 | Young Arthur |  |
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SUBJECT V.
The old Harper. — The God-send. — The Orphan. — The Tale of Alice.
LAMENT.
O, the blue eye of morning with cheerfulness beam'd,
And her soft cheek was tinted with health's purest hue;
Her breath like the spice gale of Araby seem'd,
Its poignancy check'd by the freshness of dew:
Such my morning of youth; I rov'd, buoyant as air;
'Twas the sweet dream of transport when chasten'd by truth;
'Tis past like a shadow — O, mem'ry, beware!
Recal not the dream of the days of my youth.
And her soft cheek was tinted with health's purest hue;
Her breath like the spice gale of Araby seem'd,
Its poignancy check'd by the freshness of dew:
Such my morning of youth; I rov'd, buoyant as air;
'Twas the sweet dream of transport when chasten'd by truth;
'Tis past like a shadow — O, mem'ry, beware!
Recal not the dream of the days of my youth.
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Yes — Recal me that morning while memory's warm'd;
On its fairy delusion I ever must dwell;
Like the bird by its beauteous destroyer when charm'd,
I fly to my fate, and to peace bid farewell!
Yes, recal me that morning, when Hope told a tale
Like the flatt'ry of fondness, I fancied all truth —
But 'tis gone, as the gossamer goes on the gale —
I wake from the dream of the days of my youth.
On its fairy delusion I ever must dwell;
Like the bird by its beauteous destroyer when charm'd,
I fly to my fate, and to peace bid farewell!
Yes, recal me that morning, when Hope told a tale
Like the flatt'ry of fondness, I fancied all truth —
But 'tis gone, as the gossamer goes on the gale —
I wake from the dream of the days of my youth.
O, the bloom of that morning for ever is gone!
But coeval with life will its mem'ry remain;
As the bright form of beauty lives carv'd in the stone
Shall mem'ry the form of that morning retain;
Yet by fancy alone the chaste sculpture is warm'd
With softness, with sweetness, taste, tenderness, truth; —
Like the genius who sighed for the statue he form'd,
I sigh for the dream of the days of my youth!
But coeval with life will its mem'ry remain;
As the bright form of beauty lives carv'd in the stone
Shall mem'ry the form of that morning retain;
Yet by fancy alone the chaste sculpture is warm'd
With softness, with sweetness, taste, tenderness, truth; —
Like the genius who sighed for the statue he form'd,
I sigh for the dream of the days of my youth!
O his locks they were grey,
And his temples were bare,
O'er his broad forehead lay
The deep furrows of care;
Yet his eye retain'd fire,
But was dimm'd by a tear;
'Twas a theme for the lyre
Both sacred and dear —
The sorrows of youth young hope may cheer,
As light mists fade in the golden ray;
But the sorrows of age are dark and drear,
As the black cloud frowns when the moon's away.
And his temples were bare,
O'er his broad forehead lay
The deep furrows of care;
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But was dimm'd by a tear;
'Twas a theme for the lyre
Both sacred and dear —
The sorrows of youth young hope may cheer,
As light mists fade in the golden ray;
But the sorrows of age are dark and drear,
As the black cloud frowns when the moon's away.
Yes, his locks they were grey, and he sorrow'd, in sooth,
Who sung of the dream of the days of his youth;
Aside him sat, earnestly list'ning, a boy,
Of Hubert and Ellen the pride and the joy;
Young Arthur the God-send; and goodly he grew,
As the evergreen, hope, in content's genial dew.
Who sung of the dream of the days of his youth;
Aside him sat, earnestly list'ning, a boy,
Of Hubert and Ellen the pride and the joy;
Young Arthur the God-send; and goodly he grew,
As the evergreen, hope, in content's genial dew.
A garden I had, and it chanc'd on a day,
When the flowers were all seeding, the pods open lay,
And many a seed with the breeze took its way;
On a spot one alighting, where wild flowers grew,
(The blue-bell, the dog-rose, the fox-glove, and more,)
By chance it took root, and when flow'ring all knew
Chance planted it there by the blossom it bore.
When the flowers were all seeding, the pods open lay,
And many a seed with the breeze took its way;
On a spot one alighting, where wild flowers grew,
(The blue-bell, the dog-rose, the fox-glove, and more,)
By chance it took root, and when flow'ring all knew
Chance planted it there by the blossom it bore.
