Part 2
O! who that viewed so bright a scene Could guess that sorrow here had been; That any through the dance who glide, In splendour decked, elate with pride, Had seen hopes changed for gloomy fears, Had known the sad relief of tears— As bending o’er the cherished dead They deemed that joy for aye had fled; While now, forgetful, at the call Of Mirth, they fill her echoing hall? Yet, in these proud and gilded rooms, Where music, blent with rich perfumes From fair exotic garlands wreathed, Upon the entranced sense hath breathed; Where mirrors loveliest shapes display, As through the mazy dance they stray; Even here cold Death has held his state— Here drooping mourners wept the fate Of some, whom not even Love could save From the stern beckoner to the grave; Here, where the flowery trophies rise, Came breaking hearts, and streaming eyes; Here, where the airiest feet resound, A sable pall hath swept the ground; Down yonder staircase, broad and deep, A funeral train was seen to sweep: O! strange, how revelry and death— The smile above, the worm beneath,— Divide this earth, till scarce we know Which is the master, Mirth or Wo. O! where’s the dwelling, rich and vast, Wherein no scenes like these have passed; Where yet no tear was ever shed— Came in no fear—went out no dead? A few bright days—a few brief years, And each house is baptised in tears; A few sad hours of sorrow o’er, And Folly shakes her bells once more!
Now skilled in every art to please, Deloraine his partner set at ease; He talked of scenery, and flowers, And books that bring us pleasant hours, Till by his converse, wise and mild, Was won the dear confiding child. But deem not her simplicity Had aught of crude rusticity, For dignity and native sense Were mingled with her innocence: And soon his mind, with projects rife, Of his young partner makes a wife; So young, so artless, and so fair, Blessed by his stars, he’ll win and wear; And she ... but who can paint that heart Where vanity had ne’er a part; Where ne’er malicious thought had birth,— A shrine that makes a heaven of earth?
He to her mother leads the fair, Then hovers anxious near her chair, Marking with new-born jealousy A herd of beaux, who flock to see One of whose beauty tongues are loud; While she, unconscious why the crowd Press round, beholds but Deloraine, And hopes that near her he’ll remain.
Some twenty youths, with bows, demand To be presented—ask her hand For coming dances;—ask in vain— She dances not the night again. Her mother’s tactics only grant One partner to the _débutante_; She fears fatigue—she talks of heat, So Mary gladly keeps her seat. Again Lord Deloraine draws nigh, With softest words, and earnest eye, Her cheek with brightest roses blooms, Her eye a sparkling light illumes, As he (’tis music’s sweetest strain!) Murmurs the words—“We meet again!” Ne’er had he paid to any other Such court as to our Mary’s mother; By flatteries, which adroitly hit, He makes her feel herself a wit, And all the sprightly words she measures, Thankful receives as precious treasures; Some spell—he asks not how or why— Opens new vistas to his eye; For when mamma, with wisdom trite, Says, “Girls should not sit up all night,” And firmly will demand her carriage, The word recalls another “marriage!” Marriage!—to him!—few weeks had sped Since he had vowed he’d never wed Until that age when, _blasé_, cool, A man’s too old to play the fool!— O strong, strong man! one glance at Mary Had made his life’s whole purpose vary!
What were the dreams, that sweet spring night, That floated o’er her slumbers light? So pure, so blithe, so blest were they, That Sleep had brighter hours than Day. Again within that festive scene, Where erst with Deloraine she had been, She stooped to hear his whispered praise, She shrunk back from his glowing gaze, Like touch of an enchanter’s wand She felt the farewell of his hand; And yet how timidly ’twas taken— He _touched_, where common friend had _shaken_! And then a sudden change comes o’er Her dream—the maiden roves once more With him amid the favourite shade Of well-known grove, and woodland glade, Shews him the flowers she loved to rear, Which he, by praising, makes more dear; Points out each cherished haunt—the view Of limpid stream and mountain blue; And feels, the while he fondly speaks, Her native breezes fan her cheeks. They plan—they talk of future schemes, } And now to kiss her hand he seems— } She wakens.... ’Twas the dream of dreams! }
Of all our _fêtes_, the wise ones say, There’s nothing like a _déjeûner_, In gardens rife with vernal bloom, That to the air exhales perfume; Where down through many a rich _bosquet_ Blithe Music’s voice is heard to stray, And women with the bright flowers vie Which shall the most enchant the eye. The same soft tints of lily, rose, Do many a cheek and leaf disclose, And both so radiant in their bloom; Alike their beauty and their doom, For the fair pride of home and lea, Soon fades and dies—Ah! wo is me! That flowers must droop, and fair cheeks wither, When Death and Winter cry “Come hither!” Why should not Beauty wear more slowly?— A truce to thoughts so melancholy.
