AT HOME.

BY MRS. ANNA BACHE.

“Her storied lore she next applies,Taxing her mind to aid her eyes.”BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

“Her storied lore she next applies,Taxing her mind to aid her eyes.”

“Her storied lore she next applies,

Taxing her mind to aid her eyes.”

BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.

Thou lookest wearily, my love, but now the toil some dayIs over, and the quiet eve its labors shall repay.Come, I will pull the sofa round, and pile the cushions higher,And Gheber-like, thou shalt adore this comfort-beaming fire.How shall I pet thee, weary one?—I love to tend on thee;Shall I sit here, and let thee rest thy head upon my knee?I will not light the tapers yet—I like this pleasant gloom,With the red blaze at intervals illumining the room,Reflected in thy sparkling eye, and gleaming on thy brow:My prized, my own, my only one, how lovely look’st thou now!What happiness to gaze on thee! after the bitter yearsOf absence and uncertainty, of solitude and tears.Rememberest thou those dear, dear nights, soverylong ago,When love was younger, (not more true,) those nights of frost and snow,When thou didst make, through storm and shower, thy pilgrimage to me?Rememberest thou the forest walks, and the large willow tree,And the white wild-flowers? I should like that dear old place to see.What say’st thou, love?—a story, such as I told thee then.What shall it be?—thou dost not want the old ones o’er again.I’ve told thee all the tales I know, of witch and fairy lore,Though, since we parted, I have read at least a thousand more.Yet thoughts of thee, my absent one, so occupied my brain,Few traces of their incidents in memory remain.Shall I tell of Lady Eva and the brave Sir Agilthorn,The Brother Knights of Lombardy, the Fate of Adelmorn,The Legend of Sir Lancelot, the Fairy of the Well,Sir Ethelberg of Brittany, the Quest of Jorindell?Oh! glorious days of chivalry, what can with them compare?—When all the cavaliers were brave, and all the ladies fair;When hero-hands won tender hearts, and deeds of bold emprizeWere paid with lays from minstrels’ lutes and looks from ladies’ eyes.Aye! love was worth the having then, and worth the giving too,When knightly honor deem’d it shame to proffer vows untrue,And nought but nature’s nobleness could beauty’s pride subdue.Alas! the “march of intellect” has crush’d these fairy bowers,Our heroes dress in good broadcloth, and courtship’syearsarehours.Yet still from Love’s celestial fount some honeyed waters fall,Else were the cup of earthly life but an unmingled gall.And if thou’lt listen to a tale ofmodernlove and wo,I’ll tell thee atruestory, dear, that chanc’d not long ago.

Thou lookest wearily, my love, but now the toil some day

Is over, and the quiet eve its labors shall repay.

Come, I will pull the sofa round, and pile the cushions higher,

And Gheber-like, thou shalt adore this comfort-beaming fire.

How shall I pet thee, weary one?—I love to tend on thee;

Shall I sit here, and let thee rest thy head upon my knee?

I will not light the tapers yet—I like this pleasant gloom,

With the red blaze at intervals illumining the room,

Reflected in thy sparkling eye, and gleaming on thy brow:

My prized, my own, my only one, how lovely look’st thou now!

What happiness to gaze on thee! after the bitter years

Of absence and uncertainty, of solitude and tears.

Rememberest thou those dear, dear nights, soverylong ago,

When love was younger, (not more true,) those nights of frost and snow,

When thou didst make, through storm and shower, thy pilgrimage to me?

Rememberest thou the forest walks, and the large willow tree,

And the white wild-flowers? I should like that dear old place to see.

What say’st thou, love?—a story, such as I told thee then.

What shall it be?—thou dost not want the old ones o’er again.

I’ve told thee all the tales I know, of witch and fairy lore,

Though, since we parted, I have read at least a thousand more.

Yet thoughts of thee, my absent one, so occupied my brain,

Few traces of their incidents in memory remain.

Shall I tell of Lady Eva and the brave Sir Agilthorn,

The Brother Knights of Lombardy, the Fate of Adelmorn,

The Legend of Sir Lancelot, the Fairy of the Well,

Sir Ethelberg of Brittany, the Quest of Jorindell?

Oh! glorious days of chivalry, what can with them compare?—

When all the cavaliers were brave, and all the ladies fair;

When hero-hands won tender hearts, and deeds of bold emprize

Were paid with lays from minstrels’ lutes and looks from ladies’ eyes.

Aye! love was worth the having then, and worth the giving too,

When knightly honor deem’d it shame to proffer vows untrue,

And nought but nature’s nobleness could beauty’s pride subdue.

