 | Ellen Fitzarthur |  |
v
[I boast no song in magic wonders rife]
“I boast no song in magic wonders rife,
But yet, oh Nature! is there nought to prize,
Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?”
Campbell.
But yet, oh Nature! is there nought to prize,
Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?”
Campbell.
Parnassus! to thy heights sublime,
Thy awful steep, I may not climb
Where rays of living light surround
Thy sacred fane, with laurels crowned,
And gushes with melodious flow
Thy fountain, from its source below.
Thy awful steep, I may not climb
Where rays of living light surround
Thy sacred fane, with laurels crowned,
And gushes with melodious flow
Thy fountain, from its source below.
I may not look with eagle gaze
Unshrinking, on those living rays;
I may not soar on eagle's wing,
To drink of that celestial spring;
Reserv'd for bolder hands than mine
The amaranthine flowers to twine
That on its borders glow;
But strays there from that sacred source,
No wand'ring rill, with silver course
That seeks the vale below?
Where pensile willows, on the brink
Of its pure crystal, stoop to drink,
And the low violet's perfume
Betrays where lurks her purple bloom.
Unshrinking, on those living rays;
I may not soar on eagle's wing,
To drink of that celestial spring;
Reserv'd for bolder hands than mine
The amaranthine flowers to twine
That on its borders glow;
But strays there from that sacred source,
No wand'ring rill, with silver course
That seeks the vale below?
vi
Of its pure crystal, stoop to drink,
And the low violet's perfume
Betrays where lurks her purple bloom.
There might I haunt;—enough for me
Far off, the laurell'd mount to see,
To breathe with deep inhaling sense
The floating odours wafted thence,
To catch the distant melody
Of golden harps, resounding high —
There might I haunt, and haply there
Of wild-flowers, weave a chaplet fair,
Such as the virgin brow of Taste
Might wear, by artless Feeling placed;
Oh! might I to such meed aspire,
Blest were thy strains, my simple lyre!
Companion of my childhood thou,
Friend of my happy youth; and now
Kind soother of the days, o'ercast
With sad remembrance of the past.
But should the world's approving smile
(Reserved for happier minstrel's toil)
Withhold its sunny light from thee,
Submissive to the stern decree,
We'll hush the unsuccessful strain,
And seek our silent shades again.
Far off, the laurell'd mount to see,
To breathe with deep inhaling sense
The floating odours wafted thence,
To catch the distant melody
Of golden harps, resounding high —
There might I haunt, and haply there
Of wild-flowers, weave a chaplet fair,
Such as the virgin brow of Taste
Might wear, by artless Feeling placed;
Oh! might I to such meed aspire,
Blest were thy strains, my simple lyre!
Companion of my childhood thou,
Friend of my happy youth; and now
Kind soother of the days, o'ercast
With sad remembrance of the past.
But should the world's approving smile
(Reserved for happier minstrel's toil)
vii
Submissive to the stern decree,
We'll hush the unsuccessful strain,
And seek our silent shades again.
Cold is the fondly partial ear
That would have listened to my lay;
And closed the eyes, whose suffrage dear
Had smiled the world's cold looks away.
But still in solitude and shade
Be thy low sounds, my lyre! essayed;
No longer with presumptuous aim,
One kindly fost'ring glance to claim,
But that on life's dark lonely stream,
Thou still wilt shed a cheering gleam,
Smoothe its dark passage to the deep,
And lull me to my latest sleep.
That would have listened to my lay;
And closed the eyes, whose suffrage dear
Had smiled the world's cold looks away.
But still in solitude and shade
Be thy low sounds, my lyre! essayed;
No longer with presumptuous aim,
One kindly fost'ring glance to claim,
But that on life's dark lonely stream,
Thou still wilt shed a cheering gleam,
Smoothe its dark passage to the deep,
And lull me to my latest sleep.
1
ELLEN FITZARTHUR.
CANTO I.
In Malwood Vale the shades of night
Were peacefully descending;
And closing, with the closing light
The peasant's toil was ending.
The cottage hearth blazed cheerily,
The twinkling light was burning,
Th' expecting wife, more wearily
Her lagging wheel was turning,
Oft list'ning with accustomed ear
Acute, the well-known step to hear —
It comes — and smiles of welcome sweet
The husband and the father greet.
Contending for the first caress,
Around his eager children press:
One climbs into his arms — another
Clings smiling round his knee;
A third is lifted by its mother
Its father's face to see:
The cradled innocent, his youngest treasure,
Holds out its dimpled arms, and crows for pleasure.
Were peacefully descending;
And closing, with the closing light
The peasant's toil was ending.
The cottage hearth blazed cheerily,
The twinkling light was burning,
Th' expecting wife, more wearily
Her lagging wheel was turning,
Oft list'ning with accustomed ear
Acute, the well-known step to hear —
It comes — and smiles of welcome sweet
The husband and the father greet.
Contending for the first caress,
Around his eager children press:
2
Clings smiling round his knee;
A third is lifted by its mother
Its father's face to see:
The cradled innocent, his youngest treasure,
Holds out its dimpled arms, and crows for pleasure.
Were all in Malwood Vale so blest?
Were such light hearts, and tranquil rest
As filled that night the peasant's cot,
Of all in Malwood Vale the lot?
No — there was one, for whom the Sun
Went down in clouds and sadness,
For whom no heart, when day was done,
Looked out with smiles of gladness:
For whose return, no eye was gazing,
For whom no cheerful hearth was blazing,
Whose dreary and forsaken home,
Was dark and silent as the tomb.
Were such light hearts, and tranquil rest
As filled that night the peasant's cot,
Of all in Malwood Vale the lot?
No — there was one, for whom the Sun
Went down in clouds and sadness,
For whom no heart, when day was done,
Looked out with smiles of gladness:
For whose return, no eye was gazing,
For whom no cheerful hearth was blazing,
Whose dreary and forsaken home,
Was dark and silent as the tomb.
The rising moon's unclouded ray
Streamed on his locks of silver gray,
And from the hearth, a dying beam
Shot upward, and with sickly gleam
Lit his pale face; revealing there
The furrowed lines of time and care.
With head declined in mournful thought
The old man sat — as mem'ry brought
Fresh o'er his mind, the faded train
Of blissful hopes, indulged in vain,
Of joys, that shed o'er life's decay
A mellow tint, an evening ray.
Vain retrospect! and sad as vain,
But sorrow courts the fruitless pain,
Her recollections and her tears
The relics of departed years.
Streamed on his locks of silver gray,
And from the hearth, a dying beam
Shot upward, and with sickly gleam
3
The furrowed lines of time and care.
With head declined in mournful thought
The old man sat — as mem'ry brought
Fresh o'er his mind, the faded train
Of blissful hopes, indulged in vain,
Of joys, that shed o'er life's decay
A mellow tint, an evening ray.
Vain retrospect! and sad as vain,
But sorrow courts the fruitless pain,
Her recollections and her tears
The relics of departed years.
And was she gone, his only child,
His darling Ellen! she who smiled
So artlessly, could she deceive him?
And could she have the heart to leave him?
Should he no more behold her? — never?—
She was the sun-beam of his age,
The star of life's dark pilgrimage,
And was she gone, and gone for ever?
Still in its burnished frame, behold
Her pictured likeness, as of old
She used his widowed arms to bless
In days of infant loveliness:—
The bright blue eyes, whose laughing glance
Thro' clustered ringlets peeped askance;
The lips, two parted cherries seen,
(Ripe fruit) with milk-white buds between;
One dimpled arm, encircling prest
Round Carlo's neck, and shaggy breast,
On his broad head, so soft and sleek,
The other props one rosy cheek.
Years, since the artist's cunning skill
Those playmates drew, have passed away,
But Carlo keeps his stations still
By that same hearth, grown old and gray:—
His spotted head, no longer sleek
As when it propt that rosy cheek,
But his old heart, too faithful still,
For time, with palsying touch, to chill.
Oft resting on his master's knee
His head, with faithful sympathy
And thought intent, he seems to trace
The care-worn furrows of his face,
Till that mute eloquence of eye
Obtains attention, and reply,
That murmurs low, in plaintive tone,
“Yes, old companion! she is gone.”
There hangs her unstrung lute, and there
Before him stands her vacant chair,
And there the book, with mark between,
As last she left it, still is seen.
No busy hand had dared displace
Of these, of her, the faintest trace,
And round the little chamber still
Was many a work of infant skill,
And many a flower and landscape, traced
In later years, by Ellen's taste.
Her hand shall wake the lute no more,
Her voice again shall never pour
For him its silver notes;
Yet oft he sits and seems to hear,
For oft in fancy's list'ning ear
The fond remembrance floats.
But if a crackling cinder drops,
He starts! — th' unreal music stops,
And all again is gloom:—
He casts round the deserted walls
A mournful glance, that soon recalls
His truant fancy home.
The poor old man, whose age's fate
Was thus forlorn and desolate,
To many a grateful heart endeared,
By all the hamlet was revered,
For in their griefs, his pitying heart
Had ever claimed a father's part,
And now, when to his lot it fell
To prove the woes he soothed so well,
All shared their aged pastor's grief,
All would have proffered kind relief,
But none might pluck the poisoned dart
From a forsaken father's heart;—
For earthly power th' attempt were vain,
God only could assuage the pain.
Ten years thrice told, his shepherd care
Had led his flock thro' pastures fair,
And taught their pleasant paths to stray
Where streams of living waters play.
And many a swain, whose early youth
His watchful zeal had trained to truth,
Now prayed for him, whose pious care
Had taught the sacred use of prayer.
Small was his store, his gifts profuse,
For Heaven supplied the slender cruise,
Which never yet was known to fail
When mis'ry told her piteous tale.
To him for counsel and relief,
Came care and sickness, want and grief;
The sinner at his warning turned,
His conscious heart within him burned,
Felt and obeyed the call of Heaven,
“Believe, repent, and be forgiven!”
His darling Ellen! she who smiled
So artlessly, could she deceive him?
And could she have the heart to leave him?
Should he no more behold her? — never?—
She was the sun-beam of his age,
The star of life's dark pilgrimage,
And was she gone, and gone for ever?
Still in its burnished frame, behold
Her pictured likeness, as of old
4
In days of infant loveliness:—
The bright blue eyes, whose laughing glance
Thro' clustered ringlets peeped askance;
The lips, two parted cherries seen,
(Ripe fruit) with milk-white buds between;
One dimpled arm, encircling prest
Round Carlo's neck, and shaggy breast,
On his broad head, so soft and sleek,
The other props one rosy cheek.
Years, since the artist's cunning skill
Those playmates drew, have passed away,
But Carlo keeps his stations still
By that same hearth, grown old and gray:—
His spotted head, no longer sleek
As when it propt that rosy cheek,
But his old heart, too faithful still,
For time, with palsying touch, to chill.
Oft resting on his master's knee
His head, with faithful sympathy
And thought intent, he seems to trace
The care-worn furrows of his face,
Till that mute eloquence of eye
Obtains attention, and reply,
5
“Yes, old companion! she is gone.”
There hangs her unstrung lute, and there
Before him stands her vacant chair,
And there the book, with mark between,
As last she left it, still is seen.
No busy hand had dared displace
Of these, of her, the faintest trace,
And round the little chamber still
Was many a work of infant skill,
And many a flower and landscape, traced
In later years, by Ellen's taste.
Her hand shall wake the lute no more,
Her voice again shall never pour
For him its silver notes;
Yet oft he sits and seems to hear,
For oft in fancy's list'ning ear
The fond remembrance floats.
But if a crackling cinder drops,
He starts! — th' unreal music stops,
And all again is gloom:—
He casts round the deserted walls
A mournful glance, that soon recalls
His truant fancy home.
6
Was thus forlorn and desolate,
To many a grateful heart endeared,
By all the hamlet was revered,
For in their griefs, his pitying heart
Had ever claimed a father's part,
And now, when to his lot it fell
To prove the woes he soothed so well,
All shared their aged pastor's grief,
All would have proffered kind relief,
But none might pluck the poisoned dart
From a forsaken father's heart;—
For earthly power th' attempt were vain,
God only could assuage the pain.
Ten years thrice told, his shepherd care
Had led his flock thro' pastures fair,
And taught their pleasant paths to stray
Where streams of living waters play.
And many a swain, whose early youth
His watchful zeal had trained to truth,
Now prayed for him, whose pious care
Had taught the sacred use of prayer.
Small was his store, his gifts profuse,
For Heaven supplied the slender cruise,
7
When mis'ry told her piteous tale.
To him for counsel and relief,
Came care and sickness, want and grief;
The sinner at his warning turned,
His conscious heart within him burned,
Felt and obeyed the call of Heaven,
“Believe, repent, and be forgiven!”
One earthly love he still confest,
One tie, the purest and the best,
That bound a widowed father's care
To one sweet blossom, frail and fair —
She whose young life's first clouded ray
Beamed on a dark and troubled day,
The guiltless messenger of death,
Bequeathed with love's expiring breath —
She who in smiling infancy
Had clasped his neck, and climbed his knee,
Whose first imperfect words, dispelling
The silence of his widowed dwelling,
Had wakened in his heart the tone,
That vibrates to that sound alone.
Oh, moment of parental pride!
When first those lisping accents tried
The purest hymn, which earth can raise,
An infant's, to its Maker's praise.
Sweet was the task her steps to guide,
When first they totter'd by his side,
Sustain'd at first with broad firm band,
Till soon, the little clasping hand
One finger held, and bolder grown,
A few short steps were tried alone,
And soon unguided, firm and free,
They ranged in wider liberty.
Then — sweet companion of his walk! —
She prattled her imperfect talk,
A broken language of her own,
Distinct to parents' ear alone.
Or bounding far, like playful fawn,
O'er blue-bell path, and daisied lawn,
Brought to his care her flowery store
To treasure, while she sought for more;
A promised kiss the trifler's lure,
To make th' important trust secure,
And never miser's golden hoard,
Than Ellen's weeds, was safer stored.
Ye who have felt the balmy bliss,
Th' endearing bribe of childhood's kiss;
Ye who have felt its powerful charm
Your sternest purpose to disarm,
Your wisest systems to dissolve,
To melt away your best resolve;
Ye know — and ye alone can tell —
The magic of that tender spell.
One tie, the purest and the best,
That bound a widowed father's care
To one sweet blossom, frail and fair —
She whose young life's first clouded ray
Beamed on a dark and troubled day,
The guiltless messenger of death,
Bequeathed with love's expiring breath —
She who in smiling infancy
Had clasped his neck, and climbed his knee,
Whose first imperfect words, dispelling
The silence of his widowed dwelling,
Had wakened in his heart the tone,
That vibrates to that sound alone.
8
When first those lisping accents tried
The purest hymn, which earth can raise,
An infant's, to its Maker's praise.
Sweet was the task her steps to guide,
When first they totter'd by his side,
Sustain'd at first with broad firm band,
Till soon, the little clasping hand
One finger held, and bolder grown,
A few short steps were tried alone,
And soon unguided, firm and free,
They ranged in wider liberty.
Then — sweet companion of his walk! —
She prattled her imperfect talk,
A broken language of her own,
Distinct to parents' ear alone.
Or bounding far, like playful fawn,
O'er blue-bell path, and daisied lawn,
Brought to his care her flowery store
To treasure, while she sought for more;
A promised kiss the trifler's lure,
To make th' important trust secure,
And never miser's golden hoard,
Than Ellen's weeds, was safer stored.
9
Th' endearing bribe of childhood's kiss;
Ye who have felt its powerful charm
Your sternest purpose to disarm,
Your wisest systems to dissolve,
To melt away your best resolve;
Ye know — and ye alone can tell —
The magic of that tender spell.
Oh! years too swiftly passing by,
Of dear engaging infancy,
How closely round the heart-strings press
Your tender claims of helplessness!
But when a widowed father's heart
Must doubly feel a parent's part;
When his, the love that must supply
A mother's fond and watchful eye,
A mother's hopes, a mother's fears,
A mother's thousand anxious cares,
(If such, indeed, can be supplied
On earth, by any love beside,)
What melting words can half express
That mingled tide of tenderness!
With such fond care, such anxious pleasure,
Fitzarthur watched his orphan treasure,
Till budding childhood's dimpled face
Matured to woman's riper grace,
And the sweet flower so fondly nursed,
In full and fair perfection burst,
Dear transcript of those buried charms
So early sever'd from his arms,
Yes — in her daughter's form revived,
Again his first dear Ellen lived —
Hers that dark brow, that forehead fair,
Those dove-like eyes, and glossy hair;
Hers that sweet voice, which but to hear
Might pain or sorrow's self beguile,
So low, so musical, and clear,
And hers, that dear enchanting smile.
Oft as he gazed, the shadowy train
Of years long past returned again,
So fresh, so fair, th' abstracted mind
To fancy's spell her powers resigned:
A lovely dream! a soothing spell
That mocked reality so well,
'Twas almost truth — almost, alas!—
Yet real joys like shadows pass,
And dreams that half recall again
Their short existence, are not vain.
E'en so she bloom'd in vernal pride
His youthful heart's selected bride,
When first she breathed that fond “for ever!”
Which only death had power to sever —
E'en so she looked, she moved, she spoke,
But that soft sound th' illusion broke:
“Father!” it cried — with waking start
He rose and caught her to his heart.
Of dear engaging infancy,
How closely round the heart-strings press
Your tender claims of helplessness!
But when a widowed father's heart
Must doubly feel a parent's part;
When his, the love that must supply
A mother's fond and watchful eye,
A mother's hopes, a mother's fears,
A mother's thousand anxious cares,
(If such, indeed, can be supplied
On earth, by any love beside,)
What melting words can half express
That mingled tide of tenderness!
10
Fitzarthur watched his orphan treasure,
Till budding childhood's dimpled face
Matured to woman's riper grace,
And the sweet flower so fondly nursed,
In full and fair perfection burst,
Dear transcript of those buried charms
So early sever'd from his arms,
Yes — in her daughter's form revived,
Again his first dear Ellen lived —
Hers that dark brow, that forehead fair,
Those dove-like eyes, and glossy hair;
Hers that sweet voice, which but to hear
Might pain or sorrow's self beguile,
So low, so musical, and clear,
And hers, that dear enchanting smile.
Oft as he gazed, the shadowy train
Of years long past returned again,
So fresh, so fair, th' abstracted mind
To fancy's spell her powers resigned:
A lovely dream! a soothing spell
That mocked reality so well,
'Twas almost truth — almost, alas!—
Yet real joys like shadows pass,
11
Their short existence, are not vain.
E'en so she bloom'd in vernal pride
His youthful heart's selected bride,
When first she breathed that fond “for ever!”
Which only death had power to sever —
E'en so she looked, she moved, she spoke,
But that soft sound th' illusion broke:
“Father!” it cried — with waking start
He rose and caught her to his heart.
Unruffled flowed with noiseless way
Their stream of life — each passing day,
And ev'ry season's course renewing
Some peaceful joy, some flow'ret strewing;
For where the heart's warm sunshine glows,
Its clime no change of season knows.
Pleasure but yields a faint perfume,
A perishing, imperfect bloom,
And happiness, of heav'nly birth,
But droops and languishes on earth;
Scarce budding on this mortal sphere,
Its fruit can never ripen here.
Content — a plant of humbler growth —
Hardier than these, partakes of both.
Heav'n still the fruitful seed must sow,
And teach th' incipient germ to grow;
And faith and patience must sustain
The infant plant with sun and rain;
And charity, and meekness too,
Must bathe it with refreshing dew;
But nurtured thus, the healthy root
Strikes deep, and yields perennial fruit;
Nor storm, nor chilling frost has power
To rob its boughs of leaf or flower,
Lovely alike their clusters sweet,
Through winter snows, and summer heat;
Fitzarthur's humble home it found,
Congenial soil, and fenced it round
So thick, no thorn of worldly care
Pierced to the simple inmates there.
