PROCRASTINATION.

Of gentle mountains have the flowers unveiledTheir maiden blushes to the eyes of Day.It is the season when Fruition failsTo smile on Hope, who, lover-like, attendsLong-promised joys and distant, dear delights.It is the season when the heart awakesAs from deep slumber, and, alive to allThe soft, sweet feelings that from lovely formsLike odors float, receives them to itselfAnd fondly garners with a miser’s care,Lest in the busy intercourse of life,They, like untended roses, should retainNo fragrant freshness and no dewy bloom.To me the coming of the Spring is dearAs to the sailor the first wind from landWhen, after some long voyage, he descriesThe far, faint outline of his native coast.Rocked by the wave, when grandly rose the gale,He thought how peaceful was the calm on shore.Rocked by the wave, when died the gale away,He dreamed of quiet he should find at home.So, when I heard the Wintry storm abroad,So, when upon my window beat the rain,Or when I felt the piercing, arrowy frost,Or, looking forth, beheld the frequent snow,Falling as mutely as the steps of Time,I longed for thy glad advent, and resignedMy spirit to the gloom that Nature wore,In contemplation of the laughing hoursThat follow in thy train, delicious Spring!

Of gentle mountains have the flowers unveiled

Their maiden blushes to the eyes of Day.

It is the season when Fruition fails

To smile on Hope, who, lover-like, attends

Long-promised joys and distant, dear delights.

It is the season when the heart awakes

As from deep slumber, and, alive to all

The soft, sweet feelings that from lovely forms

Like odors float, receives them to itself

And fondly garners with a miser’s care,

Lest in the busy intercourse of life,

They, like untended roses, should retain

No fragrant freshness and no dewy bloom.

To me the coming of the Spring is dearAs to the sailor the first wind from landWhen, after some long voyage, he descriesThe far, faint outline of his native coast.Rocked by the wave, when grandly rose the gale,He thought how peaceful was the calm on shore.Rocked by the wave, when died the gale away,He dreamed of quiet he should find at home.So, when I heard the Wintry storm abroad,So, when upon my window beat the rain,Or when I felt the piercing, arrowy frost,Or, looking forth, beheld the frequent snow,Falling as mutely as the steps of Time,I longed for thy glad advent, and resignedMy spirit to the gloom that Nature wore,In contemplation of the laughing hoursThat follow in thy train, delicious Spring!

To me the coming of the Spring is dear

As to the sailor the first wind from land

When, after some long voyage, he descries

The far, faint outline of his native coast.

Rocked by the wave, when grandly rose the gale,

He thought how peaceful was the calm on shore.

Rocked by the wave, when died the gale away,

He dreamed of quiet he should find at home.

So, when I heard the Wintry storm abroad,

So, when upon my window beat the rain,

Or when I felt the piercing, arrowy frost,

Or, looking forth, beheld the frequent snow,

Falling as mutely as the steps of Time,

I longed for thy glad advent, and resigned

My spirit to the gloom that Nature wore,

In contemplation of the laughing hours

That follow in thy train, delicious Spring!

PROCRASTINATION.

———

BY MRS. M. H. PARSONS.

———

“To-morrow, I will do it to-morrow,” was the curse of Lucy Clifton’s life. When a child, she always had it in view to make such charming little dresses—to-morrow. When girlhood came her lessons were never perfect,—“only excuse me this once mamma, and I will never put off my lessons again!” The pleader was lovely, and engaging, mamma was weakly indulgent; Lucy was forgiven and the fault grew apace, until she rarely did any thing to-day, that could be put off till to-morrow. She was a wife, and the mother of two children, at the period our story commences.

With a cultivated mind, most engaging manners, and great beauty of form, and features, Lucy had already lost all influence over the mind of her husband, and was fast losing her hold on his affections. She had been married when quite young, as so many American girls unfortunately are, and with a character scarcely formed, had been thrown into situations of emergency and trial she was very unprepared to encounter. Her husband was a physician, had been but a year or two in practice, at the time of their marriage. William Clifton was a young man of fine abilities, and most excellent character; of quick temper, and impatient, he was ever generous, and ready to acknowledge his fault. When he married Lucy, he thought her as near perfection as it was possible for a woman to be; proportionate was his disappointment, at finding the evil habit of procrastination, almost inherent in her nature from long indulgence, threatening to overturn the whole fabric of domestic happiness his fancy had delighted to rear. There was no order in his household, no comfort by his fireside; and oftimes when irritated to bitter anger, words escaped the husband, that fell crushingly on the warm, affectionate heart of the wife. The evil habit of procrastination had “grown with her growth” no parental hand, kind in its severity, had lopped off the excrescence, that now threatened to destroy her peace, that shadowed by its evil consequences her otherwise fair and beautiful character. In Lucy’s sphere of life there was necessity for much self-exertion, and active superintendance over the affairs of her household. They lived retired; economy and good management were essential to render the limited income Doctor Clifton derived from his practice fully adequate to their support—that income was steadily on the increase, and his friends deemed the day not far distant, when he would rise to eminence in his profession. Lucy’s father, a man of considerable wealth, but large family, had purchased a house, furnished it, and presented it to Lucy; she was quite willing to limit her visiting circle to a few friends, as best suited with their present means. Surely William Clifton was not unreasonable, when he looked forward to a life of domestic happiness, with his young and tenderly nurtured bride. He could not know that her many bright excelling virtues of character would be dimmed, by the growth of theone fault, until a shadow lay on the pathway of his daily life. Ifmotherscould lift the dim curtain of the future, and read the destiny of their children, they would see neglected faults, piercing like sharp adders the bosoms that bore them, and reproach mingling with the agony, that she, who had moulded their young minds, had not done her work aright!

It was four years after their marriage, Doctor Clifton entered the nursery hurriedly.

“Lucy my dear, will you have my things in order by twelve o’clock? I must leave home for two days, perhaps longer, if I find the patient I am called to see very ill.”

“Yes, yes! I will see to them. What shall I do with the child, William, he is so very fretful? How I wish I had given him the medicine yesterday; he is very troublesome!”

“If you think he needs it, give it to him at once;” said her husband abruptly, “and don’t I beg Lucy forget my clothes.” He left the room, and Lucy tried to hush baby to sleep, but baby would not go, then the nurse girl who assisted her could not keep him quiet, and the mother, as she had often been before, became bewildered, and at a loss what to do first.

“If you please ma’am what am I to get for dinner?” said the cook, the only servant they kept in the kitchen, putting her head in at the door, and looking round with a half smile, on the littered room, and squalling baby.

“Directly, I shall be down directly Betty, I must first get baby to sleep.”

“Very well ma’am,” was the reply, and going down an hour afterwards, Mrs. Clifton found Betty with her feet stretched out and her arms folded one over the other, comfortably seated before an open window, intent in watching, and enjoying the movements of every passer-by.

“Betty, Betty!” said her mistress angrily, “have you nothing to do, that you sit so idly here?”

“I waited for orders, ma’am.” Dinner was an hour back, Lucy assisted for a short time herself, and then went up stairs to arrange Clifton’s clothes. Baby was screaming terribly, and Lucy half terrified didyesterday’swork, by giving him a dose of medicine. So the morning sped on. Clifton came in at the appointed time.

“Are my clothes in readiness, Lucy?”

She colored with vexation, and shame. “The baby has been very cross; I have not indeed had time. But I will go now.” Clifton went down to his solitary dinner, and when he returned found Lucy busy with her needle; it was evident even to his unskilled eye there was much to be done.

“It is impossible to wait. Give me the things as they are; I am so accustomed to wearing my shirts without buttons, and my stockings with holes in, that I shall find it nothing new—nor more annoying than I daily endure.” He threw the things carelessly into his carpet-bag, and left the room, nor did he say one kindly word in farewell, or affection. It was this giving away to violent anger, and using harsh language to his wife that had broken her spirit, almost her heart. She never even thought of reforming herself; she grieved bitterly, but hopelessly. Surely it is better when man and wife are joined together by the tie that “no man may put asunder,” to strive seriously, and in affection to correct one another’s faults? There is scarcely any defect of character, that a husband, by taking the right method may not cure; always providing his wife is not unprincipled. But he must be very patient; bear for a season; add to judicious counsel much tenderness and affection; making it clear to her mind that love for herself and solicitude for their mutual happiness are the objects in view. Hard in heart, and with little of woman’s devotion unto him to whom her faith is plighted, must the wife be who could long resist. Not such an one was Lucy Clifton; but her husband in the stormy revulsion of feeling that had attended the first breaking up of his domestic happiness, had done injustice to her mind, to the sweetness of disposition that had borne all his anger without retorting in like manner. If Clifton was conscious of his own quickness of temper, approaching to violence, he did not for one moment suppose, thathewas the cause of any portion of the misery brooding over his daily path. He attributed it all to the procrastinating spirit of Lucy, and upon her head he laid the blame with no unsparing hand. He forgot that she had numbered twenty years, and was the mother of two children; that her situation was one of exertion, and toil under the most favorable circumstances; that he was much her senior, had promised to cherish her tenderly. Yet the first harsh word that dwelt on Lucy’s heart was from the lips of her husband! How tenderly in years long gone had she been nurtured! The kind arm of a father had guided and guarded her; the tender voice of a mother had lighted on her path like sunshine—and now? Oh ye, who would crush the spirit of the young and gentle, instead of leading it tenderly by a straight path in the way of wisdom—go down into the breaking heart and learn its agony; its desolation, when the fine feelings of a wasted nature go in upon the brain and consume it!

One morning Clifton entered the nursery, “Lucy,” he said; “my old classmate, and very dear friend Walter Eustace is in town. He came unexpectedly; his stay is short; I should like to ask him to spend the day with me. Could you manage, love, to have the time passcomfortablyto my friend?” Lucy felt all the meaning conveyed in the emphasis on a word that from his lips sounded almost formidable in her ears.

“I will do what I can,” she answered sadly.

“Do not scruple Lucy to get assistance. Have every thing readyin time, and do not fail in having order, and good arrangement. There was a time Lucy, when Eustace heard much of you; I should be gratified to think he found the wife worthy of the praise the lover lavished so freely upon her. Sing for us to-night—it is long since the piano was opened!—and look, and smile as you once did, in the days that are gone, but not forgotten Lucy.” His voice softened unconsciously, he had gone back to that early time, when love of Lucy absorbed every feeling of his heart. He sighed; the stern, and bitter realities of his life came with their heavy weight upon him, and there was no balm in the future, for the endurance of present evils.