Alas! the “march of intellect” has crush’d these fairy bowers,

Our heroes dress in good broadcloth, and courtship’syearsarehours.

Yet still from Love’s celestial fount some honeyed waters fall,

Else were the cup of earthly life but an unmingled gall.

And if thou’lt listen to a tale ofmodernlove and wo,

I’ll tell thee atruestory, dear, that chanc’d not long ago.

The ship had quitted the glittering bay,And graceful sped on her ocean way.Stern eyes grew sad, as their native landSunk from the view of the convict band.O’er tree and tower, and fortress wall,O’er slender spire and steeple tall,Distance drew her veil of haze;One, one lingering tear-fraught gaze,Earnest dwelt on the fading shore,That fled from those eyes for evermore.There was one cry, as if long-pent griefMastered resolve, and sought relief.One indrawn gasp of the struggling breath—And the lip that drew it seemed still’d in death.They rais’d from the deck that senseless form,And even those crime-chill’d hearts grew warmWith pity. They put back her raven hair,Bar’d her white neck to the cool sea air,And dash’d the spray on her forehead fair;Till slowly unclos’d her languid eyes,And Death relinquish’d his half-won prize.· · · · ·“So young, so lovely, arethinea faceAnd form for the brand of black disgrace?So innocent seeming—can it be trueThou art justly one of yon loathsome crew,Whose savage ire, and more savage glee,Mingle guilt, doom, and misery?”“Oh! ask me, ask me not to speakOf why I bear this felon thrall;My senses reel, my heart grows weak,The stain of shame is on my cheek,—Yet would I not the past recall.I thank thee for thy pitying care,But must my lot unaided bear.Enough, I unreluctant goTo banishment, disgrace, and wo.”“Thy words are wild—I would not pressIntrusive on thy heart’s distress;Nor do I seek thy griefs to know,But in the hope to balm thy wo,And point thee to that Mercy-seat,Where penitence and pardon meet.Heaven comfort thee, poor girl!”——“And mayThat Heaven thy words with blessings pay!Stranger, all guilty as I seem,Do not too harshly of me deem.’Tis long since pitying word or lookTo me were given—scorn I could brook;But sympathy’s sweet accents restLike sunbeams on my frozen breast.”Her bosom swell’d with choking sighs,Her small hands hid her streaming eyes.Those lily hands, of fairy mould,No tale of menial usage told;That slender youthful shape, though cladIn homely weeds, rare graces had;And when stern effort had suppress’dThe grief that shook her throbbing breast,Apart the veiling curls she flung,That o’er her face dishevelled hung.Though tear-strain’d, pale, and worn with care,Surpassing loveliness was there;And when she met the earnest eyeOf kind, yet dubious scrutiny,O’er her chill paleness, rushing cameFrom breast to brow the crimson shame.—“My father bears a noble name,My birth-place was a lordly hall;In that proud hall an orphan dwelt,’Tis no new tale—when young hearts meltAnd mingle, weak is Reason’s thrall,Fear’s whisper, Duty’s thunder-call,Alike unheard, unheeded all.Oh! lov’d, though unrelenting sire,Thou dost forget, in thy stern ireAgainst the daughter once so dear,Thyselfdidst bring temptation near.I was a bride, a happy bride,My gentle Malcolm’s joy and pride.Though poverty was in our cot,Love dwelt there, and we fear’d her not.But sickness came—our daily toilAlone had fed life’s lamp with oil.O’er my poor Malcolm’s feverish bedI watch’d all night, then sleepless spedTo labor for our wants. Oh! whyDid Heaven forbid us both to die?The sleepless night, the scant repast,The toilsome day—this could not last;Unknown, uncar’d for, by his sideSickening I lay, and Malcolm tried,While yet pale cheek and tottering limbTold how disease had prey’d on him,His hireling task to ply.Alas! the eager will in vainStruggled with lassitude and pain;Desperate, he sought his home againTo see his Marian die.From fearful dreams I frenzied woke;As famish’d nature crav’d, I spoke.Unconscious of his soothings meek,Of the hot tears that bath’d my cheek,I pray’d for food. He could not bearThe wo of that delirious prayer;He went, return’d—with gold he came—But branded with a robber’s name.They tore him from my wild embrace,They dragg’d him to a prison cell;I sought him in that fearful place,I gaz’d once more upon his face,Exchang’d one sad farewell—And then, a crime-stain’d exile, heWas sent to dwell beyond the sea.Then, then, I was indeed alone—Sense, duty, reason, all were gone,Life was one racking sense of pain,One only thought dwelt in my brain,To see my victim-love again.To soothe his grief, support his care,His shame, his punishment, to share.But how, from whom assistance claim?Banish’d, disown’d—my very nameForbidden to my father’s ear,Would he my plaint or purpose hear?Friendless and poor—one desperate thoughtAmid my wilder’d musings wrought.If mine the crime, the sentence too,Whisper’d the demon. Oh! how fewOf those who bask in fortune’s glare,Can fancy poverty’s despair!On splendor’s gilded couch reclin’d,With luxury-sated frame and mind,They talk oflaborandcontent,And o’er thesnares of wealthlament.Oh! could they for brief time endureThe legion temptings of thepoor,Their fiery trial once gone o’er,They’d mourn thesnares of wealthno more.—I spurn’d the sinful thought away,I wept, I knelt, I strove to pray;But Heaven is deaf to rebel prayer,And mine sent no submission there.Day after day crept torturing by,And brought no hope, no comfort nigh.Should I the penance seek to shun,For whom the guilty deed was done?—The urging fiend was at mine ear,Maddening with sorrow, love, and fear,’Twas done, detected—I am here.”· · · · ·Her haven the stately ship has won,The convict crew to their toils have gone.There’s a grove of palms in that southern isle,Through their coronaled tops the moonbeams smileOn a fairy hut, where vine-boughs throwTheir cluster’d wealth o’er the lattice low,And dim the silvery rays that pourTheir brightness aslant the humble floor.Hark!—the accents of weeping prayerUpon the vesper stillness glide;The voices are yonder hut within,They plead for pardon, and mourn for sin—There Marian kneels at Malcolm’s side.

