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

The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott

Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes

Elliott, Ebenezer (1781-1849)

II.

LYRICS FOR MY DAUGHTERS.

ETHELINE.

II.

III.

IV.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

339

ETHELINE.

“Elyot the harper, would not worke;
But at the great feast of King Murke
Sung the warst lay that ever was:
‘Out of my sight, thou droning ass!’
Cried Murke, and to his feet upstarted:
Whereat mine ancestor departed.”

343

BOOK I.

Dear Ellen Rendall! seers have said
That of his realm of giant oak,
O'er valley, plain, and mountain spread
Ere echo mock'd the woodman's stroke,
Barbarian man the temple made,
Where first Religion kneel'd and pray'd;
The green cathedral of the soul
Whose god was in the thunder's roll.
'Twas finely thought, and sagely, too;
The beautiful is ever true.
But I the temple dread would paint
Where primal fraud was terror's saint.
Thou Ellen, thy young grace and truth,
May wake in me a dream of youth,
But cannot sweep the mist away
From hoar tradition's dateless day;

344

And if no scene can now be found
Which fancy might deem haunted ground
How shall the Muse of bed-rid age
Construct for Eld a hermitage,
Where he may bend dejected o'er
Old dust, whose history no man tells,
And homes of glory now no more?
His old eyes full of doubt, and dim
With grief! his old beard jagg'd and torn,
And hung with weeping icicles!
The only old tree mocking him!
The old rocks laughing him to scorn!
And the old skies (with tears, at morn,
Implored some little grace to show him,)
Looking as if they did not know him!

I.

The west wind, gusting boldly,
From Cadeby's falls sent far
The roar of Don and Dar,
Flooding with watery howl and groan,
Their wild abyss of riven stone.
After a day of rain,
The setting sun shone coldly,
Like one who smiles in pain,
O'er woods that seem'd to floor the sky
With ocean-like profundity;

345

And on the lake's dark grey and blue
The oaken towers of Konig threw
A red and shatter'd glare.
'Twas then, that, in despair,
A woman young and fair
Paced the black water's eastern shore,
And on her woful bosom bore
Her child, asleep.
She could not weep;
The “countless laughter” of the lake,
Like mockery on her senses brake.
Because her heart was broken.
She would have spoken
Her deathful thought,
But in her throat
The strangled utterance died.
She knew not that she tried in vain,
With trembling lips, to speak her pain;
Nor knew that, screen'd by willows grey,
Beneath her, in its little bay,
Sat giant Adwick in his boat,
With lifted oars—prepared to pay

346

A visit long delay'd.
In silent pray'r, she pray'd;
Then, looking, wildly looking
On Konig's tower—nor longer brooking
His cruelty and pride—
Sprang over boat and willows
Into the billows.
Close to her breast the child was press'd,
And down she went; but rose, at length,
Relenting, and with desperate strength
Cried, “Save lord Konig's child!” then, drank
The wave, and sank.

II.

She sank—the baby floated,
As if its life was boated.
Swift Adwick soon the struggler caught,
And almost touch'd the mother's hair,
The sinking face of her despair.
He placed the infant in the boat;
Then, from its stooping side,
Plunged deep beneath the tide;
Rose, dived, and rose, to dive in vain;
Yet lived to see that face again!
Recovering soon his rocking boat,
He sate awhile in painful thought:

347

“Another victim! women run
To Konig's lord, to be undone.
If man may tempt them, Konig can;
Ay, Konig is your woman's man.”
Gently he laid upon his knee
The frighted child, and wept to see
Its helpless loveliness;
Yet felt he not the less
The promptings of an inward snake,
To hate it for its father's sake.
“I'll plague yon false betroth'd of mine;”
(Grimly he spoke, and grimly smiled,)
“I'll take the babe to Etheline;
She loves the sire—why not the child?”

III.

Beside the grave, where evermore,
Unknell'd, uncoffin'd, not unwept,
Her widow'd mother slept,
Beneath the copse of willows hoar,
With dwarf ash mix'd, and crab, and sloe,
And brambles for the gadding vine;
Close to the deep lake's western shore,
In restless mood, walk'd to and fro
The orphan Etheline.
Lone daughter of a wizard sire,
(So, by her policy deceived,
Men eagerly believed,)

348

Fear'd was her power, and widely known:
Her spells could rule the thunder-stone,
That floods the heavens with fire;
Her glance strike dead the secret foe
Who but in thought might work her woe.
A bow-shot from the roughen'd wave,
Not ten yards from the copse and grave,
Back'd westward by the boundless wood,
Her moss'd and log-built cabin stood;
And still beneath the copse she went,
And enter'd oft the tenement,
But could not there abide.
She feign'd much wonder—“Why no more
Came Adwick then, as heretofore,
To lonely Waterside?”
(Such was the name her dwelling bore,)
And sometimes blush'd, (but not with shame,)
For neither he nor Konig came.
“Not that she cared for Konig. Why,
Should lowly maiden look so high?
Besides, of love he never spoke;
Though oft he came, 'twas but to joke;
And still he came, to go in haste;
And weeks, since last he came, had pass'd.
Then, why should Adwick knit his brow?
Was Adwick jealous? Jealous! No;
She'd scorn him, if he could be so.”

349

IV.

The stormy west was scowling,
And wolves, far off, were howling.
The starved she-fox, from Ravensly,
Yelp'd o'er oak-waving Denaby.
Deep in the wath of Addersmarsh,
The bittern strain'd her trumpet harsh.
The mast-fed boar had crunch'd his fill.
Beneath the blast, increasing still,
The ash-twigs snapp'd, aloft in air:
Their fall disturb'd the drowsy bear,
And every falling leaf the hare.
“The coming night is glooming,”
She said; “the night is coming;
The direness of the bittern's booming
Foretels a night of moan and groan—
Here to be pass'd by one so lone!
The night is coming.”
What saw she westward of the grove?
What look'd she north to see?
A boat approaching? Did it move?
It moved, it pass'd the wizard's tree;
“He comes!” she said, “'tis he.”

350

V.

In haste, she strew'd her cottage floor
With rushes, to the open door;
Arranged the hearth, roused up the fire;
Swept both her stools, and dress'd them both
In covers of outlandish cloth,
The work of mind-raised men and times;
Brought by her grandsire's father's sire,
(A merchant, known in many climes,)
From Greece, his mother's grave.
And that lone maid remember'd well
Traditions (which she loved to tell,)
Of old Judea's sacred sod,
The altar of the living God;
Of lands where written speech was known;
And of her ancestor, the bard
Renown'd, and to be famous long,
Who many pains and dangers dared,
And sang (where heroes thought in stone,
And men were wise as brave,)
The earliest written song.
Unletter'd, not unwise, was he
Whom now their daughter sate to see;
An outlaw, learn'd in mystic lore,
The worship of his sires of yore.

351

How tardy seem'd his coming! “Hark!
He moors,” she said, “his little bark;”
And while she spoke, he stood before
The seated maiden's open door:
At once, homed sadness left her eye,
Or feign'd a wondrous levity;
As if a flower had long'd to die,
And waked to laughter suddenly.

VI.

“What! come at last?” she said, and laugh'd,
Each word a seeming-spiteful shaft;
“Be seated, for I ne'er again
Expected here my truant swain.”

VII.

Then, Adwick told, in mournful tone,
(While on her lap he laid
The rescued infant, still afraid,)
How, crossing o'er the lake,
He saved from death the little one;
“And well,” said he, “I knew,
If aught on earth were true,
That thou would'st love it—for my sake.”

352

VIII.

“A pretty tale, no doubt, I hear;
But why,” she said, with look austere,
“Must I my rival's bantling rear?”

IX.

“Nay,” he replied, “no rival fear;
For who its mother,
Whether it sister have or brother,
I nothing know; but this foretell,”
(And as he spoke his raised brow fell,)
“That thou wilt love the baby well.”

