The Legend of Genevieve with other tales and poems. By Delta [i.e. David Macbeth Moir] |
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LEGEND OF GENEVIEVE. |
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 | The Legend of Genevieve |  |
1
LEGEND OF GENEVIEVE.
A wild delirious thrill of joy
Was in that hour of agony,
As up the steepy pass he strove,
Fear, toil, and sorrow lost in love!
Scott.
Was in that hour of agony,
As up the steepy pass he strove,
Fear, toil, and sorrow lost in love!
Scott.
3
Here clustering thick, the boughs have made,
With foliage dark, a pleasant shade;
We from our walk will rest a while,
The noon-day scorching to beguile
Upon this verdant slope:
Lo! what a beauteous scene around—
Green fields, brown woods, black steeps abound,
And hills the clouds that prop.
On every bank, in every dell,
The wild shrub charms both sight and smell;
The housing bee, on restless wing,
Hums on its flower-besprinkled way;
While Nature's untaught warblers sing,
Elate of heart, on every spray.
It seems as if a holiday
Were held on earth; the browsing flocks
Are on the sward reposing laid;
Some quaff the cooling stream; the ox
Stands panting in the beechen shade.
With cresses green, from rocky nook,
Springs glistening forth the limpid brook;
Across its bed, the freshening breeze
Just stirs the leaves on yonder trees,
And, for a moment, dissipates
The listless air, which burns around:—
Say, dost thou know the ancient gates
Of yonder rising ground?
With foliage dark, a pleasant shade;
We from our walk will rest a while,
The noon-day scorching to beguile
Upon this verdant slope:
Lo! what a beauteous scene around—
Green fields, brown woods, black steeps abound,
And hills the clouds that prop.
On every bank, in every dell,
The wild shrub charms both sight and smell;
The housing bee, on restless wing,
Hums on its flower-besprinkled way;
While Nature's untaught warblers sing,
Elate of heart, on every spray.
It seems as if a holiday
4
Are on the sward reposing laid;
Some quaff the cooling stream; the ox
Stands panting in the beechen shade.
With cresses green, from rocky nook,
Springs glistening forth the limpid brook;
Across its bed, the freshening breeze
Just stirs the leaves on yonder trees,
And, for a moment, dissipates
The listless air, which burns around:—
Say, dost thou know the ancient gates
Of yonder rising ground?
Long, long from thence, when all around
Has smiled, these Gothic towers have frown'd;
Through ages there, the summer's heat
Has burn'd, the wintry storms have beat;
But, giant-like, these walls have stood
To scorn the winds, and mock the flood.
A mournful tale it were, to tell
In former times what there befell,
When first to cleanse a father's guilt
These consecrated walls were built;
And, from the relics there that lie,
Were named the Lover's Priory:—
Here, as a while we rest at ease,
That tale of love and woe may please.—
Has smiled, these Gothic towers have frown'd;
Through ages there, the summer's heat
Has burn'd, the wintry storms have beat;
But, giant-like, these walls have stood
To scorn the winds, and mock the flood.
A mournful tale it were, to tell
In former times what there befell,
When first to cleanse a father's guilt
These consecrated walls were built;
And, from the relics there that lie,
Were named the Lover's Priory:—
5
That tale of love and woe may please.—
Some hearts to pitying love are prone;
Some hearts are framed in sterner mould;
Such was the Baron's, who did own
These Gothic towers of old.—
In fiery youth, the ocean plain
Lord Ronald with his sword had cross'd;
Career'd o'er fields of Paynim slain,
With backward heel, and loosened rein,
And viewed in pride, and then disdain,
The towers of Salem won and lost.
Some hearts are framed in sterner mould;
Such was the Baron's, who did own
These Gothic towers of old.—
In fiery youth, the ocean plain
Lord Ronald with his sword had cross'd;
Career'd o'er fields of Paynim slain,
With backward heel, and loosened rein,
And viewed in pride, and then disdain,
The towers of Salem won and lost.
Now age was setting on his brow
It's signet; and, retired from all,
He stray'd beneath the forest bough;
Or paced his own ancestral hall,
Where many a warrior of his line
In pictured arms was seen to shine,
And, on the gazer, with a frown,
From 'neath his helm, scowl'd darkly down:
But, deem not, that with rustic peace
His heart was smitten, that his eye
On Nature's calm tranquillity
Had gazed, to bid contentions cease:—
No! let the stern hyæna blind
Be pent within his iron cage;
Or bar the vulture from the wind
Of mountain tempests, and its kind,
And both shall die of rage!
It's signet; and, retired from all,
He stray'd beneath the forest bough;
Or paced his own ancestral hall,
Where many a warrior of his line
In pictured arms was seen to shine,
And, on the gazer, with a frown,
From 'neath his helm, scowl'd darkly down:
But, deem not, that with rustic peace
His heart was smitten, that his eye
6
Had gazed, to bid contentions cease:—
No! let the stern hyæna blind
Be pent within his iron cage;
Or bar the vulture from the wind
Of mountain tempests, and its kind,
And both shall die of rage!
Deem ye, this ancient heritage
Brought calm seclusion to his age;
The stilly murmurs of the wood;
The river's sunless solitude;
The cavern'd steep, and grotto rude?—
The deer that raised his branchy head,
And o'er the lawns majestic fled;
The swans, that floated o'er the lake;
The birds, that caroll'd from the brake,
Were all unmark'd by him, whose mind,
Unfeeling, cold, and unrefined,
Was quite an alien to the ties
Of nature's finer sympathies.
Brought calm seclusion to his age;
The stilly murmurs of the wood;
The river's sunless solitude;
The cavern'd steep, and grotto rude?—
The deer that raised his branchy head,
And o'er the lawns majestic fled;
The swans, that floated o'er the lake;
The birds, that caroll'd from the brake,
Were all unmark'd by him, whose mind,
Unfeeling, cold, and unrefined,
Was quite an alien to the ties
Of nature's finer sympathies.
