Part 6

The dame was somewhat disconcerted— For, all that she could say or do,— The boy his question would renew, Nor from his purpose be diverted. At length, the matter to decide, “’Tis FATHER PETER” she replied. “He’s come to pray.” The child gave o’er, When a loud thumping at the door Proclaim’d the Husband coming! Lo! Where could the wily neighbour go? Where hide his recreant, guilty head— But underneath the Farmer’s bed?—

Now MASTER TWYFORD kiss’d his child; And straight the cunning urchin smil’d: “Hush father! hush! ’tis break of day— “And FATHER PETER’s come to pray! “You must not speak,” the infant cries— “For underneath the bed he lies.”

Now MISTRESS TWYFORD shriek’d, and fainted, And the sly neighbour found, too late, The FARMER, than his wife less sainted, For with his cudgel he repaid— The kindness of his faithless mate, And fiercely on his blows he laid, ’Till her young lover, vanquish’d, swore He’d play THE CONFESSOR no more!

Tho’ _fraud_ is ever sure to find Its scorpion in the guilty mind: Yet, PIOUS FRAUD, the Devil’s treasure, Is always paid, in TENFOLD MEASURE.

_EDMUND’S WEDDING._

By the side of the brook, where the willow is waving Why sits the wan Youth, in his wedding-suit gay! Now sighing so deeply, now frantickly raving Beneath the pale light of the moon’s sickly ray. Now he starts, all aghast, and with horror’s wild gesture, Cries, “AGNES is coming, I know her white vesture! “See! see! how she beckons me on to the willow, “Where, on the cold turf, she has made our rude pillow.

“Sweet girl! yes I know thee; thy cheek’s living roses “Are chang’d and grown pale, with the touch of despair: “And thy bosom no longer the lily discloses— “For thorns, my poor AGNES, are now planted there! “Thy blue, starry Eyes! are all dimm’d by dark sorrow; “No more from thy lip, can the flow’r fragrance borrow; “For cold does it seem, like the pale light of morning, “And thou smil’st, as in sadness, thy fond lover, scorning!

“From the red scene of slaughter thy Edmund returning, “Has dress’d himself gayly, with May-blooming flow’rs; “His bosom, dear AGNES! still faithfully burning, “While, madly impatient, his eyes beam in show’rs! “O! many a time have I thought of thy beauty— “When cannons, loud roaring, taught Valour its duty; “And many a time, have I sigh’d to behold thee— “When the sulphur of War, in its cloudy mist roll’d me!

“At the still hour of morn, when the Camp was reposing, “I wander’d alone on the wide dewy plain: “And when the gold curtains of Ev’ning were closing, “I watch’d the long shadows steal over the Main! “Across the wild Ocean, half frantic they bore me, “Unheeding my groans, from Thee, AGNES, they tore me; “But, though my poor heart might have bled in the battle, “Thy name should have echoed, amidst the loud rattle!

“When I gaz’d on the field of the dead and the dying— “O AGNES! my fancy still wander’d to Thee! “When around, my brave Comrades in anguish were lying, “I long’d on the death-bed of Valour to be. “For, sever’d from THEE, my SWEET GIRL, the loud thunder “Which tore the soft fetters of fondness asunder— “Had only one kindness, in mercy to shew me, “To bid me _die bravely_, that thou, Love, may’st _know me_!”

His arms now are folded, he bows as in sorrow, His tears trickle fast, down his wedding-suit gay; “My AGNES will bless me,” he murmurs, “to-morrow, “As fresh as the breezes that welcome the day!” Poor Youth! know thy AGNES, so lovely and blooming, Stern Death has embrac’d, all her beauties entombing! And, pale as her shroud in the grave she reposes, Her bosom of snow, all besprinkled with Roses!

Her Cottage is now in the dark dell decaying, And shatter’d the casements, and clos’d is the door, And the nettle now waves, where the wild KID is playing, And the neat little garden with weeds is grown o’er! The Owl builds its nest in the thatch, and there, shrieking, (A place all deserted and lonely bespeaking) Salutes the night traveller, wandering near it, And makes his faint heart, sicken sadly to hear it.

Then Youth, for thy habit, henceforth, thou should’st borrow The Raven’s dark colour, and mourn for thy dear: Thy AGNES for thee, would have cherish’d her Sorrow, And drest her pale cheek with a lingering tear: For, soon as thy steps to the Battle departed, She droop’d, and poor Maiden! she died, broken hearted; And the turf that is bound with fresh garlands of roses, Is now the cold bed, where her sorrow reposes!

The gay and the giddy may revel in pleasure,— May think themselves happy, their short summer-day; May gaze, with fond transport, on fortune’s rich treasure, And, carelessly sporting,—drive sorrow away: But the bosom, where feeling and truth are united— From folly’s bright tinsel will turn, undelighted— And find, at the grave where thy AGNES is sleeping, That the proudest of hours, is the lone hour of weeping!