The ship had quitted the glittering bay,

And graceful sped on her ocean way.

Stern eyes grew sad, as their native land

Sunk from the view of the convict band.

O’er tree and tower, and fortress wall,

O’er slender spire and steeple tall,

Distance drew her veil of haze;

One, one lingering tear-fraught gaze,

Earnest dwelt on the fading shore,

That fled from those eyes for evermore.

There was one cry, as if long-pent grief

Mastered resolve, and sought relief.

One indrawn gasp of the struggling breath—

And the lip that drew it seemed still’d in death.

They rais’d from the deck that senseless form,

And even those crime-chill’d hearts grew warm

With pity. They put back her raven hair,

Bar’d her white neck to the cool sea air,

And dash’d the spray on her forehead fair;

Till slowly unclos’d her languid eyes,

And Death relinquish’d his half-won prize.

· · · · ·

“So young, so lovely, arethinea faceAnd form for the brand of black disgrace?So innocent seeming—can it be trueThou art justly one of yon loathsome crew,Whose savage ire, and more savage glee,Mingle guilt, doom, and misery?”

“So young, so lovely, arethinea face

And form for the brand of black disgrace?

So innocent seeming—can it be true

Thou art justly one of yon loathsome crew,

Whose savage ire, and more savage glee,

Mingle guilt, doom, and misery?”

“Oh! ask me, ask me not to speakOf why I bear this felon thrall;My senses reel, my heart grows weak,The stain of shame is on my cheek,—Yet would I not the past recall.I thank thee for thy pitying care,But must my lot unaided bear.Enough, I unreluctant goTo banishment, disgrace, and wo.”

“Oh! ask me, ask me not to speak

Of why I bear this felon thrall;

My senses reel, my heart grows weak,

The stain of shame is on my cheek,—

Yet would I not the past recall.

I thank thee for thy pitying care,

But must my lot unaided bear.

Enough, I unreluctant go

To banishment, disgrace, and wo.”

“Thy words are wild—I would not pressIntrusive on thy heart’s distress;Nor do I seek thy griefs to know,But in the hope to balm thy wo,And point thee to that Mercy-seat,Where penitence and pardon meet.Heaven comfort thee, poor girl!”——“And mayThat Heaven thy words with blessings pay!Stranger, all guilty as I seem,Do not too harshly of me deem.’Tis long since pitying word or lookTo me were given—scorn I could brook;But sympathy’s sweet accents restLike sunbeams on my frozen breast.”

“Thy words are wild—I would not press

Intrusive on thy heart’s distress;

Nor do I seek thy griefs to know,

But in the hope to balm thy wo,

And point thee to that Mercy-seat,

Where penitence and pardon meet.

Heaven comfort thee, poor girl!”

——“And may

That Heaven thy words with blessings pay!

Stranger, all guilty as I seem,

Do not too harshly of me deem.

’Tis long since pitying word or look

To me were given—scorn I could brook;

But sympathy’s sweet accents rest

Like sunbeams on my frozen breast.”

