The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Tis morning; o'er the billows glimmers grey,
The growing light of slow advancing day;
Restored to life and thought, the wanderer hoar
Wakes in the cave high-roof'd on ocean's shore.
Stretch'd near the fire above the restless waves,
With many a pause between, he weeps and raves;
Now sad his speech and low—now wildly loud;
And near him Moreland sits in sadness bow'd,
Turning, at times, his alter'd face aside,
The growing trouble on his brow to hide;
Oft through his fingers and the gushing tear
He views his guest; and tawny gleams of fear
Course his sad check, and to his gloomy eye
Give milder light and tamed ferocity.

116

But when, with counterfeited voice, he strove
To soothe the dying sufferer, and remove
His mind's disease, and health's destroyer—fear—
Bidding him hope there yet was comfort near,
And that he yet his distant home should see—
Then Eustace raised his eye of misery,
And fix'd it on the speaker, with a look
That from his cheek the sickly yellow took,
And left it white. “But what art thou?” he said;
“My languid eyes, with death's dim films o'erspread,
Scarce see thy face; yet I, on some far shore,
Have heard, methinks, that hollow voice before.”

“Nay,” answer'd Moreland: “for, from youth to age,
Here have I dwelt in this my hermitage;
And made my feet familiar with the glens
Of unclimb'd mountains, and the perilous dens
Where the wolf sleeps, and wilds, since time began,
Untrodden, save by me, a homeless man.”

“'Tis well!” said Eustace; “and, my friend unknown,
Thou soon again shalt sojourn here alone.
A little while, and thou with up-piled stones
And scanty earth, shalt sepulchre my bones.
Oh, I have long conversed with sighs and groans!
Long—I have been acquainted long with tears;
And I am old, and older than my years.
But tell not me of home. I have no home—
The wretched can have none. I love to roam

117

A wanderer from myself; and, had my soul
Wings, I would fly beyond the farthest pole—
Yea, cast behind me earth and every star,
And dwell in soulless, lifeless space afar.
Home, saidst thou? To the grave, thou babbler—go,
And ask the worm what home hath hopeless woe?
Home!—what is home? O read the answer here!
Tis not the hearth, but that which makes it dear.
I dream'd of such a home—that dream is gone;
And now I seek my home—the silent one;
For life is joyless, hope is fled, and fear;
Death, death alone remains—and he is near.
Life's glow, departing, yet informs my cheek;
Feeble, not feeblest. I have strength, though weak,
Enough to feel, in Nature's fainting strife,
More than all pain—this weariness of life.
O Death! how long? O let me—let me die!
There is a love eternal in the sky;
And there I may forgive—perhaps forget.
I do not curse—I will be patient yet;
Though they whom most I scorn'd contemn'd me most,
I will be patient—Will? Oh, while we boast
Our woe-tried constancy, we but sustain,
Because we must, inevitable pain!

“I know it well—I know I rave in vain.
What brought me hither, say'st thou? Love and hate,
A faithless friend, a woman, and my fate.

118

I once was rich, nor dwelt beneath the sky
A flatter'd fool more fortune-cursed than I;
And Love's false morn was bright, too bright to last:
But, when the dogs bark'd at me as I pass'd,
And worldlings, if they met me, travell'd fast,
Ann tore at once the bandage from my mind;
I gazed on truth, and wish'd my heart were blind!

“I was undone! by Ann and all forgot;
Cold—naked—hungry—and she sorrow'd not;
Distracted—and she soothed not my despair;
Sick, and in prison—and she came not there.
Night was around me, and I wept alone,
Despised, neglected, left unheard to groan.
But when I rose out of the earth, and light
And Nature's face rush'd lovely on my sight,
How did the bosom-serpent greet her mate?—
With looks of rancour and with words of hate;
And wretch she call'd the wretch herself had made.
She cursed me to my weeping eyes—she bade
My children curse me! and I wish'd again
To hear the clanking of my dungeon chain.
But Julia was the sweetest child of all:
She kiss'd, she bless'd me, she alone did call
Her mother's husband ‘Father!’ While the rest,
Jane and Matilda, (though my own,) express'd
No joy their sire's long-absent face to see,
Julia—the youngest—Julia welcomed me!

119

Dear Julia!—on my broken heart she smiled;
Dear Julia!—wherefore was not she my child?

