Chapter XLII: Part II (5)

“Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest.”--Psalm lv.

Oh, for thy wings, thou dove!
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;
That, borne like thee above,
I too might flee away, and be at rest!

Where wilt thou fold those plumes,
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird?
In what rich leafy glooms,
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr’d?

Over what blessed home,
What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crown’d,
O fair as ocean’s foam!
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around?

Or seek’st thou some old shrine
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo’d,
Though still, as if divine,
Breathing a spirit o’er the solitude?

Yet wherefore ask thy way?
Blest, ever blest, whate’er its aim, thou art!
Unto the greenwood spray,
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart!

No echoes that will blend
A sadness with the whispers of the grove;
No memory of a friend
Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove!

Oh! to some cool recess
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind,
Leaving the weariness
And all the fever of this life behind:

The aching and the void
Within the heart, whereunto none reply,
The young bright hopes destroy’d--
Bird! bear me with thee through the sunny sky!

Wild wish, and longing vain,
And brief upspringing to be glad and free!
Go to thy woodland reign:
My soul is bound and held--I may not flee.

For even by all the fears
And thoughts that haunt my dreams--untold, unknown,
And burning woman’s tears,
Pour’d from mine eyes in silence and alone;

_Had_ I thy wings, thou dove!
High midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar,
Soon the strong cords of love
Would draw me earthwards--homewards--yet once more.

PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE ISLAND OF PLEASURE.[336]

“Souvent l’ame, fortifiée par la contemplation des choses divines, voudroit déployer ses ailes vers le ciel. Elle croit qu’au terme de sa carrière un rideau va se lever pour lui découvrir des scènes de lumière: mais quand la mort touche son corps périssable, elle jette un regard en arrière vers les plaisirs terrestres et vers ses compagnes mortelles.”

Schlegel, translated by Madame de Stael.

Fearfully and mournfully
Thou bidd’st the earth farewell;
And yet thou’rt passing, loveliest one!
In a brighter land to dwell.

Ascend, ascend rejoicing!
The sunshine of that shore
Around thee, as a glorious robe,
Shall stream for evermore.

The breezy music wandering
There through th’ Elysian sky,
Hath no deep tone that seems to float
From a happier time gone by.

And there the day’s last crimson
Gives no sad memories birth,
No thought of dead or distant friends,
Or partings--as on earth.

Yet fearfully and mournfully
Thou bidd’st that earth farewell,
Although thou’rt passing, loveliest one!
In a brighter land to dwell.

A land where all is deathless--
The sunny wave’s repose,
The wood with its rich melodies,
The summer and its rose:

A land that sees no parting,
That hears no sound of sighs,
That waits thee with immortal air--
Lift, lift those anxious eyes!

Oh! how like _thee_, thou trembler!
Man’s spirit fondly clings
With timid love, to this, its world
Of old familiar things!

We pant, we thirst for fountains
That gush not here below!
On, on we toil, allured by dreams
Of the living water’s flow:

We pine for kindred natures
To mingle with our own;
For communings more full and high
Than aught by mortal known:

We strive with brief aspirings
Against our bonds in vain;
Yet summon’d to be free at last,
We shrink--and clasp our chain;

And fearfully and mournfully
We bid the earth farewell,
Though passing from its mists, like thee,
In a brighter world to dwell.

[336] Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her flight upwards, is represented looking back sadly and anxiously to the earth.

THE BOON OF MEMORY.

“Many things answered me.”--Manfred.

I go, I go!--and must mine image fade
From the green spots wherein my childhood play’d,
By my own streams?
Must my life part from each familiar place,
As a bird’s song, that leaves the woods no trace
Of its lone themes?

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met
In grief or glee?
All the sweet counsel, the communion high,
The kindly words of trust, in days gone by,
Pour’d full and free?

A boon, a talisman, O Memory! give,
To shrine my name in hearts where I would live
For evermore!
Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt,
Bid the stream’s voice, of all my soul hath felt,
A thought restore!

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well,
In the dim brooding violet of the dell,
Set deep that thought;
And let the sunset’s melancholy glow,
And let the spring’s first whisper, faint and low,
With me be fraught!

And Memory answer’d me:--“Wild wish, and vain!
I have no hues the loveliest to detain
In the heart’s core.
The place they held in bosoms all their own,
Soon with new shadows fill’d, new flowers o’ergrown,
Is theirs no more.”

Hast _thou_ such power, O Love? And Love replied:
--“It is not mine! Pour out thy soul’s full tide
Of hope and trust,
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain--
’Tis but to write, with the heart’s fiery rain,
Wild words on dust!”

