Part 4

Here were rock-fragments clad with tangled moss And crowned with wildflowers’ gay and drooping bells; Here trees majestic shot wide boughs across To form vast arbours, or green leafy cells, Amidst whose verdure coolness ever dwells; And on the brook-sides’ grassy banks arose, Whose glossy richness in soft couches swells To woo the student calmly to repose, Or watch glad insects sport at days warm golden close.

O’er tower and turret, bastion, portal, keep, The bright moon glancing with serenest smile, Threw on their grandeur, mid the hours of sleep, A sacred light that glorified the pile And made it seem a vision. Calm awhile And lonely, and in stillness lay the scene Save tones of rushing waters, that beguile The thoughts to them a moment. Now is seen A knight’s athletic form in armour’s dazzling sheen.

Along the terrace, with majestic stride, He onward passed below the highest tower; And each step witnessed to the noble pride That fills a warrior’s heart—the sense of power, Of free-born might, and fame’s immortal dower. His shield he had not, but his keen sword hung Bright-jewelled by his side, and like a flower His gay plume nodded, whilst he swiftly strung A lute’s expressive chords, and thus in deep tones sung.

Serenade.

Sweet Lady bright—Lenore! Lenore! Oh! list to thy lover’s lay, Whilst the moonbeams shine o’er the forest boughs As rich as the glow of day!

Oh! Lady fair—Lenore! Lenore! My deep love to thee I’ll tell, For the secret founts of my heart o’erflow Unlocked by the moonbeam’s spell!

Oh! Lady kind—Lenore! Lenore! Let my soul’s impassioned tale, With a heart so gentle and pure as thine, In its truthfulness prevail.

Oh! Lady dear—Lenore! Lenore! I have loved thee deep and long, And I love thee now, and for evermore,— Give ear to my pleading song!

Oh! Lady true—Lenore! Lenore! Like yon constant stars above, Or the changeless light of the sun’s glad beam, To thee is my fervent love.

Oh! Lady mine—Lenore! Lenore! Would that I might call thee so, In the faithful vow of united love, Ere I to the wild wars go.

Oh! Lady love—Lenore! Lenore! Might I have the rich delight, To believe in thy dreams thou’lt think on me? Sweet Lady—good night! good night!

The last “good night” rang sweetly on the air When, from the casement of a turret high, A white hand peeped, as beautiful and fair As ever cloudlet on the radiant sky; And to that love-song gave a sweet reply By letting fall a flower—a flower which told Of love’s sublime delicious witchery Within the heart. Hid in his scarf’s gay fold That boon to the wars he bore, more daring brave and bold.

The last rich scion of an ancient line Was fair Lenore; a lonely orphan, she Dwelt in that Castle by the rushing Rhine In days of tournament and chivalry: A creature fitted to inspire the free And noble passion of a truthful breast And brave bold heart, whose inbred courtesy And gentler feelings, would seek out a rest, Mid valour’s peaceful pause, in woman’s love possessed.

Oh! she was beautiful! a thing of light Of life, of gladness and unsullied smiles; A glorious being fitted to delight By gentle manners, innocent sweet wiles, And gay allurement, that full oft beguiles The heart of sadness with its soothing power; Like sunbeams striking on the ocean isles, And dissipating mists that on them lour, Till all shine fair and bright in noon’s resplendent hour.

Thus had her goodness won the noble heart Of brave Fidelio, whose princely halls, Broad spreading vineyards, forest lands apart, And mountain-holds, stood nigh the blue Rhine-falls; Whose gliding waters pass the lordly walls Of many a lofty castle, held by knights Of power and state, but none there is who calls More wealth his own, inherited by right, Possessed in honour true, maintained by valour’s might.

Whilst her heart’s lord, mid Palestine afar, In dauntless combat fought the Saracen, To drive him from the land, where first a star Revealed the Saviour to the sons of men, And give its sacred shrines and sites again To be a gladness to the pilgrims’ heart; The fair Lenore, with absent lovers’ pain, Sat all secluded in her bower apart, And wrought rich tapestry bright, and handyworks of art.

Two years had fled since that auspicious night, When music taught how deep the love she felt, And bade her heart, with exquisite delight Towards him who wooed her, tenderly to melt In one brief moment; whilst she swiftly spelt An unknown lesson from her burning breast And prized the lore it gave; a truth which gilt With sunset brightness all her thoughts, and blest Her hours with musings sweet, her heart with richest rest.

But now her days were mingled with deep care, And oft with agony and doubtful fear, For of her true knight there no tidings were, And as she thought thereon, the sparkling tear Would drop from her blue eye, so bright and clear, And sorrow’s sadness heave her breast in sighs. Intense she watched, but never there drew near His stalwart form to glad her longing eyes. Hark to yon minstrel’s notes that waken her surprise!—

Troubadour’s Song.