Her bosom swell’d with choking sighs,Her small hands hid her streaming eyes.Those lily hands, of fairy mould,No tale of menial usage told;That slender youthful shape, though cladIn homely weeds, rare graces had;And when stern effort had suppress’dThe grief that shook her throbbing breast,Apart the veiling curls she flung,That o’er her face dishevelled hung.Though tear-strain’d, pale, and worn with care,Surpassing loveliness was there;And when she met the earnest eyeOf kind, yet dubious scrutiny,O’er her chill paleness, rushing cameFrom breast to brow the crimson shame.

Her bosom swell’d with choking sighs,

Her small hands hid her streaming eyes.

Those lily hands, of fairy mould,

No tale of menial usage told;

That slender youthful shape, though clad

In homely weeds, rare graces had;

And when stern effort had suppress’d

The grief that shook her throbbing breast,

Apart the veiling curls she flung,

That o’er her face dishevelled hung.

Though tear-strain’d, pale, and worn with care,

Surpassing loveliness was there;

And when she met the earnest eye

Of kind, yet dubious scrutiny,

O’er her chill paleness, rushing came

From breast to brow the crimson shame.

—“My father bears a noble name,My birth-place was a lordly hall;In that proud hall an orphan dwelt,’Tis no new tale—when young hearts meltAnd mingle, weak is Reason’s thrall,Fear’s whisper, Duty’s thunder-call,Alike unheard, unheeded all.Oh! lov’d, though unrelenting sire,Thou dost forget, in thy stern ireAgainst the daughter once so dear,Thyselfdidst bring temptation near.

—“My father bears a noble name,

My birth-place was a lordly hall;

In that proud hall an orphan dwelt,

’Tis no new tale—when young hearts melt

And mingle, weak is Reason’s thrall,

Fear’s whisper, Duty’s thunder-call,

Alike unheard, unheeded all.

Oh! lov’d, though unrelenting sire,

Thou dost forget, in thy stern ire

Against the daughter once so dear,

Thyselfdidst bring temptation near.

I was a bride, a happy bride,My gentle Malcolm’s joy and pride.Though poverty was in our cot,Love dwelt there, and we fear’d her not.But sickness came—our daily toilAlone had fed life’s lamp with oil.O’er my poor Malcolm’s feverish bedI watch’d all night, then sleepless spedTo labor for our wants. Oh! whyDid Heaven forbid us both to die?The sleepless night, the scant repast,The toilsome day—this could not last;Unknown, uncar’d for, by his sideSickening I lay, and Malcolm tried,While yet pale cheek and tottering limbTold how disease had prey’d on him,His hireling task to ply.Alas! the eager will in vainStruggled with lassitude and pain;Desperate, he sought his home againTo see his Marian die.

I was a bride, a happy bride,

My gentle Malcolm’s joy and pride.

Though poverty was in our cot,

Love dwelt there, and we fear’d her not.

But sickness came—our daily toil

Alone had fed life’s lamp with oil.

O’er my poor Malcolm’s feverish bed

I watch’d all night, then sleepless sped

To labor for our wants. Oh! why

Did Heaven forbid us both to die?

The sleepless night, the scant repast,

The toilsome day—this could not last;

Unknown, uncar’d for, by his side

Sickening I lay, and Malcolm tried,

While yet pale cheek and tottering limb

Told how disease had prey’d on him,

His hireling task to ply.

Alas! the eager will in vain

Struggled with lassitude and pain;

Desperate, he sought his home again

To see his Marian die.

From fearful dreams I frenzied woke;As famish’d nature crav’d, I spoke.Unconscious of his soothings meek,Of the hot tears that bath’d my cheek,I pray’d for food. He could not bearThe wo of that delirious prayer;He went, return’d—with gold he came—But branded with a robber’s name.

From fearful dreams I frenzied woke;

As famish’d nature crav’d, I spoke.

Unconscious of his soothings meek,

Of the hot tears that bath’d my cheek,

I pray’d for food. He could not bear

The wo of that delirious prayer;

He went, return’d—with gold he came—

But branded with a robber’s name.

They tore him from my wild embrace,They dragg’d him to a prison cell;I sought him in that fearful place,I gaz’d once more upon his face,Exchang’d one sad farewell—And then, a crime-stain’d exile, heWas sent to dwell beyond the sea.

They tore him from my wild embrace,

They dragg’d him to a prison cell;

I sought him in that fearful place,

I gaz’d once more upon his face,

Exchang’d one sad farewell—

And then, a crime-stain’d exile, he

Was sent to dwell beyond the sea.

