"The Undying One" - Canto III

"THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make

Howling and moaning, listlessly and low:

Methinks that to a heart that ought to break

All the earth's voices seem to murmur so.

The visions that crost

Our path in light--

The things that we lost

In the dim dark night--

The faces for which we vainly yearn--

The voices whose tones will not return--

That low sad wailing breeze doth bring

Borne on its swift and rushing wing.

Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud,

And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud?

When the fire was quench'd on your lonely hearth,

And the voices were still which spoke of mirth?

If such an evening, tho' but one,

It hath been yours to spend alone--

Never,--though years may roll along

Cheer'd by the merry dance and song;

Though you mark'd not that bleak wind's sound before,

When louder perchance it used to roar--

Never shall sound of that wintry gale

Be aught to you but a voice of wail!

So o'er the careless heart and eye

The storms of the world go sweeping by;

But oh! when once we have learn'd to weep,

Well doth sorrow his stern watch keep.

Let one of our airy joys decay--

Let one of our blossoms fade away--

And all the griefs that others share

Seem ours, as well as theirs, to bear:

And the sound of wail, like that rushing wind

Shall bring all our own deep woe to mind!

"I went through the world, but I paused not now

At the gladsome heart and the joyous brow:

I went through the world, and I stay'd to mark

Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark:

And the grief of others, though sad to see,

Was fraught with a demon's joy to me!

"I saw the inconstant lover come to take

Farewell of her he loved in better days,

And, coldly careless, watch the heart-strings break--

Which beat so fondly at his words of praise.

She was a faded, painted, guilt-bow'd thing,

Seeking to mock the hues of early spring,

When misery and years had done their worst

To wither her away. The big tears burst

From out her flashing eyes, which turn'd on him

With agony, reproach, and fear, while dim

Each object swam in her uncertain sight,

And nature's glories took the hue of night.

There was, in spite of all her passion's storm,

A wild revolting beauty in her form;

A beauty as of sin, when first she comes

To tempt us from our calm and pleasant homes.

Her voice, with the appealing tone it took,

Her soft clear voice, belied her fearless look:

And woman's tenderness seem'd still to dwell

In that full bosom's agonizing swell.

And he stood there, the worshipp'd one of years--

Sick of her fondness--angry at her tears;

Choking the loathing words which rose within

The heart whose passion tempted her to sin;

While with a strange sad smile lost hours she mourns,

And prays and weeps, and weeps and prays by turns.

A moment yet he paused, and sigh'd--a sigh

Of deep, deep bitterness; and on his eye

Love's gentle shadow rested for a space--

And faded feelings brighten'd o'er his face.

'Twas but a moment, and he turn'd in wrath

To quench the sunshine on her lonely path.

And his lip curl'd, as on that alter'd cheek

His cold glance rested--while, all faint and weak,

With tearful sad imploring gaze she stood,

Watching with trembling heart his changeful mood;

Her thin lips parted with a ghastly smile,

She strove to please--yet felt she fail'd the while.

And thus his words burst forth:' And dost thou dare

Reproach me with the burden of thy care?

Accuse thy self-will'd heart, where passion reign'd;

Some other hand the lily might have stain'd,

For thou didst listen when none else approved,

Proud in thy strength, and eager to be loved.

Rose of the morning, how thy leaves are gone!

How art thou faded since the sunrise shone!

Think not my presence was the cause of all--

Oh no, thy folly would have made thee fall:

Alike thy woe--alike the cause of blame--

Another tempter, but thine act the same.

And tell me not of all I said or swore:

Poor wretch! art thou as in the days of yore?

Thing of the wanton heart and faded brow,

Whate'er I said or did--I loathe thee now!'

The frozen tears sank back beneath the lid,

Whose long black lashes half their sadness hid--

And with a calm and stedfast look, which spoke

Unutterable scorn, her spirit woke:--

'And thou art he, for whom my young heart gave

All hope of pardon on this side the grave!

For whom I still have struggled on, for years,

Through days of bitterness and nights of tears!--

True, I am changed since that bright summer's day,

When first from home love lured my steps to stray:

And true it is that art hath sought to hide

The work of woe which all my words belied;--

But for whose sake have I with watchful care,

Though sick at heart, endeavour'd to be fair?

For whom, when daylight broke along the skies,

Have I with fear survey'd my weeping eyes?

For whom, with trembling fingers sought to dress

Each woe-worn feature with mock loveliness?

Chased the pale sickness from my darken'd brow,

And strove to listen, calm--as I do now?

For whom--if not for thee?--Oh! had I been

Pure as the stainless lily--were each scene

Of guilt and passion blotted from that book

Where weepingly and sad the angels look--

Did I stand here the calm approved wife,

Bound to thee by the chain that binds for life--

Could I have loved thee more? The dream is past--

I who forsook, am lonely at the last!

One hour ago the thought that we must part,

And part for ever, would have broke my heart:

But now--I cast thee from me! Go and seek

To pale the roses on a fresher cheek.

Why lingerest thou? Dost fear, when thou art gone,

My woman's heart will wake, and live alone?

Fear not--the specious tongue whose well-feign'd tale

Hath lured the dove to leave her native vale,

May use its art some other to beguile;

And the approving world--will only smile.

But she who sins, and suffers for that sin,

Who throws the dangerous die, and doth not win--

Loves once--and loves no more!' He glided by,

And she turn'd from him with a shuddering sigh.

"I saw the widower mournful stand,

Gazing out on the sea and the land;

O'er the yellow corn and the waving trees,

And the blue stream rippling in the breeze.

Oh! beautiful seem the earth and sky--

Why doth he heave that bitter sigh?

Vain are the sunshine and brightness to him--

His heart is heavy, his eyes are dim.

His thoughts are not with the moaning sea,

Though his gaze be fix'd on it vacantly:

His thoughts are far, where the dark boughs wave

O'er the silent rest of his Mary's grave.

He starts, and brushes away the tear;

For the soft small voices are in his ear,

Of the bright-hair'd angels his Mary left

To comfort her lonely and long bereft.

With a gush of sorrow he turns to press

His little ones close with a fond caress,

And they sigh--oh! not because Mary sleeps,

For she is forgotten--but that HE weeps.

Yes! she is forgotten--the patient love,

The tenderness of that meek-eyed dove,

The voice that rose on the evening air

To bid them kneel to the God of prayer,

The joyous tones that greeted them, when

After a while she came again--

The pressure soft of her rose-leaf cheek--

The touch of her hand, as white and weak

She laid it low on each shining head,

And bless'd the sons of the early dead:

All is forgotten--all past away

Like the fading close of a summer's day:

Or the sound of her voice (though they scarce can tell

Whose voice it was, that they loved so well)

Comes with their laughter, a short sweet dream--

As the breeze blows over the gentle stream,

Rippling a moment its quiet breast,

And leaving it then to its sunny rest.

But he!--oh! deep in his inmost soul,

Which hath drunk to the dregs of sorrow's bowl--

Her look--and her smile--the lightest word

Of the musical voice he so often heard,

And never may hear on earth again,

Though he love it more than he loved it then--

Are buried--to rise at times unbid

And force hot tears to the burning lid:

The mother that bore her may learn to forget,

But he will remember and weep for her yet!

Oh! while the heart where her head hath lain

In its hours of joy, in its sighs of pain;

While the hand which so oft hath been clasp'd in hers

In the twilight hour, when nothing stirs--

Beat with the deep, full pulse of life--

Can he forget his gentle wife?

