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Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton - "The Undying One" - Canto III
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"THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make 
Howling and moaning, listlessly and low: 
Methinks that to a heart that ought to break 
All the earth`s voices seem to murmur so. 
The visions that crost 
Our path in light-- 
The things that we lost 
In the dim dark night-- 
The faces for which we vainly yearn-- 
The voices whose tones will not return-- 
That low sad wailing breeze doth bring 
Borne on its swift and rushing wing. 
Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud, 
And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud? 
When the fire was quench`d on your lonely hearth, 
And the voices were still which spoke of mirth? 

If such an evening, tho` but one, 
It hath been yours to spend alone-- 
Never,--though years may roll along 
Cheer`d by the merry dance and song; 
Though you mark`d not that bleak wind`s sound before, 
When louder perchance it used to roar-- 
Never shall sound of that wintry gale 
Be aught to you but a voice of wail! 
So o`er the careless heart and eye 
The storms of the world go sweeping by; 
But oh! when once we have learn`d to weep, 
Well doth sorrow his stern watch keep. 
Let one of our airy joys decay-- 
Let one of our blossoms fade away-- 
And all the griefs that others share 
Seem ours, as well as theirs, to bear: 
And the sound of wail, like that rushing wind 
Shall bring all our own deep woe to mind! 

"I went through the world, but I paused not now 
At the gladsome heart and the joyous brow: 
I went through the world, and I stay`d to mark 
Where the heart was sore, and the spirit dark: 
And the grief of others, though sad to see, 
Was fraught with a demon`s joy to me! 

"I saw the inconstant lover come to take 
Farewell of her he loved in better days, 
And, coldly careless, watch the heart-strings break-- 
Which beat so fondly at his words of praise. 
She was a faded, painted, guilt-bow`d thing, 
Seeking to mock the hues of early spring, 
When misery and years had done their worst 
To wither her away. The big tears burst 
From out her flashing eyes, which turn`d on him 
With agony, reproach, and fear, while dim 
Each object swam in her uncertain sight, 
And nature`s glories took the hue of night. 
There was, in spite of all her passion`s storm, 
A wild revolting beauty in her form; 
A beauty as of sin, when first she comes 
To tempt us from our calm and pleasant homes. 
Her voice, with the appealing tone it took, 
Her soft clear voice, belied her fearless look: 
And woman`s tenderness seem`d still to dwell 
In that full bosom`s agonizing swell. 
And he stood there, the worshipp`d one of years-- 
Sick of her fondness--angry at her tears; 
Choking the loathing words which rose within 
The heart whose passion tempted her to sin; 
While with a strange sad smile lost hours she mourns, 
And prays and weeps, and weeps and prays by turns. 

A moment yet he paused, and sigh`d--a sigh 
Of deep, deep bitterness; and on his eye 
Love`s gentle shadow rested for a space-- 
And faded feelings brighten`d o`er his face. 
`Twas but a moment, and he turn`d in wrath 
To quench the sunshine on her lonely path. 
And his lip curl`d, as on that alter`d cheek 
His cold glance rested--while, all faint and weak, 
With tearful sad imploring gaze she stood, 
Watching with trembling heart his changeful mood; 
Her thin lips parted with a ghastly smile, 
She strove to please--yet felt she fail`d the while. 
And thus his words burst forth:` And dost thou dare 
Reproach me with the burden of thy care? 
Accuse thy self-will`d heart, where passion reign`d; 
Some other hand the lily might have stain`d, 
For thou didst listen when none else approved, 
Proud in thy strength, and eager to be loved. 
Rose of the morning, how thy leaves are gone! 
How art thou faded since the sunrise shone! 
Think not my presence was the cause of all-- 
Oh no, thy folly would have made thee fall: 
Alike thy woe--alike the cause of blame-- 
Another tempter, but thine act the same. 
And tell me not of all I said or swore: 
Poor wretch! art thou as in the days of yore? 

Thing of the wanton heart and faded brow, 
Whate`er I said or did--I loathe thee now!` 
The frozen tears sank back beneath the lid, 
Whose long black lashes half their sadness hid-- 
And with a calm and stedfast look, which spoke 
Unutterable scorn, her spirit woke:-- 
`And thou art he, for whom my young heart gave 
All hope of pardon on this side the grave! 
For whom I still have struggled on, for years, 
Through days of bitterness and nights of tears!-- 
True, I am changed since that bright summer`s day, 
When first from home love lured my steps to stray: 
And true it is that art hath sought to hide 
The work of woe which all my words belied;-- 
But for whose sake have I with watchful care, 
Though sick at heart, endeavour`d to be fair? 
For whom, when daylight broke along the skies, 
Have I with fear survey`d my weeping eyes? 
For whom, with trembling fingers sought to dress 
Each woe-worn feature with mock loveliness? 
Chased the pale sickness from my darken`d brow, 
And strove to listen, calm--as I do now? 
For whom--if not for thee?--Oh! had I been 
Pure as the stainless lily--were each scene 
Of guilt and passion blotted from that book 
Where weepingly and sad the angels look-- 