Song, is the gift with thee? I ask a lay,
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away
From the still breast;
Fill’d with a tone--oh! not for deathless fame,
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name,
Where it would rest.

And Song made answer--“It is not in me,
Though call’d immortal; though my gifts may be
All but divine.
A place of lonely brightness I can give:
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live--
This is not mine!”

Death, Death! wilt _thou_ the restless wish fulfil?
And Death, the Strong One, spoke:--“I can but still
Each vain regret.
What if forgotten?--All thy soul would crave,
Thou, too, within the mantle of the grave,
Wilt soon forget.”

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die,
As from all nature’s voices one reply,
But one--was given.
“Earth has _no_ heart, fond dreamer! with a tone
To send thee back the spirit of thine own--
Seek it in heaven.”

DRAMATIC SCENE BETWEEN BRONWYLFA AND RHYLLON.

[In the spring of 1825, Mrs Hemans removed from Bronwylfa to Rhyllon, another house belonging to her brother, not more than a quarter of a mile from the former place, and in full view from its windows. The distance being so inconsiderable, this could, in fact, scarcely be considered as a removal. The two houses, each situated on an eminence on opposite sides of the river Clwyd, confronted each other so conveniently, that a telegraphic communication was established between them, (by means of a regular set of signals and vocabulary, similar to those made use of in the navy,) and was carried on for a season with no little spirit, greatly to the amusement of their respective inhabitants.

Nothing could be less romantic than the outward appearance of Mrs Hemans’s new residence--a tall, staring brick house, almost destitute of trees, and unadorned (far, indeed, from being thus “adorned the most”) by the covering mantle of honeysuckle, jessamine, or any such charitable drapery.[337] Bronwylfa, on the contrary, was a perfect bower of roses, and peeped out like a bird’s nest from amidst the foliage in which it was embosomed. The contrast between the two dwellings was thus playfully descanted upon by Mrs Hemans, in her contribution to a set of _jeux d’esprit_ called the Bronwylfa Budget for 1825.--_Memoir_, p. 87-88.]

Bronwylfa,[338] _after standing for some time in silent contemplation of_ Rhyllon, _breaks out into the following vehement strain of vituperation_.

You ugliest of fabrics! you horrible eyesore!
I wish you would vanish, or put on a visor!
In the face of the sun, without covering or rag on,
You stand and outstare me, like any red dragon.
With your great green-eyed windows, in boldness a host,
(The only green things which, indeed, you can boast,)
With your forehead as high, and as bare as the pate
Which an eagle once took for a stone or a slate,[339]
You lift yourself up, o’er the country afar,
As who would say, “Look at me!--here stands great R!”
I plant--I rear forest trees--shrubs great and small,
To wrap myself up in--_you_ peer through them all!
With your lean scraggy neck o’er my poplars you rise;
You watch all my guests with your wide saucer eyes.

(_In a paroxysm of rage._)

You monster! I would I could waken some morning,
And find you had taken French leave without warning;
You should never be sought like Aladdin’s famed palace.
You spoil my sweet temper--you make me bear malice:
For it is a hard fate, I _will_ say it and sing,
Which has fix’d me to gaze on so frightful a thing.

Rhyllon--(_with dignified equanimity_.)
Content thee, Bronwylfa, what means all this rage?
This sudden attack on my quiet old age?
I am no _parvenu_: you and I, my good brother,
Have stood here this century facing each other;
And _I_ can remember the days that are gone,
When _your_ sides were no better array’d than my own.
Nay, the truth shall be told--since you flout me, restore
The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my door!
Since my baldness is mocked, and I’m _forced_ to explain,
Pray give me my large laurustinus again.

(_With a tone of prophetic solemnity._)

Bronwylfa! Bronwylfa! thus insolent grown,
Your pride and your poplars alike must come down!
I look through the future (and far I can see,
As St Asaph and Denbigh will answer for me,)
And in spite of thy scorn, and of all thou hast done,
From my kind heart’s brick bottom, I pity thee, Bron!
The end of thy toiling and planting will be,
That thou wilt want sunshine, and ask it of me.
Thou wilt say, when thou wakest, looking out for the light,
“I suppose it is morning, for Rhyllon looks bright;”
While I--my green eyes with their tears overflow.
(_Tenderly._)
Come!--let us be friends, as we were long ago.”

[337] Its conspicuousness has since been a good deal modified by the lowering of one storey, and by the growth of the surrounding plantations.

[338] Bronwylfa is pronounced as written _Bronwylva_; and perhaps the nearest English approach to the pronunciation of Rhyllon, would be by supposing it to be spelt _Ruthln_, the _u_ sounded as in but.

