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INVOCATION.

BEAUTIFUL Spirit! that didst guard of eld
The song-inspiring fount of Castalie—
Thou, unto whom supremacy is given
And sway o'er realms of boundless intellect:
Light of the lonely, solace of the sage,
Beneath whose influence e'en the dungeon smiles,
And earth's worst desert fair as Eden blooms:—
To whom are offered pure the unchain'd thoughts,
Warm aspirations, and the rare first-fruits
Born of young Genius, when her spring-tide teems
With rich imaginings—To whom belongs
The glorious harvest of maturer years—
Enchantress! at whose magic touch the mines
Where Mem'ry keeps her deathless stores, fling wide
Their golden gates, and all their wealth disclose—
Call, from the depths of ocean and of earth,

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And from the blue ethereal element,
Enchantress Queen! call up thy mighty spells!

    If on some silver-crested wave thou float'st,
List'ning the genii secrets murmured low
Beneath the surges,—or if yet thou hold'st
Thy moonlight vigils midst the laurel groves
Girding the Delphian mount:—or if on wing
All redolent of heaven's immortal breeze,
And radiant as the Iris-hues, thou glidest
Among the stars, winning new splendour thence,
Or heavenward, earthward bent, my vows receive.

    Spirit! that deign'st to hover o'er my path,
When in the twilight gleam of some deep dell
Or Naiad-haunted spring, I wander forth
To hold communion with the peering stars:
Or on the voiceful shore I pause to view
The round moon fling her bright reflection far
Upon the crystal waves; or clambering thence
Along the rock-goat's steep and dangerous way,
Where toppling crags hang o'er the billowy main

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Their fortress rude, I mark the sun descend
From his cloud-canopied Olympian throne,
His regal brow all filleted with fire;
Spirit presiding then—pervading all—
Seen in the sunset—breath'd in all the airs
That wanton through the summer-tinted groves;
Felt in the balmy influence of those tears
Wept by the heavens o'er Day's deserted fanes:
Spirit of Poesie! on thee I call.

    Spirit! that late didst suffer me to bring
My humble tribute to thy graceful shrine;
There, in most fond idolatry to kneel,
And on thy altars hang a votive wreath;
Thou that smil'dst on me till I revell'd wild
In thy bright realms, forgetful of the chain,
Heavy and cold, still binding me to earth:
Thou that didst tune my harp's obedient strings,
Bidding me sing, howe'er unworthy I
To wake the strain impassion'd and sublime,
Of her who sleeps beneath th' Ionian wave,
Whose life was Genius mastered by deep Love!

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Thou that didst fix her glory in the skies,
To shine for aye a song-presiding star,
And midst the tuneful Nine her name enroll'd
A mortal Muse, transcendent as those nymphs
Divine, that haunt the green Thessalian shades,
Spirit of Poesie! on thee I call.

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THE
WANDERER'S LEGACY.

INTRODUCTION.

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Page 27

THE
WANDERER'S EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

        "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
        I summon up remembrance of things past."

SHAKSPEARE'S Sonnets.

I WALK the vallies where my boyhood stray'd,
I gaze upon the mountains whose proud heights
First kindled up mine infant wonderment,
And o'er the evening of my age there comes
A dream of other days. As morning dews,
Veil'd in the shadow of autumnal hours,
Suspend unharm'd their lucid wreaths in air,
Until the setting sun lights up the glades,
Searching out all their stores, these visions keep
Their spells unbroken in my early haunts,

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Greet me in each remembered nook, and steal
In all their vernal freshness o'er my soul.
By yonder stream a fair Enchantress sits,
Weaving, like web of floating gossamer,
Her silver toils in many a labyrinth fine;
She strikes her harp, from whose rejoicing chords
Burst forth the long-lock'd harmonies that charm'd
Mine ear in youth—Her name is Memory.

    Seek not, O stranger!—whosoe'er thou art
Mayst while away an hour of indolence
O'er these plain records of my early youth—
Seek not in them or courtly calendar,
Or chronicle of deeds that might awake
The trumpet of renown—none such are here;
No lay have I of princely pageantry,
Nor masquings fine, nor boast of favouring look
Smiled on me by the great. No pulse of mine
Hath e'er been stirr'd up to indignant strife,
Or envious aping of a rival's pride.
I am an humble nursling of these wilds,
Wherein my father's sires have tended long

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Their peaceful flocks, and gathered in the wealth
Of Autumn's teeming horn, unwitting all
That, far beyond their mountain ramparts rude,
There lay a world with glittering baits beset,
Might lure them from their blest simplicity.
I have no herald to proclaim my rights,
And lineage proud, no scutcheon blazon'd o'er
With symbols framed by law of chivalry;
No helmet crest, whose plume hath flaunted high
O'er distant plains of captive Palestine.
These are not mine,—yet village crones recount
Full many a worthy action of my race:
How their brave spirits, tried in feudal war,
Stood loyal as the hills that guard their homes.
If ye would more, go seek their mouldering graves,
And read on many an antique tablet there,
Which time hath spared, and piety revered,
That they were holy, innocent, and meek.

May not the mind, whose purer element
Springs from that great Ethereal Fount which flows
In countless streams of vital intellect,

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Or pre-ordained, or chance directed, free
From every law prescribed by human will,
Alike to all, of high or low estate,—
May not the mind, with ray instinct, condensed,
And centred on itself, some fruits produce
Not all unworthy the inquirer's note?
Count not as valueless the moments given
To meditation and the midnight lamp;—
One virtuous feeling fathom'd to its source,
Is as important in the scale of life
As river track'd o'er Afric's burning sands,
Or loftiest peak of Himalay attained.
Yea, all are good, whatever tends to move
Man's latent energies to high emprize;
Or mental, or corporeal, all are good,
Contributing to work the general weal;
Blending as do the bright and varied dyes
Of some fair tissue, each hue still distinct,
Imbued with its own separate excellence,
Contrasting, yet in pleasant unity,
Forming conjoined an admirable whole.

My youth hath been in quiet musings spent,

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My very childhood garb'd itself in thoughts
That were of riper years. My whole life since
Hath been a maze of marvel, and delight
In all the gifts wherewith the hand divine
Hath deck'd this mortal dwelling-place of man.
I well remember me ere language flow'd
In unison with the mind's eloquence,
How my heart, labouring with its feelings deep,
Seeking in words some utterance of its joy,
Rejected alway with a vexed disdain
The guise uncouth in which the precious ore
Was issued from the mine; for harmony,
Though unattained, was in my heart instinct:
I felt her presence in the haunts I loved—
She floated round me in the summer's gales;
I saw her impress on the mountain peaks;
The groves, the glades with her voice resonant,
Whispered her accents to the murmuring brooks.
The poetry of Nature then was felt,
Albeit not yet distinctly understood.
I only knew that my aspirings soar'd
Far, far above this earth's corporeal things;

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That my conceptions were beyond the scope
Of my untaught and wild philosophy.
All, all was mystery,—mine own sense of being—
The restless, the resistless tide of thought
That roll'd for ever through my inmost soul,
Was an enigma I could not resolve.

My heart held dear the sympathies of home,
Yet was my mind companionless—I went
With my compeers about our daily toil,
Join'd in their talk as courtesy requir'd,
But hoarded up within my bosom's shrine
The incommunicable charm that shed
Its mystic influence o'er my lonely ways:
Such had been deem'd the ravings of a mood
Warp'd with strange phantasms—moon-stricken, distraught.
Or be it shame, or pride, I have remarked,
In my life's long sojourn among mankind,
That they who nurse some fond conceit, which jars
With things of every-day existence, guard
Such in their breasts with jealousy innate.

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I held communion with the hush of night;
Yea, with the spirit of those silent hours
When all the earth is still'd in deep repose.
The star-light heavens were as a wondrous book,
Wherein I sought to solve the dream of life,
And thrid the mazes of futurity.
When came fair Spring forth from the icy caves
Of Winter's conquer'd realm, I hail'd the print
Of her green steps upon the hills, and view'd
The virgin Queen of the revolving year
With yet another sense of grateful love
Than that which glads the dalesman's rustic mind,
Who looks upon the firstlings of her flowers,
And on the fields she renovates with life,
But as the source of nutriment and gain.
To me she came as a congenial soul,
Arrayed in Nature's most attractive garb,
To be the partner of my solitude;
At once my worship, and the sanctuary where
I might repose my overwrought delight.
I revelled on in fantasies uncurb'd
By sage logistic law; fram'd to myself

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A world that pleas'd me well; and, as a child
Gazing through glass distain'd, beholds all things
Steep'd in the gorgeous colouring of its dyes,
Till his perverted vision will not brook
The sober hues of truth, so I recoiled
From all the dull realities of life.
Yet, though I deemed great Nature in herself
The all-sufficient idol of my love,
Though my creations peopled all the groves,
There was within my heart a dreary void,
A want of that blest intercourse which wakes
Man to a clearer knowledge of himself.
Thoughts unreveal'd corrode the germ of thought:
The mind concentred on itself may learn
All, all within, but nought that lies without:
The fire-flash bursts not from the flinty rock,
Until the chisel's keener edge hath smote.
The scholar, versed in that immortal lore
With which the genius of succeeding times
Hath so enriched posterity, may dwell
E'en in the lap of solitude, and still
Commune with all the sages of the earth;

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With minds, whose stamp, accordant with his own,
Lends him new forces, and provides the key
Wherewith his latent power shall be unlock'd:
Or, no less genial to the cause of truth,
With those who, differing in their pristine mould,
Prompt him to weigh his favourite theories
"Gainst the conclusions of opposing worth,
And, if of riper years, most like imbued
With a maturer sense, and clearer sight
Into the bearings of the question moved:
Thus reapeth he the harvest of the dead!
Or may be liken'd to a traveller,
Illumin'd by some lamp borne on before.
But I!—no light of wisdom's sacred lamp
Shed clearness on my path. From me the book
Of lore was long withheld. At length, 'twas oped,
The tide roll'd freely o'er my thirsting soul,
The ban of ignorance was ta'en away,
A veil was lifted from my darken'd eyes.
No more th' unletter'd rustic of the hills,
No more abandon'd to conjectures rude,
I felt as if a hidden mine of gold

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Had been in that propitious hour disclosed.
I had a rock whereon I now might build
My tower of strength, yea, e'en those visions fond
That still possessed the ardour of my youth.
I nursed ambition wild as ever fired
The breast of earth's most high inheritor:
I dwelt amid the great of old, whose fame
To me was as a potent talisman,
A wonder-working charm, stirring my thoughts
To like achievements, certain of the meed
The all-discerning multitude accord
With liberal voice to those who toil for them.
Ye gods! full surely then I had not scann'd
That darker page of life's recording book,
That tells of worth reviled, and genius spurn'd.
Yet were the wings of my aspirings shorn,
E'en in that earliest flight towards fame's high mount.
I looked within myself, and oh! how keen
The aching sense of mine own nothingness!
The meretricious plumes, wherewith my pride
Had deck'd my new-born hopes of eminence,
Fell to the earth; I stood in naked shame

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Abash'd before the worthies of past time.
What should I offer at the public shrine
Of knowledge that might cope with their rich gifts?
Methought I had a drear ascent to climb
Ere I attain'd the elevation proud
From whence they first set out. Despondency
Seized on my soul, and veil'd its dawning light.
My gait was listless, and mine eyes look'd up
As though they cared not to behold the day.
I wandered o'er the mountains in such guise,
It well might cheat my kindred with belief
That I had grown distraught. In silent dells,
Amidst these British Alps, where none may keep
Their midnight vigils, save the venturous herd,
I sate, and suffered wintry snows to beat
On mine uncover'd brow, and listed pleased
To the wild winds that howled discordant round
My cold and sleepless couch; nor minded I
To stir me from the loosen'd crag's descent,
Which, had it smote me in its downward course,
Had surely crushed my grief from out my heart.
My life was valueless; I deem'd, because

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I could not gain the loftiest pinnacle,
I needs must grovel alway in the dust.
Base thought! unworthy of immortal mind.
I marvel now that such should e'er possess
Mine e'en a space, yet seems it not a mood
Wholly inconsequent of the reverse
My pride had late sustain'd. Extremes aye verge
Each on the other, and from thence springs up
The intermediate state of reason calm.

Athwart my path a ray of sunlight fell.
Imagination,—that in guise untrick'd
By cunning arts of the world's fashioning,
Had been the mistress of my constant love,
E'en from those boyish days when first I woo'd
With rustic boldness her capricious smiles
Upon the summer hills,—came to me now,
Decked in the gorgeous thoughts and stately rhymes
Of England's gifted bards; to whose sweet songs
My mind, affrighted at severer lore,
Had haply then almost unwitting turn'd.
A spell came o'er me when those tomes I oped;

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Mine own wild visions, all depicted clear,
I recognised through every line dispread,
Clad in the measure of harmonious verse,
And flowing on in cadence musical,
Adapted skilfully in frequent change,
Yet with strict unity symphonious still,
To each new-born emotion of the soul.
These, for the first time, opening on my sense,
Seem'd the soft language of a lovelier world.
Nor knew I well to whom I would award
(Of those illustrious stars of poesy
Whose emanations bright relumed my mind)
My fullest meed of all-admiring love.

When spake from out the brown autumnal woods
The solemn voice of the expiring year,
Calling on man his spirit to attune
To the calm cadence of her parting hymn;
When the sere leaf by equinoctial gales
Was wafted with a sound scarce audible
To the lone harbour of some sheltering nook;
When summer brooks, swollen by the latter rains,

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Page 40

Did gush forth with a fuller melody;
When all day long upon the mountain peaks
The fleecy clouds in denser wreaths reposed,
And all around, tinctur'd with graver hues,
The sober livery of the season show'd;
Then would my heart its deepest sense confess
Of thy immortal verse, O bard inspired!
Whose holy harpings waked the wondrous song
Of Eden's fair, but sin-polluted bowers.
The majesty of Nature, veiled in gloom,
The melancholy light of her last smiles—
All emblematic of departed joy,
My mind with kindred pensiveness imbued.

In the first blush of renovated bloom,
Worn by awakening spring, when bees of flowers
Grow amorous, and insect myriads sport
All the long day on the elastic air;
When birds pour forth their choral songs, and scarce
Relax from their sweet toil through the brief hours
Of night's diminish'd sway; when from the depths
Of Heaven's clear azure, the young moon of May

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Through the green glades a glancing love-light sends,
Undimm'd, save that some gauzy cloud may float
Like sail of fairy bark athwart her track;
When o'er the earth a great Enchanter rules,
Joying in Nature's metamorphosis,
The visible working of his viewless wand,
That well in times of eld might be ascrib'd
To power of Fay benign or Genius good—
In that sweet time, the blythest of the year,
The heart of man, attemper'd to glad thoughts,
Feels all its pulses beat in unison
With life's reviving call: then would my mind,
Abandon'd to the passionate romance
Of the soft season, yield its senses up
To the illusions of the Poet's dream;
Wander with fair Titania o'er the meads,
And through the moon-lit forests resonant
With laugh of mischief-loving elves; no maze,
Howe'er fantastic, by thy spells conjur'd,
Magician great of Avon's gentle shores!
Fail'd to ensnare the homage of my heart—
The humblest mite of all the grateful praise

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Page 42

Admiring ages shall to thee accord
For a rich banquet stored with rarest cates
Which thy unrivall'd genius hath dispread.

Nor let me here withhold thy due award,
O! courtly Minstrel, whose kind Fairy Queen
Led my entranced steps through many a bower
And sylvan haunt so wondrously bedight,
None but a poet's eye might image it;
Nor could the splendid hues wherein all things
Were steep'd thy fertile fancy did create,
Have flow'd from aught but an inspired source.
I love the graceful chivalry that hath garb'd
Woman's fair form in attributes so bright,
She may be placed in man's adoring mind,
Upon a pedestal, his baser thoughts
Dare not profane. Mine ear receives
The stately measure of those antique rhymes
With a most deep delight. Whenever I
Do syllable in memory's trance thy verse,
It seems to me as if a thousand lutes
Of fairy sweetness, touch'd by hands unseen,

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Page 43

With melody filled all the air around;
Or that I heard some river lapse away
In liquid music o'er Arcadian plains.

Sweetest historian of the desert walls
Of Auburn's pastoral hamlet! how my heart
Replied to the sad music of thy strains!
Yea, till its secret chords had well nigh broke,
And my fast gushing tears obscur'd the page
Whereon that tale of human grief was writ.
So dearly are our sympathies allied
With all that breathes of home. I cannot yet
Recall the anguish, with which Fancy, prone,
To blend fictitious things with things of life,
Did picture to my mind those vales beloved
Strew'd with the ruins of their humble farms,
And the brave children of the soil sent forth
To seek in foreign lands their nameless graves—
I cannot think of this, I say, and keep
The tranquil mien that well beseems my years.
Turn we to happier themes. What say I! ah!
Cheat'st thou again, old man, thy wither'd heart

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With fair illusions, which, though they did frame
For thee, in thy young hours, a heaven of bliss
Sweet as Elysium hymn'd in Grecian song,
Transient as twilight of the tropic climes,
Did leave thee as a wreck upon the tide
Of Time's unlovely stream, to strand where'er
The captious winds and waves of fate might will?—
Yea, pass we to that period of my life
When first the silvery tones of woman's love
Responded to my vows.

                                Have I not writ
How my enthusiast nature long had drawn
Its honied nurture from the wilding flowers
Of my own fond conceits, since foster'd well
By the creations of sweet poesy?
Mine was the mood, aided by impulse warm
Of young credulity, when aught that wears
The female form, to man so justly dear,
If rife with youth's fresh bloom, divine appears;
And if the fair one be exalted too
Above those un-ideal shapes that throng
The ways of vulgar life, if phrase refined,

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A voice for music fram'd, soft blandishments,
And beaming smiles are added thereunto,
She in the sanctuary of the heart is placed,
As though she were the sole existing thing
Worthy man's worship; like a goddess shrin'd
In the most sacred temple of the land;
Invested too with all that excellence
Born of the fullness of her votary's soul.
Such the chimera loved by ardent youth;
Such the fair idol of my early vows;
Endow'd with all that visions of romance
Could conjure up to make her still more fair.
I deemed her brighter than those peerless flowers
Of Spenser's song, Una and Amoret,
Perfect in meekness, constancy, and love.
And if an angel face had been the type
Of a celestial mind, Eliza thou
Hadst been the worthy heroine of my tale;
For never Nature in her loudest mood
Fashion'd a form of more enchanting grace.
O! let me here describe her, as mine eyes
Did first behold her, when in those sweet years

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Page 46

Verging on womanhood, she came to dwell
Like some rare plant, the growth of softer climes,
In the seclusion of our northern wilds.

