Chapter IV: Part 4

These Undinés, or Ocean Nymphs, according to the Northern Mythology, are gentle, beautiful, harmless creations in the form of woman, but without a soul. They can attain this only by union with a mortal, and as they have a passionate desire to ascend into the higher life of humanity, they seek such earthly unions, not guilefully, like the Sirens, but lovingly, aspiringly, as the human might aspire to the angel. It is a beautiful mythus, and veils a deep and profound meaning. De La Motte Fouqué has made it familiar to all readers by his exquisite romance of "Undiné," and Bulwer has revealed some of the hidden truths shadowed forth by the fable, in his two novels of "Ernest Maltravers" and "Alice"--namely, the power of love to create an intellect, in fact, a _soul_ in woman. For, to the deep-thinking, close-observing psychologist, there is no truth more evident than that, under the influence of love, a woman's intellect, genius, energy, all the powers of her mind seem capable of infinite expansion. And just in proportion as love has need of them, do the particular qualities start into life and unimagined vigour; be it fortitude, heroism, mental energy, even physical courage, love seems to have the power to create them all. Nothing is impossible to a woman that loves, as nothing is impossible to a man who _wills_. Another truth is symbolised in this ocean hieroglyphic--namely, that it is the instinct of a woman's nature to aspire, while the instinct of a man's nature is to deteriorate--to gravitate towards the animal, to a lower sphere of existence. Woman always loves heavenward; she has the instinct of ascension like flame and ether. Man always loves earthward; he gravitates to earth, not to spirit: so that we may formulize thus:--Love gives soul to a woman, but takes it from a man. This is assuming what, indeed, is true, that man always bestows his love, by preference, on fair Undinés without souls. When united to such he necessarily divides his soul with her, for all things in nature tend to an equalization, and as he gives half so he loses half. What the result would be if a man of genius wedded a priestess of the eternal fire we have no means of ascertaining; for history contains no solitary instance of a man of genius becoming united to his equal: that true correlative of his soul, of which Plato speaks, but which no one, so destiny seems to decree, shall ever find on earth.

We may imagine, indeed, the possibility of a beautiful, lofty, soaring spirit, standing ever beside man in the combat of life. A serene influence, almost as invisible, yet as sustaining as the ether of heaven, filling him with all divine impulses, strengthening all his noble aspirations, exciting his spirit upwards by all rich and radiant foreshadowings of glory, as Minerva stood, bright in deity, yet loving as humanity, beside her favourite warrior on the plains of Troy. But this is but a fabulous hypothesis; for, as we have said, man always loves earthward, and when united to the soulless Undiné, quickly vanishes with her into the ocean of inanity. Here is another cryptic meaning in the myth--the union is represented as indissoluble. He leaves the human, and descends to her sphere--to a lower state of existence. A man without the influence of love may rise to any height; love is not the absolute requirement for his elevation, as it is for woman's; but, bound to an inferior nature, he must fall, and does fall invariably, irrecoverably, precisely down to her level. There is no hope for him. He cannot resist the fatal miasma of commonplace. He falls for ever into the dull abyss of mediocrity. We are not proof against any of the daily influences, however trivial, that surround us. Always there is a tendency to assimilation, either by ascension or deterioration, and Tennyson's proposition is as true in the converse, as in the original statement:--

As the wife is so the husband--_he_ will sink down day by day,
What is fine within him growing coarse to sympathise with clay.

And now, as every fable must have a moral, what shall we learn from this mythus of the fatal termination of men who "herd with narrow foreheads?" The moral is obvious. Let all genius remain unwed--

All unmated--all unmated,
Because so consecrated.

THE PAST.

From the far off time of my youthful prime
A light comes evermore;
Oh! it seems so bright in its far-off light,
The glory I had of yore.

What the swallow sang with its silvery clang,
When autumn and spring were near;
What the church bells rung and the choristers sung,
The chant and the song I hear.

Oh! that parting day when I went away,
How my heart to joy awoke!
And again I came, but ah! not the same,
For the trusting heart was broke.

Since that parting day--that parting day--
Through the fair bright world I've ranged,
And the world is there still as bright and fair--
But I--'tis I have changed.

Oh! childhood's truth, with its words of sooth,
And its lips as pure as gold,
Like a bird it sung, and its untaught tongue
Was wise as the prophets of old.

Bright home and hearth, in this joyless dearth,
Could thy holy vision gleam
But once, once more from the far-off shore
Of the past, as a heavenly dream!

Oh! the swallow may come from her southern home,
The spendthrift regain his gold,
The church bells ring, and the choristers sing
Again as they did of old;

But the hopes of youth and its trusting truth,
And bright sunny laughter gleams,
Once passed and o'er, can return no more,
Except in the land of dreams.

THE FISHERMAN.

I.

The water rushes--the water foams--
A fisherman sat on the bank,
And calmly gazed on his flowing line,
As it down in the deep wave sank,
The water rushes--the water foams--
The bright waves part asunder,
And with wondering eyes he sees arise
A nymph from the caverns under.

II.

She sprang to him--she sang to him--
Ah! wherefore dost thou tempt
With thy deadly food, my bright-scaled brood
From out their crystal element?
Could'st thou but know our joy below,
Thou would'st leave the harsh, cold land,
And dwell in our caves 'neath the glittering waves,
As lord of our sparkling band.

III.

See you not now the bright sun bow
To gaze on his form here;
And the pale moon's face wears a softer grace
In the depths of our silver sphere.
See the fleecy shroud of the azure cloud
In the heaven beneath the sea;
And look at thine eyes, what a glory lies
In their lustre. Come, look with me.

IV.

The water rushes--the water foams--
The cool wave kiss'd his feet.
The maiden's eyes were like azure skies,
And her voice was low and sweet.
She sung to him--she clung to him--
O'er the glittering stream they lean;
Half drew she him, half sunk he in,
And never more was seen.

THE IDEAL.

FROM SCHILLER.

I.

