British Women Romantic Poets Project

Mary de Rochford; or, The Banks of Cam, a Poem.

Bullen, Miss.

Copyright (c) 2002, University of California

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series

Mary de Rochford; or, the banks of Cam: a poem

Bullen, Miss

[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. ISuppl:116. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler ISuppl:116mf.]

The editors thank the Shields Library, University of California, Davis, for its support for this project.

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MARY DE ROCHFORD;
OR, THE
BANKS OF CAM.
A POEM. [A note in contemporary contemporary manuscript hand has been added to the title page between the title and the epigraph: "By Miss Bullen" and "Hoop Hotel Cambridge"]

            Anne Bullen! No--I'll no Anne Bullens for him.
Shakespeare' s Henry the Eighth.

TO
THE HIGHLY-GIFTED
AUTHOR
OF
THE TALES OF MY LANDLORD,

THE
following Poem
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED
BY
HIS OBEDIENT, HUMBLE SERVANT,
THE INN-KEEPER' s DAUGHTER.
Cambridge, Dec. 30, 1820.

ERRATA.

• Page   Line
•   4 -- 7 --for prospect read prospects,
•   5 -- 14 --for flowers read flower.
•   6 -- 18 --for in read of.
•   7 -- 16 --for tears read tear.
•   9 --  1 --omit the word the.
•  11 -- 16 --for showers read shower.
•  15 -- 10 --for observe read observed.
•  21 --  2 --for bowers read bower.
• --   --  9 --insert play after to.
•  26 --  1 --for whispering read whisper'd.
•  40 -- 20 --for bane read ban.
•  42 -- 11 --for bowers read bower.
•  50 -- 21 --insert sense after each.
•  53 --  7 --for elders read elder.
•  64 --  3 --insert what after but.
•  81 --  3 --for Tell read Fell.
• 101 --  8 --for above read abase.
• 105 --  2 --for bride read pride.
• 116 -- 12 --for matchless read watchful.
• 117 --  4 --for sorrows read Saviour.
• 122 -- 14 --for sprung read swung.
• 125 --  3 --for Wardow's read Wardour.
• --   -- 13 --for prayers read prayer.

MARY DE ROCHFORD;
OR,
THE BANKS OF CAM.

A Poem.

PART I.

ALL hail to the ruin, the time-hallow'd fane,
The pride of the mountain, the valley and plain:
All hail to the scenes, that have witness'd our birth,
And honour'd the spot which receives us to earth:
To the ivy-grown mansion our fathers possest,
To the relic-strewn cell where forgotten they rest,
Neglected by beauty's proportionate grace,
Unhappy in climate, in prospect, in place;

It may be they charm not the traveller's eye,
It may be they claim not the wanderer's sigh;
But virtues they cherish'd and passions they sway'd,
In fleeting succession of light and of shade.
The same in their onset, their progress, career,
Whatever the point whence the pinnace may steer,
Are Nature's own offspring, or wild or serene,
Let Cam or the Hellespont furnish the scene:
There only is wanting the masterly hand,
Which holds them to view as they shrink or expand.
Such Byron--but softly, where language must fail
To express admiration, 'twere better the veil*
Once lending its friendly assistance be mine,
The vesture of feeling it fails to define.
        Abbey+ all hail, though long since gone
        Dimension of thy corner-stone;
        Though science, sounded to the depth,
        May scarcely find its length or breadth;

Though Time's rude hand has torn away
The lingering grace that marks decay;
And turret high and dungeon deep,
If such were thine, no records keep;
With prouder boast of glory's day,
Thy hall with royal banners gay,
The warrior's shout, the minstrel's lay;
Though these and more have pass'd away.
For sake of one thy sometime guest,
Whose ashes 'mid these ruins rest;
For sake of one superior mind
That here its mortal task resign'd,
Without an effort to redeem
Thine honours from oblivion's stream;
Without an effort for renown
Thou shalt not to the dust go down:
No! strangers may possess thy gate,
And farther spoil thine age await;
Love's blooming wreath no more be wove,
Where stands thy pool, where stood thy grove;
But traffic ply the busy oar,
And hoof imprint thy chalky shore,

And only sound thine echoes tell,
The watch-dog's bark, the bargeman's yell;
But still the Muse, the poor unknown,
Whose day of pride like thine has flown,
Will greet thee, dear and native home,
Kindly as never adverse blast,
Had either prospect overcast;
But tepid gales and sunny skies
Had risen, and were still to rise;
The vista of untroubled scene,
And slumber'd yet the fitful theme,
Of what thou art, and what hast been.
* It is reported of one, who painted the sacrifice of Iphigenia, the daughter of Agamemnon, that, despairing to express the countenance of the prince, he threw a veil over his face. +Barnwell Abbey, Cambridgeshire, built by Sir Peter Peverell, standard-bearer to William the Conqueror.

    'Tis Autumn, and in faded bowers,
Where sped the halcyon summer hours;
The thrush has ceased his matin lay,
The nightingale, at closing day,
No longer trills the varied strain
Inspiring joy--inspiring pain;

The triumph of the rose is o'er,
And beauteous vestment Nature wore,
Bedew'd with tears her children shed,
As bending low the drooping head,
They die and mingle with the dead.
But not unwept, so hapless doom,
The maid who hail'd their rising bloom,
And watch'd each glowing tint expand
Herself of Heaven's indulgent hand;
The fairest flower that meets the sight,
E'en she so form'd to yield delight;
And votive love in thraldom bind,
Alone on rustic bench reclin'd,
In flowers and falling leaf surveys
An emblem of her future days----

    Mary her name--and she is fair
As Spring's unfolding blossoms are,
When yielding to a smiling sky--
Sweet earnest of maturity.
Scarce fifteen summers--lustres three
She prattled on her nurse's knee,
Nor yet the babe's simplicity

Has yielded to the woman's wile,
Still wears her mouth the playful smile,
Her hazel eye the sportive glee,
That mark'd her hours of infancy.
Not mean her birth, though bred among
A simple race unknown to song:
'Twas even said, in olden time,
When monarchs bow'd at Beauty's shrine,
A scion of the parent stem,
Transplanted from its native glen,
Had bloom'd beneath auspicious sky
The chosen palm of royalty:--
But this as may be--hers is worth
Whate'er the soil that gave it birth,
Of weight intrinsical the same
Whether the laurel wreath of fame,
Encircling, clasp its owner's head,
And gold in either India spread
The banquet of satiety,
Or chilling blasts of penury,
Their soul-benumbing influence shed
Across the path his footsteps tread;

Titles and wealth prefer their claim,
And find with man enduring fame;
And higher order deeds enrol,
Which grace the pure and spotless soul.

But wealth nor poverty is hers,
The simple prayer her heart prefers,
For righteousness and daily bread
Is heard and duly answered:
Nor does she lack affection's tie
Though sometimes breath'd the thankless sigh,
Nor father's fondness, brother's care,
Nor sister's love, was given to share,
The youthful ardour of a breast
That these had lov'd, nor less carest,
Surviving parent last and best--

And tears would fall in memory
Of absent friend, whose sympathy
In taste, pursuit, hard destiny
Had borne away to distant shore,
Isabel, St. Gille lov'd the more
For frown disastrous Fortune wore.

That orphan girl, by dying prayer
Commended to her mother's care
A Swiss by birth, and lately claim'd
Of faithful guardian, still retain'd
Unrivall'd sway o'er waken'd sense,
Doom'd ne'er to know indifference.

All have their wishes--none so blest
But covet something unpossest.
Attain'd fruition wanting still,
Earth never gave nor ever will;
And she our theme, to nature true,
Bids fancy fly, and hope pursue--
On fruitless errand sends the dove
Soon to depart, unblest to rove,
Of verdant olive--leaf nor spray
There is not found to win its stay;
And but the hand that gave it wing
Will back receive the weary thing,
And press it to the bosom fair,
Though disappointment rankle there;

Long hovering 'twixt the earth and sky
Needs must it languish, droop, and die.

    But let us praise or blame defer
'Tis action stamps the character,
Which circumstance in league with fate
May heighten or extenuate;
Till rise to view the perfect form,
Or brilliant, or of lustre shorn,
As hitherto her life has been
Epitome of golden scene,
When innocence and smiling peace
Went hand in hand--Ah! why should cease
Such intercourse for cold distrust--
'Tis Heaven's decree, and Heaven is just
To prove its own by sacrifice,
Of all the bosom learns to prize;
The work of no mean agency,
Her ardent spirit soars too high
For sordidness to bid it stoop,
Yet shall its wavy pinions droop--

Shall fall the dupe of tenderness
By that same hand it seeks to bless.

    Love, jealous of her liberty,
Beholds with keen invidious eye,
And aims the arrow wantonly,
That brings the tow'ring falcon down
And Love's she is, the smile or frown,
To swell his fame, or blast renown.

    Yes, he is born nor school-boy now,
Who asks and shares unchanging vow;
The fateful era 's nigh to come,
When every passion yields to one
Object, of which since time began,
And plastic Nature moulded man,
None fairer 'mong the sons of earth
Obey'd her voice and sprang to birth,
Nor ever shall arise to dwell,
Than Henry, lord of Arundel.

    For her, the maid he sought and won,
As beauty is by worth outdone,
So much she lack'd of outward grace--
Hers was the fair expressive face,
Liker the argent queen of night
Than risen day's refulgent light:
Not such as may the eye abase,
But rather win through shade to trace
Its latent beauties--binding spell!
Resistless and endurable.

    Ye banks of Cam, at even-tide
'Twas now she lay thy stream beside,
Sooth'd by the sense that sleep precedes,
And music of thy whispering reeds,
When sound reverb'rate struck her ear
And showers of gun-shot rattled near.

    Startled, she listened--breathless rose,
Then 'shamed such sound should discompose
Resumed again forsaken lair
As bounding at her feet, a hare

Of strength exhausted, couched to claim
Protection from the sportsman's aim:
Was soon unbound her scarf of gauze,
'Twill serve (she said) Oppression's cause,
And threw it lightly on the ground;
Scarce had she spoke, when sigh profound
Again surprised--no form was nigh,
At least was none that met her eye.
Maybe she thought--My timid guest,
The panting of thy weary breast,
But glazed eye bespoke its rest,
And unresolv'd mysterious sigh,
She 'gan to frame soliloquy.

    "Poor, inoffensive, dying thing,
Stopt short on Pleasure's airy wing;
What hand has bade thee life resign,
Now were it here to triumph mine,
In chiding for its wanton sport
Would point to this thy last resort,
And----pardon the delinquency."
He spoke the author of the sigh,
She turned and met her destiny.

    "Bright vision of a higher sphere
Than man might hope to meet with here;
Lovely thou art, and quick to blame
The timid hare was not my aim,
But felon-kite low cowering
Beside yon broken arch-way's spring:
Art satisfied? Thus much I yield,
That sentence past may be repeal'd.
Didst ask whose hand perform'd the deed?
'Twas his, who sure that hour of need
Such tributary wail might bring,
Would meet his doom unsorrowing;
But he, alas! denounced ere known--
He, miscreant! must never own
What every turn of fate had blest,
Memorial in so fair a breast."

    In turn reproved the maid bow'd low,
"Chance haps to all or weal or woe,
And come which may, the fair intent
Deserves nor blame nor punishment.

