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 V.IS. 
 
THEROIGNE DE MERICOURT; 
 
 IN FIVE PARTS, 
 
 BY 
 
 LOUIS S. D. REES 
 
 PART I. 
 
 WILLIS P. HAZARD, 
 
 ur 
 
 178 CHESNUT STREET. 
 f9 f 
 
 4, 
 
 &_. . 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1855, by 
 
 LOUIS S. D. REES. 
 
 in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States, in 
 and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 INQUIRER BOOK PRESS, 57 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILADELPHIA, 
 

 To ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE 
 
 The traveller, poet, orator, historian; whose 
 holy eloquence in the hour of revolutionary ex- 
 citement did more for the good of humanity and the 
 honor of his country, than even the varied and 
 beautiful productions of his pen have done for his 
 own literary fame, this First Part of a Romance, 
 the idea of which was suggested by a perusal of the 
 "Histoire des Girondins," is most respectfully 
 inscribed by his obedient servant and sincere 
 admirer, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 The favorable opinions expressed by his friends, 
 have emboldened the author of the following lines to 
 submit them to the public eye. He does so with 
 considerable hesitation; not only because he appre- 
 ciates the difficulties of the task he has undertaken 
 in attempting to write a romance, but also because 
 he is aware that there is a general indisposition on 
 the part of the reading world, to give attention to 
 any thing that comes to it in a metrical form. He 
 invokes, however, a patient perusal and a candid 
 judgment, if not for his own sake, yet at least for 
 the sake of her whom he has chosen to be the sub- 
 ject of his song, Theroigne de Mericourt, one of 
 the most beautiful, the most gifted, and the most 
 ill-fated of women. 
 
 168 Chesnut Street, March 2nd, 1855. 
 
THEROIGNE DE MEKICOURT. 
 
 A ROMANCE. 
 
 PABT I. 
 
 Hark ! what cry of wild despair 
 Rudely wakes the slumbering air? 
 See ! what spectral figure stands ; 
 Stretches forth its withered hands; 
 Lays its throbbing bosom bare ; 
 Tears its long and streaming hair; 
 Upward glances to the sky; 
 Downward turns its flashing eye; 
 Loudly laughs with causeless glee; 
 Weeps at fancied misery ? 
 
 No decent robe of pride and taste 
 Is girdled round that fragile waist; 
 No gem-set gold or braided twist 
 Encompasses that slender wrist; 
 Nor sparkles on her hand the ring, 
 Whose magic circle still might bring 
 Back to the soul all fresh and warm, 
 Some lost but not forgotten form: 
 
But squalid raiment, coarse and mean, 
 Where many a gaping rent is seen, 
 Too oft to wanton eye betrays 
 Charms never meant for idle gaze ; 
 While the rough cord and rattling chain, 
 Her movements' wild excess restrain. 
 
 But list! she speaks; and Oh! such words 
 Of horror, that (like reeking swords, 
 Which, stained with gouttes of human gore, 
 Still gleam as if they asked for more,) 
 They seem to come from one whose hand 
 Hath done the deeds a fiend had plann'd. 
 
 "Off with his head! Away!" she cries; 
 
 "No mercy here! the traitor dies! 
 
 " Blood, blood we'll have, to quench our thirst 
 
 " For vengeance on the race accurst, 
 
 " Those proud aristocrats, whose reign, 
 
 " Millions had mourned, but mourned in vain. 
 
 "Raise the tall scaffold to the sky! 
 
 "'Twere sweet to see our tyrants die. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! bethink thee of the day 
 
 " When, lured from home and peace away, 
 
 "I left What! shrink ye back, vile race? 
 
 " Cowards ! away ! Give woman place ! 
 
 "And let her wield the avenging knife! 
 
 " And let her head the glorious strife ! 
 
 "Oh! spare me, spare me!" yet she cries: 
 
 " Not now ! not here ! before all eyes ! 
 
"Bury me in some dungeon deep; 
 
 " Or hmi me down the craggy steep ; 
 
 " Qr cast me to the raging flame ; 
 
 "But do not Ha ! to see my shame 
 
 " Thou too hast left thy silent grave ! 
 
 " Or art thou come thy child to save ? 
 
 " Scourge me ? it cannot, shall not be : 
 
 " See, see ! my bonds are burst, I'm free !" 
 
 Poor maniac wretch ! 'tis Death alone 
 Shall free thee from those walls of stone; 
 Those iron bars; that clanking chain; 
 That worse than any real pain ; 
 Those fancied tortures of the mind, 
 The direst that afflict mankind. 
 
 Alas ! can madness thus efface 
 
 Each beauteous trait, each winning grace ; 
 
 And sink the sacred human form 
 
 Beneath the level of the worm? 
 
 Ah ! I have seen the new-born charms 
 
 Of infants in their mothers' arms, 
 
 Just waking from a sweet repose, 
 
 Disfigured by convulsive throes : 
 
 I've seen Consumption's hand of stealth 
 
 Plant lilies on the brow of health, 
 
 And draw the shadows of the tomb 
 
 Athwart youth's bright and sunny bloom : 
 
 I've seen, beneath Contagion's power, 
 
 The loveliest form, like some fair flower, 
 
8 
 
 Smitten with such a fearful blight, 
 That Pity sickened at the sight : 
 I've seen the ashes of the dead 
 Thrown festering from their lowly bed, 
 And left exposed to common view 
 As if to show what Death can do : 
 But all was mercy, beauty all, 
 Compared with what men Madness call; 
 That makes the intellectual sight 
 Impervious save to Hell's own light; 
 That shuts the intellectual ear 
 Save to the damnings of despair; 
 That prompts the virgin's lip to speak 
 Words so debased, that to the cheek 
 Of common wantons there would rush, 
 While uttering them, the burning blush; 
 That sways its sceptre of control 
 Where tyrants cannot o'er the soul; 
 And makes a thing of human birth 
 A very demon upon earth. 
 
 God ! if for records on my page 
 
 Of early youth or later age ; 
 
 Records of crimes against thy law 
 
 Thy hand the avenging sword must draw; 
 
 Oh ! let its stroke remorseless fall 
 
 On health, wealth, freedom, life; yea, all: 
 
 Yet, in my sorrow's darkest hour, 
 
 Let Reason still retain its power; 
 
 Nor quench that last celestial ray, 
 
 Till in death's shades Fpass away ! 
 
9 
 
 But turn we from this dreary sight 
 To view a scene where all is bright; 
 Where thoughtless youth and sober age 
 Alike in rustic sports engage ; 
 And, turning from their toils away, 
 Join in a general holiday : 
 While Virtue can without a frown 
 Upon the merry group look down; 
 And e'en Religion smiles to see 
 Their pure unsullied revelry. 
 
 There are spots in creation which Nature's own hand 
 Would seem in her happiest moods to have plann'd ; 
 Or some potent magician, with mystical spell, 
 To have raised as a home where a Peri might dwell : 
 So radiantly bright, or so calmly serene ; 
 So free from all shadows to darken the scene; 
 That 'tis hard to believe the deep wrinkle of care 
 Can furrow the brows of the favored ones there ; 
 Or the terrible phantoms of sickness and death 
 Pollute the fair place with their pestilent breath. 
 
 Perchance 'tis some mansion of opulent ease 
 Half hid from the view by embosoming trees; 
 Placed high on the brow of a verdure-clad hill, 
 As a monument reared to its architect's skill : 
 Not vulgarly tricked out, for gaudy display, 
 With pillars of plaster, and coatings of clay; 
 But simple yet noble, as best might become, 
 Not the splendor of state, but the comfort of home. 
 
10 
 
 In front a broad meadow, where browse or recline 
 The favorite horse, and the well-fatted kine, 
 The innocent lamb, and the matronly ewe, 
 Just enough to give quiet repose to the view : 
 More near a choice garden, from whose spicy bowers 
 Exhales the sweet odor of thousands of flowers, 
 Where, like faithless adorers, the butterfly gay 
 Just sips of their sweetness, then flutters away. 
 
 T li'-iJT 
 
 Perchance 'tis some castle, whose battlements rise 
 
 As if conscious of strength, till they threaten the 
 
 skies ; 
 
 While its deep-laid foundations, embracing the rock, 
 Have stood, and shall stand, of long ages the shock. 
 Around, rugged steeps, which the goat cannot climb, 
 Stand as bulwarks against the encroachments of 
 
 Time. 
 
 Far below foams a torrent, whose waters now flash 
 'Neath the blaze of the sun; now mysteriously dash 
 Through the gloom of ravines, from whence issues 
 
 alone 
 The deep roar of its waves, or the rock's hollow 
 
 groan ; 
 
 While the landscape beyond wears an aspect so soft, 
 So unlike the huge relic which towers aloft, 
 That it seems like an infant laid prostrate in prayer 
 At the feet of the giant who frowns on it there. 
 
 Perchance 'tis some valley where, hid from mankind, 
 A few tranquil spirits their paradise find ; 
 
11 
 
 Who, sick of the world, with its bitter and sweet, 
 Have sought refuge from all in this welcome retreat. 
 
 But all that elsewhere boasts of grandeur or grace, 
 Met in one to embellish the beautiful place, 
 Whose innocent revelry gladdens our eye 
 As we turn with alarm from the maniac's cry. 
 See the castle, which still, in defiance of Time, 
 Stands as firm in its age as it stood in its prime; 
 Though the festival pomp and the feudal array 
 Which it witnessed of old have long since passed 
 
 away. 
 
 See the mansion, whose lordly possessor combines 
 The wealth that commands with the taste that 
 
 refines : 
 
 And there, far below, in that beautiful vale, 
 See the homes where repose and contentment 
 
 prevail ; 
 
 Where no one can boast of broad acres he owns, 
 And no one unpitied in misery groans ; 
 Where the milk of their flocks, or the fruit of their 
 
 fields 
 
 To each, without luxury, competence yields; 
 And if there, as elsewhere, bread is purchased by 
 
 toil, 
 
 Yet the labor bestowed on a generous soil 
 But renders more welcome the calm eventide, 
 When, sitting at ease by his own fireside, 
 Or reclining outstretched 'neath the sun's western 
 
 With his "gudewife" at hand and his children at 
 Play, 
 
12 
 
 The poorest man feels a warm glow at his heart, 
 Such as wealth with its splendors can never impart; 
 And looking towards heaven he gratefully sings, 
 "'Tis the Good God above us who gives these good 
 things."* 
 
 It was not in that sea-girt isle, 
 Where Liberty with radiant smile 
 
 Shines equally on all; 
 While Commerce with a bounteous hand 
 Spreads plenty o'er the favored land, 
 
 Obedient to her call : 
 
 It was not in this western sphere 
 Where Nature's giant forms appear 
 
 In cataract, tree, or plain; 
 While mighty floods impetuous sweep, 
 Now broad as seas, and now as deep, 
 
 Down to the circling main : 
 
 It was not in that sunny land 
 
 Whence Dante's pen and Raphael's hand 
 
 Electrified the world ; 
 Whence Rome, the mistress of mankind, 
 Through every clime, to every wind, 
 
 Her conquering flag unfurled : 
 
 It was in thee, thou lovely France, 
 Land of the festive song and dance, 
 Foremost on history's page ; 
 
 * " Deus nobis haec otia fecit." 
 
13 
 
 Where still new scenes of wonder rise 
 To take the nations by surprise, 
 As age succeeds to age ! 
 
 Oh ! who that treads thy princely halls. 
 And views upon their gorgeous walls 
 
 The records of thy fame; 
 Or sees thy columns, mounting high 
 And pointing upward to the sky, 
 
 Inscribed with many a name : 
 
 Who that recalls the noble men 
 Potent to wield the sword or pen, 
 
 To conquer or to save; 
 Who hailed thee as their land of birth, 
 And found in thee their bed of earth, 
 
 Their cradle and their grave : 
 
 Who that remembers that thy land 
 Was rescued once by woman's hand 
 
 From fierce invading foes ; 
 And cowering 'neath the hated yoke, 
 At her command its fetters broke 
 
 And in its strength uprose : 
 
 Who that bethinks him of the man 
 Whose mighty mind alike could span 
 
 The little and the great; 
 Could keep a conquered world in awe, 
 Construct a road, reform a law, 
 
 Or renovate a state : - 
 
 2 
 
14 
 
 Who that to all these marvels turns, 
 Can wonder at the pride that burns 
 
 Within each son of thine, 
 As, counting o'er thy countless charms, 
 Thy deeds in arts, thy deeds in arms, 
 
 He cries, " This land is mine T 
 
 Nor let me pass unheeded by 
 That kind unvarying courtesy 
 
 Which every stranger meets, 
 Who moves thy higher walks among, 
 Or mingles with the meaner throng 
 
 That traverses thy streets. 
 
 Oh ! it hath been my lot to roam 1 
 Par from my country and my home 
 
 With desolated heart ; 
 And still thy gentle, kindly smile 
 Could soothe my grief, my cares beguile, 
 
 And peace and hope impart. 
 
 But wherefore to-day All this festive array, * 
 Wherein rich and poor equally share ? 
 
 What lends a new grace To the child's merry face, 
 And smooths the rough forehead of Care ? 
 
 Why floats o'er the hall And the old castle wall 
 The banner so gorgeous and bright;] 
 
 While each cottage is seen Decked with garlands 
 
 of green, 
 To betoken its owner's delight ? 
 
15 
 
 What wakes the glad notes Whose sweet harmony 
 floats 
 
 From yon church o'er the scene far and near ? 
 And why does the song Of the peasant prolong 
 
 The sweet sound as it falls on his ear? 
 
 Why groans the full board With each luxury stored, 
 Where the lord and his tenantry join? 
 
 And why does the glass So incessantly pass 
 With its bumpers of generous wine ? 
 
 Is it Victory's voice Bids the rustics rejoice 
 O'er their country's success in the field ? 
 
 Or the last sheaf of corn From the harvesting 
 
 borne 
 At the close of a plentiful yield ? 
 
 No ; the vale and hill-top With the ungathered crop 
 Still shine as with gilding o'erspread; 
 
 And the revelry here Is unstained by the tear 
 Which the widow and orphan have shed. 
 
 Little they know who sit, and gaze 
 With eager eyes upon the blaze 
 Of glaring light and gaudy hue 
 With which the drama courts their view : 
 Who see now lamp-lit suns arise, 
 Now clouds bedeck the canvas skies ; 
 Now the tall ship, whose outspread sails 
 Are swelled by artificial gales; 
 
16 
 
 Now the cool grot, or woodland shade, 
 As if in taunting mockery made 
 Of that o'ercrowded human mass 
 Who hail the wonders as they pass : 
 Little they know how dark and drear 
 Viewed from behind those scenes appear, 
 Where nought but dust and cobwebs hide 
 The vile reverse of all that pride : 
 
 Little they know who raise the shout 
 That greets the player, strutting out 
 To act his part with mimic skill 
 Obedient to another's will, 
 And weep or laugh, grieve or rejoice 
 According to the prompter's voice : 
 Little that gaping crowd can tell 
 What real joys his bosom swell ; 
 Or what unfeigned distress and pain 
 May wring his heart, and fire his brain ! 
 
 
 
 And have not bards in every age 
 Told us " this life is but a stage ;" 
 And each man, at his best estate, 
 An actor in the scenes of fate ? 
 Who wears a smile, who drops a tear 
 Obedient to a heart sincere? 
 Where is the man that does not throw 
 A mantle o'er his weal and woe, 
 And deck him with a borrowed plume 
 Ere he step forth to rave and fame, 
 
17 
 
 And tread the boards of life's wide stage, 
 
 The amusement of a passing age ? 
 
 And when, despite the busy play, 
 
 We steal at intervals away, 
 
 And hide us in lone solitudes 
 
 Where no unwelcome eye intrudes; 
 
 Is it not there, and there alone, 
 
 We truly smile, and truly groan? 
 