Did I stand here the calm approved wife, 
Bound to thee by the chain that binds for life-- 
Could I have loved thee more? The dream is past-- 
I who forsook, am lonely at the last! 
One hour ago the thought that we must part, 
And part for ever, would have broke my heart: 
But now--I cast thee from me! Go and seek 
To pale the roses on a fresher cheek. 
Why lingerest thou? Dost fear, when thou art gone, 
My woman`s heart will wake, and live alone? 
Fear not--the specious tongue whose well-feign`d tale 
Hath lured the dove to leave her native vale, 
May use its art some other to beguile; 
And the approving world--will only smile. 
But she who sins, and suffers for that sin, 
Who throws the dangerous die, and doth not win-- 
Loves once--and loves no more!` He glided by, 
And she turn`d from him with a shuddering sigh. 

"I saw the widower mournful stand, 
Gazing out on the sea and the land; 
O`er the yellow corn and the waving trees, 
And the blue stream rippling in the breeze. 
Oh! beautiful seem the earth and sky-- 
Why doth he heave that bitter sigh? 

Vain are the sunshine and brightness to him-- 
His heart is heavy, his eyes are dim. 
His thoughts are not with the moaning sea, 
Though his gaze be fix`d on it vacantly: 
His thoughts are far, where the dark boughs wave 
O`er the silent rest of his Mary`s grave. 
He starts, and brushes away the tear; 
For the soft small voices are in his ear, 
Of the bright-hair`d angels his Mary left 
To comfort her lonely and long bereft. 
With a gush of sorrow he turns to press 
His little ones close with a fond caress, 
And they sigh--oh! not because Mary sleeps, 
For she is forgotten--but that HE weeps. 
Yes! she is forgotten--the patient love, 
The tenderness of that meek-eyed dove, 
The voice that rose on the evening air 
To bid them kneel to the God of prayer, 
The joyous tones that greeted them, when 
After a while she came again-- 
The pressure soft of her rose-leaf cheek-- 
The touch of her hand, as white and weak 
She laid it low on each shining head, 
And bless`d the sons of the early dead: 
All is forgotten--all past away 
Like the fading close of a summer`s day: 

Or the sound of her voice (though they scarce can tell 
Whose voice it was, that they loved so well) 
Comes with their laughter, a short sweet dream-- 
As the breeze blows over the gentle stream, 
Rippling a moment its quiet breast, 
And leaving it then to its sunny rest. 
But he!--oh! deep in his inmost soul, 
Which hath drunk to the dregs of sorrow`s bowl-- 
Her look--and her smile--the lightest word 
Of the musical voice he so often heard, 
And never may hear on earth again, 
Though he love it more than he loved it then-- 
Are buried--to rise at times unbid 
And force hot tears to the burning lid: 
The mother that bore her may learn to forget, 
But he will remember and weep for her yet! 
Oh! while the heart where her head hath lain 
In its hours of joy, in its sighs of pain; 
While the hand which so oft hath been clasp`d in hers 
In the twilight hour, when nothing stirs-- 
Beat with the deep, full pulse of life-- 
Can he forget his gentle wife? 
Many may love him, and he in truth 
May love; but not with the love of his youth: 
Ever amid his joy will come 
A stealing sigh for that long-loved home, 
And her step and her voice will go gliding by 
In the desolate halls of his memory! 

"I saw a father weeping, when the last 
Of all his dear ones from his sight had past-- 
The young lamb, in his solitary fold, 
Who should have buried him, for he was old. 
Silently she had pass`d away from earth, 
Beloved by none but him who gave her birth: 
And now he sat, with haggard look and wild, 
By the lone tomb of his forgotten child:-- 

`None remember thee! thou whose heart 
Pour`d love on all around. 
Thy name no anguish can impart-- 
`Tis a forgotten sound. 
Thine old companions pass me by 
With a cold bright smile, and a vacant eye-- 
And none remember thee 
Save me. 
`None remember thee! thou wert not 
Beauteous as some things are; 
No glory beam`d upon thy lot, 
My pale and quiet star. 
Like a winter bud that too soon hath burst, 
Thy cheek was fading from the first-- 

And none remember thee 
Save me! 
`None remember thee! they could spy 
Nought, when they gazed on thee, 
But thy soul`s deep love in thy quiet eye-- 
It hath pass`d from their memory. 
The gifts of genius were not thine 
Proudly before the world to shine-- 
And none remember thee 
Save me! 
`None remember thee! now thou`rt gone, 
Or they could not choose but weep,-- 
When they think of thee, my gentle one, 
In thy long and lonely sleep. 
Fain would I murmur thy name, and tell 
How fondly together we used to dwell-- 
But none remember thee 
Save me!` 

"I saw a husband, and a guilty wife, 
Who once made all the sunshine of his life, 
Kneeling upon the threshold of her home, 
Where heavily her weary feet had come: 
A faded form, a humble brow, are hers-- 
The livery which sinful sorrow wears; 

