THE NEW TIMON. (continued 2)

I. Lord Arden's tale robb'd Morvale's couch of sleep, The star still trembled on the troubled deep, O'er the waste ocean gleam'd its chilling glance, To make more dark the desolate expanse. This contrast of a fate, but vex'd by gales Faint with too full a balm from Rhodian Vales;[O] This light of life all squander'd upon one Round whom hearts moved, as planets round a sun, Mocks the lone doom his barren years endure, As wasted treasure but insults the poor. Back on his soul no faithful echoes cast Those tones which make the music of the past. No memories hallow, and no dreams restore Love's lute, far heard from Youth's Hesperian shore;— The flowers that Arden trampled on the sod, Still left the odour where the step had trod; Those flowers, so wasted!—had for him but smiled One bud,—its breath had perfumed all the wild! He own'd the moral of the reveller's life, So Christian warriors own the sin of strife,— But, oh! how few can lift the soul above Earth's twin-born rulers,—Fame and Woman's Love! Just in that time, of all most drear, upon Fate's barren hill-tops, gleam'd the coming sun; From nature's face the veil of night withdrawn, Earth smiled, and Heaven was open'd in the dawn! How chanced this change?—how chances all below? What sways the life the moment doth bestow: An impulse, instinct, look, touch, word, or sigh— Unlocks the Hades, or reveals the sky.

II. 'Twas eve; Calantha had resumed again The wonted life, recaptured to its chain; In the calm chamber, Morvale sat, and eyed Lucy's lithe shape, that seem'd on air to glide; Eyed with complacent, not impassion'd, gaze; So Age looks on, where some fair Childhood plays: Far as soars Childhood from dim Age's scope, Beauty to him who links it not with hope! "Sing me, sweet Lucy," said Calantha, "sing Our favourite song—'The Maiden and the King.' Brother, thou lov'st not music, or, at least, But some wild war-song that recalls the East. Who loves not music, still may pause to hark Nature's free gladness hymning in the lark: As sings the bird sings Lucy! all her art A voice in which you listen to a heart." A blush of fear, a coy reluctant "nay" Avail her not—thus ran the simple lay:—

THE MAIDEN AND THE KING.

I. "And far as sweep the seas below, My sails are on the deep; And far as yonder eagles go, My flag on every keep. "Why o'er the rebel world within Extendeth not the chart? No sail can reach—no arms can win The kingdom of a heart!" So sigh'd the king—the linden near; A listener heard the sigh, And thus the heart he did not hear, Breathed back the soft reply:—

II. "And far as sweep the seas below, His sails are on the deep; And far as yonder eagles go, His flag on every keep; "Love, thou art not a king alone, Both slave and king thou art! Who seeks to sway, must stoop to own The kingdom of a heart!" So sigh'd the Maid, the linden near, Beneath the lonely sky; Oh, lonely not!—for angels hear The humblest human sigh!

III. His ships are vanish'd from the main, His banners from the keep; The carnage triumphs on the plain; The tempest on the deep. "The purple and the crown are mine"— An Outlaw sigh'd—"no more; But still as greenly grows the vine Around the cottage door! "Rest for the weary pilgrim, Maid, And water from the spring!" Before the humble cottage pray'd The Man that was a King. Oh, was the threshold that he cross'd The gate to fairy ground? He would not for the kingdom lost, Have changed the kingdom found!

Divine interpreter thou art, O Song! To thee all secrets of all hearts belong! How had the lay, as in a mirror, glass'd The sullen present and the joyless past, Lock'd in the cloister of that lonely soul!— Ere the song ceased, to Lucy's side he stole, And, with the closing cadence, mournfully Lifted his doubtful gaze:—so eye met eye. If thou hast loved, re-ope the magic book; Say, do its annals date not from a look? In which two hearts, unguess'd perchance before, Rush'd each to each, and were as two no more; While all thy being—by some Power, above Its will constrain'd—sigh'd, trembling, "This is Love." A look! and lo! they knew themselves alone! Calantha's place was void—the witness gone; They had not mark'd her sad step glide away, When in sweet silence sank, less sweet, the lay; For unto both abruptly came the hour When springs the rose-fence round the fairy bower; When earth shut out, all life transferr'd to one, Each other life seems cloud before the sun; It comes, it goes, we know if it depart But by the warmer light and quicken'd heart. And what then chanced? O, leave not told, but guess'd; Is Love a god?—a temple, then, the breast! Not to the crowd in cold detail allow Its delicate worship, its mysterious vow! Around the first sweet homage in the shrine Let the veil fall, and but the Pure divine! Coy as the violet shrinking from the sun, The blush of Virgin Youth first woo'd and won; And scarce less holy from the vulgar ear The tone that trembles but with noble fear: Near to God's throne the solemn stars that move The proud to meekness, and the pure to love! Let days pass on; nor count how many swell The episode of Life's hack chronicle! Changed the abode, of late so stern and drear, How doth the change speak—"Love hath enter'd here!" How lightly sounds the footfall on the floor! How jocund rings sweet laughter, hush'd no more! Wide from two hearts made happy, wide and far, Circles the light in which they breathe and are; Liberal as noontide streams the ambient ray, And fills each crevice in the world with day. And changed is Lucy! where the downcast eye, And the meek fear, when that dark man was by? Lo! as young Una thrall'd the forest-king, She leads the savage in her silken string; Plays with the strength to her in service shown, And mounts with infant whim the woman's throne! Charm'd from his lonely moods and brooding mind, And bound by one to union with his kind, No more the wild man thirsted for the waste; No more, 'mid joy, a joyless one, misplaced; His very form assumed unwonted grace, And bliss gave more than beauty to his face: Let but delighted thought from all things cull Sweet food and fair—hiving the Beautiful, And lo! the form shall brighten with the soul! The gods bloom only by joy's nectar bowl. Nor deem it strange that Lucy fail'd to trace } In that dark brow, the birthright of disgrace, } And Europe's ban on Earth's primeval race. } Were she less pure, less harmless, less the child, Not on the savage had the soft one smiled. Ev'n as the young Venetian loved the Moor, Love gains the shrine when Pity opes the door; Love like the Poet, whom it teaches, where Round it the Homely dwells, invents the Fair; And takes a halo from the air it gilds To crown a Seraph for the Heaven it builds. And both were children in this world of ours, Maiden and savage! the same mountain flowers, Not trimm'd in gardens, not exchanged their hues, Fresh from the natural sun and hardy dews, For the faint fragrance and the sickly dyes Which, Art calls forth by walling out the skies: So children both, each seem'd to have forgot How poor the maid's—how rich the lover's lot; Ne'er did the ignorant Indian pause in fear, Lest friends should pity, and lest foes should sneer. "What will the world say?"—question safe and sage; The parrot's world should be his gilded cage; But fly, frank wilding, with free wings unfurl'd, Where thy mate carols—there, behold thy world! And stranger still that no decorous pride Warn'd her, the beggar, from the rich man's side. Sneer, ye world-wise, and deem her ignorance art; She saw her wealth (and blush'd not) in her heart!— Saw through the glare of gold his lonely breast; He had but gold, and hers was all the rest. Pleased in the bliss to her, alas! denied, } Calantha hail'd her brother's plighted bride: } "Glad thou the heart which I made sad," she sigh'd. } Since Arden's tale, but once the friends had met, Nor known to one the other's rapture yet; Some fancied clue, some hope awhile restored, Had from the Babel lured the brilliant lord. The wonted commune Morvale fail'd to miss,— We want no confidant in happiness. Baffled, and sick of hope, wealth, life, and all, One night return'd the noble to his hall; He found some lines, stern, brief, in Morvale's hand,— Brief with dark meaning,—stern with rude command,— Bidding his instant presence. Arden weigh'd } Each word; some threat was in each word convey'd; } A chill shot through his heart—foreboding he obey'd. }

