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HUBERT AND ELLEN. 
 
 WITH 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 THE TRIAL OF THE HARP...... BILLOWY WATER......THE PLUNDERER'S GRAVE..... 
 
 THE TEAR-DROr......THE BILLOW. 
 
 BY 
 
 LUCIUS M. SARGENT. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY CHESTER STEBBINS. 
 
 1813. 
 
DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, TO WIT : 
 
 District Clerk's Qffla. 
 
 BE it remembered, that on the seventh day of November, A. D. 1812, and in the 
 thirty-seventh year of the Independence of the United States of America, Clutter Stebbins, 
 of the said District, has deposited in this Office the Title of a Book, the Right whereof he 
 claims as Proprietor, in the \vordsfolluwing, to tait . " HUBERT AND ELLEN. With 
 other Poems. The Trial of the Harp....Billowy Water....The Plunderer's Grave.. ..The 
 Tear Drop.... The Billow. By Lucius M. Sargent*" 
 
 In conformity to the Act oi the Congress of the United States, entitled, "An Act for the 
 Encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps, Cliarts and Books, to the Au 
 thors and Proprietors of such Copies, during the times therein mentioned ;" and also to an 
 Act entitled," An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled, An Act for the Encouragement of 
 Learning, by securing tile Copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprie- 
 lors of such Copies during the times therein Mentioned ; and extending the benefits thereof 
 ru the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical, and other prints." 
 
 WM. S. SHAW, 
 Clerk af the District of Massachuxtts. 
 
 nro-fi Gu 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER. 
 
 SHADE of my brother dear ! 
 Oft, at the silent close of summer day. 
 
 Mem'ry does bring thee near ; 
 And often have I sought that hour, to pay 
 
 The tribute of my tear. 
 
 For, if time's various tide does roll 
 One hour, which, o'er thy gentle soul, 
 Could reign, with more of magick pow'r, 
 
 Than ev'ry hour beside, 
 It was that sweet, that musing hour 
 
 Of summer's eventide. 
 
 M890752 
 
 e 
 
Not emulous, our friendly skiffs pursu'd 
 The track of life, down childhood's bubbling tide ; 
 And pass'd the flood of boyhood, wild and rude, 
 Like partners in the voyage, side by side ; 
 But, scarce the rapids of our youth were pass'd, 
 Scarce op'd before us manhood's ocean wide, 
 Ere thy fair vessel yielded to the blast. 
 
 Though Heav'n to both did equal love impart, 
 Yet greater gifts were thine, and happier doom. 
 A riper genius, and a purer heart, 
 A life more virtuous, and an earlier tomb. 
 
 Oft gentle mem'ry's hand pourtrays 
 A thousand scenes of early days ; 
 Of boyhood's walks, and shady bow'rs ; 
 And youthful sports, and satchel'd hours ; 
 And task forgot, and winter night. 
 Wasted o'er tale and legend light, 
 
Till ev'ry blast, we chanc'd to hear, 
 Did seem to bring the giant near. 
 
 Full oft a tear-drop mem'ry borrows, 
 When, thus her magick hand displays 
 Such simple scenes of former days ; 
 
 And yet that tear-drop is not sorrow's : 
 For tears, that flow at sorrow's call, 
 Are always felt, before they fall. 
 But here, when mem'ry brings to view 
 Dear early scenes, for ever gone, 
 The heart scarce feels how strong, how true 
 The lines by mem'ry's hand are drawn, 
 Before, unknown, the tear does part, 
 In tribute fair to mem'ry's art. 
 And scarce it parts, from nature's store, 
 Before it steals the eyelid o'er ; 
 And scarce an instant there does stand, 
 Before it trembles on the hand. 
 2 
 
Thy meteor lamp of poesy, 
 That shone with gaiiish ray, 
 
 Did lure my heart to follow thee, 
 Mid fancy's airy way. 
 
 There have I pass'd my happiest hours, 
 
 Entwining fancy's fairy flow'rs. 
 
 And thus I now have wreath'd for thee 
 
 These simple flow'rs, in garland wild, 
 
 This chaplet of my poesy; 
 
 For thou wert fancy's dearest child 
 
 Brother ! to thee, if it were given, 
 To leave awhile thy rest in Heaven ; 
 If thou couldst weep, thy gentle tear 
 Would steal, of Hubert's fate to hear ; 
 And pity sure would dim thine eye, 
 At Ellen's love and constancy. 
 For ne'er a theme thy heart could move, 
 Like gentle woman's constant love. 
 
And sure to thee did Heav'n impart 
 No fickle no inconstant heart. 
 
 Dear Spirit ! I have heard thee say, 
 " If cruel fate should hear away 
 Her, who alone my heart can sway, 
 Oh ! could that heart again he gay ? 
 And could I ever, ever hear 
 To part this braid of auburn hair ? 
 Though cold her little hands, that made 
 And fasten'd here this auburn braid, 
 Her heart, in Heav'n, would love me still ! 
 And so, on earth, my heart should prove 
 Its tender and its lasting love ; 
 Until, with me, this little braid, 
 Beside her, in the grave, were laid. 
 For, when in death my limbs grew chill, 
 Sure, none could be of heart unkind, 
 Sure, none, to constant love so blind, 
 
8 
 
 Whose cruel hand would rudely tear 
 Away this braid of auburn hair !".... 
 
 Shade of my brother dear ! 
 Oh ! if the chaplet, I have twin'd, 
 Be not unworthy bard like thee, 
 
 Then let me dream thee near ; 
 And, round thy brows, in fancy, bind 
 These wild flow'rs of my poesy ! 
 
 And, if the world severe 
 Do scorn my flow'rets, till they fade, 
 And blast the garland I have made ; 
 Yet still to thee, in thought, my soul 
 Shall rise, above the world's control. 
 And oft, at close of summer day, 
 My heart shall fondly seek to pay 
 
 The tribute of its tear. 
 
HUBERT AND ELLEN. 
 
HUBERT AND ELLEN. 
 
 THIS poem commences with the address of an old man to a stranger, who is supposed to be gazing 
 
 at a maiiiack, reclining upon a grave, near which the old man is standing. 
 
 WANDERER, stay ! 
 If your gentle heart would know 
 Who, beneath the lonely willow, 
 Makes the simple stone his pillow, 
 And turns, by fits, from deepest wo, 
 To laughter gay. 
 
 Wand'rer, though, upon his brow, 
 Sad despair, and sorrow now, 
 
12 
 
 And fitful grief, and laughter wild 
 Mark him distraction's dearest child ; 
 And hair and beard, uncouth and long. 
 Have done his manly features wrong ; 
 Yet ev'ry deepen'd furrow there 
 Is less the mark of age than care : 
 And oft he holds his visage high, 
 And oft his dark and fever'd eye 
 The quick'ning fire of youth betrays. 
 And lofty glance of better days. 
 
 But chance you would not deign to hear 
 
 Sad pity's gentle tale ; 
 For here no knight, with targe and speai 
 
 Rides, clad in battle mail. 
 Nor lady bright, of lu'gh degree, 
 
 Is seen in stately tow'r ; 
 Nor lordly suitor bows the knee 
 To courtly damsel, fair and free, 
 
 Well met, in sylvan bow'r. 
 
13 
 
 And chance to you the world is deal*, 
 So dear, you have no hour for sorrow ; 
 To heave a sigh, to shed a tear, 
 
 For others' wo : 
 
 And, if your thoughts are all for morrow, 
 For worldly good, for worldly gear, 
 'Twere shame, that you the tale should hear ; 
 Go, wand'rer, go.... 
 
 Yet stay, and first forgive the wrong, 
 
 Of speech unkind and sland'rous tongue ; 
 
 For pride is high, upon your cheek. 
 
 The dew is in your eye, 
 To hear poor crazy Hubert shriek, 
 
 With shrill and piercing cry. 
 
 And now your tears more freely pour, 
 While, gazing wildly o'er the stone, 
 He marks the letters, one by one, 
 
 And counts them slowly o'er and o'er j 
 4 
 
And laughs, by fits, and cries. 
 And mutters to himself alone, 
 " Here little Ellen lies." 
 
 Ah ! gentle wand'rer, 'tis a dreary sight, 
 When all the world is hush'd in stillest night, 
 To see poor Hubert steal to Ellen's grave ; 
 And read the tablet, by the moon's pale light, 
 And utter senseless pray'r, and wildly rave, 
 And wring his hands, and shriek with piercing cry. 
 And start, to hear the owlet's shrill reply. 
 
 Five summers now have pass'd away, 
 Since Ellen slept, beneath the willow ; 
 Five summers now have shed their ray, 
 Since wretched Hubert, night and day, 
 Has made the simple stone his pillow ; 
 Reckless of summer's heat and winter's cold. 
 And pitying neighbours oft the tale have told. 
 
15 
 
 How, when the maniack's lite to save, 
 They sought the wretch, at Ellen's grave, 
 They found him, on the tablet low. 
 Brushing away the falling snow. 
 
 Some story of the hapless pair 
 Is told, by ev'ry villager ; 
 Enough to raise the childish fear, 
 The boorish laugh, the thoughtless jeer, 
 And gentle maiden's pitying tear. 
 And oft 'tis told, by tattling dame, 
 When Hubert to the village came, 
 And when the lovely Ellen died, 
 Who lies, upon the willow's side ; 
 And how he plac'd the tablet stone, 
 O'er Ellen's grave, with tender care ; 
 And how Ms heart would swell, 
 When oft he sought the spot alone, 
 And scatter'd rose and lily there. 
 And how, when sorrow turn'd his brain, 
 
16 
 
 He lost Ms gallant air and mien. 
 And many other tales beside, 
 Of Hubert and bis hapless bride, 
 The village dame will tell. 
 
 And some there are, 
 Who say, that Hubert, on the even,' 
 Close by her bed, when Ellen died, 
 Knelt down, and, weeping at her side, 
 
 Mutter' d short pray'r ; 
 So low, it scarcely could be heard ; 
 But here and there a louder word 
 
 Was of himself, and crimes, and Heaven, 
 
 Of Ellen, and of sins forgiven. 
 And how, at last, in whisper small, 
 Ellen, with tears, forgave liiin all. 
 
 But it has never been denied, 
 
 That, like a lover true, 
 For days and nights, at Ellen's side, 
 
17 
 
 Hubert gaz'd o'er her features pale ; 
 And, when her spirits seem'd to fail, 
 
 Her hand more closely drew ; 
 And, when, at last, poor Ellen died, 
 Still Hubert gaz'd, and faintly sighed, 
 Yet from his eye no tear did flow ; 
 But, on his wan and haggard brow, 
 There was so strange and wild a stare, 
 That none a second look could bear. 
 
 But the sad story, save to me, 
 Is veil'd, in deepest mystery. 
 
 Poor, crazy Hubert knows me not ! 
 And, by that wild unconscious gaze, 
 He tells me not of former days ; 
 ]S T or aught is of remembrance there : 
 The frantick look, the vacant stare 
 Show, that my features are forgot. 
 5 
 
18 
 
 Yet, gentle wand'rer, well I know, 
 Tliis wretch, who looks so mean and low, 
 Before his senses fail'd him aught, 
 Ne'er turn'd his hack, on friend or foe. 
 And, though it strange may seem to thee, 
 Ne'er liv'd more gallant youth than he, 
 To wield a sword, to rein a steed, 
 In bold assault, or gentle deed. 
 A heart more kind, a hand more free 
 Ne'er op'd, in friendship's need. 
 
