III.'Tis night,—a night by fits now foul, now fair,As speed the cloud-wracks through the gusty air:At times the wild blast dies—and high and far,Through chasms of cloud, looks down the solemn star—Or the majestic moon;—so watchfires markSome sleeping War dim-tented in the dark;Or so, through antique Chaos and the stormOf Matter, whirl'd and writhing into form,Pale angels peer'd!Anon, from brief reposeThe winds leap forth, the cloven deeps reclose;Mass upon mass, the hurtling vapours driven,As one huge blackness walls the earth from heaven!—In one of these brief lulls—you see, serene,The village church spire 'mid its mounds of green,The scattered roof-tops of the hamlet round,And the swoll'n rill that girds the holy ground.A plank that rock'd above the rushing wave,The dizzy pathway to a wanderer gave;There, as he paused, from the lone churchyard, slowEmerged a form the wanderer's eyes should know!It gains the opposing margent of the stream,Full on the face shines calm the crescent beam;It halts upon the bridge! Now, Indian, learnIf in thy soul the heathen yet can yearn!Swift runs the wave, the instinct and the hour,The lonely night, when evil thoughts have power,The foe before thee, and no things that liveTo witness vengeance—Canst thou still forgive?Scarce seen by each the face of each—when, deepO'er the lost moon, the cloud's loud surges sweep;Yea, as a sea devours the fated bark,Vanish'd the heaven, and closed the abyss of dark!You heard the roaring of the mighty blast,The groaning trees uprooted as it pass'dThe wrath and madness of the starless rill,Swell'd by each torrent rushing from the hill.The slight plank creaks—high mount the waves and high,Hark! with the tempest's shrieks the human cry!Upon the bridge butoneman now!—below,The night of waters and the drowning foe!The Indian heard the death-cry and the fall;Still o'er the wild scene hung the funeral pall!What eye can pierce the darkness of the wave?}What hand guide rescue through the roaring grave?}Not for such craven questions pause the brave!}Again the moon!—again the churchyard's green,Spire, hamlet, mead, and rill distinct are seen;But on the bridgenoform, no life! The beamShoots wan and broken on the tortured stream;Vague, indistinct, what yonder moveth o'erThe troubled tide, and struggles to the shore?Hark, where the sere bough of the tossing treeSnaps in the grasp of some strong agony,And the dull plunge, and stifled cry betrayWhere the grim water-fiend reclasps his prey!Still shines the moon—still halts the panting storm,It moves again—the shadow shapes to form,Lo! where yon bank shelves gradual, and the raySilvers the reed, it cleaves its vigorous way!—Saved from the deep, but happier far to save,The foeman wrests the foeman from the grave!Still shines the moon—still halts the storm!—aboveHis sons, looks down divine the Father-Love!Upon the Indian's breast droops Arden's head,Its marble beauty rigid as the dead.What skill so fondly tends the soul's eclipse,Chafes the stiff limb, and breathes in breathless lips?Wooes back the flickering life, and when, once more,The ebbing blood the wan cheek mantles o'er;When stirs the pulse, when opes the glazing eye,What voice of joy finds listeners in the sky?"Bless thee, my God!—this mercy thine!—he lives:Look in my heart, forgive, for it forgives!"Then, while yet clear the heaven, he flies—he gainsThe nearest roof—prompt aid his prayer obtains;Well known the noble stranger's mien—they bearTo the rude home, and ply the zealous care;Life with the dawn comes sure, if faint and slow,And all night long the foeman watch'd the foe!Day dawns on earth, still darkness wraps the mind;Sleep pass'd, the waking is a veil more blind:The soul, scared roughly from its mansion, glidesO'er mazy wastes through which the meteor guides.The startled menial, who, alone of allThe hireling pomp that swarms in Arden's hall,Attends his lord,—dismay'd lest one so high,A rural Galen should permit to die,Departs in haste to seek the subtler skillWhich from the College takes the right to kill;And summon Lucy to the solemn roomTo watch the father's life,—fast by the mother's tomb.Meanwhile such facile arts as nature yields,Draughts from the spring and simples from the fields,Learn'd in his savage youth, the Indian plies;The fever slakes, the cloudy darkness flies;O'er the vex'd vision steals the lulling rest,And Arden wakes to sense on Morvale's breast!On Morvale's breast!—and through the noiseless doorA fearful footfall creeps, and lo! once moreThou look'st, pale daughter, on thy father's foe!Not with the lurid eye and menaced blow;Not as when last, between the murtherous bladeAnd the proud victim, gleam'd the guardian maid—Thy post is his!—that breast the prop suppliesThat thine should yield;—as thine so watch those eyes,Wistful and moist, that waning life above;Recal the Heathen's hate!—behold the Christian's love!The learned leech proclaims the danger o'er;When life is safe, can Fate then harm no more?The danger past for Arden, but for youWho watch the couch, what danger threats anew?How meet in pious duty and fond care,In hours when through the eye the heart is bare?How join in those soft sympathies, and yetThe earlier link, the tenderer bond forget?How can the soul the magnet-charm withstand,When chance brings look to look, and hand to hand!No, Indian, no—if yet the power divineAbove the laws of our low world be thine;If yet the Honour which thy later creedSoftens, not quells, revere the injured dead,Fly, ere the full heart cries, "I love thee still"—And find thy guardian in the angel—WILL!That power was his!Along the landscape layThe hazy rime of winter's dawning day:Snake-like the curving mists betray'd the rill,The last star gleam'd upon the Eastern hill,Still slept beneath the leafless trees the herd;Still mute the sharp note of the sunless bird;No sound, no life; as to some hearth, bereftBy death, of welcome, since his wanderings left,Comes back the traveller;—so to earth, forlornReturns the ungreeted melancholy Morn.Forth from the threshold stole the Indian!—farSpread the dim land beneath the waning star.Alas! how wide the world his heart will findWho leaves one spot—the heart's true home, behind!He paused—one upward look upon the gloomOf the closed casement, the love-hallow'd room,Where yet, perchance, while happier Suffering sleptIts mournful vigil tender Duty kept;One prayer! What mercy taught us prayer?—as dewsOn drooping herbs—as sleep tired life renews,As dreams that lead, and lap our griefs in Heaven,To souls through Prayer, dew, sleep, and dream, are given!So bow'd, not broken, and with manly will,Onwards he strode, slow up the labouring hill!If Lucy mourn'd his absence, not beforeHer sire's dim eyes the face of grief she wore;Haply her woman heart divined the spellOf her own power, by flight proclaim'd too well;And not in hours like these may self controlThe generous empire of a noble soul:Lo, her first thought, first duty—the soft reignOf Woman—patience by the bed of pain!As mute the father, yet to him made clearThe cause of flight untold to Lucy's ear;Thus ran the lines that met, at morn, his eyes:—"Farewell! my place a daughter now supplies!—Thou hast pass'd the gates of Death, and bright once moreSmile round thy steps the sunlight and the shore.Farewell; and if a soul, where hatred's gallMelts into pardon that embalmeth all,Can with forgiveness bless thee;—from remorseCan pluck the stone which interrupts the courseOf thought to God;—and bid the waters restCalm in Heaven's smile,—poor fellow-man, be blest!I, that can aid no more, now need an aidAgainst myself; by mine own thoughts dismay'd:I dare not face thy child—I may not dareTo commune with my heart—thy child is there!I hear a voice that whispers hope, and startIn shame, to shun the tempter and depart.How vile the pardon that I yield would seem,If shaped and colour'd from the egoist's dream;A barter'd compromise with thoughts that takeThe path of conscience but for passion's sake—If with the pardon I could say—'The TombDevours the Past, so let the Moment bloom,And see Calantha's brother reconciled,Kneel to Calantha's lover, for his child!'It may not be; sad sophists were our vainDesires, if Right were not a code so plain;In good or ill leave casusits on the shelf,'He never errs who sacrifices self!'"Great Natures, Arden, thy strange lot to knowAnd lose!