A wealthy knight to the wars went forth, To fight for the Holy Cross; But of all his goods in the sacred cause He cheerfully suffered the loss.

He came to his native land again Enriched with fame—but poor! A truthful heart, and a strong bright sword Formed all his earthly store!

He went like a troubadour, and sang To his lady-love a strain That told of his loss, and his heart’s deep truth, But she viewed him with chill disdain!

She knew it was he, but her sordid soul Had loved for the wealth alone, And she cast his high worth and his truth away From her heart when that was gone.

“Ah! my Fidelio that is thee indeed! My heart can pierce thy troubadour’s disguise; Oh do not make my faithful bosom bleed By such too cruel song! within me lies The woman’s truthful heart that aye defies The frowns of fortune, the decrees of fate, And all the change in mortal destinies. How light to me the pomp of wealth and state; Thy truth, and sword alone, make thee my fitter mate!”

How glad their hearts in that enraptured hour! What joy they felt, what confidence serene, And like the blooming of a glorious flower, Deep thoughts came forth that never yet had been Unfolded in their breasts. A peaceful scene The future offered; but before the time Their love had priestly sanction, valour keen Advanced the infidel; with zeal sublime The knight re-sought the wars—to stay he deemed a crime!

Nigh to that ancient castle of Lenore, Within the forest, in a gloomy cave, A vile enchanter dwelt, who oft of yore Had worked deep mischief. Naught on earth could save From his enchantments, when his soul would crave And lust for evil; with such direful aim He wrought his purposes. The bold, the brave, The fair, the lovely, without ruth or shame, He brought to ill. Pauvero was his name.

He was in sooth a most repulsive wight, With matted locks, and sallow livid hue; His red eyes glared as if in wild affright, And lank, spare frame, seemed pinched by hunger blue: Torn filthy rags he wore, that seemed to shew The utmost want; for though he stole away The wealth of thousands, yet he never knew A benefit therefrom, but let it lay Deep in a vast dark pit, all buried from the day.

Soon as the knight had left his lady fair, He swiftly thought, by necromantic skill, To win her wealth; and it to slyly bear Away with him that wicked pit to fill. Palled by the dark, with thievish pace and still, He stole into that castle night on night, Aided by imps and magic power, until Its walls were stripped, its coffers emptied quite, And naught was left for use, and naught to please the sight.

And further yet to shew his hellish spite, He bore the lady to a noisome den, And chained her there, all hidden from the light, Beneath his cave, far from the haunts of men; Of her bright garments he disrobed her then, And clad in coarse vile rags, that not an eye In such strange garb could recognise again The maiden once so beautiful. A cry Gushed from her tortured heart, but no true help was nigh!

When brave Fidelio from the fight returned, He found her castle all in ruin stand, Grey-mossed and broken-walled. His spirit burned With agony’s wild fire, as o’er the land, Now desolate, he gazed; and with his hand Held high to heaven, a sacred vow he swore, To bring fit vengeance on the fiendish band That wrought the ruin; for the wild scene bore Marks of that wizard’s blast, all withered, burnt, or frore.

“Sweet lady mine! where art thou dwelling now? That vile enchanter hath thee in his power! Oh! that thou coulds’t but hear my spirit vow To search earth for thee to life’s latest hour. And though he hath deprived thee of thy dower, ’Tis naught to me, for wert thou still but mine, I would not heed bright fortune’s richest shower Or want’s necessity, if still might shine On me that loving look, that radiant smile of thine.”

He rushed impassioned to that forest dark, To search each fastness for the wizard’s den, And seek if chance had left some trace or mark To guide his footsteps to Lenore again. Long days and months he sought with weary pain And heart undaunted, but no track had yet Been found to prove his quest was not in vain, Till one bright evening, when the sun had set, He stopped by a stony brook to hear its waters fret.

And as he lay upon the flowery brink, Close by a wild rock that ascended high, In dark despondency he ’gan to think On those bright moments when his hope was nigh Its rich fruition; and he heaved a sigh Of doubt and discontent, and wished he ne’er Had gone to th’ wars again, or chivalry Been his heart’s choice; but soon he dashed the tear Away, and sang to his lute these mournful notes—now hear!

The Melody.

Oh! Lady, thou star of my life, no more Thy clear beams shine on me, And sorrow hath shrouded my lone days o’er Withheld from the sight of thee. Lenore! Lenore! in the forest I cry— Mere desolate echoes the sole reply!

My spirit is pining to hear thy voice, My heart to behold thy smile; How at the sweet sound would my soul rejoice, Thy glances my woe beguile; But despondency clouds each bright hope o’er And thrills me with fear to see thee no more.