 He was my friend but, stranger, say, 
 
 Why gaze, upon my locks of grey, 
 My humble garb, my lowly mien, 
 And oaken staff, on which I lean ? 
 Though I am old, I cannot brook 
 That curious glance and doubting look. 
 I said, that Hubert was my friend. 
 But never did my heart intend, 
 
i9 
 
 That I was gallant Hubert's peer, 
 When his were honours, wealth, and gear. 
 No, stranger, wrong me not in thought. 
 Nor will old Edwy tell you aught, 
 That is in tittle less sincere, 
 
 Than this is crazy Hubert here 
 
 But my poor knees are weak and old, 
 Beneath the neighb'ring elm, 'twere meet, 
 To seek the cool sequester'd seat, 
 Where better may the tale be told 
 
 Hubert was once as dear to me, 
 As child, upon a father's knee ; 
 For, many a long and tedious year, 
 
 Beyond the waters wild, 
 I serv'd his cruel sire, with fear, 
 
 And learn'd to love the child. 
 
 And, when to manly years he came, 
 My love for Hubert was the same. 
 
20 
 
 And, when, because he long withstood 
 His father's will, nor gave his hand, 
 Against his heart, for lady's land, 
 His cruel sire, in stubborn mood, 
 On hapless Hubert clos'd his door, 
 And robb'd of all his hopes ; be sure, 
 Old Edwy's heart could ill endure 
 Such cruel fate, but lov'd him more. 
 It was an heavy time indeed, 
 
 Such sad mishap to know; 
 For then his wretched heart did bleed, 
 
 For hapless Ellen's wo : 
 And sorrow clouded o'er his brow, 
 And sad repentant tears did flow. 
 
 
 
 For, though he was as fair, and free, 
 And kind, as gallant youth could be, 
 In all beside, and ne'er delay'd 
 His hand, when pity claim'd liis aid ; 
 Yet, on his soul, a fatal blot 
 
31 
 
 Is deeply dy'd, so dark a stain 
 
 Shall long, with Hubert's name, remain. 
 
 When wretched Ellen is forgot : 
 
 Recorded, in the page of Heaven, 
 
 Never, perhaps, to he forgiven. 
 
 Ah ! wand'rer, it did strangely seem, 
 That all his senses wildly ran, 
 When tender maiden was his theme. 
 Then Hubert seem'd an alter'd man ; 
 Light was his mood, as morning dream. 
 High his heart could beat, in pleasure, 
 Careless of the tears of morrow ; 
 Lightly could he seize the treasure, 
 Reckless of a maiden's sorrow. 
 
 And oft, upon the modest eye, 
 Hubert would bend his eye of blue, 
 And talk of love, and seem so true, 
 
 In ev'ry word, in ev'ry sigh ; 
 6 
 
22 
 
 That simple maid could never dream, 
 
 That Hubert false would prove. 
 And, if, upon his features fair, 
 She look'd, for wily falsehood there, 
 Such glance the maiden well might rue, 
 On face, that heam'd so fair and true f 
 Where ev'ry gentle look did seem 
 To tell, of naught hut love. 
 
 For, though his hold and piercing eye r 
 And gallant form, and bearing high, 
 And haughty look, and dark'ning glance, 
 That stay'd half way the rude advance, 
 Made those, who knew him not, conclude, 
 That love was ne'er for Hubert's mood ; 
 Yet none more suply bow'd the knee, 
 
 And none could heave more tender sigh. 
 
 o < 
 
 And none more kindly glanc'd an eye, 
 On gentle lady fair, than he. 
 
23 
 
 
 
 Then simple maid did sure believe, 
 That Hubert's smile could ne'er deceive ; 
 Till, in some sad and lone retreat, 
 With tears, and sighs, and wan despair. 
 And all but love and Hubert there, 
 The wretch would seek sequester'd seat, 
 And mourn, unheard, her sorrows o'er : 
 Till tears, at length, would cease to flow, 
 And sighs would yield to silent wo ; 
 And then, with fainting look and wild, 
 Clasp to her breast her naked child, 
 And close her eyes, to weep no more.... 
 
 Time fast has flown, since Ellen smil'd, 
 Where, in a vale, beside the wood, 
 Old Edgar's lonely cottage stood ; 
 Poor, widow'd Mary's only child. 
 For Edgar never liv'd to know 
 Of Ellen's hapless doom ; 
 And, ere the days of Ellen's wo, 
 
Thrice did the summer flow'ret grow, 
 And thrice cold winter's blast did blow, 
 On Edgar's lowly tomb. 
 
 Amid the valley lone, 
 Where foot of mortal seldom came, 
 Liv'd Ellen and the aged dame, 
 
 In solitude, unknown. 
 And, when old Edgar droop'd and died, 
 Poor Mary's wants were still supplied, 
 
 By tender Ellen's care. 
 
 At early dawn, her little feet 
 The dew, from off the pathw ay, heat, 
 And water, from the brook, she drew : 
 And oft she pluck'd the flow'r, that grew, 
 
 Upon the margin fair ; 
 And, still while poor old Mary slept, 
 Smiling, towards her pillow crept, 
 
 And gently plac'd it there. 
 
25 
 
 Then silent would she watch, the while, 
 Her fond surprise and wak'ning smile. 
 
 Next, with kind look and willing haste, 
 She hrought her mother's slight repast. 
 Then, o'er her neck, her kerchief threw ; 
 Full well the signal Carlo knew, 
 And, to the door, impatient flew. 
 
 Oft did he cast alternate look, 
 From Ellen, to the little nook, 
 "Where high the hirchen basket hung, 
 Ere, from its place, she gaily took, 
 And careless, on her finger, swung. 
 
 And, o'er her auhurn gay, 
 Before she had her gipsy tied, 
 That did, at best, hut poorly hide 
 Her faiiy face and floating pride ; 
 
 7 
 
86 
 
 His frequent bark Avould loudly chide 
 Her ling'ring step's delay. 
 
 Scarce, on the string, she plac'd her hand. 
 Ere Carlo would in silence stand, 
 With forward head, and upward ear. 
 The sound of lifting latch to hear ; 
 And hody hack, and foot hefore, 
 And eye, intent, upon the door. 
 And Ellen scarce the hobhin drew. 
 Ere, o'er the threshold. Carlo flew, 
 And swiftly shot along the lawn, 
 AVith eagle's speed ; nor had she more 
 Than dropp'd the latch, and clos'd the door. 
 Ere Carlo down the hill had gone. 
 And, scarce she left the threshold stone. 
 Ere he had swam the brook below, 
 And climb'd the cliff, and, on its brow, 
 Paus'd, and look'd back, on Ellen's way. 
 
27 
 
 Shook, from his locks, the water spray, 
 And bark'd again, to chide delay. 
 
 And, when, with lily foot, unshod, 
 Across the shallow brook, she trod, 
 Again he sped, for then he knew 
 The path, that Ellen would pursue. 
 And, when she gain'd the ridge's height. 
 Carlo was fairly out of sight. 
 
 And thus, with health and sweet content, 
 Fair Ellen pass'd her early hours, 
 Nor yet e'er op'd her eyes, on sorrow ; 
 Save once, hut long those tears had dried ; 
 'Twas, when her father, Edgar, died. 
 
 And thus, with basket at her side, 
 
 Carlo and little Ellen went, 
 
 In search of herbs, and fruits, and flow'rs ; 
 
S8 
 
 And, homeward, with the little store, 
 At even? sought the cottage door. 
 Then, to the village, on the morrow, 
 Carlo and little Ellen came, 
 And sold them, to the village dame. 
 
 With slower step, then Carlo trod, 
 And proudly sought the village road ; 
 For well he constru'd, what did mean 
 The decent plaid and honnet green. 
 
 It was a pleasant tiling, to see 
 Ellen, at even, merrily, 
 When length'ning shadows, o'er the lea, 
 Call'd home the ploughman wearily ; 
 Tripping, with lightsome steps, along, 
 While, half untied, her bonnet hung j 
 And Carlo, marching close before, 
 With lifted head, the basket bore. 
 
29 
 
 And truly it was fair, to see 
 Old Mary's kind and greeting smile, 
 That more than paid for Ellen's toil. 
 And, when her little gains she show'd, 
 And laid upon her mother's knee, 
 And smiling, said, " 'tis all for thee ;" 
 The tear, down Mary's cheek, that flow'd, 
 To Ellen's heart was far more dear, 
 Than worlds of wealth and costly gear. 
 
 Oft have I seen fair Ellen come, 
 With Carlo, to the cottage home ; 
 For oft did Hubert speed me there. 
 And Mary oft would turn aside, 
 And wipe away the trickling tear, 
 Then would she say, that I must bear 
 Kind thanks, for gentle Hubert's cheer ; 
 And tell him, that, at eventide, 
 Ellen, her little bed beside, 
 
 Would clasp her hands, for him, in pray'r ; 
 
 8 
 
30 
 
 While Ellen, with a smile, replied 
 To all his greeting fair. 
 
 Ah ! nothing did I know, of all, 
 That little Ellen would befall. 
 For, when, with kindly seeming care, 
 Hubert would often send me there, 
 His words were all so mild and fair, 
 That, in his look, I could not read 
 Of aught, but poor, old Mary's need. 
 
 And, when at first, he told the tale. 
 Of Mary's cottage, in the vale, 
 He pass'd the matter lightly o'er ; 
 How, in the glade, some days before. 
 Fatigu'd, with vain pursuit of game, 
 He haply to the cottage came. 
 Then did he kindly bid me go, 
 Of poor, old Mary's health to know j 
 And, if I saw a maiden there. 
 
31 
 
 With hazel eye and auburn hair, 
 From him, to speak the damsel fair. 
 
 Yet, in his face, that beam'd, the while, 
 Was nought, hut pity's gentle smile. 
 
 Thus time had swiftly pass'd away, 
 Since first my feet, at close of day. 
 /Rested, in Mary's humble vale ; 
 And after, oft, at even, trod, 
 Along the wonted village road, 
 
 And down the lonely dale j 
 Whene'er, in seeming pity's need, 
 Hubert would bid me thither speed. 
 
 At length, less eager Hubert seem'd, 
 Of poor, old Mary's weal to know ; 
 And scarce, at last, he lent an ear, 
 Of all her gentle speech to hear. 
 And, when I told of Mary's tear, 
 
No smile, upon his face, there beam'd, 
 But more of sadness rested there. 
 
 And, when, as Mary hade me hear, 
 
 I said, that oft, at eventide, 
 
 Ellen, her little hed heside, 
 
 Would clasp her hands, for him, in pray'r 
 
 There came a cloud, upon his brow, 
 
 Bursting, in drops of heaviest wo. 
 
 I marvell'd much, hut understood 
 
 No cause, for Hubert's changing mood. 
 
 Yet more he neter hade me go, 
 
 To Mary's humble cot ; 
 And long neglect did plainly show. 
 That poor, old Mary was forgot. 
 
 And, when but, stranger, gently bear 
 
 The weakness of an old man's tear : 
 
 It is the tribute, mem'ry pays, 
 
 To scenes of youth and happier days. 
 