—twin souls thy mistress and thy foe!How flash'd they, high and starry, through the dullWorld's reeking air—earnest and beautiful!Erring perchance, and yet divinely blind,Such hero errors purify our kind!One noble fault that springs fromSelf'sdisdainMay oft more grace in Angel eyes obtain,Than a whole life, without a seeming flaw,Which served but Heaven, because of Earth in awe,Which in each act has loss or profit weigh'd,And kept with Virtue the accounts of Trade!He too was born, lost Idler, to be great,The sins that dwarf'd, he had a soul to hate.Ambition, Ease, Example had beguiled,And our base world in fawning had defiled;Yet still, contrasting all hedid, hedream'd;And through the Wordling's life the Poet gleam'd.His eye not blind to Virtue; to his earStill spoke the music of the banish'd sphere;Still in his thought the Ideal, though obscured,Shamed the rank meteor which his sense allured.Wreck if he was, the ruin yet betray'dThe shatter'd fane for gods departed made;And still, through weeds neglected and o'erthrown,The blurr'd inscription show'd the altar-stone.So scorn'd he not, as folly or as pride,The lofty code which made the Indian's guide;But from that hour a subtle change came o'erThe thoughts he veil'd, the outward mien he wore;A mournful, weary gloom, a pall'd distasteOf all the joys so warmly once embraced.His eye no morelooks onward. but its gazeRests where Remorse a life misspent surveys:What costly treasures strew that waste behind;What whirlwinds daunt the soul that sows the wind!By the dark shape of what heis, sereneStands the bright ghost of what he might have been:Here the vast loss, and there the worthless gain—Vice scorn'd, yet woo'd, and Virtue loved in vain.'Tis said, the Nightingale, who hears the thrillOf some rich lute, made vocal by sweet skill,To match the music strains its wild essay,Feels its inferior art, and envying, pines away:So, waked at last, and scarcely now confest,Pined the still Poet in the Worldling's breast!So with the Harmony of Good, comparedIts lesser self—so languish'd and despair'd.Awhile, from land to land he idly roved,And join'd life's movement with a heart unmoved.No more loud cities ring with Arden's name,Applaud his faults, and call his fashion "Fame!"Disgust with all things robes him as he goes,In that pale virtue, Vice, when weary, knows.Yet his, at least, one rescue from the past;His, one sweet comfort—Lucy's love at last!That bed of pain o'er which she had watch'd and wept—That grave, where Love forgot its wrongs and slept—That touching sorrow and that still remorseUnlock'd her heart, and gave the stream its course.From her own grief, by griefs more dark beguiled,Rose the consoling Angel in the Child!Yet still the calm disease, whose mute decayNo leech arrests, crept gradual round its prey.Death came, came gently, on his daughter's breast,Murm'ring, "Remember where this dust should rest."They bear the last Lord of that haughty raceWhere winds the wave round Mary's dwelling-place;And side by side (oh, be it in the skyAs in the earth!)—the long-divided lie!Doth life's last act one wrong at least repair—His nameless child to wealth at least the heir?So Arden's will decreed—so sign'd the hand;So ran the text—not so Law rules the land:"I do bequeath unto mychild,"[Y]—that wordAlone on strangers has the wealth conferr'd.O'erjoy'd Law's heirs the legal blunder read,And Justice cancels Nature from the deed.O moral world! deal sternly if thou wiltWith the warm weakness as the wily guilt,But spare the harmless! Wherefore shall the childBe from the pale which shelters Crime exiled?Why heap such barriers round the sole redressWhich sin can give to sinless wretchedness?Why must the veriest stranger thrust asideOur flesh—our blood, because a name's denied?Give all thou hast to whomsoe'er thou please,Foe, alien, knave, as whim so Law decrees;But if thy heart speaks, if thy conscience cries—"I give my child"—the law thy voice belies;Chicanery balks all effort that atones,And Justice robs the wretch that Nature owns!So abject, so despoil'd, so penniless,Stood thy love-born in the world's wilderness,O Lord of lands and towers, and princely sway!O Dust, from whom with breath has pass'd awayThe humblest privilege the beggar findsIn rags that wrap his infant from the winds!In the poor hamlet where her grandsire died,Where sleeps her mother by the magnate's side,The orphan found a home. Her story known,Men's hearts allow the right men's laws disown.Though lost the birthright, and denied the name,Her pastor-grandsire's virtues shield from shame;Pity seeks kind pretext to pour its balms,And yields light toils that saves the pride from alms.A soft respect the orphan's steps attends,And the sharp thorn at least the rose defends.So flows o'ershadow'd, but not darksome by,Her life's lone stream—the banks admit the skyDay's quiet taskwork o'er, when Ev'ning greyLists the last carol on the quivering spray,When lengthening shades reflect the distant hill,And the near spire, upon the lullëd rill;Her sole delight with pensive step to glideAlong the path that winds the wave beside,A moment pausing on the bridge, to markPerchance the moonlight vista through the dark:Or watch the eddy where the wavelets playRound the chafed stone that checks their happy way,Then onward stealing, vanish from the view,Where the star shimmers on the solemn yew,As shade from earth and starlight from the skyMeet—and repose on Death's calm mystery.Moons pass'd—Behold the blossom on the spray!Hark to the linnet!—On the world is May!Green earth below and azure skies above;May calling life to joy, and youth to love;While Age, charm'd back to rosy hours awhile,Hears the lost vow, and sees the vanish'd smile.And does not May, lone Child, revive in thee,Blossom and bud and mystic melody;Does not the heart, like earth, imbibe the ray?Does not the year's recal thy life's sweet May?When like an altar to some happy bride,Shone all creation by the loved one's side?Yes, Exile, yes—thatEmpire is thine own,Rove where thou wilt, awaits thee still thy throne!Lo, where the paling cheek, the unconscious sigh,The slower footstep, and the heavier eye,Betray the burthen of sweet thoughts and mute,The slight tree bows beneath the golden fruit!'Tis eve. The orphan gains the holy ground,}And listening halts;—the boughs that circle round}Vex'd by no wind, yet rustle with a sound,}As if that gentle form had scared some loneUnwonted step more timid than its own!All still once more; perchance some daunted bird,That loves the night, the murmuring leaves had stirr'd?She nears the tomb—amaze!—what hand unknownHas placed those pious flowers upon the stone?Why beats her heart? why hath the electric mind,Whose act, whose hand, whose presence there, divined?Why dreading, yearning, turn those eyes to meetThe adored, the lost?—Behold him at her feet!His, those dark eyes that seek her own through tears,His hand that clasps, and his the voice she hears,Broken and faltering—"Is the trial past?Here, by the dead, art thou made mine at last?Far—in far lands I heard thy tale!—And thouOrphan and lone!—no bar between us now!No Arden now calls up the wrong'd and lost;Lo, in this grave appeased the upbraiding ghost!Orphan, I am thy father now!—BereftOf all beside,—this heart at least is left.Forgive, forgive—Oh, canst thou yet bestowOne thought on him, to whom thou art all below?Who could desert but to remember more?Canst thou the Heaven, the exile lost, restore?Canst thou——"The orphan bow'd her angel head;Breath blent with breath—her soul her silence said;Eye unto eye, and heart to heart reveal'd;—And lip on lip the eternal nuptials seal'd!The Moon breaks forth—one silver stream of lightGlides from its fount in heaven along the night—Flows in still splendour through the funeral gloomOf yews,—and widens as it clasps the tomb—Through the calm glory hosts as calm aboveLook on the grave—and by the grave isLove!