While with deep agony she lifts her eyes, 
And prays him to forgive her, ere she dies! 
Long days--long days swell in his broken heart, 
When death had seem`d less bitter than to part-- 
When in her innocence her hush`d lip spoke 
The faint confession of the love he woke; 
And the first kiss on that pure cheek impress`d, 
Made her shrink, trembling, from his faithful breast. 
And after years when her light footstep made 
Most precious music--when in sun or shade 
She was the same bright, happy, loving thing-- 
Low at his feet she now lies withering! 
His half-stretch`d hand already bids her be 
Forgiven and at peace--his kindly eye 
Is turn`d on her through tears, to think that she, 
His purely-loved, should bide such agony. 
Already on his tongue the quivering word 
Of comfort trembles, though as yet unheard; 
Already he hath bent o`er that pale face: 
Why starts he, groaning, from her wild embrace? 
Oh! as she clasp`d his knees, her full heart woke 
To all its tenderness--a murmur broke 
Forth from her lip; the cherish`d name of one 
Whose image dwelt when purity was gone, 
Secure amid the ruins of lost things, 
Filling her soul with soft imaginings, 

Like a lone flower within the moss-grown halls 
Where echo vainly unto echo calls. 
Deep wrath, and agony, and vain despair, 
Are painted on his brow who hears her prayer. 
`Breathe not her name--it is a sound 
Of fearfulness and dread. 
Seest thou no trace of tears around? 
Yet have salt tears been shed! 
Thy babe who nestled at thy breast, 
And laugh`d upon thy knee; 
That creature of the quiet rest, 
Thy child--was too like thee! 
The careless fawn that lightly springs-- 
The rosebud in the dew-- 
The fair of nature`s fairy things-- 
Like them thy daughter grew. 
And then she left her father`s side, 
Not, woman! as a happy bride, 
With a tearful smile, half sad, half meek; 
The flush of guilt was on her cheek: 
And in the desert wilds I sought-- 
And in the haunts of men. 
Woman! what thou hast felt is naught 
To what I suffer`d then. 
I thought that--but it may not be-- 
I thought I could have pardon`d thee; 

But when I dream of her, and think 
Thy steps led on to ruin`s brink-- 
Oh she is gone, and thou art here 
Where ye both were of yore-- 
To mock with late-repentant tear 
Hopes which may come no more! 
Hadst thou, frail wretch, been by her still, 
To shield her gentle head from ill-- 
To do thy mother`s part--but go-- 
I will not curse thee, in my woe : 
Only, depart!--and haply when 
Lonely and left I die, 
Thy pardon`d form shall rise again 
And claim one parting sigh!` 
He closed on her the portal of her home, 
Where never more her weary feet may come-- 
And their wrung hearts are sever`d till that day 
When God shall hear, and judge the things of clay. 

"I saw the parricide raving stand, 
With a rolling eye, and a bloody hand; 
Through his thick chill veins the curdling stream 
Flows dark and languid. No sunny beam 
Can wake the deep pulse of his heart to joy, 
Since he raised his murderous hand to destroy. 
By day, by night, no pause is given 
Of hope to the soul accursed by Heaven. 
Through the riotous feast; through his own dull groans; 
Through the musical sound of his loved one`s tones; 
Through the whispering breath of the evening air, 
Faulters the old man`s dying prayer. 
Few were the words he spoke as he sank; 
And the greedy poniard his life-blood drank: 
`Spare me, my son, I will yield thee all.` 
Oh, what would the murderer give to recall 
One murmuring sigh to that silent tongue, 
Which in infancy sought his ear to please; 
One pulse of life, to the hands that clung 
Feebly and tremblingly round his knees! 
In vain! he hath won the gold he sought; 
And the burning agony of thought 
Shall haunt him still, till he lays his head 
With a shuddering groan on his dying bed! 

"I saw a young head bow`d in its deep woe, 
Ev`n unto death; and sad, and faint, and slow, 
As she sat lonely in her hall of tears, 
Her lips address`d some shade of other years: 
`Oh! dear to the eyes that are weeping 
Was thy form, my lost love: 
Though the heart where thine image is sleeping 
Its truth might not prove. 
I have wept and turn`d from thee, for fear thou shouldst trace 
All the love that I bore thee, deep writ on my face. 
But oh! could we once more be meeting, 
As then, love, we met: 
Could I feel that fond heart of thine beating, 
Close, close, to mine yet: 
I would cling to thee, dearest, nor fear thou shouldst guess 
How deeply thy welcome had power to bless, 
Oh! tis not for a day, or an hour, 
I part from thee now, 
To weep and shake off, like a flower, 
The tears from my brow: 
`Tis to sit dreaming idly of days that are gone, 
And start up to remember--that I am alone. 
They say that my heart hath recover`d 
The deep bitter blow; 
That the cloud which for long days hath hover`d, 
Is gone from my brow; 
That my eyes do not weep, and my lips wear a smile; 
It is true --but I do not forget thee the while. 
Oh, they know not, amidst all my gladness, 
Thy shadow is there: 

