CONSTANCE; OR, THE PORTRAIT.

I. On Avon's stream, in day's declining hours, The loitering Angler sees reflected towers; Adown the hill the stately shadows glide, And force their frown upon the gentle tide: Another shade, as stately and as slow, Steals down the slope and dims the peace below: There, side by side, your noiseless shadows fall, Time-wearied Lord, and time-defying hall! As Song's sweet Master fled the roar of Rome, For the Bandusian fount and Sabine home, A soul forsook the beaten tracks of life, Sought the lone bye-path and escaped the strife; And paused, reviving 'mid the haunts of youth, To conjure fancies back, or muse on truth. One home there is, from which, howe'er we stray, True as a star, the smile pursues our way; The home of thoughtful childhood's mystic tears, Of earliest Sabbath bells on sinless ears, Of noonday dreamings under summer trees, And prayers first murmur'd at a mother's knees. Ah! happy he, whose later home as man Is made where Love first spoke, and Hope began, Where haunted floors dear footsteps back can give, And in our Lares all our fathers live! Graced with those gifts the vulgar mostly prize, And if used wisely, precious to the wise, Wealth and high lineage;—Ruthven's name was known Less for ancestral greatness than its own: With boyhood's dreams the grand desire began Which, nerved by labour, lifts from rank the man Ev'n as the eye in Art's majestic halls Not on the frame but on the portrait falls; So to each nobler life the gaze we bound, Nor heed what casework clasps the picture round. But who can guess that crisis of the soul When the old glory first forsakes the goal? When Knowledge halts and sees but cloud before; When sour'd Experience whispers 'hope no more;' When every onward footstep from our side Parts the slow friend or hesitating guide; When envy rots the harvest in the sheaf; When faith in virtue seems the child's belief; And life's last music sighs itself away On some false lip, that kiss'd but to betray? Thus from a world that wrong'd him, self-exiled, The man resought the birthplace of the child. Rest comes betimes, if toil commence too soon; The brightest sun is stillest at the noon; Weary at mid-day, genius halts the course, And hails the respite which renews the force.

II. Deep in the vale from which those towers arose, A life more shatter'd, sought more late repose; In Seaton long had men and marts obey'd The unerring hierarch in thy temple, Trade. Trade, the last earth-god; whom the Olympian Power Begot on Danaë, as the Golden Shower, To whose young hands the weary Jove resign'd. Some ages since, the scales that weigh mankind. But that dire Fate, who Jove himself controll'd, Still shakes the urn, although the lots are gold: Reverses came, the whirlwind of a day Swept the strong labours of a life away; Rased out of sight whate'er is sold or bought, And left but name and honour—men said "nought." True, knavery whisper'd, "Only still disguise: Credit is generous, if you blind its eyes; The borrow'd prop arrests the house's fall, And one rich chance may yet reconquer all." There on his priest the earth-god lost control, And from the wreck the merchant saved his soul "Alone, I rose," he said; "I fall alone— Nor one man's ruin shall accuse mine own." And so, life passing from the gorgeous stage, The curtain fell on Poverty and Age.

III. Yet one fair flower survived the common dearth, And one sweet voice gave music still to earth; On Fortune's victim Nature pitying smiled; "Still rich!" the father cried, and clasp'd his child. Beautiful Constance!—As the icy air Congeals the earth, to make more clear the star, So the meek soul look'd lovelier from thine eyes, Through the sharp winter of the alter'd skies. Yet the soft child had memories unconfess'd, And griefs that wept not on a father's breast. In brighter days, such love as fancy knows (That youngest love whose couch is in the rose) Had sent the shaft, which, when withdrawn in haste, Leaves not a scar by which the wound is traced; But if it rest, more fatal grows the smart, And deepening from the surface, gains the heart; In truth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please,— Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease; The courtier's mien to veil the miser's soul, And that self-love which brings such self-control. High-born, but poor, no Corydon was he To dream of love and cots in Arcady; His tastes were like the Argonauts of old, And only pastoral if the fleece was gold. The less men feel, the better they can feign— To act a Romeo, needs it Romeo's pain? No, the calm master of the Histrio's art Keeps his head coolest while he storms your heart; Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept, Charm'd when he smiled, and conquer'd when he wept. Meanwhile, what pass'd the father had not guess'd, Nor learn'd the courtship till the suit was press'd; Then prudence woke, and judgment, grown austere, } Join'd trade's slow caution with affection's fear, } And whisper'd this wise counsel—"Wait a year!" } In vain the lover pleaded to the maid; "A year soon passes," Constance smiling said. Just then—for Harcourt's service was the sword— Duty ordain'd what gentle taste abhorr'd; Cursed by a country which at times forgets It boasts an empire where the sun ne'er sets, Some isle, resentful of our lax control, Rebels on purpose to distract his soul. A month had scorch'd him on that hateful shore, When paled those charms to which such faith he swore; News came that left to Constance not a grace, The sire's reverses changed the daughter's face;— "Oh heavens!—so handsome! Gone in one short hour!" "What," quoth a friend, "The Lady?" "No, the dower."

IV. Yet still, fair Constance in her lone retreat Cheer'd the dull hours with faithful self-deceit; What though no tidings came to brighten time, To doubt of Harcourt seem'd less grief than crime. Easier to blame the elements unkind, The distant clime, the ocean, and the wind, Think them all leagued to intercept the scroll, Than place distrust where soul confides in soul. But ever foremost in her wish was yet To hide remembrance lest it seem'd regret; That in her looks this comfort still might be, "Father, I smile—and joy yet lives for thee!" Thus Seaton deem'd her childish fancy flown; To the worn mind fresh hearts are realms unknown; As we live on, the finer tints of truth Fade from the landscape.—Age is blind to youth.

I. Oft to a creek, in Shakspeare's haunted stream, What time the noon invites of song to dream, Where stately oak with silver poplar weaves The hospitable shade of amorous leaves, And, lightly swerved by winding shores askance, The limpid river wreathes its flying dance,[A] Young Constance came;—a bank with wild flowers drest As for a fairy's sleep, her sylvan rest. Behind, the woodlands, opening, left a glade, With swards all sunshine in the midst of shade; Save where pale lilacs droop'd against the ray Around the cot which meekly shunn'd the day: But stern and high, above the deep repose Of vale and wave, the towers of Ruthven rose; Like souls unshelter'd because high they are, The nearer heaven the more from peace afar; Built by the mighty Architect, to form Bulwarks for man, and battle with the storm; To soar and suffer with defying crest, And guard the humble, not partake their rest. A lonely spot! at times a passing oar Dash'd the wave quicker to the gradual shore; But swift, as, when some footfall nears her lair, Starts the fond cushat from her tender care, Silence came back, with wings that seem'd to brood In watch more loving over solitude.

