A cypress springs by yonder grave, And music from the fountain wave Sings its low dirge to the pale rose That, near, in lonely beauty blows. Two lovers sleep beneath. O, sweet, Even in the grave, it is to meet; Sweet even the death-couch of stone, When shared with some beloved one; And sweeter than life the silent rest Of INEZ on her JUAN's breast.
A SUMMER EVENING'S TALE.
COME, let thy careless sail float on the wind;
Come, lean by me, and let thy little boat
Follow like thee its will; come, lean by me.
Freighted with roses which the west has flung,
Over its waters on the vessel glides,
Save where the shadowy boughs shut out the sky,
And make a lovely darkness, while the wind
Stirs the sad music of their plaining leaves.
The sky grows paler, as it burnt away
Its crimson passion; and the falling dew
Seems like the tears that follow such an hour.
I'll tell thee, love, a tale,-just such a tale
As you once said my lips could breathe so well;
Speaking as poetry should speak of love,
And asking from the depths of mine own heart
The truth that touches, and by what I feel
For thee, believe what others' feelings are.
There, leave the sail, and look with earnest eyes;
Seem not as if the worldly element
In which thou movest were of thy nature part,
But yield thee to the influence of those thoughts
That haunt thy solitude;-ah, but for those
I never could have loved thee; I, who now
Live only in my other life with thee;
Out on our beings' falsehood!-studied, cold,
Are we not like that actor of old time,
Who wore his mask so long, his features took
Its likeness?-thus we feign we do not feel,
Until our feelings are forgotten things,
Their nature warped in one base selfishness;
And generous impulses, and lofty thoughts,
Are counted folly, or are not believed:
And he who doubts or mocks at excellence
(Good that refines our nature, and subdues),
Is riveted to earth by sevenfold chains.
O, never had the poet's lute a hope,
An aim so glorious as it now may have,
In this our social state, where petty cares
And mercenary interests only look
Upon the present's littleness, and shrink
From the bold future, and the stately past,-
Where the smooth surface of society
Is polished by deceit, and the warm heart
With all its kind affections' early flow,
Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat,
At least for others;-'tis the poet's gift
To melt these frozen waters into tears,
By sympathy with sorrows not our own,
By wakening memory with those mournful notes,
Whose music is the thoughts of earlier years,
When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore
The sweetness and the freshness of their morn.
Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope
To purify, refine, exalt, subdue,
To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain
Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness,
Or chords that rouse some rim of enterprise,
Lofty and pure, and meant for general good;
If thou hast not some power that may direct
The mind from the mean round of daily life,
Waking affections that might else have slept,
Or high resolves, the petrified before,
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense
Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth,-
Thine is a useless lute: break it, and die.
Love mine, I know my weakness, and I knov
How far I fall short of the glorious goal
I purpose to myself; yet if one line
Has stolen from the eye unconscious teta
Recalled one lover to fidelity,
Which is the holiness of love, or bade
One maiden sicken at cold vanity,
When dreaming o'er affection's tenderness,
The deep, the true, the honored of my so
If but one worldly soil has been effaced,
That song has not been utterly in vain.
All true deep feeling purifies the heart.
Am I not better by my love for you?
At least, I am less selfish; I would give
My life to buy you happiness:-Husn, hush!
I must not let you know how much I love,
So to my tale. "Twas on an eve like this,
When purple shadows floated round, and ligi
Crimson and passionate, o'er the statues fell.
Like life, for that fair gallery was filled
With statues, each one an eternity
Of thought and beauty: there were lovely shapes,
And noble ones; some which the poet's song
Had touched with its own immortality;
Others whose glory flung o'er history's page
Imperishable lustre. There she stood,
Forsaken ARIADNE; round her brow
Wreathed the glad vine leaves; but it wore a shade
Of early wretchedness, that which once flung
May never be effaced; and near her leant
ENDYMION, and his spiritual beauty wore
The likeness of divinity; for love
Doth elevate to itself, and she who watched
Over his sleeping face, upon it left
The brightness of herself. Around the walls
Hung pictures, some which gave the summer all
Summer can wish, a more eternal bloom;
And others in some young and lovely face
Imbodied dreams into reality.
