4175 
 B66e 
 
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 \
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 
 
 
 
 cU^^-> 
 
 
   

 
 E R R 0. 
 
 A ROMANTIC POEM.
 
 E R R O, 
 
 3 ftomantu $oem* 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD NOYCE BROWNE. 
 
 " The Summer's flower is to the Summer sweet, 
 Tho' to itself it only live and die." 
 
 Shasspeare. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 THOMAS HODGSON, ALDINE CHAMBERS, 
 PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
 1840.
 
 Tiioms, Printer, Warwick Square.
 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Page 
 Introductory Stanzas to Poesie . . . . ix 
 
 The Mystery . . 1 
 
 The Spirit of the Lake ..... 31 
 
 Q/f CM *
 
 PLAN OF THE POEM, &c. 
 
 Erro, the Pilgrim, is an aged man, whose mind unceasingly 
 dwelling on an event which forms the grief-shadow of his 
 history, devotes his life to wandering, and continually seeking 
 to alleviate the ills of others. The Poem consists of distinct 
 narratives, in which the Pilgrim more or less figures : each 
 tale is in itself complete, with only so much of the old man's 
 history interwoven as was deemed necessary to excite an in- 
 terest, leaving his personal narrative for the close of the Poem. 
 Two Parts, or stories, are here published, and on their re- 
 ception will depend the completion of the plan. 
 
 To offer further introductory remarks on such a trifle as the
 
 Vlll 
 
 following, would be giving it a false importance ; unless, in- 
 deed it were to add in the words of Cowper : — " I have no more 
 right to the name of a Poet, than a maker of mousetraps has to 
 that of Engineer, but my little exploits in this way have at 
 times amused me so much, that I have often wished myself a 
 good one. — Such a talent in verse as mine, is like a child's 
 rattle, very entertaining to the trifler that uses it ; and very 
 disagreeable to all beside." 
 
 September, 1840.
 
 TO POESIE. 
 
 Oh ! Poesie ! whose magic breathings fill 
 The ev'ning's perfum'd gale with music sweet ; ' 
 Thou who canst wake a voice in ev'ry rill 
 And make all nature in one landscape meet ; 
 Who does not crave thy wings — thy fairy feet, 
 To wander o'er the wide expanse of earth, 
 And with a soul replete with gladness greet 
 Each scene blithe Fancy's wand has charm'd to birth, 
 And peopled with aerial forms of grief or mirth ?
 
 TO POKSIE. 
 
 But thy divinity is better shown 
 When the heart dreams its dearest dream, and we 
 Find in this desert we are not alone ! — 
 Who turns, o'er-joy'd from saddest things that be r 
 To love — which is impassion'd sympathy — 
 Possesses earth's chief boon ; yet were it not 
 For guiling Poesie, yes, but for thee 
 Some past example might forbode a lot, 
 That by the unforgotten we should be forgot. 
 
 It is not so; we gaze on beauty's brow 
 
 Till looks become the language of the heart ; 
 
 Truth seems the parent of each whisper'd vow ; 
 
 Unconsciously do we our love impart 
 
 As do the stars their beauty. — Then thou art 
 
 With us Poesie — then by thee we're led 
 
 In gentle dreams — then saddest cares depart — 
 
 And yet they are. 
 
 On earth may we not tread, 
 And, looking into heav'n, deem that all else is dead i
 
 TO POESIE. XI 
 
 From the sad tomb of many a vanish'd year, 
 How dost thou all its buried joys awake ! 
 It is no simple boon, when on the ear 
 The voices of the dear departed break, 
 And with them once again we commune make. 
 How deal'st thou with the future ? — Oft we see 
 Scenes we have thought in living pictures wake — 
 Looks grown to love, and hopes to things that be ! 
 These are life's dearest joys — these — these are Poesie.
 
 ERRO. 
 
 $art #.— €i)t fflmtrp:
 
 " —All that we know , or feel, or see 
 Shall pass like an unreal mystery." 
 Shelley 
 " Her speech is nothing, 
 Yet the unshaped use of it doth move 
 The hearers to collection." 
 
 Shakspkark
 
 E R R 0. 
 
 $att ft.— I vBpdterp. 
 
 The golden tints of eve were melting fast ; 
 The woodland minstrels pour'd their latest song, 
 When from a hill an aged Pilgrim cast 
 His time-dimm'd eye a distant scene along. 
 He mark'd the mists of night begin to throng, 
 While the fond sun, as charm'd with earth's attire, 
 Did ling'ringly his farewell kiss prolong ; 
 Afar to heav'n was ocean seen aspire, 
 Whereon past day had writ its death in tints of fire.
 
 % ERRO. FART I. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Vale of my youth ! I see thee once again, 
 Calm as the heav'n that now withdraws its light ; 
 The shadowy mists that round thy charms remain, 
 Are beautiful as daylight's dream of night. 
 Soft ! do I hear her step ? With mad delight 
 Beats my fond heart ; the winds in silence die, 
 And with me in a listening calm unite. 
 Dear hours of joy ! I love thee, though the sigh 
 Of after years has dimm'd the mirror where ye lie. 
 
 m. 
 
 " She comes — she comes — one moment more — and now 
 Speechless with joy she hangs upon my breast ; 
 And the fond smiles upon her blushing brow, 
 Light me to her soul's secrets. — I am blest, 
 For all the world's in wedding garment drest ! 
 Charm on, sweet charmer, let me hear and see 
 All that fond hope e'er ask'd and love carest ; 
 Charm on, sweet charmer, thou art all to me, 
 
 Making thought move in its own music like the sea.
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. ;', 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Now do I hear the echo of her heart — 
 She speaks of future, which like fairy land 
 Bursts from a cloud of words, henceforth a part 
 Of our existence. — Yes, here did she stand, 
 And looking fondly in my face, oft plann'd 
 A world that was all kind — friends that ne'er fail'd — 
 Days of delight — nights that fond dreams command — 
 Skies speaking heav'n's poesy — bright scenes hail'd 
 
 Alone by fancy's eye, and in their own charms veil'd. 
 
 v. 
 
 " The earth entombs the beauty it has bred, 
 
 And heav'n's soft tints in their own brightness fade. 
 
 My Gertrude ! my lov'd Gertrude ! I have shed 
 
 Tears that have writ repentance where they laid ; 
 
 Grief like a melancholy wind has play'd, 
 
 Low, sighing, sad about my soul. 
 
 Afar 
 
 Who has not seen in night-wove, sable shade, 
 
 The one bright gem — the love-creating star, 
 
 And then its distance conn'd — then thought of what we are ?" 
 
 b 2
 
 KRRO. VART. I. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Such Erro's words, the while he gaz'd around 
 Beguiling thus the current of his thought; 
 For he was one whose eye unfailing found 
 In all its wand'rings much with beauty fraught ; 
 Such were his joys, his heart he ever taught 
 To dwell on present — past disturb'd his rest, 
 Since there liv'd all that grief he ever sought 
 By change of scene to banish from his breast ; 
 Though there were times when mem'ry brook'd not his behest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 For though long years have pow'r to soothe our ills — 
 To calm the sorrows of a blighted heart — 
 What more can they bestow ! time seldom kills ; 
 And oft, a form — a voice — are found to start 
 A train of buried woe*, to wake a smart 
 The first wild throb of which has long past by ; 
 And such at times to vision will impart 
 Those forms though dead to earth, yet never die — 
 Though lost to sight yet oft-times meet the wand'ring eve.
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Calm was the old man's look ; his locks were grey, 
 And feeble was his frame, and slow his flight. 
 Adown the hill he ling'ring trac'd his way ; 
 Pausing as each new object charm'd his sight, 
 Thus onward past, until he did alight 
 On the smooth verge of ocean's wide domain,. 
 Though ere that verge he reach'd, the gems of night 
 Had through the cloudless ether smiled again ; 
 Whilst high the pale moon rose o'er lesser lights to reign. 
 
