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

To the Author of “Essays on the Formation and Publication of Opinions”—the Bentham of Hallamshire—as a tribute of respect, unworthy, but most sincere, I dedicate this humble Poem.

BOOK I.

Don, like a weltering worm, lies blue below,
And Wincobank, before me, rising green,
Calls from the south the silvery Rother slow,
And smiles on moors beyond, and meads between.
Unrivall'd landscape! Oh, it is a scene
That to remembrance brings the hope-bless'd days,
But not their hope! And at my feet, serene
And cold lies he, and deaf to mortal praise,
Who from this mount, erewhile, rejoiced to gaze;
Who in this temple, plain and unadorn'd,
Duly as Sabbath came, throughout the year,
The word of Him in Jewry heard and scorn'd,
In Jewry scourged and slain, rejoiced to hear;
While Age shed oft th' involuntary tear,

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And younger voices sweetly join'd to sing
The warbled anthem, plaintive, soft, and clear,
Till soar'd the soul on pure devotion's wing,
And God look'd down, and angels, listening.
Daughters of Memory! shall the good man sleep
Unnoted, though immortal, in the grave,
While forms of angel-mockery seem to weep,
O'er tyrant vile, or viler willing slave?
The lying line shall prosperous villains crave
To bid their flatter'd baseness live again?
Shall verse from sure oblivion try to save
Each worthless name? and no unvenal pen
Write, “Here lies Nature's child, the best of men;”
The sire of that mourn'd youth, whose soul of fire
Cherish'd in mine a spark that else had died,
The love of Milton's song, and Ossian's lyre,
And Burns, to glory's noblest sons allied?
Cold o'er thy bosom shall the earthworm glide,
Where communed oft that low-laid youth with me;
And shall I hang my harp on Rother's side,
For ever mute and stringless there to be,
Teacher and Friend! without one strain to thee?
Teacher and Friend, who bad'st me syllable
Words cull'd from learning's page with weary eye!
Thy patience taught me zealously and well,
But could not teach, like thee, to live and die;
To envy nought beneath the ample sky;

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To mourn no evil deed, no hour misspent;
And, like a living violet, silently
Return in sweets to heaven what goodness lent,
Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.
But thou no more, with eye refresh'd, shalt see
The long-watch'd seedling from the soil aspire,
Or bind the rose, or train the gadding pea;
No more shalt thou for victor flowers inquire,
Or proudly hear th' expected guest admire
Thy gemm'd auricula, a growing flame,
Or polyanthus, edged with golden wire,
The poor man's flower, that lifts to humble fame,
Till e'en in print appears his envied name.
Who now shall tend thy plants, thy priceless flowers,
Emblems of thee, but not more pure than thou?
The morn shall miss thee, and the dewy hours
Of eve deplore, as I deplore thee now;
And Spring shall pass her hand athwart her brow,
When not a gem of thine shall deck her hair,
Then shake in haste the dewdrop from the bough,
And to the spot where thou art laid repair;
“Where is my Druid?” Death shall answer—“There!”
How hopeless, happy Spirit, is the groan,
When God calls Guilt from all his joys away!
But heavenly-sweet is Music's saddest tone,
When o'er the lyre of Love Death's fingers stray;
Less sweet the sound, when winds of midnight play

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On that wild harp which well thy skill could frame.
And when thy dust was mingled with the clay,
To weep o'er thee, Affection—Friendship, came,
And there was one who could not sob thy name!
Thou, guest of angels, hast of praise no need;
But I have need of thine and virtue's aid:
And taught by thee each deathless lay to read,
Shall I forget my teacher lowly laid?
Though every strain of mine, alas! must fade,
Like idle vapour on the barren sea,
Shall I forget the Christian undismay'd,
The meekest child of truth and purity?
I sing of Death; and shall I not of thee?
But unlike thee are Passion's sin-bound slaves,
That tinge my song with beauty's blasted bloom,
While to my saddest theme I call the waves
Of farthest seas, and homeless storms, that boom
O'er worlds of woods, a universe of gloom!
Swamps, dens, and caves, beneath one boundless pall,
Where serpents lurk, their passing prey to doom,
Lone horror shudders at the grim wolf's call,
And dwells barbarian Man, most savage he of all.

Joy after woe, as after darkness light!
And sad Newhaven will not weep to-night.
O happy meeting! peace and valour meet,
There is rejoicing in the town and fleet,

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Light in the windows, laughter at the board,
For dire Metacom quell'd, and peace restored.
Amid his warriors, Winslow sits in pride,
With Kirk (his guest from England) at his side—
A martial libertine, to falsehood true,
Who tells of Milton much, and Cromwell too;
Of Charles the Martyr, hapless and revered;
And hunted regicides, who fled and fear'd.
And there, too, smiling on his smiling friends,
Yet pale with thought, the saint-like Elliot bends;
Who to the naked Indian's leafy shed
Proclaim'd the resurrection of the dead;
And while the savage on his accents hung,
Gave the bless'd Word of God another tongue.
And beauty's brightest eyes are glancing near;
Nor doth the sternly courteous cavalier
From transatlantic charmers turn away,
Or deem the British fair more fair than they;
For, Roman matron in her port and air,
There Portia sits; or is Cornelia there?
Or Agrippina? not in widow'd weeds,
But glorying in her glorious husband's deeds.
'Tis Mary, sharer of thy heart and bed,
Danger-tried Winslow! And, with languish'd head,
While scandal marks the trouble of her eye,
Fix'd in desponding thought's intensity,
Like guilt in sleep, or passion in his shroud,
Though gay no more, still proudest of the proud,