III.
'Tis night,—a night by fits now foul, now fair,As speed the cloud-wracks through the gusty air:At times the wild blast dies—and high and far,Through chasms of cloud, looks down the solemn star—Or the majestic moon;—so watchfires markSome sleeping War dim-tented in the dark;Or so, through antique Chaos and the stormOf Matter, whirl'd and writhing into form,Pale angels peer'd!
Anon, from brief reposeThe winds leap forth, the cloven deeps reclose;Mass upon mass, the hurtling vapours driven,As one huge blackness walls the earth from heaven!—In one of these brief lulls—you see, serene,The village church spire 'mid its mounds of green,The scattered roof-tops of the hamlet round,And the swoll'n rill that girds the holy ground.
A plank that rock'd above the rushing wave,The dizzy pathway to a wanderer gave;There, as he paused, from the lone churchyard, slowEmerged a form the wanderer's eyes should know!It gains the opposing margent of the stream,Full on the face shines calm the crescent beam;It halts upon the bridge! Now, Indian, learnIf in thy soul the heathen yet can yearn!Swift runs the wave, the instinct and the hour,The lonely night, when evil thoughts have power,The foe before thee, and no things that liveTo witness vengeance—Canst thou still forgive?Scarce seen by each the face of each—when, deepO'er the lost moon, the cloud's loud surges sweep;Yea, as a sea devours the fated bark,Vanish'd the heaven, and closed the abyss of dark!You heard the roaring of the mighty blast,The groaning trees uprooted as it pass'dThe wrath and madness of the starless rill,Swell'd by each torrent rushing from the hill.The slight plank creaks—high mount the waves and high,Hark! with the tempest's shrieks the human cry!Upon the bridge butoneman now!—below,The night of waters and the drowning foe!The Indian heard the death-cry and the fall;Still o'er the wild scene hung the funeral pall!What eye can pierce the darkness of the wave?}What hand guide rescue through the roaring grave?}Not for such craven questions pause the brave!}Again the moon!—again the churchyard's green,Spire, hamlet, mead, and rill distinct are seen;But on the bridgenoform, no life! The beamShoots wan and broken on the tortured stream;Vague, indistinct, what yonder moveth o'erThe troubled tide, and struggles to the shore?Hark, where the sere bough of the tossing treeSnaps in the grasp of some strong agony,And the dull plunge, and stifled cry betrayWhere the grim water-fiend reclasps his prey!
Still shines the moon—still halts the panting storm,It moves again—the shadow shapes to form,Lo! where yon bank shelves gradual, and the raySilvers the reed, it cleaves its vigorous way!—Saved from the deep, but happier far to save,The foeman wrests the foeman from the grave!Still shines the moon—still halts the storm!—aboveHis sons, looks down divine the Father-Love!Upon the Indian's breast droops Arden's head,Its marble beauty rigid as the dead.What skill so fondly tends the soul's eclipse,Chafes the stiff limb, and breathes in breathless lips?Wooes back the flickering life, and when, once more,The ebbing blood the wan cheek mantles o'er;When stirs the pulse, when opes the glazing eye,What voice of joy finds listeners in the sky?"Bless thee, my God!—this mercy thine!—he lives:Look in my heart, forgive, for it forgives!"
Then, while yet clear the heaven, he flies—he gainsThe nearest roof—prompt aid his prayer obtains;Well known the noble stranger's mien—they bearTo the rude home, and ply the zealous care;Life with the dawn comes sure, if faint and slow,And all night long the foeman watch'd the foe!
Day dawns on earth, still darkness wraps the mind;Sleep pass'd, the waking is a veil more blind:The soul, scared roughly from its mansion, glidesO'er mazy wastes through which the meteor guides.
The startled menial, who, alone of allThe hireling pomp that swarms in Arden's hall,Attends his lord,—dismay'd lest one so high,A rural Galen should permit to die,Departs in haste to seek the subtler skillWhich from the College takes the right to kill;And summon Lucy to the solemn roomTo watch the father's life,—fast by the mother's tomb.Meanwhile such facile arts as nature yields,Draughts from the spring and simples from the fields,Learn'd in his savage youth, the Indian plies;The fever slakes, the cloudy darkness flies;O'er the vex'd vision steals the lulling rest,And Arden wakes to sense on Morvale's breast!
On Morvale's breast!—and through the noiseless doorA fearful footfall creeps, and lo! once moreThou look'st, pale daughter, on thy father's foe!Not with the lurid eye and menaced blow;Not as when last, between the murtherous bladeAnd the proud victim, gleam'd the guardian maid—Thy post is his!—that breast the prop suppliesThat thine should yield;—as thine so watch those eyes,Wistful and moist, that waning life above;Recal the Heathen's hate!—behold the Christian's love!
The learned leech proclaims the danger o'er;When life is safe, can Fate then harm no more?
The danger past for Arden, but for youWho watch the couch, what danger threats anew?How meet in pious duty and fond care,In hours when through the eye the heart is bare?How join in those soft sympathies, and yetThe earlier link, the tenderer bond forget?How can the soul the magnet-charm withstand,When chance brings look to look, and hand to hand!No, Indian, no—if yet the power divineAbove the laws of our low world be thine;If yet the Honour which thy later creedSoftens, not quells, revere the injured dead,Fly, ere the full heart cries, "I love thee still"—And find thy guardian in the angel—WILL!That power was his!
Along the landscape layThe hazy rime of winter's dawning day:Snake-like the curving mists betray'd the rill,The last star gleam'd upon the Eastern hill,Still slept beneath the leafless trees the herd;Still mute the sharp note of the sunless bird;No sound, no life; as to some hearth, bereftBy death, of welcome, since his wanderings left,Comes back the traveller;—so to earth, forlornReturns the ungreeted melancholy Morn.
Forth from the threshold stole the Indian!—farSpread the dim land beneath the waning star.Alas! how wide the world his heart will findWho leaves one spot—the heart's true home, behind!He paused—one upward look upon the gloomOf the closed casement, the love-hallow'd room,Where yet, perchance, while happier Suffering sleptIts mournful vigil tender Duty kept;One prayer! What mercy taught us prayer?—as dewsOn drooping herbs—as sleep tired life renews,As dreams that lead, and lap our griefs in Heaven,To souls through Prayer, dew, sleep, and dream, are given!So bow'd, not broken, and with manly will,Onwards he strode, slow up the labouring hill!