II. Thus Constance sate, by some sweet sorcerer's rhyme Charm'd into worlds beyond the marge of Time, When a dim shadow o'er the herbage stole, And light boughs stirr'd above the violet knoll; In vain the shadow stole, the light bough stirr'd, Her sense yet spell-bound by the magic word; Spell-bound no less, his steps the stranger stay'd— And gazed as Cymon on the sleeping Maid.— And, oh! that brow so angel-clear from guile, That childlike lip unconscious of its smile, That virgin bloom where blushes went and came From deeps of feeling never stirr'd by shame, Seem'd like the Una of the Poet's page Charm'd into life by some bright Archimage. Not till each gaudier Venus crowds adore, And desecrate adoring—dupes no more, Comes the true Goddess, by her blushes known— The dove her symbol, innocence her zone! At the first glance her birth the Urania proves. Heaven smiles, and Nature blossoms where she moves.

III. The virgin rose; the gazer quick withdrew; The favouring thicket closed her form from view. Slow went she homeward up the sunlit ground; Unseen he followed, where the woodlands wound; The spell that first arrested now lured on, And in that spell a frown from earth seem'd gone. As in the languid noon of summer day Birds fold the pinion and suspend the lay— So hopes lie silent in the human heart Till all at once the choirs to music start, From the long hush rejoicing wings arise, Sport round the blooms, or glance into the skies.

IV. She gain'd the cot; irresolute he stood, Where the wall ceased amidst the circling wood, When voices rude and sudden jarr'd his ear, And thro' the din came woman's wail of fear; Then all grew silent as he gain'd the door Which gaped ajar;—he cross'd the threshold floor: Now sounds more low;—he still pass'd on and saw, Track'd to its covert, Want at bay with Law.— The Daughter clinging to the Father's breast; The Father's struggle from the clasp that press'd; The hard officials, with familiar leer And ribald comfort barb'd with cynic sneer; On these, the Lord of lavish thousands glanced, Law louted lowly as that Wealth advanced. "And what this old Man's crime?"—"My orders say," Quoth Law, and smiled—"a debt he cannot pay!" Then from his child the poor proud captive broke— Sign'd to the door—raised moistening eyes, and spoke— "I thank thee, Heaven! that in my prosperous time I was not harsh to others—for this crime; Sirs, I am ready!"—Ere the word was o'er, The parchment fell in fragments on the floor. "The crime is rased!" cried Wealth.—"My Lord," said Law, "I humbly thank your Lordship, and withdraw."

V. Hat'st thou the world, O Misanthrope, austere? Do one kind act, and all the world grows dear! Say'st thou—"Alas, kind acts requited ill, Made me loathe men!"—I answer, "Do them still." On its own wings should Good itself upbuoy; Rejoicing heaven, because it feels but joy.— Oft from that date did Ruthven gaily come, Where hope, revived, with Constance found a home; Well did he soothe the griefs his host had known, But well—too proud for pity—veil'd his own. Silent, he watch'd the gentle daughter's soul, Scann'd every charm, and peerless found the whole, He spoke not love; and if his looks betray'd, The anxious Sire was wiser than the Maid. Still, ever listening, on her lips he hung, Hush'd when she spoke—enraptured when she sung; And when the hues her favourite art bestow'd, Like a new hope from the fair fancy glow'd, As the cold canvas with the image warms, As from the blank start forth the breathing forms, So would he look within him, and compare With those mute shapes the new-born phantoms there. Upon the mind, as on the canvas rose, The young fresh world the Ideal only knows; The world of which both Art and Passion are Builders;—to this so near—from this so far. What music charm'd the verse on which she gazed!— How doubly dear the poet that she praised! And when he spoke, and from the affluent mind That books had stored, and intercourse refined, Pour'd forth the treasures,—still his choice addrest To her mild heart what seem'd to please it best; And yet the maiden dream'd not that he loved Who flatter'd never, and at times reproved— Reproved—but, oh, so tenderly! and ne'er But for such faults as soils the purest bear; A trust too liberal in our common race, Dividing scarce the noble from the base, A sight too dazzled by the outward hues— A sense though clear, too timid to refuse; Yielding the course that it would fain pursue, Still to each guide that proffer'd it the clue; And that soft shrinking into self—allied, If half to Diffidence—yet half to Pride. He loved her, and she loved him not; revered His lofty nature, and in reverence fear'd. The glorious gifts—the kingly mind she saw, Yet seeing felt not tenderness, but awe. And the dark beauty of his musing eye Chill'd back the heart, from which it woo'd reply: Harcourt—the gay—the prodigal of youth, Still charm'd her fancy, while he chain'd her truth.

VI. Seaton, meanwhile, the heart of Ruthven read, With hopes which robb'd the future of its dread; Could he but live to see his child the bride Of one so wise, so kind, lover at once and guide! Silent at first, at last the deeps o'er-flow'd. One eve they sate without their calm abode, Father and Child, and mark'd the vermeil glow Of clouds that floated where the sun set slow; But on the opposing towers of Ruthven shone The last sweet splendour, and when gradual gone, Left to the space above that grand decay The rosiest tints, and last to fade away. The Father mused; then with impulsive start Turn'd and drew Constance closer to his heart, Murmuring—"Ah, there, let but thy lot be cast, And Fate withdraws all sadness from the past. Blest be the storm that wreck'd us, here to find One whom my soul had singled from mankind If mine the palace still, and his the cot,— For that sweet prize which Fortune withers not." Then, wrapt too fondly in his tender dream To note his listener, he pursues the theme. Pale as the dead, she hears his gladness speak, Sees the rare smile illume the careworn cheek; Dear if the lover in her sunny day, More dear the Sire since sunshine pass'd away. How dare to say,—"No, let thy smile depart, And take back sorrow from a daughter's heart?"

