Page images
PDF
EPUB

So rarely were they raised. His mother's love
Was for her other children: they were fair,
And had health's morning hues and sunny looks.
She had not seen him, when he watch'd the sun
Setting at eve, like an idolater,

Until his cheek grew crimson in the light
Of the all-radiant heaven, and his eyes
Were passionately eloquent, all fill'd

His pencil call'd to life. But as his thoughts
Took wider range, he languish'd to behold
More of a world he thought must be so fair,
So fill'd with glorious shapes. It chanced that he
Whose hand had traced that pale sad loveliness,
Came to the convent; with rejoicing wonder
He mark'd how like an unknown mine, whose
gold

With earth's most glorious feelings. And his Gathers in silence, had young Guido's mind

father,

A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp
Was ever on the bridle or the brand,
Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was
To sit for hours by a fountain side
Listening its low and melancholy song.
Or wander through the gardens silently,
As if with leaves and flowers alone he held
Aught of companionship. In his first years
They sent him to a convent, for they said
Its solitude would suit with Guido's mood.
And there he dwelt, while treasuring those rich
thoughts

That are the food on which young genius lives.
He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome
Break from its purple shadows, making glad
Even that desolate city, whose dim towers,
Ruins, and palaces, seem as they look'd
Back on departed time. Then in the gloom
Of his own convent's silent burying ground,
Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypresses mourn'd,
He pass'd the noon, dreaming those dear day-
dreams,

Not so much hopes as fancies. Then at eve,
When through the painted windows the red sun
Rainbow'd the marble floor with radiant hues,
Where spread the ancient church's stately arch,
He stay'd, till the deep music of the hymn,
Chanted to the rich organ's rolling notes,
Bade farewell to the day. Then to his cell
He went, and through the casement's iron bars
The moon look'd on him, tenderly as Love,
Lighting his slumber. On the church's wall
There hung one lovely portrait, and for hours
Would Guido, in the fulness of his heart,
Kneel, watching till he wept. The subject was
A dying Magdalene. Her long black hair

Increased in lonely richness; every day
New veins of splendid thought sprang into life.
And Guido left his convent cell with one
Who, like a geni, bore him into scenes
Of marvel and enchantment. And then first
Did Guido feel how very precious praise
Is to young genius, like sunlight on flowers,
Ripening them into fruit. And time pass'd on ;-
The lonely and neglected child became
One whom all Rome was proud of, and he dwelt
There in the sunshine of his spreading fame.
There was a melancholy beauty shed
Over his pictures, as the element
In which his genius lived was sorrow. Love
He made most lovely, but yet ever sad;
Passionate partings, such as wring the heart
Till tears are lifeblood; meetings, when the
cheek

Has lost all hope of health in the long parting;
The grave, with one mourning in solitude:
These made his fame, and were his excellence,-
The painter of deep tears. He had just gain'd
The summer of his glory and of his days,
When his remembering art was call'd to give
A longer memory to one whose life
Was but a thread. Her history may be told
In one word-love. And what has love e'er been
But misery to woman? Still she wish'd-
It was a dying fancy which betray'd

How much, though known how false its god had
been,

Her soul clung to its old idolatry, -
To send her pictured semblance to the false one.
She hoped-how love will hope!-it might recall
The young and lovely girl his cruelty
Had worn to this dim shadow; it might wake
Those thousand fond and kind remembrances

Spread round her like a shroud, one pale thin hand Which he had utterly abandon'd, while
Pillow'd a cheek as thin and pale, and scarce

The blue light of the eyes was visible

For the death dampness on the darken'd lids ;-
As one more effort to look on the cross,
Which seem'd just falling from the fainting arm,
And they would close forever. In that look

There was a painter's immortality,

And Guido felt it deeply, for a gift

The true heart he had treasured next his own
A little time, had never ceased to beat
For only him, until it broke, She leant
Beside a casement when first Guido look'd
Upon her wasted beauty. "Twas the brow,
The Grecian outline in its perfect grace,
That he had learnt to worship in his youth,
By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face

Like his whose work that was, was given him,- Was yet a treasure in his memory;

A gift of beauty and of power, and soon

He lived but in the exquisite creations

But sunken were the temples, they had lost

Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as day

The veins shone through them, shaded by the Simple morality spoke in those hands,
braids,
Going their way in silence, till a sound,
Just simply parted back, of the dark hair,
Solemn and sweet, made their appeal to Time,
Where grief's white traces mock'd at youth. A And the hour spoke its only warning!-Strange
flush,
To note how mute the soft song of the wren,
As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her Whose nest was in that old elm tree, became
cheek,

Then linger'd there forever, look'd like health
Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip;
Like the rich crimson of the evening sky,
Brightest when night is coming. Guido took
Just one slight sketch; next morning she was
dead!

