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THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

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THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

A NEW EDITION.

VOLUME IV.

THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

PRINTED FOR

LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS,

PATERNOSTER- ROW.

1839.

PR

usfln

LONDON:

PRINTED BY MANNING AND MASON,
IVY LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW.

PREFACE,

DIFFIDENCE of their own abilities., and fear,
which heightens the anxiety for public favour,
are pleas usually urged by the youthful writer :
may I, while venturing for the first time to speak
of myself, be permitted to say they far more
truly belong to one who has had experience of
both praise and censure. The feelings which
attended the publication of the " Improvisatrice "
are very different from those that accompany the
present volume. I believe I then felt little
A 3

IV PREFACE.

beyond hope, vague as the timidity which sub-
dued it, and the excitement which every author
must know : now mine is a (f farther looking
hope;" and the timidity which apprehended the
verdict of others, is now deepened by distrust of
my own powers. Or, to claim my poetical privi-
lege, and express my meaning by a simile, I should
say, I am no longer one who springs forward in
the mere energy of exercise and enjoyment ; but
rather like the Olympian racer, who strains his
utmost vigour, with the distant goal and crown in
view. I have devoted my whole life to one
object : in society I have but sought the material
for solitude. I can imagine but one interest in
existence, that which has filled my past, and
haunts my future, the perhaps vain desire, when

PREFACE. V

I am nothing, of leaving one of those memories
at once a good and a glory. Believing as I do
in the great and excellent influence of poetry,
may I hazard the expression of what I have my-
self sometimes trusted to do ? A highly culti-
vated state of society must ever have for con-
comitant evils, that selfishness, the result of
indolent indulgence; and that heartlessness at-
tendant on refinement, which too often hardens
while it polishes. Aware that to elevate I must
first soften, and that if I wished to purify I must
first touch, I have ever endeavoured to bring
forward grief, disappointment, the fallen leaf,
the faded flower, the broken heart, and the
early grave. Surely we must be less worldly,
less interested, from this sympathy with the

VI PREFACE.

sorrow in which our unselfish feelings alone
can take part. And now a few words on a
subject, where the variety of the opinions offered
have left me somewhat in the situation of the
prince in the fairy tale, who, when in the vicinity
of the magic fountain, found himself so distracted
by the multitude of voices that directed his
way, as to be quite incapable of deciding which
was the right path. I allude to the blame and
eulogy which have been equally bestowed on my
frequent choice of Love as my source of song.
I can only say, that for a woman, whose influ-
ence and whose sphere must be in the affections,
what subject can be more fitting than one which
it is her peculiar province to refine, spiritualise,
and exalt ? I have always sought to paint it self-

PREFACE. vii

denying, devoted, and making an almost religion
of its truth ; and I must add, that such as I would
wish to draw her, woman, actuated by an attach-
ment as intense as it is true, as pure as it is deep,
is not only more admirable as a heroine, but also in
actual life, than one whose idea of love is that of
light amusement, or at worst of vain mortification.
With regard to the frequent application of my
works to myself, considering that I sometimes
pourtrayed love unrequited, then betrayed, and
again destroyed by death may I hint the con-
clusions are not quite logically drawn, as as-
suredly the same mind cannot have suffered such
varied modes of misery. However, if I must
have an unhappy passion, I can only console
myself with my own perfect unconsciousness of

Viii PREFACE.

so great a misfortune. I now leave the following
Poems to their fate : they must speak for them-
selves. I could but express my anxiety, an
anxiety only increased by a popularity beyond
my most sanguine dreams.

With regard to those whose former praise en-
couraged, their best recompense is the happiness
they bestowed. And to those whose differing
opinion expressed itself in censure, I own, after
the first chagrin was past, I never laid down a
criticism by which I did not benefit, or trust to
benefit. I will conclude by apostrophising the
hopes and fears they excited, in the words of the
Mexican king " Ye have been the feathers of
my wings."

CONTENTS,

Page

THE VENETIAN BRACELET 1

THE LOST PLEIAD - - - 51

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE - - 85
THE ANCESTRESS - - - - -117
POETICAL PORTRAITS :

No. I. - . 175

No. II. - - 179

No. III. - - : - - - - 182

No. IV. - - - . . - 188

No. V. 190

No. VI. - ... 196
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS :

The Neglected One - 201

A Night in May - - 209

Warning - - 218

The Nameless Grave - - - 225

Fantasies, inscribed to T. Crofton Croker, Esq. - 229

Revenge ...... 232

CONTENTS.

Page

A Summer Day - - 236

The Wreath - 239

Song - 242

The Dying Child - - 244

A Summer Evening's Tale - - 249

Lines of Life - 265

The Battle Field - 275

New Year's Eve - - 278

Song - 284

Stanzas to the Author of " Mont Blanc," " Ada," &c. 287

The Mountain Grave - 295

THE

VENETIAN BRACELET.

Those subtle poisons which made science crime,
And knowledge a temptation; could we doubt
One moment the great curse upon our world,
We must believe, to find that even good
May thus be turn'd to evil.

THE

VENETIAN BRACELET.

ANOTHER tale of thine ! fair Italic
What makes my lute, my heart, aye turn to thee ?
I do not know thy language, that is still
Like the mysterious music of the rill;
And neither have I seen thy cloudless sky,
Where the sun hath his immortality ;
Thy cities crown'd with palaces, thy halls
Where art's great wonders light the storied walls ;
Thy fountains' silver sweep ; thy groves, where dwell
The rose and orange, summer's citadel ;
B 2

4 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Thy songs that rise at twilight on the air,

Wedding the breath thy thousand flowers sigh there ;

Thy tales of other times ; thy marble shrines,

Lovely though fallen, for the ivy twines

Its graceful wreath around each ruin'd fane,

As still in some shape beauty would remain.

I know them not, yet, Italic, thou art

The promised land that haunts my dreaming heart.

Perchance it is as well thou art unknown :

I could not bear to lose what I have thrown

Of magic round thee, but to find in thee

What hitherto I still have found in all
Thou art not stamp'd with that reality

Which makes our being's sadness, and its thrall!
But now, whenever I am mix'd too much
With worldly natures till I feel as such ;

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 5

(For these are as the waves that turn to stone,
Till feelings keep their outward show alone)
When wearied by the vain, chill' d by the cold,
Impatient of society's set mould
The many meannesses, the petty cares,
The long avoidance of a thousand snares,
The lip that must be chain'd, the eye so taught
To image all but its own- actual thought;
(Deceit is this world's passport : who would dare,
However pure the breast, to lay it bare?)
When worn, my nature struggling with my fate,
Checking my love, but, oh, still more my hate;
(Why should I love? flinging down pearl and gem
To those who scorn, at least care not for them :
Why should I hate ? as blades in scabbards melt,
I have no power to make my hatred felt ;
B 3

6 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Or, I should say, my sorrow : I have borne
So much unkindness, felt so lone, so lorn,
I could but weep, and tears may not redress,
They only fill the cup of bitterness)
Wearied of this, upon what eager wings
My spirit turns to thee, and bird-like flings
Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee,
My lute's enchanted world, fair Italie.
To me thou art a vision half divine,
Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shine
The passionate rose, the violet's Tyrian dye,
The wild bee loves them not more tenderly;
Of vineyards like Aladdin's gem-set hall,
Fountains like fairy ones with music's fall ;
Of sorrows, too ; for e'en on this bright soil
Grief has its shadow, and care has its coil,

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 7

But e'en amid its darkness and its crime,
Touch' d with the native beauty of such clime,
Till wonder rises with each gushing tear :
And hath the serpent brought its curse even here?

Such is the tale that haunts me : I would fain
Wake into pictured life the heart's worst pain ;
And seek I if pale cheek and tearful eye
Answer the notes that wander sadly by.
And say not this is vain, in our cold world,
Where feelings sleep like wither'd leaves upfurl'd :
'Tis much to wash them with such gentle rain,
Calling their earlier freshness back again.
The heart of vanity, the head of pride,
Touch'd by such sorrow, are half purified ;
And we rise up less selfish, having known
Part in deep grief, yet that grief not our own.
B 4

8 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

I.

They stood beside the river, that young pair
She with her eyes cast down, for tears were there,
Glittering upon the eyelash, though unshed ;
He murmuring those sweet words so often said
By parting lover, still as fondly spoken
As his could be, the only ones not broken.
The girl was beautiful ; her forehead high
Was white as are the marble fanes that lie
On Grecian lands, making a fitting shrine
Where the mind spoke ; the arch'd and raven line
Was very proud, but that was soften'd now a
Only sad tenderness was on her brow.
She wore the peasant dress, the snowy lawn
Closely around her whiter throat was drawn,

THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

A crimson bodice, and the skirt of blue

So short, the fairy ankle was in view ;

The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeve,

But the small hand was snow ; around her hair
A crimson net, such as the peasants weave,

Bound the rich curls, and left the temples bare.
She wore the rustic dress, but there was not
Aught else in her that mark'd the rustic's lot :
Her bearing seem'd too stately, though subdued
By all that makes a woman's gentlest mood
The parting hour of love. And there they leant,
Mirror'd below in the clear element
That roll'd along, with wild shrubs overhung,
And colour'd blossoms that together clung
That peasant girl, that high-born cavalier,
Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear,

10 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

And answer'd by flush'd cheek, and downcast eye,

And roselip parted, with half smile, half sigh.

Young, loving, and beloved, these are brief words,

And yet they touch on all the finer chords,

Whose music is our happiness: the tone

May die away and be no longer known

In the harsh wisdom brought by after years,

Lost in that worldliness which scars and sears,

And makes the misery of life's troubled scene ;

Still it is much to think that it has been.

They loved with such deep tenderness and truth,

Feelings 'forsaking us as does our youth,

They did not dream that love like theirs could die,

And such belief half makes eternity.

Yes, they were parting ; still the fairy hope

Had in their clear horizon ample scope

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 11

For her sweet promises, without the showers

That are their comrades in life's after hours.

They parted trustingly ; they did not know

The vanity of youthful trust and vow ;

And each believed the other, for each read

In their own hearts the truth of what each said.

The dews are drying rapidly: away,

Young warrior I those far banners chide thy stay.

Hark ! the proud trumpet swells upon the wind,

His first of fields, he must not be behind.

The maiden's cheek flush'd crimson, and her eye
Flash'd as the martial music floated by.
She saw him spring upon his snow-white steed,
It dash'd across the plain with arrowy speed.
The beat of heart, the flush of cheek, are gone,
AMENAIDE but felt she was alone.

12 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

The vow which soothed her, and the hope which

cheer' d,

The pride which nerved, with him had disappear'd.
" LEONI, dear LEONI ! " 'twas in vain :
The mocking echo answer* d her again.
It is deep wretchedness this passionate burst
Of parting's earlier grief, but not the worst ;
It is the lingering days of after care
That try the wasted spirit most to bear.
Now listless, languid, as the world had left
Nothing to interest, of him bereft ;
Now lull'd by opiate thoughts that but restore
The mind its tone, to make it sink the more ;
Now fever'd by anxiety, for rife
Are fears when fancy calls them into life ;

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 13

l

And then that nameless dread of coming woe,
Which only those who've felt it e'er can know :
These still have been in absence, still will be,
And these, AMENAIDE, were all for thee.
The valley in a summer twilight lay
That fairy confine of the night and day
When leant AMENAIDE behind the shade
The fragrant shrubs around her lattice made,
'Scaped from her nurse, and each consoling phrase
Sinking the spirit that it fain would raise.
The room was small and dark ; but when the wind
Moved the green branches of the myrtle-blind,
A crimson beauty wooed the maiden's eye :
She look'd and saw, where, dark against the sky,
His father's battlements rose on the air ;
Alas, how haughty and how high they were !

14 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

An orphan she, a rustic's nursling child,
Oh, how could hope have ever so beguiled !

" AMENAIDE I " her kind old nurse's voice ;
" Nay, come to me, dear child, come and rejoice."
Wondering, she enters, strangers round her stand,
And kindly takes their lordly chief her hand.
" So fair a peasant, sooth, but it is shame
To tell thee, maiden, of another name.
In the wild troubles which have rent our state
Thy noble father met an exile's fate ;
Nay, not that anxious look ; he is no more,
And sorrowing Genoa can but restore
His honours to his child : I was aware,
Thanks to that faithful creature's parent care,
His daughter lived ; and dear the task to me
To bring these words, and let AREZZI be

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 15

The first to greet and honour, Countess, mine,
Loveliest and last of ALFIORI'S line."

II.

Fit for a palace was that lovely room,
Hung with the azure of an eastern loom,
And carpeted with velvet, where the flowers
Companion'd those whereon the April hours
Had shed their beauty ; numbers stood around
Of vases where each varying hue was found,
From the white myrtle-bud and lily-bell,
Like pearls that in the ocean-waters dwell,
To those rich tints which on the tulip lie,
Telling their southern birth and sunny sky,
The wine-cups of the sun : each silken blind
Waved to and fro upon the scented wind,

16 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Now closing till the twilight-haunted room
Was in an atmosphere of purple gloom,
First scarcely letting steal one crimson ray,
Then flung all open to the glowing day.
Pictures were hung above ; how more than fair !
The changing light made almost life seem there.
A faint rose-colour wander'd o'er the cheek,
Seem'd the chance beams from each dark eye to

break ;

And you could deem each braided auburn wave
Moved, as its gold the glancing sun-light gave.
And fitting mistress had the charmed scene :
Leant, like a beautiful and eastern queen,
Upon a purple couch how soft and warm
Clung the rich colour to her ivory arm ! .

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 17

AMENA'IDE reclined. Awhile she lay,
Then, as if movement hurried time away,
She paced the room, gazed on each pictured face,
Then wreath'dthe flowers, then watch'd, as if to trace
The evening close : again the couch was press'd,
But feverish, restless, more for change than rest :
And yet all this was only the excess
Of overmuch impatient happiness.
Many a weary hour and day had past
For that young Countess, this day was the last.
He was return'd, with all war could confer
Of honourable name, to home and her.
LEONI would to-night be in the hall
Where Count AREZZI held his festival ;
Would hear her history ; how there was now
Nothing to chain the heart or check the vow.
c

18 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

And must they meet first in a careless crowd ?
This was a moment's grief; though she felt proud
That he should see how well she could beseem
Her present rank, yet keep her early dream ;
See her the worshipp'd of the courtly throng,
Sigh of each lip, and idol of each song ;
Hear the fair flatteries offer' d, yet behold
Her courtesy so graceful, but so cold ;
And know it was for him her heart's young throne
Was ever kept, the lovely and the lone.

