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And whisper'd in her ear, Bring home with you
That sweet strange lady-friend.» Then off he flew,
But stopp'd, and beckon'd with a meaning smile,
Where the road turn'd. Pale Rosalind the while,
Hiding her face, stood weeping silently.

In silence then they took the way
Beneath the forest's solitude.
It was a vast and antique wood,
Through which they took their way;
And the grey shades of evening
O'er that green wilderness did fling
Still deeper solitude.

Pursuing still the path that wound
The vast and knotted trees around

Through which slow shades were wandering,
To a deep lawny dell they came,
To a stone seat beside a spring,

O'er which the column'd wood did frame
A roofless temple, like the fane

Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain,
Man's early race once knelt beneath
The overhanging deity.
O'er this fair fountain hung the sky,
Now spangled with rare stars.

The pale snake, that with eager

The snake, breath

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When he floats on that dark and lucid flood

In the light of his own loveliness;
And the birds that in the fountain dip
Their plumes, with fearless fellowship
Above and round him wheel and hover.
The fitful wind is heard to stir
One solitary leaf on high;
The chirping of the grasshopper
Fills every pause. There is emotion

In all that dwells at noontide here:
Then, through the intricate wild wood,
A maze of life and light and motion
Is woven. But there is stillness now;
Gloom, and the trance of Nature now:
The snake is in his cave asleep;

The birds are on the branches dreaming:
Only the shadows creep;
Only the glow-worm is gleaming;

Only the owls and the nightingales
Wake in this dell when day-light fails,
And grey shades gather in the woods:
And the owls have all fled far away
In a merrier glen to hoot and play,
For the moon is veil'd and sleeping now.
The accustom'd nightingale still broods
On her accustom'd bough,

But she is mute; for her false mate

Has fled and left her desolate.

This silent spot tradition old

Had peopled with the spectral dead.

For the roots of the speaker's hair felt cold
And stiff, as with tremulous lips he told
That a hellish shape at midnight led
The ghost of a youth with hoary hair,
And sate on the seat beside him there,
Till a naked child caine wandering by,
When the fiend would change to a lady fair!
A fearful tale! The truth was worse:
For here a sister and a brother
Had solemnized a monstrous curse,
Meeting in this fair solitude:
For beneath yon very sky,
Had they resign'd to one another
Body and soul. The multitude,
Tracking them to the secret wood,
Tore limb from limb their innocent child,
And stabb'd and trampled on its mother;
But the youth, for God's most holy grace,
A priest saved to burn in the market-place.

Duly at evening Helen came

To this lone silent spot,

From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow

So much of sympathy to borrow

As soothed her own dark lot.
Duly each evening from her home,
With her fair child would Helen come

To sit upon that antique seat,
While the hues of day were pale;
And the bright boy beside her feet
Now lay, lifting at intervals

His broad blue eyes on her;

Now, where some sudden impulse calls
Following. He was a gentle boy
And in all gentle sports took joy;

Oft in a dry leaf for a boat,
With a small feather for a sail,
His fancy on that spring would float,
If some invisible breeze might stir
Its marble calm and Helen smiled
Through tears of awe on the gay child,
To think that a boy as fair as he,
In years which never more may be,
By that same fount, in that same wood,
The like sweet fancies had pursued ;
And that a mother, lost like her,
Had mournfully sate watching him.
Then all the scene was wont to swim
Through the mist of a burning tear.

For many months had Helen known This scene; and now she thither turn'd

Her footsteps, not alone.

The friend whose falsehood she had mourn'd,
Sate with her on that seat of stone.
Silent they sate; for evening,
And the power its glimpses bring
Had, with one awful shadow, quell'd
The passion of their grief. They sate
With linked hands, for unrepell'd
Had Helen taken Rosalind's.
Like the autumn wind, when it unbinds
The tangled locks of the nightshade's hair,
Which is twined in the sultry summer air
Round the walls of an outworn sepulchre,
Did the voice of Helen, sad and sweet,
And the sound of her heart that ever beat,
As with sighs and words she breathed on her,
Unbind the knots of her friend's despair,
Till her thoughts were free to float and flow;
And from her labouring bosom now,
Like the bursting of a prison'd flame,
The voice of a long-pent sorrow came.


I saw the dark earth fall upon
The coffin; and I saw the stone
Laid over him whom this cold breast
Had pillow'd to his nightly rest!
Thou knowest not, thou canst not know
My agony. Oh! I could not weep:
The sources whence such blessings flow
Were not to be approach'd by me!
But I could smile, and I could sleep,
Though with a self-accusing heart.
In morning's light, in evening's gloom,

I watch'd, and would not thence depart,-
My husband's unlamented tomb.