III. What caused the mandate?—wherefore do I shrink? The stream runs on,—why tarry at the brink? Nay, let us halt, and in the pause between Sorrow and joy, behold the quiet scene;— The chamber stately in that calm repose, Which Time's serene, sweet conqueror, Art bestows; There, in bright shapes which claim our homage still, Live the grand exiles from the Olympian Hill; Still the pale Queen Cithæron forests know, Turns the proud eye, and lifts the deathful bow; Still on the vast brow of the father-god, Hangs the hush'd thunder of the awful nod; Still fair, as when on Ida's mountain seen, By Troy's young shepherd, Beauty's bashful Queen; Still Ind's divine Iacchus laughing weaves His crown of clustering grapes and glossy leaves; Still thou, Arch-type of Song, ordain'd to soothe The rest of Heroes, and with deathless youth Crown the Celestial Brotherhood—dost hold, Brimm'd with the drink of gods, the urn of gold! All live again! The Art which images Man's noblest conquest, as it slowly frees Thought out of matter, labouring patient on, Till springs a god-world from reluctant stone, Charm'd Morvale more than all the pomp and glow With which the Painter limns a world we know. 'Twas noon, and broken by the gentle gloom Of coolest draperies, through the shadowy room, In moted shaft aslant, the curious ray Forced lingering in, through tiers of flowers, its way, Glanced on the lute (just hush'd, to leave behind Elysian dreams, the music of the mind), Play'd round the songstress, and with warmer flush Steep'd the young cheek, unconscious of its blush, And fell, as if in worship, at thy base, O sculptured Psyche[P] of the soul-lit face, Bending to earth resign'd the mournful eye, Since earth must prove the pathway to the sky; Doom'd here, below, Love's footprint to explore } Till Jove relents, the destined wandering o'er, } And in celestial halls, Soul meets with Love once more.[Q] } And, side by side, the lovers sat,—their words Low mix'd with notes from Lucy's joyous birds, Sole witnesses and fit—those airy things, That, 'midst the bars, can still unfold the wings, And soothe the cell with language, learn'd above; As the caged bird—so on the earth is love! Their talk was of the future; from the height Of Hope, they saw the landscape bathed in light, And, where the golden dimness veil'd the gaze, Guess'd out the spot, and mark'd the sites of happy days; Till silence came, and the full sense and power Of the blest Present,—the rich-laden Hour That overshadow'd them, as some hush'd tree With mellow fruitage bending heavily,— What time, beneath the tender gloom reclined, Dies on the lap of summer-noon the wind! Roused from the lulling spell with startled blush At such strange power in silence, to the hush The maid restored the music, while she sought Fresh banks for that sweet river—loving thought. "Tell me," she said, "if not too near the gloom Of some sad tale, the rash desire presume; What severs so the chords that should entwine With one warm bond our sister's heart and thine? Why does she love yet dread thee? what the grief That shrinks from utterance and disdains relief? Hast thou not been too stern?—nay, pardon! nay, Let thy words chide me,—not thy looks dismay!" "Not unto thee, beneath whose starry eye Each wild wave hushes, did my looks reply; They were the answer to mine own dark thought, Which back the grief, thy smile had banish'd, brought. "Well—to the secrets of my soul thy love Hath such sweet right, I lift the veil above Home's shattered gods, and show what wounds belong To writhing honour and revengeless wrong.— "Rear'd in the desert, round its rugged child, All we call life, group'd, menacing and wild; But to man's soul there is an inner life; There, one soft vision smiled away the strife! A fairy shape, that seem'd afar to stand On the lost shores of Youth—the Fairy land; A voice that call'd me 'brother;'—years had fled Since my rough breast had pillow'd that sweet head, Yet still my heart throbb'd with the pressure; still Tears, such as mothers know, my eyes would fill; Prayers, such as fathers pray, my soul would breathe; The oak were sere but for that jasmine-wreath! At length, wealth came; my footsteps left the wild,— Again we met:—to woman grown the child: How did we meet?—that heart to me was dead! The bird, far heard amidst the waste was fled! With earthlier fires that breast had learn'd to burn; And what yet left? but ashes in the urn: Woo'd and abandon'd! all of love, hope, soul Lavish'd—now lifeless!—well, were this the whole! But the good name—the virgin's pure renown— Woman's white robe, and Honour's starry crown, Lost, lost, for ever!" O'er his visage past His trembling hand,—then, hurriedly and fast, As one who from the knife of torture swerves, Then spurns the pang, as pride the weakness nerves, Resumed—"As yet that secret was withheld, All that I saw, was sorrow that repell'd,— A dreary apathy, whose death-like chill Froze back my heart and left us sever'd still. "One night I fled that hard indifferent eye; To crowds, the heart that Home rejects, will fly!— Gay glides the dance, soft music fills the hall: I fled, to find, the loneliness through all! Thou know'st but half a brother's bond I claim,— My mother's daughter bears her father's name; My mother's heart had long denied her son, And loath'd the tie that pride had taught to shun. My sister's lips, forbid the bond to own, Left the scorn'd life, a brother breathed, unknown.[R] Not even yet the alien blood confest; Who, in the swart hues of the Eastern guest And unfamiliar name, could kindred trace With the young Beauty of the Northern Race?— Calm in the crowd I stood, when hark, a word Smote on my ear, and stunn'd the soul that heard! A sound, with withering laughter muttered o'er, Blistering the name—O God!—a sister bore; Nought clear, and nought defined, save scorn alone,— Not heard the name scorn coupled with her own; Somewhat of nuptials fix'd, of broken ties, The foul cause hinted in the vile surmise, The gallant's fame for conquests, lightly won, For homes dishonour'd, and for hearts undone: Not one alone on whom my wrath could seize, From lip to lip the dizzying slander flees; No single ribald separate from the herd, Through the blent hum one stinging tumult stirr'd; One felt, unseen, infection circling there A bodiless venom in the common air, And as the air impalpable!—so seem The undistinguished terrors of a dream, Now clear, now dim, transform'd from shape to shape, The gibbering spectres scare us and escape. "Fearful the commune, in that dismal night, Between the souls which could no more unite,— The lawful anger and the shaming fears, Man's iron question, woman's burning tears; All that, once utter'd, rend for aye the ties Of the close bond God fashion'd in the skies. I learn'd at last,—for 'midst my wrath, deep trust In what I loved, left even passion just; And I believed the word, the lip, the eye, That to my horrid question flash'd reply;— I learn'd at last that but the name was stain'd, Honour was wreck'd, but Purity remain'd. Oh pardon, pardon!—if a doubt that sears, A word that stains, profane such holy ears! So, oft amidst my loneliness, my heart Hath communed with itself, and groan'd apart,— Recall'd that night, and in its fierce despair, Shaped some full vengeance from the desert air,— That I forgot what angel, new from Heaven, Sweet spotless listener, to my side was given! "But who the recreant lover?—this, in vain My question sought; that truth not hard to gain; And my brow darken'd as I breathed the threat Fierce in her shrinking ear, 'that wrath should reach him yet!' I left her speechless; when the morning came, } With the fierce pang, writhed the self-tortured frame, } The poison hid by Woe, drain'd by despairing Shame. } "Few words, half-blurr'd by shame, the motive clear'd, For the false wooer, not herself, she feared; 'Accept,' she wrote 'O brother, sternly just, The life I yield,—but holy be my dust! Hear my last words, for, them Death sanctify! Forbear his life for whom it soothes to die. And let my thought, the memory of old time, The soul that flees the stain, nor knew the crime, Strike down thine arm! and see me in the tomb, Stand, like a ghost, between Revenge and Doom!' "I bent, in agony and awe, above The broken idol of my boyhood's love. Echo'd each groan and writhed with every throe, And cried, 'Live yet! O dove, but brood below, Hide with thy wings the vengeance and the guilt, And give my soul thy softness if thou wilt!' And, as I spoke, the heavy eye unclosed, The hand press'd mine, and in the clasp reposed, The wan lip smiled, the weak frame seem'd to win Strange power against the torture-fire within; The leach's skill the heart's strong impulse sped, She lived—she lived:—And my revenge was dead! "She lived!—and, clasp'd within my arms, I vow'd To leave the secret in its thunder-shroud, To shun all question, to refuse all clue, And close each hope that honour deems its due; But while she lived!—the weak vow halted there, Her life the shield to that it tainted mine to spare! "But to have walk'd into the thronging street, But to have sought the haunt where babblers meet, But to have pluck'd one idler by the sleeve, And asked, 'who woo'd yon fairhair'd bride, to leave?' And street, and haunt, and every idler's tongue, Had given the name with which the slander rung— To me alone,—to me of all the throng, The unnatural silence mask'd the face of wrong. But I had sworn! and, of myself in dread, From the loath'd scene, from mine own wrath, I fled. "We left the land, in this a home we find. Home! by our hearth the cleaving curse is shrined! Distrust in her—and shame in me; and all The unspoken past cold present hours recal; And unconfiding hearts, and smiles but rife With the bland hollowness of formal life! In vain my sacrifice, she fears me still! Vain her reprieve;—grief barr'd from vent can kill. And then, and then (O joy through agony!) My oath absolves me, and my arm is free! The lofty soul may oft forgive, I own, The lighter wrong that smites itself alone; But vile the nature, that when wrong hath marr'd All the rich life it was our boast to guard But weeps the broken heart and blasted name;— Here the mean pardon were the manhood's shame; And I were vilest of the vile, to live To see Calantha's grave—and to forgive: Forgive!" There hung such hate upon that word, The weeping listener shudder'd as she heard, And sobb'd— "Hush, hush! lest Man's eternal Foe } Hear thee, and tempt! Oh, never may'st thou know } Beside one deed of Guilt—how blest is guiltless Woe!" } Then, close, and closer, clinging to his side, Frank as the child, and tender as the bride, Words—looks—and tears themselves combine the balm, Lull the fierce pang, and steal the soul to calm! As holy herbs (that rocks with verdure wreathe, And fill with sweets the summer air they breathe,) In winter wither, only to reveal Diviner virtues—charged with powers to heal, So are the thoughts of Love!