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D U N R I E:
A POEM.
BY
HARRIET EWING.
PRINTED BT
RICHARD CRUTTWELL, ST. JAMES's-STREET, BATH;
AND SOLD BY
JOHN ROBINSON, PATER-NOSTER-ROW, LONDON.
1819.
TO
LADY DENNY.
SHRINKING from the adventurous step
that brings me forward a voluntary
candidate for public approbation, I feel that,
in dedicating the following pages to a Friend
whom I love and respect, her name will be a
sanction and support. You have kindly shared
my anxiety and hopes in the completion of
this Poem; and no one, I am assured, will
more rejoice than yourself, should success, in
any degree, crown tliis my first claim to
autliorship : yet, I am perfectly conscious T
ought to fortify myself against disappointment,
and expect, with humility, the justice of criti-
cism. ^\'ill you, my dear Madam, accept
this public tribute from her who lives within
the sphere of your affection, and feels all the
influence of your domestic virtues. That you
may long preside the most exemplary of wives
and mothers is the earnest prayer of
Your grateful and affectionate
H. E.
King's End, May, 1019.
DUNRIE.
CANTO I.
W,
ITH lingering step, and languid air.
With brow of thought, and eye of care.
Where e'en a transient glance might trace
The mind reflected in the face;
Young Anna pass'd the convent gate—
The sun was set, the hour was latd
Less sweetly wild, less lightly gay.
Than when, at close of summer day.
With voice that spake internal joy,
Unconscious yet of life's alloy,
The lovely maid had tripp'd along
With bound responsive to her song :
But now she spoke in accents low.
And blushes came with vivid glow;
B
t DUNRIB.
And as the portress clos'd the door,
She turn'd to look, and speak once more,
And bid adieu, in sorrow's strain,
To one who breath'd adieu again ;—
Whose parting blessing, as it rose,
Was mingled with the hinges' close.
•' Hush ! dear young lady, softly tread,
*' The Abbess has been long in bed,
" And 1 have watch'd in doubt and fear,
" Lest she your lale return should hear;
" While deep sighs, murmuring with the winrf,
*' Have mark'd a parent's anxious mind."
Anna the friendly caution heard.
Nor longer paus'd, nor spake a word.
But cheer'd Beata with a smile,
And stole, with noiseless steps the while,
To seek her chamber's safe retreat.
Assured within its space to meet
That mother, whose all-powerful charm
Could each impending ill disarm ;
And now, with half averted face,
She sunk into her fond embrace.
OUNBIE.
" And whence, my Love, was this delay ?
'* Why from these arras so long away ?
" Thy cheek has more than wonted glow,
f* And still thine eyes with tears o'erflow.
" My Anna, I can read thy heart,—
" It is a cruel pang to part,
*• To lose thy long-lov'd youthful friend,
*' And find those halcyon days must end>
" When join'd in every sport and care,
" Edgar thy every thought could share.
*• I own 'tis hard-^but he must go
" More of this chequer'd world to knowj
" To learn a father's sacred will,
" And many adestin'd charge fulfil.
" Few are the joys unbought by pain; —
" You part awhile, to meet again.
*• Then cheer thee, my beloved child,"
The mother said, and sweetly smil'd.
" Seek thy repose, and thank high Heav'n
" For all the blessings it has giv'n,
*' That still the chief are left to thee, —
" Thy Mother, and the good Dunrie."
B 2
4 DUNRIE.
Upon that fond, maternal breast
Anna her gratitude express'd;
The filial kiss, the fervent prayer,
Dispell'd at oote ihe sense of care,
And tranquil sleej) soon chas'd away
Remembrance o I this cloudy day.
Yet still undos'd that mother's eye,
And still is heard the frequent sigh;
Restless she hovers o'er her bed.
And prays lor blessings on the head
Of her, who, from the infant hour,
Had claim'd affection's strongest power.
She waich'd so long, that dewy sleep
Could scarce her aching eyelids steep:
And then her almost day light dream
Still shadow'd out her waking theme:
For all her thoughts, and hopes, and fears,
Of passing t'me, and I'uture years,
Uncheck'd, unmi.x'd, and unallay'd.
Were center'd in this beauteous maid.
Beauteous, indeed, was Anna's face.
Her form replete with every grace,
DUNRIE.
Her eye, row sunk beneath the lid,
By its dark lash awhile was hidj
But open'd to the light of day,
Shot lo the heart its vivid ray.
Her look, her saiile, had witch'ry's power
To gild with joy the passing hour :
Nolbrce t'leir [)oient spells withstood,
But evil solien'd into good.
Nor did her countenance belie
The soul that spaikl'd through her eye.
By precept and example taught.
To try each action, word, and thought,
Religion hade that soul aspire,
Andtouch'd it with its heavenly fire:
All other views and cares al)ove,
Sheliv'd to duty and to love ;
In peace and pleasure pass'd the day.
And hope had strew'd herflow'ry way,
Till new-felt grief, at once confest.
Was shrouded in a mother's breast.
Ere her first dawn of early day
Had yielded place to childhood's sway.
f DUNRIB.
Ere yet her infant tongue could speak
The infant thought that flush'd her cheel^.
Within a convent's sacred pale,
Far from the world's tempestuous gale,
Anna became the joy and pride
Of her belov'd maternal guide.
Let others' voice denounce thy gloom,
And paint thee emblem of the tomb;
In sombre tints thy form imbue,
Robe thee in shades of darkest hue:
I hail thee, peaceful Solitude !
Friend to the studious and the good.
Amid thy haunts of hill and dale.
The lonely grove, and wide stretched vale,
Passion's deluding voice is still ;
No specious arts mislead the will.
Nor pleasure, with her syren voice,
Captives the heart, or sways the choice;
In early life the friend of youth,
The nurse ol' knowledge and of truth ;
The shelter of maturer age,
When worldly storms around us rage:
J>UNBI£.
The haven of declining years,
When as a dream the past appears;
Each care-worn mind will turn to thee,
And woo thy blest serenity.
On smiling Gallia's southern side.
Where Garonne rolls its silver tide,
O'er the bright river's winding maze.
Where plenty reigns or beauty plays ;
Where blushes the luxuriant vine
Amid the olive and the pine.
And all that can delight the eye.
Glows in the plains of Gascony ;
There, courting the meridian breeze.
Arise the cloud-capt Pyrennees !
Now shine in mountain colours clear.
Now in broad shadow disappear;
And, as the vapours roll along,
Exhibit a gigantic throng
Of vast, remote, stupendous forms,
Unchang'd alike by time and storms ;
Through the blue tinge of air they gleam,
Anon in partial grandeur beam,
8 BUMRIB.
Or dark with forests mantling down,
Or rude in naked grandeur frown.
Beneath these heights, by contrast low,
The landscape's soften'd features glow.
Where hill and dale, with mingling grace,
Repose in verdure at their base,
Far to the West, eve's setting ray
Shines on the waves of Biscay's bay,
And mountain top, or glittering sea.
Form the majesiic boundary.
There, in a vale's profound retreat,
Where winding streams in concord meet.
O'er a dark wood, in turrets grey.
Arose the Convent of La Paix,
Pride of the vale! profound retreat!
Of hope and peace the tranquil seat ;
Years in their course have swept away
Full many a low'r of ancient day,
And yet thy ivy-cover'd walls
Still stand, responsive to the calls
Of orphan'd claims, and widow'd grief,
Which hither tly, and find relief^
DUNniE,
Within its antiquated shrine,
Still swell to heav'n the strain divine,
At morn, at eve, at midnight hour,
To bless the great Creator's pow'r.
O gentle Time ! thy pinions stay.
And long retard that gloomy day.
When crumbling stones alone may tell
Where once this Abbey crovvn'd the dell !
And still, ye zephyrs, hither bring
The softest gales of earliest spring ;
Luxuriant summer, still delay
Thy blooming sweets, and temper'd ray ;
And autumn still thy glow prolong.
Thy garish hue, andjocundsong ;
And winter ever mildly reign,
To soothe the heart, and lull the pain,
Of those who other regions fly.
To seek thy pure and genial sky.
'Mid scenes of such romantic hue,
From infant years fair Anna grew;
la the same haunts was wont to rove,
from the same bank, and copse, and grove,
10 DUNRtE,
To cull each spring lier fav'rite flow'r,
i\iul hail withjoy the vernal hour.
She saw no other hill or tree
Than those her earliest glance could see ;
She qnaff'd the same salubrious gale
That swept along her well-known vale ;
And ev'ry mountain's beetling brow,
Or clad in green, or bleach'd with snow,
Had pow'r to charm with new delight
Her buoyant mind, and raptur'd sight.
Slie knew each streamlet of" the dell,
And all its devious turns could tell,
Till winding between mound and brake,
They centcr'd in a tranquil lake.
Whose glassy surface, calm and clear.
From month to month, and year to year,
Reflected back each opening grace
Of the young Anna's form and face,
Who, bending o'er its banks of green,
Scem'd goddess of the sylvan scene.
And did that lake, in sunbeams deck'd,
No other form than her's reflect ?
DUNRIE. 11
Yes — oft the Mother so endear'd.
And oft the Tutor she rever'd,
To whose sustaining arm she clung,
On whose persuasive words she hung:
And oft another form, I ween,
Was in that lake's bright mirror seen ;
A form as youthful as her own,
Where grace and strength united shone ;
A sparkling eye, a playful smile,
That spoke a breast as void of guile;
This was young Edgar's speaking eye.
The smile on Anna loit'ring nigh,
Which told in volumes to the heart.
What letter'd words could ne'er impart ;
And Anna's voice full oft confess'd
This deep conviction of her breast.
Her Mother, Edgar, and Dunrte,
Summ'd up her life's felicity.
Within the centre of the vale,
Shelter'd from ev'ry mountain gale,
Almost conceal 'd by mantling wood,
A small; but cheerful cottage stood.
12 DUNRIE.
For many a year Oie calin rctrea*.
For iiiiiiiy a yciir .[ic r'lospo seat
Of Dt'NUir.'s traiujuil hap;»iiiess.
Blest willi iho \v'l| ;iiu] j)o\v'r )<> bless:
OF all wi.liia his boimdcd s[»here,
lleiicartl the wounrls, and dried the tear;
His au,ed bosom was llie cell,
Wheieev'ry hallow'd thought might dwell;
Of mingled faith and ho^tc the shrine.
Still lending to a source divine.
His life had been a chequer'd scene
Of tra'isient joys, with griefs between :
Against temptation he had stood.
Firm in the cause of distant good;
His shieM, — the dread of rloitig ill ;
Hisnanoply, — tli' Almighty's will:
Happy iuxi cnvy'd ne might be,
Wlio shar'd his life's simplicity.
Thus blest liad been young Edgar's lot,
The happy inmate of his cot,
Until that inauspicious day
Tliut summon'd liim far hence awaj ;
DUNRIE. 13
That blanch'd the rose on Anna's cheek.
And gave tlie pang she could not sj)eak.
He shar'd the good man's home and heart.
Until the mandate to depart,
Which, issu'd by a father's voice,
Forbade at once the pow'r of choice.
Bright beam'd the first rays of the sun,
As now its splendid course begun;
The grey tints of the dawn dispers'd,—
Progressive lustre trembl'd first
On ev'ry cliff and mountpin's head,.
The village spire, tlie upland shed,
And ting'd with its own rosy glow
All that emerg'd from mist below.
Colours meanwhile of vary'd dye
Illuminate the Eastern sky.
Glance downward in long sloping beams,
Upon the valley's mazy streams,
And touch with vivifying light
The relics of departed night.
With the first blush of orient day
Arose the inmates of La Paix,
14 nUNRlK.
To Heav'n, in this enliv'ning hour,
The matin orisons they pour.
Anna, too, rais'dher sweet-ton'd voice,
Which seem'd with trembling to rejoice,
Not in its wonted scale, above
All else in grateful praise and love.
The rising day she could not hail,
She could not view the spangl'd vale,
She could not look on Nature's face,
And the too sad remembrance chase,
That though the scene was bright and fair.
Yet Edgau was no longer there.
This novice in the school of woe,
Now doom'd its first assaults to know,
Strove to evade the new-found guest,
Or hide it in her tender breast ;
But sound of Edgar's magic name,
As from her mother's voice it came,
Drew forth the tears from Anna's eye.
And woke the correspondent sigh ;
And that deep sigh, and gushing tear,
Arous'd the mother's anxious fear,
DUNRJE. IJ
Who now with ev'ry art essay 'd
To probe and soothe the weeping maid.
And where, but to a mother's heart,
Can filial love its woes impart ?
To whose fond bosom may she fly,
Buther's, for sorrow's remedy ?
And whose soft voice could cheer like thine^
All gentle Lady Madeline ?
'Twas thine from Anna's cradled years,
To rouse her hopes, and cahn her fears j
To press her softly glowing cheek,
In tone of sympathy to speak;
To check the infant tide of grief,
And prompt the sweet, the blest belief,
That sorrow's cloud would pass away,
And joy again relume the day.
And now she whispers thoughts like these;
That he who fled, his sire to please.
Who still the path of duty trod.
True to his father and his God,
In health and gladness would return,
To cheer the hearts of those who mourn.
Ifl DUNRIE.
New hope, by words like these express'd,
Si)oke solace to the maiden's breast,
And e'en a smile illuni'd the face,
AVhere tears had left iheir pallid trace.
O youth ! sweet season of delight.
Like April morn, in dew-drops bright,
Gilding with fancy's vivid pow'r
Each image of the passing hour.
Contrasting with the winter's gloom
Serener skies, and Flora's bloom;
And still from all that meets the eye
Extracting hope and extacy.
O youth ! the fond illusion prize,
Which like the glowing rain-bow flies,
As brightly beams, as quickly dies:
Be your's the reign of visions gay.
The lively morn, the jocund day,
The hopes that virtue may approve,
The soul that wakes to joy and love.
But mountain brow, and Garonne's wave,
Unmix'd delight no longer gave.
I
DUNRIB. 17
With half-dimm'd eyes the maid looks round;
Joy breathes in every rural sound;
The meadows bright with sparkling dew,
The valley rob'd in emerald hue,
The wide, majestic river's maze,
In vain attract her listless gaze;
She looks around for something more.
For one who bless'd the scene before.
And now. she seeks the winding dell.
Whose devious path she knew so well,
Till at the jasmine-cover'd door
She stops, where oft she paus'd before,
Beneath its sweetly perfum'd flow'rs,
To lengthen out the fleeting hours.
On Edgar's voice and smile to dwell,
And something more to hear and tell,
To catch the last glance of his eye,
And still repeat her own reply^
Within the garden's blooming space
She wanders now, awhile to trace
Theflow'ry paths by Edgar plann'd, .
The saplings planted by his hand ;
18 DUNRIE.
But chief, one rose-tree's blushing pride,
Supreoie o'er ev'ry shrub beside,
Had long been his peculiar care,
Because her hand had plac'd it there ;
And in the last, the parting hour,
He gave the maid its earliest flow'r,
And wish'd its ling* ring bloom might prove
Memento of his fadeless love.
O'er this unconscious tree she bends,
And with its ^evr her tear-drop blends.
The quiet step, the gentle voice,
That oft had bid her heart rejoice.
She heeded not; and good Dunbie
Stood by her side dejectedly.
Contemplating, with answering grief.
The tears that ask'd a kind relief.
She rais'd at length her swimming eyes.
And met his gaze in mute surprise ;
A blush came mantling o'er her cheek.
She sigh'd the name she could not speak.
And ere her throbbing accents fell.
He knew the cause she could not tell.
DDNRIE. 19
" This heart/* he said, " these tears confess,
" I feel and pity your distress ;
" Nor is the loss to you alone,
" I trace your sorrow in my own ;
" But while our Edgar's call I mourn,
" And wish and pray for his return,
" I prize his strong, heroic mind,
*' To trial now byHeav'n consign'd;
" And trust his fortitude will teach
" A truth within my Anna's reach,—
" That they who duty's path pursue,
" Will find God's promises are true;
" And while they bow to his decree,
" Will find, in that, felicity.
" To other climes he wanders now,
" Still faithful to his parting vow,
•' With buoyant youth and hope elate,
" Prepar'd for ev'ry change of fate.
" But still I know his steady mind
" Is true to those he leaves behind ;
' Then let thy heart its peace regain,
" Nor think its virtuous efforts vain,
" To Edgar's fortitude aspire,
" Copy the hero you admire."
so DUNRIE.
So saving, from the garden's shade
He gently led the pensive maid;
His look, his words, had check'd the force
Of sorrow's too redundant source.
And cheering tone, and secret pray'r,
Consign'd her to a mother's care.
'I'hat mother now, with skilful art,
Watch'd all the pulses of her heart.
She, as a parent, still was young,
And love fell softly from her tongue.
But yet, in sad experience old.
Her pallid cheek its story told ;
An orphan'd daughter, widovv'd wife.
Trials and pangs had mark'd her life.
And now maternal fondness strove
To guard her child from hapless love.
She ne'er had known a mother's care;
She never heard a mother's pray'r j
The friendly voice of rigid truth
Had never check'd her wayward youth.
Taught by her own lamented fate,
i'Vom passion's source her woes to datC;,
SUNRIS. 21
With guardian eye she watch'd its rise,
Trac'd it through ev'ry thin disguise,
And, ere itgain'd its giddy height,
Repress'd its too advent'rous flight.