My children knew their sire was gone,
But when I told them, « he is dead,
They laugh'd aloud in frantic glee,

They clapp'd their hands and leap'd about,
Answering each other's ecstacy

With many a prank and merry shout.
But I sat silent and alone,

Wrapp'd in the mock of mourning weed.

They laugh'd, for he was dead; but I
Sate with a hard and tearless eye,
And with a heart which would deny
The secret joy it could not quell,
Low muttering o'er his loathed name;
Till from that self-contention came
Remorse where sin was none; a hell
Which in pure spirits should not dwell.

I'll tell thee truth. He was a man
Hard, selfish, loving only gold,
Yet full of guile: his pale eyes ran
With tears, which each some falsehood told,
And oft his smooth and bridled tongue
Would give the lie to his flushing cheek:
He was a coward to the strong;
He was a tyrant to the weak,
On whom his vengeance he would wreak :
For scorn, whose arrows search the heart,
From many a stranger's eye would dart,

And on his memory cling, and follow
His soul to its home so cold and hollow.
He was a tyrant to the weak,
And we were such, alas the day!
Oft, when my little ones at play,
Were in youth's natural lightness gay,

Or if they listen'd to some tale

Of travellers, or of fairy land,

When the light from the wood-fire's dying brand
Flash'd on their faces,-if they heard

Or thought they heard upon the stair
His footstep, the suspended word
Died on my lips: 'we all grew pale ;
The babe at my bosom was hush'd with fear
If it thought it heard its father near;
And my two wild boys would near my knee
Cling, cow'd and cowering fearfully.

I'll tell the truth: I loved another.

His name in my ear was ever ringing,
His form to my brain was ever clinging;

Yet if some stranger breathed that name,

My lips turn'd white, and my heart beat fast:

My nights were once haunted by dreams of flame,

My days were dim in the shadow cast,

By the memory of the same!

Day and night, day and night,

He was my breath and life and light,

For three short years, which soon were past.

On the fourth, my gentle mother

Led me to the shrine, to be

His sworn bride eternally.

And now we stood on the altar stair,

When my father came from a distant land,

And with a loud and fearful cry,

Rush'd between us suddenly.

I saw the stream of his thin grey hair,

I saw his lean and lifted hand,

And heard his words,-and live! O God!
Wherefore do I live?-« Hold, hold !»
He cried, I tell thee 't is her brother!
Thy mother, boy, beneath the sod

Of yon church-yard rests in her shroud so cold.

I am now weak, and pale, and old :
We were once dear to one another,

I and that corpse! Thou art our child!,
Then with a laugh both long and wild
The youth upon the pavement fell :
They found him dead! All look'd on me,

The spasms of my despair to see;

But I was calm. I went away;
I was clammy-cold like clay!

I did not weep-I did not speak;
But day by day, week after week,
I walk'd about like a corpse
Alas! sweet friend, you must believe
This heart is stone-it did not break.

My father lived a little while,

But all might see that he was dying,
He smiled with such a woeful smile!
When he was in the church-yard lying
Among the worms, we grew quite poor,
So that no one would give us bread.
My mother look'd at me, and said

Faint words of cheer, which only meant
That she could die and be content;

So I went forth from the same church door
To another husband's bed.

And this was he who died at last,

When weeks and months and years had past,
Through which I firmly did fulfil
My duties, a devoted wife,

With the stern step of vanquish'd will,
Walking beneath the night of life,

Whose hours extinguish'd, like slow rain
Falling for ever, pain by pain,

The very hope of death's dear rest;
Which, since the heart within my breast
Of natural life was dispossest,
Its strange sustainer there had been.

When flowers were dead, and grass was green
Upon my mother's grave,-that mother
Whom to outlive, and cheer, and make
My wan eyes glitter for her sake,
Was my vow'd task, the single care
Which once gave life to my despair,-
When she was a thing that did not stir,
And the crawling worms were cradling her
To a sleep more deep and so more sweet
Than a baby's rock'd on its nurse's knee,
I lived; a living pulse then beat
Beneath my heart that awaken'd me.
What was this pulse so warm and free?
Alas! I knew it could not be

My own dull blood: 't was like a thought
Of liquid love, that spread and wrought
Under my bosom and in my brain.

And crept with the blood through every vein;
And hour by hour, day after day,

The wonder could not charm away,

And search the depth of its fair eyes
For long departed memories!
And so I lived till that sweet load
Was lighten'd. Darkly forward flow'd
The stream of years, and on it bore
Two shapes of gladness to my sight;
Two other babes, delightful more
In my lost soul's abandon'd night,
Than their own country ships may be
Sailing towards wreck'd mariners,
Who cling to the rock of a wintry sca.
For each, as it came, brought soothing tears,
And a loosening warmth, as each one lay
Sucking the sullen milk away
About my frozen heart, did play,
And wean'd it, oh how painfully!-

As they themselves were wean'd each one
From that sweet food,-even from the thirst
Of death, and nothingness, and rest,
Strange inmate of a living breast!
Which all that I had undergone

Of grief and shame, since she, who first
The gates of that dark refuge closed,
Came to my sight, and almost burst
The seal of that Lethean spring;
But these fair shadows interposed:
For all delights are shadows now!
And from my brain to my dull brow
The heavy tears gather and flow:

I cannot speak-Oh let me weep!

