VIII.

Much wondering Lucy mused,— nor yet could find

Why one so mournful shrunk from one so kind.

Awe that had chill'd the gratitude she felt

For Morvale, now in pity learn'd to melt:

This tender patience in a man so stern,

This love untiring — fear the sole return,

This rough exterior, with this gentle breast,

Awoke a sympathy that would not rest;

The wistful eye, the changing lip, the tone

Whose accents droop'd, or gladden'd, from her own,

Haunted the woman's heart, which ever heaves

Its echo back to every sound that grieves.

Light as the gossamer its tissue spins

O'er freshest dews when summer morn begins,

Will Fancy weave its airy web above

The dews of Pity, in the dawn of Love.—

At length, Calantha's reason wakes;— the strife

Calms back,— the soul re-settles to the life.

Freed from her post, flies Lucy to rejoice

The anxious heart, so wistful for her voice;

Not at his wonted watch the brother found,

She seeks his door — no answer to her sound;

She halts in vain, till, eager to begin

The joyous tale, the bright shape glides within.

For the first time beheld, she views the lone

And gloomy rooms the master calls his own;

Not there the luxury elsewhere, which enthralls

With pomp the gazer in the rich man's halls;

Strange arms of Eastern warfare, quaintly piled,

Betray'd the man's fierce memory of the child,—

And litter'd books, in mystic scrolls enshrined

The solemn Sibyl of the elder Ind.

The girl treads fearful on the dismal floors,

And with amazed eye the gloomy lair explores;

Thus, as some Peri strays where, couch'd in cells

With gods dethroned, the brooding Afrite dwells,

From room to room her fairy footsteps glide,

Till, lo! she starts to see him by her side.—

With crimson cheek, and downcast eyes, that quail

Beneath his own, she hurries the glad tale,

Then turns to part — but as she turns, still round

She looks,— and lingers on the magic ground,

And eyes each antique relic with the wild

Half-pleased, half-timorous, wonder of a child;

And as a child's the lonely inmate saw,

And smiled to see the pleasure and the awe;

And soften'd into kindness his deep tone,

And drew her hand, half-shrinking, in his own,

And said, “Nay, pause and task the showman's skill,

What moves thee most?— come, question me at will.”

Listening she linger'd, and she knew not why

Time's wing so swiftly never seem'd to fly;

Never before unto her gaze reveal'd

The Eastern fire, the Eastern calm conceal'd:

Child of the sun, and native of the waste,

Cramp'd in the formal chains it had embraced,

His heart leapt back to its old haunts afar,

As leaps the lion from the captive bar;

And, as each token flash'd upon the mind,

Back the bold deeds that life had left behind,

The dark eye blazed, the rich words roll'd along,

Vivid as light, and eloquent as song;

At length, with sudden pause, he check'd the stream,

And his soul darken'd from the gorgeous dream.

“So,” with sad voice he said, “my youth went by,

Fresh was the wave, if fitful was the sky;

What is my manhood?— curl'd and congeal'd,

A stagnant water in a barren field:

Gall'd with strange customs,— in the crowd alone;

And courting bloodless hearts that freeze my own.

In the far lands, where first I breathed the air,—

Smile if thou wilt,— this rugged form was fair,

For the swift foot, strong arm, bold heart give grace

To man, when danger girds man's dwelling-place,—

Thou seest the daughter of my mother, now,

Shrinks from the outcast branded on my brow;

My boyhood tamed the panther in his den,

The wild beast feels man's kindness more than men.

Like with its like, they say, will intertwine,—

I have not tamed one human heart to mine!” —

He paused abruptly. Thrice his listener sought

To shape consoling speech from soothing thought,

But thrice she fail'd, and thrice the colour came

And went, as tenderness was check'd by shame!

At length her dove-like eyes to his she raised,

And all the comfort words forbade, she gazed;

Moved by her childlike pity, but too dark

In hopeless thought than pity more to mark;

“Infant,” he murmur'd, “not for others flow

The tears the wise, how hard soe'er, must know;

As yet, the Eden of a guileless breast,

Opes a frank home to every angel guest;

Soft Eve, look round!— The world in which thou art

Distrusts the angel, nor unlocks the heart —

Thy time will come!” —

He spoke, and from her side

Was gone,— the heart his wisdom wrong'd replied!