 IX. 
 
 As o'er her brow the white translucent cloud 
 Is seen to float — Oft such is found to mar 
 Her light, while fancy wild doth shape that shroud 
 To seraph forms, and dreams they're sent afar 
 As messengers to some blest world — a star. 
 And as they fleetly from the eye retire 
 And heighten fancy, from the flying car 
 We hear a voice like soft, melodious lyre, 
 Harping through heav'n's blue arch, the Deity's desire.
 
 ERRO TART 
 
 X. 
 
 Here on the glittering strand the Pilgrim stroll'd, 
 Listening as did the ocean's whisper pour, 
 Until he thought those voiceful waters told 
 A tale of those who'd sunk for evermore ; 
 Anon, he deem'd he heard a voice sweep o'er 
 The moonlit wave, whose breathings seem'd like those 
 Which dying lips impart, when they implore 
 A blessing for the cherish'd forms who close 
 Around their faltering sight, ere wrapt in death's repose* 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then ev'ry bark that did the ripples lave, 
 To him seem'd like a spectre of the deep, 
 Just risen from the long lost seaman's grave, 
 To mark the spot where last he fell asleep ; 
 Phantoms thus strange obtrusively would creep 
 Athwart his mind : — at length he mark'd before, 
 /Y maid, whose feet o'er rock-strew'd strand did sweep, 
 Lightly as gay thoughts heedless gliding o'er 
 Those rugged ills too thickly scatter'd on life's shore.
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Upon her brow a cloud of sadness sate, 
 So fixed, each feature shar'd its grief-deep gloom ; 
 Seeming like sculp tur'd emblems to relate 
 The death of reason — they its living tomb. 
 Alas ! that ever such were beauty's doom, 
 For in those lineaments still linger'd grace, 
 To memory whisp'ring of an hour of bloom, 
 Which never more the loving eye might trace, 
 For madness like death's smile spoke voiceless from her face. 
 
 XIIT. 
 
 She wound a snow-white scarf of fragile web, 
 
 Round bosom fair as robe did e'er adorn, 
 
 Then stood, as tho' to mark the tide-course ebb, 
 ' With drooping head, as flow'r at early morn, 
 
 Waiting heav'n's wakeful smile to be re-born. 
 
 A simple ribbon held her long black hair, 
 
 Deck'd with a white rose from its bow'r just torn, 
 
 To fade upon a forehead not less fair — 
 She paus'd, and then these words did melt in conscious air.
 
 8 ERRO. PART 
 
 " Ye restless waves whose glitt'ring crests 
 Reflect the peerless lights of heav'n ; 
 Oh ! tell me, tell me, where he rests, 
 Ere memory from my brain be driv'n. 
 
 o 
 
 " Yes, tell me, tell me now his fate, 
 I feel my faulty reason fails — 
 His latest whisper' d words relate, 
 
 Then waft me to his grave, ye gales. 
 
 3 
 
 " There may 1 lie, and may the wave 
 That wanders o'er his pallid lips, 
 Fondly these scarce less pallid lave, 
 And leave a kiss as on it skips."
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 9 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Hush'd is the voice — a sleepy stillness reigns, 
 The Pilgrim thoughtful marks the maiden's gaze, 
 Yet all unchang'd and pensive she remains ; 
 While move her lips as 'twere in speechless praise — 
 Adown her cheek tear after tear quick strays. — 
 A moment — all is chang'd — joy lights her eye, 
 Soft smiles 'neath dewy grief her face betrays, 
 Like morning struggling with the mists that lie 
 Around the new-born light they dimly beautify. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Soon with wild joy she reach'd the aged man, 
 And round his form her arms in fondness twin'd ; 
 Then her dark eye she fixed, as 'twere to scan 
 The inward workings of his wand'ring mind. 
 " You've come too late, for I know where to find 
 My sleeping love. — There, were the moon's pale light, 
 By glitt'ring gems of the deep ocean shrin'd, 
 Mark his grave — yes — there by an ocean sprite 
 Those gems are strew'd — Gather them ere they sink from sight.
 
 10 ERRO. PART J. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Behold! how bright — how beautiful his shrine ! 
 Then look afar to yon blue sea on high ; 
 Each star that speaks to earth of love divine 
 Contains a human soul — his I descry ! 
 My hope is from there — hope that ne'er will die 
 Though clasp'd by death ! Hast thou e'er seen the brow : 
 Of a cold, damp corse smile ? and knows't thou why ? 
 Death caimot all destroy — so hear my vow ! 
 , Nay pause, for the eternal heav'ns are speaking now !" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A cloud past o'er the moon as thus she spoke, 
 Home to its heav'n earth's silver robe has fled, 
 And ere from cloudy bondage it had broke; 
 Far on the shore the maniac maid had sped. 
 Strange thoughts were moving in the old man's head, 
 Long his eye sought again her form to greet. 
 " I'll on, and trace her step," at length he said, 
 " Nor thus we'll part if once again we meet," 
 Oil! were these aged eyes less dim, these limbs more Heel.
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. H 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 There on the wave^smooth'd strand the Pilgrim stray 'd, 
 
 Till well nigh in forgetfulness beguil'd ; 
 
 The quiet scene oft turn'd he and survey'd 
 * Whereon the melancholy moon still smil'd, 
 
 (Whose brow no more the passing cloud defil'd); 
 
 Ere long afar he saw a beacon bright 
 
 Perch'd on a group of rocks, of aspect wild, 
 
 To serve the mariner in danger's night, 
 There sought he shelter, and was welcomed with delight. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 For who can look with harshness on old age, 
 
 Boon of mortality ! — Nature's stern wreck ! 
 
 At the Leech laughing — smiling at the Sage, 
 
 As each alike its progress seeks to check. 
 
 Behold the furrow *d brow grey hairs bedeck — 
 . The trembling hand, the dim, and half-closed eye, 
 
 All big hopes dwindl'd to a tiny speck : 
 
 Some thoughts have dug their graves, and in them lie, 
 And some have lost themselves whilst wand'ring in the sky.
 
 \2 ERRO. PART I. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And he who trimm'd the beacon's lofty light, 
 Look'd back o'er many a year for youth's blithe day : 
 Few things he met to move him with delight, 
 Yet when he mark'cl that brow which seem'd to say 
 Good-will to all — to sympathy gave way, 
 And joy 'd to meet with such a genial breast. 
 Once more the Pilgrim Erro's heart grew gay, 
 Right merrily the hour past on with jest 
 And song, and legends rude, in ruder accents drest. 
 
 xxi. 
 
 And ever and anon the gay host told 
 Of perils brav'd upon the pathless sea, 
 At length his words a stranger tale unfold, 
 Which woke the Pilgrim from his reverie ; 
 Of her he spake, who from him late did flee, 
 And strange the tale — and full of wild romance — 
 Ere long the old man whisper'd " yes 'twas she," 
 Passing his hand across his eyes, whose glance 
 Fell where the moon beams on the rippling ocean dance.
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 13 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Calm was the scene — the wild tide's fretful foam 
 Was creeping on some distant land once more, 
 The fisher's bark had long since wander'd home, 
 And rested sailless on the broad, smooth shore, 
 The deep — (star lighted arch of heav'n smil'd o'er) 
 Heav'd its broad bosom as in sleep, and there 
 The mutt'ring waves their dreams of storms did pour. 
 While the low whisper of a gentle air 
 Seem'd like the voice of nature, breathing forth a pray'r. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Here till the glory of the coming day, 
 O'er the long line of the horizon rose, 
 Here till night's orbs had wan'd and past away ; 
 And nature 'gan to wake from her repose. 
 The old man's eye in sleep refused to close, 
 He thought unceasing of the maid whose tale, 
 With all he late had seen, woke many throes, 
 And when he slept, he sigh'd, as might a gale 
 That storm had wearied out reposing in a dale.
 
