University of Virginia Library

Pleasure and pain's eternal strife
So mingles in the stream of life,
We scarce can tell, so close they glide,
The taste unmixed of either tide.
Seldom the sweetest draught we sip,
Comes pure and perfect to the lip;
A flavour still remains, to show
How near the bitter waters flow;
And when from those, th' Almighty will
Is pleased our earthly cup to fill,
E'en then the salutary draught
Unqualified is seldom quaffed;
Hope from the dregs of bitterness
Some sweet'ning drops can still express,
And still, with chemic art, produce
From baleful weeds balsamic juice.
Yet, one there is — one cup of woe,
Whence sweet'ning drop can never flow;
For ever filled, and drained for ever,
E'en to the lees, yet ending never.
The waters of that poisoned bowl,
Corrosive, enter to the soul,
With'ring and wasting, day by day,
Peace, hope, enjoyment, life away.
Tho' sometimes still the face may wear
A smiling mask devoid of care,
And carelessly the tongue may jest,
Yet in the chambers of the breast
The heart, the tortured heart around,
A serpent's deadly coil is wound;
Yes— such the never-dying pain,
The bitter sense that must remain
Of injuries, and slight, to those
O'er whom the grave's dark portals close,
To whom we never can atone
By deep contrition's heaviest groan,
No, nor by floods of heart-wrung tears,
Nor by the long, long grief of years,
Nor by the hopeless, changeless gloom,
That shall go with us to the tomb.
Oh! when some heart, warm, true, and kind,
Has lov'd us with affection blind,
And we've repaid that fondness too,
With love as tender and as true,
Yet grieved it oft, with wayward mind
Betrayed to hasty speech unkind,
Repented of as soon as spoken—
How when the mortal thread is broken,
And death hath snatched away from us
Those we have loved, yet injured thus;
How do our faults, once deemed so light,
Start broad and hideous into sight,
While all our hearts ascribed to them
We cease to see, or to condemn.
How easy now (we think) 'twould be,
Things in the light they saw, to see;
To mould by theirs, our tastes and views,
Enjoyments as they chose, to choose;
Or, if a petty difference rose,
No proud remonstrance to oppose,
With gentle words and answer kind,
To soothe the irritated mind.
Could we uncounted millions give,
How cheaply were they paid to live
Over again (with hearts how changed!)—
The years with time's dark shadows ranged:
But the strong current ebbs no more,
Returning to that spectered shore
Then, if remorse appals our view
With injuries of darker hue,
And never voice of pardon here,
From those we've wronged, shall meet our ear;
When strangers by their bed of death,
Have caught the last expiring breath,
The last low word of failing sense;
The last dim look's intelligence,
And we, on whom the dying ray
Should have been shed, far, far away:
Oh! never beam with comfort fraught,
Can shine upon that dreadful thought.

Short preparation Ellen made
For the long pilgrimage, that laid
Before her many a weary mile;
Her new-born hopes, her infant's smile,
(That cordial, powerful to impart
Strength to the weak and faint of heart,)
Courage, and almost strength, bestowed
To brave the hardships of the road.
Hardships, indeed! alone, on foot,
Friendless, and almost destitute,
To parching sun, and ruthless storm,
And dews of night, that tender form
Exposed, from every ruder air
Once guarded with unsleeping care.
Exhausted soon her frugal store,
At many a charitable door,
With falt'ring tongue (to beg unused)
She asked relief, and few refused,
The timid suppliant's meek request,
“A morsel, and a little rest.”
Yet sometimes was the prayer preferred
To one with heart unmoved that heard,
Or granted with ungentle word,
And keen suspicion's rude surprise,
That scanned her with insulting eyes.
Then was she fain, with shrinking dread,
To seek some friendly barn, or shed,
Content with birds or beasts to share
Their shelter from the midnight air;
From man's cold scorn, asylum free,
And from his colder charity.