X.

“Hence with ye both!” she said, and frown'd,
And almost wish'd her lover drown'd.
But then the child
Look'd up and smiled,
Gazing on her with Konig's eyes:
“Oh, leave her here! I'll take the child!”
She cried, betray'd by her surprise;
Then, feasted on its father's eyes
Of deep, deep, darkest blue.

353

XI.

Passion! thou to thyself art true,
And well dost all thou hast to do.
Adwick beheld the sweet surprise
With which she gazed on Konig's eyes
In that poor infant's face.
He did not fail to trace
His rival's image there!
With fiery scowl
He stamp'd it on his soul.
With sullen stare,
He saw her kiss the foundling fair;
And in the blood of deathless pain,
Painted that picture on his brain.

XII.

She knew not what a change had come
O'er Adwick's mind and heart;
A cloud of grief and ire,
Thence never to depart;
A sorrow worse than dungeon-gloom,
Or blackness of the coffin'd tomb;
The tortured sleep, that ever wakes;
A memory made of knotted snakes;

354

With fire, for blood, in every vein,
And cold, that burns like fire.
The outlaw's heart was turn'd to stone;
His all was gone.

XIII.

But ere he thence departed,
She raised her head, and started
His stricken form to see,
Stiff in its agony.
How like a pallid monument,
The work of skill omnipotent,
With cheeks of rock, and tresses rent,
And forest-brows, o'er paleness bent,
He stood, in silence pale!
Or redden'd, like the crimson glow
Of stormy morn o'er Stumperlow;
Or Kinder, when, far seen, he stands,
With lightnings flashing from his hands,
Unheard, through rain and hail!
And pity wrote, in sorrow's book,
The story of his parting look.
Silent, he sought his restless boat,
And vanish'd, like a dreadful thought:
Oh, hope destroy'd is man's undoing!
Heav'n, save his mind from total ruin!
Flinging from rapid oars the light,
He tilted through the glooming night,

355

And reach'd the cave (his living grave,
And homeless home,) which ne'er again
Shall know a joy unmix'd with pain,
Though still around its door uncouth,
The woodbine of the sunny south,
Brought by the sires of Etheline
From regions of the cluster'd vine,
Shall hang its fragrant-finger'd flowers,
To lure the bee from forest-bowers;
And, rock-throned near, one vastest elm
(Knot-wristed monarch of a realm
All forest, cloud, and wave,)
Spread o'er its lawn his sky of shade,
Where ship-brought foeman never stray'd.
Unseen, lord Konig, hidden nigh,
Beheld him pass. “Wolves have their caves,”
The chieftain said, “and there are graves
For men whose kindred thrive;
But here's a cave that is a grave,
Where lives the dead alive.”
With restless foot, and seeking eye,
Impatiently, impatiently
He waited near the shore
For one whom he
Again shall see,
But to his heart clasp never more.
“The clouds,” he said, “are gone to bed;
How their dark chamber overhead

356

Rocks! Will she come to-night?
The wakeful hare hath roused the bear;
The wild pig grunts, the pack'd wolf hunts;
She will not come to-night.”

XIV.

He said, and vanish'd—not unheard,
As near huge Adwick's cave he pass'd,
And took his homeward way!
How like the climber of the blast,
The noiseless-wing'd, night-haunting bird,
That, hunger-stung, and balk'd of prey,
Flaps, in vext flight, the forest grey!

XV.

“That was not the roused bear's tread,”
Frenzied Adwick, listening, said;
“Nor the pack'd wolf's crowding rush;
Nor my dreaming runlet's gush;
Nor my night-dirge, in the bush;
Nor my cloud-song overheard.
Worse than wolf oft watcheth here;
Worse than wolf inhabits near.”

357

XVI.

No limner was there, at his side,
To paint his lip of grief and pride,
The strife, where mind with madness strove;
The war of misery and love;
And check the pencill'd hand in fear,
Starting, these wilder words to hear.

XVII.

“If I bid blind darkness sing
Hymns of brightness;
If I wield the thunder's wing,
Plumed with brightness;
Shall my mercy fail to smite
Evil will?
Shall my justice fail to kill
Evil might?”

XVIII.

Mad, yet conscious of his madness,
Long he paused—then spoke in sadness:
“Ere the eyes of midnight beam'd;
Ere red morning's banner stream'd;

358

Ere the sun began his race,
Silence, and the grave of death,
Were my throne and dwelling-place;
Yet I draw an outlaw's breath!
Can I make the desert's tree
Beautiful, and all for me?
Or, to soothe another's woes,
Out of nothing bring the rose?
Yet—all shunn'd, and homed with pain,—
Vainly love, and wildly fear,
Vainly heave unceasing sighs,
And from beauteous woman's eyes
Vainly bid a pitying tear
Drop, to cool my burning brain!”

XIX.

Then, weeping, started he,
And spake aloud to vacancy:
“Here again, thou King of Pain?
Me, thy God, dost thou defy?
Mocking still, thou strong in ill,
Sneerest thou, Mine Enemy?
Nought art thou, if not my slave.
Yet thou biggen'st, like the grave
To the sentenced felon's fears,
When the ghastly verge he nears!

359

Slave and Rebel! dost thou frown?
Dost thou threaten? Thou dost well:
I will dash thine altars down,
Shake thee from thy horrid throne,
Stamp thee back to hell.
But what beauteous form and face
Fold'st thou in thy vast embrace?
Let me look upon the face
Folded in thy dread embrace:
Oh, those locks—those lips of snow,
Eyes of death, and cheeks of woe,
Freeze me into stone!”

XX.

But, soon, his grief was lost in ire,
That purpled his worn cheek.
Clench'd were his hands, his lips compress'd,
A life of wrongs groan'd in his breast,
Eager, in deeds, to speak;
Like conflagration, smouldering long
Ere flames the strength that mocks the strong,
When up the red Niagara raves,
And rafters swim on fiery waves,
And night glares red o'er burning graves,
And streets of roofs expire.

I am informed by a person learned in such matters, that the valley of Conisbro' near Doncaster was once a lake of considerable extent.

See a book called “A Monopolygraph, by Samuel Gower of Holmfirth,” full of noble poetry and sound criticism. I refer particularly to his translation of the Prometheus Bound. The line copied by me will be found in the following passage:

Prometheus, (solus,)
Oh, thou divine and boundless atmosphere!
And you, ye swift-wing'd winds of heav'n, and thou,
Oh, countless laughter of the salt sea waves!

360

BOOK II.

Go, Ellen, visit Conisbro'
When gusty Autumn's wildest day
To the grey ruin's age and woe
Shall wild and fitting homage pay.
Then shall his shadow in the sun
Make stormy sunshine doubly fair;
Beneath shall wail the flooded Dun;
And Music's Muse shall meet thee there.
Start not Eliza's form to see
That castled mound's brown shades among;
But bless the dead maid's melody,
Nor marvel if “her speech is song.”
To die is but to put off sin,
As morn puts off night's vapour foul;
The dead are learners, who begin
To sing the music of the soul.
They teach the born-in-heav'n to feel
How angel-voiced are human woes;
And tempt the heavenly-born to steal
From earth, the smile of sorrow's rose.
Oh, beautiful in tears, to them
Who know not grief, that flower may seem,
Reflected on its thorny stem,
In mortal life's impassion'd stream!

361

I.

Lone darkness lit her lamps on high,
Star waking star o'er all the sky;
And Mercy from his throne divine
Watch'd over sleeping Etheline.
She slept, and with her slept
The baby on her breast.
Sleeping, she wept
In dreams, for Adwick—and his woes;
(Oh, if she loved another,
So sister loveth brother!)
And not from bless'd repose,
But sorrowful unrest,
She waked, to hear, around her ringing,
Sounds, sweet as of an angel singing,
When, thus, a voice like woman's sung,
With more than music on her tongue.

II.