A _déjeûner_’s a charming thing } In summer, for though poets sing } Of thy enchantments, vernal Spring, } Alas! we of them little know, Save what Arcadian writers shew. They never told of north-east winds Whirling the dust until it blinds— Of a bright sun, whose beams can freeze— Of airs, whose keenness makes us sneeze— Of dews, vouchsafed in storms of rain, Until we want the Ark again— Of agues, fevers, and sore throats, Of fur-lined mantles and great-coats; Yet thus—thy old enchantments undone— O Spring! thou meet’st mankind in London! Yet strange to tell, though year by year The same chill spectre doth appear, Instead of that young nymph, who still is By rhymesters crowned with daffodillies, Whom we remember from our cradles, Described in every poet’s fables— How wild their words—how warm their praise— And ours what folly still to raise Our expectations towards that Spring, Which not even May itself doth bring.
Peace, saucy minstrel!—nor forget How Summer sometimes pays the debt With days, like angel-visits seen Most bright—but “few and far between.” And sure it is, such visits rare Make us esteem them doubly fair, And Nature’s brightest to their eyes Who see her, sun-lit, with surprise; ’Tis pleasant through umbrageous trees To watch the groups with careless ease, That far and near, and fair and free, Wind like the nymphs of Arcady; White flowing robes become them well, And each at distance seems a belle, And tripping from some green retreat } Of clustered leaves, and garlands sweet, } Is credited with fairy feet. } And the unusual exercise Tints up the cheeks, and lights the eyes; What wonder, then, that lover’s tale Makes eloquent each bower and dale? That flattery’s soft and silver tongue Then smoothest speaks from old and young— And all are bent on charming hours, ’Mid such a paradise of flowers?
As Mary, at her mother’s side, Walked gracefully, her suitors vied Which could extol her charms the most, Or of her slight acquaintance boast; Nay some, to whom she scarce had bowed, Of her sweet temper spoke aloud, And charming sayings had to tell Of her they called _their_ favourite belle. Her mother was, the men all said, A damask rose of royal red, And Mary was the bud half blown, That each one wished to call his own, And wear on his vain-glorious breast, To raise the envy of the rest.
[Illustration:
_The Ball_
_AS MARY, AT HER MOTHER’S SIDE, WALKED GRACEFULLY, HER SUITORS VIED._ ]
She heard not words that quick flew by, The ready compliment—the sigh— Nor saw grave men, at Love who joke, Now prone to kneel before she spoke— Her heart, her eye, her ear were gone, She had but words, but thoughts for one. At length, at distance in the crowd, Deloraine she saw, and said aloud “Tis he!” “Pray who?” with placid tone Her mother asks—a blush hath flown To her clear cheek—she feels it burn, And redder roses mount in turn. But ere she could an answer frame A troop of ladies round her came; She stops—there hangs on Deloraine’s arm A graceful form; how many a charm Bewitching doth that maid array, And points the pang that will have way, As forced, alas! to pause and see, Her heart grew sick—she wished to be Apart from all that brilliant throng, Apart from smile, and jest, and song: The _fête_ so late all mirth and light, Hath lost its gladness to her sight; The women teaze, the men annoy, The giddy crowd can yield no joy; A tear (that would despite her rise) Sought to escape from her bright eyes, As past she saw Lord Deloraine glide With that fair lady at his side.
