THE HAUNTED HEART.

———

BY MISS MARY L. LAWSON.

———

’Tis true he ever lingers at her side,But mark the wandering glances of his eye:A lover near a fond and plighted bride,With less of love than sorrow in his sigh!And well it is for her, that gentle maid,Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears,She deems not her devotion is repaidWith deep repinings o’er life’s early years.For oft another’s image fills his breast,E’en when he breathes to her love’s tender vow;While her soft hand within his own is prest,And timid blushes mantle her young brow,Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past,Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears;In vain from out his soul he strives to castOne shadowy form—the love of early years.Ne’er from his heart the vision fades away;Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone,The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day,Bring to his mind the happiness that’s flown;A tone of song, the warbling of the birds,The simplest thing that memory endears,Can still recall the form, the voice, the wordsOf her, the best beloved of early years.He dares not seek the spot where first they met,Too dangerous for his only hope of rest,His strong, but fruitless effort to forgetThose scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast;And yet the quiet beauty of the groveAll plainly to his restless mind appears,Where, as the sun declined, he lov’d to roveWith her, the first fond dream of early years.He sees the stream, beside whose brink they strayed,Engross’d in converse sweet of coming hours,And watch’d the rippling currents as they played,In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers:And the old willow, ’neath whose spreading shadeShe own’d her love—again her voice he hears,He starts—alas! the vision only fadesTo leave regretful pangs for early years.It was his idle vanity that changedThe pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart,Whose faithful love, not even in thought had ranged,But worship’d him, from all the world apart;Now cold and altered is her beaming eye,And no fond hope his aching bosom cheersThat she will shed one tear or breathe one sighFor him she lov’d so well in early years.He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn,He questions not the justice of his fate,For long had she his selfish caprice borne,And wounded pride first taught her how to hate.Oh! ye who cast away a heart’s deep love,Remember, ere affection disappears,That keen reproachful throbs your soul may moveLike his who lives to mourn life’s early years.

’Tis true he ever lingers at her side,

But mark the wandering glances of his eye:

A lover near a fond and plighted bride,

With less of love than sorrow in his sigh!

And well it is for her, that gentle maid,

Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears,

She deems not her devotion is repaid

With deep repinings o’er life’s early years.

For oft another’s image fills his breast,E’en when he breathes to her love’s tender vow;While her soft hand within his own is prest,And timid blushes mantle her young brow,Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past,Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears;In vain from out his soul he strives to castOne shadowy form—the love of early years.

For oft another’s image fills his breast,

E’en when he breathes to her love’s tender vow;

While her soft hand within his own is prest,

And timid blushes mantle her young brow,

Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past,

Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears;

In vain from out his soul he strives to cast

One shadowy form—the love of early years.

Ne’er from his heart the vision fades away;Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone,The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day,Bring to his mind the happiness that’s flown;A tone of song, the warbling of the birds,The simplest thing that memory endears,Can still recall the form, the voice, the wordsOf her, the best beloved of early years.

Ne’er from his heart the vision fades away;

Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone,

The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day,

Bring to his mind the happiness that’s flown;

A tone of song, the warbling of the birds,

The simplest thing that memory endears,

Can still recall the form, the voice, the words

Of her, the best beloved of early years.

He dares not seek the spot where first they met,Too dangerous for his only hope of rest,His strong, but fruitless effort to forgetThose scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast;And yet the quiet beauty of the groveAll plainly to his restless mind appears,Where, as the sun declined, he lov’d to roveWith her, the first fond dream of early years.

He dares not seek the spot where first they met,

Too dangerous for his only hope of rest,

His strong, but fruitless effort to forget

Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast;

And yet the quiet beauty of the grove

All plainly to his restless mind appears,

Where, as the sun declined, he lov’d to rove

With her, the first fond dream of early years.

He sees the stream, beside whose brink they strayed,Engross’d in converse sweet of coming hours,And watch’d the rippling currents as they played,In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers:And the old willow, ’neath whose spreading shadeShe own’d her love—again her voice he hears,He starts—alas! the vision only fadesTo leave regretful pangs for early years.

He sees the stream, beside whose brink they strayed,

Engross’d in converse sweet of coming hours,

And watch’d the rippling currents as they played,

In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers:

And the old willow, ’neath whose spreading shade

She own’d her love—again her voice he hears,

He starts—alas! the vision only fades

To leave regretful pangs for early years.

It was his idle vanity that changedThe pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart,Whose faithful love, not even in thought had ranged,But worship’d him, from all the world apart;Now cold and altered is her beaming eye,And no fond hope his aching bosom cheersThat she will shed one tear or breathe one sighFor him she lov’d so well in early years.

It was his idle vanity that changed

The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart,

Whose faithful love, not even in thought had ranged,

But worship’d him, from all the world apart;

Now cold and altered is her beaming eye,

And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers

That she will shed one tear or breathe one sigh

For him she lov’d so well in early years.

He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn,He questions not the justice of his fate,For long had she his selfish caprice borne,And wounded pride first taught her how to hate.Oh! ye who cast away a heart’s deep love,Remember, ere affection disappears,That keen reproachful throbs your soul may moveLike his who lives to mourn life’s early years.

He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn,

He questions not the justice of his fate,

For long had she his selfish caprice borne,

And wounded pride first taught her how to hate.

Oh! ye who cast away a heart’s deep love,

Remember, ere affection disappears,

That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move

Like his who lives to mourn life’s early years.

SHAKSPEARE.

———

BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.

———

A few more words on Macbeth as a work of art. There is a scene so trifling that, to such as are not prepared to look for meaning in our poet’s lightest word, it might seem almost superfluous. The “noble Macbeth” has returned from the battle where his victorious arm has saved his king and country. His heart is opened by the dangerous influence of prosperity, amid the high-beating joys of which the enemy of mankind has insinuated hopes of a deeper, more audacious, and guilty nature; but as yet they are but as hidden serpents beneath the flowers. The two scenes of the witches have been thrown in—like sublime strains of music from which an opera is to take its character, chilling the mind with vague and startling apprehensions. All this is done with a few strokes from the terrible master-hand.

