“Is it not too bad,” said Emma, one day to Alice, “in Charles Cooper to wear that ring of mine; and before Mr. Dashwood, too?”

“You did give it to him, then?” said Alice, quickly. “I thought so; and yet you looked so unconscious, and joined in so carelessly when Mr. Dashwood was talking about it, that I supposed I must be mistaken.”

“Did I?” said Emma, evidently relieved. “I was so afraid I colored, or looked guilty; for I was so startled and frightened, that it was as much as I could do to command myself.”

“Oh, Emma,” said Alice, earnestly, “since you had given the ring, why did you not say so frankly?”

“How could I?” exclaimed Emma, looking aghast at the idea, “when Mr. Dashwood spoke of such things as being vulgar. If he had not made use of that horrible word, ‘vulgar,’ may be I might; but I could not acknowledge it after that, you know.”

“What did he say?” inquired Alice. “I did not hear the commencement of the conversation. How came he to speak of it?”

“Oh, he happened to say he did not like Charles Cooper, (another reason, by the way, for my saying nothing of my old flirtation,) that he was so full of little vanities; and mentioned, as an instance, that he wore a lady’s ring, which he was very fond of displaying and having noticed, which Mr. Dashwood said was ‘very contemptible;’ but the dreadful part of it was, that he added, ‘To be sure he did not suppose the lady could be very fastidious, or she would not have given a ring to such a man as Charles Cooper; and, indeed, for his part, he thought such flirtations vulgar things always.’ Ah! I almost gasped for breath; and I was so thankful I had not said the ring was mine, which I was on the point of doing, when he began the story.”

“Oh, how I wish you had!” exclaimed Alice, fervently.

“Heavens, Alice!” said Emma, reproachfully; “how can you? Do you really wish to see me lowered in his eyes?” and the tears gushed into hers at the bare suggestion.

“No, Emma,” said Alice, affectionately. “But that would have been far from the case. If you had said frankly, and in your playful way, ‘Ah, take care, for I gave him that ring,’ Mr. Dashwood would have thought nothing of it, or only admired you the more for your sincerity.”

“Do you think so?” said Emma, doubtingly. “If I thought that—yes—I believe you are right I wish I had; but I was so frightened at the time—and it’s too late now.”

“Oh, no, it is not, Emma,” said Alice, earnestly. “Do tell him this evening.”

“What, tell him I did a ‘vulgar’ thing, in the first instance, and told a fib about it afterward! Why, what can you be thinking of, Alice?” and Emma actually turned pale at the idea. “You know how scrupulous he is in such matters. You really seem anxious that I should make him despise me,” she added, reproachfully.

“No, indeed, Emma; but he is so noble and upright, that I cannot bear that you should deceive him in any thing; and I am sure you may trust his admiration and affection to any extent, Emma. Why should you be afraid of him? If you begin so now, what will it be after you are married?”

“Oh,” replied Emma, laughing, “when we are once married, he takes me ‘for better or worse,’ and so must put up with me, faults and all; so I shall not be afraid to tell him any thing.”

“Better begin now,” urged Alice.

“Well, I will next time,” said Emma, impatiently. “But there’s no use in bringing this up again. It has passed off now, and he’ll never think of it again; so let the matter rest—it is ended now.”

But here Emma was mistaken. She met Mr. Cooper at a small party in the evening; and to her annoyance, the ring was on his little finger. Some one said, “Cooper, what ring is that you are flourishing?” and the young man smiled in reply, and looked at his little finger caressingly, and said it was “a ring he valued very highly.” Whereupon some badinage followed; all of which Mr. Cooper took very kindly. Emma was excessively vexed and annoyed, although she commanded herself to look calm and indifferent; but afterward she took an opportunity to say to him, in a low voice, “You must return me that ring.”

“You surely are not in earnest. You will not be so cruel,” he replied in a tone equally low.

Just then she caught Mr. Dashwood’s eye, who looked surprised at the sort of intimacy with which they seemed to be talking, and she hastily turned away. Mr. Cooper caught the look at the same time; and the idea instantly occurred to him that Dashwood was jealous. The idea both gratified and amused him; and in a spirit of fun, which often animates young men under such circumstances, he determined to add to his uneasiness. Beside, he saw that Emma was decidedly annoyed; and as she had treated him with some caprice, he thought this a good opportunity for ‘paying her off;’ and so he took particular pleasure in displaying the ring whenever he could. Emma could bear it no longer; and the first time he was by her, and no one else in the group, she said,

“I wish you would give me that ring.”

“What, now?” said the young man, glancing his eye toward Mr. Dashwood, who was just then approaching.

“No,” she replied, almost with a shiver, feeling at once how that would betray her. “Not now; send it to me to-morrow.” And then, as Mr. Dashwood joined them, she continued, in the same tone, to talk of other things.

Cooper saw his power over her, and determined to use it, partly in the spirit of fun, and yet not without a dash of malice in it either. So the next morning he wrote her a few lines, enclosing another ring of more value than hers, and “begging that it might be substituted in the place of one he treasured so highly, he could not readily bring himself to part with it.”

Emma was exceedingly angry. “Did you ever know any thing so impudent?” she said to Alice, with tears in her eyes. “Hateful creature! how could I be such a fool as ever to have let him take it at all!” And she opened her writing-desk to take out some note paper, when Alice said,

“What are you going to do, Emma?”

“Why, return it to him, of course,” she replied, indignantly, “and insist upon having my own again.”

