flf^pf^ H> m ' Mftlil. &MMM4MAMM& THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ETHELSTONE: A TALE. /d r &,^-- LONDON, M.DCCC.LIV. LONDON : PRINTED BY J. WERTHEIMEP. AND CO., CIRCUS-PLACE, FINSBURY-CIRCUS. ETHELSTONE. CANTO I. Grey Hall of Ethelstone ! far out at sea Benighted vessels steer their course hy thee ; Tossed on the surges in the fading light, When nearer objects only mock the sight, Thou, built upon the summit of a hill, Through unseen danger guid'st the pilot still. Fair may thy bowers have been, O Ethelstone ! Merry with voices silent now and gone — Bright was thy dwelling on a former day, Filled with the forms that since have passed away — When, deep in leafy groves, the flowers sweet Bent down at the light tread of childish feet. Now, when the shades of night enshroud the earth, Dim are thy lights, and heard no more thy mirth ; B 2 ETHELSTONE. Though ever, at the same late, lonely hour, Is lit a lamp in Lady Ethel's bower ; Who, scarce emerged from girlhood, and yet pale With thought, awaits her absent lover's sail ; And thus, through many years, is seen to keep Her faithful watch o'er the Atlantic deep. Sole heiress of a wealthy sire, She sits unsought and silent there ; And looks, as though the hope and fire Of youth, were quenched in early care. For Ethel has her mother's eyes, Her mother's voice, and pensive brow — That mother, once so worshipped, lies Forgotten with her kindred now. And he who worshipped her bears not The slightest mention of her name ; Dark and unhappy was her lot — A broken heart, an injured fame. But, oh ! in comfort rest thee here, Below the earth's long-hardened crust, For slander shall not reach the ear, Or falsehood wring the heart of dust. And if, poor wife and mother, Time, That sometimes even rights the dead, Hath proved thee innocent of crime, And planted lilies o'er thy head — ETHELSTONE. It matters little now to thee, Sleeping beneath the cypress tree. There, near the mother, rests the son ; One dvinjr of neglect, and one Was lost 'mid all that most endears The memory of our youthful years. The father who so rarely smiled, Yet brightened, when his favourite child Drew near, and all that wealth could give Was fondly lavished on his path ; Yet, Heaven ! thy chastened sons must live ! And by his solitary hearth The grey-haired parent sits alone — Though all that cheered his heart is gone. Untended is the once gay hall, The play-ground now is desolate, And grass and nettles, rank and tall, Grow up and choke its wicket gate ; The moping, discontented hound Howls in his kennel, night and day — He misses the accustomed sound Of voices, calling him to play ; And sparrows in the chimneys build, And ivy climbs the walls at will ; The ancient courts, that once were filled With childhood's laugh, are cold and still ; b 2 ETHELSTONE. Long spider's-webs are on the wall And ceiling of that little room, Where tiny bed and playthings, all Are left to dust, and damp and gloom. Poor Ethel ! all her tender care Soothes not her parent's sorrowing mind ; Made harsher still by his despair, He bids her hence, in tones unkind — She turns from him her mournful brow, But where is she to wander now ? Not underneath the chestnut shade — Where, with the lost one, oft she played ! Two weary years have passed away Since that most sad, unhappy day ; And down beside the bubbling spring Where first the primrose glads the sight, And where the fairies form their ring And revel in the moon's full light, Beneath the twisted, scented thorn Sits Ethel, in the light of morn. And one, whose bright and rapturous gaze The glorious Hope of youth betrays — W r hose eyes so often search for hers, Too eloquent interpreters ! Is near her, sketching her sweet face, Her form of elegance and p-race — ETIIELSTONE. It matters little whence he came, Nor yet what titles graced his name ; Whatever was his heritage, His hrow was like an open page, Whose characters, distinct and bold, Spoke there the spirit, warm and true — Why care, then, Reader, to be told, How ranked he in the world's cold view ? Fairest of all the fairy spots That here th' admiring gazer sees, Where hawthorns grow in rugged knots, And shed their blossoms in the breeze ; And where, beside the mossy creek, The water-wagtail builds her riest, Or wild bee, humming, comes to seek The flow'rets that she loves the best ; How suited to a scene like this ! To those whose voices love and bliss So soften, that the timid hare Wakes not among the Meadow-sweet, But slumbers even at Ethel's feet. Fondly and long the lover lingers O'er each fair line his pencils trace ; There must be magic in those fingers, So like, so truthful is that face. ETHELSTONE. First Love ! sweet Love ! ere yet the world Hath chilled us with its prudent creed, While yet the living page is furled We afterwards so sadly read, Beneath the stars there cannot he An earthly joy compared to thee. O happy youth ! with hope elate, Thy heaven appearing near to view, Thy soul aspiring to be great, Thy heart resolving to be true, How is thy breast with rapture moved, As, veiled by twilight's friendly hours,' The graceful form of thy beloved Meets thee among the greenwood bowers ! And wandering homeward through the vale, While sheep-bells tinkle from afar, Thy lips still breathe the same fond tale, Beneath thy favourite evening star ; Still promising that life shall be As tranquil as that tranquil night , When even the Night-jar seemed to thee A Nightingale, in thy delight — Yes — hope that thou mayst realize This glorious promise of thy heart ; But, ah ! thy brother's mournful eyes Have long since seen his dream depart ; ETHELSTONE. He sits beside his lonely hearth — Cold — cheerless — loveless — desolate ; Returning on his homeward path, None fly to meet him at the gate ; She, once the idol of his youth, Even she hath left him there alone, His model once of Love and Truth To cheer a stranger's home is gone ! Awhile, with hearts that warmly beat, Untroubled by an evil doubt, By changing lights the lovers meet, Forgetful of the world without. A little time that dream dispels, As Ethel's faltering footstep tells, Her tears, and scarce coherent speech, One night, upon the sandy beach ; While looking dim and on the wane, The moon sets slowly on the main. This hour they part ; ere breaks the day Her lover will be far away. — " And yet I kneel not at thy feet To take the oaths that others swear ; To vow, that never voice was sweet, That never form but thine was fair" — Said Ernest, in a tender tone, Pressing her hand within his own. ETHELSTONE. " No ; Heaven has given to thee the charms, Beside which face and form are vain, That make the clasp of these frail arms More binding than the strongest chain. The soul that lights thy gentle eyes, The tender kindness of thy speech, Have taught me more of Paradise Than all that priest or pastor teach. If I am poor and lowly born, I think thou lov'st me more, not less ; When others speak of me with scorn, Thy dark eyes swim with tenderness. Once loved, once deeply loved by thee, I know I cannot be forgot ; Whate'er my future lot may be, This worst of fears will haunt me not Such perfect faith thy love hath taught, That I have sometimes fondly thought, None, who inspired so firm a trust, Could have been formed in kindred dust. I leave thee now, beloved, for Rome ; Alas ! I shall be long from home — Though only till my labours earn For thee so bright and wide a fame, That, when in triumph I return, Thy father shall not scorn my claim. ETHELSTONE. O Heaven ! this hour instructs too well The heart that knew not grief hefore ; Too dear for words or looks to tell, One last embrace, one more — one more !" •* Farewell." That last embrace is o'er — But motionless upon the shore Still Ethel, cold and pale, remained, Each nerve of hearing wildly strained To follow still her lover's track By each faint foot-fall echoing back. Yes ! he may trust her, if we may Trust any on our earthly way: Though, through her eyes there often smiled The meekness of a very child, The strong attachments veiled below A universe could scarce o'erthrow. While tranquilly there dwelt within The heart that worshipped without sin, Such faithful, truthful, pure belief— Such trust in him she loved — her tears Were only those of simple grief In parting from him, though for years. Not what the world would call a saint, But grief had taught her self-restraint. The fluttering breath, the timid sigh, Heard when her lover's step was nigh ; 10 ETHELSTONE. The voice, so tremulously sweet, Betrayed how that warm heart could heat. But passion was subservient still To higher powers — to nobler will. It could not slave so pure a soul, Whose high affections sought a goal, A Paradise wherein to live, That passion has no power to give. They who would think to lightly sound A mind so temperate — truthful — wise — A love that hath no human bound, Yet learned not thoughtlessly to prize, — These careless triflers little think How silently, link after link Was joined, to form that loving chain, That life shall never break again ; For rather, with a gentle pride, A mind so modest seeks to hide, From those that gaze with mocking eyes, The joys for which it lives and dies. E^THELSTONE. 1 » CANTO II. " Far, in the calmest hour Of night, the clear, shrill piping of a bird, Resounding from some wreck of Roman might, Oft on the high, surrounding hills is heard. For o'er the fallen warrior's buried crest It builds its lonely, unmolested nest. " The statue from its niche Hath been dragged down and trampled in the dust ; The brazen image, and the palace, rich With carving, left to rapine and to rust. These, and the rifled tomb and grass-grown fane, Are all that now of Roman pomp remain. " Rome, when her blood-stained hand The flag of Death and Victory unfurled Above the fair homes of some ravished land, Looked, spoke, and felt, the conqueress of the world ! The wreath of laurel binds no more her brow ; Proud empress say, where are thy triumphs now " 12 ETHELSTONE, " Tread reverently — thy tread, O wanderer ! is on her mighty dead. Yon wild flowers, with their hells of beauty, hide The monument defaced — the column's pride. Men raised them there to tell a tale to us, Nor dreamed posterity would read it thus. " O mortal ! if a boast Of human greatness e'er thy lips defiles, Remember Rome ! her nation's conquered host, Her noble cities, heaped in ruined piles. So learn humility ; for here below No wiser lesson human hearts may know." Thus mused an artist, as the day Closed o'er him on the Roman plains, And sadly cast upon his way The shadows of their vast remains. For who, with thoughtful step, has pressed The ground where heroes take their rest — Where, cumbering the unconscious soil Of radiant spring, lies heaped the spoil Of temples, human hands prepared As dwellings fitted for a god — O who, in human shape, has dared To tread the ground that Ceesar trod, ETHELSTONE. 13 Nor thus reflected, as the light, By sickly stars and planets cast, Gave greater magnitude by night To these grand records of the past ? There — at that hour — the very wind Sigbs forth, from tombs and emptied urns. Those solemn lessons that the mind So tardily and sadly learns. Near the rapt gazer, where the mound Is raised above the bones of those Who rest, however once renowned, In indiscriminate repose, Reclined a Roman girl, wdiose face Recalled, by its fixed, earnest gaze, Those characters of Roman race So rarely seen in modern days. Her haughty brow, her lofty mein, Might well have graced a Roman queen. And yet she wore no broidered vest, Her robe was neither rich nor wide, But simply as a peasant dressed She wandered forth at eventide, To gather, with her brother's aid, The sleepy herds, that idly strayed And cropped the pasture, as it grew O'er tombs whose history none can trace, 14 ETHELSTONE. Or slept among the flowers, nor knew How memory sanctified the place. Descendant of a noble line, Her fortunes with the past were gone ; Her task was now to tend the kine — This daughter of an ancient throne ! Forgetting never, as her slow And stately steps, at break of day, Or at the sunset's parting glow, Pursued her lone, inglorious way, That through her young and restless veins Flowed blood of those who scorned the chains- The mean and ignominious crimes, That mark the race in later times. So, living only in the past, The shadowy sadness of her eye Confessed her spirit overcast, By mourning for a time gone by, Embittered by the sense of shame Now clinging to her country's name. Formed in a different mould from her's, Her brother was a bright, young boy, Who had the warm, free pulse that stirs With every passing grief or joy. That evening, resting at her feet, His own within his sister's hand, ETHELSTOXE. 