Deep in the gorge of an adjacent glen,
There stood an old dilapidated hall,
Sheltered by woods, whose hoar antiquity
Sigh'd to the winds a tale of other times:
A song of those good days when the gray walls,
Now crumbling into ruin, echo'd back
The merry jest that, with the wine cup bright,
Around the board as free did circulate,
And often, too, had rung with welcome warm,
Proffer'd to errant knight; or gallant speech
To courtly dames address'd; or softest sounds
Of minstrel harpings in the midnight bowers;
And pomp and patronage that suited well
With old baronial hospitality.
Such were the times that ancient dwelling knew,
Before Neglect had stamp'd her impress there,
Or Desolation spread her weedy pall
O'er the long alleys of the stately grounds;

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Mantling the chimneys that, like turrets, rose
From the high, pointed roof, with ivy dark,
And o'er the mullions of those heavy frames
Shadowing the casements, like the brow of age
Hanging a gray defence o'er faded eyes,
Wrought tracery rude of many colour'd moss,
And lichen that, as map methodical,
Had shot its lines o'er every mouldering stone.
There was about the mansion, and the woods,
An air of gloom, and grandeur, and decay;
Such was the home that pride, not charity,
Will'd to the orphan child and widow'd dame
Of one, who had in life own'd kindred blood
Of no remote affinity with him
Who held that manor-right and wide domain.

'Twas in the blooming infancy of May,
Eliza Dudley and her mother came
To dwell in that lone hall. Their slender means
Admitted not of large establishment:
One only menial spread their frugal board,
Administer'd to their few wants, and bore

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The ruder portion of the household cares.
They lived in that retirement, little sought
By their compeers adjacent or afar.
Small show was left to them of better days,
When affluence had been theirs: a few fair toys,
And tasteful ornaments; Eliza's harp,
And the poor remnant of her father's books,
Which once had formed a choice and costly store.
Yet was there left to them one solace still,
Which e'en adversity had not destroyed,
Futile and vain, but precious in their sight,
The silent consciousness of high descent.

Let me recur to that remember'd hour
When first I look'd upon Eliza's face.
'Twas at the close of a bright day of June,
She and her mother sought our rural farm,
Asking some boon, or some slight benefit
My sire had power to grant; I wot not well
Its nature now, but know 'twas not denied.
They prais'd the beauty of the lonely grange;
The neatness of the pastoral implements;

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Page 49

The healthful bloom of my young sister's cheek:
All they beheld found favour in their sight;
Nor less admired they the enchanting scene,
Comprising our paternal heritage,
That smil'd on them from the embower'd porch.
Receding there, the mellow landscape lay
Girdled by mountains, whose proud heights appear'd,
Some clad in mists aërial, blending soft
With the horizon; some distinctly clear,
Rising in masses glorious with the beams
Of the rich sunset, while descending shades
Already mark'd their scars with deeper blue.
Calm in their cradling arms, like some fair child
Foster'd by rugged nurse, the vale reposed:
Pastures, whose verdure the profaning plough
Had never furrow'd, o'er whose velvet turf
The flocks that morning's labour had despoil'd
Of their encumbering fleeces, roam'd at will:
Broad fields, whose hedge-rows breath'd the faint perfume
Of the still lingering May-flowers; where the corn
Shot up the blade of promise paly-green:

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The brook, with its deep fringe of feathery birch,
Upon whose margin kine did ruminate
'Midst the redundant herbage of the spring;—
And nearer home, close to the moss-grown byre,
O'er whose embrowned thatch the sycamore
Shower'd the farina of its blossoms small,
Lay the wide stack-yard, stored with golden grain.
Within the porch the dainty milking-pail
Stood brimming with the wealth but newly drain'd
From the cow's yielding udder—tempting show
For those who love such simple luxuries
As skilful housewifery may furnish forth
From the rich produce of the dairy farm.

Well pleased with all the details of a life
Known, until then, but in fictitious guise,
The young Eliza failed not to inquire
The cause and purport of whate'er she saw.
And loth she was to note the last red flush
That, through the casement darting, kindled up
A thousand lights fantastic on the walls,—
The lengthen'd shade of starry jessamine,

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Page 51

Which, with the woodbine's curved and streaked horns,
Like fairy-bugles, were depicted there.
Reluctantly the graceful girl obeyed
Her mother's summons, who, beside the gate,
Already opened by my father's hand,
Stood beckoning her away. Oh! then it was
That I, returning from my evening walk,
First saw the inmates of the ancient hall.
With words confused, and countenance abash'd,
I hail'd at first the stranger visitants;
But soon delighted wonderment obtained
The mastery over diffidence, and soon
My eyes were rivetted on that sweet face,
Insatiate drinking in the draught of love.

Her slight veil wreath'd in folds above her brow,
Admittance granting to the balmy air,
Disclosed, and still attemper'd with its shade,
The glowing charms beneath; for on her cheek,
Invading e'en the vestal purity
Of her white forehand, lay the roseate blush
Called thither by that eve's unwonted toil.

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Her eyes were like the summer heavens, when sunn'd
By morning beams; and from the shadowy fringe
Of their deep lids glanced stealthy languishment.
Her mouth!—Oh! there lurk'd all the witchery!
The incommunicable loveliness
That shed enchantment over all the rest.
But why pourtray or lineaments or form?
These may be cast in Nature's finest mould,
And yet convey no picture to the mind
Of beauty's nameless charm, that owns no law.
Whate'er their form or hue, the features loved
Speak to the heart a language of their own.

Her stature was so small, she might be deem'd
A shape of fairy lightness. From her brow,
According to the fashion of the time,
E'en drooping o'er the ivory of her neck,
Her dark brown tresses fell in many a ring,
Which, as they caught the golden hues of day,
Borrow'd their brightness. Simple her attire,
Yet all adjusted by the hand of taste.
Perchance a more experienced eye had seen

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The wiles of art in that simplicity,
And haply had detected in her mien,
And in the silvery tones of her low voice,
An overweening studiousness to please.
But I, unread in female blandishments,
Beheld in all the charm of native grace.

Small distance lay between their lone abode,
And our sequester'd grange; but evening shades
Had fallen in dubious gloom athwart the road.
They, used to tread the broad and crowded streets
Of vice-polluted cities, knew not yet
The sweet security of mountain glens;
And deeming me fit guide in those wild paths,
The elder lady courteously required
That I should guard them on their homeward way.
We journey'd on conversing. She had pass'd
Her youth in brilliant circles, where the flash
Of wit transcendant, wit elicited;
And well she knew with skilful hand to spring
The long laid mine of thought within my soul.
Then felt I for the first time, since I hail'd

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The light of day, the blessedness supreme
Of being by minds congenial understood;
Who look'd upon the glorious scenes I loved
With feelings like my own—to whom the voice
Of Nature's music waking in the heart,
Was not an unintelligible sound.
They saw them not, but tears of rapture gush'd
Forth from my eyes in that first blissful trance
Of uncheck'd commune intellectual.

My speech had not the phraseology
Or flowing diction of scholastic lore,
Nor had my mien the self-assured air
That marks the man of wealth and high descent:
Yet were they as remote from the uncouth
And clownish coarseness of the churl's estate,
From all that borders on vulgarity,
As from the polish'd elegance of courts.
Think not I write in egotistic pride,
Or with the vain and frivolous desire
Of figuring in this plain, unvarnish'd tale
The hero of my proper history.

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I, heeding but consistency and truth,
Speak of my poor attainments as the link
Alone connecting one of my degree
With those of more pretence. Alas! it was
The treacherous prelude to approaching ill!
That evening fixed my future destiny;
I loved, but dared not trust myself with hope:
But soon our growing intercourse inspired
My heart with that. We were their humble friends,
Though ne'er descending to obsequiousness.
If benefits were granted and received,
We were the donors alway. Their lone lot,
Their fallen fortunes and deportment fair,
Created in our breasts an interest warm,
That best might be evinced by friendly deeds.
Whatever we possess'd was proffer'd free;
Nor seem'd they e'er reluctant to accept.
My father's sterling sense and judgment clear
Became the widow'd matron's oracle;
Nor scorn'd Eliza to solicit oft
My gentle sister's aid in household tasks,
And in return as freely would impart

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Such slight accomplishments as might accord
With Ellen's active usefulness at home.

'Twere bootless to recount the progress fond
Of my young passion, or the thousand toils
Love's subtle skill entwined around my heart,
Until my mind, in sweet delirium steep'd,
Was under fascination. Simplest phrase,
Or act of hers, to my adoring thought
Had a mysterious beauty of its own.
All that she touch'd acquired a sanctity:
The flowers, whereon her breath had lain, sigh'd forth
A heavenlier odour: yea, I e'en have kiss'd
The slender prints her fairy footsteps left!
I well remember with what ravishment
My soul was thrill'd, the first time that my ear
Drank the delicious music of her voice;
When in soft union with her breathing harp,
She sang to me an ancient melody,
Oft heard in Scotia's solitary glens.
'Tis ever sweet to list the gentle tones
Of woman's voice, e'en when her simple strains

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Flow in untaught and unpretending song;
But in Eliza, music's eloquence
Was an inspired, all-excelling gift,
The only one that Nature, who had been
So prodigal in each external grace,
Had lavished unreluctant on her mind,—
Although to my idolatry it seem'd
But one bright link in a resplendent chain.

How swiftly sped the summer months away!
And Winter, decking his stern brow with wreaths
Of Love's young blossoms, melted into bloom
Of soft-returning Spring,—for that one time,
At least, in his career, crown'd with regrets,
Which soon were lost in Summer's brighter joys.
Bless'd by my sire's and with her mother's smiles,
Our mutual fondness grew. The portion small,
Saved from their fortune's wreck, had scarce sufficed
To keep the pale-eyed spectre, Want, at bay.
Far from the haunts of Fashion, where her charms
Might all alliance suitable have won,
The thoughtful matron saw her child's fair hopes

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Nipt in the bud; and, musing o'er the page
Of dark futurity, her mind recoil'd
From the drear prospect of Eliza's lot.
It haply seem'd to her that one who loved
Her daughter with such deep devotedness
As I evinced, if raised from low degree,
By some distinction recognised by men
As current specie of gentility,
Or pass-word through their proud patrician gates,
Might then Eliza's worthy mate become.
In brief, 'twas thus arranged, that I should seek
The academic groves on Isis' banks,
Whence, my ordeal past, and orders high
Of holy priesthood ta'en, and to some glebe,
By college grant or patron kind, preferr'd,
I should return to these my native hills,
Eliza's hand, my best reward, to claim.

The time of my departure had arrived;
I went with faltering heart to bid farewell
To her I loved. Methought unwonted gloom
Hung o'er the mansion, and the ancient woods,

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Though they in July's richness were bedight;
And never to my eyes had all things there
On which they linger'd look'd so beautiful,
So touchingly, unutterably dear!
The very breath the bursting flowers exhaled
Seem'd to caress me with a sweet adieu.
Eliza came not forth to welcome me;
But this neglect its simple birth might owe
To accident, or tenderer source attest;
The pensiveness of parting, or the soft
And all too deep emotions of a heart
Trembling with virgin consciousness of love.
Whate'er its cause, I felt her absence chill
My mind as I approached; nor met I yet
The stately matron in her evening walk
'Midst the parterres, now gay with summer bloom:
And at Eliza's window soon my sight,
Quicken'd by anxious fear, a signal caught
That filled me with forebodings: I beheld,
In that closed curtain, sickness' pallid sign.
'Twas all too true! the being I adored
Lay on her couch in Fever's burning thrall.

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I prayed for entrance, as a wretch condemn'd
Might supplicate a respite of his doom,
But 'twas in vain: they told me all access
To that contagious chamber was forbid;
And that the lips, where the untasted bliss
Of my Elysium dwelt, breath'd pestilence
More baleful than the deadly Upas dew,—
And drove me from the mansion in despair,
With blenched looks that spake how great the risk,
Its threshold barr'd from those without, still more
How dubious was the fate of those within.
My feelings, as I turn'd towards my home,
Were such as language would but ill describe.
Anguish beyond imagining was mine:
My dreams of fame and happiness dissolved;
All my fond hopes, whereon the morning sun
Had smiled so bounteously, expired beneath
The blight of this affliction unforeseen.
I nursed one sole desire—it was to die!
Struck to the core by that same malady
That sapp'd the life of her I idolized.
All plans, all projects were abandon'd then:

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The world had nothing that I coveted.
Each day, each hour, a suppliant at the gate
Of that infected mansion, I obtain'd
Tidings that broke my heart. The sultry heats
Prevailing then were adverse to the chance
Of her recovery. Daily I endured
The sentence stern of Death. They said each blast
That came there, laden with the fiery breath
Of those solstitial nights, new peril caused,
And Fever's fierce malignity increased.

'Twas on the evening of the sixth drear day
Of her disorder and of my despair,
That I, unable to remain aloof,
Roam'd round the sanctuary where my treasure lay,
Like miser watching o'er his buried gold.
That open casement, whose white drapery
No temper'd breeze of eve refrigerant
Lifted compliant with my fervent prayer,
Was, till the shades of night came darkly down,
The shrine of my devotion. Stirless still

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Its folds reposed, and dubious, till the moon
Rose in the eastern heavens, and sailing forth
Into the depths of Summer's cloudless blue,
Shed o'er the dusky bowers her silver light;
Then, like funereal emblem drooping o'er
A maiden's corse, that curtain's jealous screen
Gleam'd on my sight again; and from within
A wan light glimmer'd, as from taper pale,
Keeping its vigil by the couch of pain.
I sat me on the earth, with burning brow
Bared to the langour of the sultry air;
My very sense of hearing had grown sick
With listening long for some expected sound:
But all was still, not e'en a tinkling brook
Was heard in summer scantiness to flow.
At length methought I heard a feeble moan
Breathed in the room above me, but so faint,
It died away ere yet half audible:
Still it sufficed to stir my brooding mind
To active energy. I started up
From the low turf where I had sat supine,
Resolved to gain the chamber where she lay,

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Whence my aroused attention caught again
Sounds indistinct, that seem'd, to my alarm'd
And boding spirit, like the gasp of death.

The massive walls of that antique abode
With ivy dark were trammell'd and enchased,
The growth of years; and other clambering plants
Of recent culture, clematis and rose,
Now thickly clasp'd the time-worn structure round.
The moonbeams, radiant with meridian light,
Play'd in soft dalliance with the varnish'd leaves,
That glow'd as with a silver shower beset.
And, half reveal'd, all interlaced between,
The ramous stems, like to a natural stair,
In close succession, and gradation true,
Had made their progress up the old grey walls,
Till they Eliza's window had attain'd.
The lover's heart is seldom an adept
In rules didactic. Calculation cold
Curbs not the primal impulse of his mind—
Scarce is the thought imagined ere fulfill'd.
My hand had grasp'd the casement's heavy frame

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Ere I reflected on the action bold.
I fear'd not for myself: no shuddering dread
Of that infected atmosphere deranged
My steady purpose or relax'd my nerves;
But apprehensions of my pure intent
Strangely misconstrued, or of harsh rebuke—
These were the phantoms that my mind appall'd.

With soundless steps, and breath suppress'd to pain,
I cross'd the hallow'd precincts of her bower:
The taper from its sunken socket gave
A fitful ray, o'ermaster'd by the beams
Of the resplendent moon. I stood beside
Eliza's couch—unspeakable delight!
I gazed once more on all my heart adored;
On that sweet form recumbent now, and weak
Through virulent disease; but still to me
The Iris of my hopes. I know not well
If in those moments, bordering on the hour
Of fever's acme, she had recognised
My lineaments or voice. A rattling noise,
Sad substitute for speech! within her throat,

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Was all she utter'd; but I understood
By this, and by the motions of her hand,
And by the parch'd heat of her sever'd lips,
That she was pining for the cooling draught
Station'd beyond her reach, and vainly thus
Had striven to rouse the menial who, worn down
With constant watching, slumber'd nigh the couch.
She took the envied draught, administer'd
By my most willing hand, and o'er her cheek
And restless brow there stole a transient gleam,
That seem'd to me the dear acknowledgment
Of grateful love and renovated life.
Oh! with what rapture, with what vigilance,
I took my place the sufferer's couch beside;
Tended her wants, and counted with mute breath.
The quick pulsations of her slender wrist;
Hung o'er her and inhaled her frequent sighs,
To me more fragrant than the rose, though rife
With fever and destruction; kiss'd the brim
Whence she had drain'd the draught medicinal,
As though ambrosial nectar there remain'd!
My warning looks, and signals that enjoin'd

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Silence imperative, repress'd the screams
That well nigh broke from the awaken'd nurse;
And soon in compact silently arranged,
We watch'd together o'er her through the night.
The crisis had arrived—the anxious hour,
That should determine her still doubtful fate.
The thirst that had consumed her slack'd its force—
Her pulse grew tranquillized beneath my touch—
Her burning brow, suffused in gentle dews,
No longer combated the influence
Of Sleep, who, like a guardian seraph kind,
For ever watchful to fulfil his trust,
Came from his realms, attended by a train
Of balmy zephyrs redolent with health,
And fann'd the maiden's eyelids to repose.
I have been bless'd in my existence oft
With hours of high enjoyment; I have seen
The full completion of some cherish'd hopes,
Which I had nursed with reason's nutriment;
But never knew I exstacy like that
Which fill'd my soul, when, bending o'er her couch,
I saw Eliza lock'd in Sleep's caress.

