 | The anniversary; or, poetry and prose for MDCCCXXIX |  |
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THE SORROWS OF HOPE.
BY GEORGE DARLEY, ESQ.
“Array! array the bridal feast!
Be ready, paranymphs and priest!
Hurry to church the swooning Maid!—
The rite is done, the blessing said:
She is the old Lord Walter's wife,
Her destiny is sealed for life!
No heir from these unfruitful bands
Shall step between us and her lands,
Which should have come to us by right;
Our Uncle was a drivelling wight
To leave the Girl his treasures, when
He had as near relations men!”
Be ready, paranymphs and priest!
Hurry to church the swooning Maid!—
The rite is done, the blessing said:
She is the old Lord Walter's wife,
Her destiny is sealed for life!
No heir from these unfruitful bands
Shall step between us and her lands,
Which should have come to us by right;
Our Uncle was a drivelling wight
To leave the Girl his treasures, when
He had as near relations men!”
So spake her Cousins. Months flew past,
I left my severed couch at last:
“O, Eveline! dear Cousin! now
For thy soft hand to sooth my brow!
Thy breath, as sweet as morning air,
To pour its perfume on my hair!
Come, with thy harp, my soul to calm;
Come, with thy voice, my spirit's balm!
Sweet-murmuring, like the forest dove,
Sing me the ditty that I love!”
I left my severed couch at last:
“O, Eveline! dear Cousin! now
For thy soft hand to sooth my brow!
Thy breath, as sweet as morning air,
To pour its perfume on my hair!
Come, with thy harp, my soul to calm;
Come, with thy voice, my spirit's balm!
Sweet-murmuring, like the forest dove,
Sing me the ditty that I love!”
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A brother's voice in laughter broke
Close at my elbow as I spoke:
'Twas Simon, with as sly a grin
As drunken Death might cast on Sin:
Another face as blear, but older,
Looked with a death-scowl o'er his shoulder,
My brother Roland's; black as night,
When Hell has suffocated light.
Close at my elbow as I spoke:
'Twas Simon, with as sly a grin
As drunken Death might cast on Sin:
Another face as blear, but older,
Looked with a death-scowl o'er his shoulder,
My brother Roland's; black as night,
When Hell has suffocated light.
“Six months ago, our Cousin wed,
While you lay groaning on your bed;
And now is—where, the Heavens can say!—
But sure some thousand miles away.
Glad was the Nymph to save from you
Her broad lands and her beauty too.”
While you lay groaning on your bed;
And now is—where, the Heavens can say!—
But sure some thousand miles away.
Glad was the Nymph to save from you
Her broad lands and her beauty too.”
Had Heaven upon my head let fall
The fiercest thunderbolt of all,
It had not withered thus my youth!
Age came at once: in very sooth,
By agony, in one short day,
My raven locks were turned to gray!
Misfortune now most bitter made
The scenes where we together strayed,
The hills we ranged like two gazelles,
The banks we sought for cowslip bells,
Or lily pale, her favourite flower,
The darkling grove, the secret bower,
The simple lays our hearts approved,
The tales of beauty that we loved,
The silent, dim, secluded vale,
Where love had breathed his ardent tale,—
All, all like bosomed scorpions were,
That stung with native vigour there.
In foreign lands, perchance, thought I,
These adders of the mind may die.
The fiercest thunderbolt of all,
It had not withered thus my youth!
Age came at once: in very sooth,
By agony, in one short day,
My raven locks were turned to gray!
Misfortune now most bitter made
The scenes where we together strayed,
The hills we ranged like two gazelles,
The banks we sought for cowslip bells,
Or lily pale, her favourite flower,
The darkling grove, the secret bower,
The simple lays our hearts approved,
The tales of beauty that we loved,
The silent, dim, secluded vale,
Where love had breathed his ardent tale,—
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That stung with native vigour there.
In foreign lands, perchance, thought I,
These adders of the mind may die.