“Under the willow tree
All that can die of me
Perishing lies;

There, in green water-brakes
Royally—water-snakes
Feast on my eyes.

362

Then, if thou lovest him too;
If I to him am true,
Laid with the dead;

If—as the true should be—
Telma is loved by thee,
In her cold bed;

If all our acts are seeds—
If good and evil deeds
Never can die;

If what thou oft hast told
Me of the prophets old,
Was not a lie;

If the God-written speech
Shall to the nations teach
Life undepraved;

If, sunk in sin and night,
Worlds shall rejoice in light,
By a child saved;

If sinless might is thine—
Motherless Etheline,
Cherish my child!

Orphan'd one, Lonely one,
Pity my only one,
Mother my child!

363

Though born to singleness,
Thou must live husbandless,
Why live alone?

She can secure to thee
Wifehood's virginity;
Make her thy own!

She can preserve the soul,
She keep the conscience whole;
Mother her well!

Him her pure love may save
Ev'n from the spirit's grave;
Snatch'd from deep hell!

Me, all my sins forgiven,
He may uplift to heav'n,
Wing'd at his side;

Cherubim, seraphim,
Singing, to welcome him
Home, with his bride.”

III.

The wild song ceased; and with a scream,
Upraised in bed, the maiden said,
“Could she be here? I do not dream.
Where art thou? thou who sung'st so well!
My Telma! Friend, loved long and well!
Answer me!

364

Oh, Beautiful and Terrible!
Answer me!
Why hast thou absent been so long?
I know, my envy did thee wrong;
But I have miss'd thee, yearn'd for thee.
Beloved and Dreadful! let me see
Thy visage pale! and tell to me
Thy dreadful tale.”

IV.

No voice replies. Nor form, nor face,
In glittering twilight, can she trace.
In vain, she seeks repose;
In vain, her eyelids close:
Sleepless, she tosses, till the grey
Of morning brightens into day.

V.

Day follows day, and Etheline
Is happier than a bride;
Still nursing little Telmarine
At lonely Waterside.
Them madness guards, and watches well,
With vigilance invincible;
And he may yet on man depend,
Whom madness watches, as a friend.

365

VI.

Week follows week; and unseen hands
For Etheline wild berries bring,
Pure water from the living spring,
And fire-wood from the shore;
Kind whisperings reach her listening ear;
Unseen, a kind shape near her stands;
And friendly feet are wandering near,
Though Konig comes no more.
Yet Adwick loves not Telmarine!
Her sire is loved by Etheline,
And Adwick hates that sire!
The man is mad. A cruel thought,
And half-form'd dark intentions float
Within his brain of fire.
The wretch is mad—oppress'd—reviled:
God! will he kill the rescued child?

VII.

But Konig comes to Waterside!
He seeks, at length, lost Telma there;
And saith, (his calmness is despair,)
“The lost may with her rival bide;
For after anger, love is sweet;
And friends long-parted long to meet.”
The self-caught trapper rues the hour
When first he tried his cruel power

366

(Oh, heartless deed!) to undermine
The virgin name of Etheline,
And do an orphan wrong.
His shaft is shot, and ill it sped;
For she loves him, and he the dead!
Defeated is the strong.
Lo, at her cottage-door they stand!
She deeply moved,
Yet coldly meeting her beloved;
He, with feign'd gladness, courteously
Pressing her small unoffer'd hand;
And watching on the shadow'd sand,
His form of loftiest majesty.
The scarcely-welcomed welcome guest
Enters her home, with heart depress'd;
Around he pries, with cunning eyes,
But finds not what he seeks;
Then, pausing, speaks.

VIII.

“Daughter of merchant strangers! thou
Endanger'd art, and lonely now.
Within a bow-shot of my tower,
I have a shelter'd plot and bower;
There dwell thou safe, my queen and guest;
This I, who might command, request.

367

For who seeks now thy dwelling lonely?
Fish-eating, hare-fed Adwick only—
A headlong, blaze-brain'd, wisdom-troubling
Fool, with new good old evils doubling;
And thou, by shielding that doom'd man,
Incurr'st the King-Priest's deadly ban.
Well saith the saw of ancient date,
‘The empty friend devours his mate:’
Shun, then, th' accursed, or share his fate.
Is it because his savaged brow
Darkens a rebel's lip below,
While sun-tann'd hide, and storm-comb'd hair,
(Fit raiment both, for wolf and bear,)
Clothe broadest breast, and largest limb,
That maidens run such risks for him?”

IX.

He said, and from his forehead fair
Stroked back dark locks of glossy hair,
Smiling in scorn. She wrongly deem'd
That he was tranquil as he seem'd,
And, cautious, answer'd—boastfully
Feigning a false security:
“If we have caused his many sorrows,
Shall I hate him who suffers for us?
My father loved the outcast man
Whom priest and priestling therefore ban,

368

For well they know that Adwick knows
How vain are all their shams and shows!
But though the power that awes ev'n thee
Might well appal a maid like me,
I go not hence, Sir. Who will dare
To storm th' enchantress in her lair?
Weird daughter of a wizard sire,
Can I not flood the heav'ns with fire?
And slay, far off, the covert foe
Who but in thought might work me woe?
Nor force nor fraud of man I fear;
Nor, Konig, am I lonely here.”

X.

“Not lonely here?” confused, he said;
And from his lip its colour fled,
When, at her feet, he saw a child,
The little foundling, Telmarine.
With Telma's smile, on him it smiled,
With Telma's locks of raven hue,
And upturn'd eyes of darkest blue.
Confused, he named its mother's name!
While pale, as death's cold brow, became
The cheek of Etheline.

369

XI.

“Telma!” he said; nor waited long
Ere seem'd at once to come and go
The shadow of a shape of woe,
(Like the last look of kindness sent
From dying eyes, it came and went,)
And, thus, a voice replied in song:
“Oh, Konig, if the living knew,
What death-freed spirits only know,
That none are happy, but the true;
Wert thou like moonlight on the snow,
Or dew on lilies—bright and pure;
Oh, if thy soul were anchor'd sure—
Not on thy gods of death and strife,
Fierce Jove, arm'd Pallas, fiery Mars,
(Nor on glad Orus, and the stars,
Or Jareeha, hurrying white
Behind the troubled gloom of night,)
But on the Lord of Love and Life;
Thou would'st not need to hear it said,
That bless'd are they who love the dead.
Who that hath loved, as truth doth love,
Loved only once, and lost his love,
But in his heart of hearts hath said,
“Safe is the love that loves the dead?”
Then, Come! our marriage-feast is spread;

370

Celestial guests inquire for thee;
Sweet is the love that loves the dead!
And angels wait for thee and me:
Be happy yet! espouse the dead:
Safe is the love that loves the dead!
Oh, well is he who weds the dead!”

XII.

When ceased that voice “whose speech was song,”
Still Konig fondly listen'd long.
“Thou art not here?” at length, he cried,
“Thou trouble-tried, and purified!
Thy voice I heard, but where art thou?
Oh, let me see thee! see thee now!
Yet, ere this fever'd dream is o'er,
Let me embrace thee!—once, once more!”

XIII.

Then, said the voice “whose speech was song,”
“If thou would'st see me yet again
Where human weakness dwells with pain,
Go, follow him, whose eyes of hate
Have watch'd thee early, watch'd thee late,
And been thy watchers long.
He comes, in frenzied passion strong:
I see his dreadful scowl:
If ought on earth is sad or foul,
Behold it—in a ruin'd soul!

371

Look on the havock thou hast made!
On Adwick look! destroy'd, betray'd!
Thou did'st not smite him with thy hand;
The smitten might such blow withstand:
Behold him—Lost! in spirit blind!
Thy guilty heart hath slain his mind.”

XIV.