When the clock struck: and when it ceased again,
Its music like a natural anthem breathed.
Lowly the osier'd 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
Show'd more than common care, his face bent
down,

A fine and manly brow, though sun and wind
Had darken'd it, and that a shade of grief
Seem'd 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 crush,
Till the sod was all colours 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 mark'd the boy's companion: he was yet
In life's first summer; and he seem'd to watch
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 cover'd with sweet flowers,

Yet still he painted on, until his heart
Grew to the picture, it became his world,-
He lived but in its beauty, made his art
Sacred to it alone. No more he gave
To the glad canvass green and summer dreams
Of the Italian valleys; traced no more
The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, look'd
And caught the spirit of fine poetry
From glorious statues: these were pass'd away.
Shade after shade, line after line, each day
Gave life to the sweet likeness. Guido dwelt
In intense worship on his own creation,
Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew,
And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night-
The portrait was just finish'd, save a touch,
A touch to give the dark light of the eyes-
He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand
Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his I deem'd 'twas some young widower, whose love

lids

Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dream'd
That a fair creature came and kiss'd his brow,
And bade him follow her: he knew the look,
And rose. Awakening, he found himself
Kneeling before the portrait :-'twas so fair
He deem'd it lived, and press'd his burning lips
To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,-
Young Guido died beside his masterpiece!

.. ...

A VILLAGE TALE.

How the spirit clings

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.

Had pass'd away, or ever it had known
One sting of sorrow or one cloud of care,-
Pass'd 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 cherish'd one.
I read his history wrong. In early youth,
When hopes and pleasures flit like butterflies
Around our pleasant spring, had Edward loved,
And sought in Marion's deep blue eyes his
world,--

Loved with the truth, the fervour 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.

It was a low white church: the elm which They may live long, and be the life of life,

grew

Beside it shadow'd half the roof; the clock

Was placed where full the sunbeams fell ;-what deep,

But, like the rose, when they are once destroy'd
They perish utterly. And, like that tree,
How sweet a memory, too, remains! though dead
The green leaves, and decay'd the stem, yet still

The spirit of fragrance lingers, loath to leave
Its dear abode. Just so love haunts the heart,
Though wither'd, and to be revived no more.
O, nothing has the memory of love!

It was a summer twilight; crimson lights
Play'd 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 cover'd with the golden furze, and heath
Gay with its small pink blossoms, in a shade
Form'd of thick hazels and the graceful sweep
Of the ash-boughs, an old beach-trunk the seat,
With a sweet canopy of honeysuckle
Mix'd with the wild briar-roses, Edward sat,
Happy, for Marion lean'd 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 colour o'er the cheek, which
press'd

Closer and closer, like a rose, that sought
A shelter next his heart; the radiant eyes,

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

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 hail'd

Glorious as though the sky's own light were there, England, dear England, happy in success,

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 lengthen'd 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 seem'd the home and atmosphere of love:
The air sweet with the woodbine and the
The rich red light of evening; the far sea,
So still, so calm; the vale, with its corn-fields
Shooting their green spears 'mid the scarlet
banners

rose:

Of the wild poppies; meadows with the hay
Scatter'd 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 answer'd 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 and broke it, hid one-half
Next her own heart, then cut a shining curl,
As bright as the bright gift, and round his neck
Fasten'd the silken braid, and bade him keep

The ring and hair for Marion's sake. They
talk'd

In hope, and love. It was a summer morn-
The very season he had left that vale-
When he return'd. 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 seem'd nothing changed,
And Edward's heart was fill'd with gladness: all,
He fancied, look'd as if they welcomed him.
His eyes fill'd with sweet tears, and hasty words
Of love and thankfulness caine to his lips.
His path lay through the churchyard, and the

bells

Were ringing for a wedding. What fond thoughts
They waken'd, of how merrily their round
Would peal for him and Marion! He kiss'd
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 look'd
Upon the bride-that bride was Marion!
He stopp'd 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 turn'd 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 wither'd. 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 pass'd by,
And he grew tired of wandering; back he came
To his own village, as a place of rest.
'Twas a drear autumn morning, and the trees
Were bare, or cover'd but with yellow leaves;
The fields lay fallow, and a drizzling rain
Fell gloomily: it seem'd 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 begg'd 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 ask'd them; and when they
threw

The last earth on the coffin, down he laid
His little head, and sobb'd most bitterly.
And Edward took him in his arms, and kiss'd
His 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.

THE SISTERS.

Now, Maiden, wilt thou come with me, Far over yonder moonlight sea ? There's not a cloud upon the sky, The wind is low like thine own sigh; The azure heaven is vein'd with light The water is as calm and bright As I have sometimes seen it lie Beneath a sunny Indian sky.

My bark is on the ocean riding, Like a spirit o'er it gliding; Maiden, wilt thou come and be Queen of my fair ship and me?

