Peter Faultless to his brother Simon :: :: University of Virginia Library

Peter Faultless to his brother Simon

tales of night, in rhyme, and other poems. By the author of Night [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott]

Elliott, Ebenezer (1781-1849)

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PETER FAULTLESS TO HIS BROTHER SIMON.

TALES OF NIGHT,

MATRIMONIAL MAGIC.

SECOND NUPTIALS.

POEMS.

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TALES OF NIGHT,

IN RHYME.

------Oh! mysterious Night,
Thou art not silent! many tongues hast thou.
Miss Baillie.

MATRIMONIAL MAGIC.

INTRODUCTION.

I.

Oh, Lady of the sable vest,
Thy sad hands clasp'd upon thy breast!
When heaven is hung with mourning, thou
Turn'st from th' extinguish'd stars thy brow,
To curse and interdict the light,
And hallow darkness! thou art Night.
When shipwreck howls along the deep,
Thou sittest on the wave-worn steep,
To see destruction's giant hand
With more than horror strew the strand!
I call'd not thee, thou face of tears,
All channell'd by the share of years!

Enough hath man of dread and sadness
To turn his dream of hope to madness;
The throne of trouble is his heart.
What need hath he of fear and thee?
Lady of Gloom! depart, depart!

II.

When she, the hope of nations, died,
Whose story is a realm in woe,
Was it not thou, whose wing supplied
A fitting pall for such a bier?
Following the dead, with footstep slow,
England beheld thy gloomy tear.
While, from thy wan and trembling hand,
Death's torch flash'd o'er a blasted land
The mockery of the blessed day.
Lady of Death! away, away!
Oh!—Lady of Despair!—away!

III.

Hath Night no smiles? or none for me?
I love not gloom, but jollity.

I may not paint the hell of guilt,
The dreadful drop by murder spilt,
The seowl of the renounc'd of heaven,
The self-condemn'd, the unforgiven;
That task be his, of soul severe,
The poet of the burning tear,
Who sung Medora, love, and woe;
To gloomy spirit, darkness, go!
Yet come, (but smiling,) Night, to me;
Or, bring the urchin, Fun, with thee.

Oh, Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice.
Burns.

[I.]

'Twas midnight wild! and, heavy, pass'd
O'er John White's cot the frequent blast.
The clouds, beneath Night's awful noon,
Pursued the oft-extinguish'd moon,
Like troubled waves, that, maned with foam
Bound o'er the sailor's wandering home.
Long had John's window wanted mending;
And the blast blew his candle out,
The sparks o'er bed and corn-bin sending.
Cold by the fire, he wip'd his snout,

Or, shook the ashes from his short pipe;
And toothache gave him many a tort gripe;
While, like the very Hag of spite,
Nell, his old wife, sat opposite;
And, o'er the sink, of nought afraid,
Washing her smock, bent Moll, the maid;
And Tom, the plowman, on the floor
Snor'd, though he was not heard to snore.
Full thirty years had John taught Nelly;
Yet, still unlearn'd, though long at school,
Brains had she never—in her belly;
What could he hope from such a fool?
They snagg'd, the learn'd aver, and truly,
From August scorch'd, till blazing July;
For, while Nell bore not children any,
Her husband father'd bastards many;
And said it was, by every liar,
That oft the wife of Farmer Bacon
Had Nell's Lord for her own mistaken,
And that fat Giles, with face of fire,
Had sons who might call John their Sire.

But Nelly was by nature evil;
And, were she riding to the devil,
Yet would she, in her headlong course,
Whip him who did not whip the horse.
John ne'er was, by his neighbours, deem'd
The best good-natured man on earth;
But sulkier now than ever seem'd
The stern old sinner! while to mirth
And sudden fun inclin'd was Nell;
But why, old Johnny could net tell.
No longer now the type express,
And visible sign of loneliness,
She laugh'd, talk'd, kick'd the kettle o'er,
And laid John, sprawling, on the floor;
When had she such a fit before?
The ruddy embers, almost spent,
Seem'd to partake her merriment,
And wink o'erpower'd, then blaze amain.
But all her pranks were play'd in vain;
For still more darkly frown'd old John.
Vainly she laugh'd, like woman mad,
And lifted up her dear old lad,

Then plac'd her palm his knee upon,
And chuck'd his chin, and chuck'd again.
Still sat he shy, with awful eye
Like statue of austerity,
Or banker's clerk behind his book,
Or monthly critic in his nook,
Hunting for flaws, but lacking game,
And sick at thought of rising name.
And cause, as after will be seen,
There was, for both their moods, I ween.
At last, incens'd, and weary, too,
With wrinkled hand, of greyish blue,
Into the fire her cap she threw;
And, from her crown, her tresses flew,
And down her back, like pale snakes, hung,
And o'er her breast, and o'er her beard;
While, grim as witch the fiends among,
And, dancing like a squib, she sung,
With more than melody, a song
Which all true lovers should have heard.

II.

“How quiet, in the church-yard wide,
Lie John and Nelly side by side!
Their wedded war is o'er;
Silent the curtain lecture sweet,
The Iliad in a nuptial sheet;
Hating, they died; and hop'd to meet,
In heaven, or hell, no more.”

III.

Moll laugh'd, almost until she split,
And overthrew both suds and kit;
But still more grimly frown'd grey John:
The old clock, which he gaz'd upon,
Tick'd slower, some say, with affright;
A proof that spectres walk'd that night.
He took his hat from where it hung;
But Nell more loud and wildly sung,
And seiz'd him, as in spite;
“Stay thou with me, love, I pray thee,
For terrors haunt the night.”

And, rapid as the reinless wind,
Around her love her arms she twin'd,
And gave him such a potent kiss,
As set the cottage-door ajar;
So loud it spake of wedded bliss.
Moll stood astonish'd!—well she might,—
Because it was a thing not common:
“Hem!” growl'd old John, “Is't devil i' th' woman?”
And rais'd his hand, and push'd her far.
Then—while the clock struck one, and shook,—
Gruff, into th' night his way he took,
And Nell bang'd after him the door;
And up rose Thomas from the floor,
Staring, as if he fear'd the fall
Of roof and rig-tree over all.

IV.