If Lucy mourn'd his absence, not beforeHer sire's dim eyes the face of grief she wore;Haply her woman heart divined the spellOf her own power, by flight proclaim'd too well;And not in hours like these may self controlThe generous empire of a noble soul:Lo, her first thought, first duty—the soft reignOf Woman—patience by the bed of pain!As mute the father, yet to him made clearThe cause of flight untold to Lucy's ear;Thus ran the lines that met, at morn, his eyes:—"Farewell! my place a daughter now supplies!—Thou hast pass'd the gates of Death, and bright once moreSmile round thy steps the sunlight and the shore.Farewell; and if a soul, where hatred's gallMelts into pardon that embalmeth all,Can with forgiveness bless thee;—from remorseCan pluck the stone which interrupts the courseOf thought to God;—and bid the waters restCalm in Heaven's smile,—poor fellow-man, be blest!I, that can aid no more, now need an aidAgainst myself; by mine own thoughts dismay'd:I dare not face thy child—I may not dareTo commune with my heart—thy child is there!I hear a voice that whispers hope, and startIn shame, to shun the tempter and depart.How vile the pardon that I yield would seem,If shaped and colour'd from the egoist's dream;A barter'd compromise with thoughts that takeThe path of conscience but for passion's sake—If with the pardon I could say—'The TombDevours the Past, so let the Moment bloom,And see Calantha's brother reconciled,Kneel to Calantha's lover, for his child!'It may not be; sad sophists were our vainDesires, if Right were not a code so plain;In good or ill leave casusits on the shelf,'He never errs who sacrifices self!'"
Great Natures, Arden, thy strange lot to knowAnd lose!—twin souls thy mistress and thy foe!How flash'd they, high and starry, through the dullWorld's reeking air—earnest and beautiful!Erring perchance, and yet divinely blind,Such hero errors purify our kind!One noble fault that springs fromSelf'sdisdainMay oft more grace in Angel eyes obtain,Than a whole life, without a seeming flaw,Which served but Heaven, because of Earth in awe,Which in each act has loss or profit weigh'd,And kept with Virtue the accounts of Trade!He too was born, lost Idler, to be great,The sins that dwarf'd, he had a soul to hate.Ambition, Ease, Example had beguiled,And our base world in fawning had defiled;Yet still, contrasting all hedid, hedream'd;And through the Wordling's life the Poet gleam'd.His eye not blind to Virtue; to his earStill spoke the music of the banish'd sphere;Still in his thought the Ideal, though obscured,Shamed the rank meteor which his sense allured.Wreck if he was, the ruin yet betray'dThe shatter'd fane for gods departed made;And still, through weeds neglected and o'erthrown,The blurr'd inscription show'd the altar-stone.So scorn'd he not, as folly or as pride,The lofty code which made the Indian's guide;But from that hour a subtle change came o'erThe thoughts he veil'd, the outward mien he wore;A mournful, weary gloom, a pall'd distasteOf all the joys so warmly once embraced.His eye no morelooks onward. but its gazeRests where Remorse a life misspent surveys:What costly treasures strew that waste behind;What whirlwinds daunt the soul that sows the wind!By the dark shape of what heis, sereneStands the bright ghost of what he might have been:Here the vast loss, and there the worthless gain—Vice scorn'd, yet woo'd, and Virtue loved in vain.
'Tis said, the Nightingale, who hears the thrillOf some rich lute, made vocal by sweet skill,To match the music strains its wild essay,Feels its inferior art, and envying, pines away:So, waked at last, and scarcely now confest,Pined the still Poet in the Worldling's breast!So with the Harmony of Good, comparedIts lesser self—so languish'd and despair'd.
Awhile, from land to land he idly roved,And join'd life's movement with a heart unmoved.No more loud cities ring with Arden's name,Applaud his faults, and call his fashion "Fame!"Disgust with all things robes him as he goes,In that pale virtue, Vice, when weary, knows.Yet his, at least, one rescue from the past;His, one sweet comfort—Lucy's love at last!That bed of pain o'er which she had watch'd and wept—That grave, where Love forgot its wrongs and slept—That touching sorrow and that still remorseUnlock'd her heart, and gave the stream its course.From her own grief, by griefs more dark beguiled,Rose the consoling Angel in the Child!Yet still the calm disease, whose mute decayNo leech arrests, crept gradual round its prey.Death came, came gently, on his daughter's breast,Murm'ring, "Remember where this dust should rest."They bear the last Lord of that haughty raceWhere winds the wave round Mary's dwelling-place;And side by side (oh, be it in the skyAs in the earth!)—the long-divided lie!
Doth life's last act one wrong at least repair—His nameless child to wealth at least the heir?So Arden's will decreed—so sign'd the hand;So ran the text—not so Law rules the land:"I do bequeath unto mychild,"[Y]—that wordAlone on strangers has the wealth conferr'd.O'erjoy'd Law's heirs the legal blunder read,And Justice cancels Nature from the deed.O moral world! deal sternly if thou wiltWith the warm weakness as the wily guilt,But spare the harmless! Wherefore shall the childBe from the pale which shelters Crime exiled?Why heap such barriers round the sole redressWhich sin can give to sinless wretchedness?Why must the veriest stranger thrust asideOur flesh—our blood, because a name's denied?Give all thou hast to whomsoe'er thou please,Foe, alien, knave, as whim so Law decrees;But if thy heart speaks, if thy conscience cries—"I give my child"—the law thy voice belies;Chicanery balks all effort that atones,And Justice robs the wretch that Nature owns!
So abject, so despoil'd, so penniless,Stood thy love-born in the world's wilderness,O Lord of lands and towers, and princely sway!O Dust, from whom with breath has pass'd awayThe humblest privilege the beggar findsIn rags that wrap his infant from the winds!
In the poor hamlet where her grandsire died,Where sleeps her mother by the magnate's side,The orphan found a home. Her story known,Men's hearts allow the right men's laws disown.Though lost the birthright, and denied the name,Her pastor-grandsire's virtues shield from shame;Pity seeks kind pretext to pour its balms,And yields light toils that saves the pride from alms.A soft respect the orphan's steps attends,And the sharp thorn at least the rose defends.So flows o'ershadow'd, but not darksome by,Her life's lone stream—the banks admit the skyDay's quiet taskwork o'er, when Ev'ning greyLists the last carol on the quivering spray,When lengthening shades reflect the distant hill,And the near spire, upon the lullëd rill;Her sole delight with pensive step to glideAlong the path that winds the wave beside,A moment pausing on the bridge, to markPerchance the moonlight vista through the dark:Or watch the eddy where the wavelets playRound the chafed stone that checks their happy way,Then onward stealing, vanish from the view,Where the star shimmers on the solemn yew,As shade from earth and starlight from the skyMeet—and repose on Death's calm mystery.
Moons pass'd—Behold the blossom on the spray!Hark to the linnet!—On the world is May!Green earth below and azure skies above;May calling life to joy, and youth to love;While Age, charm'd back to rosy hours awhile,Hears the lost vow, and sees the vanish'd smile.And does not May, lone Child, revive in thee,Blossom and bud and mystic melody;Does not the heart, like earth, imbibe the ray?Does not the year's recal thy life's sweet May?When like an altar to some happy bride,Shone all creation by the loved one's side?Yes, Exile, yes—thatEmpire is thine own,Rove where thou wilt, awaits thee still thy throne!Lo, where the paling cheek, the unconscious sigh,The slower footstep, and the heavier eye,Betray the burthen of sweet thoughts and mute,The slight tree bows beneath the golden fruit!
