University of Virginia Library

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!”

“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.”—

“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.

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.”

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.