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Monthermer

A Poem. By Edward Quillinan

Quillinan, Edward (1791-1851)

[dedication]

II.

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MONTHERMER.

CANTO I.

Whoe'er thou art! that, grave and stern of thought,
Perchance shalt find this idle lay unsought,
If wondrous stern thou be, and wondrous grave,
Trace not this legend of the Young and Brave,
For folly's annals here will draw thy frown,
And rash imprudence call thy censure down.

But thou whose warm and charitable breast
To dove-eyed Pity not denies a nest,
Whose candid mind some prompt excuse can yield,
For Inexperience train'd on pleasure's field,

For Youth wild rushing on the mad career,
Where every present joy's a future tear,
Thine be the verse! howe'er uncouth it be,
By sorrow's hand 'tis sanctified to thee.

Hope of a line whose ancestorial pride
To trace its source roll'd back an age's tide,
Fresh from the schools the young Monthermer came,
His bosom ardent for a soldier's name.
The choice of Glenville his ambition fired;
To join his friend was all his soul desired;
Him who had been, in strictest bond of truth,
His heart's Ally from infancy to youth.
With lingering strife of pride, of fear, of joy,
An anxious parent heard the pleading boy;
With pain revok'd the assent pronounc'd with pain,
And oft' agreed, and oft' denied again;
Till, smothering all a Father's fond alarms,
He yielding gave him to the fate of arms.

Thus early launch'd on life's eventful main,
Proud by his birthright, and by nature vain,
What fairy sunbeams gild his future fate!
What air-drawn prospects swell his little state!

Ah, who to youth's fleet thought shall mark the scope,
When bounding gaily o'er the realms of hope?
Who pluck young Genius from his daring height,
Enthron'd in his ideal worlds of light,
Where all is his to which the bold aspire,
Kind Beauty's winning lips, and Glory's golden tiar?
And who would whisper in the charmed ear,
These are the cheats that flatter for a year?
Who freeze the current of a youthful heart
With the cold tale Experience might impart?

Say, did his eye the modern fop express,
Enlisted to magnificence of dress?
That sparkling magic, that magnetic trap
Which tempts soft dandlings from the mother's lap?
That vapour-pipe whose artificial heat
Moves Fashion's puppets on Bellona's feet?
Away the flippant thought—a tinsel vest
Ne'er gave the bias to so bold a breast.

Not that to deck in sightly martial trim
The figure graceful and the well-turn'd limb,
Not that to shine in splendour's flaunting noon
Be deem'd delightless by the Boy-Dragoon;

For he had seen, nor seen without a sigh,
The soldier gracious in a Lady's eye,
And oft had mark'd, that all his claim to grace
Was cap of fur and garniture of lace.

But 't was the glow his Sires were wont to feel
That woke in Him the spirit-stirring zeal?
When, rushing powerful through the ranks of war,
O'er slaughter's mount they climb'd to glory's car?
Yes, the same impulse rush'd through every vein,
The self-same nature laid the fiery train.
In early childhood, when historic truth
Told the achievements of some noble youth,
Forth from his lips would burst the exultant cry,
The gallant tale struck valour from his eye;
And, as he grew with admiration wild,
The half-pleased fear of either parent smiled,
To mark the warriour air that magnified the child.

O! it is transport to the heart to dare
All haunts of Peril, so Renown be there.
But doth not pity's eye with horror shrink,
And pity's soul in deep dejection sink,

To note what enterprising thousands fall,
And mark how soon Oblivion shrouds them all?
How many a Briton's high career is o'er
Who never, never, shall be thought on more,
Let Lusia's thousand streams, with blood that swell
Of Britons, who for Lusian freedom fell,
And let Iberia's earth, to shame the Iberian, tell!
Yet each of these was wont to look on high
To Fame, through fancy's telescopic eye.
Each thought, alas, that from the mortal strife
Restor'd with triumph to the sweets of life,
The bark of honour should rewaft him o'er
The wave, thrice welcome to his native shore.
E'en when the last inevitable stroke
That glittering bubble of expectance broke,
Still the fond thought came smiling on his heart,
“Not unobserv'd at least shall I depart!
Though here, far, far from home, my bones must rest,
My name will shelter in my country's breast!”
Alas, how vain! from all yon shatter'd host
Select the death that lives in story most,

And think, although that claim was bought so dear,
How few the tale have heard, or care to hear!
What though the warriour left a halcyon home,
Beneath inhospitable climes to roam;
What though he dauntless brav'd the triple league
Encircling, Danger, Famine, and Fatigue,
And found, at last, the Hero's boasted doom,
Amid a heap of foes a crimson tomb;
His fate at best a day's attention draws,
A faint short gust of popular applause,
Whose fickle pinion lightly brushes by,
And hurries onward to the next that die.

Perchance indeed his memory enshrin'd
May be within a wretched Father's mind.
Perchance he mourns (yet chides his rising tears)
The broken staff that prop'd his reverend years,
Though, while strong nature's pangs convulse his heart,
He fain would emulate a Stoic's part,
Force, like the Roman, with a noble guile,
The stubborn cheek of agony to smile,
And urge the rebel lips with patriot pride
To thank his God the youth so bravely died.

Perchance a Mother's softer soul may feel
With double pressure that relentless steel
Which drank the generous lifeblood of her boy,
The cold assassin of her only joy.
Perchance a helpless Wife is left, in vain
To try to quell the fever of her brain,
While infant pledges, with recurrence dire,
Stretch out their little hands, and claim their sire.
Or the sweet Maid whose heart was taught to beat
Beneath young passion's pure but throbbing heat,
Who joy'd to let her soldier's image lie
Within her spotless bosom's sanctuary;
Whose secret sighs lent swifter wings to prayer,
Imploring Heav'n to keep him in its care;
Whose sanguine hopes through tears were wont to burn
In tender smiles that augur'd his return;
She, lonely left the weight of life to bear,
Bends her meek head in destitute despair,
In silent anguish lets her heartstrings ache;
That slow and surest mode the heart to break.

Such is the Warriour's fruitage of acclaim,
His honours such; but, as for future fame,

The Sons of Battle are like Autumn leaves,
Fame like the gale their brittle stem that cleaves.
Leaf after leaf confused is seen to fall,
The gale one moment flutters with them all,
And, ere they reach their brethren strew'd around,
One little instant buoys them from the ground;
That instant over, each is left to fade,
Forgotten all their once protecting shade.

Sweet Mary, why, so early in my tale,
Does o'er the song digression thus prevail?
As here I gaze on St. Sebastian's height,
Where Lusian ardour vied with British might,
Struck down the Eagle of the intrepid Gaul,
And hung Spain's banner on the stubborn wall
Of yon scath'd Fort, still louring savage down,
Like a dark cloud, above the shapeless Town,
Whose awful ruins, desolation's den,
Yield not a home for miserable men?
Here, as a Lion o'er its victim roars,
Where loudly raging Ocean tears the prores,
And day by day presents the painful scene
Of ships inhumed within its gulfs of green;

While the Biscayan stands remorseless by,
To see the Stranger, the Deliverer die;
Nor heeds what victims gorge the greedy flood,
So wrecks yield wood to warm his lazy blood!
In these sad scenes, and on this distant land,
As slow I wander o'er the yellow sand,
And pensive list the ocean-murmurs hoarse,
And pitying start to view the inflated corse,
Which, frequent stretch'd along my mournful way,
Taints the fresh gales that o'er the waters stray,
Dear Mary, why, far flying o'er the sea,
In such an hour revert my thoughts to Thee?
Alas, 't was here, thy conscious heart will tell,
Thy joy in pleasant days, thy soldier fell.
O'er mangled heaps of dying and of dead,
The thick balls whistling round his destined head,
With patient step and firm, across that beach
He led, and died within that dreadful breach.
Perhaps he sleeps in Ocean's sparry caves,
For ever lull'd by yonder emerald waves;
Or rather, prest beneath yon sanded heap,
He lies inglorious where the thousands sleep.

Where is His fame? all lonely in thy breast—
His cenotaph is there—but there his Memory's blest.

Time at that stage of life which virtue fears,
Ere Youth attain the poise of manhood's years,
When passion balances where judgment fails,
Now held Monthermer's mind in trembling scales.

Oft would the restless youth in secret sigh,
And ask his yet unwitting bosom, why?
But soon as Woman's eloquence of gaze
His noble form address'd with syren praise,
Soon as the graceful mien that Nature gave
Woke her white bosom's softly swelling wave,
O then his mind arous'd its dormant powers,
The springing wilderness teem'd thick with flowers.
That undulation of the excited breast
Too well his own heart's malady exprest,
That sweetly languid loveliness of look
Shed light too dangerous on pleasure's book.
How should he guess with heart so wild, so warm,
That earthly devil tenants woman's form?
How read in Beauty's sweet but subtle eyes
Her smiles are treason, and her looks are lies?

Whence doth it come this elegant design,
Whereon such features of perfection shine,
In outward grace so exquisitely wrought,
Within so frequent wants the grace of thought?
Was it in pity to the race of man
That Nature paus'd on her too perfect plan,
Lest the bright wonder proved his mortal bane,
By ripening transport to the pith of pain?
Yet some there are, 'tis past the sceptick's doubt,
Whose mental worth exceeds the charm without;
Creatures of excellence so passing rare
They claim all love, all tenderness, all care.
Some such there are, Experience owns it true,
But with a sigh that says, Alas, how few!

His father's fortunes were nor small nor great,
Enough for elegance, but not for state;
And yet in costliest state he lived and moved;
Pride dazzled prudence with the pomp he loved.
Days were when Monarchs sought the ancient hall;
(Then gathering vassals own'd their chieftain's call)
When many a dame renown'd and famous peer
There graced the banquet of baronial cheer.

But all that to the later race remain'd
Was Castle-pile that Time's assault disdain'd,
A due ascendency, a rental fair,
And the high consciousness, that such things were.
This pride of lineage from the father drew
Not mere improvidence, but harshness too.
His Sister, fair in form and rich in worth,
Had wed a lover of inferior birth.
'Twas true on many a far commercial coast
A name of influence could the Merchant boast,
But no heraldic honours could he claim,
To blazon forth hereditary fame;
No ancient Coats were marshall'd on his Shield,
No vaunting Charges on a gorgeous Field.
The Man of Ancestry with bitter scorn
Never to own his sister more had sworn:
For though till then he loved her as his life,
His blood abjured—the upstart Trader's wife!

Monthermer he assign'd, with lavish hand,
An income more than reason could demand.
Yet all too scant for one of heart profuse,
Who seldom thought on Mammon's sober use;

But sail'd along on Folly's laughing main,
Fraud at his side, and Ruin in his train.
Where'er the giddy prow of Fashion led,
Thither the youth his bark attendant sped.
While Pride's gay pennon stream'd on Flattery's breeze,
Careless he steer'd it o'er the treacherous seas,
Where sands and shelves and rocks insidious lay,
And sharks rejoic'd expectant of their prey.

Unthinking youth! the world is now thine own,
Friendship thy footstool is, and Love thy throne;
And frank as thine shews every visage now,
But Truth too soon may bare the flatterer's brow.
Should'st thou e'er chance thy seeming friends to try
With the keen question of affliction's sigh,
How wilt thou curb thy young blood's tide of ire,
When that sure test convicts the hollow liar,
And all his boasted heart thou shalt explore,
A hideous rottenness without a core.

Ere summon'd forth to fields of fight afar,
Through what noviciate past this young Hussar?
Was will subjected in the martial school
To learn obedience, that first step to rule?

And dwelt his mind attentive on the page
That shews how best the sleepless war to wage?
The masterly position to select,
Seize, light'ning-eyed, an enemy's defect,
Here shew a front, dispose an ambush there,
Now skirmish light, now bring the charge to bear,
Feign upon these, precipitate on those,
Fret, scare, perplex, fatigue, wear out the foes?

All this Monthermer strove to gain and more,
But found as yet no practice for the lore;
And other arts sublime 'twas his to learn,
Which no Hussar of gallantry may spurn:
Arts, for the profit of the rising age,
To which the bard must consecrate a page.
Beaux yet in embryo shall with zeal rehearse,
Though Critics with damnation greet the verse;
And even these may venture to excuse;
I have not long to court the frolick muse.

When first gazetted youth to quarters posts,
To shine a star in Britain's warlike hosts,
(Who deal destruction with wide-wasting eyes,
Or deem they do, wherever beauty lies,)

Of all the Arts which may insure success,
The first and greatest is the Art of Dress.
Taste, talent, wit and knowledge most combine
In Him who most can make—his Person fine.
Foremost amid the gaudy files display'd,
To shine distinguish'd on the throng'd Parade;
And, the admired of all beholders be
In the blithe temple of Terpsichore;
On these two points the nice manœuvre bears,
The first of his probationary cares.

Argent and blue invest the gay Dragoon,
And creaseless boot, and purfled pantaloon,
And scale-rib'd cap, in conscious weight that frowns,
Perchance less weighty than the head it crowns,
And silver pouch, fair arsenal enough,
Design'd for powder, it is used for snuff,
And scarlet baldrick with the golden wedge,
And falchion dire, that never had an edge.
Then with all elegance to mount the steed,
Far famed around for comeliness and breed,
With well-dissembled art his ire to stir,
The pamper'd mettle vex'd with galling spur,

Till desperate plunge and oft repeated rear
Call forth the Rider's skill, the Lady's fear;
These are the Warrior's damsel-killing tricks—
One dies no doubt whene'er his Charger kicks.

When in Review on some important morn
The marshall'd troops the sprightly plain adorn,
And rows of chariots roll along the green,
Where Belles are borne, to see and to be seen,
Lightens the air with borrow'd lustre far,
Shot from the strange accoutrements of war;
Flash upon flash in quick return replies,
Beam'd from the galaxy of female eyes.
So fierce the lively coruscations play
Each coach appears the Chariot of the Day.
'Twas thus the fair Incendiaries of Heaven,
Whirl'd through the war, in blazing cars were driven,
Infused through mortal nerves supernal might,
O'erlook'd their heroes, and inflam'd the fight.

The General comes! in regulation suit!
Flourish the trumpets! Officers salute!
In single files to view the passing host,
The ranks survey'd, he takes his wonted post;

Stiff on his sober steed he solemn sits,
With awful brow, and nods his will by fits.
A motley thing of flutter, froth, and pride,
The coxcomb Aide-de-camp is seen beside;
So Forest Kings in ambush couch, they say,
While busy Jackals start the latent prey.
But neither Belle, elate with triumphs won,
Whose coach appears the Chariot of the Sun,
Nor plumed General who so solemn sits,
With awful brow, and nods his will by fits,
Nor coxcomb Aide-de-camp that smirks beside,
A motley thing of flutter, froth, and pride,
Feels self-esteem the expanding soul pervade
Like the bold Colonel of that cavalcade.
Illustrious Leader of the pompous train!
'Tis His to guide their movements o'er the plain;
Whether the long slow measured march they ply,
Or at a Bagman's trot jog steady by;
The glory His, with lungs exerted hoarse,
To guide the thundering simultaneous course,
When, like the spheres, they urge as fleet a race,
And keep mechanical like Them their place.

But ah! what direful fate the proud pursues!
E'en purple despots may their sceptres lose,
Bright Nymphs their fame, young Cornets soil their lace,
And mighty Colonels sink into disgrace.
For lo! while hope secures him Public Thanks,
His evil Genius flies along the ranks.
Confusion is her name; by Her inspired,
Prance the gay steeds, with sudden mischief fired;
With stupor seiz'd, their Riders dully stare,
And right and left the clubbing numbers bear.
Captains and Corporals position change,
Troops ride o'er troops, through squadrons squadrons range;
There flies a Major on his racing mare,
A smug Lieutenant yonder cleaves the air,
A Farrier here, a dapper Cornet there.
Wide o'er the field the awkward mob disperse,
And Brevet-Majors shout, and Serjeants curse;
Curses and shouts combin'd but make the medley worse.

Thus when a Poet, seiz'd with fit sublime,
Resolves to conquer the applause of time,

He bids his Trumpeter Apollo, sound!
The inspiring call reverberates around.
Out pour the Ideas! a refulgent train,
Fresh from the crowded Barrack of his brain!
The Chief exultant views his force divine,
And wheels the bright Divisions into line:
File covers File in just proportion terse,
Clad in the radiant uniform of verse:
With chequering shade the fields of white they tint;
Lock'd in the ebon panoply of print.
Slowly at first, a staid and ordered throng,
The close-compacted squadrons march along.
By fine degrees, the cautious pace forgot,
They try the ambulation of a trot.
Teas'd with that champing timid curbed dance,
The fiery Hippogriffs begin to prance;
Then scorn the rein, then toss the head at large,
Break on a gallop, burst into a charge;
And soon they stray, o'erleaping every fence,
Beyond, above, the vulgar bounds of sense.
Then the Reviewer comes, with withering frown,
And calls the Corps of Winged Horses down;

Tumbling they come; the Poet's fame alone—
Glides evanescent into worlds unknown.

Lo! now the Loves and Smiles and Graces call
The doughty Hero to the midnight Ball.
Ambition's kindling flames his soul incite
To be the Constellation of the night.
Deep must he ponder, long must he demur,
On silk and lace, on feather and on fur.
Much must the Warrior exercise his skill
In due array to range the Plaits of Frill;
To train the Neckcloth's labyrinthian Fold;
In Line of Battle the Mustaches hold;
Prepare his Eyes' Artillery, hearts to storm,
And Teeth's White Ranks in Open Order form.
Complete at length the long laborious task,
In his own sun the wondering Youth must bask:
Before the Mirror, Idol of the Vain,
Oft must he turn and twist, and twist and turn again.
‘Is this a smile expression's self has lent?’
The faithful mimic smiles a soft assent.
‘Is that a look with warm persuasion fraught?’
Lo, the affirmative as soon as sought!

‘Shall these curl'd tresses wake a world of sighs?’
‘Of sighs a world,’ the courteous glass replies.
At last the Hero nerves his mighty heart
From the dear Image of Himself to part.
With one vast effort of his struggling mind,
He parts—but parting casts a look behind.
Then forth he bursts in all his bright array,
Like early Phosphor scaring night away.

Thus the tall Stag, in wantonness of blood,
Spurns the parch'd plain, and seeks the neighb'ring flood;
The flood attain'd, he finds, reflected fair,
His own unconscious graceful model there;
With wild eye marks the arching neck of pride,
And the large antlers trembling in the tide.
He wonders what the beauteous thing may be,
Startling he wonders, yet is loth to flee;
Till, puzzling long, he's struck with the deceit,
'Tis his own shade that paints the watery sheet:
Pleas'd with the view, away he bounds again
To sport his graces in the peopled plain.

With equal pride, in all his valour's glow
Forth to the Ball-room flits the Warrior-Beau.