Farther, the fact by thee denied,
Has left the censure unapplied;
Nor thou nor I of guilt take fee,
And neither owing, both are free."

    What other pretext for delay?
Oh many where our wishes stay,
And he would learn her history:
But how! the score of courtesy
Already paid! "The evening air
If far her home--Yon abbey there,
The residence deserv'd of fame."
Might he inquire the owner's name?
Anna of Rochford--Barnwell now--
No coronet invests her brow,
And vanity to name or trace
The honours of a fallen race--
"And thou, fair Naiad of the Cam,
She calls me child, and such I am."--
Then paus'd, and seem'd exalted lot
Relinquish'd, rather than forgot:

Her cheek assum'd more lively glow,
And quicker heav'd her breast of snow;
The struggle of inherent pride,
Her manner told, her tongue denied.

    For him, as cloud the sky o'erspreads
When April's sun its lustre sheds,
Such changeful hue the features wore,
Which blythe and bland smil'd sweet before.
Coldly he answer'd, distantly,
Observe the soul's nobility,
Superior to casualty,
Might fortune and her frowns defy--
"One of thy name remember'd well
Mine craving favour--Arundel!"

    He made to go--"I pray thee 'bide--
Lives Emily? the perjur'd bride--
My kinsman's shame?--who was thy sire?"
"The friend of thine, till woman's ire;
Brief be the sequel cause of strife--
She lives--lord Howard's second wife."

"Thy mother!--I the hapless son,
Whose being cost a dearer one.
The sacrifice, too soon forgot--
My mother! but I knew her not."

    "Ah, but thou wilt! There is, who died
And lives--of whom 'tis certified,
He taught, though soul and body sever,
Death shall not separate for ever
Whom sin has not in bondage led--
Believest thou?" He shook his head,
Bosom to noblest impulse dead
That signal token'd--heart be free,
The sceptic owns no hope with thee;
But somehow pity there had crept,
And woke the sigh which nursling slept;
He mark'd that sigh and osier band,
Which pendant wooed contiguous hand:
Despoil'd of leaves ere sentence broke
The silence negative bespoke--

    "I have not scann'd with curious eye
Thy faith's unfathom'd mystery;"

Then seeing that she looked sedate
He added to ameliorate,--
Perhaps through life, termed pilgrimage--
Such matters may pursuit engage
With some persuasive monitress
As thou to guide--"Higher must bless,
And will I trust, ere rung thy knell,
Dum spiro spero--fare thee well.

    "A scholar! and a saint withal,
In both somewhat original;
What have we here? her cloak I trow
If any lacked occasion now
'Tis portable--but, what am I
To play the foot-page?--better fly,--
Mine was her father's enemy.

    "But friend or foe, what were my hope
Already plighted?--hence the yoke,
The lust of wealth that marries lands
The heirs still wrapp'd in swathing bands,

To mate with uncongenial mind
Is sacrilege of rite enjoined:
And she, sir Eustace, dotage blest,
Is mere automaton at best;
Fair as the statue wrought of old,
As beautiful, and, oh! as cold.

"And I to be the slave of such,
Transformed by gold's transmuting touch,
No, never--God so curse or bless
My lot with peace or bitterness,
As I shall keep or violate
Thy faith, with Him--ere yet too late,
All other form of oath forbear:"
There is who says, 'Thou shalt not swear:'
And on his lips a hand was placed
On sudden laid--withdrawn in haste,
As acting from impulsive fear,
And eyes soft beaming with a tear
Conscious met his--those eyes, that voice,
Were Mary's and Lord Howard's choice,

    "Woman! or angel! mortal yet
As speaks my errand--vain regret,
I came unbidden--hast thou seen
A scarf that matched yon hillock--green?
I left it there its loss to feel,
Unnoticed in the warmth of zeal."

    "Lady, it shares the fate of war,
Is taken spoil--but near or far,
Or soon or late, as serves the time,
My word is pledged to yield it thine."

    She bow'd assent and blythe tripp'd on,
A second time the maid is gone;
And gone alone, the cause I ween
No other than that scarf of green,
Which found conceal'd beneath his vest,
Had told the tale he meant supprest.

    Oh! heart of man, deceitful thing,
More frail than that light covering,--

What is thy aim?--the wild rose spare,
Though banished from the gay parterre;
The plant of too luxuriant growth
It wildling puts its blossoms forth,
And smiling wooes the face of day,
The spoiler's unprotected prey;
Stranger to passion's withering grasp,
Oh leave it to its woodbine clasp,
Nor pluck it to ensure the sting--
The thorn that mars its rifling.

    What is thy aim? not then he asked
Monition of that moment past,
Preservative from guilt and pain,
Henceforth forever sought in vain.

    As little thought that simple maid
Of trusting love by guile betrayed;
As little recked she, giddy thing,
Of falsehood's wrong, of sorrow's sting;
Who woke on harp the minstrel strain,
And matron bade attend the same;

While sweet she sung how 'witching man
In hawthorn bowers on banks of Cam
Had taken pledge--and, mother dear,
This night he means to bring it here.
Entreat him kindly--thine the smile
Must bid him welcome--I meanwhile
With fruit and flowers our stores afford
Will decorate our frugal board
Thou lovest to the friendly host:

[The word "play", on p. 21, line 9, has been added in contemporary manuscript hand between the words "to" and "the"]

    Woman! whose unsuspecting breast
Bids welcome the insidious guest,

Specious to gain admission there,
Though warned the serpent to beware,
Longing thou eyest the gilded bait,
And touching, tasting, find'st too late
In fairest cluster germ of gall,
External and extrinsic all.

    Lights in the Abbey-hall are shining,
St. Mary's bells the hour are chiming,
And lingers there a welcome guest,
Lord Arundel--his lip has pressed
The cup of peace--and blessing, blest,
Has pass'd the wonted hour of rest.

    The matron's wheel, her task and pride,
The flax well-spent is laid aside,
And fairy hand the shuttle plied,
Has twisted knot of fringe untied
To tie again, lest weariness
Should seem its mistress to oppress:
But time outstays each subtle art,
And Arundel must needs depart.

He read it in the matron's eye,
He recked it in the maiden's sigh.
What happiness!--but hence the dream
'Twere selfish to prolong a scene
Which stays such beauty from repose
And rose to part, by effort rose;
Breathed many a wish to friendship due,
And lingered still to bid adieu.

    Now has the latest star arose,
Now is the hour of deep repose;
Within the Abbey all is hushed,
Save when the wind, with sudden gust,
Rattles the ivy-mantled pane,
Loose hanging in its time-worn frame.
Along the eastern gallery
Wanders the only wakeful eye
Its massive arches' canopy.
Half leaning o'er its ballustrade,
In musing mood reclined the maid--
Mary, whose thoughts unbidden fly
To that fair land of liberty,

And castle reared on Alpine brow
Where Isabel is sleeping now,

    From Switzerland and Isabel
Her thoughts revert to Arundel--
Her brother. Oh! how sweet to prove
For Henry Howard sister's love,
To wean from pride and sophistry,
And lead him imperceptibly
By that pure light, which sprang from high,
To life and immortality.

    Enthusiast--devoted one!
The end were noble, let it come;
Meantime take rest, while yet 'tis found
She rose, and sleep with blessing crowned
Veiled the bright lustre of her eye,
And vision of futurity.

    The morrow and the morrow came,
And countless morrows lost to fame;

In witness of that growing flame
The youthful heart will feel or feign.
Lord Arundel the morning scene
Bade realize the nightly dream,
In waking as in sleeping thought,
Mary the lovely object sought.

    Thus sober Autumn sped away,
And dreary winter's lagging day,
And flowery spring--the first and last
Of happiness, that either past
With pleasure's thornless roses strewed,
The path their loitering stops pursued.
Hours were as minutes, months as days,
Both loved, but neither dared to raise
The partial veil, which hopes concealed
Each gentle bosom wished revealed.

    But sigh supprest, and sigh deep breathed,
The glance withdrawn--the glance received--
The pause--the start--the quick suggest,
To seem but all the mood exprest

Forbade despair--nay, whispering bland,
No hopeless flame such zephyrs fanned.

    Time conquers all things--trite as true,
And Chance will wear his trophy too.
It happened vigil of our dame,
That Arundel as usual came,
To pass the intervening time
'Twixt chapel and the bells' last chime.
Beneath that roof of calm content,
Where all his happy hours were spent,
That Mary, absent to attend
The sick-bed of an aged friend,
Had missed--(with love, presumptuous sin!)
Appointed time for meeting him;
And wayward as a humoured child,
At aught his simplest wishes foiled,
In no inclining mood to rove,
He took his pathway through the grove.
O creature, marring wisdom's plan,
What inconsistent thing is man--

He met her--to approve her zeal?
No, but to make her bosom feel,
Weighed in just balance him she prized
To mean self-love had sacrificed.

    The Abbey reached, return to greet,
His spaniel gambolled at her feet.
"Poor Bane, thou wilt not chide me home,
Nor misinterpret kindness shown
Less happy friend:" then changing tone,
From grave to gay, she archly said--
"I pray, my lord, is any dead?
Thou hold'st it sin to wear a smile;"
He spoke, and looked so sad the while,
She almost wished her words retrieved--
"Mary! (he sighed) I once believed"--
Then checked his speech, and twirled his glove--
''But what have I to do with love?"
"Thou dost not love me!" timidly
Was raised to his her speaking eye.
Oh then did faith and frailty

Make interchange of solemn vow.
Then first did love shed o'er her brow
The breath, whose wasteful influence
Shall cause to fade and banish thence
The blooming wreath his temples press
For sweets diffusing bitterness;
The sting of grief and thorn of care
For every flower which blossoms there.

    But let it pass--their hour of doom,
Howe'er delayed, will come too soon.
Rest, loving girl, securely rest--
Pursue the dream that makes thee blest.
Those arms thy faultless form entwine,
That beating heart which answers thine.
Ah! didst thou think will come the time,
When fate shall write such fondness crime;
This vision to thy senses given,
Which tempting--proving leads to heaven
Had never been--and thou hadst died--
Thy love unknown, thy faith untried.

    Commencement comes--of joy to some,
Who absent long from friends and home
Leave science to her cloistered nook
For Nature's more enchanting book;
In social circle long denied,
Renounce the lonely pedant's pride,
And own reward for every toil
In woman's converse, woman's smile.

    But first the ball--and where the heart,
To whom such scenes no joys impart--
Or, ne'er imparted, dull the brain
That listens mirth's inspiring strain,
Nor fleeting hour recalls again,
Which welcomed every fair pretence,
Unchilled by sage experience.

    But this beyond with Mary swayed,
And era of high interest made
The long-remembered festival,
Expected guest this coming ball,

Is Norfolk's duke--his grace beside
Maria Lucie, Warwick's pride,
And Machiavel of splendid train,
The noble Howard's widowed dame,
Whom Arundel's persuasive voice
Has influenced to approve his choice;
And she is promised courtesy
From all his kin, and longs to see
The future dutchess--she, whose charms,
Once destined for her lover's arms,
Are plight to less fastidious one--
The graceful Surrey, Norfolk's son;
Surrey, who late on travel sent
Makes tour of Europe's continent.