III.

O pleasant was that night the toilet's care,
What broider'd robe to don, what gems to wear !
Her hair was parted on her brow, each braid
Black as the dark-wing'd raven's darkest shade,

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 19

And gather'd up with diamonds, few there were,
Just stars to light the midnight of her hair.
Well did the sweeping robe of emerald green,
Wrought in rich gold, suit with her stately mien.
" How beautiful she looks this evening ! " burst
From every lip, when that fair Countess first
Enter'd AREZZI'S hall : her heart's content
To every lighted look its lustre lent.
Her beauty's fault had been, it was too cold ;
Features too tranquil in their perfect mould,
A cheek somewhat too pale ; but not to-night,
The eye was sparkling, and the cheek was bright.
Gently she glided to a balustrade,
Where jessamine a pleasant shadow made :
It raised no marvel ; never had her hand
With its white beauty link'd the saraband ;
c 2

20 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

And seldom did she join the converse gay,
Where the light flattery gains its gilded way :
They seldom won more than a few cold words,
As when unskilful hands awake the chords
Of some lorn lute, the music of whose tone
Lives for one touch, and only for that one.
She dwelt within the circle of her heart,
A charm'd world, lovely, lonely, and apart,
Where it had seem'd to her as sin and shame
Aught there had enter'd, not in his dear name.
It was a spell-touch'd hour. That gorgeous hall,
With perfume floating and with music's fall,
Light steps, and gentle laugh and whispers bland,
Was it their words or the sweet airs that fann'd
The beauty's cheek into a redder rose ?
And starry eyes, like what the clear night shows,

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 21

But wandering ones ; and there were golden curls
Like sudden sunshine ; and dark braids, whose pearls
Were lost on the white neck when there they fell ;
And there were shapes, such as in pictures dwell ;
It look'd like fairy land. With eager glance
She watch'd the door, and counted every dance ;
Then time grew long, hope caught a shade of fear,
" LEONI but they said he would be here ! "
When sudden came AREZZI to her side,
" Look there, the Count LEONI and his bride !
She with the violet wreath in her bright hair ;
Sooth but to say, that English bride is fair !
But I must go and have my welcome paid."
Alone AMENAIDE stood in the shade,
Alone ! ay, utterly. A couch was nigh,
And there she sank, oh, had it been to die !
c 3

22 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

IV.

Alas for the young heart thus early thrown
Back on itself, the unloved and the lone !
For this should be the lesson of long years,
The weary knowledge taught and traced by tears,
Till even those are frozen, and we grow
Cold as the grave that yawns for us below :
But this was like those sudden blasts that fling
Unlook'd-for winter on the face of spring,
And worst woe for the heart, whose early fate
Leaves it so young, and, oh, so desolate.
She had one feeling left, it was of pride,
Oh, misery, how much she had to hide !
And steps were now approaching her : she sprung
From off the couch, and every nerve was strung

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 23

For that worst rack, the rack of outward show.

Still haunts such vanity the deepest woe.

The heart may swell to bursting, but the while

The features wear the seeming of a smile :

The eye be lesson'd, and the lip be seal'd,

And wretchedness be, like the plague, conceal'd.

It was the Count AREZZI : " What, still here !
Come, thou wild dreamer of another sphere,

I must shut out the sky, if thus it share

My stars, thine eyes, which should be shining there,

Making yon hall its equal ; but to-night

You have, AMENAIDE, a rival light. P;

The English bride, see round they crowd to gaze

On the new loveliness her form displays.

Why, she should bear the name which once you bore,

The peasant countess, it would suit her more."

c 4

24- THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

A moment, and the group were press'd aside,

She stood before LEONI and his bride.

He knew her history, and each met prepared ;

Cold looks were given, careless converse shared :

At first LEONI shunn'd to meet her eye,

A moment's awkwardness, but that pass'd by.

How much we give to other hearts our tone,

And judge of others' feelings by our own !

Himself was alter'd : all he sought to do

Was, to believe that she was alter'd too.

Her cheek was paler than 'twas wont to be,

That was its round of midnight gaiety :

Her smile less frequent, and her brow more grave,

'Twas her new rank its stateliness that gave :

New friends press'd round, their interview is o'er,

And he pass'd on, to think of it no more ;

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 25

And she to seem as thoughtless. Till to-night,

Like some fair planet in its own far light,

She shone apart ; to-night she sought the crowd,

Join'd in their mirthfulness, and laugh'd aloud ;

Was ready with gay converse, that light mirth

Which like the meteor has from darkness birth :

She watch'd her circle, ready smile or sneer,

Sneers for the absent ones, smiles for the near,

Till every other hall sent forth its tide,

And half the guests were gather'd at her side.

It was an evil feeling that which now

Flush'd on her cheek, and lighted up her brow, .

Part bitterness, part vanity, part woe,

The passionate strife which pride and misery know ;

A burning wish to wake a vain regret

In that false one, who now had best forget ;

26 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

To show LEONI how that she, the queen,

Made his fair EDITH nothing on the scene :

Her rival, hers, language has not a word

By woman's ear so utterly abhorr'd.

No marvel, for it robs her only part

Of sweet dominion, empire o'er the heart.

V.

LEONI and his bride have left the hall.

Why does that cheek grow pale, that dark eye fall ?

Why does that lip its wit, its smiling cease ?

It only pass'd for beauty's gay caprice.

She left the feast, but, oh, not yet alone ;

Many a cavalier has eager flown

Upon her gondola's home course to wait,

And sigh farewell at her own palace-gate.

THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Her maidens gather'd round. What more, yet more,
To read the breast now throbbing to the core ?
She hurried not their task, each silken braid
Of raven hair was in set order laid :
But once she show'd her weakness, when her hand
Strove vainly to unloose a glittering band,
It trembled like a leaf: but that pass'd by;
Struggle she might, but no one heard her sigh ;
And when her last good night was courteous said,
Never more queenlike seem'd that lofty head.
The last step died upon the marble stair,
She sprang towards the door, the bolt is there:
She tried the spring, gave one keen look around,
Mutter'd " alone I " and dash'd her on the ground.
Corpse-like she lay, her dark hair wildly thrown
Far on the floor before her ; white as stone,

28 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

As rigid stretch'd each hand, her face was press'd
Close to the earth ; and but the heaving vest
Told of some pang the shuddering frame confessed,
She seem'd as stricken down by instant death,
Sudden she rais'd her head, and gasp'd for breath ;
And nature master'd misery. She sought,
Panting, the air from yonder lattice brought.
Ah, there is blood on that white lip and brow !
She struggles still, in vain, she must weep now:
She wept, childlike, till sleep began to press
Upon her eyes for very weariness.
She sleeps ! so sleeps the wretch beside the stake :
She sleeps ! how dreadful from such sleep to wake !

VI.

She was both proud and cold : not hers the heart
Easy to lure, and ready to depart,

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 29

A trifle, toy, but that fair Countess gave

No common gift when she became a slave ;

And only did she hold her gift redeem'd,

By that high worthiness she had but dream'd.

A peasant, yet she felt his equal still ;

And when her lofty state beseem'd her will,

It was such pride, such pleasure, to have known

LEONI'S love was for herself alone.

And in her young romance's loftier view
One touch of vanity might mingle too :

It was the triumph of her lowlier state
She had been even then a noble's mate.
AMENAIDE had many faults; her youth
Had seen too soon life's bitterness and truth :
The cutting word, the cold or scornful look,
All that her earlier days had had to brook

30 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

The many slights the humble one receives
Lay on her memory like wither'd leaves ;
And homage from the crowd, and lovers' praise,
Were all too apt disgust and doubt to raise.
There was a something wayward in her mood ;
She left her heart too much to solitude :
For kindly thoughts are social ; but she held
A scornful creed, and sympathy repell'd.
That sullen barrier had one gentle break,
She loved, she loved, and for LEONI'S sake
Believed there were some angel steps on earth : -
As truth that keeps the promise of its birth ;
As faith that will not change ; that will not tire,
And deems its gold the purer for the fire.
Her love was all her nature's better part,
The confidence, the kindness of her heart ;

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 31

The source of all the sweet or gentle there :
But this was past, what had it left? despair!

VII.

The wind threw back the curtain fraught with rose :
Can sorrow be upon such gales as those?
Yes, for it waked the Countess. Up she sprung,
Startled, surprised, to see how she was flung
By the veranda, and that open, too ;
Her hair was heavy with a weight of dew ;
Scarcely aroused, painful and slow she raised
Her weary head, and round in wonder gazed.
It was her own fair room, some frightful dream,
But indistinct, she struggled with a scream :
Her eye has caught a mirror, that pale face,
Why lip and brow are sullied by the trace

32 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Of blood ; its stain is on her tangled hair,

Which shroud-like hides the neck that else were bare.

Around that neck there is a fragile chain,

And memory's flood comes rushing o'er her brain :

LEONI'S gift, its slight gold links are broken,

So are the vows of which it was the token.

Who has not loathed that worst, that waking hour,

When grief and consciousness assert their power ;

When misery has morn's freshness, yet we fain

Would hold it as a dream, and sleep again ;

Then know 'tis not illusion of the night,

And sicken at the cold and early light ?

How ever shall we pass the weary day,

When thus we shudder at its opening ray ?

She gazed upon the glass, then glanced around,

In wonder at the contrast which she found.

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 33

The walls were faintly colour'd with the bloom
Which comes when morn has struggled through the

gloom,

And blushes for success : the silken veil
Of the blue hangings seem'd to catch the gale,
Then keep its sweetness prisoner : on the floor
The Persian loom had spread its velvet store :
Vases stood round, each carved with such fine art,
The flowers that fill'd seem'd of themselves a part ;
A sandal lute lay on an inlaid stand,
Whose rich wrought ivory spoke its Indian land :
Shells of bright colours, foreign toys of gold,
And crystals wrought in many a curious mould ;
Pictures, a prince's ransom in their worth ;
Small alabaster statues; all that earth
D

34 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Has rich or varied, all that wealth could buy.

Loathing she turn'd. " Yet what a wretch am I !

This must not be ! stain'd cheek and fever'd brow

Too much the secret of my soul avow.

Aye deep as is the grave my heart shall keep

What burning tears AMENAIDE could weep.

Oh, never let LEONI know the worst :

'Tis well if he believe I changed the first.

Too much e'en to myself has been reveal'd,

And thus be every trace of tears conceal' d."

She sought the alcove where the fountain play'd,

And wash'd from lip and cheek their crimson shade ;

And bathed her long hair, till its glossy curls

Wore not a trace but of the dewy pearls

The waters left, as if in pity shed ;

She loosed the bolt, and sought her silken bed ;

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 35

But easier far had been the rack, the wheel :
When hath the body felt what mind can feel ?

VIII.

The weary day pass'd on night came again :
AMENAIDE has join'd the glittering train ;
Self- torturer self-deceiver cold and high,
She said it was to mock the curious eye.
Such strength is weakness. Was it not to be
Where still, LEONI, she might gaze on thee ?
She heard the history of his English bride :
A patient nurse at her pale mother's side
LEONI saw her first: that mother's hand
(A stranger she and wanderer in the land)
Gave the sweet orphan to his care, and here
Was all to soften, all that could endear.
D 2

36 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Together wept they o'er the funeral stone,

His the sole heart she had to lean upon.

Now months had pass'd away, and he was come

To bring his beautiful, his dear one home.

Her beauty was like morning's, breathing, bright,

Eyes glittering first with tears, and then with light,

And blue, too glad to be the violet's blue,

But that which hangs upon it, lucid dew,

Its first clear moment, ere the sun has burst

The azure radiance which it kindled first;

A cheek of thousand blushes ; golden hair,

As if the summer sunshine made it fair ;

A voice of music, and such touching smile,

AMENAIDE sigh'd, " Well might they beguile I"

Love, what a mystery thou art! how strange

Thy constancy, yet still more so thy change !

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 37

How the same love, born in the self-same hour,
Holds over different hearts such different power ;
How the same feeling lighted in the breast
Makes one so wretched, and makes one so blest ;
How one will keep the dream of passion born
In youth with all the freshness of its mom;
How from another will thine image fade !
Far deeper records on the sand are made.
Why hast thou separate being? why not die
At once in both, and not leave one to sigh,
To weep, to rave, to struggle with the chains
Pride would fling off, but memory retains ?
There are remembrances that will not vanish,
Thoughts of the past we would but cannot banish :
As if to show how impotent mere will,
We loathe the pang, and yet must suffer still :
D 3

38 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

For who is there can say they will forget ?
It is a power no science teaches yet.
O Love, how sacred thy least words should be,
When on them hangs such abject misery!

IX.

The fountain's music murmur'd through the grove,
Like the first plaint that sorrow teaches love ;
The orange boughs shut out the sultry sky,
While their rich scent, as pass'd the Countess by,
Came homage like. For hours that chestnut-tree,
The only one that grew there, wont to be
Her favourite summer-seat; but now she paced
Hurriedly, though 'twas noon ; her memory traced
Her galling wrongs, and many an evil thought
Envy and hatred in her bosom wrought.

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 39

She felt LEON i had not loved till now ;
Hers was but youthful fantasy's light vow.
Had he not trifled with her? She, the proud,
The cold, had of such mocking suit allow'd.
Her heart was wrung, and worse, her pride was bow'd.
She hears a step : who is it dares intrude
On this her known and guarded solitude ?
She sees an aged Jew; a box he bore
Fill'd with gay merchandise and jewell'd store.
Ere she could speak, he spread before her eyes
Those glittering toys that loveliest ladies prize:
" Fair dame, in sooth so fair thou seem'st to be
That almost it is vain to offer thee
The many helps for meaner beauty made :
But yet these gems would light that dark hair's shade;
D 4

40 N THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Well would these pearls around that white throat

show

Each purple vein that wanders through its snow."
Angrily turn'd the Countess, "Fool, away!"
" So young, so fair, has vanity no sway ?
But I have things most curious, and 'mid these
Somewhat may chance your wayward fancy please."
He took a bracelet, 'twas of fine wrought gold,
And twisted as a serpent, whose lithe fold
Curl'd round the arm : he spoke in whispering tone
" Here, lady, look at this, I have but one :
Here, press this secret spring; it lifts a lid,
Beneath there is the subtlest poison hid.
I come from Venice ; of the wonders there
There is no wonder like this bracelet rare."

