Chapter III: Part 3

The Social Hearth.

How oft man looks for happiness afar,
Amid loud tumult, or the din of war;
O’er foreign lands, through distant climes, he’ll roam
To win that pleasure he may gain at home.

Here does the error in its root begin;
He seeks without when he should search within,
And strive to see included in his breast
The seeds of happiness, the germs of rest.

All bounteous nature upon man doth shower
Her gifts of pleasure, with more equal dower
Than we, dim-sighted and unwise, discern,
But by due effort we the truth may learn.

In the charmed circle of the cheerful hearth
Life’s purest pleasures, richest joys have birth;
Where heart meets heart with confidence serene,
Truth smiles in brightness, Goodness rules benign.

How calmly sweet, how soothing to retire
From pains and toils to peace beside the fire;
Whilst round the blaze, true-hearted friends are met,
In whose gay converse we all care forget.

The merry laugh, the simple playful jest,
The soul of gladness in each look expressed,
The wit retorted, and the temperate mirth,
Are like rich sunshine glowing o’er the earth.

Fresh thoughts imparted, truths unknown before,
In freedom given but increase our store;
And each kind feeling with prolific reign
In kindred breasts is multiplied again.

When song or music elevates the time,
The homely dance or poet’s lofty rhyme,
All feel their pleasure and delight increased
By each partaking in the social feast.

When thus we mingle, how it will impart
Feelings more kind and noble to the heart,
Increase its warmth by love unknown before,
And where it has loved, make it love the more.

The sacred psalmist strung his harp to tell
How goodly ’tis in harmony to dwell;
E’en like the ointment poured upon the head,
That to the skirts of priestly vestments spread!

Oh! ne’er should scandal, or detraction mean,
Or words unkindly desecrate the scene;
But all with pure sincerity conspire
To strengthen friendship, fan love’s holy fire.

If thus we meet—if thus in peace unite,
And make each home a temple of delight,
Our hearts will tell us there is not on earth
A place more sacred than the social hearth.

As this sweet strain of poesy came forth,
All felt its truth and beauty. It described
The pleasures now enjoyed, and but portrayed
Such scenes of innocent and social glee
As often filled that room. The feelings pure
Therein expressed, the higher tone of life,
The sweeter charity, unfolded clear,
Was but a transcript of that law which ruled
The spirit of their Host. Whene’er the life
Is tuned accordant to the poet’s song,
And all his actions manifest his lays
The offspring of sincerity, how great
How wonderful their power! And not alone
Its truthfulness was valued; but the skill
In poetry its melody displayed
Surpassed expectance. Each delighted guest
Felt curiosity within him rise
To know what subject would compose the next,
And how it would be treated. Arthur then
Was called upon for his. With roguish look
He begged them all to guess the theme he chose
To render into verse. Some thought it War,
Some Peace, some Honour, some Heroic life,
Some Solitude. At last a venturous voice
Whispered it might be Love. The simple word
Gave birth to pleasant smiles. When does it not?
To old, to young, to those of middle years,
It aye comes welcome. Those who have not known
The power of love, with curious longing hope,
Still wish that they may know it. Those who feel
Its present sway, if they but hear its name,
Have sacred visions to their fancy brought
Of certain curling locks, bright eyes, sweet smiles,
And forms to them angelic. Those who’ve past
That passion’s mysteries, recall with joy
The season of its sway, and dote to see
Young hearts just flitting o’er the selfsame net
By which they were entangled. Is not this
A picture of the truth, all ye who bear
The hearts of warm humanity? The smile
Was not diminished when the heir confessed
Such guess was near the mark. With steady voice,
And gravity maintained by effort firm,
As conscious that the subject well deserved
High thought and lofty sentiment, he gave
A quick recital to a lyric piece
Entitled simply—

Passing Thoughts on Love.

The ancient poets sang a love
Whose spell of wild and fiery power
Ruled men below, and gods above,
And conquered in its burning hour.

The wine-cup’s rich delicious draught
Ne’er maddened more the reeling brain,
Or filled the heart so full, when quaffed,
With ecstacy akin to pain.

Then like a dream it passed away,
A fervid vision of the night,
Till some bright beauty’s potent sway
Awoke again the fierce delight.

Such might be passion’s wayward course
That flashes like the lightning’s gleam;
But ne’er was love, whose fountain-source
Sends ever forth a constant stream.

True love is like the stars on high
That shine with undiminished ray,
And glows all warm and fervently
As does the splendid orb of day.

Naught but the beauty of the soul,
Arrayed in virtue’s peerless dress,
Can pure love waken, or controul
The bosom with its loveliness.

It is the glorious bond of life
That joins two kindred souls in one;
And when they meet, amid earth’s strife,
The same bright path they journey on.

Heart yields to heart a living strength,
And thought to thought increase of light,
Until their happy days at length
Well nigh partake of heaven’s delight.

’Tis not the high and manly brow
Enlinked to beauty’s witching charm,
Can make such deep-soul’d passion glow,
Or keep it from decay and harm.

The pure in heart, the pure in thought,
Alone such inward union gain;
And by the law in heaven wrought
Such souls can never more be twain.

