III.LORD ARDEN'S TALE."Rear'd in a court, a man while yet a boy,Hermes said 'Rise,' and Venus sigh'd 'Enjoy;'My earlier dreams, like tints in rainbows given,Caught from the Muse, glow'd but in clasping heaven;The bird-like instinct of a sphere afarPined for the air, and chafed against the bar.But can to Guelphs Augustan tastes belong?OrGeorgium Siduslook benign on song?My short-lived Muse the ungenial climate tried,Breathed some faint warbles, caught a cold, and died!Wise kinsmen whisper'd 'Hush! forewarn'd in time;The feet that rise are not the feet of Rhyme;Your cards are good, but all is in the lead,Play out the heart, and you are lost indeed:Leave verse, my boy, to unaspiring men—The eagle's pinion never sheds a pen!'"So fled the Muse! What left the Muse behind?The aimless fancy and the restless mind;The eyes, still won by whatsoe'er was bright,But lost the star's to prize the diamond's light.Man, like the child, accepts the bauble boon.And clasps the coral where he ask'd the moon.Forbid the pomp and royalty of heaven,—To the born Poet still the earth is given;Duped by each glare in which Corruption seemsTo give the glory imaged on his dreams:Thus, what had been the thirst for deathless fame,Grew the fierce hunger for the Moment's name;Ambition placed its hard desires in Power,And saw no Jove but in the Golden Shower.No miser I—no niggard of the store—The end Olympus, but the means the ore:I look'd below—there Lazarus crawl'd disdain'd;I look'd aloft—there, who but Dives reign'd?He who would make the steeps of power his home,Must mask the Titan till he rules the Gnome.If I insist on this, my soul's disease,Excuse for fault thy practised sight foresees:It makes the moral of my tale, in truth,And boyhood sow'd the poison of my youth."Meanwhile men praised, and women smiled;—the wing,Bow'd from the height, still bask'd beneath the spring.Pass by the Paphian follies of that day,—When true love comes, it is to close our May.Well, ere my boyish holiday was o'er,The grim god came, and mirth was mine no more:A well-born pauper, I seem'd doom'd to liveBy what great men to well-born paupers give:I had an uncle high in power and state,Who ruled three kingdoms' and one nephew's fate.This uncle loved, as English thanes will all,An autumn's respite in his rural hall;In slaughtering game, relax'd his rigid breast;And so,—behold me martyr'd to his guest!
III.LORD ARDEN'S TALE.
"Rear'd in a court, a man while yet a boy,Hermes said 'Rise,' and Venus sigh'd 'Enjoy;'My earlier dreams, like tints in rainbows given,Caught from the Muse, glow'd but in clasping heaven;The bird-like instinct of a sphere afarPined for the air, and chafed against the bar.But can to Guelphs Augustan tastes belong?OrGeorgium Siduslook benign on song?My short-lived Muse the ungenial climate tried,Breathed some faint warbles, caught a cold, and died!Wise kinsmen whisper'd 'Hush! forewarn'd in time;The feet that rise are not the feet of Rhyme;Your cards are good, but all is in the lead,Play out the heart, and you are lost indeed:Leave verse, my boy, to unaspiring men—The eagle's pinion never sheds a pen!'
"So fled the Muse! What left the Muse behind?The aimless fancy and the restless mind;The eyes, still won by whatsoe'er was bright,But lost the star's to prize the diamond's light.Man, like the child, accepts the bauble boon.And clasps the coral where he ask'd the moon.Forbid the pomp and royalty of heaven,—To the born Poet still the earth is given;Duped by each glare in which Corruption seemsTo give the glory imaged on his dreams:Thus, what had been the thirst for deathless fame,Grew the fierce hunger for the Moment's name;Ambition placed its hard desires in Power,And saw no Jove but in the Golden Shower.No miser I—no niggard of the store—The end Olympus, but the means the ore:I look'd below—there Lazarus crawl'd disdain'd;I look'd aloft—there, who but Dives reign'd?He who would make the steeps of power his home,Must mask the Titan till he rules the Gnome.If I insist on this, my soul's disease,Excuse for fault thy practised sight foresees:It makes the moral of my tale, in truth,And boyhood sow'd the poison of my youth.
"Meanwhile men praised, and women smiled;—the wing,Bow'd from the height, still bask'd beneath the spring.Pass by the Paphian follies of that day,—When true love comes, it is to close our May.Well, ere my boyish holiday was o'er,The grim god came, and mirth was mine no more:A well-born pauper, I seem'd doom'd to liveBy what great men to well-born paupers give:I had an uncle high in power and state,Who ruled three kingdoms' and one nephew's fate.This uncle loved, as English thanes will all,An autumn's respite in his rural hall;In slaughtering game, relax'd his rigid breast;And so,—behold me martyr'd to his guest!
IV."Wandering, one day, in discontented moodBy a clear brook—through grassy solitude,Leading the dance of light waves chanting low—A little world of sunshine seem'd to growOut from the landscape—as with sudden springFrom bosk and brake—leapt the stream glittering.Lo, the meek home, its porch with roses twined,Green sward before, a sacred tower behind;On the green sward the year's last flowers were gay,And the last glory of the golden dayPaused on the spire, that, shining, soar'd to cleaveThose clouds, the loveliest, that precede the eve."Along the bank, beneath the bowering tree,Young fairies play'd—young voices laugh'd in glee;One voice more mellow'd in its silver sound,Yet blithe as rang the gladdest on the ground;One shape more ripen'd, one sweet face more fair,Yet not less happy, the Titania there.Soft voice, fair face, I hear, I see ye still!Shades and dim echoes from the blissful hillBehind me left, to cast but darkness o'erThe waste slow-lengthening to the grave before!"So Love was born. With love invention came;I won my entrance, but conceal'd my name.A village priest her father, poor and wise,In aught that clears to mortal sight the skies,But blind and simple as a child to allThe things that pass upon the earth we crawl;The mask'd Lothario to his eyes appear'dA student youth, by Alma Mater rear'dThe word to preach, the hunger to endure,And see Ambition close upon a Cure;—A modest youth, who own'd his learning slight,And brought his taper to the master's light.This tale believed, the good man's harmless prideWas pleased the bashful neophyte to guide:Spread out his books, and, moved to pity, press'dThe backward pupil to the daily guest."So from a neighbouring valley, where they deemMy home, each noon I cross the happy stream,And hail the eyes already watchful grown,And clasp the hand that trembles in my own;But not for guilt had I conceal'd my name,The young warm passion nursed no thought of shame;The spell that bound ennobled while it charm'd,And Romeo's love Lothario's guile disarm'd;And vain the guile had been!—impure desireRound that chaste light but hover'd to expire:Her angel nature found its own defence,Ev'n in the instincts of its innocence;As that sweet plant which opens every hueOf its frank heart to eyes content to view,But folds its leaves and shrinks in coy disdainFrom the least touch that would the bloom profane.Link'd with the woman's Meekness, side by side,Stood, not to lose but guard the angel, Pride;Pride, with the shield for honour, not the heart,Sacred from stain, not proof against the dart.Brief,—then, such love it was my lot to winAs sways a life to every grief but—sin.
IV.
"Wandering, one day, in discontented moodBy a clear brook—through grassy solitude,Leading the dance of light waves chanting low—A little world of sunshine seem'd to growOut from the landscape—as with sudden springFrom bosk and brake—leapt the stream glittering.Lo, the meek home, its porch with roses twined,Green sward before, a sacred tower behind;On the green sward the year's last flowers were gay,And the last glory of the golden dayPaused on the spire, that, shining, soar'd to cleaveThose clouds, the loveliest, that precede the eve.