'Tis eve. The orphan gains the holy ground,}And listening halts;—the boughs that circle round}Vex'd by no wind, yet rustle with a sound,}As if that gentle form had scared some loneUnwonted step more timid than its own!All still once more; perchance some daunted bird,That loves the night, the murmuring leaves had stirr'd?She nears the tomb—amaze!—what hand unknownHas placed those pious flowers upon the stone?Why beats her heart? why hath the electric mind,Whose act, whose hand, whose presence there, divined?Why dreading, yearning, turn those eyes to meetThe adored, the lost?—Behold him at her feet!His, those dark eyes that seek her own through tears,His hand that clasps, and his the voice she hears,Broken and faltering—"Is the trial past?Here, by the dead, art thou made mine at last?Far—in far lands I heard thy tale!—And thouOrphan and lone!—no bar between us now!No Arden now calls up the wrong'd and lost;Lo, in this grave appeased the upbraiding ghost!Orphan, I am thy father now!—BereftOf all beside,—this heart at least is left.Forgive, forgive—Oh, canst thou yet bestowOne thought on him, to whom thou art all below?Who could desert but to remember more?Canst thou the Heaven, the exile lost, restore?Canst thou——"
The orphan bow'd her angel head;Breath blent with breath—her soul her silence said;Eye unto eye, and heart to heart reveal'd;—And lip on lip the eternal nuptials seal'd!
The Moon breaks forth—one silver stream of lightGlides from its fount in heaven along the night—Flows in still splendour through the funeral gloomOf yews,—and widens as it clasps the tomb—Through the calm glory hosts as calm aboveLook on the grave—and by the grave isLove!
FOOTNOTES[A]Where now stands St. James's palace stood the hospital dedicated to St. James, for the reception of fourteen leprous maidens.[B]Charles the First attended divine service in the Royal Chapel immediately before he walked through the park to his scaffold at Whitehall. In the palace of St. James's, Monk and Sir John Granville schemed for the restoration of Charles II.[C]The Sanscrit term, denoting the mixture or confusion of classes; applied to that large portion of the Indian population excluded from the four pure castes.[D]According to Eastern commentators, the march of the Israelites in the Desert was in a charmed circle; every morning they set out on their journey, and every night found themselves on the same spot as that from which the journey had commenced.[E]The Tilt-yard.[F]Since this was written, to Buckingham Palace has been prefixed a front which is not without merit—in thrusting out of sight the other three sides of the building.[G]The reader need scarcely be reminded, that these lines were written years before the fatal accident which terminated an illustrious life. If the lines be so inadequate to the subject, the author must state freely that he had the misfortune to differ entirely from the policy pursued by Sir Robert Peel at the time they were written; while if that difference forbade panegyric, his respect for the man checked the freedom of satire. The author will find another occasion to attempt, so far as his opinions on the one hand, and his reverence on the other, will permit—to convey a juster idea of Sir Robert Peel's defects or merits, perhaps as a statesman, at least as an orator.[H]Lord Stanley's memorable exclamation on a certain occasion which now belongs to history,—"Johnny's upset the coach!" Never was coach upset with such perfectsang-froidon the part of the driver.[I]Written before Sir Robert's avowed abandonment of protection. Prophetic.[J]"One of the most remarkable pictures of ancient manners which has been transmitted to us, is that in which the poet Gower describes the circumstances under which he was commanded by King Richard II.—'To make a book after his hest.'The good old rhymer—— ... had taken boat, and upon the broad river he met the king in his stately barge.... The monarch called him on board his own vessel, and desired him to book 'some new thing.'—This was the origin of the Confessio Amantis."—Knight'sLondon, vol. i. art.The Silent Highway.[K]"What a picture Hall gives us of the populousness of the Thames, in the story which he tells us of the Archbishop of York (brother to the King-maker), after leaving the widow of Edward IV. in the sanctuary of Westminster, 'sitting below on the rushes all desolate and dismayed,' and when he opened his windows and looked on the Thames, he might see the river full of boats of the Duke of Gloucester his servants, watching that no person should go to sanctuary, nor none should pass unsearched."—Id. ibid.[L]A favourite rendezvous a few years since (and probably even still) for the heroes of that fraternity, more dear to Mercury than to Themis, was held at Devereux Court, occupying a part of the site on which stood the residence of the Knights Templars.[M]The Amrita is the name given by the mythologists of Thibet to the heavenly tree which yields its ambrosial fruits to the gods.[N]The Champac, a flower of a bright gold-colour, with which the Indian women are fond of adorning their hair. Moore alludes to the custom in the "Veiled Prophet.""The maid of India blest again to holdIn her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold," &c.[O]The perfumes from the island of Rhodes,—to which the roses that still bloom there gave the ancient name,—are wafted for miles over the surrounding seas.[P]The Psyche of Naples, the most intellectual and (so to speak) the mostChristianof all the dreams of beauty which Grecian art has embodied in the marble.[Q]Every one knows, through the version of Mrs. Tighe, the lovely allegory of Eros and Psyche, which Apuleius—the neglected original, to whom all later romance writers are unconsciously indebted—has bequeathed to the delight of poets and the recognition of Christians.[R]The reader will bear in mind these lines, important to the clearness of the story; and remember that Calantha bore a different name from her half-brother—that her mother's unnatural prejudice or pride of race had forbidden her ever to mention that brother's name; and that, therefore, her relationship to Morvale, until he sought her out, was wholly unknown to all: the reader will remember, also, that during Calantha's subsequent residence in Morvale's house, she lived as woman lives in the East, and was consequently never seen by her brother's guests.[S]"At best itbabiesus."—Young.[T]"For, oh! he stood before me as my youth."—Coleridge'sWallenstein.[U]The beautiful story of Aimée—the delight of all children—is in the collection entitled "The Temple of the Fairies."[V]According to the exploded hypothesis of Voltaire, that the Gipsies are a Syrian tribe, the remains of the long scattered fraternity of Isis.[W]Whoever is well acquainted with the heathen learning must often have been deeply impressed with the mournful character of the mythological Elysium. Even the few admitted to the groves of asphodel, unpurified by death, retain the passions and pine with the griefs of life; they envy the mortal whom the poet brings to their moody immortality; and, amidst the disdained repose, sigh for the struggle and the storm.[X]Not only were the lofty and cheering notions of the soul, that were cherished by the more illustrious philosophers of Greece, confined to a few, but even the grosser and dimmer belief in a future state, which the vulgar mythology implied, was not entertained by the multitude. Plato remarked that few, even in his day, had faith in the immortality of the soul; and indeed the Hades of the ancients was not for the Many. Amongst those condemned we find few criminals, except the old Titans, and such as imitated them in the one crime—blasphemy to the fabled gods: and the dwellers of Elysium are chiefly confined to the poets and the heroes, the oligarchy of earth.[Y]If a man wishes to leave a portion to his natural child, his lawyer will tell him to name the child as if it were a stranger to his blood. If he says, "I leave to John Tompson, of Baker-street, £10,000," John Tompson may probably get the legacy; if he says, "I leave to my son, John Tompson, of Baker-street, £10,000," and the said John Tompsonishis son (a natural one), it is a hundred to one if John Tompson ever touches a penny! Up springs the Inhuman Law, with its multiform obstacles, quibbles, and objections—proof of identity—evidence of birth!—Many and many a natural child has thus been robbed and swindled out of his sole claim upon redress—his sole chance of subsistence. In most civilised countries a father is permitted to own the offspring, whom, unless he do so, he has wronged at its very birth—whom, if he do not so, he wrongs irremedially; with us the error is denied reparation, and the innocence is sentenced to outlawry. Our laws, with relation to illegitimate children, are more than unjust—they are inhuman.
[A]Where now stands St. James's palace stood the hospital dedicated to St. James, for the reception of fourteen leprous maidens.