[339] Bronwylfa is here supposed to allude to the pate of Æschylus, upon which an eagle dropped a tortoise to crack the shell.

[In spite, however, of the unromantic exterior of her new abode, the earlier part of Mrs Hemans’s residence at Rhyllon may, perhaps, be considered as the happiest of her life; as far, at least, as the term happiness could ever be fitly applied to any period of it later than childhood. The house, with all its ugliness, was large and convenient, the view from its windows beautiful and extensive, and its situation, on a fine green slope, terminating in a pretty woodland dingle, peculiarly healthy and cheerful. Never, perhaps, had she more thorough enjoyment of her boys than in witnessing, and often joining in, their sports in those pleasant breezy fields, where the kites soared so triumphantly, and the hoops trundled so merrily, and where the cowslips grew as cowslips had never grown before. An atmosphere of home soon gathered round the dwelling; roses were planted and honeysuckles trained, and the rustling of the solitary poplar near her window was taken to her heart like the voice of a friend. The dingle became a favourite haunt, where she would pass many dreamlike hours of enjoyment with her books, and her own sweet fancies, and her children playing around her. Every tree and flower, and tuft of moss that sprang amidst its green recesses, was invested with some individual charm by that rich imagination, so skilled in

“Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.”

Here, on what the boys would call ‘mamma’s sofa’--a little grassy mound under her favourite beech-tree--she first read _The Talisman_, and has described the scene with a loving minuteness in her _Hour of Romance_:--

“There were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood’s sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water. Dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o’er the turf--so still
They seem’d but pictured glooms; a hidden rill
Made music--such as haunts us in a dream--
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down.”

Many years after, in the sonnet “To a Distant Scene,” she addresses, with a fond yearning, this well-remembered haunt:--

“Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,
O far-off grassy dell!”

How many precious memories has she hung round the thought of the cowslip--that flower, with its “gold coat” and “fairy favours,” which is, of all others, so associated with the “voice of happy childhood,” and was to her ever redolent of the hours when her

“Heart so leapt to that sweet laughter’s tone!”

Another favourite resort was the picturesque old bridge over the Clwyd, and when her health (which was subject to continual variation, but was at this time more robust than usual) admitted of more aspiring achievements, she delighted in roaming to the hills; and the announcement of a walk to Cwm,[340] a remote little hamlet, nestled in a mountain hollow, amidst very lovely sylvan scenery, about two miles from Rhyllon, would be joyously echoed by her elated companions, to whom the recollection of these happy rambles must always be unspeakably dear. Very often, at the outset of these expeditions, the party would be reinforced by the addition of a certain little Kitty Jones, a child from a neighbouring cottage, who had taken an especial fancy to Mrs Hemans, and was continually watching her movements. This little creature never saw her without at once attaching herself to her side, and confidingly placing its tiny hand in hers. So great was her love for children, and her repugnance to hurt the feelings of any living creature, that she never would shake off this singular appendage, but let little Kitty rejoice in her “pride of place,” till the walk became too long for her capacity, and she would quietly fall behind of her own accord.--_Memoir_, p. 87-93.]

[340] Pronounced “Coom.”

RECORDS OF WOMAN.
TO
MRS JOANNA BAILLIE,

THIS VOLUME, AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF GRATEFUL RESPECT AND ADMIRATION, IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.[341]

“Mightier far
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway
Of magic, potent over sun and star,
Is love, though oft to agony distrest,
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman’s breast.” Wordsworth.

“Das ist sas Loos des Schonen auf der erde.” Schiller.

[341] [“The little volume, ‘Records of Woman,’ which you kindly gave me permission to inscribe to you,” wrote Mrs H. to Mrs Joanna Baillie, “is now in the press, and I hope I shall soon be able to send you a copy; and that the dedication, which is in the simplest form, will be honoured by your approval. Mr Blackwood is its publisher.”

Mrs Hemans always spoke with pleasure of her literary intercourse with Mr Blackwood, in whose dealings she recognised all that uprightness and liberality which belonged to the sterling worth of his character. The “Records of Woman,” the first of her works published by him, was brought out in May 1828. This volume was, to use the words of its author the one in which “she had put her heart and individual feelings more than in any thing else she had written;” and it is also, and perhaps consequently, the one which has held its ground the most steadily in public favour.--_Memoir_, p. 136.]

ARABELLA STUART.

[“The Lady Arabella,” as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret but early discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and at break of day a French vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, “which,” says D’Israeli, “occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders.” Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the king’s service, and brought back to a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. “What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history, but enough is known--that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers.”--D’Israeli’s _Curiosities of Literature_.