O Jealousy! thy serpent fang Strikes through the heart its keenest pang; Thou changest Summer’s sunny air To Winter’s hue of dull despair; The young rose with its radiant bloom, For the wan flower that decks the tomb; And with thy cold insidious art Bidd’st Hope from warmest breast depart. How mused our maid, on every charm Of her who hung on Deloraine’s arm; One minute’s length had been that gaze, But oh! so fraught with wild amaze, A long life it had seemed to be To her excited phantasy. With care she scarcely knew to hide, That beauty how she magnified, Which every eye that both had known _Must_ find inferior to her own! That smile, how brightly did it shine, “Ah!” Mary thought, “what chance had mine?” Yet had some fairy made her pass That woman’s shrine—a looking-glass, Even she, all jealous, must have seen Which was of Beauty’s empire Queen: But on she wandered mute and slow— How tedious seemed the revel now! The smiling dandies how she hated, The tiresome chaperons how they prated! “Would it were done!” she sighs once more, “Was ever _fête_ so dull before?”
An hour—a long, long hour, has flown, A year she thought had fleeter gone, When as her eyes, that wander wide, From the green alley turn aside, Lo! from the lawn Lord Deloraine, With that fair lady, comes again; Some one he seems in haste to seek, And blushes rise to Mary’s cheek, Their glances meet—ah! vain to hide Her gentle joy, as at her side, Eager he takes his wonted place, With rapture beaming in his face; Tells her how vainly, and how long, He sought her ’mid the motley throng; Some witchcraft (what she knows not well), Hath o’er the revel cast a spell; She guesses not what magic wand Restores her back to fairy land, And for those thoughts of saddening strain, Gives back her young bright hopes again. That dreaded rival, it appears, Had Mary’s mother known for years; The two, enchanted at the meeting, Exchange at once the kindest greeting: “_So_ glad!—a sweet surprise! my dear, (Lord Deloraine’s cousin) Lady Vere!”
Together now through shady walk And rich parterre they stroll and talk; Mary hath but one grief, alas! That hours will now like moments pass. ’Tis true no words of love were spoken, But glance and smile, by many a token, Told that the link, which but death parts, Was flung around a pair of hearts: In truth, ’twas passing fair to see Mary, with sweet simplicity, Droop her long lashes ’neath his gaze, That looked his worship and her praise, The while she thought that praise was sweet As childhood’s music, when we meet Its echoes in a stranger land, And wrapt in pensive reverie stand, Dwelling on happy days gone by, Until a tear-drop dews the eye; And well we love that sadness brief, The softness—not the sting of grief, E’en while we sighing ask again To hear that loved and ancient strain.
But Beauty (so a bard of ours Declares), alas! can’t live on flowers; And honeyed words, however dear, And charming to the thirsty ear, Too fine are, too ambrosial quite, To satisfy the appetite. And hence, our senses to content, Luxurious _déjeûners_ were meant; A rich repast,—O call not food The choice inventions of a Ude! Now even lovers rush to eat, And happy they who find a seat— So thickly streams the crowd aside, To taste the good the gods provide!
’Tis strange that when the eye reposes On summer skies and beds of roses— And fountains with their spray-showers glancing, And green leaves in the south-wind dancing— That tyrant Hunger, grossest sense! Will not a few short hours dispense His _congé_ to poor earthly sinners, But sets them craving for their dinners: ’Tis strange that all, howe’er refined, Of lofty thought, poetic mind, Nor leaves nor roses will espy, If but a tempting _pâté_’s by; Transparent fountains flow in vain, If froth for them the brisk champagne, As chuckling while they pile a plate, They cry, “I love a rural _fête_!” ’Tis strange—explain it, learned sages— That chaperons all, whate’er their ages, Whether dame Fortune smiles or spites, Rejoice in boundless appetites; And some I’ve seen such homage do To fish, flesh, fowl, and pastry too, Fearless of ache or indigestion, Having profoundly solved the question, How many different foods with zest A Christian stomach can digest; That hecatombs must offer up The amazed Amphitryons where they sup. Maidens, _au contraire_, little eat; How should they, when, from neighbouring seat, A lover, with devouring eyes, Each tempting morsel jealous spies? Ye charmers, who would lovers gain To hover round, a sighing train! From all but sparrow-meals refrain; Men bear a small plump hand to see A golden fork wield gracefully, Not guided by a heart intent, Like nun’s, half starved with keeping Lent, But in a light capricious way As less in hunger than in play. Would you enchain the creatures fast, Choose delicately for repast Of whitest chicken, one small slice— Some orange jelly, cool as ice— Three cherries, and an almond cake— } And water tinged with wine,—they’ll make } A charm not Samson’s self could break. } But should your suitors chance to spy The open mouth, the hungry eye, You’ll look around—and where are they? Scared—gone—and sure, past doubt, to say, “Nay, saw you that?—no joke indeed! I hate to see a woman feed!”