He turned and left the room; Lucy’s eye followed him, and as the door closed she murmured—“notforgotten! Oh, Clifton how little reason I have to believe you!” Lucy was absorbed in her own thoughts so long as to be unconscious of the flight of time. When she roused, she thought she would go down stairs and see what was to be done, but her little boy asked her some question, which she stopped to answer; half an hour more elapsed before she got to the kitchen. She told Betty she meant to hire a cook for the morrow—thought she had better go at once and engage one—yet, no, on second thoughts, she might come with her to the parlors and assist in arranging them; it would be quite time enough to engage the cook when they were completed. To the parlors they went, and Lucy was well satisfied with the result of their labor—but mark her comment: “What a great while we have been detained here; well, I am sure I have meant this three weeks to clean the parlors, but never could find time. If I could but manage to attend them every day, they would never get so out of order.”

The next morning came, the cook not engaged yet. Betty was despatched in haste, but was unsuccessful—all engaged for the day. So Betty must be trusted, who sometimes did well, and at others signally failed. Lucy spent the morning in the kitchen assisting Betty and arranging every thing she could do, but matters above were in the mean time sadly neglected, her children dirty, and ill dressed, the nursery in confusion, and Lucy almost bewildered in deciding what had better be done, and what left undone. She concluded to keep the children in the nursery without changing their dress, and then hastened to arrange her own, and go down stairs, as her husband and his friend had by this time arrived. Her face was flushed, and her countenance anxious; she was conscious that Mr. Eustace noticed it, and her uncomfortable feelings increased. The dinner, the dinner—if it were only over! she thought a hundred times. It came at last, and all other mortifications were as nothing in comparison. There was not a dish really well cooked, and every thing was served up in a slovenly manner. Lucy’s cheeks tingled with shame. Oh, if she had only sentin timefor a cook. It was her bitterest thought even then. When the dinner was over Mr. Eustace asked for the children, expressing a strong desire to see them. Lucy colored, and in evident confusion, evaded the request. Her husband was silent, having a suspicion how matters stood.

Just then a great roar came from the hall, and the oldest boy burst into the room. “Mother! mother! Hannah shut me up she did!” A word from his father silenced him, and Lucy took her dirty, ill dressed boy by the hand and left the room. She could not restrain her tears, but her keen sense of right prevented her punishing the child, as she was fully aware, had he been properly dressed, she would not have objected to his presence, and that he was only claiming an accorded privilege. Mr. Eustace very soon left, and as soon as the door closed on him Clifton thought: “I never can hope to see a friend in comfort until I can afford to keep a house-keeper. Was there ever such a curse in a man’s house as a procrastinating spirit?” With such feelings it may be supposed he could not meet his wife with any degree of cordiality. Lucy said, “There was no help for it, she had done her very best.” Clifton answered her contemptuously; wearied and exhausted with the fatigues of the day, she made no reply, but rose up and retired to rest, glad to seek in sleep forgetfulness of the weary life she led. Clifton had been unusually irritated; when the morrow came, it still manifested itself in many ways that bore hard on Lucy; she did not reply to an angry word that fell from his lips, but she felt none the less deeply. Some misconduct in the child induced him to reflect with bitterness on her maternal management. She drew her hand over her eyes to keep back the tears, her lip quivered, and her voice trembled as she uttered:

“Do not speak so harshly Clifton, if the fault is all mine, most certainly the misery is also!”

“Of what avail is it to speak otherwise?” he said sternly, “you deserve wretchedness, and it is only the sure result of your precious system.”

“Did you ever encourage me to reform, or point out the way?” urged Lucy, gently.

“I married a woman for a companion, not a child to instruct her,” he answered bitterly.

“Ay—but I was a child! happy—so happy in that olden time, with all to love, and none to chide me. A child, even in years, when you took me for a wife—too soon a mother, shrinking from my responsibilities, and without courage to meet my trials. I found no sympathy to encourage me—no forbearance that my years were few—no advice when most I needed it—no tenderness when my heart was nearly breaking. It is the first time, Clifton, I have reproached you; but the worm will turn if it is trodden upon,” and Lucy left the room. It was strange, even to herself, that she had spoken so freely, yet it seemed a sort of relief to the anguish of her heart. That he had allowed her to depart without reply did not surprise her; it may be doubted, although her heart pined for it, if ever she expected tenderness from Clifton more. It was perhaps an hour after her conversation with Clifton, Lucy sat alone in the nursery; her baby was asleep in the cradle beside her; they were alone together, and as she gazed on its happy face, she hoped with an humble hope, to rear it up, that it might be enabled togiveand receive happiness. There was a slight rap at the door; she opened it, and a glad cry escaped her,—“Uncle Joshua!” she exclaimed. He took her in his arms for a moment,—that kindly and excellent old man, while a tear dimmed his eye as he witnessed her joy at seeing him. She drew a stool towards him, and sat down at his feet as she had often done before in her happy, girlish days; she was glad when his hand rested on her head, even as it had done in another time; she felt a friend had come back to her, who had her interest nearly at heart, who had loved her long and most tenderly. Mr. Tremaine was the brother of Lucy’s mother—he had arrived in town unexpectedly; indeed had come chiefly with a view of discovering the cause of Lucy’s low-spirited letters—he feared all was not right, and as she was the object of almost his sole earthly attachment, he could not rest in peace while he believed her unhappy. He was fast approaching three score years and ten; never was there a warmer heart, a more incorruptible, or sterling nature. Eccentric in many things, possessing some prejudices, which inclined to ridicule in himself, no man had sounder common sense, or a more careful judgment. His hair was white, and fell in long smooth locks over his shoulders; his eye-brows were heavy, and shaded an eye as keen and penetrating as though years had no power to dim its light. The high, open brow, and the quiet tenderness that dwelt in his smile, were the crowning charms of a countenance on which nature had stamped her seal as her “noblest work.” He spoke to Lucy of other days, of the happy home from whence he came, till her tears came down like “summer rain,” with the mingling of sweet and bitter recollections. Of her children next, and her eye lighted, and her color came bright and joyous—the warm feelings of a mother’s heart responded to every word of praise he uttered. Of her husband—and sadly “Uncle Joshua” noticed the change;—her voice was low and desponding, and a look of sorrow and care came back to the youthful face: “Clifton was succeeding in business; she was gratified and proud of his success,” and that was all she said.

“Uncle Joshua’s” visit was of some duration. He saw things as they really were, and the truth pained him deeply. “Lucy,” he said quietly, as one day they were alone together—“I have much to say, and you to hear. Can you bear the truth, my dear girl?” She was by his side in a moment.

“Anything from you, uncle. Tell me freely all you think, and if it is censure of poor Lucy, little doubt but that she will profit by it.”

“You are a good girl!” said “Uncle Joshua,” resting his hand on her head, “and you will be rewarded yet.” He paused for a moment ere he said—“Lucy, you are not a happy wife. You married with bright prospects—who is to blame?”

“I am—but not alone,” said Lucy, in a choking voice, “not alone, there are some faults on both sides.”

“Let us first consider yours; Clifton’s faults will not exonerate you from the performance of your duty. For the love I bear you, Lucy, I will speak the truth: all the misery of your wedded life proceeds from the fatal indulgence of a procrastinating spirit.One uncorrected faulthas been the means of alienating your husband’s affections, and bringing discord and misrule into the very heart of your domestic Eden. This must not be. You have strong sense and feeling, and must conquer the defect of character that weighs so heavily on your peace.”

Lucy burst into tears—“I fear I never can—and if I do, Clifton will not thank me, or care.”

“Try, Lucy. You can have little knowledge of the happiness it would bring or you would make the effort. And Clifton will care. Bring order into his household and comfort to his fireside, and he will take you to his heart with a tenderer love than he ever gave to the bride of his youth.”

Lucy drew her breath gaspingly, and for a moment gazed into her uncle’s face with something of his own enthusiasm; but it passed and despondency came with its withering train of tortures to frighten her from exertion.

“You cannot think, dear uncle, how much I have to do; and my children are so troublesome, that I can never systematize time.”

“Let us see first what you can do. What is your first duty in the morning after you have dressed yourself?”

“To wash and dress my children.”

“Do you always do it? Because if you rise early you have time before breakfast. Your children are happy and comfortable, only in your regular management of every thing connected with them.”

“I cannot always do it,” said Lucy, blushing—“sometimes I get up as low-spirited and weary as after the fatigues of the day. I have no heart to go to work; Clifton is cold, and hurries off to business. After breakfast I go through the house and to the kitchen, so that it is often noon before Icanmanage to dress them.”

“Now instead of all this, if you were to rise early, dress your little ones before breakfast, arrange your work, and go regularly from one work to the other;neverputting off one to finish another, you would get through everything, and have time to walk—that each day may have its necessary portion of exercise in the open air. That would dissipate weariness, raise your spirits, and invigorate your frame. Lucy, will you not make the trial for Clifton’s sake? Make his home a well-ordered one, and he will be glad to come into it.”

And Lucy promised to think of it. But her uncle was surprised at her apparent apathy, and not long in divining the true reason. Her heart is not in it, he thought, and if her husband don’t rouse it, never will be. Lucy felt she was an object of indifference, if not dislike to Clifton; there was no end to be accomplished by self-exertion; and as there was nothing to repay her for the wasted love of many years, she would encourage no new hopes to find them as false as the past.

“Uncle Joshua” sat together with Dr. Clifton, in the office of the latter.

“Has it ever struck you, Doctor, how much Lucy is altered of late?”

“I cannot say that I see any particular alteration. It is some time since you saw her;—matrimony is not very favorable to good looks, and may have diminished her beauty.”

“It is not of her beauty I speak. Her character is wholly changed; her spirits depressed, and her energies gone,” and “Uncle Joshua” spoke warmly.

“I never thought her particularly energetic,” said the Doctor, dryly.

“No one would suppose, my good sir, you had ever thought, or cared much about her.” “Uncle Joshua” was angry; but the red spot left his cheek as soon as it came there as he went on:—“Let us speak in kindness of this sad business. I see Lucy was in the right in thinking you had lost all affection for her.”

“Did Lucy say that? I should be sorry she thought so.”

“A man has cause for sorrow, when a wife fully believes his love for her is gone. Nothing can be more disheartening—nothing hardens the heart more fearfully, and sad indeed is the lot of that woman who bears the evils of matrimony without the happiness that often counterbalances them. We, who are of harder natures, have too little sympathy, perhaps too little thought for her peculiar trials.” Gently then, as a father to an only son, the old man related to Clifton all that had passed between Lucy and himself. More than once he saw his eyes moisten and strong emotion manifest itself in his manly countenance. A something of remorseful sorrow filled his heart, and its shadow lay on his face. “Uncle Joshua” read aright the expression, and his honest heart beat with joy at the prospects he thought it opened before them. Always wise-judging he said nothing further, but left him to his own reflections. And Clifton did indeed reflect long and anxiously: he saw indeed how much his own conduct had discouraged his wife, while it had been a source of positive unhappiness to her. He went at length to seek her;—she was alone in the parlor reading, or rather a book was before her, from which her eyes often wandered, until her head sank on the arm of the sofa, and a heavy sigh came sadly on the ear of Clifton. “Lucy, dear Lucy, grieve no more! We have both been wrong, but I have erred the most—having years on my side and experience. Shall we not forgive each other, my sweet wife?” and he lifted her tenderly in his arms, and kissed the tears as they fell on her cheek.