With empty scrip, but heart o'erflowing,
I chose an autumn morn for going.
Vain hope, indeed, the hope to find
In change of place, a change of mind!
I chose an autumn morn for going.
Vain hope, indeed, the hope to find
In change of place, a change of mind!
“My Eveline!—that potent name
Should still my deathward steps reclaim.
I would not quit this mortal sphere
And think I left thee lonely here;
I would not quit this terrene shore,
Till I beheld thy face once more.”
Methought, that while my throbbing heart
Was conning o'er this bleeding part,
A shadowy form, like that I loved,
Before my dim perception moved;
And uttered with a plaintive cry—
“We'll meet again before we die!”
Howe'er it was, that strong belief
Upheld me 'gainst the waves of grief
Which stormy Fate against me blew:
I hoped, I thought, I felt, I knew
These arms which circled her before
Should press her to my heart once more!
And still whene'er my spirits fell,
Came the sweet voice I knew so well.
Should still my deathward steps reclaim.
I would not quit this mortal sphere
And think I left thee lonely here;
I would not quit this terrene shore,
Till I beheld thy face once more.”
Methought, that while my throbbing heart
Was conning o'er this bleeding part,
A shadowy form, like that I loved,
Before my dim perception moved;
And uttered with a plaintive cry—
“We'll meet again before we die!”
Howe'er it was, that strong belief
Upheld me 'gainst the waves of grief
Which stormy Fate against me blew:
I hoped, I thought, I felt, I knew
These arms which circled her before
Should press her to my heart once more!
And still whene'er my spirits fell,
Came the sweet voice I knew so well.
I passed one time the lordly towers
Which Shirewood's giant grove embowers,
Beneath whose antiquated reign
Spreads far and wide a green domain:
O'er the soft mead and velvet lawn
Range the staid deer and trotting fawn,
Or primly walk the long arcades,
Like owners of those secret shades.
But on this day, I ween, they stept
Less stately, and the in-wood kept;
For since the upspring of the morn,
Their ears had echoed to the horn,
And the keen stag-hound's fatal yell
Tolled in them like a passing bell.
I chanced to pass the greenwood nigh,
When the loud pack came sweeping by,
With gallant hunters in their train,
Who all, but one alone, were men.
She on a milk white palfrey rode,
That seemed too happy for his load.
In suit of silvan green, the Maid
Was like a kirtled woodnymph clad:
A velvet helm, jet black, she wore,
With snow-bright plumage nodding o'er.
Which Shirewood's giant grove embowers,
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Spreads far and wide a green domain:
O'er the soft mead and velvet lawn
Range the staid deer and trotting fawn,
Or primly walk the long arcades,
Like owners of those secret shades.
But on this day, I ween, they stept
Less stately, and the in-wood kept;
For since the upspring of the morn,
Their ears had echoed to the horn,
And the keen stag-hound's fatal yell
Tolled in them like a passing bell.
I chanced to pass the greenwood nigh,
When the loud pack came sweeping by,
With gallant hunters in their train,
Who all, but one alone, were men.
She on a milk white palfrey rode,
That seemed too happy for his load.
In suit of silvan green, the Maid
Was like a kirtled woodnymph clad:
A velvet helm, jet black, she wore,
With snow-bright plumage nodding o'er.
Along they flashed: I could not trace
The clouded features of her face,
Although I guessed it lovely fair;
But as she past, two rings of hair,
Like twisted threads of matted gold,
Behind each snowy ear were rolled.
My pulse throbbed high! There was but one
With tresses wound from off the sun,
Like these!—'Tis she! so bliss be mine!
I knew her by her locks divine!
'Tis Eveline!—And at a bound
I broke the sanctuary ground;
The greenwood rang with shrill alarms,—
She screamed, and fell into my arms!
“My Eveline! my heart-sworn bride!