She follow'd him. The sweet night breeze
Brought odours from the orange trees,-
She paused not for their fragrant sigh:
There came a sound of music nigh,
A voice of song, a distant chime
To mark the vespers' starry time,-
She heard it not the moonbeams fell
O'er vine-wreath'd hill and olive dell,
With cottages, and their gay show
Of roses for a portico;

One which stood by a beech alone,-
Look'd she not back upon that one?
Alas! she look'd but in that eye
Where now was writ her destiny.
The heart love leaves looks back ever;
The heart where he is dwelling, never.
Yet as her last step left the strand,
Gheraldi then might feel her hand
Grow cold, and tremble in his own:
He watch'd her lip, its smile was flown;
Her cheek was pale, as if with fears;
Her blue eyes darken'd with their tears:
He prest her rosebud mouth to his,
Blush, smile, return'd to grace that kiss;
She had not power to weep, yet know
She was his own, come weal come wo.
O, who-reposed on some fond breast,
Love's own delicious place of rest-
Reading faith in the watching eyes,
Feeling the heart beat with its sighs,
Could no regrets, or doubts, or cares,
That we had bound our fate with theirs!

There was a shadow on their mirth;
A vacant place is by their hearth,
When at the purple evening's close
Around its firelight gather'd those

With whom her youth's sweet course had

run,

Wept, for the lost, the alter'd one!
She was so beautiful, so dear,

All that the heart holds precious here!
A skylark voice, whose lightest sound
So glad made every heart-pulse bound
'Twas a fair sight to see her glide
A constant shadow by the side
Of her old Father! At dayrise,
With light feet and with sunny eyes,
Busy within: and then, at times,
Singing old snatches of wild rhymes
Italian peasants treasure up,
O'erflowings of the poet's cup,
Suited to those whose earth and sky,
Temples and groves, are poetry.

[blocks in formation]

-But he had yet another child,-
The Father Blanche could leave,
smiled

Gently and cheerfully away
The cloud that on his spirit lay.
It was a lovely morn in June,
And in the rosy light of noon
The olive crown'd village shone
As the glad sun were all its own;
And, suiting with such golden hours,
With music, and with songs and flowers,
A bridal train pass'd gayly by:
In the midst, with blue downcast eye
And blush of happiness, came the Bride!
And youths with flutes were by her side,
And maidens, with their wreaths, as gay
As life but lasted one sweet day.

One follow'd them with bursting heart,
With pallid cheek, and lips apart,
As every breath were gasp'd! Ah this,
Alas, is what love ever is!

who

False or unhappy, twin to sorrow,
Forced Hope's deceiving lights to borrow,
Gilding in joy a little way,
Doubly to lead the heart astray.
Beneath a shadowy beech tree
At length paused the gay company:
And there sat an old Man. The Bride
Took off her veil, and knelt beside,
And from his feet look'd up and smiled,
And pray'd that he would bless his child!
The gentle prayer was scarcely said,
Yet lay his hand upon her head !
When knelt another in that place,
With shrouded form and veiled face;
A broken voice breathed some low words
They struck on memory's tenderest chords:
"My Blanche! yes, only ask of Heaven,
Thy father has long since forgiven.
Look up!" "O not till thou hast pray'd
For the unhappy and betray'd!"
And paused at once the bridal song,

And gather'd round the gazing throng.
And as the old man pray'd, Blanche press'd
Closer and closer to his breast!

He raised her, for he long'd to gaze
Upon the loved of other days,

And threw the veil back from her head,
And look'd, but look'd upon the dead!

AND there are bitter tears in Arnold's hall

A wail of passionate lament! The night
Is on the towers, but night has not brought
Silence and sleep. A sound is in the courts,
Of arms and arm'd men; the ring of spears,
The stamp of iron feet, and voices, mix'd
In deep confusion. With the morning's rise,
Lord Arnold leads these men to Palestine.

There were two figures on a terrace, raised
O'er all the rest. The moon was on its sweep,
Lightning the landscape's midnight loveliness!
Below it, first were gardens set with flowers,
In beds of many shape and quaint device,
So very sweet they fill'd the air with scents;
Beyond, the ground was steep and rough; dwarf

oak,

Spring on the sides, but all the nobler growth
Of those proud trees was seen in yon dark wood,
Its world of leaves blent with the distant sky,
And sheltering a green park, where the smooth

grass

Was fitting herbage for the gentle fawn,
Which sported by its mother's spotted side,
And some so white that in the moon they shone
Like silver. In the midst, a diamond sheet
Of clear bright water spread, and on its breast
Gather'd a group of swans; and there was one,
Laid on a little island which the leaves
Of the waterflag had made; and suddenly
A sound of music rose, and leaf and flower
Seem'd hush'd to hear the sweet and solemn hymn
Sung by the dying swan. And then the two
Upon the terrace, who as yet had look'd
But in each other's eyes, turn'd to the lake :
It was to them, even as if their love
Had made itself a voice to breathe Farewell!-

Ceased the unearthly song, and Adeline
Threw her on Arnold's breast, and wept, and said
It was her warrior's dirge and hers for never
Such sad sweet sounds had breathed on mortal

ear,

And yet no omen. But her Arnold kiss'd

Her tears away; and whisper'd 'twas the song
Of some kind Spirit, who would guard his love
While he was fighting for the Cross afar.
O, who can tell the broken-heartedness

Of parting moments!-the fond words that gush
From the full heart, and yet die in the throat,

« PreviousContinue »