New rays of splendour at his entrance rise,
Shot from his zone, and belt, and arms, and eyes.
Charm'd with his various properties to please,
His lively looks of impudence and ease,
His drawl'd verbosity, his mincing pace,
His military—millinery grace,
The much enchanted, much resembling Fair
In various ways their joint approval bear.
Misses in teens peep timid o'er the fan,
And for the sword-knot's sake admire the man;
Brides of a se'nnight dart the glance oblique,
The figure pleases, but the trappings strike;
Widows in sables praise his tailor's wit,
That made the garments so precisely fit;
Virgins of sixty bless his tongue of truth,
That spite of wrinkles still asserts their youth.
In perfumed mists of ogles, whispers, sighs,
The various incense round the Hero flies,
Winds round the tassels, rolls along the sash,
Breathes on the sabre, or the sabre-tache,
O'er the mustache with trembling pleasure whirls,
Floats on the whiskers, flutters in the curls.

Forsaken Squires with hanging lip behold
The glittering thing of silver, silk and gold;
Despairing Doctors wail their piteous fate
That not one Lass will hear galenic prate;
Astonish'd Lawyers gaping stand aghast,
To find their blessed impudence surpast;
All, all eclips'd lament their darker stars,
And struts triumphant the embroider'd Mars!

One night as thus Monthermer graced the scene,
And Belles with smiles, and Beaux survey'd with spleen,
('Twas in a ducal hall of storied note,
Not much from Buxton's Well of Health remote,)
A maid he chanced to view, unmark'd before,
Whose fix'd regard such tender meaning bore,
And when observ'd such sweet confusion wore,
Delight o'ercame him much, but admiration more.
But as he closely mark'd the blushing maid,
Whose eyes now downcast own'd themselves betray'd,
Not unfamiliar seem'd that form so sweet,
With mild voluptuous grace so touchingly replete.
And memory soon confirm'd his dubious gaze,
For he had known her in his boyish days,

When oft in Glenville's Court he wont to be:
The boasted Cousin of his friend was she.
While yet he gaz'd, all earnest and intent,
A second timid gliding look she sent;
Again surpris'd, as quickly it withdrew,
But not before a smile was added too.
Her first regard his bosom's outworks took,
To press the advantage came the second look,
But the confed'rate smile no Soldier's heart could brook.

Ye gentle nymphs, expert in ball-intrigue,
You best can tell how they arrang'd the league;
For soon, pursued by many an eager glance,
He led the peerless beauty to the dance.

If her soft eyes and witching form at first
Could make such transport in his bosom burst,
How was the nascent flame of passion fan'd
As through the dance he lightly prest her hand,
And saw those eyes with kindling pleasure glow,
That form through every maze of beauty flow,
And knew, the kindling eyes, the flowing form
Threw graceful forth for him their every charm!

All the long night (to him how swift it flew!)
No form but hers his rapt attention drew.
Amid the gay, the charming, and the young,
No thought he had, nor eye, nor ear, nor tongue,
But for fair Adela. And she the while
Would softly speak, and still more softly smile,
Yet with such modest veil the kindness hide,
Not Scandal's self could find a cause to chide.

Now blush'd the bashful harbinger of day;
They usher'd in with dance the rosy ray,
Then parted; not without the assurance sweet,
That oft at neighbouring Matlock they should meet.

In the Beau Monde, three rivals shar'd the throne,
This Beauty brilliant sway'd the wavering tone;
Her flattering gentleness and winning ease
Could scarcely fail e'en rival queens to please;
Her charming, coy, yet too inviting air
Oft made, 'twas rumour'd, rival kings despair.
Pleas'd for a while in solitude to shroud
Her worship'd graces from a dazzled crowd,
While various Autumn yet the year reprieves
And stains his murmuring multitude of leaves,

She drew her mother from the faro-ring—
To ruralize at Matlock's tepid Spring.
(Their orphan charge, her cousin, with them came,
The sister stem of Glenville's noble name.
With joy fraternal did Monthermer hear,
The young, the sweet Euphemia was so near.)

But vainly Nature from her sons hath tried
In rocks and seas her gems of price to hide;
In vain hath treasured in her rudest haunts
From prying Botanist her rarer plants.
More prized than gems, more exquisite than flowers,
Can Beauty then be hid in rocks and bowers?
The Cuckoo wafts him on the vagrant wing,
To sport and flutter in perpetual spring;
The Swallow flies, the northern summer done,
To genial regions dearer to the Sun;
And Fashion's tribes to Derwent Banks repair,
There shines their Orb, for Adela is there.

CANTO II.

Where maudlin Affectation holds parade,
Thronged with dull Fop and vacant-simpering Maid,
'Tis true Monthermer oft his hours would pass,
Play the light coxcomb with the flippant lass,
Act the soft smiler with the Thing that smiles,
Race the fleet tongue through adulation's wiles,
Revolve around with Fashion's janty ball,
And seem the giddiest insect of them all.

And yet that nobler charm of life he knew
Which gives man's spirit its distinction true.

He knew and loved those wild emotions well
Which heart can feel, but tongue can never tell,
When, all to nature and himself resign'd,
The wanderer holds communion with his mind.
And much he joy'd with curious eye to trace
Each awful feature of Creation's face;
Explore the mountains, search the wizard caves,
And listen to the eternal voice of waves.
Nor these alone; for as the artless maid,
In unassuming elegance array'd,
Oft more attracts the taste-directed gaze
Than the vain matron in her jewel-blaze.
So nature often more delights the eye
With simple grace, than splendid majesty.
He loved to haunt each loneliest retreat,
Where only Elfin treads with printless feet,
Tints the light foliage with a million hues,
With deeper shade the flexile branch imbues,
The network sly with skilful finger weaves,
And forms a labyrinth of blooms and leaves.
In scenes like these he'd rove, and pause, and gaze,
Till lost amid the vegetable maze,

And thus, imprison'd in a cage of flowers,
He'd wile the dearest of uncounted hours.
As fraudful Time sped by on silent wings,
There would he wake his lyre's enchanted strings;
For he to melody could woo the lyre;
The Muse he loved disdained not to inspire:
There would he steal his very soul away,
Pouring some wildly melancholy lay;
For strangely mournful was his wonted strain,
Like the time-soften'd memory of pain,
Though vulgar observation deem'd the boy,
A child of Mirth, a votary of Joy.

'Tis not the look the tutor'd eye may wear
To meet the world's inquisitorial stare,
'Tis not the cheek in pleasure's semblance drest
That is the faithful mirror to the breast.
Wouldst thou with juster scrutiny survey
That mortal whom the deepest feelings sway?
Heed not his bearing in the throng of men,
But track his solitude, and mark him then;
When Nature rules him, and when none seems near,
To mock the feeling—thrilling to a tear.

First in those bowers where Matlock's fountain Nymph
With mineral virtue qualifies her lymph,
Love on Monthermer prov'd its full control
In Adela's enchantment o'er his soul.
Delight! with her to ramble o'er the scene,
Launch on the river, sketch the landscape sheen,
Or mount the rocks of grey, profuse with livery green!

Those rocks to rapt Imagination's eyes
The giant guardians of the spot arise,
In lengthen'd line embattled proud they stand,
Imparting dignity to beauty's land;
Their rugged heads with various verdure crown'd,
Like warrior's brows with laurel'd honours bound;
With crowding shrubs their hardy bosoms drest,
Like beauty's garland upon valour's breast;
And wreaths of ivy that with strict embrace
Assert their old hereditary place;
And wider spread, and closer cling and climb,
Like faithful friendship flourishing with time.
To these oppos'd, in full ambitious swell,
Tufted with crags, and scarr'd with rift and dell,

Tall hills of fir their gallant heads erect,
With man's white huts irregularly speck'd.
By patient art was nature soften'd here,
Still the effect is wild, but not severe:
Paths tortuous-wound the steep ascent beguile,
And lend its face a hospitable smile.
Between these rival heights, full lowly found,
The dingle lies, Love's consecrated ground.
One modest row of simple dwellings neat,
Fringes the hills beneath, and lines the street;
Wood, walk, and water, gird the adverse side,
Where Taste grows wanton in her happiest pride.
There, the dark mirror of the rocks and wood,
The sober Derwent leads his loitering flood;
Through many a subtle nook, and wildering maze,
Unsocial glen, and issuing glade, he strays;
Slowly he rolls his umber'd course along,
As loth to leave the charms that round him throng;
Gently he kisses his enchanted banks,
Breathing new freshness through their virent ranks,
Whence far-protruding boughs delight to lave,
Bend to the surge, and wanton with the wave.

Sweet Matlock! fairy spot that might impart
A pensive pleasure to the dullest heart!
With all thy fossil caves, thy wild arcades,
And gentle falls, and lover-loving shades,
Fit haunt for musing Bards, or meditative Maids!

Oft would Monthermer from her circle gay
Entreat the unreluctant fair away;
Through paths of coy access would be her guide,
While on his arm she hung like radiant bride,
The young Euphemia ever at their side.
Then where the interweaving branches spread
A rural roof that murmur'd o'er their head,
And Twilight slumber'd in the lone retreat,
And wandering waters gurgled at their feet,
Between them would he take his enviable seat.
While birds aloft their hymns in concert bear,
Poets of nature, denizens of air,
While fluttering gales from odoriferous wings
Waft on the sense unutterable things,
Delicious day-dreams o'er his fancy stole,
Full of the soft enchantress of his soul.

In all the plain obscure of lover's phrase,
His love he utter'd while he breath'd her praise.
With all the arch pretence she gave an ear
Of One accustom'd lover's phrase to hear;
Seem'd half incredulous, and half asham'd,
And laugh'd, and chid, and smil'd, and blush'd, and blam'd.
But with a sad delight Euphemia heard,
Caught every sound, and treasured every word,
And now and then she struggled with a sigh,
Which scarce she could suppress, and wondered why.

Not sixteen summers had Euphemia seen,
The temper of her mind inform'd her mien;
As gems in cabinet of crystal plac'd,
Nature and Innocence her figure grac'd.
A touching music in her accents spoke,
Dawn'd in her eyes a feeling light, that woke
The love of every soul. Too early reft
Of parent aid, her heart more soft was left,
And turn'd with double interest on those
On whom its tenderness could yet repose.
Its dear delight had ever been to blend
In one warm thought her brother and his friend.

For habit nurs'd impartially for both
The pure affection, growing with her growth.
If for Monthermer now a graver hue
Her love assum'd, 'twas ev'n a deeper too;
Heightening its colour to that warm excess,
'Twas Love romantic to devotedness.
In him her fondly biass'd fancy saw
The perfect Youth whom Fancy's self would draw.
The first impassion'd vows she ever heard
Were now to Adela by him prefer'd.
From lips like those so dangerous a strain
Could scarcely reach Euphemia's ear in vain.
Like sorrow's voice in dreams, the lover's vow
Troubles her peace, and yet she marvels how.
And when, alone, she heaves the deep-drawn sighs,
When the tears start unbidden to her eyes,
When the warm workings of young love represt
Tumultuous search o'er all her flushing breast,
She dares not glance at what the cause may be,
And veils her blushes lest the woods should see;
Then whispering, faltering, breathes a name too dear,
And starts and trembles lest the woods should hear.

And dost thou not, O sweet Enthusiast! know
Why the pulse flutters, why the blushes glow?

Still less Monthermer the ascendant guess'd,
He thus commanded in that artless breast.
Like floweret daily opening to the view,
Beneath his eye from infancy she grew.
A brother's love the tender child he bore,
And ne'er did brother prize a sister more;
But for the burning sentiment more wild,
There Adela might well supplant a child.

Yet could suspicion give a breast alarm,
So frank, so vain, so generous, and so warm,
Soon had it taught him Adela to doubt
Less fair within, than beautiful without.

Beside the rocky precipice they stray'd,
Where various heaths their tardy blooms display'd,
When One, superior by its splendent dyes
Attracted Adela, a tempting prize!
Fit emblem of herself, in fair decoy,
The flaunting blossom tempted to destroy;
And as she leans incautious o'er the verge
While the lithe stems her efforts mock and urge,

Her feet o'erbalanc'd their support forego,
And plunge her on the boughs that jut below.
The friendly boughs sustain'd the clinging weight,
Monthermer darted to prevent her fate,
And scarce had lifted her, secure from harm,
Back to the bank above with upstretch'd arm,
Ere, the frail brushwood yielding, from the rock
He fell, low lodging lifeless with the shock.

Scarce conscious wherefore, on a couch he lay,
(The sense of hurt as yet beguil'd away)
When first recovering from his deathlike trance,
He gazed around him with enquiring glance.
On either side, in dumb solicitude,
A lovely trembling mourner o'er him stood,
In dread suspense awaited nature's strife,
And watch'd the languor of returning life.
But when on Adela he fix'd his eyes,
Saw her fond fears, and heard her hurried sighs,
And mark'd her cheek by hope and terror sway'd,
Well, well indeed he thought his risk repaid.

False, transitory joy! the cheering ray
Was but a sun-gleam on a dismal day!

For from that hour she seldom near him came,
And shoots of torment woke within his frame.
Yet while the lover languish'd, thus debar'd,
His generous thought excused the disregard:
More frequent visit maiden coyness check'd,
Grief for his pangs, or all things save neglect.

But oft' in soothing dreams, his best repose,
Her visionary form beside him rose.
With grateful interest o'er him she inclin'd,
Calm'd with assuasive voice his troubled mind,
With tender zeal his burning temples fan'd,
Administer'd the cup with ready hand
To cool his fever'd lip; and to his heart,
More fever'd still from love's inflaming dart,
Applied, from blest compassion's source benign,
Her own soft tear's diviner anodyne.
The fond deluded slumberer thrill'd with bliss,
He rais'd his head her lovely hand to kiss;
He snatch'd it to his lips; the vision died;
He woke, and saw—Euphemia at his side.

No coy discretion o'er-refined with her
Had force, from such an office to deter.

For chill reserve too artless and too young,
Through many an hour she o'er his pillow hung.
His tutelary Angel from above
Watch'd not with warmer or with purer love,
And, while those kind illusions sooth'd the youth,
Applied to her, his dreams were less than truth.
Not long she exercis'd alone her care,
Her brother came the generous task to share.
Soon as his friend's disastrous chance he knew,
Glenville impatient to attend him flew:
The pale eye glisten'd at that welcome face,
The languid arm found nerve in his embrace.

This youth by nature was design'd to lead,
Where virtue's paths invite to honour's meed.
With person fashion'd in a pleasing mould,
Warm was his heart, wit keen, and spirit bold.
But left unguided at too green an age,
Lord of a large and noble heritage,
Enjoyment's garden too enticing lay,
And pleasure hurried fortitude away.
Wherever beauty threw the insidious lure,
The youthful soldier was a prize too sure.

Those baubles rich in woman's eyes that shine,
Pearls, diamonds, gems, he lavish'd at her shrine;
Nor ever dream'd of prudence' tame control,
So he could squander out with her his soul,
Indulge his heart with passion's soft alarms,
And drink the sweet, sweet poison of her charms.
And soon I fear those fair apostates taught
The arts whereby the purer maid is caught;
Taught him the mysteries of perfect guile,
Th' ambiguous sigh, the histrionic smile;
The fascination of refined deceit
Which ill may damsel's candid bosom meet,
Which wilders innocence in frailty's net,
And leaves her lonely then to vain regret.

But how fared Adela? With wond'rous ease
Some gentle ladies can their griefs appease.
Monthermer on the couch of sickness laid,
What could console so sensible a maid?

Among her train of sighing danglers, one,
A young beau-baronet, conspicuous shone.
On him did fate all earthly good dispense,
Forgetting only spirit, worth, and sense.

Ev'n of the last a bastard share it gave,
But just enough to make the fool a knave.
More base a foe, a friend more insecure,
More mean in youth, in opulence more poor,
Nature ne'er made, when most her mood was cross,
From vile amalgama of soil and dross.
But what he wanted of exalted pride
In soft small vanity was well supplied.
He deem'd it fame the fashionist to play,
To be the dancing puppet of the day,
At lady's elbow, perfume all, to trip,
Simper and sidle, prattle, flirt, and skip,
Seize the fallen glove, support the important fan,
A more than gentleman and less than man.
And yet where'er this neuter gender went,
(O blest effect of an abundant rent!)
Where'er It went as sure was It to find
Friends ever warm, and beauties ever kind.
The poor Patrician held it not unwise,
To patch up kindred with the glittering prize;
The wily Matron, parent of the plan,
Through all the lessons of enticement ran,

The adept daughter tried each honied lure,
To catch the fly—Sir Lely Delamour.
But crooked cunning, instinct of all fools,
Here held him place of reason's manlier rules,
And help'd him, as with countermine, to meet
Flattery with gloze, deception with deceit,
And seeming ever caught, for ever to retreat.
At length attracted by the general gaze,
Which with united suffrage look'd her praise,
To Adela the essenc'd creature came,
Resolv'd to wrap her in a fragrant flame.
She just enough repress'd him to invite,
She just enough discourag'd to excite;
To the last thread wound up her artful clew,
And then to Matlock suddenly withdrew.
Not blind the choice that guided her retreat,
Near neighbouring Dovedale rose Sir Lely's seat,
And conscious power to charm, her hope assured,
That the rich insect, to pursuit allured,
Would haste to seek his native banks of Dove,
And migrate thence—upon the wings of love.

So, drawn from rival beauties' gay parterre,
She hoped to fix the fickle flutterer.

Her mother taught her to decoy the game,
And much experienced was the prudent dame.
Guile's arrow sped by her maturer wit,
Whate'er the mark, but seldom fail'd to hit.

Through veins of dowager more joy ne'er ran
When younger spouse replac'd the dear dead man,
Than danc'd in Adela's, the welcome day
Succeeding that of mischief and dismay.
For lo! in timely hour to dry her tears,
The soft Sir Lely Delamour appears!

Yes, the ador'd, the incomparable fair,
In all bright attributes so passing rare,
With covert zeal was plying all her charms
To win this thing, Sir Lely, to her arms.

When late Monthermer her attention caught
A double rage for conquest fired her thought.
First that delight, so darling to the sex,
The rival ring with jealousy to vex,
And bear from bright-eyed candidates away
The glorious prize, the Gallant and the Gay;

And next, to use her triumph as a tool,
To pique, and flatter, and secure her fool.

To steal into an unsuspicious breast,
Where ease and happiness perhaps might rest,
To stir the slumbering embers of desire;
To light love's torch, and all the dwelling fire,
To waken hope on purpose to destroy,
To tantalize delight, and torture joy,
And on the altar of a vain caprice
To immolate a noble bosom's peace,
This shock'd not her who ne'er the passions felt,
At scorn that madden, and at kindness melt.
Yet nature gave her feeling; but 't was lost
In vanity, or by self interest crost.
It gave her talent; its inverted turn
But serv'd the analysis of guile to learn.
She in her baronet could well behold
One whose sole pitiful pretence was gold.
And saw Monthermer lofty o'er the crowd
With high and brilliant qualities endow'd.
But when did brilliant qualities prevail
Weigh'd against sterling coin, in worldly scale?