And now ’tis dark and balmy night: Ten thousand lamps hang forth their light From high verandas, arches, bowers, Festooned with pendant wreaths of flowers. And glorious shines the summer green Of tree, and shrub, by that light seen; And delicate the rainbow dyes, Of every flower that odour sighs; And spirit-like the white-robed maids, That loiter ’mid the garden shades: There’s not a rhymester there that night But calls the scene Elysian quite, And, waxing sentimental on it, Thinks of Boccaccio and a sonnet; Or some bright isle of genii sprites, We read of in the “Arabian Nights;” Or some bright banquet which Watteau, With courtier pencil, loved to shew; Or, if excursive grow his fancies, He conjures up those old romances Where sorceress, for her favourite’s bliss, Would raise, by spells, a scene like this, Which chaster knight could, with one prayer And holy sign, dispense in air; Music from dusky ambush stole To witch with melody the soul, As wandering minstrels sung soft lays, Such as Moore writes, and Thalberg plays: And, oh! the voice hath wondrous power To melt, to move, at such an hour.
As Mary walked with Deloraine, They paused, arrested by a strain, The notes were rich, and low, and sweet, Voice of a mind—nor all unmeet The words, of Love in ambuscade, Which Deloraine’s secret thoughts betrayed.
“O! fair, surpassing fair thou art, Unconscious all—the Graces’ boast; What wonder myriads seek thy heart? But, Lady, I adore thee most!
When others on thy beauty dwell, Hang on thy words, explore thine eyes, O, never earthly bard could tell What thoughts within my bosom rise.
Let speechless Love, in sighs reveal That passion which the bolder vow; And let one thought of pity steal For him who never felt till now.
Tell her, ye stars! thou winged air Breathe to her, Flora’s painted host, That I am true as she is fair— Though all _must_ love, I love her most!”
The strain is o’er—ere Deloraine speaks, Bright blushes mount to Mary’s cheeks, For well she guesses, by his sigh, He would the minstrel’s lay apply; And, aided by another’s art, Reveal the secret of his heart. But Modesty, her guardian, throws Its ægis round her—grave she grows, As quick her head is turned aside, Her cheek’s deep rosy blush to hide. Still looked he earnest—still he sought In her mild eyes to read her thought, If her heart’s inmost folds among There lurked kind answer to that song. And still she feared to meet his eye, Lest her confusion he should spy; For yet, though softened, charmed, and moved, She only _hopes_ she is beloved! And, self-accusing, thinks it wrong To give such meaning to a song: Thus, he all fear, and she all shame, He breathes no word to tell his flame. At length her mother she descried, Then flew, half-fluttered, to her side! For Crœsus’ wealth he should not know The fancies which disturbed her so, While all the firmer chained was he, By her young timid modesty.
