Is not this woman's emblem ?-she whose smile
Should only make the loveliness of home-
Who seeks support and shelter from man's heart,
And pays it with affection quiet, deep,-
And in his sickness-sorrow-with an aid
He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt.
Alas! this has not been my destiny.
Again I'll borrow Summer's eloquence.
Yon Eastern tulip-that is emblem mine;
Ay! it has radiant colours--every leaf
Is as a gem from its own country's mines.
"Tis redolent with sunshine; but with noon
It has begun to wither:-look within,
It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart;
It has dwelt too much in the open day,
And so have I; and both must droop and die!
I did not choose my gift ;--too soon my heart,
Watchlike, had pointed to a later hour
Mutual and moral torment, and inflict
Ingenious tortures we must first contrive?
I am distrustful-I have been deceived
And disappointed—I have hoped in vain.
I am vain--praise is opium, and the lip
Cannot resist the fascinating draught,
Though knowing its excitement is a fraud-
Delirious-a mockery of fame.
I may not image the deep solitude
In which my spirit dwells. My days are past
Among the cold, the careless, and the false.
What part have I in them, or they in me?
Yet I would be beloved; I would be kind;
I would share others' sorrows others' joys;
I would fence in a happiness with friends.
I cannot do this-is the fault mine own?
Can I love those who but repay my love
With half caprice, half flattery; or trust,
Than time had reach'd: and as my years pass'd When I have full internal consciousness
Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts,
And thoughts found words, the passionate words
of song,
And all to me was poetry. The face,
Whose radiance glided past me in the dance,
Awoke a thousand fantasies to make
Some history of her passing smile or sigh.
The flowers were full of song:-upon the rose
I read the crimson annals of true love;
The violet flung me back on old romance;
All was association with some link
Whose fine electric throb was in the mind.
I paid my price for this--'twas happiness.
My wings have melted in their eager flight,
And gleams of heaven have only made me feel
Its distance from our earth more forcibly.
They are deceiving me? I may be kind,
And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still;
For gratitude is not companionship.-
We have proud words that speak of intellect;
We talk of mind that magnifies the world,
And makes it glorious: much of this is true,--
All time attests the miracles of man:
The very elements, whose nature seems
To mock dominion, yet have worn his yoke.
His way has been upon the pathless sea;
The earth's dark bosom search'd; bodiless air
Works as his servant; and from his own mind
What rich stores he has won, the sage, the bard,
The painter, these have made their nature proud
And yet how life goes on, its great outline
How noble and ennobling!—but within
How mean, how poor, how pitiful, how mix'd
My feelings grow less fresh, my thoughts less With base alloy; how Disappointment tracks
My youth has been too lonely, too much left,
To struggle for itself; and this world is
A northern clime, where every thing is chill'd.
I speak of my own feelings-I can judge
Of others but by outward show, and that
Is falser than the actor's studied part.
We dress our words and looks in borrow'd robes:
The mind is as the face--for who goes forth
In public walks without a veil at least?
"Tis this constraint makes half life's misery.
"Tis a false rule: we do too much regard
Others' opinions, but neglect their feelings;
Thrice happy if such order were reversed.
O why do we make sorrow for ourselves,
And, not content with the great wretchedness
Which is our native heritage--those ills
We have no mastery over-sickness, toil,
Death, and the natural grief which comrades
death-
Are not all these enough, that we must add
The steps of Hope; how Envy dogs success;
How every victor's crown is lined with thorns,
And worn 'mid scoffs! Trace the young poet's
Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams,
His heart upon his lips, he seeks the world,
To find him fame and fortune, as if life
Were like a fairy tale. His song has led
The way before him; flatteries fill his ear,
His presence courted, and his words are caught;
And he seems happy in so many friends.
What marvel if he somewhat overrates
His talents and his state? These scenes soon
change.
The vain, who sought to mix their name with his;
The curious, who but live for some new sight;
The idle,-all these have been gratified,
And now neglect stings even more than scorn
Envy has spoken, felt more bitterly,
For that it was not dream'd of; worldliness
Has crept upon his spirit unaware;
Vanity craves for its accustom'd food;
He has turn'd skeptic to the truth which made
His feelings poetry; and discontent
Hangs heavily on the lute, which wakes no more
Its early music:-social life is fill'd
With doubts and vain aspirings; solitude,
When the imagination is dethroned,
Is turn'd to weariness. What can he do
But hang his lute on some lone tree, and die?