The tears which fell from her wan eyes Glimmer'd among the moonlight dew; Her deep hard sobs and heavy sighs Their echoes in the darkness threw. When she grew calm, she thus did keep The tenor of her tale :

But laid in sleep, my wakeful pain,

Until I knew it was a child,

He died,

And then I wept. For long, long years
These frozen eyes had shed no tears:

But now-'t was the season fair and mild
When April has wept itself to May:
I sate through the sweet sunny day
By my window bower'd round with leaves,
And down my cheeks the quick tears ran
Like twinkling rain-drops from the eaves,
When warm spring showers are passing o'er:
O Helen, none can ever tell

The joy it was to weep once more!

I wept to think how hard it were

To kill my babe, and take from it
The sense of light, and the warm air,
my own fond and tender care,
And love and smiles; ere I knew yet
That these for it might, as for me,
Be the masks of a grinning mockery.
And haply, I would dream, 't were sweet
To feed it from my faded breast,
Or mark my own heart's restless beat
Rock it to its untroubled rest,

And watch the growing soul beneath
Dawn in faint smiles; and hear its breath,
Half interrupted by calm sighs,


I know not how. He was not old,
age be number'd by its years;
But he was bow'd and bent with fears,
Pale with the quenchless thirst of gold,
Which, like fierce fever, left him weak;
And his strait lip and bloated cheek
Were warp'd in spasms by hollow sneers;
And selfish cares with barren plough,
Not age, had lined his narrow brow,
And foul and cruel thoughts, which feed
Upon the withering life within,
Like vipers on some poisonous weed.
Whether his ill were death or sin

None knew, until he died indeed,

And then men own'd they were the same.

Seven days within my chamber lay
That corse, and my babes made holiday
At last, I told them what is death:
The eldest, with a kind of shame,
Came to my knees with silent breath,
And sate awe-stricken at my feet;
And soon the others left their play,
And sate there too. It is unmeet
To shed on the brief flower of youth
The withering knowledge of the grave;
From me remorse then wrung that truth.

I could not bear the joy which gave
Too just a response to mine own.
In vain. I dared not feign a groan;
And in their artless looks I saw,
Between the mists, of fear and awe,

That my own thought was theirs; and they
Express'd it not in words, but said,
Each in its heart, how every day
Will pass in happy work and play,
Now he is dead and gone away.

After the funeral all our kin
Assembled, and the will was read.
My friend, I tell thee, even the dead
Have strength, their putrid shrouds within,
To blast and torture. Those who live
Still fear the living, but a corse
Is merciless, and power doth give
To such pale tyrants half the spoil

He rends from those who groan and toil,
Because they blush not with remorse
Among their crawling worms. Behold,
I have no child! my tale grows old
With grief, and staggers: let it reach
The limits of my feeble speech,
And languidly at length recline

On the brink of its own grave and mine.

Thou knowest what a thing is Poverty
Among the fallen on evil days:
T is Crime, and Fear, and Infamy,
And houseless Want in frozen ways
Wandering ungarmented, and Pain,
And, worse than all, that inward stain
Foul Self-contempt, which drowns in sneers
Youth's star-light smile, and makes its tears
First like hot gall, then dry for ever!
And well thou knowest a mother never
Could doom her children to this ill,
And well he knew the same. The will
Imported, that if e'er again

I sought my children to behold,
Or in my birth-place did remain

Beyond three days, whose hours were told,
They should inherit nought: and he,
To whom next came their patrimony,
A sallow lawyer, cruel and cold,
Aye watch'd me, as the will was read,
With eyes askance, which sought to see
The secrets of my agony;

And with close lips and anxious brow
Stood canvassing still to and fro
The chance of my resolve, and all
The dead man's caution just did call;
For in that killing lie 't was said-
<< She is adulterous, and doth hold
In secret that the Christian creed
Is false, and therefore is much need
That I should have a care to save
My children from eternal fire.
Friend, he was shelter'd by the grave,
And therefore dared to be a liar!
In truth, the Indian on the pyre
Of her dead husband, half consumed,
As well might there be false, as I
To those abhorr'd embraces doom'd,

Far worse than fire's brief agony.
As to the Christian creed, if true
Or false, I never question'd it:
I took it as the vulgar do:
Nor my vext soul had leisure yet
To doubt the things men say, or deem
That they are other than they seem.

