IV.

Yet the world will see Little of this, my parting work! in thee. Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed From storms a shelter--give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine-- Give the parch’d flower a rain-drop, and the meed Of love’s kind words to woman! Worthless fame! That in _his_ bosom wins not for my name Th’ abiding place it ask’d! Yet how my heart, In its own fairy world of song and art, Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o’er? That which I have been can I be no more? Never! oh, never more! though still thy sky Be blue as then, my glorious Italy! And though the music, whose rich breathings fill Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still; And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams. Never! oh, never more! Where’er I move, The shadow of this broken-hearted love Is on me and around! Too well _they_ know Whose life is all within, too soon and well, When there the blight hath settled! But I go Under the silent wings of peace to dwell; From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, The inward burning of those words--“_in vain_,” Sear’d on the heart--I go. ’Twill soon be past! Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven, And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast Unvalued wealth--who know’st not what was given In that devotedness--the sad, and deep, And unrepaid--farewell! If I could weep Once, only once, beloved one! on thy breast, Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest! But that were happiness!--and unto me Earth’s gift is _fame_. Yet I was form’d to be So richly bless’d! With thee to watch the sky, Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh; With thee to listen, while the tones of song Swept even as part of our sweet air along-- To listen silently; with thee to gaze On forms, the deified of olden days-- This had been joy enough; and hour by hour, From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, How had my spirit soar’d, and made its fame A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams!--The fire Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name-- As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre When its full chords are hush’d--awhile to live, And one day haply in thy heart revive Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound, A spell o’er memory, mournfully profound; I leave it, on my country’s air to dwell-- Say proudly yet--“_’Twas hers who loved me well_!”

GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH.

[The Baron Von der Wart, accused--though it is believed unjustly--as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonising hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled _Gertrude Von der Wart; or, Fidelity unto Death_.]

“Dark lowers our fate, And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us; But nothing, till that latest agony Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose This fix’d and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, In the terrific face of armed law, Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, I never will forsake thee.” Joanna Baillie.

Her hands were clasp’d, her dark eyes raised, The breeze threw back her hair; Up to the fearful wheel she gazed-- All that she loved was there. The night was round her clear and cold, The holy heaven above, Its pale stars watching to behold The might of earthly love.

“And bid me not depart,” she cried; “My Rudolph, say not so! This is no time to quit thy side-- Peace! peace! I cannot go. Hath the world aught for _me_ to fear, When death is on thy brow? The world! what means it? _Mine is here_-- I will not leave thee now.

“I have been with thee in thine hour Of glory and of bliss; Doubt not its memory’s living power To strengthen me through _this_! And thou, mine honour’d love and true, Bear on, bear nobly on! We have the blessed heaven in view, Whose rest shall soon be won.”

And were not these high words to flow From woman’s breaking heart? Through all that night of bitterest woe She bore her lofty part; But oh! with such a glazing eye, With such a curdling cheek-- Love, Love! of mortal agony Thou, only _thou_, shouldst speak!

The wind rose high--but with it rose Her voice, that he might hear:-- Perchance that dark hour brought repose To happy bosoms near; While she sat striving with despair Beside his tortured form, And pouring her deep soul in prayer Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow With her pale hands and soft, Whose touch upon the lute-chords low Had still’d his heart so oft. She spread her mantle o’er his breast, She bathed his lips with dew, And on his cheek such kisses press’d As hope and joy ne’er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, Enduring to the last! She had her meed--one smile in death-- And his worn spirit pass’d! While even as o’er a martyr’s grave She knelt on that sad spot, And, weeping, bless’d the God who gave Strength to forsake it not.

IMELDA.

“Sometimes The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, And loved when they should hate--like thee, Imelda!”[346] Italy; a Poem.

“Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma.”--Tasso.

We have the myrtle’s breath around us here, Amidst the fallen pillars: this hath been Some Naiad’s fane of old. How brightly clear, Flinging a vein of silver o’er the scene, Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells, And music with it, gushing from beneath The ivied altar! That sweet murmur tells The rich wild-flowers no tale of woe or death; Yet once the wave was darken’d, and a stain Lay deep, and heavy drops--but not of rain-- On the dim violets by its marble bed, And the pale-shining water-lily’s head.

Sad is that legend’s truth.--A fair girl met One whom she loved, by this lone temple’s spring. Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, And eve’s low voice in whispers woke, to bring All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair, With the blue heaven of Italy above, And citron-odours dying on the air, And light leaves trembling round, and early love Deep in each breast. What reck’d _their_ souls of strife Between their fathers? Unto them young life Spread out the treasures of its vernal years; And if they wept, they wept far other tears Than the cold world brings forth. They stood, that hour, Speaking of hope; while tree, and fount, and flower, And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs, Seem’d holy things, as records of their vows.

But change came o’er the scene. A hurrying tread Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew The footstep of her brother’s wrath, and fled Up where the cedars make yon avenue Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught-- Was it the clash of swords? A swift dark thought Struck down her lip’s rich crimson as it pass’d, And from her eye the sunny sparkle took One moment with its fearfulness, and shook Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more, She still’d her heart to listen--all was o’er; Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, Bearing the nightingale’s deep spirit by.