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The morning came to us begemm'd with showers:
A genial freshness seem'd to emanate
From nature's breast, so lately parch'd with drought.
The sun was marching towards the zenith high,
Ere the sweet sufferer from her slumber waked.
She smiled upon us with the placid looks
Of perfect recognition. Pale she lay,
And weak and languid like a tender flower
Bow'd down, though still unbroken, by the storm
Whose bitterness hath pass'd. I heard, with joy
Unutterable, the consoling words,
Pronounced by lip of science—proudly heard!—
That I had saved her by my timely zeal,
Exerted in that moment critical.

My own enraptured feelings, and still more
The promise full of health's returning beam
To her I loved, was my kind recompense.
And soon I needed all the balm such thoughts
Might yield me. My observant eye remark'd
A strange reserve and haughty mien evinced,
Even in that hour of general joy, by one

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Page 68

I should have deem'd the last to scorn my care:
Eliza's mother treated me as though
I had committed some egregious wrong
Inexpiable. No fit judge am I
Of rules by strict decorous law prescribed.
Perchance she censured justly, yet methinks
Some trivial portion of her pride incensed
She might have yielded, on the simple score
Of certain good effected, and her wrath
Have curb'd its virulence against an act
Arising solely from affection pure.
So argued not the dame; and she impress'd
My mind with the conviction that her heart
Was coldly callous, comprehending not
The deep emotions of exalted love.
Nay, e'en maternal fondness dwelt not there,
Or, when the peril was so imminent,
She had not left her daughter in the charge
Of menial hands, indubitably proved
Inadequate to such important trust.
The boon preferr'd by me with earnestness,
That I might yet a little space remain

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In their abode, if but to plant my steps
Unwearying nigh the threshold of her bower,
Was sternly and inflexibly denied.
I could not choose but turn indignantly
Away from those inhospitable walls;
And, but for her dear sake, whose love I deem'd
Purely, irrevocably, solely mine,
I had for ever bade them an adieu.

Where should I hie me? from the oft-trod path,
That led from that lone mansion to the grange,
I turn'd in sadness: never would I take
Contagion to the bosom of my home.
My mind was harass'd by the countless thoughts
That, rapid as the shadows marching o'er
The summits of the hills, successively
Had chased each other thence; my spirits, too,
Endured the langour ever consequent
On o'er-excited powers. My burning brow
Already knew the ominous approach
Of that malignant malady, whose gripe
My own betroth'd Eliza had repell'd.

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I felt the insidious poison creep apace,
With progress horrible, throughout my veins,
Where the blood curdled, and an icy chill
Ran through each fibre of my shivering frame.
My listless footsteps bore me to the wilds
Of a dark tangled forest; where, on bank
Of moss, I laid my limbs in apathy,
Precursor of disease, resign'd to die.

A dreamy trance is all my mind recalls
Of the remainder of that dreadful day.
Shapes thronging hideously where'er I turn'd,
Changing in frightful metamorphosis,
And in their vivid ideality
Pressing upon me, till they seem'd to hold
My bursting temples in their iron grasp.
Th' expanding figure of a fiery globe,
Aërial, and yet tangible, appear'd
With pertinacity that marr'd the power
Of my collapsing sight to shut it thence.
One harrowing recollection haunted me,
The sense of deep unkindness—all things seem'd

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Page 71

To gibe and scoff at me, till the idea
Prevail'd within me that I was, in truth,
A stricken deer, abandon'd by the herd.

Borne to my home by heaven-directed aid,
Long in delirious fever did I rave,
And long I lingered on the brink of death.
Inquiring message daily from the Hall
Was sent, with show of friendly interest ta'en
In all I suffer'd; but my wounded mind
Traced, in the courteous wording of the phrase,
The shallow heartlessness it would disguise.
Yet deem'd I my Eliza bore no part
In aught that look'd like coldness or neglect;
And with a beam of gratitude sincere,
My wan cheek kindled when the tidings came,
That she in convalescence had walk'd forth,
For the first time, to taste the balmy air.
I heard from every tongue that my beloved
Wore in her aspect, now invigorate
With health's returning bloom, unwonted charms.
Her recent struggle with disease, 'twould seem,

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Had open'd to a beauty more mature.
Meanwhile the malady from her imbibed
Dealt ruthlessly with me. Awhile I strove
With stubborn energy to master it;
But, with the subtlety of poisonous drugs,
That sap by slow degrees the vital powers,
It crept into the stamina of life;
Transforming me, in manhood's early prime,
Into the image of unripe decay.
The bounteous breath of heaven, that erst had been
To me the sovereign balm of ev'ry ill,
Seem'd now by influence malignant changed
Into effluvia of mephitic plains.
Listless and powerless, with a constant sense
Of dreariness and woe, the day wore on,
Unequall'd,—save by horror of the night.

'Twas strange, methought, that never to the Grange,
Since the pale form of sickness hover'd there,
Eliza Dudley nor her mother came!
And stranger still the tidings, to my ear,

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Page 73

That she, at some gay festival held nigh
Our lonely valley, had shone forth in all
The animated brilliancy of joy—
The brightest star in that fair galaxy
Of loveliness and youth. I will confess
My heart was stung to anguish with the thought,
Nor could the sophistry of partial love
Acquit her of the wrong. I had not join'd
The mirthful masquers at a festival
While she lay writhing on her couch of pain!
Too dearly had I proved how firm the link
That bound my fate to her's. Yet strove I still
To cheat with fond perverseness reason's voice;
'Twas but the error of her thoughtless age,
That dream'd not of offence in some brief hours
Snatch'd from the dull monotony of years;
Nor seem'd the motive that had led her there
Devious from Nature's, or from Duty's path;
Nor could I marvel that a graceful girl,
Redundant, too, with all the happiness
Of conscious beauty, should delight to sun
Her youthful charms in admiration's smile:

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Yea, I moreover cherish'd the conceit,
That my Eliza, glittering in the pride
Of decorated loveliness, had breath'd
A sigh of tender sympathy for me.

    The tongue of rumour, ever prone to catch
Intelligence ungentle, soon proclaim'd
The Hall no longer the retired abode
Of rural quiet—harbouring 'neath its roof
A gay gallant, the frequent visitant,
And favour'd candidate for that fair hand
Plighted so late to me. I spurn'd the tale
As a base calumny, e'en libellous
Of human nature, how much more of her!
And lull'd into security and hope
By some cessation of th' unwelcome prate,
And breaking from the trammels of disease
By slow but certain efforts, soon my mind
Regain'd a portion of its strength depress'd.
Again I hail'd the open eye of day
Beneath the glorious canopy of heaven;
My feeble steps again retraced with joy

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Page 75

Their wild haunts on the mountains; and again
I felt the breezy air re-lume my cheek
With somewhat of its wonted healthfulness.
I well remember me I cull'd with care,
And with a feeling of intense delight,
As though I ne'er had known their hues before,
The wild and hardy flowerets of the hills;
And, with a fantasy, according well
With the still feverish tenour of my mood,
Grouping in quaint arrangement those whose buds
Were opening freshly to the morning beams.
I gather'd from the margin of the brook
Its drooping osiers, framed a basket rude,
And placed therein my unpretending spoils,
Resolving thus to send the simple gift,
The offering and the token of my love,
To her whose absence was my only grief.
For often I had heard Eliza say
She loved the wild blooms of our mountain glens;
Beholding alway in their lowly charms
The emblem sweet of those secluded joys
She hoped to share with me.

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                                They were return'd
To me rejected, with a billet brief,
Traced by Eliza's hand, around them twined.
It were a worthless, and a bootless task,
Here to record the words that scroll contain'd.
Let this suffice,—she did require of me
That never more in phrase of love my lips
Should syllable, nor yet my pen inscribe
With epithet of tenderness her name.
In sooth 'twere best that further intercourse,
Unless restricted to the trivial speech
Of casual courtesy, should thenceforth cease.
Nor might I deem this mandate the decree
Of womanish caprice, to be revoked
As waywardness relented; but 'twas the firm
And changeless purpose of maternal will,
With which in full obedience she concurr'd
My frenzied act (thus did they designate
My work of love) they never could forgive.

I felt as though a thunderbolt were hurl'd
At my devoted head. Saw I aright?

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Did my astounded senses comprehend
The import of her words, which so belied
All I had ere beheld in her, or deem'd
Compatible with that angelic form?
It could not be, or haply she was sway'd
By some resentment misconceived, or wrote
Beneath the influence deep of filial awe,
Which quell'd, but quench'd not, passion's ardent flame.
Oh! might I but behold her once again!
Once more pour forth to her the eloquence
Springing spontaneous then, of purest love,
I thought she would retract the unjust decree
That banish'd me for ever from her heart.

Oh! fond fatuity of guileless youth!
For ever credulous of good desired,
With hopes as buoyant as the airs that float
'Round empyrean heights; or as the wing
Of Eyas soaring from its rock-built nest.
But, let the hand of disappointment fall,
And eider down is not so soon depress'd!

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Arm'd with the consciousness of rectitude,
Elate with hope, that its existence owed
To my unchanged devotedness of heart,
Once more I sought the mansion in the wood;
Secure of pleading, with resistless force,
My own cause, and the cause of injured truth.
With what emotions, oh, with what a sense
Of mingled joy and anguish, hail'd I now
That interdicted dwelling, whence my steps
Had been so long exiled! My languid limbs
Still dragged the heavy fetters of disease;
And my sick spirit, sensitive from pain,
Yielded with feebleness, till then unknown,
To each unequal effort of my frame.
Corporeal weakness found within my breast
A sympathy too true. The throbbing heart
That quiver'd there, impeded oft the power
Of respiration; and I gasp'd for breath
Oft ere I reach'd my journeys destined goal,
As if each lengthening sob would be my last.
Unwonted sights, and sounds as dissonant,
Assail'd me as that portal I approach'd.

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Where late the spirit of serene repose
Stood guardian sentinel, there loiter'd now
The liv'ried hirelings, insolent and proud,
Who swell the train of lordly opulence.
The kennell'd hound bayed recognition harsh
Of an intruder's foot, for such belike
All deem'd me there; while to my jealous mind
All I beheld of innovation told.

Admission, granted me with tardy grace,
And intimation of untimely hour,
Encroaching on their pre-concerted plans—
It was permitted me once more to steal
Into their presence like a criminal.
Nor fail'd their menial to announce to me,
With aptitude inherent in her class,
(Who readily a vulgar impress take
Of their superiors' faults,) that in the Hall
A more exalted and more welcome guest
Than he, whom now she usher'd, did sojourn.
Moreover, eloquent on such high theme,
Proceeded she, in detail, to describe

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Page 80

The rank and bearing of their visitant.
It needed not, to make me comprehend
The difference wide between his lot and mine,
Her recapitulation long—brief words
Had summ'd up well his supereminence—
Sir Edward Vernon came, with hawk and hound,
And glittering equipage, and pompous mien,
And all the specious attributes that make
The great man of the multitude; whilst I,
Dragged thither, with a faltering heart, my steps,
In humble diffidence, of merits few;
And with a blush upon my hectic cheek,
Deep as the crimson consciousness of guilt.
My soul doth sicken at the retrospect
Of that last interview, and I would fain
Pass it in silence o'er.
                        They heap'd on me
The hateful burden of their mean disdain:
Yea, she whom I had so adored, for whom
My scarce-redeemed life had well nigh paid
The forfeiture, did hold me up to scorn;
Made me the butt of irony, disguised

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Page 81

Beneath the mask of praise extravagant—
That vilest trick of fashion's insolence;
And crush'd me with her cruel raillery,
Till my stung heart writhed powerless in her grasp,
Deprived of e'en the eloquence of wrong.
Nor lavish'd she her malice in mere sport;
There was a meaning in the ready flow
Of her sarcastic wit. She labour'd thus,
That all who heard her might behold in me,
Not her discarded lover,—but the fool
Who, buoy'd up solely by his own conceit,
Would claim distinctions that became him ill:
Thus veiling from her wealthier monitor's eyes
The nature true of our past intercourse.
My rustic garb was placed in contrast strong,
That its deformity might more enhance
The modish elegance of his attire.
Methinks, I yet behold him as he stood,
Meeting the anger of my flashing eye
With the vulgarity of fashion's stare.
He was a thing, to whom I would assign

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Page 82

The lowest grade humanity affords.
With sensibility that might be roused
From its supineness, but by thwarting him
In his desire inordinate, or haply
Denying to his pride the fulsome dole
Of flattery its insatiate cravings sought.
A being, whose small stock of intellect
Barely sufficed him for perverted ends—
Yet plausible withal,—a wretch, from whom
Mothers, who prized the unsullied purity
Of youth's mistrustless innocence, had barr'd
The insidious approach—from whom the husband,
Holding her reputation dear whose trust
Of love in him was rested, had done well
To keep the treasure hid—for he was one
Of those cold sensualists, who murder peace
For the sole pleasure desolation yields.
Yet had he merits that insured to him
The homage warm of many votaries:
Base qualities, that did preponderate
Much in the scale wherein great Mammon weighs
The excellence of men—for he had gold!

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Such is the portraiture of him for whom
Eliza Dudley did renounce my love!
Such was the man to whom a matron sage
Confided her fair daughter's future weal!
Leave we the reptile in his loathsome slough:
I weary of the theme, although, belike,
It will be deem'd some hatred, ling'ring still,
Has moved me thus to paint him in despite.
The time hath been when he who breath'd that name
Abhorrent to my ear, had stirr'd my wrath
Almost to madness, and had called forth groans
And curses loud, and vehement, and deep:
But now the day of bitterness is past,
I do not write in anger, but disgust;
And reason's calmer mood hath taught me since,
That, in the ebullition of my spleen,
I did him some slight wrong,—for, surely, he,
The instrument and not the cause of ill,
Had not, in justice, borne the obloquy.

Enthusiast natures colour, with the hues
Of their own brilliancy, the varied forms

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Page 84

That throng the path of life, giving to all
A character of aggravated truth;
The show of virtue is exalted far
Above the bounds of reason, and extoll'd
With undue homage; while the first detection
Of human frailty conjures up a shape
Monstrous and hideous as chimera, seen
In the dark ages of idolatry.
E'en Folly, with his bauble and his bells,
Stalks forth a giant, worthy the pursuit
Of the mind's wild knight-errantry, and gains
Distinction, meriting alone contempt.—
Repaid with coldness, or with perfidy,
Where young affection had concentred all
Its pure devotion, ready with the zeal
Of martyrdom in Love's own cause to die,—
The disappointed feelings never seek,
In their excess, the primal cause of pain.
Time hath instructed me, with test severe;
And I have reap'd at last the cold reward
Of my life's long probation, in the gain
Of sad experience, bought with many a groan,

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And thwarted project yielded in despair.
And I have found, amidst the ruins dark
Of blighted hopes, and confidence misplaced,
One gem of price—Discrimination's art;
And now I can look back with tranquil eye,
Though with a mind humiliated much,
On the infatuation of my youth.
Yet, why lament the generosity
That led me into error? since it was
The error of a too exalted view
Of Nature's excellence; a fervid sense
Of that affinity, existing oft
Between the outward impress and the soul.
'Twas not Eliza Dudley that I loved,
But a fair thought embodied in her form.
Thus, clothing in the Sculptor's glorious art
Vice carnal and corrupt, the Greek forgot,
In the perfections of ideal grace,
The frailty of his god.
                                A cold farewell
Was all I proffer'd, or could then require:
I never held communion with her more,

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Nor spake I of her perfidy to man;
But, in the solitude of my own heart,
Did brood upon the anguish of the wound.
I could not brook the sympathy of friends
Who deem'd me injur'd—Nay, with strange caprice,
I e'en betook me to a warm defence
Of her whose perjur'd fickleness I loath'd.

Full soon the echoes of the rural glens,
That had repeated oft our lays of love,
Rang with the music of the bride bells.
I hied me to the vale's remotest nook,
There to evade the hateful scrutiny
That might have singled me from out the throng
Of more indifferent gazers on the show—
Meet object for some trifler's raillery;
For well I knew my aspect then had been
The tablet of my heart.
                                Remembrance comes,
Clad in the vision of that frenzied hour,
With poignancy I deem'd for aye subdued.—
I stretch'd my form beside a mountain-stream

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That dash'd adown a rock precipitous;
No grove umbrageous threw its shadow there,
Nor grew the green moss on the margin wild—
All was chaotic, sterile, and severe.
Around the pool, whose cavern'd depths receiv'd
The foaming waters, and whose stillness told
A tale of treachery, high cliffs arose,
Barren and black, and scarr'd by wintry snows,
That ever in the spring-time, loos'd from thrall,
Came pouring down with speed tumultuous.
It was a place of gloom, the haunt of birds
Ungenial to the valley's milder brood:
A scene of ruin, whose stern genius there
Had found a sanctuary fit; yet down the glen
The eye beheld a pastoral landscape soft,
Shining in contrast, beautifully strange.—
Thus from the pinnacle of bleak Despair
The shuddering wretch receding bliss beholds.

Those unsunn'd waters, wherein I had lav'd
My brow, assuag'd its burning agony;
And soon my spirit re-assumed the power

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Of quelling the emotions of my heart;
And I could sit, and tranquilly could gaze
Upon the pageant in the distance far,
And listen to the chorus of the bells,
Pealing anew their gratulations sweet,
Until I deem'd myself in truth resign'd
To each decree of Fortune's waywardness.
'Twas but the mockery of fortitude—
The phantom of content—whose substance found
No shelter in my breast.
                                The busy tongue
Of village wonderment did loudly prate
To me of all the splendour of the show—
The gauds the bride had worn, the equipage
That bore her home in triumph from the church—
The brave demeanour of her chosen lord,
And all the endless details that provoke
The idle cravings of the curious ear.
My sister turn'd from me her tearful eyes,
Because she would not that they should divine
The secret of my soul: I bless'd her then,
And since have thought with reverence of that trait

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Of tenderest feeling in a village girl,
That so surpass'd the courtier's specious arts.