But once too early on her way
Dark night advanced — far distant lay,
The hamlet she had hoped in sight,
When beamed the last faint rays of light.
Cloudless and bright the moon arose,
One barren prospect to disclose,
Where to the wide horizon's bound,
The dark blue vault descended round,
Unbroken, far as eye could strain, —
As when on ocean's shoreless plain,
The curtains of that starry pall,
Like a vast tent, encircling fall.
One smooth expanse of down was seen,
Where many a cone-shaped hillock green,
With tuft of yellow blossoms crowned,
Dotted the velvet sward around:
And frequent patch of wild thyme spread
O'er the soft turf, its fragrant bed;
And many a flower minute and low,
Enwoven with that purple glow,
Decked the green carpet, with a dye
Of Nature's own embroidery,
A tissue of enamell'd bloom,
Unmatched in Persia's richest loom.
No breath of life, no living thing,
Jarred the still air with sound, or wing;—
Her task of daily labour done,
The wild bee to her hive was gone;
The lark was in her grassy nest;
The bleating flocks were all at rest,
Close heaped the tufted furze beside,
Or spread like scattered snow-flakes wide.

It was a picture of repose
So perfect, as if Nature chose,
By mortal eyes unseen, alone
To keep a Sabbath of her own.
And Ellen's eyes, in happier days,
Had viewed it with enraptured gaze.
But now, by long fatigue deprest,
To her that lonely scene of rest
Imparted none but feelings drear,
Forebodings dark, and shudd'ring fear.
Still on with feeble steps she crept;
Sweetly th' unconscious infant slept
In the tired arms, whose stiff'ning grasp,
Could scarce their precious burthen clasp:
Soon must she sink — perhaps to lie
Unseen on that cold earth — to die
Far, far from home, and human eye:
Her father! — to his tender ear
No tongue her last farewell shall bear;
No hand the nameless grave shall show
Where lies his once dear Ellen low—
'Twas just — she had deserved her fate;
For she had left him desolate,
And now, unpitied and alone,
Here should she breathe her dying groan.
But must her sins be visited
On the poor infant's guiltless head?
“Oh pitying Heav'n! — hark! hark!—'twas near,
That blessed sound that smote her ear—
Again — that long, deep measured stroke—
The morning's second hour it spoke
From steeple clock — like Heaven's reply
Vouchsafed to her despairing cry.
It nerved her heart, it gave her strength
To tread the mile of weary length,
That brought the wand'rer once again
In view of the abodes of men.
Oh! 'twas a moment of delight,
When the first roof arose in sight—
A sound of thrilling joy to her
Was the rude bark of village cur.
But thro' the straggling street 'twere vain
Entrance at such lone hour to gain.
The village swarm, like bees at rest,
Was hived in ev'ry straw-roofed nest,
And not a twinkling light was gleaming
From unclosed door, or lattice streaming;
On chequered panes the moon-beams slept,
And on the low white walls, where crept,
Fringing the far-projecting eaves
With long festoons of clust'ring leaves,
The unpruned vine, from sun and shower
That hid the martin's clay-built bower.
There, with the dews of night bespread,
The white rose hung her languid head;
Her fair soft leaves, like modest vest,
Close folded o'er her virgin breast,
And hollyhock with martial pride
Was gaily flaunting by her side,
Contrasting with his crimson glow
Her aspect meek, and cheek of snow;
But his large buds were drooping too,
Heavy and saturate with dew.
Lifting the light leaves on the wall,
No wand'ring breeze was heard to creep—
Peace, so profound, pervaded all,
The very flowers seemed fast asleep,—
But summer morning's early smile
Would waken soon the sons of toil;
'Till then, she crept beneath the shade,
By porch of close-clipt laurel made.
Her weary head the threshold prest,
The babe was cradled on her breast;
And soon her heavy eye-lids fell,
Weighed down by slumber's leaden spell.