There hung a portrait of St. ROSALIE,
She who renounced the world in youth, and made
Her heart an altar but for heavenly hopes-
Thrice blessed in such sacrifice. Alas!
The weakness, yet the strength of earthly ties!
Who hath not in the weariness of life
Wished for the wings of morning or the dove,
To bear them heavenward, and have wished in vain!
For wishes are effectual but by will,
And that too much is impotent and void
In frail humanity; and times steal by,
Sinful and wavering, and unredeemed.
Bent by a casement, whence her eye could dwell
Or on the countenance of that sweet saint,
Or the fair valley, where the river wound
Like to a fairy thing, now light, now shade,
Which the eye watches in its wandering,
A maiden passed each summer eve away.
Life's closing color was upon her cheek,
Crimson as that which marks the closing day.
And her large eyes, the radiant and the clear,
Wore all the ethereal beauty of that heaven
Where she was hastening. Still her rosebud mouth
Wore the voluptuous sweetness of a spring
Haunted by fragrance and by melody.
Her hair was gathered in a silken net,
As if its luxury of auburn curls
Oppressed the feverish temples all too much;
For you might see the azure pulses beat
In the clear forehead painfully; and oft
Would her small hands be pressed upon her brow,
As if to still its throbbing. Days passed by,
And thus beside that caserment would she spend
The summer evenings. Well she knew her doom,
And sought to linger with such loveliness:
Surely it soothed her passage to the grave.
One gazed upon her, till his very life
Was dedicate to that idolatry
With which young Love makes offering of itself.
In the vast world he only saw her face.
The morning blush was lighted up by hope,--
The hope of meeting her; the noontide hours
Were counted for her sake; in the soft wind,
When it had passed o'er early flowers, he caught
The odor of her sigh; upon the rose
He only saw the color of her cheek.
He watched the midnight stars until they wore
Her beauty's likeness-love's astrology.
His was the gifted eye, which grace still touched
As if with second nature; and his dreams,
His childish dreams, were lit by hues from heaven-
Those which make genius. Now his visions wore
A grace more actual, and one worshipped face
Inspired the young sculptor, till like life
His spirit warned the marble. Who shall say
The love of genius is a common thing,
Such as the many feel-half selfishness,
Half vanity?-for genius is divine,
And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place
Into a temple; and the heart redeemed
By its fine influence is immortal shrine
For love's divinity. In common homes
He dies, as he was born, in nothingness,
But love, inspiring genius, makes the world
Its glorious witness; hence the poet's page
Wakens its haunting sympathy of pain;
And hence the painter with a touch creates
Feelings imperishable. 'Twas from that hour
CANOVA took his inspiration: love
Made him the sculptor of all loveliness;
The overflowing of a soul imbued
By most ideal grace, the memory
Which lingers round first passion's sepulchre.
-Why do I say first love?-there is no second.
Who asks in the same year a second growth
Of spring leaves from the tree, corn from the field?
They are exhausted. Thus 'tis with the heart;
'Tis not so rich in feeling or in hope
To bear that one be crushed, the other faded,
Yet find them ready to put forth again.
It does not always last; man's temper is
Often forgetful, fickle, and throws down
The temple he can never build again;
But when it does last, and that asks for much,-
A fixed yet passionate spirit, and a mind
Master of its resolves,-when that love lasts,
It is in noblest natures. After years
Tell how CANOVA felt the influence.
They never spoke: she looked too spiritual,
Too pure for human passion; and her face
Seemed hallowed by the heaven it was so near.
And days passed on: is was an eve in June-
How ever could it be so fair a one?
And she came not: hue after hue forsook
The clouds, like Hope, which died with them, and night
Came all too soon and shadowy. He rose,
And wandered through the city, o'er which hung
The darkness of his thoughts. At length a strain
Of ominous music wailed along the streets :
It was the mournful chanting for the dead,
And the long tapers flung upon the air
A wild red light, and showed the funeral train:
Wreaths-0 what mockeries!-hung from th
And there, pale, beautiful, as if in sleep.
Her dark hair braided graceful with white flowers,
She lay, his own beloved one!
No more, no more!-love, turn thy boat to land,
I am so sorrowful at my own words.