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 41

She started evil thoughts, at first repress'd,
Now struggled like a storm within her breast.
Alas ! alas I how plague-spot like will sin
Spread over the wrung heart it enters in !
Her brow grew dark : " Amid thy baubles shine
This ruby cross, but be the bracelet mine."
Around her arm the fatal band is fast ;
Away its seller, like a vision, pass'd.

X.

That night she join'd the revel ; but not long
AMENAIDE was seen amid the throng.
No eye beheld her pace her lonely room :
Fearing the light, yet trembling in the gloom ;
The ghastly cheek, as marble cold and white ;
The wild eye flashing with unholy light ;

42 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

The quivering lip, the forehead's dew-moist pore,
The sudden start, the rapid step once more,
As if it would annihilate the time :
But who may paint the solitude of crime ?

XL

That night there was another saddest scene :

Halls where mirth, music, festival had been

Were as the house of mourning ; crowds stood nigh,

Horror and pity mark'd in every eye.

Upon a crimson couch a contrast strange

To those pale features in that ghastly change

The young, the beautiful, the happy lay,

Life passing in convulsive sobs away.

Still 'mid her hair the red rose wreath was hung

Mocking her cheek with the rich dye it flung ;

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 43

The festal robe still sparkled as it flow'd ;
Still on her neck a few fresh flowers glow'd :
The warmth her sandall'd foot hath scarcely left,
Light from the dance, though now of motion reft !
The agony is over and she raised
Her feeble head, and round her faintly gazed :
She saw, she leant upon LEONI'S breast,
Murmur'd his name, and sank as if to rest.
" EDITH, sweet EDITH, speak to me again ! "
Thou fond one even thou must ask in vain :
Ay, kiss those lips, and fancy they have breath,
Till they chill even thee : they're damp with death.

XII.

The night is over, night which seem'd to be
Endless, O lost AMENAIDE ! to thee :

44? THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Yet what has daylight brought ? a haunting dread.

Hark! the hall echoes to a stranger's tread

It is the Count AREZZI : " My fair child,

How now ! thy cheek is wan, thine eyes are wild.

Ah, well, the rose is bright'ning on thy cheek :

I was too hasty with my sudden break

Upon thy solitude ; scarce may I tell

The crime and horror which last night befell.

I have no time. The Count LEONI'S bride

You saw her by some sudden poison died ;

And strange suspicions on her husband fall :

There were so many present who recall

He gave her the sherbet : 'twas not all drain'd ;

Part of the venom in the cup remain'd.

Some say 'twas jealousy : I'm on my way

To the tribunal that will sit to-day.

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 45

AMEN AIDE, dear, thou art very pale:

I would I had not told thee of this tale.

Ha ! 'tis the summons of the council bell.

I loathe my task, sweet, hastily farewell."

She strove to speak, to only wave her hand,

To rise, her trembling limbs refused to stand :

She sought her cross, she strove to think a prayer,

She gasp'd for breath, no ruby cross is there;

But full in view the fatal bracelet shone :

" LEONI, this is what my love has done ;

I who would willingly have died for thee,

The fiend has triumph'd in my misery.

I'll rush before the judges, is there time ?

But no, I cannot bear to own the crime !

And there is nought of proof, there can be none,

And then his known love for that happier one ;

46 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

His noble house, t his brave and stainless name :
He must escape his doom, and I my shame."

Long hours pass'd by,shestirr'd not from her place*
A very statue, with that cold set face,
Save that red flushes came at each light sound,
While the wild eyes glanced fearfully around.
But still she moved not, spoke not, such distress
Seeks no distraction from its wretchedness.
There rose loud voices in the outer hall :
She nerves her with despair, she will know all :
Her ear, acute with agony, can hear
A name at once so dreaded and so dear :
" Yes, Lady, he is guilty ! " but no more :
They raise her senseless from the marble floor.
Long did it last, that stony trance like death ;
She roused, but scarce it seem'd with mortal breath.

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 47

She show'd no weakness, rose from off the bed ;
Distinct, though low and few, the words she said.
She took a scroll and wrote, the phrase was brief;
But a life's sorrow was upon that leaf.
" To Count AREZZI this, with all thy speed;
And here, my page, is gold for present meed.
Now all away, my spirit is opprest : "
She flung her on the couch as if for rest :
They deem'd she slept ; at length her maidens came
To ask her will, to light the lamps' sweet flame :
Where is the Countess ? why, the couch is bare.
They search the halls in vain, she is not there.

XIII.

" Gold, oh ! take double, so my prayer I win."
When hath such offer fail'd ? She enter'd in :

48 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Heavily iron chain and barrier fell,

Ere she could reach the prisoner's midnight cell.

They grated on her very heart. At last

She saw LEONI in his misery cast

Abject upon the ground : not her strange tread

Brought aught to make him raise his bow'd down

head.

She gazed upon him: has it come to this,
Her passionate love, her youth's long dream of

bliss?

She felt her frame convulsed, her pulse grow weak :
" LEONI, O LEONI ! hear me speak."
He started at her voice : " AMEN AIDE !
I did not merit this from thee indeed ;
And yet thy name was heavy on my heart :
I pray thee pardon me before we part."

THE VENETIAN BRACELET. 4-9

He sought to take her hand ; but back she flung

The shrouding mantle that around her clung.

" Ah ! start you at my livid lip and brow ?

You are familiar with such signs ere now !

O for a few short words ! I've own'd the whole :

Ere this the Count AREZZI has my scroll.

The darkness gathers on my failing eye,

LEONI, let me gaze on thee and die !

O God, unloose this bracelet's fiery clasp ! "

Her spirit pass'd in that convulsive gasp.

The struggle's o'er, that wild heart does not beat ;

She lies a ghastly corpse before his feet.

XIV.

They show the traveller still a lonely tomb,
Hid in the darkness of a cloister's gloom ;
E

50 THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

As scarcely worthy of such holy ground,
No other monument is near it found.
A figure closely veil'd bends o'er the stone,
Only the arm with its strange bracelet shown
A serpent twining round : beneath are graved
A few brief words, that passing pity craved
" Pray for the wounded heart, the sinful deed ;"
And, half eifaced, a name " AMEN AIDE."

THE

LOST PLEIAD,

A story from the stars; or rather one

Of starry fable from the olden time,

When young Imagination was as fresh

As the fair world it peopled with itself.

The Poet's spirit does so love to link

Its feelings, thoughts, with nature's loveliness :

And hence the twilight grove, the lonely spring,

The ocean-caves, the distant planets, all

Were fill'd with radiant creatures ; and the heart

Became interpreter, and language made

From its own warm sad sympathies, for those

Of whom the dream was beauty.

E 2

THE

LOST PLEIAD.

HE was weary of flinging the feather'd reed,
He was weary of curbing his raven steed ;
He heard the gay din from the palace hall,
But he was not in mood for the festival.
There was that crimson, the last on the sky,
Blushes that fade in the moon's cold eye ;
The sigh of the flowers arose sweet on the air,
For the breath of the twilight was wandering there,
E 3

54 THE LOST PLEIAD.

He look'd to the west, and the tranquil main

Was branch'd with many a life-like vein ;

Hues of the rosebud the clouds had cast,

Like a cheek on its mirror in gliding past.

It tempted him forth, to the lulling gale

Prince CYRIS has open'd his silken sail,

And the little boat went over the sea

Like foam, for it was of ivorie,

And carved and shaped like a wreathed shell,

And it was lined with the rose as well ;

For the couch was made of those plumes that fling

The one warm tint 'neath the wood-dove's wing.

O'er the purple sail the golden flowers run,

For it was wrought for a monarch's son ;

And as it past on, the air was fill'd

With odours, for only waters distill' d

THE LOST PLEIAD. 55

From clove, and sandal, and cinnamon,
E'er wash'd that boat when its task was done :
'Twas left in the care of maidens three ;
Lovely they were as maidens should be ;
And in the soft airs that around it flew,
Perhaps their own breath left a perfume too.
There lay Prince CYRIS, and his mood
Made harmony with the solitude.
Oh, pleasant is it for the heart
To gather up itself apart ;
To think its own thoughts, and to be
Free, as none ever yet were free,
When, prisoners to their gilded thrall,
Vain crowd meets crowd in lighted hall ;
With frozen feelings, tutor'd eye,
And smile which is itself a lie.
E 4

56 THE LOST PLEIAD.

Oh, but for lonely hours like these,
Would every finer current freeze ;
Those kindlier impulses that glow,
Those clear and diamond streams that flow
Only in crystal, while their birth
Is all unsoil'd with stain of earth.
Ever the Lover hath gainsay'd
The creed his once religion made,
That pure, that high, that holy creed,
Without which love is vain indeed ;
While that which was a veiled shrine
Whose faith was only not divine,
Becomes a vague, forgotten dream,
A thing of scorn an idle theme.
Denied, degraded, and represt,
Love dies beneath the heartless jest.

THE LOST PLEIAD. 57

Oh vain I for not with such can be

One trace of his divinity.

Ever from poet's lute hath flown

The sweetness of its early tone,

When from its wild flight it hath bow'd,

To seek for homage mid the crowd ;

Be the one wonder of the night,

As if the soul could be a sight ;

As all his burning numbers speak

Were written upon brow and cheek ;

And he, forsooth, must learn its part,

Must choose his words, and school his heart

To one set mould, and pay again

Flattery with flattery as vain ;

Till, mixing with the throng too much,

The cold, the vain, he feels as such ;

58 THE LOST PLEIAD.

Then marvels that his silent lute
Beneath that worldly hand is mute.
Away ! these scenes are not for thee :
Go dream beneath some lonely tree ;
Away to some far woodland spring,
Dash down thy tinsel crown, and wring
The scented unguents from thine hair :
If thou dost hope that crown to share
The laurell'd bards immortal wear ;
Muse thou o'er leaf and drooping flower,
Wander at evening's haunted hour ;
Listen the stockdove's plaining song
Until it bear thy soul along ;
Then call upon thy freed lute's strain,
And it will answer thee again.

THE LOST PLEIAD. 59

Oh mine own song, did I not hold

Such faith as held the bards of old,

That one eternal hope of fame

Which sanctifies the poet's name,

I'd break my lyre in high disdain,

And hold my gift of song as vain

AS those forced flowers which only bloom

One hot night for a banquet room.

But I have wander' d from my tale,

The ivory bark, the purple sail,

That bore Prince CYRIS o'er the sea,

Content with that slow ebb to be

Danced on the wave. By nightfall shaded,

The red lights from the clouds are faded ;

Leaving one palest amber line

To mark the last of day's decline ;

60 THE LOST PLEIAD.

And all o'er heaven is that clear blue
The stars so love to wander through.
They're rising from the silent deep,
Like bright eyes opening after sleep.
Young CYRIS watch'd them till their ray
Grew sad so far they were away.
He felt so earthly, thus to see
What he might never hope to be.
He thought upon earth's loveliest eyes :

What were they to those shining there ?
He thought upon earth's sweetest sighs :

What were they to the lulling air?
" Oh no, my heart," he mournful sigh'd,
" To thee is that dear boon denied ;
That wildering dream whose fair deceit
Makes languid earth a temple meet

THE LOST PLEIAD. 61

For light, such light as dwells above,
I have no faith in thee, false love !
I've knelt at many a beauteous shrine,
And call'd, but thought them not, divine,
I've dived in many a beating heart,
But search'd them only to depart ;
For selfish care, or heartless pride,
Were all they ever had to hide.
I'm weary, weary: one by one,
The life charms of my youth are gone.
I had a dream of stirring fame,
It was a promise, and a name,

Thrice glorious, shining from afar,

But nearer earth had touch'd the star ;

With toil and trouble won from many,

Yet trembling on the breath of any.

62 THE LOST PLEIAD.

The bard, the warrior, and the sage,
What win they but one lying page,
Where deeds and words, at hazard thrown,
May be or may not be their own ?
And pleasure, lighted halls, red wine,
Bright smiles, gay words, have all been mine
They only left what haunts me now,
A wasted heart, a weary brow.
Ye distant stars, so calm, so bright,
Would I had portion in your light,
Could read the secrets of your birth,
Aught, any thing but this dull earth ! "
It was not long, ere, still and deep,
Those restless eyes were closed in sleep.
There lay he like a statue pale,
His canopy that silken sail.

THE LOST PLEIAD. 63

There lay he as Endymion slept
When Dian came to him, and wept
Beside the sleep she might not break.
Love, thus we sorrow for thy sake.
There lay he: well might CYRIS seem
The being of a poet's dream.

Ay, beautiful as a star in the sky,
When the clouds are gloom, and the storm is high,
But still in defiance keeps shining on,
Till the shades are past, and the wind is done.
His hair was gold, like the pheasant's wing,
And curl'd like the hyacinth flower in spring ;
And his eye was that blue so clear, so dark,
Like the falcon's when flying his highest mark ;
And, telling a tale of gallant war,
On his brow was a slight but glorious scar.

64? THE LOST PLEIAD.

His voice had that low and lute-like sound,
Whose echo within the heart is found.
His very faults were those that win
Too dazzling and ready an entrance in.
Daring, and fiery, wild to range,
Reckless of what might ensue from the change ;
Too eager for pleasures to fill up the void,
Till the very impatience their nature destroy'd ;
Restless, inconstant, he sought to possess,
The danger was dar'd, and the charm grew less.
But, oh ! these were only youth's meteor fires,
The ignis blaze that with youth expires.

No, never I the heart should child-like be train'd,
And its wilful waywardness somewhat enchain'd.
Was it the spell of morning dew
That o'er his lids its influence threw,

THE LOST PLEIAD. 65

Clearing those earthly mists away,

That erst like veils before them lay ?

Whether fair dream, or actual sight,

It was a vision of delight ;

For free to his charm'd eyes were given

The spirits of the starry heaven.

It was that hour, when each faint dye

Of rose upon the morning's cheek
Warns the bright watchers of the sky

Their other ocean home to seek.
He saw the Archer with his bow
Guide now his radiant car below ;
He saw the shining Serpent fold
Beneath the wave his scales of gold.
But, of all the pageants nigh,
Only one fix'd CYRIS' eye :

66 THE LOST PLEIAD.

Borne by music on their way,

Every chord a living ray,

Sinking on a song-like breeze,

The lyre of the Pleiades,

With its seven fair sisters bent

O'er their starry instrument ;

Each a star upon her brow,

Somewhat dim in daylight's glow,

That clasp'd the flashing coronet

On their midnight tresses set.

^All were young, all very fair;

But one, oh I CYRIS gazed but there.