The Youth now approach’d the long branch of the willow, And stripping its leaves, on the turf threw them round. “Here, here, my sweet AGNES! I make my last pillow, “My bed of long slumber, shall be the cold ground! “The Sun, when it rises above thy low dwelling, “Shall gild the tall Spire, where my death-toll is knelling. “And when the next twilight its soft tears is shedding, “At thy Grave shall the Villagers—witness _our_ WEDDING!

Now over the Hills he beheld a group coming, Their arms glitter’d bright, as the Sun slowly rose; He heard them their purposes, far distant, humming, And welcom’d the moment, that ended his woes!— And now the fierce Comrade, unfeeling, espies him, He darts thro’ the thicket, in hopes to surprize him; But EDMUND, of Valour the dauntless defender, Now _smiles_, while his CORPORAL bids him—“SURRENDER!”

Soon, prov’d a DESERTER, Stern Justice prevailing, HE DIED! and his Spirit to AGNES is fled:— The breeze, on the mountain’s tall summit now sailing Fans lightly the dew-drops, that spangle their bed! The Villagers, thronging around, scatter roses, The grey wing of Evening the western sky closes,— And Night’s sable pall, o’er the landscape extending, Is the mourning of Nature! the SOLEMN SCENE ENDING.

_The ALIEN BOY._

’Twas on a Mountain, near the Western Main An ALIEN dwelt. A solitary Hut Built on a jutting crag, o’erhung with weeds, Mark’d the poor Exile’s home. Full ten long years The melancholy wretch had liv’d unseen By all, save HENRY, a lov’d, little Son The partner of his sorrows. On the day When Persecution, in the sainted guise Of Liberty, spread wide its venom’d pow’r, The brave, Saint HUBERT, fled his Lordly home, And, with his baby Son, the mountain sought.

Resolv’d to cherish in his bleeding breast The secret of his birth, Ah! birth too high For his now humbled state, from infancy He taught him, labour’s task: He bade him chear The dreary day of cold adversity By patience and by toil. The Summer morn Shone on the pillow of his rushy bed; The noontide, sultry hour, he fearless past On the shagg’d eminence; while the young Kid Skipp’d, to the cadence of his minstrelsy.

At night young HENRY trimm’d the faggot fire While oft, Saint HUBERT, wove the ample net To snare the finny victim. Oft they sang And talk’d, while sullenly the waves would sound Dashing the sandy shore. Saint HUBERT’s eyes Would swim in tears of fondness, mix’d with joy, When he observ’d the op’ning harvest rich Of promis’d intellect, which HENRY’s soul, Whate’er the subject of their talk, display’d.

Oft, the bold Youth, in question intricate, Would seek to know the story of his birth; Oft ask, who bore him: and with curious skill Enquire, why he, and only one beside, Peopled the desart mountain? Still his Sire Was slow of answer, and, in words obscure, Varied the conversation. Still the mind Of HENRY ponder’d; for, in their lone hut, A daily journal would Saint HUBERT make Of his long banishment: and sometimes speak Of Friends forsaken, Kindred, massacred;— Proud mansions, rich domains, and joyous scenes For ever faded,—lost! One winter time, ’Twas on the Eve of Christmas, the shrill blast Swept o’er the stormy main. The boiling foam Rose to an altitude so fierce and strong That their low hovel totter’d. Oft they stole To the rock’s margin, and with fearful eyes Mark’d the vex’d deep, as the slow rising moon Gleam’d on the world of waters. ’Twas a scene Would make a Stoic shudder! For, amid The wavy mountains, they beheld, _alone_, A LITTLE BOAT, now scarcely visible; And now not seen at all; or, like a buoy, Bounding, and buffetting, to reach the shore!