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From the youth of the village discern'd by his air,
His form, and his beauty, his diction, and deeds;
His instructor that sage, the grey-crested Beauclere:
Whose youth had been happy, whose age had been cross'd;
He had lov'd, been belov'd, and his love he had lost.
He had known fortune's favour, and smil'd with delight,
And the gayer his morn the more gloomy his night:
He had cherish'd an orphan, whose soothing supplied
To his sorrow a solace — that solace he died:
How frail is fond hope! — See yon infant with joy,
Its life but a smile, and its time but a toy!
With cards, how delighted! a fabric it rears,
Each story encreasing its hopes and its fears;
See, it tow'rs like a Babel, the builder's delight;
One puff, and 'tis scatter'd as leaves at the blight.
So hope from its tow'ring less permanent grows —
This Beauclere discover'd, and, robb'd of repose,
To the village he came where young Arthur was found,
And as the green ivy the grey elm clings round,
So the sage and the scion affection soon bound.
And oft to young Arthur the story he sung,
For he trifled with verse, could the harp's strain prolong,
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While he sung to the harp, and the Orphan his song.
THE ORPHAN.
The rain it fell, and the wind it blew,
And the heath was drear, and the flocks they drew
Beneath an oak that shelter cast;
And there sat a shivering boy, aghast;
Drench'd by the dropping and numb'd by the blast.
His clothes were torn, and his feet were bare,
His face was famine, his eye, despair:
I reach'd the oak, and I mark'd him well,
His sighs were deep and his tears fast fell —
And the foot which the innocent sorrow can't stay
Ne'er shall it follow a flowery way.
And the heath was drear, and the flocks they drew
Beneath an oak that shelter cast;
And there sat a shivering boy, aghast;
Drench'd by the dropping and numb'd by the blast.
His clothes were torn, and his feet were bare,
His face was famine, his eye, despair:
I reach'd the oak, and I mark'd him well,
His sighs were deep and his tears fast fell —
And the foot which the innocent sorrow can't stay
Ne'er shall it follow a flowery way.
I look'd request, and he look'd a prayer;
And I learnt his grief, und I sooth'd his care;
A wanderer he, and his want severe,
And his were the orphan's sigh and tear;
Sacred to all who hold heaven's aid dear.
The orphan's tear is an heavenly dew
Which ne'er fell on heart but there heart's ease grew;
And the sound which the orphan's sigh imparts
Is the whisper of Heaven to human hearts.
And the ear that the innocent sorrow can't win
Ne'er shall let heavenly harmony in.
And I learnt his grief, und I sooth'd his care;
A wanderer he, and his want severe,
And his were the orphan's sigh and tear;
Sacred to all who hold heaven's aid dear.
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Which ne'er fell on heart but there heart's ease grew;
And the sound which the orphan's sigh imparts
Is the whisper of Heaven to human hearts.
And the ear that the innocent sorrow can't win
Ne'er shall let heavenly harmony in.
His eyes he rais'd, and his hand I took,
And there was a blessing in his look:
It made the trembling tear so bright —
As when, at the noon of a cheerless night,
Some chance star beams it's benevolent light.
And he reach'd my cot, and he bless'd it too,
For where innocence treads there joys pursue;
And, to fancy, the innocent steps ne'er cease
To beat time to the song of the angel, Peace;
And the heart that can harden at innocent woe,
Shall never that harmony's healing know.
And there was a blessing in his look:
It made the trembling tear so bright —
As when, at the noon of a cheerless night,
Some chance star beams it's benevolent light.
And he reach'd my cot, and he bless'd it too,
For where innocence treads there joys pursue;
And, to fancy, the innocent steps ne'er cease
To beat time to the song of the angel, Peace;
And the heart that can harden at innocent woe,
Shall never that harmony's healing know.
He bless'd my cot, for his grateful smile
Was a sun-beam there; an endearing wile;
The winter pass'd and he cheer'd its gloom;
Spring smil'd, and the summer laughed off with bloom,
And thro' autumn no care in my cot found room.
And winter return'd, and return'd with joy,
But his smile, like Old Craft's, was a mere decoy;
He came with grace, but he went with gall,
And, passing, threw o'er my child the pall!
And the soul that the innocent death shall die
Shall be bless'd like the orphan who wakes my sigh.
Was a sun-beam there; an endearing wile;
The winter pass'd and he cheer'd its gloom;
Spring smil'd, and the summer laughed off with bloom,
And thro' autumn no care in my cot found room.