 14 ERRO. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 TART I. 
 
 Full many a morn and midnight pass'd away, 
 Nor went he from that strand now render'd dear, 
 From seeing there lost Laura oft-times stray, 
 Tho' watchful hands were ever loit'ring near ; 
 And tho' she only met his face with fear 
 Yet had she work'd such interest in his breast, 
 At times upon his cheek there gleam'd a tear, 
 Just crept from eyes, which on that form would rest 
 Fondly as though their smile caressing were carest. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Who has not mark'd the exquisite delight, 
 Which early fondness seldom fails to lend, 
 When eye meets eye, with beauty beaming bright, 
 And heart, voice, soul in harmony will blend, 
 When gentle looks are made the wings to send 
 All a soul's softness to the lov'd one's breast ; 
 When future hopes in painted pleasures end, — 
 When ev'ry dream in poesy's robe is drest, 
 And the heart breathes a joy by no sad pangs oppresl !
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 15 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And Laura lov'd — her tale is briefly told, 
 The sun that lit her world of thought had fled, 
 Though why or where, none knew, 'twas said that gold 
 Had lur'd him — that the ocean was his bed. 
 When woman's heart some object frail has wed, 
 To her the world is dead, and she will cast 
 Her eyes upon its grave, and love to shed 
 Tears full of fond reproachfulness for past, 
 And hug a grief-creating memory to the last. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And 'twas no goodly sight to see that maid 
 When she no more was woo'd by love's fond smile ; 
 A voiceful grief around her reason play'd 
 As whisp'ring sea might round a rocky pile, 
 Till lost within the waters, then awhile 
 By none 'tis seen, haply ne'er thought of more. 
 And thus remorse did Laura's mind beguile. 
 But while this picture sad we're pond'ring o'er 
 We'll dream that each is wash'd upon the hallow'd shore.
 
 1<J ERRO. PARI J 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Thus Laura past into eternity, 
 As heav'n's own beauty melts into its light. 
 Then by a frowning, antique hall stood he, 
 The Pilgrim Erro — Laura's home bedight 
 With gloom, and casements clos'd to sadden sight. — 
 Thoughts drew his mind to better land, more near — 
 His darkest griefs had morning to their night ; 
 And though he met this ill with holy fear, 
 Upon the chastening hand he wept a joy-born tear. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Here Erro mus'd upon lost Laura's fate, 
 And little heeded he the scene around, 
 As shelter'd from the noon-day sun he sate, 
 Though much to charm the heart might here be found. 
 The cotter's calm abode, by wild flowers bound, — 
 The moss grown mill — its slowly turning wheel; 
 A stream all noiseless as the ghost of sound 
 Along the valley slothfully did steal, 
 And in the distance dim as silver vein reveal.
 
 .PART I. THE MYSTERY. 17 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And rising from the green of cluster'd trees 
 Was seen a sacred pile, with turrets grey, 
 From thence death's knell, brought by the wand'ring breeze, 
 Sadly upon the list'ning ear did play, 
 And to the old man seemingly did say: — 
 Here halt, mark how the living treat the dead ! 
 While far and near the villager did stray, 
 With melancholy looks and downcast head. 
 Sad groups assembled there, who spoke of days long fled. 
 
 xxxr. 
 
 Now from the portal of the hall slow sweeps 
 Lost Laura's obsequies, the daughter fair 
 Of its proud Lord, whose heart in sorrow weeps, 
 With hearts, that seldom wept, yet falter'd there ; 
 And whilst along the hamlet they repair, 
 The seaman and the peasant join the throng ; 
 Oft as they pass the Cotter's home, a pray'r 
 From aged lips comes stealing soft along 
 
 The senses sad, like angels' sweet and soothing song. 
 
 c
 
 18 ERRO. PART I. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Advancing slow, in solemn pomp the train 
 At length within the holy pile doth rest ; 
 Where waits the man of God to breathe again, 
 An earthly blessing on the heav'nly blest. 
 A Sepulchre, with antique emblems drest, 
 Ere long enshrines the corpse in its damp gloom ; 
 And many a curious eye has forward prest 
 To gaze upon decay — to mark on whom 
 The crumbling hand of death has wrought its dusty doom. 
 
 XXX11I- 
 
 And as their downcast eyes regard the dead, 
 How strange to mark the aspect of each face, — 
 Here deepest sorrow dwells — there signs of dread — 
 Some brows there are o'er which a smile doth chace — 
 Some fixed in speechless thought — some prate apace, 
 Whilst others gaze on vacancy and sigh. 
 Mens' minds are varied as the flow'rs that grace 
 The field, where many seem of kindred dye, 
 But view'd ancar, what endless diff'rence meets the eye.
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 19 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The day light speeds the mason's thoughtless mirth, 
 (Which as they wrought — oft echo'd in the tomb) 
 No more burst o'er those souls now lost to earth, 
 And hope could deem in happier world to bloom. 
 Eve creeps fast on, and fills with twilight gloom 
 The aisle where yet is heard the Pilgrim's tread. 
 When lo ! he sees a form, he knows not whom — 
 A lady veil'd — then came her Page ; each sped 
 To Laura's grave, though neither rais'd a downcast head. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Now did the Page withdraw — his Lady knelt 
 Where Laura's dust will with her sires unite ; 
 Unseen the old man on her features dwelt, 
 As dim and faint the ev'ning's dying light 
 Through painted casement smil'd a last good night. 
 And when from her pale brow her veil she cast 
 He mark'd pale features speaking sad delight ; 
 Though tears not yet had from dark lashes past, 
 And new-born joy was there to kiss away the last ! 
 
 c2
 
 20 ERKO. PART I. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 As thus he look'd upon her fair young face, 
 Telling of holy meekness heav'nward bent, 
 In those pale lineaments his eye could trace 
 A semblance to that maid's o'er whom she leant, 
 When gentler hours would happier looks present. 
 The same soft light did in those bright eyes play ; 
 There was a lip fi*om which a language went 
 Although it spoke not ; and her dark locks may 
 With sleeping Laura's vie — But hark she breathes a lay : 
 
 1 
 
 " Dear Sister! as beside thy tomb 
 My soul shall breathe to heav'n a prayer, 
 I'll bless thy last sad night of gloom 
 Whose morning found thee smiling there. 
 For what was life to thee ? alas ! 
 Twas but a dream of life, where's seen 
 All that has gone, yet will not pass, 
 But leaves a grave where it has been. 
 
 Rest Sister, rest !
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 21 
 
 2 
 
 " And if perchance an empty smile 
 Beam'd o'er thy pallid brow awhile, 
 It seem'd the mocking ghost of those 
 Long buried in thy tomb of woes. 
 Thy words were like the whisp'ring wind 
 That speaks, yet leaves no thought behind ; 
 Oft such my soul with grief would fill. 
 But ah ! thou wert my Sister still ! 
 
 Rest Sister, rest ! 
 
 "Rest Sister, rest! and never more 
 Will I thy early fate deplore, 
 But fondly look into the sky 
 Until it opens to mine eye ; 
 Then sad regret will pass away 
 Unknown, unfelt as night in day ; 
 Then tears shall be as stars to woe 
 That come in darkness — bless — and go. 
 
 Rest Sister, rest !
 
