University of Virginia Library

I

While winged Love his pinions folded in the Moat House by the hill,
In the city there was anger, doubt, distrust, and thoughts of ill;
For his kinsmen, hearing rumours of the life the lovers led,
Wept, and wrung their hands, and sorrowed—‘Better that the lad were dead
Than to live thus—he, the son of proudest man and noblest earl—
Thus in open sin with her, a nameless, shameless, foreign girl.’
(Ever when they thus lamented, 'twas the open sin they named,
Till one wondered whether sinning, if less frank, had been less blamed.)
‘'Tis our duty to reclaim him—mate him to a noble bride
Who shall fitly grace his station, and walk stately by his side—
Gently loose him from the fetters of this siren fair and frail
(In such cases time and absence nearly always will prevail).
He shall meet the Duke's fair daughter—perfect, saintly Lady May—
Beauty is the surest beacon to a young man gone astray!
Not at all precipitately, but with judgment sure and fine,
We will rescue and redeem him from his shameful husks and swine.
So—his uncle's long been ailing (gout and dropsy for his sins)—
Let that serve for pretext; hither bring the youth—his cure begins.’
So they summoned him and welcomed, and their utmost efforts bent
To snatch back a brand from burning and a soul from punishment—
Sought to charm him with their feastings, each more sumptuous than the last,
From his yearning recollections of his very sinful past—
Strove to wipe his wicked doings from his memory's blotted page
By the chaster, purer interests of the ball-room and the stage.
And for Lady May—they hinted to the girl, child-innocent,
That her hand to save the sinner by her Saviour had been sent,
That her voice might bring his voice her Master's triumph choir to swell,
And might save a man from sorrow and a human soul from hell.
So she used her maiden graces, maiden glances, maiden smiles,
To protect the erring pilgrim from the devil's subtle wiles—
Saw him daily, sent him letters, pious verses by the score,
Every angel's trap she baited with her sweet religious lore—
Ventured all she knew, not knowing that her beauty and her youth
Were far better to bait traps with than her odds and ends of truth.
First he listened, vain and flattered that a girl as fair as she
Should be so distinctly anxious for his lost humanity,
Yet determined no attentions, even from the Lady May,
Should delay his home-returning one unnecessary day.
But as she—heart-wrung with pity for his erring soul—grew kind,
Fainter, fainter grew the image of his sweetheart left behind;
Till one day May spoke of sorrow—prayed him to reform—repent,
Urged the festival in heaven over every penitent;
Bold in ignorance, spoke vaguely and low-toned of sin and shame,
And at last her voice, half breathless, faltered, broke upon his name,
And two tears fell from her lashes on the roses at her breast,
Far more potent in their silence than her preaching at its best.
And his weak soul thrilled and trembled at her beauty, and he cried,
‘Not for me those priceless tears: I am your slave—you shall decide.’
‘Save your soul,’ she sighed. ‘Was ever man so tempted, tried, before?
It is yours!’ and at the word his soul was lost for evermore.
Never woman pure and saintly did the devil's work so well!
Never soul ensnared for heaven took a surer road to hell!
Lady May had gained her convert, loved him, and was satisfied,
And before the last leaves yellowed she would kneel down as his bride.
She was happy, and he struggled to believe that perfidy
Was repentance—reformation was not one with cruelty,
Yet through all congratulations, friends' smiles, lovers' flatteries,
Lived a gnawing recollection of the lost love harmonies.
In the day he crushed it fiercely, kept it covered out of sight,
But it held him by the heart-strings and came boldly out at night:
In the solemn truthful night his soul shrank shuddering from its lies,
And his base self knew its baseness, and looked full in its false eyes.
In the August nights, when all the sky was deep and toneless blue,
And the gold star-points seemed letting the remembered sunlight through,
When the world was hushed and peaceful in the moonlight's searching white,
He would toss and cast his arms out through the silence and the night
To those eyes that through the night and through the silence came again,
Haunting him with the persistence and the passion of their pain.
‘Oh, my little love—my sweetheart—oh, our past—our sweet love-day—
Oh, if I were only true—or you were only Lady May!’
But the sunshine scared the vision, and he rose once more love-warm
To the Lady May's perfections and his own proposed reform.
Coward that he was! he could not write and break that loving heart:
To the worn-out gouty kinsman was assigned that pleasing part.
‘Say it kindly,’ said her lover, ‘always friends—I can't forget—
We must meet no more—but give her tenderest thought and all regret;
Bid her go back to the convent—she and I can't meet as friends—
Offer her a good allowance—any terms to make amends
For what nought could make amends for—for my baseness and my sin.
Oh, I know which side the scale this deed of mine will figure in!
Curse reform!—she may forget me—'tis on me the burdens fall,
For I love her only, solely—not the Lady May at all!’
‘Patience,’ said the uncle, ‘patience, this is but the natural pain
When a young man turns from sinning to the paths of grace again.
Your wild oats are sown—you're plighted to the noble Lady May
(Whose estates adjoin your manor in a providential way).
Do your duty, sir, for surely pangs like these are such as win
Pardon and the heavenly blessing on the sinner weaned from sin.’