—if Heaven is fair, Blooms for the earth, and perfumes for the air;— Is the Heaven dark?—doth sorrow sear the leaf? They fade from joy to anodynes for grief! From theme to theme she lures his thought afar, From the dark haunt in which its demons are; And with the gentle instinct which divines Interest more strong than aught which Self entwines With its own suffering—changed the course of tears, And led him, child-like, through her own young years. The silent sorrows of a patient mind— Grief's loveliest poem, a soft soul resign'd, Charm'd and aroused—— "O tell me more!" he cried; "Ev'n from the infant let me trace the bride. Of thy dear life I am a miser grown, And grudge each smile that did not gild my own; Look back—thy Father? Canst thou not recal His kiss, his voice? Fair orphan! tell me all." "My Father? No!" sigh'd Lucy; "at that name Still o'er my mother's cheek the fever came; Thus, from the record of each earlier year, That household tie moved less of love than fear; Some wild mysterious awe, some undefined Instinct of woe was with the name entwined. Lived he?—I knew not; knew not till the last Sad hours, when Memory struggled to the Past, And she—my dying mother—to my breast Clasp'd these twain relics—let them speak the rest!" With that, for words no more she could command, She placed a scroll—a portrait—in his hand; And overcome by memories that could brook Not ev'n love's comfort,—veil'd her troubled look, And glided swiftly thence. Nor he detain'd: Spell bound, his gaze upon the portrait strain'd: That brow—those features! that bright lip, which smiled Forth from the likeness!—Found Lord Arden's child! The picture spoke as if from Mary's tomb, Death in the smile and mockery in the bloom. The scroll, unseal'd—address'd the obscurer name That Arden bore, ere lands and lordship came; And at the close, to which the Indian's eyes } Hurried, these words:— } "In peace thy Mary dies; } Forgive her sternness in her sacrifice! } It had one merit—that I loved! and till Each pulse is hush'd shall love, yet fly, thee still. Now take thy child! and when she clings with pride To the strong shelter of a father's side, Tell her, a mother bought the priceless right To bless unblushing her she gave to light; Bought it as those who would redeem a past Must buy—by penance, faithful to the last. Thorns in each path, a grave the only goal, Glides mine, atoning, to my father's soul!" What at this swift revealment—dark and fast As fleets the cloud-wrack, o'er the Indian past? No more is Lucy free with her sweet dower } Of love and youth! Another has the power } To bar the solemn rite, to blast the marriage bower. } "Will this proud Saxon of the princely line Yield his heart's gem to alien hands like mine? What though the blot denies his rank its heir: } The more his pride will bid his love repair } By loftiest nuptials—O supreme despair! } Shall I divulge the secret! shall I rear, Myself, the barrier,—and the bliss so near?" He scorn'd himself, and raised his drooping crest: "Mine be Man's honour—leave to God the rest!" As thus his high resolve, a sudden cry } Startled his heart. He turn'd: Calantha by! } Why on the portrait glares her haggard eye? } "Whose likeness this? Thou know'st not, brother? speak! What mean that clouded brow—that changing cheek? Thou know'st not!" "Yes!" And as the answer came, With Death's strong terror shook the sister's frame, A bitterer pang, an icier shudder, ran Through his fierce nature— "Dost thou know the man? Ha! his own tale! O dull and blinded! how, Flash upon flash, descends the lightning now! Thou, his forsaken—his! And I—who—nay! Look up Calantha; for, befal what may, He shall——" The promise, or the threat, was said To ears already deafen'd as the dead! His arm but breaks the fall: the panting breast Yet heaves convulsive through the stifling vest. The robe, relax'd, bids doubt—if doubt yet be— Merge the last gleam in starless certainty! Lo there, the fatal gift of love and woe Miming without the image graved below— The same each likeness by each sufferer worn, Or differing but as noonday from the morn. In Lucy's portrait, manhood's earliest youth Shone from the clear eye with a light like truth. There, play'd that fearless smile with which we meet The sward that hides the swamp before our feet; The bright on-looking to the Future, ere Our sins reflect their own dark shadows there:— Calantha's portrait spoke of one in whom, Young yet in years; the heart had lost its bloom; The lip of joy the lip of pride had grown; It smiled—the smile we love to trust had flown. In the collected eye and lofty mien The graver power experience brings was seen; Beautiful both; and if the manlier face Had lost youth's candid and luxuriant grace, A charm as fatal as the first it wore, Pleased less—and yet enchain'd and haunted more. And this the man to whom his heart had moved! Whose hand he had clasp'd, whose child he loved!—he loved! This, out of all the universe—O Fate! This, the dark orb, round which revolved his hate; This, the swart star malign, whose baleful ray Ruled in his House of Life; and day by day, And hour by hour, upon the tortured past One withering, ruthless, demon influence cast! There writhes the victim—there, unmasking, now The invoked Alecto frowns from Arden's brow. O'er that fierce nature, roused so late from sleep, Course the black thoughts, and lash to storm the deep. Love flies dismay'd—the sweet delusions, drawn By Hope, fade ghost-like in the lurid dawn; As when along the parch'd Arabian gloom Life prostrate falls before the dread Simoom, No human mercy the strong whirlwind faced, And its wrath reign'd sole monarch of the waste!

IV. The Hours steal on. Like spectres, to and fro Hurry hush'd footsteps through the house of woe. That nameless chill, which tells of life that dies, Broods o'er the chamber where Calantha lies. The Hours steal on—and o'er the unquiet might Of the great Babel—reigns, dishallow'd, Night. Not, as o'er Nature's world, She comes, to keep Beneath the stars her solemn tryst with Sleep, When move the twin-born Genii side by side, And steal from earth its demons where they glide; Lull'd the spent Toil—seal'd Sorrow's heavy eyes, And dreams restore the dews of Paradise; But Night, discrown'd and sever'd from her twin, No pause for Travail, no repose for Sin, Vex'd by one chafed rebellion to her sway, Flits o'er the lamp-lit streets—a phantom day! Alone sat Morvale in the House of Gloom, Alone—no! Death was in the darken'd room; All hush'd save where, at distance faintly heard, Lucy's low sob the depth of silence stirr'd; Or where, without, the swift wheels hurrying by, Bear those who live—as if life could not die. Alone he sat! and in his breast began Earth's deadliest strife—the Angel with the Man! Not his the light war with its feeble rage Which prudent scruples with faint passions wage, (The small heart-conflicts which disturb the wise, Whom reason succours when the anger tries, Such as to this meek social ring belong, In conscience weak, but in discretion strong;) But that known only to man's franker state, In love a demigod—a fiend in hate, Him, not the reason but the instincts lead, Prompt in the impulse, ruthless in the deed. And if the wrong might seem too weak a cause For the fell hate—not his were Europe's laws.— Some think dishonour, if it halt at crime, A stingless asp,—what injury in the slime? As if but this poor clay—this crumbling coil Of dust for graves—were all the foul can soil! As if the form were not the type (nor more Than the mere type) of what chaste souls adore! That Woman-Royalty, a spotless name, For sires to boast—for sons unborn to claim, That heavenly purity of thought—as free From shame as sin, the soul's virginity, If these be lost—why what remains?—the form? Has that such worth?—Go, envy then the worm! And well to him may such belief belong, And India's memories blacken more the wrong; In Eastern lands, by tritest tales convey'd, How Honour guards from sight itself the maid; Home's solemn mystery, jealous of a breath, Screen'd by religion, and begirt with death:— Again he cower'd beneath the hissing tongue, Again the gibe of scurril laughter rung, Again the Plague-breath air itself defiled, And Mockery grinn'd upon his mother's child! All the heart's chaste religion overthrown, And slander scrawl'd upon the altar-stone! And if that memory pause, what shapes succeed? The martyr leaning on the broken reed! The life slow-poison'd in the thoughts that shed Shame o'er the joyless earth;—and there, the dead! Marvel not ye, the soft, the fair, the young, Whose thoughts are chords to Love's sweet music strung, Whose life the sterner genius—Hate, has spared, If on his soul no torch but Atè's glared! If in the foe was lost to sight the bride, The foe's meek child!