Their stream of life — each passing day,
And ev'ry season's course renewing
Some peaceful joy, some flow'ret strewing;
For where the heart's warm sunshine glows,
Its clime no change of season knows.
Pleasure but yields a faint perfume,
A perishing, imperfect bloom,
And happiness, of heav'nly birth,
But droops and languishes on earth;
Scarce budding on this mortal sphere,
Its fruit can never ripen here.
12
Hardier than these, partakes of both.
Heav'n still the fruitful seed must sow,
And teach th' incipient germ to grow;
And faith and patience must sustain
The infant plant with sun and rain;
And charity, and meekness too,
Must bathe it with refreshing dew;
But nurtured thus, the healthy root
Strikes deep, and yields perennial fruit;
Nor storm, nor chilling frost has power
To rob its boughs of leaf or flower,
Lovely alike their clusters sweet,
Through winter snows, and summer heat;
Fitzarthur's humble home it found,
Congenial soil, and fenced it round
So thick, no thorn of worldly care
Pierced to the simple inmates there.
Sweet was their summer-evening walk,
Tender and sweet their social talk,
Returning by the silv'ry light
Of summer noon's unclouded night,
When with uplifted hearts and eyes
They viewed the wonders of the skies,
The sparkling, countless orbs that shine
Suspended there, by hand divine.
Then thro' the fields of space they ranged
With holy awe, and interchanged
Sweet confidence of pious hope,
Conjecture high, whose boundless scope
(Chastised by rev'rence) soared sublime
In faith, beyond the grave and time.
Then spoke they of the transport sweet,
When friends, long severed friends, shall meet;
When kindred souls, on earth disjoined,
Shall meet, from earthly dross refined,
Their mortal cares and frailties o'er,
Shall mingle hearts, to part no more.
But for this hope, this blessed stay!
When earthly comforts fade away,
And o'er the death-bed of a friend
In speechless agony we bend;
One, with whose life, our life's best part
Was closely woven — heart to heart —
Bereaved of whom, the world appears
One desert wilderness of tears,
Where never beam of cheering light
Shall pierce the long and wintry night—
But for the strength, those hopes can give,
Who could behold such sight and live?
Oh! who could close th' expiring eye,
Nor wish with those they love to die,
Who could receive their parting breath
Nor long to follow them in death?
But we have better hopes — we know
How short this pilgrimage of woe—
We know that our Redeemer lives! —
We trust the promises he gives;
We know they never can decay,
Tho' heav'n and earth should pass away —
That when the world's foundations shake
At the last trumpet's aweful breath,
The dead who sleep in Him, shall wake
Victorious over time and death.
Tender and sweet their social talk,
Returning by the silv'ry light
Of summer noon's unclouded night,
13
They viewed the wonders of the skies,
The sparkling, countless orbs that shine
Suspended there, by hand divine.
Then thro' the fields of space they ranged
With holy awe, and interchanged
Sweet confidence of pious hope,
Conjecture high, whose boundless scope
(Chastised by rev'rence) soared sublime
In faith, beyond the grave and time.
Then spoke they of the transport sweet,
When friends, long severed friends, shall meet;
When kindred souls, on earth disjoined,
Shall meet, from earthly dross refined,
Their mortal cares and frailties o'er,
Shall mingle hearts, to part no more.
But for this hope, this blessed stay!
When earthly comforts fade away,
And o'er the death-bed of a friend
In speechless agony we bend;
One, with whose life, our life's best part
Was closely woven — heart to heart —
Bereaved of whom, the world appears
One desert wilderness of tears,
14
Shall pierce the long and wintry night—
But for the strength, those hopes can give,
Who could behold such sight and live?
Oh! who could close th' expiring eye,
Nor wish with those they love to die,
Who could receive their parting breath
Nor long to follow them in death?
But we have better hopes — we know
How short this pilgrimage of woe—
We know that our Redeemer lives! —
We trust the promises he gives;
We know they never can decay,
Tho' heav'n and earth should pass away —
That when the world's foundations shake
At the last trumpet's aweful breath,
The dead who sleep in Him, shall wake
Victorious over time and death.
Sweet are those blessed hopes! — and well
The pious father loved to dwell
On the high theme, with her who hung
In rapt attention on his tongue,
Her eyes upraised in tearful light,
With beams of holy fervour bright.
'Twas thus he trained her pliant youth
With lessons of eternal truth.
But Winter, with his sullen reign,
Still brought enjoyment in his train —
Enjoyment, with instruction fraught —
Sweet lessons! by affection taught;
The teacher, fond! indulgent! mild!
Grateful and apt the duteous child.
The pious father loved to dwell
On the high theme, with her who hung
In rapt attention on his tongue,
15
With beams of holy fervour bright.
'Twas thus he trained her pliant youth
With lessons of eternal truth.
But Winter, with his sullen reign,
Still brought enjoyment in his train —
Enjoyment, with instruction fraught —
Sweet lessons! by affection taught;
The teacher, fond! indulgent! mild!
Grateful and apt the duteous child.
When rain without is pelting fast,
And bitter blows the northern blast,
Shutter and curtain's friendly skreen
Drawn close, exclude the wintry scene,
And dancing shadows on the wall
With the red hearth's broad flashes fall,
There the bright kettle, (Susan's pride!)
Makes bubbling music — close beside
(I'th' chimney nook serenely dozing)
Sits puss, her humdrum song composing —
There, China's fragrant leaves are steaming —
There, Carlo on the hearth is dreaming,
Disturbed perchance by ruthless thought
Of prowling rat, pursued and caught;
Or, if a gust of rushing wind
Roars, in the chimney's shaft confin'd,
He starts — th' imagined danger eyes
With ears erect in keen surprise;
Half rises, from the sound to fly,
But as its fitful murmurs die,
Lulled as they lull, his terrors cease,
And down he sinks, outstretched in peace.
And bitter blows the northern blast,
Shutter and curtain's friendly skreen
Drawn close, exclude the wintry scene,
And dancing shadows on the wall
With the red hearth's broad flashes fall,
There the bright kettle, (Susan's pride!)
Makes bubbling music — close beside
(I'th' chimney nook serenely dozing)
Sits puss, her humdrum song composing —
There, China's fragrant leaves are steaming —
There, Carlo on the hearth is dreaming,
16
Of prowling rat, pursued and caught;
Or, if a gust of rushing wind
Roars, in the chimney's shaft confin'd,
He starts — th' imagined danger eyes
With ears erect in keen surprise;
Half rises, from the sound to fly,
But as its fitful murmurs die,
Lulled as they lull, his terrors cease,
And down he sinks, outstretched in peace.
When by that hearth, so brightly blazing,
The father on his child was gazing,
While she, the wintry hours to cheer
With native woodnotes charmed his ear,
(Notes to that partial ear excelling
The loftiest strains from science swelling,)
Or light of heart, in youthful glee
With converse innocent and free
Beguiled the time, or turned the page
Of holy writ, or learning sage,
Or caught, inspired, the glowing theme
Of lofty bard, or minstrel's dream,
Till in her eyes a kindling fire
Sparkled reflected from the lyre —
Oh! then, while gazing on her face,
He watched each wildly varying grace,
Till silent rapture's tender tear
Dimmed on his eyes, a sight so dear;
With grateful love, his heart o'erflowing,
To Heav'n with pious transport glowing,
Poured out its speechless tribute there,
In praise no language could declare.
The father on his child was gazing,
While she, the wintry hours to cheer
With native woodnotes charmed his ear,
(Notes to that partial ear excelling
The loftiest strains from science swelling,)
Or light of heart, in youthful glee
With converse innocent and free
Beguiled the time, or turned the page
Of holy writ, or learning sage,
Or caught, inspired, the glowing theme
Of lofty bard, or minstrel's dream,
17
Sparkled reflected from the lyre —
Oh! then, while gazing on her face,
He watched each wildly varying grace,
Till silent rapture's tender tear
Dimmed on his eyes, a sight so dear;
With grateful love, his heart o'erflowing,
To Heav'n with pious transport glowing,
Poured out its speechless tribute there,
In praise no language could declare.
If there is happiness below,
In such a home she's shrined —
The human heart can never know
Enjoyment more refined,
Than where that sacred band is twined
Of filial and parental ties,
That tender union, all combined
Of Nature's holiest sympathies!
In such a home she's shrined —
The human heart can never know
Enjoyment more refined,
Than where that sacred band is twined
Of filial and parental ties,
That tender union, all combined
Of Nature's holiest sympathies!
'Tis friendship in its loveliest dress!
'Tis love's most perfect tenderness!
All other friendships may decay,
All other loves may fade away;
Our faults or follies may disgust
The friend in whom we fondly trust,
Or selfish views may intervene,
From us his changeful heart to wean;
Or we ourselves may change, and find
Faults to which once our love was blind;
Or ling'ring pain, or pining care,
At length may weary friendship's ear,
And love may gaze with altered eye,
When beauty's young attractions fly.
But in that union, firm and mild,
That binds a parent to his child,
Such jarring chords can never sound,
Such painful doubts can never wound.
Tho' health and fortune may decay,
And fleeting beauty pass away —
Tho' grief may blight, or sin deface
Our youth's fair promise, or disgrace
May brand with infamy and shame,
And public scorn, our blasted name —
Tho' all the fell contagion fly
Of guilt, reproach, and misery;
When love rejects, and friends forsake,
A parent, tho' his heart may break,
From that fond heart will never tear
The child whose last retreat is there!
Oh union, purest, most sublime!
The grave itself, but for a time
Thy holy bond shall sever;
His hand who rent, shall bind again
With firmer links thy broken chain,
To be complete for ever!
'Tis love's most perfect tenderness!
All other friendships may decay,
All other loves may fade away;
18
The friend in whom we fondly trust,
Or selfish views may intervene,
From us his changeful heart to wean;
Or we ourselves may change, and find
Faults to which once our love was blind;
Or ling'ring pain, or pining care,
At length may weary friendship's ear,
And love may gaze with altered eye,
When beauty's young attractions fly.
But in that union, firm and mild,
That binds a parent to his child,
Such jarring chords can never sound,
Such painful doubts can never wound.
Tho' health and fortune may decay,
And fleeting beauty pass away —
Tho' grief may blight, or sin deface
Our youth's fair promise, or disgrace
May brand with infamy and shame,
And public scorn, our blasted name —
Tho' all the fell contagion fly
Of guilt, reproach, and misery;
When love rejects, and friends forsake,
A parent, tho' his heart may break,
19
The child whose last retreat is there!
Oh union, purest, most sublime!
The grave itself, but for a time
Thy holy bond shall sever;
His hand who rent, shall bind again
With firmer links thy broken chain,
To be complete for ever!
Ah Ellen! could thy fancy rove
From such a home of peace and love?
No — not one glance, one roving thought
The busy world's allurements sought —
No youthful fancy learned to stray
From that dear peaceful home away,
Within whose safe, secluded bound,
An earthly Paradise she found.
But Paradise itself was lost
When woman's path the tempter crost —
And still the wily serpent's art,
Beguiles confiding woman's heart.
From such a home of peace and love?
No — not one glance, one roving thought
The busy world's allurements sought —
No youthful fancy learned to stray
From that dear peaceful home away,
Within whose safe, secluded bound,
An earthly Paradise she found.
But Paradise itself was lost
When woman's path the tempter crost —
And still the wily serpent's art,
Beguiles confiding woman's heart.
20
CANTO II.
There is a joy supremely sweet,
Without, when wintry tempests beat,
In turning from their angry din
To sunny smiles, and peace within.
To wake at night, when driving rain
Beats on the clatt'ring window-pane —
From downy pillow safe and warm,
To listen to the outward storm,
Breathe a short prayer to Heaven, for those
On whom the inclement season blows;
With humbly grateful hearts, confess
The thousand blessings we possess,
The mercies that we cannot number;
Then turn again to balmy slumber.
Without, when wintry tempests beat,
In turning from their angry din
To sunny smiles, and peace within.
To wake at night, when driving rain
Beats on the clatt'ring window-pane —
From downy pillow safe and warm,
To listen to the outward storm,
Breathe a short prayer to Heaven, for those
On whom the inclement season blows;
With humbly grateful hearts, confess
The thousand blessings we possess,
The mercies that we cannot number;
Then turn again to balmy slumber.
'Twas April, but the sun had set
In many a wintry cloud,
And round the cottage, cold and wet
The wintry storm blew loud —
But all within was gay and bright,
For Ellen talked and smiled,
And fondly dwelt Fitzarthur's sight
Upon his lovely child.—
And louder as the tempest grew,
To the warm hearth more close they drew,
And brighter stirred the cheerful fire,
And piled the blazing faggot higher,
And Ellen reached her lute, and flung
Her hand across its chords, and sung
In lively measure, silv'ry clear,
The strains her father loved to hear.
In many a wintry cloud,
And round the cottage, cold and wet
The wintry storm blew loud —
21
For Ellen talked and smiled,
And fondly dwelt Fitzarthur's sight
Upon his lovely child.—
And louder as the tempest grew,
To the warm hearth more close they drew,
And brighter stirred the cheerful fire,
And piled the blazing faggot higher,
And Ellen reached her lute, and flung
Her hand across its chords, and sung
In lively measure, silv'ry clear,
The strains her father loved to hear.
“Hark! how the tempest roars,
Sinking and swelling;
Hark! how the torrent pours,
Round our low dwelling.
Sinking and swelling;
Hark! how the torrent pours,
Round our low dwelling.
“Hark! how the distant waves,
Rolling asunder,
Where the wild ocean raves,
Pour their deep thunder.
Rolling asunder,
Where the wild ocean raves,
Pour their deep thunder.
22
“Without, let the angry storm
Spend its vain din;
Our cheerful hearth, bright and warm,
Blazes within.
Spend its vain din;
Our cheerful hearth, bright and warm,
Blazes within.
“The bosom is nearest,
Our haven of rest,
From eyes we love dearest
Fond love is exprest.
Our haven of rest,
From eyes we love dearest
Fond love is exprest.
“Our day calmly closes,
In joys pure and deep,
And peace strews with roses
The pillow of sleep.
In joys pure and deep,
And peace strews with roses
The pillow of sleep.
“And his eye still is waking
To guard us from ill,
At the noise of whose speaking
The tempest is still.”
To guard us from ill,
At the noise of whose speaking
The tempest is still.”
She paused — the lively measure died,
A few uncertain notes she tried,
And soon in softer, sadder strain
Her voice and lute resumed again.
A few uncertain notes she tried,
And soon in softer, sadder strain
Her voice and lute resumed again.
23
“What horrors, oh Heaven! at this moment surround
The perishing wretches at sea;
Thick darkness above them, wild waters around,
And no refuge, no hope, but in Thee!
The perishing wretches at sea;
Thick darkness above them, wild waters around,
And no refuge, no hope, but in Thee!
“How many a heart, e'er the dawning of light,
May be cold in that turbulent deep!
How many an eye may be fated to-night
In its dark troubled waters to sleep!
May be cold in that turbulent deep!
How many an eye may be fated to-night
In its dark troubled waters to sleep!
“The wife shall look out for her husband in vain,
The mother shall watch for her son;
No voice of fond welcome shall greet them again,
Their toils and their voyage are done.
The mother shall watch for her son;
No voice of fond welcome shall greet them again,
Their toils and their voyage are done.
“They are gone to their rest, the short conflict is o'er,
And shipwrecks and storms shall assail them no more;
They are gone to their rest, but our tears must be shed
For the mourners who live to lament for the dead.”
And shipwrecks and storms shall assail them no more;
They are gone to their rest, but our tears must be shed
For the mourners who live to lament for the dead.”
The song abruptly ceased — a sound
Of voices, in the blast half drowned,
Approached; and, nearer as it came,
Called loudly on Fitzarthur's name;
Distress and haste were in the tones
Of that loud cry; and feeble moans,
As the old Pastor turned to hear,
Struck indirectly on his ear,
Confus'dly mingled with the wail
That sobbed in the subsiding gale.
And soon th' unclosing door displayed
A rugged group, whose vent'rous trade,
Daily with boat and net was plied
On the near ocean's foaming tide,
One in their sinewy arms they bore,
Whose eyes seemed closed to wake no more,
But for his low and feeble plaint,
That murmured faintly, and more faint.
Of voices, in the blast half drowned,
Approached; and, nearer as it came,
Called loudly on Fitzarthur's name;
24
Of that loud cry; and feeble moans,
As the old Pastor turned to hear,
Struck indirectly on his ear,
Confus'dly mingled with the wail
That sobbed in the subsiding gale.
And soon th' unclosing door displayed
A rugged group, whose vent'rous trade,
Daily with boat and net was plied
On the near ocean's foaming tide,
One in their sinewy arms they bore,
Whose eyes seemed closed to wake no more,
But for his low and feeble plaint,
That murmured faintly, and more faint.
A gallant vessel, tempest tost,
That night was stranded on their coast;
Above her sides the breakers dashed,
Around her livid lightnings flashed,
Darkly revealing through the gloom
The horrors of a watery tomb.
The cry of perishing despair
Was heard by those on shore, but there
In pow'rless sympathy they stood,
No boat might stem that roaring flood.
Dreadful! to hear such heart-wrung cry,
Without the means, the pow'r to save;
Dreadful! with land and help so nigh,
To perish in a watery grave.
Long with despair and fate they strive
In vain — the furious surges drive
Closer and firmer on the rock
The shatter'd bark. — That dreadful shock
Has seal'd her doom — she splits! she splits!
Her gaping side the flood admits:
That fearful cry was death — 'tis past,
And they are gone — it was their last;
And o'er their heads the roaring surge
Rings out the seaman's stormy dirge.
One only of that hapless band
Was doom'd with life to reach the land;
Close round a floating spar he clung,
Till the returning billows flung
Their living burthen on the beach,
Haply within the timely reach
Of human aid, for ebbing life
Had half resign'd its desp'rate strife,
And the next fast retreating wave
Had swept him to a wat'ry grave.
But friendly hands were near: they bore
The shipwreck'd wand'rer to the shore,
Gasping and faint; for the rude shock
That dash'd him on that flinty rock,
Had left him stunn'd and bleeding there.
The fishermen, with tender care
Uprais'd him, and with short debate,
As they sustain'd his helpless weight,
Consulted at whose friendly door
They best might needful aid implore.
Their cabins were at hand — but no —
What aid could indigence bestow,
Such as the stranger's urgent need
Required; one roof was near, indeed,
Where entrance and relief were free
To ev'ry child of misery.
There was the stranger's home, and there
With careful haste their charge they bear,
And their rough voices, deep and strong,
Were those that broke on Ellen's song.
That night was stranded on their coast;
Above her sides the breakers dashed,
Around her livid lightnings flashed,
Darkly revealing through the gloom
The horrors of a watery tomb.
The cry of perishing despair
Was heard by those on shore, but there
25
No boat might stem that roaring flood.
Dreadful! to hear such heart-wrung cry,
Without the means, the pow'r to save;
Dreadful! with land and help so nigh,
To perish in a watery grave.
Long with despair and fate they strive
In vain — the furious surges drive
Closer and firmer on the rock
The shatter'd bark. — That dreadful shock
Has seal'd her doom — she splits! she splits!
Her gaping side the flood admits:
That fearful cry was death — 'tis past,
And they are gone — it was their last;
And o'er their heads the roaring surge
Rings out the seaman's stormy dirge.
One only of that hapless band
Was doom'd with life to reach the land;
Close round a floating spar he clung,
Till the returning billows flung
Their living burthen on the beach,
Haply within the timely reach
Of human aid, for ebbing life
Had half resign'd its desp'rate strife,
26
Had swept him to a wat'ry grave.
But friendly hands were near: they bore
The shipwreck'd wand'rer to the shore,
Gasping and faint; for the rude shock
That dash'd him on that flinty rock,
Had left him stunn'd and bleeding there.
The fishermen, with tender care
Uprais'd him, and with short debate,
As they sustain'd his helpless weight,
Consulted at whose friendly door
They best might needful aid implore.
