IV.

The Hours steal on. Like spectres, to and fro Hurry hush'd footsteps through the house of woe. That nameless chill, which tells of life that dies, Broods o'er the chamber where Calantha lies.

The Hours steal on--and o'er the unquiet might Of the great Babel--reigns, dishallow'd, Night. Not, as o'er Nature's world, She comes, to keep Beneath the stars her solemn tryst with Sleep, When move the twin-born Genii side by side, And steal from earth its demons where they glide; Lull'd the spent Toil--seal'd Sorrow's heavy eyes, And dreams restore the dews of Paradise; But Night, discrown'd and sever'd from her twin, No pause for Travail, no repose for Sin, Vex'd by one chafed rebellion to her sway, Flits o'er the lamp-lit streets--a phantom day! Alone sat Morvale in the House of Gloom, Alone--no! Death was in the darken'd room; All hush'd save where, at distance faintly heard, Lucy's low sob the depth of silence stirr'd; Or where, without, the swift wheels hurrying by, Bear those who live--as if life could not die. Alone he sat! and in his breast began Earth's deadliest strife--the Angel with the Man! Not his the light war with its feeble rage Which prudent scruples with faint passions wage, (The small heart-conflicts which disturb the wise, Whom reason succours when the anger tries, Such as to this meek social ring belong, In conscience weak, but in discretion strong;) But that known only to man's franker state, In love a demigod--a fiend in hate, Him, not the reason but the instincts lead, Prompt in the impulse, ruthless in the deed.

And if the wrong might seem too weak a cause For the fell hate--not his were Europe's laws.-- Some think dishonour, if it halt at crime, A stingless asp,--what injury in the slime? As if but this poor clay--this crumbling coil Of dust for graves--were all the foul can soil! As if the form were not the type (nor more Than the mere type) of what chaste souls adore! That Woman-Royalty, a spotless name, For sires to boast--for sons unborn to claim, That heavenly purity of thought--as free From shame as sin, the soul's virginity, If these be lost--why what remains?--the form? Has _that_ such worth?--Go, envy then the worm!

And well to him may such belief belong, And India's memories blacken more the wrong; In Eastern lands, by tritest tales convey'd, How Honour guards from sight itself the maid; Home's solemn mystery, jealous of a breath, Screen'd by religion, and begirt with death:-- Again he cower'd beneath the hissing tongue, Again the gibe of scurril laughter rung, Again the Plague-breath air itself defiled, And Mockery grinn'd upon his mother's child! All the heart's chaste religion overthrown, And slander scrawl'd upon the altar-stone!

And if that memory pause, what shapes succeed? The martyr leaning on the broken reed! The life slow-poison'd in the thoughts that shed Shame o'er the joyless earth;--and there, the dead! Marvel not ye, the soft, the fair, the young, Whose thoughts are chords to Love's sweet music strung, Whose life the sterner genius--Hate, has spared, If on his soul no torch but Ate's glared! If in the foe was lost to sight the bride, The foe's meek child!--that memory was denied! The face, the tale, the sorrow, and the love, } All fled--all blotted from the breast: Above } The Deluge not one refuge for the Dove! } There is no Lethe like one guilty dream, It drowns all life that nears the leaden stream; And if the guilt seem sacred to the creed, Between the stars and earth, but stands the Deed! So in his breast the Titan feud began: Which shall prevail--the Angel or the Man?

The Injurer comes! the lone light breaking o'er } The gloom, waves flickering to the open door, } And Arden's step is on the fatal floor! } Around he gazed, and hush'd his breath,--for Fear Cast its own shadow on the wall,--a drear And ominous prescience of the Death-king there Breathed its chill horror to the heavy air; O'er yon recess--which bars with draperied pall The baffled gaze--the unbroken shadows fall. The lurid embers on the hearth burn low; The clicking time-piece sounds distinct and slow; And the roused instinct hate's suspense foreshows In the pale Indian's lock'd and grim repose.

So Arden enter'd, and thus spoke; the while His restless eye belied his ready smile: "Return'd, I find thy mandate, and attend To hear a mystery, or to serve a friend." "Or front a foe!" A stifled voice replied. O'er Arden's temples flush'd the knightly pride. "What means that word, which jars, not daunts, the ear? I own no foe,--if foe there be, no fear."

"Pause and take heed--then with as firm a sound Disdain the danger--when the foe is found! What, if thou had'st a sister, whom the grave To thy sole charge--a sacred orphan--gave-- What, if a traitor had, with mocking vows, Won the warm heart, and woo'd the plighted spouse, Then left--a scoff;--what, if his evil fame, Alone sufficed to blast the virgin name, What--hourly gazing on a life forlorn, Amidst a solitude wall'd round with scorn, Shame at the core--death gnawing at the cheek-- What, from the suitor, would the brother seek?"