The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour’s affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.]

“And is not love in vain
Torture enough without a living tomb?” Byron.

“Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto.” Pindemonte.

I.

Twas but a dream! I saw the stag leap free,
Under the boughs where early birds were singing;
I stood o’ershadow’d by the greenwood tree,
And heard, it seem’d, a sudden bugle ringing
Far through a royal forest. Then the fawn
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn
To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook,
And lilies quiver’d by the glade’s lone brook,
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career,
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear,
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance
Into the deep wood’s heart; and all pass’d by
Save one--I met the smile of _one_ clear eye,
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, _thou_ wert there,
Seymour! A soft wind blew the clustering hair
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away,
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power,
Won back to childhood’s trust, and fearless-hearted,
Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath
Of hidden forest-flowers.

II.

’Tis past! I wake,
A captive, and alone, and far from thee,
My love and friend! Yet fostering, for thy sake,
A quenchless hope of happiness to be;
And feeling still my woman-spirit strong,
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love
Shall yet call gentle angels from above,
By its undying fervour, and prevail--
Sending a breath, as of the spring’s first gale,
Through hearts now cold; and, raising its bright face,
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase
The characters of anguish. In this trust,
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust,
That I may bring thee back no faded form,
No bosom chill’d and blighted by the storm,
But all my youth’s first treasures, when we meet,
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.

III.

And thou too art in bonds! Yet droop thou not,
O my beloved! there is _one_ hopeless lot,
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead
_There_ sits the grief that mantles up its head,
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight
Covers its beautiful![342] If thou wert gone
To the grave’s bosom, with thy radiant brow--
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone
Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now
Seems floating through my soul, were music taken
For ever from this world--oh! thus forsaken
Could I bear on? Thou livest, thou livest, thou’rt mine!
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine,
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn,
Sit a lone watcher for the day’s return.

IV.

And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning,
Brightly victorious o’er the hours of care!
I have not watch’d in vain, serenely scorning
The wild and busy whispers of despair!
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven--I wait
The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee.
Oh! for the skylark’s wing that seeks its mate
As a star shoots!--but on the breezy sea
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour!
Will not my heart, o’erburden’d by its bliss,
Faint and give way within me, as a flower
Borne down and perishing by noontide’s kiss?
Yet shall I _fear_ that lot--the perfect rest,
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast,
After long suffering won? So rich a close
Too seldom crowns with peace affection’s woes.

V.

Sunset! I tell each moment. From the skies
The last red splendour floats along my wall,
Like a king’s banner! Now it melts, it dies!
I see one star--I hear--’twas not the call,
Th’ expected voice; my quick heart throbb’d too soon.
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice pour’d, I sit and dream
Of summer lands afar, where holy love,
Under the vine or in the citron grove,
May breathe from terror.
Now the night grows deep,
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.
I hear my veins beat. Hark! a bell’s slow chime!
My heart strikes with it. Yet again--’tis time!
A step!--a voice!--or but a rising breeze?
Hark!--haste!--I come to meet thee on the seas!

VI.

Now never more, oh! never, in the worth
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth
Trust fondly--never more! The hope is crush’d
That lit my life, the voice within me hush’d
That spoke sweet oracles; and I return
To lay my youth, as in a burial urn,
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost!
No tempest met our barks--no billow toss’d;
Yet were they sever’d, even as we must be,
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free
From their close-coiling fate! In vain--in vain!
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again,
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood,
And a white sail came gliding o’er the flood,
Like some proud bird of ocean; then mine eye
Strain’d out, one moment earlier to descry
The form it ached for, and the bark’s career
Seem’d slow to that fond yearning: it drew near,
Fraught with our foes! What boots it to recall
The strife, the tears? Once more a prison wall
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight,
And joyous glance of waters to the light,
And thee, my Seymour!--thee!
I will not sink!
Thou, _thou_ hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee!
And this shall be my strength--the joy to think
That _thou_ may’st wander with heaven’s breath around thee,
And all the laughing sky! This thought shall yet
Shine o’er my heart a radiant amulet,
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken;
And unto me, I know, thy true love’s token
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years
Lie dim between, o’erhung with mists of tears.

VII.

My friend! my friend! where art thou? Day by day,
Gliding like some dark mournful stream away,
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while,
Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs
Round hall and hamlet; summer with her smile
Fills the green forest; young hearts breathe their vows;
Brothers long parted meet; fair children rise
Round the glad board; hope laughs from loving eyes:
All this is in the world!--these joys lie sown,
The dew of every path! On _one_ alone
Their freshness may not fall--the stricken deer
Dying of thirst with all the waters near.