Their cabins were at hand — but no —
What aid could indigence bestow,
Such as the stranger's urgent need
Required; one roof was near, indeed,
Where entrance and relief were free
To ev'ry child of misery.
There was the stranger's home, and there
With careful haste their charge they bear,
And their rough voices, deep and strong,
Were those that broke on Ellen's song.
Short prayer was needful, to obtain
The succour, never asked in vain
Of him, whose peaceful home, to rest
Now welcomed its unconscious guest.
With tearful pity, Ellen eyed
The stranger's drooping form, and sighed,
And to herself she thought, “Oh Heav'n!
To my fond wishes had'st thou given
A friend, a brother to possess;
What tears of anxious tenderness
I might have wept, when far away
His wand'ring steps were doom'd to stray,
The sport, perhaps, of stormy seas,
And winds, and perils such as these.
Of gentle blood this stranger seems —
Perhaps some anxious sister dreams
Of him whom wayward fate has led,
Far, far, in distant lands to tread —
Perhaps a sister's anxious eye
Looks forth, th' expected bark to spy
Returning to his native shore,
Of him who may return no more —
Perhaps a mother's heart may beat
With hope her long lost son to greet;
Ere now perhaps, a wife prepares
The welcome of her fondest cares.
Long shall they watch and wait in vain —
He never may return again,
Yet care — if pitying care can save —
May still redeem him from the grave.”
The succour, never asked in vain
27
Now welcomed its unconscious guest.
With tearful pity, Ellen eyed
The stranger's drooping form, and sighed,
And to herself she thought, “Oh Heav'n!
To my fond wishes had'st thou given
A friend, a brother to possess;
What tears of anxious tenderness
I might have wept, when far away
His wand'ring steps were doom'd to stray,
The sport, perhaps, of stormy seas,
And winds, and perils such as these.
Of gentle blood this stranger seems —
Perhaps some anxious sister dreams
Of him whom wayward fate has led,
Far, far, in distant lands to tread —
Perhaps a sister's anxious eye
Looks forth, th' expected bark to spy
Returning to his native shore,
Of him who may return no more —
Perhaps a mother's heart may beat
With hope her long lost son to greet;
Ere now perhaps, a wife prepares
The welcome of her fondest cares.
28
He never may return again,
Yet care — if pitying care can save —
May still redeem him from the grave.”
And days and weeks of tender care,
And gentle tending, nursed him there —
For he was one, whose harassed frame
From foreign fields of conflict came,
Languid and weak, and many a scar
(The recent characters of war)
He bore, and ill his strength could stand
This shipwreck on his native land.
Doubtful and ling'ring was the strife,
Tenacious youth, maintained for life,
But it prevailed — the livid hue
Of death from his pale cheek withdrew,
And health's rekindling brilliancy
Illum'd once more his languid eye,
But gratitude, with tender light,
Tempered his glances, keen and bright.
Ah, Ellen! fly that dang'rous gaze,
Beware its false, bewild'ring rays —
Alas! poor bird, the serpent spell
Has fixed its simple prey too well,
And soon, too soon, thy heedless wing
Shall drop within the charmed ring.
And gentle tending, nursed him there —
For he was one, whose harassed frame
From foreign fields of conflict came,
Languid and weak, and many a scar
(The recent characters of war)
He bore, and ill his strength could stand
This shipwreck on his native land.
Doubtful and ling'ring was the strife,
Tenacious youth, maintained for life,
But it prevailed — the livid hue
Of death from his pale cheek withdrew,
And health's rekindling brilliancy
Illum'd once more his languid eye,
But gratitude, with tender light,
Tempered his glances, keen and bright.
Ah, Ellen! fly that dang'rous gaze,
Beware its false, bewild'ring rays —
29
Has fixed its simple prey too well,
And soon, too soon, thy heedless wing
Shall drop within the charmed ring.
When to the wand'rer of the wave,
Fitzarthur's cot a refuge gave,
Scarce yet had ventured to appear
The earliest primrose of the year;
But primrose blossom, fragrant May,
And sheeted bloom of orchard gay,
Had flourish'd fair, and passed away,
And summer's riper glow succeeding,
Had reigned, and was in turn receding,
And from the chaplet on her brow,
The last pale rose was fading now;
Yet ling'ring still De Morton stayed,
Nor yet had fixed the hour of parting,
For at that sound, so long delayed,
Fond tears to Ellen's eyes were starting,
Nor she alone would fain avert
The cherished stranger's late adieu:
The good old Pastor's trusting heart,
With kind reluctance, feared it too.
With easy art, the specious guest
Had crept into that honest breast,
Adapting to the spirit there,
Words, looks, and taste with cautious care.
Companion of the old man's walk,
Or studious hours, in serious talk,
Oft would he pour, with seeming truth,
The feelings of ingenuous youth;
Oft would he speak, with seeming awe,
Of truths divine, and moral law,
With such a sense of heav'nly grace,
As beamed reflected in his face;
Till tears of wonder and delight
Obscured the good old Pastor's sight,
And then he thought, “Heav'n's will be done!
Yet, were I bless'd with such a son! —
To such, could I bequeath in death,
With a fond father's latest breath,
Her, for whose sake my heart is cleaving
Too closely to the world I'm leaving;
Who will protect, when I am gone,
The poor forlorn, deserted one!
Oh! sinful thought! that God whose care,
Thro' many a danger's ‘hidden snare,’
Thro' all life's chequered pilgrimage,
Has led me on from youth to age;
Whose word has been his servant's stay —
His star by night, his cloud by day —
He will protect, sustain, and bless
My Ellen when she's fatherless.”
Fitzarthur's cot a refuge gave,
Scarce yet had ventured to appear
The earliest primrose of the year;
But primrose blossom, fragrant May,
And sheeted bloom of orchard gay,
Had flourish'd fair, and passed away,
And summer's riper glow succeeding,
Had reigned, and was in turn receding,
And from the chaplet on her brow,
The last pale rose was fading now;
Yet ling'ring still De Morton stayed,
Nor yet had fixed the hour of parting,
For at that sound, so long delayed,
Fond tears to Ellen's eyes were starting,
Nor she alone would fain avert
The cherished stranger's late adieu:
The good old Pastor's trusting heart,
With kind reluctance, feared it too.
30
Had crept into that honest breast,
Adapting to the spirit there,
Words, looks, and taste with cautious care.
Companion of the old man's walk,
Or studious hours, in serious talk,
Oft would he pour, with seeming truth,
The feelings of ingenuous youth;
Oft would he speak, with seeming awe,
Of truths divine, and moral law,
With such a sense of heav'nly grace,
As beamed reflected in his face;
Till tears of wonder and delight
Obscured the good old Pastor's sight,
And then he thought, “Heav'n's will be done!
Yet, were I bless'd with such a son! —
To such, could I bequeath in death,
With a fond father's latest breath,
Her, for whose sake my heart is cleaving
Too closely to the world I'm leaving;
Who will protect, when I am gone,
The poor forlorn, deserted one!
Oh! sinful thought! that God whose care,
Thro' many a danger's ‘hidden snare,’
31
Has led me on from youth to age;
Whose word has been his servant's stay —
His star by night, his cloud by day —
He will protect, sustain, and bless
My Ellen when she's fatherless.”
Firm was the old man's pious sense,
Of God's all-gracious providence —
But earthly hopes still shared a part,
A larger, in the parent's heart,
Than that unconscious, simple breast
Ev'n to its secret thoughts confest.
For he had marked observantly,
De Morton's eyes, when Ellen came,
How sudden, and how fervently
Their glances kindled into flame.
And he had marked, if word was said,
Allusive of the parting day,
How (while her varying colour fled)
She turned with glistening eyes away.
Yes, he had marked the dawning gleam,
Of that young love, whose timid beam
Was like the moonlight on the stream,
Tender and calm — awakened first
By pity, and by friendship nursed —
Such love, by downcast eyes confest,
Was the pure flame in Ellen's breast —
De Morton's, gen'rous, warm, sincere!—
So seemed it and no boding fear,
No cautious doubt of wrinkled care,
Whisper'd in Ellen's ear, “Beware!”
The good old pastor's pilgrimage
Had glided on from youth to age,
Far from the busy haunts of men,
In his own dear sequestered glen,
Like the pellucid brook that strayed
Thro' its fair meads, and leafy shade,
Its unambitious current stealing
So noiseless — scarce its course revealing,
But by the livelier, fresher green,
Along its flowery margin seen.
His simple and ingenuous mind,
Deep read in books, in taste refin'd,
Had studied ill that painful art,
Discernment of the human heart;
Had never its dark lab'rinths traced,
By worldly intercourse debased;
That baneful influence, coldly stealing
O'er ev'ry warm and noble feeling,
That with torpedo touch benumbs
Where'er its with'ring contact comes.
Cast in a purer mould had been
Those hearts the rustic sire had seen:
Such was his own, and by its light
He deemed to read De Morton's right,
And saw, unchecked, the lover's art,
That sought and won his Ellen's heart.
Of God's all-gracious providence —
But earthly hopes still shared a part,
A larger, in the parent's heart,
Than that unconscious, simple breast
Ev'n to its secret thoughts confest.
For he had marked observantly,
De Morton's eyes, when Ellen came,
How sudden, and how fervently
Their glances kindled into flame.
And he had marked, if word was said,
Allusive of the parting day,
How (while her varying colour fled)
She turned with glistening eyes away.
Yes, he had marked the dawning gleam,
Of that young love, whose timid beam
Was like the moonlight on the stream,
32
By pity, and by friendship nursed —
Such love, by downcast eyes confest,
Was the pure flame in Ellen's breast —
De Morton's, gen'rous, warm, sincere!—
So seemed it and no boding fear,
No cautious doubt of wrinkled care,
Whisper'd in Ellen's ear, “Beware!”
The good old pastor's pilgrimage
Had glided on from youth to age,
Far from the busy haunts of men,
In his own dear sequestered glen,
Like the pellucid brook that strayed
Thro' its fair meads, and leafy shade,
Its unambitious current stealing
So noiseless — scarce its course revealing,
But by the livelier, fresher green,
Along its flowery margin seen.
His simple and ingenuous mind,
Deep read in books, in taste refin'd,
Had studied ill that painful art,
Discernment of the human heart;
Had never its dark lab'rinths traced,
By worldly intercourse debased;
33
O'er ev'ry warm and noble feeling,
That with torpedo touch benumbs
Where'er its with'ring contact comes.
Cast in a purer mould had been
Those hearts the rustic sire had seen:
Such was his own, and by its light
He deemed to read De Morton's right,
And saw, unchecked, the lover's art,
That sought and won his Ellen's heart.
Yes — sanctioned by a father's choice —
De Morton clasped his promised bride,
Whose timid look, and trembling voice,
A fearful, fond assent implied.
That look was April's varying glow,
A smile that struggled with a tear,—
That voice, a murmur soft and low,
Unheard but by a lover's ear.
But days and weeks must pass away,
E'er he can claim that dear assent;
Perhaps, long months of cold delay,
In fruitless prayers and wishes spent.
From one unused to melting mood,
A slow consent must yet be wrung;
A grasping uncle, cold and proud,
On whom De Morton's fortunes hung.
De Morton clasped his promised bride,
Whose timid look, and trembling voice,
A fearful, fond assent implied.
That look was April's varying glow,
A smile that struggled with a tear,—
That voice, a murmur soft and low,
Unheard but by a lover's ear.
But days and weeks must pass away,
E'er he can claim that dear assent;
Perhaps, long months of cold delay,
In fruitless prayers and wishes spent.
34
A slow consent must yet be wrung;
A grasping uncle, cold and proud,
On whom De Morton's fortunes hung.
Half uttered doubts, first hinted now,
Clouded with care De Morton's brow,
Reflected back on Ellen's face,
By answering shades of pensive grace;
For love reflects with faithful shade,
Clouds that escape the common eye;
Small passing specks, alone betrayed
To keen affection's scrutiny.
“Should that proud kinsman still withhold
Th' approving yes; — still stern and cold,
Oppose to love's impassioned plea,
A harsh unchangeable decree;
What long, long years might linger past
Of hope deferred, and joys o'ercast,
‘Till youth, and genial years were flown,
And all the life of love was gone,’
And death, or fatal chance might sever,
Affection's tender links for ever.
What parting friends shall dare to say,
‘We'll meet again some future day?’
That future, veiled in myst'ry's gloom,
May be the meeting of the tomb!
Yes — the short hour he grasps, is all
Th' ephemeron man his own can call;
Who then would waste one precious moment,
Of certain, present, pure enjoyment?
Yet, yet remain'd one easy way
To cheat stern pride, and dull delay;
Still might his Ellen's plighted hand
Become, in wedlock's sacred band,
Of all unheeded, and unknown,
Beyond the power of fate his own;
And still her native shades might hide
From prying eyes his beauteous bride,
Till happier times should clear away
The clouds of caution and delay,
And to the world he might proclaim
The sharer of his heart and name.”
Such cause, could one so cherish'd plead,
And not with Ellen's heart succeed?
Ah no! the blissful scenes he drew
Were colour'd with too bright a hue,
Described with tenderness too sweet,
Coldness from her, or check to meet.
What more of happiness below,
Of perfect bliss, could life bestow,
Than still (De Morton's wife) to dwell
In the dear home she loved so well?
Within its circle, blest and blessing,
All, all she loved on earth possessing;
And wherefore to the world declare
What ties allured De Morton there?
What had the heartless world to do
With hearts so humble and so true?
This was their world — love's happiest home!
Beyond, what restless wish could roam?
In deepest shades the violet grew,
At noonday, wet with morning dew,
And, like the violet, peace was found
To flourish best in shaded ground.
Clouded with care De Morton's brow,
Reflected back on Ellen's face,
By answering shades of pensive grace;
For love reflects with faithful shade,
Clouds that escape the common eye;
Small passing specks, alone betrayed
To keen affection's scrutiny.
“Should that proud kinsman still withhold
Th' approving yes; — still stern and cold,
Oppose to love's impassioned plea,
A harsh unchangeable decree;
What long, long years might linger past
Of hope deferred, and joys o'ercast,
‘Till youth, and genial years were flown,
And all the life of love was gone,’
And death, or fatal chance might sever,
Affection's tender links for ever.
35
‘We'll meet again some future day?’
That future, veiled in myst'ry's gloom,
May be the meeting of the tomb!
Yes — the short hour he grasps, is all
Th' ephemeron man his own can call;
Who then would waste one precious moment,
Of certain, present, pure enjoyment?
Yet, yet remain'd one easy way
To cheat stern pride, and dull delay;
Still might his Ellen's plighted hand
Become, in wedlock's sacred band,
Of all unheeded, and unknown,
Beyond the power of fate his own;
And still her native shades might hide
From prying eyes his beauteous bride,
Till happier times should clear away
The clouds of caution and delay,
And to the world he might proclaim
The sharer of his heart and name.”
Such cause, could one so cherish'd plead,
And not with Ellen's heart succeed?
Ah no! the blissful scenes he drew
Were colour'd with too bright a hue,
36
Coldness from her, or check to meet.
What more of happiness below,
Of perfect bliss, could life bestow,
Than still (De Morton's wife) to dwell
In the dear home she loved so well?
Within its circle, blest and blessing,
All, all she loved on earth possessing;
And wherefore to the world declare
What ties allured De Morton there?
What had the heartless world to do
With hearts so humble and so true?
This was their world — love's happiest home!
Beyond, what restless wish could roam?
In deepest shades the violet grew,
At noonday, wet with morning dew,
And, like the violet, peace was found
To flourish best in shaded ground.
So reasoned love in Ellen's mind,
A simple counsellor! and blind.
But when the father's startled ear
Was sought, those love-drawn schemes to hear,
And the same cause, De Morton pleaded,
With one, that had so well succeeded,
His casuistry availed not now,
A cloud was on Fitzarthur's brow:
Ill did that cunning sophistry,
Speed with his fair ingenuous mind,
That spurned, in proud integrity,
Art's crooked paths, and caution blind.
A simple counsellor! and blind.
But when the father's startled ear
Was sought, those love-drawn schemes to hear,
37
With one, that had so well succeeded,
His casuistry availed not now,
A cloud was on Fitzarthur's brow:
Ill did that cunning sophistry,
Speed with his fair ingenuous mind,
That spurned, in proud integrity,
Art's crooked paths, and caution blind.
“De Morton! shackled as thou art,
Why didst thou seek my darling's heart?
Our shelt'ring pity to repay,
Why didst thou steal her peace away,
And plant inquietude and care,
For the calm joys that flourish'd here?
No! never shall my Ellen's hand,
In secrecy's dark shade be given;
In open day, and sight of man,
Her virgin vows shall rise to Heaven!
No pois'nous breath of whisp'ring fame,
Shall ever taint my Ellen's name;
No mildew stain of doubt shall rest
On her fair brow, and spotless breast.
'Twas not ingenuous, 'twas not well,
So late, that lurking truth to tell.
De Morton! I had fixed on thee
More worthy hopes; — too late I see
The heart that trusts in man must bleed,
And leans upon a broken reed.
Yet still I love thee — still would fain
Receive thee to my heart again;
But never more, while thus array'd
In doubtful myst'ry's baleful shade,
Must thou approach us. Peace and health
And innocence was all our wealth.
Oh! thou hast scared sweet peace from hence,
All we retain is innocence.
Go, seek the friend, whose tongue too well
Of cold neglect and slight might tell;
To him relate, with truth sincere,
A tale unvarnish'd, plain and clear.
Plain simple truth, disdaining art,
Will sometimes touch the coldest heart,
And with thy kinsman may prevail,
When cunning's deep-laid scheme would fail.
Should his consent at length be won
Thus openly — return my son!
The voice that bids thee now depart,
— Alas! with what reluctant pain —
Back to Fitzarthur's arms, his heart,
His home, shall welcome thee again;
Aye, and a father's love to thine
Its dearest treasure shall resign.
My Ellen! spare thy father's heart
Those fruitless tears — he must depart.”
Why didst thou seek my darling's heart?
Our shelt'ring pity to repay,
Why didst thou steal her peace away,
And plant inquietude and care,
For the calm joys that flourish'd here?
No! never shall my Ellen's hand,
In secrecy's dark shade be given;
In open day, and sight of man,
Her virgin vows shall rise to Heaven!
No pois'nous breath of whisp'ring fame,
Shall ever taint my Ellen's name;
No mildew stain of doubt shall rest
On her fair brow, and spotless breast.
38
So late, that lurking truth to tell.
De Morton! I had fixed on thee
More worthy hopes; — too late I see
The heart that trusts in man must bleed,
And leans upon a broken reed.
Yet still I love thee — still would fain
Receive thee to my heart again;
But never more, while thus array'd
In doubtful myst'ry's baleful shade,
Must thou approach us. Peace and health
And innocence was all our wealth.
Oh! thou hast scared sweet peace from hence,
All we retain is innocence.
Go, seek the friend, whose tongue too well
Of cold neglect and slight might tell;
To him relate, with truth sincere,
A tale unvarnish'd, plain and clear.
Plain simple truth, disdaining art,
Will sometimes touch the coldest heart,
And with thy kinsman may prevail,
When cunning's deep-laid scheme would fail.
Should his consent at length be won
Thus openly — return my son!
39
— Alas! with what reluctant pain —
Back to Fitzarthur's arms, his heart,
His home, shall welcome thee again;
Aye, and a father's love to thine
Its dearest treasure shall resign.
My Ellen! spare thy father's heart
Those fruitless tears — he must depart.”
40
CANTO III.
Oh Heav'n! what years of sorrow dwell
In that short mournful word, farewell!
Of human life, the dark alloy,
It lurks in every cup of joy;
And when the sparkling froth is quaffed,
Dashes with tears the later draught.