[A]Where now stands St. James's palace stood the hospital dedicated to St. James, for the reception of fourteen leprous maidens.
[B]Charles the First attended divine service in the Royal Chapel immediately before he walked through the park to his scaffold at Whitehall. In the palace of St. James's, Monk and Sir John Granville schemed for the restoration of Charles II.
[B]Charles the First attended divine service in the Royal Chapel immediately before he walked through the park to his scaffold at Whitehall. In the palace of St. James's, Monk and Sir John Granville schemed for the restoration of Charles II.
[C]The Sanscrit term, denoting the mixture or confusion of classes; applied to that large portion of the Indian population excluded from the four pure castes.
[C]The Sanscrit term, denoting the mixture or confusion of classes; applied to that large portion of the Indian population excluded from the four pure castes.
[D]According to Eastern commentators, the march of the Israelites in the Desert was in a charmed circle; every morning they set out on their journey, and every night found themselves on the same spot as that from which the journey had commenced.
[D]According to Eastern commentators, the march of the Israelites in the Desert was in a charmed circle; every morning they set out on their journey, and every night found themselves on the same spot as that from which the journey had commenced.
[E]The Tilt-yard.
[E]The Tilt-yard.
[F]Since this was written, to Buckingham Palace has been prefixed a front which is not without merit—in thrusting out of sight the other three sides of the building.
[F]Since this was written, to Buckingham Palace has been prefixed a front which is not without merit—in thrusting out of sight the other three sides of the building.
[G]The reader need scarcely be reminded, that these lines were written years before the fatal accident which terminated an illustrious life. If the lines be so inadequate to the subject, the author must state freely that he had the misfortune to differ entirely from the policy pursued by Sir Robert Peel at the time they were written; while if that difference forbade panegyric, his respect for the man checked the freedom of satire. The author will find another occasion to attempt, so far as his opinions on the one hand, and his reverence on the other, will permit—to convey a juster idea of Sir Robert Peel's defects or merits, perhaps as a statesman, at least as an orator.
[G]The reader need scarcely be reminded, that these lines were written years before the fatal accident which terminated an illustrious life. If the lines be so inadequate to the subject, the author must state freely that he had the misfortune to differ entirely from the policy pursued by Sir Robert Peel at the time they were written; while if that difference forbade panegyric, his respect for the man checked the freedom of satire. The author will find another occasion to attempt, so far as his opinions on the one hand, and his reverence on the other, will permit—to convey a juster idea of Sir Robert Peel's defects or merits, perhaps as a statesman, at least as an orator.
[H]Lord Stanley's memorable exclamation on a certain occasion which now belongs to history,—"Johnny's upset the coach!" Never was coach upset with such perfectsang-froidon the part of the driver.
[H]Lord Stanley's memorable exclamation on a certain occasion which now belongs to history,—"Johnny's upset the coach!" Never was coach upset with such perfectsang-froidon the part of the driver.
[I]Written before Sir Robert's avowed abandonment of protection. Prophetic.
[I]Written before Sir Robert's avowed abandonment of protection. Prophetic.
[J]"One of the most remarkable pictures of ancient manners which has been transmitted to us, is that in which the poet Gower describes the circumstances under which he was commanded by King Richard II.—'To make a book after his hest.'The good old rhymer—— ... had taken boat, and upon the broad river he met the king in his stately barge.... The monarch called him on board his own vessel, and desired him to book 'some new thing.'—This was the origin of the Confessio Amantis."—Knight'sLondon, vol. i. art.The Silent Highway.
[J]"One of the most remarkable pictures of ancient manners which has been transmitted to us, is that in which the poet Gower describes the circumstances under which he was commanded by King Richard II.—
'To make a book after his hest.'
The good old rhymer—— ... had taken boat, and upon the broad river he met the king in his stately barge.... The monarch called him on board his own vessel, and desired him to book 'some new thing.'—This was the origin of the Confessio Amantis."—Knight'sLondon, vol. i. art.The Silent Highway.
[K]"What a picture Hall gives us of the populousness of the Thames, in the story which he tells us of the Archbishop of York (brother to the King-maker), after leaving the widow of Edward IV. in the sanctuary of Westminster, 'sitting below on the rushes all desolate and dismayed,' and when he opened his windows and looked on the Thames, he might see the river full of boats of the Duke of Gloucester his servants, watching that no person should go to sanctuary, nor none should pass unsearched."—Id. ibid.
[K]"What a picture Hall gives us of the populousness of the Thames, in the story which he tells us of the Archbishop of York (brother to the King-maker), after leaving the widow of Edward IV. in the sanctuary of Westminster, 'sitting below on the rushes all desolate and dismayed,' and when he opened his windows and looked on the Thames, he might see the river full of boats of the Duke of Gloucester his servants, watching that no person should go to sanctuary, nor none should pass unsearched."—Id. ibid.
[L]A favourite rendezvous a few years since (and probably even still) for the heroes of that fraternity, more dear to Mercury than to Themis, was held at Devereux Court, occupying a part of the site on which stood the residence of the Knights Templars.
[L]A favourite rendezvous a few years since (and probably even still) for the heroes of that fraternity, more dear to Mercury than to Themis, was held at Devereux Court, occupying a part of the site on which stood the residence of the Knights Templars.
[M]The Amrita is the name given by the mythologists of Thibet to the heavenly tree which yields its ambrosial fruits to the gods.
[M]The Amrita is the name given by the mythologists of Thibet to the heavenly tree which yields its ambrosial fruits to the gods.
[N]The Champac, a flower of a bright gold-colour, with which the Indian women are fond of adorning their hair. Moore alludes to the custom in the "Veiled Prophet.""The maid of India blest again to holdIn her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold," &c.
[N]The Champac, a flower of a bright gold-colour, with which the Indian women are fond of adorning their hair. Moore alludes to the custom in the "Veiled Prophet."
"The maid of India blest again to holdIn her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold," &c.
"The maid of India blest again to holdIn her full lap the Champac's leaves of gold," &c.
[O]The perfumes from the island of Rhodes,—to which the roses that still bloom there gave the ancient name,—are wafted for miles over the surrounding seas.
[O]The perfumes from the island of Rhodes,—to which the roses that still bloom there gave the ancient name,—are wafted for miles over the surrounding seas.
[P]The Psyche of Naples, the most intellectual and (so to speak) the mostChristianof all the dreams of beauty which Grecian art has embodied in the marble.
[P]The Psyche of Naples, the most intellectual and (so to speak) the mostChristianof all the dreams of beauty which Grecian art has embodied in the marble.
[Q]Every one knows, through the version of Mrs. Tighe, the lovely allegory of Eros and Psyche, which Apuleius—the neglected original, to whom all later romance writers are unconsciously indebted—has bequeathed to the delight of poets and the recognition of Christians.
[Q]Every one knows, through the version of Mrs. Tighe, the lovely allegory of Eros and Psyche, which Apuleius—the neglected original, to whom all later romance writers are unconsciously indebted—has bequeathed to the delight of poets and the recognition of Christians.
[R]The reader will bear in mind these lines, important to the clearness of the story; and remember that Calantha bore a different name from her half-brother—that her mother's unnatural prejudice or pride of race had forbidden her ever to mention that brother's name; and that, therefore, her relationship to Morvale, until he sought her out, was wholly unknown to all: the reader will remember, also, that during Calantha's subsequent residence in Morvale's house, she lived as woman lives in the East, and was consequently never seen by her brother's guests.