Oh! ne’er did I know till this fearful time The depths of my love for thee, Or proved the wild anguish my soul must feel When thou art afar from me. To my cry in the forest—Lenore! Lenore! Echo seems but to answer—“no more, no more.”

No balm to keen sorrow, by day I find, No joy in the noonday light, And but once mid my watchings and thoughts on thee Sweet solace relieved me at night. For I dreamt to the cry of “Lenore!” there came A soft gentle voice that whispered my name.

Was it the last tones of his moving lay, Reverberating from the rock behind, Which gave that sound? He rose to pass away, But ’twas repeated, and his startled mind Heard feeble accents borne upon the wind As from a voice, but hollow, faint, and low, Like human wailings deep in earth enshrined. Breathless he listened, whence they came to know, And found them from a cleft, near that rock’s haughty brow.

He swiftly climbed, and gained that fissure high, Like some air-passage to a hidden cave; He spoke aloud, and then a sweet reply Unbounded gladness to his spirit gave: “Fidelio! ah, I know thou’rt come to save Thy sad Lenore from this enchanter’s power, And raise her joyful from this living grave, To be thine own, thy loved for evermore; My heart said thou wouldst come, and to despond forbore.

“But human strength can be of no avail To rend the vastness of this dungeon wall; Then seek the hermit, dwelling in the vale, Beside the eastern mount, and straightway call His wisdom to thine aid, for he can all The spells of magic by his skill destroy, And make the strongholds of enchantment fall; For naught so pleases him as to annoy “Those powers of hell, and mar their fiendish joy.”

Soon was that good and holy hermit found, In his lone habitation far away, And help implored. Said he, “Sir Knight, if sound, True, pure, and perfect, be thy love, the way To free the maid from magic’s direful sway Is short and certain, but will try thy might Of heart and arm. Beneath where she doth lay, Through that hard rock, for full five fathoms straight, Thine hand must dig along, and mine thro’ jewels bright.

“This having done, thou wilt behold a cell Of golden ingots, and large diamonds full; And laid thereon, a wand of power, to quell The might of magic and its spells annul; No more I utter! if thine heart be dull In its affections, or thy love untrue, And seek those gay gems round about to cull, Then thou thy daring enterprise wilt rue; “But if thy soul be pure, then triumph waits on you.”

The knight returned, and to his task applied, With joyful heart and persevering aim; No gold veins tempting in the rock’s rich side, Nor diamond treasures when he to them came; He seized the wand, and, waving it, a flame Of silvery brightness shone within the grot; He struck the sides, and, answering to the same, Around full tones of music seemed to float Aloft in air, and soon appeared the Maid he sought!

When that sweet moment of entrancement passed, They found themselves within a woody glade; And hoards of glittering wealth around them cast, Which to the Castle unseen hands conveyed; And now that mighty fortalice displayed No signs of ruin, but it stood erect In all its former gorgeousness arrayed, A noble building with a proud aspéct Its enemies to daunt, its inmates to protect.

Bright was the morning, when that truth-tried pair Their glad vows plighted to the sacred priest; Brave banners fluttered in the mountain air, Proud music floated, and the marriage feast, By regal bounty and rich gifts increased, Was gaily honoured through the realms around; Nor yet for many days those pleasures ceased, But they in castle, and in cot were found, Making each spirit blithe, each joyous heart rebound.

The brave Fidelio in the Holy Land Had won such treasures from the Infidel, All by the might of valour’s potent hand, When in these last wars he had sought to quell His arrogant power; that to his share there fell Such mighty wealth as all his sacrifice Of fervent piety repaid full well, Redeeming back his lands; mid gay surprise To twice endow Lenore, to him the noblest prize!

Rich were the hours of their unfolding love, And sweeter still the time of plighted vows, But richer, sweeter far than these above, Their wedded life, when every hour arose Some new and deep affection to disclose; Some fond remembrance, some delighted thought To link their hearts. Oft in this hushed repose Of mutual confidence their feelings caught The poet’s sacred fire, and thus in songs were wrought—

Canzonet.

How sweet, how delightful it is to remember Our first happy days when affection began, And Love, the gay truant, the roguish dissembler, Seemed sporting as lightly as spring breezes fan.

But soon that designer in strong finks had caught us, And smiled at our bondage ere we were aware Of the pleasing deception, the mischief he wrought us, In mingling together rich joy and deep care.

Then oft on our absence what sadness awaited, What hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, In varied succession, with thrill unabated, Till calmed by our meeting to gladness again.

But sweetest that season, when young Love had yielded To Hymen’s rich keeping his strength and his power, And the god on our passion smiled gaily, and sealed it In bonds of endurance to life’s latest hour.

Since then have we known the bright pleasures of living, That purest delight of heart beating with heart; When thoughts and affections, deep feelings, emotions In varied succession high rapture impart.