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Tall Mary's taller sister sits beside
Henley, the marksman, with the lip of pride.
How changed, Senena, is thy downcast eye!
He who knows wherefore, fain would whisper why;
And sacrifice a maiden's all, her name,
That coxcombs might exult, and prudes defame.
Behold her cheek! Still, still it hath its rose—
Alas! not that which freshens as it grows!
But one whose sweets the heart will not forget—
Pensive and fading, though not faded yet!
Her soul seems frost-bound on its lovely throne,
Like beauteous life by winter turn'd to stone:
The impassion'd crystal wants but warmth and breath,
And thought's expression lives and speaks in death;
The icy charm, insatiate, we behold,
While admiration feels his blood run cold.

“If your wide wilderness of wants and woes,”
Said Kirk to Winslow smiling, “can disclose,
Amid its horrors, flowers superb as these,
We need not wonder that your deserts please.
Fair flowers, by Heaven! the stateliest too they are
That ever bloom'd beneath Love's dewy star!
But one, as if transferr'd from Paradise,
And sorrowing for lost Heav'n, seems fix'd in ice;
Her lofty graces win us, and depress,
Awe while they charm, and chill with loveliness,”
He said, and with a soldier's freedom gazed
On sad Senena; who her eye upraised,

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And, with a glance around the circle thrown,
In each heart's secret fear'd to read her own;
While Mary's eye met hers, and took and gave
Pangs, like remember'd freedom to the slave.

“Fair, native flowers our rugged land adorn,”
Said Winslow; “but my wife is British born.
She, from the rage of civil discord, brought
In childhood hither, scarce remembers aught
Of sea-girt home; yet still that home is dear,
And England's praise is music to her ear.”

“Madam,” said Kirk, “you wrong your native isle.
England, defrauded of so bright a smile,
When back she hails me from the sterile sea,
Though rich in beauty, will seem poor to me.
But pine you not at heart to see once more
Your wave-rock'd cradle, our Britannian shore?”

The matron answer'd—while her graver eye
Reproved the soldier's fearless flattery—
“In England, none who know and love me live;
I have not there one living relative;
And therefore feel I small desire to see
The foam-girt land of my nativity;
Where Cavalier and Roundhead hail and bless
Charles and the law, whose rule is happiness.”

“Yet here,” said Kirk, “by dangers compass'd round,
Ye dread the Indian whoop in every sound.

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I am a soldier—I have look'd on blood;
And, on the howling battle-field withstood
Death's sternest menace; yet Metacom's deeds
Appal my heart, that shudders while it bleeds,
To hear the horrors of his butchery,
Which spares nor stooping age nor infancy.”

“For his defeat,” said Elliot, “thanks to heaven!
Yet be the savage in the man forgiven.
His loss our gain; as he descends we rise,
And grow and spread, like flame, before his eyes.
If every White Man aims at him a blow,
Justly he sees in every White a foe;
And, doom'd in combat or in flight to die,
Does he not well to face his enemy?
Sage, patriot, hero, king! for Nature's rights,
Brave as our own Caractacus, he fights.
Reluctant draws the knife, and heaves a sigh;
Then wars on fate and possibility.
For, arm'd to extirpate his hated race,
The Whites shall hunt them o'er earth's blasted face;
Till, in the ocean of the farthest west,
The last Red Man shall shroud his bleeding breast.”

“Where ruined Memphis,” Winslow said, and sigh'd,
“Lies like a giant blasted in his pride;
Where Tadmore droops, by herbless sands embraced,
A childless mother in the houseless waste;
Where old Athena, who can dever die,
Speaks of the dead in wan sublimity;

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Where mourns th' eternal city, still a queen,
The traveller weeps o'er glories that have been;
There still the portals of the gods remain,
By Desolation's mace assailed in vain.
But here no column, with pathetic brow,
While awe-struck Time reclines in tears below,
To other years, and men unborn, shall tell
Where more than Roman valour fought and fell.”

“Their very name shall perish!” Henley cried,
With bitter smile of factious spleen and pride;
“Their very name shall perish! scorn'd by Time,
Nor live a day, like courtly things in rhyme.
Alas! few flatterers kneel prostrated low
To him whose sole exchequer is his bow;
And undeceived, unsung, that king may die
Who hath no humbler palace than the sky.”

Rebellious to his will, that strove to hide
In cold indifference his offended pride,
Kirk's darkening visage frown'd a mute reply,
While Henley, pausing, fixed on him his eye;
Then placing on his head his cap unplumed,
Th' irreverent wrangler thus his taunts resumed:—

“‘God save the King!’ our loyal wilds exclaim,
But not, God save Metacom, poor and lame.
Well know we, courtly sir, that Power is Right:
The blind themselves see worth in wealth and might;
For Power's adorers only worship Fate,
And Power was never illegitimate.

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Strong is the king who reigns by right divine,
And nobles round him cringe, for armies shine.
Before him Justice sits, nor sleeps, nor winks,
And vultures die, or no corruption stinks.
For gaping crowds with liberal hand he carves,
And merit at his table feeds or starves.
A god on earth, and fear'd like him of hell,
The good who serve him are rewarded well.
Secure he reigns, untroubled, undismay'd,
For loyal are his servants—and are paid.”