Affection is an awful thing! Alas!
We give our destiny from our own hands,
And trust to those most frail of all frail things,
The chances of humanity.
The wind hath a deep sound, more stern than swcct;
And the dark sky is clouded; tremulous,
A few far stars-how pale they look to-night!—
Touch the still waters with a fitful light.
There is strange sympathy between all things,
Though in the hurrying weariness of life
We do not pause to note it: the glad day,
Like a young king surrounded by the pomp
Of gold and purple, sinks but to the shade
Of the black night:-the chronicle I told
Began with hope, fair skies, and lovely shapes,
And ended in desair. Even thus our life
In these has likeness; with its many joys,
Its fears, its eagerness, its varying page,
Marked with its thousand colors, only tends To darkness, and to silence, and the grave!
THE PAINTER'S LOVE.
YOUR skies are blue, your sun is bright;
But sky nor sun has that sweet light
Which gleaned upon the summer sky
Of my own lovely ITALY!
'Tis long since I have breathed the air,
Which, filled with odors, floated there,-
Sometimes in sleep a gale sweeps by,
Rich with the rose and myrtle's sigh;
'Tis long since I have seen the vine
With Autumn's topaz clusters shine;
And watched the laden branches bending.
And heard the vintage songs ascending;
'Tis very long since I have seen
The ivy's death wreath, cold and green,
Hung round the old and broken stone
Raised by the hands now dead and gone!
I do remember one lone spot,
By most unnoticed or forgot―
Would that I too recalled it not!
It was a little temple, gray-
With half its pillars worn away,
No roof left, but one cypress tree
Flinging its branches mournfully:
In ancient days this was a shrine
For goddess or for nymph divine.
And sometimes I have dreamed I heard
A step soft as a lover's word,
And caught a perfume on the air,
And saw a shadow gliding fair,
Dim, sad as if it came to sigh
O'er thoughts, and things, and time passed by! On one side of the temple stood
A deep and solitary wood,
Where chestnuts reared their giant length,
And mocked the fallen columns strength;
It was the lone wood-pigeon's home,
And flocks of them would ofttimes come
And, lighting on the temple, pour
A cooing dirge to days no more!
And by its side there was a lake
With only snow-white swans to break,
With ebon feet and silver wing,
The quiet waters' glittering.
And when sometimes, as eve closed in,
I waked my lonely mandolin,
The gentle birds came gliding near,
As if they loved that song to hear.
'Tis past, 'tis past, my happiness Was all too pure and passionless!
I waked from calm and pleasant dreams
To watch the morning's earliest gleams,
Wandering with light feet 'mid the dew,
Till my cheek caught its rosy hue;
And when uprose the bright-eyed moon,
I sorrowed day was done so soon;
Save that I loved the sweet starlight,
The soft, the happy sleep of night!
Time has changed since, and I have wept
The day away; and when I slept,
My sleeping eyes ceased not their tears;
And jealousies, griefs, hopes, and fears,
Even in slumber held their reign,
And gnawed my heart, and racked my brain
O much,-most withering 'tis to feel
The hours like guilty creatures steal,
To wish the weary day was past,
And yet to have no hope at last!
All's in that curse, aught else above,
That fell on me-betrayed love!
There was a stranger sought our land,
A youth, who with a painter's hand
Traced our sweet valleys and our vines,
The moonlight on the ruined shrines,
And now and then the brow of pearl
And black eyes of the peasant girl:
We met and loved-ah! even now
My pulse throbs to recall that vow
Our first kiss sealed, we stood beneath
The cypress tree's funereal wreath,
That temple's roof. But what thought I
Of aught like evil augury!
I only felt his burning sighs,
I only looked within his eyes,
I saw no doon ing star above,
There is such happiness in love!
I left, with him, my native shore,
Not as a bride who passes o'er
Her father's threshold with his blessing,
With flowers strewn and friends caressing,
Kind words, and purest hopes to cheer
The bashfulness of maiden fear;
But I-I fled as culprits fly,
By night, watched only by one eye,
Whose look was all the world to me,
And it met mine so tenderly,
I thought not of the days to come,
I thought not of my own sweet home,
Nor of mine aged father's sorrow,-
Wild love takes no thought for to-morrow.
