’Twas sunset, and the “Ranz des Vaches” was sung,
And lights were o’er the Helvetian mountains flung,
That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,[65]
And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.
Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm,
Where, Phoenix-like, you saw the eagle’s form,
That high in Heaven’s vermilion wheeled and soared.
Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared,
From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin;[65]
Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between,
And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green.
’Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!
The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,
And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss.
[65]Earth’s features so harmoniously were linked,
She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct,
That felt Heaven’s ardent breath, and smiled below
Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.
A Gothic church was near; the spot around
Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb.
Amidst them one of spotless marble shone—
A maiden’s grave—and ’twas inscribed thereon,
That young and loved she died whose dust was there:
“Yes,” said my comrade, “young she died, and fair!
Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid:
Her fingers witched the chords they passed along,
And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song:
Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till few
Aspired to hope, ’twas sadly, strangely true,
That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned
And died of love that could not be returned.
“Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines
O’er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines.
As gay as ever, the laburnum’s pride
Waves o’er each walk where she was wont to glide,—
And still the garden whence she graced her brow,
As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now.
How oft from yonder window o’er the lake,
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake
Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear,
And rest enchanted on his oar to hear!
Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland,
Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land,
Why had no gallant native youth the art
To win so warm—so exquisite a heart?
She, midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong
By mountain-freedom—music—fancy—song,
Herself descended from the brave in arms,
And conscious of romance-inspiring charms,
Dreamt of Heroic beings; hoped to find
Some extant spirit of chivalric kind;
And scorning wealth, looked cold e’en on the claim
Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame.
“Her younger brother, sixteen summers old,
And much her likeness both in mind and mould,
Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine,
And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine.
’Twas when, alas! our Empire’s evil star
Shed all the plagues, without the pride, of war;
When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossed
Our brave, to die in battles foully lost.
The youth wrote home the rout of many a day;
Yet still he said, and still with truth could say,
One corps had ever made a valiant stand,—
The corps in which he served—Theodric’s band.
His fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by,
Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory’s sky;
Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they show
Our fields of battle twenty years ago,
Will tell you feats his small brigade performed,
In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed.
Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame,
And soldiers loved the march that bore his name:
The zeal of martial hearts was at his call,
And that Helvetian, Udolph’s, most of all.
’Twas touching, when the storm of war blew wild,
To see a blooming boy,—almost a child,—
Spur fearless at his leader’s words and signs,
Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines,
And speed each task, and tell each message clear,
In scenes where war-trained men were stunned with fear.
“Theodric praised him, and they wept for joy
In yonder house,—when letters from the boy
Thanked Heaven for life, and more, to use his phrase,
Than twenty lives—his own Commander’s praise.
Then followed glowing pages, blazoning forth
The fancied image of his Leader’s worth,
With such hyperbolÉs of youthful style
As made his parents dry their tears and smile:
But differently far his words impressed
A wondering sister’s well-believing breast;—
She caught the illusion, blest Theodric’s name,
And wildly magnified his worth and fame;
Rejoicing life’s reality contained
One, heretofore, her fancy had but feigned,
Whose love could make her proud;—and time and chance
To passion raised that day-dream of Romance.
“Once, when with hasty charge of horse and man
Our arriÈre-guard had checked the Gallic van,
Theodric, visiting the outposts, found
His Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground:—
Sore crushed,—half-swooning, half-upraised, he lay,
And bent his brow, fair boy! and grasped the clay.
His fate moved e’en the common soldier’s ruth—
Theodric succoured him; nor left the youth
To vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent,
And lent what aid a brother would have lent.
“Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smart
The war-gazette’s dread blood-roll might impart,
He wrote the event to them; and soon could tell
Of pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well,
And last of all, prognosticating cure,
Enclosed the leech’s vouching signature.