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But his smile, like Old Craft's, was a mere decoy;
He came with grace, but he went with gall,
And, passing, threw o'er my child the pall!
And the soul that the innocent death shall die
Shall be bless'd like the orphan who wakes my sigh.
So sung the sage, and wip'd the tear,
His orphan treasure lost;
But Arthur's looks his sorrow cheer,
And thaw his age's frost.
His orphan treasure lost;
But Arthur's looks his sorrow cheer,
And thaw his age's frost.
Be Hubert now our subject made,
And that mysterious night
When Ellen's eyes the babe survey'd
With wonder and delight.
The infant, lock'd in angel sleep,
On Ellen's pillow plac'd,
Hubert, to sound the myst'ry deep,
The billet's meaning trac'd.
And that mysterious night
When Ellen's eyes the babe survey'd
With wonder and delight.
The infant, lock'd in angel sleep,
On Ellen's pillow plac'd,
Hubert, to sound the myst'ry deep,
The billet's meaning trac'd.
And these the words the scroll convey'd:
“The child is Arthus nam'd;
“Doubt not your pains shall be repaid,
“The boy hereafter claim'd.”
“The child is Arthus nam'd;
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“The boy hereafter claim'd.”
And every year by varied ways,
But none which they could trace,
Gold for the infant's rearing pays,
Address'd with words of grace.
And Arthur he grew as the poplar grows,
But none which they could trace,
Gold for the infant's rearing pays,
Address'd with words of grace.
Planted where smooth, deep, water flows;
And Arthur he grew as the flower of May,
Hardy the stem, but the blossom gay;
And Arthur he grew as the sweet-briar green,
The pride of the garden, though modest in mien;
And Arthur he grew as the life-giving grain,
The boast of the peasant, and joy of the plain.
In a garden the white spreading bindwort I've seen
Entwining the flowers with its tend'rils of green;
Of Arthur an emblem the picture imparts,
His grace was the bindwort, the flowers all hearts.
He lov'd that sage and the sage lov'd him,
A reflector he seem'd to a lamp grown dim,
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His eye emitted a waking flame;
And he taught him many a page of lore;
And he told him many a tale of yore;
Cheering ever the winter's night;
While Arthur he listen'd with young delight.
Once the sage to wake the harp essay'd
When mem'ry dwelt on a hapless maid:
Sweetly he touch'd it, and, faltering, sung
A maiden for whom the death peal had rung.
ELEGY.
Oh, hast thou seen the dolphin dying
Tints most exquisite of hue,
As it pants for life, supplying,
While all the sight with rapture view?
Oft like those tints do beauty's graces show,
The gazer's magnet but the owner's woe.
Tints most exquisite of hue,
As it pants for life, supplying,
While all the sight with rapture view?
Oft like those tints do beauty's graces show,
The gazer's magnet but the owner's woe.
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An humble turf scarce rears its head
But the daisy and buttercup o'er it are spread;
And the daisy and buttercup picture the maid
Whom sorrow beneath that turf has laid.
But the daisy and buttercup o'er it are spread;
And the daisy and buttercup picture the maid
Whom sorrow beneath that turf has laid.
Humble was she like her grave's meek flow'rs,
The modest adorning of sylvan bowers;
But the proud man passing with ruthless feet
Has trodden the flow'r that bloom'd so sweet.
The modest adorning of sylvan bowers;
But the proud man passing with ruthless feet
Has trodden the flow'r that bloom'd so sweet.
She's gone! O, she's gone!
Ah whither?
To the seats of rest,
The bow'rs of the blest;
Spirits of pity, come hither!
Now gather me rue, and the rose's dew,
That type of beauty's tear;
And gather me dew from the nightshade too,
That poisonous drop so drear;
Which kill'd the rose —
And a tear there flows
From pity; that tear drop save;
Mix that tear with each dew,
With them sprinkle the rue,
And scatter it o'er her grave:
Memorial meet
For a beauty sweet
Whom false love clad in a winding-sheet.
Her virgin hour was the blooming flow'r,
But there comes a bitter blast;
That flow'r so sweet its death must meet,
And all like a dream hath past!
Farewell! thy stains have been wash'd with blood
For man a ransom giv'n;
And thou hast pass'd o'er Jordan's flood,
And thy pardon is seal'd in heaven!
Ah whither?