33 
 
 Gentle stranger, have you never, 
 Musing, upon your lonely pillow, 
 Given a sweet, a silent hour, 
 To mem'ry dear ? 
 Whose living wand, with magick pow'r, 
 
 Can hring so near 
 Your native land, heyond the billow ; 
 
 And show so clear 
 
 Dear early scenes, that time would sever ; 
 And paint the friend, now sunk forever, 
 
 "With hand so true, 
 
 That long lost friend, and distant home, 
 And scenes of youth before you come, 
 In present view ? 
 
 If such an hour you never knew, 
 Ah, then indeed you ne'er can know, 
 Why, down my cheek, this tear does flow. 
 When, on my mem'ry rushing, come 
 9 
 
34 
 
 Dear thoughts of Mary's humhle home. 
 The peaceful look, the greeting smile, 
 The brook, and hill, and hawthorn green, 
 That grew, beside the lowly cell, 
 And Ellen's gentle voice, and mien 
 My poor old heart with sorrow swell, 
 And of its kindest tears beguile. 
 
 Oh ! could I see that smile once more, 
 And Ellen, at the cottage door, 
 And crazy Hubert's madness o'er ; 
 Old Edwy then would gladly die, 
 While tears bedew'd his closing eye 
 
 Stranger, forgive me for the wrong, 
 My heart has been indulg'd too long. 
 
 But now my tears are o'er ; 
 And now my voice again is strong. 
 
 And I will tell you more. 
 
I said, that Hubert ne'er again 
 
 Spake more, of Mary's humble cot. 
 
 Yet did my fondness still remain ; 
 
 For, I had been so often there, 
 
 Ere the chill blast and winter wild 
 
 Had laid the little woodland bare, 
 
 That I had often wish'd to know, 
 
 How look'd the hawthorn, 'neath the snow. 
 
 And Ellen seem'd to me a child, 
 
 For she was very kind to me, 
 
 And oft she sat, upon my knee ; 
 
 And then her looks were all so mild, 
 
 When, on my poor old face, she smil'd. 
 
 Yet the slight liint did always fail, 
 Which oft I tried, on Hubert's ear ; 
 Thinking his kind returning care 
 Again would bid me seek the vale. 
 And when, at last, my words were bold, 
 Of long neglect, and winter's cold, 
 
36 
 
 And Mary, feeble, poor, and old : 
 No pleasure in his eye did seem, 
 And soon he sought for lighter theme : 
 And briskly turn'd my suit away, 
 Bidding me wait some future day. 
 
 At length, my feet, unbidden, trod 
 Once more, toward the little wood, 
 "Where Mary's simple cottage stood. 
 Musing, along the lonely road, 
 On Hubert's strange and alter'd mood. 
 
 And, though 'twere marvel all to me, 
 And long neglect, and alter'd look, 
 And ear, unwilling, when I spoke 
 Of Mary, argu'd mystery ; 
 Yet, if my wav'ring light surmise 
 Did rest, on Ellen's hazel eyes, 
 And lovely face, and auburn hair, 
 It scarce an instant rested there. 
 
37 
 
 As weary falcon rests his feet, 
 On branch, too feeble for his weight ; 
 And, scarcely cow'rs his wing to light, 
 Ere he again has ta'en his flight. 
 
 Full in my mind, came ev'ry word, 
 That Hubert said of Mary's need ; 
 Mention of Ellen, seldom heard ; 
 And fresh his smile of pity came ; 
 And his kind heart and gen'rous deed 
 Did put my sland'rous thought to shame. 
 
 Thus did my thoughts beguile the way, 
 Till deep'ning shades of ev'ning grey 
 Had fled, before the gloom of night. 
 And, distant now, the glimm'ring ray, 
 
 From Mary's cottage, shone ; 
 It cheer'd my heart, my steps more light 
 
 Pass'd o'er the valley lone ; 
 10 
 
38 
 
 And now they climb'd the little hill. 
 And gain'd the threshold stone.... 
 
 My heart misgave ; that sudden chill, 
 That ran my brow so swiftly o'er, 
 When first I op'd the cottage door, 
 Did seem the harbinger of wo. 
 And Carlo, on the cottage floor, 
 Crouching, in seeming sorrow, low, 
 Whose eager bark was wont before 
 To charge me briskly, at the door, 
 Did half confirm my fears of ill. 
 
 With rapid turn, my eyes survey'd 
 The cottage o'er, and then, with care, 
 Search'd ev'ry nook for Ellen round j 
 Scarce glance at Mary once they made. 
 Expectant, still my willing ear 
 Listen'd, the welcome voice to hear. 
 
39 
 
 In vain, I waited for the sound, 
 In vain, I sought for Ellen there. 
 
 And when, with eager glance, at first, 
 On Mary's eyes, my own were bent, 
 Her look my very heart did hurst, 
 For pity, to my soul it went. 
 On face of flesh and blood, I ween, 
 Such look before was never seen. 
 
 Though I have mark'd the sorrow flow, 
 Down the pale cheek of sad dismay ; 
 Such calm despair, such silent wo, 
 As reign'd, o'er ev'ry feature then, 
 Though, in my mind, I see it now, 
 Sure I shall never see agen, 
 In mortal sight, on mortal brow. 
 Such piteous look will surely go, 
 With mem'ry, to my dying day ; 
 For it did seem, in sorrow's need, 
 
40 
 
 As if her very soul would part. 
 Such look would tame the blackest heart. 
 That ever thought revengeful deed ; 
 'Twould make the wretch his crimes repent 
 'Twould blind the murd'rer's dark'ning eye, 
 In purpose bent, and make the brand 
 Fall sudden, from his nerveless hand. 
 'Twould make the robber's heart relent ; 
 And urge the miser's pitying sigh. 
 
 Half utter'd was the word, that hung, 
 At first, upon my trembling tongue ; 
 And quiv'ring lip and swelling heart 
 Soon bade me, from my purpose, part ; 
 For Mary's features shew'd me there 
 More grief, than Edwy well might bear. 
 
 Her eyes, upon the floor, were bent, 
 Forward, from age, her body leant ; 
 Her arms, upon her lap, repos'd, 
 
41 
 
 Her wither'd hands, in grief, were clos'd; 
 Her forehead, checker'd o'er, with cares, 
 Bore furrows deep and silver hairs : 
 And, all the while, in silent wo, 
 Down her old face, where hitter tears 
 Had left the lines of former years, 
 Big drops of heavy grief did flow. 
 
 And now her streaming eyes, to Heaven 
 Raising, she fix'd a moment there ; 
 Lifting her hands, still join'd, in pray'r, 
 As if, it seem'd an instant then, 
 
 Some feeble v ray of hope were given. 
 And now her hands were fall'n agen ; 
 And now, again dejected low, 
 Her poor, old eyes did stream with wo, 
 
 As if her last fault hope were riven, 
 And nought remain'd, hut sure despair. 
 11 
 
42 
 
 And oft her sadly piercing look 
 Did cut my soul, with sharp rebuke. 
 'Twas not an angry glance I read, 
 When thus she turn'd her eyes on me j 
 She rais'd her hands, and shook her head, 
 And sighed, and wept most hitterly. 
 
 Then was I fain the more, to know 
 
 The cause of poor, old Mary's wo. 
 
 For, on my cheek, though ready pride, 
 
 At once, th' ungen'rous charge denied, 
 
 Yet, when I found my colour came, 
 
 I fear'd 'twould look like guilt and shame, 
 
 And, with my passing thought, the more 
 
 This fear did spread the crimson o'er. 
 
 s 
 
 But words, at length, did force their way? 
 Yet, when my fearful question came. 
 And when >I mention'd Ellen's name. 
 
43 
 
 Such sorrow shook her feeble frame, 
 I thought it was her dying day. 
 She sobb'd aloud, her hands she wrung. 
 And, on her poor, old knees, she fell ; 
 Her wither'd arms around me flung, 
 And then besought, that I would tell 
 Where was her dear, her only child. 
 
 And then, with piteous look, she smil'd, 
 And faintly clasp'd my knees, and said, 
 Her blessing should be on my head, 
 If her last wish were not denied, 
 To see her once, before she died. 
 
 And, though, by all my hopes in Heaven, 
 Of life to come, and sins forgiven, 
 I said, till then, I ne'er had known, 
 That Ellen, from the cot, had gone, 
 And poor, old Mary wept alone ; 
 Yet, though I said it often o'er, 
 
She sighed, and shook her head the more ; 
 And scarcely lent a willing ear, 
 One word of all my vows to hear ; 
 Till tears, at Mary's grief that fell, 
 Down Edwy's cheek, did surely tell, 
 His heart, for others' woes, could feel, 
 And nought he knew, hut Ellen's weal. 
 
 And when, at last, the frequent tear 
 
 > 
 
 
 
 Shew'd, that my words were all sincere ; 
 And Mary fain would tell the tale, 
 Her feehle voice did often fail. 
 And of the story many a word 
 Was lost, or indistinctly heard ; 
 For, ere her heart could tell me all, 
 Her sohs were deep, her voice was small, 
 And fast the bitter tears did fall. 
 
 She said, it was a month before, 
 When her poor Ellen went away ; 
 
45 
 
 Dress'd, in her plaid and bonnet gay. 
 
 To visit, on the neighb'riug moor, 
 
 At Agnes' cot, the hill beside. 
 
 And, when old Mary bade her sure 
 
 Return, before the close of day, 
 
 Ellen, with feeble voice, replied. 
 
 She should be home, at eventide. 
 
 And, when she spoke, though Mary heard 
 
 Her feeble voice and fault'ring word ; 
 
 And plainly mark'd she trembled o'er, 
 
 While standing, at the cottage door ; 
 
 The winter air was cold and chill, 
 
 And Ellen had, of late, been ill, 
 
 And Mary thought of nought beside. 
 
 But, when she cross'd the frozen brook, 
 While Mary, through the casement, ey'd, 
 It seem'd, that Ellen stopp'd, and gaz'd 
 Backward, toward the little liill ; 
 
 And, while she cast her ling'ring look, 
 12 
 
46 
 
 Ellen her kerchief often rais'd ; 
 It seem'd, at first, as she had cried : 
 But piercing was the winter air, 
 Which Ellen's eyes could poorly hear. 
 
 Now swiftly pass'd the hours away j 
 Deep in the west, the parting sun 
 Mark'd the short race of winter day ; 
 
 / ' 
 
 Its fleeting gold no longer shone 
 
 On little hill, and cottage lone j 
 
 Its fading lustre, faintly seen, 
 
 Danc'd, o'er the pine's perennial green ; 
 
 Short while, its gaudy colour now 
 
 Flounc'd round the mountain's win'try hrow: 
 
 And, while the last fantastick ray 
 
 Curl'd, o'er its cap of drifted snow, 
 
 'Twas ev'ning, in the vale helow. 
 
 No longer Mary's sharpest ken 
 Saw little hill, or neighh'ring glen. 
 
47 
 
 And oft she op'd the cottage door : 
 And oft she held her hreath, to hear 
 Ellen or Carlo, on the hill ; 
 And now it seem'd, as they were near; 
 And Carlo, when the wind was strong, 
 Seem'd coming, with the blast, along ; 
 And now again 'twas sunken low ; 
 And now its hreath did cease to blow 
 The brake, along the crusted snow : 
 And now its lightest whisper, still, 
 Left not a sound, on Mary's ear. 
 
 At length, with weariness oppress'd, 
 And thinking Ellen, on the moor, 
 At Agnes' cot, would pass the night, 
 And speed her home, at morning light, 
 Old Mary laid her limbs to rest.... 
 