"Wert _thou_ that brother," with unsteady voice, Arden replied: "not doubtful were thy choice: Were I that Suitor----" "Ay?" "I would prepare To front the vengeance, or--the wrong repair."

"Yes"--hiss'd the Indian--"front that mimic strife, That coward's die, which leaves to chance the life; That mockery of all justice, framed to cheat Right of its due--such vengeance thou wouldst meet!-- Be Europe's justice blind and insecure! Stern Ind asks more--her son's revenge is sure! 'Repair the wrong!'--Ay, in the Grave be wed! Hark! the Ghost calls thee to the bridal bed! Come (nay, this once thy hand!)--come!--from the shrine I draw the veil!--Calantha, he is thine! Man, see thy victim!--dust!--Joy--Peace and Fame, } _These_ murder'd first--the blow that smote the frame } Was the most merciful!--at length it came. } Here, by the corpse to which thy steps are led, Beside thee, murderer, stands the brother of the Dead!"

Brave was Lord Arden--brave as ever be Thor's northern sons--the Island Chivalry; But in that hour strange terror froze his blood, Those fierce eyes mark'd him shiver as he stood; But oh! more awful than the living foe That frown'd beside--the Dead that smiled below! That smile which greets the shadow-peopled shore, Which says to Sorrow--"Thou canst wound no more!" Which says to Love that would rejoin--"Await!" Which says to Wrong that would redeem--"Too late!" That lingering halo of our closing skies Cold with the sunset never more to rise!

Though his gay conscience many a heavier crime Than this had borne, and drifted off to Time; Though this but sport with a fond heart which Fate Had given to master, but denied to mate, Yet seem'd it as in that least sin arose The shapes of all that Memory's deeps disclose; The general phantom of a life whose waste Had spoil'd each bloom by which its path was traced, Sporting at will, and moulding sport to art, With that sad holiness--the Human Heart! Upon his lip the vain excuses died, In vain his manhood struggled for its pride; Up from the dead, with one convulsive throe, He turn'd his gaze, and voiceless faced his foe: Still, as if changed by horror into stone, He saw those eyes glare doom upon his own; Saw that remorseless hand glide sternly slow To the bright steel the robe half hid below,-- Near, and more near, he felt the fiery breath Breathe on his cheek; the air was hot with death, And yet he sought nor flight--nor strove for prayer, As one chance-led into a lion's lair, Who sees his fate, nor deems submission shame,-- Unarm'd to combat, and unskill'd to tame, What could this social world afford its child, Against the roused Nemaean of the wild!

A lifted arm--a gleaming steel--a cry Of savage vengeance!--swiftly--suddenly, As through two clouds a star--on the dread time Shone forth an angel face and check'd the startled crime! She stood, the maiden guest, the plighted bride, The victim's daughter, by the madman's side; Her airy clasp upon the murtherous arm, Her pure eyes chaining with a solemn charm: Like some blest thought of mercy, on a soul Brooding on blood--the holy Image stole! And, as a maniac in his fellest hour Lull'd by a look whose calmness is its power, Backward the Indian quail'd--and dropp'd the blade!-- To see the foeman kneeling to the maid; As with new awe and wilder, Arden cried, "Out from the grave, O com'st thou, injured bride!" Then with a bound he reach'd the Indian-- "Lo! I tempt thy fury, and invite thy blow; But, by man's rights o'er men,--oh, speak! whose eyes Ope, on life's brink, my youth's lost paradise? The same--the same--(look, look!)--the same--lip, brow, Form, aspect,--all and each--fresh, fair as now, Bloom'd my heart's bride!"-- Silent the Indian heard, Nor seem'd to feel the grasp, nor heed the word! As when some storm-beat argosy glides free From its vain wrath,--subsides a baffled sea,-- His heaving breast calm'd back--the tempest fell, And the smooth surface veil'd the inward hell. Yet his eye, resting on the wondering maid, Somewhat of woe, perchance remorse, betray'd, And grew to doubtful trouble--as it saw Her aspect brightening slowly from its awe, Gazing on Arden till shone out commix'd, Doubt, hope, and joy, in the sweet eyes thus fix'd;-- Till on her memory all the portrait smil'd, And voice came forth, "O Father, bless thy child!"

As from the rock the bright wave leaps to day, The mighty instinct forced its living way: No need of further words;--all clear--all told; A father's arms the happy child enfold: Nature alone was audible!--and air Stirr'd with the gush of tears, and gasps of murmur'd prayer!

