 | Young Arthur |  |
SUBJECT I.
Night.—The Cottage Fire.—A God-send.
Subtle, elastic, flickering, cheering, bright,
The wanton flame aspir'd with playful flight;
Again receding, while, amid the smoke,
Oft as one portion from the body broke,
And nimbly play'd, then vanish'd from the view,
The parent flame, still active to pursue,
Follow'd the track—so often may you 'spy
A group of butterflies, of brilliant dye,
By sunny bank, each volatile as bright,
Sporting—as play'd the fire's inspiring light,
With gameful grace.—The night was cold and drear;
Without the cottage crept mean-fronted fear,
And plunder prowl'd, and murder stole along;
And wandering madness howl'd her piteous song.
And superstition cow'r'd beneath her veil,
While horror whisper'd an appalling tale:
Or from her eyes the sable veil she drew,
Magnified mists, and, through the mirky hue,
Saw visions white, and direful phantoms walk,
And goblins gambol, and lank spectres stalk;
And heard the screech-owl, and the dying groan;
And saw graves open, and beheld—her own.
Within security and ease inclin'd
The brow of labour and of care to bind
With hop-cut tendrils, (as of old 'twas said
With vine-leaves Bacchus crown'd the vig'rous head
Of rosy mirth) for here the brown jug bore
A crown of mantling froth, projecting o'er
The ample brim, and proudly stood between
A sturdy hind, and her who still had been
For ten bless'd years his partner and his pride;
Not less by worth than holy rite allied;
His stretch'd-out limbs his mind at ease declar'd;
The loosen'd knee-strings dangled, and prepar'd
Sport for the kitten, which was frisking near;
Now lightly fixing on the old cat's ear,
Now her tail catching, and each oft-chang'd way
It wav'd, still following, with fantastic play;
While the more sober cat, with eyes half clos'd,
Prov'd by her purr she doted and not doz'd;
Till, angry made by some unlucky claw,
The prostrate kitten trembles 'neath her paw;
Yet, rising, looks if she again may dare,
Sees the paw rais'd, and hears grim tabby swear;
Then gives a gambol, and away she springs
And frisks, fantastical, at Hubert's strings:
Whose red-tipp'd pipe with grateful scent regal'd
His partner mild; its fragrance she inhal'd,
And smil'd, as Hubert would, in wanton play,
Puff in her face, then laugh the joke away:
A well-meant frolic of untutor'd love,
And what pleas'd Hubert, Ellen must approve.
Ellen, whose cheeks display'd the rose's wealth,
By nature painted, and preserv'd by health;
Ellen, whose eyes with winning radiance beam'd,
Whose truth-taught lips with gentlest accents teem'd;
Ellen, whose form, though not exactly grace,
Was to her Hubert all of grace he knew;
'Twas not her form, her fashion, or her face,
Alone, which won his heart and kept it true;
No, 'twas her mind, which, though untaught in youth,
Had heaven's own teaching, tenderness and truth.
Still as they chatted, innocently gay,
The mantling froth dissolv'd like snow away;
The nut-brown liquid, of its fleece once shorn,
Wastes, as the green leaf withers on the thorn.
He, though a hind, gallantly hands the jug
To her, who sips; then, ere a hearty tug
In turn he blithely takes (meanwhile askance
His chasten'd eye seeks her's with tender glance)
He turns the jug, that so his lips may meet
The part her's touch'd, to make the draught more sweet;
She sees the deed, and in her bright'ning eye
Love beams and languishes; a gentle sigh,
Half heav'd and half suppress'd, escapes, to prove
The grateful tenderness of genuine love.
To her his features now new charms unfold,
And of Adonis had she then been told,
She had rank'd for beauty him whose praise so ran
Second to none, except her own dear man.
And now, grown mellow, Hubert long'd to hear
The artless harmony he held so dear:
To hear that tongue its dulcet strains impart
Whose music won, and, winning, kept his heart,
A song he ask'd, a willing smile agrees;
A fresh charg'd pipe he lights, and waits at ease.
Simple the singer, simple was the song;
Such themes to wandering minstrelsy belong;
Two knights, two roses, and a lady bright,
Compos'd the legend, and the swain's delight;
Quaint was the phrase, historical the lay,
And told of civil feuds long pass'd away.