Her self-drawn skill knew how to blend
The anxious parent with the friend,
And made their different claims agree
So well, so imperceptibly.
That Anna's heart could never own
The influence due to each alone.
Year after year had roll'd away.
Since first these strangers sought La Paix ;
The mother with her lovely child.
On whom through tears she fondly smil'd.
For whom her daily prayers arose,
And thanks were mingled with her woes.
Here in a friend, a daughter blest ,
Her keener griefs were hush'd to rest;
But still the melancholy eye.
The faded form, the frequent sigh,
The features which no smile beguil'd,
Save the bright sunshine of her child,
22 DUNRIE.
These spoke the yet enduring smart
Of shafts that rankled in her heart.
No being in La Paix could fell
The cause for which her sorrows fell ;
And though the curious nuns might guess
That deatli had marr'd her happiness,
That a lov'd husband's early doom
Had sent her forth in beauty's bloom,
Far from her home, her native seat.
To seek seclusion and retreat;
Yet still to all, but good Dunrie,
Her fate was wrapt in mystery.
Soother of woes, he only knew;
To honour as to pity true.
His pious counsels prov'd a balm
Of sov'reign pow'r her woes to calm.
Though round the regions of La Paix
Beauty and grandeur held their sway.
Though nature's works from hour to hour
Miglit tempt the stranger to explore.
To breathe at morn the mountain gale,
At eve to trace the winding vale;
OUNBIE. 2S
Though scenes that mock the pencil's skill,-—
The stream, the wood, the dell, the hill,—
E'en sad despondence might decoy
To feel a moment's pulse of joy j
It wanted power, the varying scene,
To teippt the Lady Madeline ;
And seldom had her footsteps trod
Beyond the neighbouring house of God j
And ne'er the distant landscape tried,
Till her lov'd child became her guide.
But when her reason was matnr'd.
And when her sprightly voice allur'd.
The mother's step would follow then.
Through ev'ry thicket, copse, and glen;
Oft would she climb, and gaze around,
Alive to every sight and sound. —
When tir'd at length with beauty's chase,
And pleasure mantling o'er the face.
They paus'd beneath the plane tree's shade
To catch, through every pervious glade.
When he his daily course had done,
The splendour of the setting sun;
24 DUNRIE.
'Till o'er the scenery twilight pale
Had slowly drawn her mystic veil.
Nor e'en could blank obscurity
Withdraw them from their favourite tree;
For soothing was the evening hour,
And dear its tranquillising power.
When the dim light of closing day
Just gleams its last, and dies away.
And one by one the stars appear
To gild the darken'd hemisphere:
Then was the hour, when solemn thought
From heaven its inspiration caught.
And both in mute suspense would pause
To hail creation's wondrous cause.
As the bright morning dawn'd anew,
Both would again these haunts pursue ;
To some lone hamlet first repair,
And leave a timely blessing there;
Of sickness check the bitter sigh,
Or wipe the tear from sorrow's eye.
With gratitude's warm tribute cheer'd
All nature's charms more bright appear'd,
I>UNRIE, 25
With more complacency of soul
They saw the Garonne's waters roll,
And o'er the valley's pastoral scene
Contentment shed a livelier green.
Oft would their steps the path explore
Through shadowy groves of sycamore;
Or where the oak and blushing vine
Their mingling branches intertwine ;
Or at some tall cliff's base would rove,
Where, pendant from the steeps above,
Inviting still a bolder search.
The mountain ash and weeping birch
Their light and airy foliage threw.
Sprinkling their heads with morning dew.
But those stupendous heights to climb
Was still reserv'd for other time —
Beyond the woods that screen'd the vale
The towering Pyrenees to scale;
Whose sides a sombrous pomp display'd,
Envelop'd in their cypress shade.
While high above each radiant brow
Form'd contrast with the gloom below.
«G DUNRIE.
To glance at these with eager eye.
And wish iuil oft for wings to fly,
Tlien dream the vain delusion true,
Was all that Anna long might do;
Till Edgar came, and then she stray 'd
Beyond ihe woodland's opening glade;
Dar'd through the forest dark to range.
In quest of scenes more wild and strange.
Tempted the mountain's trackless side,
Edgar lier leader or lier guide.
Till o'er the vidley's nearest bound,
Unmeasur'd distance glow'd around.
Such forms of wild sublimity
Met on each side the exploring eye;
Such grandeur fiil'd the raptured sight,
As plumed the soul for fancy's flight:
Poetic ftvvourwak'd the strain,
That told of nature's matchless reign;
And painting strove with mimic art
To fix th' impression on the heart.
At first some anxious tear-drops stream'd,
And the fond fearful mother deem'd,
DUNRIE. 21
That, as the inmate of Dunrie,
Young Edgar might in future be
Some barrier to the cherish'd plan,
She had prerais'd with this good man;
That when her infant days had pass'd,
And long as their retreat should last,
Herchild might to his roof repair
And daily find instruction there.
More suited to her opening bloom
Than a lone convent's solemn gloom.
And female doubts and fears arose
Of latent ills and future woes,
If Anna, too, was yet to share
The reverend Tutor's guardian care :
And these, with delicate distress,
The lady hasten'd to confess.
But in Dunrie's exalted mind
There was a faith, to terror blind ;
A trust in that all ruling will,
"Which checks the dread of future ill.
And in such colours, just and true,
Their meet coui pan ion ship he drew;
28 DUNRIE.
The unison of tastes and joys,
While studious tlioughtthe mind employs,
And tlie [larticipuied hhss
Of friendship at an age like this;
That she was more than reconcil'd^
To this associate for her child.
Nay, she would oft in homage bend,
And grateful orisons ascend.
That he who first intrusive seem'd,
Was now by all belov'd, esteem'd.
And dignify'd by every grace
Of heart and mind, of form and face.
It was in childhood's early days,
When lively hope with fancy plays.
That Edgar came : he wept awhile,
But tears were follow'd by a smile ;
For soon he found in good Dunrie,
Protection, love, and sympathy.
Committed to his guardian care
By a fond mother's dying prayer.
DUNRIH. 29
DuNRiE the sacred trust receiv'd.
And the poor father, thus reliev'd,
To distant climes in anguish fled,
Where glory call'd, and valour bled,
To seek oblivion of his pain
E'en on the war-ensanguin'd plain,
DuNRiE then try'd each virtuous art
To win and sway his pupil's heart ;
That heart he gain'd, and taught his soul
Each vagrant passion to control ;
Taught him above the world to rise,
And seek a guardian in the skies :
And soon of his protecting guide
Edgar became the joy and pride;
Nay, more, — he was the cheering ray
That beam'd on his declining day
A clear and unexpected light,
Which, ere the closing in of night.
And when the storm has spent its pow'r,
Shone brightly on his ev'ning hour.
The youth, as still in years he grew,
No sensible privation knew;
so DUiNBIE.
Abaiulon'd by his wandering sire,
Yet gkn\ 'd tlie vviinnth of filial fire; —
lie wept not for his mother dead,
He mourn'd not for his father fled;
By daily blessings taught to prove
Both were restor'd inDuNRiE's love.
With awe, from apprehension free,
His pupil look'd upon Dunrie
As being of superior mould.
Short converse doom'd by Hcav'n to hold,
Of sympathy in weal and woe.
With liiosc who trod the world below;
For though by long experience sage,
Andskill'd in learning's amplest page.
Yet humble as a docile child.
In manners meek, in temper mildj
The deeds of charity he wrought
Were produce of the faith he taught;
For others' good he seem'd to live,
With heart to cheer, and hand to give;
His lively hope, his fervent zeal,
Made triflers think, and sceptics feel ;
OUNRIE. 31
And christian graces mark'd the saint,
Redeetn'd from each corrupted taint,
Contending for that heavenly prize
Held out to faith beyond the skies.
Of this vain world, and all its ways.
Full well he knew the giddy maze;
And he could guide his pupil's mind,
To know himself, and know mankind;
Yet it requir'd profoundest skill
So to direct his pliant will.
That, while he bade his soul aspire
Above the views of low desire,
He might riot check the ardent hope
That glows within the patriot's scope;
Of standing where her champions stood, —
Of living for his country's good.
Howe'er the selfish heart might plead.
Or wish that Heav'ii had so decreed,
He might not prompt the pleasing theme.
He would not aid the golden dream;
That, happy in his present home,
Edgar might never wish to roam ;
S£ DUNIME.
And never seek an ampler round
Than Languedoc's romantic bound.
No, — he ent'orc'd a nobler aim ;
His fatiicr's views, his country's claim ;
And bade the ardent youth [jrepare
In future scenes of toil to share,
That so employ'd his life might be
A blessing to society.
Such glorious themes the youth would rouse,
And he would talk of laurellM brows ;
Of those that shine in arms and arts;
Of splendid minds, and nobler hearts,
'Till all the valley's charms would fade,
And the bright landscape sink in shade.
But the next walk, with Anna's smile,
Her native taste, and guiltless wile.
Would give the scene its brilliant light,
And put each worldly thought to flight.
Joy sparkled in the Mother's eye.
Though oft repress'd by sorrow's sigh,
When she beheld, in early age,
Edgau's pursuits her child engage;
DUNRIE. S3
And saw her shrinking gentleness
Encourag'd by his bold address;
Saw her, half-lrembling at his side,
Look upward to her daring guide.
And though her voice might sometimes plead,
Yet to his will her own concede.
And DuNRiE too was pleas'd to trace
The progress of each opening grace,
And mark of both the joint career,
As life advanced from year to year ;
Their hearts so pure and undisguised,
Their minds so truly harmoniz'd;
Becoming conscious, more and more,
Of all obscurely known before,
And learning now for what intent
They to this netherworld were sent.
The seasons, as they roll 'd along.
Awoke their gratulating song;
And every tree, and every flower,
Taugiit them to hail Almighty power.
Such were the themes of pious truth
Engrafted in their early youth,
n
54 DUNRIE.
Thus did they learn to feel and own
They liv'd not for themselves alone ;
That knowledge, of whate'er degree,
In all its grand variety ;
That talent, in her brilliant light,
And fancy, in her eagle flight.
Should still to Heav'n, with towering wing,
Their tributary incense bring.
Experience oft, too oft, indeed,
The melancholy truth may plead,
That the bent branch not always grows,
Nor bud of promise always blows,
As the fond wish and hope require.
Or friend, or parent, might desire :
Though nicest skill the one may ply.
And brightest tints the otlier dye.
But disappointed hopes were not
Or Dunrie's, or the Mother's, lot;
For in this lov'd and lovely pair,
Improvement check'd each anxious care,
Forestall'd the wish of him who taught,
And roje beyond his utmost thought ;
DUNniE. 35
While both, accustom'd to obey.
Were led by reason's gentle sway.
The hours of childhood now are past,
And blooming youth approaches fast;
And now in both began to blend.
In Edgar and his charming friend,,
Almost unheeded and unknown.
The blushing cheek, the soften'd tone,
As each by turns, with native ease,
By word or gesture, strove to please.
In sight of other to excel.
Each palpitating breast would swell ;
And mention of each other's name
Would wake the emulative flame ;
Until with influence bland and warm.
Bright love uprear'd its radiant form,
Murmur'd in ev'ry accent sweet.
And spoke in ev'ry pulse that beat ;
Look'd in the glances of the eye,
And breath'd in ev'ry soften'd sigh;
Blended with ev'ry waking theme.
And mingl'd with the nightly dream.
1) 2
S6 DUNRIE.
And yet so pure and so refin'd
Was this illusion of the mind.
That passion it might not be call'd;
No better feeling it enthrall'dj
It shackled not the soul's free pow'r.
It sadden'd not one passing hour.
It circled each devoted heart,
To shield it from life's adverse dart,
And gave each object of employ
Its hope, its pleasure, and its joy.
This sentiment gave new delight
To ev'ry scene that met the sight;
It gilded with its own bright hue
The flow'ry mead and mountain blue:
Th* illumin'd grove, the distant sea,
Shone with a novel brilliancy;
And harmony of sight and sound
Seem'd undisturb'd to reign around.
Whene'er the daily task was o'er.
And duty urg'd its claims no more.
They sally 'd forth, with eager gaze.
In the broad sun's declining rays.
DUNRIE. 37
To wind along the chequer'd vale.
Or catch the mountain's freshen'd gale.
Their past discov'ries to review,
Or find some object strange or new.
With fresh delight the scen'ry glow'd,
Since Love its latent charm bestow'd,
A brighter foliage cloth'd the trees,
More gently sigh'd the balmy breeze,
Whilst music from the peasant's reed
For list'ning pause would softly plead.
Oft from the high rock's airy height
Would admiration take its flight,
Whence, tinted by the western sky,
Grandeur and beauty charm'd the eye j
And distant far, in awful pride,
Old ocean spread its swelling tide :
There would they trace, with visual force.
The dark-wing'd vessel's trackless course ;
Then turn to mark the purple beam
Upon La Paix' grey turrets gleam ;
While many a well-known grove and glade
Were sunk in ev'ning's deepen'd shade;
38 DUNRIE.
And when the cloudless orb of night
Diffus'd around her liquid light,
They homeward hied, with joy replete,
And parted — soon again to meet.
Such were the dear delights of youth,
Sanction'd by love, and peace, and truth ;
Affection genuine as this.
Sweet image of concordant bliss.
O'er the fond Mother's senses stole.
And rous'd to hope her drooping soul;
Hope, that to Anna's mortal fate
Heav'n might assign a happier fate.
Though oft some future ill she fear'd.
Yet one sweet thought her bosom cheer'd,
From him whose cv'ry word was good
She long distinctly understood,
That Edgar's sire had told Dunrie,
His son hereafter should be free.
At man's estate, to fonn the tie,
Which solemn vows niight ratify.
And both in mutual hope agreed,
That Providence had so decreed.
OUNRIE. t9
To shield them with its guardian care.
And bless the union of the pair.
Thus all uncheck'd their love had been.
And no chill dread could intervene;
Did not she smile, whom Anna lov'd,
And he whom Edgar's heart approv'd?
The latter, long to virtue traip'd.
His eighteenth winter had attain'd ;
And half his years had now been spent
In peace, and love, and sweet content :
When as the rain one ev'ning fell,
Rushing in torrents down the dell.
And comfort dwelt beneath the roof
Of him, whose thankful heart bore proof
To all the blessings of his lot.
His age's peace, his shelter'd cot;
While DuNRiE and his youthful friend
Their books with social converse blend,
At the low door a knock was heard,
And a tall stranger's form appear'd,
Tawny and rough, of giant mould,
His hand within his mantle's fold.
40 UUNRIE.
He stood awhile in mute amaze,
And aw'd them with his silent gaze.
Fear mingled with their first surprise.
When this strange object met their eyes ;
His face so haggard, and so wild,
He seem'd or sin's or frenzy's child.
But DuNKiE, rising, now began
To question with this daring man;
Who more than once essay M to speak.
While the big tear roU'd down his cheek.
At length he seiz'd on Edgar's hand,
With joy no longer at command.
And loudly cried, " My task is done,
" Thou art indeed my master's son."
Then clasp'd him in his rude embrace,
And press'd rough kisses on his face.
" Oh ! blessings on that darling head;
" In name of her who now is dead ;
" In name of him, who lives for thee,
" And longs thy manly form to see!
" In the poor worn -out Albert view
♦* One whom thy playful childhood knew,
DUNRIE. 41
' * Thou can'st not sure this face forget ;
" Albert must be remember'd yet.
" He, in thy days of infancy,
" Who oft has held thee on his knee,
" And many a wondrous story told,
" Of mightydeeds in times of old."
With ardour, not to be repress'd,
Again he hugg'd him to his breast.
And plenitude of joyful tears
Bore witness, that his lengthen'd years
Had deaden'd not his pow'r to feel,
Nor chill'd his soul-expanding zeal.
Edgar, though almost overpower'd,
Yet now to sense and thought restor'd,
By ev'ry mark of welcome strove
To pay him back his proofs of love ;
And ask'd, with trembling voice and heart, -
If he bad nothing to impart;
And begg'd liis friendly words would tell.
Whether his long-lost sire were well.
Albert, though not a word he said,
Puird forth a packet from his plaid ;
42 DUNRIE,
Then with a sign of courtesy,
Bow'd low, and gave it to DuNRiE.
These letters spoke a Father's hope
Of all within affeciion's scope ;
Of Edgar's growth, and ripen'd sense.
Beneath his care, and Ileav'n's defence.
They told, that, after years of toil,
Again he trod his native soil;
And, victim to an adverse fate,
Now felt his health's declining stale;
That, with long cares and wand'rings spent,
His faithful Albeiit he had sent,
This message of his love to bear.
And taste the joy he hop'd to share,
The long-anticipated joy,
Of seeing his beloved boy,
Tiicy added, too, the fond request.
To that dear son hinibclf address'd.
That he v.ould now return to cheer
The gloom oi' waning life's career;
But still his journey to delay,
Till wintry storms had pass'd away j
DUNRIE. 43
And begg'd that Albert might abide
To be his servant and his guide.
The uncheck'd burst of Edgar's grief
On Dunrie's bosom sought relief.