VII. And while they sate, along the sward below Came Ruthven's stately form, and footstep slow; She saw—she fled—her chamber gain'd—and there Sobb'd out that grief which youth believes despair. Thenceforth her solitude was desolate; Forebodings chill'd her as a shade from Fate. At Ruthven's step her colour changed—and dread Hush'd her low voice: such signs his hope misled. Hope, to its own vain dreams the idle seer, Whisper'd—"First love comes veil'd in virgin fear!" And now, o'er Harcourt's image, as the rust O'er the steel mirror, crept at length distrust. The ordeal year already pass'd away, And still no voice came o'er the dreary sea; No faithful joy to cry—"The ordeal's past, And loved as ever, thou art mine at last."

VIII. But Ruthven's absence now, if not to grief, At least to one vague terror, gave relief: For days, for weeks, some cause, unknown to all, Had won the lonely Master from his hall.— Much Seaton marvell'd! half disposed to blame; } "Gone, and no word ev'n absence to proclaim!" } When, sudden as he went, the truant came. } Franker his brow, and brighter was his look, And with a warmer clasp his host's wan hand he took: "Joy to thee, friend, thy race is not yet o'er, Thy fortunes still thy genius shall restore: Thy house from ruin reascends, to stand Firm as of old, a column of the land.— Joy, Seaton, joy!"—"O mock me not—Explain! The bark once sunk beneath the obdurate main, No tide throws up!"—"New galleons Fortune gives. Fortune ne'er dies for him whose honour lives."— "Is fortune not the usurer?—Kind while yet The hand that borrows may repay the debt; When all is lavish'd, she hath nought to lend!" "But can she give not? Hast thou call'd me Friend?" He paused, and glanced on Constance—while his breast Heaved with the tumult which the lip represt. Till she, but looking on her father's face, In his joy joyous,—sprang from his embrace, Before the Benefactor paused, and bow'd; Falter'd a blessing, knelt, and wept aloud: "Not there, not there, O Constance," Ruthven cried, "Here be thy place—for ever side by side! Thanks—and to me!—Ah no! the boon be thine, Thy heart the generous, and the grateful mine. Oh pardon—if my soul its suit delay'd Till the world's dross the worldly equal made; And left to thee to grant and me receive Man's earliest treasures—Paradise and Eve! Beloved one, speak! Not mine the silver tongue, And toil leaves manhood nought that lures the young; But in these looks is truth—these accents, love: And in thy faith all that survive above The graves of Time, as in Elysium meet!— Hope flies to thee as to its last retreat." Speechless she heard—till, as he paused, the voice Of the fond Sire usurp'd and doom'd the choice: "May she repay thee!" In his own he drew Her hand and Ruthven's, smiled and join'd the two— "Ah! could I make thee happy,"—thus she said And ceased:—her sentence in his eyes she read— Eyes that the rashness of delight reveal: Love gave the kiss, and Fate received the seal.

I. Between two moments in the life of man An airy bridge divided worlds may span; Fine as the hair which sways beneath a soul By Azrael summon'd to the spectre goal, It springs abrupt from that sharp point in time Where, soft behind us in its orient clime, Lies the lost garden-land of young Romance: Beyond, with cloud upon the cold expanse, Looms rugged Duty;—and betwixt them swell Abysmal deeps, in which to fall were hell. O thou, who tread'st along that trembling line, The stedfast step, the onward gaze be thine! Dread Memory most!—the light thou leav'st would blind, Thy foot betrays thee if thou look behind! If Constance yet escaped not from the past, At least she strove:—the chain may break at last. Veil'd by the smile, Grief can so safely grieve: Love that confides, a smile can so deceive: And Ruthven kneeling at the altar's base Guess'd not the idol which profaned the place; But smiles forsake when secret hours bestow The angry self-confessional of woe; When trembling thought and stern-eyed conscience meet, And truth rebukes ev'n duty for deceit. Ah! what a world were this if all were known, And smiles on others track'd to tears alone! Oft, had he seem'd less lofty to her eye, Her soul had spoken and confess'd its lie: But sometimes natures least obscured by clay Shine through an awe that scares the meek away; And, near as life may seem to life,—alas! Each hath closed portals, nought but love can pass. Thus the resolve, in absence nursed, forsook Her lip, and died, abash'd, before his look; His foes his virtues—honour seem'd austere, And all most reverenced most provoked the fear.

II. Pass by some weeks: to London Seaton went, His genius glorying in its wonted vent; New props are built, and new foundations laid, And once more rose thy crowded temple—Trade! Then back the sire and daughter bent their way, There, where the troth was pledged, let Hymen claim the day! With Constance came a friend of earlier years, Partner of childhood's smiles and pangless tears; Leaf intertwined with leaf, their youth together Ripen'd to bloom through life's first April weather. To Juliet Constance had no care untold, Here grief found sympathy and wept consoled; On woman's pitying heart could woman here Mourn perish'd hope, or pour remorseful fear; And breathe those prayers which woman breathes for one, Who fading from her world is still its sun. These made their commune, when from darkening skies, Pale as lost joys, stars gleam'd on tearful eyes. They guess'd not how the credulous gaze of love Dwelt on the moon that rose their roof above, Saw as on Latmos fall the enchanted beams— And bless'd the Dian for Endymion's dreams.

III. Meanwhile, to England Harcourt's steps return'd, And Seaton's new-born state the earliest news he learn'd: What the emotions of this injured man? He had a friend—and thus his letter ran: "Back to this land, where merit starves obscure, Where wisdom says—'Be anything but poor,' Return'd, my eyes the path to wealth explore, And straight I hear—'Constance is rich once more!' Thou know'st, my friend, with what a dexterous craft I 'scaped the cup a tenderer dupe had quaff'd; For in the chalice misery holds to life, What drop more nauseous than a dowerless wife? Yet she was fair, and gentle, charming—all That man would make his partner at a ball! And, for the partner of a life, what more? Plate at the board, a porter at the door! Cupid and Plutus, though they oft divide, If bound to Hymen should walk side by side; A boon companion halves the longest way,— When Plutus join'd, I own that Love was gay; But Plutus left, where Hymen did begin, The way look'd dreary and the God gave in: Now his old comrade once more is bestow'd, And Cupid starts refresh'd upon the road. 'But how,' thou ask'st, 'how dupe again the ear, In which thy voice slept silent for a year? And how explain, how'—Why impute to thee Questions whose folly thy quick glance can see? Who loves is ever glad to be deceived, Who lies the most is still the most believed. Somewhat I trust to Eloquence and Art, And where these fail—thank Heaven she has a heart! More it disturbs me that some rumours run, That Constance, too, can play the faithless one; That, where round pastoral meads blue streamlets purl, Chloë has found a Thyrsis—in an Earl! And oh! that Ruthven! Hate is not for me; Who loves not, hates not,—both bad policy! Yet could I hate, through all the earth I know But that one man my soul would honour so. Through ties remote—by some Scotch grand-dam's side, We are, if scarce related, yet allied; And had his mother been a barren dame, Mine were those lands, and mine that lordly name: Nay, if he die without an heir, ev'n yet— Oh, while I write, perchance the seal is set! Farewell! a letter speeds to her retreat, The prayer that wafts her Harcourt to her feet; There to explain the past—his faith defend, And claim, et cetera—Yours, in haste, my friend!"