"Along the bank, beneath the bowering tree,Young fairies play'd—young voices laugh'd in glee;One voice more mellow'd in its silver sound,Yet blithe as rang the gladdest on the ground;One shape more ripen'd, one sweet face more fair,Yet not less happy, the Titania there.Soft voice, fair face, I hear, I see ye still!Shades and dim echoes from the blissful hillBehind me left, to cast but darkness o'erThe waste slow-lengthening to the grave before!
"So Love was born. With love invention came;I won my entrance, but conceal'd my name.A village priest her father, poor and wise,In aught that clears to mortal sight the skies,But blind and simple as a child to allThe things that pass upon the earth we crawl;The mask'd Lothario to his eyes appear'dA student youth, by Alma Mater rear'dThe word to preach, the hunger to endure,And see Ambition close upon a Cure;—A modest youth, who own'd his learning slight,And brought his taper to the master's light.This tale believed, the good man's harmless prideWas pleased the bashful neophyte to guide:Spread out his books, and, moved to pity, press'dThe backward pupil to the daily guest.
"So from a neighbouring valley, where they deemMy home, each noon I cross the happy stream,And hail the eyes already watchful grown,And clasp the hand that trembles in my own;But not for guilt had I conceal'd my name,The young warm passion nursed no thought of shame;The spell that bound ennobled while it charm'd,And Romeo's love Lothario's guile disarm'd;And vain the guile had been!—impure desireRound that chaste light but hover'd to expire:Her angel nature found its own defence,Ev'n in the instincts of its innocence;As that sweet plant which opens every hueOf its frank heart to eyes content to view,But folds its leaves and shrinks in coy disdainFrom the least touch that would the bloom profane.Link'd with the woman's Meekness, side by side,Stood, not to lose but guard the angel, Pride;Pride, with the shield for honour, not the heart,Sacred from stain, not proof against the dart.Brief,—then, such love it was my lot to winAs sways a life to every grief but—sin.
V."Yet in the light of day to win and wed,To boast a bride, yet not to own a shed;To doom the famine, yet proclaim the bliss,And seal the ruin in the nuptial kiss;—Love shunn'd such madness for the loved one's sake;What course could Prudence sanction Love to take?Lenient I knew my kinsman to a vice;But, oh, to folly Cato less precise!And all my future, in my kinsman bound,Shadow'd his humours—smiled in him or frown'd;But uncles still, however high in state,}Are mortal men—and Youth has hope to wait,}And Love a conqueror's confidence in Fate.—}A secret Hymen reconciled in oneCaution and bliss—if Mary could be won?Hard task!—I said it was my lot to winSway o'er a life for grief;—this was not sin.To her I told my name, rank, doubts, and fears,And urged the prayer too long denied with tears—'Reject'st thou still,' I cried, 'well, then to meThe pride to offer all life holds to thee;I go to tell my love, proclaim my choice—Clasp want, mar fate, meet ruin, and rejoice,So that, at least, when next we meet, thy sighShall own this truth—"He better loved than I."'"With that, her hand upon my own she laid,Look'd in my eyes—the sacrifice was made;Alas, she had no mother!—Nature movedThat heart to this—she trusted, for she loved!"I had a friend of lowlier birth than mine,The sunnier spot allured the trailing vine.My rising fortunes had the southern air,And fruit might bless the plant that clamber'd there.My smooth Clanalbin!—shrewd, if smooth, was he,His soul was prudent, though his life was free;Scapin to serve, and Machiavel to plot,Red-hair'd, thin-lipp'd, sly, supple,—and a Scot!To him the double project I confide,To cloak the rite, and yet to clasp the bride;Long he resisted—solemnly he warn'd,And urged the perils love had seen and scorn'd.At length subdued, he groan'd a slow consent,And pledged a genius practised to invent.A priest was found—a license was procured,Due witness hired, and secrecy assured;All this his task:—'tis o'er;—and Mary's lifeBound up in one who dares not call her wife!"Alas—alas, why on the fatal brinkOf the abyss—doth not the instinct shrink?The meaner tribe the coming storm foresees—In the still calm the bird divines the breeze—The ox that grazes shuns the poison-weed—The unseen tiger frights afar the steed—To man alone no kind foreboding showsThe latent horror or the ambush'd foes;O'er each blind moment hangs the funeral pall,Heaven shines, earth smiles—and night descends on all!"But I!—fond reader of imagined skies,Foretold my future in those stars—her eyes!O heavenly Moon, circling with magic huesAnd mystic beauty all thy beams suffuse,Is not in love thine own fair secret seen?Love smooths the rugged—love exalts the mean:Love in each ray inspires the hush'd alarm,Love silvers every shadow into charm.
V.
"Yet in the light of day to win and wed,To boast a bride, yet not to own a shed;To doom the famine, yet proclaim the bliss,And seal the ruin in the nuptial kiss;—Love shunn'd such madness for the loved one's sake;What course could Prudence sanction Love to take?Lenient I knew my kinsman to a vice;But, oh, to folly Cato less precise!And all my future, in my kinsman bound,Shadow'd his humours—smiled in him or frown'd;But uncles still, however high in state,}Are mortal men—and Youth has hope to wait,}And Love a conqueror's confidence in Fate.—}A secret Hymen reconciled in oneCaution and bliss—if Mary could be won?Hard task!—I said it was my lot to winSway o'er a life for grief;—this was not sin.To her I told my name, rank, doubts, and fears,And urged the prayer too long denied with tears—'Reject'st thou still,' I cried, 'well, then to meThe pride to offer all life holds to thee;I go to tell my love, proclaim my choice—Clasp want, mar fate, meet ruin, and rejoice,So that, at least, when next we meet, thy sighShall own this truth—"He better loved than I."'
"With that, her hand upon my own she laid,Look'd in my eyes—the sacrifice was made;Alas, she had no mother!—Nature movedThat heart to this—she trusted, for she loved!
"I had a friend of lowlier birth than mine,The sunnier spot allured the trailing vine.My rising fortunes had the southern air,And fruit might bless the plant that clamber'd there.My smooth Clanalbin!—shrewd, if smooth, was he,His soul was prudent, though his life was free;Scapin to serve, and Machiavel to plot,Red-hair'd, thin-lipp'd, sly, supple,—and a Scot!To him the double project I confide,To cloak the rite, and yet to clasp the bride;Long he resisted—solemnly he warn'd,And urged the perils love had seen and scorn'd.At length subdued, he groan'd a slow consent,And pledged a genius practised to invent.A priest was found—a license was procured,Due witness hired, and secrecy assured;All this his task:—'tis o'er;—and Mary's lifeBound up in one who dares not call her wife!
"Alas—alas, why on the fatal brinkOf the abyss—doth not the instinct shrink?The meaner tribe the coming storm foresees—In the still calm the bird divines the breeze—The ox that grazes shuns the poison-weed—The unseen tiger frights afar the steed—To man alone no kind foreboding showsThe latent horror or the ambush'd foes;O'er each blind moment hangs the funeral pall,Heaven shines, earth smiles—and night descends on all!
"But I!—fond reader of imagined skies,Foretold my future in those stars—her eyes!O heavenly Moon, circling with magic huesAnd mystic beauty all thy beams suffuse,Is not in love thine own fair secret seen?Love smooths the rugged—love exalts the mean:Love in each ray inspires the hush'd alarm,Love silvers every shadow into charm.
