 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
LETTER FIFTH. MAY 17.
In the gray receding distance street and spire, like visions, swept—
O'er that mighty mass of beings shadow after shadow crept;
And a shadow wrapp'd my spirit, darker than the dawn e'er wore,
As, abandon'd and unfriended, thus I left my native shore.
O'er that mighty mass of beings shadow after shadow crept;
And a shadow wrapp'd my spirit, darker than the dawn e'er wore,
As, abandon'd and unfriended, thus I left my native shore.
27
Strange, my Bertha, how affection lingers where young footsteps go,
Strange how slight a thing may fasten on the heart, and we not know:
Scotland was my mother's birth-land; and as came the hour to part,
That dear name I'd heard in childhood came the first thing to my heart.
Strange how slight a thing may fasten on the heart, and we not know:
Scotland was my mother's birth-land; and as came the hour to part,
That dear name I'd heard in childhood came the first thing to my heart.
Not that I knew friend or kindred, or a rood of its bright land,
Yet, although a stranger to me, it held forth no stranger's hand:
'Twas the name my mother's accents centred in her child's young breast—
And that child, in her first sorrow, look'd unto its shores for rest!
Yet, although a stranger to me, it held forth no stranger's hand:
'Twas the name my mother's accents centred in her child's young breast—
And that child, in her first sorrow, look'd unto its shores for rest!
See me then a wanderer, Bertha, hopless in my great despair;
I, from earliest recollection, cherish'd with too fond a care:
See me tread that shore romantic,—glowing 'mid poetic grace—
With a vision, sorrow blinded, turning to its beauteous face.
I, from earliest recollection, cherish'd with too fond a care:
See me tread that shore romantic,—glowing 'mid poetic grace—
With a vision, sorrow blinded, turning to its beauteous face.
28
Close behind the village post-house, where the coach stopp'd for the night,
Flowed a broad and rapid torrent, leaping down from height to height;
Full of music rolled its waters, like a psalm of endless praise,
Unto him who guides for ever the eternity of days!
Flowed a broad and rapid torrent, leaping down from height to height;
Full of music rolled its waters, like a psalm of endless praise,
Unto him who guides for ever the eternity of days!
Slowly on, by mount and valley, followed I its downward sweep—
Till at last its organ-grandeur, stop by stop, was hushed to sleep;
'Twas an evening such as seraphs might have chosen to appear,
Half mistaking Nature's beauty for their own transcendent sphere.
Till at last its organ-grandeur, stop by stop, was hushed to sleep;
'Twas an evening such as seraphs might have chosen to appear,
Half mistaking Nature's beauty for their own transcendent sphere.
From the book I brought to cheer me, page from page I listless tore,
Watching still the sloping waters as the scatter'd leaves they bore;
And I thought—oh! blesséd Heaven—if 'twere but the same to thee—
Would my page of life thus ending—thus forgotten—here might be!
Watching still the sloping waters as the scatter'd leaves they bore;
And I thought—oh! blesséd Heaven—if 'twere but the same to thee—
Would my page of life thus ending—thus forgotten—here might be!
29
And my soul with woe grew darkened,—guideless, wilder'd in its way;—
God, it thought, would sure forgive it;—wherefore then its peace delay?
Oh! so calm the paper floated—floated, eddied, sank, and died,
That it seem'd no common effort to resist that wished for tide!
God, it thought, would sure forgive it;—wherefore then its peace delay?
Oh! so calm the paper floated—floated, eddied, sank, and died,
That it seem'd no common effort to resist that wished for tide!
Then methought of the hereafter!—if this sin were not forgiven,
Would there be some spirit-kingdom, midway yet 'tween earth and heaven?
Some bright region wherein Mercy, comforting, consoling, trod,—
Where the air was full of angels, winging ransom'd souls to God!
Would there be some spirit-kingdom, midway yet 'tween earth and heaven?
Some bright region wherein Mercy, comforting, consoling, trod,—
Where the air was full of angels, winging ransom'd souls to God!
Oh! to know! but—but to know it! oh! to grasp that hope sublime!
Tell me, thou proud Sun, whose march is o'er the triumphs of all time,—
Answer thou, who call'st the Nations from their utter night of gloom,
Tell me what lies stretched beyond thee?—what is Death?—and what the Tomb?
Tell me, thou proud Sun, whose march is o'er the triumphs of all time,—
Answer thou, who call'st the Nations from their utter night of gloom,
Tell me what lies stretched beyond thee?—what is Death?—and what the Tomb?
30
Of that sphere of unknown being—of that vast mysterious shore,
Unto which ten thousand ages travel, and are seen no more—
Of the multitudes who've parted—of the myriad loved who've gone,
Is there, from that shore of silence, none to speak?—not one! not one!
Unto which ten thousand ages travel, and are seen no more—
Of the multitudes who've parted—of the myriad loved who've gone,
Is there, from that shore of silence, none to speak?—not one! not one!
Will it be Forgiven? Tell me! Will the angels intercede
For a spirit thus afflicted—cast, abandon'd, like a weed!
Will a tear be dropp'd in pity, washing out this act of shame?
Will the holy hand of Mercy write forgiveness to my name?
For a spirit thus afflicted—cast, abandon'd, like a weed!
Will a tear be dropp'd in pity, washing out this act of shame?
Will the holy hand of Mercy write forgiveness to my name?
Thus I raved—thus hoped—my reason wander'd wildly in its woe!
Long—how long I stood inactive,—moments?—hours?—I do not know;
But at last my ears were ringing with a dizzy, hissing din,—
And my soul seem'd sinking—sinking,—lower, lower—in its sin!
Long—how long I stood inactive,—moments?—hours?—I do not know;
But at last my ears were ringing with a dizzy, hissing din,—
And my soul seem'd sinking—sinking,—lower, lower—in its sin!
31
Oh! the suffocating horror,—dragging me as with a chain;
Oh! those dizzy dreadful waters,—shrieking, screaming through my brain;—
Muffled echoes—dim and drowning—heard I, choking 'mid the strife,—
But the grasp of Death grew fainter, and a dream came over life!
Oh! those dizzy dreadful waters,—shrieking, screaming through my brain;—
Muffled echoes—dim and drowning—heard I, choking 'mid the strife,—
But the grasp of Death grew fainter, and a dream came over life!
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |