Fast by a brook, whose murmuring streams

Reflected heaven in angel dreams,

Embosomed in a quiet wood,

An old and storm-rent school-house stood.

All brown with age and worn by rains,

Rude winter shook the shattered panes,

That shivered in their casements light,

Like goblins' teeth on windy night.

But when the sun shone down the hill,

On smiling field and gushing rill,

And by the school-house danced the brook,

Through hidden course or leafy nook,

On shattered panes in casement light

Its summer rays streamed clear and bright.

Of pleasant ways and knowledge fair,

Blithe Alice Hill reigned mistress there,—

Nor birchen rod nor oaken rule

In terror held this woodland school;

Love awed the spirits bold and wild,

Love won the most rebellious child,—

O, Alice Hill! just sweet sixteen,

Of pleasant ways and courteous mien,

In Moreland vale brown Autumn's tilth,

Impatient waits the reaper's scythe:

Where, scattered with a bounteous hand,

Luxuriant harvests thickly stand.

The sunlight bathes the waving grain,

That sweetly smiles to sun again;

The landscape lies in green and gold,

And purple clouds in ether rolled,

Or gentle blue now smile above

This earthly scene of Eden love.

With dashing wheels and flying steed,

Nor whip nor spur to urge their speed,

To view his land Fitch Moreland came,

The eldest of his honoured name,

And heir of all, the green-crowned wood,

In which the low-roofed school-house stood,

The wide-spread fields, the meadows broad,

The fruitful land and grassy sward,

And near embraced with roses wild

The old brown house that through them smiled,

Where Alice Hill had passed her days

Unnoticed by a flatterer's gaze;

And Rudolph Hill, a farmer skilled,

The fields had reaped, the lands had tilled,

Fitch Moreland's tenant, prompt to pay

His rent and taxes gathering day.

Just free from school, with shout and song,

Fitch Moreland met a joyous throng,

And joined their sports, with heart as gay,

As boyhood had not passed away;

Till seated in a fairy glade,

Beneath an elm tree's grateful shade,

Sweet Alice Hill fell on his sight,

With glowing cheeks and eyes of light:

Around her neck, her hair unbound,

In floating tresses swept the ground,

And pupils kneeling at her side,

Wild flowers in graceful garlands tied,

A coronal as fresh and gay

As ever crowned "the Queen of May."

With courteous words and city mien,

Fitch Moreland joined the rustic scene.

Quick beat the heart of Alice Hill,

Her pulses woke a music thrill:

Her glowing cheek with crimson flushed,

And in her heart tumultuous gushed

A spring of thought, so sweet and rare,

It might have claimed the name of air,

Its unseen visions came so bright,

To shed on life a holier light.

O ye who wear love's gentle spell,

And bless the bondage, can ye tell

Blithe Alice Hill if this was Love,—

That like a homeless, wandering dove,

Beat at her fluttering heart, and sought

An altar for his blissful thought?

No longer now, like placid streams,

Life passes by in quiet dreams;

But hurried, feverish pulses shake

The beating heart they may not break,—

Hope, fear, desire, and all that stored

The spring of life, hung on his word:

There was no life without his smile,

Nor dreamed she that a heart of guile

Beat in so fair and smooth a shrine,

That other eyes for him might shine,

And softer voices breathe his name!

O, Alice Hill, love's vestal flame

Hath many a false, misguiding light,

To cheat young hearts, with promise bright.

And strew life's shores with dearer wrecks

Than perish from our wave-washed decks.

The fowler laid a cunning snare:

The timid bird was fluttering there,

And paused on half-suspended wing,

To hear the subtle charmer sing;

Close to the brink, with dizzy sense,

She hung upon his eloquence;

Lured by the magic of his eye,

She quite forgot her power to fly,

Till reeling, powerless with the spell,

She lost her fragile hold and fell.

The fowler saw his lovely spoil

Entangled in the dazzling toil,

The timid bird, a human heart—

The snare, a smooth seducer's art—

How can my pitying pen rehearse

The burden of its mournful verse,

Since he who triumphed in his power

To crush so meek and low a flower,

Contemptuous spurned it from his path,

To die a lone neglected death,

And to the winds his bauble tost—

Left Alice Hill, betrayed and lost.

And, Alice Hill, his haughty name

Will never hide thy maiden shame—

And though he swear it on his life,

Thou'lt never be Fitch Moreland's wife!

"Farewell, my own, my waiting bride!