 22 ERRO. TART I. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The melody swept o'er the old man's breast, 
 Avvak'ning many a thought from its calm sleep ; 
 For melody will on the heart's chords rest 
 Until in very fondness it will weep, 
 While the sad spirit of the past doth creep 
 Athwart the dreaming mind, and in its flight 
 Point to those forms which ever vigils keep 
 In chamber'd thought. Moments of sad delight ! 
 Ye only come like stars to tell that it is night. 
 
 xxxvm. 
 
 Long as a last adieu from those we love, 
 
 The lady's lay lurk'd in the old man's ear; 
 
 And oft those sounds may o'er his senses move, 
 
 And he may hold their melancholy dear. 
 
 The lady kneels no more — the page draws near, 
 
 For well that little urchin's eye could take 
 
 The slightest sign her speaking face might wear ; 
 
 So favour'd too, forsooth, at times she'd break 
 The iron rules of birth us now, for thus she spake: —
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 23 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " When last, my little page, soft sleep like night, 
 Crept o'er the busy landscape of my mind, 
 (Dimming its mournful visions from my sight, 
 As gentler dreams came on while they declin'd,) 
 Methought I heard a tale told sadly kind, 
 By a bright form, to whom I turn'd to hear 
 The joy which earth-born souls in heav'n shall find ! 
 And passing fond such fell upon mine ear ; 
 But now, alas ! not e'en to mem'ry it draws near. 
 
 XL. 
 
 " And all I know of the dear dream is this : 
 Methought I ask'd the spirit to reveal 
 If my lost sister's soul now liv'd in bliss ? 
 And then it bid me from a bow'r to steal 
 A bud whose leaves might new-born rose conceal ; 
 Then throw it on her tomb at eve's still hour, 
 And if, when morn o'er earth his smiles should deal, 
 That em'rald bud should bloom a full-grown fiow'r, 
 
 Would live my Sister's soul in heav'n's eternal bow'r.
 
 2\ ERRO. TAUT I. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 (« Q 
 
 So hither come, my page, at early morn : — 
 Bring, quickly, bring a flow'ret blooming lair. 
 My sister ! I will think this dream was born 
 In heav'n, and by thee sent to soothe my care' 
 Thus spake she, as a new-born bud fell where 
 Late fell her tears ; — the page bow'd his assent, 
 And still his lady breath'd a mutter'd pray'r, 
 As down the twilight aisle each slowly went, 
 And oft she turn'd and look'd on Laura's grave intent. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 We follow phantoms vague, which for awhile 
 Have power to lure aside stern reason's ray, 
 And sweetly such the thoughtful hours beguile 
 As Fancy's lur'd by their bright dreams away — 
 All full of hope as tho' they'd ne'er deca\ . 
 On, on she speeds as a gay butterfly 
 Chasing its shadow on a sunny day, 
 Till its treating sun has wandcr'd by 
 When lo! the phantom's iled, no more to meet the ey< ,
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 25 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And well the Pilgrim knew how passing dear 
 The Lady held her sweet deluding thought ; 
 For more he knew than may to some appear — 
 To eyes which ne'er beyond the surface sought — 
 Within, within, his mining mind had wrought. 
 Soon from a casement, round whose circle grew 
 As fair a wreath as e'er a sun beam caught 
 He pluck 'd a full blown rose, which soon he threw 
 On Laura's grave, where laid the bud his hand withdrew. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Joy ! joy is mine, the old man inly cried, 
 To deem I've blest a fellow pilgrim's heart, 
 Oh ! who such heav'n born thought would seek to chide ? 
 Can man to man a brighter boon impart ? 
 And should some hour those scenes of sadness start 
 Which late before mine eye so fleetly flew, 
 Me thinks one half their sadness will depart 
 To feel such joy did from those ills accrue. 
 Such were his thoughts as o'er that tomb he breath/' d adieu.
 
 26 ERRO. PART I. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Here never more the aged man was seen, — 
 When morning smiled he'd journey 'd far away, 
 For there was much in all around I ween 
 To wake the dream of his more happy day ; 
 And oft he found the harsher thought decay 
 As varied objects met his pensive mind, 
 But when such fail'd then forward would he stray, 
 Nor few the grateful hearts he left behind, — 
 Much sympathy for woe his pitying heart did find. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Some years had past when on a sabbath morn 
 Stretch'd bleeding — lifeless upon Laura's grave, 
 Lay he, for whom her fatal love was born ! — 
 So alter'd was his mien none knew him save 
 One mariner, to whom the gossips gave 
 Unearthly power — his death-fixed form was clad 
 As those who love the ocean's storm to brave — 
 Belted and pistol'd — at his side he had 
 A poniard, and a ilask to make the faint heart glad.
 
 PART I. THE MYSTERY. 27 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 His shrouded brow was lifted from the stone — 
 A gentle smile spoke from his pallid face ; 
 His long black hair was o'er his shoulders thrown — 
 Adown his vest the half-chill'd blood did chase ; 
 They bar'd his breast, the fatal wound to trace, 
 Deep in his heart the deadly steel had been ! 
 Some look'd in wonder ; some the church did pace ; 
 Some sought afar and near the cause to glean, 
 But never yet was light thrown on that mystic scene ! 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 And when they mov'd him from the blood-stain'd grave 
 They saw his right hand held a rusted knife ; 
 Oh ! who unmov'd the touching sight could brave ? 
 Mark the last effort of his struggling life ! 
 'Neath Laura's name (to him more dear than wife,) 
 His dying hand had faintly trac'd his own, 
 Though blunted instrument, and death's rude strife 
 Had wellnigh balk'd his wish. To all 'twas shown, 
 And some wept on the spot — and some shed tears alone,
 
 28 ERRO. PART I. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 But ever from the wond'ring world is seal'd 
 The mystery of this melancholy tale. 
 Laura was lov'd ! — no more can be reveal'd — 
 Naught more can ever human ear assail ; 
 Ev'n this her sister did not live to hail. 
 All now are resting in that tomb — and we 
 Will dream that they have left this troubl'd vale 
 For where not one sad thought of earth can be — 
 Where naught but heav'n isseen — heard but heav'n's minstrelsy. 
 
 L. 
 
 Oh! Past! thou Ocean to the stream of time ! 
 Who has not stood upon thy sable shore, 
 And heard thy melancholy waters chime 
 The knell of hours we live but to deplore ? 
 Roll back awhile and let us ponder o'er 
 Those scenes of mystery thy waves enshrine : 
 Roll back awhile and let us stand before 
 The truth of things we may not now divine. 
 Impenetrable Past — a vanish'd World is thine !
 
 EURO. 
 
 $art «».— Cl)t Spirit of tljc Eafec.
 
 " The gods themselves 
 Humbling their deities to love, have taken 
 The shapes of beasts upon them : Jupiter 
 Became a bull, and bellowed : the green Neptune 
 A ram, and bleated : and the fire-rob'd god, 
 Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain. 
 * * * Their transformations 
 
 Were never for a piece of beauty rarer ; 
 Nor in a way so chaste." 
 
 Shakspe ark's Winter's Tale.
 
 ERRO. 
 
 £art Sft.— Cfjc Spirit of ti)t Hake. 
 
 i. 
 
 Now in the dimples of morn's smiling face 
 The shadows of past moments slowly hide ; 
 Stars melt to light, and darkness into space, 
 While new-born sun-beams from pale aether glide 
 As spirits to the earth ; the lark has hied 
 To heav'n, and hung the air with melody. 
 The world is stirring ; wakeful sound hath sigh'd 
 Into the ear of silence, and we see, 
 Blest morn ! the flow'rs look up and voiceless worship thee.
 
 32 ERRO. PART II* 
 
 II. 
 