Motionless stands the Indian; on his breast, As one the death-shaft pierces, droops his crest; His hands are clasp'd--one moment the sharp thrill Shakes his strong limbs;--then all once more is still; And form and aspect the firm calmness take Which clothes his kindred savage at the stake. So--as she turn'd her looks--the woe behind That quiet mask, the girl's quick heart divined,-- "Father!" she cried--"Not all, not all on me Lavish thy blessings!--Him, who saved me, see! Him who from want--from famine--from a doom, Frowning with terrors darker than the tomb, Preserved thy child!"

Before the Indian's feet } She fell, and murmur'd--"Bliss is incomplete } Unless thy heart can share--thy lips can greet!" } Again the firm frame quiver'd;--roused again, The bruised eagle struggled from the chain; Till words found way, and with the effort grew Man's crowning strength--Man's evil to subdue.

"Foeman--'tis past!--lo, in the strife between Thy world and mine, the eternal victory seen! Thou, with light arts, my realm hast overthrown, And, see, revenge but threats to bless thine own! My home is desolate--my hearth a grave-- The Heaven one hour that seem'd like justice gave, The arm is raised, the sacrifice prepared-- The altar kindles, and the victim's--spared! Free as before to smite and to destroy, Thou com'st to slaughter to depart in joy!

"From the wayside yon drooping flower I bore; Warm'd at my heart--its root grew to the core, Dear as its kindred bloom seen through the bar By some long-thrall'd, and loneliest prisoner-- Now comes the garden's Lord, transplants the flower, And spoils the dungeon to enrich the bower?

"So be it, law--and the world's rights are thine Lost the stern comfort, Nature's law and mine! She calls thee 'Father,' and the long deferr'd, Long-look'd for vengeance, withers at the word! Take back thy child! Earth's gods to thee belong! } To me the iron of the sense of wrong } Heaven makes the heart which Earth oppresses--strong!" }

"Not so,--not so we part! O _husband_!" cried The Girl's full soul--"Divorce not thus thy bride! Yes, Father, yes!--in woe thy Lucy won This generous heart; shall joy not leave us one?"

A moment Arden paused in mute surprise (How charm'd that outcast Beauty's blinded eyes?) Then, with the impulse of the human thought, Prompt to atonement for the evil wrought, "Hear her!" he said--"her words her father's heart Echoes.--Not so--nor ever, may ye part! Nobly, hast thou an elder right than mine Won to this treasure;--still its care be thine; Withhold thy pardon if thou wilt,--but take The holiest offering wrong to man can make!"

Slowly the Indian lifts his joyless head, Pointing with slow hand to the present dead, And from slow lips comes heavily the breath: "Behold, between us evermore--is Death!"

"Maiden, recal my tale;--thou clasp'st the hand Which shuts the Exile from the promised land; Can the dead victim's brother, undefiled, From him who slew the sister take the child!" With that, he bent him o'er the shuddering maid, On her fair looks a solemn hand he laid; Lifted eyes, tearless still--but dark with all The cloud, that not in _such_ soft dews can fall: "If to the Dead an offering still must be, All vengeance calls for be fulfill'd in me! I make myself the victim!--Thou dread Power Guiding to guilt the slow chastising hour, Far from the injurer's hearth by her made pure, Let this lone roof thy thunder-stroke allure!--

"Go hence--(nay, near me not!) behold!--the kind Oblivion closes round her darken'd mind; If, when she wake, it be awhile for grief, Soon dries the rain-drop on the April leaf!"

He said, and vanish'd, with a noiseless tread, Within the folds which curtain'd round the dead! So, the stern Dervish of the East inters His sullen soul with Death in sepulchres!

His new-found prize, while yet th' unconscious sense Sleeps in the mercy of the brief suspense, With gliding feet, the Father steals away. Grief bends alone above the lonely clay; But over grief and death th' Eternal Eye Shines down,--and Hope lives ever in the sky.

[O] The perfumes from the island of Rhodes,--to which the roses that still bloom there gave the ancient name,--are wafted for miles over the surrounding seas.

[P] The Psyche of Naples, the most intellectual and (so to speak) the most _Christian_ of all the dreams of beauty which Grecian art has embodied in the marble.

[Q] Every one knows, through the version of Mrs. Tighe, the lovely allegory of Eros and Psyche, which Apuleius--the neglected original, to whom all later romance writers are unconsciously indebted--has bequeathed to the delight of poets and the recognition of Christians.

[R] The reader will bear in mind these lines, important to the clearness of the story; and remember that Calantha bore a different name from her half-brother--that her mother's unnatural prejudice or pride of race had forbidden her ever to mention that brother's name; and that, therefore, her relationship to Morvale, until he sought her out, was wholly unknown to all: the reader will remember, also, that during Calantha's subsequent residence in Morvale's house, she lived as woman lives in the East, and was consequently never seen by her brother's guests.

PART THE FOURTH.