Such was the sight, on which surprise
And pity fixed a matron's eyes;
She, at whose door (the first unclosed)
The mother and her babe reposed.
Kind was the hand, from that cold bed,
That raised the weary pilgrim's head,
And gentle was the voice, that spoke
Soft soothing words, as Ellen woke.
And soon the homely table, spread
With coarse white cloth, and milk and bread,
Invited the long-fasting guest;
And the kind hostess “smiled and prest,”
And round the simm'ring kettle, fanned
The new lit flame, with winnowing hand.
The infant in her arms she took
With anxiously maternal look,
And gently hushed its fretful cry,
With sound of soothing lullaby.
And (soon prepared) the wayworn guest
A coarse and homely pillow prest—
Homely — but yielding sweet perfume
Of lavender's imprisoned bloom;
And Ellen's grateful feelings said,
Never was couch so tempting spread
With pall of state for monarch's head.

Long were her slumbers — long and deep,
But fev'rish dreams disturbed her sleep:
The body rested, not the mind,
For words and sentences disjoined
She murmured low — with lab'ring sighs
Her bosom heaved, and from her eyes
(Closed as their fringed curtains were)
Stole down her cheek the straggling tear—
Stole down a cheek whose sudden flush
Burned bright with fever's crimson blush.
Alas! that youthful cheek no more
With healthful crimson mantled o'er;
It was a transient, fearful brightness,
That varied now its deadly whitness—
Health paints not thus — impending doom
Comes masked in that insidious bloom.

When Ellen's eyes unclosed at last,
The sun his sultry noon had past,
And near at hand, with watchful eye,
The rustic dame was waiting by,
Stilling the babe's impatient cry.
Soon the awakened mother's breast,
Lulled that impatient cry to rest:
But time wore fast — she must away
In haste, to reach ere close of day
A port of rest — she hoped the last,
Ere her long weary journey past,
She might behold the welcome sight
Of her own home. — “Yet not to-night,”
Prest her kind hostess — “see! the sun
Has more than half his journey run,
And thou wilt scarce arrive in sight
Of shelter ere he sets to-night;—
Tarry till morn, a widow's cheer,
A cordial welcome, waits thee here—
Thou art not rested yet — tho' deep,
Troubled and broken was thy sleep:
I heard thee moan — I saw thee start,
And prayed to Him in whom we live,
That he would pour into thy heart
That peace which he alone can give.
Think, if thou wilt, a mother's care
Detains thee with its tender prayer—
Tho' childless now my life's decay,
Leafless and bare its winter day,
One on my happy autumn smiled,
Fair as thyself — my only child.
She left me — cruel arts betrayed
My simple Hannah, and she strayed,
And from the hour this peaceful door
She left, I never saw her more.
'Twas told me, that neglect and woe,
And pining want, had laid her low;
That at the last, she turned again
To seek her home — Alas! in vain—
Tender she was, from earliest years,
Nursed with a thousand anxious fears,
Yet oft there glowed upon her cheek
A bloom like thine — a rich, bright streak—
Oh! that dear form was all too weak,
Alone the long, long way to tread
On charity's cold pittance fed,
Too oft the niggard boon denied—
And so my Hannah drooped and died,
And strangers smoothed the lonely bed
That pillows now her gentle head.
I sought that humble grave — I cried
My child! my child! — but none replied;
I kissed the damp hard earth — I prest
To that cold heap my throbbing breast,
Close, close! — as if its living glow
Could warm the senseless dust below;—
But God forgave my frantic grief—
He pitied — he vouchsafed relief:
His storms and billows o'er me past,
But, blessed be His name — at last
He raised me from the depths of woe,
His word to trust, His peace to know—
Forgive me; but old age is prone
To dwell on sorrows it has known,
And young and helpless, as thou art,
As was my child, a mother's heart
Finds in thy fate, a sympathy
That wakens all its cares for thee.
Tarry to-night — to-morrow's ray
Shall speed thee parting on thy way.”