Thus spoke he, factious—mischief his delight,
Himself a compound of disdain and spite,
To none submitting, and insulting all,
Sedition on his lips, his life a brawl.
He ended, sneering. Kirk turn'd black with ire,
And on his forehead darkness seem'd on fire.
Lo, as the courtier frown'd, Senena rose;
Her soul was struggling with unutter'd woes;
Pale on her cheek expired the blasted bloom:
In Mary's eye sate discontent and gloom—
And sad Senena, tottering, left the room.
All wondering, gazed! But Kirk, with gloomy stare,
Perused each sun-brown'd warrior's haughty air,
And, starting, almost fear'd rebellion there.
In Winslow's mien, a Lambert seem'd to lower—
In Winslow's form, a Cromwell seem'd to tower!
He shrank from Henley's shadow on the wall,
And inly mutter'd, “Traitors are they all.”

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Frowning, he rose, and sternly waved adieu,
And, mute and slow, retired. Then all withdrew,
But not all silent. Boisterous Henley laugh'd;
And too, too much of gall his heart had quaff'd,
To spare the angry messenger of kings,
And deem abuse and scorn forbidden things.

Midnight was past; but not a streak of grey
Dawn'd in the east, to tell of coming day.
No murmur on the dreams of silence broke;
The moon still slumber'd o'er the gospel-oak,
Beneath whose shade Newhaven's fathers kept
Their first sweet Sabbath, grateful while they wept
To think of England, whence their steps were driven
To worship in his wilds the God of Heaven.
Blue, brightly blue, was night's ethereal hall,
When, like a form that decks some temple's wall,
And paler than the marble, wander'd forth
Senena, the betray'd; and the cold north
Play'd with her hair, that sought her feet below,
And on her shoulders lay like night on snow.
Crisp in the night-wind shook her single vest!
The moon look'd calmly on her naked breast,
And the wan stars beheld with awed delight,
One like themselves, sad, silent, cold, and white.
What magic was there in that courtier's speech,
That words like his the secret heart could reach,
And make the fairest of the fair and proud
Appal with beauty midnight's darkening cloud?

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Or, did wan death, in poor Senena's form,
Walk with unecho'd step, and quit the worm?
Say, did that apparition breathe and glow?
Did the heart heave beneath that breast of snow?

I know her by that hopeless look and tear;
'Tis she, Senena's self: but wherefore here?
When last that broad oak's branches o'er her moan'd,
Low at the feet of Henley laid, she groan'd;
Pray'd him to save a maiden's all—her fame;
Pray'd him to snatch her from a grave of shame:
And when speech fail'd, her tears, that silent ran,
Implored a monster to become a man.
But now—What burden bears she on her breast,
And fondly bending, kisses into rest?
A mother and no wife, she sobs forlorn
O'er what she loves and dreads—her infant born
In secret. Lo! three lovely, pallid things,
Fairer than fancy's wild imaginings,
Night, at this moment, as she sits alone,
Sees from the silence of her starry throne—
Like the swan's wing, Senena's cheek of woe;
The moon, high-placed on heaven's majestic brow;
And the moon's image on the waves below,
That glimmers deep and still. Is it to lave
Her raven tresses, that above the wave
Senena bends? Athwart her outstretch'd arms
They flow, and veil, but cannot hide her charms.
Say, while recumbent o'er the wave she stands,

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Why heaves her heart with her extended hands?
What sound, O God! was that? And, hark! a scream
Succeeds that plunge. Lo! on the strangling stream,
With head thrown back, erect she gazes there,
While horror stiffens her uplifted hair;
And her eyes gleam dilated, pale, and wild.
Oh! hath she cast into the wave her child?
That cry again! but fainter—and away
She turns and flies; yet backward, in dismay,
Instinctively to see some dreadful thing,
She looks, and stops, intensely listening.
A sob?—how feeble! and the little breast
That heaved it forth is even now at rest;
For, ah! where is the burden that she bore,
Press'd to her bosom, and kiss'd o'er and o'er
With such sad fondness? Horror hears her sighs:
And, like a bird with wounded wing, she flies
In haste yet slowly. She hath pass'd the hill;
The echoes slumber on earth's bosom chill;
Smooth flows the wave again, and all is still.

Lo! she hath reached her chamber, in despair!
And, scarce alive, she sinks into her chair,
The stone-still image of all-dreaded death!
Mary bends o'er her with suspended breath,
And all is silence save the throbbing heart.
Ah! bid pulsation from its fount depart!
To hush the heart is woman's hardest task.
How Mary's look inquires! What would it ask

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But what she knows too well, and dreads to know?
Oh! which sad bosom feels severest woe?
Which sister-mourner do we pity most—
That lost one, or the wretch who deems her lost?
The taper trembles on its little stand;
Ah, no! Senena, with convulsive hand,
Hath dash'd it out! and wan she bends in gloom:
Burst Mary's tears! she rushes from the room.

And now doth guilt sit lighter on thy breast,
Poor, fall'n Senena? Sank thy heart, oppress'd,
Dreading thy picture in a sister's eye,
Dreading to meet a sister's scrutiny?
Alas—alas! guilt fears to be alone!
And wouldst thou hide in solitude the groan
Wrung by remorse from conscience in despair?
Oh, questions vainly urged! Nor force nor prayer
Can stop Time's flight, and bid the present stay,
Nor tears recall the deed of yesterday.
No—no! but Heaven can pardon and deliver
The suffering child of sin—O God! forgive her!