“Their answers, on whose pages you might note
That tears had fallen, whilst trembling fingers wrote,
Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferred,
Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word,
Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot;
But which the giver had himself forgot
“In time, the stripling, vigorous and healed,
Resumed his barb and banner in the field,
And bore himself right soldier-like, till now
The third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow,
When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath,—
A curtain-drop between the acts of death,—
A check in frantic war’s unfinished game,
Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came.
The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chief
As with a son’s or younger brother’s grief:
But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose!
How light his footsteps crushed St. Gothard’s snows!
How dear seemed e’en the waste and wild Shreckhorn,
Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scorn
Upon a downward world of pastoral charms;
Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms,
And fragrance from the mountain-herbage blown,
Blindfold his native hills he could have known!
[66] “His coming down yon lake,—his boat in view
Of windows where love’s fluttering kerchief flew,—
The arms spread out for him—the tears that burst,
(’Twas Julia’s, ’twas his sister’s, met him first:)—
Their pride to see war’s medal at his breast,
And all their rapture’s greeting, may be guessed.
“Ere long, his bosom triumphed to unfold
A gift he meant their gayest room to hold,—
The picture of a friend in warlike dress;
And who it was he first bade Julia guess.
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘’twas he, methought in sleep,
When you were wounded, told me not to weep.’
The painting long in that sweet mansion drew
Regards its living semblance little knew.
“Meanwhile Theodric, who had years before
Learnt England’s tongue, and loved her classic lore,
A glad enthusiast now explored the land,
Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand:
Her women fair; her men robust for toil;
Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil;
Her towns, where civic independence flings
The gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings;
Her works of art, resembling magic’s powers,
Her mighty fleets, and learning’s beauteous bowers.—
These he had visited, with wonder’s smile,
And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle.
But how our fates from unmomentous things
May rise, like rivers out of little springs!
A trivial chance postponed his parting day,
And public tidings caused, in that delay,
An English jubilee. ’Twas a glorious sight;
At eve, stupendous London, clad in light,
Poured out triumphant multitudes to gaze;
Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze;
The illumined atmosphere was warm and bland,
And Beauty’s groups, the fairest of the land,
Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room,
In open chariots passed with pearl and plume.
Amidst them he remarked a lovelier mien
Than e’er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen;
The throng detained her till he reined his steed,
And, ere the beauty passed, had time to read
The motto and the arms her carriage bore.
Led by that clue, he left not England’s shore
Till he had known her: and to know her well
Prolonged, exalted, bound, enchantment’s spell;
For with affections warm, intense, refined,
She mixed such calm and holy strength of mind,
That, like Heaven’s image in the smiling brook,
Celestial peace was pictured in her look.
Hers was the brow, in trials unperplexed,
That cheered the sad, and tranquillised the vexed;
She studied not the meanest to eclipse,
And yet the wisest listened to her lips;
She sang not, knew not Music’s magic skill,
But yet her voice had tones that swayed the will.
He sought—he won her—and resolved to make
His future home in England for her sake.
“Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concern
To CÆsar’s court commanded his return,
A season’s space,—and on his Alpine way,
He reached those bowers, that rang with joy that day:
The boy was half beside himself,—the sire,
All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire,
Of speedy parting would not hear him speak;
And tears bedewed and brightened Julia’s cheek.
“Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride,
A month he promised with them to abide;
As blithe he trode the mountain-sward as they,
And felt his joy make e’en the young more gay.
How jocund was their breakfast-parlour fanned
By yon blue water’s breath,—their walks how bland!
Fair Julia seemed her brother’s softened sprite—
A gem reflecting Nature’s purest light,—
And with her graceful wit there was inwrought
A wildly sweet unworldliness of thought,
That almost child-like to his kindness drew,
And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew.
But did his thoughts to love one moment range?—
No! he who had loved Constance could not change!
Besides, till grief betrayed her undesigned,
The unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind,
That eyes so young on years like his should beam
Unwooed devotion back for pure esteem.
“True, she sang to his very soul, and brought
Those trains before him of luxuriant thought
Which only Music’s heaven-born art can bring,
To sweep across the mind with angel wing.
Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance,
She paused o’ercome: he thought it might be chance,
And, when his first suspicions dimly stole
Rebuked them back like phantoms from his soul.
But when he saw his caution gave her pain,
And kindness brought suspense’s rack again,
Faith, honour, friendship, bound him to unmask
Truths which her timid fondness feared to ask.
“And yet with gracefully ingenuous power
Her spirit met the explanatory hour;—
Even conscious beauty brightened in her eyes,
That told she knew their love no vulgar prize;
And pride, like that of one more woman-grown,
Enlarged her mien, enriched her voice’s tone.
’Twas then she struck the keys, and music made
That mocked all skill her hand had e’er displayed:
Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around,
She looked the very Muse of magic sound,
Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe,
Until the mind’s eye saw them melt and glow.
Her closing strain composed and calm she played,
And sang no words to give its pathos aid;
But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell,
And like so many tears the trickling touches fell.
Of Constance then she heard Theodric speak,
And steadfast smoothness still possessed her cheek;
But when he told her how he oft had planned
Of old a journey to their mountain land,
That might have brought him hither years before,
‘Ah! then,’ she cried, ‘you knew not England’s shore;
And, had you come,—and wherefore did you not?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it would have changed our lot!’
Then burst her tears through pride’s restraining bands,
And with her handkerchief, and both her hands,
She hid her face and wept.—Contrition stung
Theodric for the tears his words had wrung.
‘But no,’ she cried, ‘unsay not what you’ve said,
Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed;
To think I could have merited your faith,
Shall be my solace even unto death?’—
‘Julia,’ Theodric said, with purposed look
Of firmness, ‘my reply deserved rebuke;
But by your pure and sacred peace of mind,
And by the dignity of womankind,
Swear that when I am gone you’ll do your best
To chase this dream of fondness from your breast.’
“The abrupt appeal electrified her thought;—
She looked to Heaven, as if its aid she sought,
Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek,
And signified the vow she could not speak.
“Ere long he communed with her mother mild:
‘Alas!’ she said, ‘I warned—conjured my child,
And grieved for this affection from the first,
But like fatality it has been nursed;
For when her filled eyes on your picture fixed,
And when your name in all she spoke was mixed,
’Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind!
Then each attempt a likelier choice to find
Made only fresh-rejected suitors grieve,
And Udolph’s pride—perhaps her own—believe
That could she meet, she might enchant e’en you.
You came.—I augured the event, ’tis true,
But how was Udolph’s mother to exclude
The guest that claimed our boundless gratitude?
And that unconscious you had cast a spell
On Julia’s peace, my pride refused to tell:
Yet in my child’s illusion I have seen,
Believe me well, how blameless you have been:
Nor can it cancel, howsoe’er it end,
Our debt of friendship to our boy’s best friend.’
At night he parted with the aged pair;
At early morn rose Julia to prepare
The last repast her hands for him should make,
And Udolph to convoy him o’er the lake.
The parting was to her such bitter grief,
That of her own accord she made it brief;
But, lingering at her window, long surveyed
His boat’s last glimpses melting into shade.
“Theodric sped to Austria, and achieved
His journey’s object. Much was he relieved
When Udolph’s letters told that Julia’s mind
Had borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resigned.
He took the Rhenish route to England, high
Elate with hopes, fulfilled their ecstacy,
And interchanged with Constance’s own breath
The sweet eternal vows that bound their faith.
“To paint that being to a grovelling mind
Were like portraying pictures to the blind.
’Twas needful e’en infectiously to feel
Her temper’s fond and firm and gladsome zeal,
To share existence with her, and to gain
Sparks from her love’s electrifying chain,
Of that pure pride, which lessening to her breast
Life’s ills, gave all its joys a treble zest,
Before the mind completely understood
That mighty truth—how happy are the good!—
“E’en when her light forsook him, it bequeathed
Ennobling sorrow; and her memory breathed
A sweetness that survived her living days
As odorous scents outlast the censer’s blaze.