Alas! for earth where love is sold
For station, honour, pride, and power;
Bartered for fame, betrayed for gold,
And often scarcely lasts an hour.

Yet some there be who do partake
A measure of this love divine;
Then such deep love, for love’s pure sake,
Oh may I own, or none be mine!

The smiling look, and cheerful playfulness,
Continued through the piece. But many found
A loftier element pervade the song,
And deeper sentiments than they had deemed
Indwellers of such theme. When he had done
He cast around a furtive glance to see
The influence of his verse. All faces wore
A look of bland approval. One alone
Hung bending down, as if to mark the bloom
Of rosy flowerets in the rich bouquet
That beautified her bosom. Did her cheek
Catch deeper crimson from their loveliness
That made it glow so brightly? Sooth to tell
There was a hue like that of sunset clouds
Which fluttered sweetly there. It might be caught
By strong reflection from those happy flowers
Which hung upon that breast; or it might spring
From thoughts still happier, nestled warm within,
Whose stirring motions made the pure blood flow
More freely o’er that cheek. Were such the truth,
It might betoken sympathy of soul
With those high sentiments, and with the heart
That gave them utterance. Young Arthur long
Had deemed her beautiful, and she to him
Had moved a star of light; but mutual words
Of loving import had not yet revealed
Their hearts unto each other. With a glance
Of quick delight, like to the lambent flash
Of summer lightning, he beheld that blush,
So meek and rosy, and with instinct true
His soul divined its meaning. With a word
Of rapid whisper in Matilda’s ear,
He bad that sister hasten to bring forth
Her promised verse; whilst he awhile withdrew
From the gay circle, that in solitude
He might indulge the overpowering thought
Which filled his raptured breast. His joy intense,
No words could tell; whilst now in soul convinced
That Emma’s noble and susceptive heart
Was his for ever! Shortly he returned
With looks elate, and joys delightful glow
On his proud countenance. When he rejoined
His father’s guests, his sister had not yet
Commenced her promised task. With timid heart
And shrinking feeling, she awhile forbore
In modest diffidence; for she was one
Of tender nature, of affections warm,
And delicately sensitive of soul.
Her truth of heart, and nobleness of thought,
Made her abhor all wrong. Her simple mind,
As clear as crystal, made her ever love
Simplicity in all things. Hence she chose
To frame a ballad of domestic scenes
And their endearments. In a gentle voice,
Replete with feeling, she began to read
A tale of rural life, of fervent passion,
That bore inscribed the humble name of—

Lucy.

Sweet Lucy, in the Pastor’s house
Had dwelt from early years,
The scene of all her childish joys,
Gay hopes, young smiles and tears.

It stood beside the rustic church
Engirt with noble trees;
A quiet nook, a calm abode,
A home for rural peace.

Before its walls with roses twined,
And ivy interlaced,
A lovely plot of cultered flowers
The simple dwelling graced

A rustic fence, with lattice gate,
The sole dividing bound,
Between that garden, fair and rich,
And grassy graves around.

And here, an infant, free from care,
In summer’s jocund hours
Glad Lucy played, as insect blithe,
Companion of the flowers.

To her, amidst the dawning blush
Of life’s unfolding bloom,
The grave was not a thing to wake
A thought of pain or gloom.

Yet well it might—beneath the sod
Her parents both were laid;
The father ere her hour of birth
Was numbered with the dead.

Her mother, pierced with keenest grief,
Heart-broken with deep woe,
Scarce heard the little infant cry
Ere she departed too.

The babe, forlorn, compassion found,
Though kindred she had none;
The Pastor took her to his heart
And reared her as his own.

He childless was, yet with a soul
In children to delight;
To see the love he bore to this
It was a touching sight!

An orphan! O, the very thought
Brings tenderness of heart;
Then what must one so frail and young
To his pure breast impart?

’Twas like some holy vision fair
To see his glance so mild,
His hoary head, his moistened eye,
Bent over that sweet child.

How joyed he at the first clear sounds
Her infant lips could make,
And o’er the first free wandering steps
Her little feet could take.

His friend of life, his wife beloved,
In all felt equal glee,
And joined to rear the orphan maid
In truth and purity.

As feeling grew within her breast,
To them a love she bore
As fervent as an own child’s love—
Yea warmer, deeper, more.

Yet were her parents oft in mind;
A holier thought was given,
And purer love to those she deemed
Her guardians in heaven.

What can so elevate the soul,
Refine its richest love,
As to be linked by kindred’s ties
To radiant worlds above?

A mind so delicate and pure
In learning took delight,
And treasured up each noble thought
And deed with virtue bright.

But chiefly was the Sacred page
Engraven on her heart,
And did to her its lofty hopes,
Its joys, its peace impart.

Thus she who was his highest joy
In childhood’s sprightly day,
Became the Vicar’s cheerful friend
And aid in life’s decay.

How graceful was her lovely form,
How rich her curling hair,
And her cheeks’ hue like rosy beams
Of evening blushing there.

Her gladsome smile’s delicious play,
Her eyes’ entrancing light
Won sweet regard from every heart
And filled it with delight.

Such peerless charms! how could they fail
To rouse impassioned love?
And bind some willing heart in chains,
A captive loth to move.