BOOK II.

Love!—but not Thou, whose mightiest Hand afar
Guides in his printless path each wheeling star.
Love!—but not Thou, our type of Heaven, whose breast
Rocks beauty's rosiest babe in smiles to rest.

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Despairing Love, who long'st in blood to steep
The bed where thou dost toss, and fain wouldst sleep!
How like a lily, stain'd with murder's gore,
Thy sorrow weeps! Yet, not for evermore
Shalt thou, a flower distain'd with mourning, bend
Through ages, rolling slow, of hopeless end;
And while the funerals of the stars pass by,
Still tremble in the blast of destiny.
Thy guilt hath tears, though darkest guilt it be,
And pitying Heaven hath mercy e'en for thee.

It was the evening of a sunless day:
Slowly the heavy vapours roll'd away,
Pouring no more the rain. The weary gale
Bow'd still th' indignant pine; and chill, and pale,
And indistinct, each watery object nigh
Wore the dim hues of distance to the eye.
It was the hour that pensive thought loves best,
The gloaming hour, when toil retires to rest,
When music's voice is sweet as love's caress,
When dying light is loveliest loneliness.
When hope's tear flows more limpid than the dew,
And tearless wretches try to weep anew,
And find a joy in grief. While charged with rain,
Each blossom droop'd—like innocence, in pain
And silence, weeping—with desponding soul,
Senena from her joyless chamber stole.
Instinctively she sought the fatal shore,
That saw a deed which she must still deplore,

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And turning from the past her hopeless view,
Like Montfort, sigh, “Would, would it were to do!”
She sought that fatal shore—but found not there
Joy in her grief, nor hope in her despair:
For evil tongues were busy with her fame,
And conscience trembled at her whisper'd name.
Hopeless, she long'd to mount th' unhallow'd bark,
And sail the deep irremeable dark:
On death she call'd, but with averted eye;
The dead she envied, yet she fear'd to die.

But not unwatch'd she went. She heard the sound
Of well-known footsteps—yet she looked not round;
And Henley stood beside her, blank in awe.
Her hand from his she deign'd not to withdraw:
He press'd it, while his own with fever burn'd;
But hers, clay cold, no pressure soft return'd.
Humbled, he ask'd, with shame unwonted, why
Such dreadful coldness froze him from her eye,
And why they met not? With averted air,
The mourner heard; and, strengthen'd by despair,
Stood in her silence. Yearning for the grave,
She watch'd the tremble of the conscious wave
That chilly clasp'd her babe of hapless love;
And thought of Heaven, but dared not look above.

Long thus, in mute abstraction, on the strand,
Fix'd, stern, and calm, she moved nor eye nor hand.
Unmann'd, he wept, and clasp'd, and kiss'd her knee:
But, when he spoke of years of bliss to be,

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Of Love's sweet home, of Hymen's saffron morn,
And that lost babe which yet he deem'd unborn,
Then from her eyes the fire of madness flash'd,
Her foot to earth th' astonish'd suppliant dash'd;
Her anguish found a torturing voice, and spoke,
And execration in her breast awoke:—

“No lightning blasts thee!—sleeps avenging heaven!
Go, ask His mercy, and die unforgiven!
Nay, bloodless image of dismay'd surprise!
Start not—I cannot stab thee with mine eyes:
My hand, unweapon'd, spares thy worthless life;
But, shouldst thou meet me when it grasps a knife,
Be deadly wan thy cheek, and slack thy knee!”

With glowing cheek, and awful energy,
She spoke her words of madness and despair;
And Henley heard them with a madman's air.
Slowly he left her, wondering, stunn'd, appall'd.
She gasp'd—she wept; she wish'd her words recall'd:
So weak is woe! Worlds, worlds she would have given,
Could he have heard her pray for him to Heaven—
Could he have heard her say—“Though base to me,
My dying lips invoke no curse on thee!
No! live, and think of her who yet forgave,
Though sent by thee a murd'ress to the grave.
Live! when the charms that rivall'd once the rose,
And rival now the printless snow, repose
In that deep darkness which no midnight knows—

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Yes; when the hand that oft thy lip has prest,
And this fond pillow of thy head, my breast,
And these long-tearless eyes, that should not weep
For one who hath no heart, shall moulder deep
In misery's sure and last asylum—live!
And may offended Heaven, like me, forgive.”

Tears soothed her spirit; and relenting thought
Half robb'd her of the dire intent she brought.
But Henley heard not—saw not—on he went,
Staggering and faint, like one with labour spent;
And, flashing, rush'd his hot blood to his eyes.
He fell—what phantoms from the earth arise?
A form before him stood, in sorrow deep,
And beautiful as angels when they weep.
Wan, in the arms of that fair spectre, smiled,
Cold as the breast that pillow'd it, a child,
Whose half-closed lips the lifeless teat still prest;
And, as the grateful infant sunk to rest,
The blue eyes' languor stiffen'd into stone.
“Kiss, father, kiss thy child!” with hollow tone
A voice exclaim'd. “One kiss, and thou art clay!
Freeze in a kiss: be cold, and come away!
Husband, a marble lip thy sands hath told:
Cold was thy heart to us, and we are cold.”

He started up; and, lo! he was alone!
The phantom mother and the child were gone,
But not th' unutterable awe that froze
Life in its fountain, as those phantoms rose.