It follows close in friendship's train,
For love prepares its tender pain;
Breaks the dear bond of kindred ties,
Of social joys, and sympathies;
Clouds with anticipating blight
The passing moments of delight,
And strikes upon the heart at last,
The hollow knell of pleasures past.
In that short mournful word, farewell!
Of human life, the dark alloy,
It lurks in every cup of joy;
And when the sparkling froth is quaffed,
Dashes with tears the later draught.
It follows close in friendship's train,
For love prepares its tender pain;
Breaks the dear bond of kindred ties,
Of social joys, and sympathies;
Clouds with anticipating blight
The passing moments of delight,
And strikes upon the heart at last,
The hollow knell of pleasures past.
On Ellen's heavy heart so fell
De Morton's hurried, wild farewell.
Yes, it was said, and he was gone,
And lagging time went slowly on,
But still it past, and hope, meanwhile,
Resumed her soul-sustaining smile,
And faintly kindled in the eye,
Where scarce love's parting tears were dry;
Like sun-beam in a winter's day,
That melts the frozen drops away.
Elastic youth in Ellen's breast,
Foster'd the kindly-soothing guest,
And listen'd with believing ear
Her soft persuasive tale to hear,
Of joys that livelier tints would borrow
From passing clouds of present sorrow;
Yes, those dark clouds would pass away,
Succeeded by a brighter day,
As mists that veil the morning sun,
Clear when his noon-day height is won,
And forth he breaks, rejoicing bright,
In the full blaze of cloudlesss light.
“De Morton could not plead in vain;
Soon, soon he would return again.”
So breathed his parting words, and well
She loved on that dear sound to dwell;
Oft whisp'ring to her heart the strain,
“Soon, soon he will return again.”
Last on her thoughts those accents died,
When slumber closed her eyes at night,
And first were indistinctly sighed
When her eyes opened on the light:
And in her dreams! — then wild and free,
Rose Fancy's peopled imagery.
The suit was gain'd, the time was past,
(The tedious time) — he came at last
His bride, his promis'd bride to claim;
She murmured the beloved name,
And woke; but still upon her ear
Linger'd that greeting voice so dear;
And her long lashes trembled yet,
With tears of tender rapture wet.
Oft to those pleasant paths of shade,
Now dearer by remembrance made,
(De Morton's favourite haunts) she stray'd.
To her, in streamlet, bank, and bough,
There was a mournful int'rest now:
They spoke of him; with long fixed look,
She loved to gaze upon the brook,
As if his broken image still
Was trembling on the lucid rill.
There had he plucked, in that damp spot,
The azure flower, “Forget me not,”
And placed it on her heart. Vain care!
The tender spell was needless there;
It should have dwelt near his, to say,
“Remember, when thou'rt far away!”
His careful hand, from her bent brow,
Had pressed aside that wilding bough;
His skill had wreathed that green-wood bower,
To shade her in the sultry hour.
A knotted root the seat supplied,
Inlaid with tapestry of moss;
A woodbine hung in flaunting pride,
A rugged oak's old arms across;
The violet chose her mossy bed,
Its rough and twisted roots between,
There many a primrose rear'd her head,
From larger leaves of shaded green,
And the small brook's low melody,
O'er pebbly stones ran rippling by.
So rarely there a sound was heard
Of human life, the fearless bird,
Untaught his stranger guest to dread,
Perch'd in the boughs above their head,
And from that covert, wild and free,
Pour'd the blithe song of liberty.
From bough to bough, with active bound,
The playful squirrel frolicked round,
And pensive stock-dove murmured near,
Till echo seemed the plaint to hear,
Repeating from her hollow cell
The low sweet sound, with lengthen'd swell.
It was a lovely solitude!
So far from earthly cares apart,
As if no feelings might intrude,
But such as purify the heart;
Now doubly hallow'd; doubly dear!
For mem'ry wove her garlands there;
Their shining leaves of evergreen,
With hope's young blossoms wreathed between.
De Morton's hurried, wild farewell.
Yes, it was said, and he was gone,
And lagging time went slowly on,
41
Resumed her soul-sustaining smile,
And faintly kindled in the eye,
Where scarce love's parting tears were dry;
Like sun-beam in a winter's day,
That melts the frozen drops away.
Elastic youth in Ellen's breast,
Foster'd the kindly-soothing guest,
And listen'd with believing ear
Her soft persuasive tale to hear,
Of joys that livelier tints would borrow
From passing clouds of present sorrow;
Yes, those dark clouds would pass away,
Succeeded by a brighter day,
As mists that veil the morning sun,
Clear when his noon-day height is won,
And forth he breaks, rejoicing bright,
In the full blaze of cloudlesss light.
“De Morton could not plead in vain;
Soon, soon he would return again.”
So breathed his parting words, and well
She loved on that dear sound to dwell;
Oft whisp'ring to her heart the strain,
“Soon, soon he will return again.”
42
When slumber closed her eyes at night,
And first were indistinctly sighed
When her eyes opened on the light:
And in her dreams! — then wild and free,
Rose Fancy's peopled imagery.
The suit was gain'd, the time was past,
(The tedious time) — he came at last
His bride, his promis'd bride to claim;
She murmured the beloved name,
And woke; but still upon her ear
Linger'd that greeting voice so dear;
And her long lashes trembled yet,
With tears of tender rapture wet.
Oft to those pleasant paths of shade,
Now dearer by remembrance made,
(De Morton's favourite haunts) she stray'd.
To her, in streamlet, bank, and bough,
There was a mournful int'rest now:
They spoke of him; with long fixed look,
She loved to gaze upon the brook,
As if his broken image still
Was trembling on the lucid rill.
43
The azure flower, “Forget me not,”
And placed it on her heart. Vain care!
The tender spell was needless there;
It should have dwelt near his, to say,
“Remember, when thou'rt far away!”
His careful hand, from her bent brow,
Had pressed aside that wilding bough;
His skill had wreathed that green-wood bower,
To shade her in the sultry hour.
A knotted root the seat supplied,
Inlaid with tapestry of moss;
A woodbine hung in flaunting pride,
A rugged oak's old arms across;
The violet chose her mossy bed,
Its rough and twisted roots between,
There many a primrose rear'd her head,
From larger leaves of shaded green,
And the small brook's low melody,
O'er pebbly stones ran rippling by.
So rarely there a sound was heard
Of human life, the fearless bird,
Untaught his stranger guest to dread,
Perch'd in the boughs above their head,
44
Pour'd the blithe song of liberty.
From bough to bough, with active bound,
The playful squirrel frolicked round,
And pensive stock-dove murmured near,
Till echo seemed the plaint to hear,
Repeating from her hollow cell
The low sweet sound, with lengthen'd swell.
It was a lovely solitude!
So far from earthly cares apart,
As if no feelings might intrude,
But such as purify the heart;
Now doubly hallow'd; doubly dear!
For mem'ry wove her garlands there;
Their shining leaves of evergreen,
With hope's young blossoms wreathed between.
Changed was the lovely scene, but still
Murmured the music of the rill,
A hoarser sound; for deep and fast
The dark swoln current hurried past;
And still the seat with moss inlaid
Remain'd beneath the oak's broad shade.
His shade no more: the woodbine now,
Clung leafless to a leafless bough.
The squirrel, in his winter's nest,
Safe housed and warm, was gone to rest,
And overhead, the lark no more
Was heard her summer song to pour;
But in her stead, the redbreast nigh,
Hopped noiseless, with enquiring eye,
Or warbled out his cadence clear,
Last, sweetest minstrel of the year!
Where the pale primrose rear'd her head;
And o'er the violet's mossy bed,
Berries and acorns strewed the ground,
And autumn leaves were scattered round,
And autumn winds, with hollow sigh,
Like spirits' moan, swept sadly by.
To Ellen's ear, those sounds of sadness
Were dearer than the voice of gladness;
And dearer now that faded scene,
Than all its summer-sweets had been.
Murmured the music of the rill,
A hoarser sound; for deep and fast
The dark swoln current hurried past;
And still the seat with moss inlaid
Remain'd beneath the oak's broad shade.
45
Clung leafless to a leafless bough.
The squirrel, in his winter's nest,
Safe housed and warm, was gone to rest,
And overhead, the lark no more
Was heard her summer song to pour;
But in her stead, the redbreast nigh,
Hopped noiseless, with enquiring eye,
Or warbled out his cadence clear,
Last, sweetest minstrel of the year!
Where the pale primrose rear'd her head;
And o'er the violet's mossy bed,
Berries and acorns strewed the ground,
And autumn leaves were scattered round,
And autumn winds, with hollow sigh,
Like spirits' moan, swept sadly by.
To Ellen's ear, those sounds of sadness
Were dearer than the voice of gladness;
And dearer now that faded scene,
Than all its summer-sweets had been.
Time past, but brought not in its flight
Th' expected tidings of delight:
The heavy hours dragged slowly on,
Till days, long tedious days, were gone,
And hope, that with the morning rose,
Went down in tears at evening close.
“‘Twas passing strange! but undesigned —
De Morton could not be unkind.”
Some cruel chance, some trust betrayed,
The promised joy so long delayed:
Or might it not — Oh blest surmise!—
Might not that long delay arise
From happier cause? glad news to bring,
Perhaps himself was on the wing!
Perhaps, ere night, that voice so dear,
Might breathe glad tidings in her ear.”
Night came, and day succeeded day,
Till weeks and months were passed away,
And still, nor line, nor message came,
Nor sound that bore De Morton's name.
Conjecture, baffled and deceived
So oft, no longer was believed;
And faint and fainter hope became,
Till quiv'ring like a dying flame,
Its fitful flash, and latent spark
At length expired, and all was dark.
On Ellen's cheek the roses faded,
The lustre of her eyes was shaded,
Exchanged their laughing glances bright,
For languid rays of humid light;
As hyacinths, the rain drops thro'
Tremble with darkly liquid blue.
Yet still upon her lips e'erwhile,
Linger'd a faint and sickly smile,
Nearer to grief than joy allied,
And worn in pious fraud, to hide
From a fond father's eye, the woe,
Whose inward depth mocked outward show.
The sun-beam that with golden ray
Falls on some lonely tomb's decay,
Shines thus, in seeming mock'ry shed,
Where all within is cold and dead.
No proud resentment claimed a part,
In the deep anguish of her heart:
All there was silent, meek distress,
And uncomplaining gentleness;
And still with wonted zeal she strove,
And tenderness of filial love,
Those thousand duteous cares to pay
That strew with flowers life's downward way.
Not hers, the heart that could forget
In its own griefs all griefs beside:
To her there was a sweetness yet,
A balm, to comfort near allied,
When her fond efforts were repaid,
In chasing from her father's brow
The clouds of deep and thoughtful shade,
That hovered there too often now.
Th' expected tidings of delight:
46
Till days, long tedious days, were gone,
And hope, that with the morning rose,
Went down in tears at evening close.
“‘Twas passing strange! but undesigned —
De Morton could not be unkind.”
Some cruel chance, some trust betrayed,
The promised joy so long delayed:
Or might it not — Oh blest surmise!—
Might not that long delay arise
From happier cause? glad news to bring,
Perhaps himself was on the wing!
Perhaps, ere night, that voice so dear,
Might breathe glad tidings in her ear.”
Night came, and day succeeded day,
Till weeks and months were passed away,
And still, nor line, nor message came,
Nor sound that bore De Morton's name.
Conjecture, baffled and deceived
So oft, no longer was believed;
And faint and fainter hope became,
Till quiv'ring like a dying flame,
Its fitful flash, and latent spark
At length expired, and all was dark.
47
The lustre of her eyes was shaded,
Exchanged their laughing glances bright,
For languid rays of humid light;
As hyacinths, the rain drops thro'
Tremble with darkly liquid blue.
Yet still upon her lips e'erwhile,
Linger'd a faint and sickly smile,
Nearer to grief than joy allied,
And worn in pious fraud, to hide
From a fond father's eye, the woe,
Whose inward depth mocked outward show.
The sun-beam that with golden ray
Falls on some lonely tomb's decay,
Shines thus, in seeming mock'ry shed,
Where all within is cold and dead.
No proud resentment claimed a part,
In the deep anguish of her heart:
All there was silent, meek distress,
And uncomplaining gentleness;
And still with wonted zeal she strove,
And tenderness of filial love,
Those thousand duteous cares to pay
That strew with flowers life's downward way.
48
In its own griefs all griefs beside:
To her there was a sweetness yet,
A balm, to comfort near allied,
When her fond efforts were repaid,
In chasing from her father's brow
The clouds of deep and thoughtful shade,
That hovered there too often now.
Meek humble virtue, suff'ring so,
In patient, unobtrusive woe,
Wins the approving smile of Heaven,
To prouder claims, less freely given,
And angels triumph to behold
Their kindred minds in mortal mould.
To man, aspiring man! we yield
The trophies of the battle field;
To him be valour's lofty meed,
To him, her blood-stained wreath decreed;
The humbler garland, woman wears
Unsprinkled, but by pity's tears;
His be the triumph, proudly prov'd,
Danger and death to meet unmov'd;
To brave — exulting in his force —
The torrent in its mountain course;
To climb the giddy heights, where fame,
In her proud roll records his name;
But not in battle's bloody strife,
Nor in the mountain storms of life,
The noblest conflicts may be view'd
Of the pale martyr, fortitude.
Oft in the low and lonely glen,
She shuns the vain applause of men,
Content her conflict should be known
To the All-wise — and Him alone.
There seek her in her loveliest dress,
(Long suff'ring, mild, meek tenderness,)
In woman's fair and fragile form,
That bends, but breaks not in the storm;
So bends the ozier, till the blast
That rends majestic oaks is past; —
Behold her in the hour of pain
Her groans of agony restrain,
Lest, haply, the afflicting sound
Some anxious hearer's heart may wound:
With looks of love, behold her light
Expiring nature's filmy sight,
And with her last, low flutt'ring breath,
Speak comfort from the bed of death: —
In the dark hour of mental woe,
Behold her tears in secret flow,
While, by the careless world is seen
An aspect cheerful and serene.
To words unkind, and taunting eye,
Mark ye, her soothing, meek reply:
The gentle look, whose timid ray
Imploring soft, turns wrath away;
For those she loves, how fond her cares!
From those she loves, how much she bears!
Not wrongs, unkindness, scorn, or hate,
Her heart can change, or alienate:
Hers is “the love that knows no chill,”
Thro' want and woe, surviving still,
That ev'ry ill of life partakes,
Still cleaving, when the world forsakes.
For guilty man, to Heaven she pleads; —
Repentant man, to Heaven she leads;
Spies out the moment, in his heart
To waken virtue's latent seed,
And fosters it with patient art,
Till flowers of sweet perfume succeed.
She smooths the path whose rugged gloom,
Leads thro' the valley to the tomb;
Like a kind angel, soothes and cheers
Dissolving nature's parting fears,
Receives the last expiring breath,
And guards his cold remains in death.
In patient, unobtrusive woe,
Wins the approving smile of Heaven,
To prouder claims, less freely given,
And angels triumph to behold
Their kindred minds in mortal mould.
To man, aspiring man! we yield
The trophies of the battle field;
To him be valour's lofty meed,
To him, her blood-stained wreath decreed;
The humbler garland, woman wears
Unsprinkled, but by pity's tears;
His be the triumph, proudly prov'd,
Danger and death to meet unmov'd;
49
The torrent in its mountain course;
To climb the giddy heights, where fame,
In her proud roll records his name;
But not in battle's bloody strife,
Nor in the mountain storms of life,
The noblest conflicts may be view'd
Of the pale martyr, fortitude.
Oft in the low and lonely glen,
She shuns the vain applause of men,
Content her conflict should be known
To the All-wise — and Him alone.
There seek her in her loveliest dress,
(Long suff'ring, mild, meek tenderness,)
In woman's fair and fragile form,
That bends, but breaks not in the storm;
So bends the ozier, till the blast
That rends majestic oaks is past; —
Behold her in the hour of pain
Her groans of agony restrain,
Lest, haply, the afflicting sound
Some anxious hearer's heart may wound:
With looks of love, behold her light
Expiring nature's filmy sight,
50
Speak comfort from the bed of death: —
In the dark hour of mental woe,
Behold her tears in secret flow,
While, by the careless world is seen
An aspect cheerful and serene.
To words unkind, and taunting eye,
Mark ye, her soothing, meek reply:
The gentle look, whose timid ray
Imploring soft, turns wrath away;
For those she loves, how fond her cares!
From those she loves, how much she bears!
Not wrongs, unkindness, scorn, or hate,
Her heart can change, or alienate:
Hers is “the love that knows no chill,”
Thro' want and woe, surviving still,
That ev'ry ill of life partakes,
Still cleaving, when the world forsakes.
For guilty man, to Heaven she pleads; —
Repentant man, to Heaven she leads;
Spies out the moment, in his heart
To waken virtue's latent seed,
And fosters it with patient art,
Till flowers of sweet perfume succeed.
51
Leads thro' the valley to the tomb;
Like a kind angel, soothes and cheers
Dissolving nature's parting fears,
Receives the last expiring breath,
And guards his cold remains in death.
On Ellen's life, in secret fed
A wasting flame, whose hopes were dead;
Oh grief of heart! to him, whose care
Had reared that human blossom fair,
Oh grief of heart! from day to day
To watch the drooping flowers decay;
The canker, that in secret eats
Life's blossom, hope's expanding sweets,
With deadly progress, mining slow
Its fatal way: — Oh sight of woe
To parent's heart! Fitzarthur bled
As with a father's anxious dread,
Its presage of appalling gloom,
He marked his Ellen's fading bloom.
Gone was the smile, whose sunny ray
Had brightened winter's darkest day:
Mournful and languid was the voice
Whose very tones had said, “Rejoice!”
Or if a kindly soothing word
Touched in her heart some tender chord,
Tears, gushing tears, repressed in vain,
Swelled in her eyes their gath'ring rain.
Nature in vain resumed once more
Her vernal robe; — in vain she wore
The summer crown, whose rose of yore,
In rivalry of beauty's pride,
With Ellen's damask cheek had vied.
Time was, the meanest flower that woke,
When winter's icy fetters broke;
The first sweet note of summer bird,
From copse of budding hazels heard,
Was wont to Ellen's happy heart
A thrill of gladness to impart.
But now, the flowers awoke in vain,
Unheeded was the linnet's strain,
Or, if she chanced his song to hear,
Its joy was discord to her ear;
Tho' Nature's winter might depart,
Hers was the winter of the heart; —
Ah rayless, joyless, lifeless state!
Earth has no clime so desolate.
The long, long day, had lingered by
In dull, heart-with'ring apathy,
And duteous efforts to repress
Her soul's deep feelings of distress;
But now, gray twilight's shadowy veil,
Descended soft on hill and dale,
And the sweet hour so dear to feeling,
O'er ev'ry sense its influence stealing,
Allured her forth, with yearning heart,
To weep and meditate apart.
'Tis at the hour when day-light fades,
And stealing o'er the western sky,
Pale evening draws her misty shades,
That Mem'ry breathes her vesper sigh:
For then, mysterious Fancy's dream,
Holds with the dead communion high,
And then departed spirits seem
In plaintive murmurs to reply.
In ev'ry air that breathes around,
Their low unearthly voices sound,
And hands unseen, are sweeping shrill
O'er viewless harps, with dying thrill;
Indulging long that pensive dream,
Had Ellen staid, till evening's beam,
And dusky twilight was receding,
And deeper, darker shades succeeding.
Yet still she lingered, list'ning still
To the low murmur of the rill;
Whose rippling music, chimed so well
With Fancy's fond romantic spell.
The moonlight on the brook was dancing,
In its clear stream, the stars were glancing,
And where th' enwoven branches made
A canopy of deeper shade,
With trembling beam, one star alone
In the deep pool's dark mirror shone.
