PART FIRST. NIGHT veiled the mountains of the vine, And storms had roused the foaming Rhine, And, mingling with the pinewood's roar, Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, While glen and cavern, to their moans Gave answer with a thousand tones. Then, as the voice of storms appalled The peasant of the Odenwald, Shuddering he deemed, that far on high, 'Twas the Wild Huntsman rushing by, Riding the blast with phantom speed, With cry of hound and tramp of steed, While his fierce train, as on they flew, Their horns in savage chorus blew, Till rock, and tower, and convent round, Rang to the shrill unearthly sound. Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced The forest paths, in secret haste; Far other sounds were on the night, Though lost amidst the tempest's might, That filled the echoing earth and sky With its own awful harmony. There stood a lone and ruined fane Far on in Odenwald's domain. 'Midst wood and rock, a deep recess Of still and shadowy loneliness. Long grass its pavement had o'ergrown, The wild-flower waved o'er the altar stone, The night-wind rocked the tottering pile, As it swept along the roofless aisle, For the forest boughs and the stormy sky Were all that minster's canopy. Many a broken image lay In the mossy mantle of decay, And partial light the moonbeams darted O'er trophies of the long departed; For there the chiefs of other days, The mighty, slumbered with their praise: 'Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven A tribute to their bier had given, Long since a sound but the moaning blast Above their voiceless home had passed. -- So slept the proud, and with them all The records of their fame and fall; Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest, Adorned the dwelling of their rest, And emblems of the Holy Land Were carved by some forgotten hand. But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced; And the scattered leaves of the northern pine Half hid the palm of Palestine. So slept the glorious -- lowly laid, As the peasant in his native shade; Some hermit's tale, some shepherd's rhyme, All that high deeds could win from time! What footsteps move with measured tread Amid those chambers of the dead? What silent shadowy beings glide Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside, Peopling the wild and solemn scene With forms well suited to its mien? Wanderer, away! let none intrude On their mysterious solitude! Lo! these are they, that awful band, The secret watchers of the land -- They that unknown and uncontrolled, Their dark and dread tribunal hold. They meet not in the monarch's dome, They meet not in the chieftain's home; But where, unbounded o'er their heads, All heaven magnificently spreads, And from its depths of cloudless blue The eternal stars their deeds may view! Where'er the flowers of the mountain sod By roving foot are seldom trod; Where'er wild legends mark a spot, By mortals shunned, but unforgot: There, circled by the shades of night, They judge of crimes that shrink from light; And guilt that deems its secret known To the One unslumbering eye alone, Yet hears their name with a sudden start, As an icy touch had chilled the heart, For the shadow of the avenger's hand Rests dark and heavy on the land. There rose a voice from the ruin's gloom, And woke the echoes of the tomb, As if the noble hearts beneath Sent forth deep answers to its breath. -- "When the midnight stars are burning, And the dead to earth returning; When the spirits of the blest Rise upon the good man's rest; When each whisper of the gale Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale; In the shadow of the hour That o'er the soul hath deepest power, Why thus meet we, but to call For judgment on the criminal? Why, but the doom of guilt to seal And point the avenger's holy steel? A fearful oath has bound our souls, A fearful power our arm controls! There is an ear awake on high Even to thought's whispers ere they die; There is an eye whose beam pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades: That ear hath heard our awful vow, That searching eye is on us now! Let him whose heart is unprofaned, Whose hand no blameless blood hath stained -- Let him whose thoughts no record keep Of crimes in silence buried deep, Here, in the face of heaven, accuse The guilty whom its wrath pursues!" 'Twas hushed -- that voice of thrilling sound! And a dead silence reigned around. Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form Towered like a phantom in the storm; Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, With his dark folds his face to shroud, Through pillared arches on he passed, With stately step, and paused at last, Where, on the altar's mouldering stone, The fitful moonbeam brightly shone; Then on the fearful stillness broke Low solemn tones, as thus he spoke. "Before that eye whose glance pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades; Heard by that ear awake on high Even to thought's whispers ere they die -- With all a mortal's awe I stand, Yet with pure heart and stainless hand. To heaven I lift that hand, and call For judgment on the criminal: The earth is dyed with bloodshed's hues -- It cries for vengeance. I accuse!" "Name thou the guilty! Say for whom Thou claim'st the inevitable doom." "Albert of Lindheim -- to the skies The voice of blood against him cries; A brother's blood -- his hand is dyed With the deep stain of fratricide. One hour, one moment, hath revealed What years in darkness had concealed, But all in vain -- the gulf of time Refused to close upon his crime; And guilt that slept on flowers shall know The earthquake was but hushed below! -- Here, where amidst the noble dead, Awed by their fame, he dare not tread; Where, left by him to dark decay, Their trophies moulder fast away, Around us and beneath us lie The relics of his ancestry -- The chiefs of Lindheim's ancient race, Each in his last low dwelling-place. But one is absent -- o'er @3his@1 grave The palmy shades of Syria wave; Far distant from his native Rhine, He died unmourned in Palestine; The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land To perish by a brother's hand! Peace to his soul! though o'er his bed No dirge be poured, no tear be shed, Though all he loved his name forget, @3They@1 live who shall avenge him vet!" "Accuser! how to thee alone Became the fearful secret known?" "There is an hour when vain remorse First wakes in her eternal force; When pardon may not be retrieved, When conscience will not be deceived. He that beheld the victim bleed -- Beheld and aided in the deed -- When earthly fears had lost their power, Revealed the tale in such an hour, Unfolding with his latest breath All that gave keener pangs to death." "By Him, the All-seeing and Unseen, Who is for ever, and hath been. And by the atoner's cross adored, And by