 Broad day, upon the cottage, shone. 
 
 Ere Mary woke ; and, scarce she mourn'd, 
 
48 
 
 That Ellen yet had not return'd, 
 When, by the wonted bark, 'twas known, 
 Carlo was on the threshold stone. 
 
 Quickly she rose, and op'd the door, 
 Her lips half said the greeting fair, 
 
 Forward she reach'd her welcome hand 
 
 Then fail'd her heart, she scarce could stand, 
 The little Ellen was not there, 
 And Carlo had return'd alone. 
 
 Slowly he pass'd the threshold o'er j 
 And lagging step and panting tongue 
 Spoke weary limbs, and journey long. 
 No track, upon the morning snow. 
 The print of Ellen's foot did show. 
 Old Mary look'd, towards the moor, 
 But nought of Ellen she discern'd ; 
 At length, with heavy step, she turn'd, 
 And slowly clos'd the cottage door. 
 
49 
 
 Now fast were gatk'ring Mary's fears, 
 And doubts, upon her mind, did crowd. 
 And now she thought of Ellen's tears, 
 Which, 'neath the hawthorn, once she spied, 
 And Ellen strove, in vain, to hide ; 
 And how, upon her little bed, 
 When she, of late, her pray'rs had said, 
 Ellen had often sobb'd aloud. 
 
 And now old Mary's mind was bent, 
 To seek for Ellen, on the moor. 
 Her sad repast, in haste she made, 
 And scarce the besom, ere she went, 
 Pass'd lightly, round the cottage floor: 
 Her humble couch she loosely spread.... 
 Then shook old Mary's feeble frame. 
 Cold dew, upon her forehead, came, 
 When first she turn'd her pillow o'er j 
 For none but Ellen there had laid 
 
 The purse, that Mary's hands had made. 
 13 
 
50 
 
 Full many years before. 
 The token Mary's self had given 
 To Ellen, on a Christmas even. 
 
 
 
 It was a gift, for mem'ry dear, 
 And, only once, in ev'ry year, 
 
 The token Ellen wore ; 
 When merry Christmas eve came round, 
 And holly deck'd the cottage fair ; 
 And Agnes, Ann, and Constance there 
 Partook, of Ellen's welcome cheer; 
 Or forward bent, with ear profound, 
 Old Mary's wond'rous tale to hear ; 
 Of wizard's might, and giant's brand, 
 And legend fair of fairy land. 
 
 But now, for sorrow's heavy swell, 
 And tears, like floods of rain that fell, 
 No more could poor, old Mary tell. 
 But from its place the purse she took, 
 
51 
 
 And, while, upon my hand, she laid, 
 Though nought she spoke, yet, in her look, 
 Her very soul might well he read. 
 
 My trembling fingers scarce unbound 
 The silken string, that tied it round. 
 
 Ah, wand'rer ! sure, I need not tell 
 "What sorrow, from my eyes, there fell, 
 When my quick glance did wander there, 
 O'er purse, and gold, and trinkets air ; 
 And, how my hrow was damp and cold, 
 When first they fix'd their eager gaze, 
 Upon the little em'rald's rays, 
 "Which Huhert's finger once did wear. 
 
 And how my heart strings, weak and old. 
 Their struggling pris'ner scarce could hold, 
 When, last of all, I ponder'd, o'er 
 The tale of grief, that Ellen told. 
 
In ev'ry line, 'twas plain, to spy 
 The trembling hand and tearful eye. 
 
 It was an artless tale of sorrow ; 
 How she had lent a willing ear, 
 
 . Long since, of Hubert's love to hear ; 
 How kind were all the words, that hung, 
 So false, upon his wily tongue : 
 And how she oft had said, 'twas shame, 
 That gallant youth should wed with her j 
 And bade him woo some city dame, 
 While Ellen chang'd her humble name, 
 For that of some poor cottager. 
 And then would Hubert gently smile, 
 And, gazing, on her face, the while, 
 Swear, that the fates would ill betide, 
 If Ellen were not Hubert's bride. 
 
 And how, at last, with fair disguise, 
 And plighted vows, and tears, and sighs, 
 
53 
 
 He robb'd her of her dearest fame ; 
 And how poor Ellen's op'ning eyes 
 First shed the bitter drops of morrow. 
 
 How chang'd was ev'ry scene ! 
 The purling brook, she lov'd to hear. 
 Though soft it murmur'd, pain'd her ear. 
 The matin lark, whose lofty measure 
 Could turn her morning toil to pleasure ; 
 Though still his notes were loud and high, 
 Call'd the big tear, to Ellen's eye. 
 All wither' d seem'd those hawthorn bow'rs, 
 Where she had pass'd her happiest hours ; 
 Tho' ne'er more lovely shone their flow'rs, 
 Mid leaves of livelier green. 
 
 And how, full oft, at rustling brake, 
 Her cheek would flush, her limbs would shake 
 And how, when Carlo brush'd her by, 
 She started wild, yet knew not why ; 
 
55 
 
 And thus her last request she made ; 
 
 " Mother ! this purse thy hands convej'd, 
 
 To Ellen, in her childish years ; 
 
 'Tis now, beneath thy pillow, laid, 
 
 Wet, with thy daughter's bitter tears ; 
 
 Mother ! if thine with mine can blend, 
 Shed here thy deepest drops of sorrow ; 
 
 And dream thy daughter's days did end. 
 Ere op'd her eyes, to weep for morrow." 
 
 " This em'rald ring to Hubert bear, 
 Tell him, for me, the pledge to wear. 
 Tell him, MY LOVE AND CONSTANCY 
 
 WITH LIFE, SHALL E'ER ABIDE J 
 
 For these were Hubert's words to me, 
 One summer's eventide." 
 
 " Fair was that eve, like Ellen's heart, 
 And ev'ry bird did sing, 
 
54 
 
 And, when lie frisk'd, in gambol gay, 
 How teats, unwonted, found their way. 
 
 And then she bade her last farewell; 
 Saying, her feet no more could dwell, 
 "Where ev'ry scene did sadly tell 
 Of former joys, of present wo, 
 How happy once, how wretched now 
 Was Ellen's hopeless doom. 
 
 Still could she bear the world's rebuke, 
 Her own remorse, and woman's scorn ; 
 Nay, all but Mary's piteous look. 
 That look of grief, when once 'twas known, 
 Her child was lost, her name was gone, 
 
 Poor Ellen's thread of life would sever. 
 'Twas better, when her babe was born. 
 To seek some lowly tomb, 
 
 And hide her, from the world, forever. 
 
56 
 
 When Hubert, near the little brook, 
 Bestow'd this em'rald ring." 
 
 " Tell him, for cold neglect and long, 
 Though Ellen's tears do steal, 
 
 Her heart ne'er chides him, for the wrong ; 
 
 Nor has that heart a wish, so strong, 
 As that, for Hubert's weal." 
 
 " Tell him, if, on the scroll of Heaven, 
 A crime do stand, recorded there, 
 The hapless Ellen's ruined fame, 
 Against the wretched Hubert's name ; 
 Kind Heav'n will grant, her tears may fall. 
 And wash that record, from the scroll ; 
 And, in its place, shall stand, as fair, 
 The little Ellen's constant pray'r, 
 
 That Hubert's crime may be forgiven" 
 
57 
 
 Fast then did Edwy's sorrow part, 
 Fast did the tear-drops flow ; 
 
 For shame, at Hubert's cruel heart, 
 For grief, at Ellen's wo. 
 
 In vain, those tears of sorrow flow'd, 
 In vain, were all my words hestow'd ; 
 And, all in vain, I strove to raise 
 Old Mary's hopes, of happier days, 
 When Ellen's self should sooth her woes. 
 Still ev'ry look was deep dismay, 
 No word, in answer, e'er she said ; 
 "With downward hrow, she wav'd her head j 
 And ev'ry flood of tears, that rose, 
 Wash'd, from her heart, those hopes away. 
 As rising billow washes o'er 
 Frail marks, upon the sandy shore. 
 
 At length, she said, all hopes were gone, 
 
 Her cup was full, her race was run ; 
 15 
 
58 
 
 And well she knew, their sins forgiven, 
 She soon should meet her child, in Heaven : 
 For heart, so kind, and love, so strong, 
 Could ne'er endure such fortune long. 
 
 To Hubert, then she hade me bring 
 Ellen's forgiveness, and the ring ; 
 And say* of all those years of AVO, 
 That hapless Hubert soon must know, 
 
 Old Mary wish'd no more, 
 Of all those days of bitter gall, 
 To wretched Hubert's lot might fall ; 
 Than, when his youth had wan'd away, 
 And blood grew chill, and locks were grey, 
 
 One still reflecting hour.... 
 
 And, when I left the little cot, 
 With kindest words my heart could feel, 
 Of tidings soon, and Ellen's weal j 
 It seem'd, as if she heard me not : 
 
59 
 
 And, when my hand the latch did raise, 
 Her eyes were fix'd, upon the blaze.... 
 
 My tears fast were flowing, 
 
 The chill blast was blowing, 
 >Twas midnight, and lone was the way, o'er the moor ; 
 
 Though dreary and cheerless, 
 
 My bosom was fearless, 
 And strong were my steps, as I turn'd, from the door. 
 
 The woes of poor Ellen 
 
 My heart high were swelling ; 
 That heart, 'gainst the spoiler, beat heavy and strong ; 
 
 Those lips, that had bless'd him, 
 
 Those hands, that caress'd him, 
 Implor'd Heav'n's vengeance, to wait on the wrong. 
 
 Yet, when I thought, how oft his brow, 
 Of late, was clouded o'er, with wo ; 
 And when the cause was now so clear, 
 Of sudden start, and frequent tear, 
 
60 
 
 And late carouse, and goblet high, 
 
 And all unwonted revelry ; 
 
 Some hope rose feebly o'er my mind : 
 
 No youth was e'er as Hubert kind ; 
 
 His smile was fair, his heart was free, 
 
 In deeds of gentlest charity. 
 
 And sure, for Ellen, it must feel, 
 
 Though black with crimes, and cas'd in steel. 
 
 But much I fear'd, he ne'er, for pride, 
 
 "Would seek poor Ellen, for his bride. 
 
 Yet firm was Edwy's purpose then, 
 
 That ne'er his limbs should rest agen, 
 
 Though his old knees might need delay, 
 
 Though cold the blast, and long the way ; 
 
 Until, to Hubert, he should bring 
 
 The words of Ellen, and the ring. 
 
 And, if the wretch should recreant prove, 
 
 Alike to honour and to love ; 
 
 Then Edwy's bitter curse should flow, 
 
61 
 
 On Hubert's head forever ; 
 And, o'er the world, his steps should go, 
 Till wand'ring Ellen, safe from harms, 
 Found rest, in aged Edwy's arms : 
 Nor pause, till then, his feet should know, 
 
 Till life's frail thread should sever. 
 
 Then Edwy's store would well supply 
 The days, of Ellen's destiny ; 
 For I had grown, in service, grey, 
 And wasted ne'er my gains away 
 
 The day did dawn, yet, on mine ear, 
 As homeward now approaching near, 
 Came the loud shout and laughter high, 
 With mingled sounds of revelry. 
 
 And, when my steps did reach the hall, 
 'Twas rude carouse, and riot all. 
 
 16 
 
62 
 
 Bound went the song and jovial glee, 
 And Hubert's voice rang merrily. 
 
