Connived at by his kindred,) thought to find
No insurmountable obstacle delay
His union with the maid. He, therefore, wooed
The fair, not altogether openly,
Nor yet clandestinely-it was a young
And timid love, that brook'd not others' eyes
To gaze upon it. Meanwhile the smitten ones fed
Upon each other's looks; and so they pass'd
A tremulous, rapturous time of consciousness,
Till all uncounsell'd in an hour of passion,
Meeting in unexpected secrecy,
They took and gave their trothplight, each to each,
Within this bower. O, could that fleeting period
Be but detained,-when palm is press'd by palm;
When virtuous attachment seals the bond
Upon the averted and yet willing lips ;-
When he who asks receives the whispered yes;
When heart to heart devotes futurity,
Casts all its hopes, designs, joys, griefs, and cares,
Yea, life itself, into a common stock,
The good not to be welcomed, nor the ill
To be endured, by either soul, alone;
Then (for this happens when the breast is warm,
And hope is yet undeadened) all is fair
On earth and in the sky; the land of promise
Opens; 'tis all one waking dream of bliss.
Not long did Reginald slumber; he was waked
By a rude shock; his father's stern command
Bade him prepare to take upon himself
The sacerdotal vows of that harsh church
Which of her priests exacts strict celibacy,
The barren apathy of single life.
Prudential calculations instigated
This sudden resolution-nought availed,
That the poor lovesick youth betrayed the ties
Which held his honour gaged, his heart enthralled,
The peace of all his future wrapt in them.
His father was a man austere and grave,
Inflexible when he had once resolved,
Not to be moved by prayer or opposition,
But one who pressed, in all he undertook,
Right to the mark. Remonstrance from his son
Was but as flame against the solid rock,
The fugitive substance on the durable
And incombustible. The form of faith
That Lydia held (a vincible objection
In other circumstances) now was made
A reason and pretext for this dire haste
In hurrying on poor Reginald's sacrifice,-
The ceremonial tonsure, that last act
Which was to bar out every ray of hope.
Her kin too disapproved the match; and he,
Fondly considerate of her alone,
Dared not exhibit her to poverty
And all the hardships which must fain ensue
On an illicit marriage. In despair
He gave the fatal promise to his sire
Of full compliance, only bargaining
For a last interview-and here they met.
Here did they pass the stipulated hour,
An hour of groans, and blood-shot vacant looks,
And strange unwonted shiverings, on his part,
But he was tearless. Woman's softer nature
Had still ascendency o'er her; she wept
And ratified her pledge of faithful love,
And fell upon his neck, and bade him look
To a blest union in the realms above.
It was an eve like this; the lime was hung
With wing-like seeds, just as it now appears;
He pluck'd them from the branches, scattering them
Wide o'er the turfen floor, as if his hand
Thought from this petty ravage to derive
Ease and control. And after he was gone,
For Lydia will'd that he should leave her there,
(I spare you the recital of the throes
Of two young hearts while breaking,) she remain'd
In desolation some short breathing space,
Then gather'd to her bosom hastily
A handful of those bunches-frail mementoes
Of this sad meeting-sickly in their hue
As her now bloodless cheek-and soon to be
As sere as her lone heart! She caught them up
And treasured them, for they were pull'd by him-
By him, whom she was never more to see!
You ask-Where are the separated ones,
And what their farther lot? Dispart those boughs,
And through the loophole an acclivity
Presents itself embowered in crowding trees:
Those trees conceal a church, an edifice
Of other years; there 'neath another lime
(She chose the spot herself) quietly sleeps
The gentle Lydia. Her too fragile form
Waned imperceptibly, and she was said
To die Consumption's victim. 'Twas not so-
A broken heart was her incurable
And deadly malady-she died in peace.
Would you know more of Reginald? Climb the Alps,
As guest, accept the hospitality
Which the monastic brotherhood extend
To all who travel by St Bernard's walls,
And you will find him there.
Remain a secular priest; his health betray'd
The stroke of grief; travel and change of air
Were recommended, and in part sufficed
To work the restoration of his strength.
But he deliberately refused to turn
eyes tow'rds England's cliffs, and when he reach'd
The Monastery in the Greater Pass
Which bears St Bernard's name, he then made known That he would take the cowl, and cord, and gown,
And dedicate himself to charity.
Now on that frozen height more than five years
Hath he fulfilled his calling; not a brother
So venturous in that work of love as he,
So heedless of his life, so desperate !
He and his wolf-dogs, when the storm rides high,
Are evermore a-foot; wherever falls
An avalanche, he thitherward directs
His instant steps; and he will persevere
Mid blinding snow and icy blasts to delve
For o'erwhelm'd passengers. Many has he given
To share the warmth of the refectory-
Far many more his restless spade has brought
To take their station in that house of death
And incorruption, (sepulchre that keeps
Its tenantry unburied, piteous sight!)
Which stands all frore beside the convent gate.