IV. To Constance came a far less honest scroll, Yet oh, each word seem'd vivid from the soul! Fear, hope—reports that madden'd, yet could stir No faith in one who ne'er could doubt of her: Wild vows renew'd—complaints of no replies To lines unwrit; the eloquence of lies! And more than all, the assurance still too dear, Of Love surviving that vast age—a year! Such were the tidings to the maiden borne, And—woe the day—upon her Bridal Morn!

V. It was the loving twilight's rosiest hour, The Love-star trembled on the ivied tower, As through the frowning archway pass'd the bride, With Juliet, whispering courage, by her side; For Ruthven went before, that first of all His voice might welcome to his father's hall: There, on the antique walls, the lamp from high Show'd the stern wrecks of battle-storms gone by. Gleam'd the blue mail, indented with the glaive, Droop'd the dull banner, breezeless, on the stave; Below the Gothic masks, grotesque and grim, Carved from the stonework, like a wizard's whim, Hung the accoutrements that lent a grace To the old warrior-pastime of the chase. Cross-bows by hands, long dust, once deftly borne; The Hawker's glove, the Huntsman's soundless horn; On the huge hearth the hospitable flame Lit the dark portrait in its mouldering frame; Statesmen in senates, knights in fields, renown'd, On their new daughter ominously frown'd; To the young Stranger, shivering to behold, The Home she enter'd seem'd the tomb of old.

VI. "Doth it so chill thee, Constance? Dare I own, The charm that haunts what childhood's years have known, How many dreams of fame beyond my sires, Wing'd the proud thought that now no more aspires! Here, while I paced, at the dusk twilight time, As the deep church-bell toll'd the curfew chime; In the dim Past my spirit seem'd to live, To every relic some weird legend give; And muse such hopes of glorious things to be, As they, the Dead, mused once;—wild dreams—fulfill'd in thee! Ah, never 'mid those early visions shone, A face so sweet, my Constance, as thine own! And what if all that charm'd me then, depart? Clear, through the fading mists, smiles my soft heav'n—thy heart! What, drooping still! Nay love, we are not all So sad within, as this time-darken'd hall. Come!"—and they pass'd (still Juliet by her side) To a fair chamber, deck'd to greet the bride. There, all of later luxury lent its smile, To cheer, yet still beseem, the reverend pile. What though the stately tapestry met the eyes, Gay were its pictures, brilliant were its dyes; There, graceful cressets from the gilded roof, In mirrors glass'd the landscapes of the woof. There, in the Gothic niche, the harp was placed, There ranged the books most hallow'd by her taste; Through the half-open casement you might view The sweet soil prank'd with flowers of every hue; And on the terrace, crowning the green mountain, Gleam'd the fair statue, play'd the sparkling fountain: Within, without, all plann'd, all deck'd to greet The Queen of all—whose dowry was deceit! Soft breathed the air, soft shone the moon above— All save the bride's sad heart, whispering Earth's Hymn to Love! As Ruthven's hand sought hers, on Juliet's breast She fell; and passionate tears, till then supprest, Gush'd from averted eyes. To him the tears Betray'd no secret that could rouse his fears— For joy, as grief, the tender heart will melt— The tears but proved how well his love was felt. And, with the delicate thought that shunn'd to hear Thanks for the cares, which cares themselves endear, He whisper'd, "Linger not!" and closed the door, And Constance sobbed—"Thank Heaven, alone with thee once more!"

VII. Across his threshold Ruthven lightly strode, And his glad heart from its full deeps o'erflow'd, Pass'd is the Porch—he gains the balmy air, Still crouch the night winds in their forest lair. The moonlight silvers the unrustling pines, On the hush'd lake the tremulous glory shines. A stately shadow o'er the crystal brink, Reflects the shy stag as its halt to drink; And the slow cygnet, where it midway glides, Breaks into sparkling rings the faintly heaving tides. Wandering along his boyhood's haunts, he mused; The hour, the heaven, the bliss his soul suffused; It seem'd all hatred from the world had flown, And left to Nature, Love and God alone! Ev'n holiest passion holier render'd there, His every thought breathed gentle as a prayer.

VIII. Thus, as the eve grew mellowing into night, Still from yon lattice stream'd the unwelcome light— "Why loitering yet, and wherefore linger I?" And at that thought ev'n Nature pall'd his eye; He miss'd that voice, which with low music fill'd The starry heaven of the rapt thoughts it thrill'd; He gain'd the hall—the lofty stair he wound— Behold, the door of his heart's fairy-ground! The tapestry veil'd him, as its folds, half-raised, Gave to his eye the scene on which it gazed: Still Constance wept—and hark what sounds are those What awful secret those wild sobs disclose!— "No, leave me not!—I cannot meet his eyes! O Heaven! must life be ever one disguise! What seem'd indifference when we pledged the troth, Now grown—O wretch!—to terrors that but loathe! Oh that the earth might swallow me!" Again Gush forth the sobs, while Juliet soothes in vain. "Nay, nay, be cheer'd—we must not more delay; Cease these wild bursts till I his steps can stay; No, for thy sake—for thine—I must begone." She 'scaped the circling arms, and Constance wept alone.