So wilt thou, Faithless! from me sever,
With all thy brilliant phantasy?
With all thy joys and sorrows never
For prayers or tears come back to me?
Oh, golden time of youthful life!
Can nothing, Swift One, stay thy motion?
In vain! thy waves, with ruthless strife,
Flow on to the eternal ocean.

II.

Quenched are the glorious suns that glowing
Bright o'er my youthful pathway shone,
And thoughts the prescient heart o'erflowing
With burning inspirations, gone.
For ever fled the trusting faith
In visions of my youthful dreaming,
Reality has risen to scathe
Their all too fair and godlike gleaming.

III.

As once with wild desire entreating,
Pygmalion the stone enclasped,
'Till o'er the marble pale lips fleeting
Life, hope, and passion glowed at last;
So, around Nature's cold form weaving
My youthful arms, her lips I pressed,
Until her lifeless bosom heaving,
Throbbed life-like on my poet-breast.

IV.

An answering chord to passion's lyre
Within her silent frame I woke;
She gave me back my kiss of fire,
And in my heart's deep language spoke.
Then lived for me the tree, the flower,
The silver streams in music sang;
All soulless things in that bright hour,
With echoes of my spirit rang.

V.

The while it sought with eager strife,
To clasp Creation with its arm,
And spring incarnated to life
In deed, or word, or sound, or form.
How glorious then the world upfolded,
Within its shrouding calyx seen!
How little when Time's hand unroll'd it!
That little, oh! how poor and mean!

VI.

But, as the wayward, rippling motion
Of some bright rock-stream gathers strength,
Until, in kingly waves of ocean,
It dashes down the height at length:
With storm, and sound, and power, crushing
The granite rock, or giant tree;
Proud in its chainless fury rushing,
To mingle with the rolling sea.

VII.

So, filled with an immortal daring,
No chains of care around his form,
Hope's impress on his forehead bearing,
The youth sprang forth amid Life's storm.
Ev'n to dim ether's palest star
Wing'd fancy bore him on untiring;
Nought was too high, and nought too far,
For those strong pinions' wild aspiring!

VIII.

How swiftly did they bear him, dashing
Through all youth's fiery heart could dare!
How danced before life's chariot flashing
Bright aërial visions there!
Love in her sweetest beauty gleaming,
Fortune with golden diadem crown'd,
Truth like the glittering sunlight streaming,
Fame with her starry circlet bound!

IX.

Alas! those bright companions guided
Through only half of life's dark way;
All false and fleeting, none abided
With the lone wanderer to stray.
First light, capricious Fortune vanished--
Still love of lore consumed his youth;
But doubt's dark tempest rose and banished
The sun-bright form of radiant Truth.

X.

I saw the sacred crown degraded,
Of Fame, upon a common brow--
And, ah! 'ere yet life's summer faded,
I saw Love's sweetest spring-flowers bow.
And ever silenter, and ever
Lonelier grew the dreary way--
Scarce even could hope, with frail endeavour
Shed o'er the gloom a ghastly ray.

XI.

But who, amid the train false-hearted,
Stayed lovingly with me to roam--
Still from my side remains unparted,
And follows to my last dark home?
Thou, who with joys and sorrows blending,
Thy gentle hand to soothe each wound,
And bear life's burdens, ever lending,
Thou, Friendship, early sought and found.

XII.

And thou, with Friendship wedded ever,
To calm the tempest of the soul--
Exhaustless study! wearying never,
Creating while the ages roll.
Still the world-temple calm uprearing,
Tho' grain on grain thou can'st but lay,
And striking, with a ceaseless daring,
Time's minutes, days, and years away.

THE EXILE.

I.

Spring's sweet odours from the meadow
Fling their fragrance far and wide,
And the tall trees cast the shadow
Of the winter's gloom aside;
But for me no spring is bearing
Gladness to my heart despairing;
Comes no more with soothing power
Kindly voice, or friendly hand,
Song of home, or breath of flower,
From my own dear native land.

II.

High in Heaven, circling nightly,
Moon and stars shine overhead;
Mighty rivers rush on brightly
To the ocean's distant bed;
But for me, in sorrow pining,
Star and stream in vain are shining,
Foreign skies are drear above me,
By a foreign shore I stand,
Thinking of the friends that love me,
In my own dear far-off land.

DEATH WISHES.

Oh! might I pass as the evening ray Melts in the deep'ning twilight away; Calmly and gently thus would I die, Untainted by ills of mortality.

Oh! might I pass as the silver star That glitters in radiant light afar. Thus silent and sorrowless fade from sight, Lost in the deep blue ether of night.

Oh! might I pass as the fragrant breath Springing from violets crushed to death, And rise from the dull, cold earthly sod, As an incense-cloud to the throne of God.

Oh! might I pass as the morning showers Drank by the sun from the cups of flowers: Would that the fire of eternal love Thus exhaled my life-weary soul above!

Oh! might I pass as Æolian notes, When over the chords the soft wind floats: But ere the silver strings are at rest, Find an echo within the Creator's breast.

"Thou wilt not pass in music or light, Nor silently sink in the ether of night, Nor die the gentle death of the flower, Nor be drank by the sun like a morning shower.

"Thou wilt pass, but not till thy beauty is withered, Not till thy powers and hopes lie shivered: Silence and beauty are Nature's death-token; But the poor human heart, ere it die--must be broken!"

HYMN TO THE CROSS

SAVONAROLA.

Jesus, refuge of the weary,
Object of the spirit's love,
Fountain in life's desert dreary,
Saviour from the world above!

Oh, how oft Thine eyes, offended,
Gazed upon the sinner's fall;
Yet, Thou on the Cross extended,
Bore the penalty of all!

For our human sake enduring
Tortures infinite in pain;
By Thy death our life assuring,
Conquerors through Thee we reign.

Still we passed the Cross in scorn,
Breathing no repentant vow,
Though from 'neath the circling thorn,
Dropped the blood-sweat off Thy brow.