A part of the effect produced by the commencement of this immense tragedy is owing to the contrast of the two mighty antagonist principles of human life—earthly good, on the one side, smiling in the sunshine, and allowing all who trust it to a full and fatal confidence, and, on the other,evilwhich an omnipotent and inscrutable Deity has placed in a mysterious juxtaposition, like a huge Maelstrom, and from which arises the necessity of ceaseless watchfulness and the energetic exercise of the moral faculties. We have all that, to an earthly mind, is noble, great, exciting and beautiful. Military glory is the idol which mankind has the most blindly worshiped. It has no good effect on the moral nature, but, on the contrary, has a tendency to inflate the soul with vain confidence and to give the man that most paltry and foolish of all weaknesses—a pompous idea of his own greatness. Military glory, then, at its height, appears to us at the outset of Macbeth. The brave, patriotic warrior has crushed the rebel and hurled back the invader from his country’s shore. The acclamations of the multitude hail the victor as he returns. He is for the moment invested with the moral glory of a Washington or a Cincinnatus. Not only does the nation he has saved regard him with delight and affection, but the king himself has no words to express his gratitude, and heaps him at once with thanks, honors and promises.

What a noble picture! The storm of war broken and passed away, leaving the political sky clearer than before—the good and venerable old king, whose great age does not permit him to share the dangers and glory of the actual combat, protected by the generous and brave hand of a faithful subject! The people’s apprehensions subside—the soldier returning to his field, the father embracing once more his wife and children—the hills and plains about to wave again with a plentiful harvest—the king left in safety and peace to form new benevolent plans for the security and happiness of his affectionate people—and Macbeth himself—at the pinnacle of a subject’s happiness—accompanied to his beautiful castle by his royal and grateful master—promoted in rank—improved in fortune—the favorite of his king—the savior of his country—what could Providence bestow more to make the world an Eden?

At this moment (Oh Earth! how true a shadowing forth it is of thy delusive and fatal snares!) the audience hear the tones of another world—the finger of another destiny, as unlike that which has charmed the minds of the multitudes whom we may suppose to have welcomed the conquering Macbeth, as was the hand which traced thewriting on the wallat the feast of Belshazzar. At this moment, hovering in the air, the shadow gathers, and the destructive, the corrupting principle, inherent in human things—and which man was sent on earth to watch for and to cope with—falls across the path of the hero; dark and obvious enough to have betrayed to him his danger, had he been a pure and a pious man, but, through its withered and hideous disguise, appealing to his weakness—to his worst passions—with a fascinating power and a bewildering and intoxicating promise.

The colossal dimensions of this tragedy are one of its awful features. In it, Inverness is the world, the witches are sin, and Macbeth is the proud, aspiring representative of weak mortality, when unsupported by religion. The scene to which I have alluded above, and to which I call the reader’s attention, comes in amidst massive interests with such a minuteness of finish, and playfulness and sweetness of fancy, that one is struck with it as with some of those accidents accompanying great events in real life, and from their very insignificance contrasting with a tremendous power—a bird warbling—a violet blowing—or a limpid brook singing on its happy journey where a great battle is about to be fought; or an infant unconsciously smiling on the bosom of a dying father.

Macbeth has seen the weird sisters, has listened to their prophecy, has found one of their predictions verified. HeisThane of Cawdor! He has caught the dazzling dream of royalty with an eager and a determined hand. He has begun to weave in his ambitious brain the web of his vast designs. He has not only conceived—he hasyieldedto the dire suggestion whose horrid image unfixed his hair and made his “seated heart knock at his ribs,” against the use of nature. He has invoked the stars to hide their fires, that “light” may not see his “black and deep desires.” He has met his sinful and earthly wife, and in the interchange of a few portentous words, understood even before spoken, (for there is a freemasonry of guilt as well as of innocence and honor) he has resolved upon deep hypocrisy, prompt action, and the most tremendous guilt. That very night is to become memorable in the history of their lives and of the world, by a deed of eternal wo. The sun, now rolling calmly and brightly to his golden rest, is never to behold again the forth-going of the silver-haired old monarch, who, with his happy and triumphant suite, approaches the sweet castle of Inverness; and the raven has been, (by the deep conjuration of the blackest of human hearts,) supposedhoarsewith ominous croakings at the sight of the happy and confiding king entering beneath those battlements.

With what consummate skill these innumerable ideas are presented to our imagination, and then (and here is the passage) what a transition from the gloomy and horrid depths of the corrupt human heart, to the perfume, radiance, tranquility, picturesqueness, and ever-soothing routine of external nature.

Hautboys, servants of Macbeth attending. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lenox, Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and attendants.

Duncan.This castle hath a pleasant seat; the airNimbly and sweetly recommends itselfUnto our gentle senses.Banquo.This guest of summer,The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,By his lov’d mansionry, that the heaven’s breathSmells wooingly here: no jutty frieze,Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this birdHath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle;Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,The air is delicate.

Duncan.This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself

Unto our gentle senses.

Banquo.This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,

By his lov’d mansionry, that the heaven’s breath

Smells wooingly here: no jutty frieze,

Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird

Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle;

Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,

The air is delicate.

Enter Lady Macbeth.Duncan.See, see! our honor’d hostess!The love that follows us, sometime is our trouble,Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you,How you shall bid God yield us for your pains,And thank us for your trouble.Lady.All our service,In every point twice done, and then done double,Were poor and single business, to contend,Against those honors, deep and broad, wherewithYour majesty loads our house: for those of old,And the late dignities heap’d up to them,We rest your hermits.Dun.Where’s the Thane of Cawdor?We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purposeTo be his purveyor:but he rides well;And hisgreat love, sharp as his spur, hath holp himTo his home before us:fair and noble hostess,We are your guest to night.Lady.Your servants everHave theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,Still to return your own.Dun.Give me your hand:Conduct me to mine host;we love him highly,And shall continue our graces towards him.By your leave, hostess.

