Idyls and Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Edgar.
And so 'tis rumour'd, Alfred;—but you knew him—
You must have heard it,—that his brain, once clear
As sunsets, by the fresh north-east blown thro',
Is touch'd with long-fear'd madness.

Alfred.

At the grange,
E'en at the clanging smithy, 'twas the talk,
Clench'd with broad grins, and phrases of the field,
And all, they said, for love. She slighted him
(You must remember who), tho' for her sake
He left his uncle's country—the loved cry
And well-known music of the neighbour pack,
And sloped a raw keen ride o'er twilight moors,
To meet her giddy beautyship, who oft
Paraded it amidst the scarlet throng
In distant Hazelden: where her merriest laugh
Gush'd quick and free thro' misty morning air,
That gemm'd her flaunting feathers. Oft he met her,
With sidelong looks that watch'd, in hopeless hope
Of cordial recognition from the fair,
Long known, long chased, long sigh'd for.

But she still
At casual call would leave his side, to pour
On chance companions of the field, those smiles,
Those full, heart-shaking looks of girlish glee,
For which his fairest acres,—those for which
Sir Gilbert fought at Sidon,—in his thought
Had been too cheap a purchase. So the run
Went on: one clouded heart among the cheery,—

One heart that echo'd not, when air was loud
With deep-tuned hound, and whistle, and the whoop
Where all the man went out upon th' halloo:
One breast, that when the chase went hotly on
In breath-restraining silence, rang with cries
Of sorrow, ill-suppress'd.

Edgar.
And could it be
That one so loved could pass him by and scorn him,—
Proved faithful through long summers,—loyal, true,
The wide and open-handed soul, that ere
He came to grief, first ever in the field,
Across the gap spoke welcome with his eye,
And outran words with smiling?

Alfred.

I know not,
For who could sound a whirlpool with his line,—
The causeless eddyings of a flighty girl?
He, too, in silence on his life-blood prey'd,
Corroding his own heart.

Yet once by hap
Close resting in his arbour, whence in view
The dark-mass'd elms, as in a second spring,
Rose pile on pile, dash'd with the summer growth
Of lighter foliage, thro' my passive ears
The murmur'd music of his sorrow crept,
Borne o'er the flowers in snatches. And his song,
As I can frame it, thus or thus—(accept
My ruder utterance)—ran its course uncheck'd,
Unconscious, as upon the woods he gazed.

‘Too well I mind it: 'twas in spring we met,—
The springtime of a year; life's springtime, rich
In love's first flowers, the garden of the soul,
Nurtured and fann'd 'neath hope's young fearlessness.
O, Day—Day—Day—untimely birth of Time!
Day, that gave life to life,—then, as in scorn,
More than reversed the gift:—bid childhood flee,
And young unconscious sleep; ill changed for dreams
That glow'd one hour of phantom blessedness,
Then pass'd, and left me waking. Was it right
That all should end thus? God!—That love, whose birth
Was terror in its calmness; born of calm;
The halcyon days of ocean and of spring,
Earth all one joy, should so waste down, so die,

No summer's sun to chase the zephyr clouds,
All longing hopes and sweet desires fulfilling?
Rich was the promise of thy youth, my love,—
Rich its fulfilment; for thy spring of glory
I noted; brimm'd with life thy years went by;
Their joy, that watch'd thy young unconsciousness;
For all unknown to thee were thine own spells,
The light that danced in gladness round thy steps,
The eye-enmeshing locks, the smile, that woke,
And smiled at its own waking; woke, and fled
With gracious calm, and promised re-awaking!
And art thou not more perfect with thy years?
Thy years have but perfected thee the more,
Sweet maid:—grace born of grace; my heart's desire;
My memory thou: my full existence:—mine!
Mine—never mine—not yet mine—ne'er to be mine—
Never, oh! never!’ Edgar—on those words
He paused: my breath went fast: some common chord
Of young remembrance struck perchance alike,—
Some song's recurrent burden. Then again,
‘Never, oh! never!’—and he touch'd his brow—
‘I was a child once;—oh, that I one day,
One little day, one little, little day,
Could be that child once more,—once more to hope;
Once more bewail hopes wasted:—know once more
What virtue is in tears, so long refused,
To respite me from this near-lowering madness.’

Edgar.
Sure 'tis no subject for a reckless mirth,
Best chorus oft and language of the field,
To see man's purest aim—as his—the man
Within the man,—foil'd, blotted out, annull'd.
And has he found no medicine for that woe?

Alfred.
Time brings him no relief, that cures all else;
The stagnant even current of his life,
Pure artificial stillness, that scarce knew
The rocking course of days and nights go by,
Annull'd the lenient privilege of time,
And he breathes on in sadness.

Edgar.
O, when Love
Consumes himself, thus baffled, better far
Sweetness ferment to hate, and hate, with years,
Die in forgetfulness—than so to linger
'Gainst hope still hoping!

Alfred.
I have heard of one
Love-haunted, e'en beneath monastic garb
Assumed in that despairing: restlessly
In sleep, or waking, to her side, whom Death
Had veil'd in tripled cerements, fancy-borne.
Long time such frenzy tore him, till at length
Within her three-months' mansion—Death's own home—
He sought his heart's desire,—by darken'd step,
Thro' brooding danks descending:—till he found her,
His sweet one, laid within th' abhorrèd grasp,
And death-consign'd to horror. From her face,
Fair yet—yet fair—reluctant Beauty's wreck,
The gathering grave-dews with unsteady touch
He cleansed,—then with one cry went blindly forth,
By Death, and Love, and Love in Death, o'ermaster'd.
But when the fit was on him, when the thought
Of lost endearment, prized the more thro' loss,
Hung on him with a spell,—before his eyes
He spread that garment and the signs of death;
With thoughts of all she had been intermingling
What now she was—what needs must yet become;—
And so he cured his love.

Edgar.
Alas! alas!