University of Virginia Library

'Tis merry Whitsuntide, and merrily
Holiday goes in hamlet and green field;
Nature and men seem join'd, for once, to try
The strength of care, and force the carle to yield:
Summer abroad holds flowery revelry;
For revelry the village bells are peal'd;
The season's self seems made for rural pleasure,
And rural joy flows with o'erflowing measure.
Go where you will through England's happy valleys,
Deep grows the grass, flowers bask, and wild bees hum;
And, ever and anon, with joyous sallies,
Shouting, and music, and the busy drum,
Tell you afar where mirth her rustics rallies
In dusty sports, or 'midst the songs and hum
Of the royal oak, or bowling-green's enclosure,
With bower and bench, for smoking and composure.

May's jolly dance is past, and, hanging high,
Her garlands swing and wither in the sun;
And now abroad gay posied banners fly,
Follow'd by peaceful troops, and boys that run
To see their sires go marching solemnly,
Shouldering their wands; and youths with ribbons won
From fond fair hands, that yielded them with pride,
And proudly worn this merry Whitsuntide.

And then succeeds a lovelier sight,—the dames,
Wives, mothers, and arch sigh-awakening lasses;
Filling each gazing wight with wounds and flames,
Yet looking each demurely as she passes,
With flower-tipp'd wand, and bloom that flowers outshames;
And, in the van of these sweet happy faces
Marches the priest, whose sermon says, “be merry!”
The frank good squire, and sage apothecary.

At this sweet time, the glory of the spring,
Young verdurous June's delightful opening;
When leaves are loveliest, and young fruits and flowers
Fear not the frosts of May's uncertain hours;
Rich, rife, luxuriant, yet with tenderest hues,
Waves the full foliage; and with morning dews,
And showers that gush down from the radiant skies,
To bring below the air of Paradise,
Awakening freshest fragrance as they pass;
There is a peerless greenness on the grass,
Yet somewhat darken'd with the loftier swell,
And purple tinge, of spike and pannicle;
While vivid is the gleam of distant corn,
And long and merry are the songs of morn;
'Tis wise to let the touch of nature thrill
Through the full heart; 'tis wise to take your fill
Of all she brings, and gently to give way
To what within your soul she seems to say:
“The world grows rich in beauty and in bliss;
Past springs were welcome, none so much as this.”
At this sweet time, when wand'ring far and near,
The cawings loud of jealous rooks you hear,
That late have seen their annual war, and rued
Tremendous slaughter of their earliest brood;
And led with fearful haste, and anxious cries,
The remnant forth, and still, with careful eyes,
Watching for man, a black and glossy crew,
Rustling arise, and fly to haunts anew.
When many a migratory bird is come,
With its loved voice, to its old summer home;
There is the martin chuckling in the eaves,
The fly-catcher, that confidently weaves
Her yearly nest upon the pear-tree bough,
Beside your door, and flitting to and fro,
Is ever present when you pass without;
At eve the bat is circling about;
And in the afternoons, so calm and fair,
The restless swallow sporting in the air;
And higher still, the screaming swifts pursue
Each other loudly in the ether blue;
Again the wryneck chanteth forth pee, pee,
From his old haunt, the hollow apple-tree;
The redstart wails about the garden wall;
And deep and liquid is the cuckoo's call
From field and forest, bringing with its tone
Feelings and scenes in blissful boyhood known.
For those who nothing have, or wish, like me,
To busy them, but 'neath the greenwood tree
To listen in this glorious season quietly,
To showers that patter on the oak leaves young,
And various ditties that meanwhile are sung
By small birds sheltering on the inner boughs;
Then stepping forth as the grand rainbow glows
Upon the dark, blue cloud's far-traveling shade;
And rain-drops twinkle upon leaf and blade;
And richly smiles the sun; and louder swell
The songs of happy birds in wood and dell;
And every bathed leaf and blossom fair
Pours out its soul to the delicious air.

For those who love, in a reflective mood,
To climb the steep where some old castle stood,
And from its broad foundations, scarcely seen
Through the rank nettles, and the chervil green,
To muse o'er all that smiling landscape wide,
More fair than when that tower was in its pride:
For those who love, where the brook chiming falls
Down the still vale, to find the abbey walls,
Cluster'd about with the fresh opening leaves,
And sit down while the sun serenely weaves,
As the light breezes through the foliage go,
Soft shades, and casts them on the grass below,
Through which the cold, stone, massy coffins peep
Of lovely forms, that long have lain asleep:
For those who love to watch how flush and die
The alternate tribes of summer's progeny;
Who, in spring's earliest hours, rejoicing met
Primrose, and cowslip, and sweet violet,
And azure gleam of blue-bells' odorous ranks,
From the still forest, or green southern banks;
And now go forth to feast the conscious spirit
With all of beauty nature does inherit,
Fragrance, and sun, and greenness;—to behold
Beautiful herds, in lawns of living gold,
Couch'd on voluptuous flowers, or 'neath the shade
Of the thick chestnut, gloriously array'd;
For in its honour prodigal nature weaves
A princely vestment, and profusely showers,
O'er its green masses of broad palmy leaves,
Ten thousand waxen, pyramidal flowers;
And gay and gracefully its head it heaves
Into the air, and monarch-like it towers,
Dimming all other trees;—all, only one,
The beautiful hawthorn, that has now put on
Its summer luxury of snowy wreaths;
Bending its branches in exuberant bloom,
While to the light enamour'd gale it breathes,
Rife as its loveliness, its rathe perfume:
Glory of England's landscape! favourite tree
Of bard and lover! it flings, far and free,
Its grateful incense: whether you arise
To catch the first long sun-gleam in the skies,
And list the earliest bird-notes; whether you
Linger amidst the twilight and the dew—
There, through the silent air its odour strays,
Sweet as in home-scenes of your earliest days.

For those who love such solitary joys,
And seek them with a zest that never cloys;
For those to whom the wealth of life is given,
In thought, in quiet, and the smiles of heaven;
Who love to gather up, in field and cot,
The tales of those the proud world heedeth not;
Here, on the greensward by this woodland stream,
My pipe is ready for their favourite theme.

There is a town, that, ages past, did lie
In a low glade, and sent up tranquilly
Its fleecy smoke among old Sherwood's boughs;
From age to age, no tumult did arouse
Its peaceful dwellers; there they lived and died,
Passing a dreamy life, diversified
By nought of novelty, save, now and then,
A horn, resounding through the neighbouring glen,
Woke them as from a trance, and led them out
To catch a brief glimpse of the hunt's wild route;
The music of the hounds; the tramp and rush
Of steeds and men; and then,—a sudden hush
Left round the eager listeners;—the deep mood
Of awful, dead, and twilight solitude,
Fallen again upon that forest vast;
Or pilgrim's tale, who through its heart had pass'd,
Full of adventures dread with outlaw bands,
And kindly alms from holy hermit's hands;
Strange creatures met;—strange ills escaped by chance;
Fairies surprised amid their jocund dance;
Wood-nymphs that 'thwart a narrow glade would glance;
Or bowers that rose with knights and ladies gay;
Or saintly friars chanting solemn lay
Amidst the inmost wild—then vanish'd all away.