    'Tis summer's morn--alas! the plain
Of Cambridgeshire forbids the strain
That hills and dales and lakes inspire,
No fuel here for poet's fire;
No picturesque for simile,
No giant Andes, rocks, nor sea,
But still old Cam thou'rt dear to me;

Wert dear to Mary--dear to her,
As on this morn of Midsummer,
She woke from sleep, and drew aside
Her curtain, and beheld with pride
Agnes, as for a wedding-day,
With careful hands the dress display,
Designed for evening--all delight
Summed up in this--the ball's to night.

    Uprose the maid, and rose as soon
Who reached the Abbey-gates at noon.
No vulgar herald good or ill,
His mandate hastens to fulfil.
What draws he from his folded vest?
A packet to herself addressed.
She read its tidings o'er and o'er--
From Isabel--St. Gille no more!
Then gave her hand--approved most dear,
St. Pierre of Zurich, welcome here.
But why alone? why come she not,
The happy partner of thy lot?

He named the cause--her duteous zeal
Detained to sooth the Sieur St. Gille,
At whose request on claim of wealth
He'd sought her isle, and thence herself.

    In green retreat, the sun yet high,
She listened to the history
Of love, with joy's fruition crowned,
Of peace in sweet retirement found;
Assented to the grateful wish,
An hour might come resembling this,
When love again should furnish theme--
Herself the happy heroine.

    Now shadows haste, and sets the sun,
And business of the toilet done;
As bride in snowy vest arrayed,
Forth from her chamber peered the maid.
Uncancelled yet her virgin vow,
Chaste myrtle wreathed the lovely brow,
Whose wavy ringlets fell on breast
All stainless as the robe it prest;

Wax to receive, and adamant
To wear unchanged affection's stamp.

    And now is reached the festive scene,
Where beauteous face and faultless mien
Are read the index of a mind
No less attractive and refined;
Where smiles and sighs, languid and loving,
Will greet the maid for the first time roving
The flower-strewn paths of delight and joy,
And many a dart, from the winged boy,
Be hurled this night of festivity,
While Mary's soul, in her tell-tale eye,
Is seeking the lover, whom novelty
Or beauty, or worse, is essaying to bind
To the fairest and falsest of woman kind.

    The dance began--and hand unclaimed
By Arundel, the novice feigned
A preference for looking on;
But when she saw that wayward one

Lead Lucie's daughter to the set,
She seemed such purpose to forget,
And challenged as devoted fere
The handsome Swiss--the brave St. Pierre.

    With heart of sadness, eye of glee,
She looked and moved Terpsichore;
For not yet humbled to complain,
Hers was no outward sign of pain
Instructed in the art to hide
The bosom's scourge, the bosom's pride;
No seeming told the deep despair,
The deadly poison lurking there;
But spirits buoyant as the wave,
Which bears the bark it fails to save.

    No! I will die--she proudly thought
As wearied with the dance she sought
Refreshing air--ere pain extort
Confession of the ruin wrought
False Howard! who invokes that name
Beside herself? Howard! again

Is she awake? he passes by
Alone! oh, heavens! familiarly
Upon his faithless bosom leaned
Her hated rival--"Sorceress! fiend!"
She uttered almost franticly:
Well for her fame no list'ner nigh--
Then rushed towards the portico
A chariot waited--"Let me go,
Drive to the Abbey, any where!"
"There's some mistake--you can't come here."
The voice her wandering sense recalled,
It was the same that late had palled
With fulsome strain, now framed to flow
In rougher speech--"Mistake! even so"--
The half-distracted Mary cried.
To ask and have our suit denied,
To trust the heart and be undone,
Why 'tis mistake!--the common one.

    Till now the lights had dimly burned,
Replenished from their glare she turned
With irritated step away--
Whither! the ball-room's proud display,

The scene so late of fancied bliss--
What might it sooth at hours like this:
But she must on--must wear the smile
Of pleasantry the mournful while;
She yearns to pace her chamber 'lone,
Or desperate on her pillow thrown,
Exhaust that load of misery,
The bosom weighs so heavily:
Must on, though every sound she hears
Is turned to discord--who appears
To scan her with inquiring eye
As doubting of reality?
'Twas Arundel in mute amaze,
She met his deep and fixed gaze;
Rushed to her cheek the crimson tide,
Next moment brought him to her side;
"I have been seeking"--"Seeking me? "
She asked with pointed irony.

    Just then a message sped to say
Her mother waited--"Best delay!"

He urged with seeming innocence,
Resentment for supposed offence
Till proved 'twas meant--offended yet!
Why, Mary! Love's capricious pet,
"What cause hast thou to frown or chide?"
"Oh none"--she haughtily replied:
Who that some ignis fatuus leads
Through flowery paths, deceitful meads,
By specious promise, fair device,
To border of a precipice,
Timely to save from guilt despair,
Behold the pageant fade to air,
Nor blesses the protecting power
Which rescued from destruction's hour.

    The angel ended--What to her
Was text from Milton--"Briefly, sir,
Your lightness warns me to forget
What well were lost--we ever met:
She trembled--pride, unconquered love,
Alternately for mastery strove,

She passed her hand across her brow,
Perhaps to hide indignant glow,
Or dash aside rebellious tear--
Whate'er the cause, she feigned good cheer,
And bade him leave her--"Go!" she cried,
"More fickle has my place supplied;
More faithful, never!"--but the heart--
(He drew her from the crowd apart)
So lightly prized has broke its chain,
The last was spoke in faltering strain;
Such strain who lists and loves the while
May guess result:--returning smile
Sate on the features of the maid,
Whether by word or look conveyed,
Was never told, intuitive thought,
As some affirm, conviction wrought;
Chaste influence, that dove-like moved,
And either whispered each was loved.

    But this was known, she pitied her
Whom late she blamed--a messenger

As Howard told the mournful tale,
But now had furnished bitter bale
To all who tendered Surrey well,
That noble youth seduced by spell,
Which beauty binds in evil hour,
Had braved the Sultan Mahmut's power;
And now was pent in fortress rude,
Or doomed to death or servitude.

    "And what may cheer Maria's lot?"
He asked--but Mary answered not,
Blushing she stood as thought recurred
Of sentence passed, no pleading heard--
Then timidly confessed her shame,
At having wronged that wretched dame:
"By secret hate, avowed disdain,
I deemed (pursued the self-accused)
My confidence had been abused:
I saw her folded to thy breast,
Fondly, methought, for such strange guest;
I heard the claim her lips preferred,
Ill to my judgment, how it erred,

Forgive me, Howard! and, forgive
Me, Howard's injured relative;
But seemed the sound mine ears to press
As knell of buried happiness."

    "Nay, let it not disturb thy brow,
Such idle dream--'twas false, you know--
Oh sure 'twas false--will ever be;"
He answered somewhat hurriedly.
"For my fair cousin, hush thy fears,
Her finger Surrey's signet wears,
Not mine perceiving that she sought
To penetrate his inmost thought;
Not mine its brightness to remove,
I love her not--shall never love--
Whereof take pledge, the holiest"--
And ring upon her hand he prest:
"Wear it," he whispered--"Thine alone,
The motto which begirts its stone."
And she did wear it, talisman,
Her present blessing, future bane.

    'Twas evening of the following day,
The last St. Pierre designed to stay,
That Mary from his hand received
Token from her who never grieved,
Or trifled with affection's claim
Her Isabel changed but in name:
The gem still glittered in her hand,
When, as convened by magic wand,
Lord Arundel in thoughtful mood
Approached the window where they stood.

    "This from my friend"--and playfully
She held the ring--unconscious sigh
Escaped St. Pierre, as angry glance
From Arundel forbade advance
Of that love-token--Oh! he thought,
The gentle bird in trammel caught,
Must brook the chiding of the hand
That lately lured with silken band,
Nor once complain of slavery--
Lest uncaged songsters, as they fly,

Attracted mark his prison grate
And mock at thraldom's bitter fate.

    Thus mused St. Pierre, and idle plea,
His thoughts and words alike left free;
'Twas hour for musing, scarcely stirred
The spiry aspen--distant heard
Each rural sound, attractive light
Makes dull through day now gave the night;
Returning day again adorns
The winning charm which contrast forms.

    The bowers, so oft the favorite theme
Of her he loved, and destined scene
Of sorrow and of sacrifice,
To her whom next he learned to prize;
That bower he entered, hawthorn crowned,
The woodbine wreathed its lattice round,
And over-arched the gothic door,
Which many a fair inscription bore
To idleness and love devote--
Within stood couch of knotty oak;

The variegated moss crept o'er
And rushes strewed its pebbly floor:

    Next through the ruined cloisters grey
His steps pursued their lonely way;
Not lonely long, a voice bade stay,
And joined him there with well-feigned glee,
The subject of his reverie.

    It seemed she would apologize,
And do away all rash surmise,
"Lord Arundel!"--the magic name!
She paused, her colour went and came.
"Lord Arundel is vexed with news
That bids him hence--Duke Norfolk sues
Whose heir he is, to have him near
The heaviness of grief to cheer--
If less imperious mandate swayed."
"Oh name it not," the hero said,
Anxious to spare ingenuous pride
The sacrifice that if implied.

"I know thy zeal in friendship's cause,
And bearing hence thy sweet applause,
I go"--the stranger entertained
Beyond what hope or merit claimed;
Then pledged the vow, in Zurich heard,
Had been approved and registered;
And farewell given--wind and tide
Have borne him to his youthful bride.
    And Arundel! he too is gone,
Leaving the heart, so lately won,
Of veering doubt the restless prey.
Oh cruel! thus to go away,
Nor once reward for parting pain
Suggest the hope to meet again.

    Despite of wounded love and pride
Mary had sought his fault to hide
And speak him fair--that sacred veil,
Affection throws o'er object frail,
She would not lift to stranger's eye,
Nor violate, no not to die,
For that one act of secrecy,

Her given faith--yet thoughts would rise--
Actions she dared not scrutinize,
The conflict of her soul renew--
What might portend his cold adieu?
And was it cold? or did he feign
Indifference? she asked in vain:
And joy prevailed, or grief dismayed,
As hope and fear alternate swayed.

    But, Mary, if thy gentle breast
Was tempest-tost, what port of rest
Lay open to that guiltier one,
Whose voice beguiling lured thee on
To quit thy native bowers of ease,
And trust thy bark to stormy seas;
Then, pirate like, for richer freight
Thy love betray--thy cause forsake.
What rest for him? Oh he shall roam
A wanderer still, in sight of home
By rocks encompassed--shallows bound,
His aching eye shall glance around,

Nor find within the realms of space
One solitary resting place.
Whilst memory, that fondly twines
Around the bosom truth enshrines,
Shall, like the deadly Upas, wave
O'er friendship's bier--affection's grave.

PART II.

    AT Worksop Manor all is gloom,
Its youthful lord's untimely doom
With sadness clouds each inmate's brow,
Save hers who thinks to win the vow,
And higher prized the title share
Of him who comes apparent heir.

    With mind where sound is leading sense
Your Grace has high pre-eminence,
And managed by that artful dame,
With whom defeat alone is shame--
That scourge of Rochford's race and name,

Dame Emily--the web is wove
For eyes that wander, feet that rove
Beyond the limits truth prescribes,
Where virtue leaves, and impulse guides.