15 He mused on dreams, as pure and sweet As those we steal from fairy-land : Or raised his large and lustrous eyes To count each star that lit the skies, And seemed a careful watch to keep Above this kindred world, that lay Enraptured on the breast of Sleep, Forgetful of the parted day. So peaceful was the air, that she, Who seemed so often sad of soul, Sat rapt in some sweet reverie And yielding to that hour's control. She, who so often sang with fire The heroes of her native land, To-night awoke her silvery lyre Ere long, with hesitating hand ; While passionate, and with a swell Of tenderness, in her most rare, Her flute-like voice arose and fell To some zEolian dream-like air ; Though something might the ear have caught Of bitter self-reproachful thought, That mingled sadly with the sigh Of her voluptuous Italy. " I hear thee, O my heart ! Thou hast aroused me with a sudden start ; 16 ETHELSTONE. And turning from the tombstones, damp and grey, I look up, dazzled by a new-born day. " Trembling with unknown fear, Bewildered by a new and sweet delight, Strange melodies are wafted to mine ear, Strange worlds are dawning on my troubled sight. " Rome ! beautiful in chains, Most god-like phantom of thy former state, I thought my heart was buried in thy plains, Or marble as the statues of thy Great. " I wake thee not again, Thou mournful lyre, with Rome's imperial lays ; I must attune thee to a softer strain, And crown thee now with roses, not with bays. " Thy reign of pride is o'er — O Roman daughter ! boast thyself no more ; Descendant of the noble and the brave, Alas ! thou, too, art suppliant and a slave. " Bend lowly, then, thy knee ; There is a goddess greater than thy Rome, Whose slightest sigh shall have more power o'er thee Than all the paeans of thine ancient home ! " ETHELSTOXE. Lifting her glowing face to heaven, Such queen-like sadness o'er it spread, Even Ethel almost had forgiven The eyes that there seemed riveted. Then, with a trembling hand, once more Marcella struck her lyre, but now Her song was fainter than before, And sung with an averted brow. " Tell me if thou hast loved, O Saxon ! Something in thy kindling cheek, Thy flashing eye, thy frame so strongly moved, Confesses what the lips are last to speak. " Know'st thou what 'tis to feel Such sweet enslavement of the heart and brain, That thou, transported, would'st not shame to kneel, And kiss the fingers riveting thy chain ? " See if thy firmer hand Can tune my disobedient lyre aright. My touch is faltering, and can scarce command The melody of its full tones to-night." c 18 ETHELSTONE. Ernest's Reply. " Fairest of Roman daughters ! Far across the sea, Where England breasts the blue Atlantic waters, One faithful heart is watching now for me. " Not her's the southern eye, So languishing and bright — Tis rather like the mildness of a sky Touched by the morning's first, celestial light. " Full many a weary year Her heart hath kept its plight ; While summer bloomed and autumn leaves grew sear, Or angry tempests woke the winter's night. " But, idol of my heart — Most precious life ! no more Vain, worldly obstacles our fates shall part ; The weariness of thy long watch is o'er. '* For soon I see again My native, sunny isle, Its cottage homes, its sheepfolds on the plain, Its rivers, gleaming in the sun's calm smile. ETHELSTONE. " O fair Marcella, thou And I no more may meet ; Yet oft shall I recall thy nohle brow. Thy brilliant eye, thy voice so rich and sweet." He fancied that he heard the sound Of weeping, but he was alone ; He paused, and looked in vain around — Marcella — Flavius — both were gone. Far o'er the distant hills arose The moon, but looking sick and pale, And shining through her misty veil. Like one subdued by secret woes. And Ernest watched her with a sigh — His mood was changed — he knew not why ; But suddenly there seemed a weight To press upon his heart and brain ; He felt as though some ghostly Fate Moved sullenly across the plain. Fortune had favoured his career — His path to glory had been clear — He stood a victor where, of yore, A conqueror had stood before. Yet sorrowing voices seemed to fill The future with a dull despair — A face, whereon was seen the chill Of Death, seemed gazing through the air ; c 2 20 ETHELSTONE. Recalling, to his fevered mind, The voice and face of one he loved ; They were but fancies, scarce defined, And yet his very soul was moved. Oh ! oft, in after troubled years, Returned that night of spectral fears, When, musing on his distant home, He stood upon the plains of Rome, O'er the bent flowers and dewy grass A voice of warning seemed to pass ; Faint as the sound of some far bell That catches yet eludes the ear — Sad as the tolling of a knell, It mocked yet filled his heart with fear. " O thou !" it murmured, " whose light tread Profanes the precincts of the dead — Who grasp'st at all within thy reach, Forgetful what the past might teach — Fond, foolish youth, shall grief and change For ever to thy heart be strange ? Shall joy and pleasure be the words That wake alone thy heart's deep chords ? Must all the past's portentous signs, All wisdom elder minds impart, Be lost witbin the light that shines Round some fond idol of thy heart ? ETHELSTOXE. 21 Alas ! how little can thy gaze Have read of what the wise are shown, How little learned of human ways, To call one single heart thine own. Far wiser thou, to stop and pray Beside some tombstone on thy way." ETHELSTONE. CANTO III. His steps are on his native shore, "Pis England welcomes him once more ; There is the grey old dwelling yet — Yon lurid sun, so soon to set, Shines redly on the ivy leaves Now clustering o'er its very eaves ; And there the casement, so well known Where Ethel used to sit alone. Full many weary years have passed Away, since Ernest saw r her last; And yet he pictures her as bright As in that hour of hope and bliss, When first the trembling, loving light Of her pure eyes encountered his ; More timid than the first pale ray Of starlight kissing now the bay, Ere yet the sunset's gorgeous smile Hath faded quite from rock and isle. And pausing where lay heavily Deep shadows, both of rock and tree, ETHELSTONE. Fond, dreamy memories, that thrilled Not less than hopes of future years — The eves of Ernest slowly filled With tender and delicious tears. There, where the shore is smooth and low, *T was there they parted years ago, With heavy hearts, oppressed with sorrow; — 'T will be their trysting place to-morrow ! But, ah ! he stood not there alone — Upon a broken, mossy stone Sat one whose gaze seemed calmly fixed Upon that distant point of sight, Where sky and sea seem intermixed, And melt and mingle in the light. The moisture of the ocean air Unbound her long, luxuriant hair ; The winds played gently with each tress, As she sat mute and motionless. But, when she heard his footstep's bound, She sprang up with a frantic cry, That wrung his heart, as