The stranger pass'd his gate unblest;
The weary look'd not there for rest;—
Unsocial and sequester'd fell
The shadows of his turrets steep,
Athwart the fosse, and o'er the dell,
With melancholy sweep;
Beseeming to the eye that view'd,
The residence of Solitude.
But let not moody minds suppose
His dwelling was a wilderness;
Within his halls there bloom'd a rose,
A solitary rose, to bless
With loveliness the gazer's eye:
None e'er beheld a lovelier flower
Than this, the glory of his bower;
Admired it for a transient hour,
Nor parted with a sigh!
The weary look'd not there for rest;—
7
The shadows of his turrets steep,
Athwart the fosse, and o'er the dell,
With melancholy sweep;
Beseeming to the eye that view'd,
The residence of Solitude.
But let not moody minds suppose
His dwelling was a wilderness;
Within his halls there bloom'd a rose,
A solitary rose, to bless
With loveliness the gazer's eye:
None e'er beheld a lovelier flower
Than this, the glory of his bower;
Admired it for a transient hour,
Nor parted with a sigh!
Oh! who could paint young Genevieve,
The aged Baron's only child!
Upon that countenance, believe,
Or if she sigh'd, or if she smiled,
Unspeaking eloquence reposed,
Like dew on flowers by evening closed:
Shaded by bright, soft, auburn hair,
Her brow serene, and high, and fair,
Outvied, in its pure arch of white,
The moonshine snows of winter night;
Her cheek the rosebud bathed in dew
Resembled; from her eyes of blue
Shone out the seraph's depth of hue;
And for her form, so heavenly fair,
As in her loveliness she shone,
Bewitching all that gazed thereon,
Not Helen could compare!
Nor e'er was gaze on creature bent
So artless, or more innocent.
The aged Baron's only child!
Upon that countenance, believe,
Or if she sigh'd, or if she smiled,
Unspeaking eloquence reposed,
Like dew on flowers by evening closed:
Shaded by bright, soft, auburn hair,
Her brow serene, and high, and fair,
8
The moonshine snows of winter night;
Her cheek the rosebud bathed in dew
Resembled; from her eyes of blue
Shone out the seraph's depth of hue;
And for her form, so heavenly fair,
As in her loveliness she shone,
Bewitching all that gazed thereon,
Not Helen could compare!
Nor e'er was gaze on creature bent
So artless, or more innocent.
Yet, oft, upon that lovely face,
The lily took the rose's place,
And, stealing grandeur, added grace;
'Twas scarcely grief—it was not gloom,
That broods in anguish o'er its doom,
Adding to truth imagined fears;
She seem'd absorbed in thought the while,
Like one who careth not to smile;
Like one whom tender thoughts beguile;
Like Cheerfulness in tears;
And even when Hebe's mirth would seek
With smiles to dimple o'er her cheek,
Her inward, wandering fears gave birth
To woes, that frown'd amid her mirth;
And cast a shadow, dim and blind,
Across the heaven of her pure mind.
When Music woke its sweetest tone,
And every care was lull'd to rest,
She loved desponding notes the best;
They seemed an echo from the breast,
And were the most her own.
The lily took the rose's place,
And, stealing grandeur, added grace;
'Twas scarcely grief—it was not gloom,
That broods in anguish o'er its doom,
Adding to truth imagined fears;
She seem'd absorbed in thought the while,
Like one who careth not to smile;
Like one whom tender thoughts beguile;
Like Cheerfulness in tears;
And even when Hebe's mirth would seek
With smiles to dimple o'er her cheek,
9
To woes, that frown'd amid her mirth;
And cast a shadow, dim and blind,
Across the heaven of her pure mind.
When Music woke its sweetest tone,
And every care was lull'd to rest,
She loved desponding notes the best;
They seemed an echo from the breast,
And were the most her own.
When round the circle all was glad,
And pensive dreams in joy forgot,
Though she, alone of all, was sad,
Their happier state she envied not.—
Oh! when her coral lips unclosed,
What magic melody reposed
Upon that witching tongue!
Unconscious she, but listeners found
A spell within the elfin sound,
They wist not whence it sprung;
Enraptured there they linger'd on,
Yet own'd the gently soothing tone
Seem'd sad, for one so young:
It came like music o'er the sea,
At summer day's delightful close;
When winds and waters silent be;
And down on earth, with lustre free,
The star of evening glows!
And Rouen's knights, the young, the brave,
The chace and tournament would leave,
Forsake the din of war, to crave
A smile, a sigh from Genevieve;
But yet those looks, those smiles express'd
The unthaw'd coldness of her breast;
In her sad, melancholy mien,
Another Niobe was seen;
And they who hoped a mutual flame,
Who sadly went, and fondly came,
Felt, what their fears had pictured worst,
Despair to hopes by passion nursed.—
Yet idly do not deem, this told
A heart unfeeling, false, or cold;
If others be, hers was not such,
With purest flame that bosom burn'd;
One loved she well; with warmth as much
Her passion was return'd;—
To her his heart, his vows were given,
She was the day-star of his heaven!
How lovely is the afternoon
Beneath the summer smile of June!
It is a very blessedness
To breathe the air, so pure, and mild;
From out the bosom all distress
Is banish'd, and all care exiled:
A brighter blue invests the sky,
Where colour'd clouds reposing lie,
With all their rainbow tinctures fair,
Forming a paradise in air;
A fresher foliage decks the grove,
Whose echoes only murmur love,
Where, 'mid its central glooms, profound,
The amorous stock-dove's cooing fills
The silence with a gentle sound,
And peaceful thought instils.