—that memory was denied! The face, the tale, the sorrow, and the love, } All fled—all blotted from the breast: Above } The Deluge not one refuge for the Dove! } There is no Lethé like one guilty dream, It drowns all life that nears the leaden stream; And if the guilt seem sacred to the creed, Between the stars and earth, but stands the Deed! So in his breast the Titan feud began: Which shall prevail—the Angel or the Man? The Injurer comes! the lone light breaking o'er } The gloom, waves flickering to the open door, } And Arden's step is on the fatal floor! } Around he gazed, and hush'd his breath,—for Fear Cast its own shadow on the wall,—a drear And ominous prescience of the Death-king there Breathed its chill horror to the heavy air; O'er yon recess—which bars with draperied pall The baffled gaze—the unbroken shadows fall. The lurid embers on the hearth burn low; The clicking time-piece sounds distinct and slow; And the roused instinct hate's suspense foreshows In the pale Indian's lock'd and grim repose. So Arden enter'd, and thus spoke; the while His restless eye belied his ready smile: "Return'd, I find thy mandate, and attend To hear a mystery, or to serve a friend." "Or front a foe!" A stifled voice replied. O'er Arden's temples flush'd the knightly pride. "What means that word, which jars, not daunts, the ear? I own no foe,—if foe there be, no fear." "Pause and take heed—then with as firm a sound Disdain the danger—when the foe is found! What, if thou had'st a sister, whom the grave To thy sole charge—a sacred orphan—gave— What, if a traitor had, with mocking vows, Won the warm heart, and woo'd the plighted spouse, Then left—a scoff;—what, if his evil fame, Alone sufficed to blast the virgin name, What—hourly gazing on a life forlorn, Amidst a solitude wall'd round with scorn, Shame at the core—death gnawing at the cheek— What, from the suitor, would the brother seek?" "Wert thou that brother," with unsteady voice, Arden replied: "not doubtful were thy choice: Were I that Suitor——" "Ay?" "I would prepare To front the vengeance, or—the wrong repair." "Yes"—hiss'd the Indian—"front that mimic strife, That coward's die, which leaves to chance the life; That mockery of all justice, framed to cheat Right of its due—such vengeance thou wouldst meet!— Be Europe's justice blind and insecure! Stern Ind asks more—her son's revenge is sure! 'Repair the wrong!'—Ay, in the Grave be wed! Hark! the Ghost calls thee to the bridal bed! Come (nay, this once thy hand!)—come!—from the shrine I draw the veil!—Calantha, he is thine! Man, see thy victim!—dust!—Joy—Peace and Fame, } These murder'd first—the blow that smote the frame } Was the most merciful!—at length it came. } Here, by the corpse to which thy steps are led, Beside thee, murderer, stands the brother of the Dead!" Brave was Lord Arden—brave as ever be Thor's northern sons—the Island Chivalry; But in that hour strange terror froze his blood, Those fierce eyes mark'd him shiver as he stood; But oh! more awful than the living foe That frown'd beside—the Dead that smiled below! That smile which greets the shadow-peopled shore, Which says to Sorrow—"Thou canst wound no more!" Which says to Love that would rejoin—"Await!" Which says to Wrong that would redeem—"Too late!" That lingering halo of our closing skies Cold with the sunset never more to rise! Though his gay conscience many a heavier crime Than this had borne, and drifted off to Time; Though this but sport with a fond heart which Fate Had given to master, but denied to mate, Yet seem'd it as in that least sin arose The shapes of all that Memory's deeps disclose; The general phantom of a life whose waste Had spoil'd each bloom by which its path was traced, Sporting at will, and moulding sport to art, With that sad holiness—the Human Heart! Upon his lip the vain excuses died, In vain his manhood struggled for its pride; Up from the dead, with one convulsive throe, He turn'd his gaze, and voiceless faced his foe: Still, as if changed by horror into stone, He saw those eyes glare doom upon his own; Saw that remorseless hand glide sternly slow To the bright steel the robe half hid below,— Near, and more near, he felt the fiery breath Breathe on his cheek; the air was hot with death, And yet he sought nor flight—nor strove for prayer, As one chance-led into a lion's lair, Who sees his fate, nor deems submission shame,— Unarm'd to combat, and unskill'd to tame, What could this social world afford its child, Against the roused Nemæan of the wild! A lifted arm—a gleaming steel—a cry Of savage vengeance!—swiftly—suddenly, As through two clouds a star—on the dread time Shone forth an angel face and check'd the startled crime! She stood, the maiden guest, the plighted bride, The victim's daughter, by the madman's side; Her airy clasp upon the murtherous arm, Her pure eyes chaining with a solemn charm: Like some blest thought of mercy, on a soul Brooding on blood—the holy Image stole! And, as a maniac in his fellest hour Lull'd by a look whose calmness is its power, Backward the Indian quail'd—and dropp'd the blade!— To see the foeman kneeling to the maid; As with new awe and wilder, Arden cried, "Out from the grave, O com'st thou, injured bride!" Then with a bound he reach'd the Indian— "Lo! I tempt thy fury, and invite thy blow; But, by man's rights o'er men,—oh, speak! whose eyes Ope, on life's brink, my youth's lost paradise? The same—the same—(look, look!)—the same—lip, brow, Form, aspect,—all and each—fresh, fair as now, Bloom'd my heart's bride!"— Silent the Indian heard, Nor seem'd to feel the grasp, nor heed the word! As when some storm-beat argosy glides free From its vain wrath,—subsides a baffled sea,— His heaving breast calm'd back—the tempest fell, And the smooth surface veil'd the inward hell. Yet his eye, resting on the wondering maid, Somewhat of woe, perchance remorse, betray'd, And grew to doubtful trouble—as it saw Her aspect brightening slowly from its awe, Gazing on Arden till shone out commix'd, Doubt, hope, and joy, in the sweet eyes thus fix'd;— Till on her memory all the portrait smil'd, And voice came forth, "O Father, bless thy child!" As from the rock the bright wave leaps to day, The mighty instinct forced its living way: No need of further words;—all clear—all told; A father's arms the happy child enfold: Nature alone was audible!—and air Stirr'd with the gush of tears, and gasps of murmur'd prayer! Motionless stands the Indian; on his breast, As one the death-shaft pierces, droops his crest; His hands are clasp'd—one moment the sharp thrill Shakes his strong limbs;—then all once more is still; And form and aspect the firm calmness take Which clothes his kindred savage at the stake. So—as she turn'd her looks—the woe behind That quiet mask, the girl's quick heart divined,— "Father!" she cried—"Not all, not all on me Lavish thy blessings!—Him, who saved me, see! Him who from want—from famine—from a doom, Frowning with terrors darker than the tomb, Preserved thy child!" Before the Indian's feet } She fell, and murmur'd—"Bliss is incomplete } Unless thy heart can share—thy lips can greet!" } Again the firm frame quiver'd;—roused again, The bruisëd eagle struggled from the chain; Till words found way, and with the effort grew Man's crowning strength—Man's evil to subdue. "Foeman—'tis past!—lo, in the strife between Thy world and mine, the eternal victory seen! Thou, with light arts, my realm hast overthrown, And, see, revenge but threats to bless thine own! My home is desolate—my hearth a grave— The Heaven one hour that seem'd like justice gave, The arm is raised, the sacrifice prepared— The altar kindles, and the victim's—spared! Free as before to smite and to destroy, Thou com'st to slaughter to depart in joy! "From the wayside yon drooping flower I bore; Warm'd at my heart—its root grew to the core, Dear as its kindred bloom seen through the bar By some long-thrall'd, and loneliest prisoner— Now comes the garden's Lord, transplants the flower, And spoils the dungeon to enrich the bower? "So be it, law—and the world's rights are thine Lost the stern comfort, Nature's law and mine! She calls thee 'Father,' and the long deferr'd, Long-look'd for vengeance, withers at the word! Take back thy child! Earth's gods to thee belong! } To me the iron of the sense of wrong } Heaven makes the heart which Earth oppresses—strong!" } "Not so,—not so we part! O husband!" cried The Girl's full soul—"Divorce not thus thy bride! Yes, Father, yes!—in woe thy Lucy won This generous heart; shall joy not leave us one?" A moment Arden paused in mute surprise (How charm'd that outcast Beauty's blinded eyes?) Then, with the impulse of the human thought, Prompt to atonement for the evil wrought, "Hear her!" he said—"her words her father's heart Echoes.—Not so—nor ever, may ye part! Nobly, hast thou an elder right than mine Won to this treasure;—still its care be thine; Withhold thy pardon if thou wilt,—but take The holiest offering wrong to man can make!" Slowly the Indian lifts his joyless head, Pointing with slow hand to the present dead, And from slow lips comes heavily the breath: "Behold, between us evermore—is Death!" "Maiden, recal my tale;—thou clasp'st the hand Which shuts the Exile from the promised land; Can the dead victim's brother, undefiled, From him who slew the sister take the child!" With that, he bent him o'er the shuddering maid, On her fair looks a solemn hand he laid; Lifted eyes, tearless still—but dark with all The cloud, that not in such soft dews can fall: "If to the Dead an offering still must be, All vengeance calls for be fulfill'd in me! I make myself the victim!—Thou dread Power Guiding to guilt the slow chastising hour, Far from the injurer's hearth by her made pure, Let this lone roof thy thunder-stroke allure!— "Go hence—(nay, near me not!) behold!—the kind Oblivion closes round her darken'd mind; If, when she wake, it be awhile for grief, Soon dries the rain-drop on the April leaf!" He said, and vanish'd, with a noiseless tread, Within the folds which curtain'd round the dead! So, the stern Dervish of the East inters His sullen soul with Death in sepulchres! His new-found prize, while yet th' unconscious sense Sleeps in the mercy of the brief suspense, With gliding feet, the Father steals away. Grief bends alone above the lonely clay; But over grief and death th' Eternal Eye Shines down,—and Hope lives ever in the sky.