Enter Lady Macbeth.

Duncan.See, see! our honor’d hostess!

The love that follows us, sometime is our trouble,

Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you,

How you shall bid God yield us for your pains,

And thank us for your trouble.

Lady.All our service,

In every point twice done, and then done double,

Were poor and single business, to contend,

Against those honors, deep and broad, wherewith

Your majesty loads our house: for those of old,

And the late dignities heap’d up to them,

We rest your hermits.

Dun.Where’s the Thane of Cawdor?

We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose

To be his purveyor:but he rides well;

And hisgreat love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him

To his home before us:fair and noble hostess,

We are your guest to night.

Lady.Your servants ever

Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,

To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,

Still to return your own.

Dun.Give me your hand:

Conduct me to mine host;we love him highly,

And shall continue our graces towards him.

By your leave, hostess.

When I read the sleep-walking scene of Lady Macbeth, I think that the most perfect piece of writing ever seen in profane literature. When I fall upon the above, it appears to me that is the most delicate and exquisite in the whole range of our author’s works. Is it possible that the same tremendous hand which painted the royal tigress, at length cowed by the aspect of another world, has drawn, with a pencil of air, this lovely and inexpressibly soft scene, where the perfume of a balmy atmosphere is fresh and soothing on your forehead, and in your nostril, and where the eye as well as the smell and ear (for I can hear the breeze murmur among the green branches, and the screams of joy uttered by those temple-haunting birds as they chase each other down the air,) is filled with delight. What a warm and living picture it is, with the fewest possible words! An old castle pleasantly situated—its massive turrets look down over a peaceful, rural scene, the pure-scented air recommending itself sweetly and nimbly to our gentle senses! Who that has spent six or eight hours of the early morning at a sedentary occupation, in a room, till the senses were wearied and the limbs ached with sitting—and the lungs played languishingly and the blood moved sluggishly—and the pulse beat feebly with exhaustion—who has not, on going forth, felt this soothing sensation, as some pleasant landscape spread its tranquil and soft-colored beauties before his eye, some picturesque building broke the sameness of the picture by its bold outlines in the foreground, the ever happy birds darting about the house eaves—and the life-breathing, cool, odorous air filling his veins with sweet impulses, stirring all that is agreeable in his heart, cooling the fever of the heated brain, and sending off, with its benign blessing, a world of sad feelings or melancholy forebodings.

In three lines we have this effect; and further, who expresses this pleasing, living thought—Duncan!the doomed victim of the assassin’s dagger. Yes, he feels the sweetness of nature, and he feels it forthe last time. Look around thee, old man; those swells of verdant ground, those murmuring and soft waving trees, those shadows thickening and blackening as the eye pierces into the wood, this blue and bending sky with a few sleeping, fleecy clouds, thou shalt never see them more. Nature, always so tender and exquisite, has new and unutterable charms when we are never to behold it again.

ThenBanquoacknowledges the softening influence of the scene.

Banquo.This guest of summer,The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breathSmells wooingly here: no jutty frieze,Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this birdHath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,The air is delicate.

Banquo.This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,

By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath

Smells wooingly here: no jutty frieze,

Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird

Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:

Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,

The air is delicate.

Here is a picture which the reader sees as if by mere accident, and the imagination follows out each hint and goes from one salient point to another till the life-like scene rises before it. The luxuriancy and blandness of summer, the beautiful martlets filling the air as we have watched them with boyish delight a thousand times, with their noisy joy. They never appear so pretty as when coming in and out of their nests under the eaves of a house or barn, and still more in the buttresses and angles of an old castle. “Their loved mansionry” gives an additional impression of the beauty their “pendent beds and procreant cradles” add to the rough old castle which itself is brought finely out from the canvass by the light reflecting from each jutty frieze, buttress and coigne of vantage.

Banquo continues the remark with a thought expressive of an observing, nature-loving mind returning, with new pleasure, to the repose of peace and the thoughts and the occupations which there have room to unfold themselves, after the bloody tumult of brutal war.

I do not know, but I suppose it must be a truth in natural history, that the birds spoken of generally build their nests where the air is purest. See, also, the superior charm which the little observation possesses, from the lips of this noble soldier, dropped in a peaceful, sunshiny moment, skilfully thrown in after the furious storms of war, and before the yet more frightful tempest of guilt which is speedily to fall like a thunderbolt upon this group of human beings, apparently so far removed from danger, and about to commence a new era of contentment.

Remark here the people collected in a circle beneath the dark frowning battlements of the war-like castle now bathed in summer light, and in the natural ease and gentle satisfaction of their hearts discussing such beautiful trifles as, however graceful and soothing, the busy warriors of those rude times had but small time to occupy themselves with. Who are they? what are their fates? Alas they are but too striking types of their fellow creatures who in the midst of life are in death. Duncan’s hours are numbered. Beneath the walls of the castle which his aged eyes survey with such admiration—whose strong turrets and picturesque buttresses are now painted with the golden light of a calm summer afternoon—which he expects to enter to a banquet, and from which he intends to go forth in the morning with renewed hope and happiness—beneath those dire walls in a few hours is to take place a scene, the farthest possible removed from his suspicions, and he is to be called, like Hamlet, without any reckoning, into the presence of his God. Thus under the crushing and unpausing hand of Destiny the good and the bad go down alike in a world through whichhewill pass most easily who builds his hopes elsewhere.

Banquo too is a good man. You even perceive, in those few words, that he has a delicacy of nature which has perhaps preserved him pure from contaminating influences and illusive temptations. He too is marked, without demerit of his own, to go down beneath the wheels of the dreadful impending event.

He too, in a few brief days, is doomed to be cut off—thrust headlong into eternity, while guilt remains unhurt and triumphs in the successful execution of all its plans.

