V.But how gain'd she, whom pity strange and rareGave the night's refuge,—more than refuge there?At morn the orphan hostess had receivedThe orphan outcast,—heard her and believed,—And Lucy wept her thanks, and turn'd to part;But the sad tale had touch'd a woman's heart.Calantha's youth was lone, her nature kind,She knew no friend—she sigh'd a friend to find;That chasten'd speech, the grace so simply worn,Bespoke the nurture of the gentle-born;And so she gazed upon the weeping guest,Check'd the intended alms, and murmur'd "Rest,For both are orphans,—I should shelter thee,And, weep no more—thy smile shall comfort me."Thus Lucy rested—finding day by dayHer grateful heart the saving hand repay.Calantha loved her as the sad aloneLove what consoles them;—in that life her ownSeem'd to revive, and even hope to flower:Ah, over Sorrow Youth has such sweet power!The very menials linger'd as they went,To spy the fairy to their dwelling sent,To list her light step on the stair, or harkHer song;—yes,nowthe dove was in the ark!Ev'n the cold Morvale, spell'd at last, was foundWithin the circle drawn his guest around;Less rare his visits to Calantha grew,And her eye shrunk less coldly from his viewThe presence of the gentle third one broughtRespite to memory, gave fresh play to thought;And as some child to strifeful parents sent,Laps the long discord in its own content,This happy creature seem'd to reach that home,To say—"Love enters where the guileless come!"It was not mirth, for mirth she was too still;It was not wit, wit leaves the heart more chill;But that continuous sweetness, which with easePleases all round it, from the wish to please,—This was the charm that Lucy's smile bestow'd;The waves' fresh ripple from deep fountains flow'd;—Below exhaustless gratitude,—above,Woman's meek temper, childhood's ready love.Yet oft, when night reprieved the tender care,And lonely thought stole musing on to prayer;As some fair lake reflects, when day is o'er,With clearer wave from farther glades the shore,So, her still heart remember'd sorrows glass'd;And o'er its hush lay trembling all the past,Again she sees a mother's gentle face;Again she feels a mother's soft embrace;Again a mother's sigh of pain she hears,And starts—till lo, the spell dissolves in tears!Tears that too well the faithful grief reveal,Which smiles, by day made duties, would conceal.
V.
But how gain'd she, whom pity strange and rareGave the night's refuge,—more than refuge there?At morn the orphan hostess had receivedThe orphan outcast,—heard her and believed,—And Lucy wept her thanks, and turn'd to part;But the sad tale had touch'd a woman's heart.Calantha's youth was lone, her nature kind,She knew no friend—she sigh'd a friend to find;That chasten'd speech, the grace so simply worn,Bespoke the nurture of the gentle-born;And so she gazed upon the weeping guest,Check'd the intended alms, and murmur'd "Rest,For both are orphans,—I should shelter thee,And, weep no more—thy smile shall comfort me."
Thus Lucy rested—finding day by dayHer grateful heart the saving hand repay.Calantha loved her as the sad aloneLove what consoles them;—in that life her ownSeem'd to revive, and even hope to flower:Ah, over Sorrow Youth has such sweet power!The very menials linger'd as they went,To spy the fairy to their dwelling sent,To list her light step on the stair, or harkHer song;—yes,nowthe dove was in the ark!Ev'n the cold Morvale, spell'd at last, was foundWithin the circle drawn his guest around;Less rare his visits to Calantha grew,And her eye shrunk less coldly from his viewThe presence of the gentle third one broughtRespite to memory, gave fresh play to thought;And as some child to strifeful parents sent,Laps the long discord in its own content,This happy creature seem'd to reach that home,To say—"Love enters where the guileless come!"It was not mirth, for mirth she was too still;It was not wit, wit leaves the heart more chill;But that continuous sweetness, which with easePleases all round it, from the wish to please,—This was the charm that Lucy's smile bestow'd;The waves' fresh ripple from deep fountains flow'd;—Below exhaustless gratitude,—above,Woman's meek temper, childhood's ready love.
Yet oft, when night reprieved the tender care,And lonely thought stole musing on to prayer;As some fair lake reflects, when day is o'er,With clearer wave from farther glades the shore,So, her still heart remember'd sorrows glass'd;And o'er its hush lay trembling all the past,Again she sees a mother's gentle face;Again she feels a mother's soft embrace;Again a mother's sigh of pain she hears,And starts—till lo, the spell dissolves in tears!Tears that too well the faithful grief reveal,Which smiles, by day made duties, would conceal.
VI.It was a noon of summer in its glow,And all was life, but London's life, below;As by the open casement half reclinedCalantha's languid form;—a gentle windBrought to her cheek a bloom unwonted there,And stirr'd the light wave of the golden hair.Hers was a beauty that made sad the eye,Lovely in fading, like a twilight sky;The shape so finely, delicately frail,As form'd for climes unruffled by a gale;The lustrous eye, through which looks forth the soul,Bright and more brightly as it nears the goal;The fever'd counterfeit of healthful bloom,The rose so living yet so near the tomb;The veil the Funeral Genius lends his bride,When, fair as Love, he steals her to his side,And leads her on till at the nuptial porch,He murmurs, "Know me now!" and lowers the torch.What made more sad the outward form's decay,A soul of genius glimmer'd through the clay;Oft through the languor of disease would breakThat life of light Parnassian dreamers seek;And music trembled on each aspen leafOf the boughs drooping o'er the fount of grief.Genius has so much youth no care can kill;Death seems unnatural when it sighs—"Be still."That wealth, which Nature prodigally gave,Shall Life but garner for its heir the Grave?What noble hearts that treasure might have bless'd!How large the realm that mind should have possess'd!Love in the wife, and wisdom in the friend,And earnest purpose for a generous end,And glowing sympathy for thoughts of powerAnd playful fancy for the lighter hour;All lost, all cavern'd in the sunless gloomOf some dark memory, beetling o'er the tomb;—Like bright-wing'd fairies, whom the hostile gnomeHas spell'd and dungeon'd in his rocky home,The wanderer hears the solitary moan,Nor dreams the fairy in the sullen stone.Contrasting this worn frame and weary breast,Fresh as a morn of April bloom'd the guest:April has tears, and mists the morn array;The mists foretell the sun,—the tears the May.Lo, as from care to care the soother glides,How the home brightens where the heart presides!Now hovering, bird-like, o'er the flowers,—at timesPausing to chant Calantha's favourite rhymes,Or smooth the uneasy pillow with light hand;Or watch the eye, forestalling the demand,Complete in every heavenly art—aboveAll, save the genius of inventive love.The window open'd on that breadth of green,To half the pomp of elder days the scene.Gaze to thy left—there the PlantagenetLook'd on the lists for Norman knighthood set;[E]Bright issued forth, where yonder archway glooms,Banner and trump, and steed, and waves of plumes,As with light heart rides wanton Anne to braveTudor's grim love, the purple and the grave.Gaze to the right, where now—neat, white, and low,The modest Palace looks like Brunswick Row;[F]There, echoed once the merriest orgies known,Since the frank Norman won grave Harold's throne;There, bloom'd the mulberry groves, beneath whose shadeHis easy loves the royal Rowley made;Where Villiers flaunted, and where Sedley sung,And wit's loose diamonds dropp'd from Wilmot's tongue!All at rest now—all dust!