VIII.

Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers!
By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent;
O’er you the oak shed down the summer showers,
And the lark’s nest was where your bright cups bent,
Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen
Of twilight stars. On you heaven’s eye hath been,
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you
Hath murmur’d, and the rill. My soul grows faint
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint
Your haunts by dell and stream--the green, the free,
The full of all sweet sound--the shut from me!

IX.

There went a swift bird singing past my cell----
O Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things!
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell,
And by the streams. But I--the blood of kings,
A proud unmingling river, through my veins
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains!
Kings!--I had silent visions of deep bliss,
Leaving their thrones far distant; and for this
I am cast under their triumphal car,
An insect to be crush’d! Oh! heaven is far--
Earth pitiless!

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am proved
So long, so sternly! Seymour, my beloved!
There are such tales of holy marvels done
By strong affection, of deliverance won
Through its prevailing power! Are these things told
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old
Wonder, yet dare not doubt; and thou! oh, thou!
Dost thou forget me in my hope’s decay?--
Thou canst not! Through the silent night, even now,
I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray
Still first for thee. O gentle, gentle friend!
How shall I bear this anguish to the end?

Aid!--comes there yet no aid? The voice of blood
Passes heaven’s gate, even ere the crimson flood
Sinks through the greensward! Is there not a cry
From the wrung heart, of power, through agony,
To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy!--hear me! None
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun
Have heavier cause! Yet hear!--my soul grows dark!----
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone,
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown,
Its freight of human hearts? Th’ o’ermastering wave!
Who shall tell how it rush’d--and none to save!

Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know,
There would be rescue if this were not so.
Thou’rt at the chase, thou’rt at the festive board,
Thou’rt where the red wine free and high is pour’d,
Thou’rt where the dancers meet! A magic glass
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass,
Flushing it o’er with pomp from bower and hall:
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all--
_Thine!_ What dost _thou_ amidst the bright and fair,
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair?
It is not well of thee! My love was more
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore;
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying,
With all its blighted hopes around it lying:
Even thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf----
Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief!

Death! What! is death a lock’d and treasured thing,
Guarded by swords of fire?[343] a hidden spring,
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure,
As if the world within me held no cure?
Wherefore not spread free wings----Heaven, heaven! control
These thoughts!--they rush--I look into my soul
As down a gulf, and tremble at the array
Of fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray!
So shall their dark host pass.

The storm is still’d.
Father in Heaven! thou, only thou, canst sound
The heart’s great deep, with floods of anguish fill’d,
For human line too fearfully profound.
Therefore, forgive, my Father! if thy child,
Rock’d on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild,
And sinn’d in her despair! It well may be
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee,
By the crush’d hope too long on this world pour’d--
The stricken love which hath perchance adored
A mortal in thy place! Now let me strive
With thy strong arm no more! Forgive, forgive!
Take me to peace!
And peace at last is nigh.
A sign is on my brow, a token sent
Th’ o’erwearied dust from home: no breeze flits by,
But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent
Of many mysteries.

Hark! the warning tone
Deepens--its word is _Death_! Alone, alone,
And sad in youth, but chasten’d, I depart,
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman’s heart
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless,
Even in this hour’s o’ershadowing fearfulness,
Thee, its first love! O tender still, and true!
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name,
Though but a moment!

Now, with fainting frame,
With soul just lingering on the flight begun,
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one,
I bless thee! Peace be on thy noble head,
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead!
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain
Its might, again to bless thee, and again!
Thou hast been gather’d into my dark fate
Too much; too long, for my sake, desolate
Hath been thine exiled youth: but now take back,
From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack
(After a few kind tears for her whose days
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways
Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send
Even then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend!
Down to my voiceless chamber; for thy love
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above,
Though bought with burning tears! It is the sting
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing
In this cold world! What were it, then, if thou,
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now?
Too keen a pang! Farewell! and yet once more,
Farewell! The passion of long years I pour
Into that word! Thou hear’st not--but the woe
And fervour of its tones may one day flow
To thy heart’s holy place: there let them dwell.
We shall o’ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell!

[342] “Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sufficeth me you are mine. _Rachel wept and would not be comforted, because her children were no more._ And that indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else!”--From a letter of Arabella Stuart’s to her husband.--See _Curiosities of Literature_.