Yet, Thy sinless death hath brought us
Life eternal, peace and rest;
What Thy grace alone hath taught us,
Calms the sinner's stormy breast.

Jesus, would my heart were burning
With more vivid love for Thee!
Would mine eyes were ever turning
To Thy Cross of agony!

Would that on that Cross suspended
I the martyr's palm might win--
Where the Lord, the heaven-descended,
Sinless suffered for my sin!

Cross of torture! may'st thou rend me
With thy fierce, unearthly dole;
Welcome be the pangs that lend me
Strength to crush sin in my soul.

So, in pain and rapture blending,
Might my fading eyes grow dim,
While the freed heart rose, ascending
To the circling Seraphim.

Then in glory, parted never
From the blessed Saviour's side,
Graven on my heart for ever
Be the Cross, and Crucified!

JESUS TO THE SOUL.

SAVONAROLA.

Fair soul, created in the primal hour, Once pure and grand, And for whose sake I left my throne and power At God's right hand-- By this sad heart, pierced through because I love thee, Let love and mercy to contrition move thee.

Cast off the sins thy holy beauty veiling, Spirit divine! Vain against thee the host of hell assailing-- My strength is thine. Drink from my side the wine of life immortal, And love will lead thee back to Heaven's portal.

Quench in my light the flame of low desire, Crush doubt and fear; Even to my glory may each soul aspire, If victor here. Die now to earth, with earthly vanity, And live for evermore in Heaven with me.

I, for thy sake, was pierced with many sorrows, And bore the Cross; Yet heeding not the galling of the arrows, The shame or loss. So, faint not thou, whate'er the burden be, Bear with it bravely, even to Calvary.

Still shall my spirit urge if thou delayest, My hand sustain; My blood wash out thy errors if thou strayest-- Plead I in vain? An hour is coming when the judgment loometh; Repent, fair soul, ere yet that hour cometh.

[The Italian original of these two beautiful Hymns will be found in Doctor Madden's most admirable and interesting life of Savonarola.]

TRISTAN AND ISOLDE.

THE LOVE SIN.

None, unless the saints above, Knew the secret of their love; For with calm and stately grace Isolde held her queenly place, Tho' the courtiers' hundred eyes Sought the lovers to surprise. Or to read the mysteries Of a love--so rumour said-- By a magic philtre fed, Which for ever in their veins Burn'd with love's consuming pains.

Yet their hands would twine unseen, In a clasp 'twere hard to sever; And whoso watched their glances meet, Gazing as they'd gaze for ever, Might have marked the sudden heat Crims'ning on each flushing cheek, As the tell-tale blood would speak Of love that never should have been-- The love of Tristan and his Queen.

But, what hinders that the two, In the spring of their young life, Love each other as they do? Thus the tempting thoughts begin-- Little recked they of the sin; Nature joined them hand in hand, Is not that a truer band Than the formal name of wife?

Ah! what happy hours were theirs! One might note them at the feast Laughing low to loving airs, Loving airs that pleased them best; Or interchanging the swift glance In the mazes of the dance. So the sunny moments rolled, And they wove bright threads of gold Through the common web of life; Never dreaming of annoy, Or the wild world's wicked strife; Painting earth and heaven above In the light of their own joy, In the purple light of love.

Happy moments, which again Brought sweet torments in their train: All love's petulance and fears, Wayward doubts and tender tears; Little jealousies and pride, That can loving hearts divide: Murmured vow and clinging kiss, Working often bane as bliss; All the wild, capricious changes Through which lovers' passion ranges.

Yet would love, in every mood, Find Heaven's manna for its food; For love will grow wan and cold, And die ere ever it is old, That is never assailed by fears, Or steeped in repentant tears, Or passed through the fire like gold.

So loved Tristan and Isolde, In youth's sunny, golden time, In the brightness of their prime; Little dreaming hours would come, Like pale shadows from the tomb, When an open death of doom Had been still less hard to bear, Than the ghastly, cold despair Of those hidden vows, whose smart Pale the cheek, and break the heart.

THEKLA.

A SWEDISH SAGA.

THE TEMPTATION.

On the green sward Thekla's lying, Summer winds are round her sighing, At her feet the ocean plays; In that mirror idly gazing She beholds, with inward praising, Her own beauty in amaze.

And with winds and waves attuning Her low voice, in soft communing Said: "If truly I'm so fair, Might the best in our Swedish land Die all for love of my white hand, Azure eyes and golden hair."

And fair Thekla bent down gazing, Light her golden curls upraising From her bosom fair to see, Which, within the azure ocean, Glittered back in soft commotion, Like a lotus tremblingly.

Saying soft, with pleasure trembling, "If so fair is the resembling, How much fairer I must be! Rose-lipped shadow, smiling brightly, Are we angels floating lightly Through the azure air and sea?

"Oh! that beauty never faded, That years passing never shaded Youthful cheek with hues of age! Oh! thou fairest crystal form, Can we not time's hand disarm?" Hark! the winds begin to rage;

And with onward heaving motion Rise the waves in wild commotion-- Spirits mournfullest they seem Round the crystal shadow plaining, Shivered, shattered, fades it waning From the maiden like a dream.

And from midst the drooping oziers Of the sunny banks' enclosures Rose a woman weird to see: Strange her mein and antique vesture, Yet with friendly look and gesture To the trembling girl spake she.

"As the cruel winds bereft thee Of the shadow that hath left thee, Maiden, will thy children steal One by one these treasures from thee, Till all beauty hath foregone thee: Mother's woe is children's weal.

"For the beauty of the mother Is the children's--sister, brother, As she fades away, will bloom. Mother's eyes grow dim by weeping, Wan her cheek, lone vigils keeping: Youthful virgin, 'ware your doom!

"Wifely name is sweet from lover, Yet ere many years are over, From the fatal day you wed, Sore you'll rue the holy altar, And the salt sea will grow salter For the bitter tears you'll shed.

