XIV.
Two days of sorrow slowly round had crept, And Helen lonely in her chamber wept, Shunning her father's guests, and shunning, too, The glance of rage and scorn which now he threw Upon the child that e'er to him had been Dear as immortal hope, when o'er the scene Of human life, death, slow as twilight, lowers. She was the sunlight of his widowed hours-- The all he loved, the glory of his eye, His hope by day, the sole remaining tie That linked him with the world; and rudely now That link seemed broken; and upon his brow Wrath lay in gloom; while, from his very feet, He spurned the being he was wont to meet With outstretched arms of fondness and of pride, While all the father's feelings in a tide Of transport gushed. But now she wept alone, Shunning and shunned; and still the bitter tone In which she heard her Edmund breathe her name, Rang in her heaving bosom; and the flame That lit his eye with frenzy and despair, Upon her naked spirit seemed to glare With an accusing glance; yet, while her tears Were flowing silently, as hours and years Flow down the tide of time, one whom she loved, And who from childhood's days had faithful proved, Approached her weeping, and within her hand A packet placed, as Edmund's last command! Wild throbbed her heart, and tears a moment fled, While, tremblingly, she broke the seal, and read; Then wept, and sobbed aloud, and read again, These farewell words, of passion and of pain.
XV.
EDMUND'S LETTER.
Helen!--_farewell_!--I write but could not speak That parting word of bitterness; the cheek Grows pale when the tongue utters it; the knell Which tells "the grave is ready!" and doth swell On the dull wind, tolling--"the dead--the dead!" Sounds not more desolate. It is a dread And fearful thing to be of hope bereft, As if the soul itself had died, and left The body living--feeling in its breast The death of deaths, its everlasting guest! Such is my cheerless bosom; 'tis a tomb Where Hope lies buried in eternal gloom, And Love mourns o'er it--yes, my Helen--Love-- Like the sad wailings of a widowed dove Over its rifled nest. Yet blame me not, That I, a lowly peasant's son, forgot The gulf between our stations. Could I gaze Upon the glorious sun, and see its rays Fling light and beauty round me, and remain Dead to its power, while on the lighted plain The humblest weed looked up in love, and spread Its leaves before it! The vast sea doth wed The simple brook; the bold lark soars on high, Bounds from its humble nest and woos the sky; Yea, the frail ivy seeks and loves to cling Round the proud branches of the forest's king: Then blame me not;--thou wilt not, canst not blame; Our sorrows, hopes, and joys have been the same-- Been one from childhood; but the dream is past, And stern realities at length have cast Our fates asunder. Yet, when thou shalt see Proud ones before thee bend the suppliant knee, And kiss thy garment while they woo thy hand, Spurn not the peasant boy who dared to stand Before thee, in the rapture of his heart, And woo thee as thine equal. Courtly art May find more fitting phrase to charm thine ear, But, dearest, mayst thou find them as sincere! And, oh! by every past and hallowed hour! By the lone tree that formed our trysting bower! By the fair moon, and all the stars of night, That round us threw love's holiest, dearest light! By infant passion's first and burning kiss! By every witness of departed bliss! Forget me not, loved one! forget me not! For, oh, to know that I am not forgot-- That thou wilt still retain within thy breast Some thought of him who loved you first and best-- To know but this, would in my bosom be Like one faint star seen from the pathless sea By the bewildered mariner. Once more, Maid of my heart, farewell! A distant shore Must be thy Edmund's home--though where the soul Is as a wilderness; from pole to pole The desolate in heart may ceaseless roam, Nor find on earth that spot of heaven--a home! But be thou happy!--be my Helen blessed!-- _Thou wilt be happy_! Oh! those words have pressed Thoughts on my brain on which I may not dwell! Again, farewell!--my Helen, fare-thee-well!
XVI.
A gallant bark was gliding o'er the seas, And, like a living mass, before the breeze, Swept on majestic, as a thing of mind Whose spirit held communion with the wind, Rearing and rising o'er the billowed tide, As a proud steed doth toss its head in pride. Upon its deck young Edmund silent stood-- A son of sadness; and his mournful mood Grew day by day, while wave on wave rolled by, And he their homeward current with a sigh Followed with fondness. Still the vessel bore The wanderer onward from his native shore, Till in a distant land he lonely stood 'Midst city crowds in more than solitude.