They feel not the deep thrill of sadness, 
Nor the soul`s lone despair. 
They see not the sudden quick pang, when thy name 
Is carelessly utter`d, to praise or to blame! 
If to gaze on each long-treasured token 
Till bitter tears flow, 
And to wonder my heart is not broken 
By the weight of its woe: 
To join in the world`s loud and `wildering din, 
While a passionate feeling is choking within: 
If to yearn, in the arms that once bound thee, 
To lean down my head; 
With the dear ones who used to come round thee, 
Salt tear-drops to shed: 
If to list to the voice that is like thine, in vain; 
And feel its dim echo ring wild through my brain: 
If to dream there were pleasure in meeting 
Those who once were with thee: 
To murmur a sad farewell greeting, 
Then sink on my knee; 
With my straining hands clasp`d to the Heavens in prayer, 
And my choked bosom heaving with grief and despair: 
If to sit and to think of thee only, 
While they laugh round the hearth; 
And feel my full heart grow more lonely 
At the sound of their mirth:-- 
If this be forgetting thee, dear one and good-- 
Forget thee--forget thee--Oh God! that I could!` 

"I saw the child of parents poor, 
Dreaming with pain of her cottage door; 
Which she left for the splendour which may not cheer-- 
Pomp hath not power to dry one tear. 
The palace--the sunshine--what are they to her 
`Mid the heart`s full throb, and the bosom`s stir? 
The picture that rises bedimm`d with tears, 
Is an aged woman, bow`d down by years; 
Sitting alone in her evening`s close, 
And feebly weeping for many woes. 
Her thin hands are weaving the endless thread, 
Her faded eyes gaze where her daughter fled, 
O`er the moss-grown copse and the wooded hill: 
`Oh! would that I were with my mother still! 
That I were with her who rear`d me up-- 
(And I fill`d to the brim her sorrow`s cup)-- 
That I were with her who taught me to pray 
At the morning`s dawn and the close of day-- 
That I were with her whose harshest look 
Was half of sorrow and half rebuke. 
Oh! the depth of my sin I never could see, 
But I feel it now, with the babe on my knee.` 

The high proud gaze of her scornful eye 
Is quench`d with the tears for days gone by; 
And her little one starts from its broken rest, 
Woke by the sobs of that heaving breast. 
She gazes with fear on its undimm`d brow-- 
What are the thoughts that lurk below? 
Perchance, like her own, the day will come 
When its name shall be hush`d in its parent home; 
When the hearts that cherish its lightest tone, 
Shall wish that the sound from earth were gone. 
Perchance it is doom`d to an early grave, 
Or a struggling death on the stormy wave; 
Or the fair little dimpled hand that clings 
So fast in her soft hair`s shining rings, 
May be dark with the blood of his fellow-men, 
And the clanking chain hang round it then. 
Haply, forgetting her patient care, 
The young, bright creature slumbering there, 
Shall forsake her--as she hath forsaken them-- 
For a heavy heart and a diadem! 
She clasps it strong with a burning kiss-- 
`Oh God! in thy mercy, spare me this.`` 

"I saw a widow, by her cherish`d son, 
Ere all of light, and life, and hope, was gone-- 
When the last dying glance was faintly raised, 
Ere death with withering power the brightness glazed 
Of those deep heavenly eyes: a glance which seem`d 
To ask her, if the world where he had dream`d 
Such dreams of happiness with her, must be 
Forsaken in the spring-tide of his glee: 
If he indeed must die. I saw her take 
His hand, and gaze, as if her heart would break, 
On his pale brow and languid limbs of grace, 
And wipe the death-dew gently from his face. 
I saw her after, when the unconscious clay, 
Deaf to her wild appeals, all mutely lay, 
With brow upturn`d, and parted lips, whose hue 
Was scarce more pale than hers, who met my view. 
She stood, and wept not in her deep despair, 
But press`d her lips upon his shining hair 
With a long bitter kiss, and then with grief-- 
Like hers of old, who pray`d and found relief-- 
She groan`d to God, and watch`d to see him stir, 
But, ah! no prophet came, to raise him up for her! 

"I saw the orphan go forth in dread 
Through the pitiless world, and turn to gaze 
Once more on the dark and narrow bed 
Where sleep the authors of her days. 
Well may she weep them, for never more, 
After she turns from that cottage door, 
Will her young heart beat to a kindly word, 
Such as in early days she heard: 
Or her young eye shine, as she hastens her pace 
To bask in the light of a loved one`s face. 
Her lot is cast; 
Her hope is past; 
The careless, the cold, and the cruel may come 
To gaze on the orphan, and pass her by: 
But a word, or a sound, or a look of home-- 
For them she must bow her head, and die! 