—wave flows on wave;But the sea dries not!—what to us the grave?It brings no real homily, we sigh,Pause for awhile and murmur, "All must die!"Then rush to pleasure, action, sin once more,Swell the loud tide, and fret unto the shore.And o'er the altered scene Calantha's eyeRoves listless—yet Time's Great the passers by!Along the road still fleet the men whose namesLive in the talk the moment's glory claims.There, for the hot Pancratia of DebatePass the keen wrestlers for that palm,—the State.Now, "on his humble but his faithful steed,"Sir Robert rides—he never rides at speed—Careful his seat, and circumspect his gaze;And still the cautious trot the cautious mind betrays.Wise is thy heed!—how stout soe'er his back,Thy weight has oft proved fatal to thy hack![G]Next, with loose rein and careless canter viewOur man of men, the Prince of Waterloo;O'er the firm brow the hat as firmly press'd,The firm shape rigid in the button'd vest;Within—the iron which the fire has proved,And the close Sparta of a mind unmoved!Not his the wealth to some large natures lent,Divinely lavish, even where misspent,That liberal sunshine of exuberant soul,Thought, sense, affection, warming up the whole;The heat and affluence of a genial power,Rank in the weed as vivid in the flower;Hush'd at command his veriest passions halt,Drill'd is each virtue, disciplined each fault;Warm if his blood—he reasons while he glows,Admits the pleasure—ne'er the folly knows;If Vulcan for our Mars a snare had set,He had won the Venus, but escaped the net;His eye ne'er wrong, if circumscribed the sight,Widen the prospect and it ne'er is right,Seen through the telescope of habit still,States seem a camp, and all the world—a drill!Yet oh, how few his faults, how pure his mind,Beside his fellow-conquerors of mankind;How knightly seems the iron image, shownBy Marlborough's tomb, or lost Napoleon's throne!Cold if his lips, no smile of fraud they wear,Stern if his heart, still "Man" is graven there;No guile—no crime his step to greatness made,No freedom trampled, and no trust betray'd;The eternal "I" was not his law—he roseWithout one art that honour might oppose,And leaves a human, if a hero's, name,To curb ambition while it lights to fame.But who, scarce less by every gazer eyed,Walks yonder, swinging with a stalwart stride?With that vast bulk of chest and limb assign'dSo oft to men who subjugate their kind;So sturdy Cromwell push'd broad-shoulder'd on;So burly Luther breasted Babylon;So brawny Cleon bawl'd his Agora down;And large-limb'd Mahmoud clutch'd a Prophet's crown!Ay, mark him well! the schemer's subtle eye,The stage-mime's plastic lip your search defy—He, like Lysander, never deems it sinTo eke the lion's with the fox's skin;Vain every mesh this Proteus to enthrall,He breaks no statute, and he creeps through all;—First to the mass that valiant truth to tell,"Rebellion's art is never to rebel,—Elude all danger but defy all laws,"—He stands himself the Safe Sublime he draws!In him behold all contrasts which belongTo minds abased, but passions roused, by wrong;The blood all fervour, and the brain all guile,The patriot's bluntness, and the bondsman's wile.One after one the lords of time advance,—Here Stanley meets,—how Stanley scorns, the glance!The brilliant chief, irregularly great,Frank, haughty, rash,—the Rupert of Debate;Nor gout, nor toil, his freshness can destroy,And Time still leaves all Eton in the boy;—First in the class, and keenest in the ring,He saps like Gladstone, and he fights like Spring;Ev'n at the feast, his pluck pervades the board,And dauntless game-cocks symbolize their lord.Lo where atilt at friend—if barr'd from foe—He scours the ground, and volunteers the blow,And, tired with conquest over Dan and Snob,Plants a sly bruiser on the nose of Bob;Decorous Bob, too friendly to reprove,Suggests fresh fighting in the next remove,And prompts his chum, in hopes the vein to cool,To the prim benches of the Upper School:Yet who not listens, with delighted smile,To the pure Saxon of that silver style;In the clear style a heart as clear is seen,Prompt to the rash—revolting from the mean.Next cool, and all unconscious of reproach,Comes the calm "Johnny who upset the coach."[H]How form'd to lead, if not too proud to please,—His fame would fire you, but his manners freeze.Like or dislike, he does not care a jot;He wants your vote, but your affection not;Yet human hearts need sun, as well as oats,So cold a climate plays the deuce with votes.—And while his doctrines ripen day by day,His frost-nipp'd party pines itself away;—From the starved wretch its own loved child we steal—And "Free Trade" chirrups on the lap of Peel![I]—But see our statesman when the steam is on,And languid Johnny glows to glorious John!When Hampden's thought, by Falkland's muses dress'd,Lights the pale cheek, and swells the generous breast;When the pent heat expands the quickening soul,—And foremost in the race the wheels of genius roll!
VI.
It was a noon of summer in its glow,And all was life, but London's life, below;As by the open casement half reclinedCalantha's languid form;—a gentle windBrought to her cheek a bloom unwonted there,And stirr'd the light wave of the golden hair.Hers was a beauty that made sad the eye,Lovely in fading, like a twilight sky;The shape so finely, delicately frail,As form'd for climes unruffled by a gale;The lustrous eye, through which looks forth the soul,Bright and more brightly as it nears the goal;The fever'd counterfeit of healthful bloom,The rose so living yet so near the tomb;The veil the Funeral Genius lends his bride,When, fair as Love, he steals her to his side,And leads her on till at the nuptial porch,He murmurs, "Know me now!" and lowers the torch.What made more sad the outward form's decay,A soul of genius glimmer'd through the clay;Oft through the languor of disease would breakThat life of light Parnassian dreamers seek;And music trembled on each aspen leafOf the boughs drooping o'er the fount of grief.