“Or if a trouble dimmed their golden joy,
’Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy:
Their home knew but affection’s looks and speech—
A little Heaven, above dissension’s reach.
But midst her kindred there was strife and gall;
Save one congenial sister, they were all
Such foils to her bright intellect and grace,
As if she had engrossed the virtue of her race.
Her nature strove the unnatural feuds to heal,
Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal;
And though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed,
Unwearied still her kindness interposed.
“Oft on those errands though she went, in vain,
And home, a blank without her, gave him pain,
He bore her absence for its pious end.—
But public grief his spirit came to bend;
For war laid waste his native land once more,
And German honour bled at every pore.
Oh! were he there, he thought, to rally back
One broken band, or perish in the wrack!
Nor think that Constance sought to move or melt
His purpose: like herself she spoke and felt:—
‘Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woe
Except its loss!—but with you let me go
To arm you for, to embrace you from the fight;
Harm will not reach me—hazards will delight!’
He knew those hazards better; one campaign
In England he conjured her to remain,
And she expressed assent, although her heart
In secret had resolved they should not part.
“How oft the wisest on misfortune’s shelves
Are wrecked by errors most unlike themselves!
That little fault, that fraud of love’s romance,
That plan’s concealment, wrought their whole mischance.
He knew it not preparing to embark,
But felt extinct his comfort’s latest spark,
When, midst those numbered days, she made repair
Again to kindred worthless of her care.
’Tis true she said the tidings she would write
Would make her absence on his heart sit light;
But, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan,
And left him in his home a lonely man.
“Thus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the past:
’Twas long since he had heard from Udolph last,
And deep misgivings on his spirit fell,
That all with Udolph’s household was not well.
’Twas that too true prophetic mood of fear
That augurs griefs inevitably near,
Yet makes them not less startling to the mind,
When come. Least looked-for then of human kind,
His Udolph (’twas, he thought at first, his sprite)
With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight.
How changed was Udolph! Scarce Theodric durst
Inquire his tidings,—he revealed the worst.
‘At first,’ he said, ‘as Julia bade me tell,
She bore her fate high-mindedly and well,
Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide,
And from the world’s compassion saved our pride;
But still her health gave way to secret woe,
And long she pined—for broken hearts die slow!
Her reason went, but came returning, like
The warning of her death-hour—soon to strike;
And all for which she now, poor sufferer! sighs,
Is once to see Theodric ere she dies.
Why should I come to tell you this caprice?
Forgive me! for my mind has lost its peace.
I blame myself, and ne’er shall cease to blame,
That my insane ambition for the name
Of brother to Theodric, founded all
Those high-built hopes that crushed her by their fall.
I made her slight a mother’s counsel sage,
But now my parents droop with grief and age;
And though my sister’s eyes mean no rebuke,
They overwhelm me with their dying look.
The journey’s long, but you are full of ruth;
And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth,
Has faith in your affection, far above
The fear of a poor dying object’s love.’
‘She has, my Udolph,’ he replied, ‘’tis true;
And oft we talk of Julia—oft of you.’
Their converse came abruptly to a close;
For scarce could each his troubled looks compose,
When visitants, to Constance near akin
(In all but traits of soul), were ushered in.
They brought not her, nor midst their kindred band
The sister who alone, like her, was bland;
But said—and smiled to see it gave him pain—
That Constance would a fortnight yet remain.
Vexed by their tidings, and the haughty view
They cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew,
Theodric blamed his Constance’s intent.—
The demons went, and left him as they went,
To read, when they were gone beyond recall,
A note from her loved hand, explaining all.
She said, that with their house she only staid
That parting peace might with them all be made;
But prayed for love to share his foreign life,
And shun all future chance of kindred strife.
He wrote with speed, his soul’s consent to say:
The letter missed her on her homeward way.