" And must I then be torn from thee,
'* My more than father? Oh ! Dunrir,
" How can 1 bear this stroke of fate,
* From thee — from all, to separate ?
" To leave this dear, delightful land,
" And bow me to anew command ?
" Teach me to bear it as I ought,
" To practise what thy precepts taught."
< My child,' replied the rev'rend sire,
* A Father's claims thy aid require j
* I bid thee say, God's will be done !
* And learn the duty of a son.'
Rous'd by these words, the youth arose,
And check'd the gath'ring cloud of woes.
In due submission bow'd his head,
And once again ihe letters read,
And begg'd that Albert would excuse
His first emotions at the news,
44 DUNRIE.
And hop'd Heav'n's goodness might inspire
A conduct worthy of his Sire.
Thougii oft of late the fear would rise,
That he must learn to sacrifice
Those pleasures vvliich, without alloy,
Had long illum'd his heart with joy;
Though if his father were alive,
He knew the mandate must arrive,
That from La Paix, and all its charms,
Would call him to that father's arms;
Yet when at length the fiat came.
Its first effect was just the same,
As if no other home he knew,
And here his sole regards were due ;
And he should never cease to be
The pupil of the good Dunrie.
Yet still, as there was some delay
Before it came — the parting day;
His native buoyancy of mind,
His wishes all to Heav'n resign'd;
The ever anxious love of those
Who strove to cheer his rising woes,
DDNRIE. 45
And Anna's kind and tender look,
Whose feelings of his own partook,
Bade for a while his sorrows cease.
And hush'd his troubled soul to peace.
E'en her regret was not despair,
Nor was her brow o'ercast with care :
Accustom'd from her earliest years,
In all her doubts, and all her fears,
To study Edgar's speaking face,
And there his inmost thoughts to trace ;
She caught from their ingenuous tone
The leading impulse of her own :
And these allotted weeks of grace,
Although they sped with fleeting pace,
Were not unmix'd with gleams of joy,
And hopes, no trouble could destroy.
Yet truth forbids the candid muse
Her faithful statement to refuse.
Or by attesting, fail to prove,
The potent sway of virtuous love.
Oft would the driving rain impart
More comfort to each throbbing heart;
46 DUNRIE.
And iheloiid blast's impetuous sound,
More welcome as it roar'd around ;
Tlian all the charms that met their eyes,
Fiom verdant lawns and azure skies:
For while the plains weredelug'd o'er,
And the keen blast was heard to roar,
Unsever'd still their fate would be,
Unlink'd the chain of amity.
And tender love's unbidden tear
Embalm'd the first buds of the year.
When rising from its frozen bed
Tlie snow-drop rear'd its virgin head ;
Ah, who could paint the languid smile
That pass'd o'er Anna's lips the while.
As she the profFer'd boon receiv'd
Of ail protracted hopebereav'd.
For ever at the dawn of spring
Edgar its earliest flower would bring,
And in her love-illumin'd face
Was wont his recompense to trace.
But bursting buds, and gentle gale,
Alas, no longer could avail ;
DUNRIE, 47
The blooming mead, the biuUhng view,
Call'd for a sorrowful adieu ;
And zephyrs munnur'd to her heart
The time was now arriv'd — to part.
And on the fix'd, the mournful day,
E'en Dunrie's voice could scarce essay,
With manly tone, and firmness meet.
His benediction to repeat.
There was a strong, a sacred tie.
Unknown to human thought and eye,
Which added force to friendship's chain,
And swell'd.the shock of parting pain.
Yet struggling with his own distress.
He rous'd his voice and strength — to bless.
Edgar, awhile in misery,
Sunk on the bosom of Dunrie;
The weeping Anna's hand he pressed.
He clasp'd her to his grief-fraught breast ;
To Heaven address'd the faultering prayer,
Invok'd its still protecting care;
His parting vows in murmurs fell.
And scarcely could he say— farewell.
48 DUNRIE.
Alas,poor Maid, this scene of grief
Baffled all efforts of relief;
And every thought, and word, and look,
The anguish of the hour partook.
This was the scene prolong'd thy stay
From thy fond Mother, and La Paix ;
But from that Mother's watchful eyes
Such sorrows could have no disguise.
And day by day she gently strove
To sooth them with maternal love.
DUNRIE.
CANTO II.
XtLLONG the Garonne's winding shore.
Whose waves their fertile tribute bore.
Whose silver current, smooth and clear,
Through many a long and rolling year,
Had flow'd in peace, like Dunrie's days,
He now walks forth, with pensive gaze.
His brow with shade was overcast.
As pond'ring on the changeful past,
Edgar's lamented loss he feels :
The tear of fond remembrance steals
In silence down his wrinkl'd cheeks,
And eloquence of sorrow speaks.—
E
50 DUNRIE.
His folded hands, and lifted eye,
To Heav'n for fortitude apply,
To Heav'n he lifts his pious thought,
And seeks the aid he oft had sought.
His cottage of the youth bereft.
His recollection only left.
And lonely, now he feels the walk
Uncheer'd by his enliv'ning talk ;
Tiie gay and animated tone,
The brilliant sally, all his own,
The earnest look, the speaking smile,
That would his tutor's cares beguile.
And lead him back to years gone by,
And wake the painful, pleasing sigh :
All these, alas ! by troubles cross'd.
These genuine pleasures now are lost.
The river's waves as gently run,
Are gilded by the same bright sun.
And mountains, in their mist of blue.
In grandeur meet the good man's view.
But to his calmly pious mind.
Though melancholy, yet resign'd.
DUNRIE. 51
The meditations of his heart
Could more serenity impart,
Than e'en the Garonne's limpid stream,
Than e'en fair nature's radiant beam.
He thought on trials he had shar'd ;
The present with the pastcompar'd ;
Dwelt on his almost ended race —
Futurity illum'd his face;
This world and Edgau fade away;
He antedates his life's last day,
And meditates, with lighted eye,
Upon the world beyond the sky.
With firmer step, and calmer breast,
He seeks his home and tranquil rest ;
And the fair visions of the night
Yield but to morning's cheerful light.
Peaceful, like his, may ever be
The sleep of aged sanctity;
So calmly rest the rev'rend head.
O'er which as many years have shed
The tincture of their wintry snows :
Thus may the pure in heart repose,
£ 2
52 DUNRIE.
The pure m conscience thns awake
To hope they never can forsake.
Yet were those hairs not always grey;
That wrinkled brow could once display
The flush of health, and manly hue;
And once, to softer feelings true.
Those faded eyes could volumes tell;
And that now tranquil bosom swell,
With throb of sensibility,
With passion's force, and sorrow's sigh.
A good divine was Dunrie's sire.
Whose constant pray'r, and fond desire,
A few short years before he died,
Were more than amply gratified ;
And this, his only son became,
In word and act, as well as name.
The pious minister of God,
Treading the path which he had trod.
Dunrie's career at once began
With the firm purpose of a naatr^
DUNRIE. 6d
His course determin'd to pursue,
Looking beyond this nether view
To what a Christian ought to be,
Owning responsibility.
With unaffected eloquence.
He labour'd to impress the sense
Of Heav'n's irradiated page
On all, whose ignorance or age
Saw not the power, nor knew the source,
Felt not the harmony and force
With which each sacred line abounds j
Whose genuine truth all doubt confounds ;
Whose mystic characters demand,
When duly weigh'd, and rightly scann'd^
The wonder, reverence, and praise.
Of those who walk in wisdom's ways :
To the believer's open'd eyes.
In all their consecrated guise.
They speak of God's eternal law.
And fill the soul with pious awe.
The good Dunrie felt well repaid.
If listening sounds attentive staid ;
54 DUNRIE.
f serioubiiess, with decent air,
Succeeded to the thoughtless stare ;
And mute decorum reign'd around,
And there was heard no other sound,
Save his own sweet, impressive voice,
Exliorting to the pious choice
Of" that mild yoke, and dove-like rest.
That sooth'd their humble Pastor's breast.
And often, as with earnest zeal,
Feeling, as making others feel.
He look'd around with heartfelt glow,
Happy to stem the tide of woe.
And chase away the sense of care,
And catch devotion's placid air;
There beam'd upon him eyes so sweet,
That looking from tlieir fring'd retreat,
Seem'd to emit a heavenly ray
On all that he might urge and say.
It added to his thankful joy,
"Which later time did not destroy,
That this attentive, youthful maid.
Who thus such silent homage paid,
DUNKIE. 55
Was from his lips imbibing pow'r
That would resist the vivid hoar,
Just opening on her eager gaze,
In all its fascinating blaze.
'O
Chiefly amid the village train,
In the poor hovels on the plain,
And the few hamlets scatter'd round,
DuNRiE in active good was found :
And ofttimes as his patron's guest,
Admir'd, respected, and caress'd,
He pass'd the evening hours awa}''.
And wish'd them oft a lengthen'd day ;
For elegance and sprightly ease.
The wit refin'd, the wish to please,
United their enchanting powV,
To lure his heart, and cheat the hour.
And those dark fringed eyes were there,
But not thatfix'd and serious air.
The attribute of pious awe.
That in the village church he saw ;
Yet other charms succeeded these,
As equal to delight and please ;
56 DUNRIE.
The dimpled smiles, and airy grace,
Gave animation to her face;
And Flora at her home appear'd,
All that in beauty ere endear'd, —
All that is fair, in open truth, —
All that is bright, in blooming youth.
Oh ! sacred feeling, is it true
That Dunrie's heart no passion knew ?
Or of soft love's o'er-ruling sway,
Our nature's blessing or allay,
E'en in the temperate degree.
That the good pastor's heart was free ?
No — we should err, in thinking sd :
What mortal being here below.
Professing godliness sincere.
Living in faith, and hope, and fear,
Could be i[)deed devoid of thee,
Enchanting Sensibility !
Yes, DuNRiE, thou shalt have thy meed;
Truth in thy sacred cause shall plead,
And mark thee kind and pious still,
The creature of another's wil
DDNKIE. in
The noble Peer, to whom he ow'd
His rectory, aqd neat abode,
Conceiv'd it, at that golhic time.
No breach of law, or flagrant crime,
No great infringement in the rule
Of fashion's all-prevailing school,
To spend the spring of every year.
And e'en the summer's long career,
At his own, good paternal seat.
In every earthly joy complete j
Amid the shade of ancient trees.
Waving their branches to the breeze ;
Whose knotty trunks, and wide expanse.
Told of their age, and time's advance.
Thus through the bright protracted days,
Shunning the world and folly's gaze,
He shed his own felicity
On the lone village and Dunkie.
The opportunities to meet
Were then full oft, and all too fleet.
For the young Flora's yielding heart.
Who own'd the world coiild ne'er impart
5S DUNRIK.
That exquisite and true delight,
Which nature's charms alone excite.
*' I breathe again," was her reply.
As DuNRiE, with a searching eye,
And with a doubting voice essay'd,
To draw from the ingenuous maid.
Her thoughts of that imperial place.
The mart of fashion, splendour, grace.
Of London's ever-moving scene.
Where her appearance first had been.
The smile which lighted up his face,
Jnduc'd her readily to trace
What pass'd within hisanxious breast.
As she these few short words express'd.
*' And could you really, good DuNRlE,
" So very meanly think of me,
" As to suppose I could forget,
" In scarcely three months' absence yet,
** The lessons, good and wise and true,
" Which I so long have learn'd from you ;
" At first the charm of novelty,
"In all I went to hear and see.
DUNRIE. 59
" Possess'd enough attractive pow'r
*' To while away the passing hour ;
" And flattering looks, and speeches too,
" Which I believ'dbalf false, half true,
" Too oft my eyes and ears assail'd,
" And o'er ray vanity prevail'd ;
" But none of this lias touch'd my heart,
** And the glad summons to depart
'' Gave more delightful joy to me
" Than the world's matchless gaiety."
Charm'd that her yet undazzl'd mind.
Untainted still, as still refin'd,
Had pass'd unhurt a winter's reign.
And still declar'd its pleasures vain,
DuNRiE pronounc'd his praises due:
And why did then a sigh ensue ?
It spoke what lately it had said,
When thinking on the youthful maid ;
The beauties of her lovely face.
Her figure's captivating grace,
Her temper's more engaging charm.
And her pure heart, so kind and warm.
60 DUNRIB.
Could all so grateful and so dear,
Awake alarm or latent fear ?
He had contemplated them all,
But now when these he would recal,
Ai»d on her lovely image dwell ;
Unwonted thoughts his breast would swell.
Her tender, sorrowful adieu,
With ev'ry novel charm in view.
Made an impression unefFac'd,
Till her so(t hand in his was plac'd.
And pleasure in her dark eye shone,
And rapture spoke in ev'ry tone.
Again he meditated, mus'd.
Himself examin'd, and accusM
Of feeling something like a ray,
That darts across the trav'ller's way,
The raptur'd, the extatic glow.
Which such conviction must bestow.
That in the lovely Flora's breast.
In one so courted and caress'd.
So fair by ev'ry tongue's acclaim.
He had awak'd love's gentle flame.
DUNRIB. 01
But the unlook'd-for certainty^
Was to the prudent, just Dunbie,
No other than a transient joy,
And soon succeeded by alloy,
So lengthen'd, so profoundly deep,
"that days of peace, and nights of sleep^
O'erclouded and suspended, were
Pass'd in anxiety and care.
This era of life's trying date,
Momentous to his future fate.
And all unthought of and unknown.
Save to his secret heart alone.
Was ordeal sent by Heav'n to prove
His duty's triumph over love.
Of noble blood, and proud descent.
With ancestry of long extent.
The high-born Flora's parents were ;
And she, alas! their only heir.
On her their sanguine hopes were fix'd.
That she, unsully'd and unmix'd,
Might still perpetuate the line,
Aqd their hejraldic arms entwine
62 DUNRIE.
With llis, whose pedigree and name
In date and honour were the same.
Oft as his patron and Dunrie
Convers'd in social amity,
A Father's pride would flush his cheek,
As of his daughter he would speak ;
Discuss his long-projected plan,
The merits of each titled man
Within the knowledge of his own,
Or to his neighbour's circle known;
Scan over, and investigate,
How long his lineage aAd estate ;
And then would urge his friend Dunrie
To give his judgment candidly,
If, worthy such a valu'd prize,
One had found favour in her eyes
For whom a Prince might e'en contend ;
To whose bright qualities might bend
The good, the brave, the rich, the great,
And call it bliss to share her fate.
These sentiments, so oft convey'd,
Dunrie as oft had calmly weigh 'dj
DUNRIK.
'Twas treason then to think of love
For one, so far his hopes above ;
Nor thought he that its pow'r assail'd,
Or for a moment had prevail'd
O'er one untutor'd sense of right,
Till flash'd that unexpected light,
Which chas'd the ever-lambent ray.
Wont to illume his peaceful day.
Now various circumstances prov*d.
And e'en assur'd, he was belov'd :
No longer could he doubt his heart ;
But, firmly fix'd to act his part,
He ask'd of Heav'n its strength'ning aid.
And, in meek piety array'd,
To passion's captivating charms
Oppos'd her more triumphant arms.
Then, almost imperceptibly,
He chang'd his manners frank and free,
And more respect, and more reserve,
He deem'd it prudent to observe
To this too dear, unconscious maid,
Who still his alter'd mien repaid
04 DUNRIE.
With yet more studious care to please ;
And oft would some occasion seize.
In gentle words, to testify,
What spoke more sweetly from her eye,
" That she his alter'd looks perceiv'd,
" And almost fancied and heliev'd,
" Her absence he had wish'd prolong'd ;
" And ovvn'd herself aggriev'd and wrong'd,
*' If he a moment might suppose,
" That friendship and her heart's repose
" Had yielded, in the least degree,
'* To pleasure's instability."
At other times she chang'd her tone,
And in wild spirits, not her own,
Aflfected cold indifference ;
Then not the regulated sense^
But trifling levity of air
Obscur'd her heart's oppressive care ;
Which now with ev'ry hour increas'd,
And pain'd conjecture never ceas'd
To trace some cause, however strange,
For Dunkie's most mysterious change.
DUNRItt. 65
Alas ! with now her duty's theme
Mingled this painful daily dreum.
Whose tender and delusive pow'r
Tinctur'd each fluctuating hour;
Whilst her more calm and watchful friend
Foresaw the consequence and end.
With sorrow and profound regret.
Almost as often as they met.
He mark'd her temper's \va3^wardness^
Her haughty tone, her smile's caress;
Yet still resolv'd to act a part,
Most foreign to his wounded heart ;
Yet so determinately. right.
So fortify'd " to fight the fight,"
And his own weakness to subdue,
That now his path arose to view
Less thorny than at first it seem'd,
O'er which a ray of faint hope gleam'd,
That some propitious accident,
Some unforeseen, desir'd event,
Might soon and happily occur.
That would at once unveil to her
Tlie sad and hynentable truth,
That she, in alj the bloom of youth,
66 OVNKII.
"Was weaving an entangled chain.
That must involve in future pain
Herself, and all to her endear'd,
The friend and parent she rever'd.
And this was destin*d now to be
The pow'r of lynx-ey'd jealousy.
That prob'd, with its all-searching dart.
The maid's too surely conquer'd heart ;
That prov'd her all of hope had rest
On love's return fromDuNRiE's breast,
Who seem'd to joy no more alive;
From her no longer to derive
That mute but eloquent delight.