By the wild moon's disastrous light,
Whither, oh, Night, in such a night,
Albeit unus'd to palpitations,
Went the grey sire of generations?
He went (and haply for no good)
Strait to the hut, beyond the wood,

Where dwelt, renown'd for cure of itch,
Martha, the doctress, and the witch,
Whose physic (there was magic in it)
Could make folks sleep an hour a minute.
Strange things, indeed, could Mat perform!
'Tis certain she could lay a storm,
And bottle th' lightning; and—a wonder!—
She kept in pots her pounded thunder;
And, when hot summers bak'd all dry,
She pickled th' sunshine, to lay by
For future use, in wintry day.
But could poor Mat have witch'd away
Those ills that caus'd her still to sigh,
Disease, and age, and poverty;
Or, had she been young, fair, or rich,
She would not have been deem'd a Witch.
Her form, that once, perhaps, was strait,
Was crooked now, as bend of skate,
And, symptom sure of sorcery,
She had a wart beneath her eye.
Not of the Graces lov'd was she;
But Fun she lov'd, and her lov'd he,

Her best, almost her only friend.
But she was wearing to her end;
And, though none better lov'd a joke,
One secret woe, would oft provoke
The deep, unbidden sigh, that spoke
More than words could, but spoke in vain,
And lighten'd not her load of pain.
Her sons had left their house of birth,
That house, no more the home of mirth;
All scatter'd were they over earth;
Well might she death to life prefer!
Alas, they fail'd to visit her!
Years pass'd, and still they came not near;
This cost her many a bitter tear.
The four green acres, low and warm,
(Now join'd to fat Giles Bacon's farm,)
That fed their cow, ere William died,—
She wish'd to keep them! 'twas denied;
And the dark workhouse, frowning nigh,
Was her sole earthly treasury.
Oh! to desertion, want, and age,
What ill could fate add, in his rage?

What bore she in her aged breast?
Not the dread fire of soul unbless'd;
But in that bosom, torture-sore,
A cancer, cureless ill, she bore!
Death star'd her ever in the face;
And woe watch'd in her dwelling place;
Yet was she cheerful, though in pain;
For in the cup which she must drain,
A gem of heavenly lustre shone.
And, frequent, on her pillow lone,
She shed the tear of memory,—
No curse to her! with streaming eye,
Then thought she of her husband's grave,
Crown'd with the turf of twenty years,
Where latest verdure still shall wave,
And spring the earliest daisy rears.
The dead, whom vainly we deplore,
Not lost, she deem'd, but gone before;
And her tried soul, its haven nigh,
Was anchor'd on eternity.
Heaven, pitying, stoop'd, to make her sorrows less,
Man scowl'd to see her burdensome distress,
And the dogs knew her by her wretchedness.

V.

Night's angels (who, perchance, know well
More queer things than they choose to tell)
Have not inform'd us what befell
John, on the road from home and hell,
To meet the wrinkled sorceress;
Whether the air-borne coffin met
The hoary sinner on his way;
Whether the whisper accentless
Of wretch self slain, his path beset,
While dumb hand beckon'd him to stay;
Whether he stood aghast to see,
Beneath the yew's etersial gloom,
Gleaming in rawness horribly,
The flay'd horse, rampant on a tomb;
Or whether, where the four roads meet,
And the three oaks their moss'd boughs stretch,
He heard the sound of lifeless feet,
Or sigh of ne'er-seen gabelwretch.
But 'tis most certain, that the spark
Which redly rose, and rose to die,
From Martha's chimney in the dark,

Woke not in Johnny's breast a sigh,
Or thought of his mortality.
No!—Queerer thoughts on John, instead,
Grinn'd, like an old wife's maidenhead,
And, laughing through his frost, were seen
The wrinkles of a leaf of green.

VI.

He reach'd the hut, and knock'd with strength;
Long knock'd he vainly! but, at length,
The door was open'd, and he enter'd,
Wondering no little how he ventur'd.
Yet scarce within the open door,
He stood, the viewless witch before;
For darkness darken'd, in the light
That glimmer'd from the eyes of sprite
Who with her dwelt, in shape a cat;
And Johnny quak'd with dread thereat!
But when he heard the demon pur,—
His very guts began to stir!
And that sound only could he hear,
Save creaking fire, all rayless, near.

His slow foot, lifted from the ground,
Struck something that return'd no sound;
Dead to the touch, and black it lay.
Yet, causeless, learn'd historians say,
At that dire moment, were his fears,
And that 'twas but a bag of soot
'Gainst which so dreadly struck his foot.
Her son, the sweep, to do her honour,
Had call'd that afternoon upon her,
For the first time in ten long years:
He spake not,—though he saw her tears,—
But left his bag, and went away,
Because he did not come to stay.
And yet, oh! widow, yet to thee,
That visit stern was ecstasy!
The mother, bow'd with time and pain,
Hath seen her child, her child, again!
Oh! sweetest in thy bitter cup,
That sweet drop, mother, drink it up!
Sweet, and the last that thou shalt have,
Perchance, on this side of the grave!—

Oh! even in woe's petrific shade,
Where age and want the wretch invade,
Nature, thy bless'd affections burn!
Bless'd, she awaited his return:
“He'll come back for his bag!” she said;
Nor could the wealth of worlds have bought
Th' Elysium of that simple thought;
But so deep in the reverie
Of its enjoyment lapp'd was she,
That John, unheard, and bent on sin,
Knock'd long, before she let him in.

VII.

“Mat!” said grey John, and listen'd, “Mat!
Well know you what I would be at:
True to appointment, here stand I.
May the lie choak me, if I lie!
But Nell, as bottled beer, is mad.
Curs'd with a shrew, a woful man,
Now rid me, as you say you can,
Of her, and married misery;

Or I shall be than she is madder.
If she were dead, I should be glad;
And would I in her coffin had her!
Not that I love my servant Molly,
As bawls Giles Bacon, in his folly;
For that would be both sin and shame,
In one so old as I am, dame.
Beside, I fear she likes my man,
Who ne'er gets drunk, but when he can:
Sot! he should th' whipping post be tied to,
If all lov'd whoremasters as I do!”

VIII.

Mute, sigh'd the witch: he heard the sigh,
But did not heed it! nor could he
Discern the pity, mix'd with scorn,
That glimmer'd in her faded eye,
Behind her locks so white and worn.
Even in resentment, kind was she:
Unlike some saints of this sad world
Whose life of serpents, envy curl'd,

Would venom, while it kiss'd a brother;
Saints than whom nought in hell can be
Less like the angels of the other!
Honey with gall she lov'd to deal,
And never wounded, but to heal.

IX.

“It will be all the same to me,
Whether my wife,” continued he,
“Be carried, living, into hell,
Or, by enchantment, die in bed.”

X.

Still was the sorceress silent. “Nell
Must, when her time comes, die,” he said,
“Nor care I, if she die before,—
Provided we from guilt be free,
That is, provided none blame me.
Aye, let the blame at Satan's door,
Or any door, but mine, be laid,
And even do with her what thou wilt;
For then we shall be free from guilt.”

XI.

“Certainly,” said the witch, at last,
“The blame will, as we wish, be cast
Ev'n on themselves, the evil powers,
'Twill seem the Devil's deed, and not our's.
But that contrive we can to steer
Guiltless, as blameless, is not clear.”

XII.

“For guilt no matter!” answer'd he,
“Provided slander silent be,
Conscience shall sit as still as she.”

XIII.