Each other lip wore sterner mould,

Fair, but so proud, bright, but so cold ;

And clear pale cheek, and radiant eye,

Wore neither blush, nor smile, nor sigh,

Those sweet signs of humanity.

THE LOST PLEIAD. 69

The night, the morn, he watch'd in vain,
No starry lyre rose from the main.
And who were they, the lovely seven,
With shape of earth, and home in heaven ?
Daughters of King Atlas they
He of the enchanted sway ;
He who read the mystic lines
Of the planets' wondrous signs ;
He the sovereign of the air
They were his, these daughters fair.
Six were brides in sky and sea,
To some crown' d divinity ;
But his youngest, loveliest one,
Was as yet unwoo'd, unwon.
She's kneeling at her father's side :
What the boon could be denied
F 3

70 THE LOST PLEIAD.

To that fair but tear-wash'd cheek,
That look'd so earnest, yet so meek ;
To that mouth whose gentle words
Murmur like the wind-lute's chords ;
To that soft and pleading eye
Who is there could suit deny ?
Bent the king, with look of care,
O'er the dear one kneeling there ;
Bent and kiss'd his pleading one,
Ah, that smile I her suit is won.
It was a little fountain made
A perfect sanctuary of shade ;
The pine boughs like a roof, beneath
The tapestry of the acacia wreath.
The air was haunted : sounds, and sighs,
The falling waters' melodies ;

THE LOST PLEIAD. 71

The breath of flowers, the faint perfume

Of the green pineleaf 's early bloom ;

And murmurs from the music hung

Ever the woodland boughs among ;

His couch of moss, his pillow flowers,

Dreaming away the listless hours

Those dreams so vague, those dreams so vain,

Yet iron links in lover's chain.

Prince CYRIS leant: the solitude

Suited such visionary mood ;

For love hath delicate delights,

The silence of the summer nights ;

The leaves and buds, whose languid sighs

Seem like the echo of his own ;
The wind which like a lute note dies ;

The shadow by the branches thrown,
F 4

72 THE LOST PLEIAD.

Although a sweet uncertain smile
Wanders through those boughs the while,
As if the young Moon liked to know
Her fountain mirror bright below ;
Linking his thoughts with all of these,
For love is full of fantasies.
Why starts young CYRIS from his dream?
There is a shadow on the stream,
There is an odour on the air;
What shape of beauty fronts him there !
He knows her by her clear dark eye,
Touch'd with the light that rules the sky ;
The star upon her forehead set,
Her wild hair's sparkling coronet ;
Her white arms, and her silvery vest,
The lovely Pleiad stands confest.

THE LOST PLEIAD.

I cannot sing as I have sung;
My heart is changed, my lute unstrung.
Once said I that my early chords
Were vow'd to love or sorrow's words :
But love has like an odour past,
Or echo, all too sweet to last ;
And sorrow now holds lonely sway
O'er my young heart, and lute, and lay.
Be it for those whose unwaked youth
Believes that hope and love are sooth
The loved, the happy let them dream
This meeting by the forest stream.
No more they parted till the night
Call'd on her starry host for light,
And that bright lyre arose on high
With its fair watchers to their sky.

74} THE LOST PLEIAD.

Then came the wanderings long and lonely,
As if the world held them, them only ;
The gather'd flower, which is to bear
Some gentle secret whisper'd there ;
The seat beneath the forest tree ;

The breathless silence, which to love
Is all that eloquence can be ;

The looks ten thousand words above ;
The fond deep gaze, till the fix'd eye
Casts each on each a mingled dye ;
The interest round each little word,
Though scarcely said, and scarcely heard.
Little love asks of language aid,
For never yet hath vow been made
In that young hour when love is new ;
He feels at first so deep, so true,

THE LOST PLEIAD. 75

A promise is a useless token,
When neither dreams it can be broken.
Alas ! vows are his after sign !
We prop the tree in its decline
The ghosts that haunt a parting hour,
With all of grief, and nought of power ;
A chain half sunder'd in the making,
The plighted vow's already breaking.
From such dreams all too soon we wake ;
For, like the moonlight on the lake,
One passing cloud, one waving bough
The silver light, what is it now ?
Said I not that young prince was one
Who wearied when the goal was won ;
To whom the charm of change was all
That bound his heart in woman's thrall ?

76 THE LOST PLEIAD.

And she now lingering at his side,
His bright, his half-immortal bride,
Though she had come with him to die,
Share earthly tear, and earthly sigh ;
Left for his sake her glorious sphere,
What matter' d that? she now was here.
At first 'twas like a frightful dream :
Why should such terror even seem?
Again, again, it cannot be !
Woe for such wasting misery !
This watching love's o'erclouding sky,

Though still believing it must clear ;
This closing of the trusting eye ;

The hope that darkens into fear ;
The lingering change of doubt and dread ;
All in the one dear presence fled.

THE LOST PLEIAD. 79

Let bright cheeks wear yet brighter rays

If they can catch Prince CYRIS' gaze ;

Be thine in all that honour'd name.

Men hold to emulate is fame :

Yet not the less my curse shall rest,

A serpent coiling in thy breast.

Weariness, like a weed, shall spring

Wherever is thy wandering.

Thy heart a lonely shrine shall be,

Guarded by no divinity.

Thou shalt be lonely, and shalt know

It is thyself hast made thee so.

Thou hast been faithless, and shalt dread

Deceit in aught of fondness said.

Go, with the doom thou'st made thine own !

Go, false one! to thy grave alone.

80 THE LOST PLEIAD.

Twas the red hue of twilight's hour
That lighted up the forest bower,
Where that sad Pleiad look'd her last.
The white wave of his plume is past ;
She raised her listening head in vain,
To catch his echoing step again ;
Then bow'd her face upon her hand,

And once or twice a burning tear
Wander'd beyond their white command,

And mingled with the waters clear.
'Tis said that ever from that day
Those waters caught their diamond ray.
The evening shades closed o'er the sky,
The night winds sang their melody :
They seem'd to rouse her from the dream
That chain'd her by that lonely stream.

THE LOST PLEIAD. 81

She came when first the starry lyre
Ting'd the green wave with kindling fire ;
" Come, sister," sang they, " to thy place :"
The Pleiad gazed, then hid her face.
Slowly that lyre rose while they sung,
Alas ! there is one chord unstrung.
It rose, until CYRENE'S ear
No longer could its music hear.
She sought the fountain, and flung there
The crown that bound her raven hair ;
The starry crown, the sparkles died,
Darkening within its fated tide.
She sinks by that lone wave: 'tis past;
There the lost Pleiad breath'd her last.
No mortal hand e'er made her grave ;
But one pale rose was seen to wave,

G

82 THE LOST PLEIAD.

Guarding a sudden growth of flowers,
Not like those sprung in summer hours,
But pale and drooping ; each appears
As if their only dew were tears.
On that sky lyre a chord is mute :

Haply one echo yet remains,
To linger on the poet's lute,

And tell in his most mournful strains,
A star hath left its native sky,
To touch our cold earth, and to die ;
To warn the young heart how it trust
To mortal vows, whose faith is dust;
To bid the young cheek guard its bloom
From wasting by such early doom ;
Warn by the histories link'd with all
That ever bow'd to passion's thrall ;

THE LOST PLEIAD. 83

Warn by all above below,
By that lost Pleiad's depth of woe,
Warn them, Love is of heavenly birth,
But turns to death on touching earth.

G 2

HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

Sketches indeed, from that most passionate page,

A woman's heart, of feelings, thoughts, that make

The atmosphere in which her spirit moves ;

But, like all other earthly elements,

O'ercast with clouds, now dark, now touch'd with light,

With rainbows, sunshine, showers, moonlight, stars,

Chasing each other's change. I fain would trace

Its brightness and its blackness ; and these lines

Are consecrate to annals such as those,

That count the pulses of the beating heart.

G 3

HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

'Tis strange how much is mark'd on memory,
In which we may have interest, but no part;
How circumstance will bring together links
In destinies the most dissimilar.
This face, whose rudely-pencill'd sketch you hold,
Recalls to me a host of pleasant thoughts,
And some more serious. This is EULALIE,
Once the delight of Rome for that fine skill

88 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

With which she woke the lute when answering

With its sweet echoes her melodious words.

She had the rich perfection of that gift,

Her Italy's own ready song, which seems

The poetry caught from a thousand flowers ;

The diamond sunshine, and the lulling air,

So pure, yet full of perfume ; fountains tuned

Like natural lutes, from whispering green leaves ;

The low peculiar murmur of the pines :

From pictur'd saints, that look their native heaven

Statues whose grace is a familiar thing ;

The ruin'd shrine of mournful loveliness ;

The stately church, awfully beautiful;

Their climate, and their language, whose least word

Is melody these overfill the heart

Till, fountain-like, the lips o'erflow with song,

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 89

And music is to them an element.

I saw EULALIA: all was in the scene

Graceful association, slight surprise,

That are so much in youth. It was in June,

Night, but such night as only is not day,

For moonlight, even when most clear, is sad :

We cannot but contrast its still repose

With the unceasing turmoil in ourselves.

We stood beside a cypress, whose green spire
Rose like a funeral column o'er the dead.
Near was a fallen palace, stain'd and grey
The marble show'd amid the tender leaves
Of ivy but just shooting ; yet there stood
Pillars unbroken, two or three vast halls,
Entire enough to cast a deep black shade;
And a few statues, beautiful but cold,

90 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

White shadows, pale and motionless, that seem'd

To mock the change in which they had no part,

Fit images of the dead. Pensive enough,

Whatever aspect desolation wears ;

But this, the wrecking work of yesterday,

Hath somewhat still more touching ; here we trace

The waste of man too much. When years have past

Over the fallen arch, the ruin'd hall,

It seems but course of time, the one great doom,

Whose influence is alike upon us all ;

The grey tints soften, and the ivy wreath

And wild flowers breathe life's freshness round: but

here

We stand before decay ; scarce have the walls
Lost music left by human step and voice :
The lonely hearth, the household desolate,

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 91

Some noble race gone to the dust in blood ;
Man shames of his own deeds, and there we gaze,
Watching the progress not of time, but death.
Low music floated on the midnight wind,
A mournful murmur, such as opes the heart
With memory's key, recalling other times,
And gone by hopes and feelings, till they have
An echo sorrowful, but very sweet.
" Hush ! " said my comrade, " it is EULALIE ;
Now you may gaze upon the loneliness
Which is her inspiration." Soft we pass'd
Behind a fragment of the shadowy wall.
I never saw more perfect loveliness.
It ask'd, it had no aid from dress : her robe
Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds
As suit a statue : neck and arms were bare ;

92 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

The black hair was unbound, and like a veil

Hung even to her feet ; she held a lute,

And, as she pac'd the ancient gallery, wak'd

A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet words,

But scarcely audible, as if she thought

Rather than spoke: the night, the solitude,

Fill'd the young Pythoness with poetry.

Her eyes were like the moonlight, clear and soft,

That shadowy brightness which is born of tears,

And rais'd towards the sky, as if they sought

Companionship with their own heaven ; her cheek,

Emotion made it colourless, that pure

And delicate white which speaks so much of thought,

Yet flushes in a moment into rose ;

And tears like pearls lay on it, those which come

When the heart wants a language ; but she pass'd,

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

93

And left the place to me a haunted shrine,
Hallow'd by genius in its holiest mood.
At Count ZARIN'S pallazzo the next night
We were to meet, and expectation wore
Itself with fancies, all of them were vain.
I could not image aught so wholly chang'd.
Her robe was Indian red, and work'd with gold,
And gold the queen-like girdle round her waist.
Her hair was gather'd up in grape-like curls ;
An emerald wreath, shaped into vine leaves, made
Its graceful coronal. Leant on a couch
The centre of a group, whose converse light
Made a fit element, in which her wit
Flash'd like the lightning: on her cheek the rose
Burnt like a festal lamp ; the sunniest smiles
Wander'd upon her face. I only knew

94- A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

EULALIA by her touching voice again.

They had been praying her to wake the lute :

She would not, wayward in her mood that night ;

When some one bade her mark a little sketch

I brought from England of my father's hall ;

Himself was outlined leaning by an oak,

A greyhound at his feet. " And is this dog

Your father's sole companion?" with these words

She touch'd the strings : that melancholy song,

I never may forget its sweet reproach.

She ask'd me how I had the heart to leave

The old man in his age ; she told how lorn

Is solitude ; she spoke of the young heart

Left in its loneliness, where it had known

No kindness but from strangers, forced to be

Wayfarer in this bleak and bitter world,

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 95

And looking to the grave as to a home.

The numbers died in tears, but no one sought

To stay her as she pass'd with veiled face

From the hush'd hall. One gently whisper'd me,

EULALIA is an orphan! * * *

Yet still our meetings were mid festival,

Night after night. It was both sad and strange,

To see that fine mind waste itself away,

Too like some noble stream, which, unconfined,

Makes fertile its rich banks, and glads the face

Of nature round ; but not so when its wave

Is lost in artificial waterfalls,

And sparkling eddies ; or coop'd up to make

The useless fountain of a palace hall.

One day I spoke of this; her eager soul

Was in its most unearthly element.

96 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

We had been speaking of the immortal dead.

The light flash'd in her eyes. " Tis this which makes

The best assurance of our promised heaven :

This triumph intellect has over death,

Our words yet live on others' lips ; our thoughts

Actuate others. Can that man be dead

Whose spiritual influence is upon his kind ?

He lives in glory ; and such speaking dust

Has more of life than half its breathing moulds.

Welcome a grave with memories such as these,

Making the sunshine of our moral world ! "

" This proud reward you see, and yet can leave :

Your songs sink on the ear, and there they die,

A flower's sweetness, but a flower's life.

An evening's homage is your only fame ;

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 97

'Tis vanity, EULALIA." Mournfully

She shook the raven tresses from her brow,

As if she felt their darkness omen-like.

" Speak not of this to me, nor bid me think ;

It is such pain to dwell upon myself ;

And know how different I am from all

I once dream'd I could be. Fame ! stirring fame !

I work no longer miracles for thee.

I am as one who sought at early dawn

To climb with fiery speed some lofty hill :

His feet are strong in eagerness and youth,

His limbs are braced by the fresh morning air,

And all seems possible : this cannot last.

The way grows steeper, obstacles arise,

And unkind thwartings from companions near.

The height is truer measured, having traced

98 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

Part of its heavy length ! his sweet hopes droop.
Like prison'd birds that know their cage has bars,
The body wearies, and the mind is worn,
That worst of lassitude : hot noon comes on ;
There is no freshness in the sultry air,
There is no rest upon the toilsome road ;
There is the summit, which he may not reach,
And round him are a thousand obstacles.