Genius has so much youth no care can kill;Death seems unnatural when it sighs—"Be still."That wealth, which Nature prodigally gave,Shall Life but garner for its heir the Grave?What noble hearts that treasure might have bless'd!How large the realm that mind should have possess'd!Love in the wife, and wisdom in the friend,And earnest purpose for a generous end,And glowing sympathy for thoughts of powerAnd playful fancy for the lighter hour;All lost, all cavern'd in the sunless gloomOf some dark memory, beetling o'er the tomb;—Like bright-wing'd fairies, whom the hostile gnomeHas spell'd and dungeon'd in his rocky home,The wanderer hears the solitary moan,Nor dreams the fairy in the sullen stone.
Contrasting this worn frame and weary breast,Fresh as a morn of April bloom'd the guest:April has tears, and mists the morn array;The mists foretell the sun,—the tears the May.Lo, as from care to care the soother glides,How the home brightens where the heart presides!Now hovering, bird-like, o'er the flowers,—at timesPausing to chant Calantha's favourite rhymes,Or smooth the uneasy pillow with light hand;Or watch the eye, forestalling the demand,Complete in every heavenly art—aboveAll, save the genius of inventive love.
The window open'd on that breadth of green,To half the pomp of elder days the scene.Gaze to thy left—there the PlantagenetLook'd on the lists for Norman knighthood set;[E]Bright issued forth, where yonder archway glooms,Banner and trump, and steed, and waves of plumes,As with light heart rides wanton Anne to braveTudor's grim love, the purple and the grave.Gaze to the right, where now—neat, white, and low,The modest Palace looks like Brunswick Row;[F]There, echoed once the merriest orgies known,Since the frank Norman won grave Harold's throne;There, bloom'd the mulberry groves, beneath whose shadeHis easy loves the royal Rowley made;Where Villiers flaunted, and where Sedley sung,And wit's loose diamonds dropp'd from Wilmot's tongue!All at rest now—all dust!—wave flows on wave;But the sea dries not!—what to us the grave?It brings no real homily, we sigh,Pause for awhile and murmur, "All must die!"Then rush to pleasure, action, sin once more,Swell the loud tide, and fret unto the shore.
And o'er the altered scene Calantha's eyeRoves listless—yet Time's Great the passers by!Along the road still fleet the men whose namesLive in the talk the moment's glory claims.There, for the hot Pancratia of DebatePass the keen wrestlers for that palm,—the State.Now, "on his humble but his faithful steed,"Sir Robert rides—he never rides at speed—Careful his seat, and circumspect his gaze;And still the cautious trot the cautious mind betrays.Wise is thy heed!—how stout soe'er his back,Thy weight has oft proved fatal to thy hack![G]Next, with loose rein and careless canter viewOur man of men, the Prince of Waterloo;O'er the firm brow the hat as firmly press'd,The firm shape rigid in the button'd vest;Within—the iron which the fire has proved,And the close Sparta of a mind unmoved!
Not his the wealth to some large natures lent,Divinely lavish, even where misspent,That liberal sunshine of exuberant soul,Thought, sense, affection, warming up the whole;The heat and affluence of a genial power,Rank in the weed as vivid in the flower;Hush'd at command his veriest passions halt,Drill'd is each virtue, disciplined each fault;Warm if his blood—he reasons while he glows,Admits the pleasure—ne'er the folly knows;If Vulcan for our Mars a snare had set,He had won the Venus, but escaped the net;His eye ne'er wrong, if circumscribed the sight,Widen the prospect and it ne'er is right,Seen through the telescope of habit still,States seem a camp, and all the world—a drill!
Yet oh, how few his faults, how pure his mind,Beside his fellow-conquerors of mankind;How knightly seems the iron image, shownBy Marlborough's tomb, or lost Napoleon's throne!Cold if his lips, no smile of fraud they wear,Stern if his heart, still "Man" is graven there;No guile—no crime his step to greatness made,No freedom trampled, and no trust betray'd;The eternal "I" was not his law—he roseWithout one art that honour might oppose,And leaves a human, if a hero's, name,To curb ambition while it lights to fame.
But who, scarce less by every gazer eyed,Walks yonder, swinging with a stalwart stride?With that vast bulk of chest and limb assign'dSo oft to men who subjugate their kind;So sturdy Cromwell push'd broad-shoulder'd on;So burly Luther breasted Babylon;So brawny Cleon bawl'd his Agora down;And large-limb'd Mahmoud clutch'd a Prophet's crown!
Ay, mark him well! the schemer's subtle eye,The stage-mime's plastic lip your search defy—He, like Lysander, never deems it sinTo eke the lion's with the fox's skin;Vain every mesh this Proteus to enthrall,He breaks no statute, and he creeps through all;—First to the mass that valiant truth to tell,"Rebellion's art is never to rebel,—Elude all danger but defy all laws,"—He stands himself the Safe Sublime he draws!In him behold all contrasts which belongTo minds abased, but passions roused, by wrong;The blood all fervour, and the brain all guile,The patriot's bluntness, and the bondsman's wile.One after one the lords of time advance,—Here Stanley meets,—how Stanley scorns, the glance!The brilliant chief, irregularly great,Frank, haughty, rash,—the Rupert of Debate;Nor gout, nor toil, his freshness can destroy,And Time still leaves all Eton in the boy;—First in the class, and keenest in the ring,He saps like Gladstone, and he fights like Spring;Ev'n at the feast, his pluck pervades the board,And dauntless game-cocks symbolize their lord.Lo where atilt at friend—if barr'd from foe—He scours the ground, and volunteers the blow,And, tired with conquest over Dan and Snob,Plants a sly bruiser on the nose of Bob;Decorous Bob, too friendly to reprove,Suggests fresh fighting in the next remove,And prompts his chum, in hopes the vein to cool,To the prim benches of the Upper School:
Yet who not listens, with delighted smile,To the pure Saxon of that silver style;In the clear style a heart as clear is seen,Prompt to the rash—revolting from the mean.
Next cool, and all unconscious of reproach,Comes the calm "Johnny who upset the coach."[H]How form'd to lead, if not too proud to please,—His fame would fire you, but his manners freeze.Like or dislike, he does not care a jot;He wants your vote, but your affection not;Yet human hearts need sun, as well as oats,So cold a climate plays the deuce with votes.—And while his doctrines ripen day by day,His frost-nipp'd party pines itself away;—From the starved wretch its own loved child we steal—And "Free Trade" chirrups on the lap of Peel![I]—But see our statesman when the steam is on,And languid Johnny glows to glorious John!When Hampden's thought, by Falkland's muses dress'd,Lights the pale cheek, and swells the generous breast;When the pent heat expands the quickening soul,—And foremost in the race the wheels of genius roll!
VII.What gives the Past the haunting charms that pleaseSage, scholar, bard?—The shades of men like these!Seen in our walks;—with vulgar blame or praise,Reviled or worshipp'd as our faction sways:Some centuries hence, and from that praise or blame,As light from vapour, breaks the steady flame,And the trite Present which, while acted, seemsTime's dullest prose,—fades in the land of dreams,Gods spring from dust, and Hero-Worship wakesOut of that Past the humble Present makes.And yet, what matter to ourselves the Great?What the heart touches—thatcontrols our fate!From the full galaxy we turn to one,Dim to all else, but to ourselves the sun;And still, to each, some poor, obscurest life,Breathes all the bliss, or kindles all the strife.Wake up the countless dead!—ask every ghostWhose influence tortured or consoled the most:How each pale spectre of the host would turnFrom the fresh laurel and the glorious urn,To point where rots beneath a nameless stone,Some heart in which had ebb'd and flow'd its own!So one by one, Calantha listlesslyBeheld and heeded not the Great pass by.But now, why sudden that electric start?She stands—the pale lips soundless, yet apart!She stands, with claspèd hands and strainèd eye—A moment's silence—one convulsive cry,And sinking to the earth, a seeming deathSmites into chill suspense the senses and the breath:Quick by the unconscious hostess knelt the guest,Bathed the wan brows, and loosed the stifling vest;As loosed the vest,—like one whose sleep of fearIs keen with dreams that warn of danger near,—Calantha's hand repell'd the friendly care,And faintly clasp'd some token hoarded there,Perchance some witness of the untold grief,—Some sainted relic of a lost belief,Some mournful talisman, whose touch recallsThe ghost of time in Memory's desolate halls,And, like the vessels that, of old, enshrinedThe soil of lands the exile left behind,—Holds all youth rescues from that native shoreOf hope and passion, life shall tread no more.Calantha wakes, but not to sense restored,The mind still trembled on the jarring chord,And troubled reason flicker'd in the eye,As gleams and wanes a star in some perturbèd sky.Yet still, through all the fever of the brain,Terror, more strong, can Frenzy's self restrain.Few are her words, and if at times they seemTo touch the dark truths shadow'd on her dream,She starts, with whitening lip—looks round in fear,And murmurs, "Nay! my brother did not hear!"Then smiles, as if the fear were laid at rest,And clasps the token treasured at her breast,And whispers, "Lucy, guard my sleep;—they sayThat sleep is faithless, and that dreams betray!"Yet oft the while—to watch without the door,The brother's step glides noiseless o'er the floor,—There meekly waits, until the welcome rayOf Lucy's smile gives comfort to the day,Till Lucy's whisper murmurs, "Be of cheer,"And Pity dupes Affection's willing ear.Once, and but once, within the room he crept,When all was silent, and they deem'd she slept,Not softer to the infant's cradle stealsThe mother's step;—she hears not, yet she feels,As by strange instinct, the approach;—her frameConvulsed and shuddering as he nearer came;Till the wild cry,—the waiving hand conveyThe frantic prayer, so bitter to obey;And with stern brow, belying the wrung heart,And voiceless lips compress'd, he turns him to depart.
VII.
What gives the Past the haunting charms that pleaseSage, scholar, bard?—The shades of men like these!Seen in our walks;—with vulgar blame or praise,Reviled or worshipp'd as our faction sways:Some centuries hence, and from that praise or blame,As light from vapour, breaks the steady flame,And the trite Present which, while acted, seemsTime's dullest prose,—fades in the land of dreams,Gods spring from dust, and Hero-Worship wakesOut of that Past the humble Present makes.And yet, what matter to ourselves the Great?What the heart touches—thatcontrols our fate!From the full galaxy we turn to one,Dim to all else, but to ourselves the sun;And still, to each, some poor, obscurest life,Breathes all the bliss, or kindles all the strife.Wake up the countless dead!—ask every ghostWhose influence tortured or consoled the most:How each pale spectre of the host would turnFrom the fresh laurel and the glorious urn,To point where rots beneath a nameless stone,Some heart in which had ebb'd and flow'd its own!
So one by one, Calantha listlesslyBeheld and heeded not the Great pass by.But now, why sudden that electric start?She stands—the pale lips soundless, yet apart!She stands, with claspèd hands and strainèd eye—A moment's silence—one convulsive cry,And sinking to the earth, a seeming deathSmites into chill suspense the senses and the breath:Quick by the unconscious hostess knelt the guest,Bathed the wan brows, and loosed the stifling vest;As loosed the vest,—like one whose sleep of fearIs keen with dreams that warn of danger near,—Calantha's hand repell'd the friendly care,And faintly clasp'd some token hoarded there,Perchance some witness of the untold grief,—Some sainted relic of a lost belief,Some mournful talisman, whose touch recallsThe ghost of time in Memory's desolate halls,And, like the vessels that, of old, enshrinedThe soil of lands the exile left behind,—Holds all youth rescues from that native shoreOf hope and passion, life shall tread no more.
Calantha wakes, but not to sense restored,The mind still trembled on the jarring chord,And troubled reason flicker'd in the eye,As gleams and wanes a star in some perturbèd sky.Yet still, through all the fever of the brain,Terror, more strong, can Frenzy's self restrain.Few are her words, and if at times they seemTo touch the dark truths shadow'd on her dream,She starts, with whitening lip—looks round in fear,And murmurs, "Nay! my brother did not hear!"Then smiles, as if the fear were laid at rest,And clasps the token treasured at her breast,And whispers, "Lucy, guard my sleep;—they sayThat sleep is faithless, and that dreams betray!"
Yet oft the while—to watch without the door,The brother's step glides noiseless o'er the floor,—There meekly waits, until the welcome rayOf Lucy's smile gives comfort to the day,Till Lucy's whisper murmurs, "Be of cheer,"And Pity dupes Affection's willing ear.Once, and but once, within the room he crept,When all was silent, and they deem'd she slept,Not softer to the infant's cradle stealsThe mother's step;—she hears not, yet she feels,As by strange instinct, the approach;—her frameConvulsed and shuddering as he nearer came;Till the wild cry,—the waiving hand conveyThe frantic prayer, so bitter to obey;And with stern brow, belying the wrung heart,And voiceless lips compress'd, he turns him to depart.
