Chapter 3

"Know'st thou not, Lora," cried the youthful sage, "That there are things the mind must prize above What captivates the senses! That in them She feels no interest, and she takes no care! That though sometimes an alien, she receives Delighted back the ensigns of her power, And takes her truant vassals into grace! That when thou bring'st to us that wounded mind, The grave of many feelings, language is As yet too poor to utter, thou canst give No richer, dearer token of regard."

"Were man indeed the only hope of man, I never would reprove thee for thy tears! But, they are vain! man has a surer trust! The helpless, weary, miserable wretch, Left by his fellows in the wilderness, Shall be supported in that trying hour, By a right arm, which, in his days of strength, He did not lean upon! A gracious arm, Which wounds the sick, and heals them by the stroke. O! Lora! to the Father of the world, A Judge so patient and so merciful. That he refuses not the latest sigh. Nor suffers sorrow but as means to save, Canst thou not trust the objects of thy care!

"Hadst thou the power to help them--it were well, To be most anxious. To collect thy freight Of human sorrow, and, by merchandize, Exchange it for the riches of the world: For health, for comfort, nay, perchance for life, That gem of countless value, which sometimes, Not all the treasures of the East can buy, Tendered with supplications and with tears, Is often purchas'd at a petty price, Nay, in exchange for courtesy. What joy Must in that moment fill the merchant's heart, To win a jewel, kings monopolize The sole disposal of! Be patient then! This glorious privilege may yet be thine! Deserve it only by fulfilling all The gentler duties that have present claims With cheerfulness and zeal--Let no neglect Press on thy father's age, no discontent Sour thee with thy companions, no mistrust Give pain to friendship, and thy usefulness Though calm and bounded, has no mean award."

Thus, like a prophet, did he still enforce Only the virtues and rare qualities Congenial with her after destiny; Yet, not foreseeing evil, he himself Was unprepared, and when her father led, Her opposition and entreaty past, The hapless Lora forth, to promise love And honour to a man, whose vacant mind, Throughout a course of long succeeding years, She vainly strove to soften and to raise, Though he had taught her patience till that hour, His own at once forsook him, and he fled.

She murmur'd not, nor even seem'd to mourn, But losing all her love of solitude, Appear'd so active in each new pursuit, So wholly what her anxious father wish'd, That he repented not his cruelty. Believing in her happiness, he felt Himself the author, and became more proud Of his own wisdom: yet she often heard His wayward taunt or querulous complaint, And, from the lordly partner of her fate, The harsher sound of ignorant rebuke. She was a matchless woman, when she lost The timid graces of retiring youth, She still was lovely, for her shaded eyes Beam'd with a lofty sweetness, a content Beyond the pow'r of fortune to destroy. Careless of let or hindrance, she went on, Nor shrunk nor started at the many thorns Strew'd in her toilsome path; still looking forth To others' weal, forgetful it would seem, Perchance in heart despairing of her own. The friend, the help, the comforter of all, No voice was heard so cheerful, nor a step So bounding and so light. 'Twas wonderful! For I have seen her, when her polish'd arm Has clasp'd the nurseling, with her face conceal'd Bent fondly o'er; and I have mark'd each limb To boast a fine expansion, as if thrill'd With the deep feelings of maternal love And aching tenderness, too highly wrought For happy souls to cherish! they delight In painless joys, and, on the infant's cheek, Rounded and glowing with a finer bloom Than the wild-rose, careless imprint the kiss, Which sorrow always sanctions by a prayer. They in the radiance of its glancing eyes See nothing to suffuse with their own tears! Borne forward on the easy wing of Time, They travel on, they scarcely meet with Thought, Or, like a summer cloud, he passes by, His shadow rests one instant, and again The scene is calm and brilliant as before!

Not so with Lora, trouble, sickness, death, Were busy with the residue of peace, When years and care had weaken'd her regrets, Veil'd the sad recollection of past days, And overgrown the softness of her mind, As the close-creeping ivy hides and rusts The smooth and silver surface of the beech. An orphan and a widow--she became Decisive, watchful, prudent, nay severe To wilful disobedience or neglect; Though generous where she perceiv'd desert. She taught her children with unceasing zeal, Sought knowledge for their sakes, and, more than all, Anxious, inquisitive about the heart, Search'd all the motives, all the incidents In which it was unfolded; fencing still Each treacherous failing with a double guard, And oft repeated warnings; well conceal'd, Or given with so much kindness, that they serv'd To draw more closely every knot of love. Nor did she cease to urge her pious cares By constant vigilance, till riper age Had fix'd the moral sense, when, as a bow For a long active season tightly strain'd Relaxes, tumult and contention o'er, She sunk into indulgence, glad to yield To mildness, nature, and herself again.