To gain the plaudit of the public gaze,
By her was held ambition's highest praise.
By wealth the world of all degrees is led,
In wedding wealth, her soul's desire she wed.
Not all the proudest ornaments of mind
Without that talisman her choice could bind.
Much grace she thought Monthermer's mind could boast,
And more his manner, and his person most.
Ladies, who barter for estates their charms,
Are seldom teas'd with honour's nice alarms.
No marcid prude, or antiquated maid,
Decorum's forms as yet more strictly weigh'd,
Because the least aberrant step she knew
Might hide for ever all her golden view.
That once assured, it might not then be hard,
Keeping the veil, the virtue to discard:
Sir Lely once the creature of her will,
A graceful soldier might amuse her still.

Such was the Fair for whom Monthermer sigh'd,
Whose image in his heart was sanctified:
Who shone to him in purity so white
The glorified on high might laud the sight.

Ah, little yet of woman's craft he deem'd!
Her eye on him with flattering meaning beam'd;
Self love's fine chord, thus delicately tried,
At once in truest tenderest tone replied.

Scarce to imperfect health was he restor'd,
Ere call'd, with Glenville, to resume the sword,
And join the distant war. Almost as dear
As pleasure's voice was fame's to Glenville's ear;
All gay he dream'd of hostile standards rent—
And Spain's Brunettes dark-glancing soft consent.
Not so Monthermer. Held in silken thrall,
That gallant heart now shrunk from glory's call.
In vain had joy return'd with health revived,
The hour to part from Adela arrived.

Sweet Syren! in that miserable hour,
With what a tenfold force he felt thy power!
Before thy dazzling looks bewitch'd him blind,
Fame was the nobler idol of his mind.
Now honour summon'd, and the sound no more
Delighted, and the joy in fame was o'er;
And lingering, faltering, on thine arm he clung,
Pour'd out his heart with scarce articulate tongue,

Told all its griefs and fears and hopes at once,
And bade thee on its destiny pronounce.
How couldst thou, bright impostor, even now,
Delude that heart with a perfidious vow?
Pretend to plight the sympathy of thine,
And pledge devotion at affection's shrine?
By heaven! thy voice to hear, thy face to read,
Whoe'er had nigh thee stood, had sworn indeed,
Him the most lov'd of all the race of youth,
And thee the radiant Archetype of truth.
Such were thy specious vows, thy murmur'd fears,
And sighs, and liberality of tears.
Ah, light illusive evidence of grief,
Transient as raindrops on the aspen leaf!

Monthermer now believ'd he could depart
With, at the least, a somewhat happier heart;
Since (as he fondly thought) he thus had wrung
A tender truth from undissembling tongue.
He nearer to him now Euphemia drew;
Pale, still, expectant of the sad adieu,
Beside them she had stood. Again he felt
His eyes with all a woman's softness melt.

But thee! his more than sister! need I tell
The pang he felt at bidding thee farewell?
Upon the day of pain, and on the night,
Thy love o'er-watch'd him: Heaven the care requite!
May all thy days be smiling days serene,
And not a spot, a shadow intervene:
May health and pleasure live within thy breast,
In all thy nights soft soothing be thy rest;
Peace bless the pillow that shall kiss thy cheek,
While guardian Angels round in whispers speak,
And prompt imagination's pleasant dreams,
And scatter round thee hope's delightful beams!
Such be thy bliss, sweet child! for on thy head
Such bliss Monthermer call'd on Heav'n to shed;
Nor knew, alas, how much Monthermer gone
Must mar the intent of his own orison.

The proffer'd hand of Adela he took,
And all his frame with freezing wildness shook;
He kist the hand with strange voluptuous awe,
And durst no more; 'twas love's instinctive law.
But for Euphemia, in a brother's name
He might a less constrain'd endearment claim.

He drew the meek mute mourner to his breast,
And on her pallid cheek his lips imprest.
Her vermil mouth seduc'd his wandering lips;
It feebly own'd the pressure; in eclipse
Her eyes clos'd gently, till the snowy lid
Their liquid lustre, as in slumber, hid.
His lips clung closely, and, in grief's excess,
Her soul seem'd fainting in that last caress;
Yes, 'twas too much for love, for grief to bear,
Her very life was almost fleeting there;
When Glenville came, and, scarce less moved than They,
Tore them apart, and hasten'd him away.

To gain a Father's blessing now remain'd:
The antique hall with quicken'd journey gain'd,
Monthermer that sad interview sustain'd.

This done, he sought the harbour with his friend
Where swarming troops propitious winds attend.
Few days were o'er ere on the ocean swell
They bade the blue receding hills farewell.
Wild were the waves in Biscay's fretful bay,
Monthermer's thoughts tumultuous were as they.

While blustering winds impel the panting sail,
His spirit mounts on every shifting gale;
Inglorious now to Adela returns,
And now afar in battle's triumph burns;
Now homeward flies, by filial virtue borne,
To cheer a Father in his age forlorn;
Now rushing once again where warriors rage,
Thinks how a son's bold deeds shall cheer his age;
How Adela perchance of Him shall hear,
Tremblingly charm'd, delightfully in fear,
When fame shall waft his name with honour o'er;
Then, then he longs to reach the warring shore.

But for the genuine love he left behind,
Would he could read Euphemia's pensive mind!
Days, weeks, and months drag'd on, a tedious length,
And time but gave the sentiment new strength.
No buzz of crowds her thought of Him could lull,
Of Him her solitary hours were full.
Her Harp, accustom'd to delight his ear,
Rung with the tunes that most to Him were dear.
She sang, how sweetly! the wild moving lays
Which He had written—in another's praise.

The scenes he lov'd her partial pencil trac'd
With all the ease of art, the touch of taste.
Plung'd in the world, (for Adela in vain
At Matlock strove Sir Lely to enchain)
Plung'd in the vast gay world, of wits and beaux
A throng around the opening beauty rose.
In vain by beaux and wits was she beset,
Euphemia wore a guarding Amulet;
A Charm, which none but she must e'er behold,
Fix'd in a frame diminutive of gold.
On ivory tablet, in minutest trace,
There liv'd Monthermer, as in breathing grace!
Though by her own true hand in secret wrought,
Such just resemblance had her memory caught!
This, oft in jealous solitude carest,
Was warmly hid within her budding breast.

When nineteen moons their monthly course had run,
The prize at last by Adela was won!
No more Sir Lely could the lure withstand,
And half his fortune purchas'd all her hand.
Not that the Nymph of so divine a smile
For pelf could stipulate, or aught so vile.

On a sage Mother all the task devolv'd,
A task where mothers sage are well resolv'd.
In vain to spare his avarice he tried,
‘The Jointure!’ still ‘The Jointure!’ she replied.
In vain his odoriferous sighs he sent,
The Mother's cry was still, ‘The Settlement!’
A little less he ev'n at last would strain;
The Mother enter'd; it was all in vain;
He took the parchment, falter'd, argued, sigh'd—
And sign'd—and smirk'd on Adela his Bride.

CANTO III.

By death surrounded, in the stranger's clime,
Unchang'd by distance, unseduc'd by time,
Meanwhile Monthermer, true to love as fame,
Foster'd within his breast their equal flame.
Through the long course of absence, toil, and war,
His hope still turn'd to Adela afar,
Tender, and soft, and beautiful, and true,
As when she gave her heart with her adieu.

But now did France, her impious triumphs o'er,
The mad ambition of her chief deplore.

Now came the dark retributory day,
Prostrate on every side her eagles lay,
The avenging bands pour'd in on every side,
With her own blood her own fair fields were dyed.
In vain she hoped the Pyrennean towers
Should guard her southern plains from victor powers.
Glorious from past, and fresh for coming toils,
There, firm came on the Heroes of the Isles.
They darted up the horrid mountain steep,
In vain did steel repel and cannon sweep,
The steel they breasted, and the cannon's mouth,
Till Britain gain'd the Garden of the South.

O Thou! on yonder eminence sublime
That hold'st thine empire since the birth of Time,
Stern Independence! while degenerate Spain
Supinely heard the clanking of her chain,
Saw France pour down the thousands from that height,
And devastate her lands—and bore the sight—
How didst Thou then with jealous fury glow!
And long to crush the victim and the foe!
And when, arous'd, the struggle she began,
And march'd to war, with England in her van,

How didst Thou then with grim delight look down,
And smile upon the Conquerors' renown.
But oh! when (prest by Britain's sons of fame)
Behind them Vengeance, and before them Shame,
To shelter in thy mountain holds their head
The Vandal legions of invasion fled;
O Thou! whose eyes of majesty repose
On tumbling floods and everlasting snows,
Who liftest o'er the clouds thy mighty form
To hear the music of the upper storm!
Wert Thou not pleas'd to see the Invaders' blood
Purple the snow and stain the roaring flood?
Did not thine ear confess a nobler strain,
When the death-thunders peal'd through thy domain?
Yes! and thine own glad shout did answer them again!

'Twere fanciful to hear, and strange to tell,
What various chance the youthful friends befel,
Who dared adventures of so wild a stamp
As made their praise the echo of the camp.
But, though they bore them with such gallant grace,
It suits me not their earlier course to trace.

And where they travers'd now the tract of Bearn,
Thither at once the history must turn.

Along the banks where Gave's broad waters flow,
'Twixt Orthes' battled hills and royal Pau,
Far in advance of their division's head,
The troops of Glenville and Monthermer led.
Hills on the left, the river on the right,
In front a peering town salutes the sight.
The French Rear-guard, while slow retreat they made,
With straggling skirmish this advance delay'd;
And lingering seem'd, so far from main support,
As if more warm encounter they would court.
Fired at the sight, Monthermer now declared
A gallant purpose which his bosom dared:
With his own troop to steal behind the height,
Obstruct their march and thus compel the fight:
While, timely speeding at the trumpet's call,
The troop of Glenville on their rear should fall.
Fervent he spoke, the bold proposal pleas'd,
A noble emulation Glenville seiz'd.
“Go, gallant heart!” the heroic youth replied;
“Fortune thy guard, and conquest be thy guide!

“We meet again, in conquest or defeat,
“Midway through yonder ranks again we meet.”
Monthermer hears him with an ardent smile,
And hastes to lead along the first defile.
Quick at the word, but wary as it speeds,
Along the enfilade the troop succeeds.
There's not a man but thirst for triumph fires,
So great the zeal his leader's love inspires.
And now the point they almost reach unseen,
The range of copse-clad hills their friendly screen,
When, suddenly, the Foes' Vedettes espy
The coming war, they circle and they fly.
The Foes thus warn'd, 'tis now their utmost end
To pass Monthermer ere his troop descend.
For this they spur, they urge the foaming horse,
An equal zeal impels the English course;
Together, these above, and those beneath,
Furious they ride the dreadful race of death.
As the Lavange's snow gigantic ball
Bursts from the mountain, terrible in fall!
So thundering down Monthermer comes at last,
Too late to intercept; the foe has past.

But still he flies! Cheer on then to the chase!
Blood must to-day cement their stern embrace.
Far o'er the valley bounds the game away,
And far, too far, the English track their prey,
Till, hunted to the death, he turns and stands at bay.
Now, by Saint George, no recreant foes are these,
Though haggard panic for awhile may seize:
They front! they form! roars out their shot salute!
That fatal volley checks the hot pursuit.
All silent now opposed, both fiercely stare,
With horrid stillness and with savage glare.
A second volley from the French holds back
The British troop, reluctant to attack.
To lead them on Monthermer strives in vain,
Shame, wrath, and phrenzy rush into his brain.
Forward alone he plunges with his steed,
To singly struggle and to singly bleed.
That sight his wavering soldiers cannot bear,
What will they not, to save Monthermer, dare?
Their veins again with generous heat enlarge,
And shouts re-echo, Rally! To the Charge!

At this nice moment Glenville's troop arrives;
He sees Monthermer's peril; on he drives,
Swift as the glancing of a shooting star,
To yield him aid in the unequal war.
As two black clouds in fierce collision flash,
So meet both bodies in the awful clash;
So bickering sabres lighten as they wheel,
And death drops sanguine from each reeking steel.
The British swords all wildly slash around,
The wilier foes inflict the pointed wound.
Success hangs dubious 'twixt the balanc'd force,
Confus'd they sink; man man, horse crushes horse.
At last the French give way; horrific cries,
The yell of triumph, from the British rise.
Dismay in those, fresh rage in these that shout
Inspires: Monthermer, Glenville press the rout.
Furious they press, the routed devious fly;
Vain is their flight, they yield them or they die:
So men in shipwreck struggle for the shore,
And feel the sand, and deem the peril o'er;
But the strong billow close behind them raves,
And o'er them breaks again; they drop beneath the waves.

Dire is the scene of rout. Full in the flood
Plunges the tortured horse, and with his blood
Defiles, mad floundering there, the frothing wave;
His wounded rider shares his watery grave.
Clinging to life, disarmed veterans here,
Callous till now to all assault of fear,
With hands extended ward the fancied steel,
And trembling, praying, low for quarter kneel.
Others, still arm'd, but circled by their foes,
Dare not their arms against the ring oppose;
The victors cry, “Dismount, and drop those arms,
“And live!” but, wild and stupid with alarms,
Address'd in language foreign to their own,
The wretches wait till fury cuts them down.
All sounds of horror mingle in the air,
Pain's frantic groans, and terror's shrieking prayer,
And victory's savage cry, and curses of despair.

Amid the rout an officer was seen,
Young, and dismounted, but with furious mien
(His only guard the fragment of a blade)
Against a hors'd Hussar defence he made,

Whose uprais'd sabre was prepared to smite;
Glenville beheld, spur'd onward at the sight,
And waved his weapon just in time to save;
True courage is as merciful as brave.
Touch'd with an act so chivalrously kind,
Sieurac at once his broken sword resign'd
In token of surrender. Flush'd with pride
Of conquest, back the victors slowly ride;
The guarded prisoners move along before,
And moving slidder in their comrades' gore:
An English charger bears Sieurac alone,
A courtesy to rank and valour shewn.
Meantime Monthermer darts at speed away;
His to report the issue of the fray.

And now, the ruthless heat of contest quell'd,
What sickening sights are all around beheld!
The combat's clangor, the shrill din of death
Drowns Pity's low-expostulating breath:
But in the calm reflection that succeeds,
Then, then, alas! too late, too loud she pleads.
'Twas but an hour ago, how cheerly then
In placid beauty lay this smiling glen!

Athwart the road how fresh the foliage hung!
How sweetly yonder eddying river sung!
How laugh'd the young buds o'er its edge the while,
Enamel'd by the sun's caressing smile!
While Peace lay slumbering, on yon bank reclin'd,
Her loose locks floating to the balmy wind.

Now human blood deforms on every side
The scene. With blood the shuddering stream is dyed;
And blood the drooping flowers and foliage bear;
The scent of blood impregns the loaded air.
Where white-arm'd Peace lay sleeping, Hatred sits;
Her sunken eye a demon fire emits;
Gore-matted hair o'erspreads her pale gaunt cheek,
Her shocking hands with yet warm murder reek.
She sits, and hearkens to the lessening groans
Of dying wretches, and responsive moans
In brutal mockery. With infernal leer
She eyes the spectacle of anguish near,
Arms, warriours, steeds, in dire profusion spread,
The prostrate living crush'd beneath the dead.

Thus Glenville mus'd along, when, sudden all,
Came whistling from the right a shower of ball

That thin'd his gallant files. He turns and sees
Where Voltigeurs among the upland trees
Secure are posted. It were vain to hope
With force dismounted, shielded thus, to cope.
Too long the impetuous pursuit was urged,
And these the while from yon far wood emerg'd.
“Away! away! adieu to prisoners now!
“But lo! what dark cloud moves on yon hill's brow?
“Hem'd every way! the squadron'd foe again!
“Then what is left us but to die like men?”
As Glenville spoke, he read his troops' reply;
Their looks affirm'd them resolute to die.
Grateful for life to Glenville owed, Sieurac
Would gladly pay the obligation back.
With earnest warmth he urges him to yield,
Nor vainly tempt so hardly match'd a field.
Smiles Glenville then, but somewhat proudly smiles,
In close array as he compacts his files:
Then gives the word, his followers speed along,
The approaching foes in conscious numbers throng.
Now “Charge!” he cries; from either side a yell
Of horrible portent invades the dell—
How many a warriour raises his own knell!

With echoing din the headlong squadrons shock,
The valley rings, the troubled woodlands rock;
Dread sights and sounds assault the eye and ear,
Swords jar, and carbines flash, and chargers rear
And sink and madden. Warriours hurl'd around
Bite the red earth, and cries and groans resound.
Revenge and Desperation call aloud;
The doom'd to die work well their bloody shroud.

When once a valiant heart admits despair,
A loftier feeling with it enters there;
A feeling calm, deliberate, and great,
Serenely dreadful in the hour of fate.
As if the soul, hope once extinguish'd here,
And on the wing to seek her after sphere,
Thence drew beforehand a supernal ray
To gild the ruins of her house of clay.

'Twas such a feeling strung to tenfold power
The arm of Glenville in that desperate hour.
Death seem'd to summon with a certain call,
And he resolv'd to dignify his fall.
Like the stern spirit of that martial storm,
Superior he maintains his dauntless form.

Whirls his keen sabre, and from right to left,
Conflicting numbers by its stroke are cleft.
The foe surveys with wonder and alarm
The deadly prowess of so young an arm.

But fortune spared him. Of his gallant troop
To death's embrace the larger number stoop.
Some few escape: and him, unhors'd, disarm'd,
Cover'd with blood, yet by a wound unharm'd,
The French a dearly purchas'd captive hold,
And nobly joy to spare a foe so bold.
Sieurac had follow'd near him in the strife,
And more than once repaid the debt of life.

The struggle o'er, away they quickly past.
Advancing British reach that glen at last.
War's baneful influence indurates the heart,
Few gaze with pity, all with wonder start;
Wonder to see the deeds by English done,
In fight so dearly for the victors won.
“True, many a comrade stiffens on the plain,
But mark the mass of their opponents slain!
How heap'd they lie! how tamed their martial crest!
These chasseurs vauntful in the dark-green vest.”

Thus unconcerned glance they o'er the dead,
But not the raiment round their cold limbs spread.
This they regard with less indifferent eyes,
A soldier fall'n is still a soldier's prize.
With ready hands they strip each friendless corse
To nakedness, and thus, without remorse,
Leave them, perhaps to shrivel in the wind
Till hungry birds and savage beasts shall find,
Till wolves and eagles shall complete their doom,
Both raise their death-dirge and become their tomb.

Monthermer came; (the valley he had clear'd
Ere yet the rescuing enemy appear'd.)
Monthermer came; but he was busy too
Along that sanguine walk, till wild he grew.
Ye who have trod the field, some friend to seek,
Perchance some brother lost, O you can speak!
O you can tell with what a fearful haste
From corse to corse, half mad with doubt, he paced;
How eagerly he look'd on each pale face,
In dread the much loved lineaments to trace;
Search'd the fix'd eye, and turn'd the rigid limb,
Till touch grew horror-numb'd, and vision dim;

At last on some unfeatur'd visage gazed,
Whence all humanity's fair lines were razed,
Till Fancy, working with her plastic doubt,
The perfect image of his friend fill'd out.