"See the pallid cheek reflected, Hollow, sunken eyes dejected, Look of weary, wasting pain; All changed for thy beauty rarest: Maiden, tell me, if thou darest Then come here, and look again.

"But should lovers' pleading gain thee, Haste thee quick and I will sain thee Ere the marriage vows are said; By the might of magic power, I can save thee from the hour Of a mother's anguish dread."

Answered Thekla: "Save me! save me! Witch or woman, then I crave thee, From a mother's fated doom! So my beauty never fading Thou canst make with magic aiding, Fatal Mother, I shall come."

THE SIN.

'Neath the casement stood a Ritter,
Sings by night with sweetest tone.
"Thekla, dearest Thekla, listen,
Wilt thou be my bride, mine own?

"Castles have I, parks and forests,
Mountains veined with the red gold;
And a heart that pineth for thee,
With a wealth of love untold.

"I will deck my love in jewels,
Gold and peril on brow and hand,
Broidered robes and costly girdles,
From the far-off Paynim land.

"Here I hang upon the rose-tree,
Love, a little golden ring;
Wilt thou take it? wilt thou wear it,
Love?" Thus did the Ritter sing.

Then upon his black steed mounting,
Kissed his hand and doffed his plume.
Lovely Thekla stole down gently,
Sought the gold ring in the gloom.

"Little ring, wilt thou deceive me?
Like the rose dost hide a thorn?"
As she takes it, close beside her
Sounds a ringing laugh of scorn.

And the fatal Mother, mocking,
Points her finger to the ring:
"What, my maiden! sold thy beauty
For that paltry glittering thing?

"Plucked the bauble from a rose-tree?
Ring and rose and doom in all;
Roses bright from cheek of beauty,
Roses bright must fade and fall.

"Wilt thou follow me?" They glided
Over heath, through moor and wood,
Till beside an ancient windmill,
In the lone, dark night they stood.

All the mighty wheels were silent,
All the giant arms lay still--
"Bride and wife, but never mother,
Maiden, swear, is such thy will?

"Dost swear?" "I swear!" They glided
Up the stairs and through the door,
With her wand the magic Mother
Draws a circle on the floor.

Grains of yellow corn, seven,
Takes she from a sack beside,
Draws the gold ring of her lover
From the finger of the bride.--

"Seven children would have stolen
Light and beauty from thine eyes,
But as I cast the yellow corn
Through thy gold ring, each one dies.

Slowly creaked the mill, then faster
Whirled the giant arms on high;
Shuddering, hears the trembling maiden
Crushing bones, and infant's cry.

Now there is a deathlike silence,
Thekla hears her heart alone--
Again the weird one flings the corn,
Again that plaintive infant's moan.

Two--three--four--the mill goes faster,
Whirling, crushing.--Ah! those cries!
"Bride, thou'lt never be a mother;
Thy beauty's saved--the seventh dies!"

Seven turns the mill hath taken,
Seven moans hath Thekla heard;
Then all is still. The moon from Heaven
Shines down calm upon the sward.

"Now take back thy ring in safety;
Mother's joy or mother's woe,
Wasting pain or fading beauty,
Maiden, thou shalt never know!

"Home, before the morning hour!"
Home in terror Thekla flies,
Shuddering, she hears behind her
Laugh of scorn, infants' cries.

THE BRIDAL

The guests have met in the castle hall.
Who rides through the castle gate,
With banner and plume? The young bridegroom
And a hundred knights in state.

The guests have met in procession fair,
Around the bride they stand;
The myrtle wreath on her golden hair,
The bride ring on her hand.

So bright her beauty she dazed men's eyes,
Like the blinding, glorious sun.
"Never knight," they murmured, "gained such prize
Since ever the world begun."

Seven maidens held up her train of white,
Inwrought with the precious gold,
And over it flowed in a stream of light
Her long, bright hair unrolled.

Seven pages, each with a lighted torch,
Precede her as she moves
With the long array to the ancient church
Within the beechen groves.

The priest stood mute with the holy book,
And scarce could utter a prayer,
As that lovely vision of light and youth
Knelt down before him there.

She vows the vows. Erick bends to place
The gold ring on her hand,
Prouder then, as he gazed on her face,
Than if King of the Swedish land.

The lights were bright in the hall that night,
But brighter Thekla's glance,
As in wedded pride, by Erick's side,
She led the bridal dance.

"Drink! and wave high the flaming pines;
God bless the bride so fair!
May a goodly race, like clustering vines,
Twine round the wedded pair!"

The "vivas" rung for the noble race,
Till they stirred the banners of gold,
And the bridegroom bow'd with a stately grace;
But the bride sat mute and cold--

For the air seemed heavy as that of graves,
And the lights burned lurid and chill;
And she hears the dash of the far-off waves,
And the creak of the mighty mill.

The "vivas" sound like an infant's wail,
Or a demon's laugh of scorn.
"Oh! would to God," she murmured, all pale,
"That I had never been born!"

THE PUNISHMENT.

Full seven years have passed and flown--
But years o'er Thekla lightly pass,
As rose leaves, falling one by one,
From roses on the summer grass.

"It is our bridal day," she said;
"We're bidden to a christ'ning feast
I'll wear the robe I had when wed,
The robe I love of all the best.

"I'll wear my crown of jewels rare:
On brow and bosom let them shine;
Yet diamonds in my golden hair
Were dull beside these eyes of mine!"

She laughed aloud before the glass.
"Some women's hair would turn to grey
With cares, ere half the years did pass
I've numbered since my wedding day.

"But they were mothers--fools, I trow.
Life's current all too quickly runs;
I would not give my beauty now
For all their goodly race of sons."

She sprang upon her palfrey white,
While Erick held the broidered rein,
And showered down her veil of light
Upon the flowing, silky mane.

The guests rose up in wonderment--
Such beauty never had been seen--
And bowed before her as she went,
As if she were a crownéd queen.

The knights pressed round with words of praise,
And murmured homage in her ear,
And swore to serve her all their days,
E'en die for her--would she but hear.