[343] “And if you remember of old, _I dare die_. Consider what the world would conceive if I should be violently enforced to do it.”--_Fragments of her Letters._

THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.[344]

“Fear! I’m a Greek, and how should I fear death?
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom?
...
I will not live degraded.” Sardanapalus.

Come from the woods with the citron-flowers,
Come with your lyres for the festal hours,
Maids of bright Scio! They came, and the breeze
Bore their sweet songs o’er the Grecian seas;
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown’d,
The bride of the morn, with her train around.
Jewels flash’d out from her braided hair,
Like starry dews midst the roses there;
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone,
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone.
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale,
Gleam’d from beneath her transparent veil;
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek’s hue,
Though clear as a flower which the light looks through;
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye,
For the aspect of woman at times too high,
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream
Of the soul sent up o’er its fervid beam.

She look’d on the vine at her father’s door,
Like one that is leaving his native shore;
She hung o’er the myrtle once call’d her own,
As it greenly waved by the threshold stone;
She turn’d--and her mother’s gaze brought back
Each hue of her childhood’s faded track.
Oh! hush the song, and let her tears
Flow to the dream of her early years!
Holy and pure are the drops that fall
When the young bride goes from her father’s hall;
She goes unto love yet untried and new,
She parts from love which hath still been true:
Mute be the song and the choral strain,
Till her heart’s deep well-spring is clear again!
She wept on her mother’s faithful breast,
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest;
She wept--yet laid her hand awhile
In _his_ that waited her dawning smile--
Her soul’s affianced, nor cherish’d less
For the gush of nature’s tenderness!
She lifted her graceful head at last--
The choking swell of her heart was past;
And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.[345]

THE BRIDE’S FAREWELL.

Why do I weep? To leave the vine
Whose clusters o’er me bend;
The myrtle--yet, oh call it mine!--
The flowers I loved to tend.
A thousand thoughts of all things dear
Like shadows o’er me sweep;
I leave my sunny childhood here,
Oh! therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, sister! We have play’d
Through many a joyous hour,
Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o’er fount and bower.
Yes! thou and I, by stream, by shore,
In song, in prayer, in sleep,
Have been as we may be no more--
Kind sister, let me weep!

I leave thee, father! Eve’s bright moon
Must now light other feet,
With the gather’d grapes, and the lyre in tune,
Thy homeward step to greet.
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,
Lay tones of love so deep,
Whose eye o’er all my youth hath smiled--
I leave thee! let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee! On thy breast
Pouring out joy and woe,
I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless--yet I go!
Lips, that have lull’d me with your strain!
Eyes, that have watch’d my sleep!
Will earth give love like _yours_ again?--
Sweet mother! let me weep!

And like a slight young tree, that throws
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs,
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing
Is the human heart--as a mountain spring
That works its way, through the torrent’s foam,
To the bright pool near it, the lily’s home!
It is well!--The cloud on her soul that lay,
Hath melted in glittering drops away.
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre!
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire.
Mother! on earth it must still be so:
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go!

They are moving onward, the bridal throng,
Ye may track their way by the swells of song;
Ye may catch through the foliage their white robes’ gleam,
Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream;
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread
Is over the deep-vein’d violet’s bed;
They have light leaves around them, blue skies above,
An arch for the triumph of youth and love!

II.

Still and sweet was the home that stood
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood,
With the soft green light o’er its low roof spread,
As if from the glow of an emerald shed,
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high,
Asleep in the silence of noon’s clear sky.
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glow’d,
Making a gleam round the lone abode;
Laurels o’erhung it, whose faintest shiver
Scatter’d out rays like a glancing river;
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown’d,
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound;
And brightly before it a fountain’s play
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay,
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain,
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane.

And thither Ianthis had brought his bride,
And the guests were met by that fountain side.
They lifted the veil from Eudora’s face--
It smiled out softly in pensive grace,
With lips of love, and a brow serene,
Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene.
Bring wine, bring odours!--the board is spread;
Bring roses! a chaplet for every head!
The wine-cups foam’d, and the rose was shower’d
On the young and fair from the world embower’d;
The sun look’d not on them in that sweet shade,
The winds amid scented boughs were laid;
And there came by fits, through some wavy tree,
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea.

Hush! be still! Was that no more
Than the murmur from the shore?
Silence!--did thick rain-drops beat
On the grass like trampling feet?
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword!
The groves are fill’d with a pirate horde!
Through the dim olives their sabres shine!--
Now must the red blood stream for wine!