    Ah, youth! the labyrinth beware--
Flee for thy life--the pit, the snare,
The prison of thy future hours,
Lay hid beneath its rootless flowers.

    And did he shun it--Arundel?
He shunned, nor sought, but sad to tell,
Forewarned, transgressed--foreknowing, fell.
His fallacy a world's defeat--
"The woman gave, and I did eat."

    Oh Arundel, bethought thou then
Of beechen shade and flow'ry glen,
Of vision bright thy fancy wove
Of her thy first--thine only love?
Yes he did think--aye, sometimes thought
His golden honours dearly bought;

Did think on virtue's peaceful paths,
No tempest shakes, no lightning scathes,
And wish his own those pleasant ways,
That faithful love which never strays,
That watchful love which never sleeps;
But still as guardian angel keeps
The vigil sweet, nor sordid wealth,
Nor pride, that seeks to bless itself,
Nor aught the earth's vast treasures own
May recompense--but love alone.

    Poor Mary! Cam's neglected flower
Fast fading 'neath thy hawthorn bower
Thou hadst no witness of that hour,
In which thou gav'st thy trusting heart,
No earthly one to take thy part
'Gainst wicked, cunning, fraudful art.
But she thy rival wrought not so,
She, worldly wise, has bond to show,
And day is fixed that seals thy woe.

Softly the vernal showers descend,
And tarries yet the faithless friend;
Long has he tarried--long delayed
Renewal of the promise made
To be to her in place of all
For him resigned--"May vengeance fall
The heaviest (he oft had said).
Nor ever Mercy's arm be spread
To succour my defenceless head
If I forsake thee--what! dost fear
Me faithless!--by thyself most dear
I love--adore"----hyperbole
Was lover's strain, she mournfully
Admitted, as she mused by stealth
On theme that robbed her cheek of health,
But added lustre to her eye--
A fearful brightness--shadowy--
Were grown the hands oft stretched in vain,
To greet the wanderer back again.
He will return! what agony
Possessed each, when doubtingly

[The word "sense", on p. 50, last line, has been added in contemporary manuscript hand between the words "each" and "when".]

She first made question of his zeal,--
It seemed her soul's eternal weal
Depended on his faithfulness.
If Howard swerve--if he transgress
'Gainst honour's law--but hence the thought--
'T were sin to doubt him--and she sought
To hush its restlessness asleep;
But love that may not soar will creep,
And like the worthless plant that climbs
The forest's pride, and undermines
The power that strength and beauty lent,
It feeds on vital nourishment.
And she is changed--in all but heart,--
There lay transfixed the rankling dart,
The vulture's never-ceasing fang
Of memory, the sudden pang,
Which o'er the pallid front of death
Adorning that it withereth;
The vermeil tint of freshness throws
The fleeting beauty of the rose,
That palely in the dark shade blows.

    Yes, it is anniversary
Of Nature's birth--from shrub and tree
Is poured the strain of harmony
To Nature's God:--but who is she
Yon willow's shading moves along,
All disregarding--boast of song,
As planet of effulgence shorn?
'Tis Mary--hers that touching form,
Graceful as erst Apelles drew.
And who are they--those other two
In earnest converse?--Agnes Brown,
That foremost stands--the last unknown.

    Who knows not rugged scene suits best
The tempers of a mind distrest?

[The 's' after "temper", on p. 52, line 14, has been crossed out in contemporary manuscript hand.]

Reflecting fair the face of day;
And thou, O Sun! whose glorious ray
I once met joyous--envious cloud
Has passed between us"--"Speak not loud;
She comes, to whom his life is dear:"
Such were the words which met her ear,
Approaching towards the elders twain;

[The 's' after "elder", on p. 53, line 7, has been crossed out in contemporary manuscript hand.]

    "What tidings, nurse?"--"Oh! mere hear-say--
Lord Arundel is worse to-day."
The less considerate made reply--
Mary surveyed her steadfastly:
"Worse! is he ill?" she calmly asked.
"Peace to his soul! he's dying fast."
"Ha! comest thou from Nottingham?
Or where is he?" "At Cambridge, Ma'am."
"I thank you," in unchanging tone,
The fair girl murmur'd--God alone

Attesting to the bitter throe
Which wrung her soul, that hour of woe--
The sudden purpose of her breast,
As, turning from her heedless guest,
She sought beneath more kindly glance
To give her sorrow utterance,
Dark cloud was lowering in the north,
But cheering ray the sun shot forth,
As if reproving of its frown,
When Mary wretched sate her down
Beside the couch, where languidly
Her mother lay--"Returned to die!
I asked his presence, 'twas the sum
Of every wish--and he is come."

    "Who's come?" her auditress exclaimed,
"Lord Arundel"--and silence reigned:
Silence, unbroken by a sigh,
And, save the silken lash of eye,
Made music with the drapery
Of damask stuff 'gainst which it prest,

That scene had figured of the rest,
Oft coveted and once possest.

    "Dost think," at length the matron asked,
"He feels compunction for the past?
No precedent may give it weight,
His error was deliberate,
And augurs more obduracy."
"And yet (sighed Mary) charity,
Long-suffering, kind, would scarce deny
Forgiveness of the injury;
And prayer ere now has pierced the sky
For action quite as fallible
As this referred to Arundel."

    "I loathe his name, yet more his sin:
Pray! I will pray--but not for him!
Has he not robbed me?--stolen away
The budding staff which propped decay
Made wilderness where Eden bloomed?
"Not he, but mightier, has doomed,

If doomed they are thy hopes to fade"--
Pursued the still entreating maid.
"Mother! I have not long to live,
And, dying, shall I not forgive?
I do forgive him--and I ask,
Aye covet, to fulfil the task,
Of being near him--pride may blame
But truth and mercy, still the same,
Will mark the effort and approve,
For they are His, who taught me love,
And framed my nature to relent;
Nay, do not frown to yield consent.
Bethink thee of thy life's sweet prime
O'erclouded with a grief like mine;
Bethink thee of thy heart's adored,
Thy bosom friend--thy bosom's lord--
My father! Mother, was it sin
On bed of death to visit him?

    "No husband, sayst thou!--wedded not!
In that thine was the happier lot;

Thou hadst no sacrifice to make,
At which the world offence might take.
Thy cup of bliss, though dashed aside
Ere satiate the lip that plied
Its nectared brim, was yet complete;
Thy draught of love, though brief was sweet,
But mine with bitter dregs must flow,
Nor earthlier consummation know
Than once the dying hand to press--
Than once the parting soul to bless.

    "And mock not thou my purpose high,
'Tis love's last solemn embassy;
Not passion now, but principle--
Oh! let me go! In cloistered cell
E'en now he languishes alone--
(Then in more wild and hurried tone)
What hinders?--warping prejudice,
Pride's unavailing sacrifice:
Mother! by hopes of paradise"--

    The matron raised a brow of care,
But pride nor prejudice were there:
As Patience meek, as Mercy mild,
She bended o'er the suppliant child,
And kissed her cold and faded cheek.
"Mary! in vain does pity seek
To reconcile with man's applause
Thy daring--consequence not cause
He looks to, and thy spotless fame,
Thy hitherto unsullied name,
Will serve detraction's base pretence,
The heartless fool, the slave of sense;
And thou, unworthy destiny!
Wilt live the mark of obloquy."

    "Not live!"--and mournfully she smiled
"Of peace bereaved, of hope beguiled,
Long have I struggled with my fate,
Till now the earliest hour seems late
To stretch me on my narrow bed,
To shroud in dust my weary head,

And I shall die! are blossoming
The rosy buds of parting spring,
Which, ere the yellow harvests wave,
Shall droop and wither on my grave."

    Uprose the dame with tearful eye,
She caught her hand while passing by;
She hid her face in sable vest,
Which folded on that widow's breast.
"Oh thou! that loving, lovest still!
Bless me, my mother!--come what will."
Then burst the sob of agony,
The long uninterrupted cry
Of suffering humanity.

    The voice prevailed--and she was blest,
And all save her have sought their rest.
She too has closed her chamber-door,
And stands the virgin saint before
That bears her name--the rosary,
And crucifix of ebony,
With relic of mortality.

The eyeless scull disposed nigh
Unclaspt the written manual lay.
She bowed the knee, she knelt to pray;
But whirring thought had truant fled,
Attendant on the sick man's bed;
And scene distracted fancy drew
Was present to her anguished view.
"He will die! (she exclaimed) neglected, die!''
Then stretched her hands imploringly--
"Oh blessed virgin, intercede:
But what canst thou, if fixed, decreed
The purpose of eternity--
Yet might I see him, ere he die!"
She rose from off her bended knee,
Distressed one, whither wouldst thou flee?
Dark is the night, and loud the blast,
The doors are shut, the gates are fast.
All egress denying this desolate hour,
The wicket is open that leads to the bower,
And boat that is stationed on this side the fosse,
Shall presently bear its light burden across.

The moon was gone down, but in casement she placed
The newly-trimmed lamp, then unresolved paced
Her chamber again--"What if I go?
'Twere some relief from present woe;
Nor may remorse attend the deed--
The world will scoff unstable reed:
On thee I have no faith to lean
Though sure thy mark thine arrows keen.
How pleads the voice that spake from high,
Do good unto thy enemy;
And, for affection's dearer tie,
Witness the grave at Bethany."
She laid her snowy veil aside,
And glossy ringlets closely tied
In braided band around her head,
And cloke and hood, that served instead
Of more fantastic drapery,
Concealed from vain and curious eye
Her form of perfect symmetry.

    The wall of stone which skirts the green,
That ruined wall may still be seen

Tremendous bolt from heaven had cleft,
And aperture extended left:
Through this she passed--chill wind and rain
Beat on the low and marshy plain,
Where lay her path--but wind nor rain
Might urge her footsteps back again;
Nor sigh she gave to her hapless fate,
But measured the plain and reached the gate
Despite of the night's inclemency,
The gate of the holy Trinity.
"Who calls?"--"A woman"--"Errand report:"
"The nurse of the sick--to Neville's Court."
"God speed!"--"Amen"--was the brief reply,
The portal unclosed, and she hastened by.
Her feet had pressed that earth before,
And she had passed its vaulted door
At later hour, without alarm,
But not alone--protecting arm
Close linked in hers had banished fear,
But now no friendly arm was near,
No soothing accents met her ear.

Flushed was her cheek, and parched her tongue,
Heavy her dripping mantle hung,
And sinking 'neath oppressive weight
She leant against that stone-raised plate,
Still noting there diurnally
Time's progress tow'rds eternity.

    A deathlike chill possest her frame,
A shrinking as it were of shame;
The why or wherefore undefined,
But dominant o'er woman's mind;
Till quite thrown down the barrier fence,
Placed betwixt guilt and innocence,
Rose militant unvanquished pride
"And pardon--Oh! my sex (she cried)
The aught of blame my steps impart.
Ah! did ye know the breaking heart
That supplicates--there are who live
Would yield to pity--and forgive.

    "Hark! 'tis the neighb'ring turrets' chime
Monotonous. Again! O Time--

Above, below, the history
The hand that points at vanity--
And I!--but avails regret--

[The word "what", on p. 64, line 3, has been added in contemporary manuscript hand between the words "but" and "avails".]