But vainly, all in vain they sought
One answering smile of love to win.
Upon her soul there lieth nought
Save that one only, deadly sin.

"I pray you now I fain would have
So fair an angel hold my child,"
The mother said; and smiling, gave
To Thekla's arms her infant mild.

Advancing slow, with stately air,
Beside the font she took her place,
The infant, like a rosebud fair,
Nestling amid her bosom's lace.

She lays it on the bishop's arm,
The while he makes the blessed sign,
And sains it safe from ghostly harm
By Father, Spirit, Son Divine.

Then reaches out her hands again
To take it--but with moaning sound,
Like one distraught with sudden pain,
Falls pale and fainting to the ground.

"She has no children," Erick said,
As pleading for the strange mischance;
"This only grief since we were wed
Has saddened sore her life, perchance."

"She has no children!" murmured low
The happy mothers, gathered near;
"No child to love her--bitter woe;
No child to kiss her on her bier!"

But graver matrons shook the head:
"That witchlike beauty bodes no good;
Witch hands can never hold, 'tis said,
A child just blessed by holy rood."

They raised her up; she spake no word,
But slowly drooped her tearful eyes;
The rushing wave was all she heard,
The whirling wheels, the infants' cries.

And Erick said, with bitter smile:
"You play the mother all too ill;
Madonnas do not suit your style."
Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.

They set her on her palfrey white;
She heeds not all their taunting sneers,
But showers down her veil of light,
To hide the conscious, guilty tears.

They rode through all his vast estate
But rode in silence--he behind,
Sore pondering on his childless fate,
With ruffled brow and moody mind.

They rode through shadowy forest glades,
By meadows filled with lowing kine,
By streams that ran like silver threads
Down from the dark-fringed hills of pine.

"Alas!" he thought, "no child of mine
When I am dead shall take my place;
Must all the wealth of all my line
Pass to a hated kinsman's race?"

"Now, by my sword, I'd give up all,
Wealth, fame, and glory, all I've won,
So that within my father's hall
Beside me stood a noble son!"

He saw her white veil floating back
Along the twilight gray and still,
Like ghostly shadows on her track--
Her thoughts were by the lonely mill.

And now they neared the ancient church,
The ancient church where they were wed!
The moonlight full upon the porch
Shone bright, and Erick raised his head.

O Heaven! There upon the lawn
The palfrey's shadow stands out clear,
But Thekla's shadow--it is gone!
Nor form nor floating veil is there.

He spurred his steed with bitter cry:
"Could she have fallen in deathly swoon?"
But no, there, slowly riding by,
He sees her by the bright full moon.

With gesture fierce he seized her rein:
Woman or fiend! Look, if you dare,
The palfrey casts a shadow plain,
But yours--O horror!--is not there!"

She gathered close her silken veil,
And wrung her hands, and prayed for grace,
While down from Heaven the calm moon pale
Looked like God's own accusing face.

He flung aside the broidered rein:
"O woe the day that we were wed!
A witch bride to my arms I've ta'en,
Branded by God's own finger dread."

She followed, weeping, step by step,
Led by the unseen hand of Fate,
Still keeping in the shadows deep,
Until they reached the castle gate.

He strode across the corridor,
And rolling back upon its ring
The curtian of her chamber door,
He motioned her to enter in.

She laid aside her silken veil,
The golden circlet from her head,
And waited, motionless and pale,
Like one uprisen from the dead.

Could she deny, e'en if she would?
The moonlight wrapped her like a sheet.
And in the accusing light she stood,
As if before God's judgment-seat.

Brief were his questions, stern his wrath;
A doom seemed laid on her to tell,
How, with the ring of plighted troth,
Her hand had wrought the murd'rous spell.

How she had marred his ancient line,
And broke the life-chord that should bless,
And sent the seven fair souls to pine
Back to the shades of nothingness--

That so her beauty might not wane,
Her glorious beauty--fatal good;
Yet one she would not lose to gain
The rights of sacred motherhood.

And still she told the tale as cold--
The witch-fire burning in her eyes--
As if it were some legend old,
Drawn from a poet's memories.

He cursed her in his bitter wrath,
He cursed her by her children dead,
He cursed the ring of plighted troth,
He cursed the day when they were wed.

Fierce and more fierce his accents rose:
"Away!" he cried, "false hag of sin:
I see through all this painted gloze
The black and hideous soul within.

"Oh! false and foul, thou art to me
A devil--not a woman fair!
Like coiling snakes I seem to see
Each twisted tress of golden hair.

"I hate thee, as I hate God's foe.
Forth from my castle halls this night:
I could not breathe the air, if so
Thy poison breath were here to blight."

She cowered, shivered, spake no word,
But fell before him at his feet,
As if an angel of the Lord
Had smote her at the judgment-seat.

And on her heart there came at last
The dread, deep consciousness of sin,
That ghastly spectre which had cast
Upon her life this suffering.

And from her hand the gold ring fell--
Her wedding ring--and broke in twain;
The fatal ring that wrought the spell,
The accursed ring of love and pain.

The spell seemed broken then: the word
Came, softly breath'd: "Oh, pardon! grace!"
And pleadingly to her dread lord
She lifted up her angel face--

With golden tresses all unbound,
Still lovely through her shame and loss,
Around his feet her arms she wound,
As sinner might around the cross.

He dashed her twining hands aside,
He spurned her from him as she knelt.
"O hateful beauty!" Erick cried,
"The source of all thy hellish guilt.

"Pray for a cloud that can eclipse
That long, white streak of moonlight pale.
No word of grace from mortal lips
Can bring a ruined soul from Hell.

"Away! I would not pardon, not
(I swear it by the holy rood)
Unless upon that hated spot
An angel with a lily stood!"

She shuddered in the moonlight pale,
That doomed and banned her from his sight
Then rose up with a bitter wail,
And fled away into the night!

THE EXPIATION.