Needs not to tell how Ellen's ear
Inclined, that simple tale to hear;
Needs not to tell, how deep a sigh
She gave to Hannah's memory,
Nor how her heart with sharpest thorn
Was pricked, when childless age forlorn
Spoke of a lost, offending child,
With fond, forgiving love so mild.
She staid that night — and when the day
Returning, summoned her away,
The widow's blessing with her went,
A farewell simply eloquent.

Rest had not strung the pilgrim's frame
With fresher powers — more slow became,
More tedious ev'ry step she trod,
The progress of her lonely road;
And when the next day's sun arose,
So near her home — so near the close
Of her long travel — that dear thought
Came, scarce with gleam of comfort fraught.
Her heart with many fears was sick —
Sad recollections crowded thick,
And near, and nearer as she drew,
Strong and more strong her terrors grew—
“Oh! should I die with home in view—
Or should I reach the door at last,
When all the weary way is past,
What cold repulse may meet me there,
Or (worse than all) what change may care,
What fatal change may time have wrought—
Oh! there's distraction in the thought—
I must not think — that thought again,
That dreadful thought! would turn my brain—
I must go on — the die is cast—
My God! forsake me not at last.”

At length — but not till evening's light
Was blending with the shades of night—
At length the farthest hill she gained,
At length its woody steep attained;
And on her native vale below
Looked down, from its o'er-arching brow.
One ling'ring beam of solar fire
Just tipped with light the village spire,
While the low dwellings scattered round,
By close encircling shades embrowned,
Half lost in evening's dusky hue,
Were faintly traced upon her view;
But, marked in Mem'ry's faithful chart,
The landscape lived in Ellen's heart,
And fancy coloured into light,
The objects dimly shap'd by sight.
Nor thicket there, nor path, nor cot,
But was a well-remembered spot;
A witness in that peaceful scene,
How pure, how happy, she had been:
The skylark's song of liberty,
Than hers, less innocent and free;
And than her fairy form less light,
The kid that bounded from her sight.
Oft had she climb'd th' ascending shade,
That warmly screened the sheltered glade,
To gaze, where laved its northern side,
The heavy swell of ocean's tide,
Wild contrast to the peaceful scene
That reigned behind that mountain screen.
High woody hills, north, east, and west,
Look'd down upon its tranquil breast;
A little hollow, green and bright,
With tufted shades, and dwellings white.
Oft had she lov'd that path to tread,
Narrow and deep, like torrent's bed,
Where mountain-ash fantastic flung
Its boughs, with scarlet clusters hung—
A fav'rite haunt, she oft had strayed
In that thick copse-wood's tangled shade—
There, ling'ring on the rustic bridge,
Embedded in that mossy ridge,
She'd loitered many an hour, to hear
The gurgling fall of streamlet near,
Beneath a birch-tree's weeping shade,
That gush'd in miniature cascade,
As down the rocky bank it fell,
Collected in a crystal well,
And feath'ring, with its diamond spray,
The ivy-wreaths that crossed its way.

Yet onward, in that dusky spot,
Tall elm-trees shade her nurse's cot—
Her dear old nurse! — and does she live?
She, she at least, will still forgive
Her poor lost child. — Tho' all should spurn
The wretched prodigal's return—
Tho' former friends, with altered eye
Averted, pass unkindly by;
One faithful heart will still rejoice;
If Marg'ret lives, one faithful voice
Will whisper in the outcast's ear
A welcome, humble and sincere.
Close by the house of God, was placed
The pastor's dwelling, thick embraced
In guardian shades, whose dusky hue
Half hid the lowly cot from view.