the avenger's holy sword, By truth eternal and divine, Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?" -- "The cross upon my heart is prest, I hold the dagger to my breast! If false the tale whose truth I swear, Be mine the murderer's doom to bear!" Then sternly rose the dread reply -- "His days are numbered -- he must die" There is no shadow of the night So deep as to conceal his flight; Earth doth not hold so lone a waste But there his footsteps shall be traced; Devotion hath no shrine so blest That there in safety he may rest. Where'er he treads, let vengeance there Around him spread her secret snare. In the busy haunts of men, In the still and shadowy glen, When the social board is crowned, When the wine-cup sparkles round; When his couch of sleep is pressed, And a dream his spirit's guest; When his bosom knows no fear, Let the dagger still be near, Till, sudden as the lightning's dart, Silent and swift it reach his heart. One warning voice, one fearful word, Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, Then vainly may the guilty fly, Unseen, unaided, -- he must die! Let those he loves prepare his tomb, Let friendship lure him to his doom! Perish his deeds, his name, his race, Without a record or a trace! Away! be watchful, swift and free, To wreak the invisible's decree. 'Tis passed -- the avenger claims his prey: On to the chase of death -- away!" And all was still. The sweeping blast Caught not a whisper as it passed; The shadowy forms were seen no more, The tombs deserted as before; And the wide forest waved immense In dark and lone magnificence. II. IN Lindheim's towers the feast had closed; The song was hushed, the bard reposed; Sleep settled on the weary guest, And the castle's lord retired to rest. To rest? The captive doomed to die May slumber, when his hour is nigh; The seaman, when the billows foam, Rocked on the mast, may dream of home; The warrior, on the battle's eve, May win from care a short reprieve: But earth and heaven alike deny Their peace to guilt's o'erwearied eye; And night, that brings to grief a calm, To toil a pause, to pain a balm, Hath spells terrific in her course, Dread sounds and shadows, for Remorse -- Voices, that long from earth have fled, And steps and echoes from the dead, And many a dream whose forms arise Like a dark world's realities! Call them not vain illusions -- born But for the wise and brave to scorn! Heaven, that the penal doom defers, Hath yet its thousand ministers, To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, In shade, in silence, and alone, Concentrating in one brief hour Ages of retribution's power! -- If thou wouldst know the lot of those Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, Ah! seek them not where pleasure's throng Are listening to the voice of song; Seek them not where the banquet glows, And the red vineyard's nectar flows: There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek, The eye of feverish joy may speak, And smiles, the ready mask of pride, The canker-worm within may hide. Heed not those signs -- they but delude; Follow, and mark their solitude! The song is hushed, the feast is done, And Lindheim's lord remains alone -- Alone in silence and unrest, With the dread secret of his breast; Alone with anguish and with fear -- There needs not an avenger here! Behold him! Why that sudden start? Thou hear'st the beating of thy heart! Thou hear'st the night-wind's hollow sigh, Thou hear'st the rustling tapestry! No sound but these may near thee be; Sleep! all things earthly sleep, but thee. -- No! there are murmurs on the air, And a voice is heard that cries -- "Despair!" And he who trembles fain would deem 'Twas the whisper of a waking dream. Was it but this? Again! 'tis there: Again is heard -- "Despair! Despair!" 'Tis past -- its tones have slowly died In echoes on the mountain side; Heard but by him, they rose, they fell, He knew their fearful meaning well, And shrinking from the midnight gloom, As from the shadow of the tomb, Yet shuddering, turned in pale dismay, When broke the dawn's first kindling ray, And sought, amidst the forest wild, Some shade where sunbeam never smiled. Yes! hide thee, Guilt! The laughing morn Wakes in a heaven of splendour born; The storms that shook the mountain crest Have sought their viewless world of rest. High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, Soars the young eagle in the blaze, Exulting as he wings his way, To revel in the fount of day. And brightly past his banks of vine, In glory, flows the monarch Rhine; And joyous peals the vintage song His wild luxuriant shores along, As peasant bands, from rock and dell, Their strains of choral transport swell. And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, Aspiring to the realm of storms, And woods around and waves below Catch the red Orient's deepening glow, That lends each tower and convent spire A tinge of its ethereal fire. III. SWELL high the song of festal hours! Deck ye the shrine with living flowers! Let music o'er the water breathe! Let beauty twine the bridal wreath! While she, whose blue eye laughs in light, Whose cheek with love's own hue is bright, The fair-haired maid of Lindheim's hall Wakes to her nuptial festival. -- Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar To worlds the soul would fain explore, When, for her own blest country pining, Its beauty o'er her thought is shining, -- Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye Was all one beam of ecstasy; Whose glorious brow no traces wore Of guilt, or sorrow known before; Whose smile undimmed by aught of earth, A sunbeam of immortal birth, Spoke of bright realms far distant lying, Where love and joy are both undying? Even thus -- a vision of delight, A beam to gladden mortal sight, A flower whose head no storm has bowed, Whose leaves ne'er dropped beneath a cloud -- Thus, by the world unstained, untried, Seemed that beloved and lovely bride; A being all too soft and fair One breath of earthly woe to bear. Yet lives there many a lofty mind In light and fragile form enshrined; And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye Hide strength to suffer and to die. Judge not of woman's heart in hours That strew her path with summer flowers, When joy's full cup is mantling high, When flattery's blandishments are nigh: Judge her not then! within her breast Are energies unseen, that rest. They wait their call -- and grief alone May make the soul's deep secrets known. Yes! let her smile 'midst pleasure's train, Leading the reckless and the vain! Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, Besprinkled with the martyr's blood; Her voice the patriot's heart hath steeled, Her spirit glowed on battlefield; Her courage freed from dungeon's gloom The captive brooding o'er his doom; Her faith the fallen monarch saved, Her love the tyrant's fury braved; No scene of danger or despair, But she hath won her triumph there! Away! nor cloud the festal morn With thoughts of boding sadness born. Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, Fair daughter of a noble line! Young Ella! from thy tower whose height Hath caught the flush of eastern light, Watching, while soft the morning air Parts on thy brow the sunny hair, Yon bark, that o'er the calm blue tide Bears thy loved warrior to his bride -- Him, whose high deeds romantic praise Hath hallowed with romantic lays. He came, that youthful chief -- he came, That favoured lord of love and fame; His step was hurried -- as of one Who seeks a voice within to shun; His cheek was varying, and expressed The conflict of a troubled breast; His eye was anxious -- doubt and dread, And a stern grief, might there be read. Yet all that marked his altered mien Seemed struggling to be still unseen. With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, Young Ella met the brow austere, And the wild look, which seemed to fly The timid welcomes of her eye. Was that a lover's gaze which chilled The soul, its awful sadness thrilled? A lover's brow, so darkly fraught With all the heaviest gloom of thought? She trembled. Ne'er to grief inured, By its dread lessons ne'er matured, Unused to meet a glance of less Than all a parent's tenderness, Shuddering she felt through every sense The deathlike faintness of suspense. High o'er the windings of the flood, On Lindheim's terraced rocks they stood, Whence the free sight afar might stray O'er that imperial river's way, Which, rushing from its Alpine source, Makes one long triumph of its course, Rolling in tranquil grandeur by 'Midst nature's noblest pageantry. But they, o'er that majestic scene, With clouded brow and anxious mien, In silence gazed. For Ella's heart Feared its own terrors to impart: And he, who vainly strove to hide His pangs, with all a warrior's pride, Seemed gathering courage to unfold Some fearful tale that must be told. At length his mien, his voice, obtained A calm that seemed by conflicts gained, As thus he spoke -- "Yes! gaze awhile On the bright scenes that round thee smile; For, if thy love be firm and true, Soon must thou bid their charms adieu. A fate hangs o'er us whose decree Must bear me far from them or thee. Our path is one of snares and fear -- I lose thee if I linger here. Droop not, beloved! thy home shall rise As fair, beneath far-distant skies; As fondly tenderness and truth Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. But speak! and when you hallowed shrine Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more To tread thine own loved mountain-shore, But share and soothe, repining not, The bitterness of exile's lot?" "Ulric! thou know'st how dearly loved The scenes where first my childhood roved; The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme Above our own majestic stream; The halls where first my heart beat high To the proud songs of chivalry. All, all are dear -- yet @3these@1 are ties Affection well may sacrifice; Loved though they be, where'er thou art, @3There@1 is the country of my heart! Yet there is one, who, reft of me, Were lonely as a blasted tree; One, who still hoped my hand should close His eye in nature's last repose. Eve gathers round him -- on his brow Already rests the wintry snow; His form is bent, his features wear The deepening lines of age and care; His faded eye hath lost its fire; Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire! Yet tell me all -- thy woes impart, My Ulric! to a faithful heart, Which sooner far -- oh! doubt not this -- Would share @3thy@1 pangs than others' bliss." "Ella, what wouldst thou? -- 'tis a tale Will make that cheek as marble pale! Yet what avails it to conceal All thou too soon must know and feel? It must, it must be told; prepare, And nerve that gentle heart to bear. But I -- oh, was it then for @3me@1 The herald of thy woes to be -- Thy soul's bright calmness to destroy, And wake thee first from dreams of joy? Forgive! I would not ruder tone Should make the fearful tidings known -- I would not that unpitying eyes Should coldly watch thine agonies. Better 'twere mine -- that task severe, To cloud thy breast with grief and fear. -- Hast thou not heard, in legends old, Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, Of those who meet in cave or glen, Far from the busy walks of men; Those who mysterious vigils keep, When earth is wrapped in shades and sleep, To judge of crimes, like Him on high, In stillness and in secrecy -- The unknown avengers, whose decree 'Tis fruitless to resist or flee -- Whose name hath cast a spell of power O'er peasant's cot and chieftain's tower? Thy sire -- O Ella! hope is fled! Think of him, mourn him, as the dead! Their sentence, theirs hath sealed his doom, And thou may'st weep as o'er the tomb. Yes, weep! -- relieve thy heart oppressed, Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast. Thy cheek is cold -- thy tearless eye Seems fixed in frozen vacancy. Oh, gaze not thus! -- thy silence break: Speak! if 'tis but in anguish, speak!" She spoke at length, in accents low, Of wild and half-indignant woe: -- "@3He@1 doomed to perish! @3he@1 decreed By their avenging arm to bleed! @3He@1, the renowned in holy fight, The Paynim's scourge, the Christian's might! Ulric! what mean'st thou? Not a thought Of that high mind with guilt is fraught! Say for which glorious trophy won. Which deed of martial prowess done, Which battlefield in days gone by Gained by his valour, must he die? Away! 'tis not @3his@1 lofty name Their sentence hath consigned to shame: 'Tis not his life they seek. Recall Thy words, or say he shall not fall!" Then sprang forth tears, whose blest relief Gave pleading softness to her grief: "And wilt thou not, by all the ties Of our affianced love," she cries -- "By all my soul hath fixed on thee, Of cherished hope for years to be, Wilt @3thou@1 not aid him? Wilt not thou Shield his grey head from danger now? And didst thou not in childhood's morn, That saw our young affections born, Hang round his neck and climb his knee, Sharing his parent smile with me? Kind, gentle Ulric! best beloved! Now be thy faith in danger proved! Though snares and terrors round him wait, @3Thou@1 wilt not leave him to his fate. Turn not away in cold disdain -- Shall thine own Ella plead in vain? How are thou changed! and must I bear That frown, that stern averted air? What mean they?" "Maiden, need'st thou ask? These features wear no specious mask. Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye With characters of mystery? This -- @3this@1 is anguish! Can it be? And plead'st thou for thy sire to @3me?