VI."O lonely beech, beneath whose bowering shadeThe tryst, encircling Paradise, was made,How the heart heard afar the hurrying feet,And swell'd to breathless words—'At last we meet!'But Autumn fades—dark Winter comes, and thenFate from Elysium calls me back to men;We part!—not equal is the anguish;—sheParts with all earth in that farewell to me;For not the grate more bars the veilèd nunFrom the fair world with which her soul has done,Than love the heart, that vows, without recall,To one,—fame, honour, memory, hope, and all!But I!—behold me in the dazzling strife,The gaud, the pomp, the joyous roar of life,—Man, with man's heart insatiate, ever stirr'dBy the crowd's breath to conflict with the herd;Which never long one thought alone can sway,—The dream fades from us when we leap to-day.New scenes surround me, new ambitions seize,—All life one fever,—who defy disease?—Each touch contagion:—living with the rest,The world's large pulse keeps time in every breast.Yet still for her—for her alone, methought,Its web of schemes the vulgar labour wrought:To ransom fate—to soar, from serfdom, free,Snap the strong chains of high-born penury;And, grown as bold to earth as to the skies,Proclaim the bliss of happy human ties:—So, ever scheming, the soothed conscience deem'd!Fate smiled, and speeded all for which I schemed.My noble kinsman saw with grave applauseMy sober'd moods, too wise to guess the cause.''Tis well,' said he, one evening; 'you have caughtFrom me the ardour of the patriot's thought;No more distinguish'd in the modes of vice,Forsworn the race-course, and disdain'd the dice:A nobler race, a mightier game awaitThe soul that sets its cast upon the state.Thoughtful, poor, calm, yet eager; such, in truth,He who is great in age should be in youth,Lo, your commencement!'"And my kinsman setBefore the eyes it brighten'd—the Gazette!Oh, how triumphant, Calendar of Fame!Halo'd in type, emerged the aspirant's name!"'We send you second to a court, 'tis true;Small, as befits a diplomat so new,'Quoth my wise kinsman: 'but requiring allYour natural gifts;—to rise not is to fall!And harkye, stripling, you are handsome, young,Active, ambitious, and from statesmen sprung!Wedwell—add wealth to power by me possess'd,And sleep on roses,—I will find the rest!But one false step,—pshaw, boy! I do not preachOf saws and morals, his own code to each,—By one false step, I mean one foolish thing,And the wax melts, my Icarus, from your wing!Let not the heart the watchful mind betray,—Enough!—no answer!—sail the First of May!'"Here, then, from vapour broke at last the sun!Station, career, fame, fortune, all begun!Now, greater need than ever to concealThe secret spring that moved the speeding wheel;And half forgetting that I wish'd forgot,Each thought divides the absent from my lot.One night, escaped my kinsman's hall, which blazedWith dames who smiled, and garter'd peers who praised,I seek my lonely home,—ascend the stair,—Gain my dim room,—what stranger daunts me there?A grey old man!—I froze his look before;}The Gorgon's eye scarce fix'd its victim more,—}The bride's sad father on the bridegroom's floor!}In the brief pause, how terrible and fast,As on the drowning seaman, rush'd the past!How had he learn'd my name,—abode,—the tieThat bound?—for all spoke lightning in his eye.Lo, on the secret in whose darkness layPower, future, fortune, pour'd the hateful ray!Thus silence ceased."'When first my home you deign'dTo seek, what found you?—cheeks no tears had stain'd!Untroubled hearts, and conscience clear as day:And lips that loved, where now they fear, to pray:'Twixt kin and kin, sweet commune undefiled—The grateful father—the confiding child!What now that home?—behold! its change may speakIn hair thus silver'd—in this furrow'd cheek!My child'—(he paused, and in his voice, not eyes,Tears seek the vent indignant pride denies)'My child—God pardon me!—I was too proudTo call her "daughter!"—what shall call the crowd?Man—man, she cowers beneath a Father's eye,And shuns his blessing—with one wish to die;And I that death-bed will resign'd endureIf—speak the word—the soul that parts is pure?'"'Who dares deny it?' I began, but check'dIn the warm burst—cold wisdom hiss'd—'Reflect;Thy fears had outstripp'd truth—as yet unknown,The vows, the bond!—are these for thee to own?'The father mark'd my pause, and changing cheek,'Go on!—why falter if the truth thou speak?'"Who dares deny it?"—Thou!—thy lip—thine eye—Thy heart—thy conscience—theseare what deny?O Heaven, that I were not thy priest!'"His lookGrew stern and dark—the natural Adam shookThe reverend form an instant;—like a charmThe pious memory stay'd the lifted arm;And shrunk to self-rebuke the threatening word,'Man's not my weapons—I thy servant, Lord!'Moved, I replied—'Could love suffice alone}In this hard world,—the love to thee made known,}A bliss to cherish, 'twere a pride to own:}And if I pause, and if I falter—yetI hide no shame, I strive with no regret.Believe mine honour—wait the ripening hour;Time hides the germ, the season brings the flower.'Wildly he cried—'What words are these?—but oneSentence I ask—her sire should call theeson!Hist, let the heavens but hear us!—in her lifeAnother lives—if pure she is thy wife!Now answer!'I had answer'd, as becameThe native manhood and the knightly name;But shall I own it? the suspicious chill,The world-wise know, froze up the arrested will.Whose butherlips, sworn never to betray,Had fail'd their oath, and dragg'd my name to day?True, she had left the veil upon the shrine,But set the snare to make confession mine.Thus half resentment, half disdain, repell'dThe man's frank justice, and the truth withheld.Yet, so invoked, I scorn'd at least the lie,And met the question with this proud reply:—'If thou dost doubt thy child, depart secure,My love is sinless, and her soul is pure.This by mine honour, and to Heaven, I swear!Dost thou ask more?—then bid thy child declare;What she proclaims as truth, myself will own;What she withholds, alike I leave unknown;What she demands, I am prepared to yield;Now doubt or spurn me—but my lips are seal'd.'I ceased, and stood with haughty mien and eye,That seem'd all further question to defy;He gazed, as if still spell'd in hope or fear,And hungering for the word that fail'd the ear.At last, and half unconscious, in the thrallOf the cold awe, he groan'd—'And is this all?Courage, poor child—there may be justice yet—Justice, Heaven, justice!'With this doubtful threatHe turn'd, was gone!—that look of stern despair,The uncertain footstep tottering down the stair,The clapping door; and then that void and chill,Which would be silence, were the conscience still;That sense of something gone, we would recall;The soul's dim stun before it feels its fall.
VI.
"O lonely beech, beneath whose bowering shadeThe tryst, encircling Paradise, was made,How the heart heard afar the hurrying feet,And swell'd to breathless words—'At last we meet!'But Autumn fades—dark Winter comes, and thenFate from Elysium calls me back to men;We part!—not equal is the anguish;—sheParts with all earth in that farewell to me;For not the grate more bars the veilèd nunFrom the fair world with which her soul has done,Than love the heart, that vows, without recall,To one,—fame, honour, memory, hope, and all!But I!—behold me in the dazzling strife,The gaud, the pomp, the joyous roar of life,—Man, with man's heart insatiate, ever stirr'dBy the crowd's breath to conflict with the herd;Which never long one thought alone can sway,—The dream fades from us when we leap to-day.New scenes surround me, new ambitions seize,—All life one fever,—who defy disease?—Each touch contagion:—living with the rest,The world's large pulse keeps time in every breast.Yet still for her—for her alone, methought,Its web of schemes the vulgar labour wrought:To ransom fate—to soar, from serfdom, free,Snap the strong chains of high-born penury;And, grown as bold to earth as to the skies,Proclaim the bliss of happy human ties:—So, ever scheming, the soothed conscience deem'd!Fate smiled, and speeded all for which I schemed.My noble kinsman saw with grave applauseMy sober'd moods, too wise to guess the cause.''Tis well,' said he, one evening; 'you have caughtFrom me the ardour of the patriot's thought;No more distinguish'd in the modes of vice,Forsworn the race-course, and disdain'd the dice:A nobler race, a mightier game awaitThe soul that sets its cast upon the state.Thoughtful, poor, calm, yet eager; such, in truth,He who is great in age should be in youth,Lo, your commencement!'