But this has long been past; a busier race,
Swarming and various, now possess the place;
And travellers find it, not amidst a sea
Of woods immense, but rich fertility,
On cultivation's ever-milky breast,
With whistling hinds, and flocks, and herds at rest.
Though not all traces of that state are gone,
But, at a trifling distance from the town,
Spreads a wild waste o'er many a sunny hill,
Unclaim'd and rude, and where, at freedom, still
Wanders the flock, and the rejoicing bee
Visits the fox-glove and the heather bells;
Where, bounding on the warm turf happily,
The harping grasshopper in summer dwells;
And, here and there, an oak, knotted and hoary,
Stands, as if sorrowing for its former glory.

There was a country bard, I knew him well,
His name ye know not, and I need not tell;
But he was one who, yet in youth's dear morning,
Loved to go out in the day's earliest dawning,
And roam to dimmest eve, watching each change
Of quiet beauty through the summer's range;
For yet ambition slept, and he was blest,
Nursing sweet thoughts and feelings in his breast.
This was a favourite haunt; for here, in years
Earliest of those that memory endears,
There was a something in its silence rude,
That charm'd his spirit, and inspired a mood
Novel, and dearer than all former things;
It was the birth of sentiment, that springs
Like a fresh fountain in the youthful breast,
Welling and sparkling, never more to rest;
But fraught with every draught of weal and woe,
That the soft heart in life and death can know.
It was a favourite haunt for more than this:
In some succeeding years of vigorous bliss,
With two—the first whose choice seem'd to express
Somewhat of heart, and not mere playfulness—
Many a bright hour of summer he had spent;
Hours, such as only to the young are sent;
Hours, full of dreams that pass, and yet are not
Even in age's dimmest day forgot.
The younger had a frame graceful and strong,
That seem'd to promise a life bright and long;
A freshness of clear tint, an opening bloom,
As if in mockery of the distant tomb;
And through his open countenance you might see
A soul that moved in pure simplicity;
Generous and manly, and to fervour fill'd
With nature's feelings, by the world unchill'd.

The other was far different. 'Neath a steep
And pale high forehead, searching, and cold, and deep,
Shrouded his eye, that darkly seem'd to speak
In sad conjunction with his pale, thin cheek.
Offspring of poverty; it was his lot
To feel all pangs that poverty has got.
Charity had spread, religious charity,
The book of knowledge open to his eye;
Then, while his heart was warm, and his young mind
Glow'd with proud hopes, splendid, but undefined,
Left him, amidst the busy world, to know
What dreadful gifts the wise sometimes bestow.
He sought far distant scenes—he join'd the press
Of the throng'd city—his was loneliness.
He met with smiling youths who late had been
His fellow-students; he was scarcely seen,
And coldly noticed: he then turn'd aside
From the gay walks of pleasure and of pride,
And sought the dwelling of a simple sage,
Whose words his swelling bosom might assuage;
For often he had heard, and deem'd in truth,
His fervent prayers for the beloved youth.
But there was something in his mien that seem'd
To tell him now, that sure he had misdeem'd.
He rush'd again into the crowded street,
Where all he heard, and all that he did meet,
Spoke still of happiness. The rich roll'd by
In splendid state, and with gay laughing eye:
And all around were groupes that seem'd to swim
In joy's sweet stream, that never flow'd for him.
He saw, at length, the key to human bliss,
And his heart sank,—he saw it was not his.
Stung to the soul, he turn'd, in hate and scorn,
Back from the race with whom he had been born,
But claim'd no sympathy;—a drop that fell
Into a sea, and lost amidst its swell.

He came back to the scenes that gave him birth,
Bleeding at heart, and withering to the earth:
There his peculiar wrongs he scorn'd to tell,
Yet much on pride and grossness would he dwell,
And bitter were the words that often fell
From him, when human kindness was his theme;
Warning his young friends of the foolish dream
Of honour, or of love, from brilliant sense,
Or knowledge deep, or aught but affluence.
Yet, sometimes when beneath a lovely sky,
Amongst the crimson heath-bells they would lie;
Or, arm in arm, wander'd the forest free,
Rapt in the melting mood of poesy;
Or, with some glorious topic on the tongue,
Such as is loved when life and thought are young;
The scene, the subject, would at times beguile
His frozen spirit to a transient smile.
Such were the youths whose memory had impress'd
A hallow'd feeling in the poet's breast
For these wild walks, for both alike had perish'd,
The blighted bud, and the flower loved and cherish'd.

He loved these wild walks, too, because they bore
Many a tradition of the days of yore.
Who has not known, from childhood's wond'ring hours,
Of merry outlaws in green Sherwood's bowers?
And it was here those merry outlaws dwelt;
'T was here their feats were done, their fear was felt.
Here, by fair Fountaine Dale, where still is found
The moat that did the friar's cell surround,
Fancy would often bid them still be seen,
With bugle shrill, and jackets of Lincoln green;
With song and dance beneath the wide-arm'd oak,
Easing rich priests, with solemn whim and joke;
Or in full state and goodly triumphing,
Feasting fair lady or their marvelling king.

And where upon that ancient forest stood
Some hoary remnant of its old greenwood,
When morning's sunny smile and wand'ring breeze
Scatter'd a tide of beauty through the trees;
Or basking noon had made all voices dumb
In the sweet woodland, thither would he come;
And slowly wand'ring, as for wand'ring's sake,
Yet with ear, eye, heart livingly awake,
Through the dry rustling leaves by wild winds swept
To shelter'd hollows, where they lay and slept
From year to year;—through the deep sinking moss,
And bilberry clumps, each soft swell that emboss
With living green, and berries red and crude;
There, stretching him in that loved solitude,
Drank with a deep and never-sated draught
All the glad spirit of that glorious time;
Eyeing above the radiant blue that laugh'd
Through the young leaves of the luxuriant lime,
Or spreading sycamore, from which the chime
Of thousand busy and exulting bees,
With odour of its pendant racemes,
Came soothingly; and his enamour'd sight
Traced the green veins along the tender leaves,
Transparent in the falling food of light,
As o'er his head they quiver'd, soft and bright,
Embowering him in freshness that bereaves
The bosom of each clinging care and pain:
Then, as his eye with lower glance would go
Through all the stillness of the scene below,
And far around him saw each rugged oak
Wrapp'd in a grey and mossy-fringed cloak,
Or shrouded in dark ivy; yet aloft
Unfolding to the sun its buds again,
And smiling, like a widow in her weeds;
While listening to the larches sighing soft,
Or birches shivering in the gale, the deeds,
And wood-walk spirits of the older times,
Would gather round him, and awake his rhymes.