@1 Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give, He must not meet my sight -- and live! Well may'st thou shudder! Of the band Who watch in secret o'er the land, Whose thousand swords 'tis vain to shun, The unknown, the unslumbering -- I am one! @3My@1 arm defend him! What were @3then@1 Each vow that binds the souls of men, Sworn on the cross, and deeply sealed By rites that may not be revealed? A breeze's breath, an echo's tone, A passing sound, forgot when gone. -- Nay, shrink not from me. I would fly, That he by other hands may die. What! think'st thou I would live to trace Abhorrence in that angel face? Beside thee should the lover stand, The father's life-blood on his brand? No! I have bade my home adieu, For other scenes mine eyes must view. Look on me, love! Now all is known. O Ella! must I fly alone?" But she was changed. Scarce heaved her breath; She stood like one prepared for death, And wept no more. Then casting down From her fair brows the nuptial crown, As joy's last vision from her heart, Cried, with sad firmness, "We must part! 'Tis past! These bridal flowers so frail, They may not brook one stormy gale, Survive -- too dear as still thou art -- Each hope they imaged; -- we must part. One struggle yet, and all is o'er: We love -- and may we meet no more! Oh! little knowest thou of the power Affection lends in danger's hour, To deem that fate should thus divide My footsteps from a father's side! Speed thou to other shores: I go To share his wanderings and his woe. Where'er his path of thorns may lead, Whate'er his doom by heaven decreed, If there be guardian powers above To nerve the heart of filial love, If courage may be won by prayer, Or strength by duty -- I can bear! Farewell! -- though in that sound be years Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, Though the soul vibrate to its knell Of joys departed -- yet, farewell!" Was @3this@1 the maid who seemed, erewhile, Born but to meet life's vernal smile? A being almost on the wing, As an embodied breeze of spring? A child of beauty and of bliss, Sent from some purer sphere to this -- Not, in her exile, to sustain The trial of one earthly pain; But as a sunbeam on to move, Wakening all hearts to joy and love? That airy form, with footsteps free, And radiant glance -- could this be she? From her fair cheek the rose was gone, Her eyes' blue sparkle thence had flown; Of all its vivid glow bereft, Each playful charm her lip had left. But what were these? On that young face, Far nobler beauty filled their place. 'Twas not the pride that scorns to bend, Though all the bolts of heaven descend; Not the fierce grandeur of despair, That half exults its fate to dare; Nor that wild energy which leads Th' enthusiast to fantastic deeds @3Her@1 mien, by sorrow unsubdued, Was fixed in silent fortitude; Not in its haughty strength elate, But calmly, mournfully sedate. 'Twas strange yet lovely to behold That spirit in so fair a mould, As if a rose-tree's tender form, Unbent, uubroke, should meet the storm. -- One look she cast where firmness strove With the deep pangs of parting love; One tear a moment in her eye Dimmed the pure light of constancy; And pressing, as to still, her heart, She turned in silence to depart. But Ulric, as with frenzy wrought, Then started from his trance of thought. "Stay thee! oh, stay! It must not be: All, all were well resigned for thee! Stay! till my soul each vow disown, But those which make me thine alone. If there be guilt -- there is no shrine More holy than that heart of thine. @3There@1 be my crime absolved: I take The cup of shame for thy dear sake. Oh @3shame!@1 -- oh no! to virtue true, Where @3thou@1 art, there is glory too. Go now! and to thy sire impart, He hath a shield in Ulric's heart, And thou a home. Remain, or flee, In life, in death -- I follow thee!" "There shall not rest one cloud of shame, O Ulric! on thy lofty name; There shall not one accusing word Against thy spotless faith be heard! Thy path is where the brave rush on, Thy course must be where palms are won: Where banners wave, and falchions glare, Son of the mighty! be thou there. Think on the glorious names that shine Along thy sire's majestic line; Oh, last of that illustrious race! Thou wert not born to meet disgrace. Well, well I know each grief, each pain, Thy spirit nobly could sustain; Even I, unshrinking, see them near, And what hast thou to do with fear? But when have warriors calmly borne The cold and bitter smile of scorn? 'Tis not for thee! Thy soul hath force To cope with all things -- but remorse; And this my brightest thought shall be, Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. Go! break thou not one solemn vow; Closed be the fearful conflict now; Go! but forget not how my heart Still at thy name will proudly start, When chieftains hear and minstrels tell Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well!" And thus they parted. Why recall The scene of anguish known to all? The burst of tears, the blush of pride, That fain those fruitless tears would hide; The lingering look, the last embrace, Oh! what avails it to retrace? They parted -- in that bitter word A thousand tones of grief are heard, Whose deeply-seated echoes rest In the fair cells of every breast. Who hath not known, who shall not know, That keen yet most familiar woe? Where'er affection's home is found, It meets her on the holy ground; The cloud of every summer hour, The canker-worm of every flower. Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, The mortal agony of love? The autumn moon slept bright and still On fading wood and purple hill; The vintager had hushed his lay, The fisher shunned the blaze of day, And silence o'er each green recess Brooded in misty sultriness, But soon a low and measured sound Broke on the deep repose around; From Lindheim's tower a glancing oar Bade the stream ripple to the shore. Sweet was that sound of waves which parted The fond, the true, the noble-hearted; And smoothly seemed the bark to glide, And brightly flowed the reckless tide, Though, mingling with its current, fell The last warm tears of love's farewell. PART SECOND. I. SWEET is the gloom of forest shades, Their pillared walks and dim arcades, With all the thousand flowers that blow A waste of loveliness, below, To him whose soul the world would fly For nature's lonely majesty: To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes, To lover, lost in fairy dreams, To hermit, whose poetic 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 caverned fountain gushing nigh, And wild-bees plaintive lullaby: Or the dead stillness of the bowers, When dark the summer tempest lours; 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 -- lingered 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 reached 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 frowned, And the ancient oaks that waved on high, Shut out each glimpse of the blessed sky. Then 