“But never will I drink again from cup
Made by the skill of mortal. I scoop'd up
The water in the shallows of the sand,
And drank it from the hollow of my hand.
Nay, do not think that I myself deceive,
But trust what I, in horror, must believe.
They gave me poison in my drink; and he
Smiled as I drank it; and—O misery!
I burn'd and lived; I burn'd—and yet I live.
God, in thy mercy infinite, forgive—
Forgive them if thou canst! and I will try—
Will wrestle hard to pardon both and die.”

Breathless, he paused; and Moreland tried again
To soothe with gentle words his bosom's pain;
And bade him hope, since life's worst ills were o'er,
Heav'n yet had earthly good for him in store.

“Good?” Eustace cried—“O speak of good no more!
It is a word that I have heard of—‘Good?’
O name it not to me! I understood
Its import feelingly when life was new,
And faith a child; for then my Ann was true.
But now I have no name. An eaglet fledged,
Or, like the homeless tempest, privileged
To wander where I will, I breathe on her
Forgiveness, mix'd with curses; and prefer,

120

Before all roofs of faithless man, the sky,
And envy every wild bird's wing on high.
A moment she was mine—one bright brief hour;
And then she fled in darkness! Like a flower,
Dropp'd from an infant's hand into the deep,
She left my bosom, and to troubled sleep
Consign'd my dreams. A vision bright and brief,
Joy fled to come no more! and, like a leaf
Shook from the bough when winds of winter rave,
I float and whiten on the desert wave.

“Thus was I left, but not alone, to sigh.
Though sickness quench'd the light in Julia's eye.
My Julia faded. Mine?—she died, at last,
And then the bitterness of woe was past;
For I had loved her better than my own,
Because she kiss'd me, when my soul bow'd down
By rancour's curse despair'd. I follow soon;
My day of life wanes nightward fast from noon,
And evening lowers. Yet, once more let me gaze
On ocean, stretch'd in wild morn's clouded blaze.
For Ann and I (she lov'd thee, Ocean, well)
Have watch'd on other shores thy hollow swell,
So brightly blue, so beautifully bright,
When every billow was a ridge of light,
And light seem'd life. But she will hear no more
The tumult of thy loud-resounding shore:
I follow next, for she, too, went before.

121

O native scenes, I see ye in my soul!
O England, green, where southern billows roll!
Ye towers of Sheaf, where royal Mary wept!
Ye banks of Don, where oft my childhood slept!
Ye giant oaks, that, from the adder's cliff,
Frown'd o'er the dark wave and my gliding skiff!
Thou, Wincobank, on whom the golden cheek
Of eve rests loveliest! and ye hills of Peak,
That softly melt into the airy blue,
And hear the lark beneath—adieu! adieu!”

Here paused he; but ere long, in accents low,
Resumed, with dying lips, his tale of woe;
As, whispering, thro' the gorse on Bretland's breast,
The dark March tempest sighs itself to rest.

“Oh, she was foul and fair! Yet once her mind
Was lovely as her face; and if the wind
Ne'er kiss'd a ringlet on a fairer cheek,
Her spirit once was, as the twilight meek,
And, as the wild flower's blushes, innocent.
Yet to the grave with spotted name she went,
Before the faces of astonish'd men.
I saw her strive with death, and wept not then.
She wept—and raised her trembling hands in pray'r,
And mine were raised with hers; for I was there,
E'en by her bed of pain. I saw the fear
Of death convulse her frame, and in her ear
I whisper'd hope. Then from her bosom broke
Sad thanks in sighs, and, sobbing loud, she spoke:

122

‘Pardon'd by thee, I seek my shameful grave:
Oh, still, my Lord, thy injured heart forgave!
Tender and true, though sever'd from my hate,
Thy love still lived, and sought no second mate.
O may I meet thee in those realms divine!
Or is eternal Mercy less than thine?
Yet will I love, and hear thee—see thee still;
And woe shall bow to my triumphant will.
Yet will I snatch thy whisper from the gale,
And o'er the gates of sin and death prevail.
What chain can hold the disembodied mind?
Grim hell may torture thought, but cannot bind.
And when, released from this disastrous clay,
To happier regions thou shalt wing thy way,
My soul, by rigid Justice unforgiven,
Shall weep, an outcast on the verge of heaven;
At distance see my children wander free,
And never bid adieu to them or thee!’

“I pour'd into her soul Religion's balm;
I watch'd her awful silence, and was calm;
And when she raised her eye, resign'd and meek,
Warm on my wither'd hand, and woe-worn cheek,
I felt her last—last tear. She spoke no more:
The sinful sufferer's many pangs were o'er,
And mine scarce felt. I heard the shovell'd clay
Fall heavy on her bier. I turn'd away
With bursting heart. Lo! as my head I bow'd
I saw th' adulterer in the homeward crowd!