Which formerly would chide the flight
Of the long evening's closing space.
Whilst gazing on her conscious face.
One night, as Dunrie later staid
In converse with the lovely maid,
Her sire, in sportive raillery.
And tone and manner frank and free,
Begg'd leave to wish him every joy.
From the past winter's new employ ;
cuNRii. 67
And begg'd to know when it might be,
That they and all his friends should see
A mistress at the Parsonage.
" Know, I have form'd this wise presage
" From what has oft occurr'd of late :
" I haV€-j>bserv'd you more sedate,
" Less frequent in your visits here:
" But if you chase the widow's tear,
** It is an act so worthy thee,
" That we must all, my dearDuNKiE,
" Confess you make a virtuous choice,
" And at your prosp'rous suit rejoice."
So unexpectedly attack'd,
And that consider'd as a fact.
Which had no vague reality.
Silent a moment was Dunrie ;
Then laagh'd off his astonishment,
But yet unmark'd observance lent
To the sunk head, and blushing cheek.
Which now too plainly seem'd to speak
What deep impression this had made.
Poor Flora not a word essay *d,
F 2
O nUNRIE.
nd scarcely breathing, from the fear
Of losing all she wish'd to hear,
Remain'd in silent agony,
Nor hazarded a glance to see
If self-conviction she might trace
In Dunrie's melancholy face.
Feeling the anguish he beheld,
And, to conceal his own, compell'd
At length, abruptly to depart;
He left within poor Flora's heart
The venom'd shaft, the rankling sting,
Which jealousy alone can wing.
Oh, chaste rennement ! if in thee.
And thy pure code, a sin it be,
The heart unsu'd, unwoo'd,to yield.
Where fond entreaty's lip is seal'd,
Where importunity is mute.
And dumb, love's moving attribute j
If unsuspectingly to cede
Those soft affections, but the meed,
Jn former time, of doubting years,
And long-extended hopes and fears j
DUNDIE. 69
Jf this, too, surely be to err.
Poor h'LORA, we may thence infer,
To nice decorum's wounded cry,
Of violated sanctity.
Now made an expiation meet,
Atonement ample and com pleat.
In this humiliating hour,
When thus bereft of ev'ry pow'r,
Save keenly both to feel and know
The bitterness of female woe,
Perhaps all other pangs above,
The consciousness of unsought love.
An illness felt, but partly feign'd,
Confin'd the maid, and time shegain'd
Her beating heart to tranquillize.
Ere she could meet again those eyes,
Whose searching pow'r, she fear'd, too well
Would penetrate its secret cell,
Which now so fatally enshrin'd
Passions of ev'ry vary'd kind;
Whilst perturbation fiil'd her soul.—
Oh, far to eitiier distant Pole
to BUNRIE.
She would have fled indignantly,
Ere see again the good Dunrie.
Pride fir'd her eye, and flush'd her cheek,
And gave her pow'r and voice to speak
With haughty air, and frigid tone.
When, some days past, she met alone
The friend she so much raisconceiv'd:
Who, tender, melancholy, griev'd.
In softest terms his hopes express'd.
She now was well : with truth confess'd
How great the sorrow his had been.
And cheerless all the social scene,
Depriv'd of her enliv'ning pow'rs.
While sufTring mark'd her absent hours.
Impatience sate on Flora's brow;
She trembled with emotion now.
And now resum'd her air of state ;
Then, quickly answering, pass'd a gale
That open'd on a path retir'd;
When, as unlook'd for as desir'd,
DuNRiE her hasty steps pursu'd,
AVith one supreme desire endued,
SUXRXX. 71
Of her felicity alone.
For which he sacrific'd his own.
He took her half-reluctant hand,
And more in accent of demand
Than supplication's humble voice.
That left her not the power of choice.
Besought her kindly to attend
To the remonstrance of a friend :
Who wish'd to say, she once was not
Unconscious of the envy'd lot.
To wake, to cherish, and impart.
The joy of a contented heart;
The power to charm and animate:
But that he grieved to see of late
Her mind's serenity had chang'd.
From peace it was at times estrang'd;
She seem'd, as now occasion rose,
In word and action to suppose
He had himself long ceas'd to be
The friend to whom ingenuously
Her every sentiment was told.
But as be spoke, that air so cold,^
/2 DUNRIE.
The pride that iu her dark eye shone,
The look (hsilaiui'ul, — all were gone.
She dares not raise her humid eyes,
Nothing extenuates or denies;
And like a criminal she stood
Before a judge, as mild as good.
The frank, the amiahle Dttniue
Felt her distress most forcibly ;
With blushing, unavow'd assent,
And timid, mute embarrassment,
He gently led her to a seat.
Which offer'd a secure retreat
From each intrusive foot or eye;
Nor evn waited for reply,
But with the voice of tenderness,
He still continued his address,
Hinting the impropriety,
The future danger it would be,
To cherisli in her youthful breast
Any unaulliorised guest,
Aught that could thus her mind distress.
And rob it of its happines>c
DUNRIE. 73
}
As still he clasp'd her trembling hand,
And all her varying features scann'd,
He saw increase her self-command ;
And ventiir'd more explicitly
To own he had not fail'd to see.
From circumstances all minute,
But too apparent to refute.
The truth, as painful to his heart,
As even misery's keenest dart.
*' Oh ! tax me not with vanity,"
He cry'd, " so far unworthy me,
" So undeservino; vour belief,
'• And so unsuited to the grief,
•■' With which I have been taught to know
" The cause from whence these sorrows flow."
" Hence with ill-season'd secrecy,
" The friendshi[) you once felt for me,
" And that so long my day illum'd,
" Another nature has al5s^um'd,
" And ting'd with all iu fatal hue
'* Each image of your life's fair view.
74 DUNRIK.
*' Nay, as thy parent I would be,
" Such title with my years agree ;
" Full nineteen times the bounteous sub
" Through its ecliptic course had run,
*' And number'd me with other men;
*' But you were in your cradle thenj
" And own my humble state to be
" E'en more than this disparity.
*' Think on your father's lofty views,
" My lovely friend j mid Nobles choose
" Your heart's elect and proud ally,
*' Nor dream of an unequal tie:
" Oh, let not disappointment's tear
" Sully the cheek you so revere;
" 1 know our passions wayward all
*' Too oft repel our reason's call 3
" But trust my more experience j
" Their irresistible defence
" is the high Heav'n's assisting power ;
" Oh, seek it in each trying hour 1'*
DUNRIE. 75
}
As on a bright December day.
Before the Sun's continual ray,
The drifted snow dissolves away;
So gradually the weight dispers'd,
That press'd so heavily at first
On the poor Flora's throbbing breast,
As DuNRiE tenderly impress'd.
In accents firm, but mildly sweet.
Truth with kind solace so replete.
She felt heroic fervour glow,
Which cheer'd her heart,and smOoth'd her brow.
And sudden resolution rose,
All tender feeling to oppose.
To act henceforth consistently,
To live ioT friendship and DuNRiB.
But at the moment that she deem'd
Her love abjur'd, such softness gleam'd.
And her half lifted eyes express
Such sweet unconscious tenderness.
That more than stoic he had been.
Who this could, unsubdu'd, have seen.
7f) DUNRIE,
'he moment was vvitli daii'Ter fiaufrlu. ^
f
incl vici'iy o'er eaeli rebel thought, V
I'en by Dun ric was dearly bought; ^
The moment was with danger fiaualu.
Ai
E't
Who at tliat soften big instant felt
He at her feet could then have knelt,
And own'd a more than kindred love,
Wliich duty only could reprove.
Repelling such a kindling fire,
Yet scarcely able to respire.
In agitated haste he rose,
And forward some (e\v paces goes ;
Then turning, ventur'd to express
His gratitude, not felt the less,
From his long silence on the theme ;
But that for ever he should deem
Profound regard, and high esteeto
To his life's most extended date.
But tributes all inadequate;
That his warm pray'rs were all her own—
A moment pass'd — Dunhie had flown*
The tender, fearful, wondering Maid,
For some time felt almost afraid,
CUNRIE 77
To pause upon the voice and look
Which mingled with the leave he took.
Long in confusion she remain'd.
And when each sense became unchain'd,
Some feeling, of more tranquil kind,
Stole gently o'er her ruffled mind.
Now every doubt was at an end,
DuNRiE was still her kindest friend ;
No other his affections held ;
Interest for his, her bosom swcU'd :
He had profess'd a warm esteem,
And did not his whole features beam
More softly and more tenderly
Than she remembcr'd ere to see ?
These thoughts beguil'd her heart to peace,
And pride and tears she bade to cease j
These smooth'd her pillow to repose.
And future blissful days arose ;
For still DuNRiE on her v/ould smile,
And still her rosy hours the while
Would pass, as former ones had done,
Bright as the ever-brightening sun.
78 BUNRIE.
Alien as peace had been to her,
How might she venture to infer,
The lurking passion of her soul
Was far indeed from that controul
She seem'd to think, and proudly feel,
When the good pastor's strong appeal
Was made to reason and to right.
Oh, then receded from her sight
All but severe propriety ;
Now thought she only on Dunrie,
At inexperienc'd seventeen,
Which ponders but the present scene.
Such inconsistency appears
The error of our youthful years ;
Thus evanescent are its fears ;
Its devious doubts, its wishes all.
Soon will apparent wrong appal.
And hastily resolve is made,
Which by another is betray'd ;
And still will Hope's more magic light
Dispel them all — as shades of night
Are chas'd before the morning ray,
And lost amid the blaze of day.
BUNRIE. 79
But what did Dunrie feel and think,
How should he from the danger shrink,
When at each future hour he view'd
Flora's attentions all renew'd,
And more attractive powers to please?
And when, one fatal morn, he sees
Her father, to the soul most vex'd,
Astonish'd, doubtful, and perplex'd,
Hears him despondingly repeat
His fairest, proudest hope's defeat.
His daughter had, with many a tear,
Firmly renounc'd a youthful Peer ;
One whom she long averr'd to be
Above his high nobility,
Of more distinguishable grace
Than others of his courtly grace,
To whom the virtues were ally'd;
Who had a feeling heart beside ;
But that she wishd not other fate
Then her own happy present state.
The fond persuasion that was o'er,
To harass and return no more;
80 DUNRIi:.
The task of conflict and of paii],
Which DuNiUE would not meet a2:ain,
To taste ilie consequent delight
Of having acted nohly right ; —
Such vain conviction fled away.
As disappointment's cloudy ray
Shaded his face, and half-rous'd ire
Spoke in the words of Floua's sire.
Alas ! he now too well perceiv'd.
He was deluded and deceiv'd.
And lull'd in false security?
Ev'n to suppose his fate's decree^
Accomplished in part alone;
And prov'd how man is always prone
To fancy he has all essay'd,
When one first vigorous step is made.
To open to another's sight
Her error's path, to put to fliglit
All that might more lier steps betray
To lure her on her thorny way j
To guard his own fond sympathy,
And teach her to believe him free ',
DUNRIE. SL
No Other sacrifice than this.
His heart's supreme and dearest bliss,
Could moral duty ere require,
Or e'en religion's voice desire.
Then, to the great, the all-wise Pow'r,
Disposer of each human hour.
Dispenser of its weal and woe,
And arbiter of all below ;
In meek submission to His will,
DuNRiE yet bends obedient still.
Ere some short months had pass'd away,
Hush'd was the pipe, and village lay.
Silent was ev'ry note of joy;
No carol cheer'd the day's employ.
The bitter sigh, and loud bewail.
Too plainly told the mournful tale.
That he, their pastor and their guide,
Was found no longer at their side.
To tread with diem the pious road.
That led them to the throne of GoDi —
That he, the ever good DuNRiE,
The theme of every eulogy,
G
82 DUNfttE.
Had left his long-lov'd flock to mourn,
Had left them — never to return.
But who may paint the tortur'd heart,
Or Flora's agony impart,
When the kind letter's lengthen'd page,
Though penn'd to solace and assuage,
Bade love its ling'ring hope expel,
And breath'd a long, a last farewell ?
Oh! when presented to her view
^Vas this pathetic, sad adieu.
Too well her anguish'd feelings prov'd
How much, how deeply she had lov'd.
And, suff'ring girl, it taught thee, too,
How little thou hadst try'd to do
What conscience and volition free.
Thy friend, and Heav'n, requir'd of thee.
That letter's almost hallow'd page
Bespoke the spirit of the sage,
And breath'd such tenderness of soul,
Under dominion and control;
And prov'd its aim and wish to be
So much her true felicity;
i)UNRIE. 83
That, on the first tumultuous sway
Of admiration and dismay.
In wild distraction Flora flew,
From the paternal heart to sue
Some hope, some transitory balm,
That might her soul and senses calm.
Reserve, reluctance, she had riot ; " '\
Her guarded secret she forgot,
And, kneeling at her father's feet,
In accents tremulously sweet.
Wildly implor'd him to bewail, ■
And listen to her mournful tale, —
The story of her erring heart.
Which ne'er before she could impart.
" Oh ! spare thyself, and spare to me,
•' Relation of such poignancy ;
" All, all, my Love, I know too well,
" Nothing is left for thee to iell;
" Yet ev'ry thing to do is thine,
" To soothe thy sorrows shall be mine."
6 2
84 DUNRIE.
And as he rais'd her to his breast
And would have hush'd her grief to rest,
Poor Flora sinks beneath his clasp,
And her pale form eludes his grasp.
Senseless to that paternal tone,
Despair had ceas'd, and life had flown ;
Dumb was her reason's list'ning sense,
Tranquil that bosom's throb, from whence
So late burst forth the tort'ring sigh.
And death's pale image clos'd her eye;
At length perceptibility
Taught her, arous'd, to feel and see
The pallid countenance of woe.
And the big tear about to flow.
Which spoke her parent's tender grief,
Still minist'ring the kind relief
Hei torpid faculties requir'd : —
Then, filial gratitude conspir'd.
With filial love, her heart to cheer.
Gently to prompt the answ'ring tear,
Soothe her soul's anguish into peace,
And bid at length its tumults cease.
OVNRIE. 85
From that too long remember'd hour,
Reason and right resum'd their pow'r,
And Heav'n receiv'd the constant pray'r
The humbled mourner proffer'd there.
A long estrang'd tranquillity,
From error's dross refin'd and free.
And resignation to the fate
Ordain'd to mark her mortal state.
Their dawning influence now began;
And months and years, as on they ran,
The charm of life renew'd again.
And sorrows fled, no more to pain
The chasten'd Flora's riper age ;
Who, from her mem'ry's darkest page,
Educ'd the regulated will,
The wish, the hope to profit still
From that humiliating past.
Which o'er her youth its shade had cast.
His fix'd determination made.
Honour and justice both forbade.
That DuNRiE longer should conceal
What 'twas his dutv to reveal
66 DUNRIE,
To his kind patron and his friend,
On whose warm heart he could depend
For tender feeling to a child.
By sensibility beguil'd.
With the next morning's rising sun
Dunrie's appointed task begun;
Resolv'd a sad farewell to take
Of the fair scenes he must forsake,
AVith haste his much-lov'd haunts he trod^
And commun'd with' himself and God ;
Then to poor Flora's sire he sent,
As proof of long-resolv'd intent,
A simple narrative of fact,
Which taught him how to think and act;
But still confin'd, within his breast,
The highest proof, and strongest test,
Of firm and pure integrity,
From ev'ry meaner motive free.
His patron read the guarded line,
ISor could conjecture ordetine
That aught remain'd for him to know;
For gratefully his thanks o'erflow,
DUNRIE, 87
And he had giv'n or house or land.
All but his precious daughter's hand.
To change his virtuous pastor's fate.
And such high worth to compensate.
But Dunrie's more exalted soul
Look'd on beyond an earthly goal ;
He look'd for nought that man could give,
In heav'n's all-hallow'd sight to live,
Unblemish'd and with conscience pure.
This only could his soul allure.
No wish liad he for slothful ease.
That Power alone he sought to please,
Whose grace no faithful son deserts,
But duty into bliss converts.
Yet oft he felt an anxious fear,
And often shed a silent tear.
For that still dear and tender Maid,
Now plac'd beyond his pow'r of aid ;
And oft he breath'd the heav'n-ward pray'r,
'^ hat gave her to a Father's care.
88 DUNttlE.
And now, as time would onward tend,
And Flora's sire some faint hope penn'd.
That happier news he should impart
Of her clieek's glow, and tranquil heart.
Her half-form'd smile, and cheerful look,
And wishes for her fav'rite book ;
Oh ! then with pious gratitude,
And confidential trust imbu'd,
DuNRiE would hail the coming hour.
Whose gentle and revolving pow'r
At length the past might dissipate.
And brighten all her future fate.
But exultation then was thine,
Such as in vain we may define ;
That DuNRiE, who again may say,
** Virtue has no reflected ray
*' To light its sublunary way:"
When it was giv'n thee first to know,
With all a father's eager glow,
Of heart-suggested eloquence;
That to the altar's sacred fence
He just had led his bosom's pride,
And hail'd her there Lord Edgar's bride ;
}
DUNRIE. 89
The same, who, not five years before,
Flora protested, o'er and o'ei.
Never to her devoted heart
Could more than friendship's warmth impart.