Young Albert to the village came
And saw the maid so fair;
Then straight resolved to win her heart
A trophy rich to wear.

His manly form, his dauntless look,
His elegance of mien;
A voice that spoke in dulcet tones,
An eye with glances keen;

A ready flow of touching words
To tell a tender tale;
Must they not fire a maiden’s soul
And make a suit prevail?

His words of love! as dew they fell
Upon her stainless heart,
And made it, like fresh fragrant flowers,
To loftier being start.

All simple, guileless, framed of truth,
It knew no frail disguise;
But let unchecked its passions spring
Its deepest feelings rise.

And oft at even-time they strolled
The rural lanes alone,
In converse deep, with kindred thoughts
And feelings blent in one.

Both nature prized, and took delight
In sunset skies and flowers,
And talking of all fairest things,
They wiled away the hours.

Naught can so swiftly light two breasts
With mutual flames of love;
As finding that all beauteous scenes
The same deep pulses move.

Pure, simple, Lucy, scarcely knew
Her heart’s full passion won,
Until the idol of its hope
From her fond side was gone.

He bad farewell in gentle tone
And vowed with hasty breath;
Farewell, she cried, in truth’s own voice,
“Albert! I’m thine till death!”

And such she was! but oh that he
Like faithfulness had shewn,
Then we upon her maiden grave
No timeless flowers had strewn.

He went and mingled with the world,
And learnt its sordid ways;
Till noble thought, and feeling true
Within his soul decays.

Then gold for love, and state for worth,
For truth parade and show,
His bosom prized, and soon forgot
His first-love and his vow.

Soon for him, and a maid of wealth,
Pealed forth the marriage bell;
But its gay sound assumed afar
A tone like Lucy’s knell.

Soon as she heard—from her gay cheek
The roses swiftly fled,
And left fair lillies, pale and wan,
To flourish in their stead.

The lillies fluttered there awhile,
But lost their bloom with speed,
And withering swift, shewed on their root,
The canker worm did feed.

She calmly pined—all meek of soul;
The grief she strove to hide
Like poison wrought, and caused life’s stream
To flow with feeble tide:

Just ere it ceased, with gentle voice—
All pain and wrong forgiven—
She said—I leave false earth to gain
Unfailing truth in heaven.

And now she in the church-yard lies,
And soon was followed there
By those two loving hearts who’d made
Her life their bounteous care.

In five green graves together ranged,
Their frail remains abide;
Her foster parents, and her own,
And hers, all side by side.

All ye who win a true heart’s love,
Of faithlessness beware!
Go view that simple midmost grave
And learn a lesson there!

When she had ceased, the simple pathos shewn
In that pure song, had touched each feeling heart,
And some bright eyes were brighter for a tear
That gemmed their loveliness. A pause ensued
Of few brief moments, and then Alfred stepped
With freedom forward to impart his share
Of promised verse. He had but just returned
From college, where his studious hours were spent
With fervour most devoted, to acquire
An ample store of learning. He had found
Rich treasures hid amidst the ponderous tomes
Of ancient days, and with determined heart
He sought to make them his. A fervent love
Glowed in his bosom for their noble thoughts
And sentiments and feelings, and he gave
His hours with zeal, enthusiastic zeal,
To communings with them. Short time had he
To dally with the muse, or let the play
Of vagrant fancy interrupt his aims;
Yet in the festival he would take part,
And brought, as fittest offspring of his harp—

A Sonnet To the Master-Minds of Earth.

Immortal bards, philosophers, and sages
Whose glorious thoughts have lit this darkened world
And raised Truth’s banner, a bright flag unfurled,
To guide men onwards through all future ages
To liberty and peace. Upon your pages
My mind would pasture, as along the meads
The simple flock in innocency feeds,
Till nourished into strength. Through all life’s stages,
In youth, in manhood, and in calm decline
At your clear fountains may my spirit drink
To quench her thirst for knowledge, to refine
Each feeling quick, and learn to nobly think!
Oh! much we need ye! ye bright stars from heaven,
And to our aid may thousands more be given!

Fair Eva next came forward to the task;
She was a joyous creature full of life
And health and beauty. In her rich blue eye
There was a light of gladness, and her cheek
Was clear and rosy as the flowers of spring.
Her step was free, as if the morning breeze
Were ever her companion, and each limb
Had motions graceful as the waving bough.
The love of nature dwelt within her heart
In all its aspects; but her chief delight
Was in the silver, sunny loveliness
Of noontide splendours, or the gorgeous scenes
All gold and crimson, when the day declines
And bids farewell to earth with kingly pomp.
On such she looked with ever-raptured eye,
Until their brilliance had imbued her soul
With joyous thoughts and bright. The theme she chose
Was one expressive of that cheerful tone
Which filled her spirit, and with mellow voice
She gave glad utterance to her—

Love of Spring.

I love the time when buds and bells
Hang fragrant in the woodland dells;
The primrose and the violet
On richest mossy banks are set.

How joyous when the warmth of spring
Invites the merry birds to sing,
And their sweet bowers of love are made
Amid the flowering hawthorn’s shade.

Then robed in verdure, stately trees
Stretch their broad branches to the breeze,
Rejoicing in the glorious light
Of sun and sky, like silver bright.