VIII.Much wondering Lucy mused,—nor yet could findWhy one so mournful shrunk from one so kind.Awe that had chill'd the gratitude she feltFor Morvale, now in pity learn'd to melt:This tender patience in a man so stern,This love untiring—fear the sole return,This rough exterior, with this gentle breast,Awoke a sympathy that would not rest;The wistful eye, the changing lip, the toneWhose accents droop'd, or gladden'd, from her own,Haunted the woman's heart, which ever heavesIts echo back to every sound that grieves.Light as the gossamer its tissue spinsO'er freshest dews when summer morn begins,Will Fancy weave its airy web aboveThe dews of Pity, in the dawn of Love.—At length, Calantha's reason wakes;—the strifeCalms back,—the soul re-settles to the life.Freed from her post, flies Lucy to rejoiceThe anxious heart, so wistful for her voice;Not at his wonted watch the brother found,She seeks his door—no answer to her sound;She halts in vain, till, eager to beginThe joyous tale, the bright shape glides within.For the first time beheld, she views the loneAnd gloomy rooms the master calls his own;Not there the luxury elsewhere, which enthrallsWith pomp the gazer in the rich man's halls;Strange arms of Eastern warfare, quaintly piled,Betray'd the man's fierce memory of the child,—And litter'd books, in mystic scrolls enshrinedThe solemn Sibyl of the elder Ind.The girl treads fearful on the dismal floors,And with amazèd eye the gloomy lair explores;Thus, as some Peri strays where, couch'd in cellsWith gods dethroned, the brooding Afrite dwells,From room to room her fairy footsteps glide,Till, lo! she starts to see him by her side.—With crimson cheek, and downcast eyes, that quailBeneath his own, she hurries the glad tale,Then turns to part—but as she turns, still roundShe looks,—and lingers on the magic ground,And eyes each antique relic with the wildHalf-pleased, half-timorous, wonder of a child;And as a child's the lonely inmate saw,And smiled to see the pleasure and the awe;And soften'd into kindness his deep tone,And drew her hand, half-shrinking, in his own,And said, "Nay, pause and task the showman's skill,What moves thee most?—come, question me at will."Listening she linger'd, and she knew not whyTime's wing so swiftly never seem'd to fly;Never before unto her gaze reveal'dThe Eastern fire, the Eastern calm conceal'd:Child of the sun, and native of the waste,Cramp'd in the formal chains it had embraced,His heart leapt back to its old haunts afar,As leaps the lion from the captive bar;And, as each token flash'd upon the mind,Back the bold deeds that life had left behind,The dark eye blazed, the rich words roll'd along,Vivid as light, and eloquent as song;At length, with sudden pause, he check'd the stream,And his soul darken'd from the gorgeous dream."So," with sad voice he said, "my youth went by,Fresh was the wave, if fitful was the sky;What is my manhood?—curl'd and congeal'd,A stagnant water in a barren field:Gall'd with strange customs,—in the crowd alone;And courting bloodless hearts that freeze my own.In the far lands, where first I breathed the air,—Smile if thou wilt,—this rugged form was fair,For the swift foot, strong arm, bold heart give graceTo man, when danger girds man's dwelling-place,—Thou seest the daughter of my mother, now,Shrinks from the outcast branded on my brow;My boyhood tamed the panther in his den,The wild beast feels man's kindness more than men.Like with its like, they say, will intertwine,—I have not tamed one human heart to mine!"—He paused abruptly. Thrice his listener soughtTo shape consoling speech from soothing thought,But thrice she fail'd, and thrice the colour cameAnd went, as tenderness was check'd by shame!At length her dove-like eyes to his she raised,And all the comfort words forbade, she gazed;Moved by her childlike pity, but too darkIn hopeless thought than pity more to mark;"Infant," he murmur'd, "not for others flowThe tears the wise, how hard soe'er, must know;As yet, the Eden of a guileless breast,Opes a frank home to every angel guest;Soft Eve, look round!—The world in which thou artDistrusts the angel, nor unlocks the heart—Thy time will come!"—He spoke, and from her sideWas gone,—the heart his wisdom wrong'd replied!
VIII.
Much wondering Lucy mused,—nor yet could findWhy one so mournful shrunk from one so kind.Awe that had chill'd the gratitude she feltFor Morvale, now in pity learn'd to melt:This tender patience in a man so stern,This love untiring—fear the sole return,This rough exterior, with this gentle breast,Awoke a sympathy that would not rest;The wistful eye, the changing lip, the toneWhose accents droop'd, or gladden'd, from her own,Haunted the woman's heart, which ever heavesIts echo back to every sound that grieves.Light as the gossamer its tissue spinsO'er freshest dews when summer morn begins,Will Fancy weave its airy web aboveThe dews of Pity, in the dawn of Love.—At length, Calantha's reason wakes;—the strifeCalms back,—the soul re-settles to the life.Freed from her post, flies Lucy to rejoiceThe anxious heart, so wistful for her voice;Not at his wonted watch the brother found,She seeks his door—no answer to her sound;She halts in vain, till, eager to beginThe joyous tale, the bright shape glides within.For the first time beheld, she views the loneAnd gloomy rooms the master calls his own;Not there the luxury elsewhere, which enthrallsWith pomp the gazer in the rich man's halls;Strange arms of Eastern warfare, quaintly piled,Betray'd the man's fierce memory of the child,—And litter'd books, in mystic scrolls enshrinedThe solemn Sibyl of the elder Ind.The girl treads fearful on the dismal floors,And with amazèd eye the gloomy lair explores;Thus, as some Peri strays where, couch'd in cellsWith gods dethroned, the brooding Afrite dwells,From room to room her fairy footsteps glide,Till, lo! she starts to see him by her side.—With crimson cheek, and downcast eyes, that quailBeneath his own, she hurries the glad tale,Then turns to part—but as she turns, still roundShe looks,—and lingers on the magic ground,And eyes each antique relic with the wildHalf-pleased, half-timorous, wonder of a child;And as a child's the lonely inmate saw,And smiled to see the pleasure and the awe;And soften'd into kindness his deep tone,And drew her hand, half-shrinking, in his own,And said, "Nay, pause and task the showman's skill,What moves thee most?—come, question me at will."