For Macduff—the pious—lion-hearted—affectionate Macduff, is prepared a fate, if possible, yet more awful. His castle—the scene of many a happy hour, many a fond and merry family sport, is about to be surprised. His wife, his babes “savagely slaughtered,”

“wife, children, servants,”

all that could be found, fiercely drawn down into the general ruin which the sinful heart of one man spreads around him. How truly is mortality painted in these events! How plainly we see what stuff life is made of! and how sternly are we taught the folly of supposing the end of man to be “here, on this bank and shoal of time.”

Malcolm, Donalbain, Rosse, and Angus, driven from their country by terror of the bloody tyrant—(now the beloved and trusted of all)—and lastly Lenox, whom we find at a later period in attendance on Macbeth, and the witness of his bursts of guilty and ferocious desperation, but at length joined with the advancing enemy.

Into the midst of this circle, on the brink of ruin when they think themselves most secure,enters Lady Macbeth. Her mere appearance touches a chord of terror in the soul of the reader, although they whom she addresses view her with very different feelings. The unsuspecting king greets in her his “honored hostess,” and pours out upon her a heart full of gratitude and love. The cruel hypocrite—so firm in the anticipation of guilt, so haughtily superior to all the prejudices of superstition—allthe idle dreams of religion and a Providence—yet so ignorant of their real nature and destined to be so thoroughly wrecked in the tempest her rash hand is so eager to raise—replies with shameful effrontery and mature wickedness:

“all our service,In every point twice done, and then done double,Were poor and single business, to contendAgainst those honors deep and broad, wherewithYour majesty loads our house.”

“all our service,

In every point twice done, and then done double,

Were poor and single business, to contend

Against those honors deep and broad, wherewith

Your majesty loads our house.”

In the concluding part of the scene remark how admirably are drawn the profound hypocrisy of Lady Macbeth and the entire confidence and deeply deceived friendship of the unsuspecting king.

“Where’s the Thane of Cawdor!We coursed him at the heels and had a purposeTo be his purveyor: but he rides well;And hisgreat love, sharp as his spur, hath holp himTo his home before us:fair and noble hostess,We are your guest to night.Lady.Your servants everHave theirs,themselves, andwhat is theirs, in comptTo make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,Still to return your own.King.Give me your hand:Conduct me to mine host;we love him highly,And shallcontinue our graces towards him.”

“Where’s the Thane of Cawdor!

We coursed him at the heels and had a purpose

To be his purveyor: but he rides well;

And hisgreat love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him

To his home before us:fair and noble hostess,

We are your guest to night.

Lady.Your servants ever

Have theirs,themselves, andwhat is theirs, in compt

To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,

Still to return your own.

King.Give me your hand:

Conduct me to mine host;we love him highly,

And shallcontinue our graces towards him.”

Thus it is with man. All around us is deceit. We know not how to distinguish the false from the true. Duncan must have had more than human sagacity to suspect wile in the chivalric soldier who had just risked his life in his defence, or in the “fair and noble hostess” who received him beneath her roof with such apparent love, gratitude and veneration.

a sniffing a blossomJ. J. Jenkins. A. L. Dick.The Lady AliceEngraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.

J. J. Jenkins. A. L. Dick.

THE LADY ALICE.

———

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

———

In the early morning hour,When the dew was on the flower,From her fragrant couch aroseLady Alice, bright and fair!Free around her as the air,Spotless as the mountain snows,Garments in the night-time worn,Floated in the light of morn.Music, soft as angels hear,O’er the quiet waters came,And the voice, that met her ear,Warbled one beloved name.By her lattice, hushed she stoodIn a leaning attitude.Nothing lovelier to beholdEver greeted mortal eyes⁠—Saintly pictures, famed of old,Gems of genius, set in gold,Matchless forms in shape and size!Nearer now the strain is heard⁠—Starts she, like a frightened bird;’Tis for her the song is sung,And for her, across the sea,Waves the signal merrily,From her lover’s pinnace flung!’Tis the hour, the promised hour,She should leave her maiden bower.. . . . . . . .She has donned her rich attire,She has left her father’s palace⁠—Has love so quenched her spirit’s fire?Is this the haughty Lady Alice?She, whose looks of high disdainBanished nobles from her train?See, adown the marble stairs,To the wave, the lady steal;Nothing now for pride she cares⁠—Love has taught her heart to feel.Idly rocks the slender mastO’er the silver billows now,But anon the foam will castJewels from the speeding prow;Soon, from vain pursuit afar,Softly will that pinnace glide,And the evening’s golden starSmile upon a happy bride.

In the early morning hour,

When the dew was on the flower,

From her fragrant couch arose

Lady Alice, bright and fair!

Free around her as the air,

Spotless as the mountain snows,

Garments in the night-time worn,

Floated in the light of morn.

Music, soft as angels hear,O’er the quiet waters came,And the voice, that met her ear,Warbled one beloved name.By her lattice, hushed she stoodIn a leaning attitude.Nothing lovelier to beholdEver greeted mortal eyes⁠—Saintly pictures, famed of old,Gems of genius, set in gold,Matchless forms in shape and size!

Music, soft as angels hear,

O’er the quiet waters came,

And the voice, that met her ear,

Warbled one beloved name.

By her lattice, hushed she stood

In a leaning attitude.

Nothing lovelier to behold

Ever greeted mortal eyes⁠—

Saintly pictures, famed of old,

Gems of genius, set in gold,

Matchless forms in shape and size!

Nearer now the strain is heard⁠—Starts she, like a frightened bird;’Tis for her the song is sung,And for her, across the sea,Waves the signal merrily,From her lover’s pinnace flung!’Tis the hour, the promised hour,She should leave her maiden bower.

Nearer now the strain is heard⁠—

Starts she, like a frightened bird;

’Tis for her the song is sung,

And for her, across the sea,

Waves the signal merrily,

From her lover’s pinnace flung!

’Tis the hour, the promised hour,

She should leave her maiden bower.

. . . . . . . .