Look up! behold thy love!” I cried,
And tore her jealous veil aside—
When, Oh! what horror sealed mine eyes!
What shrieks of anguish and surprise
Burst from my lips!—Fond wretch, away!
'Tis young De Bohun's Ladye gay.
The clouded features of her face,
Although I guessed it lovely fair;
But as she past, two rings of hair,
Like twisted threads of matted gold,
Behind each snowy ear were rolled.
My pulse throbbed high! There was but one
With tresses wound from off the sun,
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I knew her by her locks divine!
'Tis Eveline!—And at a bound
I broke the sanctuary ground;
The greenwood rang with shrill alarms,—
She screamed, and fell into my arms!
“My Eveline! my heart-sworn bride!
Look up! behold thy love!” I cried,
And tore her jealous veil aside—
When, Oh! what horror sealed mine eyes!
What shrieks of anguish and surprise
Burst from my lips!—Fond wretch, away!
'Tis young De Bohun's Ladye gay.
Through fair Hesperia's balmy clime
I journeyed in that reckless time
Which Superstition grants to Sin
For acting her loose pleasures in,
Ere her own gloomy rites begin,—
The Carnival. Fair Florence shone,
The imperial Druggist's classic town!
Like the great orb at going down,
Gorgeous and glorious; while the breath
Of fuming Luxury beneath,
Who led the wine-flushed, panting crowd,
Sat o'er the city like a cloud;
Dizzying the sight, though amber clear,
Of all in its Circean sphere.
I journeyed in that reckless time
Which Superstition grants to Sin
For acting her loose pleasures in,
Ere her own gloomy rites begin,—
The Carnival. Fair Florence shone,
The imperial Druggist's classic town!
Like the great orb at going down,
Gorgeous and glorious; while the breath
Of fuming Luxury beneath,
Who led the wine-flushed, panting crowd,
Sat o'er the city like a cloud;
Dizzying the sight, though amber clear,
Of all in its Circean sphere.
'Mid all this joy, and hum, and whirl,
Who is that melancholy girl?
Fixed on that marble block alone,
She seems of kindred to the stone;
Woe, looking at her clasped hands,
Or counting Death's slow minute sands?
Who is that melancholy girl?
Fixed on that marble block alone,
She seems of kindred to the stone;
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Or counting Death's slow minute sands?
So wrapt my thoughts, I spoke aloud,
When one of the near-standing crowd:
“Alas! who knows not, by her mien,
The lovelorn lady Eveline?
An angel from another sphere,
Whom friends by force have carried here;
Because her maiden choice, forsooth,
Instead of palsied Age, was Youth!”
When one of the near-standing crowd:
“Alas! who knows not, by her mien,
The lovelorn lady Eveline?
An angel from another sphere,
Whom friends by force have carried here;
Because her maiden choice, forsooth,
Instead of palsied Age, was Youth!”
No more! my heart has long confest
Her presence whom it knows the best!
Long ere we die, indeed, we meet!—
I rushed, and threw me at her feet:
With upraised arms and streaming eyes,
Poured out my soul in sobs and sighs,
And broken words, and gasps of joy,
Like a fond, visionary boy!
Then rose the statued beauty, while
Her eyes betrayed a pitying smile,
And sighing like a thing of clay,
Walked slow and silently away.
Her presence whom it knows the best!
Long ere we die, indeed, we meet!—
I rushed, and threw me at her feet:
With upraised arms and streaming eyes,
Poured out my soul in sobs and sighs,
And broken words, and gasps of joy,
Like a fond, visionary boy!
Then rose the statued beauty, while
Her eyes betrayed a pitying smile,
And sighing like a thing of clay,
Walked slow and silently away.
At once the hope my folly nursed,
Her tall majestic form dispersed:
That beauteous Grief might be a queen,
But, ah! 'tis not my Eveline!
Her tall majestic form dispersed:
That beauteous Grief might be a queen,
But, ah! 'tis not my Eveline!