 And when Death lets the curtain fall i 
 
 On play, and players, scenes, and all, 
 
 Do we not then first lay aside 
 
 The counterfeiting garb of pride, 
 
 And stand before our Maker's eye 
 
 In beauty or deformity? 
 
 Yes, 'tis -an universal truth, 
 
 In hoary age, in sprightly youth ; 
 
 Deep sunk in vice, by virtue raised; 
 
 Courted or shunned, reviled or praised; 
 
 Though scanned by many a curious eye, 
 
 UNKNOWN WE LIVE, UNKNOWN WE DIE. 
 
 Behold yon mansion's noble lord ! 
 With ample wealth his chest is stored; 
 His barn, his granary abounds 
 With the rich produce of his grounds; 
 The scutcheon of his ancient race 
 No treason stains, no crimes debase ; 
 And he as proudly lifts his head 
 As any of the ancestral dead. 
 The world applaud his happy state, 
 Envy a man so rich and great, 
 2* 
 
18 
 
 Nor doubt that he, at least, is free 
 From the sad entail, misery ! 
 
 Had not they seen him bow his head 
 
 In drooping anguish o'er that bed, 
 
 Where, racked with pain and fell disease, 
 
 His son, his only son he sees ? 
 
 Had they not seen him wipe away 
 
 With trembling hand the drops that lay 
 
 Upon that brow so still and fair, 
 
 Like tears which Death himself shed there ? 
 
 Had they not seen, as, hour by hour, 
 
 Faded that beauteous fragile flower, 
 
 The father's features gathered gloom 
 
 From the dark shadows of the tomb? 
 
 And, when the agonising gasp 
 
 Told of Death's latest, firmest grasp ; 
 
 When, not like one who courts repose, 
 
 But tossing wild with fearful throes, 
 
 And uttering shrieks at each new pang 
 
 Whose echoes through the mansion rang, 
 
 When thus, to the worst form of death, 
 
 The boy had yielded up his breath, 
 
 Had they not seen him torn away, 
 
 Still clinging to the lifeless clay ; 
 
 And heard the accents of despair 
 
 Which told his all had perished there ? 
 
 Yes, the sad story of his woe 
 
 Has caused full many a tear to flow; 
 
19 
 
 And gossips love to tell the tale 
 
 When winter's evening shades prevail, 
 
 And prove an unacknowledged joy 
 
 To find that wealth has its alloy, 
 
 And e'en the lordly and the great 
 
 Must share the universal fate : 
 
 " But time," the unthinking world would say, 
 
 "Long time since then has passed away; 
 
 "And time can minister relief 
 
 " To souls most bowed by weight of grief." 
 
 True ; the deep wound upon his heart 
 
 Did lose its pungency of smart : 
 
 True; he could join the manly sport, 
 
 Frequent new scenes, appear at court : 
 
 Yet, when among gay revellers found, 
 
 While glass and goblet passed around, 
 
 And the loud laugh and jovial song 
 
 Strove which should most the mirth prolong ; 
 
 Then would there oft unbidden rise 
 
 Hot scalding tears and deep-drawn sighs, 
 
 As some unlocked for, trivial thing 
 
 Waked the vibrations of that string, 
 
 Whose deeply melancholy tone 
 
 Breathed but one thought, "My son, my son!" 
 
 But away, away with desponding care, 
 
 With this pale-faced grief, and wan despair! 
 
 Lo, Mercy descends to earth again; 
 
 And with her Hope's gay and laughing train ! 
 
 And see how she bears with encircling arm 
 
 A babe whose beauty grim Death might charm ! 
 
20 
 
 And again, with that well-remembered joy. 
 The father embraces an infant boy, 
 Whose sunny smile, by no shadow crossed, 
 Can more than replace the idol lost. 
 
 Then spread ye the banquet's ample store ! 
 Spread it for rich, and spread it for poor ! 
 Bid the young and old, with merry heart, 
 Hasten to bear in the feast their part ! 
 Nor fear ye though Midnight stoop to hear 
 Your song of joy and your hearty cheer. 
 
 This day we consecrate to Heaven 
 
 The blessing so benignly given. 
 
 This day we house him in the ark ; 
 
 This day we seal him with the mark 
 
 Worn by the "sacramental host," 
 
 The proud world's scorn, the good man's boast! 
 
 Well then may heaven itself rejoice ! 
 
 Well may the earth lift up her voice ! 
 
 Well may the Church aloud proclaim 
 
 " The second birth," " the Christian name." 
 
 But see yon modest dwelling, dressed 
 With care and skill beyond the rest ; 
 As if its inmates strove to show 
 A more than sympathetic glow 
 Within their happy bosoms burned, 
 For blessings which themselves concerned. 
 Its quiet aspect, placed between 
 The proudly great and poorly mean, 
 
21 
 
 Tells not indeed of gorgeous wealth, 
 But of peace, competence, and health. 
 The close cut hedge, the gay parterre, 
 No mercenary hand declare. ' 
 The orchard's promising increase, 
 The dog reclining at his ease, 
 The bird that struts his life away, 
 Proud his gay plumage to display; 
 All, all proclaim that easy state 
 Envied alike by small and great, 
 That golden mediocrity, 
 From pining as from surfeit free. 
 
 Within that home of peace reside' 
 A lover and his happy bride ; 
 So closely knit in love's own bond, 
 So free from every thought beyond, 
 That but one spirit seems to dwell 
 In both their frames, one magic spell 
 With mystic influence to control 
 Each thought and feeling of each soul. 
 
 Perchance, indeed, to one who knew 
 
 To search man's nature through and through, 
 
 There might appear upon his side 
 
 Too much of that stern manly pride, 
 
 That walks the earth with stately tread 
 
 And lifts sublime to heaven its head, 
 
 As if, in conscience of its worth, 
 
 It scorned the meaner things of earth : 
 
 That feels no pity for the price 
 
 Which, soon or late, men pay for vice 5 
 
22 
 
 That joys, as Mercy doth, to bless, 
 And weeps at innocent distress; 
 But cannot, like that angel, stoop 
 To lift a prostrate sinner up. r- 
 
 Perchance her soul too feebly hung 
 Upon his strength ; too closely clung 
 For safety to his sheltering arm, 
 On danger's most remote alarm. 
 It seemed as if the self-same blow 
 That struck at him must lay her low; 
 As if even God Himself she feared, 
 Chiefly because he too revered. 
 Yet blame them not; 'twas but the excess 
 Of virtue dimmed their loveliness ; 
 And e'en the sun is said to show 
 Some dark spots 'midst his burning glow. 
 
 Not yet twelve months had rolled away 
 Since dawned the memorable day 
 That placed the bridegroom by the side 
 Of his own chosen, cherished bride, 
 When neighbors crowded round to see 
 The first sweet smile of infancy, 
 And on the unconscious lips to press 
 The gentle kiss of tenderness. 
 
 Poor fragile flower ! they little knew 
 Who o'er it bent their earnest view, 
 What gathering tempests would arise 
 
 In after years to cloud its skies ; 
 
 row no'i v [O'.r- ,ibiityf 
 
23 
 
 Till the wild fury of the storm 
 
 Burst on its frail and shrinking form. 
 
 'Twas on the day, when first with joy 
 Yon proud lord had embraced his boy, 
 That first his humbler tenant prest 
 An infant daughter to his breast; 
 And willed that lord that the same hour 
 Should see each consecrated flower 
 Transferred from nature's barren waste, 
 And, by the rite baptismal, placed 
 Within the Church's hallowed bounds, 
 Those fertile, sheltered, happy grounds, 
 Where each young tree of Paradise 
 Blooms ere transplanted to the skies. 
 
 Ye who would contemplate a sight 
 
 Which angels gaze on with delight,'] 
 
 And more than angels from above 
 
 Deign to rejoice in and approve; 
 
 Look on that consecrated place ! 
 
 Look on that minister of grace ! 
 
 Look on that pure baptismal stream 
 
 All radiant with a kindly beam 
 
 From Mercy's own benignant eyes, 
 
 As wide she opens Paradise ! 
 
 Look on those infants, for whose fate 
 
 Heaven, Earth, and Hell expectant wait ! ^ 
 
 Angels to guard their course through life, 
 
 And shield them 'mid its dreadful strife : 
 
24 
 
 Or waft them swift from earth away 
 To regions of unclouded day. 
 Parents whose every hope, and fear, 
 And joy, and grief are centred there : 
 Demons to blast their opening bloom 
 With sin's dark stain, and Hell's deep gloom; 
 To make their ruined souls a curse, 
 A plague-spot in the universe, 
 Till God, in mercy to the race, 
 Bid Death the damning blot efface. 
 
 Oh ! if we welcome with applause 
 
 The man who in a righteous cause 
 
 Seizes on sword, and spear, and shield, 
 
 And rushes to the battle-field, 
 
 Careless though 'mid the heaps of slain 
 
 His own unburied corpse remain : 
 
 If with delight we view the maid, 
 
 Now first in nuptial garb arrayed, 
 
 Who speaks the irrevocable word 
 
 That gives her to her bosom's lord : 
 
 Say, shall not equal praise be given 
 
 To him who wields the sword of heaven; 
 
 And by the sacred sign he bears 
 
 Upon his brow true fealty swears 
 
 In life, in death, through gain, through loss, 
 
 To him who triumphed on the cross? 
 
 Say, shall not equal joys arise 
 
 For souls new-wedded to the skies, 
 
 Who spotless as the robes they wear, 
 
 In virgin innocence appear, 
 
25 
 
 To be presented to their lord, 
 
 The Church's husband, and her God ! 
 
 But ah ! what prescient eye can scan 
 The distant future of the man, 
 On whose unconscious baby brow 
 The sacred drops are falling now ? 
 Shall the wide world resound his fame? 
 Or echo with his guilt and shame? 
 Or shall he, like some drifting bark, 
 Float o'er life's sea, nor leave one mark, 
 One single furrow on the wave 
 Betwixt his baptism and his grave? 
 
 Perchance that little rosy lip 
 In after years may fondly sip 
 The cup of pleasurable sin, 
 And, with it, drink damnation in. 
 Perchance that tiny hand we see 
 Feebly stretched out towards vacancy, 
 May one day grasp the reeking blade 
 With human slaughter crimson made, 
 And fling the devastating brand 
 O'er many a fair and smiling land. "' 
 That voice, now uttering fretful cries, 
 In burning eloquence may rise 
 To thrill a nation with its tone, 
 Or hurl a monarch from his throne : 
 Or (dreadful thought!) may utter loud, 
 'Midst impious folly's laughing crowd, 
 3 
 
26 
 
 The bold defiance 'gainst High Heaven, 
 Nor breathe one prayer to be forgiven. 
 That infant form may rise to wear 
 A weight of glory even here : 
 Amid its generation stand 
 Diffusing blessings round the land ; 
 Chase, like the glorious orb of day, 
 The mists of sin and grief away, 
 And cause the admiring world to see 
 How bright a Christian's course may be ; 
 By bad men feared, by good men loved, 
 By conscience and by God approved: 
 May, after death, still higher rise, 
 There, there, where angels walk the skies; 
 And view with unbeclouded sight 
 The effulgence of the Eternal Light. 
 
 That infant form may prostrate lie 
 In sloth, in vice, in infamy ; 
 Spread, with its pestilential breath, 
 That worst of plagues, a moral death ; 
 Be praised by none, by none be loved, 
 By conscience hourly be reproved; 
 Feel in its inmost soul the dread 
 Of vengeance falling on its head; 
 And sink at last (how darkly deep!) 
 Down, down for ever; still to weep, 
 Long as the weary ages roll, 
 The ruin of a deathless soul. 
 
 bv/J! 8B& 
 
27 
 
 The rites performed, with serious thought imprest. 
 Sober, not sad, returns each welcome guest 
 To share the bounties of his generous lord, 
 And meet around his hospitable board. 
 All crown the goblet, the sweet nectar quaff, 
 Sing the glad song, and raise the cheerful laugh; 
 Then join the dance, and, to the varied sound 
 Of string and pipe, tread the fantastic round; 
 Not anxious for display, but only bent 
 To give expression to their hearts^ content; 
 And some, 'tis said, whose dancing days were o'er, 
 On this occasion danced again once more. 
 Light was each foot, and sparkled every eye, 
 Swift flew the merry hours unheeded by, Jj jjuA 
 Till, -as the village clock, with solemn tone, 
 Warned that another fleeting day was gone, 
 Back to the banquet-hall the guests repair, 
 Once more its hospitalities to share. 
 The banquet o'er, uprose the man of God, 
 And spread his suppliant hands to heaven abroad, 
 And, with a voice of dignity and love, 
 Invoked on all a blessing from above. 
 
 Just then, a stranger through the portal slowly en- 
 tered, 
 
 On whose gaunt form the eyes of each with awe 
 were centered. 
 
 In gloomy contrast with this scene of chastened 
 gladness, 
 
 Her every look and feature wore a hue of sadness. 
 
28 
 
 The crimson stream of life had lost its power to 
 
 redden 
 Her hollow cheek; her eye was lustreless and 
 
 leaden. 
 Onward she moved, and seemed it that she little 
 
 heeded 
 
 How each, with look of fear as she advanced, re- 
 ceded. 
 Onward she moved until she stood beside the 
 
 father, 
 The mansion's noble lord, then seemed her soul to 
 
 gather 
 
 New fervency of passion, and new stern decision; 
 And thus she spake, and, speaking, smiled as in 
 
 derision : 
 " Happy man ! While you can, 
 
 Revel in your joy ; 
 Still caress And fondly press 
 
 Your pretty baby boy ! 
 Wretched man ! Could you scan 
 
 Dark futurity, 
 You would say, 'Woe worth the day 
 
 Gave that boy to me ! 7 
 Love how great! Deadly hate ! 
 
 Both their forms I see. 
 ' Spare my life! 7 'Nay, whet the knife; 
 Vengeance calls for thee.' " 
 
 Onward she moved, nor stayed until she stood 
 Beside that other father; while his blood 
 Grew cold within his veins, and paled his cheek 
 As waited he the words she yet might speak. 
 
29 
 
 But see how changed a form she bears ! 
 Mark how her eyes are filled with tears ! 
 And list, with what a plaintive moan 
 She chants these words in softened tone : 
 
 "There was a flower In Beauty's bower, 
 
 Lovely in form and hue ; 
 Now dimly seen Through foliage green, 
 
 Now hidden from the view. 
 In evil hour About that flower 
 
 A wily serpent coiled, 
 Whose poisonous breath With taint of death 
 
 Its virgin beauties soiled. 
 
 " I saw from far A twinkling star 
 
 Beam in the evening sky ; 
 Whose timid light, So meekly bright, 
 
 Shrunk from the gazing eye. 
 There came a cloud With gloom to enshroud 
 
 That unobtrusive ray; 
 And, quenched in night, The modest light 
 
 Passed from the scene away. 
 
 "0 guard from harms Those opening charms, 
 
 So transient and so dear; 
 For storms will rise In summer skies, 
 
 And there's a serpent near ! " 
 
 Onward she moved to the grave priest; and, by him 
 standing, 
 
 Said, with an attitude and tone of voice com- 
 manding, 
 
30 
 
 As felfc she that prophetic words to her were given, 
 And that she too could claim authority from 
 heaven : 
 
 '' Stretched there a sea All brilliantly ; 
 
 I stood upon its shore ; 
 And as I stood It turned to blood, 
 
 Deep crimson human gore. 
 ^^^^~-- ~^^>7fT^7Tf7rrolT a ol> \m r >. wo H I 
 "And forth there came, In lurid flame, 
 
 The hideous form of DEATH ; 
 With visage thin, And ghastly grin, 
 
 And hot devouring breath. 
 
 " Then spake the Dead These words of dread 
 
 In deep sepulchral tone ; 
 ' The hour is come, The hour of doom, 
 
 The hour that's all mine own. 
 