All present who those crimes did hear,
In feign'd or actual scorn and fear,
Men, women, children, slunk away,
Whispering with self-contented pride,
Which half suspects its own base lie.
I spoke to none, nor did abide,
But silently I went my way,
Nor noticed I where joyously
Sate my two younger babes at play,
In the court-yard through which I past;
But went with footsteps firm and fast
Till I came to the brink of the ocean green,
And there, a woman with grey hairs,
Who had my mother's servant been,
Kneeling, with many tears and prayers,
Made me accept a purse of gold,
Half of the earnings she had kept
To refuge her when weak and old.

With woe, which never sleeps or slept,
I wander now. 'T is a vain thought-
But on yon alp, whose snowy head
'Mid the azure air is islanded
(We see it o'er the flood of cloud,
Which sunrise from its eastern caves
Drives, wrinkling into golden waves,
Hung with its precipices proud,

From that grey stone where first we met),
There, now who knows the dead feel nought?
Should be my grave; for he who yet

Is my soul's soul, once said: 'T were sweet
'Mid stars and lightnings to abide,
And winds and lulling snows, that beat
With their soft flakes the mountain wide,
When weary meteor lamps repose,
And languid storms their pinions close:
And all things strong and bright and pure,
And ever-during, aye endure:

Who knows, if one were buried there,
But these things might our spirits make,
Amid the all-surrounding air,
Their own eternity partake?"

Then 't was a wild and playful saying
At which I laugh'd or seem'd to laugh:
They were his words: now heed my praying,
And let them be my epitaph.

Thy memory for a term may be
My monument. Wilt remember me?

I know thou wilt, and canst forgive
Whilst in this erring world to live
My soul disdain'd not, that I thought
Its lying forms were worthy aught,
And much less thee.


O speak not so,

But come to me and pour thy woe Into this heart, full though it be,

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Among mankind what thence befel

Of strife, how vain, is known too well;
When liberty's dear pæan fell
'Mid murderous howls. To Lionel,
Though of great wealth and lineage high,
Yet through those dungeon walls there came
Thy thrilling light, O Liberty!
And as the meteor's midnight flame
Startles the dreamer, sun-like truth
Flash'd on his visionary youth,

And fill'd him, not with love, but faith,
And hope, and courage mute in death;
For love and life in him were twins,
Born at one birth: in every other
First life then love its course begins,

Though they be children of one mother;
And so through this dark world they fleet
Divided, till in death they meet:

But he loved all things ever. Then
He pass'd amid the strife of men,
And stood at the throne of armed power
Pleading for a world of woe:

Secure as one on a rock-built tower

O'er the wrecks which the surge trails to and fro,
'Mid the passions wild of human kind
He stood, like a spirit calming them;
For, it was said, his words could bind
Like music the lull'd crowd, and stem
That torrent of unquiet dream
Which mortals truth and reason deem,
But is revenge and fear, and pride.
Joyous he was; and hope and peace
On all who heard him did abide,
Raining like dew from his sweet talk,
As where the evening star may walk
Along the brink of the gloomy seas,
Liquid mists of splendour quiver.

His very gestures touch'd to tears
The unpersuaded tyrant, never
So moved before: his presence stung
The torturers with their victim's pain,
And none knew how; and through their cars,
The subtle witchcraft of his tongue
Unlock'd the hearts of those who keep
Gold, the world's bond of slavery.
Men wonder'd, and some sneer'd to see
One sow what he could never reap:
For he is rich, they said, and young,
And might drink from the depths of luxury.
If he seeks fame, fame never crown'd
The champion of a trampled creed :
If he seeks power, power is enthroned
'Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed
Which hungry wolves with praise and spoil
Those who would sit near power must toil;
And such, there sitting, all may see.
What seeks he? All that others seek
He casts away,
like a vile weed

Which the sea casts unreturningly.

That poor and hungry men should break
The laws which wreak them toil and scorn,
We understand; but Lionel

We know is rich and nobly born.
So wonder'd they; yet all men loved
Young Lionel, though few approved;
All but the priests, whose hatred fell
Like the unseen blight of a smiling day,
The withering honey-dew, which clings
Under the bright green buds of May,
Whilst they unfold their emerald wings:
For he made verses wild and queer
On the strange creeds priests hold so dear,
Because they bring them land and gold.
Of devils and saints and all such gear,
He made tales which whoso heard or read
Would laugh till he were almost dead.
So this grew a proverb: Don't get old

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Till Lionel's banquet in hell' you hear,

And then you will laugh yourself young again..

So the priests hated him, and he

Repaid their hate with cheerful glee.

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