though the sound Were not of joy, but agony ; Then, shrinking from his touch, she bowed Her pale wild face, and wept aloud. One moment's glance had shown that face So strangely marked by sorrow's trace 24 ETHELSTONE. He scarcely knew it for her own — Hope, joy, youth, beauty — all were gone. " How changed thou art ! I did not dream So great a grief awaited me ; When dark my future hopes might seem I never thought of change in thee ; " Said Ernest, in the weary tone — The dull, unbroken voice of one Too stunned by sudden grief to show That grief in outward signs of woe. " Thou wert to me as some fixed star, That still shone brightly, though afar ; A steady beacon in the dark, That shone when other lights had died, By which 1 steered my trembling bark O'er the fierce breakers of life's tide. How changed thou art to meet me thus ! It had not been in earlier days ; Yon blue sky, bending over us, Had then less softness than thy gaze. I do not mourn thy faded cheek — 'T is not of change like that I speak ; It was not for thy girlish brow I loved thee, or could love thee now. Oh ! if one smile, one tender smile Could light thy altered face awhile, ETHELSTONE. 25 It were more beautiful to me Than sun-beam to the pilot, tossed Upon some strange, tempestuous sea, His anchor gone, his rudder lost. Alas ! thou art so sadly changed That even thy heart has grown estranged. " Speak to me ! if thou hast forgot Our parting on this very spot ; " He added, in a tone more wild ; " If I have only been beguiled By falsehood — if thou wouldst deny The vows exchanged in fonder hours — Forswear them ! I will ask not why — Forswear them ! even in sight of bowers Beneath whose listening trees I heard Those mute lips breathe the first, fond word. I could not prize a love so light That storms could change or seasons blight ; And if thy heart be lost to me, However great the pang may be, False love, I only wait to sever The ties that bound us, and for ever." " It might be better, for thy sake, Even rudely thus those ties to break ;" ■26 ETHELSTONE. Said Ethel, in a tone so low It scarcely reached her lover's ear — So fall of that fixed, hopeless woe, It chills the very heart to hear ; " It might be better thus ; but, oh ! In anger we can never part ; I cannot leave thee, love, and know I have no portion in thy heart. Hear me ; it is the only boon That I have now the right to crave ; We part before the yellow moon Shall rise upon the ocean wave ; But I have first a tale to tell — Yes, then, but not till then — Farewell. " It will be kinder to be brief, For oft suspense is worse than grief; I will but lightly touch on years When, in my sad and loveless home, I prayed, but not with bitter tears, For this, our meeting hour, to come. Beloved ! I knew that I possessed All that thy gifted soul could give, And deemed that none were half so blessed, Who shared the common life we live. ETHELSTONE. I only watched, with gentle sigh, The flowers of summer droop and die. I only hoped, as winter passed, Each long, dark vigil were the last. And there was one sweet hope that still Gilded each hour's sad loneliness, Like some bright watch-fire on a hill, That shines into each dark recess Of gloomy cave and shadowy steep, When darkness broods upon the deep ; For, as I dwelt upon some trait Of kindness in an earlier day, I hoped there yet would come an hour When, softened by my love and care, My father's dream of rank and power Would melt away before my prayer. I feel, too well, that I might seem To other minds a very child ; But, ah ! it was a blissful dream — 'Twas happy to be so beguiled. And when, at last, the phantom light That seemed so tranquilly to burn, And cheer the darkness of my night, Departed, never to return, I only wished still thus to rest ^uded, not aroused to weep ; 28 ETHELSTOXE. Or wrapt within that dreamless sleep That none could ever more molest. " It was a still and lovely eve, And I was wandering on the beach To watch the waters fall and heave, As though they strove in vain to reach The sky, that met them from above With such a smile of golden love ! How brightly that bright hour is fixed Upon my mind ! I scarcely know Why this should be — its close was mixed With so much agonizing woe. But I remember now so well How, with the soft and gradual swell Of song, across the listening waters, The voices of our peasant daughters, Blent with the fishermen's rude notes, Would reach me from some wandering boats. While thy dear image o'er me stole, So free from bitterness like this, There could not, in a human soul, Dwell more of gratitude and bliss. " So smooth, so level was the sand, I had not heard a step draw near ; ETHELSTONE. 29 And, when I felt a grasping hand, I started up with sudden fear. It was my father's glance I met — Ah ! heaven, why can I not forget ? I should have told thee, ere this day I had refused the proffered love Of him whose castle, tall and grey, Thou mayst distinguish far above, And looking, like a monarch, down Upon the homes of yon fair town. I knew it grieved my father — still I little thought that it could fill His heart with so much bitterness. I saw his pallid lips compress With scorn that shook his very frame, Each time he breathed thy hated name. I need not tell thee what he said — Tis better buried with the dead — Save only, that unless I swore That I would never see thee more, That father's heaviest curse should be The only dower I brought to thee. " I tried to speak, but I forgot All common forms of speech or prayer 30 ETHELSTONE. I tried to think, but I could not — I only pictured thy despair. The dim ideas that floated by Seemed motes that caught yet mocked my eye. For, at that fearful time, I felt More strange bewilderment than pain — Confused and stupified, I knelt — Speechless — imploring — but in vain. " Thou knowest well — alas ! too well — How changed I am since last we met ; There is no need of words to tell I might forswear thee — not forget. Long, weary years await us now ; So weary, that I need not cast A deeper shadow on thy brow By telling thee of what is past. " The autumn leaves were dry and sere, The winds were howling o'er the mere, When, in a vault's despairing gloom, I stood beside my father's tomb ; And felt, within its walls had perished The last fond hope my heart had cherished. Those lips could never now revoke The curse that they so sternly spoke. ETHELSTONE. I thought of all those proud domains They then called mine — the fertile plains, The meadow lands beside the sea — What were they now to him or me ? Ah ! rather, all that once was