 Li; ' i & 90/#3 010 AT 
 
 <A feast I'll have In the silent grave, 
 
 Such as the world ne'er saw; 
 And the rich and great In the Church and State 
 
 To my slaughterhouse 111 draw. 
 
 O 
 
 " ' See my table spread With the mighty dead, 
 
 And with young and lusty forms ! 
 And a crowned king Shall his carcass bring 
 
 To the banquet of the worms. 
 
 OTjJTS 9f[) ' f/.fHVM'Q 
 
 " ( See a woman's hand Uplift the brand 
 That kindles the murderous strife ! 
 
31 
 
 And, lo, at her word They unsheathe the sword, 
 And whet the avenging knife! 
 
 " ' But, ha ! she shrinks, And her right arm sinks 
 
 As though paralysed its force : 
 Who, who could scare Thee, my priestess fair, 
 
 And arrest thy glorious course ? 
 
 fcaiq v itmlo iuiA 
 
 "' Seize the recreant! bind her fast! 
 
 Shroud her soul in midnight gloom ! 
 Then, when twice ten years are passed, 
 
 Fling her to the tomb!' 
 
 "With the lightning's flash, And the thunder's 
 crash 
 
 And the ravings of the storm, 
 And a demon's howl, And a darkening scowl, 
 
 Down went that spectral form." 
 
 The feast is o'er; the lights are out; 
 Hushed is the laugh, the song, the shout; 
 The guests are parted, none remain 
 Of all that gay, that startled train : 
 But few, I ween, their eyes could close 
 That night in undisturbed repose : 
 For if, outworn, awhile they slept, 
 Soon dreadful visions o'er them crept, 
 Of grinning skulls, and seas of blood, 
 And spectral forms that round them stood ; 
 
32 
 
 And starting from their sleep, they cry, 
 " Save us, God, the doom is nigh !" 
 
 And there were two, who vainly strove 
 The burden from their hearts to move 
 Of half allowed, half scouted dread, 
 There lying like a weight of lead. 
 And chief the man who fondly prest 
 The infant Theroigne to his breast, 
 And heard, still echoing to his thought, 
 These words with fear and caution fraught; 
 
 " guard from harms Those opening charms, 
 
 So transient and so dear; 
 For storms will rise In summer skies, 
 
 And there's a serpent near ! " 
 
 END OF PART I. 
 
 
THEROWNE DE MERICOURT; 
 
 mmtt, 
 
 IN FIVE PARTS, 
 
 nr 
 
 LOUIS S. D. REES 
 
 PART II. 
 
 WILLIS P. HAZARD, 
 
 178 CITESNUT STREET. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
 
 LOUIS S. D. REES.. 
 
 in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States, in 
 and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 INQUIRER BOOK PRESS, 57 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILADELPHIA. 
 
TO SQUIRE LITTELL, M, D, 
 
 SIR, 
 
 It is now about five or six years since I was 
 placed under your professional care, for a complaint 
 which threatened to terminate in blindness. 
 
 Certain of receiving no pecuniary recompence, 
 and uncertain of meeting with even the poor return 
 of gratitude, you nevertheless watched over my 
 case with all that skill for which you are so justly 
 renowned, and with all that kindly solicitude, 
 which only true Christian principle could inspire : 
 and it is to you (under God) that I am indebted for 
 the ability to write the following lines with my 
 own hand, and to read them with my own eyes. 
 
 I gladly avail myself, therefore, of the oppor- 
 tunity of expressing thus publicly my sense of the 
 obligation under which you have laid me, by de- 
 dicating to you this Second Part of a " Romance," 
 which, whatever may be its defects, is endeared to 
 me by the subject of which it treats, and the circum- 
 stances under which it originated. 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 With much respect and gratitude, 
 Your very obedient servant, 
 
 Louis S. D. REES. 
 

 iis* 3il;' 
 
THEROIGNE DE MEKICOURT. 
 
 A ROMANCE. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 for a Seraph's voice to sing 
 The sceptre of that hoary king, 
 Whose wide dominion spreads abroad 
 O'er all but the Eternal God ! 
 Far as the flaming walls extend, 
 That mark Creation's utmost end ; 
 Deep as the deepest pit of Hell, 
 (That central gloom where traitors dwell;) 
 High as the place at God's right hand, 
 Where Gabriel claims to take his stand; 
 So far, so wide, so high, so deep 
 Extends his empire's ample sweep. 
 
 Ask ye the story of his birth? 
 Go, seek it in the caves of earth : 
 There, by the aid of science, scan 
 (Long ere the human race began) 
 The hidden geologic page, 
 Whose records tell, from age to age, 
 
 1* |*U 
 
6 
 
 Not when and where some hero dwelt, 
 
 Whose influence through the world was felt; 
 
 Felt? aye, and heard, in captive moans, 
 
 In shrieks of pain, in dying groans ; 
 
 Not how a nation rose to power, 
 
 Ruled o'er mankind for one short hour, 
 
 Then sunk beneath the common lot, 
 
 Enervated, destroyed, forgot; 
 
 But how, through slowly rolling years, 
 
 A new race comes, then disappears; 
 
 How here the liquid plains extend, 
 
 There mountains from the depths ascend ; 
 
 How scales thrown off from tiny worms 
 
 Slow rose into gigantic forms, 
 
 That stand, and shall through ages stand, 
 
 Time's monuments in many a land ; 
 
 How Nature, as in sportive mood, 
 
 Hath ofttimes changed the field, the flood; 
 
 Hath spread a continent abroad 
 
 Where erst the waves of ocean roared, 
 
 Or sunk the smiling land again 
 
 Deep down, beneath the barren main : * 
 
 How through this restless roll of years, 
 
 The same All-glorious God appears 
 
 Seated upon his awful throne, 
 
 Serene, eternal, and alone : 
 
 Go, scan that page; 'tis all in vain; 
 
 There shall ye see, indeed, Time's reign, 
 
 And, as ye upward strive to mount 
 
 The scale of ages past all count, 
 
Still shall ye find, on either hand, 
 The tokens of his being stand; 
 But when he first began to be, 
 Is wrapped in hopeless mystery. 
 
 Would ye foreknow the distant hour 
 When Time himself shall lose his power? 
 Shall lay his crown and sceptre by, 
 And, like his slaughtered myriads, die? 
 Seek not that mystery to explore ; 
 Know, "Time is mortal;" ask no more. 
 His doomsday is beyond the ken 
 Alike of angels and of men ; 
 And the last trumpet's voice ^ilone 
 Shall make the dreadful secret known. 
 
 All-glorious King! thy banner flies 
 
 Outstretched upon the starry skies; 
 
 The sun, proud sovereign of the day, 
 
 Holds forth a torch to light thy way; 
 
 The comet's wild and rapid sweep 
 
 Is but thy slow and measured step; 
 
 The music of the distant spheres 
 
 Is waked to please thy royal ears; 
 
 And all things great, and good, and fair 
 
 Thy will obey, thy power declare. 
 
 And when thy latest hour is come, 
 
 Shall it not bring Creation's doom? 
 
 Shall not a sympathising world 
 
 Howl when thou from thy throne art hurled ? 
 
8 
 
 And falling stars, and darkened sun, 
 Mourn to be told thy race is run ? 
 Shall not a mighty angel stand, 
 One foot on sea, and one on land, 
 And lift his hand to heaven, and swear 
 By Him who lives forever there, 
 That Time's eventful scenes are o'er, 
 And Time himself shall be no more ? 
 
 And canst thou stoop so lowly down, 
 As to behold with smile or frown, 
 Creatures so transient and so mean, 
 As we, who crawl this earthly scene? 
 Yes, 'tis on earth thy power is shown; 
 'Tis here thy mightiest works are known : 
 Angels beneath thy reign receive 
 The gift of life ; but angels live 
 Scarce conscious of thy feebler sway, 
 Nor share thy triumph or decay : 
 And demons know, (alas! too well,) 
 That, 'whether 'neath thy rule they dwell, 
 Or trembling thy successor see 
 That last of kings ! Eternity ! 
 The worm, the dungeon, and the flame 
 Remain unchangeably the same. 
 Hopeless of good, chained down to ill, 
 Still restless, miserable still, 
 They dread alike the avenging rod 
 Of Time, Eternity, or God! 
 But here, on earth, there's not a flower 
 Which does not feel thy withering power; 
 
9 
 
 There's not a single blade of grass 
 
 But trembles as thy footsteps pass ; 
 
 While towering cliff's, that pierce the sky, 
 
 Fall prostrate as thou movest by. 
 
 And chiefly man, though formed to be 
 
 As deathless as the Deity, 
 
 And, througji eternity, to dwell 
 
 In God's own Heaven, or Satan's Hell; 
 
 In this his nonage, like a child, 
 
 The sport of all thy fancies wild, 
 
 Is made each day, each hour, to feel 
 
 Time's power to wound, Time's power to heal. 
 
 And yet, as weary of thy reign, 
 
 Oft will thou stoop in sport, and deign 
 
 To act the wizard's part; 
 With wand in hand through nature range, 
 And show, by many a wondrous change, 
 
 Thy skill in magic art. 
 
 Touched by that wand, the seed minute 
 Shall rise into a tree, whose root 
 
 Strikes deep into the soil; 
 Or forests vast shall die away, 
 And, after ages of decay, 
 
 Reward the miner's toil. 
 
 Touched by that wand, the beggared wretch, 
 Changed to a king, his rule shall stretch 
 Wide o'er a prostrate world ; 
 
10 
 
 While thrones which have for ages stood, 
 Stained with the monarch's sacred blood, 
 Shall to the dust be hurled. 
 
 Touched by that wand, the smile of peace, 
 So brightly beautiful, shall cease, 
 
 The merry laugh be hushed; 
 And deep-drawn sighs of woe shall speak, 
 And lines along the faded cheek 
 
 Shall show where tears have gushed. 
 
 Touched by that wand, the festive hall, 
 Where late, in revelry and ball, 
 
 There moved a giddy crowd, 
 Becomes as silent as the grave; 
 And young, and beautiful, and brave . 
 
 Are mantled in a shroud. 
 
 But time itself would fail, to tell 
 What wonders, by his magic spell, 
 
 The wizard Time hath wrought; 
 Nor countless volumes could contain 
 The annals of his busy reign, 
 
 With good or evil fraught. 
 
 I've felt his power, I feel it now; 
 Beneath its iron weight I bow, 
 
 And uselessly repine : 
 Where is my own, my native land ? 
 Where is the social, kindred band, 
 
 Once fondly, firmly mine ? 
 
11 
 
 Have I not seen the funeral pall 
 
 By Time stretched out, by Time let fall 
 
 O'er those who gave me breath? 
 Have I not seen full many a friend 
 Down, down into the grave descend, 
 
 The prison-house of Death ? 
 
 E'en now, in presence of the King, 
 Vainly I strive his power to sing, 
 
 His wonders to recount: 
 Pale Penury, and frowning Care, 
 And spectred Hopes, and stern Despair 
 
 Forbid my soul to mount. 
 
 Fool ! raise thy window ; look below ; 
 Behold the crowds that come and go 
 
 Along yon busy street : 
 And would'st thou lay thy bosom bare, 
 In hope from such as wander there 
 
 With sympathy to meet? 
 
 The toiling race, athirst for gold, 
 If of thy cares and sorrows told, 
 
 Would smile in proud disdain; 
 And Pleasure's giddy throng would not, 
 Though thou should'st starve, and die, and rot 
 
 Feel e'en a transient pain. 
 
 Sweet Mericourt ! of late in thee I found 
 Rest for my spirit, wearied with the sound 
 Of maniac shrieks, and ravings of despair 
 Harshly intruding on the tranquil air; 
 
12 
 
 
 
 And now again to thee with joy I turn, 
 
 For refuge from the thoughts that in me burn. 
 
 Gladly I hail, just looming on my sight, 
 
 Though distant yet, the reverend castle's height: 
 
 Gladly I see, advancing now more near, 
 
 The lordly mansion on the hill appear : 
 
 And now the dwelling, where we viewed of late 
 
 The father brooding o'er his daughter's fate; 
 
 And now, more beautiful than all the rest, 
 
 Those rural cottages, no longer drest 
 
 With festive wreaths, but rising to the view 
 
 In their own modest garb of virgin hue. 
 
 Nature smiles still, as smiled she on that day, 
 
 Though many a year since then has passed away. 
 
 See there the hills, as then, with verdure crowned, 
 
 And the same gorgeous gilding spread around : 
 
 See there, like fairy sprite, the day's glad beam 
 
 Dance on the surface of the sparkling stream : 
 
 The flocks and herds still stud the distant fields, 
 
 And revel on the sweets their herbage yields ; 
 
 While the same rural sounds to memory dear, 
 
 Glide through the open portal of my ear. 
 
 Why all unchanged remains this lovely spot? 
 Hath Time his sceptre aud his wand forgot? 
 Or hath it pleased him these sweet scenes to spare, 
 In honor of the beauteous smile they wear ? 
 
 Ah! no; it is the summit of his art 
 To leave unchanged the whole, yet change each 
 part; 
 
 
13 
 
 From the vast fabric, one by one, to take 
 
 Each stone, each beam, each brick that helped to 
 
 make 
 
 Its fair proportions, yet to let it stand 
 As if it bid defiance to his hand : 
 To sweep each individual from the stage, 
 Yet let the race remain from age to age. 
 Those flocks and herds that crop the field's rich 
 
 store, 
 
 Are not the same which met our gaze before; 
 Each bleating sheep has, at the call of man, 
 Yielded its fleecy robe, its life's short span; 
 Each sturdy ox that bowed beneath the yoke, 
 Has bowed still lower to the fatal stroke ; 
 And golden grain, and tree, and herb, and flower, 
 All, all have felt Time's unresisted power. 
 
 Go, wander o'er yon consecrated ground, 
 
 With here a cross, and there a grassy mound; 
 
 See now plain prose, and now aspiring rhj^me, 
 
 All telling of the potency of Time. 
 
 Read how that aged man, who battled long 
 
 Against his power, while expectation strong 
 
 Still urged him to maintain the unequal strife, 
 
 Yielded at last the contest with his life. 
 
 Read how, yet glorying in their j^outhful prime, 
 
 This son, that daughter were cut off by Time. 
 
 Read how the infant, first-born pledge of love, 
 
 Descending like an angel from above, 
 
 Saw the dread King, and trembled at the sight, 
 
 Spread its cherubic wings abroad and took its flight. 
 
14 
 
 You start: but wherefore? Know you not you 
 
 roam 
 
 Amid the scenes of your own future home ? 
 See you not all around your brethren stand, 
 Unbodied spirits, and with shadowy hand 
 Point to the cypress and the yew, that wave, 
 In growing grandeur, o'er your deepening grave ? 
 
 Enter yon cottages ; there, too, you'll see 
 The tokens of Time's ceaseless agency : 
 See helpless infants changed to men robust; 
 See sturdy swains now tottering o'er the dust; 
 See lads and lasses, matrons now and sires, 
 With lads and lasses round their social fires; 
 See Theroigne, heroine of this truthful tale, 
 Not now a smiling infant in yon vale, 
 But rich in all the concentrated grace, 
 
 That gives such lustre to the woman's face. 
 8 
 
 O a joyous sight Is the morning light, 
 
 Just gilding the eastern sky, 
 When the night clouds blush, And away they rush 
 
 From the day-god's burning eye. 
 O a lovely thing Is the early Spring, 
 
 Smiles and tears are on her face : 
 For she flies in alarm From cold Winter's arm 
 
 To the Summer's warm embrace. 
 
 Yet the morning ray Is less gladly gay, 
 
 With its modest, blushing light, 
 Than the golden beams Whose effulgence streams 
 
 From the sun at its noontide height; 
 
15 
 
 And the early spring Never yet could bring, 
 
 With its sunshine and its showers, 
 Such a deep delight As the summer bright 
 
 With its fruits and gorgeous flowers. 
 
 And the wayward child, With her fancies wild, 
 
 And her step so glad and free, 
 Is an earthly sight That an angel might 
 
 From the heavens look down to see. 
 Yet shall Time impart To that youthful heart 
 
 Holy thoughts it knows not now ; 
 And his hand shall throw A diviner glow 
 
 O'er the woman's lovelier brow. 
 
 for the men, who on the historic page 
 Still stand, the wonder of each passing age, 
 Skilled to portray on canvas, or in stone, 
 Nature's sublime creations and their own ! 
 for thy pencil, Reynolds; or for thine, 
 Immortal Lawrence ; or, (if verse of mine 
 May pay a passing tribute to a name 
 Destined, perchance, to stand as high in fame,) 
 Thine, Richmond, still embalming to our eye 
 Benignant Wilberforce, and sainted Fry ! 
 for thy chisel, Powers, at whose touch 
 The dull cold marble wakes, to tell how much 
 Of beauty lovely woman may retain, 
 E'en when she groans beneath the oppressor's chain ' 
 'Twould need your art, 'twould need your arts com- 
 bined, 
 Your skill most potent, genius most refined, 
 
16 
 
 To set before our view a form and face 
 Rich in each charm, adormed with every grace ; 
 Where womanhood its finish had bestowed 
 On all that brightly shone, or warmly glowed. 
 
 why doth God, perfect in all His ways, 
 
 Take such delight a monument to raise 
 
 Of his own power, then dash it to the ground, 
 
 And strew the glittering fragments all around? 
 
 Why doth He light a meteor in the sky 
 
 To flash but for an instant, and to die? 
 
 Why is a Samson made at last to grind 
 
 In the low dungeon, wretched, weak, and blind ? 
 
 Why is the infant wrought with magic art, 
 
 And made so beautiful in every part, 
 
 Placed in its mother's arms, then torn away, 
 
 And left to worms and rottenness a prey? 
 
 Why doth the flower invite the wondering view 
 
 By graceful symmetry, or gorgeous hue ; 
 
 Then, nipped by frosts, or scorched by burning heat. 
 
 Fall withered, worthless at the admirer's feet? 
 
 And thou, sweet flower of Mericourt's sweet vale. 
 
 Fair as the lily, and, alas, as frail, 
 
 Why wast thou formed in nature's finest mould, 
 
 Of height commanding, yet not sternly bold; 
 
 Of easy dignity in step and mien, 
 
 Not fearing, nor desiring, to be seen? 
 
 Why those dark locks of glossy clustering hair. 
 
 Parted on either side a brow so fair, 
 
 Shading the lustre of its pearly white, 
 
 Like sable clouds around the queen of night ? 
 
17 
 
 Why too those coral lips? the ivory hue 
 Of teeth, from whose enclosure oft there flew 
 Sweet sounds melodious, and swift-winged words. 
 Like warbling, happy, disencaged birds ? * 
 
 Why ? But why vainly would my pencil try 
 
 To paint such outward charms as meet the eye ? 
 
 Charms in which, oft, the meanest worm that crawls, 
 
 Excels the maid adored in princely halls. 
 
 Say rather, wherefore doth her soul of fire 
 
 Still restless towards the great, the good aspire ? 
 
 Why do her spirit's wings still beat the air, 
 
 In the sweet labor their high charge to bear 
 
 Farther and farther from earth's shades away, 
 
 To heaven's ethereal, unbeclouded day? 
 
 Why such a heart so generous and so true ? 
 
 A heart where even Deity might view, 
 
 As in a mirror guiltless of a stain, 
 
 His own pure light reflected back again? 
 
 Behold yon eagle in his lofty flight, 
 
 Now soaring far above the mountain's height ; 
 
 See how he fixes his unflinching gaze 
 
 Upon the burning sun's meridian blaze; 
 
 And still mounts up, as though he sought on high 
 
 His dwelling-place, his home in that bright sky. 
 
 But, lo, he sinks ! the too ethereal air 
 
 Refuses e'en his buoyant form to bear; 
 
 And now some thoughtless hand lets fly the dart 
 
 That wounds his pinions or assails his heart; 
 
 * Trowy rro? quytv tfitos O^OVTUY. Homer. 
 
18 
 
 Down, down he falls to earth; his plumage stained 
 
 With his own blood, his lofty flight restrained 
 
 Henceforth within some narrow prison-cage, 
 
 Whose bars he beats with ineffectual rage ; 
 
 Or a vile carcase rotting on the ground, 
 
 With nought but worms and carrion-crows around. 
 
 And thou too, The'roigne, lovely as thou art, 
 Lovely alike in form, in mind, in heart, 
 Shalt yet be seen a spectacle of woe, 
 Changed, how totally ! fallen, how low ! 
 Till in the grave, the wretch's only rest, 
 Thou lay thee down, by shame and guilt opprest ; 
 Till in the presence of the God above, 
 Perfect in justice, perfect, too, in love, 
 Thou hand the record in, thy life's account, 
 And wait the word that bids thee sink or mount. 
 
 What art thou, but a hapless victim led 
 
 To slaughter, with gay wreaths about its head? 
 
 What art thou but that eagle in its flight, 
 
 Still soaring upwards with renewed delight, 
 
 Fixing thy soul's unhesitating gaze 
 
 On forms of splendor, such as thought can raise, 
 
 When, turning from this dull depressing earth, 
 
 As if in conscience of her heavenly birth, 
 
 She views with inward eye the Good Supreme, 
 
 And basks beneath His vivifying beam? 
 
 But thou ere long shalt sink to earth again, 
 
 Feel life's rude shocks, and wear its galling chain; 
 
19 
 
 Hide in thy inmost soul the envenomed dart 
 Of shame, grief, vengeance, rankling in thy heart ; 
 Weep, till the fountain of thy tears be dry ; 
 Sigh, till thy bosom lose its power to sigh ; 
 Shudder, when wrapped around with mental gloom. 
 And long, but long in vain, to find a tomb. 
 
 " To horse and away ! To horse and away ! 
 
 With the earliest blush of the morning ; 
 While the lark rises high In the beautiful sky, 
 
 To welcome the light at its dawning. 
 
 " The lord of the day Drives the shadows away, 
 And the spirits of darkness affrighted, 
 
 Slink back to the deep, As he rises from sleep, 
 And the earth by his presence is lighted. 
 
 " why should we choose In dull slumber to lose 
 
 The moments so rich in enjoyment, 
 When nature awakes, And her dewy locks shakes. 
 
 And goes forth to her varied employment. 
 
 " I'll not linger here, While the gay chanticleer 
 To his dames is so loudly proclaiming, 
 
 As he flaps his glad wings And his clarion rings, 
 That the East with the daylight is flaming. 
 
 " I'll mount my good steed, And away will I speed 
 To drink the fresh air of the morning; 
 
20 
 
 To view the fair scene In its mantle of green, 
 And the dew-drops that mantle adorning; 
 
 tf <qfiW 
 
 "To hear the glad song Of the feathery throng, 
 All swelling one rapturous chorus, 
 
 Where each merry voice Seems to bid us rejoice, 
 And partake of the banquet before us." 
 
 Yes, nursed upon the lap of wealth, 
 Rich in youth, energy, and health, 
 Well may that mansion's heir delight, 
 When Morning climbs the eastern height, 
 To mark the greeting smiles that grace 
 Awakened Nature's beaming face : 
 For sweet it is to view the sun, 
 Ere yet his course is well begun, 
 Turning his youthful, amorous gaze 
 With ardor on the misty haze; 
 And see with what a roseate hue 
 In heaven the clouds, on earth the dew, 
 Blush as they meet his burning eye, 
 Embrace him, and, embracing, die : 
 To see, where'er our foot hath been, 
 jCach blade of grass more freshly green, 
 As if our every cheerful pace 
 Wiped off some tears from Nature's face ; 
 Or leave the unsullied crystal drop 
 Still trembling on the leafy top, 
 Fearful, lest every passing gust 
 Should lay its radiance in the dust: 
 
21 
 
 Sweet, too, on every side to view 
 
 The flaunting poppy's gaudy hue, 
 
 Or daisy couched on verdure rank, 
 
 Or violet blue on shady bank, 
 
 Or wild convolvulus, or rose, 
 
 Not reared by man, but such as throws 
 
 Its blossoms o'er the scented thorn, 
 
 To share its fragrance, and adorn. 
 
 Sweet is the carol of the lark, 
 
 Soaring aloft while yet 'tis dark, 
 
 And seeming from those distant clouds 
 
 To welcome day ; as up the shrouds 
 
 The nimble sailor runs to seek 
 
 For looming beacon, tower, or peak, 
 
 Then shouts to those who listening stand, 
 
 "Hurrah! my boys; there's' land ! there's land!" 
 
 And sweet, too, is the tuneless lay 
 
 Of young birds chirping on the spray; 
 
 Wiose merry notes less liquid rise, 
 
 But not less welcome to the skies. 
 
 Sweet is the fragrance, too, of morn; 
 
 The new-mown hay, the standing corn, 
 
 Or the rich perfume, that each flower 
 
 Yields at this consecrated hour, 
 
 And flings upon the gale abroad, 
 
 For incense to the throne of God. 
 
 could I strike the sacred lyre 
 
 They struck who walked unharmed in fire, 
 
 Or thine, thou glory of our tongue, 
 
 Whose voice, in notes seraphic, sung 
 
 The wonders of creative power, 
 
 As viewed from Eden's nuptial bower; 
 
22 
 
 I'd echo to the joyous strain 
 Of warbling bird and cheerful swain, 
 And bid all nature rise and sing 
 The praises of the Eternal King. 
 
 He has mounted his horse without sorrow or care; 
 He is hasting away Nature's bounty to share 
 In the beautiful scene, and the genial air, 
 
 And the thousand attractions of morning ; 
 He shall feel in his heart, when he comes back again. 
 The torturing bliss, and the exquisite pain, 
 (Too intense to express, too profound to explain,) 
 
 Of love in its earliest dawning. 
 
 why doth the god, so resistless in power, 
 Still force his rude way to the innocent flower, 
 And seize it so roughly, that oft in an hour 
 
 It loses its freshness and bloom ? 
 why doth he hold o'er the thoughtless and gay 
 A torch that but lends them a flickering ray, 
 Shines on till their footsteps have wandered astray, 
 
 Then leaves them enshrouded in gloom ? 
 
 why doth he mingle, like Chaos of old, * 
 The stern and the yielding, the fervent and cold, 
 The poor with the wearer of purple and gold, 
 
 The cowardly heart with the brave? 
 Why sighs the rough peasant to whisper his vow 
 To the maid with a coronet circling her brow? 
 
 * "Corpore in uno frigida pugnabant calidis, &c. Ovid. 
 
23 
 
 And why does the monarch in suppliance bow 
 At the feet of his beautiful slave? 
 
 Is Love then a tyrant? and doth he delight 
 To enkindle a flame but to quench it in night? 
 To raise us by hope, then to fling from its height 
 
 To despondency's gloomy abyss ? 
 Ah ! no ; but he scorns the distinctions of earth 
 And would teach us that beauty, and genius, and 
 worth 
 
 Are the things that, in peasant or prince, must give 
 
 birth 
 To the soul's highest rapture of bliss. 
 
 'Tis man, ruthless man, who, with merciless hand, 
 Untwists the silk cords of Love's roseate band, 
 Dissevers the unions benignantly planned 
 
 To lighten life's burden of care ; 
 Nay, seizes remorselessly on the young heart 
 That clings to another as part clings to part, 
 And rends it asunder with torturing smart, 
 
 Then leaves it all bleeding and bare. 
 
 And why ? Because here, gifts of fortune abound, 
 And the head of a fool with a diadem is crowned; 
 There, beauty ungilded, untitled is found; 
 
 And should not the wise interfere? 
 Yet wisdom like this can behold, with a smile, 
 Sweet Innocence wedded to fraudulent Guile, 
 And the gentle and pure to the brutal and vile, 
 
 Nor let fall one pitying tear. 
 
24 
 
 hard-hearted parents ! 'twere better by far 
 
 Ye hurled your poor child 'neath the swift-rolling 
 
 car, 
 To cripple her members, her features to mar; 
 
 ('Twould cause less of sorrow and sin;) 
 Than doom her to linger through year after year, 
 With no one to strengthen, and no one to cheer, 
 Forbidden to tell, by a sigh or a tear. 
 
 The grief that is gnawing within. 
 
 But where is Theroigne ? Doth the fleecy cloud 
 Of dreamless slumber still her soul enshroud ? 
 Or hears she yet, though sunk in calm repose, 
 The murmurs of that mystic stream that flows 
 Around the intellectual souls whose lofty thought. 
 Sleeping or waking, with high things is fraught; 
 That stream of inspiration and of bliss, 
 E/ising in other worlds, and watering this ? 
 
 - 
 
 She slumbers not; for soon as morning dawns 
 It is her wont to seek the dewy lawns, 
 Or saunter in the garden, or descend 
 To where the shepherds on their flocks attend, 
 Or lowing herds with generous bounty yield 
 The snowy nectar of the fragrant field, 
 Nectar, by art which Nature only knows, 
 Extracted from the simplest herb that grows. 
 And some there are -in flock and herd, who share 
 The blessing of her own peculiar care : 
 The gentle cow that licks her well-known hand, 
 The sheep, though simple, skilled to understand 
 
The eye benignant, and the kindly word, 
 
 The soothing stroke, the lap with dainties stored, 
 
 See, too, the feathered throng, in eager haste 
 
 Her wonted dole of Cereal sweets to taste, 
 
 All gathering round the threshold where she stands, 
 
 And casts the grain abroad with liberal hands; 
 
 Nor fear they lest her kindness should reprove 
 
 The little tokens of their trusting love; 
 
 But peck her fingers, perch upon her arm, 
 
 Feel her soft touch, unconscious of alarm. 
 
 The youthful lord has pleased his eye 
 With the fair scenes that round him lie. 
 With tossing head, and flying mane, 
 His noble steed has scoured the plain; 
 Down the green slope has swiftly hied, 
 Or climbed the rugged mountain's side, 
 Or through the woods, with cautious tread, 
 Has turned some dubious path to thread, 
 Here opening on a sunny glade, 
 There hid by overhanging shade; 
 Or beat the turfy road, between 
 Embroidered banks, or hedge-rows green 
 And horse and rider both, at length, 
 Would fain alike recruit their strength 
 By short repose and homely fare, 
 Such as may suit the morning air. 
 
 " See, see, Acacie, right in view ;" 
 Well the proud steed those accents knew, 
 3 
 
26 
 
 And pricked his all but vocal ears, 
 
 Pleased at the cheerful tones he hears ; 
 
 " See there/' exclaims the youthful lord, 
 "A dwelling plentifully stored 
 "With all that constitutes a feast 
 "For hungry man, or hungry beast/ 7 
 
 He nears the house, he nears the gate, 
 He nears the crisis of his fate : 
 might some angel interpose, 
 Prescient of swift-approaching woes, 
 And raise a barrier on his path 
 To coming bliss, and coming wrath I 
 But vain the wish ! the willing steed 
 Urges his way with quickened speed, 
 Like gallant ship, whose rapid course 
 O'er boundless oceans, speaks the force 
 Of Protean elements changing shape, 
 And struggling from man's grasp to escape. 
 Say rather like some hapless boat, 
 By careless hand allowed to float 
 Unchecked along that narrow stream, 
 Whose sportive waters little deem, 
 That but their silvery line divides 
 Two nations on the opposing sides, 
 For real strength and real worth 
 The best, the mightiest upon earth : 
 Careless, unchecked, afloat, between 
 Banks all arrayed in smiling green, 
 As if the shriek of mortal fear 
 Had never yet been uttered there ; 
 
27 
 
 Though near at hand is heard the splash, 
 Of rapids, whence the waters dash 
 With frenzied ardor towards their doom, 
 The cataract's leap, the whirlpool's gloom ! 
 