No more—no more the visions I had nurs'd
Smil'd on me lovingly; no more—no more
The young affections of my heart sprung up
Fresher than morning dew. All—all was drear;
The scenes around me, once with rapture view'd,
Seem'd now the monuments of murder'd hope.
My native valley was a wilderness—
My life a weight of woe—the world a blank:
Those projects fair, that recently appear'd
The solid basis whereon I might build
The structure of ambition laudable;—
Those academic honours, late desir'd
With love enthusiastic, now became
Intolerable thoughts, still linking me
Resistless to my blighted happiness—
An union hideous, like bonds that chain
The dying captive to the mouldering dead.
Action interminate, and ceaseless change,
This was my prayer, the only benison

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For which I wearied heaven.
                                With many tears
My sire accorded me the boon I ask'd,
That I might seek beyond the ocean wave
A brighter destiny. He could not blind
His senses to the horror of my state,
Though marvelling that I should thus indulge
Immoderate grief for life's least cureless woe.
He saw that I must perish, or depart:
And pouring o'er my head the unction pure
Of his last blessing, suffer'd me to go.

Soon the gay bride departed from the scenes
That shelter'd her in poverty obscure:
Plung'd in the crowd that throng round Folly's shrine,
Laugh'd with each joyless prodigal of mirth,
And in the vortex of a heartless world,
Engulph'd the feeble remnant that remain'd
Of better feelings sedulously subdued.
It hath betided me that, in the walk
Of devious life, though opposite as are
Antipodean realms, my steps have cross'd

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The path of her career. I have beheld
Her tears flow fast at Belvidera's woes,
Copious as are the fountains of the skies.
Yet, if a shivering suppliant at her gate
Implor'd of her, e'en in the sacred name
Of pity, to relieve his deep distress,
Those tears grew frigid as the ice-drops cold
On Winter's crest. Fie on the show of grief!
Weep o'er a fiction, yet behold unmov'd
A fellow-being withering in the gripe
Of penury! Oh! that insulted Truth
Would rouse her from the lethargy wherein
The magnitude of wrong hath plung'd her; and cry shame,
Eternal shame on every false pretence!
I have beheld her since on Tiber's banks,
Amidst the host of idlers who profane
The sanctity of venerable Rome,
Crowding the ways whose very dust hath been
Immortalized by deeds of olden time,
The ashes of dead heroes. Trifling e'en
Within the forum's precincts, and with jest

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Vapid and vain, that better had beseem'd
Fashion's gay boudoir, or the throng'd saloon,
Vexing the echoes of those mouldering walls
That erst prolong'd the words of Cicero—
Or, when the vital interests, not alone
Of Rome and her proud factions, but of realms
Trembling before the menace of her frown,
Were canvass'd there with matchless eloquence,
Peal'd the full chorus of contending tongues.

In the gay carnival, when licence reigns,
Sanction'd by power supreme,—and Folly, loosed
From Reason's curb, in broad day riots forth,
And mimics, with a wantonness profuse,
Her own fantastic freaks, as if afraid
Their measure still might lack—e'en there have I
Beheld Eliza glide adown the tide
Of life's vain glories; borne in sumptuous ease
Along the Corso, while her liv'ried train,
With arrogant assumption, scatter'd wide
Rome's clamorous mendicants, and fix'd all eyes
On that proud equipage that thunder'd by.

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I saw her too amidst the rival ranks
Of Roman beauty in their theatres,
Prankt out by Fashion's all-accomplish'd hand
With every lure the senses that seduce,
And every blandishment that art invents,
To draw a veil o'er Time's insidious touch.
I look'd for that sweet beaming of the soul—
Nature's free gift, the charm I had so lov'd:
Those dimples that play'd round the young mouth,
And guardians seem'd of love's pure paradise.
But where were they? and where, alas! was all
That had inspir'd my deep idolatry?
For ever fled!—and the eternal smile,
Soulless and joyless, now that had usurp'd
Like some base traitor those fair cherub thrones,
What spake it, but of falseness to my heart?
The practiced air of listless apathy—
Or gaze unmeasured of cold haughtiness,
That recks not of the pain it may inflict:
The meretricious luxury of attire—
The figure rife with its voluptuousness—

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The cheek, whose tint of art but ill supplied
The healthful bloom effaced by languid days,
And nights worn out in torch-light revelry—
These all were hers; but in her mien matured,
Whence had departed maiden bashfulness,
The eye sought vainly for that temper'd beam
Which best becomes a British matron's brow—
Gracefully grave, still powerful to attract
The chasten'd tribute of admiring love.
A man of foreign aspect stood beside
The couch where she reclin'd—in whose dark eyes,
When bent on her, familiarity
Blended with glances warm and amorous.
And tended he each light caprice with zeal
Exceeding far what courtesy requires.
His assiduity had more beseem'd
Suitor of one whose plighted troth had been
Never on altar vow'd. I deem'd she had,
Among the many vices of the land
Wherein she sojourn'd, fallen into this,
Its most insensate custom; and whilst he,
Her wedded partner, hied him to the haunts

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Of infamy and ruin, there to waste
A life degraded, and with equal wrong
Repay her scorn and hatred—she repair'd,
With her innamorato at her side,
To the throng'd theatre, to listen strains
Of luscious music, and contemplate scenes
That once had crimson'd all her cheek with shame.

    Believe it, ye who have perused the page
Recording my inexpiable guilt,
Which had, they said, insulted modesty,
And banish'd me for ever from her heart—
Give credence if ye may: she came to gaze
On a licentious pageant, that detail'd
The frailty of the Carthaginian Queen!
Not in the chaste and frigid portraiture
Of Metastasio's verse; but in array
Of pantomimic show, on stage whose lamps
Emitted partial radiance, dubious gleams,
That counterfeited well love's treacherous hour;
Nor lack'd there tones accordant to the tale,

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Breathing the airs of that song-gifted clime.
And swam before the sight young graceful forms,
In movements speaking passion's eloquence
More meltingly than language; attitudes
Alternately exciting amorous thoughts,
And those emotions which alone belong
To the fond worshipper of Grecian art.
Luxurious all,—beguiling every sense,
And stamping on the o'er-excited brain
An impress that calls blushes to the brow.
My eyes oft stray'd from that voluptuous stage
Seeking Eliza's face—once, only once,
Did they meet her's—methought she shrunk from them—
So deem'd I, or mine own instinctive shame
Invested her with feelings long estranged
From her polluted mind; and with a sigh,
That not insulted love, nor yet the power
Of reason, now dispassionate, could check,
I turn'd from what I deem'd the spectacle
Of her full degradation.

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                                Ne'er again—
Since that night in the Roman theatre—
Have I beheld her. Fate, that sunder'd us
Far as rocks sever'd by the rolling sea—
Foreign in heart as are the tribes in hue
Dwelling upon its circumjacent shores—
Did never in the diverse paths of life
Our wandering steps again approximate;
Nor ever hath the breath of rumour borne
The sequel of her story to mine ear.

    My tale is told—my dream of by-gone time
Dispell'd, as fades from summer's changeful sky
The rainbow's bright and evanescent form;
And I have laps'd again into the vale
Of years that bear me on to time unknown.
Stranger!—thou hast the history of my youth—
Affording little to arrest thy note—
A simple narrative of simplest truths.
No incident illustrious or sublime

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Page 98

Hath mark'd its course, undevious and obscure.
Yet, unattractive as these details are
To minds that hunger for excitement strong,
Their high importance in my scale of life
Remains to me unchanged. In them I trace
The origin of all that since hath framed
My destiny's not all unchequer'd page.
On them my very wanderings may look back
As to their primal cause. Had I been bless'd
With consummation of my early hopes,
My days had glided on in tranquil joys,
The quiet pastor of some rural glebe.
I had not trod the interminable wilds
Of Transatlantic forests; nor beheld
The Indian mothers nursing their dusk sons
Beside Ontario's Lake; nor in his strength
The great Niagara fling his sea of foam
From rocks that echoed his tumultuous joy.
Nor had I watch'd with awe and wonderment
The sun at midnight lift his lurid crest
O'er Arctic wastes of everlasting snow;

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Page 99

Nor, roaming in his Orient heritage,
Skimm'd the blue waves o'er which the Dorian flute
In time of eld breathed richest harmony;
Nor, journeying from those ruined temples, proud
Rear'd midst the Deserts, where great Sol was hail'd
The Deity of Palmyrean groves;
Approach'd the Sacred City that beheld
The first fair rising of that wondrous star,
Whose holier radiance was predoom'd to quench
(Though veil'd a space from Judah's guilty fanes)
The flaming altars of idolatry.
I had not gazed on these, nor had mine been
A wanderer's lot, the which,—albeit some thorns
Spring midst the roses that adorn his path,
And all he culls in his long pilgrimage
Is not Hyblæan honey, but like fruit
Gathered upon the Dead Sea's shores accurst,
Tempting, but full of bitterness within,—
Hath its delights, yea more, its usefulness.
He who brings home from many a distant clime
True tidings of man's varying destiny,—

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Page 100

Noting with eye observant contrasts strange,
The causes, too, of their diversity,
And how external influences combine
To form him good or evil,—hath perform'd
His portion of life's duty, and hath earn'd
A worthy station midst his fellow men.

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Page [101]

THE
SEAL HUNTERS.

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Page [102]

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Page [103]

THE
SEAL HUNTERS.

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Page [140]

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Page [141]

THE
MONK OF CAMALDONI.

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Page [159]

THE
HEBREW GIRL AT THE AUTO DA FÉ.

THERE was a voice heard in thy streets at morn,
Royal Madrid!—A voice of many bells
Chiming melodiously from convent spire
And proud cathedral tower. And, mingling deep
With the loud hum of a vast city's life,
A sound arose, like Ocean's vexed roar,
Or torrent swoll'n by the autumnal rains
Bursting away resistless in its force;
A heavy and augmenting tramp of feet,
The rushing of a multitude along:
While from high lattice, and from balcony,
An eager throng look'd forth. 'Twould seem the hour
Of some great pageant, such as monarchs will

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Page 160

In their profuse munificence, drew nigh.
And it was so—but ne'er in heathen land,
Where the unholy rout their orgies dark,
With pæan wild, and revels most obscene
Do celebrate—nor yet in ancient Rome,
Where gladiatorial fights, and barbarous shows
Rejoiced some victor's iron soul, and stirr'd
To savage triumph the rude populace,
Did man's ingenious cruelty devise
A festival more bloody or accurst.
And was it thine, oh, christian land of Spain!
Thou that hast twined thine emblem olive oft
With fame's immortal laurels—was it thine?
Oh, if the blood of martyrs should steam up
To Heaven, as did the blood of the first slain,
Crying for retribution—Guilty Spain!
Thou that hast slain thy thousands at the nod
Of fierce-eyed bigotry, how might'st thou stand?
Ev'n thy Sierras, towering in their strength,
Like a reed shaken by the wind should quail;
And thy vales, teeming with their fruitful stores,

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Page 161

The olive, and the citron, and the vine,
Shrink in the presence of the avenging God!

The morn wore on—the iron tongue of time
—Thrice awful on that day of doom and death—
Peal'd through the crowded streets, proclaiming loud,
Like a king's mandate, the appointed hour.
Then rush'd they on, that gathering concourse all,
Toward the great square, a wide arena, deck'd
With bright pavilions, and with regal thrones,
For that dark drama. On the morning air
Swell'd the rich notes of silver trumpets clear,
And horns, and all the instruments that make
Music the voice of war. Men's avid ears
Drank in rejoicefully the tide of sound,
As each new burst of that grand harmony
Roll'd on the other with distincter chime:
And eager eyes were strain'd to hail more near
The gilded banners, as they floated free
O'er plumed casques, and glittering halberds, borne
On by the royal guard. All eyes, I ween,
Gazed anxious then, for these proclaim'd afar

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That majesty approach'd. And many a cap
And silken kerchief gratulation waved.
And dark-brow'd Donnas, who, like idols shrined
For general homage, graced those galleries fair,
From the deep shadow of their snowy veils
Glanced stealthy looks of recognition kind
Towards the gay gallants circling round the king.
In sooth it was a gorgeous spectacle,
That bright array of beauty, pomp, and power!
Princes and pontiffs, in their robes of state,
And all the ancient chivalry of Spain.
But one sat there who 'midst those ranks august
Look'd like a victim, though her youthful brow
Wore Spain's rich diadem, and though her throne,
Save his, the King's, exalted was most high.
Elizabeth of Valois, thou wast she!
Bride of a lord thy young heart could not love;
The stern, the haughty Philip. In the bloom
Of years that yet scarce verged on womanhood,
Consign'd with all thy warm affections rife,
The passive bond of some convention, framed
By the cold, crafty policy of courts.

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And what a sight to meet a bride's fond eyes
Was there preparing! Soon the silvery tones
Of the rich music died in cadence wild;
And other sounds were heard—the voice of wail—
The struggling sob of the still hopeful heart—
The shriek of mad despair!—and lo, a train
That might be spectres, but that their strange guise
And haggard looks of human agony
Were horribly real, made their lonely way
Ev'n midst the rush of thousands; for from them
All men shrunk back as from pollution's stream,
Dreading th' unholy touch. Nor less recoil'd,
Though a deep reverence with their fear was mix'd,
From those arch-demons who, arrayed in power
Surpassing far authority of kings,
And all that earth hath ever known of might
Resistless and inscrutable, led on
Their bands to fiery death. Still as it waved,
That huge dusk banner, heavily to and fro,
Unfolding to men's eyes th' insignia stamp'd
On its broad wings, the terrible display
Of pomp Inquisitorial, lips turn'd white,

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Page 164

And strong souls sicken'd; for it seem'd the pall
Funereal of whole nations. But amidst
Th' emotions of that hour, alas, for thee,
Angel of heaven!—sweet power of human love!—
None wept the victims there. Onward they trod,
The accurst of all, their journey to the tomb.
And some there were might well have wrung the tears
Of pity from men's eyes:—the young, the brave,
The beautiful!—and female forms worn down
With horrors of the dungeon and the rack,
Until they look'd pale phantoms of the past,
Shades from the realms of woe—and daylight met
Distorted limbs, man's glorious form defaced
Ev'n by his brother! Noble spirits, vex'd
Until wild frenzy had usurp'd the mood
Of all that was most bright. E'en malice wreak'd
Her wanton insults on the cold remains
Of poor mortality—the mouldering dead,
Torn from the sanctuary of the silent grave,
To feed—how futile persecution there!—
A living pyre of human sacrifice.
And some were seen there, in that dreadful hour,

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With brows as calm as though the gates of Heaven
Already had been pass'd, and their feet trod
Th' appointed paths of light. They came serene,
With hymns of triumph jubilant and strong,
With heads erect, and eyes that pitying gazed
Upon the scoffing multitude, and look'd
Where that huge pile in fire-scathed blackness stood,
As to a throne of bliss. Thrice hallow'd these—
Thrice hallow'd all who in the cause of Truth
And for the mind's free charter have stood forth
Champions undismay'd!

                                Were I to paint
That fearful picture with its details true
In all their horrors, and the varying forms
That mortal anguish in its acme took,
The heart would sicken, and the pen would fail.
But there came one amongst those ranks of death,
A young and beauteous being, whose wild woe
Spake with a voice that might not be unheard.
Despair had lent her in that hour of doom
Courage that mock'd at fear. Forward she rush'd,

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Page 166

Despite the threat'ning words that call'd her back,
In vex'd amaze, and kneel'd before the Queen.
A thrill electric through the assembled host
Ran simultaneous. All eyes gazed intent
On that bright creature, whose resplendent charms
Not e'en that garb of terror could disguise;
And in her lineaments, the raven hair,
The large eyes lustrously and wildly black,
The brow that seem'd for proud tiara form'd,
The blood of Judah's race abhorr'd beheld.
Lowly she kneel'd, an orphan maid, condemn'd,
For the deep guilt of clinging in the night
Of her young spirit's loneness to a creed,
Her ancient nation's ark of hope—to die!
But life with its fond vision of fair things,
The light of heaven, the summer's fragrant air,
Th' illusions that lie joyous in the heart
Until the blight of cold reality
Withers their beauty, crowded then round thee,
Oh young Naomi! and th' impassion'd voice
Of Nature, pleading in her hour of need.
Burst from thy lips.

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Page 167

                        "Mercy! oh, gracious Queen!
Mercy and pardon mild! Behold my youth—
My term of years hath barely equall'd thine,
Yet are they number'd; and the dire array
Of death and sacrifice appals my sight,
And in life's vigour, lo! the burning grave
Yawns for my quivering flesh. I had a sire,
The anointed of his tribe—honour'd he was
Even by those who hate the Hebrew's name:
And I was all to him, he all to me—
Like a lone pillar towering o'er the wreck
Of fallen grandeur, so my father stood,
Gazing in grief on Israel's scattered race:
I, the wild vine that round its mouldering shaft
Clung in my weakness. Death beleaguering came
(Oh now I bless thee, tyrant of the tomb!
That spared him this dread passage to thy realms)
And laid it prostrate. I dwelt on alone,
Ev'n in that sanctuary where mine infant eyes
First hail'd the light; and gathering thoughts came fast
Into my wilder'd brain. But one there was,
Yea, one there was, that like a star shone bright

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O'er my bereaved heart. Remembrance kept,
As a sweet bond that to his spirit still
Link'd filial love, that solemn promise given,
Ere his pure soul departed to its rest,
That I would hold with swerveless constancy
Our nation's ancient faith.

                        "This—this, oh Queen!—
This is my crime!—Behold your flaming pyre,
Whose black fount puffs forth to the paling heavens
Destruction's fiery breath. E'en now my limbs,
And these wrench'd sinews, sere, and wither up,
And my soul sickens at Death's drear approach.—
Save me—oh save—great Queen!"

                                There was a hush,
As when the thunder's stormy voice hath roll'd
Itself to silence, and the awe-struck earth
Breaks not the dread repose. The very soul
Of stillness seem'd to breed o'er every breast,
Waiting th' award of power. The young Queen wept,
And turn'd her face from that beseeching form,

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Kneeling before her in fear's strong excess,
To where the sceptred monster at her side
Sat in his sternness. Philip's cruel eye
Gave not a hope of mercy; and the Queen,
Trembling beneath the lightning of his frown,
Bade the doom'd one depart!

