University of Virginia Library

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!

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.

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?

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!