 High then my heart did swell the more ; 
 In scorn, I gaz'd his features o'er ; 
 And soon I mark'd his kindling eye, 
 That met my look, in fierce reply. 
 For oft, of late, my hints did fall, 
 'Gainst nights of endless revelry. 
 
 In wrath, upon my face, he gaz'd ; 
 His wine-sick brain could poorly brook 
 My bended brow, and clouded look. 
 And, when I wav'd my locks of grey, 
 His burning anger forc'd its way ; 
 A goblet, from the board, he rais'd, 
 He hmi'd the cup, it scath'd my broM r , 
 And big, red drops began to flow. 
 Then riot rose, and all the throng 
 Bang loud applause, in laughter long. 
 
63 
 
 But Hubert's face was clouded o'er ; 
 
 For, still, regardless of the blow, 
 
 Witb look unchang'd, such glance I bore, 
 
 As Edwy never gave before. 
 
 And Hubert well might feel amaze, 
 
 For bold and scorching was my gaze. 
 
 Down my old hairs, the red stream ran, 
 When slowly thus, my words began j 
 " Hubert ! these hairs resent the wrong ! 
 Thine aim was true, thine arm is strong ; 
 
 So, Hubert, once were mine : 
 Where this old scar does mark my brow, 
 From which, once more the stream does flow, 
 I bore, for thee, a ruffian's blow ; 
 This arm then laid the victim low, 
 
 And sav'd that life of thine !" 
 
 Full, in his eye, the tear-drop came, 
 He gnaw'd his lip, for rage and shame.... 
 
64 
 
 Wand'rer, when youthful Wood ran high, 
 
 When toys and trifles were thy cares, 
 
 Didst e'er, in hoyish revelry, 
 
 Scoff, at an old man's silver hairs ? 
 
 If so, perhaps thy heart has horn 
 
 That old man's silent look of scorn. 
 
 Well then thou know'st, why slept that hall, 
 
 Where late 'twas noise and riot all j 
 
 For, slowly round, old Edwy hore 
 
 Such look, as words had made more poor.... 
 
 Soon went the crowd ; and, slowly then, 
 I thus resum'd my words agen; 
 " Hubert ! 'tis true, in other years, 
 
 For such ungen'rous deed, 
 Old Edwy's eyes would fill with tears, 
 
 For grief, his heart would bleed".... 
 
 No word did Hubert then reply, 
 
 But the round tears o'erflow'd his eye, 
 
65 
 
 For, scarce had gone the noisy crowd. 
 Ere fast he wept and sohb'd aloud 
 
 " Hubert ! preserve those tears, that flow, 
 And shed them, for another's wo ! 
 If, in thy breast, remorse, for wrong, 
 
 Can plunge its deadly sting ; 
 If e'er thy heart of steel can bleed, 
 For blackest crime, for foulest deed ; 
 Weep, for the woes of her, to whom 
 
 Thou gav'st this em'rald ring !" 
 
 Wild then and sudden was his start j 
 
 Soon, from his lips, the blood did part. 
 
 And strangely now his eye did gaze, 
 
 Upon the little em'rald's blaze. 
 
 Still fix'd, his fading sight did glare ; 
 
 His eye seem'd still directed there, 
 
 Nor more than seem'd ; now reel'd his head, 
 
 His senses fail'd, his vigour fled. 
 17 
 
66 
 
 Then flush'd my face, my fears grew strong. 
 For flick'ring life did linger long ; 
 And long I cliaf'd his palms and brows, 
 Ere, to his cheek, the life-blood rose. 
 
 At length, there came a piteous sigh ; 
 And, when the little em'rald's light 
 Glanc'd, on his slowly lifting eye, 
 He strangely shudder'd, at the sight. 
 
 And, when I deem'd Ms strength would bear 
 
 To hear the tale, I told him all j 
 
 And mark'd the bitter tear-drops fall. 
 
 And, ere of half, my lips did say, 
 
 They rested oft, in short delay ; 
 
 For oft his cheek grew deadly pale, 
 
 And oft his wav'ring sense did fail. 
 
 But, when I said, " for all the wrong, 
 She chides thee not ; her constant pray'r 
 
67 
 
 Shall stand, upon the scroll of Heaven, 
 That Huhert's crime may he forgiven :" 
 Both palms his wretched face did hide, 
 While, with short sohs, he feebly cried, 
 " Oh ! spare me, cruel Edwy, spare !" 
 
 " No, Hubert !" Edwy then replied, 
 " Still heavier be thy sorrow laden ! 
 
 Still flow thy tears, in bitter tide ! 
 Thou didst not spare an hapless maiden ! 
 
 Though heavy now thy heart does seem, 
 Yet light may be that heart tomorrow ; 
 
 Not far is now that bright'ning beam, 
 Whose smile may chase away thy sorrow. 
 
 Oh, Hubert ! can thy heart be gay, 
 While Ellen's tears do flow forever ?" 
 
 With quiv'ring lip, he quick did say, 
 " No ! good old Edwy, never ! never ! 
 
 Her wrongs shall be my daily theme ; 
 
 Her woes shall be my nightly dream ; 
 
68 
 
 No smile, upon this brow, shall heam , 
 No joy, within this heart, shall gleam , 
 No garb I'll wear, but weeds of wo ; 
 No rest my wand'ring feet shall know ; 
 In ev'ry draught, my tears shall show'r, 
 
 And mingle, with the spring ; 
 Till Ellen's hand, in bridal hour, 
 
 Shall wear this em'rald ring !".... 
 
 Soft were my hours of short repose ; 
 I dream'd, that poor, old Mary's woes 
 And hapless Ellen's griefs were o'er, 
 And Hubert was a wretch no more.... 
 
 Now, from my couch, in haste I rose, 
 That Mary's heart might joy, to know 
 The tidings fair of Hubert's vow. 
 And, ne'er with half the speed, before. 
 Old Edwy reach'd the cottage door. 
 
69 
 
 Soon did my footsteps enter there. 
 While, on my brow, smil'd tidings fair. 
 Upon her bed, old Mary laid ; 
 Her hands were clasp'd, as if she pray'd. 
 Bat soon I mark'd, though piercing cold, 
 No blaze the cottage hearth did hold ; 
 And Carlo, couch'd, beside the bed, 
 With piteous whine, and lifted head. 
 
 One eager glance did plainly show, 
 Her wither'd chin had sunken low. 
 And, in her eye, half op'd, half clos'd, 
 The silent look of death repos'd. 
 Her last sad tear had ceas'd to flow, 
 And, frozen, on her cheek, did stand. 
 And, when I lightly pass'd my hand, 
 With trembling haste, upon her brow, 
 
 My palm did seem on mountain snow !.... 
 18 
 
70 
 
 Wanderer, have you ever seen. 
 Half hidden, in the lowland green, 
 The bashful lily of the vale ; 
 One single bell, upon a stem ? 
 Whose fragrance, floated on the gale, 
 
 Whose lustre brighter grew, 
 When closer to the flow'r you came, 
 
 And gaz'd, with nearer view ? 
 And, when you rais'd its little head, 
 More fragrance and new lustre shed j 
 And, when releas'd, resum'd again 
 Its humble air and modest mien ? 
 
 And have you torn away the flow'r, 
 The plaything of an idle hour, 
 And thrown it lightly by ? 
 And did you e'er, at parting, view 
 The stock, on which the lily grew, 
 And mark, how soon the feeble stem, 
 
71 
 
 Dishonour'd of its only gem, 
 
 Would droop, and pine, and die ? 
 
 Thus lovely once did Ellen seem, 
 When first, beside the little stream, 
 Hubert her artless charms survey'd, 
 As there, at eventide, she stray'd. 
 
 Thus, on her cheek, the deep'ning hue, 
 More closely seen, more lovely grew ; 
 And thus her modest head she hung, 
 When love was first, on Hubert's tongue. 
 And thus he stole away the flow'r, 
 The plaything of an idle hour, 
 
 And threw it lightly by j 
 And thus old Mary's heart, despoil'd, 
 Robb'd of her dear, her only child, 
 
 Did droop, and pine, and die.... 
 

 ieafli to tdl ; 
 
 -**^^^^- ^^^^^^WBB^^^W' K^MHn SHI^HB. ff ^^^Hn 
 
73 
 
 And wild resolve, before a word 
 Of hapless Ellen's fate he heard. 
 
 As long the tale, as sad to hear, 
 Of wand'ring Ellen's constant tear, 
 And drooping head, and fainting heart, 
 And flick'ring life, that long'd to part ; 
 And sharp rehuke, and woman's scorn, 
 Long, ere her happy babe was born ; 
 Scarce to breathe the air of morrow, 
 Ere to leave a world of sorrow. 
 
 'Twere wrong, thy gentle heart should know, 
 
 Of all those hours of varied wo, 
 
 That long the friendless Ellen bore. 
 
 And shall my lips, unwilling, tell 
 
 What vice and misery did dwell, 
 
 Where my long search, at last, regain'd 
 
 All, that of Ellen still remain'd ? 
 
 Kind stranger, let me pass it o'er.... 
 19 
 
74 
 
 But no, for now thine anxious eyes 
 Do speak unkind, unjust surmise.... 
 
 And is thy luckless fortune blind, 
 To half the worth of womankind ? 
 And canst thou, in ungen'rous part, 
 Think lightly of a woman's heart ? 
 
 Such thoughts were mine, but long before 
 The frothy tide of youth was o'er. 
 And long, till manhood drew the veil, 
 'Gainst woman's heart, I lov'd to rail j 
 'Gainst woman's heart, I lov'd to hear 
 The jest unkind, and word severe. 
 For, oft it sure did seem to me, 
 That woman's love and constancy 
 Were legend light, and fairy tale. 
 
 I thought, as, than a feather fail-, 
 More light was filmy gossamer ; 
 
75 
 
 So woman's heart was lighter far, 
 Than lightest breath of summer air, 
 Which is so light, it scarce can hear 
 The filmiest thread of gossamer. 
 
 But if, 'gainst gentle woman, aught 
 Thou bear'st, in such ungen'rous thought, 
 Shame on a heart, that would disown 
 The fairest jewel, in its crown 1 
 Oh ! let such thought forever go ! 
 Or never, never shalt thou know 
 Life's dearest drop of balm, that flows 
 To mingle, with thy worldly woes. 
 
 And, through thy mortal journey, long, 
 Thy loss shall pay thee, for the wrong. 
 Thy bitter youth shall never feel 
 That tear of soul-felt rapture steal, 
 While dearest thoughts thy heart beguile. 
 Of tender love and constancv ; 
 
76 
 
 Gazing on heav'nly woman's smile. 
 That lives and loves, alone for tliee. 
 
 Thy stale noon day of life shall run, 
 Before another's youth is done : 
 
 On woman, if thou hadst hestow'd, 
 In youth, thy love, thy constant cares ; 
 Lighter, hy half, had heen thy load, 
 Fewer, hy half, had heen thy tears. 
 Vain then will he thy hopes, to horrow 
 A constant heart, to sooth thy sorrow. 
 
 And, when thy wane is chill and drear, 
 And, when the verge of life is near ; 
 No woman's love and constancy 
 Shall shed one hitter tear for thee ; 
 No hand shall ask thy last caressing j 
 No child shall seek thy tender hlessing.... 
 