Many may love him, and he in truth

May love; but not with the love of his youth:

Ever amid his joy will come

A stealing sigh for that long-loved home,

And her step and her voice will go gliding by

In the desolate halls of his memory!

"I saw a father weeping, when the last

Of all his dear ones from his sight had past--

The young lamb, in his solitary fold,

Who should have buried him, for he was old.

Silently she had pass'd away from earth,

Beloved by none but him who gave her birth:

And now he sat, with haggard look and wild,

By the lone tomb of his forgotten child:--

'None remember thee! thou whose heart

Pour'd love on all around.

Thy name no anguish can impart--

'Tis a forgotten sound.

Thine old companions pass me by

With a cold bright smile, and a vacant eye--

And none remember thee

Save me.

'None remember thee! thou wert not

Beauteous as some things are;

No glory beam'd upon thy lot,

My pale and quiet star.

Like a winter bud that too soon hath burst,

Thy cheek was fading from the first--

And none remember thee

Save me!

'None remember thee! they could spy

Nought, when they gazed on thee,

But thy soul's deep love in thy quiet eye--

It hath pass'd from their memory.

The gifts of genius were not thine

Proudly before the world to shine--

And none remember thee

Save me!

'None remember thee! now thou'rt gone,

Or they could not choose but weep,--

When they think of thee, my gentle one,

In thy long and lonely sleep.

Fain would I murmur thy name, and tell

How fondly together we used to dwell--

But none remember thee

Save me!'

"I saw a husband, and a guilty wife,

Who once made all the sunshine of his life,

Kneeling upon the threshold of her home,

Where heavily her weary feet had come:

A faded form, a humble brow, are hers--

The livery which sinful sorrow wears;

While with deep agony she lifts her eyes,

And prays him to forgive her, ere she dies!

Long days--long days swell in his broken heart,

When death had seem'd less bitter than to part--

When in her innocence her hush'd lip spoke

The faint confession of the love he woke;

And the first kiss on that pure cheek impress'd,

Made her shrink, trembling, from his faithful breast.

And after years when her light footstep made

Most precious music--when in sun or shade

She was the same bright, happy, loving thing--

Low at his feet she now lies withering!

His half-stretch'd hand already bids her be

Forgiven and at peace--his kindly eye

Is turn'd on her through tears, to think that she,

His purely-loved, should bide such agony.

Already on his tongue the quivering word

Of comfort trembles, though as yet unheard;

Already he hath bent o'er that pale face:

Why starts he, groaning, from her wild embrace?

Oh! as she clasp'd his knees, her full heart woke

To all its tenderness--a murmur broke

Forth from her lip; the cherish'd name of one

Whose image dwelt when purity was gone,

Secure amid the ruins of lost things,

Filling her soul with soft imaginings,

Like a lone flower within the moss-grown halls

Where echo vainly unto echo calls.

Deep wrath, and agony, and vain despair,

Are painted on his brow who hears her prayer.

'Breathe not her name--it is a sound

Of fearfulness and dread.

Seest thou no trace of tears around?

Yet have salt tears been shed!

Thy babe who nestled at thy breast,

And laugh'd upon thy knee;

That creature of the quiet rest,

Thy child--was too like thee!

The careless fawn that lightly springs--

The rosebud in the dew--

The fair of nature's fairy things--

Like them thy daughter grew.

And then she left her father's side,

Not, woman! as a happy bride,

With a tearful smile, half sad, half meek;

The flush of guilt was on her cheek:

And in the desert wilds I sought--

And in the haunts of men.

Woman! what thou hast felt is naught

To what I suffer'd then.

I thought that--but it may not be--

I thought I could have pardon'd thee;

But when I dream of her, and think

Thy steps led on to ruin's brink--

Oh she is gone, and thou art here

Where ye both were of yore--

To mock with late-repentant tear

Hopes which may come no more!

Hadst thou, frail wretch, been by her still,

To shield her gentle head from ill--

To do thy mother's part--but go--

I will not curse thee, in my woe :

Only, depart!--and haply when

Lonely and left I die,

Thy pardon'd form shall rise again

And claim one parting sigh!'

He closed on her the portal of her home,

Where never more her weary feet may come--

And their wrung hearts are sever'd till that day

When God shall hear, and judge the things of clay.

"I saw the parricide raving stand,

With a rolling eye, and a bloody hand;

Through his thick chill veins the curdling stream

Flows dark and languid. No sunny beam

Can wake the deep pulse of his heart to joy,

Since he raised his murderous hand to destroy.

By day, by night, no pause is given

Of hope to the soul accursed by Heaven.

Through the riotous feast; through his own dull groans;

Through the musical sound of his loved one's tones;

Through the whispering breath of the evening air,

Faulters the old man's dying prayer.

Few were the words he spoke as he sank;

And the greedy poniard his life-blood drank:

'Spare me, my son, I will yield thee all.'

Oh, what would the murderer give to recall

One murmuring sigh to that silent tongue,

Which in infancy sought his ear to please;

One pulse of life, to the hands that clung

Feebly and tremblingly round his knees!

In vain! he hath won the gold he sought;

And the burning agony of thought

Shall haunt him still, till he lays his head

With a shuddering groan on his dying bed!

"I saw a young head bow'd in its deep woe,

Ev'n unto death; and sad, and faint, and slow,

As she sat lonely in her hall of tears,

Her lips address'd some shade of other years:

'Oh! dear to the eyes that are weeping

Was thy form, my lost love:

Though the heart where thine image is sleeping

Its truth might not prove.

I have wept and turn'd from thee, for fear thou shouldst trace

All the love that I bore thee, deep writ on my face.

But oh! could we once more be meeting,

As then, love, we met:

Could I feel that fond heart of thine beating,

Close, close, to mine yet:

I would cling to thee, dearest, nor fear thou shouldst guess

How deeply thy welcome had power to bless,

Oh! tis not for a day, or an hour,

I part from thee now,

To weep and shake off, like a flower,

The tears from my brow:

'Tis to sit dreaming idly of days that are gone,

And start up to remember--that I am alone.

They say that my heart hath recover'd

The deep bitter blow;

That the cloud which for long days hath hover'd,

Is gone from my brow;

That my eyes do not weep, and my lips wear a smile;

It is true --but I do not forget thee the while.

Oh, they know not, amidst all my gladness,

Thy shadow is there:

They feel not the deep thrill of sadness,

Nor the soul's lone despair.

They see not the sudden quick pang, when thy name

Is carelessly utter'd, to praise or to blame!

If to gaze on each long-treasured token

Till bitter tears flow,

And to wonder my heart is not broken

By the weight of its woe:

To join in the world's loud and 'wildering din,

While a passionate feeling is choking within:

If to yearn, in the arms that once bound thee,

To lean down my head;

With the dear ones who used to come round thee,

Salt tear-drops to shed:

If to list to the voice that is like thine, in vain;

And feel its dim echo ring wild through my brain:

If to dream there were pleasure in meeting

Those who once were with thee:

To murmur a sad farewell greeting,

Then sink on my knee;

With my straining hands clasp'd to the Heavens in prayer,

And my choked bosom heaving with grief and despair:

If to sit and to think of thee only,

While they laugh round the hearth;

And feel my full heart grow more lonely

At the sound of their mirth:--

If this be forgetting thee, dear one and good--

Forget thee--forget thee--Oh God! that I could!'