A WOODNOTE.

Close by this forest's edge, the traveller sees
A walled copse of tempest-driven trees,
Twisted and torn, as impotent to cope
With the fierce winds,—there lies a misanthrope;
And those who visit that strange tomb are sure
To note, as 'twere, mountains in miniature,
Stretch'd on the slope beside it,—sandy piles,
Along whose ridges many a flow'ret smiles.
The crimson heath, the thyme, and golden hue
Of frail tormentil, and the milkwort blue.
Between, run hidden vales and rocky shelves,
Placed as for lovers to repose themselves.

Our bard had stroll'd that way one eve in spring,
Ere yet the bloom brighten'd the waste of ling;
But o'er the heath's dark breast the oaks were seen
Spreading their amber leaves out in the sunny sheen.
Far distant sounds, unmingled, soft, and clear,
Eve's pensive notes were falling on his ear.
The watch-dog's listless bark, the alternate lay
And whistle of the hind along his homeward way;
The twitter of the bird that sprang afraid
Before his feet, though seen not in the shade;
The plaintive bleating of the new-yean'd lamb,
And the hoarse answer of its watchful dam.
The shades were falling fast, and far around
A dun and gloomy waste the forest frown'd;
Yet wrapt in Fancy's and in Memory's pall,
He wander'd on, and still there seem'd to fall
Upon his vision shapes of glorious things,
Youth's glowing, fair, and bright imaginings.
He saw, once more, the gallant outlaws speed,
With bow, and bugle, and impetuous steed,
To fleece Sir Abbot, to relieve some dame;
Or heard their carols round the evening flame;
Or, waking up the thoughts of his young breast,
In summer scenes of sunshine and of rest,
He roved with lovely forms, and laughing eyes,
And heard dear tones of raillery and surprise.
As, thus absorb'd amidst the twilight gloom,
He had arrived beside that lonely tomb,
From out the adjoining glen, a form as light
As fairy feign'd, sprang forward into sight.
This way, and that, she gazed; and through the shade,
With hasty arm, of notice as afraid,
He saw her beckon; then, with speedy pace,
Retreat again to that obscurer place.
Amazed, and pondering what the sight could mean,
At such an hour, in such a desert scene,
He paused a moment; but, in beauty's guise,
When mystery woos a boyish minstrel's eyes,
Pauses are brief. With wondering intent,
He follow'd her as swiftly as she went;
And as more near upon her steps he drew,
He scrutinized her with a curious view.
Her dress was rustic, but her form and gait
Spoke to his fancy of far different state.
She stopp'd—she turn'd—on his astonish'd glance,
Oh! what a heavenly, beaming countenance
Shone in bewitching beauty!—Never yet
Had such a face his gaze of wonder met.
Beauty, in populous scenes, had often dealt
Her power, and glowing in his heart was felt;
Beauty had stolen upon his noonday dream,
On sunny hill-side, or by woodland stream;
But never had he seen it throned, as now,
In seraph glory, on that polish'd brow.
Her lineaments were such as sculptors mould
To express a spirit generous, warm, and bold.
Dark, clustering locks those lovely features raise,
In purer ivory, to the impassion'd gaze;
And to them eyes of deepest beam dispense
A bright, but mild and sweet intelligence.
But, had you seen how smilingly she turn'd,
And how that smile at once was quench'd, discern'd;
And what a blankness mark'd the stripling's face,
As all confused, yet with a witching grace,
In hasty, but in sweetest tones she spake,
And begg'd his pardon for a strange mistake;
You would have wonder'd at the curious scene,
And laugh'd, right merrily, at each marvelling mien.
But our young bard, who felt that chance had sent
Him to an audience for another meant,
Yet loth to bid that glorious face adieu,
Ere it had bless'd him with a longer view,
Put useless wonderings carelessly away,
And in prompt accents, jocular and gay,
“Perhaps the lady in the forest wide
Had lost her way, and sought a trusty guide?
He was her servant.”—“No; she knew it well.”
“Oh! then it most unluckily befell!
Nor would he, for the world, delay the greeting
Of youthful bosoms, at their twilight meeting!”
She laugh'd—“Good heavens! what could she meet, at most,
In such a place—an owlet—or a ghost!”
“These were but grisly comrades. But in vain,
There had she hoped to meet some favour'd swain;
The dolt, who, such a heavenly lot in store,
Had not been watching for it hours before,
Deserved from grace to be expell'd for ever.”
With laughing voice, she cried, “O never! never!”
While thus they parlied, they were walking down
The path descending towards that ancient town;
And still, at every word, at every view,
The enthusiast stripling's admiration grew.
Such light, luxuriant, buoyant grace was thrown
O'er her fine form, and living in each tone,
As seldom to the lowly damsel falls,
But dwells the charm of palaces and halls.
But lo! that stile,—a smile, a sweet good night,
And she is gone, like sunshine, from his sight.

The youth went slowly pacing down the hill,
But busied with the charming vision still:
Her voice, her features, glowing on his brain,
He ponder'd over all the interview again;
With every question fancy's power could frame,
Whom she might be? and wherefore thus she came?
Till, half-chagrined, he strove at once to wrest
The beauteous, clinging phantom from his breast;
And, speeding faster on, essay'd to fence
His bosom with harsh thoughts against her influence.
But there was something so divine about her,
It seem'd itself an abject sin to doubt her.
Yet, wherefore muse upon her?—Still in vain
He quell'd the thought, it rose and lived again.
He reach'd his home; the spell pursued him there;
He seized a book that well might war with care,
And gazed upon it, but his eye alone
Perused the page, the obedient soul was flown
To its enchantress. Thence he sought his bed;
There the strong charm still hover'd round his head:
At length he slept; and then, with tenfold power,
Came the bright vision of the evening hour.
Feverish he woke. The morn was soft and fair;
He sought the balmy freshness of the air;
And his feet led him, with unconscious haste,
To the same scenes,—the lone tomb, and the waste.
But there, nor in his frequent summer rounds
Along the forest's solitary bounds,
Through farm, or hamlet of the busier plain,
The beauteous stranger ne'er appear'd again.