Of all the rich boons that to mortals are given, With wreaths of pure pleasure their brows to entwine; Ah! none can be dearer, more breathing of heaven Than the joy of true love in “for ever I’m thine!”

Here will we leave this soul-devoted pair, Their wedded days in happiness to spend; Nor bid again to vanish into air Visions and fancies that the muse hath penned; But let their brightness with our spirits blend And their clear moral elevate the heart. For now ’tis time this votive song had end, So poor in thought and music—pray impart Due pardon to my lyre that ill hath done its part!

When she had ceased, each heart around confessed She owned poetic powers, and that to her It was a labour of devoted love To weave the rhythm of the poet’s song, And frame his numbered melody. An ear, By close acquaintance with the lofty tones And modulations of the noble verse Of our great bards, may soon acquire the power And skill to versify; and likewise thought May be illumed by their poetic light, Until it shine with lustre, and give forth A seeming inbred poesy. The bard, The true and native bard, does more than this; There is within him a far deeper fount Of innate feeling; and his radiant mind Shines not with light reflected, but gives forth, When warmed by passions burning in his heart, Its own clear coruscations; like those stars Which flash across the sky, so swift and bright, We wonder whence they came. And so with her Was thought creative, and gave mystic birth To things and beings, lifeless hitherto. Now all are waiting for the last regale Which is to crown the whole, and bring to end This contest of sweet verse. A mother’s voice Would give it utterance, a mother’s heart Was its warm birth-place; and each one presaged A song that breathed affection. Oh how calm, How sweet she looked, amidst that family, Her mild cheek beaming with maternal love: How simple and how fair! her very dress, So plain and neat, to her appearance gave A saint-like aspect—not the gloomy saint Of ghostly superstition—but the true, The real, the bright, the one whose cheerful heart Adores the love of Heaven, and lets its love Flow freely o’er on all. And there she sat Close by the fire-side, in the place assigned To venerated guests. Yet none would take That antique chair, but with a general voice Awarded it to her; and said the joys And innocent pastimes could not be commenced Till she consented to retain that seat As her’s alone. And reverent she looked, And well she graced it, as the firelight played On her pure countenance, and silver hair Whose thin braids peeped beneath a seemly cap Of snowy whiteness. Such a holy calm Suffused her features, as can spring alone From peace of heart within. Her soul had known Dark trials on the earth, but they had wrought To purify and strengthen, till her faith Was bright and cheerful, and her hope serene. She now with retrospective eye beheld That Goodness was in all, and hence her life Was bright and beautiful, as golden skies That usher in the calm repose of night. Before attempting to impart her verse According to old promise, with a voice Of winning modesty she softly said She was no poetess, but merely brought Some thoughts and feelings from a mother’s heart In simple language rendered. She rejoiced With soul-felt gladness to behold around So many loving friends; and further still To see her sons and daughters glad and gay With native cheerfulness, and strong in health. For this her heart was thankful. But her ear— And whose is quicker than a mother’s ear— Had missed the gentle tones of one sweet voice From that glad Hall, which but two years ago, On the same festive night, with accents soft Mixed in gay concert there. She knew that none Had ’ere forgot her Edith, but that all Bore her in loved remembrance; and some thoughts Of sacred elevation well became The time and season; and she therefore brought Some simple lines in memory of her, As fittest tribute from a mother’s breast— A song she best could frame. With few words more Of preface, or apology she read—

An Elegy on Edith.

Place o’er her tomb a simple cross, The emblem of Redemptive love, To bid us hope, amidst our loss, And trace her flight to realms above.

She lies not there—the feeble frame Alone reposes ’neath the sod; But her bright soul, that vital flame Now shines before the throne of God.

Her eye so dark, will glance no more, Her raven hair in ringlets wave; The music of her voice is o’er, And her light step is in the grave.

No more will mortal eye behold That form so lovely, soft, and fair; Now blending with the earth’s damp mould, Or scattered through the realms of air.

Her tears are dried, but she hath left To us a legacy of tears; To be of her sweet love bereft Must dim the eye through future years!

But ah! much deeper grief will wring And anguish tear that mother’s breast, Where she in infancy did cling And slumbered in a holy rest.

But I forbear—and seek to calm All earthly grief with heavenly hope, And aided by its healing balm Give not my hidden sorrow scope.

Then let us raise our thoughts on high, And trace her spirit’s glorious flight From sorrow, pain, and agony To peace and joy in worlds of light.

Is she afar? ah! thin the veil That hides the spirit-land from view; Such thoughts instinctively prevail, And my fond heart believes them true.

The angels’ is an inner world, Not distant, but in life more high; Though now in fleshly vestments furled To us are kindred spirits nigh.

And I can think that when I quit This “earthly house” for glory bright, Me first her angel-smile will greet, And her hand lead through realms of light.