"And my kinsman setBefore the eyes it brighten'd—the Gazette!Oh, how triumphant, Calendar of Fame!Halo'd in type, emerged the aspirant's name!
"'We send you second to a court, 'tis true;Small, as befits a diplomat so new,'Quoth my wise kinsman: 'but requiring allYour natural gifts;—to rise not is to fall!And harkye, stripling, you are handsome, young,Active, ambitious, and from statesmen sprung!Wedwell—add wealth to power by me possess'd,And sleep on roses,—I will find the rest!But one false step,—pshaw, boy! I do not preachOf saws and morals, his own code to each,—By one false step, I mean one foolish thing,And the wax melts, my Icarus, from your wing!Let not the heart the watchful mind betray,—Enough!—no answer!—sail the First of May!'
"Here, then, from vapour broke at last the sun!Station, career, fame, fortune, all begun!Now, greater need than ever to concealThe secret spring that moved the speeding wheel;And half forgetting that I wish'd forgot,Each thought divides the absent from my lot.One night, escaped my kinsman's hall, which blazedWith dames who smiled, and garter'd peers who praised,I seek my lonely home,—ascend the stair,—Gain my dim room,—what stranger daunts me there?A grey old man!—I froze his look before;}The Gorgon's eye scarce fix'd its victim more,—}The bride's sad father on the bridegroom's floor!}In the brief pause, how terrible and fast,As on the drowning seaman, rush'd the past!How had he learn'd my name,—abode,—the tieThat bound?—for all spoke lightning in his eye.Lo, on the secret in whose darkness layPower, future, fortune, pour'd the hateful ray!Thus silence ceased.
"'When first my home you deign'dTo seek, what found you?—cheeks no tears had stain'd!Untroubled hearts, and conscience clear as day:And lips that loved, where now they fear, to pray:'Twixt kin and kin, sweet commune undefiled—The grateful father—the confiding child!What now that home?—behold! its change may speakIn hair thus silver'd—in this furrow'd cheek!My child'—(he paused, and in his voice, not eyes,Tears seek the vent indignant pride denies)'My child—God pardon me!—I was too proudTo call her "daughter!"—what shall call the crowd?Man—man, she cowers beneath a Father's eye,And shuns his blessing—with one wish to die;And I that death-bed will resign'd endureIf—speak the word—the soul that parts is pure?'
"'Who dares deny it?' I began, but check'dIn the warm burst—cold wisdom hiss'd—'Reflect;Thy fears had outstripp'd truth—as yet unknown,The vows, the bond!—are these for thee to own?'The father mark'd my pause, and changing cheek,'Go on!—why falter if the truth thou speak?'"Who dares deny it?"—Thou!—thy lip—thine eye—Thy heart—thy conscience—theseare what deny?O Heaven, that I were not thy priest!'
"His lookGrew stern and dark—the natural Adam shookThe reverend form an instant;—like a charmThe pious memory stay'd the lifted arm;And shrunk to self-rebuke the threatening word,'Man's not my weapons—I thy servant, Lord!'Moved, I replied—'Could love suffice alone}In this hard world,—the love to thee made known,}A bliss to cherish, 'twere a pride to own:}And if I pause, and if I falter—yetI hide no shame, I strive with no regret.Believe mine honour—wait the ripening hour;Time hides the germ, the season brings the flower.'Wildly he cried—'What words are these?—but oneSentence I ask—her sire should call theeson!Hist, let the heavens but hear us!—in her lifeAnother lives—if pure she is thy wife!Now answer!'
I had answer'd, as becameThe native manhood and the knightly name;But shall I own it? the suspicious chill,The world-wise know, froze up the arrested will.Whose butherlips, sworn never to betray,Had fail'd their oath, and dragg'd my name to day?True, she had left the veil upon the shrine,But set the snare to make confession mine.Thus half resentment, half disdain, repell'dThe man's frank justice, and the truth withheld.Yet, so invoked, I scorn'd at least the lie,And met the question with this proud reply:—'If thou dost doubt thy child, depart secure,My love is sinless, and her soul is pure.This by mine honour, and to Heaven, I swear!Dost thou ask more?—then bid thy child declare;What she proclaims as truth, myself will own;What she withholds, alike I leave unknown;What she demands, I am prepared to yield;Now doubt or spurn me—but my lips are seal'd.'I ceased, and stood with haughty mien and eye,That seem'd all further question to defy;He gazed, as if still spell'd in hope or fear,And hungering for the word that fail'd the ear.At last, and half unconscious, in the thrallOf the cold awe, he groan'd—
'And is this all?Courage, poor child—there may be justice yet—Justice, Heaven, justice!'
With this doubtful threatHe turn'd, was gone!—that look of stern despair,The uncertain footstep tottering down the stair,The clapping door; and then that void and chill,Which would be silence, were the conscience still;That sense of something gone, we would recall;The soul's dim stun before it feels its fall.
