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

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.