We hail thee, bright sincerity !
And venerate love's constancy.
But yet their truth is not betray'd.
If transfer of the last be made.
When duty and a parent's voice
Refuse to sanctify the choice.
With thankful heart, and lifted eye.
Which sounding words but ill supply.
With full fraught breast, and bended knee.
In grateful homage bow'd Dunrie !
And when the tide of rolling time
Had borne him to another clime,
And many a year had swept away
The sorrows of life's chequer'd day.
He paus'd in quietness awhile,
And wore at length the placid smile.
Which lights the brow of rev'rend age,
As still it ponders life's long page.
90 DUNRIE.
And traces there no crime or blot,
No importuning stain or spot,
To challenge the regretful sigh,
Crimson the cheek, or fill the eye. •
Again was Duis RiE rous'd to woe ;
Again its streams began to flow.
With current rapid and uncheck'd.
To bathe a relic that once deck'd.
When fairest of Britannia's land,
The dark-ey'd Flora's virgin hand.
Once, for alas that hand no more.
Now e'en its wedded symbol borej
In icy listlessness it lay,
Reverted to its native clay :
And that all-beauteous face and form,
Which once the coldest heart could warm^
Again to crumbling earth was giv'n,
And its i minor lai part — to Heav'n.
" In life, as death, she was not mine,' ■ ■
*' Teach me then calmly to resign
<■' All ihat in mortal form was dear;
" Teach mc, Almighty, to thy care
DUNRIE. 91
** To yield her with firm fortitude;
" And be my faith with hope endu'd,
" That in her now ethereal state
'* I yet may share her blissful fate."
Thus thought, and felt, and spoke Dunrie ;
Thus acquieso'd to Heav'n's decree,
As on the circlet's shining sphere
Unheeded fell the trickling tear.
But far above that precious boon,
Another pledge succeeded soon :
To Languedoc's enchanting land,
Led by a widow'd Father's hand.
In the first flush of childhood's bloom,
Yet weeping from his mother's tomb,
The playful, prattling Edgar came ;
And in that mother's sacred name,
His Father's voice implor'd Dunrte
The guardian of his son to be :
** With my sweet angel's dying breath,
" E'en when within the grasp of death,
" Her voice pronounc'd thy name, Dunrie,
* And her lov'd boy consign'd to thee;
92 BUNRIE,
" To guide his steps, to train his heart,
" And form him to the 7nan thou art/'
DuNRiE with tears receiv'd the boy;
He enter'd on his task with joy ;
Sooth'd in the hope, by Flora's child
His hfe's decline would be beguil'd,
That if on earth her hov'ring eye
Might see confirm'd the tender tie,
That mingled with her latest sigh,
He should in part the debt repay.
Which mem'ry's ever lambent ray
Still kept alive within his breast.
And gave to duty double zest.
Whilst the rich India's burning sun
Succeeding rounds had onward run,
Tinging the warrior's basking cheek.
Who long and vainly strove to seek
The peace of which he'd been bereft,
For which his own lov'd isle he left :
While he, beneath the torrid ray.
Still onward bent his sorrowipg way:
}
BUNRIE. i)3
Yet milder beams their influence shed
On his son Edgar's youthful head ;
Whose tranquil heart no sorrow knew,
Till on the morn he bade adieu
To those he valued and rever'd,
To all which gratitude endear'd.
No question now, why doubly dear.
Why yet more bitter was the tear.
That from the good old Dunrie fell,
When Edgar took his late farewell ;
And much did his young mind partake,
And well he knew his loss would make
A chasm in that belov'd retreat.
With all his life's first joys replete. —
The rapid wheels, so fast, and fleet,
Which tore him from the sweet abode.
Still whirl'd him on his destinM road j
Nor did he Dunrie's faith belie.
Save but the frequent, deep-drawn sigh,
And sometimes the abstracted eye,
And a lov'd name, repeated o'er j—
No other sign of giief he wore.
}
94 DUNRIE.
"But when those difFs their heads uprear'd.
When Albion's chalky heights appear'd,
That smiling sea-encircled land,
Whose every breeze, by ocean fann'd,
And wave that laves its hallow'd ground.
Waft health and happiness around;
At sigiit of this fair, favour'd isle,
Whose charms could wake e'en sorrow's smik
This land of his nativity ;— ^
Oh ! what might Edgar's transport be !
A father's long and close embrace
Could only these emotions chase ;
His welcome and his warm caress
Divert the tide of happiness ;
But the emaciated frame,
Responsive to this parent's name.
The visage lean, and hollow eye,
Awake his son's prophetic sigh :
Still joy illumes that sallow cheek,
New hope, new strength, new vigour speak,
And Edgar triumphs in the pow'r
To lengthen out life's faded hour.
DUNRIE. 95
Yet breath of England's free-born air,
Completion of his earnest pray'r.
His sire's reception, fur above
All thought of e'en parental love,
Nothing that night could chase away
The fond remembrance of La Paix.
And though the first remember'd time
He slept within his native clime,
Beneath a parent's noble dome,
Within his long-forgotten home :
Anna, Dunrie, in thought were nigh
And still before his mental eye
Was Languedoc's bright beaming sky
'}
DUNRIE.
CANTO III.
X HE sky, so oft without a cloud.
The sun, which vapours seldom shroud,
Still canopy'd fair Anna's head.
And o'er her brow their radiance shed.
Where flaunts abroad the blushing vine,
Where rears its head the stately pine,
Where aromatic sweets combine
To spread their perfume o'er the vale.
And float upon the southern gale:
There still she meets the op'ning day,
With heart and smile, less light, less gay ;
H
}
98 ©UNRIE.
But still alive to hope's sweet pow'r.
More potent than the balmy hour ;
This meteor through her senses gleam'd,
And cheering, not illusive seem'd ;
It lighted up the maiden's eye,
And sooth'd her grief, and check'd its sigh.
Within a twelvemonth's circling space
This scion of a noble race.
With every virtuous grace imbued.
Was to emerge from solitude.
She knew that Britain's favour'd strand
Was her lov'd Mother's native land.
With Edgar's patriotic fire,
Anna had caught his warm desire,
This far distinguish'd isle to see:
And though they might in voice agree,
That Garonne's valley and its ties
Were what they should for ever prize,
Yet early they had each been taught
To dwell with warm, admiring thought
On this fair country of renown.
Whose every blunt and simple clown
Proudly will boast it for his own.
}
DUNRIE. 99
And oft, when this had been the theme,
And England's glory, the bright beam
That shone in Edgar's speaking eye.
And wak'd his smile of extacy ;
His laughing, half-reproachful jest
Would give a pang to Anna's breast,
For could she not the truth deny.
Her Mother's words might oft imply,
That the first burst of beaming light.
Which broke upon her infant sight,
From Albion's shore was distant far.
Beneath Italia's southern star.
Why alienated she should be
From her first home and ancestry.
Why drawn her life's first breath had been
In such remote, though beauteous scene.
Had ofien glanc'd upon her mind.
As thought of childhood she resign'd;
And o'er and o'er she would revolve,
And try the mystery to solve.
Till once, with almost humid eyes.
To Lady Madeline she flies,
u 2
100 DUNRIK.
And to her listening ear confess'd
The doubt which harbour'd in her breast.
But silence put its sacred seal
On Anna's lip, as this appeal
Seem'd to awake emotion's cord ;
When, with impressive tone and word.
Her Mother tenderly forbade
All anxious queries to be made.
" When more matur'd thy years shall be,
" Temper'd thy sensibility,
" When more discrimination's thine,
" And reason's light shall stronger shme,
" I'll tell my melancholy tale; —
" Its lesson then will best avail."
Silenc'd, astonish 'd, and subdu'd,
Oft as she this address revievv'd,
To Anna we may not impute
The common female attribute,
If wishes in her breast would spring,
And fancy, ever on the wing,
Picture, with all its sombre hue.
Suffering and sorrow, strange and new ;
SUNBIE. 101
Till ceas'd the unindulg'd desire.
And died away the unfed fire.
Yet Anna's raem'ry still retain'd
All that had once her bosom pain'dj
And now that Edgar was away.
And contemplation held its sway,
The long discarded iheme reviv'd ;
Her riper years the hope deriv'd.
That past events she should be told ;
That now her mother might unfold
The history of days gone by,
Where once he liv'd, and wiien might die
The father she had never known ;
To breathe whose sacred name alone.
She never had permitted been :
Whose features, character, and mien.
So long in mystery array'd,
Were still involv'd in doubt and shade.
But humble and obedient still.
She gently waits her Mother's will ;
Her new rous'd wish forbears to plead,
And duty soon obtain'd its meed.
102 OUNKIK.
Bath'd in the dew3 of sparkling May,
Blush the briglit tints of rosy day.
Nature her dormant bondaije breaks;
In varied eloquence she speaks.
Already wake to joy and love
The plumy minstrels of the grove.
Now every new expanded flower
Embellishes the vernal bower;
Oped by the breath of early mom.
Exhales around the blossom'd thorn
Its newly-gifted fragrancy,
And perfumes every garish lea.
Afar in yon horizon's line,
Streaks of prismatic hue combine.
And now emerge the dappled rays,
And expectation's ardent gaze
Welcomes anon the sun's bright blaze.
Not adoration e'eti to thee !
No incense of idolatry.
Thou glorious orb of circling day,
Shall the admiring christian pay.
Yet, bounteous source of heat and light !
As oft as the enraptur'd sight
}
OUNBIK. 103
Salutes thee, in the golden east ;
Delight, exalted, and increas'd.
Shall hail thy full benignant pow'r.
The soul shall to thy mansion soar ;
And as its wonder flows anew,
Pour out to God its homage due.
The ivy'd turrets of La Paix
Are tinted by the orient ray.
And ev'ry placid vestal's face
Partakes the sweet inspiring grace
Of cheerfulness and temper'd joy !
Now ev'ry self-impos'd employ
Of rival ingenuity,
Accomplish'd all in secrecy.
With ev'ry sister's heartfelt pray*r.
Presented and accepted were
By Anna's speaking gratitude;
Who, as the varied gifts she view'd,
Check 'd the warm tear, that seem'd to say,
Though honour'd thus her natal day.
Though cheer'd and soften'd by the proof,|
That all beneath the pious roof
104 DUNRIE.
Their voluntary love express'd,—
By Edgar's voice she was not bless'd.
How might she then quite happy be
On this her day's nativity ?
Yet still she had not now to learn
With what emotions to return
The prompt affections of the good j
She look'd upon the sisterhood
As they had been her sisters too :
Insensibly she could not view
Tributes so tender and so kind,
From all she soon must leave behind.
This anniversary was the last;
For thefix'd time was waning fast;
Her seventeenth birth-day was arriv'd,
And soon La Paixmustbe depriv'd
Of its belov'd and cherished guest,
The partner of a convent's rest.
On this revolving day and hour,
"What could the mother's breast o'erpow'r?
Yet longer was tiiefond embrace;
Indefinite the tear-drop's trace
DUNRIE. 103
Upon the pallid visage seen
Of gentle Lady Madeline.
More ardently she asks of heaven
Its benediction to be given,
And choicest of its bounties shed
On her lov'd daughter's duteous head.
Joy did not mark the parent's cheek,
But agitation seem'd to speak
In ev'ry trembling pulse and tonej
And deep emotion, all unknown,
Wak'd the sweet Anna's filial fear.
Who spoke and smil'd to soothe and cheer.
But soon before the wond'ring maid
The Lady Madeline's hand has laid
A paper packet, large and seal'd,
And its contents her voice reveal'd ;
*' *Mid friendship's boons prepar'd for thee,
** Will my lov'd child receive from me
*• Whate'er this paper may contain ?
" Nor slight the gift, because 'tis plain ;
" It is no gem, or costly stone;
" It is a narrative alone.
106 JDUNRIE.
" Memorial of a time long past,
*' Of sunshine hours and years o'ercast :
** May its important truths impart
** A caution to my Anna's heart;
" Conviction, that the road to bliss,
" In such a wayward world as this,
*' Is only kept by due control
*• Of each strong passion of the soul,
" Avoiding duty's slightest breach,
*' Grasping at nought beyond its reach."
Oh ! what could Anna think or say ?
Astonishment, delight, dismay.
Each in its turn succeeding each,
Depriv'd her of the power of speech ;
And so pathetic an address
Alarm'd, and tended to repress
That sweet, but momentary glow.
Which faintly play'd upon her brow.
As first the packet she beheld,
And knew that in her hand she held
The wish'd-for, interesting clew.
For which her voice had ccas'd to sue.
DUMIIE. 107
Silence but more expressly spoke
The thoughts to which her heart awoke,
TiJJ Lady Madeline resum'd,
As raem'ry's glance her eye illum'd,
" Our good, our rev'rend friend, Dunrie,
" Dear to myself, and dear to thee,
" Will in this tale with radiance shine,
*' As well thy parent's guide as thine.
" My debt I ne'er can hope to pay ;
" Yet gratitude's congenial ray,
" Reflected in thy breast, my Love,
•* Our mutual sense alone can prove
" Of virtues we have learn'd to prize,
" Of truth, of faith, that never dies,
*' Of honour, that was ne*er dismay'd,
" Of goodness, that can never fade.**
JjA trepidation pass'd away
The remnant of that natal day ;
And came in vain the hour of rest.
In vain tlie Maid her pillow press'dj
And soon as fled the shades of night,
And soaring birds commenc'd their flight.
JOS DUNRIE.
So soon did wakeful Anna rise
To seize and ope heidestin'd prize:
But for her mother's kiss she waits ;
Then swiftly through the convent gates,
With rapid steps, she onward hies,
Till Dunrie's roof salutes her eyes.
Whilst Anna we suppose to be
Exploring wilh avidity
This manuscript's important page,
Its subject shall the muse engage.
Now must the pen of mem'ry paint
Thy trials, venerable Saint !
Pious and virtuous acts of thine,
Conspicuous in each record shine.
And raise thee to the spotless fame
That ever gilds the christian's name.
Manuscript.
In spirits and in youth, elate,
DuNRiE had met an early fate.
Had not the great, Almighty pow*r,
That spread its shield in danger's hour,
}
DUNRIE. 109
Prompted a human hand to save.
And snatch him from a wat'ry grave.
As on the smooth and glassy stream,
Impervious to the winter's beam,
That brightly gilds the treach'rous way, ^
Too oft inviting to betray.
He, with companions young and gay.
On sounding skaits their prowess tried,
Nor danger fear'd, nor breach descry'd,—
The voice of terror breath'd his name,
And, struggling 'neath the icy frame,
Death in its wat'ry form appear'd ;
But, in that moment's pause, uprear'd
By arm of strength, he spoke again ;
And gratitude, though all in vain.
Some faint expression tried to give ;
It died — but in his heart to live.
The stream, oh! classic Thames, was thine ;
And then within Oxonia's shrine,
Dunrie's preserver with him shar'd
Pursuits in which, by friendship pair'd,
They quickly pass'd the hours of light,
And studious watch'd the live-long night.
110 DUNRlfi.
Intent, with emulative glow,
To twine around each classic brow
A garland of unfading leaves,
The wreath which science only weaves.
Friendship's most pleasing era fled,
To other scenes their steps were led.
While in the unobtrusive shade
Dunrie's more humble course was laid.
His quondam college friend's career
Was destin'd for a higher sphere :
Still bonds of sentiment remain'd,
And Dunrie's bosom still retain'd
A deep-felt sense of gratitude ;
But painful thoughts would oft intrude,
Lest no occasion might occur,
In which he might in time confer
Some service on his gen'rous friend.
Assist, oblige him, or defend.
At that sad hour, when sunk in grief,
Flight seem'd his sure, his sole relief;
When clouds obscur'd life's vivid ray,
And gloom o'erspread the ling'ring day,
DUNRIE. lU
The sinking soul of good Dunrie
Was rous'd to active energy,
As ail his talents he apply'd
To be the tutor and the guide
Of a half-spoil'd and self-will'd boy;
And though unenvy'd the employ,
Yet the sweet hope his thoughts beguil'd
Of saving his preserver's child.
From him the proposition came,
His was the self-convicting blame.
That this, his son, his only heir,
Foster'd with too indulgent care,
Had not his Father's hopes repaid.
Nor filial retribution paid.
And thus renew'd his early tie.
Friendship now bade his sorrows fly.
And the bright glow of warm esteem
Sent forth again a cheerful beam,
That sad reflections might allay.
And shine on Dunuie's darken'd day.
Yet arduous was the task assign'd,
To triumph o'er a self-will'd mind,
IIS DUNHIE.
To curb impetuosity.
And teacli each rebel thought to be
Obedient to his sage control,
This might have chill'd a timid soul;
Three lustres too, the youth had seen,
And ev'ry fault had strengthen'd been.
The strong and elevated mind,
The judgement and the sense refin'd,
Which Dunrie's early friend possess'd
Avvak'd some wonder in his breast,
How as a parent he had err'd, —
An answer from himself he heard.