“I have caused you much suffering, Lucy, I greatly fear;—your faults occasioned me only inconvenience. Dry up your tears, and let me hear that you forgive me, Lucy.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” exclaimed Lucy. “Oh, I have been wrong, very wrong!—but if you had only encouraged me to reform, and sustained and aided me in my efforts to do so by your affection, so many of our married days would not have passed in sorrow and suffering.”

“I feel they would not,” said Clifton, moved almost to tears. “Now, Lucy, the self-exertion shall be mutual. I will never rest until I correct the violence of temper, that has caused you so much pain. You have but one fault, procrastination—will you strive also to overcome it?”

“I will,” said Lucy; “but you must be very patient with me, and rather encourage me to new exertions. I have depended too long on your looks not to be influenced by them still—my love, Clifton, stronger than your own, fed on the memory of our early happiness, until my heart grew sick that it would never return. Oh! if you could love me as you did then, could respect me as once you did, I feel I could make any exertion to deserve it.”

“And will you not be more worthy of esteem and love than ever you were, dear Lucy, if you succeed in reforming yourself! I believe you capable of the effort; and if success attends it, the blessing will fall on us both, Lucy, and on our own dear children. Of one thing be assured, that my love will know no further change or diminution. You shall not have cause to complain of me again, Lucy. Now smile on me, dearest, as you once did in a time we will never forget—and tell me you will be happy for my sake.”

Lucy smiled, and gave the assurance—her heart beat lightly in her bosom—the color spread over her face—her eyes sparkled with the new, glad feelings of hope and happiness, and as Clifton clasped her in his arms, he thought her more beautiful than in that early time when he had first won her love.

In that very hour Lucy began her work of reform; it seemed as though new life had been infused into her hitherto drooping frame. She warbled many a sweet note of her youth, long since forgotten, for her spirits seemed running over from very excess of happiness. “Uncle Joshua” was consulted in all her arrangements, and of great use he was:—he planned for her, encouraged her, made all easy by his method and management. She had gone to work with a strong wish to do her duty, and with a husband’s love shining steadily on her path, a husband’s affection for all success, and sympathy with every failure, there was little fear of her not succeeding. ’Tis true, the habit had been long in forming, but every link she broke in the chain that bound her, brought a new comfort to that happy household hearth. Clifton had insisted on hiring a woman to take charge of the children—this was a great relief. And somehow or other, “Uncle Joshua” looked up a good cook.

“Now,” said Lucy, “to fail would be a positive disgrace.”

“No danger of your failing, my sweet wife,” said Clifton, with a glance of affection that might have satisfied even her heart. “You are already beyond the fear of it.”

Lucy shook her head—“I must watch or my old enemy will be back again before I am fully rid of him.”

“It is right to watch ourselves, I know, Lucy; are you satisfied that I have done so, and have, in some measure, corrected myself?” said Clifton.

“I have never seen a frown on your face since you promised me to be patient. You have been, and will continue to be, I am sure,” said Lucy, fondly, as she raised his hand to her lips which had rested on her arm. They were happy both, and whatever trouble was in store for them in their future life, they had strong mutual affection to sustain them under it.

“God bless them both,” murmured “Uncle Joshua,” as he drew his hand hard across his eyes after witnessing this little scene. “I have done good here, but in many a case I might be termed a meddling old fool, and not without reason, perhaps. ’Tis a pity though, that folks, who will get their necks into this matrimonial yoke, would not try to make smooth the uneven places, instead of stumbling all the way, breaking their hearts by way of amusement, as they go.”

“What is that you say, ‘Uncle Joshua?’ ” said Lucy, turning quickly round, and walking towards him, accompanied by her husband.

“I have a bad habit of talking aloud,” said he, smiling.

“But I thought you were abusing matrimony, uncle—you surely were not?”

“Cannot say exactly what I was thinking aloud. I am an old bachelor, Lucy, and have few objects of affection in the world: you have been to me as a child, always a good child, Lucy, too—and now I think you will make a good wife, and find the happiness you so well deserve. Am I right, love?”

“I hope you are, uncle. If it had not been for your kindness though, I might never have been happy again,” and tears dimmed Lucy’s eyes at the recollection.

“We shall not forget your kindness,” said Clifton as he extended his hand, which “Uncle Joshua” grasped warmly. “I wish every married pair in trouble could find a good genius like yourself to interfere in their favor.”

“Ten to one he would be kicked out of doors!” said the old man, laughing. “This matrimony is a queer thing—those who have their necks in the noose had better make the most of it—and those out of the scrape keep so. Ah! you little reprobate!” he cried as he caught Lucy’s bright eye, and disbelieving shake of the head—“you don’t pretend to contradict me?”

“Yes I do, with my whole heart too. I would not give up my husband for the wide world, nor he his Lucy for the fairest girl in America!”

“Never!” exclaimed Clifton—“you are dearer to me than any other human being!”

“W-h-e-w!!” was “Uncle Joshua’s” reply, in a prolonged sort of whistle, while his eyes opened in the profoundest wonder, and his whole countenance was expressive of the most ludicrous astonishment—“w-h-e-w!!”

PERDITI.[1]

———

BY WM. WALLACE, ESQ. AUTHOR OF “BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE,” “MARCHES FOR THE DEAD,” ETC., ETC.

———

The following poem is respectfully dedicated to the Hon.Elisha M. Huntington, as a tribute of respect to his head and heart, by theAuthor.

The following poem is respectfully dedicated to the Hon.Elisha M. Huntington, as a tribute of respect to his head and heart, by the

Author.

PART FIRST—ITALY.Oh!Landof theBeautiful!Landof theBright!Where the echoless feet of the HoursAre gliding forever in soft, dreamy lightThrough their mazes of sunshine and flow’rs;Fair clime of the Laurel—the Sword and the Lyre!There the souls are all genius—the hearts are all fire;There the Rivers—the Mountains—the lowliest sodsWere hallowed, long since, by the bright feet of Gods;ThereBeautyandGrandeurtheir wonders of oldLike a bridal of star-light and thunder unroll’d;There the air seems to breathe of a music sent outFrom the rose-muffled lips of invisible streams,

PART FIRST—ITALY.

Oh!Landof theBeautiful!Landof theBright!Where the echoless feet of the HoursAre gliding forever in soft, dreamy lightThrough their mazes of sunshine and flow’rs;Fair clime of the Laurel—the Sword and the Lyre!There the souls are all genius—the hearts are all fire;There the Rivers—the Mountains—the lowliest sodsWere hallowed, long since, by the bright feet of Gods;ThereBeautyandGrandeurtheir wonders of oldLike a bridal of star-light and thunder unroll’d;There the air seems to breathe of a music sent outFrom the rose-muffled lips of invisible streams,

Oh!Landof theBeautiful!Landof theBright!

Where the echoless feet of the Hours

Are gliding forever in soft, dreamy light

Through their mazes of sunshine and flow’rs;

Fair clime of the Laurel—the Sword and the Lyre!

There the souls are all genius—the hearts are all fire;

There the Rivers—the Mountains—the lowliest sods

Were hallowed, long since, by the bright feet of Gods;

ThereBeautyandGrandeurtheir wonders of old

Like a bridal of star-light and thunder unroll’d;

There the air seems to breathe of a music sent out

From the rose-muffled lips of invisible streams,

Oh! sweet as the harmony whispered aboutTheNight’smoon-beaming portal of exquisiteDreams.’ThoughBeautyandGrandeur, magnificent clime!Have walked o’er thy Vallies and Mountains sublime,With a port as majestic—unfading asTime⁠—A death-pall is on Thee! The funeral glareOf a grave-torch, Oh! Italy, gleams on the air!Lo! the crimes of whole ages roll down on thy breast!Hark! Hark to the fierce thunder-troops of theStorm!Ah! soon shall they stamp on thy beautiful crest,And riot unchecked o’er thy loveliest form!

Oh! sweet as the harmony whispered about

TheNight’smoon-beaming portal of exquisiteDreams.

’ThoughBeautyandGrandeur, magnificent clime!

Have walked o’er thy Vallies and Mountains sublime,

With a port as majestic—unfading asTime⁠—

A death-pall is on Thee! The funeral glare

Of a grave-torch, Oh! Italy, gleams on the air!

Lo! the crimes of whole ages roll down on thy breast!

Hark! Hark to the fierce thunder-troops of theStorm!

Ah! soon shall they stamp on thy beautiful crest,

And riot unchecked o’er thy loveliest form!