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While the grey mountains bade adieu to day,
Slow t'wards Senena's home he wound his way,
Yet scarce knew why. His knees each other smote,
And in his soul waked gloomy thought on thought,
The darkest last. Like a bright bow unstrung
Arose the crescent moon; but darkness hung
O'er her blue pathway, on the sky pourtray'd
In giant forms, slow moving, shade on shade.
Lo! high in Winslow's dwelling beams a light!
Far the ray flashes through the dusky night:
Before the light a gloomy form appears,
Reclined in troubled thought, perhaps in tears.
'Twas she, he thought, in woes and wrongs array'd,
Undone and lost Senena the betray'd.
“She weeps,” he said—“she weeps in her despair!”
Who wept? Alas! Senena was not there!
'Twas Mary, pondering by the taper's gloom
On poor Senena's crime—Senena's doom.
She deem'd the lost one at that moment slept;
She more than fear'd her guilty, and she wept.

Senena did not sleep, she slept not yet:
But still her cheek with soothing tears was wet:
Almost she hoped that heaven might yet forgive;
Almost she hoped, almost resolved to live;
But, as she watch'd the quivering billows near,
Her wan cheek darken'd with unutter'd fear:
She shook and trembled like the restless wave—
At once her infant's cere-cloth and its grave.

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The troubled curtains of portentous night
Flung from their brightening folds a sudden light;
The waters seem'd to chide her as she stood!
A voice of mourning issued from the flood.
She started—on the surface rose to sight
A flower, a floating lily, bluely white:
She shriek'd—she stoop'd—she snatch'd it to the strand;
God! 'twas no lily—'twas a little hand!
Forth from the brine she drew her murder'd child,
The black rocks echoing wide her accents wild;
Close, and more close, her ice-cold babe she press'd,
And cold was comfort to her burning breast.
She gazed upon it, (and her hot tears came,)
Call'd it her child—it had no other name—
Kiss'd its blue sodden cheek, its bosom fair,
Its small round fingers, and its dusky hair;
Then to her heart she clasp'd its lips of snow,
And sobb'd, thrice happy in severest woe.
She wonder'd at its loveliness in death;
Scarcely believed she that it had not breath.
Once more she bent, once more a kiss to take,
And half expected that it yet would wake.
And then the fire return'd into her brain:
And memory wept, and conscience groan'd again;
Wild, mutter'd accents from her bosom broke,
And words came to her tongue, and misery spoke:

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“My murder'd baby! O that I had borne
The taunt of prudery, the scourge of scorn,
The penance due to sin! Would I had taught
Thy little lip to know this breast, and bought
Thy thankful smile with love; and o'er thee hung
To bless the name of mother from thy tongue!
Was this a mother's deed? Thy stifled cry
Still echoes in my soul, and will not die.
Bitter remembrance is my portion set,
Never on earth to smile or to forget;
And I must bear perdition in my breast,
And wear my hopeless anguish as a vest.
Why did I do this deed? Let Henley tell:
He, most unworthy, still is loved too well;
But he shall weep when I am lowly laid,
And wish, too late, I had not been betray'd.
Canst thou forgive me, baby? thou my child,
Canst thou forgive this wretch with blood defiled?
Baby, forgive me! I forgive thy sire—
O Heaven, forgive us both! and, in thine ire,
Remember him with mercy. Let me weep
A little longer, ere I try to sleep.”

She ended; and, with greedy eye, devour'd
Th' expecting flood, while, on the dark heaven lower'd
The cloud, behind which shrank the shaded moon.
“Some natural tears she dropp'd, but wiped them soon.”

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Her long-lost mother to her thought arose:
She yearn'd to meet her—where all griefs repose.
Her sister's image, with imploring hand,
Beckon'd her, shrieking, from the fatal strand:
“Mary will weep—but she already weeps:
And, when in death the lost Senena sleeps,
Detraction will forget his useless gall,
And all-atoning death will cancel all.
Malice, herself, that watch'd my fading name,
And hail'd with devilish joy my blasted fame,
Even Malice to my grave with tears shall come,
Even Envy's self forgive me in the tomb,
Own frailty's sister to themselves allied,
And cease to taunt pride's victim with her pride.”
Did not her lover, lingering in her heart,
Bid the black shadow from her soul depart?
She thought of Henley with the lip of scorn,
And poor Senena at his feet, forlorn,
Fall'n from the throne of innocence to shame.
Red to her cheek return'd th' indignant flame:
She wept no more, but, kneeling, look'd to heaven,
Then kiss'd her baby, and felt half forgiven.
That lifeless infant, in this direst hour,
Upheld her spirit with an arm of power,
More close she clasp'd it in a last embrace,
And plunged—still gazing on the lifeless face;
Deeply she plunged, and o'er her closed the stream.