Along the deep majestic Rhine,
Flowing as dark as his own wine,
I took my meditative way.
Dim Twilight, in her veil of gray,
Stood on the Eastern hills afar,
Watching pale Vesper's beacon star.
Pondering, I woke not from my dream
Till broadly o'er the rippling stream,
A battlemented mansion threw
Its form athwart the sullen blue.
Flowing as dark as his own wine,
I took my meditative way.
Dim Twilight, in her veil of gray,
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Watching pale Vesper's beacon star.
Pondering, I woke not from my dream
Till broadly o'er the rippling stream,
A battlemented mansion threw
Its form athwart the sullen blue.
Lost in the splendour of the sight,
I gazed upon the vision bright,
And stood in long abstraction here;
When sweetly, faintly on my ear,
O'er the reflecting waters stole
A strain deep drawn from Passion's soul;
Melody that the Saints might sigh,
Seeing a sister spirit die.
I gazed upon the vision bright,
And stood in long abstraction here;
When sweetly, faintly on my ear,
O'er the reflecting waters stole
A strain deep drawn from Passion's soul;
Melody that the Saints might sigh,
Seeing a sister spirit die.
“The very voice! the very lay!
My Eveline! O haste away!
Descend! descend! my bride! my wife!
The pride, the passion of my life!”—
Ere twenty ripples kissed the shore,
We ferried the deep current o'er,
And like two doves that seek their nest,
Flew through the greenwood, breast to breast.
My Eveline! O haste away!
Descend! descend! my bride! my wife!
The pride, the passion of my life!”—
Ere twenty ripples kissed the shore,
We ferried the deep current o'er,
And like two doves that seek their nest,
Flew through the greenwood, breast to breast.
At length! at length my hopes are crowned!
At length my Eveline is found!
Even in its treasury of ill,
Heaven had some mercy for me still!
She gazed—she faintly, wildly screamed—
The moon which then unclouded streamed,
Fell on her cheek, the boughs between—
O God! it was not Eveline!
At length my Eveline is found!
Even in its treasury of ill,
Heaven had some mercy for me still!
She gazed—she faintly, wildly screamed—
The moon which then unclouded streamed,
Fell on her cheek, the boughs between—
O God! it was not Eveline!
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Down sank I, as a corpse that stands
Falls, when you take away your hands.
Falls, when you take away your hands.
Homeward I bent my steps again—
Joined by a youth from old Bretagne,
Upon whose brow, though fair and young,
The cloud of melancholy hung;
His raven curls and sable plume
Deepened his fixed look of gloom,
And though I often wished to be
Left to my own sad company,
I could not to a Youth so fair,
So desolate, refuse his prayer,
That he “might journey o'er the wild
With the good Pilgrim, as his child.”
Joined by a youth from old Bretagne,
Upon whose brow, though fair and young,
The cloud of melancholy hung;
His raven curls and sable plume
Deepened his fixed look of gloom,
And though I often wished to be
Left to my own sad company,
I could not to a Youth so fair,
So desolate, refuse his prayer,
That he “might journey o'er the wild
With the good Pilgrim, as his child.”
Together, then, we journeyed on,
Like father and his youthful son;
For Grief was canker to my prime,
And Woe had done the work of Time,
And cloak and staff and scallop shell
Suited my tremulous accent well.
Like father and his youthful son;
For Grief was canker to my prime,
And Woe had done the work of Time,
And cloak and staff and scallop shell
Suited my tremulous accent well.
With this poor Youth (I heard him sigh)
My ministry begins, said I;
Some vision seems to haunt his mind,
He often starts and looks behind,
As if some foe or spectre grim,
Studious of blood, still followed him.
Like ivy round an elder tree,
He crept, he clung, he grew to me;
And trembling pulled me from the way
Which through the mountain valley lay.
“No! we must quit the sunny road,”
Said I; “this leads to my abode;
The deep, green, silent valley's shade
Seems for the weary pilgrim made.”