Oh!Landof theBeautiful!Landof theBright!’Though the day of thy glory is o’er,And the time-hallowed mountains are mantled in nightWhere thyLibertyflourished before;’Though the black brow of Bigotry scowls on thy raceWhich are kissing the chains of their brutal disgrace;’Though the torches ofFreedomso long hurled aboutBy thy heroes of old are forever gone out;Yet! yet shall thyBeautyshine out from the gloom,Oh!Landof the Harp and the Wreath and the Tomb!The seal has been set!ImmortalitybeamsLike a time-daring star o’er thy temples and streams;And still as whole tribes from the weird future dart,They shall kneel at thine altar,Oh! clime of the Heart!More splendid art thou, with thy banners all furl’dAnd thy brow in the dust, than the rest of the world,For theMIGHTY—the Deadwho have hallowed our earth,In thee have their rest and from thee took their birth.Oh! alas that we live—wethe boastful who leapLike mere rills where the sun-pillar’dTruthis enshrinedWhere those broad-rolling rivers no longer may sweepWith their billows of light to theOcean of Mind.It was a clime where mortal formHath never pressed the blasted soil⁠—Where tempest-fires and surging stormAre struggling ever in their coil:A sunless clime, whose dreary nightGleams dimly with that doubtful lightWhich men have seen—whenDarknessthrewAround their homes its sombre hue⁠—The fearful herald of the wrathThat blazes on theWhirlwind’spathEre he has tossed his banners outLike sable draperies o’er the Dead,And with a wild, delirious shoutStruck his deep thunder-drum of dread;A clime where e’en the fountains fallWith tone and step funereal:And ever through the dark, old treesA melancholy music rollsAlong the faintly-chiming breeze⁠—Sad as the wail of tortured souls.There ghastly forms were hurrying pastLike weird clouds through the ether driven,In fear, before theHUNTER-BLAST,Whose vengeance purifies the heaven.And some were pale, as if with woe,And ever cast their eyes below;And some were quivering with a fearIn this their dreary sepulchre;And some, whose awful aspects woreA look where sat the seal of age,On their convulsèd foreheads boreThe phrenzied agony of rage;On somea dreadful beauty shoneLike rays received from fallen stars⁠—So dim, so mournful and so lone,Yet brave, despite of all their scars.Far from the throng two sat apartBeneath a forest’s darkling plume⁠—In that communion of the heartWhich but the wretched can assume.They seemed in earnest converse there,As if with words to quench despair;And one, along whose features grew,A withering, deathly, demon-hue,Wore that high, dread, defying lookWhich but theLostcan dare to brook;The other milder seemed—but heWas shrouded, too, in mystery,And ever threw along the skyA fearful spiritual eyeWhich in its gloomy light sublime⁠—Seemed half of virtue, half of crime,Like lightning when you see its glowSoft as a moonbeam flashed below⁠—And then in blasting brightness sentWild-quivering through the firmament.So sat they in that dreary light,Upon the blasted darkling mould⁠—Fit watchers of such awful night⁠—As thus the last his story told.LORRO.Themanyonly look toyears;Themanythinktheyonly rollThe tides of happiness or tearsAround the human soul:I know a single hour for me⁠—A minute—was Eternity,That seemed with its fierce, lidless eyeFixed—fixed forever in the skyWhich, circling round the Italian shore,Was only made for bliss before:But now it darkled like a shroudBy demon-hands in warning shaken,From their lone, scowling thunder-cloudEre yet its elements awaken.Oh! was it Fancy? or a spellHurled o’er me by some dreadful power,⁠—That I should carry thus a hell,Within my bosom from that hour?I know not—nor shall care to know;For e’enRepentancewill not dartFrom her pure realm, a light below,Upon my agony of heart;Nor hath Remorse—that mad’ning fire⁠—That final minister of painAnd deadliest offspring of deep ire⁠—E’er flashed across my tortured brain:Yet! yet there is a something hereOf hideous vacancy and fear,(Not fear which cowards merely feel,Who hear the damnèd’s thunder peal,)A trembling—which the brave confessIn this their last and worst distress⁠—Part of the soul it burns a spell,And like her indestructible⁠—Which only those who feelthatwoe,Brought by an unrepented deed,Can in its fiercest aching know⁠—For only they are doomed to bleed.Go thou, whose cunning spirit hearsThe mystic music of the spheres⁠—Who gazest with unquailing eyeThrough this star-isled immensity⁠—Whose soul would feed on brighter flowersThan earth’s—and sit with pinion furl’dWhere in its lonely grandeur towersThe outside pillar of your world⁠—Go! go with all thy boasted art⁠—And readonemystery of theHeart.What! think creation in asphere!The real universe is here⁠—Here! hereeternally enshrinedWithin the secret caves of Mind.Blood! blood is reddening on these hands!The blood of more thanoneis here;Unfaded too its crimson brandsDespite of many a weary year,Whose tides of flame and darkness gloomAmid the spirit’s stagnant air⁠—More fearful than the damn’d one’s tombAnd withering as despair.Oh! God why was I chos’n for such?I who until that fearful hour⁠—Ah! would not e’en too wildly touchThe summer’s very humblest flower.The little bird whose rain-bow wingI saw, in spring time’s roseate eves,With its own beauty quiveringAmid the golden orange leaves,I made a friend—as if for meIt held its sinless revelry:And e’en I’ve watched within the hallThe deadly spider weave his pall,And smiled in very joy to seeThe cunning workman’s tracery.The minstrel-breeze which struck by hoursIts tender instrument of flowers⁠—The moon that held her march aloneAt midnight ’round th’ Eternal Throne⁠—The sullen thunder whose red eyesFlashed angrily within our skies⁠—All! all to me were but the chainAlong whose wond’rous links there cameUnceasingly to head and brainLove’s own electric flame.Yes! when the Harp of Nature roll’dIts midnight hymn from chords of gold,And awful silence seemed to own,Throughout the world, its wizard tone,I’ve stood and wildly wished to floatInto that music’s liquid strain⁠—Oh! heavenly as its sweetest note⁠—Nor ever walk the earth again.What change is this? Hate, fiercest Hate,Where once these angel-yearnings burnedLike torches set by Heaven’s bright gate,Hath all to deadly poison turned.TheBestcan only feel the fire,But once, which flashes from the climeWhere love sits beaming o’er the lyreThat strikes the mystic march of Time.The tree of most luxuriant stemWhose every leaflet glows a gemBeneath its oriental sky,When once its emerald diademHath felt the simoon sweeping by.Can never more in southern bowersRenew its fragrant idol-flowers.So with the great in soul—whose bloomOf Heart hath felt the thunder-doomWhich mankind, trusted, may bestowOn him who little dreamed the blow⁠—Theirs be the joy!—But ours the woe!I was my father’s only child⁠—(The cherished scion of a raceWhose monuments of fame are piledOn glory’s mighty dwelling-place)I need not tell how oft he smiledWhen counting o’er to me each deed,In gallant barque, on champing steed,Of ancestors in battle wild;Nor how he gazed upon my faceAnd there by hours would fondly traceThe lines which as they manlier grew,He deemed the signs of Glory, too.I saw at last the sable pallGloom in our lordly castle’s hall,And heard the Friar’s burial riteKeeping the watches of the night.Another noble form was laidWhere Lorro’s dead together meet⁠—And I, in ducal robes arrayed,Took Lorro’s castled seat.I need not tell how passed the days,I need not tell of pleasure’s ways⁠—Where bright-eyed mirth flung dewy flowersBeneath the silver-feet of hours,While Time himself o’er music’s stringsLean’d panting on his weary wings.At last there came unto our gateOne looking worn and desolate,Who asked compassion for his fate.He said he was an orphan lad;In sooth my lonely heart was glad⁠—For I was weary of my stateWhere only courtiers crowded round;I wished some fair and gentle mate,And such I fondly hoped I found.Months rolled away and still he grew,Beneath my care a lovely boyAnd day by day I found anewIn him a very father’s joy.⁠—And eighteen summers now have diedSince thou cam’st here my own heart’s pride:And still thy voice of silver seemsSweet as sweet music heard in dreams;And still thy softly radiant eyeLooks innocent as yonder sky,And all as fair—when rainbows restLike angel-plumes upon its breast;And still thy soul seems richly setWithin its form, like some bright gemWhich might by worshippers be metIn Purity’s own diadem.In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutesAnd harp is wafted through the air,Such as the glad most fitly suitsWhen mirth and rosy wine are there.In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in lightAnd flowers, I ween a holy rite,Most cherished with the young and bright,By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night.And who art thou around whose browThe bridal chaplet sparkled now?That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it sheThus standing there so radiantly?⁠—With bright curls floating on the airAnd glorious as the cherubs wear;An eye where love and virtue beamLike spirits of an Angel’s dream!Away! away! thou maddening sight!Away! what dost thou, Laura, here?Thus standing by my side to-night,And long since in thy sepulchre?What! will the grave its events tell?The iron tomb dissolve its spell?It has! it has! And there she standsMocking me with her outstretched hands;And oft her icy fingers pressMy hot brow through the long, long night;And voices as of deep distress,Like prisoned wind, whose wailing soundSeems madly struggling under ground,Peal dirge-like on my ear: away!Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for daySuch as these gloomy realms display⁠—E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.⁠—And we were wed! I need not sayHow heavenly came and went each day,Enough! our souls together beatLike two sweet tunes that wandering meet,Then so harmoniously they runThe hearer deems they are but one.There are mailed forms in Lorro’s halls,And rustling banners on its walls,And nodding plumes o’er many a brow,That moulders on the red field now.The wave of battle swells around!Shall Lorro’s chieftain thus be foundIn revelry or idlesse bound,When Glory hangs her blood-red signAbove the castellated Rhine?Away! away, I flew in prideWith those who mustered by my side:But not, I ween, did Lorro missThe ruler from its ducal throne,’Till many a wild and burning kissOf woman’s sweet lips warmed his own.And Julio, too, (for such the nameI gave the orphan boy,) with tearsAnd choking sob, and trembling cameTo whisper me his rising fears.That I his father—I whose loveHad sheltered long his feeble formE’en as some stronger bird the doveAll mateless wandering in the storm,⁠—That I borne down amid the sternAnd bloody shapes of battle wild,Would never from its wreck returnTo sooth his lonely orphan child;And then on bended knees he prayed⁠—(God! why availed not his prayer?)That I would give him steed and blade,So he might in my dangers share.I left him for I could not bareThat tender brow to war’s wild air.Away! away on foaming steed,For two long years my sword was out;And I had learned (a soldier’s need,)—Almost without a groan to bleed⁠—Aye! gloried in the battle’s shout;For it gave presage of a fameSuch as the brave alone may claim.For two long years, as I have told,The storm of war around me roll’d;But never more, by day or nightIn sunshine or in shower,Did I forget my castle’s light⁠—Love’s only idol-flower!There is a deeper passion knownFor those in love, when left alone;Then busy fancy ponders o’erSome kindness never prized before:And we can almost turn with tearsAnd deep upbraiding (as distressComes with the holy light of years)And kneeling ask forgiveness.And so I felt—and Laura beamedStill lovelier than she ever seemed,E’en when the dew of childhood’s hoursAlong her heart’s first blossoms clung,And I amid my native bowersIn sinless worship o’er them hung.Oh! are not feelings such as theseLike splendid rainbow-glories caught(To cheer our voyage o’er life’s seas)From Heaven’s own holyLand of Thought?And yet, oh, God! how soon may theyLike those bright glories flee away,And leave the heart an unlit sea,Where piloted by dark despairThe spirit-wreck rolls fearfullyWithin the night of sullen air?At last the eye of battle closed⁠—Its lurid fires no longer burned⁠—The warrior on his wreath reposed,And I unto my halls returned.Oh! who can tell the joys that startLike angel-wings within the heart,When wearied with war’s toil, the chiefIn home’s dear light would seek relief!Not he who has no loved one thereLeft in his absence lonely⁠—Whose heart he fondly hopes shall beatFor him and for him only.And such my Laura’s heart I deemed;For me alone I thought she beamedLike some pure lamp on hermit’s shrine,Which only glows for him, divineAnd beauteous as the spirit-eyesThat light the bow’rs of Paradise.It was a lovely eve, but knownUnto the South’s voluptuous zone;An eve whose shining vesture hungLike Heaven’s own rosy flags unfurl’d,And by some star-eyed cherub flungIn sport around our gloomy world;An eve in which the coldest frameAnd heart must feel a warming flame,When light and soul no longer single,But in a bridal glory mingle:Then think how I whose spirit bowedWhene’er the dimmest light was sentFrom twinkling star or rosy cloudIn God’s blue, glorious firmament⁠—How I in that ethereal time,Standing beside my native rillAnd shadowed by such hues sublime,Felt unseen lightning through me thrill.I stood within my own domain⁠—Once more upon my birth-right soil,Free’d from the gory battle-plainAnd weary with its toil.“Laura!” my step is in the hall!My sword suspended on the wall!My standard-sheet once more uprolledWhere it has lain for years untold!“Laura!”—In vain I stood for herTo meet the long-lost worshipper.“Ho, Julio!” What? No answer yet?It rung from base to parapet!I mounted up the marble stair!⁠—I rushed into the olden room!It shone beneath the evening’s glareAs silent as the tomb,⁠—Save that a slave with wond’ring eyeLooked from the dreary vacancy.“Your Lady, Serf?”“She’s in the bower.”“In sooth I should have sought her there!”For oft we passed the twilight hourIn its delicious air.I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God!Why flashed not then thy blasting flame⁠—That it might wither from the sodThe one who madly called Thy name?My poniard grasped, left not its sheath⁠—I had nor hope—nor life—nor breath;I only felt the ice of deathSlowly congealing o’er my heart⁠—And on my eye a dizzy cloudSwam round and round, a sickening partOf that which seemed a closing shroudThe one might feel whom burial gaveAll prematurely to the grave.But soon that deadly trance was o’er;The foliage hid as yet; and IRetraced the path I trod beforeWith such a heart-wild ecstasy.For as I gazed upon their guilt,A thought flashed out of demon-hue;And I resigned my dagger’s hiltAs deadlier then my vengeance grew.Small torture satisfies theweak⁠—For they but slightly feel a wrong;I would by hours my vengeance wreak!The deep revenge is for thestrong.In Lorro’s castle is a cell(Where Cruelty has sat in state,I ween that some have known it well,)Which is divided by a grate.No sunbeam ever pierced its night;Nor aught save lamp there shed its light;No sound save sound of wild despairHath ever vexed its heavy air.Upon its walls so grim and oldHave gathered centuries of mould.It seems that with the birth of timeThat cell was hollowed out by crime,And there, her hateful labor o’er,She took her first sweet draught of gore.Ha! Ha! I see them! See them now⁠—The cold damp dripping from each brow,With hands oustretched they mercy sue⁠—(Ye know not how my vengeance grew,)While I stood by with sullen smile⁠—The only answer to their grief⁠—For wearied in that dungeon aisle,In smilesIeven found relief.I watched them in that dreary gloom,(To me a heaven—to them a tomb,)For hours—for days—and joyed to hearTheir pleadings fill that sepulchre.At first they tried to lull their stateBy cheering each thro’ that dull grate,(For this they lingered separate;I could not bear e’en then to seeThem closer in their agony.)And this they did for days! at lastA change upon them came⁠—For each to each reproaches cast,In which I heard my name.I spake no word—their dread repliesWere only read within my eyes,Which as they glared upon the pair,Like scorpions writhing in their painWhen wounded in the loathsome lair,Seemed burning to my very brain.I shall not tell how hunger grewIn that dread time upon the two⁠—When each would vainly try to breakThe bars an earthquake scarce could shake.Nor how they gnawed, in their great pain,Their dungeon’s rusted iron chain;Nor how their curses, deep and oft,From parching lips were rung aloft;Nor how like babbling fiends they wouldTogether vex the solitude;Nor how the wasting crimson tideOf withered life their wants supplied;Nor how—enough! enough they diedAye! and I saw the red worm creepUpon their slumbers, dark and deep,And felt with more of joy than dreadThe grim eyes of the fleshless dead.Long years have passed away, since thenAnd I have mixed with fellow men;On land and wave my flag unfurl’dStreamed like a storm above the world;For Lorro was a soldier born;His music was the battle-horn.E’en when a boy—his playthings wereSuch deadly toys as sword and spear.I did not pant for fame or blood,But thus in agony I soughtTo strangle in their birth the broodOf serpents cradled in my thought.I’ve tried to pray: In vain! In vain!The very words seem brands of fireBy demons hurled into my brain⁠—The burning ministers of ire.HowSpirit, mid such fearful strifeI left the hated mortal life,I need not say; it matters notHow we may break that earthly spell;Enough! enough! I knew my lotAnd feel its agony too well.My frame beside its father rests⁠—The same old banner o’er their breastsWhich they with all their serfs, of yore,To battle and to triumph bore.No chieftain sways the castle’s wall,No chieftain revels in its hall.And on each bastion’s leaning stoneGrim desolation sits alone,While organ winds their masses rollAround each lonely turret’s head,And seem to chant, “Rest troubled soul!Mercy! Oh! mercy for the dead!”The spirit bent his brow—and tearsThe first which he had shed for years,Fell burning from his eyes, forTHOUGHTHad oped their overflowing cells,Like wakened lightning which has soughtThe cloud with all its liquid spells.He wept—as he had wept of old⁠—When sudden through the gloomy airA glorious gush of music roll’dAround those wretched spirits there;⁠—They started up with frantic eyesWild-glancing to their sullen skies:And still the angel-anthem wentRejoicing ’round that firmament;And shining harps were sparkling throughThe cloud-rifts—held by seraph-formsOh! lovely as the loveliest hueOf rainbows curled on buried storms.Faint and more faint the music grows⁠—Yet how entrancing in its close⁠—Sweeter! oh sweeter than the hymnOf an enthusiast who has givenHis anthem forth, at twilight dim,And hopes with it to float to heaven.And see, where yonder tempests meet,The rapid glance of silver feet⁠—The last of that refulgent trainWho leave this desolated sphere;Oh! not for them such realms ofPainWhereCrimestands tremblingly byFear:⁠—They’re gone,AND ALL IS DARK AGAIN.[End of Part First.]