"Methinks we must have known some former
More glorious than our present, and the heart
Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left
By past magnificence; and hence we pine
With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes
With bitter tears for their own vanity.
Remembrance makes the poet; 'tis the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men
Of what has been, that fills the actual world
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes,
That were and are not; and the fairer they,
The more their contrast with existing things,
The more his power, the greater is his grief.
-Are we then fallen from some noble star,
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse,
And we feel capable of happiness
Only to know it is not of our sphere?
"I have sung passionate songs of beating hearts;
Perhaps it had been better they had drawn
Their inspiration from an inward source.
Had I known even an unhappy love,
It would have flung an interest round life
Mine never knew. This is an empty wish;
Our feelings are not fires to light at will
Our nature's fine and subtle mysteries;
We may control them, but may not create,
And love less than its fellows. I have fed
Perhaps too much upon the lotos fruits
Imagination yields,-fruits which unfit
The palate for the more substantial food
Of our own land-reality. I made
My heart too like a temple for a home;
My thoughts were birds of paradise, that breathed
The airs of heaven, but died on touching earth.
-The knight whose deeds were stainless as his
crest,
Who made my name his watchword in the field;
The poet with immortal words, whose heart
I shared with beauty; or the patriot,
Whose eloquence was power, who made my smile
His recompense amid the toil which shaped
A nation's destiny: these, such as these,
The glorified the passionate-the brave-
In these I might have found the head and heart
I could have worshipp'd. Where are such as
these?
-Not mid gay cavaliers, who make the dance
Pleasant with graceful flatteries; whose words
A passing moment might light up my cheek,
But haunted not my solitude. The fault
Has been my own; perhaps I ask'd too much :-
Yet let me say, what firmly I believe,
Love can be-ay, and is. I held that Love
Which chooseth from a thousand only one,
To be the object of that tenderness
Natural to every heart ; which can resign
Its own best happiness for one dear sake;
Can bear with absence; hath no part in hope,-
For Hope is somewhat selfish, Love is not,—
And doth prefer another to itself.
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love,
Can melt away the dross of worldliness;
Can elevate, refine, and make the heart
Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from Heaven?
No more of this:-one word may read my heart,
And that one word is utter weariness!
Yet sometimes I look round with vain regret,
And think I will restring my lute, and nerve
My woman's hand for nobler enterprise;
But the day never comes. Alas! we make
A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot: our high resolves
Look down upon our slumbering acts."
I soon left Italy: it is well worth
A year of wandering, were it but to feel
How much our England does outweigh the
A clear cold April morning was it, when I first
Rode up the avenue of ancient oaks,
A hundred years upon each stately head.
The park was bright with sunshine, and the deer
Went bounding by; freshness was on the wind,
Till every nerve was braced; and once the air
Came with Arabian sweetness on its wing,-
It was the earliest growth of violets.
A fairy foot had left its trace beside,—
Ah, EMILY had nursed my favourite flowers.
Nearer I came, I heard familiar sounds—
They are the heart's best music; saw the blaze
Through the wide windows of the dear old hall.
One moment more, my eager footsteps stood
Within my father's home, beside his hearth.
-Three times those early violets had fill'd
Their turns with April dew, when the changed
check
Of EMILY wore signs of young decay.
The rose was too inconstant, and the light
Too clear in those blue eyes; but southern skies
Might nurse a flower too delicate to bear
The winds of March, unless in Italy.
I need not tell thee how the soothing air
Brought tranquil bloom that fed not on itself.
To EMILY'S Sweet face: but soon again
We talk'd of winter by our own wood fire,
With cheerful words, that had no tears to hide.
-We pass'd through Rome on our return, and
there
Sought out EULALIE. Graceful as her wont
Her welcome to my bride; but, O, so changed!
Her cheek was colourless as snow; she wore
The beauty of a statue, or a spirit
With large and radiant eyes:-her thrilling voice
Had lost its power, but still its sweetness kept.