Now evening's fall obscur'd the heavenly arch,
And halting armies ceas'd from harass'd march.
The foot, their several boundaries assign'd,
Between the vales, or sheltering hills behind,
Pitch their white tents where least may pierce the wind.
The sylvan tracts receive the mounted troops;
Around the trees the steeds are link'd in groups.
Then fall the ancient honours of the shades,
The busy axe lays open startled glades;
And crackling flames ascending flare to heaven,
And frighted Darkness from her seat is driven.
O 't is a wild but not unlovely sight,
To mark that bold invasion of the night;
The fierce fires mounting far and wide around;
The steeds and warriours scatter'd on the ground;
The blaz'd arms pendent from the boughs aloft;
The verdure bright, but beautifully soft,

That flickeringly undulates the leaves,
Here sinks in gloom, and there its hue retrieves.

'T is midnight. Stretch'd upon their bed of gorse,
Together rest the soldier and his horse.
Approach, O murmurer! who, with pride insane,
Though scarce a fear molest thee, or a pain,
By night though pillow'd on the down of Peace,
And wantoning by day in wealth's increase;
With ills fantastick rack the thankless breast,
And sigh insatiate to be yet more blest:
Come, if thou wilt, and contemplate this scene!
Mark the poor soldier; it may mend thy spleen.
No home is near to dissipate his cares,
No busy hand for him the board prepares,
No down warm lulls, no roof impervious shrouds,
His couch the earth, his canopy the clouds.
The stormy elements this hour may smite,
The strife to-morrow sweep him from the light;
Yet is his manly heart too firm to faint;
Not ev'n his dreams are tinctured with complaint.
Thankful that yesterday's war-blast is o'er,
He sleeps content—O blush to murmur more.

Now through the camps the dying flames grow pale,
And not a sound accompanies the gale:
Save where the night-watch-fires along the line
From post to post with sleepless lustre shine;
Save where in front relieving piquets stir,
And far vedettes at intervals confer.

A squadron's outpost charge Monthermer kept;
Apart he sate; of Glenville thought, and wept.
Tears such as His true manliness reveres:
Well said the Greek—The brave are prone to tears.
He wept, and, as those distant embers died,
Ev'n they a fuel to his grief supplied;
Their branches late were vigorous like him,
In strength and beauty shot each living limb.
His fire in war was like the blaze they cast,
It shone as bright, and oh! had sunk as fast.
In equal splendour was he seen that day;
And now, perhaps, how paler far than they!

Meanwhile the foe, with arrogance elate,
A scheme of fresh reprisal meditate.
Scout or deserter specious tidings brought,
From which Monthermer to surprise they thought.

Still prompt to listen, eager to believe,
Quick to decide, and ardent to achieve,
The French, resolv'd the favouring hour to snatch,
Four squadrons through the gloom at once dispatch.
Not unobserved they come. A flank patrole
Heard sounds unusual from the distance roll.
Their course he follow'd. To his listening ear,
As on he stole, they gradual struck more clear.
He still advanc'd; the many echoing hoof
Now gave of stirring troops distinctive proof.
But further yet the intrepid soldier drew,
And then the array of hostile war he knew.
By slow circuitous approach they come,
Their arms are noiseless, and their lips are dumb:
These reconnoitred, cautious now but fleet,
Favour'd by night, he shortens his retreat;
Then seeks Monthermer, and to him reports
The danger nigh which youthful valour courts.
The mourner rous'd him eager at the word,
Compos'd his mien, and accurately heard;
And sent immediate message to apprize
The main support, and warn the camp to rise.

That done, a squadron to his aid repairs,
The camp behind is waked to equal cares:
This in the rear, and far beyond it those,
Fronting in arms they wait the coming foes;
To whom the interval free space affords,
A dire arena for the strife of swords.
Deep silence reigns. A doubly lurid awe
Silence and night o'er expectation draw:
The sturdiest bosom, in that solemn pause,
Avows, within, some fear-compelling cause.
And now, in triumph's full assurance vain,
The foes approach; they crowd into the plain.
Now, ere they form, in burst from either side,
The rush of English pours a meeting tide.
Who then the horror of the foe may tell?
Involv'd, they deem, in hurricane of hell!

When bursts the night-storm o'er yon mountain mass,
Tremble hoar Frost's huge palaces of glass,
The caverns roar, the torrents louder dash,
Crack the rib'd rocks, the pines tumultuous crash,
Screams the astounded eagle o'er her tower,
Howls the grim wolf in his invaded bower,

Raves the wild boar upstarting from his lair,
And one commingled uproar rends the air.

Such was the dreadful tumult of the night,
Such the distracted enemy's affright.
Their erring weapons, friend and foe unknown,
All wildly swell the slaughter of their own.
Whelm'd in confusion heaps on heaps expire;
War's whirlwind wraps them, and the night's on fire.

E'en then Monthermer, to his Glenville true,
Seeks some superior leader to subdue,
Whom to his arm the chance of strife might yield
Alive, and give to rescue from the field.
So might (for hope that yet he liv'd return'd)
His friend's redemption by exchange be earn'd.
Not vain his search. That fitful fiery gloom
Shew'd the bright girdle and the lofty plume
Of one, whose sword had ably hewn a way
For flight to hurry from the hopeless fray.
Monthermer braves his arm: but he, alert,
Wheels round his horse the challenge to avert,
Then gives the spur. Away bounds off his steed,
Monthermer plies the hoof of equal speed.

Tow'rd the French posts they make; they press, they wind,
The one before, the other close behind.
Light o'er the ground the springing chargers vault,
While clinquant sabres parry and assault.
At last the fugitive is forc'd to front
His flagging horse, and stand the combat's brunt.
Monthermer rushes, furious from delay,
Strikes from his hand the weapon far away,
Then closes, hurls to earth, and hovers o'er his prey.
But foe once fall'n from him had nought to dread,
And, “Rise and live!” at once the victor said.
He rose, and thus replied: “Whoe'er thou art,
This act is fitting on an English part.
Twice in a few short hours in open strife
Has English valour spared my forfeit life.
Express I lured thee hither to entrap,
For thou hast past, (I fear beyond escape,)
Our outer piquets. Fain would I forego
The capture of so generous a foe.
And, hark, already are approaching fast
Some files patroling from the guard we past.

Ere these too near to mark thee have advanc'd,
Haste to elude observance, if thou canst.”
“First tell,” Monthermer cries, “if with you stay
Glenville, a captive from the morn's affray?”
“Safe in the neighbouring town the hero lies,
Without a wound,” the Frenchman quick replies.
Monthermer heard, (Sieurac it was that spoke)
With joy that from his lips in blessing broke.
Then thus: “Though forc'd my vantage to resign,
Be sure no captive rest I here of thine.
So peace remain with Glenville and with thee,
Favour to him is gratitude to me.”
He said, and plung'd the rowels in his horse;
Right on the line he bore his rapid course,
Successive guards that heard him thundering on
Had scarce look'd backward ere the shade was gone.
“Qui vive!” all vainly challenges reply,
Swift as a meteor shot the warriour by.
With hissing ball as idly they pursue,
Light o'er his head the guiltless bullets flew.
While bravely bearing onward far and fast,
Secure he gains his own vedettes at last.

Lo! Morning, in her crimson vesture dight,
Shoots from her orient bow the darts of light!
Far other hymns than winged warblers pay
Salute her face, and welcome in the day.
The mighty symphony of battle breaks,
And o'er the hills a hundred answers wakes.
Hark to the distant bugles! how they sing
With mellow voice, and richly echoing ring!
How proudly pour the trumpets' brazen throats!
And din the welkin with their pompous notes.
On slumber's ear the thrilling echoes fall,
And conscious warriours rouse them at the call.
Thick as the flowery race of vernal birth,
In hues as various clad, they spring from earth.
Perchance like them too, ere the day be done,
May numbers die in battle's sultry sun.

Ere yet the march commenc'd, a flag of truce,
That sought whate'er pertain'd to Glenville's use,
Was charg'd with tidings for Monthermer's ear;
That somewhat serv'd his anxious mind to cheer.
Lourde's neighbouring fort, a Pyrennean rock
Of stubborn strength against the siege's shock,

And whose dark tower o'erlooks a lovely land,
Was in the father of Sieurac's command.
By grace accorded at Sieurac's request,
Glenville was there to be the father's guest,
With stated license of excursion round,
A wide and more than ordinary bound.
And thither now with Glenville we repair,
Monthermer leaving to the chance of war.

CANTO IV.

The cloak of night invests the lofty hill
That fronts the tower of Lourde, and all is still.
From citadel aloft and town below,
Some scatter'd lights a feeble radiance throw.
As if with every breeze a foe was near,
The sentries oft to earth incline to hear:
And one, that, where the public way is barr'd,
Beneath the hill, maintains the outer guard,
Or hears, or thinks he hears, a distant sound,
Like tramp of horses, hollow on the ground.

The growing sound is now advancing nigh,
And now comes clattering plainly from on high.
Quick, clear, and loud the guard in challenge cries,
Loud, clear, and quick, the approacher's voice replies.
Sieurac, empower'd free passage to require,
Bears from the army mandate for his Sire,
A captive with him on parole entire.
Some length of jealous ceremonial done,
An officer admits them, one by one.
Their way from guard to guard an escort leads,
And each a moment their advance impedes.
All form observ'd, and every caution due,
Their progress through the town they now pursue;
And now arriving at the fortress gate,
Sieurac ascends, but there must Glenville wait.
Short was the stay of Glenville in the vale,
The veteran hasten'd down his guest to hail.
Then, leading through the small but massive port,
Conducted upward to the impending fort;
By winding steps, cut through with labour'd art,
The single way to enter or depart.

Time on this venerable warriour's head
His whitest snows, the grace of age, had shed;
But not impair'd the stately martial gait;
Or bow'd the tall thin form erect and straight;
Or made the youthfulness of laughter fly
The true mercurial Frenchman's keen grey eye;
Or marr'd the courtesy of mien and phrase
In courts acquir'd, in France's better days.
But now forgotten was all lighter part,
Nature was busy in the father's heart.
Gay as he was in customary guise,
None held more fondly strict to nature's ties.
And who may now with due expression tell
What feelings high that old man's bosom swell?
He hears Sieurac relate the former strife,
Paternal fancy gives the story life,
He sees the stubborn conflict lost and won,
The death-stroke pendent o'er an only son,
The prompt protection of a guardian foe,
The victim snatch'd from the descending blow.
He sees it all, and Glenville he repays
With all the warmth of gratitude and praise.

But not by him alone was Glenville blest:
Of all rewards, that heart's reward the best!
There was an ear the stranger's praise that caught
In all the modest sympathy of thought.
There was a heart whose secret throbbings told
More fervent thanks than coyness might unfold.
There was a breast with nascent warmth o'erflush'd,
A cheek of beauty which unbidden blush'd,
A tender eye of deep celestial blue,
Whose side-long looks unconscious favour threw,
But he on whom they glanc'd too well their augury knew.
Ah! what the wonder such recited scene
Should move a mind so ductile, young Alvine,
And fond as thine!—Her brother and her sire
To her till now were all the world entire.
No mother left to claim affection's care,
Sieurac she gave a more than brother's share.
What wonder then her gratitude o'erflow'd,
For him to whom her brother's life was ow'd;
That English youth who with a triple claim
A stranger, captive, benefactor, came!

The night was wearing, and, ere dawn awake,
Sieurac again his column must o'ertake.
To them consigning his deliverer brave,
A soldier's brief but warm adieu he gave.

Before Alvine more blissful visions rose
That night, than e'er enchanted her repose.
Her fickle dreams a thousand shapes assumed,
In various worlds, by various spheres illumed,
By heavenly music charm'd, and heavenly airs perfumed:
A thousand shapes in bright perfection each;
And worlds too beautiful for earthly speech;
And scatter'd spheres that bountifully threw
More mild rich lights, and all of separate hue,
Than e'er before e'en fairy fancy knew:
Music more soft than Æolus e'er flung
From airy harp by Elf-musician strung,
Amid the yellow bowers of mournful autumn hung:
Airs fresher far than ever woo'd the day,
Eloping after showers from lap of liberal May.
Whithersoe'er she roved, a youthful guide,
The genius of the scene, was at her side.

Whithersoe'er he led she wander'd free,
From change to change, through earth, or air, or sea.
So courteously he look'd, so kindly spoke,
His every gesture instant charm awoke.
But still the close black locks that clustering twined
O'er brow where manly candour sat defined,
The goodly form and careless easy mien,
And large dark eyes so bright yet softly keen,
Were wondrous like a youth that happy evening seen.

'Twixt broken slumbers Glenville musing lay,
On his strange fortune's unexpected sway;
His path of fame, and hope of glory crost:
Monthermer too, as well as freedom, lost.
Yet not o'erwhelming the disaster seem'd,
Not o'er-severe his destiny he deem'd,
For he had read in that young beauty's eye
Enough that might beguile captivity.

As if for him the prospect to adorn,
Exuberant in splendour rose the morn,
When, by the Sire attended and Alvine,
He first beheld the bold encircling scene.

The heavy battlement aloft that tower'd
Dark o'er the vale in sullen grandeur lower'd.
Its eastern aspect o'er the blue-roof'd town
Look'd in the pride of its protection down.
But on the west, from southern mountains roll'd,
Gave at its feet was thundering uncontrol'd;
Twisting along his proud capricious course,
He pour'd his waves, exulting in their force.
Romantic Gave! whose lucid currents strong
Foam, wheel, and whirl, and roar and rush along,
And in their desultory visits greet
All that is wild and beautiful and sweet.
And far around, where'er the lively green
Of chestnut hills allow'd a view between,
Were orchards and vine-swells in youthful promise seen.
Beyond, the Pyrennean mountains rose,
Their huge heads radiant with impassive snows;
From south and west the noble scene they crown'd,
And girt the amphitheatre around.

Weeks hasten'd on, and each succeeding day
With pleasure came, with pleasure went away.

On that old man the English stranger won,
Till scarce superior love he bore his son;
And with his love his confidence was join'd,
In all the freedom of a generous mind.
Alvine's unpractis'd heart more warmly yet,
Unconsciously, repaid her brother's debt.
Her thought on Glenville ever kindly dwelt,
Her soul for Glenville ever fondly felt:
Since he appear'd, each common object wore
A thousand charms she never mark'd before,
Each hour was golden bliss without alloy,
And every gale was redolent of joy:
And not a care upon her thought encroach'd,
Till now the eventful change for France approach'd.

The foot of Spring stole lightly o'er the land
Impurpled o'er by Battle's reeking hand,
At every step fresh leaves of verdure sprung,
To hide the blood from struggling nations wrung;
When France beheld, yet scarce could trust the view,
Her garden's boast and shame, her Lily bloom anew!
Yes, the proud hand that with so stern a blow
That shatter'd garden's royal flower laid low,

In vain essay'd, with all its power and pride,
To blast the root—the Lily never died.
Rumour grew busy; Doubt, all mute, gave ear;
Woe heard, but durst not trust a sound so dear.
“How could it be? To earth so sudden hurl'd
“The Eagle that shriek'd ruin through the world?
“How could it be? the Lion tamely give
“His claws to be wrench'd out that he might live!
“The Imperial Bandit pledge his ravening horde
“To sheath disloyalty's accursed sword,
“And swear allegiance to their rightful Lord!
“Ah no, 'twas all in mockery of despair!
“Yet why then sunk the yell of battle there?”
Death paus'd! and War relax'd into a smile!
Hope caught the beam! and Fear peep'd forth the while!
Till Truth at last the certain tidings bore—
Peace is throughout the land! the Usurper rules no more!

Not yet to Lourde those certain tidings came,
But expectation was forestalling fame.
Then, though her prayers implored that war might cease,
Alvine grew mournful at the thought of peace.

For though Sieurac 'twould set from peril free,
Yet was there One, perhaps as lov'd as He,
Whom, after that, she never more might see.
Who hath not felt how separation's fear
Makes those who share our love more fondly dear?

The wild and tender spirit of Alvine
Romantic was as her own mountain scene:
By habit too her light fine form inured
The lengthen'd ramble easily endured.
O'er slopes of vines with Glenville oft she roves,
Through shades of myrtle, and through olive groves,
Through woods that blend in many a social arch,
The Elm, and Oak, and Lime, and Beech, and Larch.
Till Eve's last blush from Morning's fragrant prime,
Oft were they wont the mountains grey to climb:
Steeds and attendants leaving far below,
To trace the lonesome regions would they go;
Mount the huge rocks o'erstriped with granite lines;
Invade the gloomy solitude of pines;
Pierce the dread womb of caves whose teeming spars
Shone through the depths a mimic vault of stars;

Bend o'er the cataract that plunging sinks
In horrid gulfs whence dizzy vision shrinks;
Reach the rude heights that bounding Ibex haunts
For russet birch and aromatic plants;
Start the light Chamois from his lone recess,
His cragged lichen-nursing wilderness;
Approach the aerial citadels of snow,
And look, sublime, on clouds and plains below.

Ascend, O Traveller! and if thy soul
Exult to spring from vulgar care's control,
If thy bold heart etherial health would share,
O come and bathe thee in the mountain air!
Here to thy limbs shall buoyant force be given,
And magic pinions lift thee half to heaven!
Or if the world thy breast have stricken sore,
If thou be one whom pleasure cheats no more;
Whom hard Affliction, in her iron rule,
Hath used and mock'd, her victim and her tool;
O come! for here new hopes shall fill thy breast,
And give, awhile at least, thy sorrows rest!
Not all the extracted medicine of fields,
Not all the balm that chymic science yields,

Like these fresh wilds thy malady shall serve,
Raise the sunk heart, and brace the shatter'd nerve,
Cool the hot passions, and subdue the strong,
Charm down the angry memory of wrong,
Induce the blest forgetfulness of pain,
And lift thy thoughts to new delight again.

Or, if the Muses' votary thou be,
O hither bring thy lyre of Poesy!
Let us the wond'rous heights together dare,
Far, far above yon love-conducted Pair.
This is a region worthy of thy lay,
And would that mine could loftier tribute pay!
O cast around thee thine enraptur'd glance:
This is the favour'd kingdom of Romance!
Lo, where the Monarch, in yon wild retreat,
Reclines on rocky blossom-tufted seat!
Round his bright brow, inweav'd in graceful wreath,
Bay, myrtle, laurel, Poet's cassia breathe.
Loose o'er his limbs etherial vestments flow,
In all the splendent colours of the bow.
See yon fir walls behind him bound the view;
Their darkness deepen'd by the immingling yew!

See at his feet, (wide flashing sheets of froth)
How thunders down that mighty torrent's wrath!
While, strange to view, in pendent clustering ranks,
A thousand bloomy shrubs adorn its banks,
And, fearless bending o'er the dreadful brink,
Life, freshness, fragrance, strength, and beauty drink.
The greensward waving in small sunny hills,
To verdure quicken'd by the scatter'd rills,
Smiles to the right. Arising on its rear,
Majestic rocks in boundary appear;
Unnumber'd plants those ramparts grey emboss,
And many a bulbous prominence of moss;
Spring from their fissures green and flowery braids,
And from their summits leap the glad cascades.
See, on his left, in glacial splendor stand
Yon crystal town, no work of human hand,
Returning to the sun his shower of light,
In richer streams of azure and of white,
Most exquisite irradiance! O survey
These scenes sublimely beautiful! and say,
Thy fancy, Poet, in its dreams of bliss,
Ne'er built an airy world magnificent as this.