I left my home, and I was left
A stranger in his land, bereft
Of even hope; there was not one
Familiar face to look upon.-
Their speech was strange. This penalty
Was meet; but surely not from thee,
False love!-'twas not for thee to break
The heart but sullied for thy sake!
I could have wished once more to see
Thy een hills, loveliest ITALY!
I could wished yet to have hung
Upon the music of thy tongue;
I could have wished thy flowers to bloom-
Thy cypress planted by the tomb!
This wish is vain,-my grave must be
Far distant from my own country!
I must rest here. O lay me then
By the white church in yonder glen,
Amid the darkening elms, it seems,
Thus silvered over by the beams
Of the pale moon, a very shrine
For wounded hearts-it shall be mine!
There is one corner, green and lone,
A dark yew over it has thrown
Long, nightlike boughs; 'tis thickly set
With primrose and with violet.
Their bloom's now past; but in the spring
They will be sweet and glistening.
There is a bird, too, of your clime,
That sings there in the winter time;
My funeral hymn his song will be,
Which there are none to chant, save he;
And let there be memorial none,
No name upon the cold white stone:
The only heart where I would be
Remembered, is now dead to me!
I would not even have him weep
O'er his Italian's love last sleep.
O, tears are a most worthless token
When hearts they would have soothed are broken!
LOVE'S LAST LESSON.
TEACH it me, if you can,-forgetfulness I surely shall forget, if you can bid me; I who have worshipped thee, my god on earth, I who have bowed me at thy lightest word. Your last command, "Forget me," will it not Sink deeply down within my in most soul? Forget thee!-ay, forgetfulness will be A mercy to me. By the many nights When I have wept for that I dared not sleep,A dream had made me live my woes again, Acting my wretchedness, without the hope My foolish heart still clings to, though tha. hope
Is like the opiate which may lull a while,
Then wake to double torture; by the days
Passed in lone watching and in anxious fears,
When a breath sent the crimson to my cheek,
Like the red gushing of a sudden wound;
By all the careless looks and careless words
Which have to me been like the scorpion's stinging;
By happiness blighted, and by thee, for ever;
By the eternal work of wretchedness;
By all my withered feelings, ruined health,
Crushed ho pes, and rifled hes rt, I will fo get tl ee!
Alas! my words are vanity. Forget thee!
'Thy work of wasting is too surely done.
The April shower may pass and be forgotten,
The rose fall and one fresh spring in its place,
And thus it may be with light summer love.
It was not thus with mine: it did not spring,
Like the bright color on an evening cloud,
Into a moment's life, brief, beautiful;
Not amid lighted halls, when atteries
Steal on the ear like dew upon the rose,
As soft, as soon dispersed, as quickly passed;
But you first called my woman's feelings forth,
And taught me love ere I had dreamed love's name.
I loved unconsciously; your name was all
That seemed in language, and to me the world
Was only made for you; in solitude,
When passions hold their interchange together,
Your image was the shadow of my thought;
Never did slave, before his Eastern lord,
Tremble as I did when I met your eye,
And yet each look was counted as a prize;
I laid your words up in my heart like pearls
Hid in the ocean's treasure cave. At last
I learned my heart's deep secret: for I hoped,
I dreamed you loved me; wonder, fear, delight,
Swept my heart like a storm; my soul, my life,
Seemed all too little for your happiness;
Had I been mistress of the starry worlds
That light the midnight, they had all been yours.
And I had deemed such boon but poverty.
As it was, I gave all I could-my love,
My deep, my true, my fervent, faithful love;
And now you bid me learn forgetfulness:
It is a lesson that I soon shall learn.
There is a home of quiet for the wretched,
A somewhat dark, and cold, and silent rest,
But still it is rest,-for it is the grave.
She flung aside the scroll, as it had part
In her great misery. Why should she write?
What could she write? Her woman's pride forbat
To let him look upon her heart, and see
It was an utter ruin ;-and cold words,
And scorn and slight, that may repay his own,
Were as a foreign language, to whose sound
She might not frame her utterance. Down she tem
Her head upon an arm so white that tears
Seemed but the natural melting of its snow,
Touched by the flushed cheek's crimson; yet life bld
Less wrings in shedding than such tears as those.