Now the full Moon, in crimson lustre shone Upon the outstretch’d Ocean. The black clouds Flew swiftly on, the wild blast following, And, as they flew, dimming the angry main With shadows horrible! Still, the small boat Struggled amid the waves, a sombre speck Upon the wide domain of howling Death! Saint HUBERT sigh’d! while HENRY’s speaking eye Alternately the stormy scene survey’d And his low hovel’s safety. So past on The hour of midnight,—and, since first they knew The solitary scene, no midnight hour E’er seem’d so long and dreary. While they stood, Their hands fast link’d together, and their eyes Fix’d on the troublous Ocean, suddenly The breakers, bounding on the rocky shore, Left the small wreck; and crawling on the side Of the rude crag,—a HUMAN FORM was seen! And now he climb’d the foam-wash’d precipice, And now the slip’ry weeds gave way, while he Descended to the sands: The moon rose high— The wild blast paus’d, and the poor shipwreck’d Man Look’d round aghast, when on the frowning steep He marked the lonely exiles. Now he call’d But he was feeble, and his voice was lost Amid the din of mingling sounds that rose From the wild scene of clamour. Down the steep Saint HUBERT hurried, boldly venturous, Catching the slimy weeds, from point to point, And unappall’d by peril. At the foot Of the rude rock, the fainting mariner Seiz’d on his outstretch’d arm; impatient, wild, With transport exquisite! But ere they heard The blest exchange of sounds articulate, A furious billow, rolling on the steep, Engulph’d them in Oblivion! On the rock Young HENRY stood; with palpitating heart, And fear-struck, e’en to madness! Now he call’d, Louder and louder, as the shrill blast blew; But, mid the elemental strife of sounds, No human voice gave answer! The clear moon No longer quiver’d on the curling main, But, mist-encircled, shed a blunted light, Enough to shew all things that mov’d around, Dreadful, but indistinctly! The black weeds Wav’d, as the night-blast swept them; and along The rocky shore the breakers, sounding low Seem’d like the whisp’ring of a million souls Beneath the green-deep mourning. Four long hours The lorn Boy listen’d! four long tedious hours Pass’d wearily away, when, in the East The grey beam coldly glimmer’d. All alone Young HENRY stood aghast: his Eye wide fix’d; While his dark locks, uplifted by the storm Uncover’d met its fury. On his cheek Despair sate terrible! For, mid the woes, Of poverty and toil, he had not known, ’Till then, the horror-giving chearless hour Of TOTAL SOLITUDE! He spoke—he groan’d, But no responsive voice, no kindred tone Broke the dread pause: For now the storm had ceas’d, And the bright Sun-beams glitter’d on the breast Of the green placid Ocean. To his Hut The lorn Boy hasten’d; there the rushy couch, The pillow still indented, met his gaze And fix’d his eve in madness.—From that hour A maniac wild, the Alien Boy has been; His garb with sea-weeds fring’d, and his wan cheek The tablet of his mind, disorder’d, chang’d, Fading, and worn with care. And if, by chance, A Sea-beat wand’rer from the outstretch’d main Views the lone Exile, and with gen’rous zeal Hastes to the sandy beach, he suddenly Darts ’mid the cavern’d cliffs, and leaves pursuit To track him, where no footsteps but his own, Have e’er been known to venture! YET HE LIVES A melancholy proof that Man may bear All the rude storms of Fate, and still suspire By the wide world forgotten!

_The GRANNY GREY_, _A LOVE TALE_.

DAME DOWSON, was a granny grey, Who, three score years and ten, Had pass’d her busy hours away, In talking of the Men! They were her theme, at home, abroad, At wake, and by the winter fire, Whether it froze, or blew, or thaw’d, In sunshine or in shade, her ire Was never calm’d; for still she made Scandal her pleasure—and her trade!

A Grand-daughter DAME DOWSON had— As fair, as fair could be! Lovely enough to make Men mad; For, on her cheek’s soft downy rose LOVE seem’d in dimples to repose; Her clear blue eyes look’d mildly bright Like ether drops of liquid light, Or sapphire gems,—which VENUS bore, When, for the silver-sanded shore, She left her native Sea!

ANNETTA, was the damsel’s name; A pretty, soft, romantic sound; Such as a lover’s heart may wound; And set his fancy in a flame: For had the maid been christen’d JOAN, Or DEBORAH, or HESTER,— The little God had coldly prest her, Or, let her quite alone! For magic is the silver sound— Which, often, in a NAME is found!

ANNETTA was belov’d; and She To WILLIAM gave her vows; For WILLIAM was as brave a Youth, As ever claim’d the meed of truth, And, to reward such constancy, Nature that meed allows. But Old DAME DOWSON could not bear A Youth so brave—a Maid so fair.

The GRANNY GREY, with maxims grave Oft to ANNETTA lessons gave: And still the burthen of the Tale Was, “Keep the wicked Men away, “For should their wily arts prevail “You’ll surely rue the day!” And credit was to GRANNY due, The truth, she, by EXPERIENCE, knew! ANNETTA blush’d, and promis’d She Obedient to her will would be.

But LOVE, with cunning all his own, Would never let the Maid alone: And though she dar’d not see her Lover, Lest GRANNY should the deed discover, She, for a woman’s weapon, still, From CUPID’s pinion pluck’d a quill: And, with it, prov’d that human art Cannot confine the Female Heart.

At length, an assignation She With WILLIAM slily made, It was beneath an old Oak Tree, Whose widely spreading shade The Moon’s soft beams contriv’d to break For many a Village Lover’s sake. But Envy has a Lynx’s eye And GRANNY DOWSON cautious went Before, to spoil their merriment, Thinking no creature nigh.

