VIII.

Much wondering Lucy mused,--nor yet could find Why one so mournful shrunk from one so kind. Awe that had chill'd the gratitude she felt For Morvale, now in pity learn'd to melt: This tender patience in a man so stern, This love untiring--fear the sole return, This rough exterior, with this gentle breast, Awoke a sympathy that would not rest; The wistful eye, the changing lip, the tone Whose accents droop'd, or gladden'd, from her own, Haunted the woman's heart, which ever heaves Its echo back to every sound that grieves. Light as the gossamer its tissue spins O'er freshest dews when summer morn begins, Will Fancy weave its airy web above The dews of Pity, in the dawn of Love.-- At length, Calantha's reason wakes;--the strife Calms back,--the soul re-settles to the life. Freed from her post, flies Lucy to rejoice The anxious heart, so wistful for her voice; Not at his wonted watch the brother found, She seeks his door--no answer to her sound; She halts in vain, till, eager to begin The joyous tale, the bright shape glides within. For the first time beheld, she views the lone And gloomy rooms the master calls his own; Not there the luxury elsewhere, which enthralls With pomp the gazer in the rich man's halls; Strange arms of Eastern warfare, quaintly piled, Betray'd the man's fierce memory of the child,-- And litter'd books, in mystic scrolls enshrined The solemn Sibyl of the elder Ind. The girl treads fearful on the dismal floors, And with amazed eye the gloomy lair explores; Thus, as some Peri strays where, couch'd in cells With gods dethroned, the brooding Afrite dwells, From room to room her fairy footsteps glide, Till, lo! she starts to see him by her side.-- With crimson cheek, and downcast eyes, that quail Beneath his own, she hurries the glad tale, Then turns to part--but as she turns, still round She looks,--and lingers on the magic ground, And eyes each antique relic with the wild Half-pleased, half-timorous, wonder of a child; And as a child's the lonely inmate saw, And smiled to see the pleasure and the awe; And soften'd into kindness his deep tone, And drew her hand, half-shrinking, in his own, And said, "Nay, pause and task the showman's skill, What moves thee most?--come, question me at will."

Listening she linger'd, and she knew not why Time's wing so swiftly never seem'd to fly; Never before unto her gaze reveal'd The Eastern fire, the Eastern calm conceal'd: Child of the sun, and native of the waste, Cramp'd in the formal chains it had embraced, His heart leapt back to its old haunts afar, As leaps the lion from the captive bar; And, as each token flash'd upon the mind, Back the bold deeds that life had left behind, The dark eye blazed, the rich words roll'd along, Vivid as light, and eloquent as song; At length, with sudden pause, he check'd the stream, And his soul darken'd from the gorgeous dream. "So," with sad voice he said, "my youth went by, Fresh was the wave, if fitful was the sky; What is my manhood?--curl'd and congeal'd, A stagnant water in a barren field: Gall'd with strange customs,--in the crowd alone; And courting bloodless hearts that freeze my own. In the far lands, where first I breathed the air,-- Smile if thou wilt,--this rugged form was fair, For the swift foot, strong arm, bold heart give grace To man, when danger girds man's dwelling-place,-- Thou seest the daughter of my mother, now, Shrinks from the outcast branded on my brow; My boyhood tamed the panther in his den, The wild beast feels man's kindness more than men. Like with its like, they say, will intertwine,-- I have not tamed one human heart to mine!"-- He paused abruptly. Thrice his listener sought To shape consoling speech from soothing thought, But thrice she fail'd, and thrice the colour came And went, as tenderness was check'd by shame! At length her dove-like eyes to his she raised, And all the comfort words forbade, she gazed; Moved by her childlike pity, but too dark In hopeless thought than pity more to mark; "Infant," he murmur'd, "not for others flow The tears the wise, how hard soe'er, must know; As yet, the Eden of a guileless breast, Opes a frank home to every angel guest; Soft Eve, look round!--The world in which thou art Distrusts the angel, nor unlocks the heart-- Thy time will come!"--

He spoke, and from her side Was gone,--the heart his wisdom wrong'd replied!

[A] Where now stands St. James's palace stood the hospital dedicated to St. James, for the reception of fourteen leprous maidens.

[B] Charles the First attended divine service in the Royal Chapel immediately before he walked through the park to his scaffold at Whitehall. In the palace of St. James's, Monk and Sir John Granville schemed for the restoration of Charles II.

[C] The Sanscrit term, denoting the mixture or confusion of classes; applied to that large portion of the Indian population excluded from the four pure castes.

[D] According to Eastern commentators, the march of the Israelites in the Desert was in a charmed circle; every morning they set out on their journey, and every night found themselves on the same spot as that from which the journey had commenced.

[E] The Tilt-yard.

[F] Since this was written, to Buckingham Palace has been prefixed a front which is not without merit--in thrusting out of sight the other three sides of the building.

[G] The reader need scarcely be reminded, that these lines were written years before the fatal accident which terminated an illustrious life. If the lines be so inadequate to the subject, the author must state freely that he had the misfortune to differ entirely from the policy pursued by Sir Robert Peel at the time they were written; while if that difference forbade panegyric, his respect for the man checked the freedom of satire. The author will find another occasion to attempt, so far as his opinions on the one hand, and his reverence on the other, will permit--to convey a juster idea of Sir Robert Peel's defects or merits, perhaps as a statesman, at least as an orator.

[H] Lord Stanley's memorable exclamation on a certain occasion which now belongs to history,--"Johnny's upset the coach!" Never was coach upset with such perfect _sang-froid_ on the part of the driver.

[I] Written before Sir Robert's avowed abandonment of protection. Prophetic.

PART THE SECOND.