 Such was the summer hour — such was the scene, 
 Which met the Pilgrim Erro's musing eye : 
 Rich, past'ral lands, of many a varied green, 
 Divided with the well trimm'd hedge, and by 
 The furrow'd lanes, far scatter'd, homes did lie ; 
 There was the village spire seen peeping through 
 The clustcr'd trees — afar you might descry 
 The gently swelling hills, like clouds of dew, 
 Which mingling seem'd a part of heav'n's eternal blue. 
 
 in. 
 
 In thoughtful mood the old man forward sped 
 To group of peasants 'neath a distant tree ; 
 There from the cloudless sun awhile they'd fled 
 To rest beneath its shading canopy, 
 Share the repast, then toil anew with glee ; 
 And 'mong them was a maid, with artful look, 
 Whose legends rude made time pass merrily, 
 But those who ask'd from whence those tales she took, 
 Naught heard, save they were whisper'd by a babbling brook.
 
 PART If. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. >Vo 
 
 IV 
 
 At length the maiden speaks of Burton-Hall, 
 Whose turrets from a distant wood high soar ; 
 Quick on those turrets eager eyes do fall, 
 While some low, whispering, prate strange rumours o'er ; 
 Some wish for those wild revelries once more 
 Which erst did in its ancient walls prevail ; 
 And now all list as they had oft before, 
 To her who of that mansion tells a tale ; 
 As with these words did she their list'ning ears assail : 
 
 Low in the grave Lord Burton's laid 
 The last of that proud name ; 
 
 His antique hall is desolate 
 His broad lands are the same. 
 
 And sad's the tale he's left behind — 
 
 Its gloom hath smote forgiveness blind. 
 
 D
 
 ,34 ERItO. PART II. 
 
 2 
 One night he call'd his vassals loud, 
 
 When lo ! beside him laid 
 His gentle wife, dead, pale and cold ! 
 
 And all who saw her said 
 While yet they gaz'd, with frighted stare, 
 Her hand trac'd murder in the air. 
 
 3 
 
 Time would not bury the foul deed ; 
 
 Her only child grew fair ; 
 And those who on the maiden gaz'd 
 
 Beheld her mother there. — 
 The rose that o'er a grave doth grow 
 May haply lead the thought below. 
 
 4 
 
 • A woman's love's her history, 
 
 Past, present, future, all ; 
 And oft her best affection's bloom 
 Is wither'd, for its pall. 
 
 Her greatest happiness, how brief — 
 
 The sigh of 'joy — the smile of grief.
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 
 
 And Eleanor lov'd with that love 
 
 Which gives its life for aye: 
 The smiles of him who lov'd her kiss'd 
 
 Her tears of grief away — 
 The darkest storm her mind e'er felt 
 Beneath love's iris tints would melt. 
 
 6 
 
 One hapless eve Lord Burton found 
 
 His daughter by the side 
 Of her heart's joy. — With ling'ring step 
 
 Did they to twilight glide 
 Till all the world seem'd dead — they mov'd 
 In their own universe — they lov'd. 
 
 7 
 He parted them ! — With sighing heart 
 
 Sought Eugene distant land, 
 And Eleanor, shut from the world, 
 
 Her own destruction plann'd ; 
 In lonely cell, though none knew where, 
 Save him, her sire, who led her there. 
 
 d2
 
 36 ERRO. PART II. 
 
 8 
 There is a broad and quiet lake 
 
 By Burton's hall, — and there 
 Floating was seen the scarlet scarf, 
 
 That Eleanor did wear. 
 As o'er that lake the sad winds creep, 
 They halt and sigh — then onward sweep. 
 
 9 
 
 There rests that maid — calm be her sleep ! 
 
 To all her mem'ry's dear, 
 Tho' but the melancholy moon 
 
 Vouchsaf'd her grave a tear. 
 No emblems mark her early grave, 
 But heav'n is mirror'd in that wave. 
 
 10 
 
 Tis said a cloud is floating seen 
 
 To kiss those waters bright, 
 Till moon-beams melt the shroud away, 
 
 And show a spirit white ; — 
 \- though one free'd from earthly care 
 Had loft its shadow in the air.
 
 PART II. THE SPTR1T OF THE LAKE. 37 
 
 V. 
 
 Save her who sang, all seek again the field, 
 For long the Pilgrim commun'cl with the maid, 
 Though seldom that he ask'd her lips reveal'd, 
 
 As with him tow 'rd the village road she stray'd ; 
 
 Then the lone path to Burton's lands betray'd. 
 
 And, as they parted, with a fear-fixed face, 
 
 She bade him rest not there in midnight shade, 
 
 For all had peopl'd the surrounding place 
 With sprites and visions, such as melt in day's embrace. 
 
 VI. 
 
 By mossy pathway led, the old man stroll' d 
 Until he reach 'd the broad, clear, winding lake, — 
 A glittering couch for noon-day's tints of gold, 
 Wherein o'er hanging trees did landscape make ; 
 There pictur'd Eleanor, nor sigh'd to wake 
 From the sad dream, lov'd for its very care. 
 No sound was heard the noon-day cairn o break 
 Save a low sigh that wander'd in the air, 
 And only serv'd to tell that silence slumber'd there.
 
 38 ERRO. PART II. 
 
 VII. 
 
 As from the scene of quiet he did stray, 
 His listening ear was startled by a sound ; 
 Then saw he one who slowly trac'd his way 
 Through leaf -strew' d grove ; old age not yet had bound 
 Its tell-tales round his frame — upon the ground 
 His eye was bent, whose sad expression told 
 That in his mind some grief a home had found — 
 His dress was of a distant clime, the gold 
 Tints of whose sunny sky had tann'd his features bold. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Twas he, long absent Eugene ! such the name 
 Of him who lov'd the hapless Eleanor. 
 Oft with her to this quiet spot he came 
 To tell of ills, which made them lov'd the more. 
 Here to her list'ning Eugene she'd deplore, 
 Her father's ire — her mother's mystic fate — 
 To none save him, she told her sorrows o'er — 
 To none save him did ever she relate, [create. 
 
 Words that are thoughts, and thoughts which as they breathe
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 39 
 
 IX. 
 
 But ne'er for ten long years till that bright morn, 
 
 Had Eugene's eye the lands of Burton scann'd ; 
 
 For when his Eleanor from sight was torn 
 
 He sought for solace in a distant land ; 
 
 Though all his rank and coffers could command 
 Work'd not forgetfulness of her he'd fled, 
 
 And oft in sullen mood he'd musing stand 
 
 Until he deem'd before his sight was spread 
 
 The vision of his brain, and on such phantom fed. 
 
 x. 
 
 And he had mingl'd with the young and gay 
 Where soft blue eyes all full of tenderness, 
 And the wild flash which darker orbs betray 
 Each dealt its charm and woo'd with its caress ; 
 Where gentle voices too his ear would press 
 With gentler tales, told to some witching strain ; 
 Yet such he heeded not, nor lov'd he less, 
 For those bright eyes 'neath brighter seem'd to wane — 
 Each voice was lost in that which must for aye remain.
 