With gentle smile she view'd her own good man,
Then downward look'd, and modestly began.
The wanton flame aspir'd with playful flight;
Again receding, while, amid the smoke,
Oft as one portion from the body broke,
And nimbly play'd, then vanish'd from the view,
The parent flame, still active to pursue,
Follow'd the track—so often may you 'spy
A group of butterflies, of brilliant dye,
8
Sporting—as play'd the fire's inspiring light,
With gameful grace.—The night was cold and drear;
Without the cottage crept mean-fronted fear,
And plunder prowl'd, and murder stole along;
And wandering madness howl'd her piteous song.
And superstition cow'r'd beneath her veil,
While horror whisper'd an appalling tale:
Or from her eyes the sable veil she drew,
Magnified mists, and, through the mirky hue,
Saw visions white, and direful phantoms walk,
And goblins gambol, and lank spectres stalk;
And heard the screech-owl, and the dying groan;
And saw graves open, and beheld—her own.
Within security and ease inclin'd
The brow of labour and of care to bind
With hop-cut tendrils, (as of old 'twas said
With vine-leaves Bacchus crown'd the vig'rous head
Of rosy mirth) for here the brown jug bore
A crown of mantling froth, projecting o'er
The ample brim, and proudly stood between
A sturdy hind, and her who still had been
For ten bless'd years his partner and his pride;
Not less by worth than holy rite allied;
9
The loosen'd knee-strings dangled, and prepar'd
Sport for the kitten, which was frisking near;
Now lightly fixing on the old cat's ear,
Now her tail catching, and each oft-chang'd way
It wav'd, still following, with fantastic play;
While the more sober cat, with eyes half clos'd,
Prov'd by her purr she doted and not doz'd;
Till, angry made by some unlucky claw,
The prostrate kitten trembles 'neath her paw;
Yet, rising, looks if she again may dare,
Sees the paw rais'd, and hears grim tabby swear;
Then gives a gambol, and away she springs
And frisks, fantastical, at Hubert's strings:
Whose red-tipp'd pipe with grateful scent regal'd
His partner mild; its fragrance she inhal'd,
And smil'd, as Hubert would, in wanton play,
Puff in her face, then laugh the joke away:
A well-meant frolic of untutor'd love,
And what pleas'd Hubert, Ellen must approve.
Ellen, whose cheeks display'd the rose's wealth,
By nature painted, and preserv'd by health;
Ellen, whose eyes with winning radiance beam'd,
Whose truth-taught lips with gentlest accents teem'd;
10
Was to her Hubert all of grace he knew;
'Twas not her form, her fashion, or her face,
Alone, which won his heart and kept it true;
No, 'twas her mind, which, though untaught in youth,
Had heaven's own teaching, tenderness and truth.
Still as they chatted, innocently gay,
The mantling froth dissolv'd like snow away;
The nut-brown liquid, of its fleece once shorn,
Wastes, as the green leaf withers on the thorn.
He, though a hind, gallantly hands the jug
To her, who sips; then, ere a hearty tug
In turn he blithely takes (meanwhile askance
His chasten'd eye seeks her's with tender glance)
He turns the jug, that so his lips may meet
The part her's touch'd, to make the draught more sweet;
She sees the deed, and in her bright'ning eye
Love beams and languishes; a gentle sigh,
Half heav'd and half suppress'd, escapes, to prove
The grateful tenderness of genuine love.
To her his features now new charms unfold,
And of Adonis had she then been told,
She had rank'd for beauty him whose praise so ran
Second to none, except her own dear man.
11
The artless harmony he held so dear:
To hear that tongue its dulcet strains impart
Whose music won, and, winning, kept his heart,
A song he ask'd, a willing smile agrees;
A fresh charg'd pipe he lights, and waits at ease.
Simple the singer, simple was the song;
Such themes to wandering minstrelsy belong;
Two knights, two roses, and a lady bright,
Compos'd the legend, and the swain's delight;
Quaint was the phrase, historical the lay,
And told of civil feuds long pass'd away.
With gentle smile she view'd her own good man,
Then downward look'd, and modestly began.
| Young Arthur | |