My ministry begins, said I;
Some vision seems to haunt his mind,
He often starts and looks behind,
As if some foe or spectre grim,
Studious of blood, still followed him.
Like ivy round an elder tree,
He crept, he clung, he grew to me;
And trembling pulled me from the way
Which through the mountain valley lay.
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Said I; “this leads to my abode;
The deep, green, silent valley's shade
Seems for the weary pilgrim made.”
We went. A visor'd horseman keen,
Rushed on us from a dark ravine;
And fierce of mood and fell of hand,
Struck my fair comrade with his brand,
Who shrieked my name and fled. I drew
My sword and thrust the murderer through.
He gazed, and shuddering on the bank,
“Arden!” exclaimed—and lifeless sank.
I flew into the wood and cried,
“Where art thou, Boy?” But nought replied.
I found him underneath a cave,
Rushed on us from a dark ravine;
And fierce of mood and fell of hand,
Struck my fair comrade with his brand,
Who shrieked my name and fled. I drew
My sword and thrust the murderer through.
He gazed, and shuddering on the bank,
“Arden!” exclaimed—and lifeless sank.
I flew into the wood and cried,
“Where art thou, Boy?” But nought replied.
I found him underneath a cave,
Leaning beside a crystal well,
Into whose green translucent wave
Into whose green translucent wave
His piteous tears in silence fell.
He dipt his napkin in the spring,
He dipt his napkin in the spring,
And wiped therewith his pallid brow,
But all the plaint and murmuring
But all the plaint and murmuring
Was from the little stream, I trow,
That bubbled, all too crimson, by;
For scarce the Youth was seen to sigh.
That bubbled, all too crimson, by;
For scarce the Youth was seen to sigh.
But, oh! more near, I saw his breast
Heave through his scarcely opened vest.
'Tis white as undescended snows,
Heave through his scarcely opened vest.
'Tis white as undescended snows,
Or the pure foam that crests the linn!
Full as a woman's breast it rose,
Full as a woman's breast it rose,
That time he put his napkin in!
O, pity! see, the breast doth bleed!
And 'tis a woman's breast indeed!
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And 'tis a woman's breast indeed!
I placed her dying on my knee,
Her bonnet fell upon the green;
Her bonnet fell upon the green;
Her golden hair flowed splendidly—
O, God! it is my Eveline!—
Is this, is this your mercy, Fate?
Is this the work of Hope or Hate?
O, God! it is my Eveline!—
Is this, is this your mercy, Fate?
Is this the work of Hope or Hate?
That voice recalled her from the skies.
“Why”—and she gazed with dim surprise;
“Why from the grave of absence rise
To greet, in vain, my closing eyes?—
Yet, no!—'tis much to see thy face,
To feel, once more, thy kind embrace;
I am content, if so thou art,
To find me near thy beating heart;
'Tis much to hear thy tender tone,
To die in thy loved arms alone.”
“Why”—and she gazed with dim surprise;
“Why from the grave of absence rise
To greet, in vain, my closing eyes?—
Yet, no!—'tis much to see thy face,
To feel, once more, thy kind embrace;
I am content, if so thou art,
To find me near thy beating heart;
'Tis much to hear thy tender tone,
To die in thy loved arms alone.”
These words I echoed with a groan.—
Wishing my sorrows to beguile,
She strove,—but 'twas such pain to smile,
Her lips were grave again.
Wishing my sorrows to beguile,
She strove,—but 'twas such pain to smile,
Her lips were grave again.
I wept,
Some unknown tears mine eyes had kept.
Some unknown tears mine eyes had kept.
“Weep not!” she said, “but let us give
The few short moments I can live
To sweet affection.—Care and woe,
Young Arden! have they changed thee so?