To the seats of rest,
The bow'rs of the blest;
Spirits of pity, come hither!
Now gather me rue, and the rose's dew,
That type of beauty's tear;
And gather me dew from the nightshade too,
That poisonous drop so drear;
Which kill'd the rose —
And a tear there flows
From pity; that tear drop save;
Mix that tear with each dew,
With them sprinkle the rue,
And scatter it o'er her grave:
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For a beauty sweet
Whom false love clad in a winding-sheet.
Her virgin hour was the blooming flow'r,
But there comes a bitter blast;
That flow'r so sweet its death must meet,
And all like a dream hath past!
Farewell! thy stains have been wash'd with blood
For man a ransom giv'n;
And thou hast pass'd o'er Jordan's flood,
And thy pardon is seal'd in heaven!
But where is he
Who wither'd thee,
And where lays he his head?
Like a rock, sure, his pillow
His bed a wild billow;
If mercy he craves,
Sure, the howling blast raves
When his guilty night prayr's said.
For sleep in peace, O, ne'er can he
Who murder'd the peace he found with thee!
Who wither'd thee,
And where lays he his head?
Like a rock, sure, his pillow
His bed a wild billow;
If mercy he craves,
Sure, the howling blast raves
When his guilty night prayr's said.
For sleep in peace, O, ne'er can he
Who murder'd the peace he found with thee!
The dolphin when dying exhibits perpetual transitions from one beautiful colour to another: and they grow more exquisitely brilliant the nearer the fish approaches its end.
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THE TALE OF ALICE.
Fair Alice she bloom'd like the modest flower
Which forms the grace of the bosom and bower;
Blight came to the bower, the bosom grew cold,
And the story of Alice with tears is told!
Young Alice she liv'd in an humble cot,
A sylvan life was her father's lot;
But her father's cot seem'd a lovely shrine
Where beauty and grace kept valentine:
The eye of the old with “God speed” turn'd there,
For the fate of a maiden so passing fair;
And the eye of the young to that cot would rove,
The maidens' with envy, the swains' with love;
And many a love-lay Alice she heard
Through her rose-cover'd casement; none preferr'd,
None e'er promis'd, nor any allur'd,
Did Alice; yet many a youth ensur'd;
And, O, there was sighing from many an heart —
But the object of love fell the victim of art!
Which forms the grace of the bosom and bower;
Blight came to the bower, the bosom grew cold,
And the story of Alice with tears is told!
Young Alice she liv'd in an humble cot,
A sylvan life was her father's lot;
But her father's cot seem'd a lovely shrine
Where beauty and grace kept valentine:
The eye of the old with “God speed” turn'd there,
For the fate of a maiden so passing fair;
And the eye of the young to that cot would rove,
The maidens' with envy, the swains' with love;
And many a love-lay Alice she heard
Through her rose-cover'd casement; none preferr'd,
None e'er promis'd, nor any allur'd,
Did Alice; yet many a youth ensur'd;
And, O, there was sighing from many an heart —
But the object of love fell the victim of art!
O thou, who can'st look on the maiden charm
And feel in thy bosom, soft, thrilling, and warm,
The vibration that spreads an endearing so sweet,
It to harmony makes e'en the savage heart beat;
Ah! how canst thou, once having known such a bliss,
Like Judas, betray with a smile and a kiss?
Hast thou seen all the strings and the veins of the heart?
Dost thou know there's an exquisite life in each part?
Hast thou heard at each thrill ev'ry nerve is in play,
That the smallest if wounded will all disarray?
Dost thou mark this fine structure of net-work divine,
Where each mesh has a pulse, and love lives in each line?
And canst thou, possessing it, tear it; yet know
All its millions of pangs, its vibrations of woe?
O! lives there the man? drooping shame, answer yes —
Fiends possess'd human bodies the Scriptures express;
Sure all not ejected were — this marks the breed:
For such deadly destruction's attach'd to the deed —
'Tis to poison the spring of all social delight;
To paralyze purity; confidence blight;
Hope's barrier destroy; honour's landmark remove,
And blast the best image of heaven and love;
And reason identify must with the deed
The mark of the fiend, and the cast of the breed.
Young Alice has over the gay meadow gone,
And her's was the foot of the careless fawn;
The scene was inspiring so blooming and bright,
And her mind was a heaven, her heart so light.