[R]The reader will bear in mind these lines, important to the clearness of the story; and remember that Calantha bore a different name from her half-brother—that her mother's unnatural prejudice or pride of race had forbidden her ever to mention that brother's name; and that, therefore, her relationship to Morvale, until he sought her out, was wholly unknown to all: the reader will remember, also, that during Calantha's subsequent residence in Morvale's house, she lived as woman lives in the East, and was consequently never seen by her brother's guests.
[S]"At best itbabiesus."—Young.
[S]"At best itbabiesus."—Young.
[T]"For, oh! he stood before me as my youth."—Coleridge'sWallenstein.
[T]"For, oh! he stood before me as my youth."—Coleridge'sWallenstein.
[U]The beautiful story of Aimée—the delight of all children—is in the collection entitled "The Temple of the Fairies."
[U]The beautiful story of Aimée—the delight of all children—is in the collection entitled "The Temple of the Fairies."
[V]According to the exploded hypothesis of Voltaire, that the Gipsies are a Syrian tribe, the remains of the long scattered fraternity of Isis.
[V]According to the exploded hypothesis of Voltaire, that the Gipsies are a Syrian tribe, the remains of the long scattered fraternity of Isis.
[W]Whoever is well acquainted with the heathen learning must often have been deeply impressed with the mournful character of the mythological Elysium. Even the few admitted to the groves of asphodel, unpurified by death, retain the passions and pine with the griefs of life; they envy the mortal whom the poet brings to their moody immortality; and, amidst the disdained repose, sigh for the struggle and the storm.
[W]Whoever is well acquainted with the heathen learning must often have been deeply impressed with the mournful character of the mythological Elysium. Even the few admitted to the groves of asphodel, unpurified by death, retain the passions and pine with the griefs of life; they envy the mortal whom the poet brings to their moody immortality; and, amidst the disdained repose, sigh for the struggle and the storm.
[X]Not only were the lofty and cheering notions of the soul, that were cherished by the more illustrious philosophers of Greece, confined to a few, but even the grosser and dimmer belief in a future state, which the vulgar mythology implied, was not entertained by the multitude. Plato remarked that few, even in his day, had faith in the immortality of the soul; and indeed the Hades of the ancients was not for the Many. Amongst those condemned we find few criminals, except the old Titans, and such as imitated them in the one crime—blasphemy to the fabled gods: and the dwellers of Elysium are chiefly confined to the poets and the heroes, the oligarchy of earth.
[X]Not only were the lofty and cheering notions of the soul, that were cherished by the more illustrious philosophers of Greece, confined to a few, but even the grosser and dimmer belief in a future state, which the vulgar mythology implied, was not entertained by the multitude. Plato remarked that few, even in his day, had faith in the immortality of the soul; and indeed the Hades of the ancients was not for the Many. Amongst those condemned we find few criminals, except the old Titans, and such as imitated them in the one crime—blasphemy to the fabled gods: and the dwellers of Elysium are chiefly confined to the poets and the heroes, the oligarchy of earth.
[Y]If a man wishes to leave a portion to his natural child, his lawyer will tell him to name the child as if it were a stranger to his blood. If he says, "I leave to John Tompson, of Baker-street, £10,000," John Tompson may probably get the legacy; if he says, "I leave to my son, John Tompson, of Baker-street, £10,000," and the said John Tompsonishis son (a natural one), it is a hundred to one if John Tompson ever touches a penny! Up springs the Inhuman Law, with its multiform obstacles, quibbles, and objections—proof of identity—evidence of birth!—Many and many a natural child has thus been robbed and swindled out of his sole claim upon redress—his sole chance of subsistence. In most civilised countries a father is permitted to own the offspring, whom, unless he do so, he has wronged at its very birth—whom, if he do not so, he wrongs irremedially; with us the error is denied reparation, and the innocence is sentenced to outlawry. Our laws, with relation to illegitimate children, are more than unjust—they are inhuman.
[Y]If a man wishes to leave a portion to his natural child, his lawyer will tell him to name the child as if it were a stranger to his blood. If he says, "I leave to John Tompson, of Baker-street, £10,000," John Tompson may probably get the legacy; if he says, "I leave to my son, John Tompson, of Baker-street, £10,000," and the said John Tompsonishis son (a natural one), it is a hundred to one if John Tompson ever touches a penny! Up springs the Inhuman Law, with its multiform obstacles, quibbles, and objections—proof of identity—evidence of birth!—Many and many a natural child has thus been robbed and swindled out of his sole claim upon redress—his sole chance of subsistence. In most civilised countries a father is permitted to own the offspring, whom, unless he do so, he has wronged at its very birth—whom, if he do not so, he wrongs irremedially; with us the error is denied reparation, and the innocence is sentenced to outlawry. Our laws, with relation to illegitimate children, are more than unjust—they are inhuman.
I.On Avon's stream, in day's declining hours,The loitering Angler sees reflected towers;Adown the hill the stately shadows glide,And force their frown upon the gentle tide:Another shade, as stately and as slow,Steals down the slope and dims the peace below:There, side by side, your noiseless shadows fall,Time-wearied Lord, and time-defying hall!As Song's sweet Master fled the roar of Rome,For the Bandusian fount and Sabine home,A soul forsook the beaten tracks of life,Sought the lone bye-path and escaped the strife;And paused, reviving 'mid the haunts of youth,To conjure fancies back, or muse on truth.One home there is, from which, howe'er we stray,True as a star, the smile pursues our way;The home of thoughtful childhood's mystic tears,Of earliest Sabbath bells on sinless ears,Of noonday dreamings under summer trees,And prayers first murmur'd at a mother's knees.Ah! happy he, whose later home as manIs made where Love first spoke, and Hope began,Where haunted floors dear footsteps back can give,And in our Lares all our fathers live!Graced with those gifts the vulgar mostly prize,And if used wisely, precious to the wise,Wealth and high lineage;—Ruthven's name was knownLess for ancestral greatness than its own:With boyhood's dreams the grand desire beganWhich, nerved by labour, liftsfromrank the manEv'n as the eye in Art's majestic hallsNot on the frame but on the portrait falls;So to each nobler life the gaze we bound,Nor heed what casework clasps the picture round.But who can guess that crisis of the soulWhen the old glory first forsakes the goal?When Knowledge halts and sees but cloud before;When sour'd Experience whispers 'hope no more;'When every onward footstep from our sideParts the slow friend or hesitating guide;When envy rots the harvest in the sheaf;When faith in virtue seems the child's belief;And life's last music sighs itself awayOn some false lip, that kiss'd but to betray?Thus from a world that wrong'd him, self-exiled,The man resought the birthplace of the child.Rest comes betimes, if toil commence too soon;The brightest sun is stillest at the noon;Weary at mid-day, genius halts the course,And hails the respite which renews the force.
I.
On Avon's stream, in day's declining hours,The loitering Angler sees reflected towers;Adown the hill the stately shadows glide,And force their frown upon the gentle tide:Another shade, as stately and as slow,Steals down the slope and dims the peace below:There, side by side, your noiseless shadows fall,Time-wearied Lord, and time-defying hall!As Song's sweet Master fled the roar of Rome,For the Bandusian fount and Sabine home,A soul forsook the beaten tracks of life,Sought the lone bye-path and escaped the strife;And paused, reviving 'mid the haunts of youth,To conjure fancies back, or muse on truth.One home there is, from which, howe'er we stray,True as a star, the smile pursues our way;The home of thoughtful childhood's mystic tears,Of earliest Sabbath bells on sinless ears,Of noonday dreamings under summer trees,And prayers first murmur'd at a mother's knees.Ah! happy he, whose later home as manIs made where Love first spoke, and Hope began,Where haunted floors dear footsteps back can give,And in our Lares all our fathers live!