    Along its wall of dusky grey
One shadowy line of light there lay;
Another transverse marked the floor,
The shade of rude and broken door,
Above whose lintel ruin sate--
Fit emblem of her mind's estate.
She raised the latch--it fell again--
No voice inquiring asked her name;

No answering footstep--but a groan
Hollow as wintry blasts, which moan
Around the dwelling of the dead,
Warning the list'ner hence hath fled
All that affection cherished.
The watchers slept--ah! who beside
The wedded or affianced bride--
Mother or sister, who but they,
At sorrow's couch will watch or pray;
Save who of these most kind, most dear,
With timid step approaches near,
Essaying doubt and fears to quell

[The 's' after "fear", on p. 65, line 12, has been crossed out in contemporary manuscript hand.]

    Retired within a dark recess
As marble pale, and motionless
With lips unmoving to complain,
A statue's form her limbs maintain.
The shock is given--the bolt has sped,
And heavier that may rouse the dead
Must urge its course, with pealing tone,
Ere feeling find its desert home.

It comes! the watch-word, Murder--haste!
Swift, as by raging tigers chased,
The menial herd is seen to fly--
Vile recreants of adversity.
But one is left who would not shrink,
Though on destruction's veriest brink,
Where perisheth each living thing,
The form she loved were tottering?
But braving peril, rush to save
Or share with him one fate--one grave!
And she is there--that couch beside,
Whence human prowess, human pride,
By dread decree are banished--
Her arm supports the drooping head,
And staunches the still gushing wound,
Too deeply lanced, or slightly bound,
For strong exertion's desperate aim--
And hers is that persuasive strain,
So sweetly eloquent--in vain.
He hears not, and his frenzied eye
Is filling senseless vacancy.

    "Maria loves me"--and he took
Her trembling hand, and bade her look
On imagery his fancy fed;
"And one there is would have me wed,"
He muttered incoherently.
"And one there is--ah! wert thou she!
Young, beautiful, where none betray"--
Then laughed, and threw her hand away.

    'Twas done in madness--done and said;
But Mary shuddered; round her head
Girt, as it were, a fiery zone,
And reason tottered on its throne
With boding to the past unknown.

    Ha! jealous Mary, not yet dead?
The fiend so scantily dieted;
Thy rival listens not the praise,
The homage wandering fancy pays;
Or, if she did, and swayed, his heart,
Thine was professed the nobler part

To sooth his sufferings, win his soul,
To hope encircling glory's goal;
Conductress to a brighter sphere,
Else whence thine errand? wherefore here?

    More asked than one in tone severe,
From whence thine errand?--wherefore here?
Howbeit the soul's accepted guide,
That ne'er of guilt had taken bribe,
Was answered latest hireling's tongue,
She cannot brook should prate so long.

Her dress was rustic, and to feign
The manners which such garb became,
Had been her purpose--but the yoke,
Soon as her seeming equal spoke,
Was found too galling--and reply
To question, meant to terrify,
Evinced the daring of a mind,
The base and sordid failed to bind.

    "It matters not to tell my name,
Enough it is not linked with shame
Superior to design or fear,
The purpose of my coming here
Attaches to myself alone;
Nay, unavailing angry tone,
Hither I came, and go or stay,
As cause may hasten or delay;
But resting here or parting hence
No subject for impertinence."

    Retired the low-born threatening,
Revenge through hood-winked Slander's sting,
Nor knew how blindly impotent
Would fall the shaft in vengeance meant,
To rankle at the inmost core
Of heart such weapon wounds no more.
No! it may bleed, and inly pine,
But not at Fame's dismantled shrine;
Not that when others stood aloof,
Unawed by censure or reproof,

She dared refuse the Levite's part:
Towards him the wedded of that heart,
And like Samaria's son draw nigh
To shame the twain that passed by.
Such deed as this, the only one
Her enemies might fix upon,
Had motive promised to avail,
When tongues should cease and slander fail;
And thought and deed, alike disclosed,
On equal ground should stand opposed:
But they are gone, and other guest,
More welcome than her words confest,
Approached, if human skill might save,
To rescue from untimely grave.

    "Well, nurse!" the doctor met her eyes,
And sudden pause betrayed surprise;
Perhaps, that one so young and fair
Alone performed the matron's care.
Around her neck, upon her breast,
Suspended hung, was closely prest,

Memorial form, unconscious shade,
By Love's unerring hand portrayed;
The golden chain one glittering row,
Like daffodil on bed of snow,
Had 'scaped the plaited kerchief's fold,
And more than rustic wearer told;
And ever and anon the sigh
The blushing face, averted eye,
Awakened curiosity.

    But sacred be thy veil, distress,
And hallowed touch of tenderness--
The only one that dares to trace
The features of thy hidden face.

    So thought the generous Haviland,
As at that couch he took his stand,
Where bent as angel to receive
The parting soul, about to leave
    The drear abode of night;
And bear it on unflagging wing
To fount, whence streams are issuing
    Of unalloyed delight.

The meekest child of sorrow born,
Pity enshrined in woman's form.

    Upraised in moment of dismay,
Still on her arm that pillow lay,
Whereon reclined the weary head
Long absent sleep had visited.
The feverish pulse his fingers prest
Was beating prodigal of rest,
And crisis of disease drew nigh,
When doubt must yield to certainty.

    But, oh! the dreadful interim
She must sustain who sits by him,
Companion of his altered state,
Meek, gentle, and affectionate;
Whether or bliss or woe attend,
Woman enduring to the end.

    Unhappy Mary! heaviness
Has fled her eye, unseen to press
Remorselessly the softer heart--
And must she lose him? must they part?

The loving and the best beloved!
Behold her heaven far removed
From all on earth!--behold and hear
Her prostrate form, her fervent prayer.

    "Author of life--efficient One!
Omnipotent! thy will be done:
But if the creature of thy power,
Through mercy might be spared this hour--
Father! I yet will trust in thee,
Oh let him live--if not for me."

    Unmark'd by human ear or eye,
Her faith as incense reached the sky;
None saw it rising into flame,
None listened to its closing strain;
But angel which that night kept watch,
Bowed down the murmuring sound to catch,
    Then up to heaven remounted--
Unclasped the holy book, and there
Beheld that brief, effectual prayer,
    For righteousness accounted.

    Time flies regardless of our woes,
The night waned past, the morrow rose;
Slowly the gates of light unfold,
But not, as once, may she behold
The coming of a joyous day,
Though now, as then, the sober gray
Is yielding to the ruddy ray
That chased her morning dreams away.

    Still sleeps the object of her care,
And milder form his features wear,
While light she treads, lest sound destroy
From sorrow's waste this glimpse of joy.

    But louder step the stairs ascend,
"Ha! Agnes--did my mother send?
She missed me, then--go back to her,
Promise I will not long defer
Our wretched meeting--Yes, the brow
Thou gazest on is tranquil now.
But nurse! (she spoke in whisper low)
Thy child has passed such night of woe--

Oh! such a night--but go thy way,
The message I have bade thee--say:
Then, if still zealous to obey,
Return--will suit thine age the best--
Remaining task"--deep sigh confest
What that might be. The nurse replied,
"No care hast thou for aught beside
Than this thy life-destroying bane?
No memory of others claim?
No thought, no feeling, for the breast
Thy waywardness deprives of rest?

    "My mother! She, who gave me birth,
The heart, it seems, has proved her worth
That judges mine composed of steel.
Strict casuist! if thine canst feel,
Well may be spared the boast of zeal,
Which probes the wound it cannot heal:
But I will go, 'tis purposed well--
No grief to thee, my Arundel:
Peace, rebel heart! one pang the less,
None other feels thy heaviness.

Oh! my poor Henry!" Faint and weak
She bended o'er him, on his cheek
A bright tear fell, and rested there--
He felt it not--that crystal tear!--
He heeded not the tone of woe,
Whose helplessness had bade it flow.

    "Agnes! (she turn'd her to the nurse)
He does not know me--this is worse
Than all I boded--senseless still!
Be kind to him"--"I will, I will,"
The matron answered, as she caught
Her look with deepest anguish fraught--
That lingering, pleading look of woe;
Fixed to depart, yet loath to go.

    "Come, Mary, come"--the mother cried,
And knit her brow, and thought to chide
The loiterer. And will she chide?
The refuge of her arms denied,
Ah! whither shall the wanderer turn,
If nature's self her offspring spurn,

The first to love, the last to leave--
Who then will pity or receive?
But cheer thee, 'reft of all beside,
Those friendly arms are opened wide,
Or pleased with good, or vexed with ill,
To shelter and protect thee still.

    She came--they met--are reconciled--
The parent and offending child:
And one, with balmy blessing crowned,
In tranquil sleep reprieve has found
From wasting care's anxiety:--
But Mary shuts not weary eye,
Nor chooses food, nor lays aside
Her garment, with the life-blood died
Of him she loves--but hurried walks
From room to room, and wildly talks;
Quick pausing, if a step pass near;
Of stars malignant--fate severe--
Now pious names the skies her trust,
Now impious calls her God unjust.

    Wherefore? O passions of the soul!
Resisting reason's mild control;
Eccentric, as the orbs that fly
Beyond the sphere of harmony;
Now travelling heavenward, light embost,
Now whirled where even thought is lost;
Too subtilized, at ease to dwell
In dust--compounded vehicle.
Ye are the source of bitterness,
The ladened soul would fain confess;
But writhing 'neath the stunning blow
Of incommunicable woe
Is found, as darts the aching sense
From centre to circumference.
No fixed point affording rest,
Where hope, aspiring to be blest,
May lighting plume the ruffled wing,
Through journey long and wearying.

    Passion is madness--kind, degree--
The worst, the heart's insanity;

All other owns a second cause,
All other rests in self-applause;
But this, without appeal from fate,
Is lonely, wild, and desolate:--
Tantalian source--Sysiphean stone,
Still seeking rest, and finding none.
But madness has its intervals,
When frenzied act no more appals
The gazer's eye--the listener's ear;
When all the doting heart holds dear
Arrayed in garb of happier days,
With more than mortal brightness plays,
And bids the sufferer taste of joy,
Aye deeply quaff, nor fear alloy.

    Such sweet delirium--opiate--balm,
Such cloudless sky, such waveless calm,
Now rests on Mary--ah! the cause--
Nature exhausted asks a pause;
Respite from pain demands supply,
To feed the flame, or ere it die--

Agnes the agent--oh 'twas bliss--
Ascension from despair's abyss
To joy-crowned height to know he lived;
And gladly had her ear received
Minutiæ, wearisome to tell,
As thus and thus spake Arundel.
But nurse was careful for her health,
Her every act renouncing self:
The ravages distress had made
Urged farther tidings, best delayed;
And lightened of the load that prest
So heavily, the maid takes rest.