Amid fair meads young lambkins play
Their sprightly games in pure array;
And insects sport on gauzy wing,
Live gems in sunshine fluttering.

Each rural scent, each rustic sound,
Enchantment lend the landscape round;
And every sight conspires to bless
My heart with wild sweet happiness.

I love the summer’s golden reign,
And autumn’s ripeness o’er the plain;
But to my spirit naught can bring
Such gladness as the days of spring.

For then I rove the woodland wild,
With heart as simple as a child,
And spend the pure fresh morning hours
Amid the breezes, birds, and flowers.

Reclining on some grassy seat
Within a leafy dark retreat,
I con the Poet’s living book
Beside the clear-streamed stony brook.

Such calm seclusion strengthens thought,
And all His visions bright are brought
Across my mind, more fair and clear,
Mid scenes His spirit would hold dear.

I love stern winter’s reign sublime,
Rich autumn, and sweet summer time;
But nothing to my heart can bring
Such gladness as the days of spring!

The blithesome tone of this gay melody,
This pastoral song, spread cheerfulness around,
And made all hearts beside the winter fire
Think hopefully of spring. Some moments passed
In pleasant converse; then Lucrece was urged
Her poem to recite. With gentle grace
And modest diffidence, she forward came,
Yet with becoming confidence, as one
Who knew, but did not over-rate, her powers.
She was a poetess by nature framed
And had a soul for song. Her flowing thought
Moved on in hidden melody, that gave
Each word expressive feeling; and her face
In every feature, witnessed to a mind
Of passions strong and pure. Her eye was dark,
And black, and eagle-like. It shone a star
By its own inward light; but o’er it hung
Silk, raven lashes, that subdued its blaze
But lessened not its power. Her lofty brow,
By its expansion, shewed a kingdom wide
Where thought might rule; and o’er her well-formed head
Rich sable hair, in smooth and glossy braids,
Displayed its shining beauty. Down her cheek
Some bright curls clustered, and amid their shade
There peeped the pearl-white lustre of her ear.
O’er her fair countenance the pallid rose
Assumed the precedence, and nigh subdued
Its rich and blushing sister. ’Twas the hue
Of thought spread o’er her features, leaving there
The marble’s clear transparence. You might dream
She were a statue, did not feelings flash
Their radiance from her look, and mind’s pure light
Float halo-like around her. Tall her form
And moulded into grace; each polished limb
Seemed full of life and motion; and her step,
Though light and agile, yet had stateliness
And maiden dignity. She older seemed
Than were her years, for eighteen summer suns
Alone had passed with ripening influence,
Her beauty to mature; but you might date
Her more advanced in womanhood, her mind
By its expansion, and the thrill of thought
And earlier strength of feeling, had impressed
Such semblance on her aspect. She was one
To whom the world was beautiful; but yet
Her mind had thirst for higher beauty still
Than met her waking vision. One to whom
The tales of old romance, and fairy lore,
And songs of chivalry, were needful food.
Each noble thought, bold deed, and virtue bright,
Found echoes in her breast; heroic acts,
Undaunted words, or patriotic love
Met sympathy with her. Creative thought,
Imagination’s realising power,
Gave form and substance to the visions fair
That flitted o’er her fancy; abstract themes
Lost their elusive subtlety and gained
Embodiment and shape. And thus in truth
She was a poetess; and all her verse,
Though wrought from fancy’s airy gossamer,
Had strength and life and strange reality.
She thoughts refined, and spirit-like could chain
In binding language, and give power and life
To evanescent sentiments. She chose
To frame a legend full of rich romance,
Such as we picture in the days of old,
When love was lofty passion—woman seemed
A more etherial being sent to tame
Man’s rude stern heart mid glorious chivalry.
With thought concentred on the theme; with heart
Alive to changing feelings, and with voice
Deep, rich, and varied, such as well could shew
The latent beauty in a poet’s song,
She read the story, not unfitly named—

Fidelio and Lenore.

Oh! Muse, inspirer of the old romance,
Sweet songs of chivalry, rich fairy lore,
Let thy deep influence through my spirit glance,
For I would vision forth a tale of yore,—
A legend of true love, that evermore
May in bright fiction to the mind display
The power of constant truth, to triumph o’er
The ills of life in all their dire array,
And how that virtue pure speeds conquering on its way.

But thus to sing my soul must be subdued
To softest tenderness and gentle thought,
And every feeling dissonant and rude
To full and perfect harmony be brought;
Whilst richest colours, from gay fancy caught,
Must paint the whole, and with their light illume
Well-chosen words, though seemingly unsought,
That run in cheerful music, and assume
Rich melodies of verse,—like breezes o’er spring’s bloom.

No Muses haunt Parnassus’ lofty mount,
Nor wander on by Castalie’s pure stream;
Whose waters welling from their crystal fount
Blushed with the light of heaven’s entrancing beam.
Mere glorious visions of a Grecian dream
Those Muses were! on them I call in vain!
And ye must all me most presumptious deem,
That such high prize I struggle to attain
As sing some wild romance, some sweet Spenserian strain.