Youth, e'en when wise and good, requires a change, Delights in novelty, and hears of nought Which suddenly it asks not to behold; And Lora's children oft assail'd her ear To let them journey to some rumour'd scene, Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance, Urging her still to bear them company. She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time (The fav'rite legend of our country folk Hath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'd Carelessly in the crowd, remember'd notes Struck by a harper in a distant tent, Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songs Which are, they say, the harbingers of death, Flow'd on her ear--when, with impulsive spring, As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet, Fearing the sounds would vanish into air, And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot, She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend, The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'd The hand that lay upon the quivering chords, Stopping their melody and resting mute. The pause was awful--He at length exclaim'd, In a deep, laboured cry, "Ye heavenly powers! If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!" She could not speak, but with her other hand Clasp'd his, and sigh'd and rais'd her eyes to heaven, When straight the big, round tears began to flow; "And is it thee, dear Lora! Art thou come Again to gladden one, who never found 'Mid countless who are good, a heart like thine! Oh! speak! that I may know if still my ear Retains a true remembrance of that voice! For since, it has not drank so sweet a sound."

"Hail happy day!" cried Lora, "which restores The friend whose absence I have mourn'd so long! For thou, O! Osborne! must with me return, Me and my children! They shall hear again Those counsels which inform'd their mother's heart; Gave courage in the hour of enterprize, Calmness in danger, patience under ills That like a swarm of insects buz around, And vex the spirit which they cannot rouse. Return, my early, long-lost friend! with us Thou shalt enjoy repose: our cheerful home Shall gather round thee many an honest heart Which knows thy virtues, and will hold thee dear."

She paus'd, and Osborne joyful gave assent. Fair hopes of joy engaged his faultering mind, For long-time had he dragg'd a weary life, Lone, or bereav'd of relative or friend, Careful to tend his health, and to divert His sadness; each succeeding hour had press'd With its slow-passing wing his gentle head Drooping and prematurely silver'd o'er, (Like snows depending on the autumn leaf) Yet warm, benevolent, serene, resign'd, And like an angel save in youth and joy.

A winding path round yonder wooded hill, Leads to a spot where Nature decks herself In loveliness and beauty: far below Spreads the green valley, where a silent stream Turns, like a serpent writhing in its course; And, rarified by distance, kissing heaven, In many noble and fantastic shapes, A giant range of purple mountains sleeps. Grand is the scene, and in the centre stands The tomb of Osborne--after many years Of happiness and friendship, Lora rais'd This plain memorial, and her children plac'd A mother's near, to tell succeeding years Their talents and their virtue. They themselves More forcibly express the worth of both, For they are wise and good, without a shade Of cold severity or selfish pride.

* * * * *

REFLECTION.

August 2, 1798.

Why should we think the years of life Will pass serenely by, When, for a day, the Sun himself Ne'er sees a cloudless sky!

And, unassuming as she moves, The meek-eyed Queen of night, Meets wand'ring vapours in her path To dim her paler light!

Then why should we in vain repine At man's uncertain lot, That cares will equally assail The palace and the cot?

For Heaven ordains this chequer'd scene Our mortal pow'rs t' employ; That we might know, compare, select, Be grateful, and enjoy.

[For the last verse I am indebted to the pen of a Friend.]

* * * * *

RETROSPECT OF YOUTH.

I wander'd forth amid the flow'rs, And careless sipp'd the morning air; Nor hail'd the angel-winged hours, Nor saw that Happiness was there! Alas! I often since have wept That Gratitude unconscious slept!

For Truth and Pity then were young, And walk'd in simple, narrow bounds; Affection's meek, assuasive tongue, Had sweet, but most capricious sounds. Once, wild with scornful pride, she fled, And only turn'd to seek the dead!

Oh! from a garden of delight, What fair memento did I bring! What amaranth of colours bright, To mark the promise of my spring? Behold this flow'r! its leaves are wet, With tears of lasting, vain regret!

* * * * *

THE DAUGHTER.

1797.

"Come, mournful lute! dear echo of my woe! No stranger's tread in this lone spot I fear, Sweeter thy notes in such wild places flow, And, what is more, my Henry cannot hear!

"He will not know my pain and my despair, When that dread scene arises on my view, Where my poor father would not hear my pray'r, Or grant his only child a last adieu!

"He will not know that still the hour I mourn, When death all hopes of pardon snatch'd away; That still this heart by sad remembrance torn, Repeats the dreadful mandate of that day.

"Luckless for him has been my constant love, Luckless the destiny I bade him brave, For since a parent did our vows reprove, Sorrow was all the gift my fondness gave.

"Then, though I knew my father's stern command, The short-liv'd conflict of affection o'er, I offer'd to the youth my dowerless hand, And fondly reason'd thus on being poor,

"'Can pomp or splendour elevate the soul, Brighten the lustre that illumes the eye! Make the rough stream of life more smoothly roll, Suppress the tear, or waft away the sigh!