Forth from her pall of clouds, with sudden beam,

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Casting o'er rock and wave a silvery hue,
The moon walk'd bright into the heavenly blue.
'Twas then that Henley's homeward pathway led
His footsteps near Senena's watery bed.
The moonbeam lit his wild face as he pass'd;
The billow sigh'd his name—he stood aghast!
Perhaps Senena, in her dying pain,
Repentant, wish'd to live, but wish'd in vain!
Call'd she for help? or, too devotely true,
Bade she to that loved wretch a sad adieu?
He, bending o'er the rock in dread and woe,
Beheld a snowy bosom sinking slow
Beneath the wave, that quiver'd, as to tell,
By speechless signs, a tale of horror well.
Headlong he plunged; he grasp'd a stiffening hand;
He dragg'd the mother and the child to land;
Then kiss'd his victims as he wildly shook,
Imploring one sweet word, one glance, a look
Of mute forgiveness; clasp'd her senseless frame,
And made the caverns vocal with her name,
In vain repeated. On his lap he laid
Her head, yet warm, though lifeless. He survey'd,
Intensely still, the features. Pride was there
That triumph'd over death, and in despair
Looked like defiance arm'd: the brow was knit
In sternness, and the locks that shadow'd it
So darkly, moved not; on her lip sat pain,
Fix'd in the strength that died in struggles vain;

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The large dark eyes, half shut in last repose,
Waited, he thought, to look a curse, and close;
And in her strong and dread embrace, she press'd
Th' unconscious infant to her beauteous breast.
He knew she named him with her dying breath;
He deem'd she cursed him in the arms of death;
He wrong'd, in ignorance, his murder'd love.
Powerless and agonized, he tried to move
His victims: back he fell, and senseless lay.
Again he rose; but then the moon's last ray
Was trembling dimly in the horizon grey:
Through all his veins a deadly chillness crept,
And like a boy, the shivering giant wept.
Morn waked at length, without a cloud, and smiled
O'er wood and wave, on father, mother, child;
When Winslow took his wonted walk, to see
The early sun quaff pearls from every tree;
And t'wards the fatal spot advancing slow
And pausing oft, he reach'd the scene of woe.
What eye of man could view it unappall'd;
He shriek'd in horror, and on Henley call'd;
And Henley laugh'd in horror, from his head
Shaking the dews of night; then on the dead
With stone-still eye-balls stared, and ghastly stood.
There is a laughter that can chill the blood;
And, written on that brow, the wrath of fate
Tells of a ruin'd mind, a heart all desolate.

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BOOK III.

On fallen Senena's grave no grass is green;
But near it, lo! an open grave is seen!
And mournfully amid those mourners hangs
On Winslow's arm, her sister; and the pangs
Of sorrow live again, with strength renew'd;
She sees the grave, she groans, in soul subdued,
And, pausing, shudders. Slow, with heavy tread,
T'wards his last home, the bearers bring the dead
In awe and silence: and with pensive air,
True to the last, Senena's dog is there.
Now on the fresh mound, recent from the spade,
Near the grave's margin Henley's bier is laid;
And Kirk of England calmly folds the pall:
He only, tearless, stands amid them all,
Cold as the granite on some lonely tomb,
Gilt by a sunbeam in the day of gloom;
While Elliot—and each brow is turn'd to him,
And not a listener stirs, or lock or limb—
Faltering, with blinded eye and dewy cheek,
Beneath the gospel-oak essays to speak:—

“The curse of God is in the house of sin.
Thus wisdom spoke; and thus a voice within

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(If careless mortals listen as they ought)
Speaks to the silence of admonish'd thought.
O that the grave had language! that the dead
Could speak in thunder! and the page unread
In every heart, unfold to every eye
What all deplore, and struggle to deny!
The grave hath spoken! and the dead do speak!
Yes, harlot Pleasure, with the painted cheek,
Thy victims, in their deeds and in their doom,
Preach to our hearts, and teach us from the tomb;
Loudly they tell the conscious thought within,
Yet oft in vain, that sorrow's root is sin.

“Nay, sorrowing Mary! spare thy tears: I feel
My task is not to torture—I would heal
The soul that bears, with such a stifled groan,
So great a share in sorrows not its own.
If Heaven's just wrath the worm of sin reproves,
His wrath-like kindness chastens whom it loves.
I need not prove what each tried bosom knows—
That man is misery's heir, and born to woes.
Oh, what a lesson reads the historic page
To suffering man, in vain from age to age,
Taught by recorded ills! And not the less
Is human being pain and weariness,
When unrecorded pass our race away,
Like forest leaves—like clouds that dim the day,
Like the flower's blush. But if the righteous here,
Though not unbless'd, shed oft a bitter tear,

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Here and hereafter rich is their reward;
While sin shall surely suffer; and debarr'd,
By self-applauding conscience, from her heaven,
Shall suffer unconsoled, and murmur unforgiven.

“Man, without virtue, is a sunless day;
A midnight cloud that bursts and rolls away;
A flag that streams the waves of battle o'er,
And sinks in fiery gloom to rise no more;
A traveller wandering by the lightning's blaze
On cloud-clad rocks, where day would dread to gaze,
While horror listens with suspended breath,
And all around is danger, doubt, and death.

“Thou losing gambler, by thyself betray'd,
Thy life a game, with crime and folly play'd!
If the pure bosom is a temple bless'd—
If heaven is throned in every righteous breast—
Oh, by thy throb to bask in glory's blaze!
Oh, by the passion for undying praise,
That weds thy heart to human sympathy,
And proves thee made for immortality!
Sink not beneath the deep and treacherous wave,
In which low passion plunges passion's slave;
But swim with upward gaze on heavenly charms,
And win eternity with mortal arms.