I. To Joy's brisk ear there's music in the throng; Glorious the life of cities to the strong! What myriad charms, all differing, smile for all The hardier Masks in the Great Carnival! Amidst the vast disguise, some sign betrays To each the appointed pleasure in the maze; Ambition, pleasure, love, applause, and gold, Allure the young, and baby[S] yet the old. For here, the old, if nerves and stubborn will Defy Experience, linger, youthful still, Haunt the same rounds of idlesse, or of toil That lure the freshest footsteps to the soil, Still sway the Fashion or control the State, Gay at the ball, or fierce at the debate. It is not youth, it is the zest of life } Surviving youth—in age itself as rife, } That fits the Babel and enjoys the strife; } But not for you our world's bright tumults are, Soft natures, born beneath the Hesperus star,— To us, the storm is but the native breath; To you, the quickening of the gale is death; Leave Strife to battle with its changeful clime, And seek the peace which saves the weak, in time! Not Man's but Nature's world be yours!—The shade Where, all unseen, the cushat's nest is made, Less lone to you than pomps which but bestow The tinkling cymbal and the painted show. The lights of revel flash from Arden's halls; There, throng the shapes that troop where Comus calls; But not Sabrina more apart and lone From the loud joy, on her pure coral throne, Than thou, sad maiden!—round the holy tide Swell the gay notes, the airy dancers glide; But o'er the shadowy grot the waters roll, And shut the revel from the unconscious soul! What rank has noblest, manhood's grace most fair, Bend low to her now hail'd as Arden's heir? If rumour doubts the birthright to his name, The father's wealth redeems the mother's shame; And kindly thoughts o'er lordly pride prevail, "The Earl's best lands are not in the entail!" How Arden loved his child!—how spoke that love Of those dead worlds the light herb waves above; Layer upon layer—those strata of the past, Those gone creations buried in the last! Their bloom, their life, their glory past away, Speak in this relic of a vanish'd day. There, in that guileless face, revived anew The visions glistening through life's morning dew, Fair Hope, pure Honour, undefilëd Truth— The young shape stood before him as his youth![T] And in this love his chastisement was found— The thorns he had planted, here enclosed him round; He, whom to see had been to love,—in vain Here loved; that heart no answer gave again— It lived upon the past,—it dwelt afar, This new-found bond from what it loved the bar. Her conscience chid, yet, while it chid, her thought Still the cold past, to freeze the present, brought; How love the sire round whom such shadows throng, The mother's death-bed and the lover's wrong? The dazzling gifts, which had through life beguiled All other souls, are powerless with his child. Vain the melodious tongue, and vain the mind, Sparkling and free as wavelets in the wind; The roseate wreath the handmaid Graces twine Round sternest hearts,—soft infant, breaks on thine; Child, candid, simple, frank, to her allied, Far more, the nature sever'd from her side, With its fresh instincts and wild verdure, fann'd By fragrant winds, from haunted Fable-land; Than all the garden graces which betray By the bough's riches the worn tree's decay. What charms the ear of Childhood?—not the page Of that romance which wins the sober sage; Not the dark truths, like warning ghosts, which pass Along the pilgrim path of Rasselas; Not wit's wrought crystal which, so coldly clear, Reflects, in Zadig, learning's icy sneer; Unreasoning, wondering, stronger far the thrall Of Aimée's cave,[U] or young Aladdin's hall; And so the childhood of the heart will find } Charms in the poem of a child-like mind, } To which the vision of the world is blind! } Ev'n as the savage, 'midst the desert's gloom, Sees, hid from us, the golden fruitage bloom, And, where the arid silence wraps us all, Lists the soft lapse of the glad waterfall! So Lucy loved not Arden!—vainly yearn His moisten'd eyes;—Can softness be so stern? That soul how gentle! but that smile how cold! A marble shape the parent arms enfold! No hurrying footstep bounds his own to meet, No joyous smiles with morning's welcome greet, Not him that heart—so bless'd with love—can bless, } Lost the pure Eden of a child's caress; } He saw—he felt, and suffer'd powerless! } Remorse seized on him;—his gay spirit quail'd; The cloud crept on,—it gather'd, it prevail'd. The spectre of the past—the martyr bride, Sat at his board, and glided by his side; Sigh'd, "With the dead, Love the Consoler dies," And spoke his sentence in his child's cold eyes! And now a strange and strong desire was born, } With the young instinct of life's credulous morn, } In that long sceptic-breast, so world-corrupt and worn. } From the rank soil in which grim London shrouds Her dead,—the green halls of the ghastly crowds— To bear his Mary's dust; the dust to lay By the clear rill, beside her father's clay, Amidst those scenes which saw the rapture-strife And growth of passion—life's sweet storm of life, Consign the silent pulse, the mouldering heart, Deaf to the joy to meet—the woe to part; Rounding and binding there as into one Sad page, the tale of all beneath the sun; And there, before that grave—beneath the beam Of the lone stars, and by that starlit stream, To lead the pledge of the fresh morn of love, And while the pardoning skies seem'd soft above, Murmur, "For her sake, her, who, reconciled, Hears us in heaven, give me thy heart, my child!" But first—before his conscious soul could dare For the consoling balm to pour the prayer, Alone the shadows of the past to brave, Alone to commune with the accusing grave, And shrive repentance of its haunting gloom Before Life's true Confessional—the Tomb;— Such made his dream!—Oh! not in vain the creed Of old that knit atonement with the dead! The penitent offering, the lustrating tide, The wandering, haunted, hopeful homicide, Who sees the spot to which the furies urge, Where halt the hell-hounds, and where drops the scourge, And the appeased Manes pitying sigh— "Thou hast atoned! once more enjoy the sky!" Such made the dream he rushes to fulfil!— Round the new mound babbled the living rill; A name, the name that Arden's wife should bear, Sculptured the late and vain repentance there. O'er the same bridge which once to rapture led, Went the same steps their pathway to the dead: Night after night the same lone shadow gave A tremulous darkness to the hurrying wave; Lost,—and then, lengthening from the neighbouring yews, Dimm'd the wan shimmer of the moonlit dews, Then gain'd a grave;—and from the mound was thrown, Still as the shadow of yon funeral stone!

II. Meanwhile to Morvale!—Sorrow, like the wind Through trees, stirs varying o'er each human mind; Uprooting some, from some it doth but strew Blossom and leaf, which spring restores anew; From some, but shakes rich powers unknown in calm, And wakes the trouble to extract the balm. Let weaker natures suffer and despair, Great souls snatch vigour from the stormy air; Grief not the languor,—Grief the action brings; And clouds the horizon but to nerve the wings. Up from his heavy thought, one dawning day, The Indian, silent, rose, and went his way; Palace and pomp and wealth and ease resign'd, } As one new-born, he plunged amidst his kind, } Whither, with what intent, he scarce divined. } He turn'd to see, through mists obscure and dun, The domes and spires of the vex'd Babylon; Before him smiled the mead and waved the corn, And Nature's music swell'd the hymns of Morn. A sense of freedom, of the large escape From the pent walls our customs round us shape; The imperfect sympathies which curse the few, Who ne'er the chase the many join pursue; The trite convention, with its cold control, Which thralls the habit, yet not links the soul; —The sense of freedom pass'd into his breast, But found no hope it flatter'd and caress'd; So the sad captive, when at length made free, Shrinks from the sunlight he had pined to see; Feels on the limb the custom of the chain, Each step a struggle and each breath a pain, And knows—return'd unto the world too late, No smile shall greet him at his lonely gate; Seal'd every eye, of old that watch'd and wept; The world he knew has vanish'd while he slept! He wander'd on, alone, on foot,—alone, As in the waste his earlier steps had known. Forth went the peasant—Adam's curse begun;— Home went the peasant in the western sun; He heard the bleating fold, the lowing herd, The last shrill carol of the nestling bird! He saw the rare lights of the hamlet gleam And fade;—the stars grow stiller on the stream; Swart, by the woodland, cower'd the gipsy tent Whence peer'd dark eyes that watch'd him as he went— He paused and turn'd:—Him more the outlaws charm Than the trim hostel and the happy farm. Strangers, like him, from antique lands afar, Aliens untamed where'er their wanderings are, High Syrian sires of old;[V]—dark fragments torn From the great creed of Isis,—now forlorn In rags—all earth their foe, and day by day Worn in the strife with social Jove away— Wretched, 'tis true, yet less enslaved, their strife, Than our false peace with all this masque of life, Convention's lies,—the league with Custom made, The crimes of glory, and the frauds of trade. Rest and rude food the lawless Nomads yield; The dews rise ghost-like from the whitening field, And ghost-like on the wanderer glides the sleep Through which the phantom Dreams their witching Sabbat keep! At dawn, while yet, around the Indian, lay The dark, fantastic groups,—resumed the way; Before his steps the landscape spreads more free And fresh from man;—ev'n as a broadening sea, When, more and more the harbour left behind, The lone sail drifts before the strengthening wind. Behold the sun!—how stately from the East, Bright from God's presence, comes the glorious Priest! Deck'd as beseems the Mighty One to whom Heaven gives the charge to hallow and illume! How, as he comes,—through the Great Temple, Earth, Peels the rich Jubilee of grateful mirth! The infant flowers their odour-censers swinging, Through aislëd glades Air's Anthem-Chorus ringing; While, like some soul lifted aloft by love, High and alone the sky-lark halts above, High, o'er the sparkling dews, the glittering corn, Hymns his frank happiness and hails the morn! He stands upon the green hill's lighted brow, And sees the world at smiling peace below, Hamlet and farm, and thy best type, Desire Of the sad Heart,—the heaven-ascending spire! He stood and mused, and thus his musing ran:— "How strong, how feeble, is thine art, O Man! Thou coverest Earth with wonders—at thy hand Curbs the meek water, blooms the subject land: Why halts thy magic here?