 •10 l.KKO. PART II. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Long Erro watch'd his melancholy air, 
 Then question'd what his tale of woe might be ; 
 And Eugene briefly trac'd his life to where 
 He last met Eleanor. " There do you see 
 Th' embower'd seat beneath yon shading tree — 
 There did we part. Oh ! I remember well 
 How with her blue eyes fondly fix'd on me 
 Her smiles did wander into words — oh tell 
 Has time a tomb ? — Where do our hopes long vanish'd dwell ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Where shall I find the grave of buried sound ? 
 The voice that was such music to my mind — 
 Where beauty's charm when years have gather'd round ? — 
 Can summer pass and leave its smile behind ? 
 Where the dear joys that once did fondly bind 
 Their chaplets round the heart ? — our tears may fall 
 When mem'ry whispers — but we may not find — 
 (hid seek its very birth-cause to recall — 
 
 But while 1 question thus sad silence answers all.
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 41 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Awhile he paused, and then with anxious gaze 
 Bid Euro look where stood a rustic maid ; 
 Ne'er from the ground did she her fix'd head raise 
 (As though she would all questioning look evade ;) 
 She gather'd wild flowers from the bank, and laid 
 Them on each spot where'er his foot had been : — 
 " Twice has that maiden met mine eye !" he said, 
 Nearer she came, yet still her face did screen, 
 Then sang these words, which seem'd to bear some mystic mean 
 
 Since love is dead, then, let me die, 
 
 Thine be the frowns that dig my grave ; 
 
 And when that spot thou passest by 
 In mercy give all I would have, — 
 
 A tender look, — a tender thought, 
 
 For her who lov'd as thou hadst taught.
 
 42 KRRO. PART II. 
 
 2 
 
 And thou shalt dream of her to whom 
 Thou once wert all that love should he ; 
 
 Then shall her spirit leave its tomb 
 And whisper fondest words to thee ; 
 
 And thine unconscious answer, dear, 
 
 Shall charm once more her list'ning ear. 
 
 And she will list thy false heart beat 
 Until she fondly dreams it tells, 
 
 Thy love alone is at her feet ; 
 As we may list to far off bells, 
 
 Until their measur'd knell, we find, 
 
 Becomes the language of the mind.
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 43 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " This is some witchery of sight and sound — 
 Lov'd vision from mind's jealous prison past, 
 Speak on ! — speak on, blest phantom ! thou hast found 
 He who will be thine echo to the last ! 
 Throw off thy guise — let but thy shadow cast 
 Its length upon the ground. On the blest spot 
 I'll measure out my grave." He stood aghast, 
 As she in heedless silence fled, then not 
 
 A word did he, or Erro, speak ; — as to a cot 
 
 xv. 
 
 Each trac'd her steps, until they stood within 
 
 A lowly door where the white roses twin'd 
 
 Their mazy wreaths, which seemingly did win 
 
 Soft kisses from the air. Naught else could find 
 
 A moving breath, but they without a wind 
 
 Shook from their lips their language — perfume sweet. 
 
 Here might we fondly dream the world all kind — 
 
 Here time-deluded hope for aye retreat, 
 And sans regretful sigh youth's early visions greet.
 
 44 F.RRO. PART II. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 An aged dame dwelt in that peaceful place, 
 Who gave her guests a kind and welcome look ; 
 Each question'd on the object of their chace, 
 Though nothing could they learn ; she ever shook 
 Her head and sigh'd, and purposely forsook 
 The heeding of their words ; and Eugene pac'd 
 The room in thought, then with a quick grasp took 
 A lute that hung neglected there — " haste ! haste !" 
 He madly cried, — " say what fair hand this lute once grac'd ?" 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The dame at length replied, with falt'ring voice : 
 " There lady Eleanor's light fingers fell, 
 As stories say, when fled her fond heart's choice, 
 With such did she to winged warblers tell 
 Her prayer of love, and made their bosoms swell 
 With the same melody, that they might bear 
 On high her thoughts." " There does her spirit dwell !" 
 He sigh'd, " Oh ! that my soul could melt in prayer 
 And wander into hoav'n, and meet her smiling there !"
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 45 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Ah ! this then is the silken sash that hung 
 Around her snowy neck, and here, and here 
 Oft have I seen her fairy fingers flung !" 
 As thus he spake, his hand with trembling fear 
 Fell on those strings whose discord vex'd the ear 
 " Sad songless lute, alas ! how like this heart ! 
 Each knew the same enchantress. Soft I hear 
 The song this instrument did last impart : — 
 
 'Tis music's requiem ! still linger where thou art." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 In a low whisp'ring voice the old man spoke 
 With her the aged dame — naught Eugene said, 
 Nor by a questioning look their commune broke, 
 The old man wrapt in thought hung down his head, 
 Then paced the chamber, till he seem'd to wed 
 Some bright idea, he to the hostess told; 
 At length he said, " This clay has wellnigh fled, — 
 The Spirit of the Lake we'll each behold ; — [stroll'd. 
 Come Eugene, come — farewell, kind friend!" — Each forward
 
 1() KRRO. PART II. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Through soft cerulean aether, one by one 
 The stars reveal their pale, love-trembling light, 
 As if by angels' hands they there were hung, 
 To mark a cloudless pathway for the flight 
 Of yon pale moon, now climbing heav'n's blue height, 
 Where lingers yet a roseate tint, as though 
 Past day then slept, and blush'd, as beauty might 
 Blush in her tender dreams, which none may know, 
 Save secret-keeping night into whose arms they go. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Now has the melancholy of that moon 
 Melted the shades of eve to tears, which lie 
 Upon the lips of closed flowers — How soon 
 The sun-born charms of day have wander'd by ! 
 Earth is enrobed in chilly mists, no sigh 
 Creeps o'er the shadow-peopl'd scene. Moonlight 
 Is pensive hour, for then the very sky 
 Seems stagnant as with thought. Love-moving night, 
 The language of thy stars createth worlds more bright.
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 47 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The Pilgrim and his sad companion paus'd 
 Beside the silver'd lake, each gazing around, 
 And looking for the spirit which had caus'd 
 The Gossip's tale, and which full credence found 
 In Eugene's mind ; awhile they stroll'd around 
 The water's bank, then spied a boat where sate 
 The dame who was their hostess. " Here was drown'd 
 The Lady Eleanor," she said, " we'll wait — 
 Her spirit see." No more on shore the boat did grate. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Forward they glided to a willow' d isle, 
 In truth a spot where fairy elves might dwell ; 
 Far off it rose like the enchanted pile 
 Such raise at times by their enchanting spell, 
 To hold their revel-routs — to flow'rets tell 
 The very hour they'll open to the sky ; 
 Paint wings of butterflies, — the still air swell 
 With melody. — Oh ! ne'er did lover's eye, 
 Depict a fairer spot in wildest ecstacy.
 
 48 I.KRO. PART It. 
 
 e 
 XXIV. 
 
 And as they reach'cl this love inviting spot 
 Each gaz'd with anxious eye, for here 'twas said 
 The object of their search was seen ; but not 
 Ev'n fancied form had yet their sight be tray 'd. 
 But hark ! a voice is stealing through the shade 
 Of sad, grief-planted willows, and ere long, 
 Noiseless and beautiful, as light through glade, 
 Glided a gentle form, round whom did throng 
 Th' enamour'd winds, and buried with a sigh her song. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 A slight, transparent robe of purest white 
 Hung round her bosom like a cloud of air, 
 And slightly veil'd its swelling form from sight : — 
 Her cheek was pale, but never did love's care 
 Give thought a language to a face more fair ; 
 A chaplet from her brow shed dazzling ray, 
 As though a wreath of glow-worms bound her hair, — 
 Which fled as clustcr'd stars at coming day, 
 When op'd those eves which seem'd to give her soul away.
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 49 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Now, tremblingly, her snowy hand did raise, 
 A wand, which slowly mark'd a magic round : 
 Oft on the air-trac'd circle would she gaze ; 
 And then she'd mark strange cyphers on the ground ; 
 Fleetly, with step aerial would she bound, 
 As Eugene's eye her mystic form survey 'd ; 
 Again their list'ning ears were woo'd by sound ; 
 Forward she came, and 'neath a willow shade, 
 In wild, yet tuneful voice ! these rambling words betray'd : 
 
 1 
 
 New born winds, that hold no sound, 
 Gather, quickly gather round, 
 And I will fill your breath with song, 
 That ye may wander far along, 
 Where many slumb'ring echos lie, 
 Waiting for sound to give them birth ; 
 Like stars that hang in cloudless sky, 
 Unknown, unseen to all on earth, 
 
 E
 
 50 EBRO. PART. 11 
 
 Until that voice we may not hear 
 Wanders along and bids appear ; 
 Then forth they come, in beauty bright, 
 As echos of their heav'ns own light. 
 