Young WILLIAM came; but at the tree The watchful GRANDAM found! Straight to the Village hasten’d he And summoning his neighbours round, The Hedgerow’s tangled boughs among, Conceal’d the list’ning wond’ring throng. He told them that, for many a night, An OLD GREY OWL was heard; A fierce, ill-omen’d, crabbed Bird— Who fill’d the village with affright. He swore this Bird was large and keen, With claws of fire, and eye-balls green; That nothing rested, where she came; That many pranks the monster play’d, And many a timid trembling Maid She brought to shame For negligence, that was her own; Turning the milk to water, clear, And spilling from the cask, small-beer; Pinching, like fairies, harmless lasses, And shewing Imps, in looking-glasses; Or, with heart-piercing groan, Along the church-yard path, swift gliding, Or, on a broomstick, witchlike, riding. All listen’d trembling; For the Tale Made cheeks of Oker, chalky pale; The young a valiant doubt pretended; The old believ’d, and all attended.

Now to DAME DOWSON he repairs And in his arms, enfolds the Granny: Kneels at her feet, and fondly swears He will be true as any! Caresses her with well feign’d bliss And, _fearfully_, implores a Kiss— On the green turf distracted _lying_, He wastes his ardent breath, in sighing.

The DAME was silent; for the Lover Would, when she spoke, She fear’d, discover Her envious joke: And she was too much charm’d to be In haste,—to end the Comedy!

Now WILLIAM, weary of such wooing, Began, with all his might, hollooing:— When suddenly from ev’ry bush The eager throngs impatient rush; With shouting, and with boist’rous glee DAME DOWSON they pursue, And from the broad Oak’s canopy, O’er moonlight fields of sparkling dew, They bear in triumph the Old DAME, Bawling, with loud Huzza’s, her name; “A witch, a witch!” the people cry, “A witch!” the echoing hills reply: ’Till to her home the GRANNY came, Where, to confirm the tale of shame, Each rising day they went, in throngs, With ribbald jests, and sportive songs, ’Till GRANNY of her spleen, repented; And to young WILLIAM’s ardent pray’r, To take, for life, ANNETTA fair,— _At last_,—CONSENTED.

And should this TALE, fall in the way Of LOVERS CROSS’D, or GRANNIES GREY,— Let them confess, ’tis made to prove— _The wisest heads_,—TOO WEAK FOR LOVE!

_GOLFRE_, _A GOTHIC SWISS TALE_. IN FIVE PARTS.

Where freezing wastes of dazzl’ing Snow O’er LEMAN’s Lake rose, tow’ring; The BARON GOLFRE’s Castle strong Was seen, the silv’ry peaks among, With ramparts, darkly low’ring!—

Tall Battlements of flint, uprose, Long shadowing down the valley, A grove of sombre Pine, antique, Amid the white expanse would break, In many a gloomy alley.

A strong portcullis entrance show’d, With ivy brown hung over; And stagnate the green moat was found, Whene’er the Traveler wander’d round, Or moon-enamour’d Lover.

Within the spacious Courts were seen A thousand gothic fancies; Of banners, trophies, armour bright, Of shields, thick batter’d in the fight, And interwoven lances.

The BARON GOLFRE long had been To solitude devoted; And oft, in pray’r would pass the night ’Till day’s vermillion stream of light Along the blue hill floated.

And yet, his pray’r was little mark’d With pure and calm devotion; For oft, upon the pavement bare, He’d dash his limbs and rend his hair With terrible emotion!

And sometimes he, at midnight hour Would howl, like wolves, wide-prowling; And pale, the lamps would glimmer round— And deep, the self-mov’d bell would sound A knell prophetic, tolling!

For, in the Hall, three lamps were seen, That quiver’d dim;—and near them A bell rope hung, that from the Tow’r Three knells would toll, at midnight’s hour, Startl’ing the soul to hear them!

And oft, a dreadful crash was heard, Shaking the Castle’s chambers! And suddenly, the lights would turn To paly grey, and dimly burn, Like faint and dying embers.

Beneath the steep, a Maiden dwelt, The dove-eyed ZORIETTO; A damsel blest with ev’ry grace— And springing from as old a race— As Lady of LORETTO!

Her dwelling was a Goatherd’s poor; Yet she his heart delighted; Their little hovel open stood, Beside a lonesome frowning wood, To travellers—benighted.

Yet oft, at midnight when the Moon Its dappled course was steering, The Castle bell would break their sleep, And ZORIETTO slow would creep— To bar the wicket—fearing!

What did she fear? O! dreadful thought! The Moon’s wan lustre, streaming; The dim grey lamps, the crashing sound, The lonely Bittern—shrieking round The roof,—with pale light gleaming.

And often, when the wintry wind Loud whistled o’er their dwelling; They sat beside their faggot fire While ZORIETTO’s aged Sire A dismal Tale was telling.