That night Imelda’s voice was in the song-- Lovely it floated through the festive throng Peopling her father’s halls. That fatal night Her eye look’d starry in its dazzling light, And her cheek glow’d with beauty’s flushing dyes, Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies-- A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze Follow’d her form beneath the clear lamp’s blaze, And marvell’d at its radiance. But a few Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue With something of dim fear; and in that glance Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest, Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, Where Thought, if present, an unbidden guest, Comes not unmask’d. Howe’er this were, the time Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime Alike: and when the banquet’s hall was left Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft; When trembling stars look’d silvery in their wane, And heavy flowers yet slumber’d, once again There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone, Through the dim cedar shade--the step of one That started at a leaf, of one that fled, Of one that panted with some secret dread. What did Imelda there? She sought the scene Where love so late with youth and hope had been. Bodings were on her soul; a shuddering thrill Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad’s rill Met her with melody--sweet sounds and low: We hear them yet, they live along its flow-- _Her_ voice is music lost! The fountain-side She gain’d--the wave flash’d forth--’twas darkly dyed Even as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge, Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, There lay, as lull’d by stream and rustling sedge, A youth, a graceful youth. “Oh! dost thou sleep? Azzo!” she cried, “my Azzo! is this rest?” But then her low tones falter’d:--“On thy breast Is the stain--yes, ’tis blood! And that cold cheek-- That moveless lip!--thou dost not slumber?--speak, Speak, Azzo, my beloved! No sound--no breath-- What hath come thus between our spirits? Death! Death?--I but dream--I dream!” And there she stood, A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood, With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, Her form sustain’d by that dark stem alone, And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold; When from the grass her dimm’d eye caught a gleam-- ’Twas where a sword lay shiver’d by the stream-- Her brother’s sword!--she knew it; and she knew ’Twas with a venom’d point that weapon slew! Woe for young love! But love is strong. There came Strength upon woman’s fragile heart and frame; There came swift courage! On the dewy ground She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round Like a long silken stole; she knelt, and press’d Her lips of glowing life to Azzo’s breast, Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight! Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night! --So the moon saw them last. The morn came singing Through the green forests of the Apennines, With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, And steps and voices out amongst the vines. What found that dayspring _here?_ Two fair forms laid Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade Casting a gleam of beauty o’er the wave, Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the grave? Could it be so indeed? That radiant girl, Deck’d as for bridal hours!--long braids of pearl Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, As tears might shine, with melancholy light; And there was gold her slender waist entwining; And her pale graceful arms--how sadly bright; And fiery gems upon her breast were lying, And round her marble brow red roses dying. But she died first!--the violet’s hue had spread O’er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress’d; She had bow’d heavily her gentle head, And on the youth’s hush’d bosom sunk to rest. So slept they well!--the poison’s work was done; Love with true heart had striven--but Death had won.

[346] The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi’s _Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. iii. p. 443.

EDITH.

A TALE OF THE WOODS.[347]

“Du Heilige! rufe dein Kind zuruck Ich habe genossen das irdische Gluck, Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.” Wallenstein.

The woods--oh! solemn are the boundless woods Of the great western world when day declines, And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, More deep the rustling of the ancient pines. When dimness gathers on the stilly air, And mystery seems o’er every leaf to brood, Awful it is for human heart to bear The might and burden of the solitude! Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there sate One young and fair; and oh! how desolate! But undismay’d--while sank the crimson light, And the high cedars darken’d with the night. Alone she sate; though many lay around, They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, Were sever’d from her need and from her woe, Far as death severs life. O’er that wild spot Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, And left them, with the history of their lot, Unto the forest oaks--a fearful scene For her whose home of other days had been Midst the fair halls of England! But the love Which fill’d her soul was strong to cast out fear; And by its might upborne all else above, She shrank not--mark’d not that the dead were near. Of him alone she thought, whose languid head Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell; Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, While heavily she felt his life-blood well Fast o’er her garments forth, and vainly bound With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound-- Yet hoped, still hoped! Oh! from such hope how long Affection woos the whispers that deceive, Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong! And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne’er believe The blow indeed can fall. So bow’d she there Over the dying, while unconscious prayer Fill’d all her soul. Now pour’d the moonlight down, Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place, Cast fitful radiance o’er the warrior’s face. Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye, The eye that faded look’d through gathering haze, Whence love, o’ermastering mortal agony, Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze, When voice was not; that fond, sad meaning pass’d-- She knew the fulness of her woe at last! One shriek the forests heard--and mute she lay And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death! Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth. Many and sad!--but airs of heavenly breath Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth Is far apart.

Now light, of richer hue Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew; The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play’d; Bright-colour’d birds with splendour cross’d the shade, Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke From reed, and spray, and leaf--the living strings Of earth’s Æolian lyre, whose music woke Into young life and joy all happy things. And she, too, woke from that long dreamless trance, The widow’d Edith: fearfully her glance Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change Flash’d o’er her spirit, even ere memory swept The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept; Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread Her arms, as ’twere for something lost or fled, Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, With all its whispers, waved not o’er her now. Where was she? Midst the people of the wild, By the red hunter’s fire: an aged chief, Whose home look’d sad--for therein play’d no child-- Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, To that lone cabin of the woods; and there, Won by a form so desolately fair, Or touch’d with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung, O’er her low couch an Indian matron hung; While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, And leaning on his bow.