XVII.
There long he wandered, without aim or plan, Till _disappointment_ whispered, _Act as man!_ But though it cool the fever of the brain, And shake, untaught, presumption's idle reign, Bring folly to its level, and bid hope Before the threshold of attainment stop, Still--when its blastings thwart our every scheme, When humblest wishes seem an idle dream, And the bare bread of life is half denied-- Such disappointments humble not our pride; But do they change the temper of the soul, Change every word and action, and enrol The nobler mind with things of basest name-- With idleness, dishonesty, and shame! It hath its bounds, and thus far it is well To check presumption--visions wild to quell; Then 'tis the chastening of a father's hand-- All wholesome, all expedient. But to stand Writhing beneath the unsparing lash, and be Trampled on veriest earth, while misery Stems the young blood, or makes it freeze with care, And on the tearless eyeballs writes, _Despair!_ Oh! this is terrible!--and it doth throw Upon the brow such early marks of woe, That men seem old ere they have well been young; Their fond hopes perish, and their hearts are wrung With such dark feelings--misanthropic gloom, Spite of their natures, haunts them to the tomb.
XVIII.
Now, Edmund 'midst the bustling throng appears One old in wretchedness, though young in years; For he had struggled with an angry world, Had felt misfortune's billows o'er him hurled, And strove against its tide--where wave meets wave Like huge leviathans sporting wild, and lave Their mountain breakers round with circling sweep, Till, drawn within the vortex of their deep, The man of ruin struggleth--but in vain; Like dying swimmers who, in breathless pain Despairing, strike at random!--It would be A subject worth the schoolmen's scrutiny, To trace each simple source from whence arose The strong and mingled stream of human woes. But here we may not. It is ours alone To make the lonely wanderer's fortunes known; And now, in plain but faithful colours dressed, To paint the feelings of his hopeless breast.
XIX.
His withered prospects blacken--wounds await-- The grave grows sunlight to his darker fate. All now is gall and bitterness within, And thoughts, once sternly pure, half yield to sin. His sickened soul, in all its native pride, Swells 'neath the breast that tattered vestments hide Disdained, disdaining; while men flourish, he Still stands a stately though a withered tree. But, Heavens! the agony of the moment when Suspicion stamped the smiles of other men; When friends glanced _doubts_, and proudly prudent grew, His counsellors, and his accusers too!
XX.
Picture his pain, his misery, when first His growing wants their proud concealment burst; When the first tears start from his stubborn soul. Big, burning, solitary drops, that roll Down his pale cheek--the momentary gush Of human weakness--till the whirlwind rush Of pride, of shame, had dashed them from his eye, And his swollen heart heaved mad with agony! Then, then the pain--the infinity of feeling-- Words fail to paint its anguish. Reason, reeling, Staggered with torture through his burning brain, While his teeth gnashed with bitterness and pain; Reflection grew a scorpion, speech had fled, And all but madness and despair were dead.
XXI.
He slept to dream of death, or worse than death; For death were bliss, and the convulsive wrath Of living torture peace, to the dread weight That pressed upon sensation, while the light Of reason gleamed but horror, and strange hosts Of hideous phantasies, like threatening ghosts. Grotesquely mingled, preyed upon his brain: Then would he dream of yesterdays again, Or view to-morrow's terrors thick surround His fancy with forebodings. While the sound Of his own breath broke frightful on his ear, He, bathed in icy sweat, would start in fear, Trembling and pale; then did his glances seem Sad as the sun's last, conscious, farewell gleam Upon the eve of judgment. Such appear His days and nights whom hope has ceased to cheer But grov'llers know it not. The supple slave Whose worthiest record is a nameless grave, Whose truckling spirit bends and bids him kneel, And fawn and vilely kiss a patron's heel-- Even _he_ can cast the cursed suspicious eye, Inquire the _cause_ of _this_--the _reason why_? And stab the sufferer. Then, the tenfold pain To feel a gilded butterfly's disdain!-- A kicking ass, without an ass's sense, Whose only virtue is, pounds, shillings, pence; And now, while ills on ills beset him round, The scorn of such the hopeless Edmund found.