And this then is love's ending! It is like
The history of some fair southern clime.
Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth,
And the warmed soil puts forth its thousand flor 13, Its fruits of gold, summer's regality,
And sleep and odors float upon the air:
At length the subterranean element
Breaks from its secret dwelling-place, and lays
All waste before it; the red lava stream
Sweeps like the pestilence; and that which was
A garden in its colors and its breath,
Fit for the princes of a fairy tale,
Is as a desert, in whose burning sands,
And ashy waters, who is there can trace
A sign, a memory of its former beauty?
It is thus with the heart; love lights it up
With hopes like young companions, and wa jiga
Dreaming deliciously of their sweet selves.
This is at first; but what is the result?
Hopes that lie mute in their own sullennes ↳
For they have quarrelled even with themselves;
And joys indeed like birds of Paradise:
And in their stead despair coils scorpionlike
Stinging itself; and the heart, burnt and crushed
With passion's earthquake, scorched and withered up,
Lies in its desolation, this is love.
What is the tale that I would tell? Not one
Of strange adventure, but a common tale
Of woman's wretchedness; one to be read
Daily in many a young and blighted heart.
The lady whom I spake of rose again
From the red fever's couch, to careless eyes
Ferchance the same as she had ever been.
But O, how altered to herself! She felt
That birdlike pining for some gentle home
To which affection might attach itself.
That weariness which hath but outward part
In what the world calls pleasure, and that chill
Which makes life taste the bitterness of death.
And he she loved so well,-what opiate
Lulled consciousness into its selfish sleep?—
He said he loved her not; that never vow
Or passionate pleading won her soul for him;
And that he guessed not her deep tenderness.
Are words, then, only false? are there no looks,
Mute but most eloquent; no gentle cares
That win so much upon the fair weak things
They seem to guard? And had he not long read
Her heart's hushed secret in the soft dark eye
Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek
Coloring all crimson at his lightest look ?
This is the truth; his spirit wholly turned
To stem ambition's dream, to that fierce strife
Which leads to life's high places, and recked not
What lovely flowers might perish in his path.
And here at length is somewhat of revenge:
For man's most golden dreams of pride and power
Are vain as any woman-dreams of love;
Both end in weary brow and withered heart,
And the grave closes over those whose hopes
Have lain there long before.
To that which once it loved, with the same feeling
That makes the traveller turn from his way
To look upon some boyish haunt, though dark
And very desolate grown, no longer like
That which was dear to him.
Ir was a low white church: the elm which grew
Beside it shadowed half the roof; the clock
Was placed where full the sunbeams fell;—what deep,
Simple morality spoke in those hands,
Going their way in silence, till a sound,
Solemn and sweet, made their appeal to Time,
And the hour spoke its only warning!-Strange
To note how mute the soft song of the wren,
Whose nest was in that old elm tree, became
When the clock struck: aud when it ceased again,
Its music like a natural anthem breathed.
Lowly the osiered graves around, wild flowers
Their epitaph, and not one monument
Was there rich with the sculptor's graceful art.
There sat one, by a grave whose weeded turf
howed more than common care, his face bent down,
A fine and manly brow, though sun and wind
Had darkened it, and that a shade of grief
Seemed natural from long habit; by his side
A little laughing child, with clear blue eyes,
Cheek like a dimpled rose, and sunny curls,
Was gathering blossoms, gathering but to crash,
Till the sod was all colors with the leaves.
Even in childhood's innocence of pleasure
Lives that destroying spirit which in time
Will waste, then want, the best of happiness.
I marked the boy's companion: he was yet
In life's first sunmer; and he seemed to watch
la Eastern tales, the bird of Paradise never rests on earth.
With such sad tenderness the child, which came
When tired to nestle in his bosom, sure
That it was welcome,-and the grave was kept
So fresh, so green, so covered with sweet flowers,
I deemed 'twas some young widower, whose love
Had passed away, or ever it had known
One sting of sorrow or one cloul of care,-
Passed in its first delicious confidence
Of vow'd affection;-'twas the grave, I thought,
Of his young wife, and that the child was left
A dear memorial of that cherished one.