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Page [171]

THE
DYING CRUSADER.

'TIS noon, and Syria's fiery sun
His proud meridian throne hath won.
No cloud obscures the saffron sky,
Suffused with Heaven's own alchemy.
Nor doth tall grove, or mountain chain,
Break the dull level of the plain.
Nor gushes fount, nor rolls the sea,
Eternal, boundless, wild and free.
Oh! vainly seek the pilgrim bands
For water o'er the thirsty sands;
Thrice blessed, if some brackish stream
Glad their sick spirits with its gleam.
But oftener shines, to cheat their sight,
The Suhrab's strange unreal light.

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And if the breeze, whose welcome wing
Such balm to happier climes doth bring,
Wake there, its hot and blistering breath
Seems pregnant with the blight of death.
No song of Summer's brooding birds,
Nor lowing of the upland herds,
Floats on the gales; but gathering fast,
Comes the wild sand-shower on the blast,
And from its dense and stifling cloud,
Weaves the gay pilgrim's burning shroud.

Yet on that desert rude and drear
Full many a lordly cavalier,
Defying death's most awful frown,
Hath won the chaplet of renown;
On many a fair and bold emprize
Hath gleam'd the sun of Syrian skies,
When from their galleys, bounding free,
The flower of Europe's chivalry,
The steel-clad heroes of the North,
Rush'd in faith's noble fervour forth.
They live in many a stately rhyme,
Though o'er their very tombs stern Time

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Page 173

Hath thrown the mantle of decay,
And swept them from the earth away.
'Twas a wild frenzy of the mind,
Yet glorious; generous as 'twas blind—
Pure gold seen sparkling through its dross.
Nor did the soldier of the Cross
Contend 'gainst Paynim foes alone:
There came a darker, deadlier one,
Disease, that like a serpent wound
Its subtle coils the strongest round,
Bearing resistless to the grave
The young, the proud, the loved, the brave!

'Tis noon—within the Christian camp
Resounds a war-steed's fiery stamp,
Who, maddened by the sultry air,
Chafes, neighs, and champs impatient there.
Aweary of ignoble rest,
His proud heart heaves his ample breast;
For fleet of foot, and strong of limb,
War's bold, free chase seems form'd for him.

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But where is now the guiding hand
That urged his footsteps o'er the sand?
And where the clear commanding voice
That bade his gallant heart rejoice?
In yonder tent a stately form
Lies, like a cedar, which the storm,
That sweeps the high Mount Lebanon,
Hath reckless on the earth o'erthrown.
His ghastly cheek, and sleepless eye,
Proclaim full surely he must die.
To die! how bitter is the thought
When life's fine filament is wrought
Of many a bright and golden hue,
Entwined with Love's soft roses too:
From kindred, home, and country far,
The victim of disease, not war.
Oh! the sweet music of that tide
Which rolls his native woods beside!
His parch'd lips languish for the draught,
By many a peasant heedless quaff'd.

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And but to hail the meadows green,
    Once more before his eyes resign
The boon of sight!—oh, never scene
    Of Elf-land did so sweetly shine
As those fond visions that arise
To haunt him with home's memories!

When first strong fever shook his frame,
His dreams were of relinquish'd fame.
He roused him at the clarion call,
And raved of Zion's sacred wall,
Beleaguer'd by the Moslem bands;
And wildly waved his burning hands,
And would have donn'd his harness bright,
And to the rescue and the fight
Gone forth, in that stern frenzied mood,
To cleanse his tarnish'd name in blood.
But that soon pass'd, dull languor stole
O'er the sick warrior's glorious soul.
The nerveless hands relax their clasp,
The lips that raved of battle—gasp—

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And one cool drop, to moisten them,
Were worth thy towers, Jerusalem!

'Tis eve—and Syria's burning sun
His fierce career hath nearly run:
Lo! on the desert's kindling air
Goes forth a cry—"To prayer—to prayer—
"God is most mighty—Allah hu!"
True homage, pour'd by hearts as true:
And towards their sacred eastern shrine,
Doth many a turban'd brow incline;
While atabal and cymbalon
Mark how th' eventful hours roll on.
The steed, whose fleetness mocks the wind,
And leaves pursuit amazed behind,
Comes scouring, at decline of day,
Along the desert's trackless way:
And patiently with tinkling bell,
The camel stands beside the well;
With drooping lip, and placid eye,
The emblem of docility.

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The hour of rest—the Ave hour—
Falls solemnly on tent and tower,
And bids the Christian hosts prepare
To hymn their holy evening prayer.
Low bends the warrior's mail-clad knee,
He offers, Lord of Life! to thee
A tribute jubilant and free;
The rich outpourings of the heart
But all too loth with pride to part.

Who passes in the dubious light,
    Arrayed in scapulaire, and stole?
A prelate's hand confers to-night
    The passport of a parting soul.
Yea, to the dying warrior's tent
He speeds, with prayer and sacrament.

There is a hush—oh! still as death—
Round that low couch, and not a breath
Of heaven's pure ether cools the air
That stagnates dense and drowsy there.

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Not e'en that silken pennoncelle
The Syrian wind hath known so well,
Unfolds to the beholder's view
Its motto, "Loyauté passe tout;"
But heavily, like funeral pall,
Its proud heraldic honours fall.
The sun hath sunk, but still one beam
Of crimson light doth broadly stream
On that young warrior's face, and shows
The placid beauty of repose.
The hour of fever's madness o'er,
He feels life's rebel force no more;
Yet—yet, one flickering spark remains—
The soul hath not flung off her chains.
But all that was most fearful sleeps,
Only the mind soft vigil keeps.
A long, yet all too brief farewell
Of friends that in his heart do dwell,
Of comrades true, and kind, and brave,
Whose tears will sanctify his grave,
His lips have ta'en—his soul is shriven,
The priest hath made his peace with heaven.

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And now alone one faithful squire
Beholds his lamp of life expire.
E'en as a mother watching, wild
With grief's excess, her dying child,
Doth that long tried and trusted friend
His master's couch of death attend.
Oh! how those accents, faint and low,
That from his tongue so feebly flow,
Are treasured in that old man's heart,
As though they were of life a part.
How watches he his master's eye,
In hopeless, speechless agony;
And thinks with anguish all the while—
When he returns to Albion's isle—
How the dark fate of one so dear
May meet the gray-hair'd Baron's ear.
These visions rack his aching brain,
Till, rescued from their fearful train,
Once more his dying master's voice
Makes his lone heart e'en then rejoice:—

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"Hubert—I need not say to thee,
Thou soul of truth and loyalty!
When words by dying lips are given,
They should be sacred held as heaven.
Soon will thy kind and faithful hand
Lay my pale corse in Paynim land;
Then, wend thee home, 'tis my behest,
To our loved island of the west—
Say to my sire and mother bright,
I died as 'seems a Christian knight."
He paused—the while, with faultering grasp,
Unloos'd a bracelet's golden clasp;
Then, with a look in which awoke
A tide of love, again he spoke:—
"Hie thee to Deva's princely tower,
And seek the Lady Edith's bower;
She will require no other sign
Than that thou comest from Palestine.
    Oh, give her back her token true,
This circlet of her raven hair,
    And one wild, passionate adieu,
Breathed in Fitz-Alan's dying prayer.

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Tell her I do absolve her now
From that so lately cherish'd vow:
I would not have her weep for me,
In heart and hand she shall be free—
Yet, let her grudge me not one tear,
Lying in death's dark shadow here;—
Oh, Edith—Edith!"

                                But the name
Died on his lips, and dimly came
O'er pulse and brain, and glaring eye,
In all her icy apathy,
Oblivion, tyrant of the tomb,
And seal'd the brave Crusader's doom.

Still sat the faithful Hubert there,
The silent image of despair,
When Syria's moon resplendent rose
O'er the wild desert's deep repose.
The lamp, unheeded, feebly shed
Its light upon the stately dead;
Until, to quench its failing flame,
The moon's broad mellow radiance came.

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Refulgent, in that orient clime,
Her beauty took a tone sublime:
She seem'd, as up the vaulted sky
She steer'd her lucid bark on high,
A spirit borne on heavenly wings
Away from earth and earthly things,
Yet lingering, with a fond regret,
O'er mortal grandeur that had set.
No voice of winds, nor living sound
Broke the drear stillness brooding round;
Save when the fierce hyæna's howl
Proclaim'd him on his midnight prowl:
Or from the shores of that Dead Lake,
At whose black wave no beast may slake
His maddening thirst—a spot abhorr'd!—
The Lion of the Desert roar'd.

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DESTINY.

'TIS said the destinies of men are ruled,
E'en from the first dim dawning of young life,
By some mysterious influence above—
A Genius, good or evil; or, as some
In their wild theories have declared, a star,
Shining auspicious, or malignant, o'er
The natal hour of man. Presume we not
Too much, in our aspirings to be great,
When thus we dream (poor earthworms as we are!)
That Heaven's bright myriads, peopling boundless space—
Worlds and their suns, the rallying point of worlds,
Existing through all time, and doom'd, perchance,
To fathom dread Eternity—that these
Are link'd, howe'er obscurely or remote

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To the frail fortunes of ephemeral man!
Leave we these vain pretensions to divine
What passeth human knowledge; leave we, too,
The mystery of mysteries, the birth of Time—
The fountain of all Life—to be unseal'd
By the great Power that holds it. Our own hearts,
The wondrous structure of our sentient frames,
The glories of this globe terrestrial,
Whereof we are the short-lived denizens—
These furnish forth a banquet that might feast
Marvel unto satiety. Nathless,
Things passing strange—events whose aspect wears
Such tokens of mysterious agency,
That we may not behold them and deny
Th' existence of presiding destiny—
Challenge our notice, springing in the path
E'en of our soberest musings.
                                I have heard,
Yea more, encounter'd, in my wanderings past,
One, whose brief span of being was involved
In the dark meshes of controlless Fate—
Nor seem'd he her sole victim: on his house,

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As though the ban of Heaven had lighted there
For some inscrutable and fearful end,
Her seal was set. Of seven fair, stately sons,
Scions of an ancestral tree, whose shade
Proudly eclipsed the valley's lowlier groves,
And so had done for ages, he, whom here,
In this short record, I shall Oswald call—
He—stood in solitary grace, alone;
In life's best prime, the sad inheritor
Of all their wealth and honours. Dark and drear
(So deem'd he, as his chariot roll'd adown,
For the first time since his installed rights)
Frown'd on its lord the mansion of his sires;
And the high portal, as it oped for him
Its massy grate, did image to his mind
The huge jaws of a tomb, that greedy yawn'd
To swallow a new victim. Thoughts like these
Found too much nurture in those twilight halls
Where menials throng'd, garb'd in their weeds of woe,
And the proud hatchment o'er the arched door,
And all around, even with its silence, told
A tale of death. The memory of his youth—

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Of those glad years of boyhood, when he roam'd
With his young brothers, in their frolic glee,
Through that old mansion and its sheltering woods—
Flash'd on his heart, like sunset's parting gleam
Shed o'er a grave. There, on the tap'stried walls,
Hung their dim portraits—moveless shapes, whose eyes
Look'd down upon him, calm and spectral:
They pointed, with their shadowy arms, the way
To that cold home where he must greet them soon.
There stood young Alfred, in his sylvan guise—
The eldest born, the loving and beloved—
His gold locks clustering round the fair contour
Of his clear Saxon brow, with spear and bow,
And bugle belted round his slender waist,
And the leash'd greyhound crouching at his feet,
A stripling hunter. Julian, as was meet,
Rank'd next his brother—a young Paladin,
Whose boyish fancy dwelt in tented fields,
And in whose eye 'twould seem a hero's soul
Already brighten'd. Thou, too, child of dreams!
Romantic Edmund! with thy pensive brow,
And smile, that told of the rich heaven of thought

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Radiant within thee; thou, whose early lays
Were breathed amid the Druid groves, and woke
To music the clear echoes of the hills—
Thou, who hadst grown the poet of thy race—
Thou, too, wast there. And Edric, frolic elf—
The soul of joy and mischief; Richard, too,
The fay-king's counterpart; and Edwy, meek
And gentle as a moonbeam playing o'er
The surface of a summer lake, or breeze
Whose breath hath sigh'd but late its vesper hymn
In the pure sanctuary of the lily's cell.
Long Oswald gazed—their sole survivor now:
The bright—the beauteous—the beloved, were gone!
A chill, as though the grave-worm coil'd its lithe
And clammy length about each slacken'd nerve,
Crept through his frame, as solemnly he scann'd,
Each in his turn, those well-remember'd forms,
And thought upon their doom—so strangely woof'd
Each in the same dark web of early death:
As 'twere a chain, whose fragile texture, jarr'd
By some electric power, shiver'd throughout.

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The years of manhood they had reach'd secure—
Each his fifth lustre had attain'd, but all,
Ere that mysterious cycle was o'erpass'd,
Wither'd in the same blight.—A fearful mood,
A nightmare of the mind—as though some fiend,
Bred in the fabled cavern of Despair,
Had griped them with his long, lank, filmy hands—
Sudden came o'er their young and buoyant hearts,
Stifling fair hope, and, with a haunting dread—
A horror that mock'd wildly Reason's voice—
A cureless, incommunicable woe—
Hurried them to their graves. The ancient home
Of their forefathers, e'en that fair domain
Which its last lord then tenanted, had been
The scene of their life's close. There seem'd to lurk
A fascination in those old gray towers—
A spell that lured the powerless victims on,
Till, in the circle of their magic might,
Ruin and death were sure. So Oswald deem'd:
He felt the fatal influence of the spot—
The ghosts of the departed seem'd to glide

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About the precincts, and with shrieks, whose tones
Echoed of madness, summon'd him to fill
His destined niche in the dark halls of Death.

His term of years verg'd on that fateful brink
Of Time's unfathom'd gulf, which had entomb'd
His predecessors.—How might he escape
Their general doom?—Dawn'd there a gleam of hope
That he alone might break the fearful spell,
And steer his bark of life through Death's deep waves—
A mortal rescued from the Destinies?
Say, should he seek that hope on foreign shores—
In new scenes rend the chain of harrowing thoughts
And home's sad memories? Had not Edric plough'd
The dark-blue waves, a conqueror of their storms?—
Elate in danger, joyous in the hour
When Britain's bulwarks their defiance hurl'd,
In murderous vollies, 'gainst opposing fleets;
Safe 'midst the din of battle, ne'ertheless
Fate reach'd him in still midnight, e'er the flush
Of victory faded from his laurell'd brows.
That malady of the mind fell drear and chill

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On his brave spirit, palsying all his powers,
Blasting his triumph—he came home to die!
The gentle Edwy, too, had wandered forth
From his sad heritage, seeking the shores
Of many a fair and song-renowned land;
But, 'midst the Syrian roses, and the palms
Of proud Judea, on the pilgrim fell
That mood of madness. His meek spirit, framed
Of earth's least earthly elements, awhile
Strove with distraction, but the darkness grew,
As clouds collect in sunshine, e'en more dark,
As view'd in contrast; and at length he came,
Like a pale phantom from the land of shades,
Home, in that house of many deaths—to die!

And there to linger—oh! it might not be—
A wild hope flash'd through Oswald's gathering gloom,
And he resolved, in its fierce strength, to quit
For savage life the haunts of civ'lized man.—
Yea, the primeval forests, where the hand
Of Art had never, in its pride, profaned
The loneliness of Nature's sanctuary—

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Page 191

The deep lake of the Transatlantic wind—
The rivers that, like seas of silver, leap'd
From the snow-mountains, mocking in their might
The scanty streams of this our older world;
These, these henceforth must be his dwelling-place;
And the red Indian, in his war-garb rude,
Swerveless in truth, and deadly in revenge,
Must be sole comrade of his wanderings free.

He bade his native land a brief adieu;
Flung off the forms of polish'd life, e'en doff'd
Its long-worn vesture, and his limbs encased
In guise uncouth—around his ankle clasp'd
The rough-thong'd moccasin, while o'er his broad
And manly breast the wolf-skin mantle hung
In savage grandeur, wrought with many a bead
Of wampum rare, and quill of porcupine.
Equipp'd with bow of cedar, measuring well
His tall and graceful stature, and with sheaf
Of pointed arrows gleaming at his side,
He stood amidst the bold free tribes that dwell
By the great Huron Lake, in heart and mien

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Page 192

Confess'd a friend and brother. Then rung out
A peal of gratulation, wild and strong,
From gray-hair'd chief, and warrior whose young fame
That eve had floated new-born on the songs
Of his proud kindred.—Deep, and clear, and long,
Arose that pæan of the woods which hail'd
His rude inauguration; and all night
The blazing faggot pour'd a crimson flood
Of splendour through the forest's green arcades;
Where the huge pine-tree rear'd his giant head,
And tall canes, quivering in the breezy air,
Glanced like ten thousand spears.
                        No more the name—
The gentle name, of Oswald, that full oft,
When syllabled in accents bland and sweet
By his fond mother, had like music crept
Into his inmost soul—no more that name
Must greet, on that new stage of life, his ear;
But some strange title, and therein his choice
Was link'd with home's rich memories. The King-Bird,

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Whose proud wings hover'd o'er the 'scutcheon shield
Of their heraldic honours, when his sires
Fought 'gainst the Paynim hosts;—this, this he chose
His emblem meet, since he with steadfast eye
Had, like the eagle's, that confronts the sun,
Defied the star of Fate.
                                Well nigh the toils,
And, more than these, the infinite disgusts
Of that apprenticeship to savage life,
Had vanquish'd his sick spirit; but the end
Was too momentous to be thus resign'd
At Nature's weak revoltings, and he gain'd,
Hour after hour, a mastery more complete
Over her secret springs. His sinews, braced
To iron firmness, by continual proof
Of all their latent powers, he grew, in limb,
A bold compeer, in every feat of strength,
Of those dusk heroes of the woods; could chase
The white bear o'er the wastes of frozen snow;
Swift as the wind pursue the antler'd deer,

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Snare the shy beaver in his wondrous home;
And, with a fearless and intrepid arm,
Steer down the rapid's course the slight canoe.
And habit grew into a liking strange
For that wild state of being—even its toils,
Its hardships, and its hairbreadth 'scapes, became
Sources of strong excitement. Nor return'd
Ever, to mar his self-exilement there,
One scowl of the dark demon that had driven
Him to those haunts. His heart was light and free
As wing of heaven's cloud-cleaving habitants;
And the rich blood that bounded in his veins
Glanced rubiate with life.