Oh!Landof theBeautiful!Landof theBright!

’Though the day of thy glory is o’er,

And the time-hallowed mountains are mantled in night

Where thyLibertyflourished before;

’Though the black brow of Bigotry scowls on thy race

Which are kissing the chains of their brutal disgrace;

’Though the torches ofFreedomso long hurled about

By thy heroes of old are forever gone out;

Yet! yet shall thyBeautyshine out from the gloom,

Oh!Landof the Harp and the Wreath and the Tomb!

The seal has been set!Immortalitybeams

Like a time-daring star o’er thy temples and streams;

And still as whole tribes from the weird future dart,

They shall kneel at thine altar,Oh! clime of the Heart!

More splendid art thou, with thy banners all furl’d

And thy brow in the dust, than the rest of the world,

For theMIGHTY—the Deadwho have hallowed our earth,

In thee have their rest and from thee took their birth.

Oh! alas that we live—wethe boastful who leap

Like mere rills where the sun-pillar’dTruthis enshrined

Where those broad-rolling rivers no longer may sweep

With their billows of light to theOcean of Mind.

It was a clime where mortal formHath never pressed the blasted soil⁠—Where tempest-fires and surging stormAre struggling ever in their coil:A sunless clime, whose dreary nightGleams dimly with that doubtful lightWhich men have seen—whenDarknessthrewAround their homes its sombre hue⁠—The fearful herald of the wrathThat blazes on theWhirlwind’spathEre he has tossed his banners outLike sable draperies o’er the Dead,And with a wild, delirious shoutStruck his deep thunder-drum of dread;A clime where e’en the fountains fallWith tone and step funereal:And ever through the dark, old treesA melancholy music rollsAlong the faintly-chiming breeze⁠—Sad as the wail of tortured souls.

It was a clime where mortal form

Hath never pressed the blasted soil⁠—

Where tempest-fires and surging storm

Are struggling ever in their coil:

A sunless clime, whose dreary night

Gleams dimly with that doubtful light

Which men have seen—whenDarknessthrew

Around their homes its sombre hue⁠—

The fearful herald of the wrath

That blazes on theWhirlwind’spath

Ere he has tossed his banners out

Like sable draperies o’er the Dead,

And with a wild, delirious shout

Struck his deep thunder-drum of dread;

A clime where e’en the fountains fall

With tone and step funereal:

And ever through the dark, old trees

A melancholy music rolls

Along the faintly-chiming breeze⁠—

Sad as the wail of tortured souls.

There ghastly forms were hurrying pastLike weird clouds through the ether driven,In fear, before theHUNTER-BLAST,Whose vengeance purifies the heaven.And some were pale, as if with woe,And ever cast their eyes below;And some were quivering with a fearIn this their dreary sepulchre;And some, whose awful aspects woreA look where sat the seal of age,On their convulsèd foreheads boreThe phrenzied agony of rage;On somea dreadful beauty shoneLike rays received from fallen stars⁠—So dim, so mournful and so lone,Yet brave, despite of all their scars.

There ghastly forms were hurrying past

Like weird clouds through the ether driven,

In fear, before theHUNTER-BLAST,

Whose vengeance purifies the heaven.

And some were pale, as if with woe,

And ever cast their eyes below;

And some were quivering with a fear

In this their dreary sepulchre;

And some, whose awful aspects wore

A look where sat the seal of age,

On their convulsèd foreheads bore

The phrenzied agony of rage;

On somea dreadful beauty shone

Like rays received from fallen stars⁠—

So dim, so mournful and so lone,

Yet brave, despite of all their scars.

Far from the throng two sat apartBeneath a forest’s darkling plume⁠—In that communion of the heartWhich but the wretched can assume.They seemed in earnest converse there,As if with words to quench despair;And one, along whose features grew,A withering, deathly, demon-hue,Wore that high, dread, defying lookWhich but theLostcan dare to brook;The other milder seemed—but heWas shrouded, too, in mystery,And ever threw along the skyA fearful spiritual eyeWhich in its gloomy light sublime⁠—Seemed half of virtue, half of crime,Like lightning when you see its glowSoft as a moonbeam flashed below⁠—And then in blasting brightness sentWild-quivering through the firmament.So sat they in that dreary light,Upon the blasted darkling mould⁠—Fit watchers of such awful night⁠—As thus the last his story told.

Far from the throng two sat apart

Beneath a forest’s darkling plume⁠—

In that communion of the heart

Which but the wretched can assume.

They seemed in earnest converse there,

As if with words to quench despair;

And one, along whose features grew,

A withering, deathly, demon-hue,

Wore that high, dread, defying look

Which but theLostcan dare to brook;

The other milder seemed—but he

Was shrouded, too, in mystery,

And ever threw along the sky

A fearful spiritual eye

Which in its gloomy light sublime⁠—

Seemed half of virtue, half of crime,

Like lightning when you see its glow

Soft as a moonbeam flashed below⁠—

And then in blasting brightness sent

Wild-quivering through the firmament.