Give then, O Poet, give thy lofty note
On the light wings of this pure air to float!
O strike thy lyre in salutation high!
And bid the Echoes, many voic'd, reply!
So shalt thou see, forth trooping at the sound,
Romance's Fairy subjects rally round!
Yea, all the Elves that people wood and brake,
That dwell in precipice, or sail on lake,
Myriads of fair though immaterial forms,
Thick as the bees of June, shall haste in swarms;
Here on their favourite Green shall join the ring,
And deftly dance before their wizard King,
Their small feet timed to thy melodious string.
Then shall that gracious sovereign unbind
The green regalia round his temples twin'd,
And on thy head the odorous garland place,
Thine art to honour, and thy brow to grace;
Shall then round Thee the Fairy nation dance,
And hail their Bard, the Laureate of Romance!
That mystic wreath shall to thy mind impart
Light; and thenceforward thine ennobled heart

Shall be the fanciful illumined cell
Where all the Muses shall consent to dwell.

How blest, among those mountains, Glenville stray'd,
Arm link'd in arm with Lourde's delightful maid!
How sweet to watch her glances! in her ear
To breathe the warm insinuant whispers dear,
That wake the timid blushes! To beguile
The timid blush into a rosy smile;
To fan the lurking tenderness of thought,
By all the flattering arts which Love has taught!
Arts, as each Lady fair remembers well,
That win on Beauty with resistless spell;
Teach Virgin's breast with strange delight to pant,
When first she listens to the soft Gallant.

Oft would it chance that in their devious way
Some torrent's bed or rock's projection lay.
Could courteous Soldier suffer gentle Fair
The toil or hazard of the pass to share?
Soft round her form his arms would Glenville curl,
And bear the half-reluctant blushing girl,
So slowly bear her, and so oft recoil,
A Stranger near had deem'd him faint with toil,

Nor guess'd the loiterer's amorous deceit,
Insidious lingering with a load so sweet.

Oft by the fervour of the day opprest,
Beneath a verdant umbrage would they rest;
Seated on some soft bank of turf at ease,
Where best they might enjoy the passing breeze.
There, as Alvine renew'd enquiry still,
Her deeply listening soul would Glenville thrill,
With many a tale of battle won and lost,
And many a strange adventure he had crost;
Relating all that might her bosom move—
Except his triumphs in the field of Love.
But still above his own, Monthermer's name
His modest story ever would proclaim;
Himself of meaner weight in merit's scale,
His friend was still the hero of the tale.
Her looks replying to the varied sense
Of what she heard, with feeling eloquence,
Her features pregnant with the living glow
Of joy for joy, and sympathy for woe,
Alvine would hear; and, as she heard, would oft
Monthermer's praise repeat in accents soft:

So warmly soft, so breathing of the heart,
So delicately artful without art,
That One than Glenville less expert to wind
Through the nice labyrinth of Woman's mind
Had guess'd, no youth the maiden ne'er beheld
Such touching strain of tenderness impell'd;
Had guess'd Monthermer bashfully supplied
A name for the Historian at her side;
Had pierc'd that veil of too translucent lawn,
O'er Love by virgin Innocency drawn.

In such soft moments, Glenville, for his friend,
As if to thank her that she deign'd commend,
Was wont her soft small hand of whiteness steal,
And with his lips the thanks of friendship seal.
If He forgot then, as he oft would do,
To loose her hand—Alvine forgot it too.

Oft would the youth his young companion press
To raise her voice amid the wilderness;
And she would sing some wild Romance of yore,
When Lourde's strong walls the siege of England bore,
When English Knights, with sword and soul of flame,
Brought war and love to Gascon Knight and Dame.

Rich were the tones those lips of freshness gave,
For Music dwelt within their coral cave;
And soft and tender did the Chanson ring,
For 'twas her heart that prompted her to sing.
Then, of the song, her too expressive eye
To Glenville oft the import would apply;
Where most in strain heroic rose the lay,
Where most in pathos sunk the sound away,
Then would the faltering voice, the mantling cheek,
Spite of restraint, her soul's emotion speak;
And then would Glenville from her flushing face
Delighted snatch a hurried fond embrace;
So hurried, her prevention it denied,
So fond, it robb'd her of the power to chide.

As thus they once, not far from Lourde remote,
Wiled on the hour to happiness devote,
With more than wonted warmth Alvine divulg'd,
By looks, the tender weakness she indulg'd.
Her breast in quicker palpitation heav'd,
And Glenville well the omen kind perceiv'd;
More bright and fast her colour came and flew,
And bold and bolder his advances grew;

He with endearment fond, and fonder prest,
She smil'd and blush'd, delighted and distrest.
So mildly, feebly, was his freedom check'd,
At last presumption triumph'd o'er respect;
And further yet its course had license held,
But virtue now the audacity repell'd.
As if by adder's fold insidious woke,
Swift from his clasp the indignant maiden broke;
Vain were his prayers, his protestations vain,
She homeward sped in unrelax'd disdain.

Then days crept slowly, burthen'd with regret,
While in the father's presence still they met,
With courtesy constrain'd. The aged chief
Observ'd his daughter's alter'd eye with grief;
His guest's excursions she no longer shared,
And he believ'd her plea of health impair'd.

Alvine, so warn'd, against beleaguering power
Now fortified her heart like Lourde's stern tower;
Her maiden fears, their rampart sound behind,
Watch'd through the many loop-holes of the mind;
Her firm resolves she arm'd in her defence,
And deem'd the Fort invincible to sense.

But ah! how impotent was all her care
While Love, the traitor, still was lurking there;
Still plied his art's inebriating charm
To cheat the sober garrison's alarm.
While too the appealing glances of her foe,
His soften'd voice so plaintive and so low,
And restless, cheerless, melancholy mien,
Working with busy influence unseen,
In concert join'd, like subtle miners all,
To sap the strong foundations of the wall.

In truth, that gentle soul could ill endure
Its first—its only passion to abjure;
Ill could she bear her lover's pleading sighs,
And worse the tears that started to his eyes;
(For even tears did Glenville sometimes shed,
In grief to think her tenderness was dead.)
Feelings than his more keen, though unavow'd,
Attack'd her heart, a mute but powerful crowd.
She too heav'd sighs, but those she strove to quell,
She too shed tears, but they in secret fell.
Oft when again to tempt her forth he tried
Her will consented, though her act denied.

One morn, by strong entreaty much assail'd,
Denial's rigorous power had nearly fail'd;
But when with firmness she refus'd at last,
So deep a look of misery he cast,
And then so wildly from her presence past,
She felt all fortitude that moment flown,
And wept to think him wretched and alone.

The sun is sinking; and, since hour of morn,
She hath not seen who left her so forlorn.
The sun has sunk; but all his glory's train
Has left, the twilight meek to entertain.
Thousands of clouds caparison the sky,
Refulgent masses of unnumber'd dye.
In every strange fantastic form they wreath,
And fling their hues o'er all the land beneath.
Ventures the gale but just enough to blow,
To waft them on majestically slow,
Volume devolves on volume, wave on wave,
One rich suffusion seems another's grave;
Now in abrupt collision bold they meet,
Now melt and mingle, singularly sweet.

Aloft in chasten'd pomp the moon appears,
Salutes the gale, and through the clouds careers;
And, as they pass alternate in review,
Bathes her cold cheek in every various hue.
Now in a shower of fretted gold she sinks;
Now, wanly seen, the browner vapour drinks;
Now through a sheet of scudding azure drives;
Now in a mass of deep vermillion dives;
Now in a fleecy stream her forehead steeps;
Now from behind a purple curtain peeps;
Now under billows of o'erfluent black
She hides all trace of her resplendent track;
Now o'er its startled edges sudden breaks,
So bright that vision with the contrast aches.
On such an eve the finer moulded breast
Feels each full sense deliciously opprest.
On such an eve affliction finds its grief
More sad, yet in that sadness is relief.
On such an eve the maid of gentle soul
Reflects on him her willing heart that stole.

On Lourde's high tower a pensive lady stands,
Where best her eye the nether view commands.

The moon is gleaming on that eye so bright,
Whose tear is sparkling like a gem of light.
From Lourde's high tower that lady now descends,
And now her way adown the mountain bends.
And who is she, so lovely and so lone?
Whom wandering Seraphs might for sister own?
Who but Alvine, the mountain floweret rare?
For where's the floweret might with her compare?
Now through the town like errant star she slides,
Now through the chesnut groves more slowly glides.
Irresolute she seems. As one astray,
She stops—looks round—returns—pursues her way.
And whither? That Alvine's own heart has ask'd,
Yet from itself the truth too plain has mask'd.
“Such charming robes the evening landscape wears,
“The western gale such wooing message bears,
“That she will ramble forth the air to taste,
“Far, far too odorous uninhal'd to waste.”
Fond sophistry! and is this all, Alvine,
That tempts thy timid footsteps through the green?
Does no soft thought, too dangerously sweet,
Seduce thee on, a much-loved youth to meet?

100

Whose distant form on Gave's romantic side,
From yonder tower thy pensive eye espied?
There was a time, till late, alas, beguiled,
When rural nature own'd thee for her child.
Then sylvan graces charm'd thee, young Alvine,
Thyself the purer Dian of the scene.
A Dian flying from the gaze of men,
But ah! no Glenville gaz'd upon thee then!

They met. How quick the alchymy and strange
By which can Love the hearts of lovers change.
They met, and anger straight dissolv'd away,
Like convoluted mist before the day,
And Love at once resumed more arbitrary sway.
The moonlight bland interpreted for each
Their looks commutual harmony of speech;
And never, or by day or moonlight walk,
Held they before such soul-subduing talk.

By windings intricate, where path was not,
They chanc'd to gain a rude sequester'd spot,
Which seem'd design'd, in nature's grave caprice,
To be the eternal residence of peace;

101

Where hermit Solitude his vow might keep,
And Silence, lull'd by lapsing waters, sleep.
A small deep glen it was, by rocks immur'd,
Down whose rough bosoms rills of crystal pour'd,
And which around fantastically hurl'd,
Appear'd resolv'd to shut it from the world.
Was never seen, in near or distant place,
More true epitome of rural grace
Than in this little solitary space.
Wild flowers beneath, so lavish of perfumes,
Fruit-trees aloft, so prodigal of blooms!
Twisting their branches with the shrubs that sprung
Thick from the rocks, and all imbowering hung.
The lovers fancied, as they look'd around,
Their feet unhallow'd trod forbidden bound,
It look'd by moonlight so like fairy ground.
That fancy past, a new reflection came,
More dangerous far, to thrill each glowing frame.
They were alone. In all the spacious globe,
Was not a human eye their deeds to probe.
It seem'd as universal nature slept,
And not a thing but them its vigil kept,

102

Save the loquacious waters, and, above,
Sole confident and priestess of their love,
Yon heart-addressing moon, whose look, so lorn,
Seem'd her own vestal loneliness to mourn.
Their thoughts, too full of pleasing melting pain,
Their slowly meeting eyes too well explain.

Ah! turn away, young Beauty, turn away
That tender deep blue eye's delicious ray!
That self-betraying loveliness conceal,
Veil those inviting lips, those features veil,
That neck, those hands, those arms, that form, that air,
O veil those flowing wreaths of hazel hair!
If peace, if virtue, to thy soul be dear,
Fly, fly, Alvine: the bane of each is here!

They sat them down, beside the plaining brook,
Upon that lone and lovely moon to look.
They sat them down, but not an accent fell;
Their hearts were full of what they durst not tell.
Her hand he took in his caressing hand;
So softly too! that how could she withstand?
He prest her hand; she turn'd her head aside—
Too warm a blush, too soft a tear to hide.

103

Again he prest it, and its pulse beat high—
And it return'd a tremulous reply.
Wild roses budded round—he pluck'd a stem
That scarce display'd its crimson diadem.
He held it forth—she fix'd on him her eye—
A faint smile follow'd that—and then a sigh.
She took the flower—and plac'd it in her breast;
She felt its thorn, yet suffer'd it to rest.
His glowing cheek he laid against her cheek;
She strove to chide, her tongue refused to speak.
He printed on her fragrant lips a kiss;
She felt the shame—and felt, alas, the bliss.
He clasp'd her to his heart—she feebly strove—
O guard, Alvine, that sanctuary of love!
O guard the treasure in that spotless breast!
The rose he gave—shall that be rudely prest?
And thou, Insensate! will thou then destroy
Thine own fair flower of innocence and joy?
Ah stay! ere yet the rose of beauty falls!
Ah stay—But hark! is 't heaven or hell that calls?
Whence comes that dreadful noise the earth to tear?
Why, ev'n the rocks and mountains roar—Forbear!

104

Sure the Omnipotent Himself hath sent
His voice, the profanation to prevent!
Again—again—harsh clashes peal on peal—
O who would feel what now those lovers feel!
Back Glenville springs, as with electric start,
Convulsive tremour striking on his heart.
Alvine is wildly shuddering—and now
The cold slow dews of death are on her brow—
Her lips are white—her pulse has ceas'd to beat—
Her eyes are fix'd—she sinks a lifeless weight.—
Forgot his very being's breathing sense,
Some stupid moments of a wild suspense
Bends Glenville o'er her—then to madness stung,
And with the strength of desperation strung,
That form of death he snatches to his arms—
(Ah! where are now the soul-respiring charms!)
O'er crag, ravine, and brake, he runs, he flies—
Roar, thunders! roar! your rage he now defies!
Though to his conscious soul your voice declares:
Lo, where the traitor his own victim bears!
Near and more near as tow'rds the fort he bounds,
Loud and more loud the bellowing din resounds;

105

Yet hath he now no eye, no thought, to mark
'Tis cannon firing from yon ramparts dark—
Yet less to note the white flag waving high,
And shining in the moon triumphantly.
He rushes on—he gains the town—the street—
There fifes are loud, and drums tumultuous beat!
There under arms, in glittering display,
The marshal'd garrison crowds all the way!
Monthermer too is there! he sees him not—
He rushes on—he only sees the spot
Where stands the Sire directing the parade—
Prone at his feet he lays the lifeless maid!
His bigswoln heart, that frantic effort o'er,
Seems bursting—agony's at every pore—
Obstruction chokes him, like a fiend's embrace—
A purple blackness is on all his face—
He totters and drops down—O Heaven, reprieve!
What aid, as lightning swift, may now relieve?
“Haste, surgeon, haste!” Monthermer raving cries,
“Haste, ere the brave, the noble Glenville dies!”
The summons is obey'd—Alvine he quits,
Whose pulse now answers by uncertain fits.

106

One only chance for Glenville's life remains—
Of either hand he quickly wounds the veins,
And forth the blood shoots gushing—thus prepared,
Now to the lancet both his arms are bared.—
O look one moment on this scene of dread!
Here is Alvine,—slow wak'ning from the dead—
Here Glenville—weltering in a sanguine flood—
A horrid prodigality of blood.
There kneels the Sire, with doubt and torment wild—
Now o'er his guest he hangs, and now his child—
Monthermer breathless over Glenville stoops—
About them closed, in anxious leaning groups,
All speechless, stand the leaders of the troops—
The troops alone in line rest motionless;
The people gathering round, with torches press—
The torches and the moon's commingling beam
Wide o'er the scene a flickering lustre stream,
And shew, more ghastly by their rival light,
Each face of wonder, pity, and affright.—
Alvine is now half rising from the ground—
How fearfully her eyeballs roll around!
And Glenville into life is writhing too—
Up springs the Sire transported at the view—

107

His arms high rais'd, he pays the homage ow'd
Of warm acknowledgment to mercy's God!
But lo! her eyes are fixt—on whom? on what?
Why! what a look of agony is that!
What savage demon rous'd her to explore
That scene? that figure weltering in its gore—
Her father too, exalted o'er the youth,
With sword to heaven uplifted!—O the truth
Darts in its fullest horrour on her brain—
There lies her Lover by her Father slain!
Ah, what a shrilling harrowing shriek was there?
She sinks again, the martyr of despair.—
And would that pitying Heaven her soul might take,
And give her never more on earth to wake!
But no—again she breathes—her strength returns—
Her eye's on fire—her cheek with crimson burns—
What does this frightful burst of laughter mean?—
Is this the fair, the soft, the fond Alvine!
What words are those? O bear the maniac hence!—
Let not her Glenville, whose returning sense
Now struggles into life, or see or hear—
A sight, a sound of anguish so severe.

109

CANTO V.

Through night till morning did Monthermer tend
Beside the couch of his unconscious friend,
Whom medic skill had cheated to repose,
A deep though short oblivion of his woes.
How alter'd now the flattering prospect gay
That sped from learn'd Toulouse Monthermer's way!
The mission thence how joy'd had he procured,
That sent him with the olive branch to Lourde!
The first, the exulting delegate of peace,
And happy herald of his friend's release.

110

E'en when, arrived, he found not whom he sought,
Impatience yielded to a pleasing thought;
Suggesting then, on Glenville's ear how strange
Would sound the clamour that announc'd the change,
When the loud cannon's peace-proclaiming voice
For righteous Bourbon bade the land rejoice.
He smiled to think with what perturbed haste
Would then the wanderer's return be traced;
And there indeed his fancy pictured true—
But what a scene the rest had given to view!

When Glenville languid and unnerv'd awoke,
Upon his sight Monthermer's figure broke
Like fancy's imagery. His eager gaze
Was full of doubt and question and amaze.
But when he heard the kind familiar tone
And mark'd the expressive smile so dearly known,
He feebly rose, his proffer'd hand to clasp,
Not with the wonted fervency of grasp,
Not with the generous burst of sudden joy,
But with a trembling hand and anxious eye,
As though he fear'd some lurking ill behind
The sudden joy that dawn'd upon his mind.

111

Then o'er his memory past the evening storm,
The dreadful din, the lovely lifeless form.
There stood his friend indeed, but where was she?
Alvine? perchance, alas, she ceas'd to be.
Dead! dead Alvine? how conscience strengthens fear!
He durst not ask—for, oh! he durst not hear.
His eye again in hopeless misery sunk,
And back in horrour of himself he shrunk.
Monthermer hasten'd to relieve his pain,
He told she liv'd; and told it o'er again;
For Glenville sprung to listen at the word,
As though he doubted, or he had not heard.
Monthermer strove his wounded heart to calm,
And every accent fell like healing balm;
And when at length he somewhat grew composed,
The cause that brought himself to Lourde disclosed.