In six hours Constance was within his arms:
Moved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms,
And breathless—with uplifted hands outspread—
Burst into tears upon his neck, and said,—
‘I knew that those who brought your message laughed
With poison of their own to point the shaft;
And this my one kind sister thought, yet loth
Confessed she feared ’twas true you had been wroth.
But here you are, and smile on me: my pain
Is gone, and Constance is herself again.’
His ecstasy, it may be guessed, was much:
Yet pain’s extreme and pleasure’s seemed to touch.
What pride! embracing beauty’s perfect mould;
What terror! lest his few rash words, mistold,
Had agonised her pulse to fever’s heat:
But calmed again so soon it healthful beat,
And such sweet tones were in her voice’s sound,
Composed herself, she breathed composure round.
“Fair being! with what sympathetic grace
She heard, bewailed, and pleaded Julia’s case;
Implored he would her dying wish attend,
‘And go,’ she said, ‘to-morrow with your friend;
I’ll wait for your return on England’s shore,
And then we’ll cross the deep, and part no more.’
“To-morrow both his soul’s compassion drew
To Julia’s call, and Constance urged anew
That not to heed her now would be to bind
A load of pain for life upon his mind.
He went with Udolph—from his Constance went—
Stifling, alas! a dark presentiment
Some ailment lurked, e’en whilst she smiled, to mock
His fears of harm from yester-morning’s shock.
Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out,
To watch at home, and follow straight his route,
If aught of threatened change her health should show:
With Udolph then he reached the house of woe.
“That winter’s eve how darkly Nature’s brow
Scowled on the scenes it lights so lovely now!
The tempest, raging o’er the realms of ice,
Shook fragments from the rifted precipice;
And whilst their falling echoed to the wind,
The wolf’s long howl in dismal discord joined,
While white yon water’s foam was raised in clouds
That whirled like spirits wailing in their shrouds:
Without was Nature’s elemental din—
And beauty died, and friendship wept, within!
“Sweet Julia, though her fate was finished half,
Still knew him—smiled on him with feeble laugh—
And blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh!
But lo! while Udolph’s bursts of agony,
And age’s tremulous wailings, round him rose,
What accents pierced him deeper yet than those?
’Twas tidings by his English messenger,
Of Constance—brief and terrible they were.
She still was living when the page set out
From home, but whether now was left in doubt.
Poor Julia! saw he then thy death’s relief—
Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief?
It was not strange; for in the human breast
Two master-passions cannot co-exist,
And that alarm which now usurped his brain
Shut out not only peace, but other pain.
’Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroud
That covered Julia made him first weep loud,
And tear himself away from them that wept.
Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept,
Till, launched at sea, he dreamt that his soul’s saint
Clung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint,
O’er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessed
The shore; nor hope left utterly his breast,
Till reaching home, terrific omen! there
The straw-laid street preluded his despair—
The servant’s look—the table that revealed
His letter sent to Constance last, still sealed—
Though speech and hearing left him, told too clear
That he had now to suffer—not to fear.
He felt as if he ne’er should cease to feel—
A wretch live-broken on misfortune’s wheel;
Her death’s cause—he might make his peace with Heaven,
Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven.
“The ocean has its ebbings—so has grief;
’Twas vent to anguish, if ’twas not relief,
To lay his brow e’en on her death-cold cheek.
Then first he heard her one kind sister speak:
She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbear
With self-reproach to deepen his despair:
‘’Twas blame,’ she said, ‘I shudder to relate,
But none of yours, that caused our darling’s fate;
Her mother (must I call her such?) foresaw,
Should Constance leave the land, she would withdraw
Our House’s charm against the world’s neglect—
The only gem that drew it some respect.
Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spoke
To change her purpose—grew incensed, and broke
With execrations from her kneeling child.
Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild,
Feared that she should not long the scene outlive,
Yet bade e’en you the unnatural one forgive.
Till then her ailment had been slight or none;
But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on:
Foreseeing their event, she dictated
And signed these words for you.’ The letter said—