“Oft cloudless day, ere noon, is overcast:
Bright colours soonest fade. We know the past—
We cannot know the future. Fair we deem
Of what seems fair, and well and wisely dream

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That human good can last, though change is near
To wake and mock us. And when guilt and fear
Turn o'er th' unlook'd-on pages of the heart,
Well we may shudder if the angels start
And read in pale surprise!—In that sad tomb
Lie youth and beauty blasted in their bloom.
Let dust inform our hearts that sin is woe!
Once—but my tears will flow; and let them flow!
Nor would I be the only weeper here.
My friends, ye also weep, and well the tear
Becomes you. Jesus wept.—Ye modest maids,
Loveliest in tears, like flowers that woo the shades!
She once was bless'd and beautiful like you!
Ye pure in heart, she once was spotless too!
But, oh, when virtue flies, what demons come!
Seize on her throne, convert her light to gloom,
Pollute her altar with unholy flame,
And of her temple make a den of shame!
Now fall'n from fame, and lost to life, to all,
Senena's worth seems cancell'd by her fall!
For prone to blame, and rigid in pretence,
Man forgets all things but lost innocence;
And ne'er forgives, though Pity's self be nigh,
The time-tried wretch that mocks his prophecy!

“But Heaven is not forgetful. God is just;
God weighs in mercy's scale our erring dust.

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This may he find, whose ashes there await
The last sad rite that sorrow pays to fate.
Ye knew him when no insect's gauzy wing
More lightly flutter'd o'er the blooms of spring
Than he, with thoughtless smile, and sunny eye,
O'er every leaf, and stalk of vanity,
That poison-breathing plant, with flaunting flower,
Which loves to desecrate the fairest bower.
What now avail thy sword and numerous scar,
Thou sin-slain giant, with the hand of war?
What now avails thy beauty, self-adored,
That doom'd the loved one to a death abhorr'd?
Methinks her dust should know thee, and upbraid
Thy perjured vow, for trusting truth betray'd;
Like that relentless soul—a shaded flame—
That, in elysium, darkens at the name
Of thankless Florence! But ye both are mute;
She cannot be defiled, nor thou pollute
The worm's pale sister. Yet, in hours like this,
Most eloquent, O Death, thy silence is!
And wordless truth, when seated on thy brow,
Proclaims—and is believed—that sin is woe!

“Was it not woe, when all-shunn'd Henley fled
From every human eye?—to hide his head
Where living thing ne'er shook a leaf, nor stirr'd
The honey'd flower, save startled humming-bird?
Where never sound disturb'd the horrid brake,
Save thrilling warning of the rattlesnake?

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And ne'er to heaven was raised a glittering eye,
Except the slow-wing'd eagle's in the sky?

“Abhorr'd by all, he fled, yet not alone;
Senena's faithful dog, with ceaseless moan,
Follow'd his parting steps. Though oft driven back,
Spurn'd, and yet true, the dog pursued his track,
And found a welcome at his journey's end.
Senena's dog became his humble friend,
His sole companion in the dismal brake,
And soon was loved for lost Senena's sake—
The only thing on earth he now could love;
And he would seat him in the tulip-grove
And gaze in silence on the terrier's face,
Till day, from morn to eve, had run his race.
Unsocial savage! far from human sight—
From human sound, he urged his gloomy flight,
To rest on solitude his blasted breast;
Farthest from man, the loneliest spot was best;
Where sound was not, save ocean's distant roar,
And motion, save the billows on the shore.
The desert beckon'd to his mute despair;
And if he was alone, what matter where?
He loved to sit on crags, and hear the sound
Of his loud rifle shake the waste around;
Leaping from rock to rock, from wood to wood,
O'er isthmus, isle, and long-resounding flood.
And had not midnight to his lone retreat,
Through starless darkness led my wandering feet,

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There, where he died, ‘without a hand to save,’
There would the wolf, beside the dashing wave,
Have given his shroudless limbs a living grave.

“Foot-sore, and weary, and in soul distress'd,
I was returning from the travell'd west:
The night was gloom unbroken; and I lost
My way amid the many paths that cross'd
The dangerous forest. Long and far I went
Still more and more astray, and vainly sent
My voice for help through echoing gloom abroad.
At last a red light from a lone abode
Flash'd through the kindling verdure. Vast and high
The building darken'd on the starless sky.
Deserted and all-tenantless it seem'd;
And yet the brightness of a pine-fire gleam'd
Wide from the centre of the ample floor.
Apart I stood, and through the open door
Survey'd awhile in fear that vault-like room:
Its vast retiring depth was lost in gloom.
I spoke—I shouted: from disturb'd repose,
Behind the fire, a startled wretch arose,
Casting his lengthen'd shadow far aloof,
That, like a spell-raised giant, propp'd the roof;
And, lighted from below, his features wan
Seem'd such as fear would not ascribe to man.
Like a stray'd captive by his gaoler found,
His terror utter'd a despairing sound,

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While fast he grasp'd with both his hands, his hair,
Gazing on darkness with a murderer's stare.
Thick o'er his brow one raven lock was roll'd,
And at his feet Senena's terrier howl'd.
Slow I advanced; but, with averted look,
And arms out-stretch'd, he shrank—then stood and shook:
An infant might have fell'd him with a flower;
For she, whom he had wrong'd in evil hour,
Was present to his soul with dread and might;
One, one wild thought absorb'd his spirit quite.
Faintly he said, ‘I have expected thee;
Come, let me kiss thy child, and cease to be!’
But when I named his hapless name, and grasp'd
His rugged hand, with thickening throat he gasp'd;
He look'd—and seem'd to fear to look again;
And torturing memory rush'd into his brain.
But when he saw the bright tear on my cheek,
And when I bade God help him, accents weak
Of thanks half-utter'd trembled on his tongue;
Faint on my agitated arm he hung.
The voice of kindness, mighty to subdue,
Fell on his soften'd soul like heavenly dew;
And when I pray'd for him, his heart look'd up;
Hope faintly brighten'd in his bitter cup;
He kneel'd, he kiss'd my feet, he sobb'd, he wept,
And nearer to his guest the terrier crept.