—Why only deck'd Earth's sterile surface, mournful Architect? Why art thou powerless o'er the world within? Why raise the Eden, yet retain the sin? Why, while the earth, thou but enjoy'st an hour, Proclaims thy splendour and attests thy power, Why o'er the spirit does thy sorcery cease?— Lo the sweet landscape round thee lull'd in peace! Why wakes each heart to sorrow, care, and strife? Why with yon temple so at war the life? Why all so slight the variance, or in grief Or guilt,—the sum of suffering and relief, Between the desert's son whose wild content Redeems no waste, enthralls no element, And ye the Magians?—ye the giant birth Of Lore and Science—Brahmins of the Earth? Behold the calm steer drinking in the stream, Behold the glad bird glancing in the beam. Say, know ye pleasure,—ye, the Eternal Heirs Of stars and spheres—life's calm content, like theirs? Your stores enrich, your powers exalt, the few, And curse the millions wealth and power subdue; And ev'n the few!—what lord of luxury knows The joy in strife, the sweetness in repose, Which bless the houseless Arab?—Still behind } Ease waits Disgust, and with the falling wind } Droop the dull sails ordain'd to speed the mind. } Increasing wants the sum of care increase, The piled-up knowledge but sepulchres peace, Ye quell the instincts, the free love, frank hate, And bid hard Reason hold the scales of Fate— What is your gain?—from each slain instinct springs A hydra passion, poisoning while it stings; Free love, foul lust;—the frank hate's manly strife A plotting mask'd dissimulating life;— Truth flies the world—one falsehood taints the sky Each form a phantom, and each word a lie! "Yet what am I?—the crush'd and baffled foe, Who dared the strife, yet would denounce the blow. What arms had I against this world to wield? What mail the naked savage heart to shield? To this hoar world I brought the trusts of youth, Warm zeal for men, and fix'd repose in truth— Amongst the young I look'd for young desires, Love which adores, and Honour which aspires— Amongst the old, for souls set free from all The earthlier chains which young desires enthrall, Serene and gentle both to soothe and chide, The sires to pity, yet the seers to guide— And lo! this civilised and boasted plan, This order'd ring and harmony of man, One hideous, cynic, levelling orgy, where Youth Age's ice, and Age Youth's fever share— The unwrinkled brow, the calculating brain, The passion balanced with the weights of gain, And Age more hotly clutching than the boy At the lewd bauble and the gilded toy. "Why should I murmur?—why accuse the strong? I own Earth's law—the conquer'd are the wrong, Am I ambitious?—in this world I stand Closed from the race, an Alien in the land. Dare I to love?—O soul, O heart, forget That dream, that frenzy!—what is left me yet? Revenge!"—His dark eyes flash'd—yet straightway died The passionate lightning—"No!—revenge denied! All the wild man in the tame slave is dead, The currents stagnate in the girded bed! Back to my desert!—yet, O sorcerer's draught, O smooth false world,—what soul that once has quaff'd, Renounces not the ancient manliness? Now, could the Desert the charm'd victim bless? Can the caged bird, escaped from bondage, share As erst the freedom of the hardy air? Can the poor peasant, lured by Wealth's caprice To marts and domes, find the old native peace In the old hut?—on-rushing is the mind: It ne'er looks back on what it leaves behind. Once cut the cable and unfurl the sail, And spreads the boundless sea, and drifts the hurrying gale! "Come then, my Soul, thy thoughts thy desert be! Thy dreams thy comrades!—I escape to thee! Within, the gates unbar, the airs expand, No bound but Heaven confines the Spirit's Land! Such luxury yet as what of Nature lives In Art's lone wreck, the lingering instinct gives; Joy in the sun, and mystery in the star, Light of the Unseen, commune with the Far; Man's law,—his fellow, ev'n in scorn, to save, And hope in some just World beyond the Grave!" So went he on, and day succeeds to day, Untired the step, though purposeless the way; At night his pause was at the lowliest door, The beggar'd heart makes brothers of the Poor; They who most writhe beneath Man's social wrong, But love the feeble when they hate the strong. Laud not to me the optimists who call Each knave a brother—Parasites of all— Praise not as genial his indifferent eye, Who lips the cant of mock philanthropy; He who loathes ill must more than half which lies In this ill world with generous scorn despise; Yet of the wrong he hates, the grief he shares, His lip rebuke, his soul compassion, wears; The Hermit's wrath bespeaks the Preacher's hope Who loves men most—men call the Misanthrope! At times with honest toil reposed—at times Where gnawing wants beset despairing crimes, Both still betray'd the sojourn of his soul, Here wise to cheer, there fearless to control. His that strange power the Church's Fathers had To awe the fierce and to console the sad; For he, like them, had sinn'd;—like them had known Life's wild extremes;—their trials were his own! Were we as rich in charity of deed As gold—what rock would bloom not with the seed? We give our alms, and cry—"What can we more?" One hour of time were worth a load of ore! Give to the ignorant our own wisdom!—give Sorrow our comfort,—lend to those who live In crime, the counsels of our virtue,—share With souls our souls, and Satan shall despair! Alas, what converts one man, who would take The cross and staff, and house with Guilt, could make! Still, in his breast, 'midst much that well might shame The virtues Christians in themselves proclaim, There dwelt the Ancient Heathen;—still as strong Doubts in Heaven's justice,—curses for man's wrong. Revenge, denied indeed, still rankled deep In thought—and dimm'd the day, and marr'd the sleep And there were hours when from the hell within Faded the angel that had saved from sin; When the fell Fury, beckoning through the gloom, Cried "Life for life—thou hast betray'd the tomb!" For the grim Honour of the ancient time Deem'd vengeance duty and forgiveness crime; And the stern soul fanatic conscience scared, For blood not shed, and injury weakly spared;— Woe, if in hours like these, O more than woe, Had the roused tiger met the pardon'd foe! Nor when his instinct of the life afar Soar'd from the soil and task'd the unanswering star, Came more than Hope—that reflex-beam of Faith— That fitful moonlight on the unknown path; And not the glory of the joyous sun, That fills with light whate'er it shines upon; From which the smiles of God as brightly fall On the lone charnel as the festive hall! Now Autumn closes on the fading year, The chill wind moaneth through the woodlands sere; At morn the mists lie mournful on the hill,— The hum of summer's populace is still! Hush'd the rife herbage, mute the choral tree, The blithe cicala, and the murmuring bee; The plashing reed, the furrow on the glass Of the calm wave, as by the bank you pass Scaring the lazy trout,—delight no more; The god of fields is dead—Pan's lusty reign is o'er! Solemn and earnest—yet to holier eyes Not void of glory, arch the sober'd skies Above the serious earth!—The changes wrought Type our own change from passion into thought. What though our path at every step is strewn With leaves that shadow'd in the summer noon; Through the clear space more vigorous comes the air, And the star pierces where the branch is bare. What though the birds desert the chiller light; To brighter climes the wiser speed their flight. So happy Souls at will expand the wing, And, trusting Heaven, re-settle into Spring. An old man sat beneath the yellowing beech, Vow'd to the Cross, and wise the Word to teach. A patriarch priest, from earth's worst tempters pure, Gold and Ambition!—sainted and obscure! Before his knee (the Gospel in his hands, And sunshine at his heart), a youthful listener stands! The old man spoke of Christ—of Him who bore } Our form, our woes;—that man might evermore } In succouring woe-worn man, the God, made Man, adore! } "My child," he said, "in the far-heathen days, Hope was a dream, Belief an endless maze; The wise perplex'd, yet still with glimpse sublime Of ports dim-looming o'er the seas of Time Guess'd Him unworshipp'd yet—the Power above Or Dorian Phœbus, or Pelasgic Jove! Guess'd the far realm, not won by Charon's oar Not the pale joys the brave who gain abhor; No cold Elysium where the very Blest Envy the living and deplore the rest;[W] Where ev'n the spirit, as the form, a ghost, Dreams back life's conflicts on the shadowy coast, Hears but the clashing steel, the armëd train, And waves the airy spear, and murders hosts again! More just the prescience of the eternal goal, Which gleam'd 'mid Cyprian shades, on Zeno's soul, Or shone to Plato in the lonely cave; God in all space, and life in every grave! Wise lore and high,—but for the few conceived; By schools discuss'd, but not by crowds believed. The angel-ladder touch'd the heavenly steep, But at its foot the patriarchs did but sleep; They did not preach to nations 'Lo your God;' No thousands follow'd where their footsteps trod; Not to the fisherman they said 'Arise!' Not to the lowly they reveal'd the skies;— Aloof and lone their shining course they ran Like stars too high to gild the world of man:[X] Then, not for schools—but for the human kind— The uncultured reason, the unletter'd mind; The poor, the oppress'd, the labourer, and the slave, God said, 'Be light!'—And light was on the Grave! No more alone to sage and hero given, Ope for all life the impartial Gates of Heaven! Enough hath Wisdom dream'd, and Reason err'd, All they would seek is found!