77 
 
 If, 'gainst the heart of Ellen now 
 Surmise, does in thy bosom, flow, 
 Oh, let one gen'rous tear-drop part, 
 And blot the scandal, from thy heart ! 
 
 No varying griefs her love could change, 
 No weight of woes her heart estrange. 
 
 And, if thou marvell'st, how it fell, 
 That Ellen's feet e'er came to dwell, 
 In haunts of vice ; then, stranger, know, 
 Perfidious man, in pity's guise, 
 Did basely lure her to the cell ! 
 And, there detain'd, long vainly strove, 
 Poor Ellen's changeless heart to move, 
 With paltry gold and empty sighs. 
 
 For, when he found her, houseless, poor, 
 And begging alms, from door to door ; 
 
 He said, 'twere shame, that one, so fair, 
 20 
 
78 
 
 Such cruel part Avere dooni'd to bear ; 
 And, kindly ask'd, that she would tell, 
 Where chanc'd herself and friends to dwell. 
 
 And, when he knew no friends were near, 
 No father's shield, no brother's spear, 
 Whose lion-heart might not be long, 
 To right an injur'd sister's wrong ; 
 His gallant soul, its purpose high, 
 Her cup of bitter gall to fill, 
 To make a wretch more Avretched still, 
 Conceal'd, beneath a pitying sigh. 
 He said, he knew a gentle friend, 
 An aged dame, whose ample store, 
 And tender heart, and friendly door 
 Were always open to the poor. 
 
 And thus the practis'd wretch deceiy'd, 
 And artless Ellen all believ'd. 
 
79 
 
 And thus he lur'd her to the cell, 
 Where vice and misery did dwell. 
 
 And long he strove, with purpose vain, 
 O'er Ellen's constant heart to reign. 
 At length, the wretch, with nought to boast, 
 But time and labour, basely lost, 
 Turn'd from the chase, and gave it oe'r ; 
 And cast no thought of Ellen more. 
 
 Her weary woes, at last, o'ercame 
 Her tender heart, and feeble frame ; 
 And, in her wildly staring eye, 
 Now rag'd the burning hectick high. 
 No gentle hand, no constant care 
 Turn'd Ellen's fever'd pillow there : 
 And, had not Heav'n directed then 
 My steps, to find her secret cell, 
 My feet had sought the wretch, in vain. 
 For Ellen ne'er I dream'd to see, 
 
80 
 
 In haunts, like these ; where sorrow's pow'r, 
 
 And cruel man's perfidious part 
 
 Can oft compel the wretched heart, 
 
 To short-liv'd vice and misery ; 
 
 Till to mine ear a tale there came, 
 
 That, in these hideous haunts, did dwell 
 
 A wretch, who turn'd her haggard eye, 
 
 From man's, as from a tiger's low'r ; 
 
 And oft, in her delirious hour, 
 
 Call'd wildly, upon Hubert's name, 
 
 And rav'd of love and constancy.... 
 
 Oh ! 'twas a piteous thing, to see 
 The little Ellen's misery. 
 
 > 
 
 For fever'd Wood and constant care 
 Had strangely shorn her flowing hair. 
 That eye, whose glance did once reveal 
 Whate'er her gentle soul did feel, 
 That hazel eye did strangely glare, 
 And, in its socket, sunken low, 
 
81 
 
 Now told of nought, but wild despair. 
 
 Care's anxious hand had stamp'd, e'en now, 
 
 Its checker'd signet, on her hrow. 
 
 Her cheek, deep liu'd, by streaming woes, 
 
 Display'd, by fits, the fev'rish rose, 
 
 And pallid lily, sadly fair. 
 
 And, when the hectick strife was o'er, 
 
 Then, on her cheek, the rose no more 
 
 Strove, 'gainst the pale usurper's pow'r ; 
 
 The lily sat, in triumph there. 
 
 Scarce aught remain'd, by which, to know 
 
 'Twas Ellen, but the tale of wo.... 
 
 That hawthorn, which I oft have seen, 
 With flow'rs, so fair, and leaves, so green, 
 Long since has yielded to the storm, 
 And stands, like Ellen's blighted form. 
 Its pride, its fragrance, all have past 
 Away, before the wint'ry blast ; 
 
 Its flow'r is lost, its leaf is shorn : 
 21 
 
82 
 
 And, save its sharp and rugged thorn, 
 No sign is seen, no vestige there, 
 Of lovely hawthorn, once so fail 1 .... 
 
 Yet, still some fading lines were seen, 
 That told, what Ellen once had heen. 
 For nature's stamp, so fair and strong, 
 Must stand the tide of sorrow long.... 
 
 But, wand'rer, well thy wearied ear 
 May lag, an old man's tale to hear. 
 And, if the tale has heen too long, 
 Forgive an old man's erring tongue ; 
 Whose heart does love to linger, o'er 
 The days of youth, the scenes of yore.... 
 
 Now the mower's toil is ending, 
 Flocks and herds are homeward hending^ ; 
 And, mark ! heneath the mountain's brow. 
 The parting sun has sunken low.... 
 
83 
 
 The time of summer's day were small, 
 If thou wouldst hear, to tell thee all : 
 Of tender meeting, sadly fair j 
 Of Ellen's tear, of Hubert's pray'r ; 
 And how, at first, poor Ellen sigbed, 
 "When Hubert sought her, for his bride. 
 She said, her heart had lost its pride, 
 
 Her soul must wend to Heaven. 
 And how, when Ellen came to know, 
 Of wretched Hubert's dreadful vow, 
 She wore the ring, in bridal hour, 
 And said, that all her griefs were o'er : 
 For, though she felt they soon must part, 
 Yet, now she knew, that Hubert's heart 
 
 Would surely be forgiven. 
 
 And how, of all, when tidings came 
 To Hubert's sire ; for rage and shame, 
 He fiercely turn'd him from his door : 
 
84 
 
 For Hubert then had long withstood 
 His cruel sire's unbending mood ; 
 And ne'er would give his heartless hand, 
 For wealthy lady's gear and land. 
 
 And how old Edwy ne'er before, 
 
 Mid all the joys of better years, 
 
 Did know such deal-, such heart-felt hour, 
 
 As, when his constant pray'rs and tears 
 
 Prevail'd, on Hubert's heart, to take 
 
 His ample store, for Ellen's sake. 
 
 And how, at length, no more to bide, 
 Where cruel sire and heartless friend 
 Did rudely scoff, and fiercely chide ; 
 Old Edwy cross'd the ocean billow, 
 
 With Hubert and his drooping bride. 
 And how, when Ellen's toils were ending, 
 W hen life and death were gently blending, 
 
85 
 
 Poor Hubert's sleepless eye did bend, 
 For days and nights, o'er Ellen's pillow.... 
 
 When Ellen's soul had gone to Heaven, 
 Her mortal frame, by Hubert's care, 
 Was laid, beneath the willow there. 
 
 And oft he sought the spot, at even, 
 
 And scatter'd wild flow'rs, o'er the tomb. 
 Strange seem'd his brow, his grief was dumb. 
 
 He rais'd no sigh, no tear he shed, 
 Nor word of Ellen e'er he said ; 
 But silent thus, for hours, would stay, 
 Gazing, upon the tablet grey. 
 
 It was a month or more, 
 After the hapless Ellen died, 
 When first poor Hubert's change I spied, 
 
 And knew, that all was o'er. 
 
86 
 
 Hubert was then mine only care ; 
 And, oft I strove to sooth his mind. 
 Aiding his daily search, to find 
 The wild wood-rose and lily fair. 
 
 One eve, as Hubert thus did stray, 
 I mark'd his look more earnest grew : 
 At length, with eager haste, he flew, 
 And pluck' d a little hare-hell blue ; 
 And, strangely smiling, toss'd away 
 The wild wood-rose, and lily gay. 
 And cried, while reaching out the flow'r, 
 " Edwy> it is my wedding day ; 
 This pledge of Jove, good Edwy, bear, 
 And say, to Ellen, she must wear 
 This em 'raid ring, in bridal hour." 
 
 And, while my heart with sorrow bled r 
 I turn'd to hide my grief, and said, 
 " Sure, dearest Hubert, thou dost know, 
 
87 
 
 That pass'd is Ellen's bridal hour ! 
 And, sure thou know'st, this little thing, 
 Which thou dost call an em'rald ring, 
 Is nothing but an hare-bell flow'r !" 
 
 Then first his tears began to flow ; 
 Wild was the piteous look he gaye ; 
 And, as he slowly turn'd to go, 
 He mutter'd, " 'tis a cruel thing, 
 That Edwy will not bear the ring : 
 Ellen will chide my long delay." 
 
 And, when, as reas'ning words were vain, 
 I said, to sooth his fever'd brain, 
 " Stay, dearest Hubert, weep not so ; 
 Edwy will bear that ring, for thee !" 
 He turn'd, and gaz'd me wildly o'er, 
 As one he ne'er had seen before ; 
 And cried, " who art thou ? art thou he, 
 Who made the little Ellen's grave ? 
 
88 
 
 And wilt thou make a grave, for me ?" 
 And then his features sadly smil'd ; 
 And then they chang'd to laughter wild. 
 And, then, in haste, he turn'd away, 
 And sought the spot, where Ellen lay. 
 And, when the willow came in sight, 
 He turn'd, and whisper'd, in mine ear, 
 Some words, so low, I could not hear : 
 Then, with slow tread, and footing light. 
 And lifted finger, creeping near, 
 Short while, his list'ning ear he laid, 
 
 Upon the tablet low ; 
 Then slowly rising, wav'd his head. 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 Then couch' 'd, upon the tablet grey, 
 Till slumber chas'd his woes away. 
 As now, beneath the lonely wiuW, 
 He makes the simple stone his pillow,... 
 
89 
 
 Plainer now, thou liear'st the fountain, 
 Murm'ring brook, and tinkling bell ; 
 
 Day has gone, beyond the mountain ; 
 Eventide is in the dell.... 
 
 Go, gentle wand'rer, go ! 
 The task is o'er, the tale is told : 
 And, sure, thy heart will ne'er withhold 
 One pray'r, that Hubert's bitter tears 
 May blot the crime of former years ; 
 
 One sigh, for Ellen's wo. 
 
 S3 
 
THE TRIAL OF THE HARP. 
 
THE TRIAL OF THE HARP. - 
 
 Now, blithe, the fairy circles glide, 
 In frolick dance, at eventide ; 
 They screen their forms, from mortal eye, 
 In green and silver livery : 
 Green is the mead, on which they stray, 
 And silver is the moonbeam's ray. 
 
 Within the magick ring, 
 There stands a cave, whose thousand rays 
 The silver beam, in pride, displays ; 
 Blending the crystal's gairish sheen, 
 With lively light of jasper green : 
 
94 
 
 Its dome, with crystal, is array'd y 
 And jasper gems its colonnade : 
 
 There reigns th' JEolian king.... 
 
 Slow rising, from the cavern'd hall. 
 
 First comes an aged seneschal. 
 
 His finger, on his lips, he lays, 
 
 The sign the fairy band obeys ; 
 
 They cease the dance, they form the ring. 
 
 And wait, expectant, for the king. 
 
 The monarch comes ; again, to all. 
 The sign the seneschal conveys, 
 His finger, on his lips, he lays ; 
 No fairy, from the ring, does stir, 
 But, on the knee, they lightly fall, 
 And wave their wands of gossamer. 
 