Full seven times the summer sun
Had waked the dreaming summer flowers,
And seven times they slept again
Beneath the winter snow and showers;
And still, through summer's parching heat,
Through winter's storm, and rain, and snow,
Had Thekla dragged her weary feet
In one long pilgrimage of woe.

The beasts fled back at her approach,
The sunshine ceased to flicker round,
The flowers withered at her touch,
And fell like corpses to the ground.
Where'er she passed there lay a gloom,
The young birds shivered in the nest,
All nature echoed back her doom,
And spurned the sinner from her breast.

She flung her sighs out to the wind:
The peasants heard that mournful wail,
And, crouching down by winter fires,
Said: "'Tis the witch-fiend in the vale."
They laid down food beneath the trees,
And waited, trembling, till she came,
Then fled away, for none would speak
To one so bann'd by sin and shame.

She gathered autumn leaves and moss
Within a cavern lone and deep,
And there she crept each night to rest,
To rest, but never more to sleep.
No human voice came near to soothe,
Her anguish dimm'd no human eye,
The bond of sisterhood was rent
Between her and Humanity.

But ever when the moon was full,
All in the moonlight weird and still
Came evermore upon her ear
The moanings by the lonely mill;
And seven dread shadows entered in
And gathered round her lowly bed,
The ghastly witnesses of sin,
A silent freezing sight of dread.

All night they stayed, those phantoms pale,
Those formless phantoms dim and drear,
And looked at her with fixed cold eyes,
That chilled her very blood with fear.
In vain she tried to hide her face;
She felt their presence still around,
And well she knew no pitying grace
From these dread beings could be found.

She could not weep, she dare not pray,
But lay like one in coffined clay,
Till those weird phantoms, one by one,
Melted away in the morning sun,
Which fell like the light of the judgement-day,
When the doom of the Lord is done.

Oft wandering round the ancient church, The ruined church where they were wed, She vainly tried to cross the porch, And lay therein her weary head; And her weary load of shame and sin Upon the altar steps within.

But never, since the fatal night
She fled away from Erick's sight,
Curs'd with his ban of deepest hate,
Had human hand unbarred the gate;
Nor priest nor chorister was there,
Nor sacred rite nor holy prayer:
Foredoom'd and desolate it stood
All in the lonely beechen wood.

God's curse it is a bitter thing
To fall on a human soul,
Alone with its awful suffering,
With its deadly sin and dole;
'Mid the ghastly wrecks of a human life,
And memories of shame,
When thoughts of a past that would not sleep,
Like barbèd arrows came.

GOD'S JUSTICE.

And Erick roamed in distant lands, But cannot fly his weary fate; Before him in the lonely night, Before him in the noonday bright, His guilty wife for ever stands, A thing of loathing and of hate. Alone, as under blight and ban, He roams, a saddened, weary man.

Yet yearnings came to him at last,
And, drawn as by a spirit hand,
He homeward turned, his wanderings past,
To his own distant Swedish land;
And rose up with a spirit grace,
As pleading to him for her life,
Before him, with her angel face,
His beautiful, his sinning wife.

The ship sailed fast through storm and wrack,
The ship sailed slow the Isles between,
And Erick, watching on the deck,
Saw rise before him, low and green,
The Swedish shores in level lines,
The fringed shores of lordly pines:
A spirit's touch, a spirit's power,
Seemed on him at that magic hour.

* * * * *

He stood within his castle halls,
The grass grew rank around the gate,
The weeds hung from the mouldering walls,
And all around was desolate.
The bridal room was closed from sight,
For none had dared to enter in,
Since by God's awful, searching light
The sinner had confessed her sin.

Her golden ring of hellish ban
Still lay upon the marble floor,
Her broken ring--the fatal sign
Of love that could return no more.
And nought the purple curtains stirred
Save the drear night-wind's mournful gust,
And golden crown and silken veil
Lay mouldering in the silent dust.

A bitter cry, a mournful cry, Was wrung by grief from Erick's breast. She sinned, he said, but suffered, too, Could penitence the sin undo, Her sinning soul had rest. If God can pity, why should I Relentless doom a soul to die Unpardoned, and unblest?

Christ did not scorn the sinner's touch: Shall man avenge sin overmuch, And crush the heart-woe riven? Fain would I say one word of grace Ere yet I meet her face to face, Before the throne in Heaven.

Then led as by a spirit's might, He wandered forth into the night, And rested not till he stood By the lone Chapel in the wood.

And she that night in bitter woe,
Low kneeling by the closèd gate,
Poured out the grief those only know
By God and man left desolate.
Nought but the scared owl heard her moan
Of inarticulate agony,
As down upon the threshold stone
She sank, and prayed that she might die.

O piteous sound of vain despair, That mournful wailing by the gate; That wailing of a ruined soul, Downfallen from its high estate! She wrung her wasted hands the while, And pressed her forehead to the bar, As if within that holy aisle God's pardon yet might come to her.

The cruel moon lit up the sward, And pierced the guilty soul within, That blighted form, all seared and marred With deadly consciousness of sin; The form that threw no shadow more Besides God's holy temple door; And the awful moon, sharp, cold, and clear, Struck through her like the Avenger's spear.

O saddest sight beneath its light,
That humbled, suffering creature!
For all too heavy lay the doom
Upon her human nature
The curse of sin that none forego,
The agony, the pain, the strife,
The sullied soul, the wasted life
Sin's endless heritage of woe.

She prayed as only those can pray
Who pray to be forgiven;
She wept as only those can weep
Who fear to forfeit Heaven.
With outstretched hands and streaming eyes
She pleads to Heaven, imploring,
As if her cries could pierce the skies,
Where angels stand adoring.

O writhing hands! O wasted hands!
Flung out with frenzied gesture,
As if they fain would touch the hem
Of Christ's fair flowing vesture.
Bitter the dole of that sinning soul,
Outcast of Earth and Heaven;
And her cry went up like a wail from Hell,
Across the night-wind driven.

GOD'S MERCY.

