VII.

What gives the Past the haunting charms that please

Sage, scholar, bard?— The shades of men like these!

Seen in our walks;— with vulgar blame or praise,

Reviled or worshipp'd as our faction sways:

Some centuries hence, and from that praise or blame,

As light from vapour, breaks the steady flame,

And the trite Present which, while acted, seems

Time's dullest prose,— fades in the land of dreams,

Gods spring from dust, and Hero-Worship wakes

Out of that Past the humble Present makes.

And yet, what matter to ourselves the Great?

What the heart touches — that controls our fate!

From the full galaxy we turn to one,

Dim to all else, but to ourselves the sun;

And still, to each, some poor, obscurest life,

Breathes all the bliss, or kindles all the strife.

Wake up the countless dead!— ask every ghost

Whose influence tortured or consoled the most:

How each pale spectre of the host would turn

From the fresh laurel and the glorious urn,

To point where rots beneath a nameless stone,

Some heart in which had ebb'd and flow'd its own!

So one by one, Calantha listlessly

Beheld and heeded not the Great pass by.

But now, why sudden that electric start?

She stands — the pale lips soundless, yet apart!

She stands, with clasped hands and strained eye —

A moment's silence — one convulsive cry,

And sinking to the earth, a seeming death

Smites into chill suspense the senses and the breath:

Quick by the unconscious hostess knelt the guest,

Bathed the wan brows, and loosed the stifling vest;

As loosed the vest,— like one whose sleep of fear

Is keen with dreams that warn of danger near,—

Calantha's hand repell'd the friendly care,

And faintly clasp'd some token hoarded there,

Perchance some witness of the untold grief,—

Some sainted relic of a lost belief,

Some mournful talisman, whose touch recalls

The ghost of time in Memory's desolate halls,

And, like the vessels that, of old, enshrined

The soil of lands the exile left behind,—

Holds all youth rescues from that native shore

Of hope and passion, life shall tread no more.

Calantha wakes, but not to sense restored,

The mind still trembled on the jarring chord,

And troubled reason flicker'd in the eye,

As gleams and wanes a star in some perturbed sky.

Yet still, through all the fever of the brain,

Terror, more strong, can Frenzy's self restrain.

Few are her words, and if at times they seem

To touch the dark truths shadow'd on her dream,

She starts, with whitening lip — looks round in fear,

And murmurs, “Nay! my brother did not hear!”

Then smiles, as if the fear were laid at rest,

And clasps the token treasured at her breast,

And whispers, “Lucy, guard my sleep;— they say

That sleep is faithless, and that dreams betray!”

Yet oft the while — to watch without the door,

The brother's step glides noiseless o'er the floor,—

There meekly waits, until the welcome ray

Of Lucy's smile gives comfort to the day,

Till Lucy's whisper murmurs, “Be of cheer,”

And Pity dupes Affection's willing ear.

Once, and but once, within the room he crept,

When all was silent, and they deem'd she slept,

Not softer to the infant's cradle steals

The mother's step;— she hears not, yet she feels,

As by strange instinct, the approach;— her frame

Convulsed and shuddering as he nearer came;

Till the wild cry,— the waiving hand convey

The frantic prayer, so bitter to obey;

And with stern brow, belying the wrung heart,

And voiceless lips compress'd, he turns him to depart.