On its soft margin, green and damp,
The glow-worm lit her tiny lamp,
Where waving fern-leaves feath'ry shade
A bower for fairy revels made,
And crystal drops of unsunned dew,
Collected by the moon's pale light,
— The nectar of the elfin crew, —
In cowslip cups were sparkling bright;
And minstrelsy long drawn, and sweet,
And full, for fairy banquet meet,
Was near. — A thrush, with mellow note
Far sounding, poured his tuneful throat,
And ever as its cadence died,
A rival song was heard to swell,
Where, from her hazel bower, replied
The strains of answ'ring Philomel.
Unclouded was the deep serene
Of Heav'n's dark azure, — save were seen
Around the moon soft fleeces roll'd,
Bright with the liv'ry of their queen,
The snowy flocks of Cynthia's fold.
One might believe in such a night
Good angels chose that silv'ry car,
To watch with looks of heav'nly light,
Their mortal charge, on earth's pale star.
Thro' the still air and leafy shade,
If but a wand'ring zephyr strayed,
Awakened by its balmy sigh,
A cloud of fragrance floated by,
From woodbine, rose, and eglantine,
And starry jess'mine's scented store,
In wreathed garlands taught to twine,
O'er the white walls and trelliced door;
And flowers that with embroidery fair
Enamelled bright the gay parterre,
Sweet stock, and lavish mignonette,
And spicy pink bedropt with jet;
Narcissus, elegant and pale,
Jonquil, and lady of the vale,
And flaunting wall-flower's golden crest,
And that coy fair with spotless breast,
Peruvian maid, whose blossoms white
Unveil their beauties to the night,
As if in captive grief to shun
(Torn from his land) her sire the Sun.
Unnumber'd sweets of ev'ry hue
Their aromatic fragrance threw
In mingled incense, wafted light,
And scattered on the breeze of night.
In happier days, those blossoms fair
To tend, was Ellen's pleasing care;
But now her sick'ning sight withdrew
From the gay pageant's gaudy hue.
When summer from the fruitful earth
Had waken'd last their annual birth,
Looks well remembered, eyes beloved,
From them to her had fondly roved;
And from their sweetest, loveliest store,
A hand, her hand must meet no more,
Had culled the fairest of the fair,
And wreathed them wildly in her hair.
Oft had she leaned on the low gate,
That now sustained her sinking weight,
With credulous, deluded ear
His vows of endless truth to hear.
The brook that murmured at their feet
Those vows had witnessed, emblem meet,
Its swiftly passing, shallow stream,
Of changeful love's capricious dream!
“Yet he had sworn!” she softly sigh'd,
“To wear me in his heart for ever!”
“But he is false!” a voice replied,
Like echo to her plaint, “Ah never!”
She started at th' imperfect sound;
But e'er her eyes had glanced around
Their fearful search, her wild alarms
Were sheltered in De Morton's arms.
A wasting flame, whose hopes were dead;
Oh grief of heart! to him, whose care
Had reared that human blossom fair,
Oh grief of heart! from day to day
To watch the drooping flowers decay;
The canker, that in secret eats
Life's blossom, hope's expanding sweets,
With deadly progress, mining slow
Its fatal way: — Oh sight of woe
To parent's heart! Fitzarthur bled
As with a father's anxious dread,
Its presage of appalling gloom,
He marked his Ellen's fading bloom.
Gone was the smile, whose sunny ray
Had brightened winter's darkest day:
52
Whose very tones had said, “Rejoice!”
Or if a kindly soothing word
Touched in her heart some tender chord,
Tears, gushing tears, repressed in vain,
Swelled in her eyes their gath'ring rain.
Nature in vain resumed once more
Her vernal robe; — in vain she wore
The summer crown, whose rose of yore,
In rivalry of beauty's pride,
With Ellen's damask cheek had vied.
Time was, the meanest flower that woke,
When winter's icy fetters broke;
The first sweet note of summer bird,
From copse of budding hazels heard,
Was wont to Ellen's happy heart
A thrill of gladness to impart.
But now, the flowers awoke in vain,
Unheeded was the linnet's strain,
Or, if she chanced his song to hear,
Its joy was discord to her ear;
Tho' Nature's winter might depart,
Hers was the winter of the heart; —
Ah rayless, joyless, lifeless state!
Earth has no clime so desolate.
53
In dull, heart-with'ring apathy,
And duteous efforts to repress
Her soul's deep feelings of distress;
But now, gray twilight's shadowy veil,
Descended soft on hill and dale,
And the sweet hour so dear to feeling,
O'er ev'ry sense its influence stealing,
Allured her forth, with yearning heart,
To weep and meditate apart.
'Tis at the hour when day-light fades,
And stealing o'er the western sky,
Pale evening draws her misty shades,
That Mem'ry breathes her vesper sigh:
For then, mysterious Fancy's dream,
Holds with the dead communion high,
And then departed spirits seem
In plaintive murmurs to reply.
In ev'ry air that breathes around,
Their low unearthly voices sound,
And hands unseen, are sweeping shrill
O'er viewless harps, with dying thrill;
Indulging long that pensive dream,
Had Ellen staid, till evening's beam,
54
And deeper, darker shades succeeding.
Yet still she lingered, list'ning still
To the low murmur of the rill;
Whose rippling music, chimed so well
With Fancy's fond romantic spell.
The moonlight on the brook was dancing,
In its clear stream, the stars were glancing,
And where th' enwoven branches made
A canopy of deeper shade,
With trembling beam, one star alone
In the deep pool's dark mirror shone.
On its soft margin, green and damp,
The glow-worm lit her tiny lamp,
Where waving fern-leaves feath'ry shade
A bower for fairy revels made,
And crystal drops of unsunned dew,
Collected by the moon's pale light,
— The nectar of the elfin crew, —
In cowslip cups were sparkling bright;
And minstrelsy long drawn, and sweet,
And full, for fairy banquet meet,
Was near. — A thrush, with mellow note
Far sounding, poured his tuneful throat,
55
A rival song was heard to swell,
Where, from her hazel bower, replied
The strains of answ'ring Philomel.
Unclouded was the deep serene
Of Heav'n's dark azure, — save were seen
Around the moon soft fleeces roll'd,
Bright with the liv'ry of their queen,
The snowy flocks of Cynthia's fold.
One might believe in such a night
Good angels chose that silv'ry car,
To watch with looks of heav'nly light,
Their mortal charge, on earth's pale star.
Thro' the still air and leafy shade,
If but a wand'ring zephyr strayed,
Awakened by its balmy sigh,
A cloud of fragrance floated by,
From woodbine, rose, and eglantine,
And starry jess'mine's scented store,
In wreathed garlands taught to twine,
O'er the white walls and trelliced door;
And flowers that with embroidery fair
Enamelled bright the gay parterre,
56
And spicy pink bedropt with jet;
Narcissus, elegant and pale,
Jonquil, and lady of the vale,
And flaunting wall-flower's golden crest,
And that coy fair with spotless breast,
Peruvian maid, whose blossoms white
Unveil their beauties to the night,
As if in captive grief to shun
(Torn from his land) her sire the Sun.
Unnumber'd sweets of ev'ry hue
Their aromatic fragrance threw
In mingled incense, wafted light,
And scattered on the breeze of night.
In happier days, those blossoms fair
To tend, was Ellen's pleasing care;
But now her sick'ning sight withdrew
From the gay pageant's gaudy hue.
When summer from the fruitful earth
Had waken'd last their annual birth,
Looks well remembered, eyes beloved,
From them to her had fondly roved;
And from their sweetest, loveliest store,
A hand, her hand must meet no more,
57
And wreathed them wildly in her hair.
Oft had she leaned on the low gate,
That now sustained her sinking weight,
With credulous, deluded ear
His vows of endless truth to hear.
The brook that murmured at their feet
Those vows had witnessed, emblem meet,
Its swiftly passing, shallow stream,
Of changeful love's capricious dream!
“Yet he had sworn!” she softly sigh'd,
“To wear me in his heart for ever!”
“But he is false!” a voice replied,
Like echo to her plaint, “Ah never!”
She started at th' imperfect sound;
But e'er her eyes had glanced around
Their fearful search, her wild alarms
Were sheltered in De Morton's arms.
One language only can express
Of joy or grief the strong excess,
To paint its transport, words are weak,
But tears can eloquently speak;
And silent tears were Ellen's greeting,
And speechless was the joy of meeting.
All she had known of sorrows past,
That blissful moment overpaid: —
The wand'rer thus returned at last,
Not hers the tongue that could upbraid;
And when at last in murmurs low
She sighed, “How couldst thou leave me so?”
E'er the half-uttered accents died,
Her heart in fond excuse replied,
And all he said, and all he swore,
Was fancied and believed before.
“Oh! couldst thou think what days of woe,
What long, long sick'ning days I've mourned; —
But thou shalt never, never know —
All, all's forgotten — thour't returned!
And now I have thee here once more,
Oh! tell me we shall never part:—
Thy first long absence scarce I bore,
Thy second loss would break my heart.
But thou art come, and all is past,
And we will never part again: —
But thou art silent — wherefore cast
On earth that look of sudden pain?
My father! — Oh! he will relent,
His heart is merciful and mild:
He loves thee too, and since thou went
An exile hence, he scarce has smiled. —
Still those averted looks, that chill
My very heart, and silent still?
Oh! speak; if but to chide my fears:
Didst thou but know what bitter tears
These eyes have shed! — and now to part! —
What has thy faltering tongue to tell?
Thou wilt not, canst not have the heart
To speak that cruel word farewell!”
Of joy or grief the strong excess,
To paint its transport, words are weak,
But tears can eloquently speak;
58
And speechless was the joy of meeting.
All she had known of sorrows past,
That blissful moment overpaid: —
The wand'rer thus returned at last,
Not hers the tongue that could upbraid;
And when at last in murmurs low
She sighed, “How couldst thou leave me so?”
E'er the half-uttered accents died,
Her heart in fond excuse replied,
And all he said, and all he swore,
Was fancied and believed before.
“Oh! couldst thou think what days of woe,
What long, long sick'ning days I've mourned; —
But thou shalt never, never know —
All, all's forgotten — thour't returned!
And now I have thee here once more,
Oh! tell me we shall never part:—
Thy first long absence scarce I bore,
Thy second loss would break my heart.
But thou art come, and all is past,
And we will never part again: —
But thou art silent — wherefore cast
On earth that look of sudden pain?
59
His heart is merciful and mild:
He loves thee too, and since thou went
An exile hence, he scarce has smiled. —
Still those averted looks, that chill
My very heart, and silent still?
Oh! speak; if but to chide my fears:
Didst thou but know what bitter tears
These eyes have shed! — and now to part! —
What has thy faltering tongue to tell?
Thou wilt not, canst not have the heart
To speak that cruel word farewell!”
“Ellen! if mine indeed thou art,
In plighted faith, in soul and heart,
Then, then, this night, this hour shall join
For ever fixed — thy fate with mine: —
Then Ellen! have we met again
In this wide world no more to sever;
But if my hopes, and prayers, are vain,
We part to-night, and part for ever!
Already thou hast heard me tell
How since I left thee all befell:—
No means, no prayers were left untried,
Yet all in vain — I was denied;
And while he lives, no human art
Will ever touch that stubborn heart.
Did not thy father from his door
Expel me, to return no more?
Unsanctioned by that kindred voice,
Which never will confirm my choice,
Shall I fall suppliant at his feet,
Again to be rejected, spurned?
No — by such abject meanness, sweet!
Thy lovely self were hardly earned.
Two paths are open in thy sight —
Decide — one word, and all is o'er;
Fly far from hence with me to-night,
Or stay, and see my face no more!
Now fix thy choice — already said!
Canst thou so soon decide? cold maid!
And does it cost thy wayward heart
So short and light a pang to part?
But thou hast said, and be it so,
Ev'n as thou wilt, the worst I know: —
One parting look, and all is past —
One kiss! — nay, start not, 'tis the last. —
There is a precious anodyne
Shall still this weary heart of mine: —
Aye dearest! one of sov'reign balm
All human ills, e'en mine, to calm.
We part in peace — in love, is't not?
And thou wilt sometimes spare a thought? —
But whither strays my lingering heart?
While yet I may, I must depart:
Nay Ellen, nay, why cling'st thou so?
Thou wilt not follow where I go: —
Too dark and low, the home I seek;
Its killing damps would blanch thy cheek;
And thou, in all thy beauty's pride,
Must live to be another's bride —
Farewell! unclasp thy hold.”—
In plighted faith, in soul and heart,
Then, then, this night, this hour shall join
For ever fixed — thy fate with mine: —
Then Ellen! have we met again
In this wide world no more to sever;
But if my hopes, and prayers, are vain,
We part to-night, and part for ever!
Already thou hast heard me tell
How since I left thee all befell:—
60
Yet all in vain — I was denied;
And while he lives, no human art
Will ever touch that stubborn heart.
Did not thy father from his door
Expel me, to return no more?
Unsanctioned by that kindred voice,
Which never will confirm my choice,
Shall I fall suppliant at his feet,
Again to be rejected, spurned?
No — by such abject meanness, sweet!
Thy lovely self were hardly earned.
Two paths are open in thy sight —
Decide — one word, and all is o'er;
Fly far from hence with me to-night,
Or stay, and see my face no more!
Now fix thy choice — already said!
Canst thou so soon decide? cold maid!
And does it cost thy wayward heart
So short and light a pang to part?
But thou hast said, and be it so,
Ev'n as thou wilt, the worst I know: —
One parting look, and all is past —
One kiss! — nay, start not, 'tis the last. —
61
Shall still this weary heart of mine: —
Aye dearest! one of sov'reign balm
All human ills, e'en mine, to calm.
We part in peace — in love, is't not?
And thou wilt sometimes spare a thought? —
But whither strays my lingering heart?
While yet I may, I must depart:
Nay Ellen, nay, why cling'st thou so?
Thou wilt not follow where I go: —
Too dark and low, the home I seek;
Its killing damps would blanch thy cheek;
And thou, in all thy beauty's pride,
Must live to be another's bride —
Farewell! unclasp thy hold.”—
“Oh stay
De Morton! yet for God's sake stay —
What canst thou purpose? — from this spot
Thou shalt not stir — nay mock me not:
Thou know'st for thee I would have died —
I will not be “another's bride” —
I will not quit my hold — Oh! stay.”—
Just then a moon-beam's sickly ray
Gleaming athwart his pallid face,
Revealed such dark and ghastly trace
Of dire resolve, as froze her blood: —
Breathless, immoveable she stood,
But held him with so firm a grasp,
As if its hold should ne'er unclasp.
De Morton! yet for God's sake stay —
What canst thou purpose? — from this spot
Thou shalt not stir — nay mock me not:
Thou know'st for thee I would have died —
I will not be “another's bride” —
I will not quit my hold — Oh! stay.”—
Just then a moon-beam's sickly ray
62
Revealed such dark and ghastly trace
Of dire resolve, as froze her blood: —
Breathless, immoveable she stood,
But held him with so firm a grasp,
As if its hold should ne'er unclasp.
It was a fearful pause, as when
The whirlwind sinks to rise again;
He turned — “Yet Ellen! if thou wilt,
Yet may'st thou save my soul from guilt;
But trifle not — forbear to awake
A hope thine after-thought might break: —
Art thou resolved? time hurries on,
And summons me — I must be gone.”
The whirlwind sinks to rise again;
He turned — “Yet Ellen! if thou wilt,
Yet may'st thou save my soul from guilt;
But trifle not — forbear to awake
A hope thine after-thought might break: —
Art thou resolved? time hurries on,
And summons me — I must be gone.”
In agony she gazed around;
No foot approached, no blessed sound —
Died on her lips her father's name —
Alas! unheard — no succour came —
Oh! for a moment's pause to think —
To breathe — to pause on ruin's brink:
Yet, yet she lingers on its verge:
Dark fate impels — wild terrors urge: —
Oh! for some saving hand — too late —
Behind her swung the closing gate:
Cold on her heart, as 'twere the knell
Of peace and hope, its echo fell.
No foot approached, no blessed sound —
Died on her lips her father's name —
Alas! unheard — no succour came —
Oh! for a moment's pause to think —
To breathe — to pause on ruin's brink:
Yet, yet she lingers on its verge:
Dark fate impels — wild terrors urge: —
63
Behind her swung the closing gate:
Cold on her heart, as 'twere the knell
Of peace and hope, its echo fell.
64
CANTO IV.
There is a hand that works more sure,
Less tardy than the hand of time;
That stamps its seal on brows mature,
This mars existence in its prime
With iron pen that hand indites;
Deep are the characters it writes;
Impressed in many a with'ring mark,
Its ink indelible and dark;
It sprinkles o'er the youthful brow
Untimely frost, and early snow,
And — prematurely dark — its night
Steals o'er the morn of youthful light.
Where'er that leaden hand is press'd,
Like icy mountain on the breast,
So penetrates its deadly cold,
The heart, the very heart grows old!
Less tardy than the hand of time;
That stamps its seal on brows mature,
This mars existence in its prime
With iron pen that hand indites;
Deep are the characters it writes;
Impressed in many a with'ring mark,
Its ink indelible and dark;
It sprinkles o'er the youthful brow
Untimely frost, and early snow,
And — prematurely dark — its night
Steals o'er the morn of youthful light.
Where'er that leaden hand is press'd,
Like icy mountain on the breast,
So penetrates its deadly cold,
The heart, the very heart grows old!
Have years indeed so travelled on,
So many summers passed and gone,
As those sunk eyes and hollow cheek,
That drooping, faded form bespeak?
Alas! scarce twelve short months have sped
Their noiseless flight o'er Ellen's head,
Since she forsook, in ill-starred hour,
Her native Malwood's peaceful bower;
But grief has wrought the wreck of time,
And nipped the rose's youthful prime.
Like dove that wanders from its nest,
Since Ellen left her father's cot,
Her heart, remorseful and unblest,
Has sought for peace, but found it not.
Love in its earliest, happiest hours,
Strewed not her wedded path with flowers;
Or if a few were scattered there,
They thinly hid the thorns of care;
The thorn of conscience — poison'd dart!
That rankles deadliest in the heart.
In vain from the pursuing eye
Of stern remorse, she sought to fly.
Remorse, whose vengeance, unallay'd
For love deceived, and trust betrayed,
Pursued her still — turn where she would
The phantom form before her stood;
Haunted her path, beside her bed
Waited and watched, till slumber fled,
Or dreams of terror and despair
Made slumber worse than waking care.
Oft would she start in wild affright
From those dark visions of the night,
Exclaiming with distressful cry,
— So inarticulately wild —
“Oh! say not that you saw him die,
“And leave no blessing for his child.”
Ah! how unlike the peaceful rest,
That once her happy slumbers blest!
Ah! how unlike the visions bright,
That floated then o'er fancy's sight! —
Then would she dream of lute or flower,
Or gay device for 'broidery frame,
Or of her own sweet jess'mine bower,
Or bird her gentle hand should tame; —
Or — happier vision! — oft in thought,
Some work of cunning skill she wrought,
Prepared in secret, to surprise
A father's fondly partial eyes.
Oh! happy age of careless ease,
Content with trifles such as these!
Oh precious trifles! holy joys!
Untainted bliss that never cloys!
Then, if a pensive hour she knew,
Or down her cheek a tear would steal,
'Twas tender pity's holy dew,
Embalming griefs it could not heal;
But now that heart so light and pure,
Had sorrows, pity could not cure,
Griefs deep and silent, waging strife
With all the healthful springs of life.
So many summers passed and gone,
65
That drooping, faded form bespeak?
Alas! scarce twelve short months have sped
Their noiseless flight o'er Ellen's head,
Since she forsook, in ill-starred hour,
Her native Malwood's peaceful bower;
But grief has wrought the wreck of time,
And nipped the rose's youthful prime.
Like dove that wanders from its nest,
Since Ellen left her father's cot,
Her heart, remorseful and unblest,
Has sought for peace, but found it not.