—O'er Nature sleeps the Word! "Thou ask'st why Christ, so lenient to the deed, So sternly claims the faith which founds the creed; Because, reposed in faith the soul has calm; The hope a haven, and the wound a balm; Because the light, dim seen in Reason's Dream, On all alike, through faith alone, could stream. God will'd support to Weakness, joy to Grief, And so descended from his throne—Belief! Nor this alone—Have faith in things above, The unseen Beautiful of Heavenly Love; And from that faith what virtues have their birth, What spiritual meanings gird, like air, the Earth! A deeper thought inspires the musing sage! To youth what visions—what delights to age! A loftier genius wakens in the world, To starrier heights more vigorous wings unfurl'd. No more the outward senses reign alone, The soul of Nature glides into our own. To reason less is to imagine more; They most aspire who meekly most adore! "Therefore the God-like Comforter's decree— 'His sins be loosen'd who hath faith in me.' Therefore he shunn'd the cavils of the wise, And made no schools the threshold of the skies: Therefore he taught no Pharisee to preach His Word—the simple let the simple teach. Upon the infant on his knee he smiled, And said to Wisdom, 'Be once more a child!'" The boughs behind the old man gently stirr'd, By one unseen those Gospel accents heard; Before the preacher bow'd the pilgrim's head: "Heaven to this bourne my rescued steps hath led, Grieving, perplex'd—benighted, yet with dim Hopes in God's justice,—be my guide to Him! In vain made man, I mourn and err!—restore Childhood's pure soul, and ready trust, once more!" The old man on the stranger gazed;—unto The stranger's side the young disciple drew, And gently clasp'd his hand;—and on the three The western sun shone still and smilingly; But, round—behind them—dark and lengthening lay The massive shadow of the closing day. "See," said the preacher, "Darkness hurries on, But Man, toil-wearied, grieves not for the Sun; He knows the light that leaves him shall return, And hails the night because he trusts the morn! Believe in God as in the Sun,—and, lo! Along thy soul, morn's youth restored shall glow! As rests the earth, so rest, O troubled heart, Rest, till the burthen of the cloud depart; Rest, till the gradual veil, from Heaven withdrawn, Renews thy freshness as it yields the dawn!" Behold the storm-beat wanderer in repose! He lists the sounds at which the Heavens unclose, Gleam, through expanding bars, the angel-wings, And floats the music borne from seraph-strings. Holy the oldest creed which Nature gives, Proclaiming God where'er Creation lives; But there the doubt will come!—the clear design Attests the Maker and suggests the Shrine; But in that visible harmonious plan, What present shows the future world to man? What lore detects, beneath our crumbling clay, A soul exiled, and journeying back to day; What knowledge, in the bones of charnel urns, The etherial spark, the undying thought, discerns? How from the universal war, the prey Of life on life, can love explore the way? Search the material tribes of earth, sea, air, And the fierce Self that strives and slays is there. What but that Self to Man doth Nature teach? Where the charm'd link that binds the all to each? Where the sweet Law—(doth Nature boast its birth)— "Good will to man, and charity to earth?" Not in the world without, but that within, Reveal'd, not instinct—soul from sense can win! And where the Natural halts, where cramp'd, confined, The seen horizon bounds the baffled mind, The Inspired begins—the onward march is given; Bridging all space, nor ending ev'n in Heaven! There, veil'd on earth, we mark divinely clear, Duty and end—the There explains the Here! We see the link that binds the future band, Foeman with foeman gliding hand in hand; And feel that Hate is but an hour's—the son Of earth, to perish when the earth is done— But Love eternal; and we turn below, To hail the brother where we loathed the foe; There, in the soft and beautiful Belief, Flows the true Lethé for the lips of Grief; There, Penury, Hunger, Misery, cast their eyes, How soon the bright Republic of the Skies! There, Love, heart-broken, sees prepared the bower, And hears the bridal step, and waits the nuptial hour! There, smiles the mother we have wept! there bloom Again the buds asleep within the tomb; There, souls regain what hearts had lost before In that fix'd moment call'd the—Evermore! Refresh'd in that soft baptism, and reborn, The Indian woke, and on the world was morn! All things seem'd new—rose-colour'd in the skies Shone the hoar peaks of the old memories; No more enshrouded with unbroken gloom Calantha's injured name and early tomb— No more with woe (how ill-suppress'd by pride!) Thought sounds the gulf that parts the promised bride! Faithful no less to Death, and true to Love, This blooms again—that shall rejoin, above! The Stoic courage had the wound conceal'd; The Christian hope the wound's sharp torture heal'd. As rude the waste, but now before him shone } The star;—he rose, and cheerful journey'd on, } Full of the God most with us when alone! }

III. 'Tis night,—a night by fits now foul, now fair, As speed the cloud-wracks through the gusty air: At times the wild blast dies—and high and far, Through chasms of cloud, looks down the solemn star— Or the majestic moon;—so watchfires mark Some sleeping War dim-tented in the dark; Or so, through antique Chaos and the storm Of Matter, whirl'd and writhing into form, Pale angels peer'd! Anon, from brief repose The winds leap forth, the cloven deeps reclose; Mass upon mass, the hurtling vapours driven, As one huge blackness walls the earth from heaven!— In one of these brief lulls—you see, serene, The village church spire 'mid its mounds of green, The scattered roof-tops of the hamlet round, And the swoll'n rill that girds the holy ground. A plank that rock'd above the rushing wave, The dizzy pathway to a wanderer gave; There, as he paused, from the lone churchyard, slow Emerged a form the wanderer's eyes should know! It gains the opposing margent of the stream, Full on the face shines calm the crescent beam; It halts upon the bridge! Now, Indian, learn If in thy soul the heathen yet can yearn! Swift runs the wave, the instinct and the hour, The lonely night, when evil thoughts have power, The foe before thee, and no things that live To witness vengeance—Canst thou still forgive? Scarce seen by each the face of each—when, deep O'er the lost moon, the cloud's loud surges sweep; Yea, as a sea devours the fated bark, Vanish'd the heaven, and closed the abyss of dark! You heard the roaring of the mighty blast, The groaning trees uprooted as it pass'd The wrath and madness of the starless rill, Swell'd by each torrent rushing from the hill. The slight plank creaks—high mount the waves and high, Hark! with the tempest's shrieks the human cry! Upon the bridge but one man now!—below, The night of waters and the drowning foe! The Indian heard the death-cry and the fall; Still o'er the wild scene hung the funeral pall! What eye can pierce the darkness of the wave? } What hand guide rescue through the roaring grave? } Not for such craven questions pause the brave! } Again the moon!—again the churchyard's green, Spire, hamlet, mead, and rill distinct are seen; But on the bridge no form, no life! The beam Shoots wan and broken on the tortured stream; Vague, indistinct, what yonder moveth o'er The troubled tide, and struggles to the shore? Hark, where the sere bough of the tossing tree Snaps in the grasp of some strong agony, And the dull plunge, and stifled cry betray Where the grim water-fiend reclasps his prey! Still shines the moon—still halts the panting storm, It moves again—the shadow shapes to form, Lo! where yon bank shelves gradual, and the ray Silvers the reed, it cleaves its vigorous way!— Saved from the deep, but happier far to save, The foeman wrests the foeman from the grave! Still shines the moon—still halts the storm!—above His sons, looks down divine the Father-Love! Upon the Indian's breast droops Arden's head, Its marble beauty rigid as the dead. What skill so fondly tends the soul's eclipse, Chafes the stiff limb, and breathes in breathless lips? Wooes back the flickering life, and when, once more, The ebbing blood the wan cheek mantles o'er; When stirs the pulse, when opes the glazing eye, What voice of joy finds listeners in the sky? "Bless thee, my God!—this mercy thine!—he lives: Look in my heart, forgive, for it forgives!" Then, while yet clear the heaven, he flies—he gains The nearest roof—prompt aid his prayer obtains; Well known the noble stranger's mien—they bear To the rude home, and ply the zealous care; Life with the dawn comes sure, if faint and slow, And all night long the foeman watch'd the foe! Day dawns on earth, still darkness wraps the mind; Sleep pass'd, the waking is a veil more blind: The soul, scared roughly from its mansion, glides O'er mazy wastes through which the meteor guides. The startled menial, who, alone of all The hireling pomp that swarms in Arden's hall, Attends his lord,—dismay'd lest one so high, A rural Galen should permit to die, Departs in haste to seek the subtler skill Which from the College takes the right to kill; And summon Lucy to the solemn room To watch the father's life,—fast by the mother's tomb. Meanwhile such facile arts as nature yields, Draughts from the spring and simples from the fields, Learn'd in his savage youth, the Indian plies; The fever slakes, the cloudy darkness flies; O'er the vex'd vision steals the lulling rest, And Arden wakes to sense on Morvale's breast! On Morvale's breast!—and through the noiseless door A fearful footfall creeps, and lo! once more Thou look'st, pale daughter, on thy father's foe! Not with the lurid eye and menaced blow; Not as when last, between the murtherous blade And the proud victim, gleam'd the guardian maid— Thy post is his!—that breast the prop supplies That thine should yield;—as thine so watch those eyes, Wistful and moist, that waning life above; Recal the Heathen's hate!—behold the Christian's love! The learned leech proclaims the danger o'er; When life is safe, can Fate then harm no more? The danger past for Arden, but for you Who watch the couch, what danger threats anew? How meet in pious duty and fond care, In hours when through the eye the heart is bare? How join in those soft sympathies, and yet The earlier link, the tenderer bond forget? How can the soul the magnet-charm withstand, When chance brings look to look, and hand to hand! No, Indian, no—if yet the power divine Above the laws of our low world be thine; If yet the Honour which thy later creed Softens, not quells, revere the injured dead, Fly, ere the full heart cries, "I love thee still"— And find thy guardian in the angel—WILL! That power was his! Along the landscape lay The hazy rime of winter's dawning day: Snake-like the curving mists betray'd the rill, The last star gleam'd upon the Eastern hill, Still slept beneath the leafless trees the herd; Still mute the sharp note of the sunless bird; No sound, no life; as to some hearth, bereft By death, of welcome, since his wanderings left, Comes back the traveller;—so to earth, forlorn Returns the ungreeted melancholy Morn. Forth from the threshold stole the Indian!