"'Can happiness a purer joy receive, In the proud mansions of the rich and great? Or, tell me, can the wounded bosom heave With blunted anguish under robes of state!

"'No! Henry, no! Alas! too well you know, The misery of an affected smile, The pain of clearing the thought-clouded brow, To covet for yourself the hateful toil!

"'And since my choice, and reason both approve, Since I have known you many a circling year, And time has well assur'd me of your love, Tell me, my Henry, what have I to fear?

"'My father, though by worldly prudence led, Will pardon when our happiness is told.' Alas! no curses fell upon my head, But never did he more his child behold.

"He would not, dying, hear my ardent prayer! But, cruel! said, I leave her all my store; She wrung my doating heart with deep despair, And even now perhaps desires no more.

"This is the stroke which all my peace destroys, The dagger which no art can draw away, The thought which every faculty employs, Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay.

"His death, his sorrows are the heavy curse That hangs above my poor, distracted head! His dying words have scatter'd vain remorse, For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed.

"And yet my father to my soul was dear, But tender pity was on Henry's side; I painted him relenting, not severe, Nor fancied I could be an orphan bride.

"Ah me! excuses will not cure my pain! At least, forgetfulness can little plead. A widow'd parent!--I deserv'd disdain, 'Tis fit these eyes should weep, this heart should bleed!

"But yet assist me heaven! to hide my grief, My waning health from love's suspicious eyes! This malady admits of no relief, And nought augments the pain, but Henry's sighs.

"Perhaps e'en now he wonders at my stay, Sees the white fogs of evening rise around, Comes out to seek me in my devious way, But turns not to this unfrequented ground.

"Alas! my love, thy anxious care is vain! Nothing can stop yon wand'rer of the sky; Nothing can long this fleeting life retain! For oh! I feel that I must shortly die.

"But cease my lute, this low, desponding strain, It floats too long upon the heavy air; Henry may pass and know that I complain. One moment's peace to him is worth my care."

She said, and toward the cheerless mansion flew, Her slender, sylph-like form array'd in white, Not clearly seen amidst surrounding dew, Seem'd like a spirit ling'ring in its flight.

Poor Henry, who had watch'd her in the shade, In aching silence list'ning to her song, At distance follow'd slowly through the glade, Pausing forgetful as he pass'd along.

* * * * *

YOUTH UNSUSPICIOUS OF EVIL.

O bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r! And look not up so fresh and bright! The keen, harsh wind, the heavy show'r, Will spoil thy beauties ere the night.

I grieve to see thee look so gay. And so unconscious of thy lot, For gloom and tempests wait thy day, And thou, unhappy, fear'st it not!

Thy tender leaflets all unfold, Their colours ripen and refine, Become most lovely to behold, And, ah! most apt to shrink and pine.

Then, bend thy head, sweet morning flow'r! I grieve to see thee look so gay! Close thy soft wings against the show'r, And wait a more auspicious day!

* * * * *

THE MOTHER.

"And beats my heart again with joy! And dances now my spirit light! The skiff that holds my darling boy This moment burst upon my sight!

"Not yet distinctly I perceive Amid the crew his well-known form, But still his safety I believe, I know he has escap'd the storm.

"I feel as if my heart had wings, And tender from excess of bliss, His form, which airy fancy brings, In fond emotion seem to kiss.

"Welcome the wild, imperfect rest, Which these bewilder'd spirits share! Welcome this tumult of the breast, After the shudder of despair!

"My Robert he is brave and strong, He will these flowing tears reprove. Alas! how little know the young, The tremor of a Mother's love.

"For we are weak from many a care, From many a sleepless, anxious hour, When fear and hope the bosom tear, And ride the brain with fevering power.

"But lo! he cheerly waves his hand! I hear his voice! I see his face! And eager now he springs to land, To meet a Mother's fond embrace!

"This failing heart! but joy to me, If heaven in pity is thy guard; And of the pangs I feel for thee, Protection be the dear reward!"

* * * * *

EDGAR AND ELLEN.

"Arrest thy steps! On these sad plains, Fair dame, no farther go! But listen to the martial strains, Whose wildness speaks of woe!

Hark! strife is forward on the field, I hear the trumpet's bray! Now spear to spear, and shield to shield, Decides the dreadful day!

Unfit for thee, oh! Lady fair! The scenes where men engage; Thy gentle spirit could not bear The fearful battle's rage."

"I prithee, stranger, let me fly! Though pallid is my cheek, The lightning's flash delights my eye, I love the thunder's break.

And oft beneath our castle tow'rs, When tempests rush'd along, My steady hand has painted flowers, Or voice has rais'd the song."