"I saw the child of parents poor,

Dreaming with pain of her cottage door;

Which she left for the splendour which may not cheer--

Pomp hath not power to dry one tear.

The palace--the sunshine--what are they to her

'Mid the heart's full throb, and the bosom's stir?

The picture that rises bedimm'd with tears,

Is an aged woman, bow'd down by years;

Sitting alone in her evening's close,

And feebly weeping for many woes.

Her thin hands are weaving the endless thread,

Her faded eyes gaze where her daughter fled,

O'er the moss-grown copse and the wooded hill:

'Oh! would that I were with my mother still!

That I were with her who rear'd me up--

(And I fill'd to the brim her sorrow's cup)--

That I were with her who taught me to pray

At the morning's dawn and the close of day--

That I were with her whose harshest look

Was half of sorrow and half rebuke.

Oh! the depth of my sin I never could see,

But I feel it now, with the babe on my knee.'

The high proud gaze of her scornful eye

Is quench'd with the tears for days gone by;

And her little one starts from its broken rest,

Woke by the sobs of that heaving breast.

She gazes with fear on its undimm'd brow--

What are the thoughts that lurk below?

Perchance, like her own, the day will come

When its name shall be hush'd in its parent home;

When the hearts that cherish its lightest tone,

Shall wish that the sound from earth were gone.

Perchance it is doom'd to an early grave,

Or a struggling death on the stormy wave;

Or the fair little dimpled hand that clings

So fast in her soft hair's shining rings,

May be dark with the blood of his fellow-men,

And the clanking chain hang round it then.

Haply, forgetting her patient care,

The young, bright creature slumbering there,

Shall forsake her--as she hath forsaken them--

For a heavy heart and a diadem!

She clasps it strong with a burning kiss--

'Oh God! in thy mercy, spare me this.''

"I saw a widow, by her cherish'd son,

Ere all of light, and life, and hope, was gone--

When the last dying glance was faintly raised,

Ere death with withering power the brightness glazed

Of those deep heavenly eyes: a glance which seem'd

To ask her, if the world where he had dream'd

Such dreams of happiness with her, must be

Forsaken in the spring-tide of his glee:

If he indeed must die. I saw her take

His hand, and gaze, as if her heart would break,

On his pale brow and languid limbs of grace,

And wipe the death-dew gently from his face.

I saw her after, when the unconscious clay,

Deaf to her wild appeals, all mutely lay,

With brow upturn'd, and parted lips, whose hue

Was scarce more pale than hers, who met my view.

She stood, and wept not in her deep despair,

But press'd her lips upon his shining hair

With a long bitter kiss, and then with grief--

Like hers of old, who pray'd and found relief--

She groan'd to God, and watch'd to see him stir,

But, ah! no prophet came, to raise him up for her!

"I saw the orphan go forth in dread

Through the pitiless world, and turn to gaze

Once more on the dark and narrow bed

Where sleep the authors of her days.

Well may she weep them, for never more,

After she turns from that cottage door,

Will her young heart beat to a kindly word,

Such as in early days she heard:

Or her young eye shine, as she hastens her pace

To bask in the light of a loved one's face.

Her lot is cast;

Her hope is past;

The careless, the cold, and the cruel may come

To gaze on the orphan, and pass her by:

But a word, or a sound, or a look of home--

For them she must bow her head, and die!

"I saw the dark and city-clouded spot,

Where, by his busy patrons all forgot,

The young sad poet dreams of better days,

And gives his genius forth in darken'd rays.

Chill o'er his soul, gaunt poverty hath thrown

Her veil of shadows, as he sighs alone;

And, withering up the springs and streams of youth,

Left him to feel misfortune's bitter truth,

And own with deep, impassion'd bitterness,

Who would describe--must faintly feel, distress.

Slowly he wanders, with a languid pace,

To the small window of his hiding-place;

Pressing with straining force, all vainly now,

His hot, weak fingers on his throbbing brow;

And seeking for bright thoughts, which care and pain

Have driven from his dim and 'wilder'd brain.

He breathes a moment that unclouded air,

And gazes on the face of nature there--

Longing for fresh wild flowers and verdant fields,

And all the joys the open sunshine yields:

Then turning, he doth rest his heavy eye

Where his torn papers in confusion lie,

And raves awhile, and seats himself again,

To toil and strive for thoughts and words, in vain:

Till he can bid his drooping fancy feel,

And barter genius, for a scanty meal!

"I've been where fell disease a war hath waged

Against young joy,--where pestilence hath raged,

And beauty hath departed from the earth

With none to weep her.--I have seen the birth

Of the lorn infant, greeted but with tears,

And dim forebodings, and remorseful fears,

When to the weary one the grave would show

Less dreadful than a long long life of woe.

I've been in prisons, where in lone despair,

Barr'd from God's precious gifts, the sun and air,

The debtor pines, for a little gold,

His fellow man in iron chains would hold:

There have I seen the bright inquiring eye

Fade into dull and listless vacancy;

There have I seen the meek grow stern and wild;

And the strong man sit weeping like a child;

Till God's poor tortured creatures in their heart

Were fain to Curse their Maker, and depart.

All have I seen--and I have watch'd apart

The fruitless struggles of a breaking heart,

Bruised, crush'd, and wounded by the spoiler's power,

And left to wither like a trodden flower;

Till I have learnt with ease each thought to trace

That flush'd across the fair and fading face,

And known the source of tears, which day by day

Weakness hath shed, and pride hath brush'd away.

"It was in Erin--in the autumn time,

By the broad Shannon's banks of beauty roaming;

I saw a scene of mingled woe and crime--

Oh! ev'n to my sear'd eyes the tears seem'd coming!

It was a mother standing gaunt and wild,

Working her soul to murder her young child,

Who lay unconscious in its soft repose

Upon the breast, that heaved with many woes.

She stood beside the waters, but her eyes

Were not upon the river, nor the skies,

Nor on the fading things of earth. Her soul

Was rapt in bitterness--and evening stole

Chill o'er her form, while yet with nerveless hand

She sought to throw her burden from the land.

'Twas pitiful to see her strive in vain,

Rise sternly up, then melt to love again;

With horrible energy, and lip compress'd,

Hold forth her child--then strain it to her breast

Convulsively; as if some gentle thought

Of all its helpless beauty first was brought

Into her 'wilder'd mind--the soft faint smiles,

Whose charm the mother of her tears beguiles,

Which speak not aught of mirth or merriment,

But of full confidence, and deep content,

And ignorance of woe:--the murmur'd sounds

Which were to her a language, rise up now--

And, like a torrent bursting from its bounds,

Swell in her heart, and shoot across her brow.

Oh! she who plans its death in her despair,

Hath tended it with fond and watchful care;

Hath borne it wearily for many a mile,

Repaid with one fond glance, or gentle smile:

Hath watch'd through long dark nights with patient love,

When some light sickness struck her nestling dove;

And yearn'd to bear its pain, when that meek eye

Turn'd on her, with appealing agony!

Look on her now!--that faint and feverish start

Hath waken'd all the mother in her heart:

That feeble cry hath thrill'd her very frame :--

Was it for murder such a soft heart came?

She will not do it--Fool! the spirit there

Is stronger far than love--it is despair!

Mothers alone may read that mother's woe:

Her heart may break--but she will strike the blow.