                        Thus years roll'd on—
The dread ordeal was o'erpass'd—the ban
Of his existence, he believed, withdrawn;
And the soul's yearnings for re-union sweet
With all he loved, and with the glorious tide
Of intellectual and congenial mind,
Came o'er him, strong as ever babe's desire
For its first nurture. Still there was a pang,

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Page 195

In those brief partings by the Huron Lake;
The kind companions of his exiled years,
The tried, the trusted friends, in many an hour
Of perilous emprize. He could not say
With tearless eyes, "Eternally farewell!"
And many a rude gift freighted his canoe,
As down the stream to gain its destined goal
(That white-wing'd ship of Albion) it sped on.
Home-veering, laden, to the British fort
Proudly the vessel plough'd the woodland wave,
With all her gallant complement on board;
Her murderous guns turn'd towards those beetling shores,
Where lurk'd the hostile tribes, and whence full oft
Shot, like swift meteors, 'thwart her path, canoes,
Bristling with warriors, subtily stealing on
To board the British ship. Calm in their wake
Came Oswald, with his band of Huron friends,
Still in his Indian garb, and thrice he waved
His peaceful signal; but the harass'd crew
Placed small reliance on a symbol, stain'd,
But late, by Indian falsehood. Prompt and stern

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The word was given to fire! Then, booming o'er
The gleaming waters, came destruction's shower
Towards that mistrustless shallop. Fate would not
Be cheated of her victim—Oswald fell!

Loud rose the wail of death;—Oh, loud and drear!
As those dusk Indians bent o'er his mute form,
Their pale, their bleeding brother. Curses, deep
Curses upon the white man's perfidy
Peal'd from each furious tongue; and gestures wild
Told that his death might not rest unavenged.
Wrapp'd in its uncouth vesture, bore they then
Back to their woods that cold and senseless clay,
Whose spirit, to the unknown land of shades,
The white man's heaven, was gone, they justly deem'd.
And in those solitudes of nature's strength,
Midst the gray-cairns of many a vanish'd race,
Gladly had scoop'd his grave: but kindred blood
Cried, piercingly, from Albion's distant isle,
Claiming that scion of a blighted line;
And the wide tomb where his fair brethren slept

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Yawn'd for its latest victim. O'er the deep,
With 'scutcheon'd pall, and wan, funereal pomp,
His corse was wafted to its last sojourn,
The destined niche in the dark halls of Death!

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Page [199]

EVENING
ON THE
SHORES OF THE ISLAND OF PROCITA.

THE human heart doth treasure in its cell
Some golden memories, that outlive the wreck
Of many a glorious hope, once vital there,
Ev'n as the source of being, shining o'er
Life's desolate decline, like stars seen through
The frightful rents of ruin. They are not
Born of excitement's feverish hour,—nor come
With sounds still echoing of the festive hall,
But, like the honey of the bee, they flow
From the rich stores of Nature.

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Page 200

                        Who hath gazed,
Italia! on the splendour of thy skies,
When o'er their cloudless blue the evening sun
Waves his broad banner; or, when solemn night
Calls from her eastern shrines the virgin moon
To light up, in the land where once she was
Hail'd with triumphant hymns, the lonely fanes.
Who hath gazed on thee, land of deathless song!
Will ever turn to thee as to a fount
Of inspiration flowing o'er his soul.

I sat, at eve, upon the silent shore
Of sea-born Procita. Beneath my feet
Roll'd the dark-blue Tyrrhene; and around,
Far as the eye could penetrate, amid
The purple shadows of declining day,
His old Etrurian boundaries arose,
Crown'd with the glories of Virgilian song.
O'er Pandaturia's island, that beheld
In banishment, unsolaced and alone,
A daughter of imperial Rome expire,
The red sun's ample and expanding disk

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Page 201

Linger'd, 'twould seem reluctant to depart.
A fresh breeze stealing from the adjacent coast
Stirr'd the light waves to music, and, anon,
A sound of such wild harmonies awoke—
Methought the sibyl of the cave yet breathed
Her oracles divine. My spirit own'd
The holy influence of the place and time.
The memory of a deathless age, whose fame,
A phantom now amid the things of earth,
Still rules, unseen, the destinies of men,
Fill'd me with worship. All the air around
Seem'd vital with the genius of the past.
Ev'n that Tyrrhene, whose calm surface, then,
No vessel track'd, save the rude fisher's bark,
Plying in his vocation round the isles,
Had erst the fleet of Ilium proudly borne,
When from their stately prows the Trojan bands
Triumphantly the soft Ausonia hail'd.
Transcendent bard! thy gifted lyre hath shed
Enchantment o'er the country of thy birth;
Thine own Elysium rises on my sight,
Rich with the myrtle and the mantling vine.

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But splendid as are thine, some records link'd
With these proud scenes around me, in my heart
Wake deeper sympathies: a glorious chain
Are here of names that might ennoble song.
There, where Gaieta stretches her wide arms,
Cradling the voiceful waters, Cicero died;
And Scipio, fleeing from tempestuous Rome,
In life's decline a tranquil refuge found.
Nigh his retreat, amid the marshes drear
That gird Minturnæ, by the will proscribed
Of haughty Sylla, Marius lurk'd conceal'd;
Till death itself turn'd awe-struck from his frown.
Yon islet, glimmering through the dubious eve,
Witness'd the tear that gemm'd fair Portia's cheek.
When Brutus bade the Italian shores farewell.
And thou, Misenus, rearest not thou thy crest,
Still wrapt in gloom and silence, vesture meet
For thy stern grandeur; thou that art a tomb,
Heap'd on fallen genius; and, in latter days,
By grief connubial consecrated, too;
For there, Cornelia, faithful to the dead,
Mourn'd for her murder'd lord.

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                        I sat and gazed
Upon the monuments of greatness past,
Until the golden west her bridal robe
Exchanged for night's dim weeds of widowhood,
And the wide east, o'er all the ethereal arch
Pre-eminence resumed;—for mounting thence,
Borne upward by her steeds invisible,
Came star-crown'd Dian, in her silver car,
Aspiring heaven's blue zenith to attain;
And from her airy pathway pouring down
A flood of temper'd, tranquillizing light.
It was the Ave hour—the hour of rest—
The spirit of repose pervaded earth.
The drowsy beetle humm'd her homeward song,
The clambering goat sought out the rock's recess,
And birds took refuge in the trelliss'd vines.
The fisher's bark came gliding to the beach,
Leaving a silvery track upon the sea,
Whose surface, then calm as an inland bay,
Slept in the moonlight. 'Twas the hour of prayer:
Amidst the silence of a slumbering world,
Man, its inheritor, hymn'd his Creator.

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From the high citadel, whose castled rock
O'erlooks the waters, notes of music came,
Soft as aërial melodies, or strain
Cathedral chanted, wafted from afar.
So seem'd they in their earliest ascent,
Low breathed and tremulous—then rising, clear,
In measure audible, and voices chimed,
Italian voices, rich as heaven's own choir,
Singing, in sweet accord with that guitar,
Hymns to the virgin. Soon along the coast
Struck up responsive instruments, whose tones,
Broken and blending with the murmuring sea,
Floated mysteriously, as if from groves
Elysian, that athwart the moonlit deep
Threw their dim shadows, they did emanate.
This was, indeed, devotion! whose pure shrine,
Unstain'd by hollow prayer, or heartless rite,
Nature had rear'd upon the lucid breast
Of the deep sea, fann'd by a genial clime,
Whose noon of night, unrivall'd o'er the earth,
The triumph of creation might be hail'd!
I listen'd till the last notes died away,

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And silence re-assumed her solemn reign,
More solemn from that recent gush of song
Filling the twilight air. My spirit borne
Far from the realms of earth, upon the wings
Of those departing harmonies, confess'd,
In her full joy, affinity with heaven.

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Page [206]

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Page [207]

PETRARCA'S TOMB.

THERE is a spot midst the Euganean hills,
Sequester'd from the busy scenes of life,
Yet gifted with distinct celebrity,
Even in a land whose glorious bosom bears
Such shrines of pilgrim worship; haunted still
By the soft spirit of the Tuscan muse
Guarding her solemn sanctuary; for there,
Wrapp'd in his laurell'd shade, Petrarca sleeps.
Time, the despoiler, hath so slightly touch'd
The sacred spot, that we his impress own
But as a beam divine, imbuing all
With deeper harmony. Even war, whose brand
Hath scourged fair Italy, holding revered
The hallow'd precincts of her poet's tomb,
Hath not profaned its dust. Here come from far

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Page 208

All who pay homage to immortal mind—
Lovers, but most the votaries of song,
Invoke the silent effigy, and twine
Fame's deathless wreath the sculptured brows around.

Romantic Arqua! where his tide of years
Roll'd on in music, and in vernal dreams
Of Love's untasted essence; thou art set,
A meek flower in the chaplet of renown,
Shedding, like violet odours pour'd unseen,
Thy fragrance o'er the garland's statelier blooms.
So graceful in the mountain's close embrace
Rests thy Arcadian hamlet, it would seem
The influence of thy bard's rare genius, felt
Age after age with undiminish'd power,
Had moulded thee to brighter loveliness.
Screen'd by their natural rampart of high hills,
Thy valleys offer to the peasant's hand
An earlier vintage; and thy gardens glow
With every sunny fruit that loves the breath.
Of the sweet south. Deep in thy wild wood's shade,

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Page 209

The calm clear waters of a lake, whose hue
Rivals thy heavens, hold up to thy fresh charms
An image of their beauty. In the dale's recess,
From an acclivity, whose verdant mount
Claims proud pre-eminence, the poet's home
Rules, like the temple of some guardian saint,
The humbler hamlet. Pilgrim, if thy soul
Would drink the lymph of inspiration pure
Even at the very fount, seek yonder height,
Ascend its flowery path, and gaze adown
The valley with its landscape stretching wide;
Vineyard and orchard's mingling wealth behold,
Pasture, and grove, and forest's tangled glade,
Where the tall cypress, like a pyramid,
Bears its dusk foliage, harmonizing well.
With church-spire glittering through the air,
And cities scatter'd o'er the Paduan plain;
Till in the blue of distance they blend soft,
Bound in the Adriatic's crystal zone.
Sage was Petrarca's choice in peace to dwell,
Far from the factions of a troublous age!

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Here, midst the mountains, soothing life's decline
With the kind balm of undisturb'd repose;
Identifying with the graceful forms
Of Nature towering round him, his thoughts, ripe
With their immortal glory. Oh that I,
Awakening, as man's destiny decrees
All shall awake, from hope's delusive dream,
Could rest me in some lone vale's secret heart,
Beauteous as this, where, like the Tuscan bard,
My soul might give her tuneful griefs to fame!

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Page [211]

INDIAN SCENERY.

IT was a wild shore, in whose bosom deep
The sea lay tranquil as an infant's sleep,
Lull'd in that bay's remote and lone recess,
As by a nursing mother's sweet caress.
The waveless waters knew no ruder gale
Than that might tempt the lotus flower to sail.
High rose the palm-tree on the brink, and threw
Its graceful image o'er that mirror blue;
Unfurl'd its fan-like leaves of tender green,
Where, half reveal'd, the gold fruit glanced between.
More distant, towering o'er the palm-grove, stood
A tangled, wild, interminable wood;
For such it seem'd, so dense and dun the shade
Of the banyan's continous green arcade,
Whose long earth-rooted boughs, and roofing high,
Might well be deem'd the forest's sanctuary.

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For, lighted up by evening's transient smile,
They look'd the cloisters of some gothic pile;
Pillar, and arch, and fret-work rich, appear'd
In Nature's mimickry of art uprear'd.
The giant teak, the Indian forest's king,
Grew there, in strength and beauty triumphing;
And all trees that beneath the tropic sun
To waste in wild redundancy had run;
Age after age, nursed by that lavish clime,
They stood like records of the olden time.
Nor lack'd the forest habitants; it seem'd
With Nature's myriads, and its great heart seem'd
Instinct with life—from those ephemeral tribes,
To whom proud man reluctantly ascribes
The functions of existence, and of whom
Morn hails the birth, and ere bedews the tomb,
To the huge elephant, whose shadow cast
Upon their realms as he sedately pass'd,
Would seem a world's eclipse—all, all were found
Roaming at will the forest haunts around.

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Such the broad zone of that unruffled bay;
While, to the east, stupendous crags, that lay
Chaotic on the shore, whose structure rude
Seem'd form'd to brave the ocean's wildest mood,
A frowning barrier rear'd—but even here
Beauty had stamp'd her impress deep and clear.
There sprung the tall cane from the yawning cleft;
And there aquatic weeds the surge had left,
About whose lithe and ruby-coloured stems
The sea's bright incrustations hung like gems,
There lurk'd the madrepore within the stone,
And there the rock with rays metallic shone.
The smooth sea, rippling on the golden sand,
Like air-touch'd lutes made music wild and bland.
And many a shell, whose wreathed depths disclose
The tender tints of Syria's peerless rose,
Lay like a fairy-galley on the beach,
Secure from tempest rude, or billow's reach.
The halcyon, skimming o'er the waters, knew
Her own pure azure in their lucid hue;
And oft in wantonness she stoop'd to break
The glassy surface of that ocean-lake;

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And oft her painted plumage did she lave,
Enamour'd of the halcyon of the wave.

'Tis past the hour of India's sultry noon—
The sun will sink beyond the tropics soon;
Like some dethroned king, whose doom hath pass'd
O'er his own realms, will proudly look his last.
Behold—e'en now a magic chain comes o'er
The sylvan landscape and sequester'd shore;
Hues, like the splendour of a topaz mine,
Through all the groves and o'er the waters shine.
The red sun rests a moment on the wave,
Then dives as 'twere to ocean's darkest cave;
But ere his regal crest is lost to sight,
He pours his broadest flood of golden light.
The vast earth feels it, and the deep sea knows
The sudden blaze that gilds his green repose;
No more his dim zone to the sky is link'd,
Where many a distant sail now gleams distinct;
Through the great forest's still and secret heart,
The mighty monarch sends his fiercest dart.

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His slant rays lighting in th' umbrageous bowers
The thousand lamps of oriental flowers;
E'en the thick leaves in emerald lustre glow,
And shed their radiance on the reeds below.
No longer, shaded from the sultry glare,
Sleeps the fell tiger in his forest lair;
Roused from his slumber by that scorching ray,
Sullen he stalks to deeper gloom away;
Where lurks the jackall in the tangled brake,
And scorpions hurtle with the glistering snake.
In the vast lab'rinth's long and sinuous veins
A quiet, clear, and temper'd glory reigns;
A luxury of light, in tone subdued,
Pour'd through that leafy roofing's amplitude.
There the flamingo's scarlet plume is seen,
Flaunting beneath th' arika's verdant screen;
And sweeping stately through the tamarind glade,
With jewell'd crest triumphantly display'd,
The peacock to the sunset doth unfold
His proud array of purple and of gold.
Cloth'd in the rainbow's bright and blending dyes,
The loxia in the changeful sun-beam flies;

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Or in the branches' quivering maze entwined,
Pierces the wild acacia's spicy rind.
But revel these alone?—doth not the ray
Of eve illume a host as glad as they?
Wings, like the splendour of the mineral world,
Are seen in every ruby gleam unfurl'd;
There lifts the butterfly its gorgeous sail,
Wooing the zephyr; or the glittering mail
Of some horn'd insect glances mid the leaves;
And there his toils the subtle spider weaves.
The shining lizard glides among the grass;
The dread musquito quits the dank morass;
And many a shrilly pipe is heard afar,
In elfin mimicry of mightier war;
While from the shores the trumpet-beetle's voice
Calls on the insect myriads to rejoice.

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Page [217]

THE
PESTILENCE IN ROME.

QUEEN of the nations! venerable Rome!
How oft hast thou, since that triumphant hour
That hail'd thy birth, and to the wondering gaze
Of ancient potentates thy star display'd,
Flaming along the western hemisphere;
How oft hast thou, still subject to the sway
Of captious Fortune, changed thy destiny!
Now, as the bride of thy victorious lords,
Tiara-crown'd, and flush'd with consciousness
Of power that found on earth no parallel;
Now in the train of some barbarian king,
Still glittering in thy marriage-robes, and rife
With all thy charms, a powerless captive led.
Again, with fickleness surpassing e'en
Capricious Fate, hast thou bound on thy brows,

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Still humid with their willows, festal wreaths,
And, like Assyrian concubine, attuned
Thy lute to please a conquering despot's ear.
But this endured not; grandeur that springs up
From degradation soon doth pass away;
And thou art left in lonely widowhood,
A monument of all that was most high,
Prostrate in ruin.