    Yes! she is sleeping--fled her bane--
Is dreaming how with bridal chain
Love graceful binds her snowy arms,
Nor wakes to tremble with alarms,
Which, heretofore, with dread distrest,
Albeit a listlessness opprest,
Reflection might not chase away;
Hope smiled--but not with wonted sway,

And fainter beamed, from day to day,
Till at the last its powerless ray
As wandering fire, on frozen height,
Tell on a bosom, cold and white,

[The word "Fall" is written in contemporary manuscript hand above the word "Tell" on p. 81, line 4]

    'Twas strange her mother waved the theme
Delighting most--and what could mean,
Agnes so fond of vain dispute,
Her lover named performed the mute.
How irksome to the bounding steed
The curb that leads from flowery mead,
To starve upon the barren moor;
Nor less annoys the schoolman's lore
To heart that bleeds at every pore.
What axiom gives remedy?
"I cannot choose philosophy,"
Mary would say, when urged to bear
Her lot with patience:--"Let me hear
I am not hated;" and she thought,
When next the nurse refreshment brought,

To shake off fear's imposing yoke.
Occasion was--and thus she spoke:

    "Agnes! I am recovered now,
And sooth, if thou hast made no vow
To hold thy peace, 't would please me well
To hear thee speak of Arundel.
Hast thou no tidings may atone
For long neglect--no message?"--"None,"--
The nurse made answer, 'gainst her will.
"How looked he then?--what! silent still?
Thou saidst he lives!"--and quick she breathed,
"But no--mine ear was not deceived."
"He lives--does well"--was answer given
Oft as I asked--Ah! well in heaven,
Is't so? pronounce it, say he died
And I--"My words were then belied,"
Muttered the dame; then, after pause,
Resumed, "He is not as he was;
Or if his native self arise
'Tis quickly changed for artifice,

And ever when I nam'd thy name,
He sigh'd and blush'd--perhaps for shame;
If all were true young Gambio said,
The sable page:"--Nurse shook her head.
"Thou treat'st the matter solemnly,"
Observ'd the maid--"And what said he?"
"That Surrey's death--Lord Surrey's--well:
Pour'd golden showers on Arundel,
And Lucie's daughter trusted yet
To wear the ducal coronet."
"Who! what!" she uttered rapidly;
Then, heedless of delay'd reply,
Cried, "Hark! thou'rt called"--"I heard no voice,
But, as I urged, thy master's choice
Is"--"Peace! enough--some other time
I'll list this gossip tale of thine.
Now I would think:"--The point was gain'd,
Agnes retir'd; and thought remain'd,
As swelling flood denied its course,
To rise, to rush, with whirlwind force
It came--the tempest of the soul,
Compar'd to which the billows' roll

As undulating wave appears;
The lightning's vivid flash that sears
The rooted monument of years,
A glancing meteor's playful light,
Illumining the waste of night.

    It came--no open enemy
Defiance bade or told was nigh;
The weapon they who feel and live,
Have proved the keenest fate can give,
Oh none! nor sickness, poverty,
Stabs deep as two-edged perfidy;
That act by which love's mask is torn,
And face of insult and of scorn
Proclaims the truth, in vain disproved,
A demon as an angel loved.

    It was the solemn midnight hour,
Raged wild the devastating power;
On couch, by gnawing anguish strown,
Mary, forsaken and alone,

Heard not the thunder's battering din;
The fiercer storm that warred within
Disspread its blasting influence,
And barred the avenues of sense,
Feeling alone distinct stood by,
All else beside was anarchy,
The past, the present, earth and heaven;
May she not die, and be forgiven?
Oh welcome were the power, to save
From pangs more cruel than the grave!
Now would she woo the grisly king,
Approach, implore, and fondly cling,
His chosen love, his crowned queen,
Whose pride in every age has been
From nature's lavish hand to cull
The young, the brave--the beautiful.
And this thy work, thou faithless one;
Oh, more than faithless, lost, undone!
If penitence for pangs thou'st cost
The once warm heart, to pleasure lost,
Melt not obduracy to shame,
No angel-hand shall trace thy name,
But false as thou thy deeds proclaim

'Fore heaven's tribunal, and thy doom,
In this and in that world to come,
Shall be to see, appreciate,
Rejected good, when all too late
To make it thine, and enter in
Those golden doors that close on sin.

    Thus Mary raved in bitterness,
Though scarcely had it pained her less,
To know the stern decree gone forth
Against herself--the child of wrath;
He as her own soul's welfare prized,
He shall not thus be sacrificed,
Nor warning voice his steps restrain,
Without him life or death how vain!
She reasoned from distempered brain,
And heaven--what heaven! he not there,
Accepted guest, heaven's bliss to share--
Yet will I see him--and she rose--
Yet shall the bosom tell its woes;
'Tis eloquent that grief can plead,
And let his faithless ear take heed,

This last appeal--denied report,
His be the guilt, she trembled--wrote.

    "Speak to me, man of mystery,
For pity! for humanity!
For sake of heart, at point to break,
In peace or chiding once more speak!
How have I erred? what artifice
Has been employed? what fair device
Conspires thy better sense to cheat,
And truth and justice lulls asleep?
O, heartless! wherefore didst thou smile,
Then leave me as the worthless--vile!
Cast off, forsaken, scorned, reproved
As never loving--never loved.
The past, the past! yet name it not,
Fain would I 'scape distraction's lot,
But seeing distance, absence, time,
The grave of love no grave of mine,
Obey my soul's constrained request,
Give me whereon in peace to rest.
MARY."

    ------'Tis signed and sent away,
And pass we o'er the long delay;
For long to anxious love it seemed,
The waiting time that intervened,
Before she heard the bearer tell
In simple phrase, "My lord was well;
As chance would have it so befal,
I met him as he came from hall,"
Prattled the lad--"Not then he read
The note I gave, but this he said,--
My duty--no respects--that's right,
I'll come this evening:"--"This! to-night!"
Repeated Mary, as withdrew
The herald of the interview--
"And shall I see him?"--first the thought
Was ecstacy--the mirror sought,
No flatterer to bid it stay,
In melting tear it passed away--
To sober sadness changed her brow,
No beauty there to charm him now!
That faded cheek and wasted frame
May never waken love again.

"And yet, she sighed, the manly breast
The kindest, bravest, noblest, best,
Feels for the worm that heedlessly
The foot has crushed in passing by;
Nor sees, o'er flower once cherished
The dark and silent mildew shed
Its withering blight, but breathes the sigh
That consecrates its destiny--
And Arundel! will he prize less
This bloom-destroying tenderness?
What he will do, what say, what hear,
Must soon be known, he hastens near.

    "His is that steed whose jet reins twine
The lowest branch of spreading lime;
His is that footstep mocking rule,
Quick hurrying through the vestibule;
And his the hand that sways the door!"
Which yields him to her gaze once more.

    She rose, sat down, rose up again,
Walked to the casement, breathed his name;

And only breathed--oppressive fear,
The cherished hope of many a year,
Contending powers her senses crost,
And at their chiding voice was lost.
Nor looked her guest to chase away
The striving of her heart's dismay.
His quickened breath, his slackened pace,
Approaching sorrow's resting-place
Suggested only farther dread
Impending o'er its victim's' head.

    As streams, opposing barrier gone,
Meet, mingle, and in peace glide on;
So had met these, if pride, remorse,
Might be subdued--one fertile source.
But now both wretched stood aloof,
Alike the prey of self-reproof.
The end attained, so anxious sought,
Were scanned the means by which 'twas wrought.
Why had she sought him? would the heart
Had broken ere the hand took part
To still its throbbing!--would the tomb
Had shrouded her--earth's spacious womb,

The wrongs remembered or forgot,
Hidden or told availed her not.
But pause must end, and turning round,
Her eyes still fixing on the ground,
"Lord Arundel! I think to die,
Therefore, O fallen dignity,
Art thou bade hither"--Life's last hour,
Sure triumph of superior power,
The grave made present to her view,
'Twas more than nature might subdue.
One hand grasped his, a staff of rest--
The other on his shoulder prest;
Her eyes, till now averted, chill,
Beamed woman, pitying woman still;
And voice, late raised in haughty tone,
Plaintive as weary infant's moan
Upon the chiding nurse's breast,
Its helpless tenderness confest.
"Dearest, in bliss thy form to meet,
As waking from its latest sleep
Mine own in humble hope shall rise
To hail thee partner of the skies,

Inheritor of heaven's rest;
This were to meet, and meet thee blest:
But oh! the fears that intervene,

[The word "ah" is written in contemporary manuscript hand on top of the word "oh" on p. 92, line 3]

So long o'ershadowed with dismay,
It drooped unequal to the ray
Which ushered in long-absent day;
Downcast that spirit-searching eye,
Awaiting, prompting his reply;
And eloquence has ceased to move
The tongue of truth, the lip of love--
But not less lovely or endeared
That meek and bending form appeared,
Than when in beauty's proudest hour,
His yielding heart confessed its power,
And still confesses--Child of heaven!
Look up, thy frailties are forgiven,
Halo of peace, that's o'er thee shed,
Announce them past and pardoned.

    But his! what means that fixed eye,
Those hard-wrung drops of agony
Which stand upon his close-knit brow?
They tell of violated vow,
Disguised in awful mystery,
Of broken faith pledged solemnly.

    Look up! for thou art innocent
Of wilful error's dark intent,
And canst not share his punishment;
But thou mayst view beyond control,
The fearful working of his soul,
And soothe him with thy gentle voice,
Though past the season to rejoice.
One glance, one pity-beaming glance
She gave--and horror's trance
Was gone--clasped in his arms
Her own soft sigh his wilder calms;
Her almost infantile caress,
Her uncomplaining tenderness,
The guileless, stranger to offence,
Rebuked the fiend and chased him hence.

    And he is leaning on a breast,
Where never yet unholy guest
Abiding sanctuary found;
Nor purer, till an angel crowned
He treads the star-paved courts above,
Shall bear for him such spotless love:

No feigning of affected scorn
Fantastic wreathed that faded form,
Which as a beauteous ruin lay,
A temple hastening to decay:
With splendid lights irradiate
No more--sinking subdued by fate
The blush of morn and noon-tide ray
Successively have passed away,
And burnish of attraction gone,
No fervid beam is found thereon,
Only the shade that marks the dead,
The edifice untenanted.

    But soft! the ebbing sand has run,
And they must part--the hour is come,
The dark inevitable hour,
When, earth, thine oft-contested dower--
Empires, kingdoms, riches, power--
Might vainly tempt the eager grasp:
All that her outstretched arms would clasp
Is present--him she fondly holds,
In fast embrace the heart enfolds;

Which, unambitious as her own,
Had been her kingdom, crown, and throne.

    The Prodigal! how answered he
This dumb appeal of misery?
While on his bended neck she hung,
While to his heaving bosom clung,
He stood as tempest-shaken pine,
Around whose trunk the clasping vine
Its wild luxuriant tendrils spread,
There to be propt and nourished.
But when was rived the linked chain
In fealty binding heart and brain,
When effort of the Christian rose
To triumph o'er the woman's woes,
And she was severed from his side,
The gentle friend, companion, guide,
He looked that tall and branchless tree
The pitying eye will weep to see,
            As, desolate and hoar,
It stands amid the sylvan scene
With hanging flowers and mantle green,
            Infoliate no more.

    "Henry!"--once more her voice and mien
Renewed of joy the waning beam.
"I die!--but virtue will remain,
And if we never meet again--
On earth ne'er meet"--her voice grew faint--
She looked on him--words cannot paint
The eloquence of that still gaze.
It seemed to ask, if equal ways
Would join them elsewhere:--well he guest
The boding of her anxious breast,
And something felt of humbled pride,
Of fallacy such doubt implied.