Where, far along that forest's confines, rise
Oaks of old days, and of stupendous size;
And it is pleasant, in the summer hours,
Musing upon the thymy sward to lie,
When bees are humming in the odorous flowers,
And, now and then, the lone woodpecker's cry,
Shrill from his covert, like a wild colt's neigh,
Flits to the ear, but far more laughingly;
And it is pleasant, while the eye is straying
O'er ferny hills, to dream, with soul intent,
Of chivalrous days, of battle's proud arraying,
Of gala, show, and princely tournament;
Heroic knights, and glorious ladies donn'd
Antiquely gorgeous; steeds caparison'd
In golden tapestry, held by smiling pages,
All quaintly beauteous, like those high-soul'd ages.
That charming woodland's inner skirts infold
A hamlet, that itself doth seem as old.
Upon the green, thatch'd roofs, from year to year,
The houseleek, and the golden stonecrop, rear
Their ancient crests, and spicy wall-flowers blow,
And clinging ivy shrouds the walls below;
And on the very benches by each door
Where sate their sires before,
Old grey-lock'd men sit with prophetic eye,
Reading all changes of the summer sky;
And watch, with secret joy, young children's pranks,
Enthroned in bliss upon the grassy banks;
Amidst the ruins of fallen pigmy bowers,
And a bright waste of torn and wither'd flowers;
Their little, eager voices heard alone
Through the deep stillness of the basking noon.

No dwelling there seems of a later age,
But that sweet home, the modest parsonage.
Nor dome is that, in sooth, design'd to please
Swoln priestly pride, but built for learned ease
And pious meditation; all about
Smile tasteful scenes, and sunny walks without.
Its snowy walls, with leafy boughs embraced,
Its porch with roses and frail plants inlaced;
And round, fresh shrubs and ever-opening flowers
Exhale their essence to the morning hours.
There the liburnum's flaming locks are seen,
Entwined with wreaths of spring's divinest green;
The guelder-rose displays its balls of snow,
And rich seringas bid their perfumes flow,
Mingling, with every scent, their honied balm,
To bless the wanderer in the twilight's calm.
But oh! there bloom'd within the loveliest flower!
The youthful pastor's fair and gentle bride;
The glory of this sweet, sequester'd bower;
The watching angel of each home beside.
The priest himself, though smiled upon by fame,
Sought not its wreaths, but gladly hither came;
His sole ambition to distribute good,
And muse on nature in her loneliest mood.
Stolen from the world's bright scenes, they hither brought
All that is by its eager votaries sought;
Souls full of light, and bosoms overflowing
With love's pure tide, no ebb nor tempest knowing;
A flow of happiness that fill'd each cleft
Of the gay heart, and little longing left.
They read of troubles in the weekly news,
Of learned toils in journals and reviews;
Within their blest abode, for years the same,
Pleasures refined, but rarely trouble came.
The muse's triumphs and delights were theirs,
Mix'd with the pastor's and the parent's cares.

In harvest time, when the abounding earth
Is full of solemn beauty, and the mirth
Of gleesome peasants seems to stay awhile
The fleeting grace of summer's radiant smile;
When dryads from the silent woods look out,
To see the jocund rout,
Hearing loud laughs, and airy voices borne
From sunlit fields of thickly piled corn;
A peerless lustre fills the high-arch'd sky,
And the brisk breeze goes wand'ring pleasantly,
Nodding each whisking bush and dark green tree,
Or waving the rich velvet of the verdant lea;
Though not a flower perfumes its wanton breath,
And woods are hush'd, as with the hush of death:
For every living thing that seem'd to long
To fill the musical madness of its tongue
With summer's passionate and fervid glow,
That thrill'd them through and through,
Now pause, as if exhausted, and all lie
In a deep trance of dreamy luxury.
You hear no small bird's carol, nor the loud talk
Of merry blackbirds, in the forest walk;
The redbreast only, with a low-piped strain,
Seems welcoming wild autumn back again.

But to our story:—It was at this time,
When all was bright, but solemn and sublime,
Our bard was this priest's guest; and with him went
To visit one in life's last languishment.
Descending quickly from the town, their way
Through a deep glen of wond'rous wildness lay:
So rude, so bold, at once they seem'd to stand
In a stern hollow of some mountain land;
Seem'd to the eye as if that sylvan plain
By the fierce earthquake had been rent in twain.
Huge, splinter'd, frowning in alternate spaces,
On either hand rear'd high the answering faces
Of giant crags, with narrow slopes between,
With velvet turf, or tangling wild briers green.
From many a rocky steep the clinging yew
Its gloom athwart the narrow valley threw;
And ancient trees stretch'd forth, from height to height,
Their meeting arms, as to exclude the light.
Up from the deep, dim hollow rose the sound
Of waters dash'd o'er many a rocky mound:
Anon, and they beheld the white stream flow
In foam and mist along the dell below,
That, still expanding, led the charmed eye
Through its glad course of sweet variety;
Now checking its fleet race, gently to play
Where some small mead in emerald brightness lay,
Scatter'd, perchance, with huge, enmossed blocks,
From the bare crests of the surrounding rocks;
And canopied with trees where bards might lie
And waste whole days in glorious reverie;
Now, gushing past some cliff that dimly shows
Its grey bulk through a world of tossing boughs;
Till, out afar beneath the jocund sun,
Through woods and farms, the gathering waters run.
But, onward as they trod this hidden vale,
The priest was busied in a mournful tale.
“Cast o'er this sweet, sequester'd scene thine eye;
Two only dwellings thou wilt here descry;
Distant as yet; o'er one the thin blue reek
Curls slowly upwards—'tis the one we seek.
Two yeomen here their quiet lives have spent,
As in a world where they alone were sent.
Together here toil'd on in youth and health;
Together felt the advance of age and wealth;
Together here their children too have sported;
Along this dell life's first fair objects courted;
Traversed its every nook with curious eyes,
The rocks re-echoing to their mirthful cries;
No other playmates known, but making still
Comrades of every flower, and bird, and rill.
Three merry rangers in this flowery wild:
Maria Gray, her parents' only child,
All life, and beauty, and young joy's excess,
A little, laughing, dancing shepherdess;
And Gilburne's two young boys, who warmly strove
To bless the girl, each with a brother's love;
While she her young associates daily eyed,
With the fond feelings of a sister's pride;
Though readily might it at a glance be seen,
Her little heart did on the younger lean;
As one more of her own peculiar age,
More prone in her soft pastimes to engage;
A delicate boy, in spite of sun and storm,
Who still was fair, still show'd a fragile form.
And as he look'd, so tenderly he felt;
A very girl's mild spirit in him dwelt.
With him she here would stray in summer hours,
To spy the birds in their green leafy bowers,
And learn their various voices; to delight
In the gay tints, and ever bickering flight
Of dragon-flies upon the river's brim;
Or swift king-fisher in his gaudy trim
Come skimming past, with a shrill, sudden cry;
Or on the river's sunny marge to lie,
And count the insects that meand'ring trace,
In some smooth nook, their circuits on its face.
Now, in a childish frolic, shower a tide
Of green leaves on the stream, and run with pride
On to the flood's next turn, and see them there
Go sailing down, O far!—they knew not where!
Now gravely ponder on the frothy cells
Of insects, hung on flowery pinnacles;
Now, wading the deep grass, exulting trace
The corn-crake's curious voice from place to place;
Now here—now there—now distant—now at hand—
Now hush'd, just where in wond'ring mirth they stand.
Such were their joys: but Walter's elder mould
And spirit were less soft; and, uncontroll'd
By gentle feelings, he would lead them forth
To ruder sports, and love to see them both
At his wild deeds filling their eyes with tears,
Or gazing pale, and trembling with their fears.
Where the glede hung her nest upon the bough
Over the stream, upon the tall cliff's brow,
There would he scale its horrid battlement,
Scattering the stones behind him as he went;
And, creeping to the far-suspended prize,
Look down, and glory in his comrades' cries;
And while the fierce birds round his forehead scream,
Drag forth their young, and hurl them to the stream.
Or he would scale the pines, so dark and tall,
The crackling, dead boughs menacing a fall,
To storm the squirrel's hold, with blood and wound,
And bring her, with her young ones, to the ground.
But these days past, they parted for the strife
Of schools, and toils that wait maturing life.
Then met they;—met, as thou thyself perchance,
After long years, the full-blown countenance
Of one, thy boyhood's mate, and felt the strange,
But sweet, fresh feelings touch'd by that bright change,
When, as thou gazedst on that form and face,
Once so beloved, thou couldst the semblance trace
Of what they were, yet all so blent and lost
In new expression, memory was tost
In dark perplexity; yet, looking on,
There came a clearer cognizance anon;
And then a smile, a shade of thought would call
Back the old face, and thou wouldst catch it all.
And thenceforth to thy spirit it would be
Dear and familiar as in infancy.