O! virtue, whose paintings such pleasure transfuse,
Dipping thy pencil in heavenly hues;
From thy art, though familiar to Alice, the scene
Wore the brightest of bloom, and the gayest of green;
Thy tints give the king-cup and daisy more grace
Than guilt in the rarest exotics can trace;
For guilt, whose perceptions corrodings consume,
Sees grace through the jaundice-hued medium of gloom:
'Twas a gay scene to Alice, and Alice was gay,
But the flow'rs and the fair one all wither'd away!
A stream thro' the mead took a graceful sweep,
Its banks were distant, its bed was deep;
And over it many a year had stood
A crazy, tottering, bridge of wood;
And Alice she tripp'd on that bridge with glee,
But little she reck'd of treachery;
For over that bridge she from childhood pass'd —
But friendship may flatter and fail at last.
The bridge gave way; and a piercing scream
Scarce given e'er Alice was plung'd in the stream;
When a youth, who saw from an upland shade,
Like lightning darted, and sav'd the maid.
A fate with that moment appear'd to move;
Her looks beam'd gratitude, his spoke love;
And, “gratitude rais'd by graceful youth
“Soon ripens to love,” is a saying sooth.
The youth had a presence and manly grace
That told his claim to a high born race;
And he had a manner that told no art,
And he had a tongue could toil an heart;
And ever they met from that morning of fear
Allur'd by the memr'y of moments dear;
On the spot where their love began they'd stray,
And love made it Eden's flowery way;
An Eden appearing, an Eden it prov'd,
For repentance lamented where innocence lov'd.
There sigh'd her preserver, confess'd his soft pain,
He languish'd for pity, nor languish'd in vain;
Each sigh her cheeks' crimson, repaying, could prove
That gratitude's blush was the blooming of love.
She lov'd, but unconscious of who had her heart;
Yet he vow'd to explain, and she dreamt not of art:
A day when her sire he should visit he plann'd,
His name to develope, Love's sanction demand:
For a cause there existed, imposing, to claim
A present reserve of his note and his name;
And he gave her a pledge of his honour, the Ring,
Which hallows the pleasures the chaste loves bring;
But ne'er could that ring be of virgin gold,
By treachery form'd in a faithless mould;
When it press'd her finger, where he by art
Convey'd it, that pressure it thrill'd her heart.
And now the hour's awful, and now was her fate,
And Alice blind secrecy mourn'd too late.
The night was all lovely, soft-eyed was the moon,
And the nightingale sung, and the hour was in tune
To all of the sensitive, yielding, and soft;
And he breath'd deep vows, solemn, ardent, and oft;
And he talk'd of the rapture the day would ensure
Which twin'd them in bands, lasting, hallow'd, and pure;
She sigh'd and was soften'd — A moment there is
The ordeal of Nature, our bane or our bliss;
The alternative's heaven or horror's abyss. —
That moment was her's — bless the hand which applies
That shelter for tears to those pitying eyes;
Weep, weep, gentle heart; be thy guard heaven's pale,
Who canst pity poor Alice, the fair and the frail!
Ah, why, fickle moon, for bright chastity hail'd,
Ah, why were thy beams in that moment unveil'd?
Ah, why, plaintive Philomel, did not thy lay
To the night-bird's scream yield, which drives softness away?
But the moon brightly shone; sweet the nightingale sung,
At the moment when o'er her fate's equipoise hung—
Draw a veil o'er that night—to the cot she return'd,
At the threshold she trembled; she blush'd not, but burn'd:
Her bosom that morning was Eden; at night
'Twas as Eden to Eve when accurs'd with new light;
And when the fond blessing paternal was giv'n,
Ere to rest she retir'd, to what pangs it gave birth!
And those eyes, which erst gratefully rais'd were to heav'n,
Abash'd and confounded, were lowered to earth.
That night—'twas the first—O, she shrunk from the eye
Whose fond smiling was won't gentle peace to supply,
Give joy to her heart, to her eyes balmy sleep;
No joy it gave now, and she wak'd but to weep!
Where was merciful hope, for repentance was there?
And Hope follows her footsteps as pardon does pray'r.
Next morning—that morning how dreary its dawn!
With the peace she had lost its destroyer was gone;
Was gone, and for ever—alas! for the maid,
Who, loving, is lost, and when blessing betray'd!
Sweet sex! how maltreated, how cozen'd, and cross'd,
If ye listen to us, ah, how oft are ye lost!