I read his history wrong. In early youth,
When hopes and pleasures fiit like butterflies
Around our pleasant spring, had Edward loved,
And sought in Marion's deep blue eyes his world,—
Loved with the truth, the fervor of first love,
That delicate bloom which can come o'er the soul
But only once. All other thoughts and feelings
The heart may know again, but first love never!
Its hopes, bright, as the azure flower that springs
Where'er the radiance of the rainbow falls:
Its fears, soft as the leaves that shade the lily;
Its fairyland romance, its tenderness,
Its timid, and yet passionate devotion--
These are not annual blooms, that die, then rise
Again into another summer world.
They may live long, and be the life of life,
But, like the rose, when they are once destroyed
They perish utterly. And, like that tree,
How sweet a memory, too, remains! though dead
The green leaves, and decayed the stem, yet still
The spirit of fragrance lingers, loath to leave
Its dear abode. Just so love haunts the heart,
Though withered, and to be revived no more.
O, nothing has the memory of love!
It was a summer twilight; crimson lights
Played o'er the bridal bowers of the west,
And in the gray horizon the white moon
Was faintly visible, just where the sky
Met the green rolling of the shadowy sea.
Upon a little hill, whose broken ridge
Was covered with the golden furze and heath
Gay with its small pink blossoms, in a shade
Formed of thick hazels and the graceful sweep
Of the ash-boughs, an old beach-trunk the seat,
With a sweet canopy of honeysuckle
Mixed with the wild brier-roses, Edward sat,
Happy, for Marion leaned upon his bosom
In the deep fondness of the parting hour;
One of those partings memory will keep
Among its precious things. The setting sun
Shed such rich color o'er the cheek, which pressed
Closer and closer, like a rose, that sought
A shelter next his heart; the radiant eyes,
Glorious as though the sky's own light were there,
Yet timid, blue, and tender as the dove's;
The soft arm thrown around his neck; the hair
Falling in such profusion o'er a face
That nestled like a bird upon his breast.
Murmurs, the very breath of happiness;
Low and delighted sighs, and lengthened looks,
As life were looking words inaudible,
Yet full of music; whispers such as are
What love should ever speak in, soft yet deep,
As jealous even that the air should share
In the delicious feeling. And around,
All seemed the home and atmosphere of love :
The air sweet with the woodbine and the rose;
The rich red light of evening; the far sea,
So still, so calm; the vale, with its cornfields
Shooting their green spears 'mid the scarlet banners
Of the wild poppies; meadows with the hay
Scattered in fragrance, clover yet uncut.
And in the distance a small wood, where oaks
And elms threw giant shadows; and a river
Winding, now hidden and now visible,
Till close beside their bower it held its course,
And fed a little waterfall, the harp
That answered to the woodlark's twilight hymn
Their last, last evening! Ah, the many vows
That Edward and his Marion pledged! She took
A golden ring 2ad broke it,
hid one half
Next her own heart, then cut a shining curl,
As bright as the bright gift, and round his neck
Fastened the silken braid, and bade him keep
The ring and hair for Marion's sake. They talked
Of pleasant hopes, of Edward's quick return
With treasure gathered on the stormy deep,
And how they then would build a little cot;
They choose the very place; and the bright moon
Shone in her midnight, ere their schemes
Were half complete. They parted. The next morn
With the day-biush had Marion sought the bower
Alone, and watched upon the distant sea
A ship just visible to those long looks
With which love gazes. . . . How most sweet it is
To have one lonely treasure, which the heart
Can feed upon in secret, which can be
A star in sorrow, and a flower in joy;
A thought to which all other thoughts refer;
A hope, from whence all other hopes arise,
Nursed in the solitude of happiness!
Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is
To have the bosom made a Paradise
By thee-life lighted by thy rainbow smile!
Edward lived in one feeling, one that made
Care, toil, and suffering pleasant; and he hailed
England, dear England, happy in success,
In hope, and love. It was a summer morn—
The very season he had left that vale-
When he returned. How cheerfully the fields,
Spread in their green luxuriance of corn,
The purple clover, and the newcut hay,
Loading the air with fragrance! the soft river
Winding so gently! there seemed nothing changed,
And Edward's heart was filled with gladness: all
He fancied, looked as if they welcomed him.