In silvery current glides the stream,
Upon whose surface burns the beam
Of the bright sun, and mocks the sight
With prodigality of light;
Receding hills, and hanging wood
Beneath are in its mirror view'd,
And, in a sky of soften'd glow,
Dark rooks and white clouds sail below:—
The larch-tree gains a tint of blue;
The pine-tree's bark a crimson hue;
Majestically round her throws
The palm her wide, umbrageous boughs,
And shelters, through the glowing hours,
With welcome shade, the lowly flowers,—
The laughing flowers of varied dyes,
With fragrant breath, and radiant eyes,
Which look, as pitying that bright sun,
Whose circuit is so nearly run,
And, turning, hold their blossoms bright
Towards the great fountain source of light:
Thus, onwards through the scorching sands
Of shelterless, Arabian lands,
As pilgrims toil, on march divine,
They turn their face towards Mecca's shrine.
And pensive dreams in joy forgot,
Though she, alone of all, was sad,
Their happier state she envied not.—
Oh! when her coral lips unclosed,
What magic melody reposed
Upon that witching tongue!
Unconscious she, but listeners found
A spell within the elfin sound,
They wist not whence it sprung;
Enraptured there they linger'd on,
Yet own'd the gently soothing tone
Seem'd sad, for one so young:
It came like music o'er the sea,
10
When winds and waters silent be;
And down on earth, with lustre free,
The star of evening glows!
And Rouen's knights, the young, the brave,
The chace and tournament would leave,
Forsake the din of war, to crave
A smile, a sigh from Genevieve;
But yet those looks, those smiles express'd
The unthaw'd coldness of her breast;
In her sad, melancholy mien,
Another Niobe was seen;
And they who hoped a mutual flame,
Who sadly went, and fondly came,
Felt, what their fears had pictured worst,
Despair to hopes by passion nursed.—
Yet idly do not deem, this told
A heart unfeeling, false, or cold;
If others be, hers was not such,
With purest flame that bosom burn'd;
One loved she well; with warmth as much
Her passion was return'd;—
To her his heart, his vows were given,
She was the day-star of his heaven!
11
Beneath the summer smile of June!
It is a very blessedness
To breathe the air, so pure, and mild;
From out the bosom all distress
Is banish'd, and all care exiled:
A brighter blue invests the sky,
Where colour'd clouds reposing lie,
With all their rainbow tinctures fair,
Forming a paradise in air;
A fresher foliage decks the grove,
Whose echoes only murmur love,
Where, 'mid its central glooms, profound,
The amorous stock-dove's cooing fills
The silence with a gentle sound,
And peaceful thought instils.
In silvery current glides the stream,
Upon whose surface burns the beam
Of the bright sun, and mocks the sight
With prodigality of light;
Receding hills, and hanging wood
Beneath are in its mirror view'd,
And, in a sky of soften'd glow,
Dark rooks and white clouds sail below:—
12
The pine-tree's bark a crimson hue;
Majestically round her throws
The palm her wide, umbrageous boughs,
And shelters, through the glowing hours,
With welcome shade, the lowly flowers,—
The laughing flowers of varied dyes,
With fragrant breath, and radiant eyes,
Which look, as pitying that bright sun,
Whose circuit is so nearly run,
And, turning, hold their blossoms bright
Towards the great fountain source of light:
Thus, onwards through the scorching sands
Of shelterless, Arabian lands,
As pilgrims toil, on march divine,
They turn their face towards Mecca's shrine.
Within the shadowy castle grove,
The lone retreat of pensive love,
There was a beauteous jasmine bower,
Where roses shed a rich perfume;
The honey-suckle blent its flower,
The lilac bough its spiral bloom;
The acacia shot above; beneath
Lilies and violets widely strew'd,
An odorous, dim-eyed multitude,
Profusely shed their summer breath,
As past the wandering zephyr swept,
Which stirr'd the luscious guelder rose,
And kiss'd the bright laburnum boughs,
Whose yellow clusters waved and wept.
There Baldwin rests with Genevieve,
An hour secluded to beguile;
With hope to burn, with doubt to grieve;
Yet fondly, tenderly believe
That fortune on their lot would smile!—
What though contending rivals press'd
To woo her love, and gain her hand;
Though this was once a royal guest;
And that had armies to command;
What though a father's hatred fell
Between their hearts, when love unites—
The lightning's wing may but impel
More deep in earth the trunk it blights:
Distance to absence still bequeathes
The dream that lives, the thought that breathes;
Disaster to responsive hearts
A doubled tenderness imparts;
And love survives, by fortune crost,
When reason droops, and hope is lost.
The lone retreat of pensive love,
There was a beauteous jasmine bower,
Where roses shed a rich perfume;
The honey-suckle blent its flower,
The lilac bough its spiral bloom;
The acacia shot above; beneath
13
An odorous, dim-eyed multitude,
Profusely shed their summer breath,
As past the wandering zephyr swept,
Which stirr'd the luscious guelder rose,
And kiss'd the bright laburnum boughs,
Whose yellow clusters waved and wept.
There Baldwin rests with Genevieve,
An hour secluded to beguile;
With hope to burn, with doubt to grieve;
Yet fondly, tenderly believe
That fortune on their lot would smile!—
What though contending rivals press'd
To woo her love, and gain her hand;
Though this was once a royal guest;
And that had armies to command;
What though a father's hatred fell
Between their hearts, when love unites—
The lightning's wing may but impel
More deep in earth the trunk it blights:
Distance to absence still bequeathes
The dream that lives, the thought that breathes;
Disaster to responsive hearts
A doubled tenderness imparts;
14
When reason droops, and hope is lost.
“Ah! Baldwin, when with thee I rest,
The demon fear forsakes my breast;
And, for a while, the world appears
Bright with the glow of youthful years.
I know not why, yet, when apart,
A gloominess o'erhangs my heart;
And freezing doubts, and cares appal,
As if my years were winters all;
Still am I doom'd to hear around
The laugh of mirth,—an empty sound!