No wills of your own—should some youth be your care,
Unless he pursues, you must pine with despair;
If we love you must listen; if you love, alas!
On your unask'd confession shame's censure must pass.—
And feel in thy bosom, soft, thrilling, and warm,
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It to harmony makes e'en the savage heart beat;
Ah! how canst thou, once having known such a bliss,
Like Judas, betray with a smile and a kiss?
Hast thou seen all the strings and the veins of the heart?
Dost thou know there's an exquisite life in each part?
Hast thou heard at each thrill ev'ry nerve is in play,
That the smallest if wounded will all disarray?
Dost thou mark this fine structure of net-work divine,
Where each mesh has a pulse, and love lives in each line?
And canst thou, possessing it, tear it; yet know
All its millions of pangs, its vibrations of woe?
O! lives there the man? drooping shame, answer yes —
Fiends possess'd human bodies the Scriptures express;
Sure all not ejected were — this marks the breed:
For such deadly destruction's attach'd to the deed —
'Tis to poison the spring of all social delight;
To paralyze purity; confidence blight;
Hope's barrier destroy; honour's landmark remove,
And blast the best image of heaven and love;
And reason identify must with the deed
The mark of the fiend, and the cast of the breed.
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And her's was the foot of the careless fawn;
The scene was inspiring so blooming and bright,
And her mind was a heaven, her heart so light.
O! virtue, whose paintings such pleasure transfuse,
Dipping thy pencil in heavenly hues;
From thy art, though familiar to Alice, the scene
Wore the brightest of bloom, and the gayest of green;
Thy tints give the king-cup and daisy more grace
Than guilt in the rarest exotics can trace;
For guilt, whose perceptions corrodings consume,
Sees grace through the jaundice-hued medium of gloom:
'Twas a gay scene to Alice, and Alice was gay,
But the flow'rs and the fair one all wither'd away!
A stream thro' the mead took a graceful sweep,
Its banks were distant, its bed was deep;
And over it many a year had stood
A crazy, tottering, bridge of wood;
And Alice she tripp'd on that bridge with glee,
But little she reck'd of treachery;
For over that bridge she from childhood pass'd —
But friendship may flatter and fail at last.
The bridge gave way; and a piercing scream
Scarce given e'er Alice was plung'd in the stream;
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Like lightning darted, and sav'd the maid.
A fate with that moment appear'd to move;
Her looks beam'd gratitude, his spoke love;
And, “gratitude rais'd by graceful youth
“Soon ripens to love,” is a saying sooth.
The youth had a presence and manly grace
That told his claim to a high born race;
And he had a manner that told no art,
And he had a tongue could toil an heart;
And ever they met from that morning of fear
Allur'd by the memr'y of moments dear;
On the spot where their love began they'd stray,
And love made it Eden's flowery way;
An Eden appearing, an Eden it prov'd,
For repentance lamented where innocence lov'd.
There sigh'd her preserver, confess'd his soft pain,
He languish'd for pity, nor languish'd in vain;
Each sigh her cheeks' crimson, repaying, could prove
That gratitude's blush was the blooming of love.
She lov'd, but unconscious of who had her heart;
Yet he vow'd to explain, and she dreamt not of art:
A day when her sire he should visit he plann'd,
His name to develope, Love's sanction demand:
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A present reserve of his note and his name;
And he gave her a pledge of his honour, the Ring,
Which hallows the pleasures the chaste loves bring;
But ne'er could that ring be of virgin gold,
By treachery form'd in a faithless mould;
When it press'd her finger, where he by art
Convey'd it, that pressure it thrill'd her heart.
And now the hour's awful, and now was her fate,
And Alice blind secrecy mourn'd too late.
The night was all lovely, soft-eyed was the moon,
And the nightingale sung, and the hour was in tune
To all of the sensitive, yielding, and soft;
And he breath'd deep vows, solemn, ardent, and oft;
And he talk'd of the rapture the day would ensure
Which twin'd them in bands, lasting, hallow'd, and pure;
She sigh'd and was soften'd — A moment there is
The ordeal of Nature, our bane or our bliss;
The alternative's heaven or horror's abyss. —
That moment was her's — bless the hand which applies
That shelter for tears to those pitying eyes;
Weep, weep, gentle heart; be thy guard heaven's pale,
Who canst pity poor Alice, the fair and the frail!
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Ah, why were thy beams in that moment unveil'd?
Ah, why, plaintive Philomel, did not thy lay
To the night-bird's scream yield, which drives softness away?