Such his vocation, such the solitudes
He makes his haunt, and he will linger there
Amid the everlasting snows, until
Some toppling mountain bury him beneath
Its loosen'd peak, while he o'er-daringly
Stands in the place of peril, and forbids
(By shouts which bring down ruin) some far train
From jeoparding their lives within the pass
The avalanche plunges down-the warning father
Lies fathoms underneath it-and the mules
Of those who scarcely yet believe their rescue,
Must back and seek an unencumber'd road.
Or if not this his fate, early old age,
The sure concomitant of such a life
As these vow'd friars lead-(perpetual winter,
In the heart of summer realms)-early old age
Will creep upon him; racking rheumatism,
Or the more dire disorder which destroys
The fine machinery of respiration,
Will end him. Kind compulsion will be used
But all too late, and much unwilling he
To place him in fair Savoy's sunny plains
For warmth and cheer; and there the shatter'd wretch
Will find dismissal from his lot of woe.
A traveller told him of poor Lydia's death
Most cautiously; and he detected not
A single sign of anguish. Time, his habit,
Exposure to the sight of sufferings
Daily and hourly, mental isolation,
Long communing with grief, and something like
The apathy of despair, had tutor❜d him,
And he repress'd emotion-but he took
His staff and trustiest dog, and was all night,
And the next day till dusk, upon the mountain,
Where never thaw approaches, there he was
Aloue, unwitness'd, unapproachable-
This the sole symptom that he took to heart
The intelligence, and was her lover still!
Perhaps e'en now he is at rest, his spirit
Gone to rejoin his spouse in other worlds.
Peace to their memory!
My betrothed love,
This story hath beguiled the sultry time,
And hastened on the coolness-see the sky
Deepens its blueness, and is here and there
Set with a few faint diamond sparks of light;
The breeze begins to whisper and to play
Among the leaves above; the dewy air
Diffuses wide the scent of every flower,
And every odorous aromatic bud ;
Daylight is fading fast, and daylight-sounds
Are not so overpowering-hark, the rill
Is toying with its pebbles prettily;
My ancient friend, that hoary-feather'd owl,
Hath left his chimney-nook, and seeks the glade-
Mark with what noiseless ease his snowy vans
Bear him along, as, coursing up and down
Yon hedgerow green, he seeks his wily prey.
Quick on the wing, the bat around our heads
Darts, and delivers at short intervals
A sharp low squeak of joyance; while the hum
Of chafers (like the bass-note under-song
Of organ, heard outside the storied walls
Of some cathedral pave, while voices clear,
Of young and old, are quiring psalmody,)
Makes all to harmonize. Look, love, the moon
Is rising-Nay, your cheek hath still a tear
Which the beam glitters on. Did then the tale
So deeply touch you, that you cannot feel
Your spirits tuned to other lighter thoughts?
Well then, we'll give the hour to melancholy,
Of chastening influence. The churchyard mound
Is near us; you shall see poor Lydia's grave;
And yield a sigh to her, whose hapless love
Had frost upon its earliest leaves; then turn,
For here's an unforbidden breast, whose heart
Beats in most perfect unison with yours,
And let us thankful think, how different
Is the fair lot which Heaven bestows on us.
ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ
ΗΔΕΑ ΚΩΤΙΛΛΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΘΗΜΕΝΟΝ ΟΙΝΟΠΟΤΑΖΕΙΝ.
[This is a distich by wise old Phocylides,
An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days;
Meaning, ""TIS RIGHT FOR GOOD WINEBIBBING PEOPLE,
"NOT TO LET THE JUG PACE ROUND THE BOARD LIKE A CRIPPLE;
"BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPLE."
An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis-
And a very fit motto to put to our Noctes.]
See this white bag here lettered Scan. Mag. i. e. Scandalum Magæ, it is des tined for that purpose, and is now full.
Here is one about your August number, the auto-biography of Kean. Shall I read it?
The first article which caught my eye upon opening your Magazine for this month was, 66 Auto-biography of Edmund Kean, Esquire," and a precious ar ticle it is, a tissue of scurrility, (not in the Whig acceptation of the word,) and personal abuse, clearly having its rise in some personal pique; but could you find no other way of venting your spleen than by public calumny, and, worse still, making a jest of a man's natural imperfections? I am surprised, Mr North, you should have prostituted your pages to such unparalleled baseness. Whenever hitherto you have bestowed censure or praise, I have been fool enough to think you did it from principle, (what an egregious ass I must have been!) but this affair has opened my eyes.
It is, not, however, for any of these reasons I am induced to notice the article in question, but merely in reference to a critique on the same gentleman's performance in the number for March 1818, the consistency of which two articles I shall presently shew you by a few extracts from both. How it obtained insertion I cannot conceive, except, indeed, you mean practically to illustrate an article on "Memory" in your last, of whose effects I've an idea you have formed a wofully erroneous estimate. It is no part of my intention to canvass the merits of Mr Kean as an actor or a man, my sole object being to point out the absurd inconsistency of the two articles, to do which I proceed to a few extracts.
MARCH, 1818.-Page 664.
After noticing the entire change
wrought in the art of acting by Mr
Kean, you go on:-
SEPTEMBER, 1824.
After some prefatory matter, you proceed:→
|