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 stained that scene in days of old; Tradition o'er the haunt had thrown A shade yet deeper than its own; And still, amidst the 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 unuttered pangs revealing, Hands clasped 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 fixed that stamp of woe to bear? -- Oh! ne'er could Art her forms have wrought To speak such agonies of thought! Those deathlike 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 turned, 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 furrowed brow, this restless eye -- Read thou the fearful tale, and fly! Is it enough? or must I seek For @3words@1, 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 Bowed 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 shall 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 concealed, @3There@1 hath a brother's blood appealed! He died -- 'twas 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 birthright; and my child, my son, Heir to high name, high fortune born, Was doomed to penury and scorn, An alien 'midst his father's 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, Lurked in my infant's rosy smile, And when his accents lisped my name, They woke my inmost heart to flame! I struggled -- are there evil powers That claim their own ascendant hours? -- Oh! what should thine unspotted soul Or know or fear of @3their@1 control? Why on the fearful conflict dwell? Vainly I struggled, and I fell -- Cast down from every hope of bliss -- Too well thou know'st to what abyss! "'Twas done! -- that moment hurried by To darken all eternity. Years rolled away, long evil years, Of woes, of fetters, and of fears; Nor aught but vain remorse I gained By the deep guilt my soul which stained, For, long a captive in the lands Where Arabs tread their burning sands, The haunted midnight of the mind Was round me while in chains I pined, By all forgotten, save by one Dread presence -- which I could not shun, -- How oft, when o'er the silent waste Nor path nor landmark might be traced, When slumbering by the watch-fire's ray The Wanderers of the Desert lay, And stars as o'er an ocean shone, Vigil I kept -- but not alone! That form, that image from the dead, Still walked the wild with soundless tread! I've seen it in the fiery blast, I've seen it when the sand-storms passed; Beside the Desert's fount it stood, Tinging the clear cold wave with blood! And even when viewless, by the fear Curdling my veins, I knew 'twas near. -- @3Was@1 near! I feel the unearthly thrill, Its power is on my spirit still: A mystic influence, undefined, The spell, the shadow of my mind! "Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on; One last farewell, and then begone! Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow, And let me read thine aspect @3now!@1 No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed Heaven's justice to my crime decreed. Slow came the day that broke my chain, But I at large was free again; And freedom brings a burst of joy, Even guilt itself can scarce destroy. I thought upon my own fair towers, My native Rhine's gay vineyard bowers, And in a father's visions pressed Thee and thy brother to my breast. "'Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet Recall the moment when we met? Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, Thy arms around me fondly clung; Scarce aught than infant seraph less Seemed thy poor childhood's loveliness. But he was gone -- that son for whom I rushed on guilt's eternal doom; He for whose sake alone were given My peace on earth -- my hope in heaven -- He met me not. A ruthless band Whose name with terror filled the land, Fierce cutlaws of the wood and wild, Had reft the father of his child. Foes to my race, the hate they nursed Full on that cherished scion burst. Unknown his fate. -- No parent nigh, My boy! my first-born -- didst thou die? Or did they spare thee for a life Of shame, of rapine, and of strife? Livest thou unfriended, unallied, A wanderer lost, without a guide? Oh! to thy fate's mysterious gloom Blest were the darkness of the tomb! "Ella! 'tis done. My guilty heart Before thee all unveiled -- depart! Few pangs 'twill cost thee now to fly From one so stained -- so lost as I. Yet peace to thine untainted breast, Even though it hate me -- be thou blest! Farewell! thou shalt not linger here -- Even now the avenger may be near. Where'er I turn, the foe, the snare, The dagger may be ambushed there: One hour -- and haply all is o'er, And we must meet on earth no more. No, nor beyond! -- to those pure skies Where thou shalt be, I may not rise. Heaven's will for ever parts our lot, Yet, O my child! abhor me not! Speak once, to soothe this broken heart -- Speak to me once! and then depart." But still -- as if each pulse were dead, Mute -- as the power of speech were fled, Pale -- as if life-blood ceased to warm The marble beauty of her form; On the dark rocks she leaned her head, That seemed as there 'twere riveted, And dropped the hands, till then which pressed Her burning brow or throbbing breast. There beamed no tear-drop in her eye, And from her lip there breathed no sigh, And on her brow no trace there dwelt That told she suffered or she felt. All that once glowed, or smiled, or beamed, Now fixed, and quenched, and frozen seemed; And long her sire, in wild dismay, Deemed her pure spirit passed away. But life returned. O'er that cold frame One deep convulsive shudder came; And a faint light her eye relumed, And sad resolve her mien assumed, But there was horror in the gaze, Which yet to his she dared not raise; And her sad accents, wild and low, As rising from a depth of woe, At first with hurried trembling broke, But gathered firmness as she spoke. "I leave thee not -- whate'er betide, My footsteps shall not quit thy side; Pangs keen as death my soul may thrill, But yet thou art my father still! And, oh! if stained by guilty deed, For some kind spirit tenfold need, To speak of Heaven's absolving love, And waft desponding thought above. Is there not power in mercy's wave The blood-stain from thy soul to lave? Is there not balm to heal despair, In tears, in penitence, and prayer? My father! kneel at His pure shrine, Who died to expiate guilt like thine; Weep -- and my tears with thine shall blend, Pray -- while my prayers with thine ascend, And, as our mingling sorrows rise, Heaven will relent, though earth despise!" "My child, my child, these bursting tears, The first my eyes have shed for years, Though deepest conflicts they express, Yet flow not all in bitterness. Oh! thou hast bid a withered heart From desolation's slumber start; Thy voice of pity and of love, Seems o'er its icy depths to move Even as a breeze of health, which brings Life, hope, and healing on its wings. And there is mercy yet -- I feel Its influence o'er my spirit steal; How welcome were each pang below, If guilt might be atoned by woe. Think'st thou I yet may be forgiven? Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven? Oh! if it yet avail to plead, If judgment be not yet decreed, Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, Till pardon shall be sealed on high. Yet still I shrink? -- Will mercy shed Her dews upon this fallen head? -- Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free, Descend forgiveness, won by thee." They knelt -- before the Cross, that sign Of love eternal and divine; That symbol, which so long hath stood A rock of strength on time's dark flood, Clasped by despairing hands, and laved By the warm tears of nations saved. In one deep prayer their spirits blent, The guilty and the innocent. Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth, Age, soiled with every stain of earth, Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, One sacrifice of agony. Oh! blest, though bitter be their source -- Though dark the fountain of remorse, Blest are the tears which pour from thence, The atoning stream of penitence. And let not pity check the tide By which the heart is purified; Let not vain comfort turn its course, Or timid love repress its force. Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand To bear luxuriance o'er the land; Forbid the life-restoring rains To fall on Afric's burning plains; Close up the fount that gushed to cheer The pilgrim o'er the waste who trode, But check thou not one holy tear Which penitence devotes to God. II. THROUGH scenes so lone the wild-deer ne'er Was roused by huntsman's bugle there -- So rude that scarce might human eye Sustain their dread sublimity -- So awful that the timid swain, Nurtured amidst their dark domain, Had peopled with unearthly forms Their mists, their forests, and their storms, -- She, whose blue eye of laughing light Once made each festal scene more bright; Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest, By torrent-wave and mountain-brow Is wandering as an outcast now, To share with Lindheim's fallen chief His shame, his terror, and his grief. Hast thou not marked the ruin's flower, That blooms in solitary grace, And, faithful to its mouldering tower, Waves in the banner's place? passed, From those grey haunts renown hath Time wins his heritage at last; The day of glory hath gone by, With all its pomp and minstrelsy; Yet still the flower of golden hues There loves its fragrance to diffuse, To fallen and forsaken things With constancy unaltered clings, And smiling o'er the wreck of state, With beauty clothes the desolate. -- Even such was she, the fair-haired maid In all her light of youth arrayed, Forsaking every joy below To soothe a guilty parent's woe, And clinging thus, in beauty's prime, To the dark ruin made by crime. Oh! ne'er did Heaven's propitious eyes Smile on a purer sacrifice; Ne'er did young love at duty's shrine, More nobly brightest hopes resign! O'er her own pangs she brooded not, Nor sank beneath her bitter lot; No! that pure spirit's lofty worth Still rose more buoyantly from earth, And drew from an eternal source Its gentle, yet triumphant force; Roused by affliction's chastening might To energies more calmly bright, Like the wild harp of airy sigh Woke by the storm to harmony. He that in mountain-holds hath sought A refuge for unconquered thought, A chartered home, where freedom's child Might rear her altars in the wild, And fix her quenchless torch on high, A beacon for eternity; Or they, whose master-spirits wage Proud war with Persecution's rage, And to the deserts bear the faith That bids them smile on chains and death; Well may @3they@1 draw, from all around, Of grandeur clothed in form or sound, From the deep power of earth and sky, Wild nature's might of majesty, Strong energies, immortal fires, High hopes, magnificent desires! But dark, terrific, and austere, To @3him@1 doth Nature's mien appear, Who 'midst her wilds would seek repose From guilty pangs and vengeful foes! For him the wind hath music dread, A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead; The forest's whisper breathes a tone Appalling, as from worlds unknown; The mystic gloom of wood and cave Is filled with shadows of the grave; In noon's deep calm the sunbeams dart A blaze that seems to search his heart; The pure eternal stars of night Upbraid him with their silent light; And the dread spirit, which pervades And hallows earth's most lonely shades, In every scene, in every hour, Surrounds him with chastising power -- With nameless fear his soul to thrill, Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still! 'Twas the chilly close of an autumn day, And the leaves fell thick o'er the wanderers' way; The rustling pines with a hollow sound Foretold the tempest gathering round; And the skirts of the western clouds were spread With a tinge of wild and stormy red, That seemed, through the twilight forest-bowers, Like the glare of a city's blazing towers. But they who far from cities fled, And shrank from the print of human tread, Had reached a desert scene unknown, So strangely wild, so deeply lone, That a nameless feeling, unconfessed And undefined, their souls oppressed. Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurled, Lay like the ruins of a world, Left by an earthquake's final throes In deep and desolate repose -- Things of eternity whose forms Bore record of ten thousand storms! While rearing its colossal crest In sullen grandeur o'er the rest, One, like a pillar, vast and rude, Stood monarch of the solitude. Perchance by Roman conqueror's hand The enduring monument was planned; Or Odin's sons, in days gone by, Had shaped its rough immensity, To rear, 'midst mountain, rock, and wood, A temple meet for rites of blood. But they were gone who might have told That secret of the times of old; And there in silent scorn it frowned O'er all its vast coevals round. Darkly those giant masses loured, Countless and motionless they towered; No wild-flower o'er their summits hung, No fountain from their caverns sprung; Yet ever on the wanderer's ear Murmured a sound of waters near, With music deep of lulling falls, And louder gush at intervals. Unknown its source -- nor spring nor stream Caught the red sunset's lingering gleam; But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, Arose that mystic voice of waves. Yet, bosomed 'midst that savage scene, One chosen spot of gentler mien Gave promise to the pilgrim's eye Of shelter from the tempest nigh. Glad sight! the ivied Cross it bore, The sculptured saint that crowned its door. Less welcome now were monarch's dome Than that low cell, some hermit's home. Thither the outcasts bent their way, By the last lingering gleam of day; When from a caverned rock, which cast Deep shadows o'er them as they past, A form, a warrior form of might, As from earth's bosom, sprang to sight. His port was lofty -- yet the heart Shrank from him with recoiling start; His mien was youthful -- yet his face Had naught of youth's ingenuous grace; Nor chivalrous nor tender thought Its traces on his brow had wrought. Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, But calm and cold severity, A spirit haughtily austere, Stranger to pity as to fear. It seemed as pride had thrown a veil O'er that dark brow and visage pale, Leaving the searcher naught to guess, All was so fixed and passionless. He spoke -- and they who heard the tone Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. "I've sought thee far in forest-bowers, I've sought thee long in peopled towers, I've borne the dagger of the UNKNOWN Through scenes explored by me alone; My search is closed -- nor toils nor fears Repel the servants of the Seers. We meet -- 'tis vain to strive or fly: Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!" Then with clasped hands the fair-haired maid Sank at his feet, and wildly prayed: -- "Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel! Oh! thou art human, and canst feel! Hear me! if e'er 'twas thine to prove The blessing of a parent's love; By thine own father's hoary hair, By her who gave thee being, spare! Did they not, o'er thy infant years, Keep watch in sleepless hopes and fears? Young warrior! thou wilt hear my prayers, As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!" But cold the Avenger's look remained, His brow its rigid calm maintained: "Maiden! 'tis vain -- my bosom ne'er Was conscious of a parent's care; The nurture of my infant years Froze in my soul the source of tears; 'Tis not for me to pause or melt, Or feel as happier hearts have felt. Away! the hour of fate goes by! Thy prayers are fruitless -- he must die!" "Rise, Ella! rise!" with steadfast brow The father spoke -- unshrinking now, As if from Heaven a martyr's strength Had settled on his soul at length: "Kneel thou no more, my noble child! Thou by no taint of guilt defiled; Kneel not to man! -- for mortal prayer, Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare? Since hope of earthly aid is flown, Lift thy pure hands to Heaven alone. And know, to calm thy suffering heart, My spirit is resigned to part, Trusting in Him who reads and knows This guilty breast, with all its woes. Rise! I would bless thee once again. Be still, be firm -- for all is vain!" And she @3was@1 still. She heard him not -- Herprayers were hushed, her pangs forgot; All thought, all memory, passed away, Silent and motionless she lay, In a brief death, a blest suspense Alike of agony and sense. She saw not when the dagger gleamed In the last red light from the west that streamed; She marked not when the life-blood's flow Came rushing to the mortal blow; While, unresisting, sank her sire, Yet gathered firmness to expire, Mingling a warrior's courage high With a penitent's humility. And o'er him there the Avenger stood, And watched the victim's ebbing blood, Still calm, as if his faithful hand Had but obeyed some just command, Some power whose stern yet righteous will He deemed it virtue to fulfil, And triumphed when the palm was won, For duty's task austerely done. But a feeling dread and undefined, A mystic presage of the mind, With strange and sudden impulse ran Chill through the heart of the dying man, And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath, And it seemed as fear suspended death, And nature from her terrors drew Fresh energy and vigour new. -- "Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne'er Was conscious of a parent's care; Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood's years, Froze in thy soul the source of tears: The time will come, when thou, with me, The judgment throne of God will see -- Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then, By His blest love who died for men, By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow, Avenger! I adjure thee now! To him who bleeds beneath thy steel, Thy lineage and thy name reveal. And haste thee! for his closing ear Hath little more on earth to hear -- Haste! for the spirit, almost flown, Is lingering for thy words alone." Then first a shade, resembling fear, Passed o'er th' Avenger's mien austere; A nameless awe his features crossed, Soon in their haughty coldness lost. -- "What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild, And bid them tell thee of their child! Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, Whose tempests were his lullabies! His chambers were the cave and wood, His fosterers men of wrath and blood; Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, By wrongs to desperation driven. Who, in their pupil, now could trace The features of a nobler race? Yet such was mine! -- if one who cast A look of anguish o'er the past, Bore faithful record on the day When penitent in death he lay. But still deep shades my prospects veil; He died -- and told but half the tale. With him it sleeps -- I only know Enough for stern and silent woe, For vain ambition's deep regret, For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, For dreams of pride, that vainly tell How high a lot had suited well The heir of some illustrious line, Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!" Then swift through Albert's bosom passed One pang, the keenest and the last, Ere with his spirit fled the fears, The sorrows, and the pangs of years; And, while his grey hairs swept the dust, Faltering he murmured, "Heaven is just! For thee that deed of guilt was done, By thee avenged, my son! my son!" The day was closed -- the moonbeam shed Light on the living and the dead; And as through rolling clouds it broke, Young Ella from her trance awoke -- Awoke to bear, to feel, to know Even more than all an orphan's woe. Oh! ne'er did moonbeam's light serene! With beauty clothe a sadder scene! There, cold in death, the father slept -- There, pale in woe, the daughter wept! Yes! @3she@1 might weep -- but one stood nigh, With horror in his tearless eye, That eye which ne'er again shall close In the deep quiet of repose: No more on earth beholding aught Save one dread vision, stamped on thought. But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid @3His@1 deeper woe had scarce surveyed, Till his wild voice revealed a tale Which seemed to bid the heavens turn pale! He called her, "Sister!" and the word In anguish breathed, in terror heard, Revealed enough; all else were weak -- That sound a thousand pangs could speak, He knelt beside that breathless clay, Which fixed in utter stillness lay -- Knelt, till his soul imbibed each trace, Each line of that unconscious face; Knelt, till his eye could bear no more Those marble features to explore; Then, starting, turning, as to shun The image thus