Listening she linger'd, and she knew not whyTime's wing so swiftly never seem'd to fly;Never before unto her gaze reveal'dThe Eastern fire, the Eastern calm conceal'd:Child of the sun, and native of the waste,Cramp'd in the formal chains it had embraced,His heart leapt back to its old haunts afar,As leaps the lion from the captive bar;And, as each token flash'd upon the mind,Back the bold deeds that life had left behind,The dark eye blazed, the rich words roll'd along,Vivid as light, and eloquent as song;At length, with sudden pause, he check'd the stream,And his soul darken'd from the gorgeous dream."So," with sad voice he said, "my youth went by,Fresh was the wave, if fitful was the sky;What is my manhood?—curl'd and congeal'd,A stagnant water in a barren field:Gall'd with strange customs,—in the crowd alone;And courting bloodless hearts that freeze my own.In the far lands, where first I breathed the air,—Smile if thou wilt,—this rugged form was fair,For the swift foot, strong arm, bold heart give graceTo man, when danger girds man's dwelling-place,—Thou seest the daughter of my mother, now,Shrinks from the outcast branded on my brow;My boyhood tamed the panther in his den,The wild beast feels man's kindness more than men.Like with its like, they say, will intertwine,—I have not tamed one human heart to mine!"—He paused abruptly. Thrice his listener soughtTo shape consoling speech from soothing thought,But thrice she fail'd, and thrice the colour cameAnd went, as tenderness was check'd by shame!At length her dove-like eyes to his she raised,And all the comfort words forbade, she gazed;Moved by her childlike pity, but too darkIn hopeless thought than pity more to mark;"Infant," he murmur'd, "not for others flowThe tears the wise, how hard soe'er, must know;As yet, the Eden of a guileless breast,Opes a frank home to every angel guest;Soft Eve, look round!—The world in which thou artDistrusts the angel, nor unlocks the heart—Thy time will come!"—
He spoke, and from her sideWas gone,—the heart his wisdom wrong'd replied!
I.London, I take thee to a Poet's heart!For those who seek, a Helicon thou art.Let schoolboy Strephons bleat of flocks and fields,Each street of thine a loftier Idyl yields;Fed by all life, and fann'd by every wind,There burns the quenchless Poetry—Mankind!Yet not for me the Olympiad of the gay,The reekingSeason'sdusty holiday:—Soon as its summer pomp the mead assumes,And Flora wanders through her world of blooms,Vain the hot field-days of the vex'd debate,When Sirius reigns,—let Tapeworm rule the state!Vain Devon's cards, and Lansdowne's social feast,Wit but fatigues, and Beauty's reign hath ceased.His mission done, the monk regains his cell;Nor even Douro's matchless face can spell.Far from Man's works, escaped to God's, I fly,And breathe the luxury of a smokeless sky.Me, the still "London," not the restless "Town"(The light plume fluttering o'er the helmèd crown),Delights;—for there the grave Romance hath shedIts hues; and air grows solemn with the Dead.If, where the Lord of Rivers parts the throng,And eastward glides by buried halls along,My steps are led, I linger, and restoreTo the changed wave the poet-shapes of yore;See the gilt barge, and hear the fated kingPrompt the first mavis of our Minstrel spring;[J]Or mark, with mitred Nevile,[K]the array}Of arms and craft alarm "the Silent way,"}The Boar of Gloucester, hungering, scents his prey!}Or, landward, trace where thieves their festive hallHold by the dens of Law,[L](worst thief of all!)The antique Temple of the armèd ZealThat wore the cross a mantle to the steel;Time's dreary void the kindling dream supplies,The walls expand, the shadowy towers arise,And forth, as when by Richard's lion side,For Christ and Fame, the Warrior-Phantoms ride!Or if, less grave with thought, less rich with lore,The later scenes, the lighter steps explore,If through the haunts of living splendour led—Has the quick Muse no empire but the Dead?In each keen face, by Care or Pleasure worn,Grief claims her sigh, or Vice invites her scorn;And every human brow that veils a thoughtConceals the Castaly which Shakespeare sought.
I.
London, I take thee to a Poet's heart!For those who seek, a Helicon thou art.Let schoolboy Strephons bleat of flocks and fields,Each street of thine a loftier Idyl yields;Fed by all life, and fann'd by every wind,There burns the quenchless Poetry—Mankind!Yet not for me the Olympiad of the gay,The reekingSeason'sdusty holiday:—Soon as its summer pomp the mead assumes,And Flora wanders through her world of blooms,Vain the hot field-days of the vex'd debate,When Sirius reigns,—let Tapeworm rule the state!Vain Devon's cards, and Lansdowne's social feast,Wit but fatigues, and Beauty's reign hath ceased.His mission done, the monk regains his cell;Nor even Douro's matchless face can spell.Far from Man's works, escaped to God's, I fly,And breathe the luxury of a smokeless sky.Me, the still "London," not the restless "Town"(The light plume fluttering o'er the helmèd crown),Delights;—for there the grave Romance hath shedIts hues; and air grows solemn with the Dead.If, where the Lord of Rivers parts the throng,And eastward glides by buried halls along,My steps are led, I linger, and restoreTo the changed wave the poet-shapes of yore;See the gilt barge, and hear the fated kingPrompt the first mavis of our Minstrel spring;[J]Or mark, with mitred Nevile,[K]the array}Of arms and craft alarm "the Silent way,"}The Boar of Gloucester, hungering, scents his prey!}Or, landward, trace where thieves their festive hallHold by the dens of Law,[L](worst thief of all!)The antique Temple of the armèd ZealThat wore the cross a mantle to the steel;Time's dreary void the kindling dream supplies,The walls expand, the shadowy towers arise,And forth, as when by Richard's lion side,For Christ and Fame, the Warrior-Phantoms ride!Or if, less grave with thought, less rich with lore,The later scenes, the lighter steps explore,If through the haunts of living splendour led—Has the quick Muse no empire but the Dead?In each keen face, by Care or Pleasure worn,Grief claims her sigh, or Vice invites her scorn;And every human brow that veils a thoughtConceals the Castaly which Shakespeare sought.