Once more she pauses; bending o'er its face,

Calm and unconscious in its timid grace;

Then murmurs to it by the chilly wave,

Ere one strong effort dooms it to the grave:--

'Thou of the sinless breast!

Which passion hath not heaved, nor dark remorse

Swell'd with its full and agonizing curse--

Lo! thou art come to rest!

'Warm is thy guileless heart,

Whose slight quick pulses soon shall beat no more:

Hear'st thou the strong trees rock?--the loud winds roar?

I and my child must part!

'Deep 'neath the sullen sky,

And the dark waters which do boil and foam,

Greedy to take thee to their silent home--

My little one must lie!

'Peace to thy harmless soul!

There is a heaven where thou mayst dwell in peace;

Where the dark howling of the waters cease,

Which o'er thy young head roll.

'There, in the blue still night,

Thou'lt watch, where stars are gleaming from the sky,

O'er the dark spot where thou wert doom'd to die,

And smile, a cherub bright.'

"A plash upon the waves--a low

Half-stifled sob, which seem'd as though

The choked breath fought against the stream--

And all was silent as a dream.

Then rose the shriek that might not stay,

Though much that soul had braved;

And ere its echo died away,

Her little one was saved.

Sudden I plunged, and panting caught

The bright and floating hair,

Which on the waters lustre brought,

As if 'twere sunshine there.

I stood beside that form of want and sin,

That miserable woman in her tears;

Who wept, as though she had not cast it in

To perish with the sorrows of past years.

She thank'd me with a bitter thankfulness,

And thus I spoke: 'Oh! woman, if it is

Sickness and poverty, and lone distress,

That prompted thee to do a deed like this,

Take gold, and wander forth, and let me be

A parent to the child renounced by thee!'

Greedily did she gaze upon the gold,

With a wild avarice in her hollow eye;

And stretch'd her thin damp fingers, clammy cold,

To seize the glittering ore with ecstasy.

But when I claim'd the little helpless thing,

For whose young life that gold had paid the worth;

Close to the breast where it lay shivering,

She strain'd it gaspingly, and then burst forth:--

'I would have slain it! Fool! 'tis true I would;

Because I saw it pine, and had no food:

Because I could not bear its faint frail cry,

Which told my brain such tales of agony:

Because its dumb petitioning glances said,

Am I thy child? and canst not give me bread?

Because, while faint and droopingly it lay

Within my failing arms from day to day,

The tigress rose within my soul--I could

Have slain a man, and bid it lap his blood!

My little one!--my uncomplaining child!

Whose lengthen'd misery drove thy mother wild,

Did they believe that aught but death could part

These nestling limbs from her poor tortured heart?--

No! had the slimy waters gurgled o'er

Thy corpse, and wash'd the slippery reed-grown shore,

Leaving no trace, except in my despair,

Of what had once disturb'd the stillness there--

I could have gazed upon it, and not wept;

For calmly then my little one had slept.

No nightly moans would then have wrung my soul;

No daylight withering bid the tear-drop roll.

In my dark hours of misery and want,

The memory of thy pallid face might haunt,

Not, not to wring my heart with vain regret,

But to remind what thou hadst suffer'd yet,

If from life's wretchedness I had not freed

Thy grateful soul, which thank'd me for the deed.

I lost thee--but I have thee here again,

Close to the heart which now can feel no pain.

Cling to me!--let me feel that velvet cheek--

Look at me, with those eyes so dove-like meek!

Press thy pale lips to mine, and let me be

Repaid for all I have endured for thee.

Part from thee!--never! while this arm hath strength

To hold thee to the bosom where thou liest:

Praise be to God, bright days have dawn'd at length!

I need not watch thy struggles as thou diest.

Part from thee! never--no, my pale sweet flower!

The wealth of worlds would bribe my heart in vain,

Though 'twere to give thee up for one short hour--

Take back thy gold--I have my babe again!

Yet give me food, and I will clasp thy knees,

And night and day will kneel for thee to Heaven;

Else will a lingering death of slow disease,

Or famine gaunt, be all that thou hast given.

And when I die-- then, then be kind'--She ceased:

Her parted lips were tinged with crimson gore,

Her faint hand half, and only half, released

The unconscious form she had been weeping o'er:

Worn nature could not bear the sudden strife;

I look'd upon her--but there was no life!

"That little outcast grew a fairy girl,

A beautiful, a most beloved one.

There was a charm in every separate curl

Whose rings of jet hung glistening in the sun,

Which warm'd her marble brow. There was a grace

Peculiar to herself, ev'n from the first:

Shadows and thoughtfulness you seem'd to trace

Upon that brow, and then a sudden burst

Of sunniness and laughter sparkled out,

And spread their rays of joyfulness about.

Like the wild music of her native land,

Which wakes to joy beneath the minstrel's hand,

Yet at its close gives forth a lingering tone--

Sad, as if mourning that its mirth is gone,

And leaves that note to dwell within your heart,

When all the sounds of joyfulness depart:

So in her heart's full chords there seem'd to be

A strange and wild, but lovely melody:

Half grief--half gladness--but the sadness still

Hanging like shadows on a summer rill.

And when her soul from its deep silence woke,

And from her lip sweet note of answer broke,

Memory in vain would seek the smile that play'd

With her slow words, like one beam in the shade;

Her sorrow hung upon your heart for years--

And all her sweet smiles darken'd into tears.

I loved her, as a father loves his child:

For she was dutiful, and fond, and mild,

As children should be--and she ripen'd on

Like a young rosebud opening to the sun;

Till the full light of womanhood was shed,

Like a soft glory, round about her head.

In all my wanderings, through good and ill,

In storm and sunshine, she was with me still:

Not like a cold sad shadow, forced to glide

Weary--unloved--unnoticed, by my side:

But with her whole heart's worship, ever near,

To love, to smile, to comfort, and to cheer.

Her gentle soul would fear to hurt a worm;

Yet danger found her unappall'd and firm:

Her lip might blanch, but her unalter'd eye

Said, I am ready for thy sake to die.

She stood by me and fear'd not, in that place

When the scared remnant of my wretched race

Gave England's Richard gifts, to let them be

All unmolested in their misery:

And while their jewels sparkled on his hand,

His traitor lips gave forth the dark command

Which, midst a drunken nation's loud carouse,

Sent unexpected death from house to house,

Bade strong arms strike, where none their force withstood,

And woman's wail be quench'd in woman's blood.

She stood by me and fear'd not, when again,

A bloody death cut short a life of pain;

When, with red glaring eyes and desperate force,

Brother laid brother low, a prostrate corse,

Rather than yield their bodies up to those,

In word, in act, and in religion--foes.

She gazed and fainted not, while all around

They lay like slaughter'd cattle on the ground;

With the wide gash in each extended throat,

Calling for vengeance to the God who smote

On Israel's side, ere Israel fell away,

And in her guilt was made the stranger's prey.

"And after that, we dwelt in many lands,

And wander'd through the desert's burning sands;

Where, strange to say, young Miriam sigh'd to be:

Where nature lay stretch'd out so silently

Beneath the glorious sun, and here and there

The fountains bubbled up, as fresh and fair

As if the earth were fill'd with them, and none

In their last agonizing thirst sank down,

With eyes turn'd sadly to far distant dreams

Of unseen gushing waters, and cool streams.

"There is a little island all alone

In the blue Mediterranean; and we went

Where never yet a human foot had gone,

And dwelt there, and young Miriam was content.