“Yet pause,” said Mat, “or ere thou do
This thing of fear. Canst thou go through
The dreadful business, without shrinking?
Think.”—“Phoo!” cried he, “what matters thinking?
I will go through it, come what may;—
Not that I love my servant Molly,
As guts, lies, horns, and melancholy

May (having often said it) say;
For Giles, whom no ties satisfy,
Is not content, we all know well,
To talk of sweet sounds as they fly,
But hoards, for after claps, the smell;
A huge paunch, set on props a-straddle,
That, ever cramming, never glutted,
Hath fed (all swear't who see his waddle)
On roast ducks till he's grown web-footed!”

XIV.

“Lo!” mutter'd she, “I write thy name
In Satan's blood!” Then, still more low,
In accents half suppress'd, and slow,
She spake the curse: “May fiends of flame
Pursue, and scourge thee to the tomb,
A hope-left, God-abandon'd man!
And may the hell-rung frying-pan
Jar in thine ears till th' crack of doom!
If thou per form not what I bid,
When fate hath clos'd this volume's lid!

And woe! if thou have aught conceal'd,
And not thine inmost soul reveal'd.”

XV.

Then, with the magic grasp of hands,
The witch impos'd her dread commands,
In whispers, such as sinners needed,
And us'd with caution, in th' beginning,
Ere prayers and cant had superseded
The use of clumsier tools in sinning;
And, passion-rul'd, and evil-sent,
And hag-instructed, forth he went.
Whither? To Bacon's barn, that stood
Where roars the river through the wood,
Then battling with the blast on high,
And o'er rocks waving gloomily,
What time, in dreams of dying men,
The winged dragon, from his den,
Was seen, o'er Huthwaite's firs reclin'd,
To lash, with tail of woe, the wind.
He, entering, trode the spacious floor,
But did not dare to shut the door;

100

And, while the moon's inconstant light,
Illum'd, by fits, his locks of white,
Thus he address'd, on bended knee,
The powers that are, and still will be,
Till man shall triumph o'er the grave,
And fate no more be passion's slave.

XVI.

“Ye, who prescribe the doom of man!
Ye, to whom life is dancing dust!
Ye, who must aid me, if you can!
(Dread slaves!) ye shall! because ye must.—
Let my wife die! no matter how;
But be it soon! and why not now?
And, if to wed again I choose,
Let not the baggage, Moll, refuse!
For well ye know,—or I'd not tell ye,—
I love her, as I ne'er lov'd Nelly,
And Giles says, all my actions show it:
I tell ye th' truth, because ye know it.
Now—by her chaste lip's rosy red!
And by her stainless maidenhead!

101

And by her garters, strip'd with black!
And by the gown upon her back,
Made of six yards of tawny cotton,
Which I bought cheap, because 'twas rotten,
And to her gave, (all good betide her!)
Unknown to Nell, who can't abide her!
By these, and by her soul and liver,
Let her, I charge ye, love the giver
Of gown and garters, and forever
John White to all the world prefer,
With passion hot, as his for her!
Last—make me, spite of time and pain,
(If ye can do it,) young again!”

XVII.

Lo! as if dead in heaven, the moon
Vanish'd from night's portentous noon!
And two fleet forms, perchance, of air,
(John saw not whether foul or fair,)
Enter'd the barn inaudibly;
And, quick, as glance of trout in stream,
Sudden, as comes, uncall'd, a dream,

102

Clos'd the huge door. All-shuddering, he
Might soothly swear, but might not see,
That things of earth they could not be.
And now, immers'd in utter darkness,
Even his inward light was sparkless;
For, as he felt, or smelt, or heard
Their passing tread, his ancient beard
Cring'd, and his hair threw off his hat;
And, as in river plunges rat,
Down, heavy, dropp'd the hat to th' ground,
Which inly groan'd, a deathly sound,
Like fall of clay on coffin lid.
Johnny, 'tis written, never did,
When of that twain he chose to tell,
Say what the craft they made a trade of,
Nor what the stuff he thought them made of,—
Whether o' th' dunnest smoke of hell,
Or moonshine, when invisible,
Or sound, or fragrance: who shall tell?
But, howsoe'er it came to pass,
An odour certainly there was,

103

Though some aver who would not lie,
It savour'd of mortality.
But Johnny neither would nor could,
Suppose they might be flesh and blood;
And, if omniscient, too, they were,
They must have known that he was there!
Yet learn'd historians have averr'd,
And bards have sung, and I have heard,
Whate'er might then their business be,
They did not wish for company.
Bodiless did the phantoms glide?
And yet an elbow struck his side!
But hoary John was too polite
To ask, at such a time of night,
How elbow of unreal sprite
Did e'er, or could, since time began,
Give pain to rib of living man;
But, listening, as was wise and meet,
He heard what seem'd the tread of feet,
Like distant step on midnight street;
And something heavy seem'd to fall,
If not on th' floor, against the wall.

104

Then, while his heart throbb'd loud and fast,
Ceas'd the old walls to reel and shake?
The rafters, overhead, to quake?
The earth to shudder? Did the blast
Pause, and at once, on clouds above?
And slept the aspin in the grove?
Did he—a power, but not a form,—
Who more than whirlwind's strength can bind;
Did he, the Genius of the storm,
Stoop, listening, as he rein'd the wind?
Did midnight, did the stars, the skies,
With damned witchcraft sympathise?

XVIII.

Poor human nature! could'st thou see,
In their own forms, distinct and bare,
Stripped of their fancied foul and fair,
The things that bless, or bother, thee;
Then—Earth, indeed, would desert be!

XIX.

The tyrant is sometimes a slave;
So brave men are not always brave:

105

Truth treads o' th' tale of serpent error;
So courage may succeed to terror.
Vanish'd, at length, poor Johnny's fears,
And he began to prick his ears.
'Twas silence all! save, soft and low,
A sound, as of the melting snow;
Or, distant music's faintest flow;
Or, sigh of sorrow in repose;
Or, dewdrop, sliding from the rose,
When, sweet, the breath of midnight blows;
Or, murmur of the moonlight grass,
When fairies o'er the daisy pass;
Or, tremble of the conscious grove
That hides the stolen kiss of love
Even from the prying stars above,
When passion pants on beauty's cheek,
And blushes what it cannot speak.
John wish'd for light, to use his eyes!
What was that voice of whisper'd bliss?
Was't the old compound, lovers' sighs,
Mix'd with the oft-imprinted kiss;

106

A compound, ere love learn'd to grieve,
Invented by our mother Eve,
Who granted—so 'tis said of Madam—
A patent for't to the devil, and Adam?
Lo! light burst, sudden, from on high!
John ask'd no questions, how, or why,
But all was light, as brightest day!
And, plain, before him, on the hay,
The two mysterious phantoms lay,
Less like two spectres, side by side,
Than bridegroom and enamour'd bride.
Male seem'd the one; John could have ta'en him
For his own plowman, Tommy Blainim,
So like he seem'd in form and size:
But t'other caus'd him most surprise!
Female it seem'd, with bosom bare;
And, o'er the heaven of whiteness there,
Seem'd wandering locks of Night's dark hair!
But may he call his eyes his own?
Or, did he buy that tawny gown?
And does he see, or seem to see,
Bound on that loveliest spectre-knee,

107

A garter, strip'd with black and white?
He star'd with eyes mile-wide, or more:
Darkness and devils, what a sight!
And soon his grunt became a roar!
“Forgery! Tipstaves! Help! Thou boar!
“Oh, Lord, ha' mercy! Moll, Tom! Whore!”