And Adulation's syren voice
I list unmoved, and hold in scorn;
Nor can my burthen'd heart rejoice,
Till from the crowd to silence borne;
And then, within my chamber lone,
As burns the star of fading day,
I sit, and feel how woe-begone
My spirit is, from thine away.—
Lo! when, serene, at noon of night,
The silver moon is shining bright,
I think how happy I could be
In some unknown, sequester'd grove,
Whose streamlets murmur'd pleasantly,
And all our thoughts should be of love;
Where I would find it sweet delight
To roam with thee the livelong day,
And not a pathway should invite
Intrusion's footsteps on to stray.
Oh! think not thou, 'mid splendid throngs,
That this poor heart from care is free!
To years with such less joy belongs
Than one short hour with thee.
To what, but vanity alone,
Do those unmeaning pageants tend?
True bliss on earth is only known,
Where two congenial spirits blend:
But yet, though woes on me await,
I am not so unfortunate
As she, that, in her woe,
Found none to share her lonely fate,
Nor answering passion glow;
Who, wildly, to Leucadia's steep
Came in her frenzied love to weep,
And sought a grave below;
More happy planets smile on me,
Possess'd of all, when blest with thee,
My Baldwin, kind and true;
But, what if thou thy troth shouldst spurn,
To some more favour'd rival turn,
And prove a Phaon too?”
The demon fear forsakes my breast;
And, for a while, the world appears
Bright with the glow of youthful years.
I know not why, yet, when apart,
A gloominess o'erhangs my heart;
And freezing doubts, and cares appal,
As if my years were winters all;
Still am I doom'd to hear around
The laugh of mirth,—an empty sound!
And Adulation's syren voice
I list unmoved, and hold in scorn;
Nor can my burthen'd heart rejoice,
Till from the crowd to silence borne;
And then, within my chamber lone,
As burns the star of fading day,
I sit, and feel how woe-begone
My spirit is, from thine away.—
Lo! when, serene, at noon of night,
The silver moon is shining bright,
I think how happy I could be
15
Whose streamlets murmur'd pleasantly,
And all our thoughts should be of love;
Where I would find it sweet delight
To roam with thee the livelong day,
And not a pathway should invite
Intrusion's footsteps on to stray.
Oh! think not thou, 'mid splendid throngs,
That this poor heart from care is free!
To years with such less joy belongs
Than one short hour with thee.
To what, but vanity alone,
Do those unmeaning pageants tend?
True bliss on earth is only known,
Where two congenial spirits blend:
But yet, though woes on me await,
I am not so unfortunate
As she, that, in her woe,
Found none to share her lonely fate,
Nor answering passion glow;
Who, wildly, to Leucadia's steep
Came in her frenzied love to weep,
And sought a grave below;
More happy planets smile on me,
Possess'd of all, when blest with thee,
16
But, what if thou thy troth shouldst spurn,
To some more favour'd rival turn,
And prove a Phaon too?”
“Oh! hush, my love—if dwelt with me
The power to bless thee, Genevieve,
Far, far away, should sadness flee,
Nor leave behind a cause to grieve,
Thou sweetest flower, that ere owed birth
To this inhospitable earth!
Too rude for thine angelic form
The darkness of the gather'd storm;
And all too gentle that sweet breast
For disappointment and unrest;
My own, my dearest, all thy woe,
And all thy love, I more than know,
While now thy hand in mine is prest;
And when so near that generous heart,
Whence faith and feeling ne'er depart,
And virtue is a constant guest,
I feel how much that soul of thine
In love hath sacrificed to mine;
How long, how patiently, for me
A father's brooding jealousy
Thou, spareless of thyself, hast borne,
All uncomplaining, though forlorn!
Fair Genevieve! no powers shall part
The ties that bind thee to my heart;
The passion which hath stood the shock
Of absence, and dividing years,
Firm in its strength, shall also mock
The darkness of these harbour'd fears;
The sun that shone through mist and tears,
May see a bright and calm decline,
And down the depth of future years
With tranquil ray unclouded shine;
Now years, my love, away have flown,
Since passion first proclaim'd his power,
And, in their circuit, we have known
Both sorrowing day and blissful hour:
That plain, nay, even this very bower,
Where now like captive birds we rest,
Has seen us sad—and sees us blest.
'Tis long,—yet I remember well
How friendship to affection grew;
How day did lingering day impel,
When thou wert absent from my view
But with the lightning's swiftness flew
The eve, where yonder waters glide,
As, sauntering onward, side by side,
I sigh'd to think how years their tide
Might o'er us roll, while, still apart,
With sunder'd hands, we pined in heart!
And oft my soul was sunk in woe,
To learn what Genevieve had borne,
Nay, still did bear, who would forego
Her peace, and glean a father's scorn
For Baldwin's sake—”
The power to bless thee, Genevieve,
Far, far away, should sadness flee,
Nor leave behind a cause to grieve,
Thou sweetest flower, that ere owed birth
To this inhospitable earth!
Too rude for thine angelic form
The darkness of the gather'd storm;
And all too gentle that sweet breast
For disappointment and unrest;
My own, my dearest, all thy woe,
And all thy love, I more than know,
While now thy hand in mine is prest;
And when so near that generous heart,
Whence faith and feeling ne'er depart,
And virtue is a constant guest,
I feel how much that soul of thine
In love hath sacrificed to mine;
How long, how patiently, for me
A father's brooding jealousy
17
All uncomplaining, though forlorn!
Fair Genevieve! no powers shall part
The ties that bind thee to my heart;
The passion which hath stood the shock
Of absence, and dividing years,
Firm in its strength, shall also mock
The darkness of these harbour'd fears;
The sun that shone through mist and tears,
May see a bright and calm decline,
And down the depth of future years
With tranquil ray unclouded shine;
Now years, my love, away have flown,
Since passion first proclaim'd his power,
And, in their circuit, we have known
Both sorrowing day and blissful hour:
That plain, nay, even this very bower,
Where now like captive birds we rest,
Has seen us sad—and sees us blest.