“So met they here: Maria in the glow
Of all that Heaven on woman can bestow;
Beauty's full bloom, a countenance and a grace
That, like the noon, lit up this shadowy place.
And for her mind—'twas like that sky above,
As lofty and pure, all clearness, and all love.
'Twas like it, when the sun is shining there;
So fell her smiles upon the heart of care.
'Twas like it when a frail cloud dims its blue,
For so soft pity touch'd her spirit too;
A spirit finely toned, that still would be
With joy or sorrow link'd in sympathy.
How saw she her two playmates? Now, alas!
That I may not from painful tidings pass!
But yet, 'twas so, who saw them boys, as men,
Might have foretold them much as they were then.
Henry, a slender, graceful, gentle youth,
Piteous, sincere, and artless as the truth;
Social and blithe, yet for his pleasures choosing
Soft pensive hours, and lonely quiet musing;
A nightingale, gathering each joyous tone,
But with a sad, a sweet one all its own.
Not so was Walter: that rude, savage power
Of frame and soul seen in life's earliest hour,
Was grown to fulness. Beautiful, but stern,
One glance into his face, and you would learn
A tale of passionate vehemence and flame,
A will that shot like lightning to its aim;
Unawed by fear, unfollow'd by remorse,
Hot as the bolt, and desperate in its course.
His daring hand would, in a ruder time,
Have snatch'd at power, with violence and crime.
Here, joying in his bosom's fiery glow,
His muscular might, his spirits' boist'rous flow;
The wrestlers' crowded ring, the field, the course,
Saw, with strange awe, his skill and giant force.
No sweet mild thrill of feeling, no control
Of gentle fancy brighten'd on his soul:
His mirth was the roar of bacchanals, that bless
With flattery's balm, blind, prodigal excess.
And with his name were told such deeds as thrill
The stricken hearer with a shivering chill.
His sire was dead; his wild and demon sway
Had forced his brother from his home away.

“Such were they all, when in Maria's bower
Both brothers met, and both confess'd her power.
Oh! bodest thou not, when two such youths engage
For one fair prize, keen woe, or fearful rage?
Walter his suit with ready ardour press'd,
Deeming his hopes accomplish'd ere confess'd.
And such, in sooth, his power as might impart
A proud delight to many a smiler's heart;
But somewhat was there, which Maria saw,
In his fine face, that struck her soul with awe;
And she had more of his fierce actions heard
Than had a less reflective maid deterr'd.
But more—oh! more than all—she still had not
The beautiful moments of young life forgot;
Those bright and sunny scenes, those frolic hours,
When Henry led her all midst birds and flowers,
And left in her young eyes, upon her heart,
A look, a tone, that never would depart;
Spells that still lived in pleasure and distress,
Love's genuine glance, the voice of happiness.
Impell'd by these, she frankly spoke her thought:
‘His brother claim'd the poor boon that he sought.’
Lighten'd the scorn in Walter's laughing eye,
And curl'd his lip, at this unhoped reply;
And, whether deem'd he it were feign'd or real,
He urged his wishes with redoubled zeal.
To nurse one generous thought it was not his,
Or for a brother waive worse hope than this.

“But when he found Maria still unmoved,
And more, saw Henry loving, and beloved,
Then boil'd his haughty rage, and all the might
Of demon nature rush'd at once to sight.
Cruel and stern his every deed became;
His brain seem'd madd'ning with a quenchless flame.
Midst an inebriate rout he sate, and threw
Forth threats so fell, as quail'd even that wild crew.
Oh! at that time, what mingled bliss and care
Threw their twined influence o'er this gentle pair;
When every hope was full, each prospect bright,
Past, present, future, cast their mingled light
Upon them, like a summer day's full glow,
All clear above, all green and glad below!
In those loved scenes, by those sweet waters where
In childhood they were happy—happy there,
They deem'd to them a life of love was given,
Like a dear dream, to break alone in heaven.
But, in the pure sky of their joy, o'erhead
Hung that black cloud of sorrow and of dread,
A brother's causeless hate, and the heart's chill
That his harsh nature might too well instil.
And oft, in those days of dear anxious thought,
When to the maid some mutter'd fear was brought,
She'd sit and muse upon it, till o'erwrought
With frenzied horror, she would hurry forth,
Reckless of danger—of the tempest's wrath—
Of the worst ills that to this life belong,
The world's sharp eye, and ready scorpion tongue,
By night, by day, at lone eve's closing hour,
To turn her lover's footsteps from her bower.
But these alarms urged onward that event
Which Walter's threats were powerless to prevent;
And the glad day was swiftly hastening on,
That makes the lovers' hopes and fortunes one.