She has donned her rich attire,She has left her father’s palace⁠—Has love so quenched her spirit’s fire?Is this the haughty Lady Alice?She, whose looks of high disdainBanished nobles from her train?See, adown the marble stairs,To the wave, the lady steal;Nothing now for pride she cares⁠—Love has taught her heart to feel.

She has donned her rich attire,

She has left her father’s palace⁠—

Has love so quenched her spirit’s fire?

Is this the haughty Lady Alice?

She, whose looks of high disdain

Banished nobles from her train?

See, adown the marble stairs,

To the wave, the lady steal;

Nothing now for pride she cares⁠—

Love has taught her heart to feel.

Idly rocks the slender mastO’er the silver billows now,But anon the foam will castJewels from the speeding prow;Soon, from vain pursuit afar,Softly will that pinnace glide,And the evening’s golden starSmile upon a happy bride.

Idly rocks the slender mast

O’er the silver billows now,

But anon the foam will cast

Jewels from the speeding prow;

Soon, from vain pursuit afar,

Softly will that pinnace glide,

And the evening’s golden star

Smile upon a happy bride.

THE SUNSET STORM.

———

BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.

———

The summer sun has sunk to restBelow the green-clad hills,And through the skies, careering fast,The storm-cloud rides upon the blast,And now the rain distills!The flash we see, the peal we hear,With winds blent in their wild career,Till pains the ear.It is the voice of the Storm KingRiding upon the Lightning’s wing,Leading his bannered hosts across the darkened sky,And drenching with his floods the sterile lands and dry.The wild beasts to their covers fly,The night birds flee from heaven,The dense black clouds that veil the sky,Darkening the vast expanse on high,By streaming fires are riven.Again the tempest’s thunder tone,The sounds from forests overthrown,Like trumpets blownDeep in the bosom of the storm,Proclaim His presence, in its form,Who doth the sceptre of the concave hold,Who freed the winds, and the vast clouds unrolled.The storms no more the skies invest,The winds are heard no more;Low in the chambers of the west,Whence they arose, they’ve sunk to rest;The sunset storm is o’er.The clouds that were so wildly drivenAcross the darkened brow of heavenAre gone, and EvenComes in her mild and sober guise,Her perfumed air, her trembling skies,And Luna, with her star-gemmed, glorious crown,From her high throne in heaven, upon the world looks down.

The summer sun has sunk to rest

Below the green-clad hills,

And through the skies, careering fast,

The storm-cloud rides upon the blast,

And now the rain distills!

The flash we see, the peal we hear,

With winds blent in their wild career,

Till pains the ear.

It is the voice of the Storm King

Riding upon the Lightning’s wing,

Leading his bannered hosts across the darkened sky,

And drenching with his floods the sterile lands and dry.

The wild beasts to their covers fly,The night birds flee from heaven,The dense black clouds that veil the sky,Darkening the vast expanse on high,By streaming fires are riven.Again the tempest’s thunder tone,The sounds from forests overthrown,Like trumpets blownDeep in the bosom of the storm,Proclaim His presence, in its form,Who doth the sceptre of the concave hold,Who freed the winds, and the vast clouds unrolled.

The wild beasts to their covers fly,

The night birds flee from heaven,

The dense black clouds that veil the sky,

Darkening the vast expanse on high,

By streaming fires are riven.

Again the tempest’s thunder tone,

The sounds from forests overthrown,

Like trumpets blown

Deep in the bosom of the storm,

Proclaim His presence, in its form,

Who doth the sceptre of the concave hold,

Who freed the winds, and the vast clouds unrolled.

The storms no more the skies invest,The winds are heard no more;Low in the chambers of the west,Whence they arose, they’ve sunk to rest;The sunset storm is o’er.The clouds that were so wildly drivenAcross the darkened brow of heavenAre gone, and EvenComes in her mild and sober guise,Her perfumed air, her trembling skies,And Luna, with her star-gemmed, glorious crown,From her high throne in heaven, upon the world looks down.

The storms no more the skies invest,

The winds are heard no more;

Low in the chambers of the west,

Whence they arose, they’ve sunk to rest;

The sunset storm is o’er.

The clouds that were so wildly driven

Across the darkened brow of heaven

Are gone, and Even

Comes in her mild and sober guise,

Her perfumed air, her trembling skies,

And Luna, with her star-gemmed, glorious crown,

From her high throne in heaven, upon the world looks down.

WASTE PAPER;

OR “TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR.”

———

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

———

“Good bye, Vivian, don’t fall in love till you see Miss Walton. God bless you, my dear boy!” And Vivian Russell shook his kind uncle warmly by the hand and sprung into the stage coach, which was waiting for him at the gate. “All right!” said the guard—the bluff coachman smacked his whip, and away they sped along the road to London.

They will not fly so fast, but that you and I, sweet reader, can overtake them when we list, though the swift steeds of Fancy must be harnessed for the purpose. To please you, then, we will follow them anon. In the mean time, sit you down by my side on this sunny bank, opposite the gate, where Vivian’s uncle still stands and gazes after the fast receding vehicle, and I will tell you all I know about him. You had time to see, ere he took his seat in the coach, that he was a tall, nobly formed youth, possessing, in an eminent degree, what the French call, “Un air distingué.” You could not but notice the thin silky intellectual looking curls, which waved on his classical head, (don’t laugh at the word “intellectual!”) Think a moment! Is there not expression even in hair? Does not thick, bushy,stubbyhair, especially if it curl, give you an idea of dullness, sensuality and want of refinement? If it doesn’t, my precious reader, take my word for it, you don’t see with your “mind’s eye,” or at any rate, withmymind’s eye. Did you observehiseyes? They are black, brilliant and expressive, full of that great rarity, in this whig and tory world, soul. His complexion is glowing and slightly brown by exposure. There is a dimple in his chin, his nose is just like that of the Apollo Belvidere, and his forehead, how shall I describe its beauty? broad, white, spiritual, beaming with thought, I cannot do it justice. There is the least perceptible curl on his beautiful lip; but you cannot see it when he smiles; for his smile is tenderness itself. In his manly bearing too, there is, perhaps, a dash of aristocratic haughtiness, at first, but it soon wears away upon acquaintance. The difficulty is tobecomeacquainted with him; I defy a dull or a vulgar person to do it.