XX.

Shrieking, up sprang that seeming female;
Laughing, with her upstarted the male;
A laugh it was, uncouth and dread,
That shook the stumps in Johnny's head.
Still, as he laugh'd, the spectre rais'd
His eye accurs'd, and upward gaz'd.
And upward, too, look'd haggard John:—
Oh, Night! what horror stares he on?
What vision binds him, or what charm?
And something trickles, wet and warm,
As tear of brine from mourner's eyes,
Down both his lean and wither'd thighs,
Which when that laughing devil sees
Hot-issuing at the breeches knees,

108

And dripping, bright, as rose distill'd,
Until the wooden shoes are fill'd,
He claps his hellish hands for gladness,
And howls, like folly drunk, or madness.

XXI.

As lady fine, rais'd from her grave
By some abhorr'd enchanter-knave,
(And still, as erst, precise and proud,)
Shudders, and, from her faded shroud,
The wriggling worms, so foul to sense,
Shakes,—wondering at their impudence;
So wonder'd Johnny!—well he might,—
To see the sibyl of affright
Who, seated on the highest beam,
Cast from her eyes a sulphur-gleam,
Which he beholding, lowly cring'd,
For't seem'd a blaze that might have sing'd
His very soul, if he had had one,
So grimly glar'd that very bad one.
Her awful right hand grasp'd a candle;
And in the other, like pump handle,

109

Wav'd, what hath made the bravest faulter,
The twisted cord of fate, a halter;
While, streaming from her capless scull,
Her gorgon tresses, white as wool,
Veil'd features that might startle hell.
John thought he saw his old wife Nell!
And, diuretic as he trembled,
Muttering what could not be dissembled,
(Like night-mare in a widow's bed,
Who sees, return'd, her husband, dead,)
“Take any shape but that!” he said;
While to the balk, with hideous leer,
The hag bound fast her cord of fear,
Which done, these accents met his ear:
“Did'st thou not come to get unmarried?
Then, John, thy plot hath not miscarried.
Place in this noose thy neck abhorr'd;
And, if I stir, to cut the cord,
Still shall Old Nick thy true friend be,
And hang grey Nell, instead of thee.”

110

XXII.

Alas! what horrors face must he
Who deals with damned sorcery!
The door, at that dread instant, flew
Wide open, and rush'd in a crew
Of demons dire, that well could ape
The human voice, the human shape,
'Mid whom, on stang high mounted, sate
Martha, the grisly hag of fate.
What torches of Plutonian tar
Cast red their radiance near and far!
In hands of seeming boy and man
Was many a seeming frying-pan;
And female voices rang in air,
And many a seeming cap was there,
And many a bosom laughter heav'd;
And hundreds grinn'd, while one was griev'd.
John thought his neighbours, for their evils,
Fed all on brimstone, and were devils!

XXIII.

“Come down, in all thy charms, come down!
John shall not die!” yell'd Mat the brown;

111

“But though thou may'st not him there hang,
Thou shalt, with halter, soundly bang
His back and sides, and ancient breech,
Until his distant home he reach.”
Thereat, what seem'd her sooty son
Began John's torments new, for fun:
Sly, he approach'd, in raven guise,
And, into John's despairing eyes,
A handful threw of dusky grain!
Then black tears flow'd, like sable rain;
And Johnny fled, but slowly flew,
Him hemm'd so close the goblin crew.
Still, as he strove his flight to urge,
That wife-like spectre plied the scourge,
And chang'd, with halter's sounding thwack,
From white to black and blue, his back;
While laughter, and demoniac noises
Made such pother in the night,
That certain asses, wak'd in fright,
Half-envious, wish'd to change their voices.
Small leisure then had John to wonder
At what seem'd Farmer Bacon's thunder;

112

A voice it was that struck him dumb,—
To any witch, worth any sum,
To raise the devil with, in a storm.
But lowly bow'd his bleeding form;
Fainting, he stoop'd, amid the throng,
Yet 'scap'd not so the cruel thong.
At length, from scalp to buttock sore,
Eager, he reach'd his cottage door,
Where entering, pale,—how stunn'd was he,
Asleep by th' fire, old Nell to see!
Up she arose, and sad was she,
And cause she had to grieve!
He scratch'd his head, he touch'd his belly,
Nor could, nor would believe,
If he was John, that she was Nelly!
Until, at last, his pains to ease,
She stripp'd him bare from head to knee,
And rubb'd his back with candle-grease,
And fondly pass'd her faithful thumb
From scragg of neck to ridge of bum.

151

SECOND NUPTIALS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

In this book it is related, how William Bray deserted his wife; how Mathew Hall won her heart, by talking of her husband until she wept; how she swam a drake with her tears, and married Mathew; how William Bray returned to his wife, after an absence of ten years; how she took him for the Devil, and did her best to scratch his eyes out! and how the man had his mare again, and all was well.

152

INTRODUCTION.

I.

Oh! thou, who tak'st thy smiling seat
Close by the fire, where rustics meet,
When toil is done, to feed on ale,
And join the laugh, or tell the tale,
While haste the hours, by pleasure speeded,
And darkness frowns without, unheeded!
When, next, oh! night, the genial powers,
Satiate with drink, not crown'd with flowers,
Assemble at a tinker's wedding;
May I be there, to see the bedding!
And when thou wakest at country fair,
To mark the feats of baited bear;
Or pugilistic battle's rage;
Or showman's feats, on lofty stage,
Around which, like th' Athenians old,
Crowd Albion's toil-strung peasants bold,

153

To hear, or stare at, something new;
Lady of Laughter! wake me, too.

II.

Oh! thou, who, in th' eccentric maze
Of motion, wedded to sweet sound,
Lov'st powerful beauty's roseate blaze,
The march of music, and the bound
Of youthful health, an angel tall,
Th' enchantress of the splendid hall!
When, next, oh! nymph, the Graces meet,
To frolic on harmonious feet,
And, through the heaven of smiles, serene,
The stately dance moves, like a queen;
Then, to that loveliest scene of night,
Where Emma beams in looks of light,
With eye of life, and step of air,
Lady of Grace! with me repair.

III.