“But, meanwhile, poor old Alice Gilburne—what
Were the sad sufferings of her widow'd lot!
Her trembling heart had lived to bleed with all
The wounds that on the mother's heart can fall;
To see her long life's mate, the gentle stay
Of tremulous age, pass from her side away,
And gall and poison from that fountain spring,
Whence weak age looks for balm and cherishing;
To see, with brutal deeds, her savage son
Drive from her breast her gentler, kindlier one;
To see him hotly court, as if he lay
'Neath some cursed spell, swift ruin and decay;
Drive forth each toiling hind in wayward mood,
And make his house a desolate solitude;
Where she might sit, from day to day, alone,
Haunted with weary thoughts; and bitterly groan,
And wish that she could die;—yet worlds might not
Have borne her living from that sorrowful spot.
Askest thou why?—And need I then impart
The patient mystery of a mother's heart?
Oh! know'st thou not, that when a mother's eye
Sees all her darling group bask cheerily
In gladness, how her spirit clasps them round,
As heaven does, with its glorious crystal bound,
The white waves of a soft and sunny sea?
But part that blessed troop,—and should there be
One sad or guilty wanderer,—where is she?
Oh! will she not, leaving the happier band,
Follow that lost one with all blessings and tears,
Scattering, as shadows, with her desperate hand,
Perils and taunts, the heart-aches and the fears,
That freeze or madden grief; yea, even the worst
Of mortal pangs, ingratitude accursed;
And farther, farther, as the wretch may track
His way in sin or sorrow, her sad heart
More close and agonizedly will cling
Round him, and call on Heaven to bear him back:
And though despair may cry, depart! depart!
It cannot be!—anguish must break her heart,
Or home again the wanderer she will bring.

“So lived poor Alice,—so she linger'd on,
Though life's few blossoms from her path were gone.
Long, and a bare, a rude, and desolate way
It was, with but one glimmering light to play
Upon it; hope's frail beam—a beam, alas!
That would to all for very darkness pass,
But the fond madness of a mother's breast:
And even to her, faint, lonely, and oppress'd
With age's sorest burdens, cast a glare
At length so pale, 'twas rather dim despair.
That faint, that baseless hope, was yet to see
Walter, what never, never might he be!
And therefore in his house, by all forsaken,
Like a sad ghost, that ever loves to waken
When others sleep, and evermore to stray
Where horrid thoughts keep mortal feet away,
She linger'd on through years of hidden sorrow,
Still gathering, deep'ning, fresher every morrow.
At times, a passing rustic would descry
Her tall, bow'd figure, and groan piteously,
To see the wasted, wretched, trembling thing
Of woman made by age and sorrowing,
As out she pass'd, with palsied impotence,
To drag the dry sticks from the mouldering fence;
Then, often pausing, stagger back to steal
From her small hoard, to furnish forth a meal
For him, who, coming like a fiend, would frown
In sullen silence, or would spurn it down.

“Yet patiently she bore it;—yes, she bore
It with that desperate patience in the core
Of her torn heart, that locks its anguish fast,
And will not vent it till it throbs its last.
She spoke not—no, not even in that tone
Of gentle love dear woman knows alone;
And from a suffering mother's lips should fall,
In melting power, upon the hearts of all.
For well she knew even that would rouse to rage
His choleric heart, nought human might assuage.
But she would sit, with a sad, sedulous eye,
Quick every want to note, and to supply;
Until, in savage gloom, he would depart,
Then pray for blessings on his obdurate heart.
Oh! if there be a sight on earth to break
The rugged spirit down—a sight to wake
Soft human feelings in a heart of stone,
It were that sight, though it were that alone;
A mother worn with age, with grief, and pain,
Not seeking from her offspring back again
Those tender solacings, those ministrant fears
That she had dealt them through laborious years;
For ever near, with those protecting charms,
Her warm soft breast, and fondly folded arms,
But outraged, crush'd by those she bless'd before,
Yet bearing all, and ready to bear more.
But him it touch'd not; nothing can unlock
The heart with envy callous;—'tis a rock.

“One night alone she sate, as she was wont,
Waiting his coming from some abject haunt,
Till midnight had watch'd out, and she had bore
That weary time as many such before;
Seated beside an ample grate, where lay
A few faint brands, now dying fast away;
Her thin and wither'd arms cross'd on her breast,
And her head sunk down in uneasy rest;
Till rousing up, she look'd around, and heaved
A sigh that left her bosom unrelieved.
Stripp'd, naked, dismal was that spacious room,
And deadly silent as the voiceless tomb:
For not a living thing beside was there
To know her grief, and almost—her despair.
Poor, fond, devoted woman! Oh! it stirs
My soul to think, that for such hearts as hers
Should spring such misery;—yet earth a mother
Might find so fond, so wretched not another.
The very moon, as if touch'd with distress
And sympathy for such sad loneliness—
Herself a lonely traveller—as she hung
In the blue heavens, her pallid radiance flung
Down through the low, wide chimney, and upon
The desert hearth, with a cold light that shone
Over the ashy brands, so faint and low,
And seem'd to quench them, and at once to show
All the drear void of that most wretched place,
And threw a wan, wild lustre on her face.
Up, with a sudden glance, she turn'd her eye
As if it woke the thought that from the sky,
From heaven alone, must comfort fill her heart,
That earth still held, but by its noblest part.

“There came a footstep—'twas her son's—she rose
To unbar the door, and fast again to close.
He enter'd with a countenance—Oh! fell
And fix'd malignity, how horrible
And fiend-like is thine impress! If there be
A curse to blast man's beauty, it is thee.
His dark, swoln features pictured to excess
All horrid thoughts on flame with drunkenness:
And his red eyes had in their sullen glare
Ferocious madness, felon, cursed despair.
Even Alice shrunk; but, monster most abhorr'd!
He grasp'd her arm, and snatching from the board
A knife, that in her kindness she had laid,
Swore a demand that he had often made;
‘Where was that secret hoard whence, night and morn,
Her never-failing sustenance she had drawn?’
How reel'd her heart at that rude wound! yet she
Shrunk not in fear; but, looking patiently,
Said, in pleading tone, whose piercing power
Might touch a savage in his bloodiest hour,
‘Walter, thou wilt not hurt me!’ But, O heaven!
When the cursed blade she felt that moment driven
On through her wither'd fingers—when she saw
Her blood gush upon hands that every law,
Of every land,—God's holiest decree,
Proclaim'd her genuine guardians to be,
Then fail'd her spirit. With a low, piteous cry,
She sunk to earth—Oh! surely there to die!
No!—for, at length, a groan of anguish told
That life too firmly still retain'd its hold:
And, gathering up her strength, she sate, and drew
Forth, with her gory hand, a key, and threw
It, with a wild laugh, towards her murderous son;
Then cried, exultingly, ‘'tis done! 'tis done!’
Then raving fell, and grovel'd on the floor;—
But 'tis too horrid—pass we the rest o'er.