" I am a woman: tell me not of fame.
The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path,
And fling back arrows, where the dove would dio.
Look on those flowers near yon acacia tree,
The lily of the valley, mark how pure
The snowy blossoms, and how soft a breath
Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves.
Not only have those delicate flowers a gift

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 99

Of sweetness and of beauty, but the root,
A healing power dwells there; fragrant and fair,
But dwelling still in some beloved shade.
Is not this woman's emblem ? she whose smile
Should only make the loveliness of home
Who seeks support and shelter from man's heart,
And pays it with affection quiet, deep,
And in his sickness sorrow with an aid
He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt.
Alas ! this has not been my destiny.
Again I'll borrow Summer's eloquence.
Yon Eastern tulip, that is emblem mine ;
Ay ! it has radiant colours, every leaf
Is as a gem from its own country's mines.
Tis redolent with sunshine ; but with noon
It has begun to wither: look within,
H 2

100 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart ;

It has dwelt too much in the open day,'

And so have I ; and both must droop and die !

I did not choose my gift : too soon my heart,

Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour

Than time had reach'd : and as my years pass'd on,

Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts,

And thoughts found words, the passionate words of

song,

And all to me was poetry. The face,
Whose radiance glided past me in the dance,
Awoke a thousand fantasies to make
Some history of her passing smile or sigh.
The flowers were full of song : upon the rose
I read the crimson annals of true love ;
The violet flung me back on old romance ;

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 101

All was association with some link
Whose fine electric throb was in the mind.
I paid my price for this, 'twas happiness.
My wings have melted in their eager flight,
And gleams of heaven have only made me feel
Its distance from our earth more forcibly.
My feelings grow less fresh, my thoughts less kind
My youth has been too lonely, too much left
To struggle for itself ; and this world is
A northern clime, where ev'ry thing is chill'd.
I speak of my own feelings, I can judge
Of others but by outward show, and that
Is falser than the actor's studied part.
We dress our words and looks in borrow'd robes :
The mind is as the face, for who goes forth
In public walks without a veil at least ?
H 3

102 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

'Tis this constraint makes half life's misery.
'Tis a false rule : we do too much regard
Others' opinions, but neglect their feelings ;
Thrice happy if such order were revers'd.
Oh why do we make sorrow for ourselves,
And, not content with the great wretchedness
Which is our native heritage, those ills
We have no mastery over, sickness, toil,
Death, and the natural grief which comrades death,
Are not all these enough, that we must add
Mutual and moral torment, and inflict
Ingenious tortures we must first contrive ?
I am distrustful, I have been deceived
And disappointed, I have hoped in vain.
I am vain, praise is opium, and the lip
Cannot resist the fascinating draught,

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 103

Though knowing its excitement is a fraud,
Delirious, a mockery of fame.
I may not image the deep solitude
In which my spirit dwells. My days are past
Among the cold, the careless, and the false.
What part have I in them, or they in me ?
Yet I would be belov'd ; I would be kind ;
I would share others' sorrows, others' joys ;
I would fence in a happiness with friends.
I cannot do this: is the fault mine own ?
Can I love those who but repay my love
With half caprice, half flattery ; or trust,
When I have full internal consciousness
They are deceiving me ? I may be kind,
And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still ;
For gratitude is not companionship.

104? A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

We have proud words that speak of intellect ;
We talk of mind that magnifies the world,
And makes it glorious : much of this is true,
All time attests the miracles of man :
The very elements, whose nature seems
To mock dominion, yet have worn his yoke.
His way has been upon the pathless sea ;
The earth's dark bosom search'd ; bodiless air
Works as his servant ; and from his own mind
What rich stores he has won, the sage, the bard,
The painter; these have made their nature proud.
And yet how life goes on, its great outline
How noble and ennobling ! but within
How mean, how poor, how pitiful, how mix'd
With base alloy ; how Disappointment tracks
The steps of Hope ; how Envy dogs success ;

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 105

How every victor's crown is lined with thorns,

And worn 'mid scoffs ! Trace the young poet's fate :

Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams,

His heart upon his lips, he seeks the world,

To find him fame and fortune, as if life

Were like a fairy tale. His song has led

The way before him ; flatteries fill his ear,

His presence courted, and his words are caught ;

And he seems happy in so many friends.

What marvel if he somewhat overrate

His talents and his state ? These scenes soon change.

The vain, who sought to mix their name with his ;

The curious, who but live for some new sight ;

The idle, all these have been gratified,

And now neglect stings even more than scorn.

Envy has spoken, felt more bitterly,

106 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

For that it was not dream' d of; worldliness

Has crept upon his spirit unaware ;

Vanity craves for its accustom'd food ;

He has turn'd sceptic to the truth which made

His feelings poetry ; and discontent

Hangs heavily on the lute, which wakes no more

Its early music: social life is fill'd

With doubts and vain aspirings ; solitude,

When the imagination is dethroned,

Is turn'd to weariness. What can he do

But hang his lute on some lone tree, and die ?

" Methinks we must have known some former state
More glorious than our present, and the heart
Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left
By past magnificence ; and hence we pine
With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 107

With bitter tears for their own vanity.
Remembrance makes the poet : 'tis the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men
Of what has been, that fills the actual world
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes,
That were and are not ; and the fairer they,
The more their contrast with existing things,
The more his power, the greater is his grief*
Are we then fallen from some noble star,
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse,
And we feel capable of happiness
Only to know it is not of our sphere ?

" I have sung passionate songs of beating hearts ;
Perhaps it had been better they had drawn
Their inspiration from an inward source.

108 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

Had I known even an unhappy love,

It would have flung an interest round life

Mine never knew. This is an empty wish ;

Our feelings are not fires to light at will

Our nature's fine and subtle mysteries ;

We may control them, but may not create,

And love less than its fellows. I have fed

Perhaps too much upon the lotos fruits

Imagination yields, fruits which unfit

The palate for the more substantial food

Of our own land reality. I made

My heart too like a temple for a home ;

My thoughts were birds of paradise, that breathed

The airs of heaven, but died on touching earth.

The knight, whose deeds were stainless as his crest,

Who made my name his watchword in the field ;

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 109

The poet, with immortal words, whose heart

I shared with beauty ; or the patriot,

Whose eloquence was power, who made my smile

His recompense amid the toil which shaped

A nation's destiny : these, such as these,

The glorified the passionate the brave,

In these I might have found the head and heart

I could have worshipp'd. Where are such as these ?

Not mid gay cavaliers, who make the dance

Pleasant with graceful flatteries ; whose words

A passing moment might light up my cheek,

But haunted not my solitude. The fault

Has been my own ; perhaps I ask'd too much :

Yet let me say, what firmly I believe,

Love can be ay, and is. I held that Love

Which chooseth from a thousand only one,

110 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

To be the object of that tenderness
Natural to every heart ; which can resign
Its own best happiness for one dear sake :
Can bear with absence ; hath no part in Hope,
For Hope is somewhat selfish. Love is not,
And doth prefer another to itself.
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love,
Can melt away the dross of worldliness ;
Can elevate, refine, and make the heart
Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine
For fire as sacred as e'er came from Heaven ?
No more of this: one word may read my heart,
And that one word is utter weariness !
Yet sometimes I look round with vain regret,
And think I will restring my lute, and nerve
My woman's hand for nobler enterprise ;

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. Ill

But the day never comes. Alas ! we make
A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot : our high resolves
Look down upon our slumbering acts.''

I soon left Italy : it is well worth
A year of wandering, were it but to feel
How much- our England does outweigh the world.
A clear cold April morning was it, when I first
Rode up the avenue of ancient oaks,
A hundred years upon each stately head.
The park was bright with sunshine, and the deer
Went bounding by ; freshness was on the wind,
Till every nerve was braced ; and once the air
Came with Arabian sweetness on its wing,
It was the earliest growth of violets.
A fairy foot had left its trace beside,

112 A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

Ah, EMILY had nurs'd my favourite flowers.

Nearer I came, I heard familiar sounds,

They are the heart's best music ; saw the blaze

Through the wide windows of the dear old hall.

One moment more, my eager footsteps stood

Within my father's home, beside his hearth.

Three times those early violets had fill'd

Their urns with April dew, when the chang'd cheek

Of EMILY wore signs of young decay.

The rose was too inconstant, and the light

Too clear in those blue eyes ; but southern skies

Might nurse a flower too delicate to bear

The winds of March unless in Italy.

I need not tell thee how the soothing air

Brought tranquil bloom that fed not on itself

To EMILY'S sweet face ; but soon again

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 113

We talk'd of winter by our own wood fire,
With cheerful words, that had no tears to hide.
We pass'd through Rome on our return, and there
Sought out EULALIA. Graceful as her wont
Her welcome to my bride ; but oh, so changed !
Her cheek was colourless as snow ; she wore
The beauty of a statue, or a spirit
With large and radiant eyes : her thrilling voice
Had lost its power, but still its sweetness kept.
One night, while seated in her favourite hall,
The silken curtains all flung back for air,
She mark'd my EMILY, whose idle gaze
Was fix'd on that fair garden. " Will you come
And wander in the moonlight? our soft dew
Will wash no colour from thine island cheek."
She led the way by many a bed, whose hues
i

114- A HISTORY OF THE LYRE.

Vied with the rainbow, through sweet-scented

groves

Golden with oranges : at length the path
Grew shadowy with darker, older trees,
And led us to a little lonely spot.
There were no blossoming shrubs, but sweeping pines
Guarded the solitude ; and laurel boughs
Made fitting mirrors for the lovely moon,
With their bright shining leaves ; the ivy lay
And trail'd upon the ground ; and in the midst
A large old cypress stood, beneath whose shade
There was a sculptured form ; the feet were placed
Upon a finely-carved rose wreath ; the arms
Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars ;
EULALIA leant beside ; 'twas hard to say
Which was the actual marble : when she spoke,

A HISTORY OF THE LYRE. 115

You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound ;

But the eyes' lustre told life linger' d still ;

And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their depths.

" You see," she said, " my cemetery here :

Here, only here, shall be my quiet grave.

Yon statue is my emblem : see, its grasp

Is rais'd to heaven, forgetful that the while

Its step has crush'd the fairest of earth's flowers

With its neglect."

Her prophecy was sooth :

No change of leaf had that green valley known,
When EULALIE lay there in her last sleep.

Peace to the weary and the beating heart,
That fed upon itself!

i 2

THE

ANCESTRESS,

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

i 3

The COUNT of ARDENBURG.
JAROMIR, otherwise COUNT HERMAN, his Nephew.
Guests, Attendants, Officers, Sfc.

BERTHA, Daughter of the Count.
LEITRA, her Nurse.

Ladies, Attendants, fyc.

THE

ANCESTRESS.

SCENE I JAROMIR. BERTHA.

BERTHA.

IT is in this we differ ; I would seek
To blend my very being into thine
I'm even jealous of thy memory :
I wish our childhood had been pass'd together.
I 4

120 THE ANCESTRESS.

JAROMIR.

Bertha, sweet Bertha ! would to Heav'n it had !
What would'st thou with a past that knew thee not ?

BERTHA.

To make that past my own by confidence,

By mingled recollections, I would fain

Our childish sorrows had been wept together ;

Our childish joys had been indulged together ;

Our childish hopes had been believed together :

But as this cannot be, I speak of them,

The very speaking does associate us,

I speak of them, that, in those coming years,

When youthful hours rise up within the mind,

Like lovely dreams some sudden chance has brought,

To fill the eyes with long-forgotten tears,

THE ANCESTRESS. 121

My image may be with them as of one

Who held such sympathy with aught of thine.

JAROMIR.

Sweetest, no more of this : my youth hath pass'd
In harsh and rugged warfare, not the scenes
Of young knights with white plumes, and gallant

With lady's favour on each burnish'd crest,
Whose tournaments, in honour of fair dames,
May furnish tales to suit the maiden's ear.
I've had no part in such ; I only know
Of war the terrible reality :
The long night-watch beneath the driving snow ;
The unsooth'd pillow, where the strong man lay
Like a weak child, by weary sickness worn

122 THE ANCESTRESS.

Even to weeping ; or the ghastly dead,

By the more ghastly dying, whose last breath

Pass'd in a prayer for water but in vain :

O'er them their eager comrades hurry on

To slaughter others. How thy cheek is blanch'd !

I truly said these were no tales for thee.

Come, take thy lute, and sing just one sweet song,

To fill my sleep with music.

BERTHA.

Then good night.

I have so much to say to my old nurse,
This is her annual visit, and she waits
Within my chamber, so one only song.
My lute is tuneless with this damp night air.

THE ANCESTRESS. 123

Like to our own glad spirits, its fine chords
Are soon relax' d.

JAROMIR.

Then sing, love, with the wind,
The plaining wind, and let that be thy lute.

BERTHA.

How wildly round our ancient battlements
The air-notes murmur I Blent with such a wind
I heard the song which shall be ours to-night.
She had a strange sweet voice, the maid who sang,
But early death was pale upon her cheek ;
And she had melancholy thoughts, that gave
Their sadness to her speech : she sat apart
From all her young companions, in the shade

124? THE ANCESTRESS.

Of an old tree a gloomy tree, whose boughs
Hung o'er her as a pall : 'twas omen-like,
For she died young, of gradual decay,
As if the heart consumed itself. None knew
If she had loved ; but alway did her song
Dwell on love's sorrows.

Sleep, heart of mine,
Why should love awake thee ?
Like yon closed rosebud,
To thy rest betake thee.

Sleep, heart of mine,
Wherefore art thou beating ?
Do dreams stir thy slumbers,
Vainest hopes repeating ?

THE ANCESTRESS. 125

Sleep, heart of mine,
Sleep thou without dreaming :
Love, the beguiler,
Weareth such false seeming.

Sleep, heart of mine ;
But if on thy slumbers
Breathe one faint murmur
Of his charm'd numbers ;

Waken, heart of mine,
From such dangerous sleeping ;
Love's haunted visions
Ever end in weeping. .

But now no more of song. I will not lose
Another legend of my nurse's store.

126 THE ANCESTRESS.

A whole year must have added to her list

Of ghastly murders, spiritual visitings :

At least, 'twill make the ancient ones seem new.

JAROMIR.

