University of Virginia Library

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.

'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.

She paused — the lively measure died,
A few uncertain notes she tried,
And soon in softer, sadder strain
Her voice and lute resumed again.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”