And life return’d-- Life, but with all its memories of the dead, To Edith’s heart; and well the sufferer learn’d Her task of meek endurance--well she wore The chasten’d grief that humbly can adore Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, Even as a breath of spring’s awakening air, Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen A daughter to the land of spirits go; And ever from that time her fading mien, And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, Had haunted their dim years: but Edith’s face Now look’d in holy sweetness from her place, And they again seem’d parents. Oh! the joy, The rich deep blessedness--though earth’s alloy, Fear, that still bodes, be there--of pouring forth The heart’s whole power of love, its wealth and worth Of strong affection, in one healthful flow, On something all its own! that kindly glow, Which to shut inward is consuming pain, Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares Th’ adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs Who loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the while With the departed, and her patient smile Spoke of farewells to earth; yet still she pray’d, E’en o’er her soldier’s lowly grave, for aid _One_ purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace Brightly recording that her dwelling-place Had been among the wilds; for well she knew The secret whisper of her bosom true, Which warn’d her hence.

And now, by many a word Link’d unto moments when the heart was stirr’d-- By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, Sung when the woods at eve grew hush’d and dim-- By the persuasion of her fervent eye, All eloquent with childlike piety-- By the still beauty of her life she strove To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love Pour’d out on her so freely. Nor in vain Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain The soul in gentle bonds; by slow degrees Light follow’d on, as when a summer breeze Parts the deep masses of the forest shade, And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was made Even such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide, By faith and sorrow raised and purified, So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, Until their prayers were one. When morning spread O’er the blue lake, and when the sunset’s glow Touch’d into golden bronze the cypress bough, And when the quiet of the Sabbath-time Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime Waken’d the wilderness, their prayers were one. Now might she pass in hope--her work was done: And she _was_ passing from the woods away-- The broken flower of England might not stay Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright Even yet with something of a starry light, But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh Of autumn through the forests had gone by, And the rich maple o’er her wanderings lone Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, Flushing the air; and winter’s blast had been Amidst the pines; and now a softer green Fringed their dark boughs: for spring again had come, The sunny spring! but Edith to her home Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad To part with life when all the earth looks glad In her young lovely things--when voices break Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake: Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time, If _here_ such glory dwell with passing blooms, Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs? So thought the dying one. ’Twas early day, And sounds and odours, with the breezes’ play Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door, Unto her couch life’s farewell sweetness bore. Then with a look where all her hope awoke, “My father!”--to the gray-hair’d chief she spoke-- “Know’st thou that I depart?” “I know, I know,” He answer’d mournfully, “that thou must go To thy beloved, my daughter!” “Sorrow not For me, kind mother!” with meek smiles once more She murmur’d in low tones: “one happy lot Awaits us, friends! upon the better shore; For we have pray’d together in one trust, And lifted our frail spirits from the dust To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, Under the cedar shade: where he is gone, Thither I go. There will my sisters be, And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee My childhood’s prayer was learn’d--the Saviour’s prayer Which now _ye_ know--and I shall meet you there. Father and gentle mother! ye have bound The bruisèd reed, and mercy shall be found By Mercy’s children.” From the matron’s eye Dropp’d tears, her sole and passionate reply. But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep Solemnly beautiful--a stillness deep, Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, And mantling up his stately head in woe, “Thou’rt passing hence,” he sang, that warrior old, In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll’d.

“Thou’rt passing from the lake’s green side, And the hunter’s hearth away: For the time of flowers, for the summer’s pride, Daughter! thou canst not stay.

“Thou’rt journeying to thy spirit’s home, Where the skies are ever clear: The corn-month’s golden hours will come, But they shall not find thee here.

“And we shall miss thy voice, my bird! Under our whispering pine; Music shall midst the leaves be heard, But not a song like thine.

“A breeze that roves o’er stream and hill, Telling of winter gone, Hath such sweet falls--yet caught we still A farewell in its tone.

“But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be Where farewell sounds are o’er; Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt see No fear of parting more.

“The mossy grave thy tears have wet, And the wind’s wild moanings by, Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, Midst flowers--not such as die.

“The shadow from thy brow shall melt The sorrow from thy strain, But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt Our hearts shall thirst in vain.

“Dim will our cabin be, and lone, When thou, its light, art fled; Yet hath thy step the pathway shown Unto the happy dead.

“And we will follow thee, our guide! And join that shining band; Thou’rt passing from the lake’s green side-- Go to the better land!”

The song had ceased, the list’ners caught no breath: That lovely sleep had melted into death.

[347] Founded on incidents related in an American work, “Sketches of Connecticut.”

THE INDIAN CITY.[348]

“What deep wounds ever closed without a sear? The heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear That which disfigures it.” Childe Harold.

[348] From a tale in Forbes’s _Oriental Memoirs_.