Lo, while he listen'd, Adwick came!
Bare were his limbs, his breast was bare.
Blue glitter'd through his matted hair
His pain-changed eyes of ghastly flame,
As if a wintry tempest threw
Cold lightning on their freezing blue;
And these wild words he utter'd there:
“The crow doth croak. What croaketh he?
‘Dead horse! dead horse!’ Where may it be?
At Cadeby-Force it lies a corse,
And there a dead maid, near the horse.
The lean crow croak'd, ‘At Cadeby-Force
I come to feed, dead horse, dead horse!
Oh, won't I feed at Cadeby-Force,
Where lies, with thee, the maiden's corse?’
‘Be mine, dead maid,’ the starved crow pray'd,
‘At Cadeby-Force, be mine, dead horse!’
‘Nay,’ saith the worm, ‘be ours, dead maid!’
She shall—but not at Cadeby-Force.”

372

XV.

Brighter the maniac's eyes became;
Speech, mix'd with laughter, from him brake;
On Konig glared the eyes of flame;
And, thus, to Konig Adwick spake:
“Fish-eating Adwick, in the lake
Hath caught a curious lady-fish:
I caught it, Konig, for thy sake,
And thine shall be the fish.
Would'st see again thy loved one's face?
Then, must thou see my lady-fish:
Come! I will lead thee to the place
Where thou may'st see my fish.”

XVI.

“Follow me, Lord!” he yell'd aloud;
And Konig, fearless, follow'd him,
Entering the forest's mazes dim,
In sadness bow'd.
They traversed realms of verdant night,
And many a treeless isle of light,
Whose peaceful bliss the eyes of Love
Watch'd fondly through the blue above;
A wilderness of shaded flowers;
A wilderness of virgin-bowers;
Of beauty (calm, not passionless,)
And lonely song, a wilderness;

373

For on, on, far and long, they went
Through paths of green bewilderment,
Where oft the ouzle, perch'd on high,
Beneath his clouds, above his woods,
Pour'd his full notes in gushing floods,
Flattering the wood rill tunefully;
Then, listen'd to its still reply,
In all a bard's regality,
And seem'd sole lord of earth and sky.
Soul-meekening sadness sweetly crept
The region o'er—and Konig wept:
His sighs to echoes soft replied;
He knew not why—but still he sigh'd.
They reach'd at last the mount where stood
The Father of the boundless wood,
An oak, before whose vastness man,
Dwarf'd to a gnat's dimensions, shrunk.
Twelve full-sized men had fail'd to span,
With outstretch'd arms, his giant trunk.
One mighty limb, extended forth,
Might have a war-ship's frame supplied;
One shoulder, twisted to the north,
A thousand winters had defied;
(All eldest things had even told
The hoary ages, as they roll'd,
That he alone on earth was old;)
And still the knotted hands prepared
Their time-tried wrists and knuckles bared,

374

The storms of centuries to dare.
The tree was call'd the Wizard's chair;
And in his hollow trunk the gloom
Reveal'd an uncouth banquet-room:
Perchance, in after ages dined
In such a tree stout Robin Hood,
Amid the depths of Barnesdale Wood
Feasting his men on hart and hind.
“Here enter!” growl'd the maniac grim;
And Konig enter'd—following him
Into the god-made forest-hall,
With the mute step of funeral.
Slowly undarken'd then the gloom.
They stood within a living tomb,
Before a form—a lifeless one—
Whose lifted head long hair had on;
Black, it descended like a veil,
Half hiding features fix'd and pale;
The light, if light it were, of eyes;
And the still shape of lifeless thighs.
Alone unclothed by that sad vest
Were two fair shoulders, one round breast,
Snow-sculptured legs, with small thin feet,
White as a winding sheet,
Or stainless ivory;
And fingers, taper'd slenderly,
Which—when the fond enamour'd breeze
Pulsed gently through surrounding trees—

375

Seem'd dallying with the long loose hair.
Erect, as if she stood in pray'r,
The beauteous Horror glimmer'd there!
“How dost thou like her?” whisper'd then
The seeming cruelest of men:
One groan replied! a low dull sound
Follow'd; and on the ground,
At Adwick's feet, lord Konig lay
Blackening, and senseless as the clay.

XVII.

“Dog! that fear'st bones!” said Adwick. “Thou
Shalt do the outcast's bidding now.
Who now shall say to Adwick, ‘Stand
Apart from blessing! let no hand
Touch him or his! no living thing
Approach his withering?’
Soon, all shall know me. Heav'n is mine!
The priests are mine, their altars mine,
To work for good, not ill:
Their sov'reign shall be Telmarine,
And she shall do my will;
For earth and heav'n are mine.
Am I not God? Sweet Etheline
Shall be God's God! heav'n's queen and mine.
I am of Kings the King.

376

Deny'st thou this, mine enemy?
Ha!—shape abhorr'd! lord Konig's Lord!
Laugh'st thou in hell-black mockery?
Laugh—but the mercy of my might
Shall smite thy blackness into light;
Frown—Ay, with thunder bridge thine eyes,
Swell, if thou wilt, to mountain-size,
And with a look eclipse the skies!
But—Ah! again? What form, what face
Fold'st thou within thy vast embrace?
Oh, those dear locks! those lips of snow,
Those eyes of death, and cheeks of woe!
They freeze me into stone!
Yet triumph not, All-evil Thing!
The king of priests, and thou his king,
And all your instruments of ill,
Shall do my will,
And work for good alone.”

XVIII.

In envy, hatred, jealousy,
In sorrowing pride's intensity,
(Worst madness of worst misery,)
On fearful thoughts his spirit feasts;
And he will seek the King of Priests,
Though doom'd to die, if he draw nigh

377

The hallow'd kernel of the wood,
His dwelling long ago;
Where Mystery, fed on “weeping blood,”
Is restless as a wintry flood,
And cold as mountain-snow;
Restless as fire! yet still unchanged;
Or as the changeful, never changed,
Unalterable sky!

BOOK III.

O'er “Wharncliffe of the Demons” thou,
Dear Ellen, hast a wanderer been:
Thy second letter places now
Before my soul the beauteous scene.
But thou hast named a name that brings
Back the deplored and hopeless past,
And o'er remember'd Wharncliffe flings
An angel's shadow, flitting fast.
Why did'st thou name that mournful name?
Beautiful in its worth and woe,
Over my sadden'd heart it came,
Like funeral music, wailing low;
Or like a deep cathedral toll,
At midnight swung o'er Witham's wave,

378

Proclaiming that a weary soul
Had cast his staff into the grave.
Oh, never more will Lycid see
That relic of the forest old
Which spread, “like an eternity,”
Its green night over plain and wold;
Grey Wharncliffe, and the oaks, that stand
Like spectres of their sires sublime;
Yet how unlike, though old and grand,
Those giants of the olden time!
Symbols of age-long funerals,
They frown'd o'er fear's suspended breath,
And pillar'd in their living halls
The deathless might of mental death.
Oh, Superstition! cruel, blind,
False, restless, fair, as ocean's foam,
How shall I paint, where shall I find,
Save in man's darkness, thy dark home?

I.

While to the she-wolf from afar
Her prowling mate replied,
And muffled moon, and riddled star,
Glimpsed on the dusk lake's mirror wide;
Asleep, and dreaming, Etheline
Rock'd on her bosom Telmarine,
At lonest Waterside.

379

Spirit of all that lives to die!
Relate her dream of agony.
She thought, a shape of darkness bow'd
Heav'n's concave, crushing in her breath,
As with the weight of cloud on cloud
To rock-like substance press'd;
And two pale arms snatch'd from her breast
Her nursling, while it slept.
She gasp'd, she wept;
But grief was deafen'd in her soul
By thunders, which then o'er her roll'd,
And would, she thought, for ever roll
Beneath the grave of death,
When suns in death were cold.
Then, did a realm of frost,
A cloud-homed desert without shore,
Receive her; and for ever lost
With tears for light, her only light,
Stone-still, she stood before
Featureless Night.
No sound was there, no flutter'd wing,
No leaf, no form, no living thing,
No beating heart, but hers—no air;
But cold that pierced the soul was there,
And horror which no tongue can tell,
And silence insupportable:
'Twas depth unplumb'd, 'twas gloom untrod,
'Twas shuddering thought alone with God.