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“And oft—his only visitor—I sought
The hermit of the desert; for I thought
That He, who died for all, might yet impart
The grace that passeth utterance to his heart;
And alteration in his eye to me
Seem'd heaven-sent hope, and growing piety.
But weak and weaker hourly he became;
More frequent tremors shook his faded frame;
A deadly hectic flush'd his fallen cheek;
His voice was changed to treble, small and weak;
Pain in his eye subdued th' expression wild—
The Misanthrope was gentle as a child;
And he complain'd that oft the light was green,
That blue sparks girt his bed, in darkness seen,
And that the rushes on the floor had wings,
And moved, and flew, like animated things.
Then would he mourn his nights unbless'd with sleep,
And bend his face upon my knee and weep,
And say that he had wished in vain to die;
And that (although he shrunk when death seem'd nigh)
Oft had he gazed upon the heaving main,
And long'd to leap, and turn'd, and look'd again.
But if I pray'd him to return with me,
Then, like a wretch who strives with agony,
And deeply maim'd, prepares his final blow,
He muster'd up his strength, and answer'd ‘No!’

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Once, only once, his anguish sank in pray'r,
And utter'd all a broken heart's despair:—
‘In doubt I lived, in horror I expire;
Release me, O release me! in thine ire;
Or in thy mercy, Father, set me free!
For my eyes hate the blessèd sun to see,
That only bids my hopeless spirit mourn
O'er ill-spent hours that never can return.’

“When last I sought his hermit-home, no smoke
Rose o'er the hemlock huge, or greener oak.
My heart misgave me as my steps drew near,
And chill I enter'd with foreboding fear.
No voice replied to mine; the dog had fled!
The house was tenantless, the fire was dead.
Night came in storms; and I, perforce, must stay,
And wait in loneliness the coming day.
O'erwearied, soon I slept; but thunders deep
Roused me, appall'd, from unrefreshing sleep,
And the still horror of portentous dreams.
Night seem'd eternal; and the morning beams,
As if averse to chase so foul a night,
Prolong'd their slumber in the hall of light.
But when the grey-eyed morning sweetly spread
Her dappled mantle o'er the mountain's head,
I issued from my prison-house of dread.

“The sun had not yet risen. The forest threw
Gigantic darkness on the mingled hue

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Of gold and crimson in the brightening sky;
The sea was fiery purple to the eye;
And o'er the waves, still warring with the gale,
The moon was shining calm, and cold, and pale.
Frown'd sea and strand, but heaven divinely smiled;
And, cheer'd, I sought the hermit in the wild.
I reach'd his wonted station on the shore;
I found him there; and to the billow's roar
He seem'd to listen from his bed of sand,
His face to heaven, his head upon his hand.
I paused—and felt at heart a deadly chill:
Did ever breathing bosom lie so still?
Wan as the ocean's foam, with unclosed eye,
As if to take his farewell of the sky,
Serene he lay in everlasting rest,
The faithful terrier pining on his breast.

“Scarce hath the lily faded on her shroud,
Since earth's cold curtain, like a friendly cloud,
Closed o'er our sinful sister! and the tear
Of dread and woe is damp upon her bier.
She did but go before him: he is here!

“Yes, fallen and hapless maiden! he is come
Who sent thy nameless baby to the tomb,
And led thee forth from Paradise to weep:
In silence by thy side his dust shall sleep.
Poor sufferer! is the day of trouble past?
And have ye reach'd a sheltering port at last?

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Ye pair whom death hath wedded! may ye rise
From that cold bed, redeem'd, beyond the skies
To bless Eternal Mercy, when the powers
Of sin are vanquish'd! But to us and ours,
Long shall your union be a mournful page,
In admonition rich: and youth and age
(Not taught like you) shall read with streaming eye
Your letter'd stone, and ponder solemnly.
Youth! would'st thou end in woe? in guilt begin;
‘The curse of God is in the house of sin.’
Look here, unholy Love! thy victims these:
Behold thy triumphs! thou, whose lip can freeze
The warmest bosom, blast the fairest face!
Thou who canst wed affection to disgrace,
Turn beauty's locks to horror with thy breath,
And round youth's temples bind the coronal of death!”

The earth fell heavy on the coffin'd clay
That, deep interr'd, awaits the Judgment Day.
A sudden whirlwind shook the gospel-oak;
White in the bay the booming billow broke;
And there was tumult in the lurid sky,
Red battle in the clouds; and terror's eye
Saw forms of dread through heaven's broad desert roam;
Close press'd the awe-struck crowd, and hurried home.
Even Kirk himself, who scorn'd the utter'd word,
A cold freethinker, simpering while he heard,

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Felt his heart awed with new reflection now,
And thoughts unwelcome sadden'd on his brow.
O'er the cold dead broods silence, hush'd and deep,
And Henley slumbers where his victims sleep.