And you will listen like a frighted child.
I think I see you ; when the turret clock
Has toll'd the night hour heavily ; the hearth
Has only flickering embers, which send forth
Gleams of distorting light ; the untrimm'd lamp
Exaggerates the shadows, till they seem
Flung by no human shape ; the hollow voice
Of that old crone, the only living sound ;
Her face, on which mortality has writ
Its closing, with the wan and bony hand,
Raised like a spectre's and yourself the while,

THE ANCESTRESS. 127

Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear,
Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown
With terror's chain'd attention, and your breath
Suppress'd for very earnestness. Well, love,
Good night ; and if our haunted air be fill'd
With Spirits, may they watch o'er thee like Love !

BERTHA.

Good night, good night ! the kind Madonna shed
Her blessings o'er thee !

[Exit JAROMIR.

'Tis his last footfall, I can catch no more.
Methinks he pass'd too quickly. Had I left
This room, I should have counted every step,
Have linger'd on the threshold ; but he went
Rapidly, carelessly. Now out on this,

1--5 THE ANCESTRESS.

The very fottv of a loving heart !

Jaromir ! it is a fearful thing

To lore as I love thee ; to feel the world
The bright, the beautiful, joy-giving world
A blank without thee. Never more to me
Can hope, joy, fear wear different seemings. Now

1 have no hope that does not dream for thee :
I have no joy that is not shared by thee ;

I have no fear that does not dread for thee.
All that I once took pleasure in, my lute
Is only sweet when h repeats thy name ;
My flowers, I only gather them for thee ;
The book drops listless down, I cannot read,
Unless h is to thee ; my lonely hours
Are spent in shaping forth our future lives
After my own romantic fantasies.

THE ANCESTRESS. 129

He is the star round which my thoughts revolve

Like satellites. My father, can it be

That thine, the unceasing love of many years,

Doth not so fill my heart as this strange guest ?

I loved thee once so wholly, now methinks

I love thee for that thou lov'st Jaromir.

It is the lamp gone out, that dreams like these

Should be by darkness broken I I am grown

So superstitious in my fears and hopes,

As if I thought that all things must take part

In my great love Alas, my poor old nurse,

How she has waited I

\_Exit BERTHA.

130 THE ANCESTRESS.

SCENE II. BERTHA. LEITRA.

BERTHA.

The embers cast a cold dim light around,

And the wan lamp seems weary with our watch.

O Leitra, do not look so fearfully.

LEITRA.
Now, holy saints ! who brought that picture here ?

BERTHA.

That picture oh, now, Leitra, thy strange tales
Made me forget what Jaromir had done.
In the east turret's old deserted rooms

THE ANCESTRESS.

131

He saw a lovely portrait almost hid
By the grey cobwebs and the gather'd dust ;
That he had clear'd it carefully, and thought
It should be with my favourite pictures hung
And here it is, my own kind Jaromir.

LEITRA.

He brought it here ! O Bertha, kneel and pray !
The shadowy likeness, when the actual shape
Is distant far ; the dream whose prophecy
Comes when we waken terribly distinct ;
The shriek the grave sends up in the still night,
Are not such deadly omens as that face.
My young, my good, my fair, what hath the curse
That is upon thine house to do with thee ?

K 2

132 THE ANCESTRESS.

BERTHA.

What do you mean? Speak, speak! the very sound
Of my own voice is terrible ! what curse ?
Whose is this picture ?

LEITRA.
It is The Ancestress !

BERTHA.

My Ancestress? and a most lovely one:

Yet is her beauty awful: the pale cheek

Looks as if passion had fed on its rose ;

The lips are pale, too, though their graceful curve

Fascinates in its scorn ; her loose dark air,

Wild as a sibyl's, sweeps as if 't had caught

Its wildness and its darkness from the storm ;

THE ANCESTRESS. 133

Her eyes, like moonlight melancholy, seem
So deep, so spiritual, such the far light
Of stars which are a mystery ; like a queen's
For grace, and like a swan's for snow, her neck
Thrown back so haughtily ; and her black robe,
Her golden girdle with strange characters,
Suit her strange loveliness so well.

LEITRA.

Hush, hush !

Your thoughtless words sound like impiety.
I had not meant to tell her history,
But it is best you know it. Never came
That portrait here by but a simple chance.
She was a princess of the olden time,
So beautiful, that kings laid down their crowns
K 3

134 THE ANCESTRESS.

Like flowers before her, and her halls were throng'd

With lovers, and of life she took no thought,

Save for its pleasures ; but as years pass'd on

She felt her insecurity, and cursed

Her own fair face for fading. Suddenly

She grew more lovely, as if age to her

Were but a second youth ; again her halls

Were fill'd with worshippers, and day and night

Consumed in revels ; when, as suddenly

As summer had revisited her face,

She pass'd away. On his deathbed a monk

Told a wild legend, how one autumn eve

He leant in his confessional alone,

And a most radiant lady knelt and wept

Over the one unpardonable sin.

How for the sake of lasting loveliness

THE ANCESTRESS. 135

Her soul was forfeit to the evil power,
Who tempted her with beauty. Then she said
It was now mock'd by ceaseless tears, which fell,
Although in vain ; how she from shrine to shrine
Had gone in late repentant pilgrimage.
Her knees were worn with many prayers ; but still
The presence of the demon haunted her.
Then rose a spirit of strong prophecy
Upon that aged monk : he said her crime
Was fearful, so would be its punishment ;
That for her sin a curse was on her race,
Which she would witness : sorrow, early death,
Sickness, and guilt would be her children's lot ;
That, still bound by her human sympathy,
Although debarr'd all human intercourse,
She now was doom'd to wander o'er the earth,
K 4

136 THE ANCESTRESS.

A witness of their misery, till not one
Remain'd of her descendants ; then the grave
Would be her resting-place, and she might hope
That the most infinite mercy of the Cross
Might sanctify a sinner's penitence.
Bertha, this was your Ancestress. My child,
Yon portrait is an evil omen here.

BERTHA.

There is another where my heart can turn:
Gentlest Madonna, from my early years
Thou hast been as the mother I have lost,
In patience and in comfort. Leitra,
I am too sad for more of these dark tales :
Good night !

THE ANCESTRESS. 137

LEITRA.

Now blessings rest upon thee, my sweet child I

There's not a bead upon my rosary

That shall not count a prayer for thy dear sake.

SCENE III.- The Castle Chapel.
JAROMIR. BERTHA.

JAROMIR.

What, Bertha, is it you ? I little thought
The shrouding mantle, and the hurried step,
Which raised my wonder at this midnight hour,
So cold, so damp, were those of mine own love ;

138 THE ANCESTRESS.

I little dream' d this dreary chapel held
So fair a saint.

4k

BERTHA.

I pray thee do not speak to me ; I feel
As if the dead were conscious of our presence ;
And human tenderness, and human hope,
Were impious before them. Nay, but hark I
I hear a strange low sound, like grief suppress'd,
Debarr'd from words, and breaking out in sighs.

JAROMIR.

I hear it too ; the wild wind in the pines,
The mournful music of an autumn eve.
What brought thee here, to scare thyself with thoughts
That make their own reality ?

THE ANCESTRESS. 139

BERTHA.

To pray.

Alas I for thee too much have I forgot
My orisons beside my mother's grave :
Till lately never did a day go past
Without some scatter'd flowers, some holy hymn,
That kept affection fresh with piety.
It is a beautiful, a bless'd belief,
That the beloved dead, grown angels, watch
The dear ones left behind ; and that my prayers
Are welcome to my mother's ears, as when
I knelt a lisping infant at her knee ;
And that her pure and holy spirit now
Doth intercede at the eternal throne :
And thus religion in its love and hope
Unites us still the mother and her child !

140 THE ANCESTRESS.

JAROMJR.

Ah, Bertha mine ! thy childhood was thrice bless'd,
Thy young mind sanctified, and after life
Made holy by the memory of the past.
I knew no mother's care to teach my lips
Those prayers that like good angels keep the heart
From uncurb'd passions, that lay waste and curse.
But Bertha, my sweet Bertha ! thou shalt be
My soul's religion, and my prayers will rise
Welcome and purified when blent with thine.
But come, methinks the funeral urn has* lent
Its marble to thy cheek : thy hair is wild ;
The dew has half unloosed its graceful curl ;
The lamps around burn dim in the thick air.
Come, let me wrap my cloak around thee, love ;

THE ANCESTRESS. 141

Thou art too delicate for such a night.
Why didst thou leave thy chamber ?

BERTHA.

My nurse O Jaromir ! she told to-night

A history of our house. I could riot sleep,

The fear of its deep terror, like a ghost,

So haunted me ; I sought my mother's grave ;

It seem'd a sanctuary. O Jaromir!

Have you not heard of her " The Ancestress? "

JAROMIR.

An excellent ghost story. I have led
A life too stirring for those vague beliefs
That superstition builds in solitude :
But you, my gentle lady of romance,

142 THE ANCESTRESS.

Whose youth has pass'd in an old castle, dark
With overhanging pines ; whose twilight hours
A re spent in ancient galleries, where the walls
Are hung with pictures of grim ancestors ;
Who art familiar with the plumed knights
Whose effigies keep guard in the old hall,
On whose black panels of the carved oak
The sunshine falls in vain ; no wonder thou
Shouldst yield these marvels such a ready faith :
But, though I fain would share thy every thought,
Feel hope fear anything like thee, at this
I cannot choose but smile.

BERTHA.

Nay, Jaromir !
Who shall deny the spiritual influence

THE ANCESTRESS. 143

Of the unquiet dead? a mystery
The hidden, and the terrible.

JAROMIR.

Come, come,
This shall be argued by the cheerful fire.

BERTHA.

Look there, look there ! My God, it is her face !

[ The ANCESTRESS rises from the tombs, but
only visible to BERTHA, as JAROMIR is
turned from her.

JAROMIR.

What foolish fear is this ? My Bertha, speak !
Good saints I but she is senseless.

[ Carries her out.

144 THE ANCESTRESS.

SCENE IV. The COUNT and JAROMIR.

COUNT.

The legends of our house ? I'll tell you one.
There were two brothers who grew up together,
As if they had one heart ; their tasks, their sports
Were shared ; at evening side by side they slept,
At morning waked together ; when they talk'd
With all youth's eagerness of future days,
They imaged but one plan, for neither knew
Their hopes could be divided. Years pass'd on,
And never brought they with them less of change.
But when the elder came to man's estate,
There was too mark'd a difference in their lot:

THE ANCESTRESS. 14-5

The first held wealth and rank the younger one
Dependent ; 'tis a bitter word, and most
When bred together in equality.
And then the younger brother rashly wed,
And lovely children crowded at his knee,
Foredoom'd to the same life that he had led,
Where pride and poverty contend, and shame
Grows deeper from suppression. Years pass'd on :
At length a deadly sickness smote the Count ;
His brother, with a strange unholy joy,
Stood by the dying man ; for he was heir
To that proud castle and its wide domain,
And past loves were all lost in future hopes.
Then was a secret told him which destroy'd
Those golden dreams, that brother had a child I
Death scoffs at worldly vanities, and death
i,

146 THE ANCESTRESS.

Avow'd the secret marriage pride conceal'd.
He died ; and now his lonely orphan's fate
Was in the new Count's hands, and he play'd false:
The boy was left in poor obscurity,
The mother's claim put down, and fraud and strife
Grasp'd their inheritance. That unjust lord,
The curse was on him, one by one they died,
The children, for whose sake he sold his soul.
One only daughter cheer'd his desolate house !
And all search for the orphan was in vain,
Till chance restored him,"and her father sought
To make her his atonement.

JAROMIR.

Count, no more !
I know the history, though till now I deem'd

THE ANCESTRESS. 14-7

Myself unknown. It was with bitter thoughts
And evil hopes I sought this castle first ;
But love and kindness greeted me ; I saw
An old man with remorse upon his brow.

COUNT.

Remorse ! for years it has encompassed me,
Darker and darker as its shadow fell
Nearer the grave : but at your coming, hope
Enter'd the dungeon of my mind like light.
I knew you by your likeness to your father.
For years I have not dared to raise my eyes
Even upon his picture ; but to-night,
When all the lighted halls are fill'd with guests,
By blood or amity link'd to our house,
You shall be own'd before them as the heir ;

L2

148 THE ANCESTRESS.

And I will look my brother in the face,
And say, Your son is happy," pardon me.

And now for the worst penance of my sin,
To tell my Bertha of her father's crime.
Alas ! to think that he who virtue taught/
Who fill'd her heart with piety and truth,
Should be the first to show temptation's strength ;
To prove that guilt could be within the soul,
While the false word spoke moral loveliness.

JAROMIH.
But, oh ! there needs not this.

COUNT.

Hush! hush!
I am impatient as a wearied man,

THE ANCESTRESS. 14-9

Eager to lay a weighty burthen down.
Come to me presently.

[Exit.

JAROMIR.

I do not feel as I should feel at this.
Acknowledged heir of a most noble house,
Belov'd and loving, wherefore should the past,
Which hitherto has seem'd but as a dream,
Of which I took no heed, why should the past
Come darkly up like an o'ertaking storm,
Whose heaviness weighs down the atmosphere
Of present hope ? Which shall I curse the most,
My father's pride, my uncle's avarice ?
But for these, bred according to my birth,
Familiar but with honourable deeds,
L 3

150 THE ANCESTRESS.

My fiery youth allow' d an open field,
The name of every gallant ancestor
A bond upon my soul against disgrace,
My name had been as stainless as my crest.
But, nursed in poverty, my infant ears
Listening to curses, how must wrongs have changed
A mother's nature, when the first lisp'd words
Her child's young lips were taught, were oaths and

threats

Of deep revenge ! Brought up to scorn my state,
Yet shut out from all other, while the blood
Of my bold forefathers stirr'd in my veins,
What have they made me ? Robber murderer !
One of the ready sword and reckless hand,
Who values blood by gold. Where art thou now,
Spirit of enterprise, that urged me on

THE ANCESTRESS. 151

Spirit of vengeance, that at midnight rang
My mother's dying words within my brain,
Where are ye now ? Hush'd as the worn-out wave !
And in your stead do fear and sorrow come;
Till, even as a child that dreads the dark,
I dread the future. Bertha, thou hast struck,
As with an angel's hand, my rocky heart,
And call'd forth its pure waters : higher hopes,
Gentle affections, thankfulness to God,
And kindliness towards my fellow-men,
Are gushing in my bosom's stony depths ;
And all subdued and chasten'd by a sense
Of my unworthiness. No more I hold
A blind and terrible fatality
Is paramount upon this weary life
This gulf of troubled billows where the soul,
L 4

152 THE ANCESTRESS.

Like a vex'd bark, is toss'd upon the waves

Of pain and pleasure by the warring breath

Of passions, which are winds that bear it on,

And only to destruction. Never more

Shall I speak recklessly of death ; or shun

A quiet thought or solitary hour ;

Or drown that consciousness, our moral life,

In the red wine cup : now my better heart

Luxuriates in repose ; I can pass days

Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees,

Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,

The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,

Each tree a natural harp, each different leaf

A different note, blent in one vast thanks-giving.