 The high command, on rapid wing, 
 Bears Zephyr, herald of the king, 
 
95 
 
 To ev'ry breeze and ev'ry gale, 
 On mountain cliff, in lowland dale. 
 E'en to the winds, that gently sweep 
 The tiny stream, and curl the deep, 
 The herald bears the tidings high. 
 The East alone and all his train, 
 Unbidden to the court, remain. 
 Instant, the winds obedient fly j 
 Around their monarch's cave they stand, 
 And, silent, wait their king's command. 
 
 All own their lord, from noisy North, 
 Who leads his blasts, in riot, forth, 
 E'en to the breeze, that softly blows. 
 In love, upon the wild wood-rose. 
 
 All, but the whirlwind, at the word, 
 Speed, with liege haste, before their lord j. 
 He bade th' .ZEolian herald, bring 
 His bold defiance, to the king.... 
 
96 
 
 Uprose the king of winds ; the band 
 
 Of fames rise, and round him stand. 
 
 No breeze dare move, whose breath could stir 
 
 Their little wands of gossamer. 
 
 Swift, at the word, an herald brings 
 
 The living lyre, of silver strings ; 
 
 And, in th' JEolian monarch's name, 
 
 He makes aloud the high proclaim. 
 
 " Come, all ye winds, who dare aspire, 
 
 To sweep the soft ./Eolian lyre ! 
 
 In order rise, no humble meed 
 
 Is, to the victor wind, decreed ; 
 
 Be it or zephyr, breeze, or gale, 
 
 Whose skill shall, o'er the lyre, prevail !" 
 
 The herald ceas'd ; when, loud and strong, 
 The Northwind rush'd amid the throng ; 
 Unmarshall'd forth, he sprang, and seiz'd the lyre : 
 With wild, tremendous hand, he pass'd, 
 Along the chords, in wint'ry blast. 
 
97 
 
 So rude the touch, so rough the measure, 
 The fairies fled, and, from their hands, 
 In fear, they dropp'd their magick wands. 
 Confusion ran, through all the crowd, 
 And trembling zephyrs sighed aloud. 
 Yet was the noisy North so vain, 
 He fain would have the lyre again ; 
 
 The lyre had rapt his soul in pleasure. 
 The herald rose, and bade the North retire. 
 Again, obedient to the king, 
 The fames form'd the magick ring.... 
 
 Again the herald made proclaim ; 
 
 The herald ceas'd....th' inconstant South uprose ; 
 No zephyr, in his train, there came : 
 With conscious pride, he vaunted forth, 
 Pleas'd, at the failure of the North ; 
 
 For North and South were old and deadly foes. 
 25 
 
98 
 
 Amid the fairy throng, 
 With lofty step and strong, 
 He proudly swept along. 
 
 Wild and fantastick were the sounds he made. 
 
 Now madly bold, now trembling and afraid, 
 His fev'rish hand, with haste, display'd 
 The varying notes, from high to low : 
 And now, with rapid hand of fire, 
 He rudely twang'd the chords, and now 
 He softly crept, along the lyre. 
 
 Proud of his skill, he glanc'd around, 
 Upon the North, in high disdain, 
 Whose hand had tried the lyre, in vain : 
 And now his notes again grew strong ; 
 
 He sought, for higher fame. 
 But, when he found, from all the throng, 
 
 No murm'ring plaudit came j 
 
99 
 
 His hand grew light, he lower'd his tone. 
 And glanc'd, upon the monarch's throne : 
 
 The monarch frown'd. 
 Sudden, he lost his native fire, 
 And, quiv'ring, fault'ring, dropp'd the lyre ; 
 
 And died away, for shame. 
 
 The herald now could scarce restrain 
 The North wind, from the lyre again. 
 
 
 
 Once more the herald made proclaim ; 
 And now a thousand clouds there came, 
 With hollow hlast and tempest strong, 
 That pioneer'd the East along. 
 Soon rose the king of winds, in ire, 
 And hade the pioneers retire ; 
 And tell their lord, who dare resort. 
 Unhidden, to th' JEolian court, 
 To keep his blast and tempest bound. 
 Whene'er the harp of winds did sound ; 
 
100 
 
 
 
 Nor then permit his clouds to stray, 
 Athwart the moonbeam's silv'ry way. 
 
 Swift, at the word, away they pass'd, 
 Like April clouds, in Southern blast.... 
 
 Thrice now the herald made proclaim, 
 Ere forth the modest West wind came : 
 Twelve zephyrs, in his train, did move, 
 Who hreath'd the balmy breath of love. 
 
 At first, with single hand, 
 He softly swept the silver strings along ; 
 And, when he found his hand was true, 
 
 He paus'd, upon the lyre. 
 
 While of the zephyr band 
 One, lightly, o'er the harp, his fingers threw ; 
 His tiny fingers trembled, as they flew, 
 Unwont, alone, to raise a note, so strong. 
 
101 
 
 He ceas'd ; another came, and now again 
 Another ; till no zephyr did remain, 
 
 Of all the little choir, 
 Who had not tried his quav'ring skill. 
 
 Upon the silver lyre : 
 Now sleeps the harp of winds, and all is still !.... 
 
 Hark ! it is the lyre again ! 
 Eest thy hreath, to catch the strain ! 
 Now, in choir, the zephyr throng 
 Gently sweep the chords along ! 
 
 Hark ! they wake the trembling measure ! 
 Now they warble notes of pleasure, 
 
 Glee and roundelay ! 
 Now they raise then* wild notes higher ! 
 And now they swell the sounds, in fullest choir ! 
 
 And now they die away ! 
 Yet die, so gently, on thine ear, 
 
 That still the sounds thou seem'st to hear. 
 
 26 
 
 
 
102 
 
 Again the harp is still ; and 
 A smile is on the monarch's brow. 
 Cheer'd, by that smile, advances, to the lyre, 
 The West, alone, the zephyr train retire. 
 And now, along the silver strings, 
 His magick hand he lightly flings, 
 
 In measure, gently wild. 
 And now he lifts his anxious gaze ; 
 'Tis not to seek the monarch's praise j 
 But much the timid West did fear, 
 He might displease the royal ear : 
 
 He saw, the monarch smil'd.... 
 His heart is firm, his hand is strong j 
 He sweeps the silver strings along. 
 
 Entranc'd, the North, with ear profound, 
 Now holds his breath, to hear the sound. 
 Amid the skies, 
 The wild notes rise ; 
 
103 
 
 And now, to earth, they slowly fall ; 
 And now they murmur, 'neath the hollow ground. 
 As if the deep ton'd sounds did swell, 
 From wizard's cave, or druid's cell. 
 So distant now and small, 
 
 Thou scarce canst hear ! 
 And now, so near, 
 
 Thou seem'st, thy very self, to raise the sound, 
 That strikes thine ear ! 
 'Tis rapture all ! 
 
 He wakes the silver lyre again j 
 Mild is the measure, soft the strain. 
 Lull'd to rest, by magick numbers^ 
 Care is sooth'd, and sorrow slumbers. 
 The liquid sounds, in soft control, 
 Now gently bind the raptur'd soul ; 
 Now, o'er this nether world, they rise, 
 And bear it softly, to the skies : 
 
104* 
 
 Till, with the measure, clear and even, 
 It seems to rest awhile, in Heaven ! 
 
 Still is the lyre ! 
 
 The West and all his zephyr train retire.... 
 The herald smil'd, the monarch how'd ; 
 And plaudits ran, through all the crowd. 
 The noisy North acclaim'd aloud ; 
 He fain again would hear the measure. 
 And ev'ry fairy, in the band, 
 Now wav'd aloft his little wand : 
 And ey'ry zephyr sighed, for pleasure. 
 
 The herald made his last proclaim : 
 No zephyr, breeze, or gale there came.... 
 
 Now spake that herald, Avho did stand, 
 Upon the monarch's better hand ; 
 And thus, aloud, decreed ; 
 
105 
 
 " Of all the winds, the Western gale, 
 Alone, does, o'er the lyre, prevail ! 
 Then, let no other wind aspire, 
 To touch the soft j^Eolian lyre : 
 Such is the victor's meed !" 
 
 And now the monarch waves his hand ; 
 The seneschal the sign conveys, 
 His finger, on his lips, he lays ; 
 And ev'ry fairy, in the hand, 
 Now doffs his plume, and hends his knee, 
 And, to the West wind, three times three, 
 Bows down his head, and waves his little wand. 
 
 The herald glanc'd, upon the king ; 
 
 Again he wav'd his hand ; 
 The fairies op'd their magick ring ; 
 
 And, from the monarch's band, 
 Three pursuivants escorted forth 
 
 The West wind, and the South, and North : 
 27 
 
106 
 
 And ev'ry zephyr, breeze, and gale 
 Sought mountain cliff, and lowland dale. 
 
 Now slowly, to the cavern'd hall, 
 Proceeds that aged seneschal ; 
 The herald hears the silver lyre : 
 And last the monarch's steps retire. 
 
 Now, govern'd, by their elfin king, 
 The fairies dance, in mystick ring ; 
 Till morning light does faintly gleam, 
 And mingles, with the silver beam. 
 
 They close their elfin monarch round. 
 He gives the sign, he stamps the ground ; 
 And now they fly, a thousand ways, 
 In haste, to shun the morning rays j 
 Till ev'ry fairy finds his cell, 
 Within the lily's perfum'd bell. 
 
BILLOWY WATER. 
 
BILLOWY WATEK. 
 
 OU THE BANKS OF A RIVER, AT MOOX-UGHT. 
 
 THESE lines appeared first, in Boston, in the Palladium. They were n-pnl>lislicd, in London, 
 shortly after, in the Courier, without any notice of their transatlantic)! origin. This remark is 
 intended, for those, who have kmmu them, only as the lines in the Courier ; or who hare teen 
 them, in some of our own newspapers, as " the production of an anonymous British bard. " 
 
 X 
 
 BILL'WY water, roll along! 
 While, far, I mark thy various way ; 
 At first, from gentle fountains, sprung ; 
 Through meadows, wont to stray. 
 
 f 
 Softly there thy smooth tide flows ; 
 
 Where, lighted, hy the moon's pale beam, 
 The margin wild-flow 'r fondly bows, 
 
 To kiss thy silv'ry stream. 
 
 28 
 
110 
 
 Wavy soon thy waters grow ? 
 Nor longer softly, gently glide j 
 And other tiny streamlets flow, 
 To swell thy hustling pride. 
 
 Now thou quitt'st thy native shoals, 
 Some deeper, holder course to find. 
 A river, now thy current rolls, 
 
 And leaves the stream behind. 
 
 Onward, to the ocean wide, 
 It pours, a torrent, loud and strong j 
 And hears, resistless, on its tide, 
 Its grav'ly bed along. 
 
 There thy turbid wave is seen 
 To hold, afar, its muddy way j 
 As if it scorn'd, with salt sea green, 
 To mix its waters grey. 
 
Ill 
 
 So, the troubled *Arve pursues 
 His cloudy way, through limpid Rhone ; 
 Nor dies it, with his sable hues, 
 But holds his course alone. 
 
 Still, afur, as eye can strain, 
 Thy wares are seen, in tempest, tost J 
 Impetuous, rushing, midst the main, 
 Where all, in surge, is lost. 
 
 Bill'wy water, roll along ! 
 While far I mark thy various way ; 
 Thy murm'ring stream, thy torrent strong 
 Life's varying tide display. 
 