 7 
 
 how a light and trivial thing 
 
 Is ofttimes found a train to bring 
 
 Of issues, whose untold amount 
 
 Eternity alone can count; 
 
 While well-laid plans, wrought out with care, 
 
 Float off in bubbles light as air ] 
 
 that, like him whose lustrous fame 
 
 (Athene's glory, and her shame) 
 
 Eclipses, by its radiance bright, 
 
 Full many a Christian's flickering light; 
 
 that, like him, we, too, could hear 
 
 The voice of some kind Genius near, 
 
 If not to tell what should be done, 
 
 At least to warn us what to shun : 
 
 To point us to the latent snare, 
 
 And whisper in our hearts, " BEWARE !" 
 
 But did not Providence look down 
 With warning eye, and gathering frown,? 
 Did Heaven and Earth all passive see 
 The onward march of Destiny : 
 Nor breathe one caution in his ear; 
 Nor strike one spark of latent fear? 
 Why doth his beast, so sure of foot, 
 Stumble aginst that gnarled root? 
 
28 
 
 What means that momentary chill, 
 
 Which even now a frame can thrill, 
 
 In whose young veins life's crimson tide 
 
 Is quickened by his morning ride ? 
 
 What means the ill-omened bird of night, 
 
 Still wheeling its untimely flight; 
 
 Or the black raven on yon gate 
 
 Perched, as it would his coming wait? 
 
 Perchance it were an idle dream, 
 
 Such common accidents to deem 
 
 Emblems to man of weal or woe : 
 
 Would this young lord had read them so ! 
 
 But no; he rushes to his fate, 
 
 With buoyant mind, and heart elate; 
 
 Nor stops till, at the decent porch, 
 
 Some unseen Fury lights her torch; 
 
 While mystic bands of evil Powers 
 
 Shout, though unheard, " The prey is ours !" 
 
 And yet how lovely was the scene ! 
 
 Above, the ethereal arch, serene 
 
 Save where light clouds their fleeces threw, 
 
 A lace-fall o'er a robe of blue : 
 
 Around, in all her rich attire, 
 
 Earth, scarce yet conscious of the fire 
 
 Which even now begins to glow 
 
 In yon bright orb, and soon will throw 
 
 A beam, from whose meridian heat 
 
 Both man and beast will fain retreat : 
 
 Before the porch the noble steed, 
 
 True scion of the Arabian breed, 
 
29 
 
 Whose every muscle seems to be 
 Instinctive with life's energy: 
 His rider one, upon whose mien 
 The impress of high birth is seen ; 
 Whose every gesture speaks a mind 
 By polished intercourse refined : 
 Within that porch a beauteous maid, 
 In homely morning garb arrayed, 
 Yet standing like a form divine, 
 Erect within its hallowed shrine 5 
 Or like some sculptor's masterpiece, 
 Worthy the days of ancient Greece : 
 Say rather, like some angel bright, 
 Descended from the realms of light. 
 And lingering on our earth awhile, 
 To cheer us with its radiant smile, 
 
 Yet might ye see upon that face 
 Too deep an intellectual trace, 
 That darkened shade of earnest thought, 
 The mind imparts when overwrought: 
 Nay more, there was a saddened hue. 
 As if some cloud of sorrow threw 
 A shadow o'er that youthful brow, 
 And dimmed its lustre even now. 
 Was it a kind of herald gloom 
 Sent forward by her coming doom? 
 Was it because some tattling nurse 
 Had taught her that prophetic verse, 
 Whose mystic emblems seemed to bo 
 Pregnant with fearful destiny ? - 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 Was it because awhile she'd dwelt 
 
 Within the convent's walls, and felt 
 
 That ecstasy of joy and woe, 
 
 With which impassioned spirits glow, 
 
 Who vainly strive thy heights to climb, 
 
 Eternity, while linked to Time? 
 
 Was it because, e'en there, she found 
 
 It was not always hallowed ground ; 
 
 That passions vile, or mean, or fierce, 
 
 E'en through a convent's walls can pierce; 
 
 And that the human heart and will, 
 
 Hooded and cowled, are human still ? 
 
 Was it that memory oft recalled 
 
 The tale which once her heart appalled : 
 
 Of the young nun, whose dying groan 
 
 Was stifled by the wall of stone; 
 
 Whose agonising prayer for grace, 
 
 'Tis said, still echoes through the place, 
 
 When Night her standard has unfurled, 
 
 Or storms and tempests vex the world; 
 
 When, 'mid the dungeon's rayless gloom 
 
 Each spirit, from its mural tomb, 
 
 Repeats the accents of despair 
 
 Wrung from its heart when buried there ? 
 
 Or does she fondly call to mind 
 
 The sisterhood she left behind ? 
 
 And think upon the many there, 
 
 Young, ardent like herself, and fair ; 
 
 Just fitted this life to enjoy, 
 
 Yet doomed their every hour to employ 
 
31 
 
 (Doomed by the irrevocable oath) 
 
 In rites whose dull routine they loathe? 
 
 I wot not: God alone can tell 
 
 What secret griefs each bosom swell; 
 
 What clouds of sin and sorrow roll 
 
 In darkness o'er each human soul! 
 
 And can such a heart Feel the exquisite smart 
 
 Of love, with its grief and its joy ? 
 And stoop from its height, To repel, or invite 
 
 The shafts of the amorous Boy ? 
 
 Go, mischievous child, To the thoughtless and wild, 
 
 The shallow, the sportive, the gay ; 
 Who float o'er life's sea, Just as careless and free, 
 
 As if Death would ne'er sweep them awa} r : 
 
 Or kindle a flame On the heart dull and tame. 
 
 And, for once, from an altar so vile 
 Let an incense arise, That shall gladden the skies. 
 
 And be welcomed by gods with a smile. 
 
 Go, beautiful boy, To the bashful and coy, 
 
 Whose head, like a delicate flower, 
 Hangs timidly down At thy smile or thy frown, 
 
 And there show thy magical power! 
 
 Teach him to let slip, From a stammering lip. 
 
 The avowal that costs him so dear; 
 Teach her with a blush, From his ardor to rush, 
 
 Yet to pause till again he draw near.* 
 
 *"Fugit ad salices, et se cupit ante videri." Viryil. 
 
32 
 
 But strive not in vain, With thy delicate chain 
 
 Earth's loftier spirits to bind; 
 Or to wound with thy dart The unsensual heart. 
 
 Whose emotions are ruled by the mind ! 
 
 lie hears me, and smiles; For he knows that hi * 
 
 wiles 
 
 Can subject any heart to his will; 
 And with triumph he shows The long record of 
 
 those 
 Who, though wise, have attested his skill. 
 
 See the Tyrian queen, 'Mid the festival scene 
 
 Embracing the counterfeit boy ! 
 Ah ! little she knows The unparalleled woes 
 
 That shall spring from a transient joy ! * 
 
 See Manoah's son, laid At the feet of the maid, 
 Who is leagued with his deadliest foes; 
 
 He discovers her guile, But he views her soft smile. 
 And returns to his fatal repose. 
 
 o?> 
 See the monarch, whose name Has been wafted b.y 
 
 fame 
 
 To ages and nations remote, 
 
 For the wisdom that shone From his ivory throne. 
 And that lives in each stanza he wrote : 
 
 " Interdum gremio fovet inscia Dido 
 Insidcat quantus miserse Deus." Virgil. 
 
33 
 
 Yet wisdom like his Could not turn from the bliss 
 
 That entrances each amorous youth; 
 And the deeds of his age Leave a stain on the page. 
 
 That still sullies the records of truth. 
 
 For Love knows full well. He must vary his spell 
 
 With hearts of a various mould : 
 He selects, ere he shoot, Just the dart that will suit 
 
 Young and ardent, or sober and old. 
 
 He can bend, by his skill, The most obdurate will. 
 
 The most volatile spirit control; 
 He can kindle a fire Of impassioned desire, 
 
 That shall warm the most ice-benumbed soul. 
 
 Should he seek to entwine Round a heart such as 
 thine, 
 
 Thou flower of Mericourt's vale, 
 The same chains that bind All the rest of mankind. 
 
 For once the vain effort might fail. 
 
 Had the youth we behold Been rich only in gold, 
 And ennobled by nought but his birth ; 
 
 Had the tinsel and show Such poor things can bestow , 
 Been sustained by no genuine worth; 
 
 Then might Theroigne have heard, Like the song 
 of a bird, 
 
 His eloquence poured in her ear; 
 By its melody charmed, But as safe and unharmed, 
 
 As if nought but sweet music were near: 
 
34 
 
 Then might she have traced Every feature, that 
 graced 
 
 A countenance fair as her own, 
 With no feeling more warm Than in viewing a form 
 
 Which the sculptor had carved out of stone. 
 
 But she thought of the days, When his juvenile 
 praise 
 
 Might be heard at each cottager's door, 
 As the generous youth, Full of ardor and truth, 
 
 And the friend of the friendless and poor. 
 
 She remembers the time, When, with her, he would 
 
 climb 
 
 The pathway that leads up yon hill, 
 Where the ruinous height, Which was then their 
 
 delight, 
 Looks loftily down on them still: 
 
 < -nil'M MliT 
 
 When together they'd stray, Through the long 
 
 summer day, 
 
 In the dark wood, or o'er the green field; 
 While each trifle had power, In youth's fanciful 
 
 hour, 
 Some romantic adventure to yield. 
 
 She remembers the arm, Which, on slightest alarm. 
 
 Started forth to assist or defend; 
 And the well-deserved name, Which the proud boy 
 would claim, 
 
 Of her faithful, unchangeable friend. 
 
35 
 
 True, there were some who smiled to see 
 
 His condescending courtesy; 
 
 And wondered that the lordly boy 
 
 Should thus his vacant hours employ 
 
 On one, whom the decrees of fate 
 
 Had plaoed so far beneath his state. 
 
 True, there were some, whose cautious fear 
 
 Whispered in either parent's ear 
 
 Dark hints of danger, distant yet, 
 
 When hearts that now so fondly met, 
 
 Though passionless, might feel at length, 
 
 In all its unresisted strength 
 
 That hidden fire, which burns and glows 
 
 Most fiercely, where the fates oppose : - 
 
 Lest he, in some unguarded hour, 
 
 Should yield to Love's all-conquering power, ' 
 
 And, stooping from his high estate, 
 
 Wed him with one nor rich nor great : - 
 
 Lest she, like many a hapless maid, 
 
 Courted and won enjoyed betrayed 
 
 Might thus behold those clouds arise, 
 
 Whose darkening gloom should veil her skies; 
 
 Might find in him that serpent foe 
 
 Destined to lay her beauties low. 
 
 But little recked that haughty lord 
 Of evils in the future stored ; 
 Little he cared to check the boy 
 In whom was centred all his joy, 
 Or, by one harsh reproof, to raise 
 A shadow o'er his early days. 
 
36 
 
 What though his youthful breast should prove 
 
 The seat of an enthusiast's love ; 
 
 And blindly, wildly, madly burn 
 
 With passion's fire? Soon would he learn, 
 
 That ample wealth and lordly birth 
 
 Wed not alone with simple worth : . 
 
 That hearts are baubles, empty toys, 
 
 Just fit, with all their griefs and joys, 
 
 To deck the altar of the god, 
 
 Who rules mankind with iron rod. 
 
 Nor Theroigne's parents saw from far, 
 Gathering about their idol-star, 
 The darkness that would quench its light 
 In gloom more deep than tenfold night: 
 Nay; saw they with a secret pride 
 The youthful pair, as, side by side, 
 They issued from the green wood's shade, 
 Or through the fields together strayed. 
 And who shall say that ne'er there stole 
 Into that father's anxious soul, 
 The half-formed wish, the fond desire, 
 The trembling hope, that would aspire 
 To see his daughter rise, and stand 
 Among the proud ones of the land? 
 And who shall say that mother's heart 
 Ne'er felt the agonising smart 
 Of undefined foreboding dread, 
 Lest, by some ignis fatuus led, 
 Her pure unsullied child might live 
 In darkness o'er vain hopes to grieve; 
 
Or, sunk, degraded, and betrayed, 
 
 A poor polluted outcast made, 
 
 Might curse the day that gave her breath, 
 
 And rush to an unbidden death? 
 
 But vain those hopes, as vain those fears ; 
 Swiftly depart the rolling years ; 
 And childhood with its guileless truth, 
 And ardent, but incautious, youth 
 With both are past, nor either glows 
 With warmer fires than friendship knows. 
 Nay more; in devious paths they moved 
 And all the power of absence proved, 
 To extinguish every kindling thought, 
 With danger, or with rapture fraught. 
 He in the college, camp, or court, 
 Study severe, or manly sport, 
 Far from his early haunts and friends, 
 The opening years of manhood spends. 
 She from the tranquil scenes of home 
 With little wish or power to roam, 
 Pursues, through each unvaried day, 
 Her quiet unobtrusive way; 
 Shielded by a fond father's arms 
 From outward dangers and alarms, 
 And, by a mother's gentler care, 
 Guarded against each secret snare. 
 More late indeed, she dwelt awhile 
 Within the convent's cloistered pile : 
 Yet there the sacred sisterhood 
 Around her, as a bulwark, stood. 
 4 
 
And still, as year succeeds to year, 
 Fresh beauties in her form appear; 
 While gathered truths, and arts refined, 
 Kindle her soul, adorn her mind. 
 
 So have I seen the Egyptian flower, 
 Though suns might scorch, or tempests lower, 
 Safe housed within its crystal home, 
 Where storm nor heat unbidden come, 
 Rising each day in stately height, 
 More freshly green, more purely white, 
 As spotless in its virgin glow 
 
 As the first fall of wintry snow ! 
 
 J >! 
 
 //' 
 Childhood, with its unvarnished truth, 
 
 And ardent, but incautious, youth, 
 
 With both are passed away; 
 And now, behold, again they meet, 
 Again with kindly accents greet, 
 
 On this ill-fated day. 
 
 ,/ 
 I see around that beauteous flower 
 
 The serpent coiled ; this morning hour 
 
 Is black as deepest night; 
 For, lo, the gathering clouds arise, 
 Whose darkness shall o'erspread the skies, 
 
 And quench that peerless light. 
 
 r H * i V/ 
 
 Think not, one transient interview 
 Sufficed the friendship to renew 
 Felt at an earlier date; 
 
89 
 
 Think not a heart like hers would prove 
 An unresisting prey to love, 
 The willing slave of fate. 
 
 True, there are streams, whose shallow flow 
 The smallest stone you chance to throw 
 
 Will ruffle into foam; 
 While mighty rivers sweep along, 
 Regardless of the hurrying throng 
 
 That o'er their waters roam. 
 
 True, there are souls with whom one hour 
 May serve to vindicate the power 
 
 Of the all-conquering Boy ; 
 Whom but a word, a passing glance, 
 May thrill with anguish, or entrance 
 
 With heart-transporting joy. 
 
 And he, as now again he views 
 
 His childhood's friend, at once renews 
 
 His childhood's friendship too : 
 Nay, feels within his throbbing heart 
 The welcome pang, the pleasing smart, 
 
 That childhood never knew. 
 
 But Th6roigne ! full many a time 
 Saw she, in all his manly prime, 
 
 The champion of her youth ; 
 And many a time his accents heard, 
 Sweet as the warblings of a bird, 
 
 And rich in all but truth : 
 
40 
 
 And yet, at most, 'twas friendship's voice 
 Bade her in sympathy rejoice 
 
 At aught that made him glad ; 
 Or heave the unconscious deep-drawn sigh, 
 Or raise the enquiring, tearful eye, 
 
 When seemed his spirit sad. 
 
 But woman is but woman still; 
 
 Though proud her thought, and firm her will, 
 
 Her heart is still the same : 
 And patient, persevering love 
 Must, soon or late, effectual prove 
 
 To raise a kindred flame. 
 