VII."Next day, the sire my noble kinsman sought;One ruling senates must be just, he thought.What chanced, untold—what follow'd may declare:}Behold me summon'd to my uncle's chair!}See his cold eye—Isaw my ruin there!}I saw and shrunk not, for a sullen prideEmbraced alike the kinsman and the bride:Scorn'd here, the seeming snare by cunning set;And there, coarse thraldom, with rebellion met."Brief was my Lord—'An old man tells me, sir,You woo his child, to wed her you demur;Who knows, perhaps (and such his shrewd surmise),The noose is knit—you but conceal the ties!Please to inform me, ere I go to court,How stands the matter?—sir, my time is short.'"'My Lord,' I answer'd, with unquailing brow,'Not to such ears should youth its faults avow;And grant me pardon if I boldly speak,Youth may have secrets honour shuns to seek.I own I love, proclaim that love as pure!If this be sin—its sentence I endure.All else belongs unto that solemn shrine,In the veil'd heart, which manhood holds divine.Men's hearths are sacred, so our laws decree;Are hearts less sacred? mine at least is free.Suspect, disown, forsake me, if thou wilt;I prize the freedom where thou seest the guilt.'My kinsman's hand half-shaded the keen eye,Which glanced askant;—he paused in his reply.At length, perchance, his practised wit foresawThreats could not shake where interest fail'd to awe;And judged it wise to construe for the bestThe all I hid, the little I confess'd;Calmly he answer'd—'Sir, I like this heat;Duper or duped, a well-bred man's discreet;Take but this hint (one can't have all in life),You lose the uncle if you win the wife.In this, you choose Rank, Station, Power, Career;In that, Bills, Babies,—and the Bench, I fear.Hush;—'the least said' (old proverb, sir, but true!)—As yet your fault indulgently I view.Words,—notes (sad stuff!)—some promise rashly made—Action for breach—thatscandal must be stay'd.I trust such scrapes will teach you to beware;'Twill cost some hundreds—that be my affair.Depart at once—to-morrow—nay, to-day:When fairly gone, there will be less to pay!'So spoke the Statesman, whom experience toldThe weight of passion in the scales of gold.Pleased I escape, but how reprieve enjoy?One word from her distrusted could destroy!Yet that distrust the whispering heart belied,Self ceased, and anger into pity died;I thought of Mary in her desolate hour,And shudder'd at the blast, and trembled for the flower.Why not go seek her?—chide the impatient snare;}Or if faith linger'd, win it to forbear?}Now was the time, no jealous father there!}Swift as the thought impell'd me, I obey'd!'Tis night; once more I greet the moonlit shade;Once more I see the happy murmuring rill;The white cot bower'd beneath the pastoral hill!An April night, when, after sparkling showers,The dewy gems betray the cradled flowers,As if some sylphid, startled from her bedIn the rath blossom by the mortal's tread,Had left behind her pearly coronal.—Bright shone the stars on Earth's green banquet-hall;You seem'd, abroad, to see, to feel, to hearThe new life flushing through the virgin year;The visible growth—the freshness and the balm;The pulse of Nature throbbing through the calm;As wakeful, over every happy thing,Watch'd through the hush the Earth's young mother—Spring!Calm from the lattice shot a steady ray;}Calm on the sward its silvery lustre lay;}And reach'd, to glad the glancing waves at play.}I stood and gazed within the quiet room;—Gazed on her cheek;—there, spring had lost its bloom!Alone she sate!Alone!—that worn-out word,So idly spoken, and so coldly heard;Yet all that poets sing, and grief hath known,Of hope laid waste, knells in that word—Alone!"Who contemplates, aspires, or dreams, is notAlone: he peoples with rich thoughts the spot.The only loneliness—how dark and blind!—Is that where fancy cannot dupe the mind;Where the heart, sick, despondent, tired with all,Looks joyless round, and sees the dungeon wall;When even God is silent, and the curseOf torpor settles on the universe;When prayer is powerless, and one sense of dearthAbysses all,savesolitude, on earth!So sate the bride!—the drooping form, the eyeVacant, yet fix'd,—that air which Misery,The heart's Medusa, hardens into stone,Sculptured the Death which dwelleth in the lone!Oh, the wild burst of joy,—the life that came}Swift, brightening, bounding through the lips and frame,}When o'er the floors I stole, and whisper'd soft her name!}'Come—come at last! Oh, rapture!'Who can sayWhy meaner natures hold mysterious swayOver the nobler? Why mine orb malignRuled as a fate a spirit so divine;Giving or light or darkness all its ownUnto a star so near the Sapphire Throne?"'So thou art come!''Hush! say whose lips reveal'dAllthesesoft traitors swore to guard conceal'd—Our love—my name?''Not I—not I—thy wife!No, truth to thee more dear than fame, than life:A friend, my father's friend, the secret told;How guess'd I know not. Oh! if Love controll'dMy heart that hour—that bitter hour—when, thereBent that old man who——Husband, hear my prayerHave mercy on my father!—break, oh, breakThis crushing silence!—bid his daughter speak,And say, Thou'rt not dishonour'd?''If thou wilt,Tell all;—dishonour not alone in guilt!Men's eyes dishonour in the fallen see;—Speak, and dishonour thou inflict'st on me:The debt, the want, the beggary, and the shame,—The pauper branded on the noble's name!Speak and inflict—I still can spurn—the doom;Unveil the altar to prepare the tomb!I, who already in my grasp behold,Bright from Hesperian fields, the fruit of gold,By which alone the glorious prize we gain,Foil'd of the goal will die upon the plain.I own two brides, both dear alike, and seeIn one Ambition—in the other Thee:Destroy thy rival, and to her destroy'dSucceeds despair to make the world a void.'Then, with stern frankness to that shrinking ear,I told my hopes,—in her my only fear;Told, with a cheek no humbling blushes dyed,How met the sire—how unavow'd the bride!'Thus have I wrong'd—this cruel silence mine;And now be truth, and truth is vengeance, thine!'I ceased to speak; lo, she had ceased to weep;Her white lips writhed, as Suffering in its sleep;And o'er the frame a tremulous shudder went,As every life-stream to the source was sent:The very sense seem'd absent from the look,And with the Heart, its temple, Reason shook!So there was silence; such a silence broodsIn winter nights, o'er frost-bound solitudes,Darkness, and ice, and stillness all in one,—The silence without life, the withering without sun.But o'er that silence, as at night's full noon,Through breathless cloud, shimmers the sudden moon;A sad but heavenly smile a moment stirr'd,And heralded the martyr's patient word:'Fear not; pursue thy way to fortune, fame;I will not soil thy glory with my shame.Betray! avenge!—For ever, until thouProclaim the bond and ratify the vow,Closed in this heart, as lamps within the tomb,Shall waste the light, that lives amidst the gloom,—That lives, for oh! the dayshallcome at length,Though late, though slow,—(give hope, for hope is strength!)—When, from a father's breast no more exiled,The wife may ask forgiveness for the child?'"
VII.
"Next day, the sire my noble kinsman sought;One ruling senates must be just, he thought.What chanced, untold—what follow'd may declare:}Behold me summon'd to my uncle's chair!}See his cold eye—Isaw my ruin there!}I saw and shrunk not, for a sullen prideEmbraced alike the kinsman and the bride:Scorn'd here, the seeming snare by cunning set;And there, coarse thraldom, with rebellion met.
"Brief was my Lord—
'An old man tells me, sir,You woo his child, to wed her you demur;Who knows, perhaps (and such his shrewd surmise),The noose is knit—you but conceal the ties!Please to inform me, ere I go to court,How stands the matter?—sir, my time is short.'
"'My Lord,' I answer'd, with unquailing brow,'Not to such ears should youth its faults avow;And grant me pardon if I boldly speak,Youth may have secrets honour shuns to seek.I own I love, proclaim that love as pure!If this be sin—its sentence I endure.All else belongs unto that solemn shrine,In the veil'd heart, which manhood holds divine.Men's hearths are sacred, so our laws decree;Are hearts less sacred? mine at least is free.Suspect, disown, forsake me, if thou wilt;I prize the freedom where thou seest the guilt.'My kinsman's hand half-shaded the keen eye,Which glanced askant;—he paused in his reply.At length, perchance, his practised wit foresawThreats could not shake where interest fail'd to awe;And judged it wise to construe for the bestThe all I hid, the little I confess'd;Calmly he answer'd—
'Sir, I like this heat;Duper or duped, a well-bred man's discreet;Take but this hint (one can't have all in life),You lose the uncle if you win the wife.In this, you choose Rank, Station, Power, Career;In that, Bills, Babies,—and the Bench, I fear.Hush;—'the least said' (old proverb, sir, but true!)—As yet your fault indulgently I view.Words,—notes (sad stuff!)—some promise rashly made—Action for breach—thatscandal must be stay'd.I trust such scrapes will teach you to beware;'Twill cost some hundreds—that be my affair.Depart at once—to-morrow—nay, to-day:When fairly gone, there will be less to pay!'So spoke the Statesman, whom experience toldThe weight of passion in the scales of gold.Pleased I escape, but how reprieve enjoy?One word from her distrusted could destroy!Yet that distrust the whispering heart belied,Self ceased, and anger into pity died;I thought of Mary in her desolate hour,And shudder'd at the blast, and trembled for the flower.Why not go seek her?—chide the impatient snare;}Or if faith linger'd, win it to forbear?}Now was the time, no jealous father there!}Swift as the thought impell'd me, I obey'd!'Tis night; once more I greet the moonlit shade;Once more I see the happy murmuring rill;The white cot bower'd beneath the pastoral hill!An April night, when, after sparkling showers,The dewy gems betray the cradled flowers,As if some sylphid, startled from her bedIn the rath blossom by the mortal's tread,Had left behind her pearly coronal.—Bright shone the stars on Earth's green banquet-hall;You seem'd, abroad, to see, to feel, to hearThe new life flushing through the virgin year;The visible growth—the freshness and the balm;The pulse of Nature throbbing through the calm;As wakeful, over every happy thing,Watch'd through the hush the Earth's young mother—Spring!Calm from the lattice shot a steady ray;}Calm on the sward its silvery lustre lay;}And reach'd, to glad the glancing waves at play.}I stood and gazed within the quiet room;—Gazed on her cheek;—there, spring had lost its bloom!Alone she sate!Alone!—that worn-out word,So idly spoken, and so coldly heard;Yet all that poets sing, and grief hath known,Of hope laid waste, knells in that word—Alone!