II.Amidst the crowd (what time the glowing HoursStrew, as they glide, the summer world with flowers),Who fly the solitude of sweets to drownNature's still whisper in the roar of Town;Who tread with jaded step the weary mill—Grind at the wheel, and call it "Pleasure" still;—Gay without mirth, fatigued without employ,Slaves to the joyless phantom of a joy;—Amidst this crowd was one who, absent long,And late return'd, outshone the meaner throng;And, truth to speak, in him were blent the raysWhich form a halo in the vulgar gaze;Howden's fair beauty, Beaufort's princely grace,Hertford's broad lands, and Courtney's vaunted race;And Pembroke's learning in that polish'd page,Writ by the Grace, 'the Manners and the Age!'Still with sufficient youth to please the heart,But old enough for mastery in the art;—Renown'd for conquests in those isles which lieIn rosy seas beneath a Cnidian sky,Where the soft Goddess yokes her willing doves,And meets invasion with a host of Loves;Yet not unlaurell'd in the war of wileWhich won Ulysses grave Minerva's smile,For those deep arts the diplomat was knownWhich mould the lips that whisper round a throne.Long in the numbing hands of Law had lainArden's proud earldom, Arden's wide domain.Kinsman with kinsman, race with race had viedTo snatch the prize, and in the struggle died;Till all the rights the crowd of heirs made dim,Death clear'd—and solved the tangled skein in him.There was butONEwho in the bastard fameWealth gives its darlings, rivall'd Arden's name:A rival rarely seen—felt everywhere,With soul that circled bounty like the air,Simple himself, but regal in his train,Lavish of stores he seem'd but to disdain;To art a Medici—to want a god,Life's rougher paths grew level where he trod.Much Arden (Arden had a subtle mind,Which sought in all philosophy to find)Loved to compare the different means by whichEnjoyment yields a harvest to the rich—Himself already marvell'd to beholdHow soon trite custom wears the gleam from gold;Well, was his rival happier from its useThan he (his candour whisper'd) from abuse?He long'd to know this Morvale, and to learn:They met—grew friends—the Sybarite and the stern.Each had some fields in common: mostly thoseFrom which the plant of human friendship grows.Each had known strong vicissitudes in life;The present ease, and the remember'd strife.Each, though from differing causes, nursed a mindAt war with Fate, and chafed against his kind.Each with a searching eye had sought to scanThe solemn Future, soul predicts to man;And each forgot how, cloud-like passions mar,In the vex'd wave, the mirror of the star;—How all the unquiet thoughts which life suppliesMay swell the ocean but to veil the skies;And dark to Man may grow the heaven that smiledOn the clear vision Nature gave the Child.Each, too, in each, where varying most they seem,Found that which fed half envy, half esteem.As stood the Pilgrim of the waste beforeThe stream that parted from the enchanted shore,Though on the opposing margent of the waveThose fairy boughs butseemingfruitage gave;Though his stern manhood in its simple power,If cross'd the barrier, soon had scorn'd the bower;Yet, as some monk, whom holier cloisters shade,Views from afar the glittering cavalcade,And sighs, as sense against his will recallsFame's knightly lists and Pleasure's festive halls,—So, while the conscience chid, the charm enchain'd,And the heart envied what the soul disdain'd.While Arden's nature in his friend's could findAn untaught force that awed his subtler mind—Awed, yet allured;—that Eastern calm of eyeAnd mien—a mantle and a majesty,At once concealing all the strife belowIt shames the pride of lofty hearts to show,And robing Art's lone outlaw with the airOf nameless state the lords of Nature wear;—This kingly mien contrasting this mean form,This calm exterior with this heart of storm,Touch'd with vague interest, undefined and strange,The world's quick pupil whose career was change.Forth from the crowded streets one summer day,}Rode the new friends; and cool and silent lay}Through shadowy lanes the chance-directed way.}As with slow pace and slacken'd rein they rode,Men's wonted talk to deeper converse flow'd."Think'st thou," said Arden, "that the Care, whose speedClimbs the tall bark and mounts the flying steed,And (still to quote old Horace) hovers roundOur fretted roofs, forbears yon village ground?—Think'st thou that Toil drives trouble from the door;And does God's sun shine brightest on the Poor?""I know not," answer'd Morvale, "but I knowEach state feels envy for the state below;Kings for their subjects—for the obscure, the great:The smallest circle guards the happiest state.Earth's real wealth is in the heart;—in truth,As life looks brightest in the eyes of youth,So simple wants—the simple state most farFrom that entangled maze in which we are,Seem unto nations what youth is to man,"—"'When wild in woods the noble savage ran,'"Said Arden, smiling. "Well, we disagree;Even youth itself reflects no charms for me;And all the shade upon my life bestow'dSpreads from the myrtle which my boyhood sow'd."His bright face fell,—he sigh'd. "And canst thou guessWhy all once coveted now fails to bless?—Why all around me palls upon the eye,And the heart saddens in the summer sky?It is that youth expended life too soon:A morn too glowing sets in storm at noon.""Nay," answer'd Morvale, gently, "hast thou triedThatsecondyouth, to which ev'n follies guide;Which to the wandererSense, when tired and spent,Proclaims the fount by which to fix the tent?The heart but rests when sense forbears to roam;We win back freshness when Love smiles on Home;—Home not tothee, O happy one! denied."}}"To me of all," the impatient listener cried,}"Thy words but probe the wounds I vainly hide;}That which I pine for, thou hast pictured now;—The hearth, the home, the altar, and the vow;The tranquil love, unintertwined with shame;The child's sweet kiss;—the Father's holy name;The link to lengthen a time-honour'd line;—These not for me, and yet these should be mine.""If," said the Indian, "counsel could avail,Or pity soothe, a friend invites thy tale.""Alas!" sigh'd Arden, "nor confession's balmCan heal, nor wisdom whisper back to calm.Yet hear the tale—thou wilt esteem me less—But Grief, the Egoist, yearneth to confess.I tell of guilt—and guilt all men must own,Who but avow the loves their youth has known.Preach as we will, in this wrong world of ours,Man's fate and woman's are contending powers;Each strives to dupe the other in the game,—Guilt to the victor—to the vanquish'd shame!"He paused, and noting how austerely gloom'dHis friend's dark visage, blush'd, and thus resumed."Nay, I approve not of the code I find,Not less the wrong to which the world is kind.But, to be frank, how oft with praise we scanMen's actions only when they deal with man;Lo, gallant Lovelace, free from every artThat stains the honour or defiles the heart,—With men;—but how, if woman the pursuit?What lies degrade him, and what frauds pollute;Yet still to Lovelace either sex is mild,And new Clarissas only sigh—'How wild!'""Enough," said Morvale; "I perforce believe:Strong Adam owns no equal in his Eve;But worse the bondage in your bland disguise;Europe destroys,—kind Asia only buys!If dull the Harem, yet its roof protects,And Power, when sated, still its slave respects.With you, ev'n pity fades away with love,—No gilded cage gives refuge to the dove;Worse than the sin the curse it leaves behind:Here the crush'd heart, or there the poison'd mind,—Your streets a charnel or a market made,For the lorn hunger, or the loathsome trade.Pardon,—Pass on!""Behold, the Preface done,"Arden resumed, "now opens Chapter One!"
II.
Amidst the crowd (what time the glowing HoursStrew, as they glide, the summer world with flowers),Who fly the solitude of sweets to drownNature's still whisper in the roar of Town;Who tread with jaded step the weary mill—Grind at the wheel, and call it "Pleasure" still;—Gay without mirth, fatigued without employ,Slaves to the joyless phantom of a joy;—Amidst this crowd was one who, absent long,And late return'd, outshone the meaner throng;And, truth to speak, in him were blent the raysWhich form a halo in the vulgar gaze;Howden's fair beauty, Beaufort's princely grace,Hertford's broad lands, and Courtney's vaunted race;And Pembroke's learning in that polish'd page,Writ by the Grace, 'the Manners and the Age!'Still with sufficient youth to please the heart,But old enough for mastery in the art;—Renown'd for conquests in those isles which lieIn rosy seas beneath a Cnidian sky,Where the soft Goddess yokes her willing doves,And meets invasion with a host of Loves;Yet not unlaurell'd in the war of wileWhich won Ulysses grave Minerva's smile,For those deep arts the diplomat was knownWhich mould the lips that whisper round a throne.