"Oh Lady! that bewilder'd eye Is red with recent tears; Already that heart-startling sigh Proclaims thy anxious fears.

Then let a stranger's words prevail, Nor thus in danger roam! Here many frightful ills assail, But safety is at home!"

"No, in some peasant's lowly cot Perhaps she may abide, To consecrate the humble spot, But not where I reside.

In Hubert's halls, my father's foe, From childhood have I dwelt, And for his wily murderer too, A filial fondness felt.

Ah me! how often have I press'd The lips which seal'd his doom! How oft the cruel hand caress'd Which sent him to the tomb!

My nurse reveal'd the dreadful truth, And, as she told the tale, A sickly blight pass'd o'er my youth, And turn'd its roses pale.

The heavy secret on my heart Like deadly poison prey'd; For she forbade me to impart A word of what she said.

I, who so blithely sung before, So peacefully had slept, Fancied gaunt murder at the door, And listen'd, shook, and wept.

No longer with an open smile, I greeted all around; My fearful looks were fix'd the while, In terror on the ground.

All saw the change, and kindly strove My sadness to relieve; Base Hubert feign'd a parent's love, Which could not see me grieve.

A painful anger flush'd my cheek, My lip indignant smil'd, I cried, "And did he e'er bespeak Thy friendship for his child?"

"Ellen! when death was drawing nigh, Thou wert his only care; Oh! guard her, Hubert, if I die, It is my latest prayer.

To none, dear friend, but thee," he cried, "Whose love and truth are known, Could I this precious charge confide, To cherish, as thy own!"

I pledg'd my honour, to fulfil My dearest friend's desire! And I have ever acted still, As honour's laws require!

Thy mind, dear Ellen, is the proof Of my paternal care, Since form'd beneath this friendly roof, So excellent and fair.

Then why that cloud upon thy brow, That sullen, fearful sigh! That something which we must not know, That cold and altered eye?

Why must thy proud, suspicious air, Give every heart a pain? Why must my son, my Edgar bear Unmerited disdain?"

I hung my bead, my fault'ring tongue In feeble murmurs spoke, His specious art my bosom wrung, I shudder'd at his look.

And thus, bewildered with my woes, I faint and careless rove; For oh! I cannot dwell with those I must no longer love."

"Fair lady, calm that anxious heart, And to my voice attend! Thy father died by Hubert's dart, And yet he was his friend.

For Lancaster Sir Philip rose, And many a Yorkist slew; Till, singling him amidst his foes, Lord Hubert's arrow flew.

But soon we saw the victor stand Beside, in sorrow drown'd; And soon Sir Philip took the hand, Which gave the deadly wound.

"My friend, unweeting was thy aim, And is by me forgiv'n, But oh! one sacred oath I claim, In sight of men, and heav'n!

Oh! promise with a father's zeal, My Ellen to protect! Nor let her like an orphan feel Dependence, and neglect!

And then, almost without regret, I can my charge resign; For, during life, I never met So true a heart as thine."

Lord Hubert pledg'd his sacred word, He wept, and, kneeling, swore, In England ne'er to wield a sword, Or shoot an arrow more.

From civil war, whose daily crimes This island long shall rue, From all the evil of the times, In anguish he withdrew.

I wonder that, by nature bold, He stoop'd to wear disguise, Or leave the hapless tale untold, Which wakens thy surprise!

Yet the sad shame that fill'd his breast, May well thy pity crave, A turtle dove may build her nest Upon thy father's grave--"

"Stranger, that warrior from the east, Who comes with headlong speed, Is Edgar, Hubert's son, at least, He rides on Edgar's steed!"

"Be calm, fair maid! Thou gallant knight, Who speedest o'er the plain, Give us some tidings of the fight, The victor and the slain!

One moment stay! for many a care Now fills us with alarm! Is Edward King? Is Hubert's heir, Escap'd from death and harm?"

"The sun of Lancaster is set, And never more to rise;" Return'd the knight, "I know not yet If Edgar lives or dies!"

And scarce he check'd the flowing rein, In hurried accents spoke, And, dull and hollow was the strain That through the helmet broke.

"Where is he?" shriek'd fair Ellen forth, He started at the sound, And, leaping sudden on the earth, His armour rang around.

"Queen of my destiny!" he cried, "Thy faithful Edgar see! Whose welfare thou canst best decide, For it depends on thee!

I sav'd our youthful Monarch's life, Whose bounteous hand accords, A dower to grace the noblest wife That England's realm affords.

With thee his splendid gifts I share, Or soon this youthful head A solemn monk's dark cowl shall wear, To love and glory dead.

Perhaps that tear upon thy cheek Foretels a milder doom! Thou wilt again our mansion seek, Oh! let me lead thee home!"

_FINIS._