    "Bless! Heaven bless thee"--heard he right?
Was that soft murmur Love's good-night?
It was--and she has glided by,
Stilly as showers forsake the sky
            The lustrous bow to form;
Which, ere the winds had ceased, came
To renovate tired Nature's frame--
            The angel of the storm.

The star that crossed his destiny,
To elevate affection high,
            As point where bright it shone;
But warned no farther to oppose,
Has back returned from whence it rose,
            Unheeded and alone.

    Whose act and fault? Ambition, thine,
Thou habitant of earthly clime,
Didst lay thy soul-ensnaring lime,
When vanity was on the wing
To catch the weak unstable thing,
And victim to thine altar bring.
Love inefficient marked the deed,
Passive beheld the bosom bleed,
It willingly had died to save--
The bosom, merciful and brave,
Till met and tempted--changed by thee,
That seat of heaven-born liberty,
Was ceded to the power abhorred,
And freedom sunk subdued--destroyed.

PART III.

    TO-MORROW 's St. Swithin--To-morrow?--To-day:
The fifteenth of--Hush! she is coming this way;
Be our's the first greeting--no, yonder she goes,
I marvel so early she leaves her repose;
And they looked tow'rd the east the year-stricken pair,
Grown gray in the service of Arundel's heir.

    The sun has arisen on Wardour's fair plain,
But it cheers not the lord of that ancient domain;
And she, who is destined his fortunes to share,
Has quitted a pillow o'ershadowed with care.

The bridegroom is missing--the bridal is stayed,
The banquet prepared, but the blessing delayed;
The priest is arrayed in his vestment of snow,
But the bride in her chamber sits silent in woe.

    What thinks he?--where stays? is he lost by the way?
Yes, wide as the points of the heaven astray,
His heart is not whole with thee, Avon's fair flower,
Though he lead thee in triumph from temple to bower:
By willow-crowned stream, less ennobled than thine,
In grotto unvocal with shell of the Nine,
He wanders to reconcile, lingers to bless,
The daughter of virtue, the child of distress.
But triumph, he hastens, thrice perjured, to claim
Just recompence waiting disloyalty's stain.
Exult, for thou wilt, in the conquest obtained,
Apt pupil of her who to artifice trained;
Fatuity left to its natural bent,
Had lived in obscurity, died in content,
Unsought as unloved by the guiltier man,
Sworn husband of Mary, the maid of the Cam,
And mate for none other--for other is none,
Whose heart will respond to the tone of his own.

Thine is not the glance that will pierce through disguise,
Thine is not the bosom will echo his sighs.

    The visible world, the unprincipled gay,
And these, only these, wilt thou honour--obey;
But her he has left, though dove-like her eye,
When angel of peace was encompassing nigh,
As eagles would gaze on the gathering sky,
Nor eyelid above, when its lightnings played by.

[The word "abase" is written in contemporary manuscript hand on top of the word "above" on p. 101, line 8.]

    But triumph, he hastens--whose heart fainteth now?
Not thine the expectant of altar-pledged vow,
Though sluggish the motion of his drawing nigh,
As gamesters abiding the luckless-thrown die,
Was subject, the body nor spirit was free,
Or, Mary, it then had not wandered to thee.
He could not, for conscience' sake, unction apart,
But wish thy remembrance effaced from his heart;
But this might not be every charm of thy soul,
The grace that surprised, or the beauty that stole,
As ghost of the injured arose to upbraid
The trust he had coveted, wronged, and betrayed.

    How fares the forsaken one? visions of woe
Are flitting before--disquieting show
Is haunting her pillow, distracting her brain--
Oh! ne'er may she look on such pageant again;
But she thought that in chapel, unwillingly trod,
At the foot of the cross, by the altar of God,
Unassured as the light which at intervals shone,
And wreathingly played on the pillars of stone,
Stood Henry--and, richly attired by his side,
Maria de Lucie--her rival, his bride.

    Seemed faded his eye, and of death's livid hue
The cheek that was turned to her agonized view;
And his hand, as it placed on the sacred book
Love's mystical pledge, as a murderer's shook;
But, peace! it was only a vaporish fume,
A dream of the morning, the pulse out of tune--
A dream that has shadowed the utmost of woe,
A pulse which shall never just temp'rament know.

    A torpor succeeded, an indolent rest,
Effect of despair, sensibility's guest;

Now cherished, now chidden, unworthy the mind,
Through trial made perfect, for conflict designed.
One effort, faith whispered, one sacrifice more,
And arm that has scattered shall blessing restore:
Are numbered thy days, their existence nigh run,
And night of deep sleep,--it will come, it will come.

    She knelt, and was shaken the fortress of dread:
She prayed, and the shield of the mighty was spread:
She looked tow'rd the point whence the day-star arose,
Which hallowed her pleasures and tempered her woes,
And higher uprose on the dove's silver wing,
Where angel, archangel, and cherubim sing;
The thoughts of her heart, for that heart was refined
As gold of the furnace, and she was resigned;
She wept, and was calm--it was foretaste of rest,
Unchanging, unending, reserved for the blest;
The gourd 'neath whose shadow the pilgrim reclines,
And earth and its fading possessions resigns.

        That day of darkness, storm, and blast,
    Of wail and woe--that day is past;

    'Twas nigh its close, when tidings came,
    Revealed to only Rochford's dame;
    A letter sealed and superscribed
    To meet her eye and none beside:
    But one there sate at tambour frame,
    So deep intent, it seemed her aim,
    Her only one, to trace the flower,
    Whose growth beguiled the weary hour;
    But what is seeming? she has heard
    That boon in mystery preferred;
    And seen enough, to satisfy
    The boding heart's uncertainty.

        Mary beheld the countenance
    Of her who read the anxious glance,
    The mother gave from time to time
    Whilst pondering o'er each guilty line;
    And tenderness, not yet subdued,
    Has sought her chamber's solitude.

        There on a couch outstretched and pale,
    Breathing the summer's sultry gale,

    Betrayed by him she trusted most,
    The gloomy bride of suffering lost,

[On p. 105, line 2, the 'b' in "bride" has been changed to a 'p' in contemporary manuscript hand.]

    And tidings pity shrinks to tell,
    Herself proclaims--lord Arundel
    Is false to me--I know it all,
    My bridal robes the shroud and pall.
    I am not mad! Behold this ring,
    He put it on--ah senseless thing!
    Another has usurped thy claim,
    But nevertheless do thou remain:
    Me he has left more rich to take,
    But him I never will forsake."

        I am not mad!--thus day by day
    She urged what none might dare gainsay;
    For she was tranquil as the wave,
    What time the halcyon stoops to lave
    Unruffled wing--conviction deep!
    She should not long survive to weep
    With something of balsamic power
    Had followed grief's tempestuous hour;
    And this it was the spirit stayed,
    In earthly hold--the view displayed

    Of fairer mansion; all her fear,
    She thought she might not welcome there,
    The man with all his failings dear--
    Renouncing whom she shrunk to form
    The blessedness its courts adorn.

        Oh! to behold him once again,
    Her youthful love! the soul's deep stain
    Expunged by deeper penitence;
    To pardon him his high offence
    'Gainst her and heaven--needs must breast
    Approving virtue pant for rest;
    Whate'er the boast of frailer charms,
    Found only in her wife-like arms.

        And loves she still? who ever yet
    That loved like her may love forget:
    He was her life, the aliment
    On which she fed--the shade that leant,
    To screen the plant from sun and storm:
    What wonder then such shelter gone,

    It languishes--more genial sky
    May bid it bloom unfadingly,
    But here it cannot choose but die.

        Her heart is broken--and 'twere vain
    To think it e'er will beat again
    With healthful music--hope or joy,
    The word was given to destroy;
    Its idol, which as those of yore,
    Th' impassioned spirit bowed before;
    Making earth heaven and its home,
    E'er yet life's sojourning be done.

        Severe it was to mortal seeming,
    To dash the cup with pleasure beaming
    From lips so faithful--hands so fair--
    And some of human mould there were;
    As memory on stream of thought,
    The soul-entrancing vision brought
    Of what she was--how like a grace
    In every movement, form, and face.
    She led the sportive train along--
    Herself the queen of pleasure's throng;

    How in life's humbler path she trod
    The unassuming child of God.
    His gentle minister of peace,
    To bid the throb of anguish cease,
    To smooth the pillow--raise the head--
    And hope's immortal banquet spread
    For fainting souls:--yes, some who kept
    Such scenes in view, beheld and wept
    The fate which fairer promise wore;
    But what may pity but deplore,
    Only the hand that bruised can bind,
    And she is wretched--but resigned.
    Now seek we him whose bridal bed
    The furies in their vengeance spread,
    On pillow which his temples press,
    Love is not--nor forgetfulness.

        Of aggravated injury,
    The faded form he left to die,
    The trusting heart he won to break,
    At rising early, sitting late,
    Pursue him still, and banish thence
    All kinder, gentler influence.

    What soothed it that the public voice
The venal herd approved his choice;
A monitor that swayed within,
More boldly spake, and called it sin;
No venial trespass--all whose weight
Himself must bear or expiate.

    For whom incurred? oh bitterness!
For one who lacked the power to bless,
Though will had never played the churl,
How all unlike the artless girl,
Whose life confest no grosser sin
'Fore God and man than love of him.
How all unlike who shared his lot,
Oh mockery! she shared it not;
For misery cast it, and her state
Forbade so stern associate,
And chose a more congenial one,
Surrey returned--Duke Norfolk's son
Reported dead--returned and won
A heart that like the wanton gale,
Wooed all it met--'twere tedious tale

To tell of Howard's wounded pride,
How from the world he sought to hide
The struggles of regret and shame,
"Oh! that she ne'er had borne my name,"
He madly cried--"fool that I was
To trust her smile--the fatal cause:
Yet wherefore blame her! 'twas myself!
Mine! mine the guilt!--ambition! wealth
Well have ye paid your votary.
My Mary! if beneath the sky,
Where'er thou art--in earth or air,
Now write me cursed--'twas despair
That urged the lover's dread appeal:
A little while, and he shall feel
Her blessing all that binds to life
A little while intestine strife
Shall slumber by exhaustion prest,
Then rise again unwelcome guest,
To goad him on--till grief, not age,
Finish his weary pilgrimage.

    'Tis done--is past the law's delay,
And Howard's free to seek the way

That leads to Mary's lone abode;
Heavy his heart, as forth he rode
To learn the oracle of fate,
Pronounced by love, but found too late.

    The song is hushed in Mary's bower,
And speeds away the sunny hour;
When 'habitant of earth and air
Were wont to view her resting there:
Her harp upon the willow hung,
Its silver chords untouched, unstrung;
The favourite spaniel, faithful Bane!
Lay couching there--the wren, grown tame,
Fled not the coming of its guest,
But that security exprest
The generous scorn to violate,
And but no form approached the gate
To bid him welcome--Arundel
Had deemed beneath some fairy spell
The unchanged scenes he loved so well.

    But where is she, the saint whose shrine
Nor feels the shock of age nor time?