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang,
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang;
Under the golden-fruited boughs
There were flashing poniards and darkening brows--
Footsteps, o’er garland and lyre that fled,
And the dying soon on a greensward bed.
Eudora, Eudora! _thou_ dost not fly!--
She saw but Ianthis before her lie,
With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow,
Like a child’s large tears in its hour of woe,
And a gathering film in his lifted eye,
That sought his young bride out mournfully.
She knelt down beside him--her arms she wound
Like tendrils, his drooping neck around,
As if the passion of that fond grasp
Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp.
But they tore her thence in her wild despair,
The sea’s fierce rovers--they left him there:
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein,
And on the wet violets a pile of slain,
And a hush of fear through the summer grove.--
So closed the triumph of youth and love!

III.

Gloomy lay the shore that night,
When the moon, with sleeping light,
Bathed each purple Sciote hill--
Gloomy lay the shore, and still.
O’er the wave no gay guitar
Sent its floating music far;
No glad sound of dancing feet
Woke the starry hours to greet.
But a voice of mortal woe,
In its changes wild or low,
Through the midnight’s blue repose,
From the sea-beat rocks arose,
As Eudora’s mother stood
Gazing o’er th’ Ægean flood,
With a fix’d and straining eye--
Oh! was the spoilers’ vessel nigh?
Yes! there, becalm’d in silent sleep,
Dark and alone on a breathless deep,
On a sea of molten silver, dark
Brooding it frown’d, that evil bark!
There its broad pennon a shadow cast,
Moveless and black from the tall still mast;
And the heavy sound of its flapping sail
Idly and vainly woo’d the gale.
Hush’d was all else--had ocean’s breast
Rock’d e’en Eudora that hour to rest?

To rest? The waves tremble!--what piercing cry
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high?
What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire,
Shoots from the deck up? Fire! ’tis fire!
There are wild forms hurrying to and fro,
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow;
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call,
And the dashing of water--but fruitless all!
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame
The might and wrath of the rushing flame!
It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake,
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake;
It hath touch’d the sails, and their canvass rolls
Away from its breath into shrivell’d scrolls;
It hath taken the flag’s high place in the air,
And redden’d the stars with its wavy glare;
And sent out bright arrows, and soar’d in glee,
To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea.
The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow--
Eudora! Eudora! where, where art thou?
The slave and his master alike are gone.--
Mother! who stands on the deck alone?
The child of thy bosom!--and lo! a brand
Blazing up high in her lifted hand!
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair
Sway’d by the flames as they rock and flare;
And her fragile form to its loftiest height
Dilated, as if by the spirit’s might;
And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught----
Oh! could this work be of woman wrought?
Yes! ’twas her deed!--by that haughty smile,
It was hers: she hath kindled her funeral pile!
Never might shame on that bright head be:
Her blood was the Greek’s, and hath made her free!

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride
On the pyre with the holy dead beside;
But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear,
As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near,
And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain
To the form they must never infold again.
--One moment more, and her hands are clasp’d--
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp’d--
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow’d,
And her last look raised through the smoke’s dim shroud,
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move;--
Now the night gathers o’er youth and love!

[344] Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the _Curiosities of Literature_, and forming part of a picture in the “Painted Biography” there described.

[345] A Greek bride, on leaving her father’s house, takes leave of her friends and relatives frequently in extemporaneous verses.--See Fauriel’s _Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne_.

THE SWITZER’S WIFE.

[Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with which the Austrian Bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been of a heroic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland was finally delivered.]

“Nor look nor tone revealeth aught
Save woman’s quietness of thought;
And yet around her is a light
Of inward majesty and might.” M. J. J.

“Wer solch ein herz an sienen Busen druckt
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten.”
WILLHELM TELL.

It was the time when children bound to meet
Their father’s homeward step from field or hill,
And when the herd’s returning bells are sweet
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still,
And the last note of that wild horn swells by
Which haunts the exile’s heart with melody.

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home,
Touch’d with the crimson of the dying hour,
Which lit its low roof by the torrent’s foam,
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung bower;
But one, the loveliest o’er the land that rose,
Then first look’d mournful in its green repose.

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree
That sent its lulling whispers through his door,
Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be
With some deep care, and thus can find no more
Th’ accustom’d joy in all which evening brings,
Gathering a household with her quiet wings.

His wife stood hush’d before him--sad, yet mild
In her beseeching mien!--he mark’d it not.
The silvery laughter of his bright-hair’d child
Rang from the greensward round the shelter’d spot,
But seem’d unheard; until at last the boy
Raised from his heap’d up flowers a glance of joy,

And met his father’s face. But then a change
Pass’d swiftly o’er the brow of infant glee,
And a quick sense of something dimly strange
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee
So often climb’d, and lift his loving eyes
That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;
But tenderly his babe’s fair mother laid
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look,
Through tears half-quivering, o’er him bent and said,
“What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey--
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?