IX. By the opposing door, from that unseen, Where Ruthven stood behind the arras-screen, Pass'd Juliet. Suddenly the startled bride Look'd up, and lo, the Wrong'd One by her side! They gazed in silence face to face: his own, Sad, stern, and awful, chill'd her heart to stone. At length the low and hollow accents stirr'd His blanching lip, that writhed with every word: "Hear me a moment, nor recoil to hear; A love so hated wounds no more thine ear. I thank thee—I—!" His lips would not obey His pride,—and all the manly heart gave way. Low at his feet she fell: the alter'd course Of grief ran deep'ning into vain remorse; "Forgive me!—O forgive!" "Forgive!" he cried, And passion rush'd in speech, till then denied. "Vile mockery! Bid me in the desert live Alone with treason—and then say 'Forgive!' Thou dost not know the ruins thou hast made, Faith in all things thy falsehood has betray'd! Thou, the last refuge, where my baffled youth Dream'd its safe haven, murmuring—'Here is Truth!' Thou in whose smile I garner'd up my breast, Exult! thy fraud surpasses all the rest. No! close, my heart—grow marble! Human worth Is not; and falsehood is the name for earth!"

X. Wildly, with long disorder'd strides, he paced The floor to feel the world indeed a waste; For as the earth if God were not above, Man's hearth without the Lares—Faith and Love! But what his woe to hers?—for him at least Conscience was calm, though ev'ry hope had ceased. But she!—all sorrow for herself had paused, To live in that worse anguish she had caused: "No, Ruthven, no! Thy pardon not for me; But oh that Heaven may shed its peace on thee So worthless I, so worthless thy regret; Oh that repentance could requite thee yet! Oh that a life that henceforth ne'er shall own, One thought, one wish, one hope, but to atone,— Obedience, honour——" "These may make the wife A faultless statue:—love but breathes the life! Poor child! Nay, weep not; bitterer far, in truth, Than mine, the fate to which thou doom'st thy youth: For manhood's pride the love at last may quell, But when could Woman with Indifference dwell? No sorrow soothed, no joy enhanced since shared. O Heaven—the solitude thy soul has dared! But thou hast chosen! Vain for each regret; All that is left—to seem that we forget. No word of mine my wrongs shall e'er recall; Thine, wealth and pomp, and reverence—take them all! May they console thee, Constance, for a heart That—but enough! So let the loathed depart; These chambers thine, my step invades them not; Sleep, if thou canst, as in thy virgin cot. Henceforth all love has lost its hated claim; If wed, be cheer'd; our wedlock but a name. Much as thou scorn'st me, know this heart above The power of beauty, when disarm'd of love. And so, may Heaven forgive thee!" "Ruthven, stay! Generous—too noble: can no distant day Win thy forgiveness also, and restore Thy trust, thy friendship, even though love be o'er?" He paused a moment with a soften'd eye;— "Alas! thou dreadest, while thou ask'st, reply: If ever, Constance, that blest day should come, When crowds can teach thee what the loss of Home; If ever, when with those who court thee there, The love that chills thee now, thou canst compare, And feel that if thy choice thou couldst recall, Him now unloved, thy love would choose from all Why then, one word, one whisper!—oh, no more—" And fearful of himself, he closed the door!

I. Ah, yes, Philosopher, thy creed is true! 'Tis our own eyes that give the rainbow's hue: What we call Matter, in this outer earth, Takes from our senses, those warm dupes, its birth. How fair to sinless Adam Eden smiled; But sin brought tears, and Eden was a wild! Man's soul is as an everlasting dream, Glassing life's fictions on a phantom stream: To-day, in glory all the world is clad— Wherefore, O Man?—because thy heart is glad. To-morrow, and the self-same scene survey— The same! Oh no—the pomp hath pass'd away! Wherefore the change? Within, go, ask reply— Thy heart hath given its winter to the sky! Vainly the world revolves upon its pole;— Light—Darkness—Seasons—these are in the soul!

II. "Trite truth," thou sayest—well, if trite it be, Why seek we ever from ourselves to flee? Pleased to deceive our sight, and loath to know, We bear the climate with us where we go! To that immense Bethesda, whither still Each worse disease seeks cures for every ill; To that great well, in which the Heart at strife, Merges its own amidst the common life,— Whatever name it take, or Public Zeal, Or Self-Ambition, still as sure to heal,— From his sad hearth his sorrows Ruthven bore; Long shunn'd the strife of men, now sought once more. Flock'd to his board the Magnates of the Hour Who clasp for Fame its spectre-likeness—Power! The busy, babbling, talking, toiling race— The Word-besiegers of the Fortress—Place! Waves, each on each, in sunlight hurrying on, A moment gilded—in a moment gone; For Honours fool but with deluding light— The place it glides through, not the wave, is bright![B] The means, if not his ends, with these the same, In Ruthven, Party hail'd a Leader's name! Night after night the listening Senate hung On that roused mind, by Grief to Action stung! Night after night, when Action, spent and worn, Left yet more sad the soul it had upborne; The sight of Home the frown of Life renew'd— The World gave Fame and Home a Solitude!

III. And Constance? sever'd from a husband's side, No heart to cherish, and no hand to guide, Still, as if ev'n the very name of wife Drew her soul upward into loftier life, The solemn sense of woman's holiest tie Arm'd every thought against the memory. 'Mid shatter'd Lares stood the Marriage Queen— As on a Roman's hearth, with marble smile serene: New to her sight that galaxy of mind Which moves round men who light and guide their kind, Where all shine equal in their joint degrees And rank's harsh outlines vanish into ease. As Power and Genius interchange their hues So genial life the classic charm renews; Some Scipio's wit a Terence may refine, Some Cæsar's pomp exalt a Maro's line— The polish'd have their flaws, but least espied Amongst the polish'd is the angle pride; And, howsoever Envy grudge their state, Their own bland laws democratize the great.

IV. With those fair orbs which lit her common air } That which should be her guardian planet there } Now cold if radiant did the wife compare? } If so, alas we lose the Chaldee's power To shape the life if we neglect the hour. And in the crowd was now their only meeting— They who from crowds should so have hail'd retreating. But in the crowd if eye encounter'd eye, Whence came her blush, or wherefore heaved his sigh? Ah! woe when lost the Heavenly confidence, Man's gentle right, and woman's strong defence!— Like the frank sunflower, Household Love to-day Must ope its leaves;—what shades it, brings decay.