So sat they in that dreary light,

Upon the blasted darkling mould⁠—

Fit watchers of such awful night⁠—

As thus the last his story told.

LORRO.Themanyonly look toyears;Themanythinktheyonly rollThe tides of happiness or tearsAround the human soul:I know a single hour for me⁠—A minute—was Eternity,That seemed with its fierce, lidless eyeFixed—fixed forever in the skyWhich, circling round the Italian shore,Was only made for bliss before:But now it darkled like a shroudBy demon-hands in warning shaken,From their lone, scowling thunder-cloudEre yet its elements awaken.

LORRO.

Themanyonly look toyears;

Themanythinktheyonly roll

The tides of happiness or tears

Around the human soul:

I know a single hour for me⁠—

A minute—was Eternity,

That seemed with its fierce, lidless eye

Fixed—fixed forever in the sky

Which, circling round the Italian shore,

Was only made for bliss before:

But now it darkled like a shroud

By demon-hands in warning shaken,

From their lone, scowling thunder-cloud

Ere yet its elements awaken.

Oh! was it Fancy? or a spellHurled o’er me by some dreadful power,⁠—That I should carry thus a hell,Within my bosom from that hour?I know not—nor shall care to know;For e’enRepentancewill not dartFrom her pure realm, a light below,Upon my agony of heart;Nor hath Remorse—that mad’ning fire⁠—That final minister of painAnd deadliest offspring of deep ire⁠—E’er flashed across my tortured brain:Yet! yet there is a something hereOf hideous vacancy and fear,(Not fear which cowards merely feel,Who hear the damnèd’s thunder peal,)A trembling—which the brave confessIn this their last and worst distress⁠—Part of the soul it burns a spell,And like her indestructible⁠—Which only those who feelthatwoe,Brought by an unrepented deed,Can in its fiercest aching know⁠—For only they are doomed to bleed.

Oh! was it Fancy? or a spell

Hurled o’er me by some dreadful power,⁠—

That I should carry thus a hell,

Within my bosom from that hour?

I know not—nor shall care to know;

For e’enRepentancewill not dart

From her pure realm, a light below,

Upon my agony of heart;

Nor hath Remorse—that mad’ning fire⁠—

That final minister of pain

And deadliest offspring of deep ire⁠—

E’er flashed across my tortured brain:

Yet! yet there is a something here

Of hideous vacancy and fear,

(Not fear which cowards merely feel,

Who hear the damnèd’s thunder peal,)

A trembling—which the brave confess

In this their last and worst distress⁠—

Part of the soul it burns a spell,

And like her indestructible⁠—

Which only those who feelthatwoe,

Brought by an unrepented deed,

Can in its fiercest aching know⁠—

For only they are doomed to bleed.

Go thou, whose cunning spirit hearsThe mystic music of the spheres⁠—Who gazest with unquailing eyeThrough this star-isled immensity⁠—Whose soul would feed on brighter flowersThan earth’s—and sit with pinion furl’dWhere in its lonely grandeur towersThe outside pillar of your world⁠—Go! go with all thy boasted art⁠—And readonemystery of theHeart.What! think creation in asphere!The real universe is here⁠—Here! hereeternally enshrinedWithin the secret caves of Mind.

Go thou, whose cunning spirit hears

The mystic music of the spheres⁠—

Who gazest with unquailing eye

Through this star-isled immensity⁠—

Whose soul would feed on brighter flowers

Than earth’s—and sit with pinion furl’d

Where in its lonely grandeur towers

The outside pillar of your world⁠—

Go! go with all thy boasted art⁠—

And readonemystery of theHeart.

What! think creation in asphere!

The real universe is here⁠—

Here! hereeternally enshrined

Within the secret caves of Mind.

Blood! blood is reddening on these hands!The blood of more thanoneis here;Unfaded too its crimson brandsDespite of many a weary year,Whose tides of flame and darkness gloomAmid the spirit’s stagnant air⁠—More fearful than the damn’d one’s tombAnd withering as despair.

Blood! blood is reddening on these hands!

The blood of more thanoneis here;

Unfaded too its crimson brands

Despite of many a weary year,

Whose tides of flame and darkness gloom

Amid the spirit’s stagnant air⁠—

More fearful than the damn’d one’s tomb

And withering as despair.

Oh! God why was I chos’n for such?I who until that fearful hour⁠—Ah! would not e’en too wildly touchThe summer’s very humblest flower.The little bird whose rain-bow wingI saw, in spring time’s roseate eves,With its own beauty quiveringAmid the golden orange leaves,I made a friend—as if for meIt held its sinless revelry:And e’en I’ve watched within the hallThe deadly spider weave his pall,And smiled in very joy to seeThe cunning workman’s tracery.

Oh! God why was I chos’n for such?

I who until that fearful hour⁠—

Ah! would not e’en too wildly touch

The summer’s very humblest flower.

The little bird whose rain-bow wing

I saw, in spring time’s roseate eves,

With its own beauty quivering

Amid the golden orange leaves,

I made a friend—as if for me

It held its sinless revelry:

And e’en I’ve watched within the hall

The deadly spider weave his pall,

And smiled in very joy to see

The cunning workman’s tracery.

The minstrel-breeze which struck by hoursIts tender instrument of flowers⁠—The moon that held her march aloneAt midnight ’round th’ Eternal Throne⁠—The sullen thunder whose red eyesFlashed angrily within our skies⁠—All! all to me were but the chainAlong whose wond’rous links there cameUnceasingly to head and brainLove’s own electric flame.Yes! when the Harp of Nature roll’dIts midnight hymn from chords of gold,And awful silence seemed to own,Throughout the world, its wizard tone,I’ve stood and wildly wished to floatInto that music’s liquid strain⁠—Oh! heavenly as its sweetest note⁠—Nor ever walk the earth again.

The minstrel-breeze which struck by hours

Its tender instrument of flowers⁠—

The moon that held her march alone

At midnight ’round th’ Eternal Throne⁠—

The sullen thunder whose red eyes

Flashed angrily within our skies⁠—

All! all to me were but the chain

Along whose wond’rous links there came

Unceasingly to head and brain

Love’s own electric flame.

Yes! when the Harp of Nature roll’d

Its midnight hymn from chords of gold,

And awful silence seemed to own,

Throughout the world, its wizard tone,

I’ve stood and wildly wished to float

Into that music’s liquid strain⁠—

Oh! heavenly as its sweetest note⁠—

Nor ever walk the earth again.

What change is this? Hate, fiercest Hate,Where once these angel-yearnings burnedLike torches set by Heaven’s bright gate,Hath all to deadly poison turned.

What change is this? Hate, fiercest Hate,

Where once these angel-yearnings burned

Like torches set by Heaven’s bright gate,

Hath all to deadly poison turned.

TheBestcan only feel the fire,But once, which flashes from the climeWhere love sits beaming o’er the lyreThat strikes the mystic march of Time.The tree of most luxuriant stemWhose every leaflet glows a gemBeneath its oriental sky,When once its emerald diademHath felt the simoon sweeping by.Can never more in southern bowersRenew its fragrant idol-flowers.So with the great in soul—whose bloomOf Heart hath felt the thunder-doomWhich mankind, trusted, may bestowOn him who little dreamed the blow⁠—Theirs be the joy!—But ours the woe!

TheBestcan only feel the fire,

But once, which flashes from the clime

Where love sits beaming o’er the lyre

That strikes the mystic march of Time.

The tree of most luxuriant stem

Whose every leaflet glows a gem

Beneath its oriental sky,

When once its emerald diadem

Hath felt the simoon sweeping by.

Can never more in southern bowers

Renew its fragrant idol-flowers.

So with the great in soul—whose bloom

Of Heart hath felt the thunder-doom

Which mankind, trusted, may bestow

On him who little dreamed the blow⁠—

Theirs be the joy!—But ours the woe!

I was my father’s only child⁠—(The cherished scion of a raceWhose monuments of fame are piledOn glory’s mighty dwelling-place)I need not tell how oft he smiledWhen counting o’er to me each deed,In gallant barque, on champing steed,Of ancestors in battle wild;Nor how he gazed upon my faceAnd there by hours would fondly traceThe lines which as they manlier grew,He deemed the signs of Glory, too.

I was my father’s only child⁠—

(The cherished scion of a race

Whose monuments of fame are piled

On glory’s mighty dwelling-place)

I need not tell how oft he smiled

When counting o’er to me each deed,

In gallant barque, on champing steed,

Of ancestors in battle wild;

Nor how he gazed upon my face

And there by hours would fondly trace

The lines which as they manlier grew,

He deemed the signs of Glory, too.

I saw at last the sable pallGloom in our lordly castle’s hall,And heard the Friar’s burial riteKeeping the watches of the night.Another noble form was laidWhere Lorro’s dead together meet⁠—And I, in ducal robes arrayed,Took Lorro’s castled seat.

I saw at last the sable pall

Gloom in our lordly castle’s hall,

And heard the Friar’s burial rite

Keeping the watches of the night.

Another noble form was laid

Where Lorro’s dead together meet⁠—

And I, in ducal robes arrayed,

Took Lorro’s castled seat.

I need not tell how passed the days,I need not tell of pleasure’s ways⁠—Where bright-eyed mirth flung dewy flowersBeneath the silver-feet of hours,While Time himself o’er music’s stringsLean’d panting on his weary wings.

I need not tell how passed the days,

I need not tell of pleasure’s ways⁠—

Where bright-eyed mirth flung dewy flowers

Beneath the silver-feet of hours,

While Time himself o’er music’s strings

Lean’d panting on his weary wings.

At last there came unto our gateOne looking worn and desolate,Who asked compassion for his fate.He said he was an orphan lad;In sooth my lonely heart was glad⁠—For I was weary of my stateWhere only courtiers crowded round;I wished some fair and gentle mate,And such I fondly hoped I found.

At last there came unto our gate

One looking worn and desolate,

Who asked compassion for his fate.

He said he was an orphan lad;

In sooth my lonely heart was glad⁠—

For I was weary of my state

Where only courtiers crowded round;

I wished some fair and gentle mate,

And such I fondly hoped I found.

Months rolled away and still he grew,Beneath my care a lovely boyAnd day by day I found anewIn him a very father’s joy.⁠—

Months rolled away and still he grew,

Beneath my care a lovely boy

And day by day I found anew

In him a very father’s joy.⁠—

And eighteen summers now have diedSince thou cam’st here my own heart’s pride:And still thy voice of silver seemsSweet as sweet music heard in dreams;And still thy softly radiant eyeLooks innocent as yonder sky,And all as fair—when rainbows restLike angel-plumes upon its breast;And still thy soul seems richly setWithin its form, like some bright gemWhich might by worshippers be metIn Purity’s own diadem.