 And 0, when once the unyielding soul 
 Has yielded to love's- soft control, 
 
 And caught its kindling light ; 
 It burns with an unearthly glow, 
 Such as base spirits never know 
 
 So pure, so warm, so bright ! 
 
 And didst thou, Theroigne, didst thou love ? 
 Yes ; and thy deep devotion prove, 
 
 (As woman only can,) 
 By immolation of thy all, 
 Obedient to the imperious call 
 
 Of heartless, faithless man. 
 
 There was gloom in the sun, as he sunk to his rest, 
 'Mid the dark clouds that curtained his bed in the 
 west ; 
 
41 
 
 There is gloom in those clouds, as they sullenly roll, 
 Like a bannered host, from the verge to the pole : 
 There is gloom in the rain, as it falls, drop by drop, 
 On the well-watered vale, or the thirsty hill-top : 
 There is gloom in the wind, that goes moaning along, 
 Like the echoes, scarce heard, of some funeral song : 
 There is gloom in the trees, as they noiselessly wave 
 Their spectre-like branches o'er cross and o'er grave, 
 And bow to the gale with umbrageous head, 
 Like the plumes on a hearse, nodding over the dead : 
 There is gloom in each flash of electrical light 
 That luridly glares through the darkness of night, 
 Like glances shot forth from the swift-rolling eyes 
 Of the storm-ruling fiend as he rides through the 
 
 skies : 
 
 There is gloom in the thunder, whose echoes re- 
 hearse 
 
 The deep-muttered tones of his terrible curse : 
 All, all aids to darken the general view, 
 And lends a fresh gloom to the night's sombre hue. 
 
 But hark ! the thunders nearer sound ; 
 The heavens are all on fire around; 
 The wind no longer softly sighs, 
 But rushes madly through the skies 
 With horrid shriek or blustering roar; 
 While from the clouds thick torrents pour! 
 "There's war in heaven:" Seems it as though 
 The Archangel and his dragon Foe, 
 With sacred, or with impious boast, 
 Were marshalling each his mighty host ! 
 
42 
 
 Amid the raging of the storm 
 
 I see from far a beauteous form, 
 
 A maiden by her lover's side, 
 
 His loved one, not, alas, his bride. 
 
 No greeting friends around them stand 
 
 With kindly voice, and eye, and hand : 
 
 No church's consecrated shade 
 
 Has echoed to the vows they made; 
 
 No priest of the Eternal God 
 
 Has spread his hands to Heaven abroad, 
 
 And breathed his all-prevailing prayer 
 
 For blessings on the wedded pair : 
 
 No father proudly smiled to see 
 
 His daughter's happy destiny; 
 
 No mother's heart has found relief 
 
 In mingled tears of joy and grief. 
 
 Beneath the canopy of heaven, 
 
 Beneath those clouds by tempest riven ; 
 
 Amid the wailings of the blast, 
 
 And heaven's own tear-drops falling fast; 
 
 In such a scene, on such a night, 
 
 Their mutual fatal vows they plight; 
 
 Then fly from home, from peace, from rest, 
 
 By man unseen, by God unblest! 
 
 "i Jutt . 
 
 How could a maid so pure as she, 
 By art, by nature formed to be 
 The joy and pride of him, whoe'er 
 Her beauty and her worth might share : 
 How could she stoop so vilely low, 
 As thus a fugitive to go, 
 
Regardless of each nobler claim, 
 Regardless of her own fair name ; 
 Braving the world's unpitying scorn, 
 And, (but for one,) alone, forlorn; 
 By him, perchance, at heart despised, 
 By him, whose only love she prized? 
 
 And he, if he truly felt, 
 
 As suppliant at her feet he knelt, 
 
 That boasted flame of pure desire, 
 
 That all but an angelic fire; 
 
 Why did he not her promise claim 
 
 To share his rank, his wealth, his name ; 
 
 And with him on the road of life 
 
 To journey, as his honored wife ? 
 
 Ask why his sire's unbending pride 
 
 Forbade him an untitled bride ; 
 
 And bid him from his bosom tear 
 
 The idol he had cherished there. 
 
 there was guilt in each, in all ; 
 
 Yet would that guilt's damnation fall 
 
 Chiefly upon the haughty lord, 
 
 Whose proud, irrevocable word 
 
 Rose like a barrier, to divide 
 
 The fond one from his chosen bride, 
 
 Till, leaping o'er with daring bound, 
 
 His blessing, and his curse he found. 
 
 For her; suffice it that she loved, 
 And thus her deep devotion proved, 
 (As woman only can,) 
 
44 
 
 By immolation of her all, 
 Obedient to the imperious call 
 Of heartless, faithless man. 
 
 END OF PART II. 
 
 -/a 
 
 A 
 
 Part Third of Theroigne de Me"ricourt will be 
 published on July 1, 1855. 
 
THEKOIGNE DE MERICOUKT; 
 
 IN FIVE PARTS, 
 
 LOUIS S. D. REES 
 
 PART III. 
 
 WILLIS P. HAZARD, 
 
 178 CHESNUT STREET. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
 LOUIS S. D. REES, 
 
 In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States, in and for the 
 Eastern District of Pennsylyania. 
 
 King & Baird, Printers, Sansom Street. 
 
TO THE HONORABLE CHARLES SUMNER, U. S. S. 
 
 HONORABLE SIR, 
 
 Allow me, in testimony of the admiration I feel for your noble 
 and persevering advocacy of the cause of freedom, to dedicate to 
 you this Third Part of a " Romance" founded on the history of 
 Theroigne de Mericourt. 
 
 You will, doubtless, find in the opening lines many passages 
 with which you do not sympathize, and some, it may be, of which 
 you cannot approve ; yet you will, I trust, excuse such passages, 
 for the sake of others, in which I have endeavored to give utterance 
 to the feelings entertained by yourself, and by millions of your 
 fellow-citizens, on a subject of the deepest interest. 
 
 I am, Hon'ble Sir, 
 
 Your very obedient servant, 
 
 LOUIS S. D. REES. 
 
THEBOIGM DE MERICOURT. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 LAND of my birth ! thy glorious name 
 
 Has kindled many a poet's flame, 
 
 And struck from many a minstrel's lyre 
 
 Flashes of patriotic fire. 
 
 How shall I dare my glimmering lamp to show, 
 
 Where, lit by thee, such burning lustres glow ? 
 
 Wide o'er the world from pole to pole, 
 As on the circling ages roll, 
 Thy streaming glory shines afar, 
 Earth's brightest, purest, holiest star : 
 Star ? Nay, its sun ; whose genial ray 
 Has turned its darkness into day, 
 And shed all o'er its realms abroad 
 The light of truth, of heaven, of God. 
 
 Child of the storm ! thy home and rest 
 
 Is on the ocean's heaving breast : 
 
 The billows of the mighty deep, 
 
 That round thy shores so proudly sweep ; 
 
6 
 
 The winds that raise their voices high, 
 
 Or, hushed to whispers, softly sigh ; 
 
 What are those winds, those surging waves ? 
 
 What, but thy waiting, crouching slaves ? 
 
 Long did they both the strife maintain 
 
 Against thy being and thy reign ; 
 
 And blustering roar, or madly foam, 
 
 Against thy infant island-home ; 
 
 Yet, lo ! this day thy white cliffs stand, 
 
 Bulwarks about the smiling land, 
 
 Firm as when first the Julian host 
 
 In martial pomp assailed thy coast ; 
 
 While thy strong hand, with tightened rein, 
 
 Checks the wild fury of the main, 
 
 And every breeze exults to bear 
 
 Thy banner floating on the air. 
 
 Nor warring elements alone 
 
 Have sought to hurl thee from thy throne ; 
 
 But mightier man, with envious hate, 
 
 Restless at the decrees of fate, 
 
 With futile force, and impious trust, 
 
 Has striven to lay thee in the dust. 
 
 First came the Roman armies forth ; 
 Then the wild sea-kings of the North 
 
Assailed thee with their pirate-band, 
 And spread wild havoc through thy land. 
 Yes ; and in this our later age 
 We've seen the world in arms engage, 
 And all its countless hosts combined 
 Obedient to one master mind, 
 Heady to give the fatal blow, 
 And lay thy pride and beauty low. 
 And did'st thou fall ? No, no ; the world 
 Still sees thy conquering flag unfurled ; 
 And, the death-struggle safely past, 
 Hears thy triumphant trumpet's blast. 
 
 Rise from the dead, ye wondrous men, 
 My country's boast ! rise again ; 
 Revisit this terrestrial sphere, 
 Once radiant with your bright career ! 
 
 I see them, as they move along, 
 A mystic, reverend, spectral thong : 
 Warriors, in garments dyed with blood, 
 Who in the front of battle stood, 
 Still shouting with their latest breath, 
 " On, on ! to victory or death !" 
 Kings who right well their calling knew, 
 Its honors, and its burdens too ; 
 
8 
 
 Shepherds and fathers of the State, 
 
 More loved as good, than feared as great : 
 
 Statesmen, whose hand the helm could guide 
 
 Through treacherous shoal, or swelling tide ; 
 
 And keep the vessel on her course, 
 
 'Midst inward strife, 'gainst foreign force : 
 
 The sons of science, they who spanned 
 
 Even heaven itself, with giant hand ; 
 
 Or wrung from the reluctant earth 
 
 The hidden story of her birth ; 
 
 Or 'stablished man's extended reign 
 
 O'er the firm land, the boundless main : 
 
 Poets, whose genius mounted high, 
 
 Par, far beyond the distant sky, 
 
 Nor stopped till on the eternal Light 
 
 It gazed with an undazzled sight ; 
 
 Caught from the lips of Seraphim 
 
 The music of their rapturous hymn, 
 
 And waked, from strings of earthly tone, 
 
 Sounds heard till then in heaven alone ; 
 
 Or, turning thence, with rapid sweep 
 
 Plunged in the dark Tartarean deep, 
 
 And sung, in wild unearthly strains, 
 
 Its endless groans, its endless pains : 
 
 Or with a searching eye could scan 
 
 That mystery, the heart of man ; 
 
 Reveal its joy, grief, hope and fear, 
 
 Its pride abase, its sorrows cheer. 
 
9 
 
 But who are these, whose robes of white 
 Shine brighter than the morning light ? 
 About whose brows, in glittering rays, 
 The forked lightning harmless plays ? 
 Whose harps of gold, with trembling string 
 Echo their voices as they sing ; 
 While grateful Kapture from their eyes 
 Darts upward to her native skies ? 
 These are thy Church's joy and boast, 
 Her faithful, blood-stained, martyr host : 
 Who, rather than the truth forsake, 
 Smiled on the rack, embraced the stake ; 
 And, in the dungeon's darkness, found 
 Heaven's own pure light diffused around. 
 
 
 
 And are these spirits of the mighty dead 
 Thy only glories, England ? Have they fled, 
 Nor left one single lingering star behind, * 
 To point thee out, thou Bethlehem of mankind ? 
 Perish the thought ! See how around thee rise 
 New constellations to adorn thy skies ! 
 Thy bar, thy senate, and thy pulpit still 
 With burning eloquence the soul can thrill ; 
 And sages, warriors, statesmen still are found, 
 The guard and honor of thy hallowed ground. 
 
 What if less dazzling be the stars that glow 
 Now in thy firmament ? The light they throw 
 
10 
 
 Warms while it cheers, and lends a kindly ray 
 To scenes scarce thought of at an earlier day. 
 Where is the squalid hut, the prison-cell, 
 The den of vice, (that miniature of hell,) 
 That does not see, this hour, a holy beam 
 From Heaven itself athwart its darkness stream ; 
 While men like Shaftesbury so nobly stoop, 
 (Nay, rise !) to lift the fallen masses up ? 
 
 When was there ever seen upon thy throne 
 One, in whom all the virtues brighter shone, 
 Than shine they now in her, whose sovereign sway 
 Hundreds of millions joyfully obey ? 
 The world, 'tis true, full many a noble queen 
 Long ere our own Victoria, has seen ; 
 But has it seen the daughter, mother, wife, 
 Blameless alike in every stage of life, 
 Softening her royalty's too dazzling blaze 
 By each domestic charm, each female grace ? 
 
 But 'tis not for thy fame in arts or arms, 
 
 Thy young men's valor, or thy maidens' charms ; 
 
 It is not for those noble ones, who stand 
 
 At once the pride and bulwark of thy land ; 
 
 It is not for that loved and honored queen, 
 
 In whom such varied excellence is seen ; 
 
 It is not for thy happy rural homes, 
 
 Thy reverend castles, or thy sainted domes ; 
 
11 
 
 'Tis not for these, Britain, that I prove 
 Most of a patriot's pride, a patriot's love : 
 It is because I recognize in thee, 
 The only hope for human liberty; 
 Because, throughout thy wide-extended reign, 
 No crouching slave wears the oppressor's chain ; 
 That every son of thine, in every place, 
 Whate'er his rank, his color, or his race, 
 Though poor, though outcast, though degraded, 
 
 still 
 
 May say with kings, " I will not !" and, " I will !" 
 Thou hast thy faults, I know it, and I own, 
 And they who love thee most those faults bemoan ; 
 Yet on thy 'scutcheon, God be praised ! is not 
 This one, this damning, and this damned spot. 
 
 Attend ; I'll paint a scene, no fancy sketch : 
 See foremost on my canvas yon poor wretch, 
 Well housed, well fed, well clothed, allowed per- 
 chance, 
 
 When toils are o'er, his banjo and his dance ! 
 No anxious boding cares his soul engage 
 For unprovided sickness, or old age ; 
 Nor doubts he at the last to find a decent grave ; 
 " Who is the happy man ?" you ask. The man's 
 
 m a SLAVE! 
 
 Now, do you burn to share his favored lot ? 
 His blessings, and his bondage ? I trow not. 
 
12 
 
 Yet he's contented ; knows no better state ; 
 And acquiesces in his servile fate. 
 Conscience and reason in his soul are mute : 
 He eats, drinks, sleeps; and lives, and dies a 
 brute ! 
 
 Not so : upon some general holiday, 
 
 Lured by the gathering crowds, behold him stray 
 
 To where, with many a shout of noisy mirth, 
 
 The nation celebrates its freedom's birth. 
 
 Awhile the noise is hushed ; amid the crowd 
 
 There rises one, who reads in accents loud 
 
 That " Declaration, " which is held to be 
 
 The charter of the people's liberty. 
 
 Little his understanding comprehends 
 
 Of what he hears ; yet, to his heart descends, 
 
 Aye, to his heart of hearts, this beam of light, 
 
 That each has his unalienable right ; 
 
 And he, who for that right his weapon draws, 
 
 May claim God's blessing on a righteous cause. 
 
 This truth awakes him from his long repose; 
 
 A fire new-kindled in his bosom glows ; 
 
 And deep-drawn sighs and bitter tears, proclaim 
 
 His soul is melting in the genial flame. 
 
 But vain his tears, vainly he looks around ; 
 For him^no spot on earth is Freedom's ground. 
 
13 
 
 Think ye the thousands, whom, on festive days, 
 He heard unite in Liberty's sweet praise, 
 Sincerely breathed her consecrated name ? 
 Test them; let this poor wretch the blessing 
 
 claim ; 
 
 And will they in the generous wish rejoice? 
 Give him their aid ? or cheer him with their voice ? 
 No, tfiere's not one, but, should he burst his chain, 
 Would lend a hand to fetter him again : 
 Not one, but what would join the hue and cry, 
 To catch the slave, or hunt him till he die ! 
 