Graced with those gifts the vulgar mostly prize,And if used wisely, precious to the wise,Wealth and high lineage;—Ruthven's name was knownLess for ancestral greatness than its own:With boyhood's dreams the grand desire beganWhich, nerved by labour, liftsfromrank the manEv'n as the eye in Art's majestic hallsNot on the frame but on the portrait falls;So to each nobler life the gaze we bound,Nor heed what casework clasps the picture round.
But who can guess that crisis of the soulWhen the old glory first forsakes the goal?When Knowledge halts and sees but cloud before;When sour'd Experience whispers 'hope no more;'When every onward footstep from our sideParts the slow friend or hesitating guide;When envy rots the harvest in the sheaf;When faith in virtue seems the child's belief;And life's last music sighs itself awayOn some false lip, that kiss'd but to betray?Thus from a world that wrong'd him, self-exiled,The man resought the birthplace of the child.Rest comes betimes, if toil commence too soon;The brightest sun is stillest at the noon;Weary at mid-day, genius halts the course,And hails the respite which renews the force.
II.Deep in the vale from which those towers arose,A life more shatter'd, sought more late repose;In Seaton long had men and marts obey'dThe unerring hierarch in thy temple, Trade.Trade, the last earth-god; whom the Olympian PowerBegot on Danaë, as the Golden Shower,To whose young hands the weary Jove resign'd.Some ages since, the scales that weigh mankind.But that dire Fate, who Jove himself controll'd,Still shakes the urn, although the lots are gold:Reverses came, the whirlwind of a daySwept the strong labours of a life away;Rased out of sight whate'er is sold or bought,And left but name and honour—men said "nought."True, knavery whisper'd, "Only still disguise:Credit is generous, if you blind its eyes;The borrow'd prop arrests the house's fall,And one rich chance may yet reconquer all."There on his priest the earth-god lost control,And from the wreck the merchant saved his soul"Alone, I rose," he said; "I fall alone—Nor one man's ruin shall accuse mine own."And so, life passing from the gorgeous stage,The curtain fell on Poverty and Age.
II.
Deep in the vale from which those towers arose,A life more shatter'd, sought more late repose;In Seaton long had men and marts obey'dThe unerring hierarch in thy temple, Trade.Trade, the last earth-god; whom the Olympian PowerBegot on Danaë, as the Golden Shower,To whose young hands the weary Jove resign'd.Some ages since, the scales that weigh mankind.But that dire Fate, who Jove himself controll'd,Still shakes the urn, although the lots are gold:Reverses came, the whirlwind of a daySwept the strong labours of a life away;Rased out of sight whate'er is sold or bought,And left but name and honour—men said "nought."True, knavery whisper'd, "Only still disguise:Credit is generous, if you blind its eyes;The borrow'd prop arrests the house's fall,And one rich chance may yet reconquer all."There on his priest the earth-god lost control,And from the wreck the merchant saved his soul"Alone, I rose," he said; "I fall alone—Nor one man's ruin shall accuse mine own."And so, life passing from the gorgeous stage,The curtain fell on Poverty and Age.
III.Yet one fair flower survived the common dearth,And one sweet voice gave music still to earth;On Fortune's victim Nature pitying smiled;"Still rich!" the father cried, and clasp'd his child.Beautiful Constance!—As the icy airCongeals the earth, to make more clear the star,So the meek soul look'd lovelier from thine eyes,Through the sharp winter of the alter'd skies.Yet the soft child had memories unconfess'd,And griefs that wept not on a father's breast.In brighter days, such love as fancy knows(That youngest love whose couch is in the rose)Had sent the shaft, which, when withdrawn in haste,Leaves not a scar by which the wound is traced;But if it rest, more fatal grows the smart,And deepening from the surface, gains the heart;In truth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please,—Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease;The courtier's mien to veil the miser's soul,And that self-love which brings such self-control.High-born, but poor, no Corydon was heTo dream of love and cots in Arcady;His tastes were like the Argonauts of old,And only pastoral if the fleece was gold.The less men feel, the better they can feign—To act a Romeo, needs it Romeo's pain?No, the calm master of the Histrio's artKeeps his head coolest while he storms your heart;Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept,Charm'd when he smiled, and conquer'd when he wept.Meanwhile, what pass'd the father had not guess'd,Nor learn'd the courtship till the suit was press'd;Then prudence woke, and judgment, grown austere,}Join'd trade's slow caution with affection's fear,}And whisper'd this wise counsel—"Wait a year!"}In vain the lover pleaded to the maid;"A year soon passes," Constance smiling said.Just then—for Harcourt's service was the sword—Duty ordain'd what gentle taste abhorr'd;Cursed by a country which at times forgetsIt boasts an empire where the sun ne'er sets,Some isle, resentful of our lax control,Rebels on purpose to distract his soul.A month had scorch'd him on that hateful shore,When paled those charms to which such faith he swore;News came that left to Constance not a grace,The sire's reverses changed the daughter's face;—"Oh heavens!—so handsome! Gone in one short hour!""What," quoth a friend, "The Lady?""No, the dower."
III.
Yet one fair flower survived the common dearth,And one sweet voice gave music still to earth;On Fortune's victim Nature pitying smiled;"Still rich!" the father cried, and clasp'd his child.
Beautiful Constance!—As the icy airCongeals the earth, to make more clear the star,So the meek soul look'd lovelier from thine eyes,Through the sharp winter of the alter'd skies.Yet the soft child had memories unconfess'd,And griefs that wept not on a father's breast.In brighter days, such love as fancy knows(That youngest love whose couch is in the rose)Had sent the shaft, which, when withdrawn in haste,Leaves not a scar by which the wound is traced;But if it rest, more fatal grows the smart,And deepening from the surface, gains the heart;In truth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please,—Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease;The courtier's mien to veil the miser's soul,And that self-love which brings such self-control.High-born, but poor, no Corydon was heTo dream of love and cots in Arcady;His tastes were like the Argonauts of old,And only pastoral if the fleece was gold.The less men feel, the better they can feign—To act a Romeo, needs it Romeo's pain?No, the calm master of the Histrio's artKeeps his head coolest while he storms your heart;Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept,Charm'd when he smiled, and conquer'd when he wept.
Meanwhile, what pass'd the father had not guess'd,Nor learn'd the courtship till the suit was press'd;Then prudence woke, and judgment, grown austere,}Join'd trade's slow caution with affection's fear,}And whisper'd this wise counsel—"Wait a year!"}In vain the lover pleaded to the maid;"A year soon passes," Constance smiling said.Just then—for Harcourt's service was the sword—Duty ordain'd what gentle taste abhorr'd;Cursed by a country which at times forgetsIt boasts an empire where the sun ne'er sets,Some isle, resentful of our lax control,Rebels on purpose to distract his soul.A month had scorch'd him on that hateful shore,When paled those charms to which such faith he swore;News came that left to Constance not a grace,The sire's reverses changed the daughter's face;—"Oh heavens!—so handsome! Gone in one short hour!""What," quoth a friend, "The Lady?"
"No, the dower."