Love in its earliest, happiest hours,
Strewed not her wedded path with flowers;
Or if a few were scattered there,
They thinly hid the thorns of care;
The thorn of conscience — poison'd dart!
That rankles deadliest in the heart.
In vain from the pursuing eye
Of stern remorse, she sought to fly.
Remorse, whose vengeance, unallay'd
For love deceived, and trust betrayed,
Pursued her still — turn where she would
The phantom form before her stood;
66
Waited and watched, till slumber fled,
Or dreams of terror and despair
Made slumber worse than waking care.
Oft would she start in wild affright
From those dark visions of the night,
Exclaiming with distressful cry,
— So inarticulately wild —
“Oh! say not that you saw him die,
“And leave no blessing for his child.”
Ah! how unlike the peaceful rest,
That once her happy slumbers blest!
Ah! how unlike the visions bright,
That floated then o'er fancy's sight! —
Then would she dream of lute or flower,
Or gay device for 'broidery frame,
Or of her own sweet jess'mine bower,
Or bird her gentle hand should tame; —
Or — happier vision! — oft in thought,
Some work of cunning skill she wrought,
Prepared in secret, to surprise
A father's fondly partial eyes.
Oh! happy age of careless ease,
Content with trifles such as these!
67
Untainted bliss that never cloys!
Then, if a pensive hour she knew,
Or down her cheek a tear would steal,
'Twas tender pity's holy dew,
Embalming griefs it could not heal;
But now that heart so light and pure,
Had sorrows, pity could not cure,
Griefs deep and silent, waging strife
With all the healthful springs of life.
Oft had she sued, (while tears fell fast
On lines by trembling fingers traced,)
Oft had she pleaded to regain
A father's forfeit love — in vain —
No parent's tender eye beheld
Those lines by cruel fraud withheld —
Destroyer! was it not enough
From his old age t' have torn away
The last, the only prop, that lent
Its dear support to life's decay,
That now thy cold remorseless art
Withheld from his bereaved heart
The long preferred, long-looked for prayer,
So sure to find acceptance there?
On lines by trembling fingers traced,)
Oft had she pleaded to regain
A father's forfeit love — in vain —
No parent's tender eye beheld
Those lines by cruel fraud withheld —
Destroyer! was it not enough
From his old age t' have torn away
The last, the only prop, that lent
Its dear support to life's decay,
That now thy cold remorseless art
Withheld from his bereaved heart
68
So sure to find acceptance there?
Long she expected, hoped — at last,
Expectance died, and hope was past: —
That heart so tender once and mild,
Rejected an offending child. —
So seemed his silent scorn to show,
And Ellen wept in hopeless woe: —
But other cares were gath'ring fast,
Till all was dark and overcast; —
His love waxed cold, for whose dear sake
She left a father's heart to break: —
Kind looks, and gentle words, were changed
For sullen tones, and eyes estranged,
And love's assiduous cares were lost
In cold indiff'rence' killing frost: —
He, who was wont the hour to chide
That kept him from his Ellen's side,
Now left her lonely and forlorn,
Long days and sleepless nights to mourn,
Repulsing, with abrupt reply,
The timid voice, and asking eye,
That faintly question'd, soft and low,
Oh! where, and wherefore dost thou go?
And soon — by harsh experience taught —
She almost check'd th' enquiring thought,
And veiled — to shun his frown severe —
With downcast lids, the swelling tear.
Who can describe the bitter feeling,
O'er all the heart's warm pulses stealing,
When first we meet the altered gaze
Of eyes, whose light in other days
Has been to us the beacon ray,
Life's sea mark! on its storm-vexed way;
Alas! that beacon-star withdrawn,
Darkling and sad our bark sails on,
Till rocks its fated progress check,
And seas ingulf the shattered wreck.
Expectance died, and hope was past: —
That heart so tender once and mild,
Rejected an offending child. —
So seemed his silent scorn to show,
And Ellen wept in hopeless woe: —
But other cares were gath'ring fast,
Till all was dark and overcast; —
His love waxed cold, for whose dear sake
She left a father's heart to break: —
Kind looks, and gentle words, were changed
For sullen tones, and eyes estranged,
And love's assiduous cares were lost
In cold indiff'rence' killing frost: —
He, who was wont the hour to chide
That kept him from his Ellen's side,
Now left her lonely and forlorn,
Long days and sleepless nights to mourn,
Repulsing, with abrupt reply,
The timid voice, and asking eye,
69
Oh! where, and wherefore dost thou go?
And soon — by harsh experience taught —
She almost check'd th' enquiring thought,
And veiled — to shun his frown severe —
With downcast lids, the swelling tear.
Who can describe the bitter feeling,
O'er all the heart's warm pulses stealing,
When first we meet the altered gaze
Of eyes, whose light in other days
Has been to us the beacon ray,
Life's sea mark! on its storm-vexed way;
Alas! that beacon-star withdrawn,
Darkling and sad our bark sails on,
Till rocks its fated progress check,
And seas ingulf the shattered wreck.
What thoughts of mournful interest
On Ellen's lovely vigils prest!
What fond and fruitless retrospect
Of youthful hopes untimely wrecked!
Then, to her own forsaken home,
Unchecked, would busy fancy roam,
Recalling with minutest care
Each scene, and ev'ry object there;
Recording trifles, once past by
With cold or unobservant eye;
Now sacred things by mem'ry traced;
Green islands — seen from exile's waste.
When by her taper's sickly ray
She watched the evening hours away,
List'ning for steps, she'd learnt to know
'Mongst all that throng'd the street below —
Then — whispered thought — “those passing feet
Are hurrying on some friend to greet;
Those eager steps are hast'ning by
To some dear home, some kindred tie —
Alas! no kindred heart, for me
Awaits in fond expectancy —
Alas! no home for me prepares
The welcome sweet of social cares;
That lovely moon, so calm and pale
Now gazes on my native vale: —
Oh star of night! thy beams may look
On its thick shades, and rippling brook,
But Ellen's eyes no more must dwell
On the sweet scene she loves so well;
And does thy peaceful lustre shine
On the dear home that once was mine?
On my own lattice dost thou gaze,
Whence oft I've watched thy silv'ry rays?
And dost thou touch with beams as bright,
The jess'mine's starry clusters white?
At this lone hour, mild planet! say,
Does my dear father weep and pray
For the poor exile, far away? —
What tho' his once indulgent ear
Refused her pleading voice to hear,
He cannot from his heart expel
All thought of her he loved so well.
He cannot from his heart erase
All record of her infant days,
When widowed love was wont to trace
Her mother's likeness in her face,
And print the blessing on her cheek,
Contending feelings could not speak: —
Oh! could he see those features now,
This faded form, and care-marked brow,
Nor for my mother's sake restore
Her orphan to his heart once more?
Ah, mother! would I were at rest
In thy dark grave, on thy cold breast;
All hearts reject me, or forsake,
And mine — is mine too hard to break?
No — but one hope — one int'rest dear —
Detains the wretched loit'rer here —
A mother's hope — ah tender thought!
The last with earthly comfort fraught.”
On Ellen's lovely vigils prest!
What fond and fruitless retrospect
Of youthful hopes untimely wrecked!
Then, to her own forsaken home,
Unchecked, would busy fancy roam,
70
Each scene, and ev'ry object there;
Recording trifles, once past by
With cold or unobservant eye;
Now sacred things by mem'ry traced;
Green islands — seen from exile's waste.
When by her taper's sickly ray
She watched the evening hours away,
List'ning for steps, she'd learnt to know
'Mongst all that throng'd the street below —
Then — whispered thought — “those passing feet
Are hurrying on some friend to greet;
Those eager steps are hast'ning by
To some dear home, some kindred tie —
Alas! no kindred heart, for me
Awaits in fond expectancy —
Alas! no home for me prepares
The welcome sweet of social cares;
That lovely moon, so calm and pale
Now gazes on my native vale: —
Oh star of night! thy beams may look
On its thick shades, and rippling brook,
But Ellen's eyes no more must dwell
On the sweet scene she loves so well;
71
On the dear home that once was mine?
On my own lattice dost thou gaze,
Whence oft I've watched thy silv'ry rays?
And dost thou touch with beams as bright,
The jess'mine's starry clusters white?
At this lone hour, mild planet! say,
Does my dear father weep and pray
For the poor exile, far away? —
What tho' his once indulgent ear
Refused her pleading voice to hear,
He cannot from his heart expel
All thought of her he loved so well.
He cannot from his heart erase
All record of her infant days,
When widowed love was wont to trace
Her mother's likeness in her face,
And print the blessing on her cheek,
Contending feelings could not speak: —
Oh! could he see those features now,
This faded form, and care-marked brow,
Nor for my mother's sake restore
Her orphan to his heart once more?
72
In thy dark grave, on thy cold breast;
All hearts reject me, or forsake,
And mine — is mine too hard to break?
No — but one hope — one int'rest dear —
Detains the wretched loit'rer here —
A mother's hope — ah tender thought!
The last with earthly comfort fraught.”
Thro' many a long and lonely day,
That tender hope was Ellen's stay;
Thro' those sad hours of solitude
One patient labour she pursued;
Her needle's busy skill was plied
(Fond preparation!) to provide
For the expected one, whose smile
Would soon repay her willing toil;
And sometimes, thro' dejection's shade,
Hope's rays, like slanting sun-beams played,
Fair, flatt'ring heralds of a light
That soon might break thro' sorrow's night.
“Yes, that dear precious babe might prove
The pledge of re-awakened love: —
Oh! when a father's arms should press
His infant's tender helplessness,
The father's feelings might renew
The husband's lost affections too: —
Yes — it might prove the harbinger
Of better days — of peace to her,
Of pardon, long in vain implored. —
Oh! she would teach the earliest word
Its lisping accents could attain,
To say, ‘Forgive!’ and not in vain,
Oh! not in vain, such voice would plead;
With her dear father 'twould succeed:
He could not look upon her child
With heart unmoved, unreconciled;
He could not fold unto his heart
Her child, and bid his own depart.”
That tender hope was Ellen's stay;
Thro' those sad hours of solitude
One patient labour she pursued;
Her needle's busy skill was plied
(Fond preparation!) to provide
For the expected one, whose smile
Would soon repay her willing toil;
And sometimes, thro' dejection's shade,
Hope's rays, like slanting sun-beams played,
Fair, flatt'ring heralds of a light
That soon might break thro' sorrow's night.
“Yes, that dear precious babe might prove
The pledge of re-awakened love: —
73
His infant's tender helplessness,
The father's feelings might renew
The husband's lost affections too: —
Yes — it might prove the harbinger
Of better days — of peace to her,
Of pardon, long in vain implored. —
Oh! she would teach the earliest word
Its lisping accents could attain,
To say, ‘Forgive!’ and not in vain,
Oh! not in vain, such voice would plead;
With her dear father 'twould succeed:
He could not look upon her child
With heart unmoved, unreconciled;
He could not fold unto his heart
Her child, and bid his own depart.”
It came, the hour of suff'ring came,
And Ellen bore a mother's name,
And to a mother's throbbing breast,
A second, dearer self was prest. —
No voice of soothing love was near
In the dark hour of pain and fear;
No sympathising heart was there
A parent's new-born hopes to share;
No father with impatient claim,
Assuming proud that sacred name,
Was there with grateful tenderness
The mother and her child to bless:
Poor babe! to this dark world of cares
Welcomed with sighs, baptized in tears.
Long, long and ling'ring were the days
Of Ellen's weakness, — cold delays,
That chill the heart — and hope deferred;
Conjecture, whose vague thoughts still erred,
And still surmised as fruitlessly —
And contrast sad of days gone by,
When, if her finger did but ache,
Some heart was anxious for her sake,
And love devised such tender care,
'Twas almost sweet the pain to bear.
Thoughts such as these, in Ellen's breast,
The healthful spring of youth deprest,
Like nipping frost's ungenial breath,
That ling'ring hangs on April's wreath.
Day after day, and not a word, —
Day after day, and still deferred, —
Oh! yes — at last a letter came—
Impatience thrilled her feeble frame,
And almost marred its wish — so shook,
Like quiv'ring leaf upon the brook,
Her eager hand — at length she read —
And soon her eyes' bright lustre fled,
And from her cheek the heightened hue,
Emotion's crimson flush withdrew,
And pale and motionless she grew —
Pale as her white robe's stainless fold,
Like sculptured marble pale and cold. —
Alas! that cruel letter, well
Might work such life-benumbing spell: —
De Morton's last farewell it bore,
The veil was rent — the dream was o'er —
De Morton would return no more!
A dream, indeed! a mockery,
All he had said, and seemed to be —
A dream, indeed! his very name,
No wedded right had she to claim —
Assumed t'elude the holy rite
That, he had seemed with hers to plight.
“'Twas vain,” he said, “with vows to bind
The roving heart, the free-born mind;”
And then he spoke of love, “that flies
Far off at sight of human ties;”
All arts, all hope, all effort vain
(Once fled) to lure him back again;
And when 'twas so, 'twas best to part,
To seek some more congenial heart;
Hers was too pure, too saintly cold,
To match with one of mortal mould
So earthly, so unlike her own —
And she might seek, when he was gone,
The home her peevish fancy yet
Haunted with ling'ring fond regret:
Question of him would be in vain,
She ne'er would see his face again.
She spoke not, moved not, breathed no sigh,
Her upraised eyes were fixed and dry;
It seemed that to her heart and brain,
Th' impeded flood rushed back again,
Congealing all sensation there
To one of still intense despair.
E'en from that moment, she became
Composed and calm — suspicion, shame,
And many a bitter taunt she bore
Unmurmuring — her slender store
By long enfeebling sickness drained,
Failed her at last, and she remained
On the hard world's cold pity thrown,
Helpless, unfriended, and alone. —
Again unceasingly was plied
The needle's skill; not as of yore
Impelled by hope, but it supplied
A scanty sustenance; and more
She heeded not, but life was still
To her, with all its load of ill,
Precious for the dear sake of one,
Friendless, indeed, if she were gone.
For her dear sake, with patient toil,
She labour'd by the midnight oil,
And day's grey dawn, returning, viewed
The work of industry renewed.
But hope's bright beams, as heretofore,
Glanced o'er her weary task no more;
Tho' with mechanic skill she wrought,
The mind with all its powers of thought,
Seemed stunned by that o'erwhelming blow —
She hoped not — feared not — felt not now —
It seemed as if one dark, dense cloud,
Wrapt Nature in its sable shroud;
All she had loved in better days,
Involved in that impervious haze,
Or dimly shaped, like distant coast,
Thro' twilight mists just seen and lost.
Time passed unmarked — day after day
Dragged long and heavily away —
Day after day, one dreary round,
Changeless — unbroke by sight or sound,
Save when from toil an hour she stole,
(Her infant in her arms) to stroll,
Beyond the outskirts of the town,
On its smooth slope of open down.
Not that she thirsted to inhale
The freshness of the summer gale —
It fanned her fev'rish lip in vain,
It could not cool her burning brain;
But the babe's cheek was sickly pale —
To that she wooed the summer gale;
For that the healthful breeze she sought,
With life-restoring vigour fraught.
Poor blossom of a blasted tree!
Rude was the storm that cradled thee
And sorrow's shade, like baleful yew,
Fed thee with dank, unwholesome dew.
And Ellen bore a mother's name,
And to a mother's throbbing breast,
A second, dearer self was prest. —
No voice of soothing love was near
In the dark hour of pain and fear;
74
A parent's new-born hopes to share;
No father with impatient claim,
Assuming proud that sacred name,
Was there with grateful tenderness
The mother and her child to bless:
Poor babe! to this dark world of cares
Welcomed with sighs, baptized in tears.
Long, long and ling'ring were the days
Of Ellen's weakness, — cold delays,
That chill the heart — and hope deferred;
Conjecture, whose vague thoughts still erred,
And still surmised as fruitlessly —
And contrast sad of days gone by,
When, if her finger did but ache,
Some heart was anxious for her sake,
And love devised such tender care,
'Twas almost sweet the pain to bear.
Thoughts such as these, in Ellen's breast,
The healthful spring of youth deprest,
Like nipping frost's ungenial breath,
That ling'ring hangs on April's wreath.
75
Day after day, and still deferred, —
Oh! yes — at last a letter came—
Impatience thrilled her feeble frame,
And almost marred its wish — so shook,
Like quiv'ring leaf upon the brook,
Her eager hand — at length she read —
And soon her eyes' bright lustre fled,
And from her cheek the heightened hue,
Emotion's crimson flush withdrew,
And pale and motionless she grew —
Pale as her white robe's stainless fold,
Like sculptured marble pale and cold. —
Alas! that cruel letter, well
Might work such life-benumbing spell: —
De Morton's last farewell it bore,
The veil was rent — the dream was o'er —
De Morton would return no more!
A dream, indeed! a mockery,
All he had said, and seemed to be —
A dream, indeed! his very name,
No wedded right had she to claim —
Assumed t'elude the holy rite
That, he had seemed with hers to plight.
76
The roving heart, the free-born mind;”
And then he spoke of love, “that flies
Far off at sight of human ties;”
All arts, all hope, all effort vain
(Once fled) to lure him back again;
And when 'twas so, 'twas best to part,
To seek some more congenial heart;
Hers was too pure, too saintly cold,
To match with one of mortal mould
So earthly, so unlike her own —
And she might seek, when he was gone,
The home her peevish fancy yet
Haunted with ling'ring fond regret:
Question of him would be in vain,
She ne'er would see his face again.
She spoke not, moved not, breathed no sigh,
Her upraised eyes were fixed and dry;
It seemed that to her heart and brain,
Th' impeded flood rushed back again,
Congealing all sensation there
To one of still intense despair.
E'en from that moment, she became
Composed and calm — suspicion, shame,
77
Unmurmuring — her slender store
By long enfeebling sickness drained,
Failed her at last, and she remained
On the hard world's cold pity thrown,
Helpless, unfriended, and alone. —
Again unceasingly was plied
The needle's skill; not as of yore
Impelled by hope, but it supplied
A scanty sustenance; and more
She heeded not, but life was still
To her, with all its load of ill,
Precious for the dear sake of one,
Friendless, indeed, if she were gone.
For her dear sake, with patient toil,
She labour'd by the midnight oil,
And day's grey dawn, returning, viewed
The work of industry renewed.
But hope's bright beams, as heretofore,
Glanced o'er her weary task no more;
Tho' with mechanic skill she wrought,
The mind with all its powers of thought,
Seemed stunned by that o'erwhelming blow —
She hoped not — feared not — felt not now —
78
Wrapt Nature in its sable shroud;
All she had loved in better days,
Involved in that impervious haze,
Or dimly shaped, like distant coast,
Thro' twilight mists just seen and lost.
Time passed unmarked — day after day
Dragged long and heavily away —
Day after day, one dreary round,
Changeless — unbroke by sight or sound,
Save when from toil an hour she stole,
(Her infant in her arms) to stroll,
Beyond the outskirts of the town,
On its smooth slope of open down.
Not that she thirsted to inhale
The freshness of the summer gale —
It fanned her fev'rish lip in vain,
It could not cool her burning brain;
But the babe's cheek was sickly pale —
To that she wooed the summer gale;
For that the healthful breeze she sought,
With life-restoring vigour fraught.
Poor blossom of a blasted tree!
Rude was the storm that cradled thee
79
Fed thee with dank, unwholesome dew.
The Sabbath day, the day of peace,
Still bade her weekly labours cease;
Still, by instinctive rev'rence swayed,
And long observance, she obeyed
The ordinance of rest — in vain —
Her rest was weariness and pain;
For o'er her soul, devotion's balm,
Diffused no more its holy calm,
And never since that fatal day
When feeling fled with hope away,
Had Ellen's hands been raised to pray,
Nor ever had her footsteps trod
The pavement of the house of God.
Yet when the Sabbath bells around
Rung out their sweet inviting sound,
Almost with thoughts of other times,
She started at the well-known chimes,
And hastened, as in other days,
To seek the house of prayer and praise.