"Who contemplates, aspires, or dreams, is notAlone: he peoples with rich thoughts the spot.The only loneliness—how dark and blind!—Is that where fancy cannot dupe the mind;Where the heart, sick, despondent, tired with all,Looks joyless round, and sees the dungeon wall;When even God is silent, and the curseOf torpor settles on the universe;When prayer is powerless, and one sense of dearthAbysses all,savesolitude, on earth!So sate the bride!—the drooping form, the eyeVacant, yet fix'd,—that air which Misery,The heart's Medusa, hardens into stone,Sculptured the Death which dwelleth in the lone!Oh, the wild burst of joy,—the life that came}Swift, brightening, bounding through the lips and frame,}When o'er the floors I stole, and whisper'd soft her name!}'Come—come at last! Oh, rapture!'Who can sayWhy meaner natures hold mysterious swayOver the nobler? Why mine orb malignRuled as a fate a spirit so divine;Giving or light or darkness all its ownUnto a star so near the Sapphire Throne?
"'So thou art come!''Hush! say whose lips reveal'dAllthesesoft traitors swore to guard conceal'd—Our love—my name?''Not I—not I—thy wife!No, truth to thee more dear than fame, than life:A friend, my father's friend, the secret told;How guess'd I know not. Oh! if Love controll'dMy heart that hour—that bitter hour—when, thereBent that old man who——Husband, hear my prayerHave mercy on my father!—break, oh, breakThis crushing silence!—bid his daughter speak,And say, Thou'rt not dishonour'd?'
'If thou wilt,Tell all;—dishonour not alone in guilt!Men's eyes dishonour in the fallen see;—Speak, and dishonour thou inflict'st on me:The debt, the want, the beggary, and the shame,—The pauper branded on the noble's name!Speak and inflict—I still can spurn—the doom;Unveil the altar to prepare the tomb!I, who already in my grasp behold,Bright from Hesperian fields, the fruit of gold,By which alone the glorious prize we gain,Foil'd of the goal will die upon the plain.I own two brides, both dear alike, and seeIn one Ambition—in the other Thee:Destroy thy rival, and to her destroy'dSucceeds despair to make the world a void.'Then, with stern frankness to that shrinking ear,I told my hopes,—in her my only fear;Told, with a cheek no humbling blushes dyed,How met the sire—how unavow'd the bride!'Thus have I wrong'd—this cruel silence mine;And now be truth, and truth is vengeance, thine!'I ceased to speak; lo, she had ceased to weep;Her white lips writhed, as Suffering in its sleep;And o'er the frame a tremulous shudder went,As every life-stream to the source was sent:The very sense seem'd absent from the look,And with the Heart, its temple, Reason shook!So there was silence; such a silence broodsIn winter nights, o'er frost-bound solitudes,Darkness, and ice, and stillness all in one,—The silence without life, the withering without sun.But o'er that silence, as at night's full noon,Through breathless cloud, shimmers the sudden moon;A sad but heavenly smile a moment stirr'd,And heralded the martyr's patient word:'Fear not; pursue thy way to fortune, fame;I will not soil thy glory with my shame.Betray! avenge!—For ever, until thouProclaim the bond and ratify the vow,Closed in this heart, as lamps within the tomb,Shall waste the light, that lives amidst the gloom,—That lives, for oh! the dayshallcome at length,Though late, though slow,—(give hope, for hope is strength!)—When, from a father's breast no more exiled,The wife may ask forgiveness for the child?'"
VIII."And so you parted?" with a moisten'd eye,Said Morvale;—"nay, man, spare me the reply;Too much the Eve has moved me——""Not to feelThat for the serpent which thy looks reveal,"Said Arden, sadly smiling; "yet in truth,See how the grey world grafts its age on youth;See how we learn to prize the bullion Vice,Coin'd in all shapes, yet still but Avarice;The stamp may vary,—you the coin may call'Ambition,' 'Power,' 'Success,'—but Gold is all.Mine is the memoir of a selfish age:Turn every leaf—slight difference in the page;Through each, the same fierce struggle to secureEarth's one great end—distinction from the Poor;All our true wealth, like alchemists of old,Fused in the furnace—for a grain of gold.
VIII.
"And so you parted?" with a moisten'd eye,Said Morvale;—"nay, man, spare me the reply;Too much the Eve has moved me——""Not to feelThat for the serpent which thy looks reveal,"Said Arden, sadly smiling; "yet in truth,See how the grey world grafts its age on youth;See how we learn to prize the bullion Vice,Coin'd in all shapes, yet still but Avarice;The stamp may vary,—you the coin may call'Ambition,' 'Power,' 'Success,'—but Gold is all.Mine is the memoir of a selfish age:Turn every leaf—slight difference in the page;Through each, the same fierce struggle to secureEarth's one great end—distinction from the Poor;All our true wealth, like alchemists of old,Fused in the furnace—for a grain of gold.