"I saw the dark and city-clouded spot, 
Where, by his busy patrons all forgot, 
The young sad poet dreams of better days, 
And gives his genius forth in darken`d rays. 
Chill o`er his soul, gaunt poverty hath thrown 
Her veil of shadows, as he sighs alone; 
And, withering up the springs and streams of youth, 
Left him to feel misfortune`s bitter truth, 
And own with deep, impassion`d bitterness, 
Who would describe--must faintly feel, distress. 
Slowly he wanders, with a languid pace, 
To the small window of his hiding-place; 

Pressing with straining force, all vainly now, 
His hot, weak fingers on his throbbing brow; 
And seeking for bright thoughts, which care and pain 
Have driven from his dim and `wilder`d brain. 
He breathes a moment that unclouded air, 
And gazes on the face of nature there-- 
Longing for fresh wild flowers and verdant fields, 
And all the joys the open sunshine yields: 
Then turning, he doth rest his heavy eye 
Where his torn papers in confusion lie, 
And raves awhile, and seats himself again, 
To toil and strive for thoughts and words, in vain: 
Till he can bid his drooping fancy feel, 
And barter genius, for a scanty meal! 

"I`ve been where fell disease a war hath waged 
Against young joy,--where pestilence hath raged, 
And beauty hath departed from the earth 
With none to weep her.--I have seen the birth 
Of the lorn infant, greeted but with tears, 
And dim forebodings, and remorseful fears, 
When to the weary one the grave would show 
Less dreadful than a long long life of woe. 
I`ve been in prisons, where in lone despair, 
Barr`d from God`s precious gifts, the sun and air, 
The debtor pines, for a little gold, 
His fellow man in iron chains would hold: 
There have I seen the bright inquiring eye 
Fade into dull and listless vacancy; 
There have I seen the meek grow stern and wild; 
And the strong man sit weeping like a child; 
Till God`s poor tortured creatures in their heart 
Were fain to Curse their Maker, and depart. 
All have I seen--and I have watch`d apart 
The fruitless struggles of a breaking heart, 
Bruised, crush`d, and wounded by the spoiler`s power, 
And left to wither like a trodden flower; 
Till I have learnt with ease each thought to trace 
That flush`d across the fair and fading face, 
And known the source of tears, which day by day 
Weakness hath shed, and pride hath brush`d away. 

"It was in Erin--in the autumn time, 
By the broad Shannon`s banks of beauty roaming; 
I saw a scene of mingled woe and crime-- 
Oh! ev`n to my sear`d eyes the tears seem`d coming! 
It was a mother standing gaunt and wild, 
Working her soul to murder her young child, 
Who lay unconscious in its soft repose 
Upon the breast, that heaved with many woes. 
She stood beside the waters, but her eyes 
Were not upon the river, nor the skies, 
Nor on the fading things of earth. Her soul 
Was rapt in bitterness--and evening stole 
Chill o`er her form, while yet with nerveless hand 
She sought to throw her burden from the land. 
`Twas pitiful to see her strive in vain, 
Rise sternly up, then melt to love again; 
With horrible energy, and lip compress`d, 
Hold forth her child--then strain it to her breast 
Convulsively; as if some gentle thought 
Of all its helpless beauty first was brought 
Into her `wilder`d mind--the soft faint smiles, 
Whose charm the mother of her tears beguiles, 
Which speak not aught of mirth or merriment, 
But of full confidence, and deep content, 
And ignorance of woe:--the murmur`d sounds 
Which were to her a language, rise up now-- 
And, like a torrent bursting from its bounds, 
Swell in her heart, and shoot across her brow. 
Oh! she who plans its death in her despair, 
Hath tended it with fond and watchful care; 
Hath borne it wearily for many a mile, 
Repaid with one fond glance, or gentle smile: 
Hath watch`d through long dark nights with patient love, 
When some light sickness struck her nestling dove; 

And yearn`d to bear its pain, when that meek eye 
Turn`d on her, with appealing agony! 
Look on her now!--that faint and feverish start 
Hath waken`d all the mother in her heart: 
That feeble cry hath thrill`d her very frame :-- 
Was it for murder such a soft heart came? 
She will not do it--Fool! the spirit there 
Is stronger far than love--it is despair! 
Mothers alone may read that mother`s woe: 
Her heart may break--but she will strike the blow. 
Once more she pauses; bending o`er its face, 
Calm and unconscious in its timid grace; 
Then murmurs to it by the chilly wave, 
Ere one strong effort dooms it to the grave:-- 

`Thou of the sinless breast! 
Which passion hath not heaved, nor dark remorse 
Swell`d with its full and agonizing curse-- 
Lo! thou art come to rest! 

`Warm is thy guileless heart, 
Whose slight quick pulses soon shall beat no more: 
Hear`st thou the strong trees rock?--the loud winds roar? 
I and my child must part! 

`Deep `neath the sullen sky, 
And the dark waters which do boil and foam, 
Greedy to take thee to their silent home-- 
My little one must lie! 

`Peace to thy harmless soul! 
There is a heaven where thou mayst dwell in peace; 
Where the dark howling of the waters cease, 
Which o`er thy young head roll. 

`There, in the blue still night, 
Thou`lt watch, where stars are gleaming from the sky, 
O`er the dark spot where thou wert doom`d to die, 
And smile, a cherub bright.` 

"A plash upon the waves--a low 
Half-stifled sob, which seem`d as though 
The choked breath fought against the stream-- 
And all was silent as a dream. 
Then rose the shriek that might not stay, 
Though much that soul had braved; 
And ere its echo died away, 
Her little one was saved. 