“'Twas near this time, as closed a summer day,
I chanced, as often, to stroll down this way.
I love to feel the cool, fresh eve come on,
In the hay harvest, when hot day is gone;
See its soft light flush o'er green slope and lea,
And the long shades stretch on from tree to tree;
And lads and lasses from the fields retreating,
And, passing, with them change a friendly greeting.
I love to meet them, sunny all and warm,
With shoulder'd forks, and basket on the arm;
Light open garbs, and faces that express
Hearts that still laugh, in spite of weariness.
But there were none of these:—A strange alarm
Seem'd spreading swiftly round from farm to farm.
There was one running breathless towards a band
Of harvesters, that made a solemn stand
As he approach'd; and as he spoke each hand
Let go its implement; the men stood still;
The women shriek'd out fearfully and shrill:
And then away they rush'd; and, as they flew,
Beckon'd each distant man that came in view.
They pass'd by other labourers, and they lent
To them too their contagion:—on they went
With wild impetuous speed. A passing breath
Fell on me—'twas of drowning, and of death;
And I too ran, till on this very spot
I saw a thickly-wedged and busy knot
Of people, over something bending low,
With mingled, earnest talking and loud woe;
Like young bees knit upon a bough in spring,
And such their deep, thick, plaintive murmuring.
I broke into the press—Oh! Sire of all!
May never more such horror on me fall!
A drowned man—'twas Henry Gilburne lay;
The water stream'd from his drench'd corse away:
But there was more than sorrow;—there was loud
And gathering indignation in the crowd;
And questions of dire import;—and strong doubt
How this dread thing should here have fallen out.
Here, where this knotted oak's rough, burly trunk,
Rear'd through a thousand years, at length has sunk,
And bridged, and stemm'd, with its huge bulk, the tide,
Gathering the yesty foam upon its side,
They found him plunged, as though his feet had slid
Smooth with the summer grass, and there, half hid
In the thick foam, he'd perish'd. On his brow
There rose a livid tumor,—but that too
Might be received in his disastrous fall.
Thus the crowd reason'd—then denied it all.
'Twas violence—'twas murder could explain
Alone the dreadful secret to their brain.
Shallow the stream—secure the broad trunk lay,
And often pass'd by peasants in the day.
But whose the deed?—There was but one—no other
That loved him not—and that one was—his brother!
And when they call'd to memory all their feud,
And Walter's deeds, and fell demoniac mood,
Conviction ran amongst them, like the flame
Through dark electric clouds, and as it came,
Furious, and fill'd with that impetuous zeal
That nature framed man's kindred heart to feel,
When monstrous crimes to daylight venture out,
Away they sprang in a tumultuous rout.
They flew—they stopp'd not in their wrath, until
They reach'd his home; and then at once there fell
A sudden influence on them; one and all
Paused in blank awe;—'twas ruin did appal
Their hearts with its grim aspect; for around
There seem'd no living being, light, nor sound.
It was a scene of deadest gloom; the shade
Of night was coming down, and they survey'd
A mansion large, and offices that stood
As in a rude and unclaim'd solitude.
Their tread aroused not the stern mastiff's howl;
They heard no stamp of horse, no clack of fowl,
For ever watchful; nor the milky breath
Of cattle met;—it seem'd a place of death.
Green weeds, that love in desolate haunts to grow,
Flourish'd on falling roofs, and path below:
Grey crumbling doors, and windows broken out,
And mould'ring thatch and wood were strewn about.
But their wrath slept not long, they swiftly past
Through this waste scene; the door was closed and fast,
And loudly did they thunder, but in vain,
There came no sound, no answering voice again.
Where was old Alice Gilburne?—Was she dead?
Or was she silenced by that monster's dread?
Roused at the thought, they rush'd against the door;
Down with a hollow echo on the floor
It fell—up rose a cloud of carious wood,
And forward rush'd the furious multitude.
But oh! the fearful scene! the wretch they sought,
Fallen in the dreadful ruin he had wrought,
Lay stiffening in his gore; and fast beside
His mother's woes had stretch'd her; she had died,
Tumbled, as if from her accustom'd seat
She had sprung forth and perish'd at his feet.
Striving to avert his last infernal deed,
Her heart had burst, from that mad horror freed.
Numb'd, blasted with the vision, the mazed crew,
Shuddering with terror, from that sight withdrew.

“For me, I saw it not; for I had sped
To ward the storm that o'er Maria's head
Was bursting down; but not the wild dove's wing
Can outstrip tidings of an evil thing.
All had she heard;—yes, all this withering tale
Of death and crime, that on this once blest vale
Had fallen with such malignant, horrent sway,
As blasted and polluted it for aye.
All she had heard; and, smitten, sank beneath
This sudden bolt of bitterness and death.
And there she lay, oh pity!—her young heart
Struggling and quivering with the o'erwhelming smart;
And sinking in unconsciousness, and then
Waking to grief's wild agonies again,
And praying to depart; but like the lime
Scathed by the lightning in the summer time,
Still feebly living on, and putting out
Its shrivell'd leaves when all is green about:
So youth's strong powers have, all averse to bow,
Bound her bruised spirit unto life till now;
And as a rose torn up, and rudely thrown
To wither in the sultriness of noon,
Showers cannot save, but they will make it smile,
And breathe around delicious balm awhile;
So sweet religion, though it could not heal
Her throbbing wounds, has yet avail'd to steal
Their anguish out, and round a halo cast
Of angel love and beauty to the last.

“But we have reach'd her home.” He ceased, and they
Anon stood where a slumb'ring damsel lay
Upon a rustic couch, as hastily there
She had reclined; and near an ancient pair
Sate fondly watching, like two saints of old,
Over a creature of heaven's brightest mould,
Sleeping amidst a wilderness of flowers,
Tired with its voyage to this world of ours.
But ah! no happy spirit she;—for lo!
Her fragile form laid waste by mortal woe:
And that pale face, those features pure, that still
The soul with thoughts of heaven's own beings fill,
Though wan and wasted; and that delicate arm,
And long, fine fingers, with a careless charm
Laid lightly on her breast, all richly fraught
Like Italy's pure marble, proudly wrought
By some great hand, with grace and power that steep
The gazer's soul too tenderly and deep
With dying beauty's image. But her sleep
Was passing; and her lips, that did possess
Yet a soft flush of former ruddiness,
Moved, and there fell upon the listening ear
A waking sigh, and inly-toned “Oh dear!”
Then, as she oped her bright but languid eyes,
She saw the priest, and said, with glad surprise,