IX."Well then, we parted,—to make brief the tale,I take my orders, and my leave, set sail;For weeks, for months, fond letters, long nor few,Keep hope alive with love for ever new:If she had suffer'd, she betray'd it not;All save one sweetness—'that we loved' forgot.She never named her father;—once indeedThe namewaswrit, but blurr'd;—it was decreedThat she should fill the martyr-measure,—hideNot the dart only, but the bleeding side,And, wholly generous in the offering made,Veil even sorrow, lest it should upbraid."At length one letter came—thelast; more blestIn faith, in love, false hope, than all the rest;But at the close some hastier lines appear,Tremblingly writ, and stain'd with many a tear,In which, less said than timorously implied(The maid still blushing through the secret bride),I heard her heart through that far distance beat:The hour Eve's happiest daughter dreads to meet,—The hour of Nature's agony was nigh,—Husband and father, false one, where was I?"Slow day on slow day, unrevealing, crept,And still its ice the freezing silence kept:Fear seized my soul, I could no longer brookThe voiceless darkness which the daylight took.I feign'd excuse for absence;—left the shore:Fair blow the winds;—behold her home once more!"Her home! a desert! Still, though rank and wild,On the rank grass the heedless floweret smiled;Still by the porch you heard the ungrateful bee;Still brawl'd the brooklet's unremembering glee;But they—the souls of the sweet pastoral ground?Green o'er the father rose the sullen mound!Amidst his poor he slept;hisend was known,—Life's record rounded with the funeral stone:But she?—but Mary?—but my child?—what dewsFall ontheirgraves?—what herbs which heaven renewsPall their pure clay?—Oh! were it mine at leastTo weep, belovèd, where your relics rest!—Bear with me, Morvale,—pity if you can—These thoughts unman me—no, they prove me man!""Man of the cities," with a mutter'd scorn,Groan'd the stern Nomad from the lands of Morn,—"Man of the sleek, far-looking prudence, whichBeggars life's May, life's Autumn to enrich;Which, the deed doing, halts not in its course,But, the deed done, finds comfort in remorse.Man, in whom sentiment, the bloodless shadeOf noble passion, alternates with trade,—Hard in his error—feeble in his tears,And huckstering love, yet prattling of the spheres!"So mused the sombre savage, till the paleAnd self-gnaw'd worldling nerved him to his tale:—"The hireling watch'd the bed where Mary lay,In stranger arms my first-born saw the day.Below,—unseenhistravail, all unknownHiswar with Nature, sate the sire alone:He had not thrust the one he still believed,If silent, sinless, or in sin deceived—He had not thrust her from a father's door;So Shame came in, and cower'd upon the floor,And face to face with Shame, he sate to hearThe groan above bring torture to his ear.In that sad night, when the young mother slept,Forth from his door the elder mourner crept;Absent for days, none knowing whither bent,Till back return'd abruptly as he went.With a swift tremulous stride he climb'd the stair,}Through the closed chamber gleam'd his silver hair,}And Mary heard his voice soft—pitying—as in prayer!}'Child, child, I was too hard!—But woe is wild;Now I know all!—again I clasp my child!'Within his arms, upon his heart againHis Mary lay, and strove for words in vain;She strove for words, but better spoke through tearsThe love the heart through silence vents and hears."All this I gather'd from the nurse, who sawThe scene, which dews from hireling eyes could draw;So far;—her sob the pastor heard, and turn'd,Waved his wan hand, nor what more chanced she learn'd."Next morn in death the happier father lay,From sleep to Heaven his soul had pass'd away;He had but lived to pardon and to blessHis child;—emotion kills in its excess,And that task done, why longer on the rackStretch the worn frame?—God's mercy call'd him back.The day they buried him, while yet the strifeOf sense and memory raged for death and lifeIn Mary's shatter'd brain, her father's friend,Whose hand, perchance, had sped him to his end,Whose zeal officious had explored, reveal'dMy name, the half, worse half, of all conceal'd,Sought her, and saw alone: When gone, a changeCame o'er the victim, terrible and strange;All grief seem'd hush'd—a stern tranquillityCalm'd the wan brow and fix'd the glassy eye;She spoke not, moved not, wept not,—on her breastSlept Earth's new stranger—not more deep its rest.They fear'd her in that mood—with noiseless treadStole from the room; and, ere the morn, she fled.Gone the young Mother with her babe!—no trace;As the wind goes, she vanish'd from the place;They search'd the darkness of the wood, they priedInto the secrets of the tempting tide,In vain,—unseen on earth as in the wave,Where life found refuge or despair a grave.""And is this all?" said Morvale—"No, my thoughtGuess'd at the clue; her father's friend I sought,A stern hard man, of Calvin's iron mould,And yet I moved him, and his tale he told.It seem'd (by me unmark'd), amidst the rest,My uncle's board had known this homely guest.Our evil star had led the guest, one day,Where through the lone glade wound our lovers' way,To view, with Age's hard, suspecting eyes,The high-born courtier in the student's guise.Thus, when the father, startled to vague fears,By his child's waning cheek and unrevealing tears,First to his brother priest for counsel came,He urged stern question—track'd the grief to shame,Guess'd the undoer, and disclosed the name."Time went—the priest had still a steady trustIn Mary's honour; but, to mine unjust,Divined some fraud—explored, and found a clue,There had been marriage, if the rites were due;Had learn'd Clanalbin's name, as one whose eyeHad seen, whose witness might attest the tie.This news to Mary's father was convey'dThe eve her infant on her heart was laid."That night he left his home, he did not restTill found Clanalbin—'Well, and he confess'd?'I cried impatient;—my informer's eyeFlash'd fire—'Confess'd the fraud,' was his reply.'The fraud!'—'The impious form, the vile disguise!Mock priest, false marriage, hell's whole woof of lies!''Lies!—had the sound earth open'd its abyssBeneath my feet, my soul had shudder'd less.Lies!—but not mine!—his own!—not mine such ill.O wife, I fly—to right, avenge, and claim thee still!'""Thy hand—I wrong'd thee," Morvale falter'd, whileHis strong heart heaved—"Thou didst avenge the guile?Thou found'st thy friend—thy witness—well! and he?"—"Had spoken truth, the truth of perfidy.This man had loved me in his own dark way,Loved for past kindness in our wilder day,Loved for the future, which, obscure for him,Link'd with my fate, with that grew bright or dim.I told thee how he warr'd with my intent,The strong dissuasion, and the slow consent:The slow consent but veil'd the labour'd wile;That I might yet be great, he grovell'd to be vile.'Twasa false Hymen—a mock priest—and sheThe pure, dishonour'd—the dishonourer free!"This then the tale that, while it snapp'd the chord,Still to the father's heart the child restored;This told to her by the hard zealot's tongue,Had the last hope from spoil'd existence wrung;Had driven the outcast through the waste to roam,And with the altar shatter'd ev'n the home.No! trust ev'n then,—ev'n then, hope, was not o'er:One morn the wanderer reach'd Clanalbin's door.O steadfast saint! amidst the lightning's scathe,Still to the anchor clung the lingerer Faith;Still through the tempest of a darken'd brain,Where misery gnaw'd and memory rack'd in vain,The last lone angel that deserts the griefOf noble souls, survived and smiled,—Belief!There had she come, herself myself to know,And bow'd the head, and waited for the blow!What matter how the villain soothed, or soughtTo mask the crime?—enough that it was wrought;She heard in silence,—when all said, all learn'd,Still silent linger'd; then a flush return'dTo the pale cheek,—the Woman and the WrongRear'd the light form,—the voice came clear and strong.'Tell him my father's grave is closed; the dreadOf shame sleeps with him—dying with the dead:Tell him on earth we meet no more;—in vainWould he redress the wrong, and clear the stain,His child is nameless; and his bride—what nowTo her, too late, the mockery of the vow?I was his wife—his equal;—to endureEarth's slander? Yes!—because my soul was pure!Now, were he kneeling here,—fame, fortune won,—My pride would bar him from the fallen one.Say this; if more he seek my fate, reply—'Once stain the ermine, and its fate—to die!'I need not tell thee if my fury burstAgainst the wretch—the accurser—the accurst!I need not tell thee if I sought each traceThat lured false hope to woe's lorn resting-place;If, when all vain,—gold, toil, and art essay'd,Still in my sunlight stalk'd the avenging shade,Lost to my life for ever;—on the groundWhere dwell the spectres,—Conscience—ever found!"
IX.
"Well then, we parted,—to make brief the tale,I take my orders, and my leave, set sail;For weeks, for months, fond letters, long nor few,Keep hope alive with love for ever new:If she had suffer'd, she betray'd it not;All save one sweetness—'that we loved' forgot.She never named her father;—once indeedThe namewaswrit, but blurr'd;—it was decreedThat she should fill the martyr-measure,—hideNot the dart only, but the bleeding side,And, wholly generous in the offering made,Veil even sorrow, lest it should upbraid.
"At length one letter came—thelast; more blestIn faith, in love, false hope, than all the rest;But at the close some hastier lines appear,Tremblingly writ, and stain'd with many a tear,In which, less said than timorously implied(The maid still blushing through the secret bride),I heard her heart through that far distance beat:The hour Eve's happiest daughter dreads to meet,—The hour of Nature's agony was nigh,—Husband and father, false one, where was I?