But the moon brightly shone; sweet the nightingale sung,
At the moment when o'er her fate's equipoise hung—
Draw a veil o'er that night—to the cot she return'd,
At the threshold she trembled; she blush'd not, but burn'd:
Her bosom that morning was Eden; at night
'Twas as Eden to Eve when accurs'd with new light;
And when the fond blessing paternal was giv'n,
Ere to rest she retir'd, to what pangs it gave birth!
And those eyes, which erst gratefully rais'd were to heav'n,
Abash'd and confounded, were lowered to earth.
That night—'twas the first—O, she shrunk from the eye
Whose fond smiling was won't gentle peace to supply,
Give joy to her heart, to her eyes balmy sleep;
No joy it gave now, and she wak'd but to weep!
Where was merciful hope, for repentance was there?
And Hope follows her footsteps as pardon does pray'r.
Next morning—that morning how dreary its dawn!
With the peace she had lost its destroyer was gone;
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Who, loving, is lost, and when blessing betray'd!
Sweet sex! how maltreated, how cozen'd, and cross'd,
If ye listen to us, ah, how oft are ye lost!
No wills of your own—should some youth be your care,
Unless he pursues, you must pine with despair;
If we love you must listen; if you love, alas!
On your unask'd confession shame's censure must pass.—
Thus sung a sad maiden, thro' fondness forlorn,
Who, unveiling her heart, prov'd the victim of scorn.
Who, unveiling her heart, prov'd the victim of scorn.
I scarcely need remark that the word cast is used by the Hindoos to denote the marks which distinguish the several sects of their superstition.
BALLAD.
O, alas! for the maiden
Who sighing must sue;
Her return is derision
Tho' pity her due!
O, shame upon manhood
Enjoying her smart;
While her face ting'd with blushes,
Betrays her sad heart!
Who sighing must sue;
Her return is derision
Tho' pity her due!
O, shame upon manhood
Enjoying her smart;
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Betrays her sad heart!
And can you for ever
Thus treat my fond love?
Should our sex slight your passion
How keen you reprove!
But if love wounds a maiden
Disdain'd she must sigh;
She but owns love to sorrow,
Conceals it to die!
Thus treat my fond love?
Should our sex slight your passion
How keen you reprove!
But if love wounds a maiden
Disdain'd she must sigh;
She but owns love to sorrow,
Conceals it to die!
By the pangs of remorse, yet preserv'd from scorn's tongue,
(Her cheek told her anguish, her form told her shame)
Alice pin'd—more the object of pity than blame.
Her father with sorrow forgave, and conceal'd
What tho' poor made him poorer; to heaven appeal'd
For pardon for her who his hope had alloy'd,
For vengeance on him who that hope had destroy'd.
A boy was the issue of Alice's shame,
Whose birth was her death; on its natal night came
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For pity, nor vainly her meek appeal made;
The sire tho' oppress'd knew the selfish alone
In their own sorrows bury all claims but their own;
For safety who hopes must be eager to save;—
A shelter was pray'd and a shelter he gave.
By his fire, kindly ask'd, see the stranger appears,
And the bread he bestow'd was bedew'd with his tears;
His sorrow she learn'd, and a skill she possess'd,
And her service, officious to thank him, address'd;
The infant she nurs'd as the mother expir'd,
And, e'er miss'd, with her charge from the cottage retir'd:
In vain art and effort her flying to trace,
But a bag and a billet appear'd in her place.
THE BILLET.
“The child will be cherish'd; this gold will ensure“The rank of its father; with patience endure
“The heart pang of parting; for silence alone
“Will ensure the child's welfare, its life, and your own.”
Here ceas'd the Sage, nor could the youth prevail
To gain that night a sequel to the tale;
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Oft dried the tear, nor could he more unfold.
With ardent force the Sage Young Arthur press'd,
With warmth unusual gaz'd on him and bless'd;
Arthur, a foundling, ne'er had father known,
Hubert and Ellen pass'd him for their own;
Childless themselves, and lest the truth should spread,
In a far village they sought other bread;
And by a clue (instructed from the hand
That plac'd the annual gold at their command)
Their change of residence to him convey'd
Who gave the charge, and for his nurture paid.
What made Young Arthur's artless heart beat high
When beams of love illum'd the Sages's eye?
What fill'd that Sage's bosom with alarms
When folding Arthur in his wither'd arms?