380

II.

Ev'n while she dream'd, in silence pass'd,
Moon-lighted gloomily,
A wanderer through the forest vast,
Unto the Throne of Mystery
Bearing a child,
That gazed around her in surprise,
Or innocently smiled,
Looking on him, with Konig's eyes
Of deep, deep, darkest blue,
Almost to blackness deepen'd, yet
Blue as Carpathia's violet.
But soon in fear her arms she threw
Around his neck; for the dim light
Made darkness touchable to sight;
Nor darkness only. Through the dusk
Fierce shadows moved; from fierce eyes came
Quick sparks of living flame;
Hot pantings gather'd, thicker; then, a husk
Of sound was heard—nor bark, nor growl—
Which sometimes swell'd into a howl;
And still, to hunger's instinct true,
Nearer the dog of forests drew.
Nought fear'd the Wanderer of the Night,
Whose brow of gloom,
And ghastness in the shadow'd light,

381

Scarce seem'd of earth, or heav'n or hell;
He, unconvinceable,
Could not have trembled, if, o'er head,
The desolated heav'ns had fled,
While crash'd the trump of doom.
But, lo, a flash, a glare, a blaze,
Illumed the wood with ghastly rays,
Suddenly!
And the gaunt prowlers, balk'd of prey,
Stopp'd, whined, crouch'd low, and skulk'd away.
The wanderer sought a temple grand;
Behold! its portal was at hand,
The vast cathedral's forest-porch;
Through which stream'd light from many a torch,
Rays many-colour'd, piercing far
The chaster light of moon and star,
Beneath the wood-rill's canopy;
And, lo, at once, the eastern aisle,
In length a gloom-foreshorten'd mile,
Reveal'd its groin'd immensity!
So, when, at midnight, thunders roll
O'er lone Roch Abbey's ruin'd fane,
The dead walls, in the lightning's blaze,
To God within the listening soul
Chaunt old Religion's hymn of praise;
Pillar and arch, in darkness hidden,
Start up to sight, like things forbidden;
And buried ages live again.

382

“Pretty!” the child, delighted, cried,
And clapp'd her hands; for she espied
Five coming shapes, each bearing high
A staff-raised brand of red, blue, green,
Purple, and golden fire; which cast,
As slowly they came nigh,
On living buttress vast,
And cloudy shapes between,
And arch sublime, and tracery,
Not wrought by man, commingled hues—
Lovely as emerald ocean's foam
Beneath an April sky;
Disclosing lone side avenues,
And domes which seem'd to come and go,
Dome after dome, dome after dome,
While shaft by shaft advanc'd, withdrew
Like giants countermarching slow.
Grim were the four—coal-black their vests,
Their helms, and crests—
Who bore the red, green, yellow, blue
Torches; but robed in purest white,
A female form of stateliest height,
And fair to view
As love and truth,
Was she who bore the purple light:
Her locks of snow,
In amplest flow
Descending to her feet,

383

Cover'd her, like a sheet;
And in her stedfast eye
And sculptured look, eternity
Seem'd wedded to immortal youth.
Sudden, she stopp'd. Around her closed
The sable four; their torches raised,
Each touching hers, united blazed,
And, lo, the cluster'd five composed
A many-colour'd flower of flame,
Beautiful, beautiful,
As that bright rose which dark maids cull
Where himalayan summits tower
O'er fiery plain, and fiery flower!
Then, from the unnumber'd voices came,
Wailing the forest-depths among,
Unearthly notes of chaunted song,
Wild, mournful, grand; as shipwreck's cry,
Heard through the groan of sea and sky,
Convulsed in boundless agony;
And like a yell of mockery,
Forestalling worth's reward of pain,
With the laugh'd lie
That virtue toils in vain.
Thus, sang, unseen, deep shades among,
The singers of inhuman song:
“When did the wisdom of the wise
Expunge from life one human ill?
Ever the Seeker's victories

384

Leave his hard heart unconquer'd still:
Therefore the gods the wretch deride
Whose soul on truths forbidden feeds;
And crush the atheist in his pride,
(Cold, good-pretending deicide!)
Who turns life's fairy flowers to weeds.
Gods! curse him wet; Gods! curse him dry;
Where fin can swim or foot repair!
In light and darkness, cold and heat!
Curse him wherever wing can fly!
Curse him wherever heart can beat!
And blast him with his granted pray'r!”

III.

The dread chaunt ceased, and over all,
Except the Wanderer and the child,
Strange awe, like death-bed fear, did fall,
Or sleep, that dreams of woe.
On came the Wanderer, unaffrighted;
And while the valiant child, delighted,
Listen'd or clapp'd her hands and smiled,
He stood before the Nun of Snow.

IV.

“Fear not, thou Wanderer sad,” she said,
“To follow whither I must lead:

385

The pray'r is pray'd, the rede is read;
And ever best the boldest speed.
Well hast thou done th' appointed deed:
Full well the chasten'd understand
That they are govern'd who command:
And long, oh, Wanderer sad, have we
Expected thee.”

V.

“Fear?” he replied—and huger grew
His vastness, where on her he threw
A wondering glance; “Ye do my will,
And but my purpose here fulfil.
Proceed ye on your destined way,
Obeying Him, whom all obey.”

VI.

Then, westward turn'd the sable four;
The stately whiteness westward turn'd;
Them following, he the nursling bore;
And, raised aloft, the torches burn'd.
How strangely, pillars vast
On each hand pass'd!
How grandly, overhead,
Domes, following domes, behind them fled,
All in deep silence! Silence deep
Lay on the fretted roof, like sleep;

386

And there the moonlight lay, like death;
It could not pierce the gloom beneath,
Where a broad orb, beheld afar,
Shone westward, like a crimson star,
And other light was none;
Save of the torches red, green, blue,
Purple, and golden. Round they threw
Their intermingled ghastness wild,
While laugh'd with joy th' undaunted child;
But when he reach'd, with soundless feet,
The Presence, and the Judgment-Seat,
Torches and bearers all were gone!
Then paused the Wanderer. North and south,
He look'd on aisles of age-long growth,
Tree-pillar'd high, branch-arch'd, star-proof,
Cut short in darkness. Where he stood
Within the kernel of the wood,
The central vastness stretch'd out wide
Its space sublime and sanctified;
Of such a temple fitting choir;
Worthy of its eternal roof,
The bright, blue, moon'd, and starry sky,
That domed its dread tranquillity,
Commanding leaf and flower to grow
In sad and silvery light below;
For such a choir meet canopy.
Before him glared the globe of fire,
Scattering innocuous blaze and spark;

387

And all beneath was dark;
Save that the Wanderer might espy,
Beneath the globe of flame,
A pallid brow, a glittering eye,
That slowly went and came.
“Say,” spake a voice of deepest tone,
“What man art thou—of men alone—
Who dar'st the shadow of the throne?”
“Mine is the shadow, mine the throne,”
The Wanderer cried; “I therefore dare
The shadow of the throne;
For I am He who sits thereon,
In spirit, everywhere;
God! I am God! the all-adored!
The many-named! the only Lord!
Incarnate oft in human form;
Permitting fear to worship love,
On altar-stone, in hallow'd grove,
And proud to bless the meanest worm,
Though throned o'er earth, and sea, and sky;
My chariot Light, my torch-stand Night;
My sceptre Life; my falchion Pain;
With dateless Thought for my domain,
And Darkness for my canopy.”

VIII.

Beneath the globe of restless flame,
Indignant features went and came;

388

The pale brow blacken'd, the fierce eye,
Gathering its thunder gloomily,
Flash'd curses. Then, a voice austere,
In accents mix'd of scorn and fear,
Said, “Well, Sir God! what would'st thou here?”