And eighteen summers now have died

Since thou cam’st here my own heart’s pride:

And still thy voice of silver seems

Sweet as sweet music heard in dreams;

And still thy softly radiant eye

Looks innocent as yonder sky,

And all as fair—when rainbows rest

Like angel-plumes upon its breast;

And still thy soul seems richly set

Within its form, like some bright gem

Which might by worshippers be met

In Purity’s own diadem.

In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutesAnd harp is wafted through the air,Such as the glad most fitly suitsWhen mirth and rosy wine are there.In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in lightAnd flowers, I ween a holy rite,Most cherished with the young and bright,By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night.

In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutes

And harp is wafted through the air,

Such as the glad most fitly suits

When mirth and rosy wine are there.

In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in light

And flowers, I ween a holy rite,

Most cherished with the young and bright,

By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night.

And who art thou around whose browThe bridal chaplet sparkled now?That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it sheThus standing there so radiantly?⁠—With bright curls floating on the airAnd glorious as the cherubs wear;An eye where love and virtue beamLike spirits of an Angel’s dream!

And who art thou around whose brow

The bridal chaplet sparkled now?

That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it she

Thus standing there so radiantly?⁠—

With bright curls floating on the air

And glorious as the cherubs wear;

An eye where love and virtue beam

Like spirits of an Angel’s dream!

Away! away! thou maddening sight!Away! what dost thou, Laura, here?Thus standing by my side to-night,And long since in thy sepulchre?

Away! away! thou maddening sight!

Away! what dost thou, Laura, here?

Thus standing by my side to-night,

And long since in thy sepulchre?

What! will the grave its events tell?The iron tomb dissolve its spell?It has! it has! And there she standsMocking me with her outstretched hands;And oft her icy fingers pressMy hot brow through the long, long night;And voices as of deep distress,Like prisoned wind, whose wailing soundSeems madly struggling under ground,Peal dirge-like on my ear: away!Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for daySuch as these gloomy realms display⁠—E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.⁠—

What! will the grave its events tell?

The iron tomb dissolve its spell?

It has! it has! And there she stands

Mocking me with her outstretched hands;

And oft her icy fingers press

My hot brow through the long, long night;

And voices as of deep distress,

Like prisoned wind, whose wailing sound

Seems madly struggling under ground,

Peal dirge-like on my ear: away!

Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for day

Such as these gloomy realms display⁠—

E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.⁠—

And we were wed! I need not sayHow heavenly came and went each day,Enough! our souls together beatLike two sweet tunes that wandering meet,Then so harmoniously they runThe hearer deems they are but one.

And we were wed! I need not say

How heavenly came and went each day,

Enough! our souls together beat

Like two sweet tunes that wandering meet,

Then so harmoniously they run

The hearer deems they are but one.

There are mailed forms in Lorro’s halls,And rustling banners on its walls,And nodding plumes o’er many a brow,That moulders on the red field now.

There are mailed forms in Lorro’s halls,

And rustling banners on its walls,

And nodding plumes o’er many a brow,

That moulders on the red field now.

The wave of battle swells around!Shall Lorro’s chieftain thus be foundIn revelry or idlesse bound,When Glory hangs her blood-red signAbove the castellated Rhine?

The wave of battle swells around!

Shall Lorro’s chieftain thus be found

In revelry or idlesse bound,

When Glory hangs her blood-red sign

Above the castellated Rhine?

Away! away, I flew in prideWith those who mustered by my side:But not, I ween, did Lorro missThe ruler from its ducal throne,’Till many a wild and burning kissOf woman’s sweet lips warmed his own.

Away! away, I flew in pride

With those who mustered by my side:

But not, I ween, did Lorro miss

The ruler from its ducal throne,

’Till many a wild and burning kiss

Of woman’s sweet lips warmed his own.

And Julio, too, (for such the nameI gave the orphan boy,) with tearsAnd choking sob, and trembling cameTo whisper me his rising fears.

And Julio, too, (for such the name

I gave the orphan boy,) with tears

And choking sob, and trembling came

To whisper me his rising fears.

That I his father—I whose loveHad sheltered long his feeble formE’en as some stronger bird the doveAll mateless wandering in the storm,⁠—That I borne down amid the sternAnd bloody shapes of battle wild,Would never from its wreck returnTo sooth his lonely orphan child;And then on bended knees he prayed⁠—(God! why availed not his prayer?)That I would give him steed and blade,So he might in my dangers share.I left him for I could not bareThat tender brow to war’s wild air.

That I his father—I whose love

Had sheltered long his feeble form

E’en as some stronger bird the dove

All mateless wandering in the storm,⁠—

That I borne down amid the stern

And bloody shapes of battle wild,

Would never from its wreck return

To sooth his lonely orphan child;

And then on bended knees he prayed⁠—

(God! why availed not his prayer?)

That I would give him steed and blade,

So he might in my dangers share.

I left him for I could not bare

That tender brow to war’s wild air.

Away! away on foaming steed,For two long years my sword was out;And I had learned (a soldier’s need,)—Almost without a groan to bleed⁠—Aye! gloried in the battle’s shout;For it gave presage of a fameSuch as the brave alone may claim.

Away! away on foaming steed,

For two long years my sword was out;

And I had learned (a soldier’s need,)

—Almost without a groan to bleed⁠—

Aye! gloried in the battle’s shout;

For it gave presage of a fame

Such as the brave alone may claim.

For two long years, as I have told,The storm of war around me roll’d;But never more, by day or nightIn sunshine or in shower,Did I forget my castle’s light⁠—Love’s only idol-flower!

For two long years, as I have told,

The storm of war around me roll’d;

But never more, by day or night

In sunshine or in shower,

Did I forget my castle’s light⁠—

Love’s only idol-flower!

There is a deeper passion knownFor those in love, when left alone;Then busy fancy ponders o’erSome kindness never prized before:And we can almost turn with tearsAnd deep upbraiding (as distressComes with the holy light of years)And kneeling ask forgiveness.

There is a deeper passion known

For those in love, when left alone;

Then busy fancy ponders o’er

Some kindness never prized before:

And we can almost turn with tears

And deep upbraiding (as distress

Comes with the holy light of years)

And kneeling ask forgiveness.

And so I felt—and Laura beamedStill lovelier than she ever seemed,E’en when the dew of childhood’s hoursAlong her heart’s first blossoms clung,And I amid my native bowersIn sinless worship o’er them hung.

And so I felt—and Laura beamed

Still lovelier than she ever seemed,

E’en when the dew of childhood’s hours

Along her heart’s first blossoms clung,

And I amid my native bowers

In sinless worship o’er them hung.

Oh! are not feelings such as theseLike splendid rainbow-glories caught(To cheer our voyage o’er life’s seas)From Heaven’s own holyLand of Thought?

Oh! are not feelings such as these

Like splendid rainbow-glories caught

(To cheer our voyage o’er life’s seas)

From Heaven’s own holyLand of Thought?

And yet, oh, God! how soon may theyLike those bright glories flee away,And leave the heart an unlit sea,Where piloted by dark despairThe spirit-wreck rolls fearfullyWithin the night of sullen air?

And yet, oh, God! how soon may they

Like those bright glories flee away,

And leave the heart an unlit sea,

Where piloted by dark despair

The spirit-wreck rolls fearfully

Within the night of sullen air?

At last the eye of battle closed⁠—Its lurid fires no longer burned⁠—The warrior on his wreath reposed,And I unto my halls returned.

At last the eye of battle closed⁠—

Its lurid fires no longer burned⁠—

The warrior on his wreath reposed,

And I unto my halls returned.

Oh! who can tell the joys that startLike angel-wings within the heart,When wearied with war’s toil, the chiefIn home’s dear light would seek relief!

Oh! who can tell the joys that start

Like angel-wings within the heart,

When wearied with war’s toil, the chief

In home’s dear light would seek relief!

Not he who has no loved one thereLeft in his absence lonely⁠—Whose heart he fondly hopes shall beatFor him and for him only.

Not he who has no loved one there

Left in his absence lonely⁠—

Whose heart he fondly hopes shall beat

For him and for him only.

And such my Laura’s heart I deemed;For me alone I thought she beamedLike some pure lamp on hermit’s shrine,Which only glows for him, divineAnd beauteous as the spirit-eyesThat light the bow’rs of Paradise.

And such my Laura’s heart I deemed;

For me alone I thought she beamed

Like some pure lamp on hermit’s shrine,

Which only glows for him, divine

And beauteous as the spirit-eyes

That light the bow’rs of Paradise.

It was a lovely eve, but knownUnto the South’s voluptuous zone;An eve whose shining vesture hungLike Heaven’s own rosy flags unfurl’d,And by some star-eyed cherub flungIn sport around our gloomy world;An eve in which the coldest frameAnd heart must feel a warming flame,When light and soul no longer single,But in a bridal glory mingle:Then think how I whose spirit bowedWhene’er the dimmest light was sentFrom twinkling star or rosy cloudIn God’s blue, glorious firmament⁠—How I in that ethereal time,Standing beside my native rillAnd shadowed by such hues sublime,Felt unseen lightning through me thrill.

It was a lovely eve, but known

Unto the South’s voluptuous zone;

An eve whose shining vesture hung

Like Heaven’s own rosy flags unfurl’d,

And by some star-eyed cherub flung

In sport around our gloomy world;

An eve in which the coldest frame

And heart must feel a warming flame,

When light and soul no longer single,

But in a bridal glory mingle:

Then think how I whose spirit bowed

Whene’er the dimmest light was sent

From twinkling star or rosy cloud

In God’s blue, glorious firmament⁠—

How I in that ethereal time,

Standing beside my native rill

And shadowed by such hues sublime,

Felt unseen lightning through me thrill.

I stood within my own domain⁠—Once more upon my birth-right soil,Free’d from the gory battle-plainAnd weary with its toil.

I stood within my own domain⁠—

Once more upon my birth-right soil,

Free’d from the gory battle-plain

And weary with its toil.

“Laura!” my step is in the hall!My sword suspended on the wall!My standard-sheet once more uprolledWhere it has lain for years untold!“Laura!”—In vain I stood for herTo meet the long-lost worshipper.“Ho, Julio!” What? No answer yet?It rung from base to parapet!I mounted up the marble stair!⁠—I rushed into the olden room!It shone beneath the evening’s glareAs silent as the tomb,⁠—Save that a slave with wond’ring eyeLooked from the dreary vacancy.“Your Lady, Serf?”“She’s in the bower.”“In sooth I should have sought her there!”For oft we passed the twilight hourIn its delicious air.