The cheerful, healthy looking old gentleman, who is just turning from the gate towards that white house among the trees, is, as I told you, his uncle. Vivian’s parents died during his childhood, and left him to this uncle’s care. He has just returned from abroad, come of age,—taken possession of his paternal estates,—left the old gentleman to look after it, in his absence, and gone for the first time to pass a month or two amid the gaieties of the metropolis. And now let us after him with what speed we may.

See! there is my friend, Fancy; just in time! descending in her opal chariot, drawn by a score of peacocks, which fly or creep, as the wayward goddess wills. Her rainbow scarf flutters in the air, her wild blue eyes sparkle with excitement, as she beckons us towards her. Give me your hand, sweet reader! so, one bound, and we are safe by her side; and now we too are on our road to London, and our vehicle glances like a meteor through the air. Since then we are so comfortablyen route, let me just explain my motive for having been, as some will think, unnecessarily minute in my description of our hero. It was because I wished my young lady readers,—for whom this story is especially intended, to be interested in him, and I thought the surest way of making them so, was to let them trace, in his person as well as mind, a remarkable resemblance to some favored acquaintance of their own. Have I succeeded? Mary, Caroline, Julia, Isabel! Is he not the “perfectimage” of—you know who? There—don’t blush, dear! I won’t tell. “Revenons à nos moutons.” Hey day! what have we here? A traveling chariot broken down in the road! Our friend Vivian bearing a lady in his arms towards the neighboring inn, which the stage coach has already reached! An old gentleman, probably her father, staring and hurrying after them as fast as the gout will let him, and the servants, postilions &c., busy in untackling the horses and righting the injured vehicle. We won’t stop to inquire the cause of the accident. Fancy will tell us that at her leisure. Let us enter the inn.

——

“My dear Margaret, are you well enough to proceed?” said the old gentleman to his daughter.

“Oh! yes—papa!—quite well—” and she rose to tie on her bonnet. “But, papa!”—Margaret hesitated and blushed⁠—

“Well, child! what now?”

“Don’t you think before we go, we should thank the young man, who so politely assisted me?”

“Fudge! we shall have time enough to thank him,—we must go in the same coach. I can’t stay here all night to have the chariot repaired. Come, child!”

They took their seats in the coach; Vivian entered after them and found himself opposite the dark-eyed girl, who had been thrown from the chariot, fortunately without injury, and whom he had carried half fainting to the inn. By her side was her father, and by Vivian’s side, a spruce and fidgetty youth, a would-be exquisite, daintily arrayed as that peculiar race are wont to be.

The refreshed horses galloped steadily forward; the first mile-stone was passed; and poor Margaret’s graceful neck really began to ache,—she had looked so long out of the opposite window, to avoid Vivian’s earnest, though half furtive gaze. So she calmly drew from her pocket a suspicious looking twist of a billet, and, drooping her dark lashes, began gravely and assiduously to tear it into small bits, placing them carefully in a bag which hung upon her arm.

And now Vivian could indulge his passionate fondness for the beautiful to his heart’s content; for the old gentleman was fast asleep, and Margaret only once raised her eyes, and, meeting his, dropped them again to her work, while a swift, bright blush stole up for a moment to her cheek, and left it pale as before. Her countenance was singularly beautiful. It was not dark, but there was a soft, mellow, sunny tone all over it, which, with her glossy, raven braids, rosy mouth, and long black lashes, produced a strangely rich effect. She wore a dark and very elegant traveling habit fitting closely to her beautiful bust; while a bonnet of ruby velvet formed a striking contrast with her deep, bright eyes and almost colorless cheek.

As she continued her employment, drawing from her pocket and disposing of note after note, Vivian could not but watch and admire the wonderful play of expression on the lip, brow and cheek before him.

It seemed to him, that he could trace, on that ever changing and ever eloquent countenance, the shadow of each succeeding thought, as it passed from her mind. Its prevailing expression was that of endearing tenderness and sweetness; but ever and anon,—a sudden arching of the lovely lip, a starry gleam of dimples on the cheek, and a momentary flash of irrepressible merriment through the fringing lashes of the half raised hazel eyes, betrayed that mirth was making holiday in her heart. But why? And to whom was that sportive glance directed? Not to Vivian, alas! but to the stranger at his side; and though he had never seen the lady before—had not been introduced, and was ignorant even of her name, a pang of jealousy shot like an icicle through his heart, at the thought. But when he turned to look upon the object of the fair girl’s evident enjoyment—he too smiled involuntarily. Nearly all the scraps of paper, that escaped from the slight fingers of Margaret, had alighted on the precious habiliments of the beau, who, when Vivian turned, was busily employed in brushing them off, with a look of solemn distress, that was irresistibly ludicrous. Alas for the dandy! His was an endless task. He had no sooner succeeded in disengaging the intruders from one part of his dress, than they flew to another, and at last dared to settle even in those shining and scented locks, which he had taken off his hat to display. This was too much. He put up both his hands. He shook himself. He tried to look up to his own hair! As a last resource, he contrived to raise his enormous mouth and blow upwards into his curls! Imagine, reader, that long and stupid face, in the awkward position I have described! The head bent, the almost white eyebrows elevated, the chin depressed, the under lip protruded and the lugubrious looking youth pulling with all his might! It was all in vain, and growing desperate, the hapless dandy meekly leaned towards Vivian, and said—“May I troubleyou, sir?”

Our hero returned his imploring look with one of petrifying hauteur.——“Did you address yourself to me, sir?”

“Yes, sir!—I—I—would you be so good, sir, as to—to⁠—”

“Well, sir?”