\_In leaning from the casement he catches a
sight of BERTHA.

THE ANCESTRESS. 153

I see her now. How more than beautiful
She paces yon bread terrace! The free wind
Has lifted the soft curls from off her cheek,
Which yet it crimsons not, the pure, the pale,
Like a young saint. How delicately carved
The Grecian outline of her face! but touch'd
With a more spiritual beauty, and more meek.
Her large blue eyes are raised up to the heav'ns,
Whose hues they wear, and seem to grow more clear
As the heart fills them. There, those parted lips,
Prayer could but give such voiceless eloquence,
Shining like snow her clasp'd and earnest hands,
She seems a dedicated nun, whose heart
Is God's own altar. By her side I feel
As in some holy place. My best love, mine,
Blessings must fall on one like thee!

154- THE ANCESTRESS.

SCENE V.~ BERTHA in her Room.

BERTHA.

The sound of festival is in my ear,
Haunting it with faint music ; the red lights
Shine fitfully reflected in the lake,
Where I have never seen aught but the moon
Mirror'd before, or the bright quiet stars.
A weight is on the air, for ev'ry breeze
Has, bird-like, folded up its wings for sleep.
It is like mockery of the silent night
To choose her hours for merriment ; but thus
We struggle with all natural laws, and make
Our life a strange disorder. Yet how sweet
Comes up the distant music! though 'tis sad.

THE ANCESTRESS. 155

A few brief moments, and those notes will be

But echoes to the dancers' joyous steps.

Why should they rouse in me such mournful

thoughts ?

Recalling snatches of familiar songs,
I've sung to those sweet airs, all sorrowful.
I see the youthful warrior with his head
Pillow'd upon his shield, but not for sleep ;
The maiden with her face upon her hands
Bow'd in its last despair. What are the words ?

[Sings a few words in a low tone to herself.

And fitfully the embers raised

A faint and passing flame ;
They miss'd her from her father's hearth,

But call'd not on her name.

156 THE ANCESTRESS.

They knew that she was weeping
For the loved and for the dead ;

In silence and in solitude,

Must such heavy tears be shed ?

And can these notes, so long associate
With love and sorrow, thus be turn'd to mirth,
And we shall dance to what brought tears before ?
[Leaning from the casement.
How beautiful it is ! though on the air
There is the stillness of a coming storm,
And on the sky its darkness. On the west,
Like a rebellious multitude, the clouds
Are gather'd in huge masses ; but the Moon,
Like a young queen, unconscious, brightens still
A little clear blue space ; though rapidly

THE ANCESTRESS. 157

Her comrades, the sweet stars, sink one by one,
Lost in the spreading vapours. Yet the lake
Has not a shadow. Well may the young Moon
Forget her danger, gazing on the face
Its silver waters mirror : all beyond
Is like the grave's obscurity; more near
All is most tranquil beauty and repose.
The garden flowers are paler than by day,
And sweeter. What an altar of perfume
Is the musk-rose, beneath my casement twined !
Dipping its golden tresses in the lake,
Leans the laburnum, and beneath its shade
Sleep my two swans, as white, as still as snow.
The wind is rising, and a yellow haze,
Like a volcano's smoke, makes heaven less dark
To be more fearful. I can now discern

158 THE ANCESTRESS.

Our ancient avenue of cedar trees,

How black they look, and with what heavy strength

The giant branches move I the weary air

Like a deep breath comes from them. Ah, how dark !

It is the first cloud that has touch'd the moon:

Her loveliness has conquer'd, oh, not yet!

One huge cloud, and another. I could deem

The evil powers did war on high to-night.

And are there such that o'er humanity

Hold influence, the terrible, the wild,

Inscrutable as fear, the ministers

To our unholy passions ? These are they

Who dazzle with unrighteous wealth, and make

Our sleep temptation ; they who fill its dreams

With passionate strife and guilt, until the mind

Is grown familiar with the sight of blood.

THE ANCESTRESS. 159

I do believe in them: by those strange crimes
Man's natural heart would shrink from, by the fear
That comes with midnight, by that awful face,
Which, though they say it was a fantasy,
I know I saw, I do believe in them.

Enter JAROMIR.

JAROMIR.

O Bertha, you are beautiful to-night !

My fairy Princess, with your golden hair

Loosed from the braids which almost hid its wealth,

Descending in a sunny shower of curls,

And lighted up with diamonds ; and your waist,

That rainbow girdle of all precious stones,

How well it suits its slender gracefulness I

160 THE ANCESTRESS.

Our halls are fill'd with guests. There, take one

glance

At yonder mirror ; and now let me lead
My lovely cousin to the festal rooms.
Come, Bertha.

SCENE VI. A Hall filled with Guests.
The COUNT, JAROMIR, and BERTHA.

FIRST LADY.

This is delightful. Why the grim old hall
Is fill'd with torches ; every shining shield
And gilded helm reflects the light : the crowd

THE ANCESTRESS. 161

Of our gay nobles have not left a gem
Within their ancient coffers.

SECOND LADY.

Yet methinks

There is a shadow on this gaiety,
Flung from departed years ; yon empty helm,
The last memorial of some mighty chief,
Now even as the dust upon his plume ;
Those ghastly portraits bringing back the dead.
I cannot bear to look upon a face
Warm with the hues of life, from which long since
All likeness to the human form has pass'd.

FIRST LADY.

This is too fanciful: come, join the dance.
M

162 THE ANCESTRESS.

FIRST NOBLEMAN.

A gallant cavalier this new-found Count ;
He'll wear his honours gaily.

SECOND NOBLEMAN.

Such excess

Of mirth's exuberance visits not for good.
An evil fate is written on his brow ;
The dark, the ominous, his very joy
Is like a desperate man's : I like it not.
He is not one over whose head the curse
Will pass away that hangs upon his house.

FIRST NOBLEMAN.

Yonder is Bertha ; but how very pale !
More like a nun on whom the moonlight falls
In some lone cell, than a betrothed bride.

THE ANCESTRESS. 163

My gentle Bertha, have you not a smile
For an old friend to-night ?

BERTHA.

My very kindest, if you did but know
The happiness of one familiar face.
Let us rest here awhile, the open air
Is so refreshing in its natural sweetness.
My head is dizzy with excess of light ;
Let us but join with looks the festival
Awhile from this alcove.

FIRST NOBLEMAN.

How miser-like

The wealth of spring is heap'd I Say, are not these
Among your favourite flowers ?
M 2

164 THE ANCESTRESS.

BERTHA.

Blue hyacinths !

Oh, do not show them me ; they fill my eyes
With tears too soft for such a scene as this.

FIRST NOBLEMAN.

Is happiness so wholly pass'd from thee,
That its remembrance is turn'd into pain ?
Or is thy heart, thy woman's heart, so caught
By this gay revel, that a serious thought
Is counted as a pleasure lost ?

BERTHA.

Oh no!

But now thy words give utterance to mine,
Which else might seem so grave. I've lived too long

THE ANCESTRESS. 165

In the deep quiet of our ancient halls ;
Have dwelt too much in solitude, whose fence
Was broken but by old beloved friends,
To bear this revelry of festival,
And not feel too oppress'd for happiness.
I am spectator, not partaker, here.
To me it seems more like a pageant made
To represent mirth, than the mirth itself.
I have known many that did act a joy
In which they had no part. At first I gazed
In wonder and delight on lips that wore
A smile as if by custom, and on eyes
Which seem'd but made to look bland courtesy.
This did not last. I saw the cheek grow red
With ill-dissembled anger, at some slight ;
The eye flash sudden fire, and the harsh lip
M 3

166 THE ANCESTRESS.

Curve into scorn : then all grow calm again,

Is it not like those lands, where, ? _I have read,

Beneath an outward show of fairest flowers

The soil has veins of subterranean flame,

Whose fiery sparkles start to sudden life

When we least dream of them. I'd rather breathe

One moment's breath of morning on the hills,

Than all the Indian woods that ever burnt

On silver censers ; and would rather see

One leaf fall from the bough which misses not

Its loss, than look upon the purple sweep

Of these rich tapestries.

Ah, 'tis his voice !

JAROMIR in the distance.
Health and long happiness, my friends !

THE ANCESTRESS. 167

BERTHA, coming forward.

Who are those strangers ? They are arm'd ; and see
How rudely do they force their way !

OFFICERS rush up the room, and surround

JAROMIR, exclaiming,
Our prisoner !

FIRST OFFICER.

Count Herman, we are sorry thus to break
Upon your gaiety.

COUNT HERMAN.

Off, off! your prisoner is my nearest kin,
The noble heir of these insulted halls.

M 4-

168 THE ANCESTRESS.

FIRST OFFICER.

But not the less the robber Udolph, too.

JAROMIR.

Discover' d, baffled well, I can but die.

I will not shame a name at which so oft

The brave have trembled. I am Udolph : come,

I do defy you : one and all come on.

Is there no rescue in my father's house ?

[Some of the young Cavaliers come for ward;
they fight; when T$ERT HA flings herself
before JAROMIR, who is mortally wounded,
and receives another blow destined for him.

BERTHA.

My father I [Dies.

THE ANCESTRESS. 169

JAROMIR.

There, take my sword ; I cannot see her face.
Oh, for one hour of life, but to revenge !

COUNT HERMAN.

I see her : 'tis the Ancestress I

[ The ANCESTRESS glides across the stage,
beckoning the COUNT.

COUNT.
The last and the accursed of my house,

Will no one let me touch his hand ?

Enter SERVANTS.

The castle is on fire I a lightning flash
Has set the eastern turrets in a blaze.
Fly for your lives !

170 THE ANCESTRESS.

SECOND NOBLEMAN.

We must take hence this miserable man.

FIRST NOBLEMAN.

He's dead I
[ The flames burst into the room, and they fly.

The ANCESTRESS is seen to kneel by the dead, with
her hands raised to heaven, till the falling ruins
of the Castle hide the whole.

NOTE.

The hint of " The Ancestress" is taken from a German
play by Grillparzer, called " The Ahnfrau." The following
is the account of it, contained in Blackwood's Magazine for
September 1825: " The guilt of the Ahnfrau having intro-
duced a spurious heir into the noble family of Borotin, she
cannot rest in her grave until her crime is expiated, and its
consequences remedied, by the extinction of the intrusive line.
This is finally effected in the play through a series of horrible
calamities. The son of the Count, having been stolen in his
infancy by a robber, is brought up in his supposed father's
profession ; falls in love, as unwittingly as CEdipus, with his
sister ; kills his father in a scuffle with the Bow-street officers
of Poland ; and finally dies in the embrace of his ghostly
Ahnfrau, whom he mistakes for Bertha. The old lady, when
her penance is completed, by the disasters of her descendants,
which, with truly disinterested maternal love, she had vainly
endeavoured to prevent, ends the tragedy by going quietly
home into her hitherto untenanted monument."

172 NOTE.

I have taken very considerable liberties with the original
plot ; first, in making the guilt of the Ancestress supernatural,
as believing such most likely to incur supernatural punish-
ment ; secondly, in making Jaromir cousin instead of brother,
and thus avoiding the most revolting of crimes ; and, thirdly,
in awarding something of the character of poetical justice, as
it is the Count's own offence which brings down the punish-
ment.

POETICAL POETEAITS,

POETICAL PORTRAITS

No. I.
O NO, sweet lady, not to thee

That set and chilling tone,
By which the feelings on themselves

So utterly are thrown :
For mine has sprung upon my lips,

Impatient to express
The haunting charm of thy sweet voice

And gentlest loveliness.
A very fairy queen thou art,

Whose only spells are on the heart.

176 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

The garden it has many a flower,

But only one for thee
The early graced of Grecian song,

The fragrant myrtle tree ;
For it doth speak of happy love,

The delicate, the true.
If its pearl buds are fair like thee,

They seem as fragile too ;
Likeness, not omens, for love's power

Will watch his own most precious flower.

Thou art not of that wilder race

Upon the mountain side,
Able alike the summer sun

And winter blast to bide ;

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 177

But thou art of that gentler growth,

Which asks some loving eye,
To keep it in sweet guardianship,

Or it must droop and die ;
Requiring equal love and care,
Even more delicate than fair.

I cannot paint to thee the charm

Which thou hast wrought on me ;
Thy laugh, so like the wild bird's song

In the first bloom-touch'd tree.
You spoke of lovely Italy,

And of its thousand flowers ;
Your lips had caught the music breath

Amid its summer bow'rs.

N

178 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

And can it be a form like thine
Has braved the stormy Appennine?

I'm standing now with one white rose

Where silver waters glide :
I've flung that white rose on the stream,-

How light it breasts the tide !
The clear waves seem as if they love

So beautiful a thing ;
And fondly to the scented leaves

The laughing sunbeams cling.
A summer voyage fairy freight ;
And such, sweet lady, be thy fate !

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 179

No. II.

AH ! little do those features wear
The shade of grief, the soil of care ;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain snow,
And thence descends in many a ring,
With sun and summer glistening.
Yet something on that brow has wrought
A moment's cast of passing thought ;
Musing of gentle dreams, like those
Which tint the slumbers of the rose :
Not love, love is not yet with thee,
But just a glimpse what love may be :
A memory of some last night's sigh,
When flitting blush and drooping eye
N 2

180 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

Answer'd some youthful cavalier,
Whose words sank pleasant on thine ear,
To stir, but not to fill the heart ;
Dreaming of such, fair girl, thou art.

Thou blessed season of our spring,
When hopes are angels on the wing ;
Bound upwards to their heavenly shore,
Alas I to visit earth no more.
Then step and laugh alike are light,
When, like a summer morning bright,
Our spirits in their mirth are such,
As turn to gold whate'er they touch.
The past ! 'tis nothing childhood's day
Has roll'd too recently away,
For youth to shed those mournful tears
That fill the eye in older years,

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 181

When Care looks back on that bright leaf

Of ready smiles and short-lived grief.

The future ! 'tis the promised land,

To which Hope points with prophet hand,

Telling us fairy tales of flowers

That only change for fruit and ours.

Though false, though fleeting, and though vain,

Thou blessed time, I say again.