123

But, like a frozen sea, on which the wind
Can raise no billow, slept my awe-quell'd mind;
All angry feeling from my bosom fled,
The passions all were chain'd—my heart was dead.

“I may not lie where Ann in cold earth lies;
But might I see again with these sad eyes
The clay that is her pillow, they would close
Happy to shut for ever on the woes
Of such a world as this. I weep for her:
I am not stone: she was a sufferer,
And, though a sinner, yet a Magdalene:
She died repentant, and was loveliest then.
Oh, she was false to me! but I am true;
And, when she died, we then were wed anew.
The worms, the worms our bridal bed prepare;
Long waits the bride—in vain! I come not there.
Sever'd in life, still, still let death divide;
Why should I slumber by the lost one's side?
Yet, when the trump of doom shall rend the sky,
And wake all sleepers, she shall meet an eye
That could not meet hers frowning. Oh, her breast,
Though dearest still, is spotted and unbless'd:
No pillow meet for me, although I long for rest!

“Let me not doubt God's justice! Oh, what fate
Pursues my race, as with a demon's hate?
Evil must come of evil! that I know;
But how have we incurr'd this shame, this woe,

124

This desolation? How long must I bear
This fever of the soul, and, in despair,
Invoke the worm that will not come and feed?
Still, still I breathe, while woes on woes succeed.
Happy in this, Ann did not live, like me,
To mourn her daughters' guilt and misery.
Lured by two villains from their native shore,
By me pursued in vain, and seen no more,
They fled—they left me, hopeless and alone,
To curse their birth, and name them with a groan.
As back I voyaged, the tempestuous wind
Bow'd the tall masts, and heaved the seas behind;
The thunder knew me, the flash look'd me through,
The billows wild the man of sorrows knew;
And ocean would not spare one friendly wave
To whelm my misery in a briny grave.
Dash'd from the reeling deck by surge and blast,
I sunk—I rose—I reach'd the strand at last.
And when thou found'st me on the rock's cold brow,
I was not sure if then I dream'd or no:
From mile-high crags, girt midway by the storm,
Th' adult'ress seemed to hurl my faded form;
And thou might'st deem the fierce and parching wind
Had left of me no trace, save dust behind—
Wan dust, on which a viewless finger cold
Had traced the lines that all with dread behold.

“Why dost thou turn away thy brow severe?
Why would'st thou hide from me thy generous tear?

125

The rock's dark tenant melts at my distress!
Thou weepest, cavern'd king of loneliness!
Alas!—but no, it cannot be; for thou
Didst rove, thou say'st, in childhood, on the brow
Of star-loved mountains hoar since Time began
Pathless and wild, and seldom sought by man,
Thou say'st, I have not known thee; and mine eyes,
Dim as my troubled spirit, recognize
In thee distinctly nought; yet—oh, thy scowl
Brings back a wintry darkness to my soul,
Like the remembrance of a dream, that leaves
No definite impression, while it grieves
The heart that feels, and long will feel, how dire,
How black it stood, and what a livid fire
Gleam'd o'er its features of obscurity!
Or, like the sea, when midnight storms are high,
Heard, but not seen, while terror on the shore
Sees the gun flash, but cannot hear its roar;
And long with eyes strain'd dizzy o'er the main,
Vainly expects to hail that flash again!

“Farewell, kind tenant of the ocean's cave!
I hear no more the restless billow rave.
Thy features vanish from my view: I reel,
From sense to gloom. What is that I feel,
Foretelling stranger feelings yet to be,
Ere all is past? A shuddering agony
That is not pain. O thou most terrible!
Thou nothing, that marr'st all things! canst thou tell,

126

When from the block the sever'd head falls low,
And glaring eyes seem conscious of the blow,
And quivering lips in soundless words complain,
What pangs may writhe the agonizing brain,
Where thought, perchance, still lingers? I shall know
Soon the deep secret, veil'd from all below,
And what the dying feel when sense is dumb:—
Thou beckonest me, black angel! and I come.”

Thus, in the ocean-cavern's glimmering light,
To Moreland spake the wanderer of the night.
Question'd in vain, his words replied no more;
But Moreland bent the lifeless body o'er,
Fix'd in the mute intensity of pain,
And lived, in thought, his past years o'er again.
What, hopeless rebel! would'st thou give to be
Wrong'd, like thy victim, and as pure as he?