The moonbeams shone upon the castle wall,
That rearing proudly from its native rock,
Gave back the accents of the torrent’s fall
Which gushed below, as if to sternly mock
The wild rage of the river, whose fierce shock
Struck with the might of an eternal storm,
But yet impressed not the immortal block
Of massive adamant, that reared its form
Embattled midst the skies with turrets multiform.

And far around vast forests stretched their boughs
In one unpathed perplexity of shade;
Upon whose skirts the purple mountains rose,
As if they would the starry realms invade
With their titanic summits. Midst each glade,
And mossy valley, gently purling streams
Gushed rippling on, and in their windings made
Deep woodland haunts, unpierced by sunny beams,
Sweet bowers for purest love,—fit nooks for poet’s dreams.

Here were rock-fragments clad with tangled moss
And crowned with wildflowers’ gay and drooping bells;
Here trees majestic shot wide boughs across
To form vast arbours, or green leafy cells,
Amidst whose verdure coolness ever dwells;
And on the brook-sides’ grassy banks arose,
Whose glossy richness in soft couches swells
To woo the student calmly to repose,
Or watch glad insects sport at days warm golden close.

O’er tower and turret, bastion, portal, keep,
The bright moon glancing with serenest smile,
Threw on their grandeur, mid the hours of sleep,
A sacred light that glorified the pile
And made it seem a vision. Calm awhile
And lonely, and in stillness lay the scene
Save tones of rushing waters, that beguile
The thoughts to them a moment. Now is seen
A knight’s athletic form in armour’s dazzling sheen.

Along the terrace, with majestic stride,
He onward passed below the highest tower;
And each step witnessed to the noble pride
That fills a warrior’s heart—the sense of power,
Of free-born might, and fame’s immortal dower.
His shield he had not, but his keen sword hung
Bright-jewelled by his side, and like a flower
His gay plume nodded, whilst he swiftly strung
A lute’s expressive chords, and thus in deep tones sung.

Serenade.

Sweet Lady bright—Lenore! Lenore!
Oh! list to thy lover’s lay,
Whilst the moonbeams shine o’er the forest boughs
As rich as the glow of day!

Oh! Lady fair—Lenore! Lenore!
My deep love to thee I’ll tell,
For the secret founts of my heart o’erflow
Unlocked by the moonbeam’s spell!

Oh! Lady kind—Lenore! Lenore!
Let my soul’s impassioned tale,
With a heart so gentle and pure as thine,
In its truthfulness prevail.

Oh! Lady dear—Lenore! Lenore!
I have loved thee deep and long,
And I love thee now, and for evermore,—
Give ear to my pleading song!

Oh! Lady true—Lenore! Lenore!
Like yon constant stars above,
Or the changeless light of the sun’s glad beam,
To thee is my fervent love.

Oh! Lady mine—Lenore! Lenore!
Would that I might call thee so,
In the faithful vow of united love,
Ere I to the wild wars go.

Oh! Lady love—Lenore! Lenore!
Might I have the rich delight,
To believe in thy dreams thou’lt think on me?
Sweet Lady—good night! good night!

The last “good night” rang sweetly on the air
When, from the casement of a turret high,
A white hand peeped, as beautiful and fair
As ever cloudlet on the radiant sky;
And to that love-song gave a sweet reply
By letting fall a flower—a flower which told
Of love’s sublime delicious witchery
Within the heart. Hid in his scarf’s gay fold
That boon to the wars he bore, more daring brave and bold.

The last rich scion of an ancient line
Was fair Lenore; a lonely orphan, she
Dwelt in that Castle by the rushing Rhine
In days of tournament and chivalry:
A creature fitted to inspire the free
And noble passion of a truthful breast
And brave bold heart, whose inbred courtesy
And gentler feelings, would seek out a rest,
Mid valour’s peaceful pause, in woman’s love possessed.

Oh! she was beautiful! a thing of light
Of life, of gladness and unsullied smiles;
A glorious being fitted to delight
By gentle manners, innocent sweet wiles,
And gay allurement, that full oft beguiles
The heart of sadness with its soothing power;
Like sunbeams striking on the ocean isles,
And dissipating mists that on them lour,
Till all shine fair and bright in noon’s resplendent hour.

Thus had her goodness won the noble heart
Of brave Fidelio, whose princely halls,
Broad spreading vineyards, forest lands apart,
And mountain-holds, stood nigh the blue Rhine-falls;
Whose gliding waters pass the lordly walls
Of many a lofty castle, held by knights
Of power and state, but none there is who calls
More wealth his own, inherited by right,
Possessed in honour true, maintained by valour’s might.

Whilst her heart’s lord, mid Palestine afar,
In dauntless combat fought the Saracen,
To drive him from the land, where first a star
Revealed the Saviour to the sons of men,
And give its sacred shrines and sites again
To be a gladness to the pilgrims’ heart;
The fair Lenore, with absent lovers’ pain,
Sat all secluded in her bower apart,
And wrought rich tapestry bright, and handyworks of art.

Two years had fled since that auspicious night,
When music taught how deep the love she felt,
And bade her heart, with exquisite delight
Towards him who wooed her, tenderly to melt
In one brief moment; whilst she swiftly spelt
An unknown lesson from her burning breast
And prized the lore it gave; a truth which gilt
With sunset brightness all her thoughts, and blest
Her hours with musings sweet, her heart with richest rest.