One night, while seated in her favourite hall,
The silken curtains all flung back for air,
She mark'd my EMILY, whose idle gaze
Was fix'd on that fair garden. "Will you come
And wander in the moonlight?-our soft dew
Will wash no colour from thine island cheek."
She led the way by many a bed, whose hues
Vied with the rainbow,-through sweet-scented
groves
Golden with oranges: at length the path
Grew shadowy with darker, older trees,
And led us to a little lonely spot.
There were no blossoming shrubs, but sweeping
Guarded the solitude; and laurel boughs
Made fitting mirrors for the lovely moon,
With their bright shining leaves; the ivy lay
And trail'd upon the ground; and in the midst
A large old cypress stood, beneath whose shade
There was a sculptured form; the feet were
placed
Upon a finely-carved rose wreath; the arms
Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars
EULALIE leant beside; 'twas hard to say
Which was the actual marble: when she spoke,
You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound;
But the eyes' lustre told life linger'd still;
And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their depths.
"You see," she said, "my cemetery here:—
Here, only here, shall be my quiet grave.
Yon statue is my emblem: see, its grasp
Is raised to Heaven, forgetful that the while
Its step has crush'd the fairest of earth's flowers
With its neglect."
Her prophecy was sooth: No change of leaf had that green valley known, When EULALIE lay there in her last sleep.
Peace to the weary and the beating heart, That fed upon itself!
The unsoothed pillow where the strong man lay
Like a weak child, by weary sickness worn
Even to weeping: —or the ghastly dead,
By the more ghastly dying, whose last breath
Pass'd in a prayer for water-but in vain,—
O'er them their eager comrades hurry on
To slaughter others. How thy cheek is blanch'd!
I truly said these were no tales for thee.
Come, take thy lute, and sing just one sweet song
To fill my sleep with music.
I have so much to say to my old nurse,--
This is her annual visit, and she waits
Within my chamber,-so one only song.
My lute is tuneless with this damp night air,
Like to our own glad spirits, its fine chords
Are soon relax'd.
Then sing, love, with the wind, The plaining wind, and let that be thy lute.
How wildly round our ancient battlements
The air-notes murmur! Blent with such a wind
I heard the song which shall be ours to-night.
She had a strange sweet voice, the maid who
sang,
But early death was pale upon her cheek;
And she had melancholy thoughts, that gave
Their sadness to her speech: she sat apart
From all her young companions, in the shade
Of an old tree--a gloomy tree, whose boughs
Hung o'er her as a pall :-'twas omenlike,
For she died young,—of gradual decay,
As if the heart consumed itself. None knew
If she had loved; but always did her song
Dwell on love's sorrows.
Sleep, heart of mine,— Why should love awake thee? Like yon closed rosebud, To thy rest betake thee.
Sleep, heart of mine,Wherefore art thou beating? Do dreams stir thy slumbers, Vainest hopes repeating?
Sleep, heart of mine,
Sleep thou without dreaming:
Love, the beguiler,
Weareth such false seeming.
Sleep, heart of mine;
But if on thy slumbers
Breathe one faint murmur
Of his charm'd numbers;
Waken, heart of mine, From such dangerous sleeping; Love's haunted visions Ever end in weeping.
But now no more of song. I will not lose
Another legend of my nurse's store.
A whole year must have added to her list
Of ghastly murders, spiritual visitings:
At least, 'twill make the ancient ones seem new.
And you will listen like a frighted child. I think I see you;-when the turret clock Has toll'd the night hour heavily; the hearth Has only flickering embers, which send forth Gleams of distorting light; the untrimm'd lamp Exaggerates the shadows, till they seem Flung by no human shape; the hollow voice Of that old crone, the only living sound; Her face, on which mortality has writ Its closing, with the wan and bony hand, Raised like a spectre's-and yourself the while, Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear, Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown With terror's chain'd attention, and your breath Suppress'd for very earnestness. Well, love, Good night; and if our haunted air be fill'd With Spirits, may they watch o'er thee like Love!
Good night, good night!-the kind Madonna
shed Her blessings o'er thee!
[Exit JAROMIR. "Tis his last footfall.-I can catch no more. Methinks he pass'd too quickly. Had I left This room, I should have counted every step,— Have linger'd on the threshold; but he went Rapidly, carelessly. Now out on this, The very folly of a loving heart!