“Laura!” my step is in the hall!

My sword suspended on the wall!

My standard-sheet once more uprolled

Where it has lain for years untold!

“Laura!”—In vain I stood for her

To meet the long-lost worshipper.

“Ho, Julio!” What? No answer yet?

It rung from base to parapet!

I mounted up the marble stair!⁠—

I rushed into the olden room!

It shone beneath the evening’s glare

As silent as the tomb,⁠—

Save that a slave with wond’ring eye

Looked from the dreary vacancy.

“Your Lady, Serf?”

“She’s in the bower.”

“In sooth I should have sought her there!”

For oft we passed the twilight hour

In its delicious air.

I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God!Why flashed not then thy blasting flame⁠—That it might wither from the sodThe one who madly called Thy name?

I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God!

Why flashed not then thy blasting flame⁠—

That it might wither from the sod

The one who madly called Thy name?

My poniard grasped, left not its sheath⁠—I had nor hope—nor life—nor breath;I only felt the ice of deathSlowly congealing o’er my heart⁠—And on my eye a dizzy cloudSwam round and round, a sickening partOf that which seemed a closing shroudThe one might feel whom burial gaveAll prematurely to the grave.

My poniard grasped, left not its sheath⁠—

I had nor hope—nor life—nor breath;

I only felt the ice of death

Slowly congealing o’er my heart⁠—

And on my eye a dizzy cloud

Swam round and round, a sickening part

Of that which seemed a closing shroud

The one might feel whom burial gave

All prematurely to the grave.

But soon that deadly trance was o’er;The foliage hid as yet; and IRetraced the path I trod beforeWith such a heart-wild ecstasy.

But soon that deadly trance was o’er;

The foliage hid as yet; and I

Retraced the path I trod before

With such a heart-wild ecstasy.

For as I gazed upon their guilt,A thought flashed out of demon-hue;And I resigned my dagger’s hiltAs deadlier then my vengeance grew.

For as I gazed upon their guilt,

A thought flashed out of demon-hue;

And I resigned my dagger’s hilt

As deadlier then my vengeance grew.

Small torture satisfies theweak⁠—For they but slightly feel a wrong;I would by hours my vengeance wreak!The deep revenge is for thestrong.

Small torture satisfies theweak⁠—

For they but slightly feel a wrong;

I would by hours my vengeance wreak!

The deep revenge is for thestrong.

In Lorro’s castle is a cell(Where Cruelty has sat in state,I ween that some have known it well,)Which is divided by a grate.

In Lorro’s castle is a cell

(Where Cruelty has sat in state,

I ween that some have known it well,)

Which is divided by a grate.

No sunbeam ever pierced its night;Nor aught save lamp there shed its light;No sound save sound of wild despairHath ever vexed its heavy air.Upon its walls so grim and oldHave gathered centuries of mould.It seems that with the birth of timeThat cell was hollowed out by crime,And there, her hateful labor o’er,She took her first sweet draught of gore.

No sunbeam ever pierced its night;

Nor aught save lamp there shed its light;

No sound save sound of wild despair

Hath ever vexed its heavy air.

Upon its walls so grim and old

Have gathered centuries of mould.

It seems that with the birth of time

That cell was hollowed out by crime,

And there, her hateful labor o’er,

She took her first sweet draught of gore.

Ha! Ha! I see them! See them now⁠—The cold damp dripping from each brow,With hands oustretched they mercy sue⁠—(Ye know not how my vengeance grew,)While I stood by with sullen smile⁠—The only answer to their grief⁠—For wearied in that dungeon aisle,In smilesIeven found relief.

Ha! Ha! I see them! See them now⁠—

The cold damp dripping from each brow,

With hands oustretched they mercy sue⁠—

(Ye know not how my vengeance grew,)

While I stood by with sullen smile⁠—

The only answer to their grief⁠—

For wearied in that dungeon aisle,

In smilesIeven found relief.

I watched them in that dreary gloom,(To me a heaven—to them a tomb,)For hours—for days—and joyed to hearTheir pleadings fill that sepulchre.At first they tried to lull their stateBy cheering each thro’ that dull grate,(For this they lingered separate;I could not bear e’en then to seeThem closer in their agony.)And this they did for days! at lastA change upon them came⁠—For each to each reproaches cast,In which I heard my name.

I watched them in that dreary gloom,

(To me a heaven—to them a tomb,)

For hours—for days—and joyed to hear

Their pleadings fill that sepulchre.

At first they tried to lull their state

By cheering each thro’ that dull grate,

(For this they lingered separate;

I could not bear e’en then to see

Them closer in their agony.)

And this they did for days! at last

A change upon them came⁠—

For each to each reproaches cast,

In which I heard my name.

I spake no word—their dread repliesWere only read within my eyes,Which as they glared upon the pair,Like scorpions writhing in their painWhen wounded in the loathsome lair,Seemed burning to my very brain.I shall not tell how hunger grewIn that dread time upon the two⁠—When each would vainly try to breakThe bars an earthquake scarce could shake.Nor how they gnawed, in their great pain,Their dungeon’s rusted iron chain;Nor how their curses, deep and oft,From parching lips were rung aloft;Nor how like babbling fiends they wouldTogether vex the solitude;Nor how the wasting crimson tideOf withered life their wants supplied;Nor how—enough! enough they diedAye! and I saw the red worm creepUpon their slumbers, dark and deep,And felt with more of joy than dreadThe grim eyes of the fleshless dead.

I spake no word—their dread replies

Were only read within my eyes,

Which as they glared upon the pair,

Like scorpions writhing in their pain

When wounded in the loathsome lair,

Seemed burning to my very brain.

I shall not tell how hunger grew

In that dread time upon the two⁠—

When each would vainly try to break

The bars an earthquake scarce could shake.

Nor how they gnawed, in their great pain,

Their dungeon’s rusted iron chain;

Nor how their curses, deep and oft,

From parching lips were rung aloft;

Nor how like babbling fiends they would

Together vex the solitude;

Nor how the wasting crimson tide

Of withered life their wants supplied;

Nor how—enough! enough they died

Aye! and I saw the red worm creep

Upon their slumbers, dark and deep,

And felt with more of joy than dread

The grim eyes of the fleshless dead.

Long years have passed away, since thenAnd I have mixed with fellow men;On land and wave my flag unfurl’dStreamed like a storm above the world;For Lorro was a soldier born;His music was the battle-horn.E’en when a boy—his playthings wereSuch deadly toys as sword and spear.I did not pant for fame or blood,But thus in agony I soughtTo strangle in their birth the broodOf serpents cradled in my thought.I’ve tried to pray: In vain! In vain!The very words seem brands of fireBy demons hurled into my brain⁠—The burning ministers of ire.

Long years have passed away, since then

And I have mixed with fellow men;

On land and wave my flag unfurl’d

Streamed like a storm above the world;

For Lorro was a soldier born;

His music was the battle-horn.

E’en when a boy—his playthings were

Such deadly toys as sword and spear.

I did not pant for fame or blood,

But thus in agony I sought

To strangle in their birth the brood

Of serpents cradled in my thought.

I’ve tried to pray: In vain! In vain!

The very words seem brands of fire

By demons hurled into my brain⁠—

The burning ministers of ire.

HowSpirit, mid such fearful strifeI left the hated mortal life,I need not say; it matters notHow we may break that earthly spell;Enough! enough! I knew my lotAnd feel its agony too well.

HowSpirit, mid such fearful strife

I left the hated mortal life,

I need not say; it matters not

How we may break that earthly spell;

Enough! enough! I knew my lot

And feel its agony too well.

My frame beside its father rests⁠—The same old banner o’er their breastsWhich they with all their serfs, of yore,To battle and to triumph bore.No chieftain sways the castle’s wall,No chieftain revels in its hall.And on each bastion’s leaning stoneGrim desolation sits alone,While organ winds their masses rollAround each lonely turret’s head,And seem to chant, “Rest troubled soul!Mercy! Oh! mercy for the dead!”

My frame beside its father rests⁠—

The same old banner o’er their breasts

Which they with all their serfs, of yore,

To battle and to triumph bore.

No chieftain sways the castle’s wall,

No chieftain revels in its hall.

And on each bastion’s leaning stone

Grim desolation sits alone,

While organ winds their masses roll

Around each lonely turret’s head,

And seem to chant, “Rest troubled soul!

Mercy! Oh! mercy for the dead!”

The spirit bent his brow—and tearsThe first which he had shed for years,Fell burning from his eyes, forTHOUGHTHad oped their overflowing cells,Like wakened lightning which has soughtThe cloud with all its liquid spells.

The spirit bent his brow—and tears

The first which he had shed for years,

Fell burning from his eyes, forTHOUGHT

Had oped their overflowing cells,

Like wakened lightning which has sought

The cloud with all its liquid spells.

He wept—as he had wept of old⁠—When sudden through the gloomy airA glorious gush of music roll’dAround those wretched spirits there;⁠—They started up with frantic eyesWild-glancing to their sullen skies:And still the angel-anthem wentRejoicing ’round that firmament;And shining harps were sparkling throughThe cloud-rifts—held by seraph-formsOh! lovely as the loveliest hueOf rainbows curled on buried storms.

He wept—as he had wept of old⁠—

When sudden through the gloomy air

A glorious gush of music roll’d

Around those wretched spirits there;⁠—

They started up with frantic eyes

Wild-glancing to their sullen skies:

And still the angel-anthem went

Rejoicing ’round that firmament;

And shining harps were sparkling through

The cloud-rifts—held by seraph-forms

Oh! lovely as the loveliest hue

Of rainbows curled on buried storms.

Faint and more faint the music grows⁠—Yet how entrancing in its close⁠—Sweeter! oh sweeter than the hymnOf an enthusiast who has givenHis anthem forth, at twilight dim,And hopes with it to float to heaven.

Faint and more faint the music grows⁠—

Yet how entrancing in its close⁠—

Sweeter! oh sweeter than the hymn

Of an enthusiast who has given

His anthem forth, at twilight dim,

And hopes with it to float to heaven.

And see, where yonder tempests meet,The rapid glance of silver feet⁠—The last of that refulgent trainWho leave this desolated sphere;Oh! not for them such realms ofPainWhereCrimestands tremblingly byFear:⁠—They’re gone,AND ALL IS DARK AGAIN.

And see, where yonder tempests meet,

The rapid glance of silver feet⁠—

The last of that refulgent train

Who leave this desolated sphere;

Oh! not for them such realms ofPain

WhereCrimestands tremblingly byFear:⁠—

They’re gone,AND ALL IS DARK AGAIN.

[End of Part First.]

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