V. The world look'd on, and construed, as it still Interprets, all it knows not into ill. "Man's home is sacred," flattering proverbs say; Yes, if you give the home to men's survey, But if that sanctum be obscured or screen'd, In every shadow doubt suggests a fiend: So churchyards seen beneath a daylight sky Are holy to the clown who saunters by; But vex his vision by the glimmering light, And straight the holiness expires in fright; He hears a goblin in the whispering grass, And cries "Heaven save us!"—at the Parson's ass! "Was ever Lord so newly wed so cold? Poor thing!—forsaken ere a year be told! Doubtless some wanton—whom we know not, true, But those proud sinners are so wary too! Oh! for the good old days—one never heard Of men so shocking under George the Third!" So ran the gossip. With the gossip came The brood it hatch'd—consolers to the dame. The soft and wily wooers, who begin Through sliding pity, the smooth ways to sin. My lord is absent at the great debate, Go, soothe his lady's unprotected state; Go, gallant,—go, and wish the cruel Heaven To thee such virtue, now so wrong'd, had given! Yes, round her flock'd the young world's fairest ones, The soft Rose-Garden's incense-breathing sons: Roused from his calm, Lord Ruthven's watchful eye Mark'd the new clouds that darken'd round his sky; And raptured saw—though for his earth too far— How fleets and fades each cloud before that stainless Star.

VI. Now came the graver trial, though unseen By him who knew not where the grief had been— He knew not that an earlier love had steel'd Her heart to his—that curse, at least conceal'd; Enough of sorrow in his lonely lot— The why, what matter—that she loved him not? One night, when Revel was in Ruthven's hall, He near'd the brilliant cynosure of all: "Deign" (thus he whisper'd) "to receive with grace Him who may hold the honours of my race:— When the last Ruthven dies, behold his heir!" He said, she turn'd—O Heaven!—and Harcourt there! Harcourt the same as when her glance he charm'd, For surer conquest by compassion arm'd— The same, save where a softer shadow, cast O'er his bright looks, reflected the sad Past! Now, when unguarded and in crowds alone, The Future dark—the household gods o'erthrown; Now, when those looks (that seem, the while they grieve, Ne'er to reproach)—can pity best deceive; The sole affection she of right can claim— Now, Virtue, tremble not—the Tempter came!

VII. He came, resolved to triumph and avenge— Sure of a heart whose sorrow spoke no change; Pleased at the thought to bind again the chain— For they who love not still can love to reign; Calm in the deeper and more fell design To sever those whom outward fetters join— To watch the discord Scandal rumours round, Fret every sore, and fester every wound; Could he but make Dissension firm and sure, Success would render larger schemes secure; "Let Ruthven die but childless!" ran his prayer, And in the lover's sigh cold avarice prompts the heir. He came and daily came, and daily schemed— Soft, grave, and reverent, but the friend he seem'd. These distant cousins, from their earliest days, To different goals had trod their varying ways: If Ruthven oft with generous hand supplied What were call'd luxuries, did Shoreditch decide, But what no Jury of Mayfair could doubt Are just the things life cannot live without; Yet gifts are sometimes as offences view'd, And envy is the mean man's gratitude; And, truth to own, whate'er the one bestow'd, More from his own large, careless nature flow'd Than through the channels tenderer sources send, When Favour equals—since it asks a Friend. But Ruthven loved not, in the days gone by, The cold, quick shrewdness of that stealthy eye, That spendthrift recklessness, which still was not The generous folly which itself forgot. You love the prodigal; the miser loathe, Yet oft the clockwork is the same in both: Ope but the works—the penury and excess Chime from one point—the central selfishness:— And though men said (for those, who wear with ease The vulgar vices, seldom much displease), "His follies injure but himself alone!" His follies spared no welfare but his own: Mankind he deem'd the epitome of self, And never laid that volume on the shelf. Somewhat of this, had Ruthven mark'd before— Now he was less acute, or Harcourt more: The first absorb'd in sorrow or in thought; The last in craft's smooth lessons deeper taught. Not over anxious to be undeceived Ruthven reform in what was rot believed; They held the same opinions on the state, And were congenial—in the last debate; Harcourt had wish'd to join the patriot crew Who botch our old laws with a patch of new; Ruthven the wish approved; and found the seat— And so the Cousins' union grew complete. Well then at board behold the constant guest, With love as yet by eyes alone exprest: From the past vows he dared not yet invoke The ancient Voice;—yet of the past he spoke. Whene'er expected least, he seem'd to glide A faithful shadow to her haunted side. But why relate how men their victims woo!— He left undone no art that can undo.

VIII. And what deem'd Constance now, that, face to face, She could the contrast of the Portraits trace?— Could see the image of the soul in each By thought reflected on the waves of speech— Could listen here (as when the Master's ease Glides with light touch along melodious keys) To those rich sounds which, flung to every gale, Genius awakes from Wisdom's music scale; And there admire when lively Fashion wound Its toy of small talk into jingling sound. Like those French trifles, elegant enough, Which serve at once for music and for snuff, Some minds there are which men you ask to dine Take out, wind up, and circle with the wine. Two tunes they boast; this Flattery—Scandal that; The one A sharp—the other something flat: Such was the mind that for display and use Cased in ricoco, Harcourt could produce— Touch the one spring, an air that charm'd the town Tripp'd out and jigg'd some absent virtue down; Touch next the other, and the bauble plays "Fly from the world" or "Once in happier days." For Flattery, when a Woman's heart its aim, Writes itself Sentiment—a prettier name. And to be just to Harcourt and his art, Few Lauzuns better play'd a Werter's part; He dress'd it well, and Nature kindly gave His brow the paleness and his locks the wave. Mournful his smile, unconscious seem'd his sigh; You'd swear that Goethe had him in his eye. Well these had duped when young Romance surveys Life's outlines—lost amid its own soft haze. Compared with Ruthven still doth Harcourt seem The true Hyperion of the Delian dream. Ah, ofttimes Love its own wild choice will blame, Slip the blind bondage, yet doat on the same. Was it thus wilful, Constance, still with thee, Or did the reason set the fancy free?