Glad being, with thy downcast eyes,
And visionary look that lies
Beneath their shadow, thou shalt share
A world, where all my treasures are
My lute's sweet empire, fill'd with all
That will obey my spirit's call ;
A world lit up by fancy's son !
Ah I little like our actual one.

N3

182 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

No. III.
His hand is on the snowy sail,

His step is on the prow,
And back the cold night- winds have flung

The dark curls from his brow ;
That brow to which his native heaven
A something of itself has given.

But all too mix'd with earthly stain,

The nameless shadowy care,
Which tells, that though heaven gave it birth,

Its home has not been there ;
And here, the earth and heaven seem blent
In one discordant element.

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 183

It wears our nature's nobler part ;

That spirit which doth spurn
The weary bondage of our world,

And show what man can earn ;
Where, led by honourable pride,
Hero and sage are deified ;

Those high imaginings which make

The glory which they hope ;
Fine- wrought aspirings, lofty aims,

Which have in youth such scope ;
Like tides which, haunted by the moon,
Rise but, alas ! to fall too soon.

Vain are these dreams, and vain these hopes ;
And yet 'tis these give birth
N 4

184 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

To each high purpose, generous deed,

That sanctifies our earth.
He who hath highest aim in view,
Must dream at first what he will do.

Upon that youthful brow are traced

High impulses like these ;
But all too purposeless, like gales

That wander o'er the seas ;
Not winds that bear the vessel on,
Fix'd to one point, and only one.

And meaner workings have deform'd

His natural noble mind ;
Those wretched aims which waste the ore

For happier use design'd.

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 185

And petty wishes, idle praise,
Destroy the hopes of better days.

And hath no earlier vision taught

A more exalted creed ?
Alas ! that such a mind should waste

Its powers away, to feed
That wretched vanity which clings
To life's debasing, paltry things.

The worthlessness of common praise,

The dry rot of the mind,
By which its temple secretly

But fast is undermined.
Alas ! the praise given to the ear
Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere

186 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

And does but waste away the mind
On which it preys : in vain

Would they in whom its poison lurks
A worthier state attain.

Indifference proud, immortal aim,

Had, aye, the demigods of fame.

The dew of night falls cold around,

Yet can it not allay
The fever burning on thy cheek,

That eats thy life away ;
For thou dost know thy birthright sold
For even less than his of old.

Thou know'st what thou hast power to be,
Thou know'st, too, what thou art ;

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 187

And heavily does discontent
Sit rankling at thy heart ;
And thou dost mask thy grief the while
With scornful sneer, and bitter smile.

But yet thou art too indolent

From such weak bonds to free
Thy better self, and urge thy strength

To be what thou might'st be ;
Thou dost repent the past, and blame,
And yet thy future is the same.

Ay, leave thy rudder to the wave,

Thy sail upon the wind,
Leave them to chance, and they will be

Fit likeness of thy mind :

188 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

Unguided sail, unmaster'd prow,
Are only emblems; What art thou?

No. IV.

His brow is pale with high and passionate thoughts
That came from heaven like lightning, and consume,
E'en while they brighten ; youth has lost its hopes :
Those sweet and wandering birds, that make its

spring

So happy with their music, these are gone:
All scared by one, a vulture, that doth feed
Upon the life-blood of the throbbing heart
The hope of immortality ! that hope,
Whose altar is the grave, whose sacrifice
Is life bright, beautiful, and breathing life.

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 189

He stands amid the revellers with a joy,
A scarcely conscious joy, in their delight;
In it he has no part, he stands alone ;
But the deep music haunts his dreaming ear,
But the fair forms flit o'er his dreaming eye,
And exquisite illusions fill his soul
With loveliness to pour in future song.

He leant beside a casement, and the moon
Shed her own stillness o'er the hectic cheek
Whereon the fever of the mind had fed ;
His eyes have turn'd towards th' eternal stars,
Drinking the light into their shadowy depths,
Almost as glorious and as spiritual.
The night-wind touch'd his forehead, with it ran
A faint slight shudder through his wasted frame,
Alas ! how little can bring down our thoughts

190 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

From their most lofty communings with heaven,
To poor mortality I that passing chill
Recall'd those bitter feelings that attend
Career half follow'd, and the goal unwon :
He thought upon his few and unknown years,
How much his power, how little it had done ;
And then again the pale lip was compress' d
With high resolve, the dark eye flash' d with hope
To snatch a laurel from the grasp of death,
For the green memory of an early grave.

No. V.
THY beauty ! not a fault is there ;

No queen of Grecian line
E'er braided more luxuriant hair

O'er forehead more divine.

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 191

The light of midnight's starry heaven

Is in those radiant eyes ;
The rose's crimson life has given

That cheek its morning dyes.

Thy voice is sweet, as if it took

Its music from thy face ;
And word and mien, and step and look,

Are perfect in their grace.

And yet I love thee not : thy brow

Is but the sculptor's mould :
It wants a shade, it wants a glow,

It is less fair than cold.

192 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

Where are thy blushes, where thy tears ?

Thy cheek has but one rose :
No eloquence of hopes and fears

Disturbs its bright repose.

Thy large dark eyes grow not more dark
With tears that swell unshed :

Alas ! thy heart is as the ark
That floated o'er the dead.

Hope, feeling, fancy, fear, and love

Are in one ruin hurl'd ;
Fate's dreary waters roll above

Thy young and other world.

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 193

And thou hast lived o'er scenes like these,

The terrible, the past,
Where hearts must either break or freeze,

And thine has done the last.

Thou mov'st amid the heartless throng

With school'd and alter'd brow :
Thy face has worn its mask so long,

It is its likeness now.

Where is the colour that once flush'd

With every eager word ?
Where the sweet joyous laugh, that gush'd

Like spring songs from the bird ?

194- POETICAL PORTRAITS.

Where are the tears a word once brought,

The heart's sweet social rain ?
Where are the smiles that only sought

To see themselves again ?

I knew thee in thine earlier hours,

A very summer queen
For some young poet's dream : those flow'rs

Are just what thou hast been,

Wild flow'rs, all touch'd with rainbow hues,

Born in a morning sky,
Lighted with sunshine, fill'd with dews,

Made for a smile and sigh.

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 195

But now I look upon thy face,

A very pictured show,
Betraying not the slightest trace

Of what may work below.

Farewell, affection I selfish, changed,

Thine it no more may be ;
From love thou hast thyself estranged,

It could not dwell with thee.

o 2

196 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

No. VI.

THE light is kindling in his eye,

The colour on his cheek ;
And thoughts, the passionate, the deep,

Their charmed silence break ;

Yet not to pour themselves in song,

But in those burning words
That come when some chance touch has waked

The spirit's secret chords.

How eloquent, how beautiful,

Like morning in the north
Melting away the dreary ice,

His noble mind came forth !

POETICAL PORTRAITS. 197

He stood the centre of the ring,

Awakening in each breast
Feelings and thoughts, forgotten, though

Their noblest and their best.

Twas but a moment while they own'd

The youthful poet's sway ;
A beacon light upon the hill,

To warn and die away.

Again his downcast eye was dim,

Again his cheek was pale ;
Again around his beating heart

Closed its accustom'd veil,
o 3

198 POETICAL PORTRAITS.

A moment's pause, a moment's praise,
Sufficed to change the scene 4

And careless word and careless laugh
Arose where mind had been.

So flings the lamp upon the wind
Its bright and dying flame :

I thought, alas, the waste of life,
The vanity of fame !

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS,

Chance notes struck the lute fancies and thoughts
Shadows that haunt the poet's fairy land.

Love's words are writ on rose-leaves, but with tears.

These are the dreams that light my solitude :

Warrior thoughts had I been a young knight,

And curb'd a gallant steed, and worn a sword,

Heaven knows I often wish it ! sadness, signs

I fancy many a cheek betrays of love ;

Records of beauty, that has seem'd to me

A thing for worship ; thoughts that sprung from flowers

Feelings on which to meditate is all

Woman's philosophy; sorrows that flung

Darkness upon my heart ; unkindness, wrong,

Gentle affection too ; all that hath made

My minstrel annals, are upon these leaves.

O 4-

THE NEGLECTED ONE.

AND there is silence in that lonely hall,

Save where the waters of the fountain fall,

And the wind's distant murmuring, which takes

Sweet messages from every bud it wakes.

'Tis more than midnight ; all the lamps are gone,

Their fragrant oils exhausted, all but one,

A little silver lamp beside a scroll,

Where a young maiden leant, and pour'd her soul,

In those last words, the bitter and the brief.

How can they say confiding is relief?

Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring,

Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring ;

202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

But there are some too long, too well conceal'd,

Too deeply felt, that are but once reveal'd:

Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart,

And then the life-blood follows from the heart ;

Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh,

But which, once spoken, only hath to die.

Young, very young, the lady was, who now
Bow'd on her slender hand her weary brow :
Not beautiful, save when the eager thought
In the soft eyes a sudden beauty wrought:
Not beautiful, save when the cheek's warm blush
Grew eloquent with momentary flush
Of feeling, that made beauty, not to last,
And scarcely caught, so quickly is it past.
Alas ! she knew it well ; too early thrown
Mid a cold world, the unloved and the lone,

THE NEGLECTED ONE. 203

With no near kindred ties on whom could dwell
Love that so sought to be beloved as well.
Too sensitive for flattery, and too kind

fTo bear the loneliness by fate assigned,
Her life had been a struggle : long she strove
To fix on things inanimate her love;
On pity, kindness, music, gentle lore,
All that romance could yield of fairy store.
In vain ! she loved: she loved, and from that hour
Gone were the quiet loves of bird or flower ;
The unread book dropp'd listless on her knee,
The untouch'd lute hung on the bending tree,
Whose unwreath'd boughs no more a pleasant

shade
For the lone dreamings of her twilight made.

204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Well might she love him : every eye was turn'd

On that young knight, and bright cheeks brighter
burn'd,

Save one, that grew the paler for his sake :
Alas for her, whose heart but beat to break ;
Who knew too well, not hers the lip or eye
For which the youthful lover swears to die.
How deep, how merciless, the love represt,
That robs the silent midnight of its rest ;
That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone ;
That hears in mingled footsteps only one ;
That turns the poet's page, to only find
Some mournful image for itself design'd;
That seeks in music, but the plaining tone
Which secret sorrow whispers is its own !

THE NEGLECTED ONE. 205

Alas for the young heart, when love is there,
Its comrade and its confidant, despair!

How often leant in some unnoticed spot,
Her very being by the throng forgot,
Shrunk back to shun the glad lamp's mocking ray,
Pass'd many a dark and weary hour away,
Watching the young, the beautiful, the bright,
Seeming more lovely in that lovely light ;
And as each fair face glided through the dance,
Stealing at some near mirror one swift glance,
Then starting at the contrast, seek her room,
To weep, at least, in solitude and gloom !
And he, her stately idol, he, with eye
Dark as the eagle's in a summer sky,
And darker curls, amid whose raven shade
The very wild wind amorously delay'd,

206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

With that bright smile, which makes all others dim,
So proud, so sweet, what part had she in him?
And yet she loved him : who may say, be still,
To the fond heart that beats not at our will ?

'Twas too much wretchedness: the convent cell,
There might the maiden with her misery dwell.
And that, to-morrow, was her chosen doom :
There might her hopes, her feelings, find a tomb.
Her feelings ! no : pray, struggle, weep, condemn,
Her feelings, there was but one grave for them.
'Twas her last night, and she had look'd her last,
And she must live henceforward in the past.
She linger'd in the hall, he had been there ;
Her pale lips grew yet paler with the prayer
That only ask'd his happiness. She took
A blank leaf from an old emblazon'd book,

THE NEGLECTED ONE. 207

Which told love's chronicles ; a faint hope stole,
A sweet light o'er the darkness of her soul,
Might she not leave remembrance, like the wreath,
Whose dying flowers their scents on twilight

breathe ;

Just one faint tone of music, low and clear,
Coming when other songs have left the ear ?
Might she not tell him how she loved, and pray
A mournful memory for some distant day ?
She took the scroll : what ! bare perhaps to scorn
The timid sorrow she so long had borne !
Silent as death, she hid her face, for shame
In rushing crimson to her forehead came ;
Through the small fingers fell the bitter rain,
And tremblingly she closed the leaves again.

208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

The hall is lit with rose, that morning hour,
Whose lights are colour'd by each opening flower ;
A sweet bird by the casement sat and sang

A song so glad, that like a laugh it rang,

While its wings shook the jessamine, till the bloom,

Floated like incense round that joyous room.

They found the maiden : still her face was bow'd,
As with some shame that might not be avow'd ;
They raised the long hair which her faceconceal'd
And she is dead, her secret unreveal'd.

A NIGHT IN MAY.

A night not sacred to Spring's opening leaves,
But one of crowded festival.

LIGHT and glad through the rooms the gay music

is waking,

Where the young and the lovely are gather'd to-
night ;
And the soft cloudless lamps, with their lustre, are

making
A midnight hour only than morning less bright.

210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

There are vases, the flowers within them are
breathing

Sighs almost as sweet as the lips that are near ;
Light feet are glancing, white arms are wreathing,

O temple of pleasure ! thou surely art here.

I gazed on the scene ; 'twas the dream of a minute ;

But it seem'd to me even as fairy land fair :
'Twas the cup's bright inside; and on glancing
within it,

What but the dregs and the darkness were there ?

False wave of the desert, thou art less beguiling
Than false beauty over the lighted hall shed :

What but the smiles that have practised their

smiling,
Or honey words measured, and reckon'd as said ?

A NIGHT IN MAY. 211

Oh, heart of mine ! turn from the revellers before

%

thee ;

What part hast thou in them, or have they in thee ?
What was the feeling that too soon came o'er thee?
Weariness ever that feeling must be.

Praise flattery opiates the meanest, yet
sweetest,

Are ye the fame that my spirit hath dream'd ?
Lute, when in such scenes, if homage thou meetest,

Say, if like glory such vanity seem'd ?

O for some island far off in the ocean,

Where never a footstep has press'd but mine own

With one hope, one feeling, one utter devotion
To my gift of song, once more, the lovely, the lone !
p 2

212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

My heart is too much in the things which profane it ;

The cold, and the worldly, why am I like them ?
Vanity I with my lute chords I must chain it,

Nor thus let it sully the minstrel's best gem.

It rises before me, that island, where blooming,
The flowers in their thousands are comrades for
me ;

And where if one perish, so sweet its entombing,
The welcome it seems of fresh leaves to the tree.

I'll wander among them when morning is weeping