" You know, my friend, that stealing years
*' Of oft-crush'd hope, excited fears
" That childless still might be ray doom,
<* And that the all-oblivious tomb
*' Might close upon my titled name :
*• And well thou know'st, when Sidney came,
" Temper'd was yet the blessing given ;
" For, wafted to its native Heav'n,
" Was the pure spirit of my wife. —
** The chain taht bound me since to life
DUNRIE. 113
*' This darling boy alone hasbeen:
" To fit him tor another scene
" Be thine, Dunrie ; gain buthisheart,
" And thou'lt fulfil the tutor's part j
" It is a noble, generous one,
" Worthy thy pupil and my son."
Ere Sidney's college life began,
Three years' submission to the plan
That, with kind care and fortitude, ^
Dunrie consistently pursu'd.
Almost transform'd his character :
And yet in vain might hope infer 1
That, from his vital errors free.
He now was all he ought to be.
Alas! his passions strong and high.
So long accustom'd to defy
The very mild corrective sway
Presiding o'er his early day,
Oft in rebellion would arise.
Rejecting reason and disguise^
Yet from one point they seldom veer'd;
There was one sentiment endear'd
I
114 DUNRIE.
And bound him to the father's breast,
To which he oft was fondly press'd;
And rais'd him yet his faults above
His filial gratitude and love j
But e'en affection so refin'd,
So pure, so perfect in its kind.
Could not his fiery pulse controul,
Nor always soothe his ruffled soul.
When chang'd was the paternal seat
For that where art and science meet;
E'en at the University,
He was not hid from good Dunrie:
He hover'd o'er his wayward charge,
His mind still labour'd to enlarge,
A thirst for knowledge to inspire,
And fan each emulative fire.
Courted, belov'd, by all caress'd,
Sidney's too yielding heart coufess'd
The pleasures of society ;
Whilst his affections, strong and free,
Yet still preserv'd their sacred tie;
His father's image still was nigh;
DUNBZE. lid
Paternal influence yet remain'd,
And love oihome was still unfeign'd.
O Home ! whose sound the bosom warms,
Array'd in all its cheering charms,
Comfort, and affluence, and ease,
And all the nameless charities!
In the wide world's extended space.
In art or nature's richest grace.
Is there one cherish'd spot like thee?
Where'er we roam, by land or sea,
Be pleasure or instruction sought.
We give the still reverting thought
To thee, and thy exclusive pow'r.
To soothe and bless the passing hour.
And could thy charm, O Novelty !
The magic pleasure sought in thee,
Invite young Sidney from his homcj
And lure his youthful steps to roam ?
There was a secret charm, 'tis true.
Could all his love of home subdue;
i2
IIG DUNRIE.
This prompted Sidney to obtain
The leave he scarcely hop'd to gain,
That he might soon become the guest
Ot" one who oft a visit press'd,
With politic, but guarded care,
From the young, noble, wealthy heir.
And why did a full meaning smile
His father's parting tear beguile ?
As sportingly he hop'd the while
Sidney might save some trifling part,
And not surrender all his heart :
It most expressively betray'd
A wish oppos'd to what he said.
And to fulfil a fav'rite scheme,
For many years the constant theme
Of Sidney's ever anxious sire,
He sacrific'd the fond desire
Of his son's lov'd society,
And told his hopes to good Dunrie,
They both indulg'd the secret tiew
Of all the good that might accrue
From pure disinterested love ;
They ihought and hop'd it might improve
DUNRIE. 117
A heart, too often prone to stray,
When led by passion's dang'rous sway.
Ere Sidney reach 'd old Bicknor's gate,
Its castle's pride, its owner's state.
And only daughter's loveliness.
Report was anxious to impress.
And when at length he gain'd the goal,
Tumultuous feelings fiU'd his soul.
And expectation fir'd his eye.
And ev'ry quicken'd pulse beat high,
As though he knew the moment nigh.
That was his future life to bless,
And point the path to happiness !
Or No, he did not, could not think,
That he approach'd a fatal blink,
The verge of deepest miseryj
Which was, alas ! one day to be
The tomb of ev'ry hope and fear.
Of many a long and sorrowing year.
With admiration Sidney view'd
The tow'ring form, that was endu'd
}
U8 DUNRICU
With ev'ry high and noble grace,
Thai deck the person of the face.
Presented by a parent's hand,
With manners courteous, soft, and bland,
Wlio own'd his pleasure most complete,
That they were thus allow'd to meet.
The youth return'd this courtesy.
In grateful terms, polite and free.
And own'd he ne'er before had seen
In female form a loftier mien ;
Yet sigh'd the disappointed heart,
For reason's shield repell'd the dart,
And no alluring charm he found : —
But whence the captivating sound
That bleaks upon his startled ear ?
And who the Sylph iipproaching near.
Whose note of sweetest melody
Calls forth the thrilling hope to see
The author of such minstrelsy ?
Unconscious of the youthful guest,
J'or whom the gay saloon was dress'd ;
}
DUNRIE. 119
Unconscious of a stranger nigh,
The Nymph advancM, with downcast eye.
That rested on some new pluck'd flow'rs,
Cull'd from the garden's choicest bow*rs,
To deck the bosom and tlie hair
Of her she lov'd and deem'd so fair.
But that bouquet, so fresh and sweet.
Just blooming from its fragrant seat,
Shone not more lovely to the eyes.
Than did the blush of mute surprise.
Which stole upon the maiden's cheek ;
Who, fearful now to look or speak,
Held out the nosegay to her friend,
And then leturn'd, with modest bend,
The stranger's bow and ardent g;aze. —
Oh! luckless Sidney ! in amaze
Of new and never-felt delight,
Wander'd thy senses at the sight ;
While rapt'rous love thy fancy fill'd,
And through thy captive bosom thrill'd.
Yes, from this too eventful day,
His heart expanded to the ray,
120 DUNRIB,
Which gilds with fascinating dyes
The object of a lover's eyes :
Ivor can we wonder, that, assail'd
By sudden charms, resistance fail'd
In one so ardent and so weak,
Unus'd religious aid to seek;
Or, self-collected, to withstand
The wish that struggled for command;
Could such a youth, in such an hour,
Resist temptation's dang'rous pow'r?
Could he above his nature rise,
And burst through habit's potent ties r
Fame's sounding trumpet long had rung
Of Bicknok's heiress, fair and young,
And Sidney was prepar'd to see
Features of regularity.
But higher beauty met his view ;
Beauty by art euibellish'd too,
" And all the foreign aid of dress/'
Apt to uugmeni its loveliness :
And still iic sifih'd with vain regret,
Thatsometliing should be wanting yet, —
DDNRIE. 121
Something his fantasy to please,
And on his heart with rapture seize;
When startl'd by a sweet-ton'd voice.
Ere he could own the pow'r of choice ;
Ere he had seen her melting eye,
Or caught her figure's symmetry,
Her artless notes instilling glide,
And his whole soul's electrify'd.
Thus oft, the speaker though unseen,
The ear and heart have captive been
To some illusive speech alone,
When grac'd by a mellifluous tone!
But when the young Nymph met his sight,
It was a moment of delight, —
Love's first and long-remember'd date,
Decisive of his future fate.
From friend and father then remov'd.
From all he yet had fear'd and lov'd,
He thought, with vain security,
Himself, his heart, and hand, were free.
Known only for her modest worth,
Of humble, unassuming birth,
122 DUNRIE.
No note of praise was heard to dwell
Nor strain of panegyric swell,
On that fair damsel's beauteous form,
Though grac'd with ev'ry winning charm,
And though belov'd by all had been
The young and orphan'd Madeline.
Some years ere Sidney saw the Maid,
A foreign foe's avenging blade
Had robb'd her father of his life ;
And from the field of fatal strife,
A friend his dying words obey'd.
To Bicknor's Lord his child convey'd.
He haughtily refus'd the claim
Of kindred blood, and kindred name ;
But at his daughter's warm request,
Received the portionless bequest.
That daughter's constant sympathy
From sense of thraldom set her free ;
And, yielding to her hapless fate,
Content in her dependent state.
The lovely orphan wore, till now.
No care on her unfurrow'd browj
DUNRIE. 123
But own'd a cheei'ful, guileless heart,
Unpieic'd by sin's or sorrow's dart.
Yet too eiFectual was the skill
That work'd upon her captive will;
Sidney succeeded to inspire
All that his passion could desire:
And soon the heiress might discern
The youth's warm love, the Maid's return ;
But far unlike neglected fair,
She smil'd upon the thoughtless pair ;
Their mutual flame as rashly fann'd.
And future correspondence plann'd.
Why misapply'd should ever be
Friendship and generosity ?
Oh! better far it might have been,
If vanity's insulted mien,
And jealous fury, had appear'd,
Or blighted hope its torch uprear'd.
At length the farewell hour arriv'd,
And, evanescent and short-liv'd.
1 24 DUNIUE.
Like ev'ry other mortal scene,
Sidney confess'd his bliss had been.
Now to his father and Dunrie
He own'd what bright felicity
This too short visit had procured ;
What pain of parting he endur'd.
Extoird in praises, justly meet.
The castle's Lady, so replete
And rich in ev'ry mental grace ;
Number'd each beauty in her face;
Prais'd all^ in short, that he had seen.
But thought alone of — Madeline.
Though ever to his lips it came.
He never brtcath'd liercherish'd name.
His doting parent, self-deceiv'd,
What long he hop'd for, now believ'd ;
For still, as each recess came round.
The fleetest horse, that paw'd the ground,
Sidney would ever call too slow.
Whene'er he was prepared to go
^^ distant Bicknor's stately pile j
There, siill to hang upon the smile,
DUNRIE. 10,5
Which secrecy alone forbade,
Ahnost the absent months repaid.
But when the passion of his breast
At length was open and confess'd,
Who may the father's pang define?
He spoke not J but the firm design
From deep reflection's force ensu'd.
Parental love for once subdu'd,
Ere long he gave the stern decree,
That bade his son prepar'd to be,
To bow at length to his command.
To leave his home, and — native land.
Not the Torpedo's icy touch
Might chill or petrify so much,
As this imperative desire,
This burst of unexpected ire.
Sidney's till now successful voice
To urge his suit, or gain his choice,
Implores and supplicates in vain.
The only boon he can obtain,
Is yet a few weeks more delay,
One sorrowful adieu to say
12fi DNNRIE.
To that proud castle's fatal scene, —
To love, to hope, and Madeline.
The good, affectionate Dun it IE.
Urg'd each extenuating plea ;
But all was vain — decided, still
Unshaken was the parent's will.
Alike indeed to Dunrie's soul
Was ev'ry clime, from pole to pole :
To roam the channel's fronting shore.
The Continent to traverse o'er.
Presented joys untasted yet;
But his heart felt, with keen regret,
His friends' paternal grief and pain,
And his first hopes deceiv'd and vain ;
While Sidney's threaten'd banishment
With added pangs his bosom rent.
The parting hour was agony,
Afiliction spoke in either eye,
And sweird the breast of sire and son.
But ere three days their course had run,
Fair GaUia's land the trav'llers gain'd :
And who may speak the grief unfeign'd
DUNRIE. ]*27
The deep surprise, the dumb disma}'^,
Which DiJNRiE felt, but could not say,
At evil which he had not fear'd ;
When to his wond'ring eyes appear'd
The soften'd features, sylph-like mien,
Of the half-shrinking Madeline,
As Sidney to his friend and guide
Presented her, — his blushing bride.
Pity for frail humanity
Was the first virtue in Dunrie.
Never but to himself severe.
The soften'd tone, the feeling tear,
Would other's sin or error claim.
And skreen their frailty or their shame.
The rash and almost guilty pair,
Who to his face could scarcely dare
To lift the eye of penitence,
Awaken'd sorrow's deepest sense.
But both upon his mercy thrown.
Depending but on him alone,
128 DUNRiE.
In humble guise, and foreign land,
How could he such appeals withstand ?
To each he gave a trembUng hand;
And the full tear, he could noi stay,
Found its direct impulsive way
To Sidney's quick responsive heart.
And what did not that tear impart
To the still speechless Madeline ?
She silently had felt, and seen,
The good man's undisguis'd surprise;
And read the language of his eyes :
His kind extended hand she held,
Till ev'ry fear was hush'd or quell'd.
Her voice so sweet, her eye of blue.
Might sterner souls than his subdue.
That blushing sensibility
Alike from art or int'rest free,
Seem'd in the thoughtless bride to prove
An unsophisticated love :
And, if it could not plead excuse,
Some palliation might induce ;
}
OUNRIB. 139
For such a wide and flagrant breach
Of filial love, as would impeach
The sense of duty to his sire.
And such a sacrifice require,
Had pow'r sufficient to controul
His ardent and ingenuous soul f
But when their kind, misjudging friend
Propos'd their destinies to blend,
In distant land with privacy.
The nuptial knot at once to tie.
And bid adieu to misery,
Too strong the sweet temptation proved
To him who knew himself belov'd ;
Nor could the tender Madeline
Besist the plea in friendship's mien^
Nor think of danger, or alarm
In a lov'd husband's circling arm.
The die is cast, and they are one,
And now to foreign lands are gone :
Nor could the deep, nor sail unfurl'd,
Nor could a strange and unknown world,
K
}
130 DUNRIE.
Nor lessening view of British land^
Nor near approach of foreign strand,
Wake in her breast the sense of fear.
Nor prompt a sad, regretful tear.
Oh ! powerful and mysterious tie,
Which can such strength of soul supply ;
And make love's soft and silken rein
Become an adamantine chain ;
How great the pow'r assign'd to thee.
How unsubdu'd thy mastery,
Which bids the heart with rapture glow.
Triumphant over fear and woe.
Soft roll'd the hours with Madeline,
Whilst in each gay and changing scene,
With a fond heart, devoid of guile.
She bask'd beneath her Sidney's smile;
And could to Dunrie's voice attend,
As to a father and a friend.
War with its desolating hand
No longer swept fair Europe's land j
DUNRi£:. 131
Peace had succeeded terro?'s force,
And open was the trav'llers' course ;
So that the brightest scenes were free
To eye of curiosity.
Through GalUa's rich and fertile plain,
To where Italian summers reign.
The trio took their loit'ring way :
But though all cloudless was the day.
Yet its bright beams unchequer'd shone
On the young Madeline alone.
She saw not the too frequent shade
That oft her husband's joy allay'd.
And stole upon his changeful face ;
Saw not the sympathetic trace
In the good Dunbie's thoughtful air.
His serious brow, and eye of care.
By love and chosen beauty crown'd,
In nuptial truth and honour bound
To this belov'd, devoted wife,
Embitter'd still was Sidney's life.
Conscience, with its corroding sting,
Would often to his fancy bring
K 2
]S^ DUNRIB.
The sire, whose few and aged years
Must now drag on in doubts and fears.
When prostrate on his bended knee,
At the entreaty of Dunrie,
The good man's confidence he gain'd,
By grief and penitence unfeign'd,
And now determin'd to accede
To all which duty's voice decreed,
To dare the sole retrieving act, —
Disclosure of the fatal fact.
To wound the heart, already griev'd,
Of hitn whom he had long deceiv'd,
Was, on reflection, agony. —
He begg'd for time from good Dunrik j
And whilst perplex'd in doubtful thought,
The tidings from his sire were brought,
That his too oft incursive foe
Had struck again the painful blow ;
And sickness, with its ling'ring train,
Had just begun its weary reign.
Not in that unpropitious hour
Could Sidney's soul command the pow'r,
DUNRIE. 133
This new affliction to impart;
Nor could DuNRiE, with callous heart,
Still for the sad disclosure press,
To add fresh fuel to distress :
So that the son, from day to day,
Still found fresh reason* for delay.
But now the passing months proclaim,
That to the wife's beloved name.
Another sweet and binding tie
Was soon about to gratify
The heart and hopes of Madeline :
And joyful had the prospect been,
Had Sidney thought that he could be
Worthy of such felicity.
But when his child's first helpless cry
Drew the warm rapture from his eye,
Remorse and joy's impetuous force
Impell'd him to the rapid course.
That the next hour to England sent
The record of each past event.
With nervous hand, and beating heart,
The father could at once impart,
1S4 DUNRIE.
While hope suspended ev'ry fear,
What, during all the last long year.
The husband's pen could not confess.
** Oh ! bless your son, your grand-child bless,"
This was the strong, the warm appeal, ^
So strong, so warm, that heart of steel >
Must surely all its pathos feel, •'
Yet fresh returns of wind and tide
Laid not his rising fears aside;
To-morrow and to-morrow cape ;
The doubt and dread were still the same ;
At length the arrow of despair
Dispell'd at once suspense and fear,
And wing'd with retribution's meed,
It pierc'd him with electric speed.
His feelings into phrenzy fir'd.
By all he dreaded and desir'd.
He opens, with convulsive hand,
A letter from his native land;
A few unprefac'd lines convey'd
As mucii as volumes could have said.
BUNRIE. I3i
'* That Nature's latest pang was o'er,
" That his loVd' parent breath'd no more ;
" And the sad household, now his own,
" Awaited his commands alone,
" Their honor'd master to convey
" To the last bed of mortal clay."
*' Vile parricide, accurst am I \"
Was Sidney's sudden, piercing cry ;
As with a face by madness flush'd>
Impetuous to his room he rush'd.
He did not heed, he did not see.
The prompt attendance of Dcnrie ;
Who having learn'd his cause of grief,
Flew to administer relief:
But he in vain admittance sought,
Till, startled by a loud report
That met his terror-stricken ear.