So long was Ellen's sad survey,
So had she lingered on her way,
With dark forebodings, and dismay,
Augmenting still, that when she gain'd
The gate, long left — deep silence reigned
Upon the cottage and the fold,
For half the waning night was told,
And the pale moon, with full-orbed light,
Rode high in heaven: — “In such a night,”
So calm, so fair, so heav'nly bright,
Had Ellen left her father's roof,
The peaceful shelter of her youth—
E'en thro' that very gate she passed—
E'en here one ling'ring look she cast
On her forsaken home — that look—
That agonizing glance! half shook
Her fatal purpose, but too late:
Terror assumed the voice of fate;
She passed — her better angel shed
One tender, pitying tear, and fled.
Now on that long-forsaken spot
Once more she stood, — the dear low cot,
On which the silv'ry moon-beams played,
Still peeped from its surrounding shade,
And all the well-remembered scene,
Looked still as lovely and serene,
As if the ruthless hand of care
Had wrought no change or havoc there.
The clust'ring roses, as of yore,
Profusely blossomed round the door,
And crossed the little casement still,
In garlands, such as Ellen's skill
Had gaily twined in former days,—
Herself as fair: — the moon's pale rays,
Just on the parlour-casement fell,
Where Ellen's heart remember'd well,
Her father sat; — 'twas darkness all—
No light upon the chamber wall,
Flashed from within, — like Ellen's fate,
All there was dark and desolate.
She listened — so intently still,
So breathless, that the fluttered thrill
Of her own heart she seemed to hear;
Save that, no sound of life was near.
Trembling, in fearful pause she stood,
Cold damps her shudd'ring brow bedew'd—
Oh! dark suggestion of despair—
Had Death, indeed, been busy there?
Yet, wherefore so? — day long had closed,
And all within the cot reposed;
While guilt its fearful vigil keeps,
Perchance the dear old Pastor sleeps—
Aye, sleeps — but where? what peaceful bed
Pillows his venerable head?
“Hence, dreadful thought! Oh, righteous Heav'n!
Spare, spare him, till I die forgiven.”
She dares not call — she dares not knock —
She dares not brave the dreaded shock;
Yet come it must, and soon — Oh, hark!
Well, well, she knows that short quick bark—
'Tis Carlo's! guarding, as of yore,
With faithful watch, his master's door.
With hostile mien, he growls at first,
But soon remembered feelings burst
Upon his heart: tho' darkest night,
(The film of age) has quenched his sight,
True to the past, his faithful ear
Has caught that gentle voice, so dear;
And forth he feebly creeps, to greet
Her late return — and licks her feet,
And, with low whine, would fain express
His dumb delight. — She stoops to press
His poor old head, with fond caress;
The sharer of her childish plays,
The fav'rite of her youthful days,
And now the first rejoicing friend
To greet her at her journey's end.

Long round the quiet cot she strayed
Irresolute; nor dared invade
Its rest profound. At length a ray
Broke on her mind; — a simple way,
That dread suspense to terminate.
Near where she stood, the garden gate,
Just on the church-yard path unclosed;
Beneath that holy turf, reposed
Her mother's dust, — a simple stone,
Graved with her name and age alone,
Told where she lay; with vacant space
Beneath, for after time to trace
Another name, — and tears would rise,
Prophetic tears! — to Ellen's eyes,
When on that vacant spot she gazed,
And many a prayer to Heav'n she raised,
That long its gracious will would spare
One parent to her filial care,—
Ah! little did her heart presage,
She should forsake him in his age.

Once more, to seek that humble tomb,
The trembling daughter turn'd — her doom,
The confirmation of her fear,
(If all too true) was written there;
And soon her noiseless footsteps trod,
Once more, the consecrated sod.
Beneath the venerable shade
Of an old Lime, her mother laid,—
Smooth was the verdant turf, that spread
Its dewy pall above her head;
But now — was it the shadowy light,—
The flick'ring moon, — that mocked her sight?
Or had some recent cause defaced
The even sod? What hand had placed
Those blossoms on the grave? Her own
Had often decked it thus. The stone
Faced not her view — its further side
Bore the Inscription, — agony supplied
A desp'rate impulse — a despairing haste—
Yet, for a moment, o'er her eyes she plac'd
A trembling hand, close prest, as if to gain,
'Twixt her and fate, a respite short and vain—
Short, shudd'ring interval! she fronts the stone—
The cold hand drops — one glance, and all is known:
One cry, one fearful cry, of wild despair
Bursts from her heart — another name is there!