“In short, sir, will you have the goodness to release my hair from the white favors, with which the young lady opposite has been so kind as to honor me?” Vivian bowed low and replied with equal solemnity, “Sir, I beg to inform you, that I have never been so thoroughly initiated into the mysteries of a barber’s vocation, as to do justice to your hyacinthine ringlets.” So saying, the haughty youth turned once more to gaze at his lovelyvis-à-vis.

She was looking very demure, pursing her pretty mouth, and quietly bending her dark eyes upon the paper, which, she took care, should no longer annoy her fellow traveler. Vivian gazed at her with mingled surprise and admiration. What could be the meaning of her strange occupation? He would not condescend to feel inquisitive; yet he could not help fancying it was some clandestine correspondence, which she was ashamed to have known, but with which she could not bear to part altogether. When once this idea had taken possession of his mind, he could not dismiss it, and he was just working himself up into a most unreasonable fit of anger with his unconscious and unoffending companion, when, to his dismay, the coach stopped at the Saracen’s Head in London, and he was obliged to bid the lady a reluctant good-morning, without a hope of ever seeing her again.

The truth is, he was desperately in love for the first time in his life, and a thousand times did he lament his carelessness, in not having endeavored to discover her name and residence in town. All the information he could gather from her conversation with her father was, that they were hurrying home from the country in expectation of a visit from a friend.

The first fortnight after his arrival was spent in vain inquiries among his friends about the fair engrosser of his thoughts. As he was ignorant of her name, he could of course obtain no information with regard to her.

One morning, at breakfast, he received a letter from his uncle; but before I apprise my reader of its contents, I must state a fact which has hitherto been forgotten, namely, that one object of our hero’s journey had been to fulfill an engagement, which his uncle had made for him, to pass a few weeks in the neighborhood of London, at Walton Hall, the residence of an old friend of his father’s, whom he had never seen. He had half promised his uncle that he would give but three days to the novelties of the metropolis, previous to the promised visit. The following is an extract from the old gentleman’s letter.

“My dear boy, I have just received a letter from my old friend Walton, in which he expresses his surprise that you have not yet made your appearance at Walton Hall. I am anxious and disappointed at this, for I have been fancying you already deeply in love with my pet Maggie, and indeed I dreamed last night that I saw you together,” etc., etc.

One of Vivian’s virtues was decision, and another was energy. Without the latter, the first would be almost valueless. Ere two hours had elapsed, he was seated in the drawing-room at Walton Hall, awaiting the appearance of its owner. He recalled, with some misgivings, the contents of his uncle’s letter. “He has set his heart upon my marriage with Miss Walton, and I have set mine upon this bewitching unknown. My poor, kind uncle! I regret his disappointment. I dare say Miss Margaret is a very nice, well-behaved young person, but my affections are irrevocably devoted to another, and it can never be!” Just as he came to this sublime conclusion, he heard a far off voice, the very first tone of which he could not help loving, it was so sweet, so rich, and seemed so fresh from the heart. It was warbling snatches of a simple ballad, one only sentence of which he could distinctly hear; but that sentence he never forgot⁠—

One only she loved, and forever!She wore an invisible chainThat Pride wildly struggled to sever;And daily more deep grew the pain!“Ah, vain,” she would sigh, “each endeavor!”And Echo still answered “in vain!”

One only she loved, and forever!

She wore an invisible chain

That Pride wildly struggled to sever;

And daily more deep grew the pain!

“Ah, vain,” she would sigh, “each endeavor!”

And Echo still answered “in vain!”

And as the voice sang, it came nearer and nearer, and did not cease till the singer, a beautiful girl, tripping gaily into the room, beheld and, blushing deeply, curtsied to our hero. Could he believe his eyes? “It is—it is⁠—”

“Miss Walton,” said the lady, finishing the sentence for him, and recovering instantly her self-possession. “You wish to see my father? I will send him to you immediately;” and she glided from the room, leaving poor Vivian in doubt whether he were dreaming or awake. If awake, then were the half-dreaded Miss Walton and the lovely unknown of the stage-coach one and the same person! And he had wasted a whole precious fortnight, that he might have passed in her society! Well, he would make the most of hispresentvisit at any rate; and so thinking, he made his best bow to Mr. Walton, who now entered, and who, most cordially shaking hands with him, welcomed him to Walton Hall, as the son of his oldest and dearest friend.

“When you sent up your card,” continued he, “I little thought that I should find in Vivian Russell the youth who so kindly assisted my daughter when our chariot was overturned. I regret that we did not know you then; but we must make up for lost time. Your uncle promised me a long visit from you, and I trust you have come to fulfill the promise.” After a short conversation, Vivian agreed to return in time for breakfast the next day, and remain for several weeks.

——

“Down, Vivian, down!” exclaimed Margaret Walton, as she entered the breakfast room, from the lawn, and gracefully welcomed Mr. Vivian Russell to the Hall. The dog had been named and presented to her father, by our hero’s uncle, a short time before; and Vivian thought he had never known the mimic of his own name, till now, when pronounced by that sweet and playful voice. Margaret seemed to him lovelier than ever, in her plain white robe, her color heightened by exercise, and a few wild flowers, carelessly wound into the soft braids of her hair.

“Papa is a late riser, Mr. Russell, and we must wait breakfast for him; but he will soon be down now—” as she spoke, she seated herself, and began, with an arch, sidelong glance at Vivian, who could not repress a smile—yes! actually began, to tear in pieces another of those tormenting little notes!

“Hum!” said Vivian to himself, “the clandestine correspondence goes swimmingly on, it seems. I will think of her no more.”

“Think of her no more!” He thought of nothing else all that day and the next and the next; and each day with a more fervent and impassioned devotion! She was so mild, yet so noble!—so tenderly beautiful! he half worshiped her already. And yet those papers. He detested deceit from his soul. Falsehood, equivocation, deception of any kind, from a child he had been too proud to stoop to them; and here he was, irretrievably in love with one who had evidently something wrong to conceal.