But now her days were mingled with deep care,
And oft with agony and doubtful fear,
For of her true knight there no tidings were,
And as she thought thereon, the sparkling tear
Would drop from her blue eye, so bright and clear,
And sorrow’s sadness heave her breast in sighs.
Intense she watched, but never there drew near
His stalwart form to glad her longing eyes.
Hark to yon minstrel’s notes that waken her surprise!—

Troubadour’s Song.

A wealthy knight to the wars went forth,
To fight for the Holy Cross;
But of all his goods in the sacred cause
He cheerfully suffered the loss.

He came to his native land again
Enriched with fame—but poor!
A truthful heart, and a strong bright sword
Formed all his earthly store!

He went like a troubadour, and sang
To his lady-love a strain
That told of his loss, and his heart’s deep truth,
But she viewed him with chill disdain!

She knew it was he, but her sordid soul
Had loved for the wealth alone,
And she cast his high worth and his truth away
From her heart when that was gone.

“Ah! my Fidelio that is thee indeed!
My heart can pierce thy troubadour’s disguise;
Oh do not make my faithful bosom bleed
By such too cruel song! within me lies
The woman’s truthful heart that aye defies
The frowns of fortune, the decrees of fate,
And all the change in mortal destinies.
How light to me the pomp of wealth and state;
Thy truth, and sword alone, make thee my fitter mate!”

How glad their hearts in that enraptured hour!
What joy they felt, what confidence serene,
And like the blooming of a glorious flower,
Deep thoughts came forth that never yet had been
Unfolded in their breasts. A peaceful scene
The future offered; but before the time
Their love had priestly sanction, valour keen
Advanced the infidel; with zeal sublime
The knight re-sought the wars—to stay he deemed a crime!

Nigh to that ancient castle of Lenore,
Within the forest, in a gloomy cave,
A vile enchanter dwelt, who oft of yore
Had worked deep mischief. Naught on earth could save
From his enchantments, when his soul would crave
And lust for evil; with such direful aim
He wrought his purposes. The bold, the brave,
The fair, the lovely, without ruth or shame,
He brought to ill. Pauvero was his name.

He was in sooth a most repulsive wight,
With matted locks, and sallow livid hue;
His red eyes glared as if in wild affright,
And lank, spare frame, seemed pinched by hunger blue:
Torn filthy rags he wore, that seemed to shew
The utmost want; for though he stole away
The wealth of thousands, yet he never knew
A benefit therefrom, but let it lay
Deep in a vast dark pit, all buried from the day.

Soon as the knight had left his lady fair,
He swiftly thought, by necromantic skill,
To win her wealth; and it to slyly bear
Away with him that wicked pit to fill.
Palled by the dark, with thievish pace and still,
He stole into that castle night on night,
Aided by imps and magic power, until
Its walls were stripped, its coffers emptied quite,
And naught was left for use, and naught to please the sight.

And further yet to shew his hellish spite,
He bore the lady to a noisome den,
And chained her there, all hidden from the light,
Beneath his cave, far from the haunts of men;
Of her bright garments he disrobed her then,
And clad in coarse vile rags, that not an eye
In such strange garb could recognise again
The maiden once so beautiful. A cry
Gushed from her tortured heart, but no true help was nigh!

When brave Fidelio from the fight returned,
He found her castle all in ruin stand,
Grey-mossed and broken-walled. His spirit burned
With agony’s wild fire, as o’er the land,
Now desolate, he gazed; and with his hand
Held high to heaven, a sacred vow he swore,
To bring fit vengeance on the fiendish band
That wrought the ruin; for the wild scene bore
Marks of that wizard’s blast, all withered, burnt, or frore.

“Sweet lady mine! where art thou dwelling now?
That vile enchanter hath thee in his power!
Oh! that thou coulds’t but hear my spirit vow
To search earth for thee to life’s latest hour.
And though he hath deprived thee of thy dower,
’Tis naught to me, for wert thou still but mine,
I would not heed bright fortune’s richest shower
Or want’s necessity, if still might shine
On me that loving look, that radiant smile of thine.”

He rushed impassioned to that forest dark,
To search each fastness for the wizard’s den,
And seek if chance had left some trace or mark
To guide his footsteps to Lenore again.
Long days and months he sought with weary pain
And heart undaunted, but no track had yet
Been found to prove his quest was not in vain,
Till one bright evening, when the sun had set,
He stopped by a stony brook to hear its waters fret.

And as he lay upon the flowery brink,
Close by a wild rock that ascended high,
In dark despondency he ’gan to think
On those bright moments when his hope was nigh
Its rich fruition; and he heaved a sigh
Of doubt and discontent, and wished he ne’er
Had gone to th’ wars again, or chivalry
Been his heart’s choice; but soon he dashed the tear
Away, and sang to his lute these mournful notes—now hear!

The Melody.

Oh! Lady, thou star of my life, no more
Thy clear beams shine on me,
And sorrow hath shrouded my lone days o’er
Withheld from the sight of thee.
Lenore! Lenore! in the forest I cry—
Mere desolate echoes the sole reply!