Who was that Sage, who happier days had known,
Who mourn'd hope foil'd, but not for ever flown?
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THE SAGE'S HISTORY.
Beauclerc, of reputable race,
In youth rich culture knew;
He'd Heaven to thank for many a grace,
And many a virtue too.
In youth rich culture knew;
He'd Heaven to thank for many a grace,
And many a virtue too.
His parents e're his manhood died;
Youth's sorrows are but brief;
A decent wealth, which want defied,
Allay'd the pangs of grief.
Youth's sorrows are but brief;
A decent wealth, which want defied,
Allay'd the pangs of grief.
He lov'd a maid, he wedded too,
For she was good as fair;
Like oziers twin'd together grew
Their comfort and their care.
For she was good as fair;
Like oziers twin'd together grew
Their comfort and their care.
And long they liv'd, and long they lov'd,
Yet childless; till, at last,
A daughter born their dotage prov'd,
Who, growing, all surpass'd.
Yet childless; till, at last,
A daughter born their dotage prov'd,
Who, growing, all surpass'd.
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And fifteen years of grace she grew;
When death her mother's lot;
Her father's wealth expended too
They tenanted a cot.
When death her mother's lot;
Her father's wealth expended too
They tenanted a cot.
And cheerful labour pass'd the day,
At eve his harp he strung;
His youth's delight, and many a lay
In concert Alice sung.
At eve his harp he strung;
His youth's delight, and many a lay
In concert Alice sung.
For Alice was the hapless fair,
Whose sorrows have been told—
Her father left his cot of care,
And took the witch-left gold.
Whose sorrows have been told—
Her father left his cot of care,
And took the witch-left gold.
Yet kept the secret in his breast,
Dreading the threat'ning given;
And, tho' his bosom heav'd for rest,
His hope was fix'd on heaven.
Dreading the threat'ning given;
And, tho' his bosom heav'd for rest,
His hope was fix'd on heaven.
His dear-lov'd harp slung o'er his back,
A minstrel's life he led;
The joy of others smooth'd his track,
And rais'd his drooping head.
A minstrel's life he led;
The joy of others smooth'd his track,
And rais'd his drooping head.
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At length, of way-worn wand'ring tir'd,
An hamlet fix'd the Sage;
The little wealth his skill acquir'd
Was competence for age.
An hamlet fix'd the Sage;
The little wealth his skill acquir'd
Was competence for age.
And there he found the orphan boy
Who half his heart engross'd;
The other, and his hope of joy,
Were fix'd on him he lost.
Who half his heart engross'd;
The other, and his hope of joy,
Were fix'd on him he lost.
One night, when sitting pensively,
(That orphan boy no more)
A deep groan broke his reverie,
And rous'd him to the door.
(That orphan boy no more)
A deep groan broke his reverie,
And rous'd him to the door.
Low at the threshold lay a man
Whose wounds bled fresh and fast;
The needful care the Sage began,
But soon he breath'd his last.
Whose wounds bled fresh and fast;
The needful care the Sage began,
But soon he breath'd his last.
But e'er he died a tale he told,
For well the Sage he knew;
He was the witch who left the gold,
And stole the infant too.
For well the Sage he knew;
He was the witch who left the gold,
And stole the infant too.
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He told who was the infant's sire,
And told the infant's name;
And where he had convey'd for hire
The heir to love and shame.
And told the infant's name;
And where he had convey'd for hire
The heir to love and shame.
Night-robbers him of life bereav'd,
E'er harden'd guilt was shriv'n;
He look'd repentance, Hope believ'd,
And augur'd him forgiven.
E'er harden'd guilt was shriv'n;
He look'd repentance, Hope believ'd,
And augur'd him forgiven.
The sage, instructed by his tale,
To seek his grandson rov'd;
And found a village in a vale,
And in it all he lov'd.
To seek his grandson rov'd;
And found a village in a vale,
And in it all he lov'd.
A boy, had not his name when known,
His mother's looks of grace
Had told him Arthur was his own,
Now lock'd in his embrace.
His mother's looks of grace
Had told him Arthur was his own,
Now lock'd in his embrace.
But he the secret ne'er betray'd;
Resolv'd no more to roam;
And Arthur's grace and fondness made
A heaven of his home.
Resolv'd no more to roam;
And Arthur's grace and fondness made
A heaven of his home.
| Young Arthur | |