'Tis long,—yet I remember well
How friendship to affection grew;
How day did lingering day impel,
When thou wert absent from my view
But with the lightning's swiftness flew
18
As, sauntering onward, side by side,
I sigh'd to think how years their tide
Might o'er us roll, while, still apart,
With sunder'd hands, we pined in heart!
And oft my soul was sunk in woe,
To learn what Genevieve had borne,
Nay, still did bear, who would forego
Her peace, and glean a father's scorn
For Baldwin's sake—”
“And I have sworn,”
The Baron cried, and rush'd between,
“This interview your last hath been.
This blade, before my rage abate,
Shall deal a well deserved fate
To thee, false knight, whose crafty eye
Is fraught with guile and treachery;
With whom, in hydra concert, dwell
The smiles of heaven, and snares of hell;
To thee, who proudly could'st aspire,
Base son of an ignoble sire!
To taint a long and princely line
By mingling there the dregs of thine;
Better for thee, while others roam,
To prate of war, and skulk at home;
Fitter for thee, meek child of love,
Than tented field, the myrtle grove;
For thee, who, adder-like, could'st twine
Around an only daughter's heart,
And, with soft sigh and words divine,
Could bid her play a traitrous part:
But justice shall avenge me yet—
Know this, to cheer thee, ere we sever,
Before to-morrow's sun shall set,
Another's she must be for ever!
Now, indignation, longer check'd
Than prudence dictates to avow,
Shall in thy forfeit blood be wreak'd—
Now shall I have atonement—now!”
The Baron cried, and rush'd between,
“This interview your last hath been.
This blade, before my rage abate,
Shall deal a well deserved fate
To thee, false knight, whose crafty eye
Is fraught with guile and treachery;
With whom, in hydra concert, dwell
The smiles of heaven, and snares of hell;
To thee, who proudly could'st aspire,
Base son of an ignoble sire!
To taint a long and princely line
By mingling there the dregs of thine;
Better for thee, while others roam,
To prate of war, and skulk at home;
19
Than tented field, the myrtle grove;
For thee, who, adder-like, could'st twine
Around an only daughter's heart,
And, with soft sigh and words divine,
Could bid her play a traitrous part:
But justice shall avenge me yet—
Know this, to cheer thee, ere we sever,
Before to-morrow's sun shall set,
Another's she must be for ever!
Now, indignation, longer check'd
Than prudence dictates to avow,
Shall in thy forfeit blood be wreak'd—
Now shall I have atonement—now!”
Forward he rush'd; his weapon bright
Reflected back the dazzling light;
His cheek was of the crimson dye;
Red anger from his falcon eye
Shot forth the living glance of flame,
Which vanquish'd reason could not tame;
Forward he rush'd;—yet unsubdued
Of soul, and in determined mood,
Although defenceless, Baldwin stood;
His courage not a pause would brook—
Firm was his step, unawed his look:—
Forward he rush'd; but Genevieve
To Baldwin's neck did madly cleave,
As twines the ivy round the oak,
To shield him from the impending stroke.—
“Oh! father,” wild with woe, she cried,
“If one must fall, that fatal blow
Shall tear us not asunder—know,
We perish side by side!
Think of the time, when, worn with pain,
Beside thy midnight couch I sate,
And strove again, and oft again,
Thy restless pangs to mitigate!
Didst thou not then, relenting, bless
The hand of filial tenderness?
Didst thou not swear by all above,
To lend my woes a patient ear;
That thou no more would'st cross my love,
But strive to make me happy here?
Think, when a child upon thy knee,
Ere yet my mother died, I lay;
She pray'd thee to be kind to me,
Doth this betoken kindness, say?
Approach not nearer—touch him not,
Or else, upon this very spot,
Where thou would'st glut thy rage,
I'll leave thee in a hopeless dearth,
Alone—a marvel to the earth,
The scorn of wisdom and of worth,
And childless in old age!”
Reflected back the dazzling light;
His cheek was of the crimson dye;
Red anger from his falcon eye
Shot forth the living glance of flame,
Which vanquish'd reason could not tame;
Forward he rush'd;—yet unsubdued
Of soul, and in determined mood,
Although defenceless, Baldwin stood;
20
Firm was his step, unawed his look:—
Forward he rush'd; but Genevieve
To Baldwin's neck did madly cleave,
As twines the ivy round the oak,
To shield him from the impending stroke.—
“Oh! father,” wild with woe, she cried,
“If one must fall, that fatal blow
Shall tear us not asunder—know,
We perish side by side!
Think of the time, when, worn with pain,
Beside thy midnight couch I sate,
And strove again, and oft again,
Thy restless pangs to mitigate!
Didst thou not then, relenting, bless
The hand of filial tenderness?
Didst thou not swear by all above,
To lend my woes a patient ear;
That thou no more would'st cross my love,
But strive to make me happy here?
Think, when a child upon thy knee,
Ere yet my mother died, I lay;
She pray'd thee to be kind to me,
Doth this betoken kindness, say?
21
Or else, upon this very spot,
Where thou would'st glut thy rage,
I'll leave thee in a hopeless dearth,
Alone—a marvel to the earth,
The scorn of wisdom and of worth,
And childless in old age!”
The malediction contained in the concluding lines of this paragraph, is liable to the censure of being too dark and strong for the lips of a daughter to utter. Parallel instances might, however, easily be adduced, among which is one, in the exquisite O'Connor's Child of Campbell, and another in the tragedy of Horace, by Corneille.—(1817.)