He totter'd on, in pallid fear,
Burst open the obstructing door,
And sunk upon the blood-stain'd floor.
For oh ! what dread, terrific sight,
Now chill'd his senses with a€right ?
IS6 JDUMRIE.
Sidney, to all appearance dead.
His breath, and sense, and motion fled,
Death's instrument within his clasp,
Which still he held with nervous grasp.
Ere DuNRiE from mute horror rose,
The wife, from her disturbed repose,
Rous'd by the dire, appalling shot.
Flew wildly to the fatal spot,
And with her frantic screaming try'd
To rouse the senseless suicide.
Oh ! passion, like tempestuous wind!
The boist'rous impulse of the mind,
Uncheck'd by love's, by honour's call.
While reason's safeguards prostrate fall j
How does thy fury sweep away
The boast of many a toiling day !
And leave to our lamented view
A wasteful wreck to weep and rue !
But He, whose arm is stretch'd to save,
Eedeem'd the maniac from the grave ;
For, rescu'd from the gale of death,
Sidney recover'd pulse and breath ;
CUNRIE. 137
And, waking from the shades of night.
He op'd his e^^elids to the light;
Reason and sense return'd again,
And mental agony and pain;
And full reflection came at last
To pause upon the guilty past.
Contrite, and humbled, and subdu'd,
As he in memory's glass review'd
All that in rashness he had done,
And the dread risque which he had run ;
With fervency he breath'd a vow.
Which christian truth would disallow,
Yet by his soul's strong feelings fir'd.
He deem'd religious voice inspir'd.
" That many a year should now be spent
♦* In self-devoted banishment ;
" Sever'd from ev'ry tie that binds
" In grateful concord kindred minds ;
** From all the nameless joys that blend
" In country, wife, and child, and friend;
*' In distant climes unmark'd, unknown,
" His guilt to expiate and atone;—
138 DUNRIE.
" Never again his wife to see,
" Her whom he lov'd so tenderly,
" Nor the sweet babe who i ;
Till his sire's words his ear arrest.
" Unjust and harsh I may appear;
" And but the ever-painful fear
" Of that deep mis'ry I behold,
" Has so long urg'd me to withhold
" What now I am compell'd to say,
" Ere the poor Maiden of La Paix
" Its sacred sanctuary leave,
" And hope continue to deceive.
<• Nay, Edgar, interrupt me not;
" I grieve for thine, for her sad lot,
*' And almost curse the ill-starr'd hour,
*• In which I yielded up my pow'r.
" But listen to the luckless tie,
" My oath is bound to ratify.
" During the years now past and gone,
" When still beneath an Indian sun,
'• I fought the battles of my King,
" Hoping that conquest peace would bring;
*' Deep in a mountain pass one day,
** Tempted alone unarm'd to stray.
ODNRIB. 163
•* Unconscious of the robber near,
" And void of caution :is of fear,
" I wander*d indiscreetly on,
" Skreen'd from the sinking summer's sun ;
" When on my path an Arab sprung ;
" Awhile my life suspended hung,
** Almost expiringly I fell,
*' Nor what ensu'd I then could' tell ;
" But that from this unequal strife
" I woke to motion and to life,
" Supported by a galliant friend,
" Whom Heav'n in mercy pleasM to seiid,
" To crush the sanguine Mussulman,
" And lengthen out my itiortal span.
'• Junior although some years to me,
" The friend whocame propitiously,
" Lightened the long imprisonment,
" Which, captur'd after this event,
** We both were fated to endure ;
*' And still, our friendship to ensure,
" I pledg'd to him my willing, word,
" And God the sulettin promise^ heanrd,
• M ^
164 DUNRIE.
" That, when restoi'd to liberty,
*' Each should his household circle see,
" And happiness be our's again,
'^ The recommencement of its reign
" Should be our children's nuptial tie,
" And this would ev'ry wish supply :
" You (whom our Tutor's character
" Led him with justice to infer
*' Like virtuous tendencies in thine)
" Around his fancy seem'd to twine ;
" And oft would he our compact press
" With zealous, anxious eagerness.
" Thy wounded sensibility
" Too late, ray Son, I feel and see ;
•' Yet, pass'd this moment's agony,
" I trust with perfect confidence,
" To thy known worth — thy duty's sense.
" And think not that my Noble Friend,
*' In whom all honour's precepts blend,
" Think not Lord Eustace will require
*' Subversion of thy heart's desire ;
" Nor call for such a sacrifice, —
" I only can demand the price.
}
DUNRIE. 165
" My friend, by villainy betray'd,
" Since sought in vain thy Father's aid ;
" When I for both obtain'd relief,
" He yet wasdoom'd to added grief;
" In the same moment that I fled,
*' Back to his dungeon he was led,
" Yet longer in its gloom to pine;
*' Now — happier prospects on him shine,
" The light of day his eye-lids bless ;
" And, breathing pious thankfulness,
** These letters, but of recent date,
*' Remind me of your destin'd fate,
" Of my long pledg'd, accepted vow,
** To which I am compcll'd to bow."
Alas, poor Edgar I it was thine
To prove thy heart's long discipline :
The all-conflicting moment now
Of disappointment's chilling blow ;
When ev'ry precept giv'n to thee,
By the meek wisdom of Dunrie,
Were needed all, in pow'r combined,
To soothe the tempest of thy mind.
166
BUNKIE.
He who from yonder azure skies
Probes the full heart, and deeply pries,
Into the bosom's secrecy,
He best, nay. He alone could see
What pangs his noble nature rent.
In what extreme of pain he spent
The night and morn's revolving hour,
'Mid love and duty's struggling pow'r.
To raze poor Anna from his heart.
From her lov'd image e'er to part,
Which in his inmost soul was shrin'd,
And in its deepest folds entwin'd, ;
Not thus could Edgar act and think.
Not thus could break affection's link.
To make an undisguis'd appeal ;
His fond attachment to reveal
To the Lord Eustace, and to own
The love so radically sown,
The oft reiterated vow, _
Which long to either conscious brow >
Had giv'n the mutual beaming glow, -^
That e'en the pos.-bility
Of that love's transfer seem'd to be
OUMRIl.
167
As likely as the radiant sun
Should cease his daily course to run ;
As that the sea's continual roar
Should cease to lave the shelving shore.
At least this effort he might make,
This plain, ingenuous measure take.
Nor yet his filial faith transgress
For honour and for halppiness.
Such revolution who may tell ?
The page of sorrow who may swell?
Who may the interdict impart
To the good Dunrie's aged heart?
A Father's prohibition lay
Before the Maiden of La Paix ?
Whose tongue may negative its claim.
And quench at once love's hallow'd flame?
Oh! that same Father's trembling hand
Transcrib'd the terrible command :
And Dunrie's further pain was now
To smooth his own sad, ruffled brow;
To check his feelings' poignancy,
That mourn'd the hour he liv'd to see
168 DUNRIE.
Yet other blighted truth and vows ;
Entwin'd around yet other brows
The cypress* melancholy wreath;
And youth and beauty bow'd beneath
Cold disappointment's chilling blast.
With all their brightest hopes o'ercast.
Another lesson this could teach,
And to his full conviction reach,
That still aerial is the dream,
And futile is the fairest scheme,
And mutable the surest aim
That human foresight e'er can frame.
At what a time must he impart
Such daggers to poor Anna's heart !
When love and Edgar seem'd to hail
The smiling breeze, and fluttering sail,
About to waft her to the shore_,
W^here they would meet to part no more.
Oh ! then La Paix must longer be
The scene of new-wak'd misery,
The shelter stiil of heart-pierc'd grief,
Its dome again must give relief;
DUNRIE. 169
Its solitude must meliorate
This crisis of the Maiden's fate,
And its lone walls re-echo still
Submission 10 a higlier will.
Now, then, were ceas'd those soft adieus.
Her gentle heart might not refuse,
To ev'ry well-known glade and tree,
Remember'd from her infancy ;
Hush'd the half-sad, half-glad farewell,
Which sounded through each grove and dell,
As Edgar's form, and England's shore,
Flitted the Maiden's eyes before.—
Ye visionary beams of bliss.
So bootless in a world like this!
Ye airy fabrics of a brain,
That seldom have their fleeting reign !
Ye brigiit-rob'd forms of happiness.
Rarely embodied here to bless!
Ye future schemes of halcyon hue!
Ye dreams of Anna — all adieu !
To shun her Mother's anxious eye,
From Dunuie's watchful look to fly,
170 DUNRIE.
Lonely, amid the shadowy dell,
Upon her hapless fate to dwell.
Combining, in her heart's despair,
What once her parent's sufferings were,
This converse with herself and Heaven,
Was all she wish'd, or could be given.
And though she may not now pursue
The phantom that had mock'd her view j
Yet still upon the mountain side
She pictur'd oft her youthful guide;
And in that lake, so clear and still,
In murmurs of the rippling rill.
His image would the wave supply.
And the brook blend his anguish'd sigh :
She saw the look, she heard the voice,
Which oft had bade her soul rejoice:
Too fond imagination now
Retrac'd the unavailing vow,
Dwelt on the joys of days pass'd o'er.
On rapture to return no more.
Yet still to her lov'd Mother true.
Wearing alone grief's pensive hue,
DUNRIE. 171
Though clad in sorrow's pale array,
The virgin mourner of La Paix
Bore not the image of despair :
No stormy semblance did she wear
Of uncontroul'd, uncheck'd distress.
She did not feel the anguish less ;
*Twas not the chill of apathy,
The want of sensibility;—
That was the first endearing grace
Of Anna's mind and speaking face.
It was the genuine temper'd sway
Of reason's regulating ray ;
It was her nature's gentleness.
Early instructed to repress
Emotion's wilder tendency.
That bow'd her soul to piety.
Her inclinations to the Pow'r,
That rul'd her from her natal hour.
These were the gifts that sav'd to thee,
And from the grave of misery,
Thou envy'd Mother of a child
So gently good, so meekly luild.
172 DUNRIE.
A gem so dear, so pure, so bright.
That shone in sorrow's darkest night ;
From sorrow joy is often horn,
A joy that circles round the morn.
Ahis ! for Lady Madeline,
Long had her night of sorrow been ;
And len_i;then'd in her offspring seem'd,
Tiiat such fair promis'd morn she deem'd.
In yet another sphere must rise,
In reahns beyond all mortal eyes.
E'en from the root of deep despair,
Of suffering and corroding care,
She woo'd another hope to spring ;
Its plumed crest, and new-fledg'd wing,
For her lov'd child, had soar'd anew,
And hail'd again life's cheerful hue :
Anticipation's sanguine dream
Had dwelt upon the glowing gleam,
That threw its halo round her head.
And long on Anna seem'd to shed
The rays of bliss and extacy.
With all of mortal certainty.
DUNRIE. \7^
Yet mem'ry of that sable cloud,
Stretch'd out for ever to enshroud
Her life and love's once radiant sky,
Had rais'd the Matron's glance on high :
And whilst most tenderly she sought
To place before her daughter's thought
Affection, hallow'd and secur'd ;
Herself less certain, less assur'd,
On what the future might enshrine,
Controul'd alone bj power divine j
She now that fortitude could yield,
To which her Anna's grief appeal'd ;
She now had strength that strength to give,
And bid her faith and trust survive.
Those who have read the human heart,
And in its trials borne a part.
May but too readily conclude,
That, after such vicissitude.
The Mother and forsaken Wife,
Far from the world's conflicting strife.
Its charms, once known, all pass'd away.
Should wish for ever to delay.
174 JDUNRIE,
Within that tuneted recess.
The object of her tenderness.
Not so the Lady Madeline :
Such beauty, virtue, to consign,
Unthought of as unseen, unknown,
For ever to La Paix alone;
A Mother's joy, a Mother's pride;
On this her voice could ne'er decide ;
Her trembling hand could never throw
O'er a lov'd daughter's radiant brow
Oblivion's everlasting veil.
And doom her to a convent's pale.
Yet the sweet Anna's plaintive tone
Was rais'd, beseechingly alone,
" That now for ever she might stay
" Within the precincts of La Paix."
To launch upon a world unknown,
Ere yet from her pale cheek had flown
The trace of many a trickling tear ;
To meet again her Edgar there
Betroth'd, — and to another bride,—
Were better that the sea divide,
PUNRIE. 175
That ev'ry intercourse should end,
Till dust with dust again should blend*
But a benignant Providence,
Watchful to bless and recompense^
Had yet another fate in store
For those who still his aid implore.
Week after week had glided by,
And Edgar's silence could imply
Nought but obedience absolute.
To dictates he could not dispute;
The confirmation likewise came
In his own wretched hand and name.
Importing, that his warm address
To the Lord Eustace had no less
Impression made, than the faint cry
Of the poor lamb condemn'd to die;
That though convinc'd of all his woe.
And his first love's impetuous fiow^
Painted so strong and feelingly.
The Earl still wish'd and hopM to see
Fulfilment of the compact made,
When from his present though ts.»hxndd}fadc^
176 DUNRIE.
Affection of his boyish days,
And other charms should meet his gaze.
What, then, must be Dunrie's advice
In an extremity so nice?
How answer the pathetic line,
** Thy rule for conduct shall be mine ?"
Alas, alas ! that hearts so pure,
And love so seemingly secure,
Sever'd in mortal lite should be!
'Twas mystic even to Dunrie.
Reflecting and revolving still.
On the great God's mysterious will,
He pac'd one eve the lovely ground,
That form'd his mansion's sloping bound.
Bright tints yet rob'd the western sky,
The landscape glow'd with crimson dye,
As the sun's last and vivid light
lUum'd the mountain's glowing height,
Pierc'd through the vistas of the wood,
And ting'd the Garonne's winding flood.
DUNRIE. 177
The Convent's fair proportion'd spire
Now sparkled in the liquid fire;
The turret's flanting ivy shone.
In gleams cf brightness not its own;
Its towers and walls of dusky gray,
Enlighten'a by the slanting ray,
In borrow'd lustre seem'd to blaze.
And court the loiterer's ardent gaze. f
It was, indeed, a glorious sight,
And yet it yielded not delight;
The good man's heart and thoughts were bent,
And all his faculties intent,
The grief of Edgar to abate.
And sooth his sad, dejected state.
The tear yet linger'd in his eye.
Responsive to the gentle sigh
With which the Maiden of La Paix
Had left him to retrace her way.
Sudden he starts, as o'er the mead.
Bounding with more than lapwing speedy
He saw her steps return again,
And heard her fluttering voice explain
178 DDNRIE.
The meaning of her flying pace,
Her trembling knee, and wond'ring face;
It was the almost unknown sight
Of rolling wheels advancing flight;
A carriage bowling o'er the green.
Which, rarely in this valley seen,
So much astonish'd Anna's eyes,
And call'd forth e'en Dunrie's surprise.
It now ascends the winding road.
That leads to his retir'd abode ;
It stops ; conjecture stronger grows.
And some confus'd remembrance rose.
That the tall stranger, now in view.
Of meagre form, and sun-burnt hue,
Bore strong resemblance to a mien
He once had known, and somewhere seen.
With all the gentle courtesy,
So native to the good Dunrie,
He to his guest a welcome bade ;
But on the timid, shrinking Maid
The stranger bends his ardent gaze.
Nature's impulsive throb obeys,
DVNltlB. 179
And, grasping Dunrie's feeble hand,
Bursts from his lips the loud demand:
" Is it my Anna tliat I see?
*• Oh ! speak the raptur'd certainty !
" Oh ! grait me either life or deaih,"—
Yet adds he in the self-same breath,
" J know, I feel, my heart declares
" It is the object of my prayers."
Then clasping Anna to his breast,
The highvvrought bliss his words arrest.
The sudden bursty the vast excess
Of long-lost joy and ha[jpines3,
Suspends awhile the tide of life,—
Thescaicely uttcr'd sound of wife
Breatii'd with re-animated glow,
Again bespeaks the conscious flow
Of newly-felt felicity ;
His half-shut eyes unclose to see
The rev'rend figure of Dunrie ;
The pallid features of the Maid,
At once delighted and afraid,
Trembling with hope, and aw'd with fear,
Lest the next moment should uprear
n2
}
180 DUKRIE.
Some form to chase the wondVous spell,
Some intervening doubt to quell
The rapl'rous, unexpected joy.
And this extatic dream destroy.
" Almighty and all-gracious Pow'rl
" Such long anticipated hour
" Is it at length permitted me
*' In my decline of days to see ?
*' And thou so long thought dead — return'd
" Art thou the Sidney we have mourn'd ?
« Art thou the father, husband, friend,
" For whom our daily pray'rs ascend ?
•' Thy wife, thy Madeline lives still,
" She lives to bless her Maker's will,
" Her constancy and truth to prove,—
" Faithful she lives to thee and love.
Could language soar with fancy's flight,
It might, indeed, describe the sight
Of Sidney happily restor'd.
Of Sidney at the social board ;
Of him whose mem'ry ever dear
Had prompted oft the falling tear j
DUNRIE. 181
Of him who through the long-drawn time
Of penance in another clime.
Through misery's vary'd scenes had pass'd}
And wish'd the coming day his last ;
Of him at length from error free,
From all impetuosity :
Reform'd that fervent temper's blaze.
So fatal to his youthful days.
And now restor'd to those fond ties
On which the heart of man relies.