A form stood by her in the night, A human presence near her Spoke one low word of pitying grace, A name once uttered face to face, When none was ever dearer-- Like oil upon the raging flame That burned within her heart, it came, That word of soft approving; The first soft word that struck her ears, Through all the long and dreary years, Of human or of loving.

At once the barred gate opens wide, They pass within it, side by side-- The human hand still leading; Up through the ruined aisle they go, When from the altar, still and slow, Like angels onward treading, Came seven fair spirits robed in white, Each holding high a torch, whose light Lit all the dark with splendour; And the heavy air around was stirred, As if from an Æolian chord, With music low and tender.

"We come from God," they murmur low, "Thy unborn children, seven, To break the bonds of thy bitter woe And lead thee back to Heaven. Thy tears have washed away thy crime, Thou hast repented while 'tis time. The sinner is forgiven!

"The bond is loosed, the doom is done, We come to thee, thou sinning one, With words of peace and pardon; And as a sign of mercy lay Upon thee on thy dying day A lily as God's guerdon."

She sank before them on the ground, With folded palms and hair unbound, And eyes upraised to Heaven. Her pale lips moved as if to pray, But one low murmured word they say-- "Forgiven! oh, forgiven!"

And lo! while yet the shadows speak, A dove with lily in its beak, A snow-white dove, came floating in, Along the silver line of light, And laid upon that breast of sin A spotless lily, pure and white.

Then bending low at Erick's feet, As if before the Mercy-seat, "Pardon!" she said, "by God's own sign, I claim from thee that word divine Before the Judgment-day; Bend lower down, and yet more low, That I may feel thy soft tears flow To wash my sin away."

He took her hand as an angel might,
A dying soul to save,
And his tears fell fast as a holy chrism,
Anointing her for the grave--
He kissed her brow to still her fears,
Ere yet her eyes grew dim:
The curse is broken, she but hears
His pardon--sees but him.

The damp of death is on her brow, The last death-strain is over now, The suffering soul hath fled. The solemn shadows slowly wane, And nought within the church remain Save Erick and the dead.

* * * * *

They laid her 'neath the altar stair--
Thus Erick gave command--
Wrapped in her shroud of golden hair,
The lily in her hand.
And standing in the Holy place,
With solemn voice he said:
I do recall the bitter curse
I poured upon her head.

Let the dead bells toll for the sinning soul,
Repentant, saved, forgiven;
By the dread remorse of that pallid corpse,
We feel that her sin is shriven.

She stands before the Mercy-seat,
If human prayers can waft her,
And by that angel sign 'tis meet
We trust in God's Hereafter.

Moral.

God give us grace, each in his place,
To keep from sin and sinning:
Our souls we sell for gifts from Hell,
That are not worth the winning.
False smiles that lure but to betray,
False gold some demon flashes,
False hopes that lead from Heaven astray,
False fruit that turns to ashes.

WHY WEEPEST THOU?

Why weepest thou?
A few more hours dreary,
And thy spirit, the world weary
Beneath the icy hand of death must bow;
But the fetters then will fall,
And the soul redeemed from thrall,
Will upwards mount in joy, tho' chainéd now--
Why weepest thou?

The great Eternal One,
Round whom the planets roll,
Beholds each suffering soul
Prostrate in mortal grief before His Throne;
He numbers every tear,
He stills the throb of fear,
He guides us to our heavenly native zone--
The great Eternal One.

Then still thy fears!
Behold thy glorious home,
Yon star-roofed azure dome--
How infinite thy Father's house appears!
There, ah! there we'll rest,
Poor weak ones, on His breast;
Then, mourner, let thy frail heart break in tears,
But still thy fears!

SULEIMA TO HER LOVER.

FROM THE TURKISH.

Thou reck'nest seven Heavens; I but one: And thou art it, Beloved! Voice and hand, And eye and mouth, are but the angel band Who minister around that highest throne-- Thy godlike heart. And there I reign supreme, And choose, at will, the angel who I deem Will sing the sweetest, words I love to hear-- That short, sweet song, whose echo clear Will last throughout eternity: "I love thee! How I love thee!"

A LA SOMBRA DE MIS CABELLOS.

FROM THE SPANISH.--SIXTEENTH CENTURY.

My love lay there,
In the shadow of my hair,
As my glossy raven tresses downward flow;
And dark as midnight's cloud,
They fell o'er him like a shroud:
Ah! does he now remember it or no?

With a comb of gold each night
I combed my tresses bright;
But the sportive zephyr tossed them to and fro;
So I pressed them in a heap,
For my love whereon to sleep:
Ah! does he now remember it or no?

He said he loved to gaze
On my tresses' flowing maze,
And the midnight of my dark Moorish eyes;
And he vowed 'twould give him pain
Should his love be all in vain;
So he won me with his praises and his sighs.

Then I flung my raven hair
As a mantle o'er him there,
Encirling him within its mazy flow;
And pillowed on my breast,
He lay in sweet unrest:
Ah! does he now remember it or no?

CONSTANCY.

FROM THE RUSSIAN.

I.

A raven on a branch is sitting; By him comes another flitting-- Brother, where so quickly flying? Hast thou scented dead or dying?

II.

Food and plenty sent to cheer us, Croaks the other, we have near us. Yonder there, amid the gorse, Lies the murdered Baron's corse.

III.

Who slew him? Wherefore? Woe the day! Did the Baron's falcon say? Or the Baron's steed so wild-- Or the Baron's wife so mild?

IV.

Her flight far off the falcon's winging: On the steed a slave is springing; And she?--by the pale moonlight hath fled With the living from the dead.

THE FATE OF THE LYRIST.

The soul is ever clinging unto form; Action, not abstract thought, alone can warm The great heart of humanity--in life's fierce storm Pass they the Lyrist by.

The Dramatist may wear triumphant bays; And see the wondering people's tranc'd amaze, The while unrolls great Homer to their gaze, His gorgeous, many-coloured tapestry.