 Yet stay; has he not heard, in days gone by, 
 That far away, up yonder river, lie 
 Lands where the curse of slavery is unknown, 
 And man may call at least himself his own ? 
 He has : and though a thousand barriers rise, 
 To thwart his purpose, yet he flies he flies ! 
 O glorious flight ! whose daring and whose skill 
 Surpass, yea, far surpass (deride who will,) 
 The deeds of many a hero, many a king, 
 Whom patriots boast of, and whom poets sing. 
 If he succeed, he hopes for no renown ; 
 And should he fail, and should they hunt him down, 
 The lash, the dungeon, and the burning brand, 
 Like vengeful furies, to receive him stand. 
 Not one has he to give him friendly aid ; 
 Not one the partner of his secret made ; 
 
14 
 
 Alone, unfriended, to the north he turns, 
 Cheered, quickened by the fire that in him burns. 
 
 The "friends of freedom," (honorable crew!) 
 
 With noble ardor hasten to pursue ; 
 
 His fellow-slaves turn out with thoughtless glee, 
 
 Eager to catch him, or the sport to see ; 
 
 While bloodhounds fierce, with deep malignant 
 
 bay, 
 Scent out the footsteps of the human prey. 
 
 Good God ! and wilt Thou sit upon thy throne, 
 And hear, unheeded, his despairing groan ? 
 No : He, who saw his ancient people weep, 
 Struck off their bonds, and, through the opening 
 
 deep, 
 
 Led them triumphantly from shore to shore, 
 On paths ne'er trod by foot of man before, 
 Through many a scorching day, and dreary night, 
 Sustains, and guides, and guards him in his flight, 
 Till, at the last, he rests from all his woes 
 There, where the " Pilgrim Fathers " found repose. 
 
 And is he safe ? Oh yes ! the generous race, 
 Who from those iron men their lineage trace, 
 Around him like a wall of fire will be, 
 Proud to defend his new-found liberty. 
 
 No, no : upon New England's burning brow 
 "Ichabod," "Ichabod," is branded now; 
 
15 
 
 Into her city-streets, her judgment halls, 
 That loathsome reptile, the slave catcher, crawls; 
 There, there, before the astonished face of day, 
 Coils, like a serpent, round his helpless prey ; 
 While threatening laws, and martial power dis- 
 played, 
 Force her to silence, or compel her aid. 
 
 Gods ! are there none, whose souls indignant rise 
 At such an insult ? none, whose pitying eyes 
 Shed tears^ of sorrow o'er the wretch's fate, 
 Dragged back again to his degraded state ? 
 
 Thank God, there are : a remnant yet remains 
 In whom right principle, right feeling reigns ; 
 A few, like her, whose tale of negro woe 
 Has caused full many a pitying tear to flow ; 
 A few, who think there is a God above, 
 A God of justice, and a God of love ; 
 And tremble lest before his bar they come, 
 Stained with the oppressor's guilt, to share his 
 doom. 
 
 Men such as these, with generous passions warm, 
 Forewarn the freed one of the rising storm; 
 Give him the well-filled purse, and bid him flee 
 No matter where, so he may yet be free : 
 Anywhere, so the stars and stripes outspread, 
 Wave not in solemn mockery o'er his head ; 
 
16 
 
 Anywhere in this terrene universe. 
 
 That does not vibrate with the slave's deep curse. 
 
 And where should that be, my country, where, 
 Save in the lands which still thine empire share ? 
 See how they smile, benignantly serene ; 
 The only free soil in this western scene ; 
 The only spot where every man may have 
 A freeman's homestead, and a freeman's grave ! 
 
 And now, behold him on that happy shore ! 
 His slavery, his flight, his fears are o'er : 
 New joys, new hopes, new principles arise, 
 Glow at his heart, and sparkle in his eyes. 
 Eeason awakes ; and Conscience o'er his soul, 
 With Keason waked, asserts her high control. 
 The slave within him dies ; right self-respect 
 Raises his drooping head, he walks erect ; 
 Feels he's a man, and trusts at length to stand 
 Among God's freemen, at God's own right hand. 
 On festive days he joins the festal throng, 
 Swells the loud shout, and sings the loyal song: 
 
 Eescued from Slavery, 
 Safe in his liberty, 
 
 Proudly, I ween, 
 Boasts he a freeman's joys, 
 And makes a merry noise, 
 Singing, with heart and voice, 
 
 " God save the Queen !" 
 
17 
 
 These are thy jewels, England ; the bright gem 
 That sparkles in thy monarch's diadem, 
 That " Mount of Light" the matchless Koh-i-nor, 
 Though won by victory in justest war, 
 Becomes as worthless as the yellow sand, 
 While trophies such as these adorn thy land. 
 
 And is it here alone such trophies rise ? 
 Beneath this western sun, those northern skies ? 
 No ; in the nucleus of thy wide domain, 
 Thy island-home, I seek them not in vain. 
 From struggling Europe, struggling to be free, 
 Full many an exile finds repose in thee. 
 The fallen monarch, and the hunted slave, 
 Alike thy succor and protection crave : 
 To each, to all thy bounteous hands are spread ; 
 For each, for all thy tears of pity shed. 
 
 what a freight of human woes, 
 Wafted by every gale that blows, 
 
 Is landed on thy shores ! 
 What tears, from eyes, that vainly weep, 
 Fall voiceless on the mighty deep, 
 
 That hoarsely round thee roars ! 
 
 Nor is it to thy shores alone 
 
 With eyes that weep, and hearts that groan, 
 
 The sons of sorrow haste : 
 
 2* 
 
18 
 
 Ah no ! through the wide world they roam, 
 From many a desolated home, 
 Far o'er the ocean's curling foam, 
 Far o'er the desert waste. 
 
 And yet in vain they strive to change, 
 As restless o'er the earth they range, 
 
 Their nature with the scene : 
 The barbed dart of grief or crime 
 Alike in every place and time 
 
 Kemains deep fixed within.* 
 
 Who is this so sadly bending 
 
 O'er the waves that round her break ? 
 
 Down her pallid cheek descending, 
 Floods of tears her anguish speak. 
 
 Is it that the voice of strangers 
 
 Harshly grates upon her ear ? 
 Or that untried scenes and dangers 
 
 Fill her soul with anxious fear ? 
 
 Griefs like these are summer showers, 
 
 Transient is the gloom they cast ; 
 Her's the tempest that still lowers, 
 
 Even when its fury's past. 
 
 * Ctelura, non animum, mutant, qui trans mare currant." HORACE. 
 
19 
 
 Does she mourn for friends departed ; 
 From the green earth torn away ? 
 
 Friends once joyous and light-hearted, 
 Now to gloomy death a prey ? 
 
 No ; the loved one who thus leaves us, 
 
 Is but parted for a while ; 
 And the tyrant who bereaves us, 
 
 Death himself, can wear a smile. 
 
 She we gaze on now, shall never, 
 Never know a brighter day : 
 
 Joy, nor peace, nor hope shall ever 
 Cheer her with one kindling ray ; 
 
 Not so ; like a fleeting vapor 
 
 Life is vanishing away ; 
 Like a flickering, dying taper, 
 
 Like the meteor's flashing ray. 
 
 Like the frothy, air-blown bubbles, 
 Floating on a boundless sea ; 
 
 All its joy, and all its troubles, 
 Transient as itself must be. 
 
 Can this be Theroigne ? Yes, 'tis she. 
 We saw her in her infancy, 
 Sealed with the sacramental sign, 
 And sharing in the rite divine ; 
 
20 
 
 "We heard the joyous strains they sung ; 
 We heard the merry peals that rung ; 
 We witnessed, in the lordly hall. 
 The bounteous feast, the rustic ball ; 
 And marked how every heart was gay 
 Upon that festive, holy day : 
 We saw her in her virgin prime, 
 Just when the wizard hand of Time 
 Had touched her with transforming power, 
 And changed the bud into a flower; 
 Then, when before our eyes she stood 
 In all the charms of womanhood. 
 
 Behold her now ! how sadly strange ! 
 So short the time ; so vast the change ! 
 Where is that dignity of mien ? 
 That bearing worthy of a queen ? 
 Where is the sunny light that played 
 O'er every feature ? while a shade 
 Of pensive thought, but served to throw 
 A softness o'er the radiant glow ? 
 Gone, gone for ever : on that brow 
 Sorrow and shame are written now ; 
 Lilies have bloomed, (and faded too,) 
 Where late we saw the rose's hue ; 
 And shrinking, bending is her form, 
 Like the tall grain beneath the storm. 
 
21 
 
 What of it ? 'Tis the tale oft told, 
 
 Of beauty, honor, virtue sold, 
 
 Sold ? and for what ? the word, the oath 
 
 Of one prepared to trample both 
 
 Beneath his feet ; perchance, to make, 
 
 E'en of the hearts he'd power to break, 
 
 His empty boast ; secure, the while, 
 
 That fools and knaves will hear, and smile. 
 
 And yet there are, who strive to burst 
 (Curst be the men ! their words accurst 1) 
 That firm, indissoluble band, 
 By Heaven's benignant wisdom planned, 
 That binds in one the wedded pair, 
 Life's pleasures and its pains to share : 
 Men, that would trust to vain caprice 
 All future hope, all present peace; 
 And make the boasted joys of home 
 As transient as the crested foam. 
 
 Think ye her faithless lover planned, 
 When pledged she him her heart, her hand, 
 That foul apostasy, which now 
 Has graven anguish on her brow ? 
 Think ye he meant or feared to prove 
 So recreant to his vows of love, 
 That her, who trusted and adored, 
 Made him her soul's unrivalled lord, 
 
22 
 
 For him forsook her happy home, 
 Content, with him, the world to roam, 
 His brutal arm should one day fling, 
 An outcast and degraded thing, 
 Forth to this dreary waste of life 
 'Mid all its danger, toil, and strife, 
 Uncheered, unpitied, unforgiven, 
 By men on earth, or God in heaven ? 
 
 No : had some prophet, on that day 
 When proud he bore his prize away, 
 With warning hand, and warning voice 
 Intruded on his new-born joys ; 
 And, holding up before his view 
 In all his hideous form and hue 
 The vile seducer, bid him scan 
 Himself, and cried, " Thou art the man !" 
 With all the warmth he had exclaimed 
 Of conscious innocence defamed, 
 (Like the usurping king of old, 
 Aghast at his own deeds foretold,) 
 " Am I but a vile carcase, then, 
 Loathsome alike to gods and men ?" 
 
 Fondly and deeply had he loved ; 
 And, by a genuine passion moved, 
 Had boldly launched upon that sea, 
 So brightly glad, so wildly free, 
 
23 
 
 Whose sportive waters, as they dance 
 
 In merry mood, or warmly glance 
 
 Responsive to the amorous beam 
 
 Of wanton day, too smiling seem 
 
 To threaten death, or rude alarms 
 
 To such as trust their treacherous charms. 
 
 See. see how they sail With a prosperous gale, 
 Though unhallowed their voyage must be ! 
 
 Not a cloud doth arise To o'ershadow their skies, 
 Or to darken that beautiful sea. 
 
 The Graces are there In the rapture to share, 
 
 And Yenus looks smilingly down ; 
 The young god of love Spreads his pinions above, 
 
 To screen them from Purity's frown. 
 
 A thousand bright isles, Decked with Nature's 
 
 own smiles, 
 
 Start in view as they bound on their way ; 
 Whose white cliffs are seen Kobed in mantles of 
 
 green, 
 Or with wild-flowered tapestry gay. 
 
 The things of the deep, To salute them outleap, 
 
 And gambol unconscious of fear; 
 While the rapturous song Of the feathery throng, 
 
 Is heard from those bright islands near. 
 
24 
 
 A perfume is borne, Like the breath of the morn, 
 Or the fragrance of newly-mown hay, 
 
 By the zephyrs that waft Their adventurous 
 
 craft, 
 And around them like infancy play. 
 
 Why, why is the scene So divinely serene ? 
 
 Can the Heavens such a union approve ? 
 No ; the Bright Ones look down With a gathering 
 frown, 
 
 And the gods are all absent but Love. 
 
 'Tis the dictate of Love Has impelled them to 
 rove, 
 
 Where so many before have been wrecked : 
 'Tis his magical power That has gilded the hour, 
 
 And with beauty all nature has decked. 
 
 But vain are his arts. The delusion departs 
 At the touch of Time's mystical wand ; 
 
 And portents of wrath Spread a gloom o'er their 
 
 path, 
 And darken the prospect beyond. 
 
 What seemed a glad sun When their course was 
 
 begun, 
 
 Now scorchingly blazes on high ; 
 And the prospering gales That were swelling 
 
 their sails, 
 Sweep wildly and fitfully by. 
 
25 
 
 The spots of green land Which before, on each 
 
 hand, 
 
 Smiled applause on their joyous career, 
 Are gone ; and, instead, Bugged rocks lift their 
 
 head, 
 And like menacing monsters appear. 
 
 No carolling bird In its blitheness is heard, 
 
 No fish gambol sportively round ; 
 But demons ride past On the wings of the blast, 
 
 And with shrieks make the welkin resound. 
 
 'Twas even so : awhile they dwelt 
 In bliss by lovers only felt : 
 The past, with all its fond regrets, 
 Rich in the present, each forgets ; 
 The future rises to their view, 
 Bright with hope's own celestial hue : 
 Their very guilt but serves to throw 
 O'er their stolen joys a deeper glow. 
 
 Then came, to damp their ardent joys, 
 
 Time's chilling hand, and truth's stern voice ; 
 
 " Had he with proper caution weighed 
 
 " The price he for his passion paid ? 
 
 " Could he for ever brave the ire 
 
 " Of his inexorable sire ? 
 
 " Were there not courtly dames as fair, 
 
 " Worthy his name and rank to share ? - 
 
26 
 
 <v i es, and among them one, whose eye 
 
 " More brightly beams when he is by ; 
 
 " Whose flattering voice and tell-tale cheek 
 
 " A heart not hard to win bespeak ; 
 
 " Though grace in her, and real worth, 
 
 " With wealth are joined, and noble birth; 
 
 " Nor had the proudest in the land 
 
 " Disdained the honor of her hand : 
 
 " And must he turn from such a bride, 
 
 " To keep a mistress by his side ? 
 
 " Must he through life an exile rove, 
 
 " To prove his constancy of love ? 
 
 " No ; this idolatry of truth 
 
 " Might suit an ardent, dreaming youth ; 
 
 " But blissful dreams must pass away 
 
 " Before the sober light of day ; 
 
 " And youth's bright visions must depart, 
 
 " When manhood sways the mind and heart." 
 
 Thoughts such as these at first on tiptoe stole 
 Into the secret chambers of his soul, 
 As, fearing to be heard ; then whispered soft 
 Their prudent counsels ; and, though silenced oft, 
 As oft returned, and still in tones more bold 
 Renewed their pleadings, as his heart grew cold. 
 And so, at length, But wherefore toils my verse 
 In dull detail the story to rehearse ? 
 Thousands, like her, have trusted and adored ; 
 Thousands, like her, too late alas, deplored 
 
27 
 
 Their vain prostration at an empty shrine, 
 Where faith and hope had placed a form divine. 
 Victims like her in countless numbers fall 
 Each day, obedient to ambition's call ; 
 And Mammon's altar bears on every part 
 Dark stains of blood, wrung from some broken 
 heart. 
 
 Where shall the helpless outcast turn ? 
 How shall she quench the thoughts that burn 
 
 Within her tortured brain? 
 What hand shall timely aid impart ? 
 What kindly voice shall cheer her heart, 
 
 And bid her hope again ? 
 
 On fluttering wing her trembling prayer 
 Strives to ascend, and beats the air 
 
 With unavailing pain : 
 Black, angry tempest-clouds arise ; 
 Fierce, howling blasts sweep through the skies, 
 
 And drive it back again. 
 
 In vain her weary spirit strays 
 O'er the wide earth ; in vain surveys 
 
 Each friend of former years : 
 E'en should their hearts with pity melt, 
 The kindly sympathy they felt, 
 
 Could give but useless tears. 
 
28 
 
 Yet see ! from far a glimmering light 
 Shines 'mid the shadows of the night 
 
 With faint, but cheering beam : 
 O how her soul exults to see 
 Its kindly, heaven-lit radiancy, 
 
 Athwart the darkness stream ! 
 