And, Fancy! thou alone canst tell,
Recondite in thy fairy cell.
The mournful, tender, happy scene.
In which the Lady Madeline
Keclaim'd the wand'rer to her heart.
Oh 1 ne'er did sorrow's keenest dart '-.
More fortitude of mind demand ;
And never did affliction's hand
More strongly, more acutely press.
Than such reflux of happiness.
Long did the turrets of La Paix
Re-echo to the grateful lay,
182 DUNRIB.
Which each good sister rais'd on high.
For that protecting panoply,
Which had at last in safety led
TheSiDNKY number'd with the dead,
Blessing and transport to impart
To the long lacerated heart
Of her whose virtues they rever'd.
Of her so luv'd and so endear'd ;
And the good Dunrie's humbler roof
Bore still more genuine, speaking proof
Of fond attachment's broken ties,
Renew'd in love's soft charities.
But what a change can time eifect?
Is this the Sidney gailv deck'd
In youtliful manhood's glowing pride ?
Is this tiie lovely, blushing bride,
Whoonct, with ev'ry charm and grace,
L'nrivali'd mnk'd in form and lacef
Alas! life's trials had done more
Than [)as.sitig yt-ars told o'er and o'er.
But though tlius faded \\ as the shrine,
The soul, that particle divine,
DUNRIE. 183
From change, from waste, from languor ftee.
Shone still in bright maturity.
No longer now by guilt disguis'd,
Sidney's high worth was duly priz'd
By the fond wife so faithful prov'd.
By the sweet child so fondly iov'd :
No longer now the headstrong youth.
Victim of violated truth ;
The chang'd, sedate, delib'rate man,
Acting on virtue's steady plan.
Prudent, and patient, and correct.
He claim'd attention and respect.
Now grouped in calm tranquillity.
The parents, daughter, and Dunrie,
Recluse within the jasmine bow*f,
Lov'd seat of Anna's happiest hour;
Some question, or from wife or child,
Would call for this rejection mild.
« We will not cloud our dawn of joy
" By such sad record of alloy ;
*' When I shall reach my native home,
*' And ia my own paternal dome,
184 DUNRIE.
" The sum of my augmented bliss
" Requires subtraction such as this ;
" My days of past vicissitude,
" And each event that has ensu'd, '
*' Shall all, my Madeline, be known ;
'• And your heart's tribute vi^ith my own,
" Be paid, I trust, in grateful praise
*' To Heav'n's all-wise, mysterious ways."
So Sidney spoke j but with Dunuie,
Convers'd at large in privacy.
From him he learnt why Anna's face
So oft would wear its blushing grace.
Then fade anon to palest hue,
As home and England's hop'd-for view
Hung on her father's thought and word :
One half-reproach by chance she heard,
Which to the Maiden's ear convey'd
A fear her feelings were betray 'd.
" May not a new-found father prove
" The substitute for other love?"
Volumes could not have more impress'd
This fear on Anna's gentle breast.
DUNRIE. 185
The world again its form uprears.
Fair Languedoc must share her tears,
And echo back her sighs no more,
Ivlor retrospect of joy restore :— <•
But recollected and resign'd,
She now prepares to leave behind
Each vestige of her former day,
The bow'r, the Garonne, and La Paix;
Upheld by that reviving smile,
Which could each sense of care beguile {
Which prov'd the Lady Madeline
No longer secretly to pine,
But yielding to a husband's voice
To make that husband's will her choice.
" Then farewell, lov'd and beauteous vale,
" And Britain, unknown Island, hail 1
" Where living now no more for me,
" Yet Edgar I may breathe with thee
" The breeze of health and freedom's air,
" And still I trust thy friendship share ;
* And where, perhaps, thy beaming eye
f With mine may change its soft reply;
J86 DUNRIE.
" And if clividedj peace may still
" Wait on the subjugated will."
Submissive to her destiny,
To her fond parents and Dun R IE,
Encircl'd, animated, bless'd,
All bitterness of grief represt,
Anna now took her last adieu!
And her long, ling'ring, tearful view
Yet rested on the Convent's tow'rs,
On the lone cot, the shady bow'rs,
Where many a tender plant had grown
Of Edgar's training and her own ;
It rested on the lovely scene,
Back'd by the distant mountain's screen^
Till, wafted o'er the wide expanse,
She left the less'ning shores of France,
And then again, with tearful view,
Breath'd out a sad, a last adieu!
What may her new sensations be ?
When launch'd upon the trackless sea,
On that majestic world of waves.
Which dauntless man so boldly braves ;
DUNRIE, 187
That fathomless and mighty deep.
Where, hury'd in oblivious sleep.
Thousands on thousands reckless lie.
Who once, beneath an azure sky.
In joyous hope pursu'd their way,
Delighted with the dashing spray.
Till the loud storm, and sudden swell.
Full on the hapless vessel fell ;
And winds, and clouds, and waves combiu'd.
To yawning gulphs their prey consign'd.
Some hours absorb'd in wond'ring awe.
At all she felt and all she saw;
Anna at length, with new delight.
Beheld fair Albion's chalky height.
And when she trod on British ground.
When her ear caught tlie pious sound
Of grate tul orisons lo God,
From those who buw'd beneath His rod,
And now uprais'd the grateful eye,
For all His goodiiess couid supply ;
She felt uith them desire to bless,
Rejoicing in their happiness.
188 DUNRIE.
Beauteous was that declining day,
When the broad sun's receding ray,
Gilded again the antique dome
Of Sidney's long-abandon'd home.
And as it op'd its massy doors,
And as he trod its well-known floors,
Ecmorse, that too obtrusive guest,
Wak'd a keen pang in Sidney's breast,
That bid him shed the filial tear
On his lost Father's early bier;
A tear that flow'd for former sin,
Wak'd by, the monitor within.
That could each swelling thought repress,
Of wealth, and joy, and happiness,
As recollection rous'd anew
The mem'ry of his last adieu.
When disobedience and deceit
Mark'd his unfortunate retreat.
And melancholy mark'd the brow
Of him for whom he sorrow'd now.
But the first keen emotions o'er,
Sidney in gratitude forbore
IXUNRIE 189
On former scenes of woe to muse,
And cloud his present happier views*
His wife's returning smile to greet,
His daughter's fond embrace to meet ;
These, these were luxuries refin'd,
That sooth'd to peace bis pensive mind<
But what, alas ! is Anna's fate?
Condemn'd in sad suspense to wait;
Stiil present to her mental eye.
One image wak'd the frequent sigh ;
The doubt she struggled to subdue^
Each passing day still stronger grew,
That e'en her cherish'd hope was o'er,
And Edgar she should see no more*
If there's a charm in sympathy,
And equal woe a comfort be,
In Edgar's too responsive grief
Anna had found a sad relief:
He little dream'd that she was near
So fondly lov'd, so justly dear.
That she for whom he wept the while,
Repos'd e'en now in Britain's isle ;
190 DUNRie.
That a new source of bliss was her's, — ■
No sound on him such jo\' confeis.
Of her found parent nought he knew,
His own perplex'd, immediate view
Almost all other thought excludes ;
O'er each extinguish'd hope he broods,
For Anna asks the strength he needs,
And for her bliss alone he pleads.
Lord Eustace now had fix'd the day.
And in a letter, light and gay.
Expected Edgar to obey
The summons, that would introduce
His destin'd bride, the fair excuse
For those long-settled nuptial tics.
That seem'd to both a sacrifice.
" Oh ! then my personal appeal
*' At once my future doom shall seal;
" If still unmov'd the Father be,
" The daughter's heart will hear my plea;
" Nor claim, I trust, in heav'n's fair sight,
" The vow I cannot breathe or plight."
}
toUNRIE. J91
Thus Edgar's selfish feeling cried,
But e'en as it escap'd it died.
He look'd upon his aged sire,
He saw new pleasure's kindling fire
His sallow face reanimate.
And joy his sunken eye dilate :
Heard him anticipate the sight
Of his lost friend with high delight j
And could he hearken or behold
With heart indifferent and cold ?
Oh no ! he clasp'd his Father's hand,
Avow'd himself at his command;
But trusted in his promis'd word.
That for one year should be deferr'd
Obedience to the stern decree,
That broke the bands of constancy.
In vain fair Nature's varied hues.
And all her bright autumnal views,
Courted the gaze of sire and son :
With speedy course time hurried on
The morn of that important date,
So critical to Edgar's fate;
192 DUNUIE.
It secm'd to him, with magic strange,
The world had undersfone a chaise:
The beauteous p]ny of liglit and shade
Chequer'd no more each op'ning glade,
No more on each projecting knoll
The tide of splendour seem'd to roll;
The foliage of each gilded tree
No longer shone with brilliancy;
The garden's flow'rs, the verdant field,
Nor scent nor pleasure seem'd to yield.
His thoughts referred to other time,
His visions to a distant clime ;
And there transported mentally,
One only object could he see:
No wonder, then, a dusky hue
O'erspread the landscape in his view j
That eye and ear no relish found
For ev'ry present sight or sound:
No beauty in the wood-crown'd hilly
No music in the gurgling rill,
No radiance in the blaze of noon,
No softness in the silver moon.
For when can sun or moonlight bless
The heart that struggles with distress ?
DUN R IE. 793
Or nature's scenes a charm bestow,
If dead the mind's accordant glow ?
Nor could the Father's heart receive
The pleasure which such objects give ;
Reflections of more cheering kind
Had now engross'd that Father's mind ;
And each, with more of joy or pain,
Approach'd Lord Eustace* wide domain.
The meeting of such long-link'd friends
The pain in Edgar's heart suspends:
Fades at the instant ev*ry thought
Which harbour'd prejudice had taught ;
And rose tiie warm wish to revere
His Father's champion in the Peer:
The manly dignity of form,
Scath'd like the oak by thunder's storm,
Bespoke the nobler soul within ;
And doubt or diffidence were sin.
As Edgar scann'd his countenance;
The fire, that sparkled in his glance.
Sunk all at once to softer hue ;
He thought he could distinguish, too,
M
194 DUN HIE.
The accents of his mellow*d voice
More prone to sorrow than rejoice:
Such mildness rais'd a beating hope
Within imagination's scope,
That the soft eye and softer tone
Might all his just excuses own.
But transient was this April beam !
« All that I could have wish'd you seem,"
Cried the Lord Eustace, as his hand
Was stretch'd to Edgar to demand
The sympathetic clasp of his :
" Amid vain life's uncertainties,
" This day I scarcely hop'd to see,—
« This, which restores ray friend to me,
<< And brings his son, with prompt design,
« Prepar'd already to be mine.
" Nay, nay, 1 will have no reply,
t< I read the meaning of your eye ;
" The coming of my daughter wait ;
" She must decide upon your fate."
What heart but now will sympathize,
While Edgar all in vain replies ?
DUNBIB. 195
Lo! at that moment slowly came,
With trembling, agitated frame.
With fluctuating step and air,
With eyes that not a glance would dare.
The unknown creature of his dread,
By the Lord Eustace forward led :
She paus'd, expecting some address.
Half lost in wonder and distress.
But for a moment was that pause;
But for a moment stands the cause
Of the poor youth's dejected mien.
Unknown, unheeded, and unseen ;
One half-articulated word,
Though softly breatU'd, by Edgar heard,
Thrill'd through his soul, with wild amaze.
And suddenly his ardent gaze
Dwelt on his Anna's form and face.
Replete with beauty and with grace.
' And can my senses trait'rous prove ?
* Is it the object of my love?
' Is it her smile, her eye of blue ?
' Is it delusion? is it true?
i9Q DUNRIE.
' Oh yes ! we shall not, cannot part' —
He spoke, and press'd her to his heart.
' But who art thou V the Lover cry'd,
' That thus presents my destin'd bride ?'
" The proudest title I can boast,
" And what I feel and value most,"
With high delight Lord Eustace said,
•' Is that of Father to this Maid ;
" To her I give the pow'r to bless,
" Be her's to seal thy happiness,
" Thy virtuous efforts to repay,
" And own thy just and gentle sway :
*^ Thou whocouldst stem thy passion's tide,
" Art fitted to become her guide,
" To shield her frame from all alarms,
" And guard her in thy shelt'ring arms."
Anna's pale cheek, and downcast eye.
Bespoke her heart's felicity ;
Her senses in surprise enchain'd.
Her Lover's arm her form sustam'd,
Or that fair fragile form had sunk.
As from the weight of joy it shrunk.
DUNRIE. 197
Edgar she was prepar'd to see,
With fortitude and constancy;
Prepar'd to bid her Love farewell,
And ev'ry vain regret to quell.
But what transporting change is this!
What perfect, what unlook'd-for bliss!
The Fathers bath in concord join'd,
To favour and ta bless combiu'd j
The unconditional consent,
The tear, the smile of sweet content;
What monieat of extutic joy !
What happiness without alloy !
Oh ! Edgar, raise a2;ain thine eye.
For, lo! to chase the half-breath'd sigh,
Thy other sire, thy tutor see,
The wise, the kind, the good Dunrie ;
His snowy hair, and wrinkled cheek —
His full illumin'd eyes, that speak
The more unfaded soul, — that brow
Of rev'rcnd age, all beaming now
With joy at others' joy,— e'en he.
Who led their steps from infancy.
The climax of tlieir bliss fulfils ;
And while each heart witli rapture thrills,
198 DUNRIB.
He points with hand, and heart, and eye.
To Him who sits enthron'd on high.
" My children, — by adoption mine,—
" Adore yon Providence divine !
** That Sidney, o'er whose tale of woe
*' I taught my Edgak's tear to flow, —
*' That Sidney and Loid Eustace one,
" Who, beneath India's torrid sun,
" Thy sire preserved, — the Arab slew,—
" Whose friendship for that Father grew,
<* While buried in an earthly tomb,
" And flourish'd in a durigeon's gloom,—
" 'Twas he propos'd, receiv'd the vow
" Which, ratify'd, compleated now,
" Fulfils his long-projected scheme,
" And crowns thy youthful golden dream.
" Himself too long his passion's slave,
" He plung'd within a stormy wave,
" And disobedience and despair
" Long mark'd, you know, his life's career.
*' To put thy virtue to the test,
•' Ere yet his daughter's hopes were bless'd,
DtJNBIE. 199
" He tried the fortitude of each,
** Keeping within thy hidden reach
*' The recompense of ev'ry hour,
*' That mark'd thy virtue's ruhng pow'r.
" He blesses now thy constancy,
" And gives his daughter's hand to thee."
* And, oh ! shall not a Mother's voice
' Be heard to triumph and rejoice?'
(Exclaim'd the Lady Madeline,
Who plung'd in silent tears had been;)
* Shall not maternal rapture raise
' The gratulating sounds of praise,
' On this auspicious, radiant date,
' Bright era of her children's fate f'
To that fond bosom Anna flies,
Catching the tear-drop from her eyes ;
And Edgar's joy-illumin'd face
Participates the warm embrace.
And here must language cease to dwell
On bliss her pow'rs would vainly tell ;
As when the day's refulgent light
In noon-tide splendour meets the sight.
200 DUNRIE.
And bursts, with all its brilliant blaze.
Upon tiie almost dazzled gaze:
If some thin va[)ours tloating rise.
To shade the lustre of the skies,
The sated eye expands anew.
And welcomes the less vivid view.
So, when the pencil would essay
To realize life's blissful day,
And place before the mental eye
A blaze of pure felicity,
The oiitstretch'd mind will gladly liaii
The shade of that congenial veil,
Which silence in its judgement weaves ;
And to the pow'rs of fancy leaves
To ponder on the happ^^ scene,
And [)icture long its soften'd mien.
Soon as the hallow'd vows of love
Were made, and register'd above;
Soon as the sacred knot was ticdj
Which voice of man may not divide j
And vvhen the ever good Dunrie
Had with prophciic energy
OUNR1E. ^1
The nuptial benediction shed
On each belov'd, betrothed head ;
He leaves once more the world's gay scenes ;
Again the channel intervenes ;
And Languedoc's serener skies
Beam once more on his aged eyes.
There peace, and stillness, and repose.
Await his life's last ling'ring close:
All that he loves on earth are bless'd,
He views his final hour of rest
With the illumin'd joy of hope :
Death and the grave upon him ope.
But these have no appalling guise,
For realms of after bliss arise.
Almost in Saintly form enshrin'd,
His pure, devout, and heav'nly mind,
From sin, remorse, and sorrow free,
Now mingles with eternity.
Waiting the moment to fulfil ^
The mandate of his Maker's will, V
Some earthly ties arrest him still. ^
Oft as the Garonne's waves of blue
Reflect fair nature's form anew ;
202 DUNRIE,
Oft as the annual spring-tide flows,
And breathes its perfume on the rose,
And trails her aromatic flow'r
Around that lovcl) jasmine bow'r ;
So oft the young and wedded pair
For many a week his dwelling share.
To gladden still his heart and eye
With their full-fraught felicity.
His feeble footsteps still to aid,
Through ev'ry fav'rite haunt and glade,
To trace with him the well-known way,
That leads the pilgrim to La Paix.
And what is Anna's matron joy,
As still he lives to clasp her boy,
As, rested on his aged knee.
She hears him sweetly lisp— Dunicie!
FiNia.
Printed bj Richard Cruttwell,
St. Jaines's-street, Bath.
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