Then, then, I was indeed alone—Sense, duty, reason, all were gone,Life was one racking sense of pain,One only thought dwelt in my brain,To see my victim-love again.To soothe his grief, support his care,His shame, his punishment, to share.But how, from whom assistance claim?Banish’d, disown’d—my very nameForbidden to my father’s ear,Would he my plaint or purpose hear?Friendless and poor—one desperate thoughtAmid my wilder’d musings wrought.If mine the crime, the sentence too,Whisper’d the demon. Oh! how fewOf those who bask in fortune’s glare,Can fancy poverty’s despair!On splendor’s gilded couch reclin’d,With luxury-sated frame and mind,They talk oflaborandcontent,And o’er thesnares of wealthlament.Oh! could they for brief time endureThe legion temptings of thepoor,Their fiery trial once gone o’er,They’d mourn thesnares of wealthno more.

Then, then, I was indeed alone—

Sense, duty, reason, all were gone,

Life was one racking sense of pain,

One only thought dwelt in my brain,

To see my victim-love again.

To soothe his grief, support his care,

His shame, his punishment, to share.

But how, from whom assistance claim?

Banish’d, disown’d—my very name

Forbidden to my father’s ear,

Would he my plaint or purpose hear?

Friendless and poor—one desperate thought

Amid my wilder’d musings wrought.

If mine the crime, the sentence too,

Whisper’d the demon. Oh! how few

Of those who bask in fortune’s glare,

Can fancy poverty’s despair!

On splendor’s gilded couch reclin’d,

With luxury-sated frame and mind,

They talk oflaborandcontent,

And o’er thesnares of wealthlament.

Oh! could they for brief time endure

The legion temptings of thepoor,

Their fiery trial once gone o’er,

They’d mourn thesnares of wealthno more.

—I spurn’d the sinful thought away,I wept, I knelt, I strove to pray;But Heaven is deaf to rebel prayer,And mine sent no submission there.Day after day crept torturing by,And brought no hope, no comfort nigh.Should I the penance seek to shun,For whom the guilty deed was done?—The urging fiend was at mine ear,Maddening with sorrow, love, and fear,’Twas done, detected—I am here.”

—I spurn’d the sinful thought away,

I wept, I knelt, I strove to pray;

But Heaven is deaf to rebel prayer,

And mine sent no submission there.

Day after day crept torturing by,

And brought no hope, no comfort nigh.

Should I the penance seek to shun,

For whom the guilty deed was done?—

The urging fiend was at mine ear,

Maddening with sorrow, love, and fear,

’Twas done, detected—I am here.”

· · · · ·

Her haven the stately ship has won,The convict crew to their toils have gone.There’s a grove of palms in that southern isle,Through their coronaled tops the moonbeams smileOn a fairy hut, where vine-boughs throwTheir cluster’d wealth o’er the lattice low,And dim the silvery rays that pourTheir brightness aslant the humble floor.Hark!—the accents of weeping prayerUpon the vesper stillness glide;The voices are yonder hut within,They plead for pardon, and mourn for sin—There Marian kneels at Malcolm’s side.

Her haven the stately ship has won,

The convict crew to their toils have gone.

There’s a grove of palms in that southern isle,

Through their coronaled tops the moonbeams smile

On a fairy hut, where vine-boughs throw

Their cluster’d wealth o’er the lattice low,

And dim the silvery rays that pour

Their brightness aslant the humble floor.

Hark!—the accents of weeping prayer

Upon the vesper stillness glide;

The voices are yonder hut within,

They plead for pardon, and mourn for sin—

There Marian kneels at Malcolm’s side.

Now for the moral of my tale.—Although of heavenly birth,Love sometimes deigns to fold his wings, and find a home on earth.Hestrengthens woman’s hand to deeds that make the warrior quail,Heraises woman’s mind to thoughts that turn stout manhood pale;The feeble frame, the fearful heart, for him grow strong, to braveThe tempest or the battle-field, the desert or the grave;Heled poor Malcolm’s faithful bride across the stormy sea:So loves fond woman’s martyr-heart—so, dearest, love I thee.

Now for the moral of my tale.—Although of heavenly birth,

Love sometimes deigns to fold his wings, and find a home on earth.

Hestrengthens woman’s hand to deeds that make the warrior quail,

Heraises woman’s mind to thoughts that turn stout manhood pale;

The feeble frame, the fearful heart, for him grow strong, to brave

The tempest or the battle-field, the desert or the grave;

Heled poor Malcolm’s faithful bride across the stormy sea:

So loves fond woman’s martyr-heart—so, dearest, love I thee.

The above poem is founded on an anecdote which appeared some years ago in an English gazette.

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