There was a natural fountain, where no ray

Of light or warmth had ever found its way,

Thick clustered o'er with flowers; and there she made

A bower of deep retirement and shade;

And proud she was, when, rosy with the glow

Of triumph and exertion, she could show

Her palace of green leaves,--and watch my eyes

For the expected glance of pleased surprise.

Oh! she was beautiful!--if ever earth

To aught of breathing loveliness gave birth.

"One evening--one sweet evening, as we stood,

Silently gazing on the silent flood:

A sudden thought rose swelling in my heart:

Ought my sweet Miriam thus to dwell apart

From human kind? So good, so pure, so bright,

So form'd to be a fervent heart's delight;

Was she to waste the power and will to bless

In ministering to my loneliness?

And then a moment's glance took in her life--

I saw my Miriam a blessed wife;

I saw her with fair children round her knee,

I heard their voices in that home of glee,

And turn'd to gaze on her:--if ever yet,

Turning with shadowy hope, and vain regret,

And consciousness of secret guilt or woe,

Thine eyes have rested on the open brow

Of sinless childhood--thou hast known what I

Felt, when my glance met Miriam's cloudless eye.

Oh! Thought, thou mould where misery is cast--

Thou joiner of the present with the past--

Eternal torturer! wherefore can we not

Through all our life be careless of our lot

As in our early years?--No cares to come

Threw their vain shadow o'er her bosom's home;

No bitter sorrow, with its vain recall,

Poison'd her hope--the present hour was all.

I gazed on her--and as a slow smile broke

Of meek affection round her rosy mouth,

I thought the simple words my heart would choke,

'Would Miriam weep to leave the sunny south?'

Silent she stood--then, in a tone scarce heard,

Faulter'd forth, 'father!' Oh! it wrung, that word;

And snatching her with haste unto my breast,

Where in her childhood's hour of sunny rest

Calmly her innocent head had often slept,

With a strange sense of misery--I wept.

"Oh! weary days, oh! weary days,

Of flattery and empty praise,

When in the tainted haunts of men

My Miriam was brought again.

With vacant gaze and gentle sigh,

She turned her from them mournfully;

As if she rather felt, than saw,

That they were near:--they scarce could draw

A word of answer from her tongue,

Where once such merry music rung,

Save when the island was their theme--

And then, as waking from a dream,

Her soft eye lighted for a while,

And round her mouth a playful smile

Stole for a moment, and then fled,

As if the hope within were dead.

Where'er I gazed, where'er I went,

Her earnest look was on me bent

Stealthily, as she wish'd to trace

Her term of exile on my face.

And many sought her hand in vain.

With pleading voice, and look of pain.

Weepingly she would turn away

When I besought her to be gay;

And resolutely firm, withstood

The noble and the great of blood;

Though they woo'd humbly, as they woo

Who scarcely hope for what they sue.

Oh! glad was Miriam, when at last

I deem'd our term of absence past:

And as her light foot quickly sprang

From out our bark, 'twas thus she sang:--

'The world! the sunny world! I love

To roam untired, till evening throws

Sweet shadows through the pleasant grove,

And bees are murmuring on the rose.

I love to see the changeful flowers

Lie blushing in the glowing day--

Bend down their heads to 'scape the showers,

Then shake the chilly drops away.

'The world! the sunny world! oh bright

And beautiful indeed thou art--

The brilliant day, the dark-blue night,

Bring joy--but not to every heart.

No! till, like flowers, those hearts can fling

Grief's drops from off their folded leaves,

'Twill only smile in hope's bright spring,

And darken when the spirit grieves.'

"She was return'd; but yet she grew not glad;

Her cheek wore not the freshness which it had.

The withering of the world, like the wild storm

Over a tender blossom, left her form

With traces of the havoc that had been,

Ev'n in the sunny calm, and placid scene.

Her brow was darken'd with a gentle cloud;

Her step was slower, and her laugh less loud;

And oft her sweet voice faulter'd, though she said

Nothing in which deep meaning could be read.

I watch'd her gestures when she saw me not,

And once--(oh! will that evening be forgot?)

I stole upon her, when she little thought

Aught but the moaning wind her whispers caught.

"She sat within her bower, where the sun

Linger'd, as loth to think his task was done:

And languidly she raised her heavy gaze,

To meet the splendour of his parting rays.

O'er the smooth cheek which rested on her hand;

Down the rich curls by evening breezes fann'd;

Upon the full red lip, and rounded arm,

The swan-like neck, so snowy, yet so warm--

Each charm the rosy light was wandering o'er,

Brightening what seem'd all-beautiful before.

I paused a moment, gazing yet unseen

Beneath the sleeping shadows dark and green;

And thought, how strange that one so form'd to bless

Should better love to live in loneliness.

Pure, but not passionless, was that soft brow

So warmly gilded by the sunset now;

And in her glistening eye there shone a tear,

Like those we shed when dreaming--for some dear

But lost illusion, which returns awhile

Our nights to brighten with remember'd smile,

And yet we feel is lost, though sleep, strong sleep,

Chains the swoln lid, that fain would wake and weep.

I sat me down beside her; round the zone

That clasp'd her slender waist my arm was thrown:

And the bright ringlets of her shining hair

My fond hand parted on her forehead fair;

And thus I spoke, as with a smile and sigh

She murmur'd forth a welcome timidly:

'Again within the desert and at rest,

Say, does my Miriam find herself more blest,

Than when gay throngs in fond devotion hung

Upon the sportive accents of her tongue?

Is all which made the city seem so gay,

The song, the dance, all dream-like pass'd away?

The sighs, the vows, the worshipping forgot?

And art thou happier in this lonely spot?

Is there no form, all vision-like enshrined

Deep 'mid the treasures of thy guileless mind?

And, deaf to every pure and faithful sigh,

Say, would my desert rose-bud lonely die?'

High, 'neath the arm which carelessly caress'd,

Rose the quick beatings of that gentle breast;

And the slight pulses of her fair young hand,

Which lay so stirlessly within my own,

Trembled and stopp'd, and trembled, as I scann'd

The flushing cheek on which my glance was thrown.

'She loves,' said I; while selfish bitter grief

Swell'd in my soul;--'she loves, and I must live

Alone again, more wretched for the brief

Bright sunshine which her presence used to give.'

And then with sadden'd tones, (which, though I strove

To make them playful, tremulously came)

I murmur'd:'Yes! he lives, whom thou canst love.

His name, dear Miriam--whisper me his name.'

There was a pause, and audibly she drew

Her heaving breath; and faint and fainter grew

The hand that lay in mine; and o'er her brow

Flush'd shadows chased each other to and fro:

Till like a scorch'd-up flower, with languid grace

That young head droop'd, but sought no resting-place.

"Dreams pass'd across my soul--dreams of old days--

Of forms which in the quiet grave lay sleeping;

Of eyes which death had stripp'd of all their rays,

And weary life had quench'd with bitter weeping:

Dreams of the days when, human still, my heart

Refused to feel immortal, and kept clinging

To transient joys, which came and did depart

As fresh flowers wither, which young hands are flinging.

Dreams of the days I loved, and was beloved--

When some young heart for me its sighs was giving,

And fond lips murmur'd forth the vow that proved

Its truth in death, its tenderness when living:

And dreaming thus, I sigh'd. Answering, there came

A deep, low, tremulous sob, which thrill'd my frame.