glad, The fragrant heath, the wooded height, To me became each day more sad. More filled with sorrow in my sight. I only knew my bosom burned With shame, to think that love like thine, A gift so noble, had been spurned For such possessions as were mine. But yet [ cannot be thy bride ; For both of us is now despair And anguish, even side by side ; A father's curse awaits us there. Then urge me not ; but if thy heart Still loves me as I would be loved, Hear not my bitter prayer unmoved — Pity — forgive me, and — depart." He calmed, with one angelic look, The fearful tumult of her breast ; He soothed the shattered frame that shook With grief so hard to be repressed — Then gently raised her drooping head, And pressed her trembling hand, and said, 32 ETHELSTONE. " Unmoved ! O never could I hear Unmoved, a prayer from one so dear ; Whatever after- suffering The granting of that prayer might bring. I go, then ; never more to seek To see thy face, to hear thee speak ; But I will still return to thee In dreams, and wander on this beach, To picture joy beyond our reach, A joy that now may never be. Look up, and let me gaze once more Into thine eyes, love, as of yore. Hast thou no parting look to give — No fond embrace — that I may live In after darkened years, and dwell Upon the love of this farewell ?" The weary watch of many years was o'er ; The light within the chamber shone no more. ETHELSTONE. 3;? CANTO IV. Fair hour of eve ! by angels given To soothe the careworn sons of earth, When sunset leaves its glowing heaven To orbs of an inferior birth ; And Labour, looking to the west, Sees that the wished-for hour is come, And, faint and weary, seeks the rest Found sweetest in a peasant's home ; Thou purest balm to those that grieve O'er human weaknesses and crimes, Whose beauty wooes the world to leave Its busy thoughts for fitter times ; How often, at thy tranquil hour, We feel the past arise again, So vividly as to o'erpower Each colder purpose of the brain ; And seem to live once more in days The brightest that we may have known, Made brighter by the magic rays That Memory throws around her own. D 34 ETHELSTONE. And yet not always canst thou bring, O hour of holiness and rest ! The thoughts that have no secret sting, The memories that are only blessed ; To him, who to thy peaceful sky Uplifts so sad and worn a face, Thou hast but brought the bitter sigh, Thy joys have found no resting place. It is a young yet grey-haired man — That face and form are finely set ; And yet, alas ! what eye can scan Their noble lines without regret ? Although we see the mein of one Not strange to free and noble thought, Both energy and strength are gone — Or seem but fitful and o'erwrought. The leaden cheek, the fevered brow. Of dissipation speak too well ; And languidly is beating now The heart that once could warmly swell. He seeks no more the glorious aims Whose hopes had made his youth so bright ; And Friendship finds no nearer claims ; And Love has lost its purer light. And yet, without an envious smart, He sees, in happier homes than his, ETHELSTONE. 35 The blessing of a trusting heart, The sweetness of domestic bliss. For never hath he worn the sneer We see the disappointed wear ; Nor less hath flowed the ready tear To soothe another's woe and care. There have been times when brighter years In all their former hues returned — When Sorrow dried her bitter tears In fires that on her altars burned ; But, ah ! the Genii brooding there Xo earthly hope could long allure, His was the acme of despair, The grief that scarcely sighed for cure. Most beautiful and young the form Reclining now at Ernest's feet ; But, if that brow be strong and warm, 'T is scarcely womanly or sweet ; Alas ! its anxious lines express A fate but thinly veiled by pride ; Too dearly won was that caress — Poor maiden ! she is not his bride. We miss the timid, modest glance, The charm of woman's countenance ; d 2 36 ETHELSTONE. The downcast eye-lids, that express, Yet half-conceal, their tenderness ; But nothing of the helpless air That marks her lover's mein is there — Whatever pangs that breast have torn They have been met with equal scorn. To her the retrospect that brings The unbent brow — the soothing sigh — Can calm no pent-up sufferings, Nor bring the tear-drop to her eye. Unbent — untouched — she thinks to meet The fate that holds her sternly down ; The world that scorns her she can greet With not less proud, disdainful frown. For such an earthly Paradise As that she forms around her now, Who would not leave the purer skies That light the moralist's cold brow ? Thou wildest dreamer ! it is vain ; Thou canst not hush the voice within ; Thou canst not break the gnawing chain That links together grief and sin ; Think not this brave and outward show Is like the peace that thou hast lost — How little that warm heart could know Of all its love and sin would cost ! ETHELSTONE. 37 Forsaken by thine own esteem, Thy Paradise is but a dream ; It fades ere yet the frailest flowers Have vanished from their summer bowers, And, once departed from the earth, Alas ! it knows no second birth. Music and laughter float around, Fair forms and sunny brows are there ; The hall re-echoes to the sound Of many a soft, seductive air : Young voices that are rich and sweet, And hearts that warmly, wildly, feel ; Bright eyes that flash whene'er they meet, With joy they care not to conceal ; These are with Ernest — but they wake No chord responsive in his breast ; Whatever form their mirth may take He cares not, so they let him rest. Although the master of that hall, He seems a strange and silent host ; His thoughts are far — his spirit lost, Beyond their, or his own, recall. They give the lyre into his hand, They bid him sing a song of joy — 38 ETHELSTONE. Some legend of a fairy-land, Where love exists without alloy. He takes it with a brow unchanged, And, as he lifts his dreamy eye, They mark his mind is still estranged, His gaze intent on vacancy. He sees no more the present scene, Nor yet Marcella's changing mein ; Forgetful of the startled thronsr, He wakes this sad and solemn song. DREAMS. " Dreams ! how they haunt the brain, With fantasies as beautiful as vain ; The very dead arise And bend on us their unforgotten eyes, Until we start from sleep To find them fading into air — and weep ! " Forms that so long have lain In marble rest — in undisturbed repose, Return to us again With recollections of departed woes, And bring the bitter tears That wept the sorrows of our buried years. ETHELSTOEE. 