Where's Mary? Stranger! if to see
Her dark eye blinking bonnily
With love's own tear. To hear her speak
Th' impassioned vow that tints the cheek
With love's own hue, to touch, to press
Her lip of purest loveliness;
If thought of this arrest thy stay,
Unhappy stranger, go thy way;
'Twere vain and fruitless here to bide,
She will not come this even-tide.

Matters of sadder import call,
A mourner in her father's hall;
She muses on the past and sighs--
Last night save one she closed the eyes
Of Rochford's countess, and she stands
Prepared to yield the last demands
The dead may claim, the living pay.
See! now they bear the corpse away.
Look, Arundel! yon sable pall,
Waving in air is shrouding all

Of faithfulness she ever knew;
Ha, Isabel! yes, she was true,
And Agnes! to life's latest breath,
But love there is that's strong as death,
And Mary feels it even now.
Oh man! that hast her virgin vow,
Approach! He did--the bier moved on,
The dirge is sung, the service done;
And Arundel, his senses bound,
As in a dream, listens the sound
Of lamentation--Hark! a voice,
Low, tremulous, "It is my choice
To linger here sometime alone."
'Tis Mary speaks--in solemn tone
She bids dismissal to her train.
But one has purposed to remain,
Spectator of her last farewell,
And he, the wretched Arundel,
By mound of earth concealed from view.
He watched her as the crowd withdrew;
And grating turned the chapel door,
And echoing step was heard no more;

Then saw her as a meteor ray,
'Mid shades of darkness flit away:
Nor long behind the vision staid,
But followed where the dead was laid,
Where coffins stood in row and tier,
And charcoal fire burnt bright and clear.
To stay as village gossips taught,
The lesser plague Columbus brought
From western world; there shuddering crept
In nook, where many a victim slept,
Unmindful of the foot that prest,
Intrusive on their bed of rest.

    In sable cloke, thrown back the hood,
Within his ken the mourner stood;
A living monument of woe,
Crossed on her bosom's heaving snow,
Lay either arm, as if to still
The throbbing there: "It is thy will,"
She meekly said, "most holy one--
It is thy will, and be it done."

    Trembling she paused--some little space--
Her fair hands spread, concealed her face;

Appeared that some distracting thought
In conflict with the spirit wrought--
A shaft, that plied the lightning's wing,
And left the fabric tottering.

    Abrupt she spake--"Both have transgrest,
Both at forbidden shrine confest,
And God forgive us! him and me!
His falsehood--mine idolatry."

    "Mary!" was such the thrilling tone,
Once echoing through that rock-hewn dome,
Where woman, faithful to the dead,
At early dawn had matchless sped?

[On p. 116, line 12, the word "matchless", has been changed to "watchful" in contemporary manuscript hand.]

    "Mary!" the voice less heavenly cried,
"Forsaken love! betrothed bride!
My life's neglected monitress!
Look up, thou injured! see! and bless

The penitent--'midst kindred dust
Hear him confess his better trust--
Thy God! nor death nor hell could bind,
Sorrows of him and all mankind."

[On p. 117, line 4, the word "Sorrows" has been changed to "Saviour" in contemporary manuscript hand.]

    As bursts upon the traveller's sight,
Through shadows of surrounding night,
And dark defile and paths unknown,
The lustrous orb that lights him home;
As music of celestial sphere,
Sounds sweetly to th' awakened ear
Of spirit long inured to woe,
And recent stunned by mortal blow--
So were received in earthly cell,
The form that rose--the words which fell.

    "Speak to me, Mary! once to hear
Thy voice in blessing less severe,
Probation's term--who may attain
The summit, whether joy or pain;
Nor pause for breath? and she has won
Earth's fairest height--has seen the sun

From everlasting hills arise,
That leads with her to kinder skies,
The loved! the lost--and happiness
Words were but feeble to express,
Is hers at last"--She moved away,
He followed where the light of day
In long and lengthening shadow thrown
With crimson died the cross of stone:
One slanting beam played o'er her face,
'Twas solemn scene,--the time--the place;
Who saw it, and remained unmoved,
Had never sinned--had never loved.

    None such were there--and tears that flow
Have saved the heart its bursting throe.
He wept aloud, while o'er his head
Her hands their icy coldness shed;
He trembled, as towards the sky
She raised her meek imploring eye.

    The penitent--"Angels of heaven!
Now is your joy--absolved--forgiven,
In earnest of unending rest,
Bless him, oh God, as thou hast blest

The suppliant--regenerate.
She felt was nigh the hour of fate.
Receive me thine--on earth to part,"
He caught and strained her to his heart.
Hereafter earthly bondage riven,
Nor marrying, nor in marriage given,
As soul meets soul immaculate,
Whate'er the law that binds their state
Possess--upon her faltering tongue
The half-unfinished sentence hung,
Slightly she shrunk--the eyelids closed,
In listlessness the head reposed.
But this, and checked respiring breath,
Was all that marked the deed of death;
No struggle nor convulsive gasp
Gave signal when the spirit past;
But twining hand which claspt his own
Retained it as it chilled to stone,
And parted lip as if to speak,
Vermilion hue that tinged her cheek
Might well conspire the wretch to cheat
And whisper hope she did but sleep.

    And hope with Arundel remained,
Or scarcely had his limbs sustained
Across that dark and lettered floor
The fair unconscious form they bore,
Never to tread its precincts more.
But he did bear it, precious freight!
His all that earth could give or take
Passed the low postern of the wall,
And breathless reached the prior's hall
Imploring aid--the nurse attends,
In wreaths the pungent fume ascends,
And grosser element in vain
Is sprinkled o'er the stiff'ning frame:
These are--but may not life restore--
She sleeps on earth to wake no more;
Or ere those gates, which shut out pain,
Lift up to meet the light again--
Ere bright they shine reflecting soul
More splendid orbs shall cease to roll,
And earth depart a cancelled scroll.
Since that first cry of smothered pain,
Which roused the wondering vassal train,

Had Arundel by look nor word
Held converse with the busy herd;
Apart he stood--where roses spread
On trellis frame their fragrance shed:
The branching stem when love was new,
His hand had grafted where it grew--
And oh! if tongues are found in trees,
And flowers may speak, what told not these--
Of sighs that rose as summer breeze--
Of tears which washed their silken leaves--
When voice now hushed in bowers and glen,
Had prayed for him that planted them.

    Apart he stood--till matron said
Were best in inner chamber laid
The undecked corse--'twas then his hand,
The fairest of a clustering band
Made captive, and he sought the bier,
No loud lament proclaimed how dear,
To heart that long must strive with care,
The peaceful form reposing there;
Proud to the last--not every eye
May scan his grief's extremity.

    Emblem of beauty--flower at best,
He laid the rose upon her breast,
Contrasted it with paler hue,
And something muttered--ainsi fut--
Except that once he Mary named,
Was all the untaught ear retained,
Of sounds importing joy or woe
They knew not--But the priest would know
Most like the last--for when in haste
To go away the hall was paced--
He gave the look which seemed to tell
Of sorrow fixed--indelible--
And arm on sudden lifted high,
Sprung back--as if in agony.

[On p. 122, line 14, the word "Swung" is added on top of the word "Sprung" in contemporary manuscript hand.]

    Now farewell Mary!--gem of earth--
Who knew thee shall attest thy worth,

[On p. 122, line 16, the word "wore" is written in the left margin in contemporary manuscript hand perhaps to replace the word "knew" which is underlined.]

What 'vails to tell of dirges said,
When thy fair form in dust was laid:
What village youths and maidens thought,
When to its lowly dwelling brought,
They strewed unfading rosemary,
And gave sweet sensibility.
Thy unbought tears--thy heartfelt sigh
The rather haste we to attend,
His fate who left without a friend,
In this wide world stands all alone;
Oh ye! who his sad fate have known,
Have felt the shock of that rude stroke,
Which felled to earth your fairest hope,
Have heard while damps o'erspread the brow
The voice that whispered, This didst thou
Thy waywardness to name no sin
Whate'er his failings pity him!
"Bring me my horse!--Dost hear aright?
Bring me my horse--I rest to-night
At Huntingdon."--The steed is brought,
Why vaults he not? His ear has caught
The sound of pity's cautious tread,
Friend of the living and the dead,

'Twas Agnes,--she whose tearful eye,
Had last met his when hurriedly,
He gave into her arms that form,
From cradle to the coffin borne;
Beloved and mourned--remembered too,
However it pained him to renew
The bitter past--when sickness raged,
That she had every art engaged;
Still bearing with his waywardness,
To soothe, to succour, and to bless;
What though the aching brow she bound,
In death more welcome rest had found!
What though the cup her hand reached forth,
Was cup of vengeance and of wrath!
To lips unused with guile to press,
It savoured not of bitterness,
And she was blameless--more he owed
Return for kindness thus bestowed.

    "Agnes!--and from the saddle bow
He turned himself--It may be thou,
Just tribute yielded to the dead,
Will lift again dejected head;

It may be too this ancient pile
For thee no more a home will smile,
But stranger lord thy claim deny;
Then go to Wardow's barony.
Take heart! be happy, for thou mayest,
Thou never didst on pageant waste
What should have been affection's stay:
Me! destiny calls hence away,
Where once to linger!--But 'tis o'er,
And day that's past will dawn no more;
I shall not see her die again--
My murdered love! Oh! peace, my brain,
'Tis apt to wander--prayers they say

[On p. 125, line 13, the 's' after "prayer", has been crossed out in contemporary manuscript hand.]

Made tremulous his bosom heave,
Nor staid he longer to take leave,
But urged his steed to quickest flight,
And from that night, that fatal night,
On banks of Cam, nor England's shore,
Lord Arundel was seen no more--



Alas, my brother! this alone
'Neath willow wreath describes the stone,
Sacred, as Zurich's records tell,
To Henry lord of Arundel.

    What time the patriot's hymn was sung,
And proud St. Goatherd's valley rung
With Switzerland and liberty,
An Englishman whose destiny
Had been perverse to glory prest,
And found his everlasting rest,
'Mid din of arms and battle-roar,
An exile from his native shore.

    'Twas Howard--baffled in his aim
Of happiness; ascent of fame
Invited, and he climbed the steep,
The precipice whence dark and deep
The gulf of ruin yawns below;
This might not daunt him--woe on woe
Had met him in the humbler vale;
Onward he rushed, heart-stricken, pale--
He staggered, fell, and life's last sigh
Breathed in the arms of victory.--
Now close the scene--The lover dies,
And past the solemn obsequies:
Muse of deserted bowers arise
        And strike the parting strain!
Tell how ambition, pride, and love,
The tissue of his fortune wove
        In misery's linked chain--
How soon he found external show
No remedy for inward woe,
        The heart must bear alone--
How late he rued approving test,
Dismissed the erring mortal's breast
        He may not choose but roam--

How soon, how late, how constantly,
His bosom felt satiety
        In all that earth can give--
How deep repentant of the past,
He turned him to that faith at last,
        Through which who die shall live.
Now both are gone--the grace and blur,
The injured and the injurer,
        Th' oppressor and oppress'd;
And man may pity or decry,
But thou, enduring charity!
        Wilt bid their ashes rest.

Awhile exclusively his own,
In mild and living lustre shone;
Fair image of the Godhead's mind,
The human soul from dross refined:
Woman in earthly destiny,
And angel through eternity.

THE END. Printed by J. F. DOVE, St. John's Square.