                        Rome! when last my feet
Wander'd along thy desolated ways,
A sterner foe possess'd thee, ruling wide,
With power that mock'd at man's supremacy,
Making thy tombs his throne. Ay, Death was there—
Death, and the pale-eyed demon of disease,
His ruthless caterer. Through thy long streets
Cries, and a sound of funeral psalmody,
Struck the intruder's ear, the sole response
To his inquiring wonder. All was gloom:
The car of pleasure roll'd no more along
The silent Corso: all the graceful arts
That weave illusion o'er existence, seem'd

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Extinct, and but the dull routine of life,
The humbling catalogue of human wants,
And darker chronicle of human woes,
Pervaded that great city. Still on high
Flamed the bright sun through summer's blue,
Uprose at morn, and crimson set at eve,
Looking with its unshadow'd aspect down
On man's calamity; and glorious still
Tower'd that proud cupola in upper air,
The noblest work of modern genius.
Column, and arch, and stately colonnade,
Glared in their solemn beauty through dim space
Like beings of a loftier race, untouch'd
By earth's cold doom. In rainbow light still gush'd
The fountains from their marble vases free,
Shedding around a purer atmosphere;
And, verdant still, the obeliskal palm
Threw its tall shadow o'er Mount Palatine,—
Marking, unheeded through the sultry day,
The progress slow of time. Alone seem'd ye,
Dark waving cypresses! whose dusky screen

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Veil'd the lone cloister from the sights of life,
To sympathize with Rome's death-stricken herd.
Yet midst its horrors, like a ray benign,
Religion dwelt there, wresting ev'n from Death
His crown of triumph. What though her fair form
The garb of superstition did invest?
Still pour'd she balm upon the couch of pain,
And Hope's fair blooms, beneath her hallow'd touch,
Sprung, e'en amidst the graves. How solemn 'twas
To hear, with swerveless regularity,
The evening bell, pealing its holy chime
Through those dispeopled streets; from convent spire
And high cathedral dome resounding clear,
Like a great spirit speaking from the realms
Of desolation. Through the dim of night
Still gleam'd the taper at the Virgin's shrine,
Shedding its faint light o'er the silent ways,
Untrodden, save by step of mendicant,
Seeking his morsel at contagion's door;
Or aged priest, who for the slight reward
Wrung from the hand of credulous affluence,
Pour'd o'er the threshold, yet unvisited
By that insidious foe, unction and prayer.

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I saw a funeral train wind slow beneath
The Coliseum's mouldering porticoes;
The Miserere, chanted by the monks
Who bore to its last home that pale cold clay,
So late imbued with life, did sound amid
Those walls that erst had echoed back the cries
Of Rome's tumultuous concourse, drunk with joy.
Shades from the realms of death seem'd those gaunt forms
Robed in their ghastly vestments, convoy meet
For one whose dwelling-place must thenceforth be
Amidst the tombs. High in advance they rear'd
The sacred symbol of a world redeem'd,
Hung in funereal weeds, that heavily
Flapp'd to and fro in that sirocco blast
Whose wings brought pestilence. I saw them thread
The arch of triumph, and proceed along
The ancient ways, untroubled by the crowd
Of idle gazers, who too oft impede
These sad processions. But at length their course
A moment was arrested. That high cross
Borne on before, did link its dusky arms

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In garlands of the wild sweet eglantine
That o'er the rents of ruin thickly grew,
Faithful through time. The odorous wreaths awhile
Offer'd resistance, and repell'd the thrust
Of that dark ravisher, whilst their faint blooms
In crimson showers begemm'd the silent bier.
Then did mine eyes, long thwarted, first behold
Its moveless occupant.—A tall fair girl,
Pallid in death, but redolent with youth,
Lay there serene, as though her dreamless sleep
Morning would break. O'er her patrician brows—
Whose polish'd beauty never Parian stone,
By Grecian chisel smote, had rivall'd—hung
Her dark redundant tresses, mingling here,
And there escaping from the virgin veil
That still did float around her faultless form.
A tint, like that which on autumnal leaves
Tells of decay, invaded the pure white
Of her smooth cheek, cheating the transient gaze
With hues of life; but from the lip collapsed,
And those meek orbs, seal'd up in endless night,
Imagination shrunk. Her marble hands,

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Clasp'd o'er the purple vest, unconscious shrined
The wild rose in its bud. Oh sight of woe!
The emblem flower, and that far sweeter bloom,
Youth nipt in its first fragrance, borne alike
To an untimely grave!

                        I learn'd in brief
The history of her days, too soon eclipsed.
Daughter and heir of Ludovisi's line,
The child of hope and promise, safe, so deem'd
Her doating sire, in those ancestral halls
From life's least harm; shy as the brooding dove,
Gay as the bird that hymns the morning heavens,
Impassion'd as the warbling nightingale,
Fair Julia roved among the garden bowers
Of that old Roman Palace, like a beam
Of sunlight midst decay. But terror fell
On every heart when that contagion crept
With serpent subtlety into the veins
Of the great city. None might bar his gates
'Gainst such a foe, and say "Approach not here."
Eve heard the lover's lute resounding sweet,

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And morn beheld him on his fever'd couch,
Death in his eye, and madness on his tongue.
Away—away!—there was no hope save one,
In flight. The purer atmosphere that breathed
Around the Sibyls' ancient grot, or fann'd
The peaceful waters of Albano's lake,
Proffer'd a safe retreat; and 'twas resolved
That Ludovisi and his child should go
Where his fair mansion o'er its sylvan groves
Tower'd in suburban beauty. Idlesse sway'd
No more the menials in his princely courts:
Quick steps were heard, and busy hands prepared
All for departure, and the tender tones
Of soft adieus were heard within the bowers;
And tears stood glistening in sweet Julia's eyes;
For he, her long betroth'd, for whom her heart
Cherish'd its deep pure fountain of young love,
Might not go forth with their departing train
At early dawn—to-morrow!—phantom vague
Of that which ne'er shall be. Man treasures up
His world of hopes, his acme of despair,
For moments hidden in the womb of Time,

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Or snatch'd away by Fate's resistless hand,
For ever from his grasp. That very night
Distemper kindled up in Julia's cheek
Its ominous torch; and, ere another gloom'd,
The grief-wrung father saw death's fatal seal
Stamp'd in pale hues upon his daughter's brow.

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Page [226]

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Page [227]

ANCIENT CITIES.

"Her cities are a desolation, a dry land, and a wilderness; a land wherein no man dwelleth, neither doth any son of man pass thereby."— JEREMIAH, chap. li. ver. 43.

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Page [235]

THE
TURKISH TOMBS.

I STRAY'D amidst the Turkish tombs,
    That o'er a Grecian hill
Reposed beneath the dusky plumes
    Of cypress, saddening still;
From the deep umbrage of whose screen
Mine eyes o'erlook'd a glowing scene

Of rivers, winding far away
    To meet the flashing sea—
Rich vale, and mountains' long array,
    Pine grove, and thymy lea;
Where herded camels peaceful fed,
And Tartar tents around were spread.

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And many an antique pillar there
    Beside the sacred mosque,
And summer palace glittering fair,
    And garden-crown'd kiosk,
Broke the green level of a plain
Where Grecian armies erst had lain.

Strange contrast! all that smiled around,
    Imbued with light and life,
With that lone, dark, sepulchral mound,
    With death and mourning rife;
Whose deep-drawn vistas gave to view
The skies condensed to colder blue:

The very atmosphere that clings
    About the humid earth,
And floats upon its vapoury wings
    O'er graves that gave it birth,
Hath odours of mortality,
That breathe in every breeze's sigh.

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Dark-waving cypress! tree of Death!
    Funereal emblem meet—
When man hath cropt thy spiral wreath,
    And levell'd at his feet
Thy stately stem, no scion tree
Springs up from root or branch of thee!

O'er sepulchres of Christian dead
    The proud escutcheon waves;
Pillar and arch there grandly shed
    Honour on marble graves;
And sculptured effigy, or bust,
Looks down serenely on their dust.

But here, where Moslem pride is laid,
    No lordly banner floats—
Nor towers cathedral's fretted shade—
    Nor bust the spot denotes;
Fond woman's form is seen alone,
Bent sorrowing o'er the turban'd stone.

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Yea, woman's love abides ev'n here!
    Remorseless is the creed
That chains her life in bonds severe,
    And leaves her heart to bleed;
Without a hope that e'en her love
Shall live in brighter realms above.

She haunts the spot where silent sleeps
    The monarch of her heart;
In hopeless anguish sits and weeps,
    And, when her steps depart,
Her veil'd and mystic figure seems
Some shape beheld in slumber's dreams.

Ye cities of the dead, that rise
    On Græcia's ruin'd shore,
'Midst you might man philosophise
    On glory seen no more;
The silent tear affection gives
Is the sole tribute that survives.

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Page [239]

THE
BLIND MINSTREL.

A SKETCH.

HE swept the golden chords of his loved harp,
Whose faithful tones gave out melodiously
An echo of his soul. High heaved his heart—
The life-blood quicken'd, and the pale brow flung
Its elf-locks back to revel with the winds.
The spirit of sweet sounds, a spell as strong
As ever wrung the voice of prophecy
From Eastern sage, or wizard of the North,
Was on him then. He raised his sightless orbs
To that fair heaven, whose luxury of light
They ne'er had known; and as the rich, full tide
Of music roll'd from the rebounding strings,
A ray of mind, a bright intelligence—

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Though the eye flash'd not its live lightnings there—
Play'd o'er his features, telling of deep joy
Radiant within his breast. Oh! power divine
Of harmony, that maketh light break forth
E'en amidst darkness! light that owneth not
Control of time or season, unobscured
In dungeon glooms, or 'midst the silent hours
Of night's dull noon. Music to him was life,
And he was blest—that old, blind, wandering Bard;
Bearing his world of light and loveliness
In that companion harp, whose lays replied
Congenial to each mood, or sad or gay,
Through the earth's desert—Yea, this flowery earth,
With all its rainbow hues and glorious shapes,
To him was desert! Heaven's rich panoply
Of crimson sunset, and the moon's clear lamp
Of crystal, shining out o'er flood and fell—
The golden Autumn, and the first faint blush
Of the young bud kiss'd by the virgin Spring—
The calm lake imaging the woods and skies—
The deep-drawn vale, the mountain's azure crest—
These were to him a chaos of dark things,

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Page 241

Of whose mysterious being even his dreams
Gave not the semblance. Nor might Memory's dim
Phantasmagoria raise her spectral host;
Nor restless Fancy, ever prone to garb
Objects unknown in some familiar guise,
Lend her illusions. Memory stored for him
No look of Nature's silent majesty—
No haunting gleam of her enchanting forms,
Adored in youth. A sweet voice, that had sung
To him in silvery accents, or the notes
Of nightingales, or cadence of some tones,
Borne fitfully upon the floating breeze
Like angel hymns; the thunder, pealing loud
Heaven's organ strains—the cataract's ceaseless roar,
Whose awful aspect, as the sea's wild course,
To him was unimaginable;—these—
These, shrined within the sanctuary of his heart,
These were his memories.——

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Page [243]

THE
ARABIAN MARE.

"The history of a horse is frequently the topic of general conversation. When I was at Jerusalem, the feats of one of these wonderful steeds made a great noise. The Bedouin to whom the animal, a mare, belonged, being pursued by the Governor's guards, rushed with her from the top of the hills that overlook Jericho. The mare scoured at full gallop down an almost perpendicular declivity without stumbling, and left the soldiers lost in admiration and astonishment. The poor creature how ever dropped down dead on entering Jericho; and the Bedouin, who would not quit her, was taken, weeping over the body of his companion. Ali Aga religiously shewed me, in the mountains near Jericho, the footsteps of the mare that died in the attempt to save her master." —Chateaubriand's Travels in Syria, &c.

HARK! to the sound of the Atabal,
        To the notes of the winded horn,
That on the breeze from Salem's wall
        Melodiously are borne.
The cryer from the minarets
        Proclaims the hour of prayer;
The sun's last splendour, ere he sets,
        Lights up the summits fair

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Page 244

Of Sion and the Olive Mount,
And gilds Siloe's silver fount;
        While on the sultry air,
Where once the Red-cross banner bright
Floated on evening's golden light,
        The Turkish pennons flare.

Hark!—where the Royal minstrel's song
        Arose, the Arab sings;
His rugged home is rear'd among
        The sepulchres of Kings.
And where Judea's stately maids
        Danced to the timbrel sweet,
The haughty Islamite invades
        With desolating feet.

Down in thy vale, Jehosophat,
Where kings in regal pomp have sat,
A Moslem chief's barbarian camp
        Halts for the night's repose.
Hark to the war-steed's fiery stamp!
The patient camel's sober tramp—
        To Kedron's brook he goes.

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Lo! breaking from yon tented line,
That bathed in sunset light doth shine,
        Who comes with thundering speed?
Outstripping far the eagle's flight,
Or the wild ostrich in her might,—
        An Arab and his steed.
For life or death he comes—he comes—
Hark to the loud alarum drums,
        Bismillah! he hath need!
Escaping from Abdallah's wrath,
He scours along the mountain path,
And hears triumphant, on the wind,
Pursuit and vengeance far behind.
Onward, and yet more swift, as though
        She knew that life and liberty
Hung on one wild and desperate throw,
        With nostril wide, and flashing eye,
And flanks bestreak'd with foam and soil,
And sinews strain'd to meet the toil;
Like to an arrow on the gale,
Shot up on plumed shaft to sail,
        Dauntless she rushes by;

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Till on Judea's hills, that frown
O'er Jericho's dismantled town,
Exultingly the matchless mare
Inhales the vig'rous mountain-air,
Spurns with impatient foot the sod
That fleeter foot had never trod,
And with a bold, adventurous leap,
She dashes down the dangerous steep.
Nor yet relaxeth she her pace,
Nor yet yields up th' eventful race,
Till straight before her rider's eyes
The roofs of Jericho arise,
And nearing that desired goal,
Courage and hope relume his soul.
But vainly now her steps essay
To tread the street's familiar way;
No more may fortitude obtain
The triumph o'er fatigue and pain!
Ah! little deem'd he as he tried
To urge her on with voice of pride,
That she, like evening's vanish'd sun,
Her bright and glorious course had run;

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Page 247

And had dilated, for his sake,
Her faithful heart, that soon must break.
No voice of pride could cheer her more:
She fell, all deluged with the gore
That from her quivering nostril stream'd;
While her eye faint and fainter beam'd,
Till, master'd by the power of death,
The brave steed gasp'd her latest breath.

Low kneels the miserable man,
Regardless of the Pacha's ban:
He but beholds the blood that swims
Adown his mare's now stiffening limbs,
Gazes upon her filmed eye,
And lip convulsed with agony;
And, reckless of the vengeful storm,
    Gathering round his devoted head,
With streaming eyes and bended form,
    Laments o'er his companion dead.

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Page 248

Oft as the pastoral Arab leads
        His camels to the well,
Or fleet along the Desert speeds,
        This legend shall he tell:
And long upon Judea's hills
        The Pilgrim's guide shall show,
Amid the clear and sacred rills,
        Stamp'd on the rock below,
The footsteps of the generous steed,
Who died to serve her master's need.

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Page [249]

LAMENT OF THE CHEVALIER BAYARD,
WHEN LYING SICK OF A FEVER AT GRENOBLE.

(Written in Imitation of Ancient Poetry.)

IN fair Grenoble's princely halls
    A gentle knight in durance lies:
Holden he is in Fever's thrall,
    Most cruel of captivities;
For, stretched on his couch of pain,
He strives to break his bondes in vain.

Full many a midnight orison
    Grenoble's dames breathe in their bowers—
Full many a prayer and benison
    Rise in the proud cathedral towers;
And at Our Ladye's shrine of grace
Bows many a faire and saintly face.

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Page 250

And all for his sweete sake resoundes
    The suppliant vow and mass-rite high,
That heaven may heal him of his woundes—
    Their peerless flower of Chivalrie;
And that again, in harnesse dighte,
He may goe forth with strength and mighte.

Lodged is he in bower of state,
    On couch with daintie lawne dispread;
About him loyal squires doe waite,
    And velvet sheen is round his head,
Through which the sickly taper streemes
O'er his pale face, in crimson gleames.

Harke, gentles! how he maketh moane,
    In his extremitie of griefe,
Calling, with many a piteous groane,
    On Holy Jesu for reliefe;
Himself he doth arraigne the while,
As if he were some caitiff vile:—

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Page 251

"Alack, my God! sith thou hast will'd
    That I so soon yield up my life,
Why wouldst not thou that it was spill'd
    By foeman bold in mortal strife,
When late, in Brescia's dread affraye,
Faint with my bleeding woundes I laye.

"Ne leeche's craft, ne nurse's care,
    Me in this doleful streighte can save;
Would God I had been doomed to share
    The honours of a soldier's grave;
E'en where the meanest taketh rest,
With helm on head, and bucklered breast.

"I, who such perils have escaped,
    With God's great mighte and favour armed,
When death on all sides rounde me gaped,
    The while I stood unharmed;
Looking upon the cruel sighte
Of friends and comrades slaine in fighte.

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"Oh! that my life had been resigned
    Before Ravenna's hostile towers;
Or sped, when Fate to dust consigned
    Thy gentle Prince, Nemours!
Meseems I still the trump doe heare
That hymn'd the hero on his bierre;

"And still doe see towards Milan's dome
    The funeral traine pass on—
With pompe that did such rite become,
    Scutcheon, and plume, and gonfalon,
And thousands garbed in weedes of woe,
Making a greate and solemne showe.

"But I!—unlike my sires of old,
    Who burial found for heroes fit,
Must ne'er again brave combat hold!—
    Soon on my tombe it shall be writ,
That, in my bodie's weaknesse, I
Did yield my manhood up and die.

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Page 253

"Where art thou, man of false pretence!
    That did such goodlie things foretell
Of me, who, with much lack of sense,
    In thy conceites delighted well:
How readest thou now my natal starre,
That showed me sped in noble warre?

"Alack, most miserable mee!
    Brought to this pass by sickness dire;
Here must I waite deathe's slowe decree,
    And like a girl expire—
On silken bed, in chamber fine,
Sobb forth this laggard soul of mine.

"Nathless if thou, Almightie God!
    For my greate sins this penance will,
Let me bow meekely to thy rod
    And thy awarde fulfill;
In mercie mild my hopes repose,
And patient bear my grievous woes.

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"But if from soe inglorious end
    My wasting life thou shalt redeeme,
My froward ways I will amend,
    As well doth me beseeme;
Mee humbler Christian shalt thou prove,
Stedfast in loyaltie and love."

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Page [255]

THE ESTRANGED.

        Alas! they had been friends in youth,
        But whispering tongues will poison truth;
        And constancy dwells in realms above;
            And life is thorny, and youth is vain;
        And to be wroth with one we love
            Doth work like madness in the brain.

COLERIDGE'S Christabel.