IX.

The Wanderer answer'd, “I to thee
Consign the Maid of Destiny,
This sin-born child; for 'tis my will,
That vice which blights, and crimes that kill,
And pain, of evil born, shall bring
Blessings to every living thing;
And that all wrong, by love withstood,
Shall turn all evil into good.”

X.

But woe-tried men have feelings fine;
And loth was Adwick to resign
The nursling, at his journey's end;
As loth was she to quit her friend.
Friend? Ay, she knew his troubled brow;
Had heard him oft, in dreams, complain;
By stealth, had watch'd his sleep; and now
She clung to him, and kiss'd his cheek.
Was he, then, loved? Lived he, to find,
At last, that one of human kind

389

Loved the foredoom'd to crime and pain?
Almost his sanity return'd;
He wept, as if his heart would break;
Wept, but his tears were hot—they burn'd
The brain from which they rush'd:
So, lightning, when roused ocean raves,
Harrows black midnight's clouds and waves,
Together crush'd.
Irresolute, and with smother'd sighs,
He held her up: she turn'd, and smiled
A smile that thrill'd him through,
Looking on him with Konig's eyes
Of deep, deep, darkest blue,
Black almost, and yet throwing back
The crimson of the pansy's black.
But while he stood in dubious mood,
Two arms, stretch'd forth, received the child.
“Thus,” said the voice of deepest tone,
“While men, on unfoundation'd thought,
Build roofless deeds, which come to nought,
The gods preserve their own:
The sought is found, the promised maid,
Ordain'd to save their cause betray'd;
A chieftain's daughter, sin-begot,
Brought by a traitor, trusted not.”

390

XI.

Ceased the fang'd voice. The murderous eye,
The globe of crimson fire, were gone;
And from the sky—how silvery,
How cold o'er all, how suddenly—
Moonlight and starlight, silent shone!
The Wanderer wept—he was alone.
Not so? From choral voice and gong,
And trumpet, blown deep shades among,
Arose a storm of sound and song:
“The sought is found! and summons thee
To doom and darkness, Heresy!”
Brief, sudden, loud,
As thunder from a rainless cloud,
While shudder'd man and beast,
It rose, and ceased.
The Urus, in his reedy vale,
Heard it, and rear'd erect his tail;
Upstarted, in her fern, the hare;
Upstood, with lifted paws, the bear;
His wide-branch'd head
The huge elk raised, and sobb'd in dread;
Disturb'd, the wild pig grunted,
The she-fox growl'd;
In chorus stern, the pack'd wolf howl'd;
Fast fled the prey he hunted:

391

So, fear waked fear; o'er plain and hill,
And rock, and tree,
Th' affrighted circle widen'd still;
Kinder and Deadedge heard the sound,
Their tempest-pastured mountains round
Trembling in sympathy;
While echo smother'd groan on groan
O'er cragg'd hag-ridden Edlington.

BOOK IV.

Ellen! “the dead are safe,” I said;
Yet to the unreturning dead
I must again sad utterance give:
My pleasing task will then be done;
Soon, then, my mortal course be run;
And I, too, shall begin to live.
Who shall undo the past day's deed?
It labours for the coming hour;
And if I am but as a weed,
The weed, though dead, is still a power;
Ay, and of Goodness! of all powers
Greatest, the Life that cannot die,
The evergrowing Unity,
Whose death-matured and brightest flowers

392

Will not the tiny soul contemn
That bloom'd its best, and went to them!
The perfect joy, that once was grief,
Will see no sorrow in my leaf.
Freed worms, that blamed a worm's excess,
Will pardon kindred littleness.
The left-on-earth will cease to blame
Mistaken words, or failing aim;
Nor scorn, perchance, from Shirecliff's side
To gaze, with me, o'er Hallam wide;
Or wander with a child of sin
By shadow-haunted Rivilin;
Or, loved of sunbeams! talk with one
Whose soul, by Rother, Sheaf, or Don
Still lingering, wreaths for truth will weave;
And all that spirits tell believe.

I.

Oh, hast thou seen the mountain snow
Which south winds softly overblow,
How fast it wastes, how swiftly hastes
To feed the rock-rill's lonely flow,
And swell a sea of tears below?
So wastes, so weeps lone Etheline,
For she hath lost her Telmarine.
In evil hour, an awful power

393

Hath stol'n Lord Konig's child;
And never since that dismal hour
Hath she, the maiden-mother, smiled.
Seldom she sleeps,
But always weeps;
And when she sleeps, she dreams
That Telmarine, with joyful screams,
Returns, to sport upon her breast,
And laugh her into rest:
Starting, she wakes! illusion flies;
And back come dire realities.
Then, to the silent gloom she sighs,
And asks the silent gloom in vain,
“When will my child come back again?”

II.

In solitude, yet not alone,
She lived, with nought to do but weep:
Oh, better had she been a stone
O'er whose old age old mosses creep!
For emerald shadows with them dwell,
And lonely sunbeams love them well.

394

Ever, “My child! my child!” she said,
And loathed her food, her hearth, her bed;
And could not bear to keep
Within her cot, by day or night;
But, like a cloud that cannot sleep,
Abroad, with darkness dwelt and light,
And with the dews that pitied her,
And with the winds that soothed her sadness;
A homed, yet homeless sufferer,
Watch'd by the sun, the moon, the grey
Of moonless night, and sunless day:
And watch'd by Adwick's madness.

III.

If chanced the warm autumnal skies
To lure the adder from its bed,
(Where the bog-myrtle's fruit turn'd red,
Or violets, blowing late, smell'd sweet,
And the bank sloped, the morn to meet,)
Green, blazed its never-closing eyes;
“Still is she here!” the adder said,
And, like an eye-glance, vanishèd.

IV.

To slumber lull'd by wailings faint,
Awaked by moanings of complaint,
From his high seat, in sportive glee
Down looking on her misery,

395

The squirrel, morrow after morrow,
Heard speech that sigh'd.
The sun, at noon, still found her weeping;
The sun, at eve, beheld her weeping,
And bow'd his beamy head in sorrow;
And when, at night, the otter stole
From his root-roof'd and fishy hole
Beneath the moonlit tree—
The sound that mingled with the beam
Reflected from the “watery gleam,”
Was speech that sigh'd.

V.

When stoop'd the bramble's arm'd rich stems
Beneath their darkening load of gems,
And “on its thorny tree” the sloe
Stole from the west a purply glow,
While bees and blooms revisited
The all-thorn'd gorse, she nothing said
But, “Cruel was that friend of mine
Who stole my pretty Telmarine.”
But when the slow was blackly mellow,
When the crab wore its flamy yellow,
When starken'd the dim heav'ns with cold,
And woods put on their crimson'd gold,
She sigh'd, “The year is darkening down,
The green locks of the crags turn brown,

396

Ripe bramble-berries cover them,
The fiend his club casts over them,
And winter comes, in hail and rain;
But Telmarine comes not again!”

VI.

When rose the heron in the wind,
His legs outstretch'd his flight behind,
In search of warmer skies;
She gazed on him, with upturn'd eyes,
And said, “Oh, thou, the fleet, the wild!
Stay! tell me—Hast thou seen my child?”
When after him the eagle pass'd,
And over her his shadow cast,
She said, “Thou strong of eye and wing!
Far canst thou fly, and widely see;
Oh, King-bird, seek her, find her, bring
My Telmarine to me!
Or I must die in misery.”
Then, on the bird she strain'd her sight,
Till he became a speck in light,
And till, at last, he vanish'd quite;
And then she gazed on empty air,
Fearing to take her eyes away,
As if her only hope was there,
There—in that depth of barren grey,
On which, with his last gasp of breath,
Man tries to fix his gaze in death.