39 " Scenes that have since been changed, Depicted as they were, we recognise ; Friends that we have estranged, Who left us for the light of other skies, Come, with their loving gaze Inspiring the fond trust of youthful days. " Eyes that the icy seal Of Death hath fixed, again look warm and bright ; Hearts that no more can feel, Seem wrung with grief or trembling with delight ; Aye ! all that we can learn Of human life, may thus in dreams return. " Yet, sad it were, if all We loved should pass for evermore away, Shrouded beneath the pall Whose sombre folds conceal their dread decay ; 'Twere better that, once more, They thus should visit those they loved before. " Yea! bitter though it is, When, in these mystic dreams, some gentle tone Recalls a faded bliss, To waken from our joy and find it gone, 'T were greater pain to know- It never could return to us below." 40 ETHELSTONE. Hush ! ere the echoes of that lay Die in the spacious halls away, Another voice, of richer sound, Pours its full, glorious notes around ; None present those clear accents heard But felt the singer's soul was stirred ; Though, haughty and disdainful still, No tremour in her tones was caught, But yet there was a mournful thrill, And oft a vein of bitter thought : Alas ! too plainly they expressed The tortured passions of her breast. " Day closed upon the plains of ancient Rome. And they who wandered in the flitting light, Communing with the Genii of the past, Paused silently beneath the wakened stars. And both were young ; and one a youth, whose brow Was glorified by Hope — yet undeceived ; The other *vas a maiden, pale and grave, Long used to Sorrow, and not strange to Thought. " And timidly she touched, with faltering hand, A lyre that she had loved from early youth, Nor ever, till that hour, had tuned to lays More soft than pseans to eternal Rome ; ETHELSTONE. 41 But now her heart was changed, and knew no more The wan enthusiast of forgotten tombs ; Like one bewildered by a waking dream, Her song was faint and tremulous with love. " He listened, but his heart was far away In some fair region of the distant West ; Where, by the borders of the sounding sea, Dwelt one as beautiful as morning light ; Who loved him with the pure, unshaken love So rare among the daughters of the earth, And he was hastening homeward, o'er the wave, To find a home upon her faithful breast. " Alas ! the Roman maiden had a heart Warm as the hearts of old romance — too true For peace or rest. She followed him across The deep Atlantic, and forgot her home ! They met again : the youth was then a changed And sadder man ; like others, he had learned The fatal lesson of this human life — For Hope had been deceived and Love was false. " Thou weakest of mankind ! who still recalls And mourns o'er visions that have long proved false, Who still permits a love forsworn to reign The empress of the strongholds of thy heart — 42 ETHELSTONE. How long shall all the glory of thy youth Be dimmed hy sickly fancies from the past ? How lone shall summer hloom for thee in vain, And music wake no echo in thy hreast ? " Far in the loveliness of a fair land I buried the free soul, that once was stirred By feelings that can find no utterance here. So let it rest, forgotten 'mid the flowers ! But thou ! who art a man, yet shaming not To weep the tears a woman can despise — Degenerate son of earth, why slumber thus, Forgetful of the mission of thy youth?" Marcella ! never more shalt thou Forget the low, the smothered sigh, That cools the fever of thy brow, And shames the mockery of thine eye. But now the lights — the guests — are gone- The weary hostess sits alone. Quenched is that bosom's angry fire ; Her head droops sadly o'er her lyre. And, musing thus, a gentle kind Of tremour seemed to thrill her frame, As though, upon her darkened mind, The dawn of better feelings came. ETHELSTONE. -43 "With timid steps she seeks the room Where Ernest oft retires to rest ; That chamber now is left in gloom, The lamp is out, the couch unpressed. For in his once-loved studio, where But rarely prying steps intrude, He sits in drooping attitude, Nor knows what watchful eyes are there. And she is softly drawing near, Her look is pensive now and sweet ; She thinks to drop that glistening tear, And seek forgiveness — at his feet. Ah ! heaven, what portrait meets her gaze, What young and lovely face is this ? What tells it of those fatal days His memory cannot yet dismiss ? How nobly — calmly — sits that air Of wisdom on the brow of youth ! How tender tbe expression there ! How full of purity and truth ! And if too much of passion lies For perfect rest in those deep eyes, So much of earnest faith and trust To regulate its depths is given, That, if that fragile form be dust, The spirit is inspired of Heaven. 44 ETHELSTONE. Alas ! alas ! whate'er thy sin, Poor maiden, none, without a sigh Of sympathy, could look within, And read thy heart's fierce agony, As wildly thy scarce conscious hands Tear thy long tresses from their hands. Thou feelest that thv reisrn is o'er, That thou hast drained thy cup of bliss — The cup that shall be thine no more ; But, oh ! 'tis bitterer than this To know thy own no unjust fate ; Thine own mad fingers wove thy chain, Thine own mad act hath closed the gate That ne'er will ope to thee again. The world despised — that world will now Receive no more thy branded brow ! He speaks to her with soothing tone — This man whom she hath loved so much — He lays his hand upon her own, She only shudders at the touch ; His words fall coldly on her ear, They bring her neither sigh nor tear ; She listens motionless, but seems Like one who only hears in dreams. ETHELSTONE. 