Sudden I plunged, and panting caught 
The bright and floating hair, 
Which on the waters lustre brought, 
As if `twere sunshine there. 
I stood beside that form of want and sin, 
That miserable woman in her tears; 
Who wept, as though she had not cast it in 
To perish with the sorrows of past years. 
She thank`d me with a bitter thankfulness, 
And thus I spoke: `Oh! woman, if it is 
Sickness and poverty, and lone distress, 
That prompted thee to do a deed like this, 
Take gold, and wander forth, and let me be 
A parent to the child renounced by thee!` 
Greedily did she gaze upon the gold, 
With a wild avarice in her hollow eye; 
And stretch`d her thin damp fingers, clammy cold, 
To seize the glittering ore with ecstasy. 
But when I claim`d the little helpless thing, 
For whose young life that gold had paid the worth; 
Close to the breast where it lay shivering, 
She strain`d it gaspingly, and then burst forth:-- 

`I would have slain it! Fool! `tis true I would; 
Because I saw it pine, and had no food: 
Because I could not bear its faint frail cry, 
Which told my brain such tales of agony: 
Because its dumb petitioning glances said, 
Am I thy child? and canst not give me bread? 
Because, while faint and droopingly it lay 
Within my failing arms from day to day, 
The tigress rose within my soul--I could 
Have slain a man, and bid it lap his blood! 
My little one!--my uncomplaining child! 
Whose lengthen`d misery drove thy mother wild, 
Did they believe that aught but death could part 
These nestling limbs from her poor tortured heart?-- 
No! had the slimy waters gurgled o`er 
Thy corpse, and wash`d the slippery reed-grown shore, 
Leaving no trace, except in my despair, 
Of what had once disturb`d the stillness there-- 
I could have gazed upon it, and not wept; 
For calmly then my little one had slept. 
No nightly moans would then have wrung my soul; 
No daylight withering bid the tear-drop roll. 
In my dark hours of misery and want, 
The memory of thy pallid face might haunt, 
Not, not to wring my heart with vain regret, 
But to remind what thou hadst suffer`d yet, 
If from life`s wretchedness I had not freed 
Thy grateful soul, which thank`d me for the deed. 

I lost thee--but I have thee here again, 
Close to the heart which now can feel no pain. 
Cling to me!--let me feel that velvet cheek-- 
Look at me, with those eyes so dove-like meek! 
Press thy pale lips to mine, and let me be 
Repaid for all I have endured for thee. 
Part from thee!--never! while this arm hath strength 
To hold thee to the bosom where thou liest: 
Praise be to God, bright days have dawn`d at length! 
I need not watch thy struggles as thou diest. 
Part from thee! never--no, my pale sweet flower! 
The wealth of worlds would bribe my heart in vain, 
Though `twere to give thee up for one short hour-- 
Take back thy gold--I have my babe again! 
Yet give me food, and I will clasp thy knees, 
And night and day will kneel for thee to Heaven; 
Else will a lingering death of slow disease, 
Or famine gaunt, be all that thou hast given. 
And when I die-- then, then be kind`--She ceased: 
Her parted lips were tinged with crimson gore, 
Her faint hand half, and only half, released 
The unconscious form she had been weeping o`er: 
Worn nature could not bear the sudden strife; 
I look`d upon her--but there was no life! 

"That little outcast grew a fairy girl, 
A beautiful, a most beloved one. 
There was a charm in every separate curl 
Whose rings of jet hung glistening in the sun, 
Which warm`d her marble brow. There was a grace 
Peculiar to herself, ev`n from the first: 
Shadows and thoughtfulness you seem`d to trace 
Upon that brow, and then a sudden burst 
Of sunniness and laughter sparkled out, 
And spread their rays of joyfulness about. 
Like the wild music of her native land, 
Which wakes to joy beneath the minstrel`s hand, 
Yet at its close gives forth a lingering tone-- 
Sad, as if mourning that its mirth is gone, 
And leaves that note to dwell within your heart, 
When all the sounds of joyfulness depart: 
So in her heart`s full chords there seem`d to be 
A strange and wild, but lovely melody: 
Half grief--half gladness--but the sadness still 
Hanging like shadows on a summer rill. 
And when her soul from its deep silence woke, 
And from her lip sweet note of answer broke, 
Memory in vain would seek the smile that play`d 
With her slow words, like one beam in the shade; 
Her sorrow hung upon your heart for years-- 
And all her sweet smiles darken`d into tears. 