O Jaromir! it is a fearful thing
To love as I love thee; to feel the world--
The bright, the beautiful, joy-giving world-
A blank without thee. Never more to me
Can hope, joy, fear, wear different seemings.
Now
I have no hope that does not dream for thee;
I have no joy that is not shared by thee;
I have no fear that does not dread for thee.
All that I once took pleasure in-my lute
Is only sweet when it repeats thy name;
My flowers, I only gather them for thee;
The book drops listless down, I cannot read,
Unless it is to thee; my lonely hours
Are spent in shaping forth our future lives
After my own romantic fantasies.
He is the star round which my thoughts revolve
Like satellites. My father, can it be
That thine, the unceasing love of many years,
Doth not so fill my heart as this strange guest?
I loved thee once so wholly,-now methinks
I love thee for that thou lovest Jaromir.
-It is the lamp gone out,--that dreams like these
Should be by darkness broken! I am grown
So superstitious in my fears and hopes,
As if I thought that all things must take part
In my great love.-Alas, my poor old nurse,
How she has waited!
The lips are pale, too, though their graceful curve
Fascinates in its scorn; her loose dark hair,
Wild as a sibyl's, sweeps as if 't had caught
Its wildness and its darkness from the storm;
Her eyes, like moonlight melancholy, seem
So deep, so spiritual,-such the far light
Of stars which are a mystery; like a queen's
For grace, and like a swan's for snow, her neck
Thrown back so haughtily; and her black robe,
Her golden girdle with strange characters,
Suit her strange loveliness so well.
SCENE II.--BERTHA. LEITRA.
The embers cast a cold dim light around, And the wan lamp seems weary with our watch. O Leitra, do not look so fearfully.
Your thoughtless words sound like impiety.
I had not meant to tell her history,
But it is best you know it. Never came
That portrait here by but a simple chance.
She was a princess of the olden time,
So beautiful, that kings laid down their crowns
Like flowers before her, and her halls were
throng'd
Now, holy saints! who brought that picture With lovers, and of life she took no thought, here?
Save for its pleasures; but as years pass'd on
She felt her insecurity, and cursed
Her own fair face for fading. Suddenly
That picture-O, now, Leitra, thy strange tales She grew more lovely, as if age to her
Made me forget what Jaromir had done.
In the east turret's old deserted rooms
He saw a lovely portrait almost hid
By the gray cobwebs and the gather'd dust;
That he had clear'd it carefully, and thought
It should be with my favourite pictures hung-
And here it is, my own kind Jaromir.
He brought it here!-O Bertha, kneel and
pray!-
The shadowy likeness, when the actual shape
Is distant far; the dream whose prophecy
Comes when we waken terribly distinct;
The shriek the grave sends up in the still night,
Are not such deadly omens as that face.
My young, my good, my fair, what hath the curse
That is upon thine house to do with thee?
Were but a second youth; again her halls
Were fill'd with worshippers, and day and night
Consumed in revels; when as suddenly
As summer had revisited her face,
She pass'd away. On his death-bed a monk
Told a wild legend, how one autumn eve
He leant in his confessional alone,
And a most radiant lady knelt and wept
Over the one unpardonable sin,
How for the sake of lasting loveliness
Her soul was forfeit to the evil power,
Who tempted her with beauty. Then she said
It was now mock'd by ceaseless tears, which fell,
Although in vain; how she from shrine to shrine
Had gone in late repentant pilgrimage.
Her knees were worn with many prayers; but
still
The presence of the demon haunted her.
Then rose a spirit of strong prophecy
What do you mean? Speak, speak!—the very Upon that aged monk: he said her crime
Of my own voice is terrible!-what curse—
Whose is this picture ?
My Ancestress?—and a most lovely one : Yet is her beauty awful:-the pale check Looks as if passion had fed on its rose;
Was fearful, so would be its punishment;
That for her sin a curse was on her race,
Which she would witness:-sorrow, early death,
Sickness, and guilt would be her children's lot;
That, still bound by her human sympathy,
Although debarr'd all human intercourse,
She now was doom'd to wander o'er the earth,
A witness of their misery, till not one
Remain'd of her descendants; then the grave
Would be her restingplace, and she might hope
That the most infinite mercy of the Cross
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