Art thou not she, assigned to lead
The lover o'er the moonlight mead,
With her, his life of life decreed,

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When all around, on plain and hill,
Save the far-moaning waterfall,
Save their own beating hearts, is still;
While every leaf with dew is gemm'd,
And passion is their heaven, their all,
And wealth and worlds roll by, contemn'd?
Then, when, unseen, they fly to thee;
When nought, but conscious night, is near;
What see'st thou then? what none may see:
What hear'st thou then? what none may hear.
Saint of the heart! to thee, to thee
Shall bow the might of poesy.
Oh! Lady of the starry stole,
Rich in the secrets of the soul!
To thee shall rise th' impassion'd song,
Devoutly sweet, divinely strong;
And ne'er shall bard inspired refuse
To crown thee mistress of the muse,
To wear thy bonds, to scorn the free,
Lady of Love! and kneel to thee.

155

And, sudden, rush'd into the hall
A man, whose aspect and attire
Startled the circle by the fire.
Scott.

I.

Long since, to th' wood return'd the crow;
Don, bounding o'er his bank, is loud;
And thick above the melting snow,
Night's blackness hides the pouring cloud.
No azure islands heaven, no star
O'er Thrybergh's grey oaks peeps afar,
Piercing the deluge of the sky,
Through which the blast wades drearily.
But on the hill, a blaze with light,
Deserted Mary's cottage gleams,

156

And there the elms, distinct and bright,
Wave fast their bare arms in the beams.
Is this the widow's wedding night?
'Tis now ten years since William went,
The slave of jealous discontent,
To fight the Yankees, in despite,
Rather than stay at home and fight;
And now six months are passed, or more,
Since Mathew Hall arriv'd, and told
That William's limbs lie stiff and cold,
On wintry Champlain's forest shore.
And does the widow wed again?
Oh! widowhood is weary pain,
Of ills the worst that can befall!
And, loving him, as he loves her,
Say, does she wed the messenger
Of late good tidings, Mathew Hall?

II.

The scar'd fox in the coppice hoar,
Hears the dance shake the oaken floor;

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Joy revels on the green hill's side;
And Mary is again a bride.
As wave on Canklow's forehead fair
Th' autumnal maple's locks of gold,
In many a curl, her flaxen hair,
Above the flowing tear, is roll'd.
Sad? and a bride! A mourning bride,
She sits her new-espous'd beside,
And her tears bathe his hand the while!
What may such ill-tim'd tears betide?
Or, is she far too bless'd to smile?

III.

The fiddle's shriek was superseded:
The tale, the joke, the laugh succeeded,
And scandal stoop'd at folly's ear.
Soft-touching, with his finger's end,
Her, who, erewhile, was Mary Bray,
Said Mathew then unto his dear:
“How strange that my expected friend
Came not to give the bride away!
What stays his coming? cans't thou say?”

158

IV.

“The flood,” she answer'd, “is abroad,
And peril haunts the buried road.
The ferryman hath left his boat,
Which hath not, this day, earn'd a groat,
And now in Mexbro, with his wench,
Tipsy, he sits on the alehouse bench.”

V.

“Yet,” then said he, with look of fear,
“I would, I would, my friend were here!
For much indeed—now mark thou me!—
Imports his coming, love, to thee:
He is a man of mystery!
And come he will, or soon, or late,
To question thee with words of fate.
Tell him no lies, my loving mate!
For, on thy answers truth depend
The weal of husband, wife, and friend.”

VI.

“Thou shalt be well obey'd,” replied,
While faster stream'd her tears, the bride.

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Then thus, once more, spake Mathew Hall!
“A wedding? or a funeral?
Weeping! and on thy wedding day?
Weeping! and still for William Bray?
By heaven thou hast shed tears for him
Enough old Martha's drake to swim!
Of this no more, no more, I pray!—
Ho! where is now the blasant Muse?
Is she to scare the pigs afraid?
A song! a song! nor man, nor maid,
Who hopes to wed, to sing refuse.
But pensive Harry shall sing first,
The cross'd in love, the sorrow-nurs'd.
Harry, thou ne'er did'st rightly pray
Till sulky Sarah jilted thee.
Religion, ancient sages say,
Religion, from the realms above,
Came down, to soothe the mourner, love;
And passion then was piety.
Indulge me, Harry, in my whim—
(Solemn th' occasion!) sing a hymn;

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A hymn, a psalm, a—any thing;
Ev'n call it what thou wilt—but sing!”

VII.

Pensive and pale, arose the youth,
The child of feeling and of truth,
And modestly, and yet with pride,
His ancient fiddle laid aside,
Which not its weight in gold could buy.
True, it was clumsy to the eye;
True, its dark side some cracks display'd;
Yet was there more than music in't;
For why? 'twas by his grand-sire made,
The Genius, fam'd so far and wide,
Th' inventor of the butter-print!
The worm of death was in his breast.
Sarah, the faithless, met his eye,
Which grief and mute reproach express'd;
Then, gazing, self-condemn'd, on earth,
She heav'd, or seem'd to heave, a sigh;
But, lo, she saw the hairy hide
Of big-boned Jacob at her side,

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Her amorous mate! and, in its birth,
The infant, frail repentance, died.
At first, the Minstrel's voice was low,
As whisper'd prayer of fear, or woe;
But soon, distinct, and deep, and clear,
The soul-felt accents met the ear,
Full of that fervour of the heart
Which bids all earthly toys depart,
Taught by calamity to scorn
All that of human pride is born.

VIII. THE LOVER'S SONG.

“Scarcely from Mary's cheek, where bliss
In tears and blushes lay,
Had William kiss'd, with transport's kiss,
Love's blissful tear away,
When, o'er her murdered sister's bier,
He saw her shed a wilder tear.

“Fast, fast, into the new-made grave,
Fast fell the melting snow;

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But scarce had Winter ceas'd to rave
O'er her who slept below,
When Mary mourn'd her William fled!
And then she mourn'd her William dead!

“Ah, life is but a tearful stream,
On which floats joy, the flower!
Deeply we plunge, and rise, and scream,
And strive, with all our power,
To grasp the bright weed gliding nigh,
And snatch, and miss, and sink, and die.

“The young bride wept; the sister wept
Where Ann serenely sleeps;
The widow wept, when William slept;
The wedded widow weeps!
Ah, earth's frail love is woe, is woe!
Did not thy sister find it so?

“And not to soothe wild passion came
Religion from above:

163

Speak not, in scorn, her holy name;
Religion's self is love—
Love, with no poison in her kiss;
And, if she weeps, her tear is bliss.

“Be still my heart! soon shalt thou be—
Beneath thy mother's mould;
There is a bed of rest for thee,
Where Ann reposes cold:
The turf sleeps sweetly on her breast;
And thou (but not like it) shalt rest.”

IX.

Ended his ditty sadly sweet;
Resum'd his fiddle and his seat;
Applauded by the noiseless tear,
Although no plaudit met his ear;
Sigh'd he, the meekest child of woe.
His cheek, late pallid as the snow,
Now burn'd with feeling's hectic glow,
(Consumption's banner there display'd,)
Beautiful, as a dying maid;

164

Or, blushing merit in distress;
Or, like the rose, the splendour less,
Oh, not the white one, but the pale,
That droops, the mourner of the vale,
Carnation'd faintly, in the gale!