A moment, that young form shrunk back abash'd

At its own feelings; and all vainly dash'd

The tear aside, which speedily return'd

To quench the cheek where fleeting blushes burn'd.

A moment, while I sought her fears to stay,

The timid girl in silence shrank away--

A moment, from my grasp her hand withdrew--

A moment, hid her features from my view--

Then rising, sank with tears upon my breast,

Her struggles and her love at once confess'd.

"Years--sorrow--death--the hopes that leave me lone,

All I have suffer'd, and must suffer on;

The love of other bright things which may pass

In half eclipse, beyond the darken'd glass

Through which my tearful soul hath learnt to gaze--

The fond delusions of all future days:--

All that this world can bring, hath not the power

To blot from memory that delicious hour.

She, who I thought would leave me desolate--

For whom I brooded o'er a future fate;

She, who had wander'd through each sunny land,

Yet found no heart that could her love command--

She lay within my arms, my own--my own--

Unsought, unwoo'd, but oh! too surely won.

"She was not one of many words and vows,

And breathings of her love, and eager shows

Of warm affection;--in her quiet eye,

Which gazed on all she worshipp'd silently,

There dwelt deep confidence in what she loved,

And nothing more--till some slight action proved

My ceaseless thought of her: then her heart woke,

And fervent feeling like a sunrise broke

O'er her illumined face. Her love for me

Was pure and deep, and hidden as the fount

Which floweth 'neath our footsteps gushingly,

And of whose wanderings none may take account;

And like those waters, when the fountain burst

To light and sunshine, which lay dark at first,

Quietly deep, it still kept flowing on--

Not the less pure for being look'd upon.

"And then she loved all things, and all loved her.

Each sound that mingleth in the busy stir

Of nature, was to her young bosom rife

With the intelligence of human life.

Edith, my playful Edith, when her heart

Tenderly woke to do its woman's part,

Fill'd with a sentiment so strong and new,

Each childish passion from her mind withdrew,

And looking round upon the world beheld

Her Isbal only. By deep sorrow quell'd,

Xarifa's was a melancholy love.

The plashing waters, the blue sky above,

The echo speaking from the distant hill,

The murmurs indistinct which sweetly fill

The evening air--all had for her a tone

Of mournful music--and I stood alone

The one thing that could bid her heart rejoice

With the deep comfort of a human voice.

Not so, young Miriam. Love, within her breast,

Had been a welcome and familiar guest

Ev'n from her childhood:--I was link'd with all

The sunny things that to her lot might fall;

The past--the present--and the future, were

Replete with joys in which I had my share.

Nothing had been, or ever could be, felt

Singly, within the heart where such love dwelt--

Her birds, her trees, her favourite walks, her flowers,

She knew them not as hers--they were all ours.

And thus she loved in her imaginings

Our earth, and all its dumb and living things;

Oft whispering in her momentary glee,

It was the world I dwelt in; part of me:

And, bound by a sweet charm she might not break,

She look'd upon that world, and loved it for my sake.

"How shall I tell it? Linda, a dark pain

Is in my heart, and in my burning brain.--

Where is she?--where is Miriam?--who art thou?

Oh! wipe the death-dew from her pallid brow;

I dare not touch her! See, how still she lies,

Closing in weakness her averted eyes:

Gaspingly struggling for her gentle breath--

And stretching out her quivering limbs in death!

Will no one save her? Fool!--the shadow there

Is the creation of thine own despair.

No love, no agony, is in her heart:

In sin, in suffering, she hath now no part.

She is gone from thee--sooner doom'd to go

Than Nature meant; but thou didst will it so.

"Oh, Linda! the remembrance of that day,

When sad Xarifa's spirit pass'd away,

Haunted me ever with a power that thou,

Who hast not sinn'd or suffer'd, canst not know.

My joys were turn'd to miseries, and wrought

My heart into delirium; I thought

That, as she wept, so Miriam would weep,

And start and murmur in her troubled sleep:

That, as she doubted, Miriam too would find

A dark suspicion steal across her mind:

That, as she faded, Miriam too would fade,

And lose the smile that round her full lips play'd:

That as she perish'd--Miriam too would die,

And chide me with her last reproachful sigh.

Often when gazing on her open brow,

And the pure crimson of her soft cheek's glow--

Sudden, a dark unhappy change would seem

To fall upon her features like a dream.

In vain her merry voice, with laughing tone,

Bade the dim shadow from my heart begone:

Pale--pale and sorrowful--she seem'd to rise,

Death on her cheek, and darkness in her eyes;

The roundness of her form was gone, and care

Had blanch'd the tresses of her glossy hair.

Wan and reproachful, mournfully and mild

Her thin lips moved, and with an effort smiled.

And when with writhing agony I woke

From the delusion, and the dark spell broke;

And Miriam stood there, smiling brilliantly,

Shuddering, I said, 'And yet these things must be.'

Must be;--that young confiding heart must shrink

From my caress; the joyous eyes which drink

Light from the sunshine that doth play within,

Must grovel downcast with a sense of sin;

Or, startled into consciousness, will gaze

Bewilderingly upon the sunset rays;

And, meeting mine, with sorrow wild and deep,

Heart and eyes sinking, turn again to weep.

Yes, these things must be: if, when years have pass'd,

Each leaving her more fading than the last,

She turns to the companion of her track,

And, while her wandering thoughts roam sadly back,

Seeks in her soul the reason why his form

Laughs at the slow decay or ruffling storm,

That hath wreck'd better things;--while on her sight,

With the deep horrible glare, and certain light

Of hell to a lost soul, the slow truth breaks;

Till, as one wounded in his sleep, awakes

To writhe, and shriek, and perish--silently:

Her heart is roused--to comprehend and die.

"To die!--and wherefore should she not depart

Ere doubt hath agonized the trusting heart?

Wherefore not pass away from earth, ere yet

Its mossy bosom with her tears is wet?--

It was a summer's morning, when the first

Glance of that dreadful haunting vision burst

Upon my mind:--I doom'd her then to die,

For then I pictured to my heart and eye

A world where Miriam was not:--often after,

Amid the joyous ringing of her laughter,

In sunshine and in shade, those thoughts return'd,

Madden'd my brain, and in my bosom burn'd.

Oh, God! how bitter were those idle hours,

When softly bending o'er her fragrant flowers,

She form'd her innocent plans, and playfully

Spoke of that future which was not to be!

How bitter were her smiles--her perfect love--

Her deep reliance, which no frowns could move,

On the affections of my murderous heart,

Where the thought brooded,--when shall she depart?

As Jephthah gazed upon her smiling face,

Who bounded forth to claim his first embrace;

And felt, with breathless and bewilder'd pause,

Her early death foredoom'd--her love the cause:

As Jephthah struggled with the vow that still

Bound his pain'd soul against his own free will;

And heard her fond and meekly-worded prayer,

To climb the well-known hills, and wander there,

Weeping to think that in her virgin pride

The beautiful must perish--no man's bride;

And that her name must die away from earth;

And that her voice must leave the halls of mirth,

And they be not less mirthful: so to me

It was to gaze on Miriam silently:

Miriam, who loved me; who, if I had said,

'Lo! thou must perish--bow thy gentle head,'--

Would have repress'd each faint life-longing sigh,

Bared her white bosom, and knelt down to die,

Without a murmur.--So when she upraised

Her quiet eyes, and on my features gazed,

Asking me to come forth and roam with her

Around her favourite haunts, the maddening stir

Of agony and vain resolve would rend

My bosom, and to earth my proud head bend.

