To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes,
To lover, lost in fairy dreams,
To hermit, whose prophetic thought
By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught,
And, in the visions of his rest,
Held bright communion with the blest;
'Tis sweet, but solemn there alike
Silence and sound with awe can strike.
The deep Eolian murmur made
By sighing breeze and rustling shade,
And cavern'd fountain gushing nigh,
And wild-bee's plaintive lullaby,
Or the dead stillness of the bowers,
When dark the summer-tempest lowers;
When silent Nature seems to wait
The gathering Thunder's voice of fate,
When the aspen scarcely waves in air,
And the clouds collect for the lightning's glare,
Each, each alike is awful there,
And thrills the soul with feelings high,
As some majestic harmony.
But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced
Each green retreat, in breathless haste,
Young Ella linger'd not, to hear
The wood-notes, lost on mourner's ear;
The shivering leaf, the breeze's play,
The fountain's gush, the wild-bird's lay;
These charm not now - her sire she sought,
With trembling frame, with anxious thought, And, starting, if a forest deer,
But moved the rustling branches near,
First felt that innocence may fear.
She reach'd a lone and shadowy dell, Where the free sunbeam never fell; 'Twas twilight there at summer-noon, Deep night beneath the harvest-moon, And scarce might one bright star be seen Gleaming the tangled boughs between; For many a giant rock around,
Dark, in terrific grandeur, frown'd,
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high, Shut out each glimpse of the blessed sky; There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave, Ne'er to Heaven's beam one sparkle gave, And the wild-flower, on its brink that grew, Caught not from day one glowing hue.
'Twas said, some fearful deed untold,
Had stain'd that scene in days of old;
Tradition o'er the haunt had thrown
A shade yet deeper than its own,
And still, amidst th' umbrageous gloom,
Perchance above some victim's tomb,
O'ergrown with ivy and with moss,
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross,
Which haply silent record bore,
Of guilt and penitence of yore.
Who by that holy sign was kneeling,
With brow unutter'd pangs revealing,
Hands clasp'd convulsively in prayer,
And lifted eyes and streaming hair,
And cheek, all pale as marble mould,
Seen by the moonbeam's radiance cold?
Was it some image of despair,
Still fix'd that stamp of woe to bear?
-Oh! ne'er could Art her forms have wrought,
To speak such agonies of thought!
Those death-like features gave to view
A mortal's pangs, too deep and true!
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye,
As Ella's hurried step drew nigh;
He turn'd, with aspect darkly wild,
Trembling he stood-before his child!
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung,
And to her father's bosom clung.
'Away! what seek'st thou here?" he cried, "Art thou not now thine Ulric's bride?
Hence, leave me, leave me to await,
In solitude, the storm of Fate;
Thou know'st not what my doom may be,
Ere evening comes in peace to thee."
My father! shall the joyous throng
Swell high for me the bridal song?
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread,
The festal garland bind my head,
And thou, in grief, in peril, roam,
And make the wilderness thy home?
No! I am here, with thee to share
All suffering mortal strength may bear;
And, oh! whate'er thy foes decree,
In life, in death, in chains, or free;
Well, well I feel, in thee secure,
Thy heart and hand alike are pure!"
Then was there meaning in his look, Which deep that trusting spirit shook; So wildly did each glance express
The strife of shame and bitterness,
As thus he spoke: "Fond dreams, oh hence!
Is this the mien of Innocence?
This furrow'd brow, this restless eye,
Read thou this fearful tale-and fly!
Is it enough? or must I seek
For words, the tale of guilt to speak?
Then be it so I will not doom
Thy youth to wither in its bloom;
I will not see thy tender frame
Bow'd to the earth with fear and shame.
No! though I teach thee to abhor
The sire, so fondly loved before;
Though the dread effort rend my breast,
Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest!
Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn
Away in horror and in scorn;
Thy looks, that still through all the past
Affection's gentlest beams have cast,
As lightning on my heart will fall,
And I must mark and bear it all!
Yet though of life's best ties bereaved,
Thou shalt not, must not be deceived!
I linger-let me speed the tale,
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail.
Why should I falter thus, to tell
What Heaven so long hath known too well?
Yes! though from mortal sight conceal'd,
There hath a brother's blood appeal'd!
He died-'t was not where banners wave
And war-steeds trample on the brave;
He died-it was in Holy Land;
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand;
He sleeps not with his sires at rest,
With trophied shield and knightly crest;
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes,
But I can tell thee where he lies!
It was a wild and savage spot,
But once beheld—and ne'er forgot!
I see it now— that haunted scene
My spirit's dwelling still hath been;
And he is there I see him laid
Beneath that palm-tree's lonely shade.
The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh,
Bears witness with its crimson dye!
I see th' accusing glance he raised,
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed;
-Ne'er will that parting look forgive!
I still behold it and I live!
I live! from hope, from mercy driven,
A mark for all the shafts of Heaven!
"Yet had I wrongs: by fraud he won
My birth-right-and my child, my son,
Heir to high name, high fortune born,
Was doom'd to penury and scorn,
An alien 'midst his fathers' halls,
An exile from his native walls.
Could I bear this?-the rankling thought, Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought; Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, Lurk'd in my infant's rosy smile,
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