 | Young Arthur |  |
109
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,
110
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.
111
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;
112
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:
113
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!
114
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;
115
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.
| Young Arthur | |