"Slow day on slow day, unrevealing, crept,And still its ice the freezing silence kept:Fear seized my soul, I could no longer brookThe voiceless darkness which the daylight took.I feign'd excuse for absence;—left the shore:Fair blow the winds;—behold her home once more!
"Her home! a desert! Still, though rank and wild,On the rank grass the heedless floweret smiled;Still by the porch you heard the ungrateful bee;Still brawl'd the brooklet's unremembering glee;But they—the souls of the sweet pastoral ground?Green o'er the father rose the sullen mound!Amidst his poor he slept;hisend was known,—Life's record rounded with the funeral stone:But she?—but Mary?—but my child?—what dewsFall ontheirgraves?—what herbs which heaven renewsPall their pure clay?—Oh! were it mine at leastTo weep, belovèd, where your relics rest!—Bear with me, Morvale,—pity if you can—These thoughts unman me—no, they prove me man!""Man of the cities," with a mutter'd scorn,Groan'd the stern Nomad from the lands of Morn,—"Man of the sleek, far-looking prudence, whichBeggars life's May, life's Autumn to enrich;Which, the deed doing, halts not in its course,But, the deed done, finds comfort in remorse.Man, in whom sentiment, the bloodless shadeOf noble passion, alternates with trade,—Hard in his error—feeble in his tears,And huckstering love, yet prattling of the spheres!"So mused the sombre savage, till the paleAnd self-gnaw'd worldling nerved him to his tale:—"The hireling watch'd the bed where Mary lay,In stranger arms my first-born saw the day.Below,—unseenhistravail, all unknownHiswar with Nature, sate the sire alone:He had not thrust the one he still believed,If silent, sinless, or in sin deceived—He had not thrust her from a father's door;So Shame came in, and cower'd upon the floor,And face to face with Shame, he sate to hearThe groan above bring torture to his ear.In that sad night, when the young mother slept,Forth from his door the elder mourner crept;Absent for days, none knowing whither bent,Till back return'd abruptly as he went.With a swift tremulous stride he climb'd the stair,}Through the closed chamber gleam'd his silver hair,}And Mary heard his voice soft—pitying—as in prayer!}'Child, child, I was too hard!—But woe is wild;Now I know all!—again I clasp my child!'Within his arms, upon his heart againHis Mary lay, and strove for words in vain;She strove for words, but better spoke through tearsThe love the heart through silence vents and hears.
"All this I gather'd from the nurse, who sawThe scene, which dews from hireling eyes could draw;So far;—her sob the pastor heard, and turn'd,Waved his wan hand, nor what more chanced she learn'd.
"Next morn in death the happier father lay,From sleep to Heaven his soul had pass'd away;He had but lived to pardon and to blessHis child;—emotion kills in its excess,And that task done, why longer on the rackStretch the worn frame?—God's mercy call'd him back.The day they buried him, while yet the strifeOf sense and memory raged for death and lifeIn Mary's shatter'd brain, her father's friend,Whose hand, perchance, had sped him to his end,Whose zeal officious had explored, reveal'dMy name, the half, worse half, of all conceal'd,Sought her, and saw alone: When gone, a changeCame o'er the victim, terrible and strange;All grief seem'd hush'd—a stern tranquillityCalm'd the wan brow and fix'd the glassy eye;She spoke not, moved not, wept not,—on her breastSlept Earth's new stranger—not more deep its rest.They fear'd her in that mood—with noiseless treadStole from the room; and, ere the morn, she fled.Gone the young Mother with her babe!—no trace;As the wind goes, she vanish'd from the place;They search'd the darkness of the wood, they priedInto the secrets of the tempting tide,In vain,—unseen on earth as in the wave,Where life found refuge or despair a grave.""And is this all?" said Morvale—"No, my thoughtGuess'd at the clue; her father's friend I sought,A stern hard man, of Calvin's iron mould,And yet I moved him, and his tale he told.It seem'd (by me unmark'd), amidst the rest,My uncle's board had known this homely guest.Our evil star had led the guest, one day,Where through the lone glade wound our lovers' way,To view, with Age's hard, suspecting eyes,The high-born courtier in the student's guise.Thus, when the father, startled to vague fears,By his child's waning cheek and unrevealing tears,First to his brother priest for counsel came,He urged stern question—track'd the grief to shame,Guess'd the undoer, and disclosed the name.
"Time went—the priest had still a steady trustIn Mary's honour; but, to mine unjust,Divined some fraud—explored, and found a clue,There had been marriage, if the rites were due;Had learn'd Clanalbin's name, as one whose eyeHad seen, whose witness might attest the tie.This news to Mary's father was convey'dThe eve her infant on her heart was laid.
"That night he left his home, he did not restTill found Clanalbin—'Well, and he confess'd?'I cried impatient;—my informer's eyeFlash'd fire—'Confess'd the fraud,' was his reply.'The fraud!'—'The impious form, the vile disguise!Mock priest, false marriage, hell's whole woof of lies!''Lies!—had the sound earth open'd its abyssBeneath my feet, my soul had shudder'd less.Lies!—but not mine!—his own!—not mine such ill.O wife, I fly—to right, avenge, and claim thee still!'""Thy hand—I wrong'd thee," Morvale falter'd, whileHis strong heart heaved—"Thou didst avenge the guile?Thou found'st thy friend—thy witness—well! and he?"—"Had spoken truth, the truth of perfidy.This man had loved me in his own dark way,Loved for past kindness in our wilder day,Loved for the future, which, obscure for him,Link'd with my fate, with that grew bright or dim.I told thee how he warr'd with my intent,The strong dissuasion, and the slow consent:The slow consent but veil'd the labour'd wile;That I might yet be great, he grovell'd to be vile.'Twasa false Hymen—a mock priest—and sheThe pure, dishonour'd—the dishonourer free!
"This then the tale that, while it snapp'd the chord,Still to the father's heart the child restored;This told to her by the hard zealot's tongue,Had the last hope from spoil'd existence wrung;Had driven the outcast through the waste to roam,And with the altar shatter'd ev'n the home.No! trust ev'n then,—ev'n then, hope, was not o'er:One morn the wanderer reach'd Clanalbin's door.O steadfast saint! amidst the lightning's scathe,Still to the anchor clung the lingerer Faith;Still through the tempest of a darken'd brain,Where misery gnaw'd and memory rack'd in vain,The last lone angel that deserts the griefOf noble souls, survived and smiled,—Belief!There had she come, herself myself to know,And bow'd the head, and waited for the blow!What matter how the villain soothed, or soughtTo mask the crime?—enough that it was wrought;She heard in silence,—when all said, all learn'd,Still silent linger'd; then a flush return'dTo the pale cheek,—the Woman and the WrongRear'd the light form,—the voice came clear and strong.'Tell him my father's grave is closed; the dreadOf shame sleeps with him—dying with the dead:Tell him on earth we meet no more;—in vainWould he redress the wrong, and clear the stain,His child is nameless; and his bride—what nowTo her, too late, the mockery of the vow?I was his wife—his equal;—to endureEarth's slander? Yes!—because my soul was pure!Now, were he kneeling here,—fame, fortune won,—My pride would bar him from the fallen one.Say this; if more he seek my fate, reply—'Once stain the ermine, and its fate—to die!'I need not tell thee if my fury burstAgainst the wretch—the accurser—the accurst!I need not tell thee if I sought each traceThat lured false hope to woe's lorn resting-place;If, when all vain,—gold, toil, and art essay'd,Still in my sunlight stalk'd the avenging shade,Lost to my life for ever;—on the groundWhere dwell the spectres,—Conscience—ever found!"