O Modesty!—which angels yield To helpless woman for a shield, What diamond from Golconda’s mine, Adorns her brow, like blush of thine? Worthless the form, and coarse the face, (However fair) thou dost not grace; The sweetest voice is like a lute Strung with harsh chords, when thou art mute; The heart, a stained and ruined shrine, Thou dost not enter to refine; The eye but shoots a meteor gleam Noxious and keen, without thy beam; How vainly beauty, lacking thee, Would chain men’s love—Sweet Modesty! Cestus that Venus surely wore, To wile a world in days of yore, The charm that she to Juno lent, When that bold, dark-eyed Queen was bent To win the recreant from her love, The haughty and inconstant Jove: Bright spirit! thou in Mary’s eye Smilest when she bids Deloraine good-by! And—fairy follower—at her call, Attend’st her from that festival! Mary’s at home—and pondering o’er Each word of _his_, as ne’er before She dwelt on them. His looks of love, Even now recalled, have power to move, Of his sweet voice each cherished tone, } Fond Memory has made its own, } So dear, and so familiar grown } Some little thought of earthly cares Are mingled with her fervent prayers, Hopes that they soon again shall meet, Before she yields to slumber sweet As falls on infant’s brow, ere guile Hath chased its Heaven-remembering smile! Then white-robed Innocence doth bend, And o’er her couch its wings extend. Visions of love and happiness, Soothing and calm, her pillow bless; Nor purer dreams the blessed know, Released from earth and all its wo.
It is a lovely sight to see A maiden in the privacy Of her own chamber—where the day In gentle studies glides away: Her spirit breathes through all things round— The dainty volumes that abound; The silken broidery in its frame, That might e’en Flora’s labour shame; The easel, where no critic’s eye A meretricious taste could spy; The harp, on which she loves to play, Singing the while some sweet old lay; Here gay and placid speed the hours, Among her music, books, and flowers— No thought of care, or anger rude, No breath of evil dare intrude, No babbler, fraught with idle speech, This maiden solitude can reach: Save her fond Sire’s, no footstep male Has e’er presumed to cross its pale. Here he brings gifts of gem and flower, And Indian birds to deck her bower; And, dearer gifts! her mother oft With looks of love, and accents soft, Steals in to bless her duteous child, And leave behind her counsels mild: There’s not a book that here may lie, Unseen by that unsleeping eye, Which knows how subtly books might lure That maiden, still so angel-pure. Here, where a crucifix you’d see, Did Southern maiden bend the knee; The ‘Book of Life’ is laid, and read— I know it by the page outspread; Approached with love, and reverent awe, Our maiden from its page will draw Those hopes that light declining years, Those promises that dry our tears! The very air that lingers round This sanctuary is sweet—no sound, Except of music rich and low, Or gentle voices, doth it know: Listen! her hand is on the strings, And, artless, to herself she sings.
SONG.
Oh! never doubt I love thee! When every sigh of thine Awakens Echo’s music Within this heart of mine! Oh! never doubt I love thee! Thy smile, oh! oft it gleams, Like fabled lamps of fairies, To cheer my midnight dreams!
Oh! never doubt I love thee! As few have loved before; There’s nought can change my worship Till life itself be o’er!
The song is o’er—why doth she seem Abstracted—lost in pleasant dream? Her harp is left—she turns aside, And now her taper fingers guide The pencil.—No, ’tis all in vain! What art could picture Deloraine? A step is heard—with glowing cheeks She hides the sketch—and vainly seeks To sing as blithely as before, While her good mother’s at the door.
O Love! thou subtle, dexterous cheat, To _such_ a maid to prompt deceit! Thy wily lessons to impart To one, till now, who knew not art;— To teach our Mary’s heart to glow With secret thoughts, she dare not shew To her, who erst each feeling shared, As if its inmost cells were bared! Ah! why thus rend the tender bond ’Twixt duteous child and mother fond? ’Tis strange thy sudden work to see, Begun—complete:—_Telle est la vie!_
Among the beaux who fluttered round The gentle Mary, some were found Of that unworthy class, too common, Who speak despitefully of woman, And who, with empty purse and head, For fortune only, woo, and wed; With mind as vacant as the heart, Willing with liberty to part, If in exchange they but obtain The gold to forge dull Hymen’s chain: “For gold,” they swear—(how dainty slip The oaths from each moustachio’d lip!) “With welcome weight can never gall, Nor its bright charms (like Beauty’s) pall!”