Five years after penning this Note, I find another remarkable illustration in Lord Byron's splendid but ill-judged poem of Juan. Indeed, the situations in both poems are so similar, (comparisons I dare not challenge,) that, but for this avowal of priority, I might be suspected of plagiarism.
Tempests do not for ever roll—
Deep on his heart the accents fell;
The Baron was not soft of soul,
But yet he loved his daughter well.
He oft had felt—did feel—that power,
When dangers threat, or sorrows lower,
Is insufficient to destroy
The gloom of grief with smiles of joy;—
Nature awoke; of all on earth
Who loved him like his Genevieve?
The only thing that owed its birth
To him, could he of life bereave?
And toils himself to ruin weave?—
No; from his brow dark rage was fled,
The blade again was scabbarded.
As, rising high, the tide expands
Its waters o'er the thirsty sands,
Affection hasten'd to assuage
The glow of half extinguish'd rage;
And now parental fondness stole
Across his heart, and calm'd his soul:
He saw his only daughter stand,
Imploring, with beseeching hand;
And scenes of former life arose
Above his frenzy and despair,
Like northern spring o'er winter snows,
And made all tranquil there.
His anger was subdued; he felt
His heart relax, his purpose melt;
But still, his ruggedness of soul,
Untouch'd by pity's mild control,
Though truth was like a star reveal'd,
Stood firm and fix'd, ashamed to yield.
Love could not calm, nor mercy move;
And, though subdued his demon glare,
Yet, in the glance he gave the pair,
Was more of rancour than of love!
Deep on his heart the accents fell;
The Baron was not soft of soul,
But yet he loved his daughter well.
He oft had felt—did feel—that power,
When dangers threat, or sorrows lower,
Is insufficient to destroy
The gloom of grief with smiles of joy;—
Nature awoke; of all on earth
Who loved him like his Genevieve?
The only thing that owed its birth
To him, could he of life bereave?
And toils himself to ruin weave?—
No; from his brow dark rage was fled,
The blade again was scabbarded.
As, rising high, the tide expands
Its waters o'er the thirsty sands,
22
The glow of half extinguish'd rage;
And now parental fondness stole
Across his heart, and calm'd his soul:
He saw his only daughter stand,
Imploring, with beseeching hand;
And scenes of former life arose
Above his frenzy and despair,
Like northern spring o'er winter snows,
And made all tranquil there.
His anger was subdued; he felt
His heart relax, his purpose melt;
But still, his ruggedness of soul,
Untouch'd by pity's mild control,
Though truth was like a star reveal'd,
Stood firm and fix'd, ashamed to yield.
Love could not calm, nor mercy move;
And, though subdued his demon glare,
Yet, in the glance he gave the pair,
Was more of rancour than of love!
“Young man,” indignantly he said,
“The daughter of my house to wed
Thou hast presumptuously aspired:
She shall be thine; one only boon
Of thee, to gain her is required:—
Behold yon mountain top!—as soon
As there, thou, from this plain beneath,
Hast borne her up, she shall be thine;
But court not rest, nor space to breathe,
Or else—”
“The daughter of my house to wed
Thou hast presumptuously aspired:
She shall be thine; one only boon
23
Behold yon mountain top!—as soon
As there, thou, from this plain beneath,
Hast borne her up, she shall be thine;
But court not rest, nor space to breathe,
Or else—”
No other word he heard,
But, circling round the fainting maid,
Within his arms his charge he laid:
How wildly then her bosom stirr'd!
And heaved, and sunk like ocean's spray,
Upon October's gusty day.—
Onward he sped; the mountain head
Already in his thought was gain'd;
Upon his prize his ardent eyes
He glanced, and every sinew strain'd.
As sweeps the falcon's wing along,
So up the steep he bore his bride;
While dark below the gathering throng
Of vassals to the mountain side
Did hasten, following in their flight
The lovers to that steepy height;
And pray'd with swelling hearts to Heaven,
That unto Baldwin strength be given
To gain his journey's end;
A curse upon the stony heart
The bands of true love that would part,
And would asunder rend
What Heaven, who always counsels right,
Together kindly did unite!
But, circling round the fainting maid,
Within his arms his charge he laid:
How wildly then her bosom stirr'd!
And heaved, and sunk like ocean's spray,
Upon October's gusty day.—
Onward he sped; the mountain head
Already in his thought was gain'd;
Upon his prize his ardent eyes
He glanced, and every sinew strain'd.
As sweeps the falcon's wing along,
So up the steep he bore his bride;
While dark below the gathering throng
Of vassals to the mountain side
Did hasten, following in their flight
The lovers to that steepy height;
And pray'd with swelling hearts to Heaven,
That unto Baldwin strength be given
24
A curse upon the stony heart
The bands of true love that would part,
And would asunder rend
What Heaven, who always counsels right,
Together kindly did unite!
The eagle, though with sunward eye,
He soars the azure depths of sky,
Wheeling in princely majesty,
Beyond our vision's sphere,
Attains at length his pride of place,
Nor further dares to urge his race,
But checks his far career,
And downward seeks his mountain nest,
To fold his wearied wing, and rest:—
What, though with youth renew'd, and strength,
He ploughs the sky—an earthly guest,
And sees his generation fall?
Yet is he doom'd to know at length,
His fate is like the fate of all.—
Thus Baldwin, with a heart elate,
Pursued in strength his eager way;
Nor felt till long his force abate,
Nor dream'd it could decay,
While gazing on such rapturous charms
As those, he held within his arms.
He soars the azure depths of sky,
Wheeling in princely majesty,
Beyond our vision's sphere,
Attains at length his pride of place,
Nor further dares to urge his race,
But checks his far career,
And downward seeks his mountain nest,
To fold his wearied wing, and rest:—
What, though with youth renew'd, and strength,
He ploughs the sky—an earthly guest,
And sees his generation fall?
