II.

Amidst the crowd (what time the glowing Hours Strew, as they glide, the summer world with flowers), Who fly the solitude of sweets to drown Nature's still whisper in the roar of Town; Who tread with jaded step the weary mill-- Grind at the wheel, and call it "Pleasure" still;-- Gay without mirth, fatigued without employ, Slaves to the joyless phantom of a joy;-- Amidst this crowd was one who, absent long, And late return'd, outshone the meaner throng; And, truth to speak, in him were blent the rays Which form a halo in the vulgar gaze; Howden's fair beauty, Beaufort's princely grace, Hertford's broad lands, and Courtney's vaunted race; And Pembroke's learning in that polish'd page, Writ by the Grace, 'the Manners and the Age!' Still with sufficient youth to please the heart, But old enough for mastery in the art;-- Renown'd for conquests in those isles which lie In rosy seas beneath a Cnidian sky, Where the soft Goddess yokes her willing doves, And meets invasion with a host of Loves; Yet not unlaurell'd in the war of wile Which won Ulysses grave Minerva's smile, For those deep arts the diplomat was known Which mould the lips that whisper round a throne.

Long in the numbing hands of Law had lain Arden's proud earldom, Arden's wide domain. Kinsman with kinsman, race with race had vied To snatch the prize, and in the struggle died; Till all the rights the crowd of heirs made dim, Death clear'd--and solved the tangled skein in him. There was but ONE who in the bastard fame Wealth gives its darlings, rivall'd Arden's name: A rival rarely seen--felt everywhere, With soul that circled bounty like the air, Simple himself, but regal in his train, Lavish of stores he seem'd but to disdain; To art a Medici--to want a god, Life's rougher paths grew level where he trod. Much Arden (Arden had a subtle mind, Which sought in all philosophy to find) Loved to compare the different means by which Enjoyment yields a harvest to the rich-- Himself already marvell'd to behold How soon trite custom wears the gleam from gold; Well, was his rival happier from its use Than he (his candour whisper'd) from abuse? He long'd to know this Morvale, and to learn: They met--grew friends--the Sybarite and the stern. Each had some fields in common: mostly those From which the plant of human friendship grows. Each had known strong vicissitudes in life; The present ease, and the remember'd strife. Each, though from differing causes, nursed a mind At war with Fate, and chafed against his kind. Each with a searching eye had sought to scan The solemn Future, soul predicts to man; And each forgot how, cloud-like passions mar, In the vex'd wave, the mirror of the star;-- How all the unquiet thoughts which life supplies May swell the ocean but to veil the skies; And dark to Man may grow the heaven that smiled On the clear vision Nature gave the Child. Each, too, in each, where varying most they seem, Found that which fed half envy, half esteem. As stood the Pilgrim of the waste before The stream that parted from the enchanted shore, Though on the opposing margent of the wave Those fairy boughs but _seeming_ fruitage gave; Though his stern manhood in its simple power, If cross'd the barrier, soon had scorn'd the bower; Yet, as some monk, whom holier cloisters shade, Views from afar the glittering cavalcade, And sighs, as sense against his will recalls Fame's knightly lists and Pleasure's festive halls,-- So, while the conscience chid, the charm enchain'd, And the heart envied what the soul disdain'd.

While Arden's nature in his friend's could find An untaught force that awed his subtler mind-- Awed, yet allured;--that Eastern calm of eye And mien--a mantle and a majesty, At once concealing all the strife below It shames the pride of lofty hearts to show, And robing Art's lone outlaw with the air Of nameless state the lords of Nature wear;-- This kingly mien contrasting this mean form, This calm exterior with this heart of storm, Touch'd with vague interest, undefined and strange, The world's quick pupil whose career was change.

Forth from the crowded streets one summer day, } Rode the new friends; and cool and silent lay } Through shadowy lanes the chance-directed way. } As with slow pace and slacken'd rein they rode, Men's wonted talk to deeper converse flow'd.

"Think'st thou," said Arden, "that the Care, whose speed Climbs the tall bark and mounts the flying steed, And (still to quote old Horace) hovers round Our fretted roofs, forbears yon village ground?-- Think'st thou that Toil drives trouble from the door; And does God's sun shine brightest on the Poor?"

"I know not," answer'd Morvale, "but I know Each state feels envy for the state below; Kings for their subjects--for the obscure, the great: The smallest circle guards the happiest state. Earth's real wealth is in the heart;--in truth, As life looks brightest in the eyes of youth, So simple wants--the simple state most far From that entangled maze in which we are, Seem unto nations what youth is to man,"--

"'When wild in woods the noble savage ran,'" Said Arden, smiling. "Well, we disagree; Even youth itself reflects no charms for me; And all the shade upon my life bestow'd Spreads from the myrtle which my boyhood sow'd." His bright face fell,--he sigh'd. "And canst thou guess Why all once coveted now fails to bless?-- Why all around me palls upon the eye, And the heart saddens in the summer sky? It is that youth expended life too soon: A morn too glowing sets in storm at noon."

"Nay," answer'd Morvale, gently, "hast thou tried That _second_ youth, to which ev'n follies guide; Which to the wanderer SENSE, when tired and spent, Proclaims the fount by which to fix the tent? The heart but rests when sense forbears to roam; We win back freshness when Love smiles on Home;-- Home not to _thee_, O happy one! denied." } } "To me of all," the impatient listener cried, } "Thy words but probe the wounds I vainly hide; } That which I pine for, thou hast pictured now;-- The hearth, the home, the altar, and the vow; The tranquil love, unintertwined with shame; The child's sweet kiss;--the Father's holy name; The link to lengthen a time-honour'd line;-- These not for me, and yet these should be mine." "If," said the Indian, "counsel could avail, Or pity soothe, a friend invites thy tale."

"Alas!" sigh'd Arden, "nor confession's balm Can heal, nor wisdom whisper back to calm. Yet hear the tale--thou wilt esteem me less-- But Grief, the Egoist, yearneth to confess. I tell of guilt--and guilt all men must own, Who but avow the loves their youth has known. Preach as we will, in this wrong world of ours, Man's fate and woman's are contending powers; Each strives to dupe the other in the game,-- Guilt to the victor--to the vanquish'd shame!" He paused, and noting how austerely gloom'd His friend's dark visage, blush'd, and thus resumed. "Nay, I approve not of the code I find, Not less the wrong to which the world is kind. But, to be frank, how oft with praise we scan Men's actions only when they deal with man; Lo, gallant Lovelace, free from every art That stains the honour or defiles the heart,-- _With men_;--but how, if woman the pursuit? What lies degrade him, and what frauds pollute; Yet still to Lovelace either sex is mild, And new Clarissas only sigh--'How wild!'"

"Enough," said Morvale; "I perforce believe: Strong Adam owns no equal in his Eve; But worse the bondage in your bland disguise; Europe destroys,--kind Asia only buys! If dull the Harem, yet its roof protects, And Power, when sated, still its slave respects. With you, ev'n pity fades away with love,-- No gilded cage gives refuge to the dove; Worse than the sin the curse it leaves behind: Here the crush'd heart, or there the poison'd mind,-- Your streets a charnel or a market made, For the lorn hunger, or the loathsome trade. Pardon,--Pass on!" "Behold, the Preface done," Arden resumed, "now opens Chapter One!"