.

Each spirit with humility
Yields to his abler friend;
Each fears he may not worthily
The sacred cause defend;
The Papist to the Lutheran
Politely gives the “pas,”
Alleging that the modern church
Is better read by far;
Till, one by one, they cease to speak,
And there remain but two;
One of whom shortly bows, and says,
“My Lord! I yield to you.”

L.

LI.

But short the silence which prevailed,
When, as by one consent,
A thousand voices chorussed
A shout of non-content;
A thousand mocking gibes were heard,
But, above all the din,
A loud and pompous voice exclaimed—
“My lord, it were a sin,
A grovelling fault, an infamy,
In me to sit and hear
That, as an author, I have been
Indebted to a peer
For patronage. Did I not stand
Amidst a motley crew
Of lacqueys and of sycophants
Unnoticed? It is true
That when my work was known
Amongst the truly great,
The peer, amongst whose minions
I had been forced to wait,
Drawled out his hackneyed compliment;
But he who is inclined
To be considered learning's friend,
Must be the first to find
The merits of an author's work,
Must take him by the hand,
Do battle with detraction,
And Envy's host withstand.
Let others answer for themselves,
Experience bids me say,
That patrons wait upon success,
But seldom lead the way.”

LII.

Hereon a pale and earnest sprite
From a dark nook leaped forth;
The spirits' perfect silence proved
Their knowledge of his worth.
Or it may be that no one cared
To venture within reach
Of one who rather trespassed on
The courtesies of speech.
He looked around, but as his glance
No rival could detect,
He to the courtly prelate spoke
Something to this effect.

SPIRIT OF SATIRE.

THE SPIRIT OF LAW.

“Enough! enough!” exclaimed an angry voice,
“The court has nothing left it but the choice
Between two courses; either to adjourn,
Or to the subject of debate return.
Counsel have touched on all things 'neath the sun;
The sole exception being the very one
On which our judgment's prayed. This much is clear:
That evidence is sadly wanting here.
Plaintiff declares, that could this mortal see
The consequences of his villainy,
(Presumptive villainy, for this may prove
A very proper legal sort of love),
He would persist in his unrighteous plot.
Defendant's answer states that he would not.
An issue must be tried before the court
Whose practice reaches actions of the sort:
The ‘Spirits of the Night’ must try the case;
They have the power, before his eyes, to place
A dream, in colours so distinct and bright,
That long years seem to centre in a night.
Let him be shown the ruin that awaits
The hapless victim of seduction's baits.
If, warned by this, he turn to virtue's side,
Deaf to the promptings both of lust and pride,
The sacred volume must be held to be
A mortal soul's securest panoply.
Leave we the trial to Night's potent spirits;
The case must rest on its intrinsic merits.”
This sentence uttered, by one impulse fired,
Behind his charge each guardian sprite retired.
Darkness again prevailed for some short space
Till (their bright eyes illumining the place),
Flitting around the youth, now here, now there.
Two spirits of another kind appear.
'Twere past the limner's subtle art, I ween,
To represent these actors in the scene;
Shape, outline, feature, change before the eye
Has time to subject them to scrutiny;
Nay, ere the sight can telegraph the brain
Its mirrored picture, all has changed again.
Yet each appears to exercise his art
In his own place: the one upon the heart,
Makes, with transparent finger, certain signs,
The other to the head his care confines.
Now heart, now head, is victor in the strife:
His dream was an epitome of life.