My spirit is pining to hear thy voice,
My heart to behold thy smile;
How at the sweet sound would my soul rejoice,
Thy glances my woe beguile;
But despondency clouds each bright hope o’er
And thrills me with fear to see thee no more.

Oh! ne’er did I know till this fearful time
The depths of my love for thee,
Or proved the wild anguish my soul must feel
When thou art afar from me.
To my cry in the forest—Lenore! Lenore!
Echo seems but to answer—“no more, no more.”

No balm to keen sorrow, by day I find,
No joy in the noonday light,
And but once mid my watchings and thoughts on thee
Sweet solace relieved me at night.
For I dreamt to the cry of “Lenore!” there came
A soft gentle voice that whispered my name.

Was it the last tones of his moving lay,
Reverberating from the rock behind,
Which gave that sound? He rose to pass away,
But ’twas repeated, and his startled mind
Heard feeble accents borne upon the wind
As from a voice, but hollow, faint, and low,
Like human wailings deep in earth enshrined.
Breathless he listened, whence they came to know,
And found them from a cleft, near that rock’s haughty brow.

He swiftly climbed, and gained that fissure high,
Like some air-passage to a hidden cave;
He spoke aloud, and then a sweet reply
Unbounded gladness to his spirit gave:
“Fidelio! ah, I know thou’rt come to save
Thy sad Lenore from this enchanter’s power,
And raise her joyful from this living grave,
To be thine own, thy loved for evermore;
My heart said thou wouldst come, and to despond forbore.

“But human strength can be of no avail
To rend the vastness of this dungeon wall;
Then seek the hermit, dwelling in the vale,
Beside the eastern mount, and straightway call
His wisdom to thine aid, for he can all
The spells of magic by his skill destroy,
And make the strongholds of enchantment fall;
For naught so pleases him as to annoy
“Those powers of hell, and mar their fiendish joy.”

Soon was that good and holy hermit found,
In his lone habitation far away,
And help implored. Said he, “Sir Knight, if sound,
True, pure, and perfect, be thy love, the way
To free the maid from magic’s direful sway
Is short and certain, but will try thy might
Of heart and arm. Beneath where she doth lay,
Through that hard rock, for full five fathoms straight,
Thine hand must dig along, and mine thro’ jewels bright.

“This having done, thou wilt behold a cell
Of golden ingots, and large diamonds full;
And laid thereon, a wand of power, to quell
The might of magic and its spells annul;
No more I utter! if thine heart be dull
In its affections, or thy love untrue,
And seek those gay gems round about to cull,
Then thou thy daring enterprise wilt rue;
“But if thy soul be pure, then triumph waits on you.”

The knight returned, and to his task applied,
With joyful heart and persevering aim;
No gold veins tempting in the rock’s rich side,
Nor diamond treasures when he to them came;
He seized the wand, and, waving it, a flame
Of silvery brightness shone within the grot;
He struck the sides, and, answering to the same,
Around full tones of music seemed to float
Aloft in air, and soon appeared the Maid he sought!

When that sweet moment of entrancement passed,
They found themselves within a woody glade;
And hoards of glittering wealth around them cast,
Which to the Castle unseen hands conveyed;
And now that mighty fortalice displayed
No signs of ruin, but it stood erect
In all its former gorgeousness arrayed,
A noble building with a proud aspéct
Its enemies to daunt, its inmates to protect.

Bright was the morning, when that truth-tried pair
Their glad vows plighted to the sacred priest;
Brave banners fluttered in the mountain air,
Proud music floated, and the marriage feast,
By regal bounty and rich gifts increased,
Was gaily honoured through the realms around;
Nor yet for many days those pleasures ceased,
But they in castle, and in cot were found,
Making each spirit blithe, each joyous heart rebound.

The brave Fidelio in the Holy Land
Had won such treasures from the Infidel,
All by the might of valour’s potent hand,
When in these last wars he had sought to quell
His arrogant power; that to his share there fell
Such mighty wealth as all his sacrifice
Of fervent piety repaid full well,
Redeeming back his lands; mid gay surprise
To twice endow Lenore, to him the noblest prize!

Rich were the hours of their unfolding love,
And sweeter still the time of plighted vows,
But richer, sweeter far than these above,
Their wedded life, when every hour arose
Some new and deep affection to disclose;
Some fond remembrance, some delighted thought
To link their hearts. Oft in this hushed repose
Of mutual confidence their feelings caught
The poet’s sacred fire, and thus in songs were wrought—

Canzonet.

How sweet, how delightful it is to remember
Our first happy days when affection began,
And Love, the gay truant, the roguish dissembler,
Seemed sporting as lightly as spring breezes fan.

But soon that designer in strong finks had caught us,
And smiled at our bondage ere we were aware
Of the pleasing deception, the mischief he wrought us,
In mingling together rich joy and deep care.

Then oft on our absence what sadness awaited,
What hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
In varied succession, with thrill unabated,
Till calmed by our meeting to gladness again.

But sweetest that season, when young Love had yielded
To Hymen’s rich keeping his strength and his power,
And the god on our passion smiled gaily, and sealed it
In bonds of endurance to life’s latest hour.