—far Spread the dim land beneath the waning star. Alas! how wide the world his heart will find Who leaves one spot—the heart's true home, behind! He paused—one upward look upon the gloom Of the closed casement, the love-hallow'd room, Where yet, perchance, while happier Suffering slept Its mournful vigil tender Duty kept; One prayer! What mercy taught us prayer?—as dews On drooping herbs—as sleep tired life renews, As dreams that lead, and lap our griefs in Heaven, To souls through Prayer, dew, sleep, and dream, are given! So bow'd, not broken, and with manly will, Onwards he strode, slow up the labouring hill! If Lucy mourn'd his absence, not before Her sire's dim eyes the face of grief she wore; Haply her woman heart divined the spell Of her own power, by flight proclaim'd too well; And not in hours like these may self control The generous empire of a noble soul: Lo, her first thought, first duty—the soft reign Of Woman—patience by the bed of pain! As mute the father, yet to him made clear The cause of flight untold to Lucy's ear; Thus ran the lines that met, at morn, his eyes:— "Farewell! my place a daughter now supplies!— Thou hast pass'd the gates of Death, and bright once more Smile round thy steps the sunlight and the shore. Farewell; and if a soul, where hatred's gall Melts into pardon that embalmeth all, Can with forgiveness bless thee;—from remorse Can pluck the stone which interrupts the course Of thought to God;—and bid the waters rest Calm in Heaven's smile,—poor fellow-man, be blest! I, that can aid no more, now need an aid Against myself; by mine own thoughts dismay'd: I dare not face thy child—I may not dare To commune with my heart—thy child is there! I hear a voice that whispers hope, and start In shame, to shun the tempter and depart. How vile the pardon that I yield would seem, If shaped and colour'd from the egoist's dream; A barter'd compromise with thoughts that take The path of conscience but for passion's sake— If with the pardon I could say—'The Tomb Devours the Past, so let the Moment bloom, And see Calantha's brother reconciled, Kneel to Calantha's lover, for his child!' It may not be; sad sophists were our vain Desires, if Right were not a code so plain; In good or ill leave casusits on the shelf, 'He never errs who sacrifices self!'" Great Natures, Arden, thy strange lot to know And lose!—twin souls thy mistress and thy foe! How flash'd they, high and starry, through the dull World's reeking air—earnest and beautiful! Erring perchance, and yet divinely blind, Such hero errors purify our kind! One noble fault that springs from Self's disdain May oft more grace in Angel eyes obtain, Than a whole life, without a seeming flaw, Which served but Heaven, because of Earth in awe, Which in each act has loss or profit weigh'd, And kept with Virtue the accounts of Trade! He too was born, lost Idler, to be great, The sins that dwarf'd, he had a soul to hate. Ambition, Ease, Example had beguiled, And our base world in fawning had defiled; Yet still, contrasting all he did, he dream'd; And through the Wordling's life the Poet gleam'd. His eye not blind to Virtue; to his ear Still spoke the music of the banish'd sphere; Still in his thought the Ideal, though obscured, Shamed the rank meteor which his sense allured. Wreck if he was, the ruin yet betray'd The shatter'd fane for gods departed made; And still, through weeds neglected and o'erthrown, The blurr'd inscription show'd the altar-stone. So scorn'd he not, as folly or as pride, The lofty code which made the Indian's guide; But from that hour a subtle change came o'er The thoughts he veil'd, the outward mien he wore; A mournful, weary gloom, a pall'd distaste Of all the joys so warmly once embraced. His eye no more looks onward. but its gaze Rests where Remorse a life misspent surveys: What costly treasures strew that waste behind; What whirlwinds daunt the soul that sows the wind! By the dark shape of what he is, serene Stands the bright ghost of what he might have been: Here the vast loss, and there the worthless gain— Vice scorn'd, yet woo'd, and Virtue loved in vain. 'Tis said, the Nightingale, who hears the thrill Of some rich lute, made vocal by sweet skill, To match the music strains its wild essay, Feels its inferior art, and envying, pines away: So, waked at last, and scarcely now confest, Pined the still Poet in the Worldling's breast! So with the Harmony of Good, compared Its lesser self—so languish'd and despair'd. Awhile, from land to land he idly roved, And join'd life's movement with a heart unmoved. No more loud cities ring with Arden's name, Applaud his faults, and call his fashion "Fame!" Disgust with all things robes him as he goes, In that pale virtue, Vice, when weary, knows. Yet his, at least, one rescue from the past; His, one sweet comfort—Lucy's love at last! That bed of pain o'er which she had watch'd and wept— That grave, where Love forgot its wrongs and slept— That touching sorrow and that still remorse Unlock'd her heart, and gave the stream its course. From her own grief, by griefs more dark beguiled, Rose the consoling Angel in the Child! Yet still the calm disease, whose mute decay No leech arrests, crept gradual round its prey. Death came, came gently, on his daughter's breast, Murm'ring, "Remember where this dust should rest." They bear the last Lord of that haughty race Where winds the wave round Mary's dwelling-place; And side by side (oh, be it in the sky As in the earth!)—the long-divided lie! Doth life's last act one wrong at least repair— His nameless child to wealth at least the heir? So Arden's will decreed—so sign'd the hand; So ran the text—not so Law rules the land: "I do bequeath unto my child,"[Y]—that word Alone on strangers has the wealth conferr'd. O'erjoy'd Law's heirs the legal blunder read, And Justice cancels Nature from the deed. O moral world! deal sternly if thou wilt With the warm weakness as the wily guilt, But spare the harmless! Wherefore shall the child Be from the pale which shelters Crime exiled? Why heap such barriers round the sole redress Which sin can give to sinless wretchedness? Why must the veriest stranger thrust aside Our flesh—our blood, because a name's denied? Give all thou hast to whomsoe'er thou please, Foe, alien, knave, as whim so Law decrees; But if thy heart speaks, if thy conscience cries— "I give my child"—the law thy voice belies; Chicanery balks all effort that atones, And Justice robs the wretch that Nature owns! So abject, so despoil'd, so penniless, Stood thy love-born in the world's wilderness, O Lord of lands and towers, and princely sway! O Dust, from whom with breath has pass'd away The humblest privilege the beggar finds In rags that wrap his infant from the winds! In the poor hamlet where her grandsire died, Where sleeps her mother by the magnate's side, The orphan found a home. Her story known, Men's hearts allow the right men's laws disown. Though lost the birthright, and denied the name, Her pastor-grandsire's virtues shield from shame; Pity seeks kind pretext to pour its balms, And yields light toils that saves the pride from alms. A soft respect the orphan's steps attends, And the sharp thorn at least the rose defends. So flows o'ershadow'd, but not darksome by, Her life's lone stream—the banks admit the sky Day's quiet taskwork o'er, when Ev'ning grey Lists the last carol on the quivering spray, When lengthening shades reflect the distant hill, And the near spire, upon the lullëd rill; Her sole delight with pensive step to glide Along the path that winds the wave beside, A moment pausing on the bridge, to mark Perchance the moonlight vista through the dark: Or watch the eddy where the wavelets play Round the chafed stone that checks their happy way, Then onward stealing, vanish from the view, Where the star shimmers on the solemn yew, As shade from earth and starlight from the sky Meet—and repose on Death's calm mystery. Moons pass'd—Behold the blossom on the spray! Hark to the linnet!—On the world is May! Green earth below and azure skies above; May calling life to joy, and youth to love; While Age, charm'd back to rosy hours awhile, Hears the lost vow, and sees the vanish'd smile. And does not May, lone Child, revive in thee, Blossom and bud and mystic melody; Does not the heart, like earth, imbibe the ray? Does not the year's recal thy life's sweet May? When like an altar to some happy bride, Shone all creation by the loved one's side? Yes, Exile, yes—that Empire is thine own, Rove where thou wilt, awaits thee still thy throne! Lo, where the paling cheek, the unconscious sigh, The slower footstep, and the heavier eye, Betray the burthen of sweet thoughts and mute, The slight tree bows beneath the golden fruit! 'Tis eve. The orphan gains the holy ground, } And listening halts;—the boughs that circle round } Vex'd by no wind, yet rustle with a sound, } As if that gentle form had scared some lone Unwonted step more timid than its own! All still once more; perchance some daunted bird, That loves the night, the murmuring leaves had stirr'd? She nears the tomb—amaze!—what hand unknown Has placed those pious flowers upon the stone? Why beats her heart? why hath the electric mind, Whose act, whose hand, whose presence there, divined? Why dreading, yearning, turn those eyes to meet The adored, the lost?—Behold him at her feet! His, those dark eyes that seek her own through tears, His hand that clasps, and his the voice she hears, Broken and faltering—"Is the trial past? Here, by the dead, art thou made mine at last? Far—in far lands I heard thy tale!—And thou Orphan and lone!—no bar between us now! No Arden now calls up the wrong'd and lost; Lo, in this grave appeased the upbraiding ghost! Orphan, I am thy father now!—Bereft Of all beside,—this heart at least is left. Forgive, forgive—Oh, canst thou yet bestow One thought on him, to whom thou art all below? Who could desert but to remember more? Canst thou the Heaven, the exile lost, restore? Canst thou——" The orphan bow'd her angel head; Breath blent with breath—her soul her silence said; Eye unto eye, and heart to heart reveal'd;— And lip on lip the eternal nuptials seal'd! The Moon breaks forth—one silver stream of light Glides from its fount in heaven along the night— Flows in still splendour through the funeral gloom Of yews,—and widens as it clasps the tomb— Through the calm glory hosts as calm above Look on the grave—and by the grave is Love!