But tho' its portals opened wide
To ent'ring crowds, they seemed denied
To her, as if a barrier rose
Unseen, her entrance to oppose —
Unseen, but felt — for care half-crazed
Th' appalling interdiction raised,
And fancy's wildly-roving eye,
From the gay crowds that passed her by,
Caught many a glance of insult proud;
And many a taunt more deep than loud,
Breathed scoffingly in fancy's ear,
“Presumptuous! dost thou venture here?”
The timid wand'rer shrunk dismayed,
Yet, round the holy walls she strayed,
Like restless spirit, ling'ring long
To catch the swell of sacred song:
Then far, far onward would she roam,
Till long fatigue recalled her home.
Still bade her weekly labours cease;
Still, by instinctive rev'rence swayed,
And long observance, she obeyed
The ordinance of rest — in vain —
Her rest was weariness and pain;
For o'er her soul, devotion's balm,
Diffused no more its holy calm,
And never since that fatal day
When feeling fled with hope away,
Had Ellen's hands been raised to pray,
Nor ever had her footsteps trod
The pavement of the house of God.
Yet when the Sabbath bells around
Rung out their sweet inviting sound,
Almost with thoughts of other times,
She started at the well-known chimes,
And hastened, as in other days,
To seek the house of prayer and praise.
But tho' its portals opened wide
To ent'ring crowds, they seemed denied
80
Unseen, her entrance to oppose —
Unseen, but felt — for care half-crazed
Th' appalling interdiction raised,
And fancy's wildly-roving eye,
From the gay crowds that passed her by,
Caught many a glance of insult proud;
And many a taunt more deep than loud,
Breathed scoffingly in fancy's ear,
“Presumptuous! dost thou venture here?”
The timid wand'rer shrunk dismayed,
Yet, round the holy walls she strayed,
Like restless spirit, ling'ring long
To catch the swell of sacred song:
Then far, far onward would she roam,
Till long fatigue recalled her home.
A Sabbath's summer-noon was o'er,
And tempered was the fervid ray,
When Ellen from her humble door
With head declined came forth to stray,
Reckless, regardless of her way.
Soon had she passed the noisy town,
And soon attained the upland down,
And soon beyond its open plain
She roved in sheltered glades again.
It was an evening calm and mild,
As the first evening nature smiled;
Beauteous, as if the guilt of man
Had ne'er defaced his Maker's plan;
And pain, the penalty of sin,
And death, had never entered in.
No living sound, no motion stirred
In earth or air, save song of bird,
Or hum of insect on the wing,
Or trickling flow of pebbly spring.
Athwart the hollow lane's deep glade
Tall elm-trees flung their dark broad shade,
And sun-beams glancing bright between,
Touched the soft turf with em'rald green,
Length'ning along the yellow road
In hues of mellower richness glowed,
And stealing into shadows grey,
With soft gradation died away.
E'en Ellen's heart, half felt the power,
The influence of that tranquil hour,
So deep, so soothing, so serene
The lovely stillness of the scene.
Or mem'ry's long-benighted waste,
A ray of former feelings past,
A feeble light, like morning grey,
Thro' clouds just struggling into day —
The babe slept sweetly in her arms;
She gazed upon its peaceful charms:
Yes, peace was there, as calm, profound,
As that all nature breathed around.
But whence that drop that glistens bright
On its soft cheek with liquid light?
Oh precious tear! for many a day
The first, from Ellen's eyes to stray;
It fell, as on the burning plain
Fall the large drops of summer-rain;
Heavy and slow at first, they break
The surface smooth of pool or lake,
Till thicker, smaller drops descend,
And circles into circles blend,
And the low clouds, their garnered store
In one long plenteous deluge pour.
And tempered was the fervid ray,
When Ellen from her humble door
With head declined came forth to stray,
Reckless, regardless of her way.
Soon had she passed the noisy town,
And soon attained the upland down,
81
She roved in sheltered glades again.
It was an evening calm and mild,
As the first evening nature smiled;
Beauteous, as if the guilt of man
Had ne'er defaced his Maker's plan;
And pain, the penalty of sin,
And death, had never entered in.
No living sound, no motion stirred
In earth or air, save song of bird,
Or hum of insect on the wing,
Or trickling flow of pebbly spring.
Athwart the hollow lane's deep glade
Tall elm-trees flung their dark broad shade,
And sun-beams glancing bright between,
Touched the soft turf with em'rald green,
Length'ning along the yellow road
In hues of mellower richness glowed,
And stealing into shadows grey,
With soft gradation died away.
E'en Ellen's heart, half felt the power,
The influence of that tranquil hour,
So deep, so soothing, so serene
The lovely stillness of the scene.
82
A ray of former feelings past,
A feeble light, like morning grey,
Thro' clouds just struggling into day —
The babe slept sweetly in her arms;
She gazed upon its peaceful charms:
Yes, peace was there, as calm, profound,
As that all nature breathed around.
But whence that drop that glistens bright
On its soft cheek with liquid light?
Oh precious tear! for many a day
The first, from Ellen's eyes to stray;
It fell, as on the burning plain
Fall the large drops of summer-rain;
Heavy and slow at first, they break
The surface smooth of pool or lake,
Till thicker, smaller drops descend,
And circles into circles blend,
And the low clouds, their garnered store
In one long plenteous deluge pour.
Loit'ring and musing as she past,
Ellen approached the end at last
Of that deep glade; when on her ear
A chime of bells came pealing clear,
Borne sweetly on the swelling breeze;
And soon between the parting trees,
A lovely vale disclosed to sight
Its hamlet group of dwellings white,
And its grey steeple's ivied fane,
Where the long window's latticed pane
Reflected in effulgence bright
The warm red beams of evening light.
From that grey spire, the sacred sound
Of Sabbath bells was ringing round,
And many a group, with faces glad,
In pride of Sunday raiment clad,
Stood clust'ring round the church-yard gate,
Their pastor's near approach to wait.
He came, a man with silver hair,
And eyes that beamed paternal care,
When on his little flock they cast
Their silent blessing — as he past,
A word, a look, a smile to gain,
All pressed around, and none in vain.
His hand to many an aged hand
Was stretched with cordial greeting bland,
And question kind, and words addrest
In tones of soothing interest:
And young and old, alike partook
His more than kind, his tender look,
So gentle, children round him prest
To be encouraged and carest.
As Ellen gazed, her heart beat quick;
Tears to her eyes came fast and thick —
Those rev'rend locks! that mild blue eye
Beaming in kind complacency;
Those village groups! the place! the time!
The ivied steeple's silver chime!
All sights and sounds combined so true,
At once on mem'ry's rapid view,
(From her long trance awakening first,)
All former scenes, and feelings burst,
With such a rush of tender pain,
As fainting nature to sustain
Tasked all her strength — and scarce could bide
Th' impetuous, long-imprisoned tide.
Ellen approached the end at last
83
A chime of bells came pealing clear,
Borne sweetly on the swelling breeze;
And soon between the parting trees,
A lovely vale disclosed to sight
Its hamlet group of dwellings white,
And its grey steeple's ivied fane,
Where the long window's latticed pane
Reflected in effulgence bright
The warm red beams of evening light.
From that grey spire, the sacred sound
Of Sabbath bells was ringing round,
And many a group, with faces glad,
In pride of Sunday raiment clad,
Stood clust'ring round the church-yard gate,
Their pastor's near approach to wait.
He came, a man with silver hair,
And eyes that beamed paternal care,
When on his little flock they cast
Their silent blessing — as he past,
A word, a look, a smile to gain,
All pressed around, and none in vain.
His hand to many an aged hand
Was stretched with cordial greeting bland,
84
In tones of soothing interest:
And young and old, alike partook
His more than kind, his tender look,
So gentle, children round him prest
To be encouraged and carest.
As Ellen gazed, her heart beat quick;
Tears to her eyes came fast and thick —
Those rev'rend locks! that mild blue eye
Beaming in kind complacency;
Those village groups! the place! the time!
The ivied steeple's silver chime!
All sights and sounds combined so true,
At once on mem'ry's rapid view,
(From her long trance awakening first,)
All former scenes, and feelings burst,
With such a rush of tender pain,
As fainting nature to sustain
Tasked all her strength — and scarce could bide
Th' impetuous, long-imprisoned tide.
The bell had ceased; the rustic throng
With silent rev'rence moved along,
And some, as close they passed her by,
Lingered with kind enquiring eye,
And proffered low, with courteous look,
Welcome within to seat and book: —
The voice of welcome, kind and new,
Fell on her heart like balmy dew,
And every nerve vibrated strong
To the sweet sound unheard so long.
It seemed to say, “Poor wand'rer! come,
A father's house invites thee home;
Approach; his promised rest is sweet;
Cast down thy burthen at his feet.”
She entered, and the closing door
Shut out the troublous world once more,
And all its cares — a fearful host!
Were soon in holier feelings lost.
With silent rev'rence moved along,
85
Lingered with kind enquiring eye,
And proffered low, with courteous look,
Welcome within to seat and book: —
The voice of welcome, kind and new,
Fell on her heart like balmy dew,
And every nerve vibrated strong
To the sweet sound unheard so long.
It seemed to say, “Poor wand'rer! come,
A father's house invites thee home;
Approach; his promised rest is sweet;
Cast down thy burthen at his feet.”
She entered, and the closing door
Shut out the troublous world once more,
And all its cares — a fearful host!
Were soon in holier feelings lost.
All joined with one accord to raise
The evening hymn of grateful praise,
And its meek prayer, that Heaven would keep,
With guardian watch, the hours of sleep;
Devotion's simple prelude done,
Solemn, her after-rites begun:
Never before had Ellen joined,
So fervently in heart and mind,
Those orisons, that seemed to melt
With all her contrite spirit felt.
Never before, so humbly meek,
That full confession did she speak;
Never with soul so touched rehearse
The royal Psalmist's sacred verse,
Whose contrite spirit breathed a tone
In such close union with her own.
In high cathedral, sculptured proud,
Where choral anthems peal aloud
In all the pomp of sound and show,
Never did human bosom glow
With holy rapture so divine,
As Ellen's in that rustic shrine.
The evening hymn of grateful praise,
And its meek prayer, that Heaven would keep,
With guardian watch, the hours of sleep;
Devotion's simple prelude done,
Solemn, her after-rites begun:
86
So fervently in heart and mind,
Those orisons, that seemed to melt
With all her contrite spirit felt.
Never before, so humbly meek,
That full confession did she speak;
Never with soul so touched rehearse
The royal Psalmist's sacred verse,
Whose contrite spirit breathed a tone
In such close union with her own.
In high cathedral, sculptured proud,
Where choral anthems peal aloud
In all the pomp of sound and show,
Never did human bosom glow
With holy rapture so divine,
As Ellen's in that rustic shrine.
But when the rev'rend preacher rose,
How touching was the text he chose!
How did her heart within her burn!
It was the prodigal's return —
Upon that mild persuasive tongue,
In breathless eagerness she hung;
To her! to her! each precious word
Seemed strongly, feelingly referred:
The Lord had promised to forgive
The sinner who would turn and live;
And o'er her heart a heavenly calm
E'en now diffused its healing balm.
But when the aged pastor dwelt
On all that contrite wand'rer felt,
When yet far off, and bowed with shame,
His father to the meeting came,
And ran and fell upon his neck,
And kissed him, and bade them deck
The poor degraded weary one,
With costly robes; and cried, “My son
Is found, whom I had sought in vain;
Was dead, but is alive again!”
Scarce could the feeling be represt
That rose to transport in her breast:
Almost with warm resistless glow,
She cried aloud, “I too will go
Unto my father, and confess
My wanderings and my wretchedness;
And he — oh blessed thought! — may greet
His child with pard'ning love as sweet.”
Solemn as dying saint's farewell,
The old man's parting blessing fell,
And as he spoke, with hands outspread,
And lifted eyes, around his head
A beam of western glory bright
Played like a crown of living light.
How touching was the text he chose!
How did her heart within her burn!
It was the prodigal's return —
Upon that mild persuasive tongue,
In breathless eagerness she hung;
87
Seemed strongly, feelingly referred:
The Lord had promised to forgive
The sinner who would turn and live;
And o'er her heart a heavenly calm
E'en now diffused its healing balm.
But when the aged pastor dwelt
On all that contrite wand'rer felt,
When yet far off, and bowed with shame,
His father to the meeting came,
And ran and fell upon his neck,
And kissed him, and bade them deck
The poor degraded weary one,
With costly robes; and cried, “My son
Is found, whom I had sought in vain;
Was dead, but is alive again!”
Scarce could the feeling be represt
That rose to transport in her breast:
Almost with warm resistless glow,
She cried aloud, “I too will go
Unto my father, and confess
My wanderings and my wretchedness;
And he — oh blessed thought! — may greet
His child with pard'ning love as sweet.”
88
The old man's parting blessing fell,
And as he spoke, with hands outspread,
And lifted eyes, around his head
A beam of western glory bright
Played like a crown of living light.
As Ellen on her homeward way
Returned, the shades of closing day
O'er all the scene was gath'ring fast,
So late in sunny splendour past:
But light had sprung, where darkness blind
Was hov'ring then — in Ellen's mind —
And all without reflected now
The brightness of that inward glow.
Returned, the shades of closing day
O'er all the scene was gath'ring fast,
So late in sunny splendour past:
But light had sprung, where darkness blind
Was hov'ring then — in Ellen's mind —
And all without reflected now
The brightness of that inward glow.
Reviving hope from day to day
Acquired a more resistless sway,
Till, in her bosom, it became,
A restless and impelling flame,
Vivid and strong — before her eyes
Sleeping and waking would arise
Visions of home and days gone by,
Thoughts of the past — and she would cry,
Often aloud unconsciously —
“Oh! could I reach my father's door;
Could I behold his face once more;
Once more his gentle accents greet,
And stretch me suppliant at his feet,
And cry, My father! I have swerved
From thee and goodness — have deserved
The wrath of Heaven, thy killing scorn,
Thy hate, perhaps — yet thus forlorn,
Thus low, expiring in thy sight,
She who was once thy heart's delight,
Thy little Ellen; she who smiled
First in thy face, thine only child!
Canst thou behold, and turn away?
My father! oh, my father! stay —
Cast on me yet a pitying eye,
Oh! turn and bless me ere I die. —
Oh! could I with such prayers as these
Embrace once more my father's knees;
Tho' all reject his erring child,
That heart so merciful and mild,
My father's heart! — would still relent,
To the returning penitent;
The vilest, meanest wretch that prayed
At my dear father's door for aid,
Was never known in vain to pray —
And would he send his child away?
Oh! no — that hospitable door
Would open to receive once more
Its altered guest — this weary head
Might press once more the peaceful bed,
That once my happy childhood prest,
And there at last, a deeper rest
Than infancy's serene repose,
The wand'rer's weary eyes may close,
Her last sad sigh, breathed softly there,
Where first she drew the vital air.
Acquired a more resistless sway,
Till, in her bosom, it became,
A restless and impelling flame,
Vivid and strong — before her eyes
Sleeping and waking would arise
Visions of home and days gone by,
Thoughts of the past — and she would cry,
Often aloud unconsciously —
89
Could I behold his face once more;
Once more his gentle accents greet,
And stretch me suppliant at his feet,
And cry, My father! I have swerved
From thee and goodness — have deserved
The wrath of Heaven, thy killing scorn,
Thy hate, perhaps — yet thus forlorn,
Thus low, expiring in thy sight,
She who was once thy heart's delight,
Thy little Ellen; she who smiled
First in thy face, thine only child!
Canst thou behold, and turn away?
My father! oh, my father! stay —
Cast on me yet a pitying eye,
Oh! turn and bless me ere I die. —
Oh! could I with such prayers as these
Embrace once more my father's knees;
Tho' all reject his erring child,
That heart so merciful and mild,
My father's heart! — would still relent,
To the returning penitent;
The vilest, meanest wretch that prayed
At my dear father's door for aid,
90
And would he send his child away?
Oh! no — that hospitable door
Would open to receive once more
Its altered guest — this weary head
Might press once more the peaceful bed,
That once my happy childhood prest,
And there at last, a deeper rest
Than infancy's serene repose,
The wand'rer's weary eyes may close,
Her last sad sigh, breathed softly there,
Where first she drew the vital air.
Visions like these, acquiring strength
From day to day, matured at length
To fixed resolve in Ellen's breast,
Nerved by one tender interest,
One ardent hope — with earnest prayer
To crave her father's fost'ring care
For the poor babe, whose orphan state
Would soon indeed be desolate:
Then, when all earthly business done,
Life veiled for her its setting sun,
To sink upon her father's breast,
By his mild accents lulled to rest;
To breathe her last repentant sigh,
To look upon his face and die!
From day to day, matured at length
To fixed resolve in Ellen's breast,
Nerved by one tender interest,
One ardent hope — with earnest prayer
To crave her father's fost'ring care
For the poor babe, whose orphan state
Would soon indeed be desolate:
Then, when all earthly business done,
Life veiled for her its setting sun,
91
By his mild accents lulled to rest;
To breathe her last repentant sigh,
To look upon his face and die!
92
CANTO V.
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.
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.
93
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,
94
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
95
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.
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,
96
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.
Dark night advanced — far distant lay,
97
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;—
98
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.
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:
99
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.
100
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.
101
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.
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,
102
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.
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—
103
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.”
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,
104
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—
105
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,
106
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.
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.”
With fresher powers — more slow became,
More tedious ev'ry step she trod,
The progress of her lonely road;
107
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.
Was blending with the shades of night—
At length the farthest hill she gained,
At length its woody steep attained;
108
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,
109
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.
Tall elm-trees shade her nurse's cot—
110
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.
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,
111
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,
112
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;
113
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.
Irresolute; nor dared invade
Its rest profound. At length a ray
Broke on her mind; — a simple way,
114
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!
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.
115
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.
The church-yard cross'd at break of day,
116
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 peasant's heart was moved, — he raised
The infant in his arms, and tried
To still its mournful wail, and cried,
117
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.”
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?
118
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.
119
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.
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.
121
STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF THE KING.
And he is gone at last — the father, friend,
And sovereign of his people is no more:—
Destroying angel! hast thou made an end
Of thy dread task? is thy commission o'er
Towards that royal house, or hast thou still
Some awful dispensation to fulfil?
And sovereign of his people is no more:—
Destroying angel! hast thou made an end
Of thy dread task? is thy commission o'er
Towards that royal house, or hast thou still
Some awful dispensation to fulfil?
The youngest, loveliest, first became thy prey,
— Ah, woe for England! — next the full of years
By ling'ring agony was called away:—
Now, to receive at once two kindred biers
The hall of death prepares its marble bed,
Its cells of state, yet thinly tenanted.
— Ah, woe for England! — next the full of years
By ling'ring agony was called away:—
Now, to receive at once two kindred biers
The hall of death prepares its marble bed,
Its cells of state, yet thinly tenanted.
122
Mourn, England! the extinction of a ray
Quenched in full light, by that untimely pall,
But o'er that second bier, that sacred clay,
Let not a tear of human weakness fall;
The veil that shuts him out from earth and thee,
Ends the long night of his captivity.
Quenched in full light, by that untimely pall,
But o'er that second bier, that sacred clay,
Let not a tear of human weakness fall;
The veil that shuts him out from earth and thee,
Ends the long night of his captivity.
Oh! 'tis our eyes are dim, our spirits blind,
Or we might track his spirit in its flight,
Up to that region where it dwells enshrined
And diadem'd with empyrean light.
Crowns of the earth and sceptres! what are ye
To him whose crown is immortality?
Or we might track his spirit in its flight,
Up to that region where it dwells enshrined
And diadem'd with empyrean light.
Crowns of the earth and sceptres! what are ye
To him whose crown is immortality?