I. The later summer in that second spring When the turf glistens with the fairy ring, When oak and elm assume a livelier green, And starry buds on water-flowers are seen; When parent nests the new-fledged goldfinch leaves, And earliest song in airiest meshes weaves; When fields wave undulous with golden corn, And August fills his Amalthæan horn— The later summer shone on Ruthven's towers, And Lord and wife (with guests to cheer the hours, Not faced alone) to that grey pile return'd; Harcourt with these, and Seaton, who had learn'd Eno' to call him from his world of strife, To watch that Home which makes the Woman's life. Not ev'n to Juliet Constance had betray'd Those griefs the House-gods if they cause should shade, Nor friendship now in truth the grief could share— } A dying parent needed Juliet's care, } In climes where Death comes soft—in Tuscan air. } And least to Seaton would his child have shown One hidden wound; her heart still spared his own. But when the father trembling at her side Saw the smooth tempter, not the watchful guide,— Saw through the quicksands flow each sever'd life, Here the cold Lord and there the courted wife, Then fearful, wrathful—yet uncertain still; For warning ofttimes makes more sure the ill, Or fires suspicion to believe the worst, Or bids temptation be more fondly nurst;— Nought ripens evil like too prompt a blame, And virtue totters if you sap its shame;— Uncertain thus came Seaton, with the rest, His prudence watchful, and his fears supprest, Resolved to learn what fault, if fault were there, Had outlaw'd Constance from a husband's care, And left the heart (the soul's frail fort) unbarr'd, For youth to storm. "Well age," he sigh'd, "shall guard."

II. Meantime, the cheek of Constance lost its rose, Food brought no relish, slumber no repose: The wasted form pined hour by hour away, But still the proud lip struggled to be gay; And Ruthven still the proud lip could deceive, Till the proud man forgot the proud in smiling grieve!

III. In that old pile there was a huge square tower, Whence look'd the warder in its days of power; Still, in the arch below, the eye could tell Where on the steel-clad van the grim portcullis fell; And from the arrow-headed casements, deep Sunk in the walls of the abandon'd keep, The gaze look'd kingly in its wide command O'er all the features of the subject land; From town and hamlet, copse and vale, arise The hundred spires of Ruthven's baronies; And town and hamlet, copse and vale, around, Its arms of peace the azure Avon wound.

IV. A lonely chamber in this rugged tower, The lonely lady made her favourite bower— From her more brilliant chambers crept a stair, That, through a waste of ruin, ended there; And there, unseen, unwitness'd, none intrude, Nor vex the spirit from the solitude. How, in what toil or luxury of mind, Could she the solace or the Lethe find? Music or books?—nay, rather, might be guess'd The art her maiden leisure loved the best; For there the easel and the hues were brought, Though all unseen the fictions that they wrought. Harcourt more bold the change in Constance made; Sure, love lies hidden in that depth of shade! That cheek how hueless, and that eye how dim,— "Wherefore," he thought and smiled, "if not for him?" More now his manner and his words, disarm'd Of their past craft, the anxious sire alarm'd. True, there was nought in Constance to reprove, But still what hypocrite like lawless love? One eve, as in the oriel's arch'd recess Pensive he ponder'd, linking guess with guess, Words reach'd his ear—if indistinct—yet plain Enough to pierce the heart and chill the vein. 'Tis Constance, answering in a faltering tone Some suit; and what—was by the answer shown "Yes!—in an hour," it said.—"Well, be it so."— "The place?"—"Yon keep."—"Thou wilt not fail me!"—"No!" 'Tis said;—she first, then Harcourt, quits the room. "Would," groan'd the Sire, "my child were in the tomb!" He gasp'd for breath, the fever on his brow— "Was it too late?—What boots all warning now? If saved to-day—to-morrow, and the same } Danger and hazard! had he spared the shame } To leave the last lost Virtue but a name." }

V. Sickening and faint, he gain'd the outer air, Reach'd the still lake, and saw the master there; Listless lay Ruthven, droopingly the boughs Veil'd from the daylight melancholy brows; Listless he lay, and with indifferent eye Watch'd the wave darken as the cloud swept by. The father bounded to the idler's side— } "Awake, cold guardian of a soul!" he cried; } "Why, sworn to cherish, fail'st thou ev'n to guide?" } "Why?" echoed Ruthven's heart—his eye shot flame— "Dare she complain, or he presume to blame?" Thus ran the thought, he spoke not;—silent long As Pride kept back the angry burst of wrong. At length he rose, shook off the hand that prest, And calmly said, "I listen for the rest— Whatever charge be in thy words convey'd, Speak;—I will answer when the charge is made!"

VI. Like many an offspring of our Saxon clime, Who makes one seven-day labour-week of time, Who deems reprieve a sloth, repose a dearth, And strikes the Sabbath of the soul from earth; In Seaton's life the Adam-curse was strong; He loved each wind that whirl'd the sails along; He loved the dust that wrapt the hurrying wheel; And, form'd to act, but rarely paused to feel. Thus men who saw him move among mankind, Saw the hard purpose and the scheming mind, And the skill'd steering of a sober brain, Prudence the compass and the needle gain. But now, each layer of custom swept away, The Man's great nature leapt into the day: He stretch'd his arms, and terrible and wild, His voice went forth—"I gave thee, Man, my child; I gave her young and innocent—a thing Fresh from the Heaven, no stain upon its wing; One form'd to love, and to be loved, and now (Few moons have faded since the solemn vow) How do I find thou hast discharged the trust? Account!—nay, frown not—to thy God thou must, Pale, wretched, worn, and dying: Ruthven, still These lips should bless thee, couldst thou only kill. But is that all?—Death is a holy name, Tears for the dead dishonour not!—but Shame! O blind, to bid her every hour compare With thine his love—with thy contempt his care! Yea, if the light'ning blast thee, I, the Sire, Tell thee thy heart of steel attracts the fire; Hadst thou but loved her, that meek soul I know— Know all"—His passion falter'd in its flow; He paused an instant, then before the feet Of Ruthven fell. "Have mercy! Save her yet! Take back thy gold: say, did I not endure, And can again, the burthen of the poor? But she—the light, pride, angel, of my life— God speaks in me—O husband, save thy wife!"