“Oh! this is kind! How have I long'd to see,
On earth once more, thy Margaret and thee!
And now I feel death's summons; he is near;
Yes, I have had his brightest heralds here;
A dream of bliss, a sudden strength that fell
Upon me, like a pleasant miracle.
This morning I awoke, as with a word,
A gentle calling from a loved voice heard;
And, musing as I lay, I wond'ring felt
As if strong health again within me dwelt;
A buoyancy of heart, a power, a tone,
And a sweet joy o'er frame and spirit thrown:
All grief, all weakness gone, it seem'd as though
One night had cancell'd all these months of woe.
With that I rose,—yes rose, and issued out,
And view'd my favourite plants, and gaily look'd about;
My mother, with a sad foreboding smile,
And wond'ring gaze, beholding me the while.
But I could not forebode—I could not feel
One grief, one pain,—oh! nothing but a zeal,
A sweet, o'erflowing tenderness of love;
And as I gazed on the blue sky above,
And the green earth, my spirit seem'd to cling
In joy to all, yea to the meanest thing
That lives; and in its fervent depths to bless
The soul of all this world's wide happiness.
Then wearied here I slept;—I slept, but seem'd
To be with Henry, where around us teem'd
Beauty, and joy, and wonder; and on high,
Above us shone, O such a glorious sky!
Where glared no sun upon the drooping eye.
Greenness, and flowers, and streaming waters fair,
Were round us; in the soft, delicious air
Living, inspiriting perfumes flow'd wide,
And music's 'trancing voice breathed out, and died.
Then wander'd we by many a bowery dwelling,
Where blissful creatures, in glad groupes, were telling
How they had sported through blue space afar;
Of forms divine in many a distant star;
Of scenes beheld as traversed they the earth;
Wild, mingled tales of sorrow and of mirth.
Some, in hot deserts, when nigh perishing,
Had led the pilgrim to the bubbling spring;
Some roused the sleeping Indian to descry,
Crouch'd in the jungle, the fell tiger nigh;
Some, midst the sea-wreck's horror and despair,
Buoy'd up the strugglers by their floating hair,
Hovering unseen; and some, in city throngs,
Where heartless villany decreed its wrongs
For young, rejoicing innocence, had shed
Fear through his vitals, till the monster fled;
And some had snatch'd up heedless infants found,
Smiling in glee, where perils thicken'd round;
And, as they told how these blest deeds were done,
Joy and applause through the bright creatures run.

“Then roam'd we through a forest pleasantly dim,
Beneath strange trees, of hoary trunk and limb;
Huge, but all fresh in ever-during age;
And pass'd, and gazed on awful seer and sage,
And monarch, and dread name of the old time;
Frames of august, proud beauty, and sublime
Of countenance, yet full of love that shone
And revell'd, with paternal light, upon
Thronging majestic sons, and glorious daughters,
Numerous as waves upon the ocean waters.
Their talk was of those times, those times that we
Would fain charm out from hoar antiquity;
Of giant wars, and men, and monsters strange,
That on the earth's young breast did mightily range;
Of Mamre, and sweet Paran's pastoral scenes;
Of simple patriarch kings, and peerless shepherd-queens;
Matchless old tales, that heaven enough would be,
To lie and listen to eternally.

“But onward still a gladsome impulse bore;
And now we stood upon the sounding shore
Of a wide sea, whose crystal waters kiss'd,
Still as they came, emerald and amethyst,
Ruby and sapphire, and huge diamond's glow;
And on that strand glanced lightly to and fro,
Link'd lovingly, young, blissful, smiling things;
And some aloft shot forth their starry wings
Over the deep, and sportively would lave
Their snowy bosoms in a rushing wave;
And some put out, from distant, basking isles,
Their little barks, with sails of light and smiles
Woven; and voyaging that delicious main,
Sent o'er its billows a rejoicing strain.

“And then—ineffable!—then, piled in light!
Dazzling, intense, at once upon my sight,
Palace, and tower, and domes each like a star,
A glorious city's walls shone out afar;
Beneath a keen and gorgeous sky, unroll'd
Like a vast canopy, o'er thrones of gold,
And flower-wreath'd marble fountains, casting streams
Like liquid beryl, changing into beams
Of rainbow light, scatter'd in air to snow,
And pearly drops that tinkling fell below.
Figures divine were passing; from those bowers
Stole solemn music, as from eastern flowers
Breathed forth an air; and then, a mighty sound,
Thrilling and deep, as from the vast world round
One instant song had burst: it fell upon
My heart with awe—I trembled—it was gone!
Gone—melted into nothing—and I lay,
Feeble and fainting, and still through the day
My heart has sank so coldly! Yet, oh! yet,
Could I these thoughts of horror but forget,
That will not cease, and these two dear ones know,
More comforted, how gladly could I go,
And quietly to sleep!—” She paused, and all
Were silent, as though rest did gently fall
Upon her, as they stood around her bed;
And she slept deep—for she, indeed—was dead!

How felt our bard? How felt he!—Why, as one
Who, when his heart was merry, has seen gone
Down in a moment, through the flashing wave,
Fortune, and love, and left him nought to save.
For he, oh! misery,—he now saw her
Again, that like a beaming messenger
From heaven to earth, had pass'd him in the spring,
And darken'd with her glory each bright thing
Beloved before; while she herself fled past,
And never could be found, till here at last
Smitten at heart, and dying. Now he knew
All her sweet worth, and all her suffering too.
And as he fondly view'd her, as he dwelt
Wildly on every dying tone, he felt
He could have traversed earth, he could have braved
Thraldom and scorn—nay death, could he have saved
Such heavenliness: but vain—her life was o'er;
He saw it—and he thought—he felt no more.
Nought, but a dizzy coldness on his brain,
Till sorrow's sobbing voice broke through again
That dulling trance; and then he turn'd away
To fill with airy visions life's brief day;
A dreamer, in a world that was to him
Joyless, and beautiless, and cold, and dim.

Thus have I sung, thou young and gentle one,
Thy life and fate, as I have often vow'd;
Now thou, too, from this weary world art gone,
Thy love, thy woes wrapp'd in an early shroud:
Thus have I sung thy forest haunts aloud;
Not with a minstrel's cunning, but a heart
That loved thee long, and still with sorrow bow'd,
Sighs to have kept thee here, or to depart,
And be for evermore where thou in glory art.

Thou passed'st like a meteor on a waste,
That sweetly shines, but only seen by chance;
Thou wert not to the drudging worldling's taste;
The proud one eyed thee with a scornful glance;
And even the delving peasant deem'd perchance
Himself a happier thing: but thou wert one
Such as I'd love to travel the expanse
Of this earth with, then with thee straight begone,
Right glad, to other worlds, thou young and gentle one!