One day, the servant brought her a note—“From Sir George Elwyn, Miss.” A smile dimpled her cheek as she read, and then it shared the fate of many that had gone before it, and the bits were preserved as usual in the little basket by her side.

“This then,” thought Vivian, “is the secret! This Sir George, confound him! is the lover—the beloved!” And for three whole days after this wise conclusion did our hero sulk in silent misery; and for three whole days did the wondering Margaret weep, when alone, for his waywardness, and, when in his presence, laugh more gaily than ever, or curl her sweet lip, in maiden pride, at his moody replies to her attempts at conversation.

The third day was the sabbath, and as they walked home from church, a fine-looking young man passed on horseback, and bowed, with an air of “empressement,” to Miss Walton and her father. “He’s a confounded handsome fellow! don’t you think so, Vivian?” said Mr. Walton.

“Who, sir?” said Vivian with an abstracted air.

“The young man, who just passed, Sir George Elwyn. He is to dine with us, to-day.” Vivian started at the name and gazed earnestly at Margaret, who, of course, blushed as was her wont. That blush decided him. “I was right!” he exclaimed internally, and making a hurried excuse to leave them, he hastened by a shorter path to the house—wrote a note, in which, disclaiming dissimulation, he only begged his kind host to forgive his abrupt departure from the Hall, left it on his dressing-table, mounted his horse, and galloped back to town, thinking himself the most miserable fellow in existence.

——

“What the deuse!” exclaimed Mr. Walton, as he read the farewell billet of our hero—“Margaret,”—and he suddenly looked enlightened on the subject—“I hopeyouare not the cause of this!”

“I, sir!Ithe cause?” replied the conscious girl, with a very demure look of surprise—“What haveIdone?”

Her father could not well saywhatshe had done, so he said nothing; but he looked annoyed and sorry, and he found fault with the dinner.

That night Vivian Russell had a strange, and, as he thought, a very provoking dream. He thought he was toiling over brake and brier, in pursuit of Margaret’s paper basket, which hovered like a “will o’ the wisp” before him, and enticed him into all sorts of dangers, up hill and down, through bog and stream, till at last, when, on the top of a high mountain, he thought it just within his grasp, an angel-face gleamed for a moment from a low cloud close by, and a white arm, reaching out, snatched the treasure from his outstretched hand, and vanished with it from his sight!

For a week afterwards, our hero, wretched and restless, tried hard to forget the maiden and her folly, as he chose to term it; but her image would not leave him. Sleeping or waking, he saw her destroying, to conceal yet preserve, the billet-doux of the happy and handsome Sir George Elwyn.

“What a shameful waste of time!” he exclaimed one day in a sudden fit of virtuous indignation. “To be sure, she does a great deal else: She writes, reads, draws, sews for the poor, &c., &c.; but then many a moment, which might be more profitably employed, is squandered in this preposterous occupation, which she really seems to make a business of.”

“What a shameful waste of time!” whispered conscience in return. “To be sure you ride, lounge, sleep, eat, &c. &c., but then many a moment, which might be more profitably employed, is squandered in these preposterous reveries, which you really seem to make a business of.”

In one of his daily rides, Vivian felt himself irresistibly impelled towards the Hall, and after wandering for some time within sight of the house, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of its fair inhabitant, he strolled without any definite object into the village.

As he approached a low cottage, he saw a form, which he could not mistake, entering the door, followed by a footman. The door closed after them; but the window was open, and Vivian glanced in. ItwasMargaret! She was in the act of taking a pillow from the hand of her attendant. “See!” she said to the poor woman of the cottage, who was lying on a bed, looking very ill, “I have brought you another pillow. I hope it will ease your poor shoulders; it is softer than the last, for I tore the papers, with which it is stuffed, much finer;” and tenderly raising the invalid, she placed the pillow beneath her.

“The papers, with which it is stuffed! and this, then, is their destination! and Sir George’s note is in the old woman’s pillow! And I called it a waste of time!”

Vivian was half wild with joy and surprise. He staid to hear no more, but flew rather than walked back to the Hall, and contrived to make his peace with Mr. Walton, and accept an invitation for dinner, before the unconscious Margaret had returned from her errand of benevolence. As he saw her approach from the window, he hurried out to meet her, his face glowing with the joyous excitement of his discovery, and, hastily drawing her arm through his, exclaimed,—“I’m so happy! It is all right! I was quite mistaken; I’m so happy!” When she first recognized him, Margaret’s beautiful features lighted up, for a moment, with irrepressible joy; but the glow faded as she recalled the discourteous manner of his departure, and though she did not withdraw the arm he had taken, she received his protestations of happiness at their meeting, with a quiet dignity and reserve, which amply punished our impetuous lover for his fault. But though she would not deign to inquire inwhathe was mistaken, by degrees the reserve wore off beneath the genial and irresistible influence of Vivian’s frank and joyous demeanor, and for the rest of the day she allowed herself to be as happy as her heart bade her.

As our hero sat by her work-table after tea, a sudden thought came into his head. “I will see if my writing will share the fate of others,” said he to himself. And scribbling, upon some paper, the verse he had heard her sing on his first visit—beginning with, “One only I love and forever,” he cut it into small pieces and placed it on the table before her, at the same time laughingly pointing to the fatal basket. Margaret began to join the pieces, succeeded in the first line, colored, smiled as she read, and making a playful feint of putting them in the basket, threw them at last, with would-be carelessness, into a book, which lay open on the table.

Vivian’s heart beat high! and higher still, when, gently taking his pencil from his hand, she wrote on a card, and cut to pieces, the following lines, which after much puzzling he placed correctly together. “I sincerely congratulate the ‘one only.’ He or she, whichever it may be, will be happy certainly in theinvariabledevotion you display.”

Vivian bit his lip at the word “invariable;” for he remembered his fit of ill-humor. But he did not despair, he wrote again, as follows,⁠—

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