I loved her, as a father loves his child: 
For she was dutiful, and fond, and mild, 
As children should be--and she ripen`d on 
Like a young rosebud opening to the sun; 
Till the full light of womanhood was shed, 
Like a soft glory, round about her head. 
In all my wanderings, through good and ill, 
In storm and sunshine, she was with me still: 
Not like a cold sad shadow, forced to glide 
Weary--unloved--unnoticed, by my side: 
But with her whole heart`s worship, ever near, 
To love, to smile, to comfort, and to cheer. 
Her gentle soul would fear to hurt a worm; 
Yet danger found her unappall`d and firm: 
Her lip might blanch, but her unalter`d eye 
Said, I am ready for thy sake to die. 
She stood by me and fear`d not, in that place 
When the scared remnant of my wretched race 
Gave England`s Richard gifts, to let them be 
All unmolested in their misery: 
And while their jewels sparkled on his hand, 
His traitor lips gave forth the dark command 
Which, midst a drunken nation`s loud carouse, 
Sent unexpected death from house to house, 
Bade strong arms strike, where none their force withstood, 
And woman`s wail be quench`d in woman`s blood. 

She stood by me and fear`d not, when again, 
A bloody death cut short a life of pain; 
When, with red glaring eyes and desperate force, 
Brother laid brother low, a prostrate corse, 
Rather than yield their bodies up to those, 
In word, in act, and in religion--foes. 
She gazed and fainted not, while all around 
They lay like slaughter`d cattle on the ground; 
With the wide gash in each extended throat, 
Calling for vengeance to the God who smote 
On Israel`s side, ere Israel fell away, 
And in her guilt was made the stranger`s prey. 

"And after that, we dwelt in many lands, 
And wander`d through the desert`s burning sands; 
Where, strange to say, young Miriam sigh`d to be: 
Where nature lay stretch`d out so silently 
Beneath the glorious sun, and here and there 
The fountains bubbled up, as fresh and fair 
As if the earth were fill`d with them, and none 
In their last agonizing thirst sank down, 
With eyes turn`d sadly to far distant dreams 
Of unseen gushing waters, and cool streams. 

"There is a little island all alone 
In the blue Mediterranean; and we went 
Where never yet a human foot had gone, 
And dwelt there, and young Miriam was content. 
There was a natural fountain, where no ray 
Of light or warmth had ever found its way, 
Thick clustered o`er with flowers; and there she made 
A bower of deep retirement and shade; 
And proud she was, when, rosy with the glow 
Of triumph and exertion, she could show 
Her palace of green leaves,--and watch my eyes 
For the expected glance of pleased surprise. 
Oh! she was beautiful!--if ever earth 
To aught of breathing loveliness gave birth. 

"One evening--one sweet evening, as we stood, 
Silently gazing on the silent flood: 
A sudden thought rose swelling in my heart: 
Ought my sweet Miriam thus to dwell apart 
From human kind? So good, so pure, so bright, 
So form`d to be a fervent heart`s delight; 
Was she to waste the power and will to bless 
In ministering to my loneliness? 
And then a moment`s glance took in her life-- 
I saw my Miriam a blessed wife; 

I saw her with fair children round her knee, 
I heard their voices in that home of glee, 
And turn`d to gaze on her:--if ever yet, 
Turning with shadowy hope, and vain regret, 
And consciousness of secret guilt or woe, 
Thine eyes have rested on the open brow 
Of sinless childhood--thou hast known what I 
Felt, when my glance met Miriam`s cloudless eye. 
Oh! Thought, thou mould where misery is cast-- 
Thou joiner of the present with the past-- 
Eternal torturer! wherefore can we not 
Through all our life be careless of our lot 
As in our early years?--No cares to come 
Threw their vain shadow o`er her bosom`s home; 
No bitter sorrow, with its vain recall, 
Poison`d her hope--the present hour was all. 
I gazed on her--and as a slow smile broke 
Of meek affection round her rosy mouth, 
I thought the simple words my heart would choke, 
`Would Miriam weep to leave the sunny south?` 
Silent she stood--then, in a tone scarce heard, 
Faulter`d forth, `father!` Oh! it wrung, that word; 
And snatching her with haste unto my breast, 
Where in her childhood`s hour of sunny rest 
Calmly her innocent head had often slept, 
With a strange sense of misery--I wept. 

"Oh! weary days, oh! weary days, 
Of flattery and empty praise, 
When in the tainted haunts of men 
My Miriam was brought again. 
With vacant gaze and gentle sigh, 
She turned her from them mournfully; 
As if she rather felt, than saw, 
That they were near:--they scarce could draw 
A word of answer from her tongue, 
Where once such merry music rung, 
Save when the island was their theme-- 
And then, as waking from a dream, 
Her soft eye lighted for a while, 
And round her mouth a playful smile 
Stole for a moment, and then fled, 
As if the hope within were dead. 
Where`er I gazed, where`er I went, 
Her earnest look was on me bent 
Stealthily, as she wish`d to trace 
Her term of exile on my face. 
And many sought her hand in vain. 
With pleading voice, and look of pain. 
Weepingly she would turn away 
When I besought her to be gay; 
And resolutely firm, withstood 
The noble and the great of blood; 

Though they woo`d humbly, as they woo 
Who scarcely hope for what they sue. 
Oh! glad was Miriam, when at last 
I deem`d our term of absence past: 
And as her light foot quickly sprang 
From out our bark, `twas thus she sang:-- 

`The world! the sunny world! I love 
To roam untired, till evening throws 
Sweet shadows through the pleasant grove, 
And bees are murmuring on the rose. 
I love to see the changeful flowers 
Lie blushing in the glowing day-- 
Bend down their heads to `scape the showers, 
Then shake the chilly drops away. 