A villager, whose dewy way,
The church-yard cross'd at break of day,
Stopt, as he passed its grassy mounds,
Whence (faintly heard) low plaintive sounds
Assailed his ear: — he paused — 'twas nigh—
A wailing babe's distressful cry
Smote on his heart — that feeble moan
Guided his footsteps to the stone
Where Ellen lay, — but life was fled,
And the poor wand'rer's weary head
Had found, at last, a resting-place
Upon her father's grave; her face
Was turned on earth, as if to hide
The bitter pang with which she died:
And the poor babe's cold form was pressed
To its dead mother's colder breast.
Old Carlo close beside was laid
Resting, near Ellen's cheek, his head,
As if the poor old servant staid
To guard the living and the dead.

As on that piteous sight he gazed,
The peasant's heart was moved, — he raised
The infant in his arms, and tried
To still its mournful wail, and cried,
“A cold, hard cradle hast thou found,
Poor babe! Thy mother's sleep is sound—
Thou canst not wake her now — but cease
Thy piteous cry: peace, young one! peace!
With my own urchin shalt thou share
His cradle, and his mother's care—
To all thy wants, my Susan shall attend,
And, while I live, thou shalt not want a friend.”

The rustic whose unpolished tongue exprest
The gen'rous dictates of a feeling breast,
Was Ellen's foster-brother, Marg'ret's son.
Soon thro' the hamlet whispered tidings run
Of Ellen's fate, and reached the ear, at last,
Of her poor nurse, — who, rushing wildly past
The silent crowd, beheld her darling's form,
(Like some pale lily, broken by the storm,)
Prostrate on earth. She flung herself beside
The lifeless form, and kiss'd its cheek and cried,
“My child! my child! and is it come to this?
Is this the tender greeting, the fond kiss
I kept for thy return? My faded flower!
And have I lived, indeed, to see this hour?
Has Marg'ret lived to see this sight of woe?—
To see the darling of her heart laid low
On this cold earth? — Oh! rude and rugged bed
For the beloved one, whose infant head
Was pillowed on my heart: with what fond care
'Twas my delight to smooth that soft fair hair
In glossy curls. — There's dust upon them now,
On those bright ringlets — on that ivory brow
I've kissed so oft — and those sweet lips! — hath death
Sealed them for ever? — shall the innocent breath
Never unclose them more? — My child! my child!
Who hath done this? — what cruel arts beguiled
My tender lamb to quit her peaceful fold?
Was it for this, the weary days I told
Of thy long absence — that my heart would burn
In fond expectance of my child's return:—
And she is come at last; and there she lies:—
Oh! I had fondly hoped, these poor old eyes
Her gentle hand should close. But that is past—
My blossom on the cold hard world was cast,
The tempest beat on her defenceless head,
And crushed her to the earth — and she is dead.
Thy father has not lived to see this day,
And he is happy — why did Marg'ret stay?
Oh! take me, dearest! to thy peaceful rest,
And sleep once more on Marg'ret's faithful breast.”

Untutor'd strains, home pictures these,
Which none but home-bred hearts can please—
To such, perhaps, the simple lay,
A tender int'rest may convey,
With present joys in unison,
Or yet more touchingly in tone
With mem'ry of enjoyments flown.
And she, whose Lyre (faint echoing) still
Sends feebly forth, one last low thrill,
Would fain attune to sweeter lays,
A Requiem for departed days—
Would fain of social blessings tell,
She knows — alas! she knew so well.
But sorrow mars the strain she wakes,
Her hand in nerveless languor shakes,
Her tears are falling on the string,
And jarring sounds discordant ring.