45 " Thy heart was happier once ; yes, thou Wert happier on the mountain's brow, While listening to the shepherd's notes, Or tending to thy flocks of goats, Than 'mid the hot and fevered din, The glitter of our halls of sin. Thou hast a mother there, return ; At least thy mother will not spurn Her penitent and sinning child ; At least thy mother, who hath smiled Upon thy babyhood, whose tears And prayers have watched thy early years, In fond remembrance of those days Will never turn from thee her gaze. Go then, poor maiden, go and rest Once more on her forgiving breast. Return — " " Return ; oh ! yes, return ! To some it is a joyful word, But in mine ear it seems to burn As though a demon's voice I heard." And, starting from her seeming trance, She turned to him th' imploring glance That might to tears of pity move, But could not win a look of love. 46 ETHELSTONE. " Nor home, nor country can I claim ; Alas ! they would disown my name. But thou, cold heart, what dost thou care ? What, unto thee, is my despair ? I would thou wert no longer dear ! I would I had the strength to tear Thine image from my mind, and fling Away that soul-less, faithless thing. But, oh ! I own myself so weak ; I cannot even hear thee speak Of aught that parts us — let me be Thy servant, or whate'er thou wilt ; But little choice is left for me, The slave of love, and worse — of guilt." " Marcella ! no ; 'tis best we part. But not in anger be it said ; For thou hast loved me, and thy heart Hath pillowed oft my sleeping head. I hoped that I might there forget The sorrows of my early troth ; But would that we had never met, It had been better for us both. It is but mockery thus to live — Thou seest I have no heart to give. Farewell for ever." ETHELSTONE. " Then farewell. That word, for thee, shall ring the knell Of all that life might yet bestow Of happiness and peace below r . I loved thee well, unfeeling man, Yet I have knelt to thee in vain ; Thou dost despise me ; but I can Turn, like the trodden worm, again. I go ; but even as I go, The love of woman leaves thy hearth ; It shall but bring thee tears and w T oe — Xot cheer again thy earthly path. Farewell." She waits not his reply, But turns to him her dull, fixed eye — Her brow, from which all light is gone- Her lips, now set like lips of stone — Then draws her mantle round her face, And leaves him with a measured pace. He sits alone ; his brow is damp, His hand is trembling, and the lamp, That long a sickly light had cast, Sank, dying, as Marcella passed. It is not for the curious eye To read that soul's dark mystery — 48 ETHELSTONE. So leave him there : the hour is late ; The timid stars, that only wait The breaking of another day, Fade slowly in the dawn away. ETHELSTOXE. 40 CANTO V. Sweet Ethel ! surely time hath cast Few shadows o'er thee as he passed. Thy form hath still its rounded grace, The bloom is yet upon thy cheeks, And still the same soft, serious face Thy gentle, tender soul bespeaks. Alas ! the light within thine eye Is like a watch-fire lit by Death, The leaf that wears the richest dye Falls soonest at the Winter's breath. In vain that brightness would deceive, In vain that young and girlish air ; But, oh ! in reverence let us grieve, For more of heaven than earth is there. Down in the village, as the low Of cattle fills the morning air, She wanders, with a footstep slow, As though she loves to loiter there. Whatever tempests have beset The simple pathway she hath trod, They have been meekly, humbly met, Her grief was only shown to God. E TO ETHELSTOXE. And her's is now th' untroubled mind That suffering, nobly borne, will bring, When earthly love becomes refined, And memory scarcely knows a sting. I once was shown some simple lines — They say she wrote them at this time ; I give them here, but not as signs Of either gift or power sublime, But simply to denote the calm That oft so pure a mind attains, When Thought and Fancy bring but balm, And only speak in peaceful strains. THE VILLAGE CHUKCH. " The village church ! no proud, assuming tower, No lofty spire, it raises to the sky ; It hath no outward show of pomp and power, Attracting haughtily the stranger's eye ; But, often hidden in some shady nook, Its lowly outline, as declining day Gives to the earth the twilight's dreamy look, Mingles with other shapes and fades away. " The village church ! it boasts no arching aisle That echoed once the lordly abbot's tread ; The sun that glimmers in with tranquil smile Shines on no monument of noble dead : ETHELSTONE. 5 1 Nor bears it trace of Puritanic crimes Or virtues, to reward the curious search ; The rude, defacing hand of early times Molested not the humble, village church. " The village church! its quiet shade it throws Not on the tombstones of the rich and brave, But rather on the scarcely marked repose Of him who slumbers in a peasant's grave. And in its lonely churchyard may arise The earnest accents of a mourner's prayer, Uninterrupted, to the clear, grey skies — The only murmur on the summer air. " The village church ! its bells are loud and clear, Not silvery, as within a city's wall ; But, mellowed by the distance, on the ear, Like fairy melodies their changes fall. The shepherd hears, far off, each swelling note, The woodman listens in his wooded fells, And pauses from his work ; for merry float O'erhead the echoes of his native bells. " The village church ! the owl by daylight sits Amid the ivy, as it richly trails O'er the grey walls, and wakes and dreams by fits ; Nor stirs abroad until the daylight fails ; e 2 52 ETHELSTONE. For only few and straggling steps pass by To scare it from its green and pleasant perch ; The spot is sacred, and the very sky Salutes with loving smile the Village Church." We are forgetting, for awhile, How Ethel wanders in the morn, Now leaning on some rustic stile, Now wandering through the fields of corn. And now she rests beneath a tree Bent with the burden of the sweet Ripe mulberries ; but who is he Who kneels so wildly at her feet ? They meet who have not met for years ! And Ethel, whose enraptured glance Breaks often through her gushing tears, Looks down on Ernest's countenance. Ah ! feebly, faintly, words express The joy of meeting such as this ; The rapture of tbe first caress, The clasping hands, the clinging kiss. And even if that joy be brief, Like stars that vanish as they shine, 'Tis worth an age of tears, and grief To live in moments so divine. ETKELSTOXE. 53 Alas ! too soon that rapture fled ; And faintly, sadly, Ethel said, ■' Mine own dear Ernest, can it be Thy heart is still so true to me ? It may be sweet to know it thus — To read as clearly on thy face As thou on mine, nor time, nor space Nor circumstance had power o'er us ; I can but feel this joy, and yet, Could I now speak in tones of blame, 'Twere wiser that we had not met, To learn each other's hearts the same. I fear, beloved, it will but add Another sorrow to thy heart ; The life that is already sad Will be but sadder when we part." " Speak not of parting ! nay, I can Be calm no longer — let me speak ! Why thus assume me more than man ? I am but human — erring — weak. I cannot longer lead this life, This strange, divided life, of ours ; I live but on the sea of strife, I am the slave of unseen powers. We have been parted long, and yet How lovely is thy brow — more fair 54 ETHELSTONE. Than when we parted, for regret Alone, and not remorse, is there. How ruby are thy lips ! how bright The glow upon thy cheek ! that eye Emits such brilliant, fervid light, It might have shamed an Indian sky. Oh ! my beloved, when I read The life that in thy gaze is clear, Well may my heart be wrung, and bleed To think upon mine own career : So reckless, and so stained with sin, The bye-ways that my steps have known ; If e'er a holier life I win, I shall not win that life alone. Ah ! they who dare to separate, And leave the loving to despair, And load the buoyant with a weight Beyond his youthful strength to bear, Must have a dark account to pay When human periods pass away. Dear love, it was not right or wise In thee to aid in such a wrong, It ne'er is right to sacrifice The loving to the proud and strong ; I dare to call thee much to blame To take that cruel — unjust vow, Forgetting I, too, had a claim — But yet more wrong to keep it now. ETHELSTONE. 