`The world! the sunny world! oh bright 
And beautiful indeed thou art-- 
The brilliant day, the dark-blue night, 
Bring joy--but not to every heart. 
No! till, like flowers, those hearts can fling 
Grief`s drops from off their folded leaves, 
`Twill only smile in hope`s bright spring, 
And darken when the spirit grieves.` 

"She was return`d; but yet she grew not glad; 
Her cheek wore not the freshness which it had. 
The withering of the world, like the wild storm 
Over a tender blossom, left her form 
With traces of the havoc that had been, 
Ev`n in the sunny calm, and placid scene. 
Her brow was darken`d with a gentle cloud; 
Her step was slower, and her laugh less loud; 
And oft her sweet voice faulter`d, though she said 
Nothing in which deep meaning could be read. 
I watch`d her gestures when she saw me not, 
And once--(oh! will that evening be forgot?) 
I stole upon her, when she little thought 
Aught but the moaning wind her whispers caught. 

"She sat within her bower, where the sun 
Linger`d, as loth to think his task was done: 
And languidly she raised her heavy gaze, 
To meet the splendour of his parting rays. 
O`er the smooth cheek which rested on her hand; 
Down the rich curls by evening breezes fann`d; 
Upon the full red lip, and rounded arm, 
The swan-like neck, so snowy, yet so warm-- 
Each charm the rosy light was wandering o`er, 
Brightening what seem`d all-beautiful before. 

I paused a moment, gazing yet unseen 
Beneath the sleeping shadows dark and green; 
And thought, how strange that one so form`d to bless 
Should better love to live in loneliness. 
Pure, but not passionless, was that soft brow 
So warmly gilded by the sunset now; 
And in her glistening eye there shone a tear, 
Like those we shed when dreaming--for some dear 
But lost illusion, which returns awhile 
Our nights to brighten with remember`d smile, 
And yet we feel is lost, though sleep, strong sleep, 
Chains the swoln lid, that fain would wake and weep. 
I sat me down beside her; round the zone 
That clasp`d her slender waist my arm was thrown: 
And the bright ringlets of her shining hair 
My fond hand parted on her forehead fair; 
And thus I spoke, as with a smile and sigh 
She murmur`d forth a welcome timidly: 
`Again within the desert and at rest, 
Say, does my Miriam find herself more blest, 
Than when gay throngs in fond devotion hung 
Upon the sportive accents of her tongue? 
Is all which made the city seem so gay, 
The song, the dance, all dream-like pass`d away? 
The sighs, the vows, the worshipping forgot? 
And art thou happier in this lonely spot? 

Is there no form, all vision-like enshrined 
Deep `mid the treasures of thy guileless mind? 
And, deaf to every pure and faithful sigh, 
Say, would my desert rose-bud lonely die?` 
High, `neath the arm which carelessly caress`d, 
Rose the quick beatings of that gentle breast; 
And the slight pulses of her fair young hand, 
Which lay so stirlessly within my own, 
Trembled and stopp`d, and trembled, as I scann`d 
The flushing cheek on which my glance was thrown. 
`She loves,` said I; while selfish bitter grief 
Swell`d in my soul;--`she loves, and I must live 
Alone again, more wretched for the brief 
Bright sunshine which her presence used to give.` 
And then with sadden`d tones, (which, though I strove 
To make them playful, tremulously came) 
I murmur`d:`Yes! he lives, whom thou canst love. 
His name, dear Miriam--whisper me his name.` 
There was a pause, and audibly she drew 
Her heaving breath; and faint and fainter grew 
The hand that lay in mine; and o`er her brow 
Flush`d shadows chased each other to and fro: 
Till like a scorch`d-up flower, with languid grace 
That young head droop`d, but sought no resting-place. 

"Dreams pass`d across my soul--dreams of old days-- 
Of forms which in the quiet grave lay sleeping; 
Of eyes which death had stripp`d of all their rays, 
And weary life had quench`d with bitter weeping: 
Dreams of the days when, human still, my heart 
Refused to feel immortal, and kept clinging 
To transient joys, which came and did depart 
As fresh flowers wither, which young hands are flinging. 
Dreams of the days I loved, and was beloved-- 
When some young heart for me its sighs was giving, 
And fond lips murmur`d forth the vow that proved 
Its truth in death, its tenderness when living: 
And dreaming thus, I sigh`d. Answering, there came 
A deep, low, tremulous sob, which thrill`d my frame. 
A moment, that young form shrunk back abash`d 
At its own feelings; and all vainly dash`d 
The tear aside, which speedily return`d 
To quench the cheek where fleeting blushes burn`d. 
A moment, while I sought her fears to stay, 
The timid girl in silence shrank away-- 
A moment, from my grasp her hand withdrew-- 
A moment, hid her features from my view-- 
Then rising, sank with tears upon my breast, 
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