It seem'd to me as if that gentle prayer

She breathed--to bid farewell to all her share

Of life and sunshine; to behold again

The high bright happy hills and outstretch'd plain;

And then--come back and die. I left that isle,

And Miriam follow'd with a tearful smile,

Glad to be with me, sorrowful to go

From the dear scene of joy and transient woe.

As Eve to Eden--towards that land of rest

She gazed, then turn'd, and wept upon my breast.

To Italy's sweet shores we bent our course;

And for a while my grief and my remorse,

And all my fearful thoughts, forsook me, when

We mingled in the busy haunts of men.

But oh! the hour was fix'd--though long delay'd;

Like the poor felon's doom, which some reprieve hath stay'd.

"One night a dream disturb'd my frenzied soul.

Methought, to Miriam I confess'd the whole

Of what thou know'st, and watch'd her young glad face,

That on her brow her feelings I might trace.

Methought that, as I gazed, the flushing red

Once more upon her cheek and bosom spread,

As when she told her love; and then--and then--

(How strongly does that vision rise again!)

Each hue of life by gradual shades withdrew,

Till ev'n her dark blue eyes seem'd fading too.

Paler and paler--whiter and more white--

Gazing upon me in the ghastly light,

Her features grew; till all at length did seem

Like moving marble, in that sickly dream,

Except the faded eyes; they faintly kept

The hue of life, and look'd on me, and wept.

And still she spoke not, but stood weeping there,

Till I was madden'd with mine own despair--

And woke. She lay beside me, who was soon

To perish by my hand: the pale clear moon

O'er her fair form a marble whiteness threw,

And wild within my heart the madness grew.

I rush'd from out that chamber, and I stood

By the dim waters of the moon-lit flood;

And in that hour of frantic misery,

I thought my vision told how she would die,

Pining and weeping.--I return'd again,

And gazed upon her with a sickening pain.

Her fair soft arms were flung above her head,

And the deep rose of sleep her cheek was tinging:

The tear which all who follow me must shed,

Slept 'neath the lashes which those orbs were fringing.

And there she lay--so still, so statue-like--

I stagger'd to her--

I lifted up my desperate arm to strike--

Linda--I slew her!

Once--only once--she faintly strove to rise;

Once--only once--she call'd upon my name;

And o'er the dark blue heaven of those eyes,

Death, with its midnight shadows, slowly came.

That tone's despairing echo died away;

The last faint quivering pulsation ceased

To thrill that form of beauty, as it lay

From all the storms and cares of life released:

And I sat by the dead. Fast o'er my soul

A dream of memory's treasured relics stole.

And the day rose before me, and the hour,

When Miriam sat within her own sweet bower,

The red rich sunset lighting on her cheek;

Afraid to trust herself to move or speak,

Conscious and shrinking--while I strove to trace

Her bosom's secret on her guileless face.

I turn'd to press her to my burning heart--

I that had slain her--Wherefore did I start?

Cold, pure, and pale, that glowing cheek was laid,

And motionless each marble limb was lying;

Closed were those eyes which tears of passion shed,

And hush'd the voice that call'd on me in dying.

Gone!--gone!--that frozen bosom never more,

Press'd to mine own, in rapture shall be beating:

Gone!--gone!--her love, her struggles--all was o'er,

Life--weary life, would bring for us no meeting!

"They bore her from me, and they laid her low,

With all her beauty, in the cheerless tomb;

And dragg'd me forth, all weak with pain and woe,

Heedless of death, to meet a murderer's doom.

The wheel--the torturing wheel--was placed to tear

Each quivering limb, and wring forth drops of pain;

And they did mock me in my mute despair,

And point to it, and frown--but all in vain.

The hour at length arrived--a bright sweet day

Rose o'er the world of torture, and of crime;

And human blood-hounds and wild birds of prey

Waited with eagerness their feasting time.

And as I gazed, a wild hope sprang within

My feverish breast:--perchance this dreadful death

And my past sufferings might efface my sin;

And I might now resign my weary breath.

And as the blessed thought flash'd o'er my mind,

I gazed around, and smiled.--To die--to die--

Oh little thought those wolves of human kind,

What rapture in that word may sometimes lie!

They stripp'd my unresisting limbs, and bound;

And the huge ponderous engine gave a sound

Like a dull heavy echo of the moans,

The exhausted cries, the deep and sullen groans,

Of all its many victims. Through each vein

Thrill'd the strange sense of swift and certain pain;

And each strong muscle from the blood-stain'd rack,

Conscious of suffering, quiveringly shrank back.

But I rejoiced--I say I did rejoice:

And when from the loud multitude a voice

Cried 'Death!' I wildly echoed it, and said

'Death! Death! oh, lay me soon among the dead.'

And they did gaze on me with fiendish stare,

Half curiosity, and half the glare

Of bloody appetite; while to and fro,

Nearer and nearer, wheel'd the carrion crow,

As seeking where to strike.--A pause, and hark!

The signal sound!

When sudden as a dream, the heavens grew dark

On all around:

And the loud blast came sweeping in its wrath,

Scattering wide desolation o'er its path:

And the hoarse thunder struggled on its way;

And livid lightning mock'd the darken'd day

With its faint hellish lights.--They fled, that crowd,

With fearful shrieks, and cries, and murmurs loud,

And left me bound. The awful thunder crash'd

Above my head; and in my up-turn'd eyes

The gleams of forked fire brightly flash'd,

Then died along the dark and threatening skies:

And the wild howling of the fearful wind

Madden'd my ringing brain; while, swiftly driven,

The torrent showers fell all thick and blind,

Till mingling seem'd the earth and angry heaven,

A flash--a sound--a shock--and I was free--

Prostrate beside me lay the shiver'd wheel

In broken fragments--I groan'd heavily,

And for a while I ceased to breathe or feel.

"And I arose again, to know that death

Was not yet granted--that the feverish hope

Of yielding up in torture my cursed breath

Was quench'd for ever; and the boundless scope

Of weary life burst on my soul again,

Like the dim distance of the heaving main

On some lost mariner's faint failing eyes;

Who, fondly dreaming of his native shore,

(While in his throat the gurgling waters rise)

Fancies he breathes that welcome air once more,

And far across the bleak lone billows sees

Its blue cool rivers, and its shady trees;

Till when, upraised a moment by the wave,

He views the watery waste, and sickening draws

One long last gasping sigh for a green grave,

Ere helplessly he sinks in Ocean's yawning jaws.

"Night fell around. The quiet dews were weeping

Silently on the dark and mournful earth;

And Sorrow pale its sleepless watch was keeping,

And slumber weigh'd the closing lid of mirth;

While the full round-orb'd moon look'd calmly down

From her thin cloud, as from a light-wreathed crown:

And I went out beneath her silver beams;

And through my 'wilder'd brain there pass'd dark dreams

Of Miriam, and of misery, and death;

And of that tomb, and what lay hid beneath:

And I did lay my head upon that grave,

Weepingly calling on her gentle name;

And to the winds my grieving spirit gave

In words which half without my knowledge came:--

'Thou art gone, with all thy loveliness,

To the silence of the tomb,

Where the voice of friends can never bless,

Nor the cool sweet breezes come;

Deep, deep beneath the flowers bright,

Beneath the dark blue sky,

Which may not send its joyous light

To gladden those who die.