X.

“My drooping Mary!” Mathew said,
“I like this lay of Harry's well;
Though not by practis'd poet made,
(He's not, like Charles, there, one of th' trade,)
'Tis sad, and true. But can'st thou tell
What of the murderer, John, became?
Well may'st thou tremble at his name.
Mary, I slew the accursed man,
The wretch, who killed thy sister Ann.
We met—'twas in the ranks of death,—
With set teeth, and suspended breath:
On me the conscious traitor scowl'd;
On him my startled eye was rowl'd;
He rush'd to slay, but paus'd aghast;
Through him my cranshing bayonet pass'd;

165

He shriek'd, and fell! with dreadful stare
He lay, and look'd a hopeless prayer.
I, shuddering, turn'd—I could not bear
To look upon the horror there.”

XI.

Then, deeply skill'd in Ford and Quarles,
Up rose the village Homer, Charles,
A wight uncouth, unshav'd, unclean,
In stature tall, of visage mean,
To sing, or say, and sans persuasion,
His poem, written for th' occasion.
Contempt rode in his half shut eye,
And, on his curl'd lip, vanity;
While, from the depth of lungs up drawn,
Preluding to his song, a yawn,
From mouth to mouth, with solemn boom,
Went in procession round the room.

XII. THE POET'S SONG.

“Methought, I wander'd long and far, and slept
On purple heath flowers, while the black stream crept

166

Moaning, beside me, o'er its bed of stone:
But soon before my troubled spirit pass'd
A dream of unclimb'd hills, and forests vast,
And sea-like lakes, and shadowy rivers lone.

“And there, a man, whose youth seem'd palsied eld,
Mov'd, slow and faint, by wildering thought impell'd;
Yet beam'd the sorrow of his gentle eye,
With a sweet calmness, on the mountain's hoar,
And the magnificent Flora, and the shore
Of shipless waves, that swell'd to meet the sky.”

“And, oh,” he said, “falsehood, that truth-like seem'd!
I lov'd, and thought I was belov'd—I dream'd,—
Who hath had joys, and who hath woes, like mine?
The worm that gnaws the soul, hath found me out.
Can th' lightning blast like thee, thou withering doubt?
Suspicion! hath the wolf a fang like thine?”

“Farewell for ever!—and, oh, thank'd be thou,
Realm of the roaring surge, that part'st us now!

167

And hail, ye pathless swamps, ye unsail'd floods!—
Thou owest nought, thou glistening snake, to me;
Hiss! if thou wilt! I ask not love of thee.
And then he plung'd into the night of woods.”

XIII.

“A Milton!” loudly Mathew cried;
“A Milton!” ten harsh throats replied;
And Charles look'd round, with scornful air,
Prouder than Punch at country fair:
While Jacob, by th' applauding laugh
Rous'd from his wonted stupor, gaz'd
On poet, groom, and all, amaz'd.
But bride's maid Nancy's well-timed tear,
More eloquent than words by half,
Paid to his powers, so loudly prais'd,
Applause, the sweetest and most dear.
The song had pathos! and she slept
Till it was ended; then she wept—
It was a way she had, a whim.
Unseen, he thought, for sly was he
(Yet not, perchance, more sly than she)

168

He watch'd, and saw her—prying thing!—
Pass the rich bride-cake through the ring;
Doubtless, in hope to dream of him!

XIV.

Then Mathew to his umber'd cheek,
Acquainted long with sun and wind,
Press'd drooping Mary's forehead meek;
And, “Bride!” he said, “now, now a treat!
(Nay, drive the mourner from thy mind!)
After the Epic, somewhat long,
Of our judicious man of song,
(Thy William's friend, also a prophet
That weeping love would soon tire of it,)
Give us a ballad short and sweet,
And, if more gay than sad, no worse;
Sadness—like dulness—is a curse.”

XV.

He ended, sneering at the poet,
Who, although stung, seem'd not to know it:
She rose not from her Mathew's side,
But met his warm kiss, and complied.

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XVI.

THE BRIDE'S SONG.

[_]

Tune, “Ye banks and braes o' bonny Doon.”

“The frost was crisping o'er the Don;
Along his banks stray'd Ann with John;
The moon look'd through the rustling firs;
Her lover's hand was clasp'd in her's.
Oft look'd he backward, as he talk'd;
Towards Sprosbro's hazels slow they walk'd;
And, o'er the valley, lone, and low,
Frown'd, dark, the age of Conisbro.

“To-morrow, thou wilt wed me,” said
The ill-starr'd maiden, half afraid:
“And, when the rose and woodbine here
Shall blush through morning's dewy tear,
The unborn babe, begot in sin,
That, hapless, leaps my womb within,
Shall smile on thee, and on thy bride,
And I will smile on him, with pride.”

170

“But she, too well, alas, he knew,
Nor rose, nor woodbine more, should view!
And, as she bent his hand to kiss,
He aim'd a blow, and did not miss,
But plung'd his knife into her side,
And whelm'd her, shrieking, in the tide:
Then, as with lightning wing'd, fled he,
To join the Yankees o'er the sea.

“Thine eye is clos'd, Ann! not in sleep,—
Thou never more shalt wake to weep:
Cold is thy brow, and cold thy bed;
The morning from thy cheek is fled;
Thy blood is ice, thy pains are o'er,
And even thy dark wound bleeds no more:
Tears cannot heal thy wounded name,
But death hath quench'd thy burning shame.

“They said the babe leap'd in thy womb!
That unborn baby shares thy tomb;—
Where the torn heart is low at rest;
The rose is with'ring on thy breast,

171

And, emblem of thy sex and woe,
The lily in thine hand of snow.
Short was thy path, and strewed with pain—
But, sister, we shall meet again!”

XVII.

She ceas'd, but not the flowing tear;
Nor was she then sole weeper there.
What Mathew felt he would not own,
But cough'd, to keep the woman down;
Nor did he vainly cough, or long;
Rather than weep, he sung a song.

XVIII. THE BRIDEGROOM'S SONG.

“A widow, who, dwelling on ocean's wild shore,
Had mourn'd her dead husband six months, perhaps, more,
Saw a gallant approaching, with comical air:
He touch'd her soft hand, while he swore she was fair;

172

He talk'd of her husband—she could not but cry;
Then he took up her apron, to wipe her sad eye,
But, wondering to see it so suddenly dry,
Said, “Come, kiss me!” and—What could she do, but comply?”

XIX.

He ceas'd, and from the room withdrew,
While Mary blush'd shame's deepest hue,
And, like a daisy bent with dew,
Look'd, in confusion, on the ground.
Fast then the brimful horn went round.
Who miss'd the bridegroom, save the bride?
An hour had pass'd; he came not back:
She writh'd, like victim stretch'd on rack,
And twitch'd, as if on wasps she sate,
Her wriggling bum from side to side.
And now the ale in Jacob's pate
Confused his brain with eddying swirl:
Snake-like, began he to uncurl.
“The bridegroom,” snigger'd he, “is gone,
And shall the bride sit there alone?”