Yet is he doom'd to know at length,
His fate is like the fate of all.—
Thus Baldwin, with a heart elate,
Pursued in strength his eager way;
Nor felt till long his force abate,
Nor dream'd it could decay,
25
As those, he held within his arms.
To note the change the maiden shook,
His faltering step, and alter'd look;
The dews that from his brow did break;
The flushing of his ardent cheek;
And, as awoke the glistening tear,
Slow came her words of doubt and fear.—
“My Baldwin, thou art faint, I dread
We are not near the mountain's head;
Your heart now flutters, and at length
I may perceive your failing strength;
Oh! Heaven award it may remain,
Until our journey's end we gain!”—
His faltering step, and alter'd look;
The dews that from his brow did break;
The flushing of his ardent cheek;
And, as awoke the glistening tear,
Slow came her words of doubt and fear.—
“My Baldwin, thou art faint, I dread
We are not near the mountain's head;
Your heart now flutters, and at length
I may perceive your failing strength;
Oh! Heaven award it may remain,
Until our journey's end we gain!”—
He saw, upon her fading cheek,
The fears, the doubts, the hectic streak;
He felt her heart, in hollower tone,
Begin to throb against his own.—
“Fear not,—my Genevieve—my love—
I am not faint—nor—far above,—
The place—of resting—lies;—
I feel—when gazing—now—on thee,
That love—bestows—fresh energy—
And strength—to gain—the skies!”
Now sounds of joy along the vale
Began to ring; the gather'd crowd
No longer ventured to bewail
The toil as hopeless; long and loud
Their mirthful acclamations rose;
The task was drawing near its close;
They saw him scale the mountain's brow,
The steep ascent is past, and now
More level green succeeds;
Again the upward step he tries,
And o'er the narrow pathway plies,
That to the summit leads.
The fears, the doubts, the hectic streak;
He felt her heart, in hollower tone,
Begin to throb against his own.—
“Fear not,—my Genevieve—my love—
I am not faint—nor—far above,—
The place—of resting—lies;—
I feel—when gazing—now—on thee,
That love—bestows—fresh energy—
And strength—to gain—the skies!”
26
Began to ring; the gather'd crowd
No longer ventured to bewail
The toil as hopeless; long and loud
Their mirthful acclamations rose;
The task was drawing near its close;
They saw him scale the mountain's brow,
The steep ascent is past, and now
More level green succeeds;
Again the upward step he tries,
And o'er the narrow pathway plies,
That to the summit leads.
Prone on the top, deprived of sense,
Sank Baldwin with his burthen down;
Say, has his spirit journey'd hence?
Is being from his bosom flown?
Lo! pale a seraph stoops above,
With looks of tenderness and love,
While, on her varying cheek, appear
The lights and shades of hope and fear:
Her snowy arm around his neck
Flung Genevieve; his eyes were closed;
The burning tear she could not check,
And speechless in her grief, reposed;
At length words came—
Sank Baldwin with his burthen down;
Say, has his spirit journey'd hence?
Is being from his bosom flown?
Lo! pale a seraph stoops above,
With looks of tenderness and love,
While, on her varying cheek, appear
The lights and shades of hope and fear:
Her snowy arm around his neck
Flung Genevieve; his eyes were closed;
The burning tear she could not check,
And speechless in her grief, reposed;
27
“My life, my love!
My all on earth, my hope above!
Thy task is o'er; thy toil is done;
The top is gain'd; the prize is won;
Thy head upon my arm recline;
But speak, oh speak!—one word of thine
Would ease my soul; awake; awake!
One word, or else my heart will break!”
My all on earth, my hope above!
Thy task is o'er; thy toil is done;
The top is gain'd; the prize is won;
Thy head upon my arm recline;
But speak, oh speak!—one word of thine
Would ease my soul; awake; awake!
One word, or else my heart will break!”
Slowly his eyes he opened,
And there the parting glance was shed;
But transient as the gleam, that flies
From rainbow, through the summer skies;
And languid as the ray, that smiles
When sunbeams start through tempest piles.
“I die, my Genevieve,—one kiss,
Before we part so suddenly;
When I am in the land of bliss,
Then heaven, my love, will comfort thee!
Farewell! nor let your days consume
In anguish that unnerves the frame;
In thee I lived; and, on my tomb,
Oh! let me bear thy husband's name,
And I am blest!—forget the past;
Above we shall—must meet at last,
To part no more!”
And there the parting glance was shed;
But transient as the gleam, that flies
From rainbow, through the summer skies;
And languid as the ray, that smiles
When sunbeams start through tempest piles.
“I die, my Genevieve,—one kiss,
Before we part so suddenly;
When I am in the land of bliss,
Then heaven, my love, will comfort thee!
Farewell! nor let your days consume
In anguish that unnerves the frame;
In thee I lived; and, on my tomb,
Oh! let me bear thy husband's name,
28
Above we shall—must meet at last,
To part no more!”
In peace he died,
She, whom he loved, was by his side,
His Genevieve, his lovely bride;
For her he died: and what behest
Could make his soul more truly blest?
She, whom he loved, was by his side,
His Genevieve, his lovely bride;
For her he died: and what behest
Could make his soul more truly blest?
Pale, motionless, and agonized,
As if to statue paralyzed,
Or inmate of that city lone,
Where life was conjured into stone,
Above the dead hung Genevieve;
Phrenzied and vacant was her look;
Despair her bosom's empire took,
Ere joy had time to leave.—
She gazed—she sigh'd: one shriek on high
Assail'd the earth, and rent the sky!
Slow dropp'd her arm; slow bent her head;
For then, and there her spirit fled.—
Now all is past; no more she weeps,
And Genevieve with Baldwin sleeps;
Like skiff upon a restless tide,
Which billows urge from side to side,
Without an anchor to oppose
The stream that runs, the gale that blows,
And drives it on its aimless way:
Her spirit wildly gazed around,—
But ah! no help or hope was found,
To bid it seek delay;
And with a sigh, the last—the first—
Her swelling heart o'erflow'd, and burst!