Thy Eveline, too weak for strife,
Was made the old Lord Walter's wife,
While thou, who might'st have been my aid,
Wert on the couch of sickness laid:
Spite of her grief, his bride he bore
To wild Illyria's murmuring shore;
But threat, nor prayer, deceit, nor dread,
Could force me to his hated bed;
For still I hoped, when he had died,
I should have been thy unstained bride.”—
The few short moments I can live
To sweet affection.—Care and woe,
Young Arden! have they changed thee so?
Thy Eveline, too weak for strife,
Was made the old Lord Walter's wife,
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Wert on the couch of sickness laid:
Spite of her grief, his bride he bore
To wild Illyria's murmuring shore;
But threat, nor prayer, deceit, nor dread,
Could force me to his hated bed;
For still I hoped, when he had died,
I should have been thy unstained bride.”—
Sighing (though half immortal!) here,
She wept another human tear.
She wept another human tear.
Then, as I kissed it off: “Nor long
Lived the old Baron. All the wrong
He did, lay with him in his grave.
My soul was on the Adrian wave,
And, bird like, o'er the silvering foam,
Returned to love, and thee, and home.
But—Fortune razed what Fancy reared!
Ere died the Baron, oft appeared
Lived the old Baron. All the wrong
He did, lay with him in his grave.
My soul was on the Adrian wave,
And, bird like, o'er the silvering foam,
Returned to love, and thee, and home.
But—Fortune razed what Fancy reared!
Ere died the Baron, oft appeared
Scowling amid the castle walls,
Two visages my childhood feared;
Two visages my childhood feared;
Nay, glared upon me in the halls,
Or from the gloomy woods around,
As I passed on, looked out and frowned.”
Or from the gloomy woods around,
As I passed on, looked out and frowned.”
“Death came at last; and with it, they,
Like vultures, to devour the prey.
Both widowers: so, to strife they grew,
And Simon his dark brother slew.
Meantime, disguised, afoot I fled,
And begged, through France, my way and bread:
But still upon my track pursued
That fiend, who now hath shed my blood,
Lest both my wealth and person, he
Should wrest from him, who married me,
Thyself I hoped; but, kindly Fate
Comes with the boon a pace too late.”
Like vultures, to devour the prey.
Both widowers: so, to strife they grew,
And Simon his dark brother slew.
Meantime, disguised, afoot I fled,
And begged, through France, my way and bread:
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That fiend, who now hath shed my blood,
Lest both my wealth and person, he
Should wrest from him, who married me,
Thyself I hoped; but, kindly Fate
Comes with the boon a pace too late.”
“'Tis sad—almost too sad—that when
So far I 'scaped—that I should then
Be murdered in my native glen!—
Within thy very arms!—so near
The only bliss that made life dear!—
But vain—all vain, beneath the sun!
Let the great will of God be done!”
So far I 'scaped—that I should then
Be murdered in my native glen!—
Within thy very arms!—so near
The only bliss that made life dear!—
But vain—all vain, beneath the sun!
Let the great will of God be done!”
Her lips grew settled: mine begun—
“No pity, Heavens? No mercy? none?”—
She oped her faint death-clouded eye,
Looked up, and whispered in a sigh,
“We meet—some consolation!—
We meet again before we die!”—
Then joined her sister saints on high.
“No pity, Heavens? No mercy? none?”—
She oped her faint death-clouded eye,
Looked up, and whispered in a sigh,
“We meet—some consolation!—
We meet again before we die!”—
Then joined her sister saints on high.
Beneath that fountain's margin-sands
I buried her with my own sad hands;
And led the little stream to rave
A requiem round her hallowed grave;
And plucked white roses for her tomb,
Fit emblems of her virgin bloom,
Her beauty, and her luckless doom!
I buried her with my own sad hands;
And led the little stream to rave
A requiem round her hallowed grave;
And plucked white roses for her tomb,
Fit emblems of her virgin bloom,
Her beauty, and her luckless doom!
| The anniversary; or, poetry and prose for MDCCCXXIX | |