His eyes filled with sweet tears, and hasty words
Of love and thankfulness came to his lips.
His path lay through the churchyard, and the bells
Were ringing for a wedding. What fond thoughts
They wakened, of how merrily their round
Would peal for him and Marion! He kissed
The broken ring, the braid of golden hair,
And bounded, with light step and lighter heart,
Across the churchyard; from it he could see
The cottage where his own true maiden dwelt.
Just then the bridal party left the church,
And, half unconsciously, young Edward looked
Upon the bride-that bride was Marion!
He stopped not in the village,-spoke to none,-
But went again to sea; and never smile
Lighted the settled darkness in his eyes:
His cheek grew pale, his hair turned gray, his voice
Became so sad and low. He once had loved
To look upon the sunset, as that hour
Brought pleasant memories, such as feed sweet hopes;
Now ever gazed he on it with the look
Of the young widow over her fair child,
Her only child, in the death agony.
His heart was withered. Yet, although so false,
He never parted with his Marion's gift:
Still the soft curl and the bright ring were kept,
Like treasures, in his bosom. Years passed by,
And he grew tired of wandering; ba he came
To his own village, as a place of rest.
'Twas a drear autumn morning, and the trees
Were bare, or covered but with yellow leaves;
The fields lay fallow, and a drizzling rain
Fell gloomily: it seemed as all was changed,
Even as he himself was changed; the bell
Of the old church was tolling dolefully
The farewell of the living to the dead.
The grave was scant, the holy words were said
Hurriedly, coldly; but for a poor child,
That begged the pit to give him back his mother,
There had not been one single tear:
The boy
Kept on his wail; but all his prayers were made
To the dark tomb, as conscious those around
Would chide if he asked them; and when they threw
The last earth on the coffin, down he laid
His little head, and sobbed most bitterly.
And Edward took him in his arms, and kissed
is wet pale cheeks; while the child clung to him,
Not with the shyness of one petted, loved,
And careless of a stranger's fond caress,
But like one knowing well what kindness was
But knew not where to seek it, as he pined
Beneath neglect and harshness, fear and want.
'Twas strange, this mingling of their destinies:
That boy was Marion's-it was Marion's grave!
She had died young, and poor, and broken-hearted
Her husband had deserted her one child
Was buried with its mother, one was left
An orphan unto chance; but Edward took
The boy unto him even as his own.
He buried the remembrance of his wrongs,
Only recalling that he once had loved,
And that his love was dead.
SHE sat alone beside her hearth-
For many nights alone;
She slept not on the pleasant couch
Where fragrant herbs were strown.
At first she bound her raven hair
With feather and with shell;
But then she hoped; at length, like night,
Around her neck it fell.
They saw her wandering 'mid the woods,
Lone, with the cheerless dawn,
And then they said, "Can this be her
We called The Startled Fawn.'"
Her heart was in her large sad eyes,
Half sunshine and half shade;
And love, as love first springs to life,
Of everything afraid.
The red leaf far more heavily
Fell down to autumn earth, Than her light feet, which seemed to mor To music and to mirth.
With the light feet of early youth,
What hopes and joys depart! Ah! nothing like the heavy step Betrays the heavy heart.
It is a usual history
That Indian girl could tell; Fate sets apart one common doom For all who love too well.
The proud -the shy-the sensitive,-
Life has not many such;
They dearly buy their happiness,
By feeling it too much.
A stranger to her forcs: home,
That fair young stranger came
They raised for him the funeral song-
For him the funeral flame.
Love sprang from pity,-and her arms
Around his arms she threw;
She told her father, "If he dies,
Your daughter dieth too."
For her sweet sake they set him free-
He lingered at her side;
And many a native song yet tells
Of that pale stranger's bride.
Two years have passed-how much two years
Have taken in their flight!
They've taken from the lip its smile,
And from the eye its light.
Poor chill! she was a child in years-
So timid and so young;
With what a fond and earnest faith
To desperate hope she clung!
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