As if to statue paralyzed,
Or inmate of that city lone,
Where life was conjured into stone,
Above the dead hung Genevieve;
Phrenzied and vacant was her look;
Despair her bosom's empire took,
Ere joy had time to leave.—
She gazed—she sigh'd: one shriek on high
Assail'd the earth, and rent the sky!
Slow dropp'd her arm; slow bent her head;
For then, and there her spirit fled.—
Now all is past; no more she weeps,
And Genevieve with Baldwin sleeps;
Like skiff upon a restless tide,
Which billows urge from side to side,
29
The stream that runs, the gale that blows,
And drives it on its aimless way:
Her spirit wildly gazed around,—
But ah! no help or hope was found,
To bid it seek delay;
And with a sigh, the last—the first—
Her swelling heart o'erflow'd, and burst!
His daughter's form the Baron raised;
Upon her lifeless face he gazed,
On softend hues of tenderness,
With vacancy and languor mix'd;
There were no symptoms of distress,
But all was moveless—changeless—fix'd—
And but the eye, and save the ear,
That did not look, and could not hear;
And but the heart no motion kept,
It would have seem'd she only slept;
Though there had ceased the mortal strife,
Yet beauty had not fled with life,
And linger'd, loth to leave, though cold,
The fairest of terrestrial mould.
Upon her lifeless face he gazed,
On softend hues of tenderness,
With vacancy and languor mix'd;
There were no symptoms of distress,
But all was moveless—changeless—fix'd—
And but the eye, and save the ear,
That did not look, and could not hear;
And but the heart no motion kept,
It would have seem'd she only slept;
Though there had ceased the mortal strife,
Yet beauty had not fled with life,
And linger'd, loth to leave, though cold,
The fairest of terrestrial mould.
The crowd ascend; the listless air
The Baron rent in wild despair;
And, as Belshazzar, terror-smote,
Beheld the armless hand that wrote
His doom upon the palace wall,
So conscience did his soul appal:
Fast on the dead was fix'd his look;
His wither'd hand with horror shook;
And on his face, and in his eye
Were throned remorse and agony!—
The child who could alone assuage,
With filial love, the woes of age,
Was by that very father torn,
With him she loved so well, from earth;—
Guilt by the guilty must be borne.
And who was he?—
The Baron rent in wild despair;
30
Beheld the armless hand that wrote
His doom upon the palace wall,
So conscience did his soul appal:
Fast on the dead was fix'd his look;
His wither'd hand with horror shook;
And on his face, and in his eye
Were throned remorse and agony!—
The child who could alone assuage,
With filial love, the woes of age,
Was by that very father torn,
With him she loved so well, from earth;—
Guilt by the guilty must be borne.
And who was he?—
The Baron's hearth
Shall be for ever desolate;
The guest no more will seek his gate:
Nor weary pilgrim leave the road,
To covet there a night's abode:
Who, when alone he sits at rest,
Will hush the tempest of his breast;
When painful memory wakes the while,
Who will his tedious hours beguile;
Will lull to sleep his mental throes,
Or bring his sleepless nights repose?—
With tortured heart he roams the grove—
It whispers scenes of filial love!—
Returning home, he seeks his hall,
And strives his sleepless cares to drown;
He lifts his eye, and from the wall
His pictured child smiles gently down!
Thus, as the dove, that left, of old,
The floating ark to skim the main,
Found not a spot whereon to fold
Its wing, and sought its cell again;
His tortured spirit seeks, in vain,
From recollection's throes release;
He finds no balsam for his pain;
No day of rest; no hour of peace;
No moment where his troubles cease!
He turns, and turns to shun despair;
His refuge lies—he knows not where—
Oh! who on earth would bear his doom?—
And woe to him in worlds to come!
Shall be for ever desolate;
The guest no more will seek his gate:
Nor weary pilgrim leave the road,
To covet there a night's abode:
Who, when alone he sits at rest,
Will hush the tempest of his breast;
When painful memory wakes the while,
Who will his tedious hours beguile;
Will lull to sleep his mental throes,
Or bring his sleepless nights repose?—
31
It whispers scenes of filial love!—
Returning home, he seeks his hall,
And strives his sleepless cares to drown;
He lifts his eye, and from the wall
His pictured child smiles gently down!
Thus, as the dove, that left, of old,
The floating ark to skim the main,
Found not a spot whereon to fold
Its wing, and sought its cell again;
His tortured spirit seeks, in vain,
From recollection's throes release;
He finds no balsam for his pain;
No day of rest; no hour of peace;
No moment where his troubles cease!
He turns, and turns to shun despair;
His refuge lies—he knows not where—
Oh! who on earth would bear his doom?—
And woe to him in worlds to come!
But Baldwin and his virgin bride
Together slumber, side by side;
Danger had not the power to part,
Life did not change the link'd in heart,
And Death could not divide;—
The father, conscious of his guilt,
To heaven yon white-wall'd chapel built,
And raised the monumental stone;
Their blameless loves are carved thereon:
And there, the holy name of wife,
Of Baldwin's wife the maiden hath,
He, who would separate in life,
United them in death;
And hence these sacred walls on high
Are named the “Lovers' Priory.”
Together slumber, side by side;
Danger had not the power to part,
Life did not change the link'd in heart,
And Death could not divide;—
32
To heaven yon white-wall'd chapel built,
And raised the monumental stone;
Their blameless loves are carved thereon:
And there, the holy name of wife,
Of Baldwin's wife the maiden hath,
He, who would separate in life,
United them in death;
And hence these sacred walls on high
Are named the “Lovers' Priory.”
| The Legend of Genevieve | |