But now the Sire appear'd. Unhappy man!
With him the night had past, as it began,
In anguish, all apart; for at his sight
His daughter's frenzy rose to double height.
Shock'd as she was when first he made approach,
He durst not further on her view encroach,

112

But hardly through the lingering hours forbore,
And stood impatient hearkening at her door;
Though every wild delirious sound that came
Grated on every fibre of his frame.
But Glenville also his attention claim'd,
And still uncertainty his mind inflam'd.
From Glenville now he therefore sought to know
What first drew down so vast a weight of woe.
Of this, did Glenville but as much unfold
As prudent shame permitted to be told;
But thus, continuing, said: “And if till now
My heart to thee have ne'er revealed its vow
Of love for One to whom 'tis fondly tied,
By bonds no chance nor time can e'er divide:
If thy paternal thought have never guess'd
The secret passion that hath sway'd my breast,
O let the memory of last night declare
In witness of the tenderness I bear!
And let me now solicit at thy hand
The fairest flower that blooms in all the land;
And let us chase by love's propitious power,
The fearful clouds from yesternight that lower.”

113

Thus, and sincerely, ran his eager tongue.
His every word the father's bosom wrung.
How pleasing late had that avowal been!
For who more worthy of his child Alvine?
But now! some burning tears in answer gush'd,
And forth in silent wretchedness he rush'd.

But much must here of the result be past:
The mournful progress of a mind o'ercast;
The various schemes her reason to recall;
The test of each, and impotence of all;
The shock of Glenville on detecting first
How curst a wretch he was, and justly curst;
On finding next that e'en his presence fail'd
To draw one sign where memory prevail'd.
For not a form, a face, a voice she knew;
And not a creature her attention drew,
Her Sire excepted, whom she dreaded still
As some assassin menacing to kill.

Monthermer's zealous unremitting care
Was all that shielded Glenville from despair.
But ere one moon her monthly circuit made,
Himself, alas! required the care he paid.

114

For each, an English packet letters brought,
And both with import of affliction fraught.
Monthermer's told him of his father dead,
With hint that grief the mortal hour had sped;
The grief of an unbending haughty mind,
His fortunes swallowed up in pomp to find.
Here was enough to sting a heart more stern
Than his, but more of woe was yet to learn.
A letter, brought by Glenville now, declar'd
What well had been in such a moment spar'd,
Except indeed 'tis true of all distress
That one great grief makes every other less.
The news of Adela the Bride it bore—
And twice Monthermer read it calmly o'er:
And where his own once-mentioned name was trac'd—
Euphemia's tears had half the lines effac'd.

Calm to his friend the letter he resign'd,
Nor once, to outward evidence, repin'd.
There came no moist suffusion o'er his eyes,
Nor did a murmur from his lips arise.
Calm from his friend and mute he turn'd away:
Nor even much seem'd alter'd from that day;

115

Save that he seldom spoke, and never smiled,
And that his look at times was something wild.
And that, more oft than he before was wont,
He lov'd the loneliest solitudes to haunt.

There is a grief that shuts up all the heart,
And leaves no vent whence weak complaint may part.
A high and solemn dignity of grief,
That cannot find in vain lament relief.
Short is the pouring of the impetuous cloud,
And transient too the sorrow that is loud.
Go, ask some wailer of the recent morn,
Where are the pains by which his breast was torn?
Where are the clamours he so idly sent?
Gone! as the rage of summer tempests spent.
But uncomplaining misery is deep,
And bears a memory that will not sleep.
Time hath indeed a talismanic skill
To dull the sharpest, soothe the wildest ill.
The slow magician works his silent course,
And sorrow yields unconscious of his force.
But even Time o'er such a grief in vain
Will strive oblivion's victory to gain.

116

Blunt in the breast he may its keener sense,
But never rase the sad impression thence.

What was Monthermer now? a lonely wretch,
To whom no human hand could comfort stretch.
His little day of happiness was o'er,
And he was conscious it would rise no more.
Yet, though Affliction struck with arm so rude,
The gallant spirit scorn'd to be subdued.
A sacred guarding melancholy stole
To all the soft recesses of his soul,
And help'd with magnanimity to bear
Woes that might well a soul so feeling tear.
True, all his high-built hopes to earth were hurl'd;
His dearest feelings outcast of the world.
But his high mind superior regions sought,
Guided by inbred piety of thought.
Freed from the trammels that enslav'd it here,
It dar'd expatiate in a loftier sphere,
And look to refuge in their native heaven,
For feelings high that not in vain were given.
Yet deem not hence, without acutest pain
Could he that manly fortitude sustain;

117

Though dumb he suffer'd as the Spartan youth
While at his heartstrings gnaw'd the vulpine tooth.
Within him burn'd a slow consuming flame,
That tried the spirit and wore down the frame;
And they who look'd attentive on his face
Might there the mournful lines of ravage trace;
And they who read that face intent had guess'd—
That he would soon for ever be at rest.

Now duty broke upon his pensive trance,
(The troops prepared to quit the coast of France)
Glenville permission had obtained to stay;
But He for Calais hasten'd on his way:
Engaging first, at Glenville's earnest prayer,
That he would soon again to Lourde repair.
All ways were now indifferently drear,
For what on earth remain'd his heart to cheer?
One bosom-friend indeed he did possess,
But him he left in utter wretchedness:
To see Alvine's regards distracted roll,
To watch the wanderings of her darkling soul,
To wait for reason's least returning ray,
To watch, wait, weep, in vain, from day to day.

118

Monthermer had the destined harbour reach'd;
The troops embark'd, the sail for England stretch'd.
Morn roll'd away the involving mists of blue,
And Dover's cliffs smiled welcome on the view!
O how familiarly they smiled on those,
The gallant hearts long absent from repose!
To war's red land not now the victors roam:
Proud England hails her vindicators home!
The veteran's soul expands to fuller scope,
In all the juvenility of hope;
The youth sees reason in his wildest schemes;
Anticipation riots in extremes.
All feel the breast with self-importance thrill'd,
And all had wishes that seem now fulfill'd.
Friends, sisters, lovers, parents, children, wives—
The life of each shall joy a hundred lives.

But ah, to him, the bravest of those brave,
What can his country yield—except a grave?
Monthermer hath no heart's ally to greet,
No brother's smile, no parent's tear to meet.
Woe's sport Monthermer is, and fortune's scorn—
And is he then thus wretchedly forlorn?

119

Is there not one of all yon gazing host,
Now plainly seen in crowds along the coast,
Not one whose heart at his approach will leap,
Whose eyes for him the tears of joy will weep?
If thus it be, how like a deadly knell
To him must all this joyous tumult swell!

It was in truth a blithe, inspiring scene,
To any breast less scath'd than his had been.
To cliffs on high, and pier and beach below,
The murmuring tides of eager people flow.
There mariner, exciseman, trader, squire,
And fop, and damsel fair in trim attire.
There kerchiefs gay wave white from snowy hands,
And shouts of welcome ring along the sands.
Across the harbour blows a sprightly gale,
And refluent tide forbids approaching sail.
Mock'd by the gale, and yet so near the strand,
The stately ships are laying off the land.
The boats, a fleet, far chequering all the tide,
Both to and fro the restiff billows ride.
Those fraught with visiters of all degrees,
With voy'gers, anxious for debarking, these.

120

Among the latter groups, Monthermer shows
The only face that not with pleasure glows.

The bounding boats are pressing for the pier,
And now a vessel, hauling out, are near,
When, bearing through with ill-directed course,
One thwart the halser tilts with sudden force.
All whom it bore are cast upon the waves,
But them immediate succour promptly saves.
One woman only sinks, at once opprest,
A clasped infant clinging to her breast.
Monthermer marks the spot, and from his boat
Leaps headlong, and again is seen to float,
One arm the burden dragging. But too strong
The angry gathering waters round him throng.
His cramp'd enfeebled frame they soon exhaust,
And outward now beneath the pier-wall tost,
Ere boat can reach, the victims must be lost.
Deep cries of pity from the crowd resound,
But who to dare their rescue shall be found?
Touch'd to the soul at the disastrous sight,
With large reward such effort to requite,

121

A Lady offers; and the standers-by
Proclaim the boon with clear and anxious cry.
Two vent'rous boatmen whelm them in the surge,
Plunge down, and soon successfully emerge.
In vain the billows loud their prey assert,
Their force they break with lusty arm alert.
Adroitly buoyant each maintains his prize,
Till hastening boat a safe retreat supplies,
While shouts of joyful admiration rise.
To place appointed by the lady's care
The soldier's wife and infant straight they bear.
They lodge Monthermer at a neighbouring inn,
Where soon due efforts his recovery win.
Thus speedily restored, Monthermer heard
The double debt to one unknown incurr'd.
They could not solve his question of her name,
But told that recent visiter she came.

Her dwelling known, he sought, without delay,
The tribute due of gratitude to pay;
Though better in the ocean had he been,
Shut out from life and all its loathed scene.

122

Arrived, the purpose of his call was said,
And to her presence a domestic led.

With youthful grace at his approach she rose,
Her eyes one moment upon his repose,
Then, as surpris'd and suddenly o'erjoy'd,
“Thank Heav'n! thank Heav'n!” in touching voice she cried;
And two bright tears came starting, to enhance
Her sweet and tender sorcery of glance.
Monthermer heard and saw in dumb surprise
That silver sound, those dark dissolving eyes.
And ne'er did his or any eye behold
A form more harmonized in beauty's mould;
With every charm, so full yet so refined,
Voluptuously, delicately join'd.
Her cheek was fairest pale. No tongue can speak
One half the interest of that fair pale cheek.
The boasted brilliance of the rose-flush'd face
Match'd with that cheek would shrink from its disgrace.
Her long-lash'd eyes with pensive charm were fraught,
Instinct with mild irradiancy of thought;

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The brightest eyes wherein the graces dwell
Would dully meet those dark orbs' powerful spell.

Monthermer for some moments silent kept,
Gazed on her charms, and marvell'd that she wept:
And while he gazed, he half alarmed felt—
His frozen heart might yet to beauty melt.
Not the luxuriance of her raven hair,
Though every lock a charmed influence bear;
Not the white heaven of her ingenuous brow,
Though to that shrine might woman-hater bow;
Not the enchantment of her dark eye's ray,
Though floats its iris in a flood of day;
Not the smooth jetty hemispheres above,
Though well might fable term them bows of love;
Not the ripe lips where blushing odour blows,
Though from her cheek they've pilfer'd every rose;
Not her pale cheek, her neck, her form, her air,
Though all, though each, beyond all language rare;
Not all the sweet assemblage of her charms,
Could more in him wake tremulous alarms,
But that some touching elegance of mind,
Some soft seduction, nameless, undefined,

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Is in her every feature so inwreath'd,
In every look so exquisitely breath'd,
A pure ethereous essence seems the whole,
One blended beam of beauty and of soul.

Monthermer his oppressive silence broke,
His thanks with earnest incoherence spoke,
And now the sum she paid he would present,
When thus the fair arrested his intent:
(The voice came o'er him like the native strain
That exile never thought to hear again.)

“An orphan once two generous brothers had,
In them alone her days were griev'd or glad.
Forth to the wars they went in evil hour,
And left her lonely in her mournful bower.
One ne'er return'd; and one, by absence chang'd,
Came fickle back with memory estrang'd:
His once regarded sister was forgot—
She stood before him, and he knew her not!”

“Blest powers of Heaven! athwart the heaviest gloom
That ever prest misfortune tow'rds the tomb,
Breaks there a gleam to light me on the brink,
And raise one smile of joy ere yet I sink!

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Blest powers of Heaven!” Monthermer ardent cried,
“How could I stand thus blindly at thy side!”

It was Euphemia! she whom evermore
His bosom still in fond remembrance bore:
But whom, unjustly, his o'er-clouded mind
Had thought, ne'er more the same soft friend to find;
Near as she was that fiend of subtle work,
Who stabb'd his peace with passion-poison'd dirk.
It was Euphemia! the propitious saint
Who to the ocean's sinking victims faint
Stretch'd out her guardian hand, defeated death,
And fann'd anew the weak expiring breath.

She whom he left, almost an embryon bud,
Scarce blushing to the dawn in April blood,
A perfect pure white rose he now beheld,
By May's mild sun and genial zephyrs swell'd.

He, as of yore, the maiden had caress'd,
But felt he durst not snatch her to his breast.
She, as of old, her brother had embrac'd,
But found, betwixt, some viewless barrier plac'd.
Her fears for Glenville now enquiry seiz'd,
Which he, so far as truth allow'd, appeas'd.

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Already Glenville's letters had explain'd
The cause by which at Lourde he was detain'd;
But as, to cheat his sister's fond concern,
Hopes he had given of his prompt return,
To meet him with the expected troops she thought,
And had, for this, the port of Dover sought;
Her aunt her sole companion. At that name
The daughter's image o'er Monthermer came;
His lip pale writhing strove in vain to hide
The smile of bitterness and scoff of pride.
Yet 'twas a look from weakness all exempt,
No love was there; but deeply mark'd contempt.
He only wonder'd, as his thought compared
That maid with her who had his love ensnared,
He only wonder'd his deluded eye
Could choose a demon with an angel nigh.

With quick, alarm'd, inquisitive review,
Upon his face her glance Euphemia threw;
And though at once his first approach had shown
The admiring sign to beauty ever known;
And though the further interview had proved
She yet at least was as a sister loved,

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That instant strong vicissitude of look,
For baffled love's despair she now mistook:
Her own sad heart's lone consciousness return'd,
And quench'd the timid hope that dimly burn'd.
Monthermer now excus'd his further stay,
For call to London summon'd him away.
But soon, he said, on his return to Lourde,
For which his word to Glenville stood assur'd,
He should again that harbour visit; then
Euphemia too he should behold again.

Unhappy and confused, Euphemia heard,
And something would have said, but seem'd deterr'd,
A faint and unconnected answer fell,
And then Monthermer bade the maid farewell.

Farewell he bade—and not an hour had given
To heart so tender ever—now so riven!
Though on his stay Euphemia had no power,
Sure Glenville's sister might have claim'd an hour.
But he was chang'd—Alas, the dismal change,
That wrought, on soul so warm, with force so strange!
But he was wretched—Yet, e'en thus, at least
Her presence would have not his griefs increas'd.

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But he was deeply wretched—at a blow,
Fortune had laid all, all his best hopes low!
An only parent he had lost—and well
The woe of such a loss herself could tell.
He loved, and hope was past—oh, there again—
Well, well she knew that poignancy of pain.
And was there One of her own sex, indeed,
Who such a heart could e'er have left to bleed?
How wan and worn he look'd! how grief-consumed!
Was that the figure which so nobly bloom'd?
Where was the voice with gaiety that rung?
Where the wild wit once salient from his tongue?
Where was the fiery glance of fancy now?
The poet's spirit breathing from his brow?
All, all were quell'd—except the mind's fine tone
Alive to every danger but his own.
And he was gone! and whither did he go?
That too might swell the catalogue of woe.
She knew the Father had embarrass'd died,
And left his son to pay the debts of pride.
The son, 'twas said, as prodigally blind,
Had oft with folly flown, and prudence left behind,

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Perhaps then prest by many a galling claim
That lofty mind endur'd a debtor's shame,
While he revolted at the only course
Which ready friendship gave to his resource.
O with what joy herself relief had plann'd,
Could she but cheat his pride and veil the hand!
O with what joy for him she'd have resign'd
All wealth—could wealth yield peace to such a mind!

'Twas thus Euphemia, as her thoughts revolv'd
His fate, of censure his neglect absolv'd.
'Twas thus that in his sorrow's dark profound
All harsh complaint the kind Enthusiast drown'd.
Sweet mourner! little did she yet suspect
How small her cause to tax him with neglect.
That morn's adventure had occurr'd, to prove
The change of, surely, not a fickle love.
But for Euphemia—How to look on Her—
The Beauty, Sister, Friend, Deliverer—
And think on young endearments flown so fast;
And what a jewel from his hand had past.
And what a glittering artificial lie
His heart had taken to its treasury!

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Though then perhaps, this gem beyond all price
Had blest his bosom's nobler avarice!
How thus to look and thus to think was He,
Nor feel within—the goad of agony?
Yet if a hope were left—but hope was none—
The chance, the possibility was gone.
What! should he think at such a shrine to lay
A heart degraded, trampled, spurn'd away?
And would she deign, from beauty's throne aloft,
Receive oblation by her cousin scoff'd?
For hope so big his bosom had not room—
There Vanity and Joy fill'd up one tomb.
Yet more: Should he (from fortune's sortilege
When to have drawn, he seem'd, a flattering pledge,
Who to another offer'd homage prone)
Now that a blank his fortune's lot was known,
(At least till rents resign'd for many a year,
Of debts his clogg'd inheritance should clear,
Which honour call'd imperious to be paid,
And duteous reverence to a father's shade)
Should he aspire, with meanness, to espouse
The splendid dower of Glenville's noble house?

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In brief, alas! his destiny to sum:
'Twas misery now, and misery to come.

With such dark thoughts he reach'd the capital,
Where new distresses were prepared to fall.
There came the petty populace of trade,
With eked-out schedules, fretful to be paid.
While lived (in seeming opulence,) the Sire,
The Son could nought too prodigal require.
Nor ever then for payment did they sue,
For this would prejudice their gains they knew.
Since credit, clad in masquerade with skill,
Is a gross figure in the tradesman's bill.
But now, his Sire's embarrassments expos'd,
With fearful haste the rash account they clos'd,
And hurried eager to his door to flock;
Not with the finger delicate of knock,
The eye submiss, and vigilant of beck,
The practised flexibility of neck,
And glozing tongue, and all-obsequious ear,
And civil soft lubricity of leer—
But with the heavy loud-colliding hand,
And tone abrupt of insolent demand,

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And steady stare, and ear to terms obtuse,
And scorn of decency no more of use.
Then some, with dread of durance to o'erawe,
Or grind him with the millstone of the law,
Deputed the Attorney! and the Prig
Behind his bulwark sure—the Judge's wig—
By subtle, sharp, exasperating dint,
Half threat and personality of hint,
Strove hard the blood's quick ferment to exalt,
And stir a case of battery and assault:
Pleas'd his own back should chastisement provoke,
So Law adjudg'd him gold to heal the stroke.
The fanfaron Attorney! but the arm
Of anger deign'd not reach to do him harm;
Scarce e'en could anger's eye the creature mark,
Within his cobweb habitation dark.

But thus besieg'd with pertinacious zeal,
Monthermer now was first condemn'd to feel
The power of vulgar care's infernal fangs,
To search a noble mind with cruel pangs.
He thought affliction had exhausted all
Her rage; that he had drain'd her cup of gall.

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But to be hunted down like truant slave,
To be the prey of usurer and knave,
Whithersoe'er he moved, within, without,
Prest, pester'd, dunn'd, by rabble and by rout;
And know not where, if e'en thus humble made,
His one friend distant far, to turn for aid—
This was with poisonous stuff so base, so low,
To drug the deep but sacred well of woe,
That rack'd at once, and glutted with disgust—
The high indignant heart had well nigh burst.