 2 
 
 Full of frolic, by the fountain, 
 Dashing wildly down the mountain, 
 Or sporting in a cloud of foam. 
 Or slumb'ring on a slumb'ring mirror, 
 Or roving 'neath a roving river- 
 Each to our merry crew' s a home. 
 
 3 
 
 When morning spreads its blushing beam 
 We from our dwellings fly, 
 
 And catch the glorious tints that gleam 
 Upon the new-born sky, 
 
 To paint the silent lake and stream.
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 51 
 
 And sleep-creating night 
 
 Alike has its delight ; 
 Then in those mirrors bright assemble, 
 Silv'ry beams which o'er them tremble ; 
 Tis we who teach the love-pale night 
 To sigh its sadness into light. 
 
 When the thunder-loaded cloud 
 Rumbles forth its vengeance loud ; 
 Then in gentle sleep we rest 
 'Neath the wrinkled water's breast. 
 
 But ah ! how sweet 
 
 When storms retreat, 
 To rise beneath that tranquil sky ; 
 
 Unknown, unfelt 
 
 Till tempests melt, 
 
 From voice of ire 
 
 And liquid fire, 
 Into a soft repentant sigh ! 
 
 e 2
 
 ~i'l EURO. PART Jl. 
 
 Ev'ry tint of ev'ry flower, 
 
 Ev'ry hue of ev'ry wave, 
 Brightest beams the sun can shower, 
 
 Softest tints the heavens e'er gave, 
 
 In that blessed hour we crave; 
 And weave their sweetly varied dyes 
 To form the Iris of the skies. 
 
 By our banks young maidens wander- 
 Sighing sadly. 
 Loving madly, 
 While upon our waves they ponder, 
 Till their fond hearts grow yet fonder, 
 As those, our streams, we bid reveal, 
 Sounds which o'er their senses steal ; 
 Like the honey'd words of those 
 Source of all their honey'd woes. 
 And in our mirrors maidens sec
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 53 
 
 Their loveliness more lovely grown, 
 For by our wond'rous witchery, 
 
 When in the tide their shadow's thrown, 
 We give that shadow ev'ry grace 
 Young eyes delighted love to trace. 
 Such the sports we oft pursue, 
 Oh ! we more than happy crew ; 
 Assuming shapes that mortal eye 
 Ne'er met on earth nor in the sky. 
 
 
 6 
 
 Away, ye winds, and write with air. 
 There are who have no thoughtful care — 
 
 None other's griefs to share, 
 Then all the world will wond'ring rise 
 And madly anxious breathe in sighs — 
 
 Oh ! where ? oh ! where ? oh ! where ?
 
 .") I ERRO. PART II. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Whilst her last notes yet linger'd in the air, 
 Toward her fond Eugene fled, and madly cried ; 
 " My Eleanor ! more than enchantress fair, 
 Oh ! this is bliss ! once more to stand beside 
 Thee, who hast been of all fond thought the bride, 
 To list thy voice in music meet mine ear, — 
 But why so mute ? Are these but dreams that glide 
 Along my brain? — Wave not thy wand, where'er 
 Those bright eyes smile, all lesser spells should disappear." 
 
 xxvm. 
 
 Ev'n as she spake she tremblingly retir'd 
 
 Till seen no more. " Again the phantom's past, 
 
 Thus ever hope before mine eye expir'd ! 
 Long look'd for vision thou hast fled too fast! 
 
 Farewell, old man, farewell, it is my hist. 
 
 I'll seek my Eleanor's translucent cell, 
 
 And when that magic o'er myself is cast, 
 
 Which shap'd her to that seraph form, we'll dwell 
 
 In that enchanted spot, farewell, to earth, farewell.
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 55 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Behold !" exclaim'd a voice. in accents wild, 
 'Twas the fair maid seen trembling at his feet. 
 She cast away her wand and on him smil'd 
 With look, as fond as mortal eye could meet. 
 " Now thou art ever mine ! oh ! look and greet 
 Thy Eleanor ! thy long lost Eleanor ! 
 Blest heav'n ! thou lov'st ! I feel thy fond heart beat 
 In this divine embrace, all love." Naught more 
 She said — each speechless liv'd the rapt 'rous moments o'er. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And when her o'er-joy'd heart would let her speak, 
 " I deem thy questioning, my lov'd Eugene," 
 She said, throwing tresses long from off her cheek, 
 Which still upon his trembling arm did lean, 
 " Why I am here, and why this guise, I ween, 
 Are now thy thoughts. All thou shalt briefly know ; 
 Nor will I ask where thy dear self has been, 
 Till I have spoken." Never did words flow 
 In more attentive ears than those which heard her woe.
 
 56 ERRO. PART II. 
 
 XX KI. 
 
 " Thou know'st when we were parted liow my Sire, 
 (Peace to his soul ! oh ! whisper not his name) — 
 Thou know'st how in the madness of his ire, 
 He threw me in a chamber lone, where came 
 None save himself and nurse. He had no shame 
 Whose thoughts left blood-stains where they touch'd; and lie- 
 Thus oft would visit me. — Too sad to blame 
 I let him gaze upon my face, to see 
 If grief had ta'en those looks my mother gave to me. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Love blesses my Eugene, when side by side, 
 We wander in soft twilight and thus tell 
 Our petty ills which float upon time's tide, 
 But when afar, haply in lonely cell, 
 Upon the dear — endearing one we dwell 
 Then love is better felt, and better known 
 Then worship we»past words, and looks that well 
 Can whisper to the heart we're not alone — 
 Lov'd bv one faithful heart! we've naughl i<> ask <>i own
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " That thou may'st know how love can give a life 
 To the mind's shadow, I remember now : 
 One morn I woke with thought of thee so rife, 
 I heard thy voice breathing a tender vow ; 
 When daylight smil'd into my chamber thou 
 Wast by my side. I look'd upon thee till 
 Mine eyes grew dim ; and I remember how 
 I sang to thee ; and when my Sire came still 
 
 I clasp'd the vacant air to shield thee from his ill. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 " So past some years, then tins dear woman led 
 Me from my prison, and with her I came 
 To humble cot, and learn'd that thou wert fled. 
 (My scarf thrown on the lake, that all might blame 
 For self destruction.) My Sire died — his name — 
 Thou know'st the rest. — But when I met thee late, 
 Methought I was no more to thee the same. 
 Blest be this aged man who did create 
 This masque of love, all dark'ning doubts to dissipate !
 
 58 ERRO. PART II. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 " Joy ! joy ! beneath this smile, all fear has past, 
 (Oh ! thrice blest thou who brought my Eugene here.) 
 But had forgetfulness thy mind o'ercast, 
 Thy Eleanor had fled where we could ne'er 
 Have met again. — Now thou art more than dear ! 
 Yes ! this is worth all pangs my heart has known, 
 To see a love in these fond looks appear 
 Years could not claim — to call thee still my own — 
 Eugene ! blest heav'n ! all grief has flown, for ever flown !' 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Unceasingly the heart will language find : — 
 Its utt'rance is a look, that telleth all 
 The rapture that is moving in the mind, 
 Far better than those syllables which fall 
 From kiss-enamour'd lips. — They seeni'd to call 
 Each from the other's heart its happiness, — 
 (A happiness they would for aye enthral !) 
 And the few words they utter 'd in caress, 
 Fled like joy's tears, unnotie'd, in their own excess.
 