397

Death!—face of stone, and soul of lath,
Yet the last friend that misery hath—
“A long sweet sleep awaiteth thee,”
Saith ghastly Death to Misery!
And he, in pity, on her smiled;
For she must die! or find her child.
And soon nor squirrel, otter, snake,
Shall see her, from the wood or lake;
Nor hawk, nor heron, from the sky
Look on the maid, now fain to die.
Pale, paler, weaker she became;
Chill tremors shook her failing frame;
And with slack knees, and swimming head
She sank upon her sleepless bed,
Where her worn face, a child's in size,
Seem'd cold in woe, as polar skies,
And polar snow.
The fountain of her tears was dried;
She wept no more, but ever sigh'd;
Her heart broke not! 'twas petrified.

VII.

Then, came o'er Adwick's frenzied mind
A change, like colour to the blind.
Oh, deem not him a cruel man,
That victim of a ruthless ban,

398

And of compassionate sympathy,
Which suffers in his destiny,
And darkly, dreadly shares the fate
That made him desolate!
If thou would'st see the gentle sky
Reflected in the lake,
Bid the black tempest's agony
Its tortured waves forsake;
Then, shall the banks, the whispering trees
The cloud, the herd, the rock, the hill,
The foxglove, ay, the birds and bees,
Live in that mirror bright and still.
So, when warm tears gush'd from his brain,
And cool'd its burning hell of pain,
(Frenzy subsiding into sadness,
And saddest pity conqu'ring madness,)
He was himself again;
Like one who wakes from dreams of woe,
When blackest night is past—and, lo,
Morn glitters on a world of snow!
He saw his victim's mute despair;
To see her die he could not bear.
Himself he hated for the deed
That laid her, like a withering weed,
Before him—dying, helpless, pale;
And if man's courage can avail,
Oh, yet will he save Etheline!
He will bring back her Telmarine.

399

Yea, he hath sought the dread retreat,
Where none may tread with unbless'd feet.
Hark! Voices? Shouts? A fearful cry
Wakes the green night of Mystery:
“Oh, Sacrilege! a man defiled
Hath from the hallow'd chamber borne
The consecrated child!”
And she, the Nun of Snow, hath sworn
That he, the thief, whoe'er he be,
Shall for his crime with life atone,
And suffer on the slaughter-stone
Pain's worst extremity.

VIII.

“The little hand of Telmarine
Presses thy bosom, Etheline!
The soft warm cheek of Telmarine
Rests on thy cold face, Etheline!
Konig's blue eyes, in Telmarine,
Smile on the softer blue of thine.
Is it not well?” said Adwick, sighing;
“Art thou not happy?” “Yes, and dying,
My Adwick!” pressing with her own
His hand, she said, in sweetest tone,
Her eyes on his o'er-flowing eyes
Fix'd, “I am dying. Be not thou
(My Friend! my Love!) offended now,

400

That my soul yearns again to see
My Konig's face. If thou lov'st me,
Love Konig, too. And when I'm dead—
When number'd are my vanities;
When aching heart, and reeling head,
And throbbing pulse, are quieted,
Tell him I loved him! and”—she smiled
On little Telmarine—“the child
I leave behind me. Bid him take
My child, and love it for my sake—
As I love it for his. In heart
A mother, tell him—I depart
In soul a bride;
In truth, a virgin; satisfied
To be, in soul, his bride.”

IX.

While thus she spoke, Lord Konig paced
His castle and the lake between,
With cold hand on his hot brow placed,
And blood-shot eyeballs, in despair
Fix'd wildly on the Wizard's chair,
Far over wood and water seen.
Earth, and the clear heav'n overhead,
Were tranquil as the sinless dead;
They might have sooth'd and tranquillized
A heart less torn and agonized;
But the mute clouds, the stirless air,

401

The silent light, the lake at rest,
All, mock'd the tumult in his breast,
The tempest raging there;
When—as a smile lights silently
The lip of sleeping infancy—
Out of the still lake's crystal bright,
Out of the silent air and light,
Seeming to soul and sight
A portion of the air and light,
The form, the face of Telma came!
In all her living loveliness
She stood before him. Motionless,
(Save that her moving lips display'd
What seem'd the teeth's pure ivory,
Like white flowers trembling in the shade,)
She utter'd his dear name!
Death had not from her stature taken
Its graceful slightness:
Still seem'd to heave, in blissful whiteness,
Her bosom soft and warm:
Nor had the dewy rose forsaken
Her full lip's eloquent charm;
Nor on her cheek had morning faded;
Nor had the eyes, which black locks shaded;
Lost their black brightness.
Yet was there a solemnity,
A marble fixedness of eye,
In her dread beauty; in her look

402

A calmness—Oh, Thou Wizard's Chair,
And thy grim guest of bone and hair!
That calmness took
The fever-flush from Konig's cheek,
And paled it, as with fear;
It was the look that bids hearts break
Hope shudder, and bereavement seek
No solace here.

X.

“Konig!” in speech that was not song,
Yet sweeter far, she said,
Or whisperèd,
“The hours of God, seem long
To man's impatience, and to me;
For slowly, mercifully still,
Ev'n to the freed of death,
Himself and his unerring will
The All-wise discovereth.
We are not fitted yet to be
Where dwell the painless, where the pure
Live with the pure in purity.
Much must thou dare, and more endure,
Ere we can wed as spirits wed.
Yet did I err not when I said,
‘In heav'n our marriage-feast is spread,
And well are they who love the dead;’
For none are happy but the true;

403

And, Konig, we have work to do.
Go, then, to lonest Waterside;
There kiss, thy chaste, thy virgin-bride;
Long hast thou been expected there,
And she hath yet a pang to bear;
For one, whom yet thou may'st not see,
(The Angel of Extremity,
Whose touch of ice, and look of steel,
All who draw breath are doom'd to feel,)
Bends there o'er Etheline, and weeps.
A precious gift for thee she keeps;
Our child! oh, place her in thy bower,
And tend, for me, my living flower!
Ordain'd to win
For us an Eden, lost by sin,
She bends to Heav'n
Both me and thee.
Nay, kneel not—no! ask not of me
Forgiveness—Art thou not forgiv'n?
Strive not to clasp the impassive air;
But do thy mission! and prepare,
On earth, for heav'n. I'll meet thee there—
Where no harsh fates annul
Love's law of blissful trust;
And Beauty casts between
Her smiles serene
And the All-loving Beautiful,
No veil of dust.”

404

XI.

As light, when noon puts darkness on,
Gilds a wan rose, and disappears;
So Telma, smiling on his tears,
Turns from her Konig—and is gone.
He gasps, he bids the vision stay;
His heart hath years of thought to say.
What would'st thou clasp? and whom address?
Here smiles no loved one's loveliness.
The stirless air, the lake at rest,
The light and silence on its breast,
The sleeping cloud, the sleeping tree,
The music of the busy bee,
The tremble of the lifted leaf;
And one vain mortal—bow'd with grief,
As if on his crush'd heart had come,
With all their weight of guilty fears,
The burden of a thousand years;
And on his cheek, and youthful bloom,
The stain of an eternal tear;
These only (and thy God!) are here.

XII.

Lord Konig in his bark is gone,
Over the lake of Dar and Don,

405

To lonely Waterside,
Where everplayful Telmarine,
With looks that sweetly chide,
Wonders at silent Etheline!
“Why will not mother speak?”
She says, with saddening cheek,
And still-enquiring eyes,
To which no voice, no look replies!
While Adwick, watching near,
And scarcely seeming ought to hear,
Or feel, or know,
(Yet too, too conscious,) stands,
With cold, damp forehead, and clasp'd hands,
Gazing on hopeless woe,
That vainly loves! on speechless pain,
And dying truth—beloved in vain!

XIII.

How like the beauteous awfulness
That moulders into clay,
And humbles man's hard-heartedness
With its sublime decay,
Upon her couch of death she lay!
Nor limb, nor feature stirr'd.
But when Lord Konig's foot she heard,
Like one arising from the dead,
She started, she lean'd up in bed;

406

(Oh, Love is strong!) she rose to greet him;
(Oh, Love is strength!) she went to meet him;
She met him—met his dear embrace;
And in his bosom hid her face.