Had then Monthermer, stay of the distrest,
Youth of the open hand and generous breast,
The birth-exalted, and the talent-grac'd,
The star of Fashion, and elect of Taste,
The love of Ladies, and of Beaux the guide,
The oracle of Wits, the Soldier's pride,
The gallant ever, and, till now, the gay,
The chivalrous Adornment of the day—
Had He no friends, of all the flattering breed,
To yield him succour in his utmost need?
O yes!—a hundred ardent friends had He—
To share his riot in the hour of glee,

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To urge his waste, to revel at his charge,
And render quittance in professions large.
O yes!—and twice a hundred such he had;
But they, for warmth of weather, light were clad;
And at adversity's approach succumb'd,
Like insects of the sun by frost benumb'd.
Monthermer knew them, nor relax'd so much
Of self-respect, as seek relief from such.
But hardly driven for immediate means,
And dull at finding debt's elusive screens,
He saw at last, in spite of all his scorn,
His Agents' favour was the hope forlorn:
And Them he sought, with awkward phrase and face
Of one unpractised to solicit grace:
When, scarcely credible to tell, he found
His wish with absolute concession crown'd.
And this in speech to courteous rule as true
As e'en if They his favour had to sue.
Blest Agents these! at what prodigious time
Fell they from Heaven? or be they Imps of rhyme?
Mere specious counterfeits from Fancy's mint,
To pass for sterling currency in print?

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And coin'd by Fancy in her wilds of air
Because she loves the wonderful and rare?
Blest Agents these! Monthermer, half in fear,
Doubted his eyes could see, or ears could hear.
So liberal grown! he wonder'd how or whence?
But soon the riddle was reduced to sense.
A sum far more than equal to have paid
His next advance in military grade,
Had there been left him since his sire's decease,
By one that, banish'd long by hard caprice,
Nought from the ties of kindred could release;
His father's sister, whom he never more
Had thought to know, nor scarce in memory bore.
Here then was subsidy to stop the pace
Of simultaneous ruin and disgrace;
Remission of the penalty abhorr'd
Of jingling beggar's chime on favour's chord;
And the dear proof (which, though with some alloy
Stamp'd on his mind a golden trace of joy)
The heart-sustaining proof, 'mid all its dearth,
He was not quite an alien upon earth;

136

Not quite abscinded, in his fate's decree,
From all blest bond of consanguinity.

To her at once the o'erflowing thanks he penn'd,
Due to the generous relative and friend.
Then, freed a while from pestilence and plague
Of want, and all its less appendants, vague
And mocking definition, that corrode
The hapless bosom where they find abode,
He sped to reach his patrimonial hall,
Whence filial duty heard a solemn call,
Demanding tears of pious love to lave
The arid marble o'er a father's grave.

Sunk in reflection's gloom he journey'd on,
And of the day the larger half was gone,
When first, distinguish'd through imbowering wood,
Before his view the gothic turrets stood.
The adjacent village reach'd, dismiss'd he there
Attendance, for a while he wish'd to bear
The growing weight of pious grief alone,
And trace the dear paternal haunts, unknown.
Scenes once of happiness! why, why so fast
Did memory then oppress him with the past?

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The long dark avenue he gain'd.—The wind
All low among the ancient trees repined.
Monthermer heard in every rustling noise
An old familiar sympathising voice.
It seem'd to own his welcome step again;
It seem'd to greet him in its mournful strain;
It seem'd to tell him too, that such was all
His lonely welcome to his father's hall.
He reach'd the stately pile. The sun's slope track
Glanc'd on the glass which threw its lustre back.
But chief the chapel's gorgeous-painted frames
Shone in a rich variety of flames.
In that small chapel's yet uncrowded space
Slept all the far-famed worthies of his race.
The great ones of their time! the high of birth!
In the brief compass of that spot of earth.
'Twas there his father slept—Monthermer crost
The path, in one o'erwhelming feeling lost.
The postern he approach'd—and wish'd it then
Could give his Sire's last dwelling to his ken.
He tried, and though he had not hoped so much,
At once it yielded to his gentle touch.

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He enter'd softly, and the door reclos'd—
Silent was all within, as death which there repos'd.
And all that by the smother'd light he saw,
Ting'd o'er his mind with deep religious awe.
He now advanc'd—sudden some murmur near,
Like heavy sigh, struck startling on his ear!
He look'd around—no living creature stirr'd—
'Twas fancy!—no! for it again was heard—
He thought it came, like spirits' hollow moans,
From yonder drear receptacle of bones!
Fix'd to the spot with reverential dread,
He thought a while to see the troubled dead—
He thought to see indeed his father rise,
In the pale pomp of his funereal guise!
Some instants thus he stood in chill amaze—
Then with mute step stole on, and eager gaze—
When, by a pillar, in the thickest gloom—
Appear'd a female, bending o'er the tomb,
Which fresh escutcheon show'd his Sire's to be—
But what mysterious visitant was she?
Wherefore in rapt devotion bent she here?
Heav'd the lone sigh, and pour'd the secret tear?

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While yet he stood in wonder at her side,
Her accidental glance his form descried—
And shock'd as though a spectre crost her view,
Back, lightening-like and shuddering, she drew.
Her eye, her attitude of terror say:
What thing of night is this that haunts my way?
Then, as she look'd with scrutiny more near,
It seem'd that looking but increas'd her fear,
That o'er her frame more cold convulsions ran;
And thus, in broken accents, she began:
“What!—is it Thou?—ah, well I know thee yet—
Though many a year hath past since last we met—
And now to meet thee thus—Relentless still?
Say—art thou come to banish—or to kill?
To drive a hated mourner far away—
Or make an altar of thy tomb—and slay?
Is anger then immortal?—Is its breath
A lamp eternal in thy vault of death?
And doth it e'en disturb thy jealous sleep,
That, o'er thy grave, regret, affection weep?
Say rather, thou art come to bless at last—
To sooth the unkind remembrance of the past—

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Say that thy soften'd spirit could not rest
In peace—ere the rejected one was blest.
'Tis thus—for on that well remember'd brow
Appear the traits of kind compassion now!”—
Monthermer listen'd without power to speak,
And mark'd the wilder'd eye, and deathlike cheek,
Himself scarce master of a strange alarm;
But strove at length her terrors to disarm.
“Peace, Lady, peace! no rude intent had I
Into the sanctuary of grief to pry.
Chance at this moment hither brought my feet;
Surprise, 't is true, arrested my retreat,
Surprise the obscure but touching prospect gave—
Of stranger mourning at my father's grave.”
“Thy father's grave!” her echoing voice replied;
Her thought seem'd then her memory to chide;
Her hand too then was lifted to her face,
As if a conscious dizziness to chase—
“Thy father's grave!”—and nearer and more near
She drew—but slowly, as if yet in fear—
Then lightly touch'd him with extended arm,
As doubting still 'twas no material form—

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Then thus, convinc'd, exclaim'd:—“'Tis true! 'tis true!
O ever welcome to my longing view!
But doubly welcome now!—Thou know'st me not!
Long have I been forsaken and forgot—
Yet it is right to meet in such a spot,
To tie anew neglected nature's knot—
Or—will the offspring like the Father prove,
Who shut his breast against a sister's love?”—

Monthermer sprung to her embrace at once,
No answer did or could his lips pronounce.
But that spontaneous, long, and full caress
Told more than utterance ever could express.

With fond and curious eye she now survey'd
His features o'er, and thus pursuing said:
“'Tis scarcely strange a face so wondrous like
My brother's, should with consternation strike
My cheated senses. Such his very mien,
When, years ago, by me the last time seen.
Just such was he! The same commanding brow!
But not so wan—no, not so wan as thou!
Hath sorrow that young cheek already paled?
I too by her have sorely been assail'd—

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Of children, husband, brother, all bereft—
The grave hath all—Thou only now art left.
Thou too art lone on earth as well as I—
Each must to each the place of all supply.
My son, my friend, my brother, must thou be—
A friend, a mother, shalt thou find in me.
Too late I know the intolerable load
That prest thy father to this last abode.
Had but his pride once deign'd his griefs to own,
Then had a sister to his solace flown.
And me he spurn'd!—but all resentment died
When death's cold hand congeal'd that pulse of pride.
Hither his corse to honour then I came;
When dead at least a sister's right to claim,
A cold embrace—his obsequies to tend—
And mourn a brother—who was, once, a friend.
The adjoining town hath since my dwelling given,
And hither, by resistless impulse driven,
Frequent I come—the paths of youth to tread,
And hold communion with the kindred dead.
Thy hoped return hath still my parting check'd;
I could not treat his offspring with neglect.

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And thou art come at last—And it is well,
We thus should meet where all our fathers dwell.
And here, thus fervent o'er this grave, I swear,
Henceforth their son shall be my only care.”

Monthermer o'er the tomb inclin'd—The tears
Of filial piety were mix'd with Her's.
Fresh floods of grief in sad succession fall—
And that sepulchral marble drinks them all.

145

CANTO VI.

Not the sad charm of his paternal hall
Could make Monthermer slow to friendship's call:
He quitted the dear home; he left behind
The new found relative, the nobly kind;
And urg'd his journey tow'rd the coast again,
For Glenville mourn'd his absence, o'er the main;
And there was one, he thought, upon his way,
Whose beauty was his hope's reviving ray.
Where was that loveliest of the lovely now?
Gentlest and best! Euphemia! where wert thou?

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He found thee not—Thou also wert afar,
O brightly pale, benignly mournful Star!
Shedding thy kindliest influence serene,
To solace Glenville, and to sooth Alvine!

'Twas this design, the fort of Lourde to seek,
When last they met, Euphemia strove to speak;
But so abruptly did Monthermer part,
He chill'd her utterance, as he freez'd her heart.
He came again, enquired, and found her not;
Gone with her aunt she was; the destined spot
He learn'd, and that was well; but he was pain'd
That not to him the mention she had deign'd.
He cross'd the Channel, and pursued his route,
Disturb'd with new anxiety and doubt.
No night from travel had he giv'n to rest,
When now through Tarbe's luxuriant vale he prest.

'Twas dawn; with dawn that day Euphemia rose,
The fresh and placid hour she frequent chose,
From all inquisitive regard to steal,
And brood o'er grief she never must reveal.
The vintage-grounds beside the road she past,
But not unwatch'd; her steps were closely trac'd,

147

By one who join'd her ere the ascent she gain'd,
And then in converse at her side remain'd.
While they conferr'd, Monthermer's carriage wound,
Of them unmark'd, the publick way around.
He, when he saw the unobserving pair,
At once believ'd 'twas Glenville with the Fair,
And, hastening his conveyance to forsake,
The field he crost, their course to overtake.
His heart throbb'd high; but, when he nearer drew,
What did he feel, a stranger there to view!
With broider'd gold his vest of blue was deck'd,
Rose o'er his brow the towering plume erect.
Like lover vowing to his lady fair,
Such was his gesture warm and gallant air;
Like lady listening to her lover's vow,
Such was her serious mien, and soften'd brow.
Monthermer stood, scarce able to respire,
Quite powerless to proceed, or to retire.
Till, suddenly, precipitate with haste,
The stranger left her and his way retraced.
Then would Monthermer too have mov'd aside,
The strong emotions of his soul to hide.

148

But 'twas too late from notice to withdraw;
Euphemia turn'd, and in an instant saw.
They met. Her changing cheek distress, surprise
Betray'd; abash'd, averted were her eyes.
Those beauteous eyes which when he saw them last
With tender interest were on him cast.
Her faint cold words of welcome rous'd his pride,
And thus with forc'd indifference he replied;
“'Tis just perhaps, with timely lesson check'd,
Intruder, such as I, be taught respect.
Glenville, from far, I fancied to have seen;
Else had this bold intrusion never been.”
A deep and burning blush her cheek o'erspread;
She could not say what then she would have said;
But only told, of him whom he had seen,
Sieurac it was, the brother of Alvine:
‘Happy Sieurac!’ unwittingly he sigh'd;
Upon Euphemia's ear the whisper died.
Its flattering import on her fancy stole,
And but increas'd the flutter of her soul.
They sought the town together; lost to each
Now seem'd the simple faculty of speech.

149

To' Alvine's apartment did Euphemia tend,
And, sick at heart, Monthermer sought his friend.

Meanwhile Sieurac, into the fort return'd,
With all the extravagance of passion burn'd.
Few days were past since he arriv'd at Lourde;
High place in arms his conduct had procur'd:
Flush'd with the new delight of rank he came;
Euphemia seen, his soul was all on flame.
At once he fancied he had charm'd her mind,
He found her courteous, but he thought her kind.
He mark'd enraptured with what tender care
She quell'd his sister's flights, his Sire's despair;
And thence immediate inference could make,
Her care was doubled—for his own dear sake;
For he had wondrous genius to convert
Each cause remote, to sense of his desert.
He watch'd the moment to prefer his suit,
Success he deem'd it idle to dispute.
That morning's ramble learn'd, he hasten'd near,
Pour'd forth his passion in her wondering ear,
Receiv'd the gentle but the grave reply
That struck his fond presumption from on high;

150

Fled from her presence with a madman's fire,
Rush'd to his room to vent alone his ire,
And there, lock'd in, like tiger in his cage,
Declaim'd aloud, and gave a loose to rage.

How then! Sieurac, the galliard of the fair,
Was he the sting of beauty's scorn to bear?
And hear her thus dismiss, with calm disdain,
The love a princess might be proud to gain?
When private, shopman, miller, mountebank,
Rais'd to the height of military rank,
Were seen the blood of monarchs to espouse,
And even press with diadems their brows;
Was he, a highborn general of brigade,
To be rejected by an English maid?
What was her beauty all and noble birth,
If dense she was to his superior worth?
Worth that would captivate from east to west,
From north to south, the fairest and the best
Of France's daughters; waken every smile
Of every rosy lip from Lourde to Lisle!
But could there be of Britain's barbarous isle
A maid that scorn'd him? O he could revile

151

Such miserable taste! But then her form,
Her face, La Trape's fraternity might warm!
So lost! so loved! so lovely! How to tame,
To quench the fierce inexorable flame.
When, as Orlando fierce, he bore the brunt,
Why fell he not in battle's glorious front?
How should he bear a life so vainly saved!
Death! poisons! pistols! swords!—As thus he raved,
And sought some deadly weapon round the room—
A figure sudden rose, to interdict his doom!
He paus'd, and on it look'd; and, at the look,
His rash resolve he instantly forsook;
The flush'd cheek temperate, the boiling blood
Grew calm: succeeded then a happier mood.
That Elf, for shadowy Elf it was, awoke
New hopes to bend the rebel to his yoke.
A large long mirror shew'd the gracious Elf,
In fascinating likeness—of himself.
Intent he gazed; his eye, his cheek, the while,
Glanc'd to a leer, and dimpled to a smile.
For, full combined, he found or fancied there
Apollo's graceful mien, and Mars' tremendous air.

152

The more his eyes review'd it o'er and o'er,
His strong assurance strengthen'd more and more,
That not in woman's nature could it be,
Whate'er her temper, country, or degree,
To hold against his second brave attack,
Resist the irresistible Sieurac!
Then, English beauties, he had frequent heard,
In soul were tender, though austere in word;
Impassion'd hearts in sly demureness hid,
Frown'd when they sigh'd, and when they melted chid.—
No more of suicide was then his dream,
Hope shone awhile with renovated beam.

Yet, his first transport's ebullition quell'd,
Soon was that visionary hope dispell'd.
He ne'er had thought, in his profound conceit,
A rival could occasion his defeat:
But, for he was not dull, few days sufficed,
To prove Monthermer's the distinction prized;
Though, first, Monthermer but engag'd his sight
As the brave foe who spar'd his life in fight.
Sieurac's self love was scarce chagrin'd to find
Another had pre-occupied her mind;

153

For disappointment gave not half the pain
Inflicted by the thought of her disdain:
And now 'twas clear that she disdain'd him not,
Monthermer only had precedence got.
That prior chance alone had kept him back,
And he was still—the all-admir'd Sieurac.
This point adjusted after thought mature,
All other care was easy to endure.
Of sovereign virtue was his mirror found,
To cheer his heart, and mitigate its wound.

But with a nicer eye Euphemia view'd
Monthermer's restless melancholy mood,
Those fitful looks on her so oft that fell,
Interpreted his secret feelings well.
For though he strove a passion to restrain,
His pride and reason mock'd, he strove in vain.
In spite of reason, and in spite of pride,
'Tis hard from beauty, beauty's power to hide.

One morn, propitious love their mutual guide,
They chanced to meet on Gave's romantic side.
'Twas one of those delicious southern morns,
When all heaven's richness earth's array adorns.

154

So sweetly mild, inspiringly serene,
It seem'd as if some heavenly band unseen,
Who had descended in the starry light
To wander, and to chant the hymns of night,
Were lingering yet, enamour'd of the dawn,
Dispensing over valley, hill, and lawn,
Celestial charm, and shedding on the sense
Their sacred, full, poetic influence.

On a low rock, around by foliage veil'd,
She sat, and listen'd as the waters wail'd.
When close beside, emerging from the wood,
Before her startled eye Monthermer stood.
With equal wonder, and with obvious pain,
He saw, and cried: “Euphemia! Thus again!
Sure she must think I have a curious eye,
Or fill the noble office of a spy.”
“No,” she rejoin'd: “indifference too plain
Monthermer shews, to let me be so vain—
He did not always treat me with disdain.”
“Disdain, Euphemia?”—“Scarce, Monthermer, less.
Once, I was greeted with more kind address?”—

155

“What then she was, Euphemia is no more.”—
“Am I so alter'd? Then must I deplore
A change displeasing to Monthermer's eyes.”—
“No, thou art all that heaven and earth should prize!
Unmatch'd in beauty; matchless in desert;
Yet thou art not, alas, what then thou wert.
Thy young heart then as yonder bird was free;
And now, 'tis pledg'd—but what is this to me?
What right have I, a wretch of love accurst,
To question thus?”—“Nay, take the right; but first,
Let candour banish an unjust surmise:
Dismiss an error which my heart denies.”—
“Mock not, Euphemia, mock me not with this!
I would not mar the gallant soldier's bliss.
Sieurac is valiant, and deserves the meed.
Yet, would, Euphemia, 'twere not so indeed!
Then would I tell thee; nay, I'll tell thee now;
Why should I pause, the madness to avow;
I who involved in cloud of passion dark,
Could once thy growing graces scarce remark,
Who to another could in homage stoop,
And who have been that other's scorn and dupe,

156

Dared, since, direct my hope's presumptuous flight
Even to thee, in beauty's, virtue's, height.
My days became with all affliction rife;
I loath'd the rankling wretchedness of life;
The ocean bed repose to misery gave;
Too prompt a hand redeem'd me from the wave;
But when I saw the hand that thus could save,
I shrunk, Euphemia, from that gaping grave.
I blest the hand that snatch'd me from the sea,
Life was a treasure still—thus given by thee;
Though then I knew, Euphemia, that to me
Thou nothing wert, could'st nothing ever be.
With warring feelings from thy sight I broke.
But fortune smiled; then, then, my hope awoke,
I came, I saw thee, and—thou know'st the rest—
I found another in thy favour blest.
Ask of my heart, how it endures its lot?
Is its first passion quite eras'd, forgot?
No—it is there, a dark and frightful blot,
Corroded by regret. There let it be—
Who lov'd another, ne'er was worthy thee.