 PART II, THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 5^) 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 They left the isle, and as joy'd Erro paus'd 
 To bid the loving pair a last farewell ; 
 Each o'er and o'er did bless him who had caus'd 
 Such happy meeting. " I beseech thee tell 
 How we may best this boon repay, for well 
 Thou know'st our wish." Thus Eugene spake, and she 
 Fond Eleanor, did much his wish impel. 
 The old man wept for joy — " And can it be," 
 He said, " That happiness is born with misery ? 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 " I ask no boon — long may'st thou love as now, 
 Treasure the mem'ry of this meeting dear ; 
 Long years may leave a wrinkle on thy brow, 
 Ye'll heed it not, while still your fond souls bear 
 Such love ! — Look up to heav'n and pray ye ne'er 
 May wake and find the world's heart dead ; for who 
 Thus robb'd, has not one cherish'd hope for here ! — 
 The music of his thought has past." He drew 
 His hand athwart his brow — a tear was his adieu.
 
 60 ERRO. TAUT IF. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 The heart that holds the record of past woe, 
 Cares not to mingle with the world, for where 
 Mad mirth and fashion flaunt it to and fro 
 Such find no sympathy to soothe their care ; 
 So Eleanor and Eugene did repair 
 To distant land, and quickly trac'd their way. 
 None save the Pilgrim and the dame did share 
 The news that they had met, lov'd, and did stray 
 Afar, for Eleanor's lamented to this day. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Creation's full of loudest sympathy ! — 
 Voiceless, unseen, and spirit-like it clings 
 Round mightiest and meanest things that be ; 
 But more than all the human heart still brings 
 Its love to shrines — regardless of past stings; 
 This Eleanor and Eugene well did prove : 
 Their love was as love's wild imaginings — 
 Their thoughts in their creations seem'd to move — 
 Their days were lighted to eternity by love.
 
 FART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. ()1 
 
 XLI. 
 
 When Erro parted from this gentle pair 
 He slept — he clream'd — and when he woke his mind 
 Read o'er again these pictures trac'd in air : 
 Darkness was on the earth — the heav'ns seem'd blind, 
 As though an endless desert he did wind 
 His way, when lo ! a phantom came, so black 
 As we might darkness' very shadow find, 
 And thus did lead him on a beaten track 
 Till reach'd a certain spot, then quickly vanish'd back. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 As there he paus'd the darkness past away ; 
 The pale moon silver'd o'er the earth and sky ; 
 The winds were full of sounds, and seem'd to say 
 " There the last treasures of thy heart doth lie." 
 It was a place of graves ! and he drew nigh 
 To one which held the language of the air, 
 And would not let its slightest accents die ; 
 While on this earth-mound pausing he did stare, 
 Pale flow'rs sprung up and wrote the name of Gertrude there.
 
 62 ERRO. PART II. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 " And art thou here, my Gertrude!" he exelaim'd, 
 With a woe-laden voice, " And can it be 
 That earth for aye has such dear treasure claim'd ? 
 How I have pray'd that I might live to see 
 This spot. Great God! and hast thou blessed me! 
 In mercy let us meet on earth once more ! 
 Gertrude ! Gertrude ! — Ye stars pray earth to free 
 Her for awhile, I know ye will implore 
 Such beauty beaming form, to shed your brightness o'er. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " Thou hast been with me all these long long years, 
 Wand 'ring with thought as sunlight follows day ; 
 And even now thy shadowy form appears 
 All vague and mute, and thus it glides away. 
 As though this air, which once in heav'n did stray ; 
 Clos'd not the space thy form had dispossest — 
 Bright with angelic tracings. I do pray 
 Thee, Gertrude, lov'd, come from thy long, long rest, 
 
 And let mine earthly eye behold thy spirit blest."
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. (S3 
 
 XLV. 
 
 As thus he said, a change came o'er the scene, 
 He stood within a chamber, which con tain 'd 
 A couch, half hid by veil of silver sheen ; 
 The richly gilded walls strange pictures pan'd, 
 And as he on them gaz'd each slowly wan'd, 
 New subjects ever bursting into view — 
 They form'd his life's strange hist'ry ! and remain'd 
 Till spoken to by thought, and then they grew 
 Confus'd, and from confusion sprang the scene anew. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Thus did they portion out the strides of time 
 Until the shadow of his life drew nigh, 
 He could not look again upon the crime, 
 For grief had dimm'd the vision of his eye — 
 He swoon'd, and on the marble floor did lie — 
 Till sense return'd — then rose from where he laid. 
 The stars still glitter 'd in the azure sky — 
 The moon lent to their galaxy her aid — 
 Night seem'd the ghost of day, rob'd in pale, silv'ry shade.
 
 (J! 
 
 ERRO. pakt II. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 He threw a casement open, and the air 
 Past o'er his fever'd brow, and cheer'd his heart 
 He nerv'd himself to see what else was there. 
 'Twas an enchanting scene, and not a part 
 Of those sad tracings were, his griefs to start. 
 Celestial forms the gilded walls now bore ; 
 A silver table carv'd with curious art 
 Stood by the couch, with many a flow'r strewd o'er, 
 And moon beams made a mirror of the marble floor. 
 
 i 
 XL VIII. 
 
 He turn'd and from the casement gaz'd, and there 
 No object fill'd blue space ; it seem'd to be 
 As though the heav'ns had melted earth to air ! 
 Now through this void came softest minstrelsy 
 With pow'r creative — for 'twas his to see 
 Sounds wander into scenes, 'neath silv'ry beam ! 
 There's music in the air, the earth, the sea, 
 And at this hour all slept, and it would seem, 
 That music made another world while this did dream.
 
 PART II. THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE. 65 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The vision past away, again his eye 
 Fell on the couch, when lo ! its silver veil 
 Was parted, and there in white robe did lie 
 His Gertrude ! With clos'd eyes, and features pale, 
 And cold, and breathless as becalmed gale. 
 Her bosom was half hid by golden hair, 
 Her beauty seem'd her beauty to detail. — 
 As unborn thought of God's she rested there, 
 Until He call'd her forth immortal light to wear! 
 
 " Speak to me Gertrude ! speak to me once more — 
 Speak if it be the dying sigh of sound — 
 Come to me, death unkind — let me implore 
 Thee while thou clasp'st thy chilly arms around, 
 Oh ! give her speech ! Lost ! Gertrude ! lost yet found!- 
 Then silence be my grave !" He said no more — 
 He sprung towards her with a frantic bound, — 
 He woke, alas ! it was but to deplore ! — 
 
 The hours had past away and yet they were not o'er.
 
 66 ERRO. PART II. 
 
 LI. 
 
 This dream may be reveal'd in future page, 
 And if thus far with pleasure hast thou stray'd ; 
 And if one brief hour of thy pilgrimage 
 Has lightly past, not vainly have I laid 
 My hand upon my lyre, which ne'er essay 'd 
 A loftier object than to guile away 
 Life's moments render'd sad by grief's dark shade, 
 Moments which visit all while here we stray, 
 And oft undream'd of as the storm on summer's day. 
 
 Lit. 
 
 And yet thus far I would not close my lay, 
 Without one tributary line to thee 
 From whom my task hath stolen hours away. — 
 Cynthia ! thy smile's enough reward for me ! 
 The world is not a desert while we see 
 The one green spot, ^where we can find sweet rest, 
 Lull'd to forgetfulness of things that be 
 By her whose love, caressing and carest, 
 Teaches the o'er- joy 'd heart to feel how God has blest.
 
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