Kingdoms and dynasties may rise and fall,
Princes be born and die, and monarch's reign
Revered and loved — yet, “take him all in all,”
Eye “shall not look upon his like again,”
Whom the tongue blest whene'er his name was heard,
'Twas the heart's blessing, “God save George the Third!”
Princes be born and die, and monarch's reign
Revered and loved — yet, “take him all in all,”
Eye “shall not look upon his like again,”
Whom the tongue blest whene'er his name was heard,
'Twas the heart's blessing, “God save George the Third!”
Those prayers are hushed on earth—but they have found
Acceptance doubtless with th' Eternal King—
Sweeter than seraphs' harps, e'en now they sound
In Heav'n, perhaps, his joyful welcoming,
Who loosened slavery's fetters, and set free
The pagan from his blind idolatry.
Acceptance doubtless with th' Eternal King—
Sweeter than seraphs' harps, e'en now they sound
In Heav'n, perhaps, his joyful welcoming,
123
The pagan from his blind idolatry.
Departed saint! in thy dark house of clay
While still benighted, often didst thou hold
In visions — if unreal who may say?
Converse with beings of celestial mould.
Now from thy Heav'n departed saint look down,
Upon the land and people once thine own,
While still benighted, often didst thou hold
In visions — if unreal who may say?
Converse with beings of celestial mould.
Now from thy Heav'n departed saint look down,
Upon the land and people once thine own,
And mingle — if permitted, to the blest—
A portion of thy spirit into theirs
Who rule in England — so the land shall rest
From all her troubles, and thy latest heirs,
Serving the Lord, and loving truth like thee,
Sit on thy throne to late posterity.
A portion of thy spirit into theirs
Who rule in England — so the land shall rest
From all her troubles, and thy latest heirs,
Serving the Lord, and loving truth like thee,
Sit on thy throne to late posterity.
During the long period of his infirmity, His Majesty's mind was said to have been frequently impressed with the belief that he was conversing with angels.
124
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY HEARING THE BELLS CHIME AFTER THE PROCLAMATION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH.
Strange contrast! 'twas but yesterday we heard
The knell of death from that old steeple tower
Whence now the bells ring out right merrily—
But yesterday that sullen death-bell tolled
For our departed King — those chimes to day,
Proclaim that a new sovereign fills the throne.
The knell of death from that old steeple tower
Whence now the bells ring out right merrily—
But yesterday that sullen death-bell tolled
For our departed King — those chimes to day,
Proclaim that a new sovereign fills the throne.
Peace to the royal dead — prosperity,
Long life and honor to the Prince whose reign
Dates from this æra — every loyal heart,
(And there are thousands still in England left)
Will echo back the wish; — but some will shrink,
(Yea many hearts there are, will shrink like mine)
From the loud music of those merry bells.
Long life and honor to the Prince whose reign
Dates from this æra — every loyal heart,
(And there are thousands still in England left)
Will echo back the wish; — but some will shrink,
(Yea many hearts there are, will shrink like mine)
From the loud music of those merry bells.
How doth the tone and temper of our souls
Give tone to all external circumstance!
I listened late to that deep sounding knell,
With feelings all attuned to solemn thought—
Solemn, not painful thought — it told indeed
The heavy tidings of a good King's death,
But it spoke also of a saint's release
From mortal thraldom — it proclaimed aloud
The vanity of all created things,
The nothingness of earthly power and pomp.
But then, methought, I heard a voice that cried,
“The kingdoms of the earth shall pass away
With all their glory; but the Lord of Hosts
Hath for the righteous, thrones and crowns prepared,
And kingdoms, subject to no chance, or change.”
Thus heard I in the spirit, and my soul,
A few brief moments on the wings of faith,
Soared up beyond the dense, gross atmosphere
Of dull mortality, and I beheld,
Heaven opened, and a gratulating host
Of angels, hailing their new visitant
With harpings of celestial harmony,
And smiles ineffable of joy and love.
But foremost of that blessed choir, stooped down
A form of light, whose heav'nly lineaments
(Irradiate now with immortality)
Were those of England's darling, and she held
An infant seraph forth, as if to greet
Th' ascending spirit of the royal saint,
Whom, in her mortal nature, she had loved
With filial rev'rence — other forms, made pure
From the corruptions of the flesh, pressed on,
To hail the long expected: — but mine eyes,
Dimmed with exceeding brightness, lost the power
Of stedfast vision, and the glory swam
In dazzling indistinctness from my sight.
My soul returned to earth — the fun'ral bell
From that old tower, still smote upon mine ear;
But there was nought depressing in the sound,
For it had borne my thoughts from earth to heaven—
And never visit to that place of rest,
However transient; never glimpse thereof,
Howe'er imperfect, but it calms, and cheers,
And purifies the heart, and leaves therein,
An emanation of that perfect peace,
Their blissful portion, who inhabit there.
Give tone to all external circumstance!
I listened late to that deep sounding knell,
With feelings all attuned to solemn thought—
125
The heavy tidings of a good King's death,
But it spoke also of a saint's release
From mortal thraldom — it proclaimed aloud
The vanity of all created things,
The nothingness of earthly power and pomp.
But then, methought, I heard a voice that cried,
“The kingdoms of the earth shall pass away
With all their glory; but the Lord of Hosts
Hath for the righteous, thrones and crowns prepared,
And kingdoms, subject to no chance, or change.”
Thus heard I in the spirit, and my soul,
A few brief moments on the wings of faith,
Soared up beyond the dense, gross atmosphere
Of dull mortality, and I beheld,
Heaven opened, and a gratulating host
Of angels, hailing their new visitant
With harpings of celestial harmony,
And smiles ineffable of joy and love.
But foremost of that blessed choir, stooped down
A form of light, whose heav'nly lineaments
(Irradiate now with immortality)
Were those of England's darling, and she held
An infant seraph forth, as if to greet
126
Whom, in her mortal nature, she had loved
With filial rev'rence — other forms, made pure
From the corruptions of the flesh, pressed on,
To hail the long expected: — but mine eyes,
Dimmed with exceeding brightness, lost the power
Of stedfast vision, and the glory swam
In dazzling indistinctness from my sight.
My soul returned to earth — the fun'ral bell
From that old tower, still smote upon mine ear;
But there was nought depressing in the sound,
For it had borne my thoughts from earth to heaven—
And never visit to that place of rest,
However transient; never glimpse thereof,
Howe'er imperfect, but it calms, and cheers,
And purifies the heart, and leaves therein,
An emanation of that perfect peace,
Their blissful portion, who inhabit there.
In such a mood of high abstraction late
I listened to the iron tongue, that told
Death's recent victory, and the solemn sound
Conveyed no dark dejection to my soul:
But now, the music of those merry bells,
Jars all its feelings, and my heart recoils,
With painful sadness, from that joyous peal.
I listened to the iron tongue, that told
Death's recent victory, and the solemn sound
Conveyed no dark dejection to my soul:
But now, the music of those merry bells,
127
With painful sadness, from that joyous peal.
Custom (imperious tyrant!) hath decreed
That thus throughout the land should be proclaimed
The King's accession — most expedient 'tis
That, like th' Arabian bird, he should spring forth
From the warm ashes of his royal sire;—
The state demands it, and the gen'ral health
Of the whole body politic, whose pulse
Beats with irregular and palsied stroke,
While the great head lies prostrate — cry aloud
And spare not therefore — let the trumpet sound,
And tell it thro' the land from shore to shore,
That the fourth George doth reign: —bow down the knee
Ye people! and your true allegiance pledge
To God's Vicegerent. Bow the willing knee,
And honor him in his own sacred right,
Your King! — and love him for his father's sake.
But hath the voice of loyalty, no tone
Of solemn rev'rence, touchingly subdued
By sacred feeling to proclaim her king,
That thus she stuns us with th' unhallowed din
Of jingling bells, and the more senseless shouts
Of that unthinking rabble? Wretched fools!
And was his yoke so grievous to be borne?
And was the sceptre of your aged king,
An iron sceptre, that ye thus rejoice
To see it pass away from his cold hand
Into another grasp? — Alas, poor fools!
Ye are of those that shout as chance impels,
For Brutus or for Cæsar — who would prize
The vulgar suffrage of your idle throats?
Pass on disturbers—ring yourselves to rest,
Ye deaf'ning chimes, and leave us once again,
To the enjoyment of our solemn thoughts,
And quiet recollections — — We at least,
We who have hearts to finer feelings tuned,
And thinking minds, will keep inviolate,
The sabbath of the dead: — a little while,
And o'er that venerable form, the tomb
Will shut her marble jaws, and he, so loved,
So honored once, will have no place on earth,
But in the record of his people's hearts,
And one cold niche in that dark sepulchre.
But he is yet amongst us — all of him
Still subject to decay, yet occupies
A place amongst the living — one indeed
Of narrow limits, to the length and breadth,
And depth of that cold coffin circumscribed.
The door of death, th' oblivious lid hath closed
Already on that gracious countenance,
So long in depths of visual darkness veiled;
But radient erst, with such benignant light,
As they who once had seen, and haply felt
Its kindly influence, never could forget.
That thus throughout the land should be proclaimed
The King's accession — most expedient 'tis
That, like th' Arabian bird, he should spring forth
From the warm ashes of his royal sire;—
The state demands it, and the gen'ral health
Of the whole body politic, whose pulse
Beats with irregular and palsied stroke,
While the great head lies prostrate — cry aloud
And spare not therefore — let the trumpet sound,
And tell it thro' the land from shore to shore,
That the fourth George doth reign: —bow down the knee
Ye people! and your true allegiance pledge
To God's Vicegerent. Bow the willing knee,
And honor him in his own sacred right,
Your King! — and love him for his father's sake.
But hath the voice of loyalty, no tone
Of solemn rev'rence, touchingly subdued
By sacred feeling to proclaim her king,
That thus she stuns us with th' unhallowed din
Of jingling bells, and the more senseless shouts
128
And was his yoke so grievous to be borne?
And was the sceptre of your aged king,
An iron sceptre, that ye thus rejoice
To see it pass away from his cold hand
Into another grasp? — Alas, poor fools!
Ye are of those that shout as chance impels,
For Brutus or for Cæsar — who would prize
The vulgar suffrage of your idle throats?
Pass on disturbers—ring yourselves to rest,
Ye deaf'ning chimes, and leave us once again,
To the enjoyment of our solemn thoughts,
And quiet recollections — — We at least,
We who have hearts to finer feelings tuned,
And thinking minds, will keep inviolate,
The sabbath of the dead: — a little while,
And o'er that venerable form, the tomb
Will shut her marble jaws, and he, so loved,
So honored once, will have no place on earth,
But in the record of his people's hearts,
And one cold niche in that dark sepulchre.
But he is yet amongst us — all of him
Still subject to decay, yet occupies
A place amongst the living — one indeed
129
And depth of that cold coffin circumscribed.
The door of death, th' oblivious lid hath closed
Already on that gracious countenance,
So long in depths of visual darkness veiled;
But radient erst, with such benignant light,
As they who once had seen, and haply felt
Its kindly influence, never could forget.
I've heard old people tell with glist'ning eyes,
What goodly sight it was, in days of yore,
To meet him with his infant family
In Richmond Gardens — linked within his own,
The arm of that dear consort he had vowed
To love and cherish (well that vow was kept);
And trooping close behind them, two and two,
Twelve glorious creatures: — they indeed to him
Were as a crown of glory, living gems,
More lustrous than the richest jewelry,
That e'er encircled king's anointed head.
It must, in truth, have been a goodly sight,
To view the royal Parent, thus i' th' midst
Of that fair family. But not alone,
When so environ'd, did paternal love
Shine out co-mingled with the majesty
Of his most princely aspect — not alone,
The gaze of filial reverence and love,
From his own beauteous offspring rested on him:—
It was th' expression of a nation's love,
A nation's duty. When could that good king
Step forth on British ground, 'mongst British hearts,
And not be hailed as father? I was taught,
In my first infant prayer, to supplicate
Heaven's blessing on him — for my parents loved
And reverenced his virtues — born almost
Within the long epocha of his reign,
They did enjoy until their dying hour
Its many blessings — mild, impartial laws,
'Stablished by his example, who did yield
As strict observance to those sage restraints
As was exacted from his meanest subject.
Freedom (our British heir-loom) they enjoyed
Inviolate, beneath his patriot sway
Who was the guardian of our chartered rights;
And our best right, our highest privilege,
Sealed with the blood of martyrs, they enjoyed
In all its purity — profession free
Of that most holy faith, of which, in truth,
He was the great defender — in his life,
Public and private, glorifying still
The God he worshipped and the faith he owned.
What goodly sight it was, in days of yore,
To meet him with his infant family
In Richmond Gardens — linked within his own,
The arm of that dear consort he had vowed
To love and cherish (well that vow was kept);
And trooping close behind them, two and two,
Twelve glorious creatures: — they indeed to him
Were as a crown of glory, living gems,
More lustrous than the richest jewelry,
That e'er encircled king's anointed head.
It must, in truth, have been a goodly sight,
To view the royal Parent, thus i' th' midst
Of that fair family. But not alone,
When so environ'd, did paternal love
130
Of his most princely aspect — not alone,
The gaze of filial reverence and love,
From his own beauteous offspring rested on him:—
It was th' expression of a nation's love,
A nation's duty. When could that good king
Step forth on British ground, 'mongst British hearts,
And not be hailed as father? I was taught,
In my first infant prayer, to supplicate
Heaven's blessing on him — for my parents loved
And reverenced his virtues — born almost
Within the long epocha of his reign,
They did enjoy until their dying hour
Its many blessings — mild, impartial laws,
'Stablished by his example, who did yield
As strict observance to those sage restraints
As was exacted from his meanest subject.
Freedom (our British heir-loom) they enjoyed
Inviolate, beneath his patriot sway
Who was the guardian of our chartered rights;
And our best right, our highest privilege,
Sealed with the blood of martyrs, they enjoyed
In all its purity — profession free
Of that most holy faith, of which, in truth,
131
Public and private, glorifying still
The God he worshipped and the faith he owned.
We read in Holy Writ, how once the Lord,
By faithful Abraham's intercession won,
Would have spared Sodom for ten righteous' sake.
More than ten righteous, more than ten times ten,
May yet be found in England: who can tell
How far the fervent prayers of our good King
May have averted from the land he loved
Impending vengeance? Fair she is; in truth,
Comely to look on — that long favoured land.
But there are plague-spots on her bosom snow:
She hath partaken of th' accursed thing,
And of the cup of vanity and pride
That maketh drunk the nations, — she doth reel,
Intoxicate with riot and excess, —
Giddy with self-conceit and foolishness, —
And infidelity doth watch her time,
To push her from the rock of safety down,
(Even now she undermines its sacred base,)
Into the gulf of darkness and despair.
By faithful Abraham's intercession won,
Would have spared Sodom for ten righteous' sake.
More than ten righteous, more than ten times ten,
May yet be found in England: who can tell
How far the fervent prayers of our good King
May have averted from the land he loved
Impending vengeance? Fair she is; in truth,
Comely to look on — that long favoured land.
But there are plague-spots on her bosom snow:
She hath partaken of th' accursed thing,
And of the cup of vanity and pride
That maketh drunk the nations, — she doth reel,
Intoxicate with riot and excess, —
Giddy with self-conceit and foolishness, —
And infidelity doth watch her time,
To push her from the rock of safety down,
(Even now she undermines its sacred base,)
Into the gulf of darkness and despair.
132
Lord! ere the measure of her crimes is full
Arrest her progress; open thou her eyes,
That she may see (and shudder at the sight)
Her own deformity; and cleanse her heart,
That she may put away iniquity;
And turn her from her evil ways, and live.
Now is the solemn time, the day of grace,
(Perhaps the last shall be appointed her,)
To make her peace with Heav'n: — her guardian saint
Is gone to render up his great account:
His spirit is gone up; but the cold clay
That was its mortal habitation late,
Is yet unmingled with its kindred dust.
Now, ere the pomp of death hath passed away,
(It speaks an awful language,) veil your heads
Ye people! and proclaim a solemn fast,
And keep it holy: — look into your hearts,
And search them out; for your offences past
Make lamentation, and abase yourselves
In deep humility before the Lord;
So haply ye may turn away his wrath;
And so it best befits ye to observe
This solemn season, sacred to the dead!
Arrest her progress; open thou her eyes,
That she may see (and shudder at the sight)
Her own deformity; and cleanse her heart,
That she may put away iniquity;
And turn her from her evil ways, and live.
Now is the solemn time, the day of grace,
(Perhaps the last shall be appointed her,)
To make her peace with Heav'n: — her guardian saint
Is gone to render up his great account:
His spirit is gone up; but the cold clay
That was its mortal habitation late,
Is yet unmingled with its kindred dust.
Now, ere the pomp of death hath passed away,
(It speaks an awful language,) veil your heads
Ye people! and proclaim a solemn fast,
And keep it holy: — look into your hearts,
And search them out; for your offences past
Make lamentation, and abase yourselves
In deep humility before the Lord;
So haply ye may turn away his wrath;
And so it best befits ye to observe
This solemn season, sacred to the dead!
133
But hark!
methought there came upon mine ear
A noise of merriment, as tho' a troop
Of thoughtless revellers, with echoing feet
Kept time in sprightly measure to the sound
Of pipe and timbrel. Are mine eyes deceived
By charmed spells? or do they see in truth
A company of dancers, quaintly robed
In mourning garments, sweeping madly by,
Like moon-struck mourners in a funeral train?
Are we in England? Are old games revived,
Old Grecian games, in honor of the dead?
Fie! 'tis idolatrous to introduce
Those funeral dances in our Christian land.
How! are they not in honor of the dead?
Are they in mockery, then? Do English hearts
Beat in their breasts, who, with indecent mirth,
Profane the solemn interval of time,
Between the death and burial of their King?
Could ye not tarry yet a little while,
Impatient revellers! till his grey head
Was laid at rest within the sepulchre?
For shame! put off that mockery of woe,
Those outward signs of a respectful grief
That is not in your hearts—
A noise of merriment, as tho' a troop
Of thoughtless revellers, with echoing feet
Kept time in sprightly measure to the sound
Of pipe and timbrel. Are mine eyes deceived
By charmed spells? or do they see in truth
A company of dancers, quaintly robed
In mourning garments, sweeping madly by,
Like moon-struck mourners in a funeral train?
Are we in England? Are old games revived,
Old Grecian games, in honor of the dead?
Fie! 'tis idolatrous to introduce
Those funeral dances in our Christian land.
How! are they not in honor of the dead?
Are they in mockery, then? Do English hearts
Beat in their breasts, who, with indecent mirth,
Profane the solemn interval of time,
Between the death and burial of their King?
Could ye not tarry yet a little while,
Impatient revellers! till his grey head
Was laid at rest within the sepulchre?
134
Those outward signs of a respectful grief
That is not in your hearts—
Unthinking fools!
Ye who do clamour in the public streets,
Shout on! with less disgust I hear ye now,
Turning from these more thinking, more refined,
And, therefore, who most outrage in their mirth,
All feeling, all decorum, all respect.—
Ye who do clamour in the public streets,
Shout on! with less disgust I hear ye now,
Turning from these more thinking, more refined,
And, therefore, who most outrage in their mirth,
All feeling, all decorum, all respect.—
These are true tokens of a heartless age,
Proofs that our lot “is fallen on evil days,”
'Mongst evil generations, who think scorn
Of all authorities, and powers that are,
Though delegated by the power supreme.
Proofs that our lot “is fallen on evil days,”
'Mongst evil generations, who think scorn
Of all authorities, and powers that are,
Though delegated by the power supreme.
Land of my fathers! in their days, your sons
Had ne'er polluted with festivity
The sacred pause, between their Sovereign's death
And the commitment of his honoured dust
To its last resting-place amongst the dead.
Had ne'er polluted with festivity
The sacred pause, between their Sovereign's death
And the commitment of his honoured dust
To its last resting-place amongst the dead.
THE END.
| Ellen Fitzarthur | |