157

So thou be happy, that is something still;
Feel deeply though I must, endure I will.
Yet it is much, Euphemia, to endure
What even thou hast lost the power to cure.
Thou, whose divine inexplicable skill
Can e'en the fierce access of phrensy still.
Alvine, thy care, is happier far than I,
Though reason's light her wandering senses fly.
Her soul from thee a balm unconscious drinks,
And into peace the troubled spirit sinks.
Like me she does not burn, and freeze, and melt,
With rage, despair, and love, alternate felt.
I only cherish love, despair to nurse;
Thought of the past but makes the present worse,
I loved another, and deserve my curse.”—
“Art thou indeed so wedded to despair?
Would that the power were mine to ease thy care.”—
“Alas, Euphemia, the same cruel hour
That love engaged thy heart, destroy'd the power.”
“Monthermer, if that power I still possess,
Shall I, dissembling, sport with thy distress?

158

No; unreserv'd to me as now thou art,
I will not, must not, act so poor a part;
I cannot trifle with a noble heart.
Thou art unhappy—and I cannot bear
To see thee thus—deluded to despair.
Yet—thus to undeceive thee too is much—
Did not thy sadness my compassion touch,
Never could I a sentiment reveal,
Which woman's pride would check, at least conceal—
And this, thy generosity will feel.
Monthermer is unhappy—and should know,
That, as to me, an error makes him so.
My heart accustom'd, e'en from childhood's days,
To hear my brother fervent in his praise;
Soon felt the force of praise it joy'd to hear,
And learn'd to hold him—as a brother, dear.
That feeling is unchang'd; and never since
Did yet my soul a thought of change evince.
Those brothers then were all in all to me;
And what they were, they are—and still must be.
Monthermer loved—and I will e'en confess
That love of his to me was bitterness.

159

The silent bitterness of vain regret;
Though why, I knew not then—and scarce know yet.
But I will own, that since the day of tears
Which call'd my brothers both away for years,
I have not listen'd to so sweet a tone—
As that which makes—Monthermer's feelings known.”—
“Angel enchantress! from this hour divine
A more than mortal happiness is mine.
Heav'n! was it I who bent beneath thy curse?
O teach my soul to bear this bright reverse!
O love! I now, indeed, confess thy call!
Till now I knew thee not, 'twas vain delusion all.
Generous as beautiful! and dost thou deign
One throb of partial feeling to retain
For one, so long, so miserably blind?
Canst thou be thus magnanimously kind?
Yes, I am blest—I see it in thine eye;
I hear it in that bosom's blessed sigh;
I read it in that soul-betraying cheek,
Where now the paleness, now the blushes speak,
And paint the living history of a soul,
Commanding love, yet owning its control.

160

Dearest!—Euphemia!—turn not thus away—
But rather let thine eye's transpiercing ray
Search through my breast, and see how pure a fire
Can light the heart that dares to thine aspire!”—

He took her hand. She downward look'd the while,
And her cheek sadden'd to a serious smile.
Her heart was full—her moistening eyes confess'd
The mingled feelings that her heart oppress'd.
She turn'd to him those eyes whose springing dew
Now touch'd her cheek. He saw—he guess'd—he knew;
And would have kiss'd the tear-drops from her cheek,
But still it wore that smile so sadly meek,
It had been sacrilege to risk a deed
Might make a frown the touching air succeed.
“In tears, Euphemia? Must a morn like this
With tears be damp'd? and not the tears of bliss?
Is there then aught my transport to reprove?
No—for thy prayers shall Heav'n's compassion move.
Heav'n for Alvine can nought to thee deny;
And Glenville shall be blest—almost as blest as I.”

Thus did they pass the swiftest-winged hour,
That Love e'er wiled away in summer bower.

161

And when they turn'd them to the homeward path—
Each sense was bathed in fragrance-showering bath,
The air around enchanting odour shed,
And flowers sprung up new-born beneath their tread.
Yes, sweets the earth, and perfumes fill'd the air,
Which when alone they wander'd were not there.
Smile, Stoic, if thou wilt, and, Cynic, sneer!
There is no mockery of fiction here:
The poet feigns not when he talks of love;
Like poetry it came from heaven above,
And to them both the property is given,
To perfect earth, and make it like to heaven.
I say, when meet two kindred hearts of youth,
And each to each first owns the tender truth,
The truth that each had long'd to tell, to hear,
Yet check'd, withheld, in diffidence, in fear;
When hearts like these in such collision meet,
Bursts forth the virtue of their latent heat,
In sparks that lighten to a lambent flame,
Which glides, not burns, o'er all the mantling frame;
Sublimes the thought, and buoys the soul aloft,
And lifts the mind to feelings pure though soft,

162

Through which all objects that engage the sight
Shine in the beauty of a magic light;
And which to all things that impress the sense
Impart a new transcendant influence.

Yet These, their tender joy's expansion o'er,
With temperate restraint their feelings bore;
For other feelings taught them to forego
The selfish rapture they alone could know.
There was no long felicity for them,
While other's misery could their joy condemn;
While on Alvine, his child, his choicest wealth,
A wretched Father only gazed by stealth;
While Glenville o'er that wreck of reason hung,
Torn with remorse, with hopeless anguish stung.

Euphemia best her paroxysms could calm,
But oft they mock'd e'en Her assuasive charm.
And then, what sluggish bosom was not moved,
To mark that mind, how piteously it roved?
Forth from her lips strange rhapsodies would break,
That would have made the heart most callous ache.
Such strains of jarring eloquence were they!
Such joint extremes of sorrowful and gay!

163

Sometimes a burst of song the ear would thrill:
Her voice (ah, Glenville, how melodious still!)
Notes (although sweet their modulation) sent,
That shock'd by their unnatural merriment.
At other times 'twas mournful cadence all,
And then her spirit most to calm would fall,
By her own music as if held in thrall.
Then, into long abstraction would she sink,
Or earnestly at least appear to think;
And by the meaning from her eye that beam'd,
And by the working of her brow, it seem'd,
As if renascent reason strove again
To organize the chaos of her brain.
'Twas in such moments her physician most
Would favour the faint hope she was not lost.
But then, alas! in revolution wild,
Up starting sudden, like some frolic child
Glad from a puzzling riddle to elope,
A vacant laugh she gave, and mock'd all hope.
While thus the spirit lamentably work'd,
Within the flower of life a canker lurk'd;

164

Wasting that fine attractive form away,
With quick, relentless, sensible decay.
It was no more Alvine, the Rose of June,
Fresh in the morn and opening to the noon;
But prey to early blight, its lustre paled,
Its fragrant life already half exhaled.
Yes, Glenville saw her drooping to the bier;
He call'd on Heav'n, but Heav'n refused to hear;
Or only heard, to strike with added force
Its stings into the bosom of remorse;
To harrow conscience up, and bid it bleed;
Doom'd daily on his victim's brow to read
The dreadful words more deeply graven there:
“Behold thy work, Seducer, and despair!”

One day Euphemia leading forth her charge,
When calm she was, to breathe the air at large,
They chanc'd to' approach the church while mass was sung,
And, grand and full, the pompous organ rung.
Soon as the intonation caught her ear,
Alvine seem'd struck with holy awe and fear;
Upon her knees she sank in pious haste,
Her neck she bow'd, her eyes to earth she cast

165

And thus, her hands upon her bosom crost,
She look'd like one in deep devotion lost.
Euphemia, studious to indulge her will,
Knelt at her side, as quickly and as still:
Nor did they rise till the majestic swell
Of voice and organ ceas'd, and broke the spell.
This the physician from Euphemia heard,
And hence a serious augury inferr'd.
To hear the solemn mass in private said,
Each following morn Alvine by Him was led.
And, as at first, the same deep awe she show'd,
The same instinctive reverence bestow'd.
But he observ'd, that with each fluctuant note
The organ gave, her feelings seem'd to float;
And when the tide of sound would highest rise,
A strong but dread expression fill'd her eyes.

Some days he thus in close attention past,
Then thus, the parent he address'd at last—
“'Tis mine to tell a dismal truth severe,
“A fact o'erwhelming to a father's ear.
“Alvine is fast descending to her grave;
“And 'tis beyond the power of art to save;

166

“Unless one chance indeed”—“O name it then!”
The heartstruck father cried, “and he of men
“Who gives me back my child may freely take
“All else of mine for that one treasure's sake—
“Thou said'st a hope was left”—“One chance alone;
“And that will agonize thy heart when known.
“'Tis of a perilous and cruel cast,
“And, failing, must at once her being blast.
“Yet can it little antedate her doom;
“For, if untried, a month beholds her tomb.
“The shock that shatter'd reason must restore,
“Or send thy child—where madness raves no more.”
He then explain'd. The Sire, with anguish rent,
Stood long, long lingering, powerless to assent,
Urged as he was 'twixt horrors to decide:
At length with desperate firmness he complied.

The Morn of trial came. The hour drew nigh,
Doom'd to restore Alvine—or see her die.
The parent, big with expectation dumb,
Had long'd for that dread hour, and now 'twas come;
And there was nought he would not now have given,
So to a later might that hour be driven.

167

The Bell announc'd that nought must now retard;
The priests were vested, and the church prepared,
The lights already on the altar flared.
He, with Monthermer, Glenville, sought the scene,
Euphemia and her Aunt attend Alvine.
With these Sieurac and the physician went,
And e'en the last half shrunk from the event.
The church they enter'd. To their post assign'd
The Sire and Glenville went, the altar's skreen behind.
There, from Alvine conceal'd, they trembling stood,
To watch the fearful issue—if they could.
Alvine appear'd—and every conscious frame
Grew chill—o'er all a dread foreboding came.
Her sweet cheek only wore a languid smile;
Euphemia trembling led her up the aisle:
Thus sweet, thus smiling languidly serene,
And thus by one yet lovelier led, Alvine
Seem'd Martyr prov'd by persecution's rod,
Whom guardian Angel guided to her God.
Beneath the altar plac'd, she knelt—beside
Knelt her physician, and that angel guide.

168

Behind, Sieurac, Monthermer; at the gate
A trumpet, and, without, a guard await.
This to oppose intrusion; that to call
The dreadful signal to consummate all.

The august propitiatory mass began;
Through all the awful place the music ran.
The fragrant incense wafted to the Lord,
When thus the Hymn saluted the Adored.
Holy! thrice Holy! is the mighty God!
All conscious nature answers to His nod!
His glory spreads through heaven, and earth, and hell!
Let all the blest on high His praises tell!
Let all the earth with praise of Him resound!
The Lord once more on earthly altar found!
Coequal with the God by whom He's sent!
Holy! thrice Holy! is the Omnipotent!
Were not all eyes, ears, hearts, at such a time,
Absorb'd in that solemnity sublime?
Alas! for grace may mortal frailty sue,
If mortal feelings even now subdue?
If even now the eye and heart to Her
Who yonder kneels will fearfully recur;

169

While on the ear already seems to thrill
The awful fiat doom'd perhaps to kill?

“Forgive, great God, that in this hour of awe,
“One thought from Thee Thy worshippers should draw!
“And Oh forgive, that, in Thy temple too,
“Despair's last effort ventures on Thy view!
“Thy fane, O God, is ever mercy's fane;
“To Thee the wretched never turn in vain!
“And e'en though rigorous justice would confirm
“The lover's penance to a longer term,
“Pity the anguish that a father feels,
“While thus, a victim at Thine altar, kneels
“His child, the pride, till now the prop of age;
“O spare the treasure, and the pang assuage!
“Send, as to Him who doom'd, at thy command,
“Of yore, his offspring, in Moriah's land;
“O send thine angel on the wings of peace,
“The Father to rejoice, the victim to release.
“Eternal source supreme of life and light!
“Dispel the cloud of darkness from her sight;
“Effuse but one regenerating ray,
“And bid the intellectual night be day!”—

170

Monthermer thus in that important hour
Pour'd forth his soul to the Omniscient Power.

Now was the bloodless sacrifice fulfill'd,
And every heart with deeper horror thrill'd.
For now the crisis came—In act, how fraught
With terror, if thus terrible to thought!

First, gently blown, with touch of lightness woo'd,
Began the Organ sweetly to prelude,
Solemn, and soft, and tender, and subdued.
True to the key, as moving and as low,
The vocal melodies immingling flow.
Such strains were they as in a mystic dream,
To charm the blissful sleeper's senses seem,
When choirs of seraphs usher in their guest,
Transported to the mansions of the blest.
These notes as sweet such dreamer might allow,
But not thus ravish'd were the listeners now.
To them a prelude how momentous that!
On every visage pale expectance sat.
Alvine alone, unconscious of alarm,
Is wilder'd, lost, delighted in the charm.

171

Now sweeter yet the fainting music floats,
Now almost die away the melting notes;
In mild pathetic murmurs almost die,
Down to a mournfully melodious sigh;
Alvine is tranc'd in sweetest ecstacy.—
Now clash the Organ! louder, louder yet!
See how her eyes at once in horror set!
The trumpet now!—'tis answer'd! with the sound
Of roaring cannon! shake the walls around!
Echo the aisles and tremble! groans the ground!
While horrid burst the thunders from the fort,
Forth Glenville rushes to Alvine's support.—
But no support as yet her state demands;
Uprous'd, in listening attitude she stands!
That attitude, that cheek's expression tell,
That memory urges its dominion well.
Those eyes that flash intelligence explain
How strongly reason struggles in her brain!
Still stands she thus intent, though ceas'd the shock:
The gazers' hearts with fear impatient knock.
Her glances rove—on Glenville now they fall!—
This is the moment that determines all.—

172

Her softening eyes on him are deeply fixt;
Doubt, fear, hope, pleasure in their meaning mixt.
So pleadingly his gaze they seem to meet!
And now she smiles; how timorously sweet!
“Alvine!” in agitated voice he cries—
She starts and listens with delight, surprise!
“Alvine!”—some moments yet she seems in doubt,
Now, nearer drawing, wildly murmurs out:
“Yes, yes, I know that voice, I know that face;
“Where hast thou been, this long and dreary space?
“Cruel! so long to sojourn with the dead!
“Oh! hadst thou heard the dreadful things they said!
“But thou art come—what brought thee hither? speak!
“Dost thou a shelter from the tempest seek?
“Here—let this mantle help to screen thy form—
“Was ever heard so terrible a storm?
“Yet 'twas but now the tuneful air breath'd balm!
“The moon too on the branches shone so calm!”—
—“But do not tremble thus, Alvine—what fear
“Should reach the best-beloved when Glenville's near?”
—“No, Glenville, no, we must not longer stay—
“This place is evil—let us haste away.

173

“Come, come, how canst thou urge me to remain?
“Dost thou not fear the thunderbolt again?
“What should my father come? see there! see there!
“Haste! get thee back! O spare him, father! spare!”
She stretch'd her suppliant arms as barriers forth,
But instant sunk inanimate to earth;
Sunk at her father's feet—For him, alas!
A fatal eagerness had urged to pass
The bound assign'd, ere yet began his part,
To clasp the long-lost daughter to his heart.
Euphemia, Glenville, lift her in their arms;
The print of death is on those touching charms.
The father o'er her but a moment bends,
And as that sight intolerably rends
His breast, with agonizing wrath he burns;
To the physician furiously he turns:
“Assassin! traitor! give me back my child!”
But He, unmindful of those gestures wild,
With eager hand administers his skill
To that fair victim—faintly breathing still.
Sieurac, Monthermer hold the parent back
By force; but there, like sufferer on the rack,

174

He writhes in all the impotence of age,
And vents in piercing cries his grief and rage.
Those cries resounding with his daughter's name,
More quickly waken her recovering frame.
She raises, conscious to the voice, her head;
And on him stares, though shuddering with dread!
From Him to Glenville oft she shifts her gaze,
In alternation quick, and dread amaze.
Her eye has hush'd her Sire; subdu'd he stands,
With pleading looks, and supplicating hands.
But, as if still her lover to defend,
'Twixt him and Glenville yet her arms extend,
While earnest she exclaims: “He shall not die!
“Nay, never lift thy threatening hand so high!
“What dark and subtle murderer art Thou,
“That wear'st my father's venerable brow?
“Must Thou have blood? Why strike then if thou wilt!
“Here glut thy thirsty weapon to the hilt:
“With twenty gashes be this bosom gored,
“But his, I tell thee, ne'er shall stain thy sword.
“Thy sword—I see no sword! He does not bleed!
“And now thou hast my Father's look indeed!

175

“Say, Glenville, art thou well? Then who is He?
“Why does his look, so gently fix'd on me,
“Talk like my father, though his lips are dumb?
“Soft, soft, what's this?”—With hope, fear, doubt o'ercome,
And trembling lest again one movement rash
Her kindling reason's dubious flame should dash,
The Sire has listening stood, as if to fate;
His tottering knees can scarce support their weight;
And gradual sinking on the earth they rest.
Alvine pursues:—“Out, out on such a jest!
“O whisper not this mockery abroad!
“Dost thou thine age's dignity defraud?
“What! forfeit all the majesty of years?
“Prostrate the reverend brow? the silver hairs?
“What place is this where such strange things are done,
“As outraged Nature should abhorrent shun?”—
Her glance now turning on Euphemia falls!
“That face,” she cries, “a tender friend recalls.
“Yes; I should know those features; but I fear
“That there hath been a dismal darkness here—
“A long, long night—But whosoe'er thou art,
“Those gentle eyes bespeak a gentle heart,

176

“In pity then, in charity, explain,
“Do I indeed behold my friends again?
“Is this the real Glenville whom I see?
“My father that? and does he kneel to me?”
Euphemia, watchful of the signal made,
Now proffers to the trembling Sire her aid.
From earth he rises, and, by slow approach,
Nearer his child he ventures to encroach,
Led by Euphemia. But Alvine's quick glance
No more repels; it favours his advance.
Dissolv'd is now the hovering mist of doubt;
“Father!” her lips delighted murmur out.
She bends to meet, and sinks upon his breast,
Seeking and sought, caressing and caress'd.
Some moments thus; but, starting from her trance,
Again to Glenville turns her anxious glance.
To Him the father straight his hand prefers,
Then gently places Glenville's hand in her's.
Those conscious hands again in pressure meet,
As if their hearts within their pulses beat.
Thus 'twixt her father and her lover plac'd,
By both in speechless tenderness embrac'd,

177

Alvine now turns to that, and now to this,
Opprest, nay almost agonized, with bliss;
O'erwhelming bliss, which prudent nature fears,
And timely lightens by a burst of tears.
Blest be those tears! the first she e'er has shed
(The power of weeping with her reason fled)
Since o'er her Glenville's bloody form she raved:
Blest be those tears! for now the Maid is saved.
The gracious God hath heard affliction's prayers,
His justice chasten'd, but his mercy spares;
His hand hath waved the dismal cloud away,
And shed on all the heart-delighting ray;
Let now to HIM all hearts and voices raise
The ardent song of gratitude and praise.

They rais'd the hymn; and none who bore a part
In that oblation of the grateful heart,
More than Monthermer and Euphemia glow'd
With pure devotion to the gracious God.

THE END.