This world to thee was not a world of woe:

My bird of beauty! wherefore didst thou go?

'Thou art gone, and gone for ever--thou

In whom my life was bound:

The seal of death is on thy brow,

And in thy breast a wound.

Who could have slain thee, thou who wert

So helpless and so fair?

When strong arms rose to do thee hurt,

Why was not Isbal there?

Didst thou not call upon him in thy woe?

My bird of beauty! wherefore didst thou go?

'Thou art gone!--Oh! fain my heart would rest,

And dream--but thou art gone;

The head that lay upon my breast

Is hid beneath that stone.

And art thou there? and wilt thou ne'er

Rise up from that dark place,

And, shaking back thy glossy hair,

Laugh gladly in my face?

This world to thee was not a world of woe:

I loved thee--wherefore, wherefore didst thou go?

'Return, return! Oh! if the rack--

If nature's death-like strife,

Borne silently, could bring thee back

Once more to light, and life:

Ev'n if those lips that used to wreathe

Smiles that a glory shed,

Ne'er parted but in scorn, to breathe

Dark curses on my head:--

Oh! I could bear it all, nor think it woe:

My bird of beauty! wherefore didst thou go?

'Once more--once more--oh! yet once more!

If I could see thee stand,

A breathing creature, as before

I smote thee with this hand.

If that dear voice--oh! must these groans,

This agony be vain?

Will no one lift the ponderous stones,

And let thee rise again?

Thou wert not wont in life to work me woe:

My bird of beauty! wherefore didst thou go?'

"And then I reason'd--Wherefore should the sod

Hold all of her, which hath not gone to God?

I have the power again that form to see--

I have the wish once more with her to be:

And wherefore should we fear to look upon

What, from our sight, some few short hours is gone?

Wherefore the thrill our senses which comes o'er

At sight of what shall breathe and feel no more?

Oh! Miriam, can there be indeed a place

Where I must dread to look upon thy face?--

And then I knelt, and desperately did tear

The earth from off that form so young and fair,

And dash'd aside the sods which heavily

Press'd on the bosom which had beat for me.

At length 'twas over;--at the break of day

The scatter'd fragments round about me lay;

And we once more were seated side by side--

The half-immortal, and his victim bride!

What the grave yet had had no power to change,

Her long bright locks, these fingers did arrange

As she had worn them in her life's short spring;

And the sweet flowers which lay half withering

Upon the turf, I wreathed with pains and care,

And braided them among her glossy hair.

And the rich glow of light burst on mine eyes;

And the bright morning, with her dark blue skies,

Beam'd on the pale and faded form, that lay

Cold and unconscious in the waking day.

And forms drew round me, in a busy crowd:

But though I saw them come, I heeded not,

But call'd on Miriam with upbraidings loud,

And clung to that beloved and fatal spot.

And rude hands dragg'd me thence. I know not how

Or where they fetter'd me; but when I woke

From that night's dream, with cooler pulse and brow,

Chains hung around me, which might not be broke,

And in a damp deep dungeon I was flung,

With scarce a gleam of heaven's sweet light to cheer,

And silence round, save when my irons rung,

Or the stern keeper's foot was drawing near.

And many a weary day and sleepless night,

I sat unmoved within that wretched cell,

Dreaming confusedly of that last sight,

The alter'd form of her I loved so well.

'Miriam! my Miriam!'--Such the first faint word

Which burst my trembling lip with deep low sighs,

Unconscious that the frowning keeper heard,

And gazed with half-contempt, and half-surprise.

And then I raved, and with a shaking hand

Traced that dear name upon the dewy clay,

And strove with feeble limbs to rise and stand,

Greeting the vision'd form that might not stay.

And they did call me mad--oh! such his madness

Who having lost what he half fear'd to love,

Deep from his prison dungeon's gloomy sadness

Sent forth his spirit by her side to rove,

And dreamt of love, and Italy's sweet skies,

And Leonora's proud impassion'd eyes;

And from his world of misery gazed afar

On his own dream, as on a lovely star.

"And from the earth I imaged forth a form,

And call'd it Miriam, and would smile to see

How calmly, amid all my passion's storm,

Its stedfast rayless eyes still gazed on me.

And I did love it, with a love beyond

All that I felt before, except for her:

And call'd to it, till, feverishly fond,

I thought the clay began to speak and stir.

"One day I slept--I had not slept for long,

Long weary days and nights ;--and in my ear

Rang the sweet notes of Miriam's gentle song,

Which ev'n in that lone rest I smiled to hear:--

'The world--the sunny world!--I love

To roam untired, till evening throws

Sweet shadows in the pleasant grove;

And bees are murmuring on the rose.

I love to see the changeful flowers

Lie blushing in the glowing day,

Bend down their heads to 'scape the showers,

Then shake the chilly drops away.'

"I woke and saw my keeper by me stand;

And curiously he gazed, with wondering eyes,

On the form moulded by my frantic hand,

And sternly bade me from my bed arise.

Oh! well my heart foreboded from his brow:

Methinks I see the dark stern glances now,

With which he heard my tale, for I did kneel

And swear each secret feeling to reveal,

So he would leave my precious Miriam there,

To comfort Isbal in his lone despair.

He heard: and o'er that dark and sullen brow

A smile ev'n darker pass'd; and he did throw

That image rudely on the echoing ground,

And spurn'd in scorn the broken fragments round;

And call'd me madman, and the threaten'd scourge

Shook o'er my fetter'd limbs, his words to urge.

He left me--madness did not come till then

In spite of all I suffer'd.--Till that hour

I had distinguish'd all, like other men,

Nor sunk beneath misfortune's blasting power.

But then, I felt a circling in my brain;

A laugh convulsive in my choking breast;

A starting in each heavy temple vein,

A weight which all my shivering limbs oppress'd.

Through my bewilder'd brain the warm blood rush'd,

From my distended mouth in torrents gush'd;

And with a low sick sob I sank in pain,

Trusting no more to wake or breathe again.

"Days, months, and years roll'd on, and I had been

A prisoner a century; had seen

Change after change among my keepers; heard

The shrieks of new-made captives, (which oft stirr'd

My heart again to madness) and the groans

Of those whom death released; the low faint moans

Of the exhausted; and I yet remain'd

To my dark dungeon, and existence, chain'd.

But wherefore should I struggle thus, to show

The dull monotony of endless woe?

Suffice it, that it was amongst a race

Then, yet unborn, that I beheld thy face--

Thy angel face, for whom ev'n I would crave

A few years respite from the welcome grave."

He ceased; and with a tearless deep despair,

Turn'd to the sad one who sat by him there;

And neither spoke;--but o'er his wasted frame

A shaking, as of strong convulsion, came:

And, taking her faint hand between his own,

Quivering he press'd it, with a heavy groan;

And look'd into her face, as if to read

His fate therein--and bow'd his grief-worn head

Upon his arms awhile; then started up

To live--or drink the dregs of sorrow's cup.

And she rose too, who had been sitting by,

Gazing upon those dark curls vacantly;

And once or twice half-bending, as she would

Have press'd her lips on them--though stain'd with blood,

She rose, and when he murmur'd forth his fears--

"Is it too horrible? must I depart?"

Look'd up, and with an agony of tears,

Spread forth her arms, and clasp'd him to her heart.