But lofty Pindar's heaven-directed flight, Petrarca's song, mystic and sad as night, Fall dull upon the common ear--their might Is to the world a mystery.

Such spirits dwell but with the spiritual-- Their godlike souls disdaining to enthrall; Within the limits of the actual, Men pass, unheeding the divinity.

Their name, indeed, is echoed by the crowd; But from amidst the masses earthward bowed, Few lift the head, with kindred soul endowed, To list their Orphic melody.

THE POET'S DESTINY.

The Priest of Beauty, the Anointed One, Through the wide world passes the Poet on. All that is noble by his word is crown'd, But on his brow th' Acanthus wreath is bound. Eternal temples rise beneath his hand, While his own griefs are written in the sand; He plants the blooming gardens, trails the vine-- But others wear the flowers, drink the wine; He plunges in the depths of life to seek Rich joys for other hearts--his own may break. Like the poor diver beneath Indian skies, He flings the pearl upon the shore--and dies.

DÉSILLUSION.

Too soon, alas! too soon I plunged into the world with tone and clang, And they scarcely comprehended what the Poet wildly sang. Not the spirit-glance deep gazing into nature's inmost soul, Not the mystic aspirations that the Poet's words unroll. Cold and spiritless and silent--yea, with scorn received they me, Whilst on meaner brows around me wreath'd the laurel crown I see. And I, who in my bosom felt the godlike nature glow, I wore the mask of folly while I sang of deepest woe. But, courage! years may pass--this mortal frame be laid in earth, But my spirit reign triumphant in the country of my birth!

THE PRISONERS.

CHRISTMAS, 1869.

I.

Has not vengeance been sated at last?
Will the holy and beautiful chimes
Ring out the old wrongs of the past,
Ring in the new glories and times?
Will the eyes of the pale prisoners rest
Once again on their loved mountain scenes,
When the crimson of East or of West
Falls o'er them as mantles on Queens?
Will they muse once again by the sea,
List the thunder of waves on the strand,
As exultant, as fearless and free
As the foam-flakes that dash on the land?
Will they lift their wan faces to God
In the radiant, bright, infinite air,
Press their lips to the old native sod
In a rapture of praise and of prayer?

II.

Ah, the years of their young lives pass over,
Still wept out in dungeons alone,
Where the lips of a wife, child, or mother
Were never yet pressed to their own;
Years of torture and sorrow and trials,
In the gloom of the desolate cell,
Where the wrath of the sevenfold vials
Seem poured to turn Earth to a Hell;
Where strong brains are seared into madness,
And burning hearts frozen to stone,
And despair surges over life's gladness,
And young life goes out with a moan.
Go, kneel as at graves, weeping woman--
When the last fatal sentence was said,
All ties that are tender and human
Were rent as from those that are dead.

III.

They were young then, in youth's glorious fashion
With a pulse-throb of fire in each vein,
And the glow and the splendours of passion
Flashing up from the heart to the brain.
Sharp as falchions their keen words reproving--
Great words moved by no coward breath--
And no crime on their souls save of loving
Their Country with love strong as death.
Oh, their hearts, how they leaped to the surface,
As a sword from the scabbard unsheathed,
Their pale faces stern with a purpose,
Their brows with Fate's cypress enwreathed,
Grave, earnest, the judgment unheeding,
Or the wreck of their lives lying prone,
From these doomed lips the strong spirits' pleading
Soared up from man's bar to God's Throne.

IV.

"We but taught men," they said, "from the pages,
Graven deep in our history and soil,
From the Litanies poured through the ages
Of sorrow, and torture, and toil;
By the insults, the mockings, the scornings,
The bondage on body and soul;
By the ruin, the slaughters, the burnings,
When death was the patriot's goal;
By the falsehood enthroned in high places,
By the feeble hearts cowering within,
By the slave-brand read plain on their faces,
Though the ermine might cover the sin.
We were broken and sundered and shattered,
Made thrall by the tyrant's strong arm,
To the wild waves and fierce winds were scattered
As dead leaves swept on by the storm.
For each age gave a traitor or tyrant
To build up the wrongs that we see,
But each age, too, gives heroes aspirant
Of the Fame or the death of the Free!"

V.

Oh, Chimes ringing out in our city,
Oh, Angels that walk to and fro,
Oh, Christ-words of pardon and pity,
Can ye speak to those souls lying low
In a sorrow no festal chime scatters,
In a night where no Angel appears,
The wasted limbs heavy with fetters,
The weary heart heavy with tears;
With the ghost of dead youth crushing on them,
And the gloom of the years yet to be,
With a blackness of darkness upon them
As of night when it falls on the sea?

VI.

When the Christmas bells ring out at even
The song of the Angels' bright spheres,
Their sad eyes will strain up to Heaven,
Their bread will be bitter with tears.
Through our laughter will come that sad vision,
Through the ivy-wreathed wine-cup's red glow,
Through our wassail the wail from their prison,
Lamentation and mourning and woe.
With sorrow wrapped round like a garment,
With ashes for joy as their crown,
With bonds tight'ning close as a cerement
They wait till God's morning comes down;
Yet no echo from their lips will falter
Of the solemn, sweet carol or song,
But a cry, as of souls 'neath the Altar,
"_How long! oh, our Lord God, how long?_"

THE DAWN.

What of the night, O Watcher on the Tower?
Is the Day dawning through the golden bars?
Comes it through the midnight, over clouds that lower,
Trailing robes of crimson mid the fading stars?

"Through the rent clouds I see a splendour gleaming,
Rolling down the darkness to the far Heaven's rim,
While through the mist the glorious Dawn upstreaming
Rises like the music of a grand choral hymn."

From the deep valleys where the whirlwind passes,
Hear you the tramp of the coming hosts of men,
Strong in their manhood, mighty in their masses,
Swift as rushing torrents down a mountain glen?

"Far as eye can reach, where purple mists are lifted,
Thousands upon thousands are gathering in might,
Powerful as tempests when giant sails are rifted,
Beautiful as ocean in the sun's silver light."