Long in the numbing hands of Law had lainArden's proud earldom, Arden's wide domain.Kinsman with kinsman, race with race had viedTo snatch the prize, and in the struggle died;Till all the rights the crowd of heirs made dim,Death clear'd—and solved the tangled skein in him.There was butONEwho in the bastard fameWealth gives its darlings, rivall'd Arden's name:A rival rarely seen—felt everywhere,With soul that circled bounty like the air,Simple himself, but regal in his train,Lavish of stores he seem'd but to disdain;To art a Medici—to want a god,Life's rougher paths grew level where he trod.Much Arden (Arden had a subtle mind,Which sought in all philosophy to find)Loved to compare the different means by whichEnjoyment yields a harvest to the rich—Himself already marvell'd to beholdHow soon trite custom wears the gleam from gold;Well, was his rival happier from its useThan he (his candour whisper'd) from abuse?He long'd to know this Morvale, and to learn:They met—grew friends—the Sybarite and the stern.Each had some fields in common: mostly thoseFrom which the plant of human friendship grows.Each had known strong vicissitudes in life;The present ease, and the remember'd strife.Each, though from differing causes, nursed a mindAt war with Fate, and chafed against his kind.Each with a searching eye had sought to scanThe solemn Future, soul predicts to man;And each forgot how, cloud-like passions mar,In the vex'd wave, the mirror of the star;—How all the unquiet thoughts which life suppliesMay swell the ocean but to veil the skies;And dark to Man may grow the heaven that smiledOn the clear vision Nature gave the Child.Each, too, in each, where varying most they seem,Found that which fed half envy, half esteem.As stood the Pilgrim of the waste beforeThe stream that parted from the enchanted shore,Though on the opposing margent of the waveThose fairy boughs butseemingfruitage gave;Though his stern manhood in its simple power,If cross'd the barrier, soon had scorn'd the bower;Yet, as some monk, whom holier cloisters shade,Views from afar the glittering cavalcade,And sighs, as sense against his will recallsFame's knightly lists and Pleasure's festive halls,—So, while the conscience chid, the charm enchain'd,And the heart envied what the soul disdain'd.
While Arden's nature in his friend's could findAn untaught force that awed his subtler mind—Awed, yet allured;—that Eastern calm of eyeAnd mien—a mantle and a majesty,At once concealing all the strife belowIt shames the pride of lofty hearts to show,And robing Art's lone outlaw with the airOf nameless state the lords of Nature wear;—This kingly mien contrasting this mean form,This calm exterior with this heart of storm,Touch'd with vague interest, undefined and strange,The world's quick pupil whose career was change.
Forth from the crowded streets one summer day,}Rode the new friends; and cool and silent lay}Through shadowy lanes the chance-directed way.}As with slow pace and slacken'd rein they rode,Men's wonted talk to deeper converse flow'd.
"Think'st thou," said Arden, "that the Care, whose speedClimbs the tall bark and mounts the flying steed,And (still to quote old Horace) hovers roundOur fretted roofs, forbears yon village ground?—Think'st thou that Toil drives trouble from the door;And does God's sun shine brightest on the Poor?"
"I know not," answer'd Morvale, "but I knowEach state feels envy for the state below;Kings for their subjects—for the obscure, the great:The smallest circle guards the happiest state.Earth's real wealth is in the heart;—in truth,As life looks brightest in the eyes of youth,So simple wants—the simple state most farFrom that entangled maze in which we are,Seem unto nations what youth is to man,"—
"'When wild in woods the noble savage ran,'"Said Arden, smiling. "Well, we disagree;Even youth itself reflects no charms for me;And all the shade upon my life bestow'dSpreads from the myrtle which my boyhood sow'd."His bright face fell,—he sigh'd. "And canst thou guessWhy all once coveted now fails to bless?—Why all around me palls upon the eye,And the heart saddens in the summer sky?It is that youth expended life too soon:A morn too glowing sets in storm at noon."
"Nay," answer'd Morvale, gently, "hast thou triedThatsecondyouth, to which ev'n follies guide;Which to the wandererSense, when tired and spent,Proclaims the fount by which to fix the tent?The heart but rests when sense forbears to roam;We win back freshness when Love smiles on Home;—Home not tothee, O happy one! denied."}}"To me of all," the impatient listener cried,}"Thy words but probe the wounds I vainly hide;}That which I pine for, thou hast pictured now;—The hearth, the home, the altar, and the vow;The tranquil love, unintertwined with shame;The child's sweet kiss;—the Father's holy name;The link to lengthen a time-honour'd line;—These not for me, and yet these should be mine.""If," said the Indian, "counsel could avail,Or pity soothe, a friend invites thy tale."
"Alas!" sigh'd Arden, "nor confession's balmCan heal, nor wisdom whisper back to calm.Yet hear the tale—thou wilt esteem me less—But Grief, the Egoist, yearneth to confess.I tell of guilt—and guilt all men must own,Who but avow the loves their youth has known.Preach as we will, in this wrong world of ours,Man's fate and woman's are contending powers;Each strives to dupe the other in the game,—Guilt to the victor—to the vanquish'd shame!"He paused, and noting how austerely gloom'dHis friend's dark visage, blush'd, and thus resumed."Nay, I approve not of the code I find,Not less the wrong to which the world is kind.But, to be frank, how oft with praise we scanMen's actions only when they deal with man;Lo, gallant Lovelace, free from every artThat stains the honour or defiles the heart,—With men;—but how, if woman the pursuit?What lies degrade him, and what frauds pollute;Yet still to Lovelace either sex is mild,And new Clarissas only sigh—'How wild!'"
"Enough," said Morvale; "I perforce believe:Strong Adam owns no equal in his Eve;But worse the bondage in your bland disguise;Europe destroys,—kind Asia only buys!If dull the Harem, yet its roof protects,And Power, when sated, still its slave respects.With you, ev'n pity fades away with love,—No gilded cage gives refuge to the dove;Worse than the sin the curse it leaves behind:Here the crush'd heart, or there the poison'd mind,—Your streets a charnel or a market made,For the lorn hunger, or the loathsome trade.Pardon,—Pass on!""Behold, the Preface done,"Arden resumed, "now opens Chapter One!"