173

He rose, and placed her on his knee;
While, in the hell of jealousy,
That almost turn'd her blood to tinder,
Grim Sarah smok'd, like steak on cinder,
And froth'd, and fired, with ire and heat.
But Mary, who disliked her seat,
Dealt on his mouth and ruby nose,
With Amazonian fist, her blows,
And laid him, bleeding, at her feet.
Oh, holy wedded love! divine
Discord in unison! 'tis thine
Our hope, our stay, our shield to prove,
When ills assail! and, wedded love,
When tender Sarah saw his blood,
She felt thy power, as good wife should.
Hideous, she rush'd to claw the victor;
But Mary stepp'd aside, and kick'd her;
And Sarah prone on Jacob fell,
Who wish'd her (so th' unmarried tell,
And so he fondly said) in hell,—
Meaning that pillow peaceable,

174

Where, calm at last, the married sleep,
Of whom, and second nuptials, too,
The widow'd think the lone night through,
And, finding joy in sorrow, weep.

XX.

Then Mary to the window drew,
And, hid behind the curtain blue,
Look'd out into the dismal night.
Gone was the universal white;
Wild heaven with skurrying clouds was spread;
And through the darkness rush'd the light
Oft, as the wan moon, overhead,
Like murder chas'd by conscience, fled;
And lovely was th' illumin'd cloud,
As, on the tip of virgin dead,
The smile that mocks her stainless shroud.
And, as a maniac bends aghast,
Smiting his clench'd hands high and fast,
Did many a huge tree, in the blast
Wave, crashing loud, his branches vast,
Between her and the light.

175

Afar, she saw the river deep,
And Mexbro, by his side, asleep;
And all the snow was in the stream,
Roaring beneath the fitful beam;
But the wild rain had ceas'd to pour.
Then o'er her heart chill terror crept,
And fancy, sad enthusiast, wept,
And heard the distant waters roar.
“Did Mathew, on that gloomy shore,
Where the voic'd billows wail of woe,
As, dread, in frantic whirls, they flow,
Seek him, the man of mystery?
But little good bodes he to me.
Ah!—ne'er be that thought realiz'd!—
Wedded in vain, and vainly priz'd,
Deep in the wave lies Mathew, drown'd?”
She look'd, but vainly look'd around:
Yet some one mov'd, or seem'd to move,
She thought, between the house and grove:
On tiptoe stood the anxious dame!
But o'er the moon, like envy, came
Darkness—and all was dread and woe.

176

Thus, Empress of Britannian bowers,
The hawthorn shakes her lovely flowers
Beneath th' half-shaded beam of noon,
Which, glimmering on the pale wave, soon
Vanishes with the dying breeze,
And the cloud deepens o'er the trees,
While green-isled Morley, dark and still,
Listens beneath the glooming hill.
But, while she stood entranc'd in woe,
The door flew open wide; and, lo,
A stranger enter'd! “Mathew? No!”
With clench'd hands, and retracted form,
Like sapling bent beneath the storm,
Or statue of Despair, she stood.
“Where is thy husband, Mathew Hall?”
Exclaim'd, in seeming sullen mood,
That age-bent stranger, broad and tall,
With spade-like beard of reddish grey.
The bride, who scarce knew what to say,
Stood mute awhile, then, half afraid,
“Art thou my husband's friend?” she said.

177

“I am,” quoth he, with alter'd tone,
“His best, his worst, his only one.”
Forthwith, unask'd, he took his seat;
While Jacob, once more on his feet,
Warbled a stave, with gruntle sweet,
Such as was used in times pass'd long,
Ere notes and tunes were known in song.

XXI. JACOB'S SONG.

“Said young Nell to her husband old,
While on stout Jem she smil'd;
“Thy back and belly both are cold,
And time hath thee beguil'd;
And Joe, when back won't warm the bed,
Nor belly warm the broth,
Is't not high time that grace were said?
Alack, alack for both!”

XXII.

Then to the stranger Jacob brought
The punch he lov'd; and, at a draught,

178

The stranger drain'd the vase of bliss.
“What emptyness in this world is!”
Sigh'd Jacob, as with drowthy scowl,
Angry, he ey'd the empty bowl.
“My thirsty friend! thou canst, I see,
Make with thine old acquaintance free.
I hope thou wilt, to bless our ears,
And melt our eyes in music's tears,
Honour the wedding with a song,
Sad as thy phiz, but not so long.”
The reverend man his wrath controll'd,
And answer'd calmly: “Though I'm old,
I still have music in my soul.”
And wonder soon, on every face,
Hearken'd his deep and mellow bass.

XXIII. THE STRANGER'S SONG.

“Star!—brightest thou of all that beam
O'er nightly hill, on wood and stream!—
Fair is thy light o'er wilds afar,
And lovely is thy silence, star!

179

How calm thou art! while cloud and forest rave,
And tempests wildly wing the whirling wave.

“What hand unseen hath rent thy shroud?
Black rolls aloft the broken cloud:
Lo! Care walks here, with troubled eye,
To chase thee through the hurried sky!
Why? what art thou? A world of woe, like this,
A world of weeping toil, and fleeting bliss,

“Where wretches curse their hour of birth,
And whence they eye the distant earth,
(A star to them, as thou to me,)
And,—frantic in their misery,—
Wish they could mount, at once, the reinless wind,
And leave, at once, their woes and thee behind!

“Would I were as the dust I tread!
Welcome, thou cold and wormy bed!
That me no more might vice enthrall,
Nor folly tempt to climb and fall,

180

Nor passion wild her unresisting slave
Fling, careless, o'er the rock, and wilder'd wave.

“Then, mother earth! to this sad heart
Th' envenom'd fang no more would dart!
And still, with many a cherish'd tear,
A form of grace might visit here,
And oft bend o'er my dust, and letter'd stone,
Like storm-dwarf'd yew tree, mournful and alone.

“Star! would night's queen then haste to streak,
Through widow'd locks, a wither'd cheek,
And fondly, on her forehead fair,
In shadow, paint her drooping hair?
Oh! for repose! my soul with woe is press'd
Down, down to earth, and yearns to be at rest.”

XXIV.

He ceas'd. The bride, perturb'd, amaz'd,
Still on the age-bent stranger gaz'd,
And felt his accents in her soul.
Soon his sad gloom became a scowl;

181

And, “Say, and truly say,” he cried,
“Why thy first husband left thy side?
And why, in late apostacy,
Thou hast espous'd a worse than he,
Who (like the friendless winds, that roam
O'er heaven's broad desert) hath no home,
But flies to mourn, yet not to weep,
While earth to him is, as the cloud
On which, in vain to slumber bow'd,
The thunder would, but cannot, sleep?”

XXV.

“I am, indeed,” she said, “bereft
Of him I lov'd!—but why he left
His faithful Mary, who shall tell?
Oh! still I love him, still too well!
I never gave him cause for flight.”