“It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!
Mark’st thou the wonder on thy boy’s fair brow,
Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend
To his soft arms: unseal thy thoughts e’en now!
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share
Of tried affection in thy secret care.”

He look’d up into that sweet earnest face,
But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band
Was loosen’d from his soul; its inmost place
Not yet unveil’d by love’s o’ermastering hand.
“Speak low!” he cried, and pointed where on high
The white Alps glitter’d through the solemn sky:

“We must speak low amidst our ancient hills
And their free torrents; for the days are come
When tyranny lies couch’d by forest rills,
And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home.
Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear--
Keep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.

“The envy of th’ oppressor’s eye hath been
Upon my heritage. I sit to-night
Under my household tree, if not serene,
Yet with the faces best beloved in sight:
To-morrow eve may find me chain’d, and thee--
How can I bear the boy’s young smiles to see?”

The bright blood left that youthful mother’s cheek;
Back on the linden stem she lean’d her form;
And her lip trembled as it strove to speak,
Like a frail harp-string shaken by the storm.
’Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass’d,
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.

And she, that ever through her home had moved
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile
Of woman, calmly loving and beloved,
And timid in her happiness the while,
Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour--
Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,
And took her fair child to her holy breast,
And lifted her soft voice, that gather’d might
As it found language:--“Are we thus oppress’d?
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!

“I know what thou wouldst do;--and be it done!
Thy soul is darken’d with its fears for me.
Trust me to heaven, my husband! This, thy son,
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free!
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth
May well give strength--if aught be strong on earth.

“Thou hast been brooding o’er the silent dread
Of my desponding tears; now lift once more,
My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!
I can bear all, but seeing _thee_ subdued--
Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.

“Go forth beside the waters, and along
The chamois paths, and through the forests go;
And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow.
God shall be with thee, my beloved! Away!
Bless but thy child, and leave me--I can pray!”

He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air;
He caught her to his heart, while proud tears breaking
From his dark eyes fell o’er her braided hair;
And “Worthy art thou,” was his joyous cry,
“That man for thee should gird himself to die!

“My bride, my wife, the mother of my child!
Now shall thy name be armour to my heart:
And this our land, by chains no more defiled,
Be taught of thee to choose the better part!
I go--thy spirit on my words shall dwell;
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps. Farewell!”

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake,
In the clear starlight: he the strength to rouse
Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake,
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs,
Singing its blue half-curtain’d eyes to sleep
With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.

PROPERZIA ROSSI.

[Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry and music, died in consequence of an unrequited attachment. A painting, by Ducis, represents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the object of her affection, who regards it with indifference.]

“Tell me no more, no more
Of my soul’s lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not loved, and striven, and fail’d to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting-place, a home for all
Its burden of affections? I depart,
Unknown, though Fame goes with me; I must leave
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious.”

I.

One dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, though its race
Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream!
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph be--
Thou, loved so vainly! I would leave enshrined
Something immortal of my heart and mind,
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone
Of lost affection,--something that may prove
What she hath been, whose melancholy love
On thee was lavish’d; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song that gush’d when none were near,
And dream by night, and weary thought by day,
Stealing the brightness from her life away--
While thou----Awake! not yet within me die!
Under the burden and the agony
Of this vain tenderness--my spirit, wake!
Even for thy sorrowful affection’s sake,
Live! in thy work breathe out!--that he may yet,
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret
Thine unrequited gift.

II.

It comes! the power
Within me born flows back--my fruitless dower
That could not win me love. Yet once again
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train
Of glorious images: they throng--they press--
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness--
I shall not perish all!
The bright work grows
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,
Leaf after leaf, to beauty--line by line,
Through the pale marble’s veins. It grows!--and now
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine:
I give my own life’s history to thy brow,
Forsaken Ariadne!--thou shalt wear
My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,
Touch’d into lovelier being by the glow
Which in me dwells, as by the summer light
All things are glorified. From thee my woe
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,
When I am pass’d away. Thou art the mould,
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th’ untold,
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye--
Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully,
Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw
Into thy frame a voice--a sweet, and low,
And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh,
To send the passion of its melody
Through his pierced bosom--on its tones to bear
My life’s deep feeling, as the southern air
Wafts the faint myrtle’s breath--to rise, to swell,
To sink away in accents of farewell,
Winning but one, _one_ gush of tears, whose flow
Surely my parted spirit yet might know,
If love be strong as death!

III.