THEY met in silence—years had roll'd away
Since they had gazed each on the other's face,
Or heard the tones of the remember'd voice
That, parting, rose in wrath. Oh! words, too oft,
Like those false Hebrews who an ill report
Brought of the Land of Promise to their tribes,
Belie the holier feelings of the heart
Glowing with truth and love. This had they proved
In the drear loneness of their sunder'd lives;
And pondering on the trivial cause that marr'd
The hopes of tried affection, their souls yearn'd

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To burst away from pride's cold, icy chain,
And in the sanctuary of each other's arms
Sob forth in tears "Beloved, I have sinn'd!"
But that withheld them, and stern Fate conspired,
And all the nameless accidents that come
To cheat man of his happiness, throng'd fast
Into their clouded path—and fancied wrongs,
Conjured up rife, to medicine regret,
Poison'd the wounds they had no power to heal.
Life's charm has fled since that soft-beaming star
Of their young fondness hath withdrawn its light.
The world, that erst was fill'd with beauty, wound
No more its fascinations round their hearts;
And time's perspective, stored so late with bliss,
Lay like a bleak horizon on the verge
Of their dull wearing hours.

                                Slight cause I ween
(Oh is't not ever thus that worthless things
Rob us of Paradise!) dissension roused
Between Antonio and his bride betroth'd:
Words that arose perchance in sportiveness,

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But misconceived, and angrily return'd,
Grew into taunts of bitterness and scorn:
And pride, that like an incubus doth haunt
The cells of noble hearts, proclaim'd aloud
Its majesty insulted. Thus the spark,
Kindled in wantonness, burst into flames
Fierce and destructive. From Costanza's home
Antonio strode indignantly away,
And vow'd, amidst the tempest of his wrath,
Ne'er to behold Leoni's daughter more:
And in the madness of that hour, resolved
To quit for aye the country of his birth.
Love had deceived him; Fame should thenceforth be
His sovereign mistress. In the tumults wild
Of foreign warfare, and the varying scenes
Of other climes, the mem'ry of the past,
Like the wan phantom of a dream, should fade.
Alas! he knew not then, though 'twas reveal'd,
How absence from the loved ones we have grieved
Wears down the magnitude of their offence,
And aggravates our own. 'Tis rumour'd still
In that Italian city where they dwelt,

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That on the eve of his departure thence,
A tall and stately figure, whose proud mien,
Though shrouded in the trappings of disguise,
Antonio's self-betray'd, was seen to glide
Near the Leoni palace. Some too say,
That all had yet been well, and he had stay'd
To hear Costanza's penitential sighs,
But for a page, who, charged with billet kind
From that distracted lady to her love,
Proved faithless to his trust. Thus Fate decreed
That they should part in unforgiven wrong.

Antonio sail'd for regions of the West—
But how fared poor Costanza? For a space
She could not think that he indeed was gone;
Or deem'd he would in soften'd mood return:
And sat within her sire's patrician halls,
With anxious eye, and cheek, whose flush reveal'd
The sickening hope within—and if a step
Fell in the distance on the marble floor,
Her watchful ear caught up the fleeting sound,
And her pulse quicken'd. Or if, in the gloom

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Of gathering eve, or midst the moonlight bowers
Of her fair garden, a faint shade was seen
To flit across the pathway, she was sure
That he drew nigh—'twas his appointed hour—
He came repentant from his brief exile,
To bring forgiveness, and to be forgiven.

But days wore on, and months their measure full
Accomplish'd, and the first long year of doubt,
And hope, and penitence, was number'd. Then
She felt full surely he had kept his vow,
And would no more return. A chill despair
Fell on her heart, and as its frightful growth
Choked up each bloom of healthful nurture there—
And grief sat brooding, like a midnight ghost,
Over her sleepless brain—and wild remorse,
Cherish'd in silence, ravish'd from her cheek
Its rose of beauty, ev'n the more she sought
To cheat the gazer's eye with show of mirth
She ne'er must know again. Still bound she on
Her jewell'd zone, and deck'd her tresses bright
With pearl and ruby, and amongst the gay

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Appear'd the blithest—in the festive dance
Her step was ever found; and though her form
Was wasting to the shadow of itself,
Her pale, proud lip, wreathed with its changeless smile,
Confess'd to none the secret of her breast:
And many deem'd the lord of her young love
Forgotten, and with jeering laugh decried
Woman's inconstancy;—and some rejoiced
That her fair hand, which they had deem'd bestow'd,
Was still a prize all might aspire to win:
And noble suitors throng'd once more the halls
Of the Leoni's palace—each intent
To gain Costanza's love. Ah! little dream'd
That crowd of flatterers how their homage vex'd
The maiden's tortured mind. Awhile sustain'd
By pride, that goaded her at least to seem
Regardless of the past, she play'd a part
Hostile to nature;—but it might not be—
Her wounded spirit yielded to its grief,
And on the couch of sickness she was fain
To re-assume herself.

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                        Long o'er that couch
A heart-wrung father watch'd what all believed
His child's departing life. But heaven beheld
The old man's anguish, and in mercy spared
His age that heaviest woe. Costanza waked
From a dark sojourn on the brink of death,
Again to breath the balmy air of heaven.
And she was calm—no wild emotion heaved
Her heart to bursting—from her placid eye
The strange light had departed, and the mien
Of a sweet saint, still lingering for a space
In this dim vale of sorrow, now was hers.
'Twould seem the world, and all its stirring thoughts,
Save one still haunting memory, had no place
In her unearthly mind. Her father spoke
Vainly of grandeur and alliance high;
And detail'd kindly to her tranquil ear
The catalogue of wealth he would bequeath
The daughter of his heart. A meek reply,
Yet solemn ev'n in its humility,
Announced her sole desire—no more would she,
Amid the idle and deceitful joys

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Which the world offers to its votaries blind,
Wear out her days, but in a cloister's peace
Devote her scarce redeemed hours to God.

Her prayer was granted; and full soon the train
Of flatterers who had worshipp'd at her feet,
Saw, with indifference that had power to fret
E'en then her spirit with a transient pang,
The black veil curtain her so vaunted charms,
And heard unmoved her vestal lips pronounce
The dread, the drear, the indissoluble vow,
That sunder'd her for ever from mankind.
But that soon pass'd; and like a changeful dream
The pageant faded from her aching sight:
The gay, the brilliant beings who had graced
Her hour of sacrifice, departed all!
And she was left amid conventual shades
Th' espoused of Heaven. The dark cell was around—
And o'er her beauty droop'd the mystic stole;
And her slight form was wrapp'd in sombre weeds,
That seem'd indeed the vesture of the dead.
But in that living tomb where she had fix'd

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Her earthly lot, say, found Costanza peace?
Alas! though richly in the sacred choir
Her matchless voice arose, and at the shrine,
Ere daylight through the deep-dyed oriel stream'd,
She kneel'd in prayer, and 'neath the holy gloom
Of those long cypress groves, she stray'd at eve,
To meditate on heaven—her rebel thoughts
Too often wander'd in the dangerous maze
Of by-gone time; and vainly then she strove
To call back their allegiance. The dull round
Of her now doom'd existence added still
Another link to grief's corroding chain.
Her heart was with the absent—the unkind—
Yet too much loved Antonio. Rumour told
Of perils he had 'scaped, and scars he bore;
And how he sought in recklessness of life
War's fiercest ranks.—A dagger had not struck
Deeper than that!—and tidings swiftly came
At last of his return. Oh! how her soul
Drank in that music—then the fearful truth
Of "what avails it now!" crush'd with a weight
Of ten-fold anguish the expanding joy.

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Antonio came. Once more his shadow crossed
The threshold of the dwelling of his sires.
Long years had pass'd since, in the fire of youth
A voluntary exile, he had turn'd
His haughty footsteps thence. The world's chill blight
Of withering care was on his spirit now,
And he came back ashamed: vex'd with the truth
Of Fame's illusiveness, which he had proved—
Stung to the soul by man's ingratitude,
And bearing on his once triumphant brow
The lines of harrowing thought. Few in his face
The once proud heir of Alviano's line
Had recognised then. But though years spent
In war and travel, and still more the storms
Of fiery passions, had so changed his mien,
One feeling linger'd in his lonely heart,
Strong as it burn'd in youth. His earliest love—
His only true affection, there was shrined.
How oft amidst the Indian woods at night,
When myriad stars gleam'd on him from the depths
Of heaven's clear azure, and the fire-fly lamps

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Lighted the air around his leafy tent
With a soft radiance—whilst the ceaseless roar
Of distant cataracts, or the ringing howl
Of the fierce Jaguar, then ranging free
Through the dark thicket near, disturb'd alone
The stillness of the hour—how oft had he,
Starting from slumber, called up midst the gloom,
The form of her he lov'd:—now as the bride
Of some detested rival, floating bright
Through halls of splendour—now the tenant pale
Of the oblivious grave—or sinking slow
With mortal sickness to an early death
Through his desertion. Oh the frenzied thoughts
That peopled thick the hours of that suspense!
But all was solved at last—the brief, sad tale
That old Leoni told of his lorn hope
Buried within the cloister, all reveal'd—
And she was lost to him! not the cold tomb
Had ravish'd her more sure; yet once again
Would he behold her—once more to proclaim
That time had cancell'd all.

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                        At evening's hour,
Beneath the sanction of conventual walls,
They met again, th' estranged of many years.
They met in silence—language had no words
To utter thoughts so deep, so full of woe.
But on the thin hand of that pensive nun
Antonio laid his own, and from her brow
He gently raised the dark and shadowy veil,
And traced the ravages of grief and time;
And sought, how vainly! for the enthusiast flash
Of that bright eye that had enthrall'd his mind;
And tears came fast, and then the words that fail'd
To speak the bitterness of that they felt;
And full and free forgiveness, and a plight
Of love unearthly, given in sorrow here,
But to be held in Heaven. E'en while they sat
In that too late reunion, lo! a bell
Peal'd solemnly through those dim echoing halls,
Calling the sisters to their wonted prayer:
Antonio heard, and shudder'd at the sound,
That on his heart smote as a parting knell;
And, like a spirit from the realms of death,
Constanza pass'd for ever from his gaze.

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My tale is ended—bootless 'twere to tell
How young hopes blasted, and the heavy weight
Of that prolonged suspense, had sapp'd the days
Of poor Constanza. In a peaceful grave,
Amid those very cypress-trees where erst
She used to walk, and pine o'er mem'ries fond,
She sleeps the sleep of death.—There, oft is seen
A silent, pale, and melancholy monk,
With clasp'd hands musing o'er a marble urn,
That bears the name of her he loved in life.

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Page [268]

Note 1.—p. 111.

        "Or of those molesters that abound
            Within the North Sea's cave profound."

Olaus Magnus states, in his history of the Goths, that round the shores of the North Seas are many caverns of unfathomable depth, whence issue loud, terrifying, unaccountable noises; and that the monsters which are found in the waters are of the most horrible description, and excite the greatest fear in beholders.

Note 2.—p. 111.

            "The Sable Rock of Death."

The Sable Rock of Death is a large black mountain, which Coxe says, is situated under the Arctic Pole, where there are four terrible whirlpools.

Note 3.—p. 159.

"The Hebrew Girl at the Auto-da-Fé."

The incident which forms the subject of this Poem will be found in Fox's Book of Martyrs.

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Note 4.—p. 171.

            "The Surhab's strange unreal light."

Surhab, or Water of the Desert, commonly known by the name of the Mirage.

Note 5.—p. 200.

            "O'er Pandaturia's island, that beheld
            In banishment, unsolaced, and alone,
            A daughter of Imperial Rome expire."

Agrippina, daughter of M. Agrippa, and grand-daughter of Augustus. After the death of her husband Germanicus, she was banished by Tiberius to the island of Pandaturia, where she starved herself to death.

Note 6.—p. 202.

            "Yon islet, glimmering through the dubious eve,
            Witness'd the tear that gemm'd fair Portia's cheek
            When Brutus bade th' Italian shores farewell."

Nisida, or Nisitra, a little island near to Pozzuolo, is said to have witnessed the adieus of Brutus and Portia.

Note 7.—p. 202.

                "And thou, Misenus," &c.

         At pius Æneas ingenti mole sepulchrum
         Imponit, suaque arma viro, remumque, tubamque,
         Monte sub aërio; qui nune Misenus ab illo
         Dicitur, æternumqne tenet per sæcula nomen.

Virg. Æneidos, lib. vi.

It was at Misenus that Cornelia, the widow of Pompey, passed the remainder of her days in mourning his loss.

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Note 8.—p. 204.

            "From the high citadel, whose castled rock
            O'erlooks the waters, notes of music came."

"After a little conversation, our young host took his guitar and accompanied his wife, while she sang the evening hymn in a sweet voice, and with great earnestness. Occasionally her husband and their little son joined in chorus; and while they sung, the eyes of all three were sometimes raised to heaven, and sometimes fixed on each other, with mixed expression of piety, affection, and gratitude. Shortly after, similar little concerts arose from the town below, and from different parts of the island (Procita), and continued at intervals for an hour or more, sometimes swelling upon the ear, and sometimes dying away in distance, and mingling with the murmurs of the sea."—EUSTACE'S Classical Tour.

Note 9.—p. 230.

                        "Ninus."

The Nineveh of Scripture; called in profane history Ninus, after its founder.

Note 10.—p. 232.

            "——Oh thou, whom Belus' son
            Builded in beauty by Euphrates' side.

Babylon, a son of Belus, who, as some suppose, founded the city which bears his name.

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Note 11.—p. 233.

        "Now o'er thy grave not e'en the shepherd hath
        Made for his wandering flocks a rugged path:
        But from thy palaces the moping owl
        Doth shrilly hoot."— …

Mr. Rich, in his excellent account of the remains of ancient Babylon, says when describing the Mŏŏcallibe (ruin), "Wild beasts, porcupines, owls, and bats, take up their abode in its cavities, and recesses." Sir R. K. Porter, in his second visit to the Birs Nimrod, thought that he perceived several dark objects moving along the summit of the hill. Thinking them Arabs, he took out his glass to inspect them more narrowly, when he discovered that they were three majestic lions walking upon the pyramid. The above accounts of both these travellers naturally suggest to the mind the exact fulfilment of the Scripture prophecies respecting Babylon. " It shall never be inhabited, neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation, neither shall the Arabian pitch tents there; neither shall the shepherds make their fold there, But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and owls shall dwell there." And again, "I will also make it a possession for the bittern, and pools of water." In various parts, Sir R. K. Porter remarked that the land was overflowed by the annual inundation of the Euphrates, which on retiring leaves the plain little better than a swamp, with large deposits of the waters left stagnant in the hollows between the ruins. Every spot of ground in sight was totally barren, this being the natural consequence of the decomposition of the Babylonian ruins. It would not therefore appear to the eye of the shepherd a desirable halting-place for his flocks.

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Note 12.—p. 253.

            "Where art thou, man of false pretence!
            That did such goodlie things foretell."

"While the said army was marching straight to Finale, the noble Duke of Nemours passed through a little town of the name of Carpi, with great part of the captains, especially all those whom he loved and trusted the most. He abode two days there, and was vastly well entertained by the lord of the town, who had the reputation of being a great master in the learning both of the Greeks and Romans. He was cousin- german to Giovanni Francesco Pio, Count of Mirandola, and hight himself Alberto Pio, Count of Carpi. He supped with the Duke of Nemours, and the French captains, on the evening of their arrival, and they had much discourse together; among other topics, of an astrologer, by some called a soothsayer, then in the town of Carpi; how wonderfully he spoke concerning things past, whereof he had never had any information; and what was more, how he foretold things to come. It certainly ought to be acknowledged by all true christians, that God alone can see into futurity; yet this astrologer of Carpi said so many things, and to so many different people, which afterwards proved true, that he turned the heads of a number. When the gentle Duke of Nemours heard him spoken of, being like most young people, fond of the marvellous, he entreated the count to send for him, which he did, and the man obeyed the summons immediately. He might be about sixty years of age, lean, and of a middling stature. The Duke of Nemours stretched out his hand to him, and asked him how he did. He answered with great propriety. Much conversation passed, and the duke inquired of him, among other things, if the Vice-

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roy of Naples and the Spaniards would stay to join battle, He said they would, and that, on his life, the engagement would fall out upon a Good Friday, or Easter Sunday, and would be a very bloody one. He was asked which side would gain the victory. He made reply in these very words. 'The French will keep the field, and the Spaniards will sustain the heaviest and most grievous loss they have experienced for these hundred years. But the French will gain little thereby, for they will lose a number of men, and much both of credit and substance; a thing greatly to be regretted.' He spake so as it was wonderful to hear. The Lord of La Palisse asked him if he should fall in the battle; he replied that he certainly would not, that he would live at least twelve years longer, but be slain in another engagement. The same he said to the Lord of Humbercourt, and he told Captain Richebourg that he would run great risk of being killed by lightning. In short, there were few of the company who did not put questions to him respecting their own concerns. The good knight, who was present, laughed at all this, and the gentle Duke of Nemours said to him, 'My Lord Bayard, my friend, I pray you interrogate our master a little as to what will become of you.' 'It is needless to inquire about that,' replied he, 'as I am perfectly sure I shall never come to any thing very great; however, since it is your pleasure, I will do so.' Then he said to the astrologer, 'My good master, pray tell me whether I shall ever become a mighty rich man.' He replied, 'you shall be rich in honour and virtue, as any captain of France that ever lived, but of the goods of fortune you shall possess few; them indeed you do not covet; and verily can I affirm that you will serve another king of France besides the one who now reigns, and whom you at present serve, and he will love and esteem you much; but en-

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vious persons will prevent his ever bestowing much wealth upon you, or advancing you to the honour you will have merited. Nevertheless, lay not the blame on him.' 'And shall I escape from this battle which you say is to prove such a bloody one?" 'Yea,' said he, 'but you will die within twelve years at farthest, and will be slain by artillery, otherwise you would never end your days in the field, as you are so beloved by those under your command, that they would sooner die than leave you in jeopardy! In short, it was as good as a comedy to hear the interrogations that were put to him by every one." —Life of the Chevalier Bayard, by the Loyal Servant.