 From thee, thou tranquil, happy vale, 
 Where oft hath strayed my pensive tale, 
 
 From thee that light arose : 
 Amid the scenes of earlier years, 
 Of childhood's hopes and childhood's fears, 
 
 There, there its lustre glows. 
 
 Should not the friendly taper stand, 
 Placed by a fond paternal hand 
 
 Within the latticed frame ; 
 A lighthouse, shining for the soul 
 O'er the black waves that round her roll, 
 
 With guiding, cheering flame ? 
 
 Should not a father's bowels yearn 
 To hail the prodigal's return, 
 
 To speak the pardoning word ? 
 Should not the life-restoring voice, 
 That bids the broken heart rejoice, 
 
 First from his lips be heard ? 
 
 Yes ; let the judge in tones severe, 
 Like death-knells falling on the ear, 
 Pronounce the sinner's doom ; 
 
29 
 
 But Oh, let tears of pity flow 
 E'en for a guilty sufferer's woe, 
 Within his childhood's home ! 
 
 And was it so ? Did Theroigne see, 
 Down in that depth of misery, 
 A father's hand stretched forth to save 
 His lost one from a yawning grave ? 
 No, no : erect in sullen pride, 
 E'en had she in his presence died, 
 Hardly would ye have seen him bow 
 To wipe the death-sweat from her brow. 
 It was a mother's hand, that traced 
 The burning lines, which bade her haste, 
 All lost and ruined, yet to prove 
 How changeless is a woman's love. 
 
 And now, behold her drawing near, 
 Cheered on by hope, held back by fear ! 
 The old familiar scenes arise 
 To sadden, not rejoice her eyes : 
 The reverend castle's moss-grown walls ; 
 Her proud seducer's princely halls ; 
 The " happy valley " bathed in light, 
 So calmly still, so warmly bright, 
 That sin, and sorrow, and despair 
 
 "Would seem to find no dwelling there : 
 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 The tranquil home, that saw her sip 
 Life's bitter cup, with trembling lip ; 
 That saw her when, in youth, she quaffed, 
 With eager haste, the sweetened draught; 
 That saw her when she seized the bowl 
 Drugged for the ruin of the soul; 
 And to the dregs the poison drained, 
 By God, nor man, nor fate restrained. 
 
 That home so happy once, at length, 
 With faltering step and failing strength 
 She reaches ; but no beaming eye 
 More brightly beams as she draws nigh : 
 No parent greets his sorrowing child 
 With soothing word, or accent mild : 
 No unbarred door, or open gate 
 Stands, her arrival to await : 
 With shutters closed, or blinds let down, 
 The very windows seem to frown ; 
 As if the senseless wood and stone 
 Disdained the fallen one to own. 
 
 * ...... ; 
 
 She enters : in the silent hall, 
 With echoing beat her footsteps fall : 
 Nought else she hears save the dull click 
 Of the old dial's measured tick. 
 She listens for the faintest sound 
 Of living thing : all, all around 
 
31 
 
 Is still as death ; upon her home 
 
 Some desolating blight has come. 
 
 There, where she trusted that one voice, 
 
 At least would bid her heart rejoice, 
 
 And more than one her pardon speak, 
 
 Or seal its impress on her cheek ; 
 
 Within her father's house alone 
 
 She stands : but hark ! that deep-drawn groan 
 
 Issues from yonder chamber ; there 
 
 Tutored, perchance, by stern despair, 
 
 Some hapless sufferer learns to glow 
 
 With pity for another's woe. 
 
 With softest touch and noiseless tread 
 (Half hopeful, half o'erwhelmed with dread,) 
 She seeks that chamber ; turns the key ; 
 Enters ; and starts, appalled, to see 
 Death's funeral Majesty displayed, 
 In all his dreary pomp arrayed. 
 No cheerful beam of garish day, 
 Amid the solemn scene may stray ; 
 But the dim taper's sacred light 
 Shines, through the artificial night, 
 Upon a coffin, (dreary throne, 
 Where the grim monarch sits alone,) 
 On which a velvet pall outspread, 
 (The decent covering of the dead,) 
 Sustains a cross, benignant sign, 
 Pledge to mankind of love divine. 
 
32 
 
 Within that court of Death she sees, 
 Low crouching on his bended knees, 
 As if to plead, alas, too late 
 Against the stern decree of fate 
 Her father, left thus lonely here, 
 With none, not one, his griefs to cheer. 
 
 She kneels beside him ; breathes his name 
 
 With faltering voice ; nor dares to claim, 
 
 E'en in the presence of the dead, 
 
 A father's blessing on her. head. 
 
 She asks but to receive the cup 
 
 Of sorrow, e'er he drink it up ; 
 
 And taste its bitterness, and share 
 
 The grief that lays him prostrate there. 
 
 She asks but to sustain, in part, 
 
 The load that presses on his heart ; 
 
 To swell the torrent of his tears ; 
 
 And echo to his sighs with hers. 
 
 Alas ! she knew not that the stroke 
 Which shivers the obdurate oak, 
 Leve lied at iron will but make 
 The mass more dense, more hard to break : 
 She knew not that, if hearts there be 
 Made kindlier by their misery, 
 Others there are which sterner grow 
 B eneath each heaven-inflicted blow : 
 
33 
 
 She knew not that the self-same hour, 
 Which rudely plucked that fragile flower 
 And flung it to the earth, had traced 
 Its course of desolated waste 
 Upon his blighted heart and mind, 
 Nor left one verdant spot behind. 
 
 " Murd'ress !" he cried, " and art thou here ; 
 
 " Unchecked by grief, unawed by fear ? 
 
 " Canst thou, with living eyes, survey 
 
 " The poor, heart-broken, breathless clay 
 
 " Of her, thy mother, by thy crime 
 
 " Cut off, e'en in her life's sweet prime ? 
 
 " had she sunk into the earth, 
 
 *' Or ere she gave the wanton birth ; 
 
 " Nor left a recreant to disgrace 
 
 " By foulest deeds her stainless race !" 
 
 With frantic haste he tears away 
 The coverings of the lifeless clay ; 
 The cross, the pall, the coffin-lid ; 
 All, all by which the dead was hid : 
 And views again that pallid face, 
 Where Death has left his darkening trace. 
 What tranquil sleep ! what calm repose ! 
 What rest from earth, and all earth's woes ! 
 There is no careworn furrow now 
 Upon that pale yet placid brow : 
 
34 
 
 That bosom heaves no hopeless sighs, 
 Nor floods of sorrow drown those eyes : 
 'Tis as if heaven itself were here, 
 And God had wiped away each tear. 
 
 " My spouse ! my love ! my own !" he cries, 
 " Once more I view thee with these eyes ; 
 " Once more I kiss thy gentle cheek ; 
 " Once more these words of passion speak ; 
 " Once more I hold thee to my heart, 
 " E're the dark grave between us part !" 
 
 And Theroigne ! what tongue can tell, 
 
 As on her ear his accents fell, 
 
 What thrilling agonies of pain 
 
 Shot through her heart, and racked her brain ? 
 
 She " heard him, but she heeded not ;" 
 
 Her heart was turned to stone : 
 The past, the present were forgot ; 
 
 All but the dead alone. 
 
 She saw before her stiff, and cold, 
 
 And hastening to decay, 
 The arms that cradled her of old, 
 
 The bosom where she lay. 
 
 She saw those eyes, whose every beam 
 
 Was kindled from above ; 
 Those lips you might an angel's deern, 
 
 So full of truth and love ; 
 
35 
 
 Voiceless as some deserted tomb, 
 Where e'en the worms had died ; 
 
 Dark as the deepest midnight gloom, 
 When stars their radiance hide. 
 
 And did she weep, and tear her hair, 
 And smite upon her breast ? 
 
 Or strive, by shriekings of despair, 
 To break the sleeper's rest ? 
 
 No ; like a figure carved from stone, 
 
 So motionless and cold, 
 She stood ; nor tear, nor sigh, nor groan 
 
 Her depth of anguish told. 
 
 ' Twas a paralysis of grief, 
 
 A syncope of woe ; 
 Where tears alone could give relief^ 
 
 And tears refused to flow. 
 
 Had he but known, that wretched man, 
 
 To read her inmost soul ; 
 And trace the burning lines, which ran 
 
 Along that mystic scroll : 
 
 Could he have seen the dark despair, 
 The horrible remorse, 
 Graven on her heart while gazing there 
 Upon that silent corse : 
 
36 
 
 Stern though he were, his soul had bowed 
 
 To pity's softening power ; 
 The claims of filial grief allowed, 
 
 And pardoned in that hour. 
 
 But love, nor pity knew he now, 
 Each gentler thought had fled, 
 
 Since shame was written on his brow, 
 And his soul's joy was dead. 
 
 Ye, who behold your social hearth 
 Still gladdened by the stainless mirth 
 
 Of children dear as life ; 
 While every grief is gently soothed, 
 And each rough path benignly smoothed 
 
 By a devoted wife ; 
 
 Blame not the man whose widowed heart 
 Had seen his every joy depart, 
 
 His every hope cut down : 
 Had read before Death's angel came 
 His own disgrace, his daughter's shame, 
 
 In many a lowering frown. 
 
 Nay, rather, tears of pity shed 
 
 For the poor wretch, upon whose head 
 
 The storm so wildly broke ; 
 Who, crouching 'neath a former woe, 
 Keceived from fate a heavier blow ; 
 
 And sunk beneath the stroke. 
 
37 
 
 " Behold !" he cries, " behold, and weep ! 
 " Thy crime hath sealed those eyes in sleep ; 
 
 " Hath stopped that vital breath ; 
 " Thy hand it was which struck the blow 
 66 That laid thy peerless mother low, 
 
 " E'en in the dust of death. 
 
 " Soon as she heard her recreant child, 
 " By passion, or by pride beguiled, 
 
 " Her father's roof had fled ; 
 " Grey hairs, like wintry falls of snow, 
 " Their whitening hues began to throw, 
 
 " Upon her sacred head. 
 
 " Her cheerful step, her tranquil mien, 
 
 " Each day more slow, more sad were seen ; 
 
 " And, on her pallid face, 
 " Easy it were for stranger eye, 
 " With no discourteous scrutiny, 
 
 " The lines of grief to trace. 
 
 " But when thy fickle, perjured lord 
 " Had flung thee off, no more adored, 
 
 " But viewed with just disdain, 
 " Oh ! how her gentle, loving heart, 
 " Free from thy guilt, yet felt its smart, 
 
 " And suffered in thy pain ! 
 
 " Then, O my angel ! then I saw 
 
 " The shades of darkness round thee draw 
 
 c< With thickening, deepening gloom ; 
 4 
 
;. 38 
 
 " And vainly cried to Heaven above, 
 " To spare me, in its pitying love, 
 " So terrible a doom. 
 
 " Why did I live this day to see? 
 " This day of deepest misery ? 
 
 " This day of dark despair ? 
 " Why didst not thou, Glorious God, 
 " Smite me in mercy with Thy rod, 
 
 " And lay me prostrate there ? 
 
 " Hence, wanton, hence ! With weary feet 
 " Go, search for some obscure retreat, 
 
 " Where guilt like thine may hide ; 
 " And still, in each remotest sphere, 
 " Let these words ring upon thy ear, 
 
 " FOR THEE THY MOTHER DIED ! 
 
 " Still let her melancholy shade 
 
 " Haunt thee, in ghastly shroud arrayed, 
 
 " And with meek grief thy guilt upbraid, 
 
 " Throughout the universe : 
 " And still, to sink thee in despair, 
 " Through the wide world this burden bear, 
 
 "THY WRETCHED FATHER'S CURSE!" 
 
 Slow, sad, and solemn, like the last farewell 
 To friends departed, sounds the funeral knell, 
 
39 
 
 Slow, sad, and solemn, to the sacred porch, 
 (Begloomed, not lighted, by the lurid torch,) 
 Death's pomp advances : 'tis the homage paid 
 By vanquished mortals to his kingly shade. 
 Angels behold, and weep while they survey 
 God's living temple turned to putrid clay ; 
 Demons behold, and triumph, till they hear 
 The Church's requiem chanted o'er the bier : 
 For faith even here can strike her golden strings, 
 And from the grave her bold " Resurgam" sings. 
 
 'Tis over ; and the crowds who came to gaze 
 Or drop the pitying tear, have gone their ways, 
 How little heeding that the hour draws nigh, 
 When they, too, like the buried one, must die ! 
 'Tis over ; and, with rude, unseemly din, 
 The hurrying grave-digger shovels in 
 The ignoble earth ; and, on the turf relaid, 
 Stamps with his foot, and batters with his spade; 
 And he, too, quits the spot, and whistles gay, 
 As home he plods, some rustic roundelay ; 
 And all is silent, as the lips that sleep 
 Beneath that load of earth, so dark and deep. 
 
 But see ! who yonder comes with stealthy tread, 
 And eyes that wander timidly around ; 
 
 As if she trembled lest the very dead 
 
 Should chide her footfalls, wakened by the 
 sound ? 
 
40 
 
 Who is it ? 'Tis the hapless wretch, who hears 
 Her father's curse still ringing in her ears ; 
 And comes, heart-broken, yet to breathe one 
 
 prayer, 
 
 One faltering prayer to Heaven her soul to spare 
 Life's bitter dregs, and let the lost one hide 
 In the grave's shelter, by her mother's side. 
 
 On the cold damp ground, On the grassy mound, 
 
 Where her mother calmly sleeps, 
 On that lowly bed Of the silent dead 
 
 She lays her down, and weeps. 
 
 And her thoughts fly back O'er the golden track 
 
 Of her childhood's sunny hours ; 
 When the world shone bright In life's morning 
 light, 
 
 Or was dimmed by transient showers. 
 
 She recalls the time When, in youth's sweet 
 prime, 
 
 With the false one she would rove 
 On the sun-clad hill, By the sparkling rill, 
 
 Or in the religious grove. 
 
 Then she lists again To the swelling strain 
 
 In the convent's hallowed pile, 
 Now falling soft, Now rising aloft, 
 
 Through the dimly lighted aisle. 
 
41 
 
 And her plighted troth. And the perjured oath, 
 
 And her farewell, and her doom, 
 Like a spectral band, All around her stand, 
 
 Faintly visioned 'mid the gloom. 
 
 But lo ! a form angelic seems to rise 
 E'en from the grave whereon she prostrate lies, 
 And higher, and still higher lifts its head 
 Till round its brows the ethereal clouds are spread. 
 White are its locks, and shining as the snows 
 When the glad sun his vernal lustre throws > 
 Its face is radiant as the sun's bright ray, 
 When the red morning kindles into day ; 
 Light fleecy vapors robe the form divine, 
 And his tall limbs like burning columns shine. 
 In his left hand a golden cross he bears, 
 While to the throne -of God his right he rears ; 
 Then, with a voice melodious, yet sublime, 
 Like the deep thunders heard in torrid clime, 
 He thus addresses her : " One woe is past ; 
 " Another comes ; and then a third, the last. 
 " Kise, Theroigne, rise ; yet shalt thou live to see 
 " Thy triumph in the traitor's misery. 
 " That perjured wretch shall, from thy injured 
 
 hands, 
 
 " Suffer the punishment his crime demands : 
 " Thy father, softening, shall search out thy 
 
 track, 
 " Revoke his curse, and call his wanderer back, 
 
42 
 
 " Alas, too late ! between the kindred souls 
 " See what a tide of human slaughter rolls ! 
 " Poor child of sorrow ! couldst thou but restrain 
 " The raging torrent, or its wrath sustain ! 
 " No more ! remember, in thy darkest hour, 
 
 u GOD'S BRIGHTEST JEWEL IS HlS MERCY* S POWER." 
 
 Tis gone ; and Theroigne quits her native land, 
 To seek for refuge on a foreign strand. 
 
. 
 
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