VII. "Save! and from whom, old Man?" Yet, as he spoke, A gleam of horror on his senses broke; "From whom? What! know'st thou not who made the first, Though fading fancy, youth's warm visions nurst? This Harcourt—this"—he stopp'd abrupt—appall'd! Those words how gladly had his lips recall'd; For at the words—the name—all life seem'd gone From Ruthven's image:—as a shape of stone, Speechless and motionless he stood! At length The storm suspended burst in all its strength: "And this to me—at last to me!" he cried, "Thine be the curse, who hast love to hate allied: Why, when my life on that one hope I cast, Why didst thou chain my future to her past— Why not a breath to say, 'She loved before; Pause yet to question, if the love be o'er!' Didst thou not know how well I loved her—how Worthy the Altar was the holy vow? That in the wildest hour my suit had known, Hadst thou but said, 'Her heart is not her own,' Thou hadst left the chalice with a taste of sweet? I—I had brought the Wanderer to her feet— Had seen those eyes through grateful softness shine, Nor turn'd—O God!—with loathing fear from mine; And from the sunshine of her happy breast Drawn one bright memory to console the rest!— But now, thy work is done—till now, methought, There was one plank to which the shipwreck'd caught. Forbearance—patience might obtain at last The distant haven—see! the dream is past— She loves another! In that sentence—hark The crowning thunder!—the last gleam is dark; Time's wave on wave can but the more dissever; The world's vast space one void for ever and for ever!"

VIII. Humbled from all his anger, and too late Convinced whose fault had shaped the daughter's fate, The father heard; and in his hands he veil'd His face abash'd, and voice to courage fail'd; For how excuse—and how console? And so, As when the tomb shuts up the ended woe, Over that burst of anguish closed the drear Abyss of silence—sound's chill sepulchre! At length he dared the timorous looks to raise, But gone the form on which he fear'd to gaze. Calm at his feet the wave crept murmuring; Calm sail'd the cygnet with its folded wing; Gently above his head the lime-tree stirr'd, The green leaves rustling to the restless bird; But he who, in the beautiful of life, Alone with him should share the heart at strife, Had left him there to the earth's happy smile— Ah! if the storms within earth's calmness could beguile!

IX. With a swift step, and with disorder'd mind, Through which one purpose still its clue could find, Lord Ruthven sought his home. "Yes, mine no more," So mused his soul, "to hope or to deplore; No more to watch the heart's Aurora break O'er that loved face, the light to life to speak— No more, without a weakness that degrades, Can Fancy steal from Truth's eternal shades! Yes, we must part! But if one holier thought Still guards that shrine my fated footstep sought, Perchance, at least, I yet her soul may save, And leave her this one hope—a husband's grave!"

X. Home gain'd, he asks—they tell him—her retreat: He winds the stairs, and midway halts to meet His rival passing from that mystic room, With a changed face, half sarcasm and half gloom. Writhed Ruthven's lip—his hands he clench'd;—his breast Heaved with man's natural wrath; the wrath the man supprest. "Her name, at least, I will not make the gage Of that foul strife whose cause a husband's rage." So, with the calmness of his lion eye, He glanced on Harcourt, and he pass'd him by.

XI. And now he gains, and pauses at the door— } Why beats so loud the heart so stern before? } He nerved his pride—one effort, and 'tis o'er. } Thus, with a quiet mien, he enters:—there Kneels Constance yonder—can she kneel in prayer? What object doth that meek devotion chain In yon dark niche? Before his steps can gain Her side, she starts, confused, dismay'd, and pale, And o'er the object draws the curtain veil. But there the implements of art betray What thus the conscience dare not give to day. A portrait? whose but his, the loved and lost, Of a sweet past the melancholy ghost? So Ruthven guess'd—more dark his visage grown, And thus he spoke:—"Once more we meet alone. Once more—be tranquil—hear me! not to upbraid, And not to threat, thy presence I invade; But if the pledge I gave thee I have kept, If not the husband's rights the wife hath wept, If thou hast shared whatever gifts be mine— Wealth, honour, freedom, all unbought, been THINE, Hear me—O hear me, for thy father's sake! For the full heart that thy disgrace would break! By all thine early innocence—by all The woman's Eden—wither'd with her fall— I, whom thou hast denied the right to guide, Implore the daughter, not command the bride; Protect—nor only from the sin and shame, Protect from slander—thine, my Mother's—name! For hers thou bearest now! and in her grave Her name thou honourest, if thine own thou save! I know thou lov'st another! Dost thou start? From him, as me—the time hath come to part; And ere for ever I relieve thy view— The one thou lov'st must be an exile too. Be silent still, and fear not lest my voice Betray thy secret—Flight shall seem his choice; A fair excuse—a mission to some clime, Where—weep'st thou still? For thee there's hope in time! This heart is not of iron, and the worm That gnaws the thought, soon ravages the form; And then, perchance, thy years may run the course Which flows through love undarken'd by remorse. And now, farewell for ever!" As he spoke, From her cold silence with a bound she broke, And clasp'd his hand. "Oh, leave me not! or know, Before thou goest, the heart that wrong'd thee so, But wrongs no more." "No more?—Oh, spurn the lie; Harcourt but now hath left thee! Well—deny!" "Yes, he hath left me!" "And he urged the suit That—but thou madden'st me! false lips, be mute!" —"He urged the suit—it is for ever o'er; Dead with the folly youth's crude fancies bore, One word, nay less, one gesture" (and she blush'd) "Struck dumb the suit, the scorn'd presumption crush'd." —"What! and yon portrait curtain'd with such care?" "There did I point and say 'My heart is there!'" Amazed, bewilder'd—struggling half with fear And half delight—his steps the curtain near. He lifts the veil: that face—It is his own! But not the face her later gaze had known; Not stern, nor sad, nor cold,—but in those eyes, The wooing softness love unmix'd supplies; The fond smile beaming the glad lips above, Bright as when radiant with the words "I love." An instant mute—oh, canst thou guess the rest? The next his Constance clinging to his breast; All from the proud reserve, at once allied To the girl's modesty, the woman's pride, Melting in sobs and happy tears—and words Swept into music from long-silent chords. Then came the dear confession, full at last. Then stream'd life's Future on the fading Past; And as a sudden footstep nears the door, As a third shadow dims the threshold floor— As Seaton, entering in his black despair, Pauses the tears, the joy, the heaven to share— The happy Ruthven raised his princely head, "Give her again—this day in truth we wed!" And when the spring the earth's fresh glory weaves In merry sunbeams and green quivering leaves, A joy-bell ringing through a cloudless air Knells Harcourt's hopes and welcomes Ruthven's heir.