by Memory won, A wild farewell to her he bade, Who by the dead in silence prayed; And, frenzied by his bitter doom, Fled thence -- to find all earth a tomb! III. DAYS passed away -- and Rhine's fair shore In the light of summer smiled once more; The vines were purpling on the hill, And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still. There came a bark up the noble stream, With pennons that shed a golden gleam, With the flash of arms and the voice of song, Gliding triumphantly along; For warrior-forms were glittering there, Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air; And as the tones of oar and wave Their measured cadence mingling gave, 'Twas thus the exulting chorus rose, While many an echo swelled the close: -- "From the fields where dead and dying On their battle-bier are lying, Where the blood unstanched is gushing, Where the steed unchecked is rushing, Trampling o'er the noble-hearted, Ere the spirit yet be parted; Where each breath of heaven is swaying Knightly plumes and banners playing, And the clarion's music swelling Calls the vulture from his dwelling; He comes with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine! To his own fair woods, enclosing Vales in sunny peace reposing, Where his native stream is laving Banks, with golden harvests waving, And the summer light is sleeping On the grape, through tendrils peeping; To the halls, where harps are ringing, Bards the praise of warriors singing, Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, Jovous voices mingling sweetly; Where the cheek of mirth is glowing, And the wine-cup brightly flowing, He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!" He came -- he sought his Ella's bowers, He traversed Lindheim's lonely towers; But voice and footstep thence had fled, As from the dwellings of the dead, And the sounds of human joy and woe Gave place to the moan of the wave below. The banner still the rampart crowned, But the tall rank grass waved thick around; Still hung the arms of a race gone by In the blazoned halls of their ancestry; But they caught no more, at fall of night, The wavering flash of the torch's light, And they sent their echoes forth no more To the Minnesinger's tuneful lore. For the hands that touched the harp were gone, And the hearts were cold that loved its tone; And the soul of the chord lay mute and still, Save when the wild wind bad it thrill, And woke from its depth a dream-like moan, For life, and power, and beauty gone. The warrior turned from that silent scene, Where a voice of woe had welcome been; And his heart was heavy with boding thought, As the forest paths alone he sought. He reached a convent's fane, that stood Deep bosomed in luxuriant wood; Still, solemn, fair -- it seemed a spot Where earthly care might be all forgot, And sounds and dreams of heaven alone To musing spirit might be known. -- And sweet even then were the sounds that rose On the holy and profound repose. Oh! they came o'er the warrior's breast Like a glorious anthem of the blest; And fear and sorrow died away Before the full majestic lay. He entered the secluded fane, Which sent forth that inspiring strain; He gazed -- the hallowed pile's array Was that of some high festal day; Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound, Flowers of all scents were strewed around; The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh, Blest on the altar to smile and die; And a fragrant cloud from the censer's breath Half hid the sacred pomp beneath; And still the peal of choral song Swelled the resounding aisles along; Wakening, in its triumphant flow, Deep echoes from the graves below. Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, Doth summer's rose that scene adorn? Why breathes the incense to the sky? Why swells the exulting harmony? -- And see'st thou not you form, so light It seems half floating on the sight, As if the whisper of a gale, That did but wave its snowy veil, Might bear it from the earth afar, A lovely but receding star? Know that devotion's shrine even now Receives that youthful vestal's vow -- For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise, A jubilee of sacrifice. Mark yet a moment! from her brow Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, Ere yet a darker mantle hide The charms to heaven thus sanctified: Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam, That ne'er shall fade from memory's dream. A moment? Oh! to Ulric's soul, Poised between hope and fear's control, What slow unmeasured hours went by, Ere yet suspense grew certainty! It came at length. Once more that face Revealed to man its mournful grace: A sunbeam on its features fell, As if to bear the world's farewell; And doubt was o'er. His heart grew chill, 'Twas she -- though changed -- 'twas Ella still! Though now her once-rejoicing mien Was deeply, mournfully serene; Though clouds her eye's blue lustre shaded, And the young cheek beneath had faded, Well, well he knew the form which cast Light on his soul through all the past! 'Twas with him on the battle-plain; 'Twas with him on the stormy main; 'Twas in his visions, when the shield Pillowed his head on tented field; 'Twas a bright beam that led him on Where'er a triumph might be won -- In danger as in glory nigh, An angel-guide to victory! She caught his pale bewildered gaze Of grief half lost in fixed amaze. Was it some vain illusion, wrought By frenzy of impassioned thought? Some phantom, such as Grief hath power To summon in her wandering hour? No! it was he! the lost, the mourned -- Too deeply loved, too late returned! -- A feverish blush, a sudden start, Spoke the last weakness of her heart: 'Twas vanquished soon -- the hectic red A moment flushed her cheek and fled. Once more serene, her steadfast eye Looked up as to eternity; Then gazed on Ulric, with an air That said -- the home of Love is @3there!@1 Yes! @3there@1 alone it smiled for him, Whose eyes before that look grew dim. Not long 'twas his even @3thus@1 to view The beauty of its calm adieu; Soon o'er those features, brightly pale, Was cast the impenetrable veil; And, if one human sigh were given By the pure bosom vowed to Heaven, 'Twas lost, as many a murmured sound Of grief, "not loud but deep," is drowned In hymns of joy, which proudly rise To tell the calm untroubled skies That earth hath banished care and woe, And man holds festival below! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STREET LANTERNS by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE MANIAC'S SONG by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD KEATS' GRAVE IN ROME by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON UPON MY LORD CHIEF JUSTICE HIS ELECTION OF MY LADY ANNE WENTWORTH FOR HIS MISTRESS by THOMAS CAREW TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. THE OPEN SECRET by EDWARD CARPENTER |