XIV.

They seated them upon a stone,
Wash'd by the rains of ages gone,
And bleach'd by every blast that blew;
With forests brown, and Konig's town,
And the lake's mirror, all in view;
(She leaning fondly on his knee,
He weeping o'er her tenderly;)
And talk'd to sleep each little leaf;
And talk'd the sun down to the west;
Nor saw him veil his head in grief,
And sadden into golden rest.
Death, all-shunn'd death, she knew, was nigh,
Yet felt as if she could not die.
But when, at length, the parting hour
Gloom'd dimly on the dying flower,
Then Konig trembled—and she smiled!
Giving to him the willing child.
“Kiss me!” (she said, scarce audibly,
While, sick with parting's agony,
He felt as if they could not part,)
“Kiss me! and go. I die content.
Love our poor Adwick—he loves me:

407

Farewell!” He wept, as if his heart
Was made of tears—and went.
She watch'd them o'er the lake;
She saw him leap to land,
Place on the shore the child, and take
Its little offer'd hand;
Then, shuddering as she turn'd her head,
Sank at the feet of Adwick—dead.

XV.

Sad, from the dell of Ravensly,
A wail of chaunting echo'd wide;
Harsh, in oak-waving Denaby,
A trumpet's brazen laugh replied;
And far o'er Watchly came the cry
That ever told when doom was nigh,
When cruel gods claim'd bloody rites,
And men prepared for ghastly sights.
But Adwick heard no trumpet blow,
No chaunt, no death-dirge, wailing low;
Mute as a stone, and tranced in woe,
He stood! and moved
Nor hand, nor foot, nor lock of hair;
But, like a statue of despair,
Gazed on the warm, yet lifeless snow,
That still was all he loved.
Lo! one by one, fierce men surround him!

408

By him unheard, unseen, they come,
All sable vested,
Sable helm'd, and sable crested;
They are the ministers of doom,
Whom follows slow
The Nun of Snow;
And they have seized and bound him.

XVI.

Then, Adwick saw, approaching nigh,
A form of haughtiest dignity.
Never was grander presence seen,
Or loftier stature.
The demon in his nature
Wore a sublimely mournful mien;
And as he trod
The shrinking sod,
He seem'd not less than demigod.
Crisp curl'd his locks of auburn hue
O'er features beautiful,
High brow, thin lips, arch'd nose;
A face of marble-like repose,
Whose coldness shamed young June's white rose.
Yet on his front scowl'd rigor. Blue,
Watch'd his fix'd eyes—small, cavern'd, dull;
And cuplike ears, placed wide apart,
Before a knotted mass of skull,
Proclaim'd a tyrant's brain and heart;

409

Though his sad smile turn'd dim
The sun's glad calmness, as he set,
And Autumn's violet
Stole a sweet look of tears from him.

XVII.

“Infidel!” Slowly, thus he spoke,
In tones that on the hearer broke
Like dying thunder. “It is well
That we are mighty, Infidel!
Or tortured human life, in vain,
Would petrify Love's tears with pain.
Live, then, to feel, in heart and brain,
Worst pain's intensity of pain,
Ere death dismiss thy atheist soul,
To tenant some vile toad or owl,
Or stinking fox, or filthier swine,
And find no beastlier shape than thine.”

XVIII.

“Bend not thy cruel brow on me,
Priest!” Adwick answer'd mournfully;
“I know thy power, and pity thee.
The feet that on long-suffering trod
Cannot crush out my trust in God;
Nor canst thou waste, or use in vain,
His fund of dreadful mercy, pain.

410

Me thou canst rack, my blood canst spill;
But there's a power thou canst not kill,
The will and power To Think and Know.
Sure is its march, however slow;
And it shall put to shame and flight
The darkness which to thee is light:
Torturing, and blackening, like a sky
Darken'd with arrows—Infamy,
Though she hath done your bidding well,
Shall find the truth invincible.
Nor will my disembodied soul
Live in the shape of toad or owl,
(Shapes, not despised by Power Divine,
Nor less august, perchance, than thine,)
But—with the spirit of that form
Which there invites the wasting worm—
Delight to number, as they fly,
The age-long hours of Deity;
Until, at last, Hate's altars fall,
And Loving-kindness conquer all.”

XIX.

“With her? This impious wretch! So foul,
And yet so fair?” the King-Priest said;
And, not unmoved, contemplated
The beauteous corpse. “Her wretched soul
Is now a crow's. Her carrion soon

411

Shall feed the wolf, beneath the moon
And winking stars.” Scornful, he spoke,
Though pity in his heart awoke;
Then, self-reproach'd, threw back his head,
While blacken'd on his lip of bile
The fiend of his unwilling smile—
And kick'd, with cruel foot, the dead.

XX.

Darkens in grief the snowy Nun;
Slow, down her cheek the large tears run:
Burns Adwick's brow. His fetter'd hands
Smite the Priest-Monarch, where he stands.
He strives, with desperate strain,
To break his bonds. His dizzy brain
Flames. Down he drops. Half-raised, he sighs,
Falls back, and deeply sighs:
See! how the fetter'd Lion dies!
Yet his last looks, his closing eyes,
Seek the dear, outraged form, that lies
Beside him, marble-pale and still,
And angel-fair;
And Love's strong will,
With his last breath,
Stamps on his failing motion grace,
And beauty on his heart-worn face,
Even in death;
While gasp the sable-helm'd, and stare.

412

Oh, thou large heart, and ample chest!
Oh, Man contemn'd, reviled, oppress'd!
(Yet not unloved, though rude thy form;
Nor all-contemn'd, nor all-unbless'd,
Though trampled, like a trampled worm;)
Join, in the realm that knows not pain,
Thy vainly loved, who loved in vain,
And there thy soul's high lineage prove;
Though conquer'd, not enslaved;
Not lost! but saved
By All-Redeeming Love.

XXI.

“He hath escaped,” the King-Priest said.
Then, turn'd he to the lifeless maid.
Nor armlet she, nor anklet wore,
But on her veiny wrist
A clasp of amethyst,
And on her right third finger fair
A relic, which he valued more;
A ring of gold-and-silver twist,
And Homer's auburn-silver'd hair.
He took the ring, and from her wrist
The nun its clasp of amethyst,
The mighty spell by which men knew
She could o'ercome, far off, the foe
Who but in thought might work her woe;

413

And then the darkness-clad withdrew
The long rich robe of tyrian hue
Which, folded round her beauteous waist,
And underdrawn, her hips embraced;
Leaving her naked, where she lay,
To be of worms and wolves the prey.
Thus sternly Highest Love decided,
That not by death divided,
But side by side, like groom and bride,
Should lie, at last, His sternly tried;
And, lo, the pair are not alone,
Though priest, and nun, and guard are gone!
Above them bends
A form that godlike man's transcends,
When godlike most; a face of pride,
More mournful than a fallen king's
Whose world-wide realms are miseries,
Whose empire, splendors fled!
And in his mien
Such majesty is seen,
That in heav'n's courts he might have borne
A demigod's regalities,
And on immortal shoulders worn
Archangel's wings.
“These are but seeds of future weeds
Sown to replace our hated race,”
In thought, he sighs,
Contemplating the dead;

414

And to the skies
Raising his heav'n-reft eyes,
Adds, with serenely saddest brow,
“Will not the seed He soweth grow?”

If in the commencement of this book, I have imitated one of the masterpieces of the age, the Mariana of Tennyson, (as at the close of the third, one of the finest passages in Scott,) I have done so, because I could not help it. I am aware that an original conception cannot be appropriated by any thief, however dexterous. “But many minds may gird their brows with beams. Though one did throw the fire.”

Morte d'Arthur.