“Except,” said he, “a scratch or bite,
On th' prominent proboscis, or a
Kick, now and then, i' th' guts.”—

“With sorrow,”

182

Resum'd the nettled bride, “I own
That, once, I knock'd my husband down;
But then, beneath my very nose,
He kiss'd, when drunk, that gipsey, Rose,
Who, ever hankering after fellows,
Thinks all their wives of her are jealous.
Besides, to make a husband fly,
That broken noddle, or black eye,
Is cause sufficient, I deny,
And thee to prove it such defy,
And would do, wert thou ten feet high;
Nor do I know why mine left me.
Yet oft I beg, on bended knee,
Heaven's pardon for th' unconscious crime,
Whate'er the hapless cause might be.
How slowly pass'd the heavy time!
At last,—when gone were ten sad years,—
A stranger found me in my tears,
And told me, that my William died,
On wintry Champlain's woody side.
He saw, the stranger saw, and tried

183

To soothe, with words, my heart's despair.
He was not, like my William, fair;
But, underneath a brow of care,
His amber'd cheek was manly brown;
And, o'er his woe-worn features thrown,
Oft pass'd a rapid smile and wild,—
The sweetness of a dreaming child
Mix'd with the warrior's majesty.
And he had been my William's friend,
The soother of his journey's end.
Together had they roam'd the woods,
And cross'd the dread Columbian floods;
Together had they fought and fled,
On Champlain's side together bled;
And there he saw my William die.
With throbbing breast, and flowing eye,
I lov'd, I deeply lov'd, to hear
The stranger talk of one so dear,
Of William's fondness, William's fate,
And late repentance, ah, too late!—
He named me, with his dying breath!
He bless'd me, in the arms of death!
This lock is all he could bequeath,

184

To her who—oh, those tears of thine,
Old man, already pardon mine!—
And welcome still the stranger came;
And still in dreams I sigh'd his name;
And still the oft-told tale was sweet;
And still would he the tale repeat;
(He was to me even as a brother!)
And, while our tears in concert stream'd,
I mourn'd my husband,—so I dream'd,—
I mourn'd him—till I lov'd another!
But could my earliest love return,
My William whom I still will mourn,
I would for him renounce”—she sigh'd,—
“Mathew, and all the world beside.”

XXVI.

“Renounce him then, at once for me!”
Exclaim'd that man of mystery.
“Dost thou not know me, woman, say?
Behold thy husband, William Bray!”
And round her neck his arms he threw,
And cried, “What now? Why this ado?”
And kiss'd, as he would kiss her through.

185

But she cuff'd, kick'd, and bawl'd, “Away!
Off, dotard, off! or thou shalt rue
My biting tooth, and tearing nail.”
Then glowr'd she—neither pleas'd, nor civil,—
Like one who thinks he sees the devil,
And knows him by his horns and tail.
“Thou?—thou my husband, William Bray?
Why thou art, as a badger, grey!”
Quoth he, “I am, and well I may;
I have been absent many a day.”
“But,” shrilly yell'd she in dismay,
“Thou art as ugly as thou'rt grey,
With whiskers red, as reynard's tail,
And square beard, like a windmill sail.—
Why dost thou still, so goat-like, eye me?—
Thou William?—Devil, I defy thee.”

XXVII.

She said, and cross'd herself, in fear,
And surely thought a fiend was near,
And, trembling, hoped, (for doubts came o'er her,)
It was the devil that stood before her!

186

Then grinn'd the sage, a slyish grin;
And she, to bear suspense unable,
Flew at him, overturning th' table,
And seem'd, in tooth and claw, a dragon,
Resolv'd to leave him not a rag on.
Lord, what a pickle he was in!
His bones almost fled out of's skin;
For, in a second, the virago
Had left him scarce a thread to take to.
And first the long beard left his chin,
Then fell to earth his cloak so big,
His cat-skin cap, his worsted wig;
And, like enchantress, self-enchanted,
Gaz'd Mary—on the man she wanted!
He stoop'd no more like toothless eighty,
Or porter beneath burden weighty,
But stood before her strait and young;
And locks of darkest auburn hung,
Cluster'd, above his martial brow,
While love laugh'd on his lip below.
Oh, love, thou still play'st queer tricks many,
Though old and tame, I play not any!

187

XXVIII.

“Twice-wedded widow! do not bawl—
Twice woo'd! twice won! turn not away—
Behold thy husband, Mathew Hall!
Behold thy husband, William Bray!—
Oh, dearest, and in trouble tried,
Receive me to thy faithful side!
Oh, then most constant, when untrue!
Forgiveness is contrition's due;
Forgive!—and I will quit thee never,
But spurn suspicion, and for ever,
Cast o'er thy faults affection's mist,
And humbly kiss thy gentle fist.”

XXIX.

She hung upon his bosom, weak;
She look'd the love she could not speak.
He smil'd the rose back to her cheek:
“Thou fond and full heart! do not break.”
He seal'd with kisses warm her lips;
And—as the half-flying redbreast sips

188

A dewdrop from the lily's breast,
Then, perching on it, trills his song;—
So kiss'd he off her tears, to rest
Soothing the heart-throb, tortur'd long.
Like fairy, shod with gossamer,
Joy, unexpected, came to her,
For pass'd woe to atone.
Her lip lay on his neck embrac'd:
As if an angel's glance had chas'd
Her darkness, it was gone.
And who shall boast a heroine like mine?
Not more than woman, yet almost divine,
Minerva-like in battle she appears,
Venus in love, and Niobe in tears;
Before her Laila, Constance fade to air;
And ten to nothing! she shall thrash Gulnare!

XXX.

Then all said—what they had to say;
And all shook hands with William Bray,
Save Jacob, who, in drink profound,
Lay stretch'd out huge along the ground.

189

To earth, and earth's love reconcil'd,
The broken heart of Harry smil'd,
Through tears, like those which saints in heaven
Shed to behold a foe forgiven.
It was, indeed, a glorious wedding!
Charles, all on fire to write upon it,
Swore 'twas a subject for a sonnet,
And, bard-like, in his haste to write,
Forgot to wish his love good night;
But Nancy stay'd to see the bedding.
And learnedly the learn'd have shown
The stocking then, once more, was thrown:
And ancient Night relax'd her brow,
And felt, 'tis said, she scarce knew how,
While, with her grey tongue's watery tip,
She lick'd her greenish gums and lip;
And clapp'd her glasses on her nose,
Right loath a sight o' th' fun to lose;
And stoop'd, and star'd, with twinkling eye,
And crisp'd with smiles her cheek awry,
Like crumpled dish-clout laid to dry,

190

And squeez'd her thumb, with gripe uncouth,
And broke her blue and only tooth;
Then thought, like many a matron staid,
Of many a prank that love had play'd,
In times gone by, beneath her shade;
Forgot her crutch, her age, her pain,
And liv'd her young years o'er again.