 First, its infant waters flow, 
 Through verdant dale, and flow'ry mead ; 
 Where lilies of the valley blow, 
 And fairies softly tread. 
 
Glassy now its bosom seems ; 
 But Av'rice, soon, and bubbling Pride 
 Pour in their tributary streams ; 
 And swell the little tide. 
 
 Swift the manly torrent pours, 
 In frothy billows, proudly tost, 
 And, 'midst life's troubled ocean, roars, 
 Till all, in noise, is lost. 
 
 "BEFORE you enter the town of Sallenche,you must cross the Arve, which, at 
 this season, is much larger than in winter, being swoln by the dissolving snows of the 
 Alps." 
 
 "This river has its source at the parish of Argentiere, in the valley of Chamouni, 
 is immediately augmented by torrents from the neighbouring Glaciers, and pours its 
 chill turbid stream into the Rhone, soon after that river issues from the lake of 
 Geneva." 
 
 "The contrast between these two rivers is very striking, the one being as pure and 
 limpid as the other is foul and muddy." 
 
 "The Rhone seems to scorn the alliance, and keeps as long as possible unmingled 
 with his dirty spouse." 
 
 "Two miles below the place of their junction, a difference and opposition between 
 this ill-sorted couple is still observable : these, however, gradually abate by long habit, 
 till at last, yielding to necessity, and to those unrelenting laws which joined them to 
 gether, they mix in perfect union, and flow in a common stream to the end of their 
 course." 
 
 Moore's View of France, &c. Vol. I. 
 
THE PLUNDERER'S GRAVE. 
 
THE PLUNDERER'S GRAVE. 
 
 SNOW hides the green mountain, 
 
 Beneath its white hillow ; 
 
 And chill'd is the fountain, 
 
 And leafless the willow : 
 
 The tempest, loud swelling, 
 
 Now drives along, dreary ; 
 
 Before the storm, yelling, 
 
 The sea-mew flies, weary, 
 And, cow'ring, seeks shelter, from ocean's wild roar. 
 
 While hillows are hounding, 
 
 O'er rude rocks, surrounding 
 The long sandy heach, and the craggy lee-shore. 
 
116 
 
 Where now does the bark ride, 
 
 The wild water braving ? 
 
 Where now, o'er the dark tide, 
 
 The gay streamer, waving ? 
 
 And where now, so fearless, 
 
 The mariner, helming, 
 
 Mid clouds, dark and cheerless, 
 
 And ocean o'erwhelming ? 
 Where now is the heart of that mariner brave ? 
 
 That bark is dismasted ! 
 
 That mariner blasted ! 
 That streamer has drunken the wild water-wave ? 
 
 O'er breakers, loud crashing, 
 The waves fiercely bound her ; 
 While, rude billows, dashing, 
 In riot, roll, round her. 
 Go, helmsman, mid ocean, 
 Thine arm now must save thee ! 
 
117 
 
 Oh ! kiss, with devotion, 
 
 The pledge, that she gave thee. 
 Who ne'er may behold thee, her sailor, again ! 
 
 Think of her, who is dearest, 
 
 When danger is nearest, 
 Then plunge thy bold form, in the rough, rolling main ! 
 
 Now tall waves dash, o'er him, 
 Ah ! vainly contending ; 
 Hope sinks fast, before him ; 
 His struggles are ending. 
 Now, waves, gently growing, 
 Seem rising, to save him ; 
 Now, o'er the beach, flowing, 
 More softly they lave him : 
 His motionless corse, on the lone shore, they lay. 
 Eude waves, loudly roaring, 
 Along the strand, pouring, 
 
 Now bear him again, o'er the watery way ! 
 30 
 
118 
 
 Again rise the surges ; 
 . Again they restore him : 
 
 Again the wave urges 
 
 Its refluence, o'er him ! 
 
 Who, reckless of danger, 
 
 Now hraves, mid the ocean ? 
 
 How wild looks the stranger ! 
 
 How frantick his motion ! 
 He rescues the corse, from the rough rolling wave ! 
 
 The strand, for its pillow, 
 
 From out the salt hillow, 
 He rescues the corse....hut it is not to save ! 
 
 There stands, dark and lonely, 
 The plunderer's dwelling j 
 He seeks the strand, only 
 When sea-mews are yelling. 
 When, mid the storm howling, 
 No star is seen, heaming, 
 
119 
 
 The wretch then is prowling ; 
 
 The false fire is gleaming, 
 To lead the poor mariner, on to his doom ! 
 
 When waves hear him, senseless, 
 
 He robs the defenceless, 
 And plunges the corse, in the billowy tomb ! 
 
 The foul hearted demon, 
 
 The sailor despoiling, 
 
 Now rends, from the seaman, 
 
 The fruit of his toiling ! 
 
 O'er wild ocean, braving, 
 
 Hard earn'd was the treasure, 
 
 Through tempest, loud raving ; 
 
 Though toiling was pleasure, 
 For her, who was dear, to the mariner bold. 
 
 The fierce hand, unsparing, 
 
 Now rudely is tearing 
 The poor humble garb, from the corse, that is cold ! 
 
ISO 
 
 The pledge of devotion 
 
 Thine arm still is wearing ! 
 
 That pledge, mid the ocean, 
 
 Gave heart, to thy daring. 
 
 "When eyes, brightly beaming, 
 
 Have ever beset thee ; 
 
 When false fears were dreaming, 
 
 Thy girl would forget thee ; 
 It brighten'd thy love, and it solac'd thy fears 
 
 For, the girl, who was dearest, 
 
 AVhen danger was nearest, 
 There bound the fairpledge 5 andbedew'dit with tears , 
 
 The eye of the demon 
 Glares, horrid, in pleasure ; 
 Poor, heart-sunken seaman ! 
 He grasps, at thy treasure ! 
 And shall he bereave thee ? 
 Thy darling pledge sever ? 
 
121 
 
 And cruelly leave tliee ? 
 No, mariner, never ! 
 
 The tall wave indignantly rolls to the shore ! 
 
 i 
 
 The arm of the Thunderer . 
 Seizes the plunderer ! 
 Floods overwhelm him ! he rises no more ! 
 
 The refluent hillow 
 Now leaves the heach, waveless ; 
 The flood is the pillow 
 Of mariner, graveless. 
 But, mark the wave, stranding, 
 More holdly aspiring ; 
 The mariner landing, 
 Then slowly retiring ! 
 
 The plunderer comes not, along, with the tide ! 
 The shark is heard, dashing, 
 Amid the wave, splashing ! 
 
 The froth of the hillow, with crimson, is dyed ! 
 31 
 
1S2 
 
 While chill blasts are blowing, 
 
 Who, o'er the corse, gazes ? 
 
 His garb, round it, throwing, 
 
 The sailor he raises. 
 
 From winds, cold and storming, 
 
 The stranger has born him ; 
 
 The blaze, kindly warming, 
 
 To life, shall return him : 
 The stranger shall aid him, the stranger defend. 
 
 His pulse now is flowing, 
 
 His bosom is glowing ; 
 He ne'er shall forget the poor mariner's friend... 
 
 The white winter-billow 
 Has left the green mountain ; 
 Now leaves dress the willow ; 
 Now ripples the fountain. 
 Where tempests were swelling, 
 Soft breezes are sweeping, 
 
123 
 
 The sea-mew, late yelling, 
 Is, 'neath the rock, sleeping ; 
 
 The sailor is far, from the rough rolling main. 
 The girl, that was dearest, 
 When danger was nearest, 
 
 Now holds, to her bosom, her sailor again ! 
 
THE TEAR-DROP. 
 
THE TEAR-DROP. 
 
 TO HER, WHOM I LOVE. 
 
 I LOVE thee, dear girl, for those eyes, that speak pleasure, 
 Those sweet little ringlets, that artfully curl 5 
 
 For lips, where I oft have drunk joy, without measure, 
 And cheeks. Mushing roses, I love thee, my girl. 
 
 But, ah ! when the sad tale of pity does move thee, 
 I love thee, indeed, for that deep hosom-sigh ; 
 
 Yet most, for that sure pledge of nature, I love thee, 
 The tear-drop, that stands, in thy soft melting eye ! 
 
128 
 
 And, still, while I gaze, at its tremulous motion, 
 Or, down thy warm cheek, see it, stealing its way, 
 
 'Tis dearer to me, than the pearl of the ocean. 
 And clearer, than India's gem, is its ray. 
 
 Give the tear to my lips, then ! and love, thus requited. 
 
 No longer shall mourn, for the loss of the sigh ; 
 For that was for Heaven, and seraphs, delighted, 
 
 Have born the dear tribute, in triumph, on high. 
 
 'Twere joy, though the last of my days were tomorrow, 
 To think you would come, to lament for my doom ; 
 
 O'er my tablet, to shed such a tear-drop of sorrow ; 
 To heave such a sigh, as you turn'd, from my tomb. 
 
 But, shortly, my love, shall our destinies sever, 
 And ne'er shalt thou weep, o'er my tablet, for me, 
 
 For, when I am cold, I shall rest me, forever, 
 Beyond the wild water, far distant, from thee. 
 
129 
 
 Dearest, remember me, when the salt billow 
 
 Shall bear me away, o'er the rough rolling main ; 
 
 Then let such a tear-drop bedew thy soft pillow, 
 For him, who shall never behold thee again. 
 
 When they tellthee,his lips, that,in pleasure, were blended, 
 With thine, are elos'd, motionless, under the sod ; 
 
 And, that life's ebbing breath, as it pass'd them, ascended, 
 In sighs, to his mistress, and pray'rs, to his God j 
 
 Then say, that I lov'd thee, with warmest devotion, 
 And sigh, for my fortune, with sorrow sincere ; 
 
 And, while my fond spirit shall catch the emotion, 
 Oh ! shed such a tear-drop, for memory dear. 
 
 33 
 
THE BILLOW. 
 
 
THE BILLOW. 
 
 Go, little billow, rippling, go, 
 Adown the streamlet, gently flowing , 
 
 And roll thy way, along the bay, 
 Where, loud, the length'ning blasts are blowing. 
 
 And strive, to gain the mighty main, $ 
 Where, wild, the wat'ry war is raging ; 
 And rear thy form, amid the storm, 
 
 Where, fierce, the waves and winds are waging. 
 34 
 
434 
 
 Where fast, before the thunder's roar, 
 The mountain-wave is madly driven ; 
 
 And hursts its ire, mid lightning's fire, 
 High, in the arch of angry Heaven. 
 
 There, tempest tost, the hark is lost, 
 The sailor toils, o'er ocean swelling ; 
 
 And hope has fled, while, round his head, 
 The grey sea-mew is loudly yelling. 
 
 When parting life has ceas'd the strife, 
 Go, Heaven speed thee, rolling hillow, 
 
 And bear him o'er, mid ocean's roar ; 
 Thy bosom be the sailor's pillow. 
 
 And safely land, along the strand, 
 Where angry waves are vainly swelling ; 
 
 His sorrows o'er, to seek, once more, 
 Far distant home, and humble dwelling. 
 
135 
 
 Where now, beside the glassy pride 
 Of Avon's smoothly flowing river, 
 
 Poor Mary's sighs, that often rise, 
 Mourn, for the sailor, lost forever. 
 
 Her tear-drops glide, with Avon's tide, 
 Fast falling, near the weeping willow ; 
 
 Where Zephyr woo'd the tiny flood, 
 That bore thee, first, a little billow.