Though I am wandering from thy side,

And from these favourite haunts afar,

I see thine eyes in every star,

I hear thy voice in every breeze,

That floats through summer's radiant trees;

And thou shalt wear our bridal ring,

And wear it as a holy thing,

Years rolled down Time's resistless tides

Where Time, Eternity divides;

Fitch Moreland, high in hall and state,

Cared not that by the elm tree sate

Poor Alice Hill, to reason lost,

Like oarless bark on ocean tost;

Not wildly crazed to tear her hair,

But mute and sad, as if despair

Had worn away life's tuneful strings,

And sealed to Thought its gushing springs.

But on that ring mute Alice Hill

For ever looks, as if a thrill

Of reason shot across her brain,

And darted gleams of mental pain.

Bold Winter lay on Moreland Vale.

His bearded crown of ice and hail,

And columns wreathed in feathery snow,

How childhood dreams of glory show.

Fast by these piles, on reeking steed,

A post-boy checked his furious speed,

And whispered to a gaping wight,

"Fitch Moreland takes a wife to-night."

Mute Alice Hill the echo caught,—

With stealthy steps the town she sought,

That three leagues off in beauty lay

Along Wamphassock's lovely bay—

Light, glorious light, streamed clear and wide,

Through the proud dome of Moreland's bride,

And mirth and music chid the hours

Lost in a maze of thornless flowers.

His eye erect in manly pride,

Fitch Moreland stood beside his bride,

Nor dreamed he that his Eden bough

Hung on a false and perjured vow.

The holy priest in scarf and bands

With holy words had joined their hands,

And as to make more strong an oath,

When each had pledged their plighted troth,

A gleaming ring in diamonds set,

That hid a lock of glossy jet,

The fragile finger graceful pressed,

As sunlight lies on ocean's crest.

A maddened brain, a spirit strong,

Has pressed aside that startled throng.

With glaring eyes and purple cheeks,

Fitch Moreland's side a woman seeks,

While o'er her half-ethereal frame

The altar sheds its holy flame.

The grasp on Moreland's arm was light,

But those wild eyes, so wildly bright,

A sturdy arm grasped Alice Hill,

Who struggling fiercely, shrieking shrill,

Out from the door was rudely cast,

Though storms were out and tide and blast.

There shivering on the pavement cold

Sat Alice Hill, with spirit bold,

Roused by a blow, revenge to claim

For reason lost and peace and name.

The holy priest completes his task,

And bride and groom his blessing ask.

What benediction can reverse

A wronged and ruined woman's curse?

With fettered hands and ringlets shorn,

Poor Alice Hill, a maniac, borne

On to the mad-house's gloomy walls,

For ever on Fitch Moreland calls,—

"I am not mad! Unloose these bands!

See here my tortured, bleeding hands!

On Moreland's ring a crimson stain:

It shall not plead my wrongs in vain;

For in my heart revenge lies deep—

Its glassy eyes shall never sleep,

Till at the altar, live or dead,

This be the seal by which we wed!"

A pallet, undisturbed by night,

Fell on the careful matron's sight.

And Alice Hill from thence had fled,

With shoeless feet and naked head.

Long was the search, and every track

Pursued to bring crazed Alice back.

But vain pursuit, reward in vain,

To bring crazed Alice back again.

Wrapped in a cloak of faded red,

With shoeless feet and naked head,

And ringlets shorn, a woman stood

Half muttering, in a crazy mood,

And watched with glazed and jealous eye

A gorgeous equipage move by.

Reined in the light of glaring lamps

The restless steed his bridle champs.

A form alights with agile bound,

But reeling, totters to the ground.

They said, who passed, a weapon's gleam

Danced in the moonlight's silvery beam.

Crowds gathered round, a crimson tide

Was slowly ebbing from his side,

When on their sight a weapon flashed,

And feet that living current plashed,

Till bending o'er his shivering frame

A woman wildly shrieked his name.

"Turn on me now your treacherous eyes!

Speak, lying lips, while perjury dies,

See what a work a falsehood wrought,

My love with life were dearly bought,

But peace and reason with it fled—

Eternal curses on your head!

You stole my love, an artless child

By sacred promises beguiled,

Then left me to a blighted name,

To add new laurels to your fame;—

To death's avenging altar led,

This be the seal by which we wed."

Upraised, the weapon gleamed again

On coward hearts and awe-struck men:

Beside Fitch Moreland, fainting, dead,

Lay Alice Hill, their spirits wed

In that eternal, dreamless sleep,

Where souls their solemn bridals keep.