55 ±nou art the anchor of my soul ; And, oh ! when thou wert torn away, Where'er the restless waves might roll, They bore me, a resistless prey. Be thou that anchor once again — Restore, reclaim me ! I will be What I have sought to be in vain, When separate from love and thee. Is there no fond, persuasive voice For me within thy heart to pray ? Ah ! Ethel, can it be thy choice To cast thy lover's soul away ? " " Beloved, I feel that thou art right In part, that I did wrong to swear A vow that had the power to blight Thy youth, and leave thee to despair. I often feared it might be so ; " Said Ethel, tenderly and low. " Yet, not the less I deem it wrong, To break that vow, thus held so long, So solemnly — so sadly given — And kept with so much faith to Heaven. But, oh ! I cannot keep this creed And hear thy voice so wildly plead. I cannot leave thy soul to sink ' In darkness, or thy heart to break ; 56 ETHELSTONE. Even if it be the sin I think, I will commit it — for thy sake. I will be thine ; whate'er betide, My place is henceforth at thy side. And if there yet be time to win Such glory back as once was thine, Such peace as once reposed within, Dear Ernest, let that task be mine." " O if there yet be time ! " this phrase, So touching in its meaning, words So rarely heard in youthful days, How must they wring his heart's deep chords ! No ; nothing hath he heard, or hears, Save this, " I will be thine." O Grief! Stern ruler o'er so many years, Yield him this respite, it is brief. And slowly, with a joy too deep For utterance, up the grassy steep, And through the scented meadow land, Homeward they wander, hand in hand. Fair broke the morn, the very flowers Seemed smiling in their mossy dells ; And joyfully, through woodland bowers, Rang out the merry marriage bells. Lady of Ethelstone ! that day How many gay young girls were dressed ETIIELSTONE. 57 In white rosettes and white array, To look their loveliest and best. Thou wert so much beloved, that they, Who scattered roses on thy path, Turned oft aside to weep, and pray That Heaven might bless thy home and hearth. One only, muffled in her hood, And scarcely noticed by the rest, Despairingly, in silence, stood, And clenched her hands upon her breast. It was Marcella ! but whate'er The fell design that brought her there, The awful grief that closed that day, Turned her revengeful thoughts away. The power that seemed to stand before Her mad and desperate hand and crime, It may be, at that moment, wore A form so threatening and sublime, It calmed and humbled her ; she went Back on her joyless way once more ; It might be henceforth to repent, It might be otherwise ; but o'er Her fate for ever hangs a veil — We guess, but do not know her tale. None, who had known her in the flower Of youth, beheld her from that hour. But, ah ! so many live and die, Who take the path that she hath done ■ 58 ETHELSTONE. We yield them but a passing sigh, Remembrance rests with Heaven alone. Man, busy with the little stir Of his own greatness, lacks the time To track the trembling steps that err, On, down the dread abyss of crime. The hour grew late, and soft and slow Closed in the evening ; one by one The clouds, that caught its parting glow, Went down the pathway of the sun. Ah ! never shall that sun arise On earth, to glad again the eyes That watch, with such an anxious gaze, The gradual fading of its rays. And is she — can she — be resigned ? No ; but the sorrows of that mind Heaven will forgive ; yea, even forgive Her momentary prayer to live. The cold, damp shadow of the grave Is closing round her even here ; But, oh ! not for herself that brave Strong heart shrinks back with sudden fear. For o'er yon sable bier there bends A figure wasted by despair ; Ah ! how those sobs her bosom rends — It is her husband weeping there. ETHELSTONE. 59 And, torn by this strong agony, She turns her pale, despairing face, To meet that husband's grateful eye — To take — to give — the last embrace. He knew not then — he could not guess, The world of grief and love expressed In the convulsive tenderness With which she held him to her breast. And knew that on his rapturous heart Her own, ere long, would cease to beat ; That thus, scarce wedded, they must part, To meet — ah ! where and when to meet ? Through twilight's soft and silvery haze Looks down the well-loved star of eve ! For ever, with the same meek rays, Alike for those that joy or grieve. The owl is hooting from the tree, And Ethel's pale lips move in prayer ; And, sinking at her husband's knee, She rests awhile in silence there. But something like a sigh — a sound, Faint, feeble, fluttering, meets his ear — And Ernest lifts her from the ground, Like one appalled with sudden fear; And sees, O heaven ! what sees he there ? His Ethel's beautiful, warm eye 60 ETHELSTONE. Now fixing in the dull, cold stare Of nothingness and vacancy. And all is over now, the hurrying tread, The busy hands that fain would wake the dead ; The sound of grief — the glare of lights — all gone- They leave him, by his own command, alone. Ah ! why is it so much of sorrow clings Round the fond idols that on earth we form ; Exalted, prized, above all human things, Fair in the sunshine, nor yet changed in storm, Yet torn, in one wild moment, from our side, When Love seems victor — Circumstance defied ! Is it that we dare raise them even above The holier smile of an Eternal Love ? Thou heart-bereaved ! when in the grave they lay The form so madly loved as more than clay, They bury there thy hopes, thy joys, but oh ! Curse not the fate that leaves thee still below ; Plant thou the cypress o'er that grave — and wait : God hears the Meek, and cheers the Desolate. THE END. 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