Since then have we known the bright pleasures of living,
That purest delight of heart beating with heart;
When thoughts and affections, deep feelings, emotions
In varied succession high rapture impart.

Of all the rich boons that to mortals are given,
With wreaths of pure pleasure their brows to entwine;
Ah! none can be dearer, more breathing of heaven
Than the joy of true love in “for ever I’m thine!”

Here will we leave this soul-devoted pair,
Their wedded days in happiness to spend;
Nor bid again to vanish into air
Visions and fancies that the muse hath penned;
But let their brightness with our spirits blend
And their clear moral elevate the heart.
For now ’tis time this votive song had end,
So poor in thought and music—pray impart
Due pardon to my lyre that ill hath done its part!

When she had ceased, each heart around confessed
She owned poetic powers, and that to her
It was a labour of devoted love
To weave the rhythm of the poet’s song,
And frame his numbered melody. An ear,
By close acquaintance with the lofty tones
And modulations of the noble verse
Of our great bards, may soon acquire the power
And skill to versify; and likewise thought
May be illumed by their poetic light,
Until it shine with lustre, and give forth
A seeming inbred poesy. The bard,
The true and native bard, does more than this;
There is within him a far deeper fount
Of innate feeling; and his radiant mind
Shines not with light reflected, but gives forth,
When warmed by passions burning in his heart,
Its own clear coruscations; like those stars
Which flash across the sky, so swift and bright,
We wonder whence they came. And so with her
Was thought creative, and gave mystic birth
To things and beings, lifeless hitherto.
Now all are waiting for the last regale
Which is to crown the whole, and bring to end
This contest of sweet verse. A mother’s voice
Would give it utterance, a mother’s heart
Was its warm birth-place; and each one presaged
A song that breathed affection. Oh how calm,
How sweet she looked, amidst that family,
Her mild cheek beaming with maternal love:
How simple and how fair! her very dress,
So plain and neat, to her appearance gave
A saint-like aspect—not the gloomy saint
Of ghostly superstition—but the true,
The real, the bright, the one whose cheerful heart
Adores the love of Heaven, and lets its love
Flow freely o’er on all. And there she sat
Close by the fire-side, in the place assigned
To venerated guests. Yet none would take
That antique chair, but with a general voice
Awarded it to her; and said the joys
And innocent pastimes could not be commenced
Till she consented to retain that seat
As her’s alone. And reverent she looked,
And well she graced it, as the firelight played
On her pure countenance, and silver hair
Whose thin braids peeped beneath a seemly cap
Of snowy whiteness. Such a holy calm
Suffused her features, as can spring alone
From peace of heart within. Her soul had known
Dark trials on the earth, but they had wrought
To purify and strengthen, till her faith
Was bright and cheerful, and her hope serene.
She now with retrospective eye beheld
That Goodness was in all, and hence her life
Was bright and beautiful, as golden skies
That usher in the calm repose of night.
Before attempting to impart her verse
According to old promise, with a voice
Of winning modesty she softly said
She was no poetess, but merely brought
Some thoughts and feelings from a mother’s heart
In simple language rendered. She rejoiced
With soul-felt gladness to behold around
So many loving friends; and further still
To see her sons and daughters glad and gay
With native cheerfulness, and strong in health.
For this her heart was thankful. But her ear—
And whose is quicker than a mother’s ear—
Had missed the gentle tones of one sweet voice
From that glad Hall, which but two years ago,
On the same festive night, with accents soft
Mixed in gay concert there. She knew that none
Had ’ere forgot her Edith, but that all
Bore her in loved remembrance; and some thoughts
Of sacred elevation well became
The time and season; and she therefore brought
Some simple lines in memory of her,
As fittest tribute from a mother’s breast—
A song she best could frame. With few words more
Of preface, or apology she read—

An Elegy on Edith.

Place o’er her tomb a simple cross,
The emblem of Redemptive love,
To bid us hope, amidst our loss,
And trace her flight to realms above.

She lies not there—the feeble frame
Alone reposes ’neath the sod;
But her bright soul, that vital flame
Now shines before the throne of God.

Her eye so dark, will glance no more,
Her raven hair in ringlets wave;
The music of her voice is o’er,
And her light step is in the grave.

No more will mortal eye behold
That form so lovely, soft, and fair;
Now blending with the earth’s damp mould,
Or scattered through the realms of air.

Her tears are dried, but she hath left
To us a legacy of tears;
To be of her sweet love bereft
Must dim the eye through future years!

But ah! much deeper grief will wring
And anguish tear that mother’s breast,
Where she in infancy did cling
And slumbered in a holy rest.

But I forbear—and seek to calm
All earthly grief with heavenly hope,
And aided by its healing balm
Give not my hidden sorrow scope.

Then let us raise our thoughts on high,
And trace her spirit’s glorious flight
From sorrow, pain, and agony
To peace and joy in worlds of light.

Is she afar? ah! thin the veil
That hides the spirit-land from view;
Such thoughts instinctively prevail,
And my fond heart believes them true.

The angels’ is an inner world,
Not distant, but in life more high;
Though now in fleshly vestments furled
To us are kindred spirits nigh.

And I can think that when I quit
This “earthly house” for glory bright,
Me first her angel-smile will greet,
And her hand lead through realms of light.