“Oh, don’t write to him, Emma,” said Alice; “pray don’t. Depend upon it, he will take advantage of it if you do.”

“What shall I do, then?” said Emma, despairingly.

“He will probably be here this evening,” replied Alice, “and if you take my advice, you will give it back to him before Mr. Dashwood, and ask for your own at the same time. He’s only trying now to annoy you, because he sees that you are afraid of Mr. Dashwood’s knowing the truth.”

“Well, so I am,” replied Emma. “That’s just the thing. If it was not for Mr. Dashwood, there would be no difficulty about it.”

“Ah, Emma, if you would——”

“But I wont, Alice,” said Emma, interrupting her impatiently. “I know what you are going to say—but I wont—I can’t tell Mr. Dashwood. If you can suggest nothing better than that, leave me to take my own way.”

“Don’t write, then,” said Alice, imploringly.

“Why, Alice, what else can I do!” replied Emma, much vexed. “You make objections to every thing, and yet don’t suggest anything better.” And so she wrote a few rapid lines, enclosing the ring, and dispatched a servant with it to Mr. Cooper’s. He was out. The note was left; and she received no answer that day.

The next morning, however, brought a reply, apologizing, in the first place, for not answering her immediately; but he had been absent from home; then, half expostulatingly, and half playfully, protesting against her exactions—in short, a very flirty note, and without the ring.

Emma was very angry, and foolishly wrote a spirited reply, which, of course, brought a rejoinder; and thus, in spite of Alice’s entreaties, several notes passed between them, and Emma was no nearer her object than before. When they met, he sometimes promised to give up the ring, sometimes playfully evaded the point; but still always kept her in hopes and suspense. Mr. Dashwood noticed the kind of growing intimacy that seemed to subsist between them, and noticed it, too, with displeasure; not that he was jealous at all—for he was of a noble, confiding temper; but he was a proud, reserved man, and did not like the peculiar manner in which Emma allowed Mr. Cooper to address her; and was still less pleased with the low, earnest tones in which he sometimes heard her speaking to him.

Mr. Dashwood was the soul of truth and honor himself, but was of a reserved and even stern temper, too; and in spite of the witchery Emma’s playfulness exercised over him, he would occasionally bend his eyes upon her with a stern look, that frightened the soul almost out of her body—for Emma, like all fibbers, was a coward. She was desperately in love with him, but at the same time desperately afraid of him.

“Oh, if I only get out of this scrape safely,” she said to Alice, “I’ll take care how I get into another.”

“Well,” said Alice, cheerfully, “that is the best thing I’ve heard you say yet, Emma. Pray tell him the truth always in future.”

“It was a pity I did not in the beginning,” said Emma; “for I do believe with you, that he would have thought nothing of it then. He does not suspect any thing now; but still it is unlucky.”

Emma had no feeling about deceiving one who trusted her so fully, but only thought that she was very ‘unlucky’ and in a ‘scrape.’

The next time she met Mr. Cooper, the subject of the ring was resumed. He protested he had it not with him, or he would give it to her. “Will you allow me to call this evening,” he said, “and I will bring it?”

She immediately remembered that Mr. Dashwood would be at her house in the evening, and she said,

“No, I shall not be at home. I am going to spend the evening with Miss Pearsall. Will you not be there?”

“If you are, certainly,” he replied, in a manner implying that it was an appointment, which was the fact, though Emma was vexed at his letting it appear.

Mr. Dashwood said to her afterward, “I will bring the book you wish this evening,” but she answered, to Alice’s surprise, “No, don’t, for I am going with mamma to old Mrs. Haight’s to drink tea; so you must pass the evening at the club for this once,” but, she added, holding out her hand, “come to-morrow; until when, good-by.”

“Why, Emma, what on earth takes you to Mrs. Haight’s to tea?” said Alice, afterward.

“I am not going to Mrs. Haight’s,” she coolly replied. “I am going to Ellen Pearsall’s. Mr. Cooper has promised at last to give me that tiresome ring, and my notes, too.”

Alice looked quite shocked.

“Emma, Emma!” she said. “How can you?”

“How can I what, Alice?” said Emma, impatiently. “You know I can’t let him come here, for Mr. Dashwood is always here.”

“But why say you are going to Mrs. Haight’s?”

“Oh, Alice, how tiresome you are? Because, if I had said I was going to Ellen’s, of course, Mr. Dashwood would have offered to go, or call for me. Now, he knows Mrs. Haight never receives any one but our family; so that matter is settled.”

“But suppose he finds it out?” persisted Alice.

“Oh, he wont find it out,” returned Emma, who was always confident in any expedient that saved her for the time being.

In the evening, it so happened, that one or two gentlemen called also at Miss Pearsall’s; and the circle was so small, that the conversation being general, as they sat round Miss Pearsall’s tea-table, Emma had no opportunity of effecting the object she came for; and she returned home quite provoked, and out of spirits. But it so happened, that one of the young men who had chanced to be there, on his way home, went into the very club-room where Mr. Dashwood was sitting.

“You are a very pretty fellow, are you not!” exclaimed the young man, gayly, as he saw Dashwood. “And this is your engagement, is it? ’Pon my word, I think Miss Percival is very good to make your apologies in this way, and let you come off to a club-room.”

“What are you talking of?” said Dashwood, looking up surprised.

“Why, of your letting Miss Percival go alone to Miss Pearsall, saying you were engaged. She has just gone home with her brother, while her most devoted of lovers sits smoking his cigar in a club-room.”

Mr. Dashwood could scarcely believe his senses. He doubted, for the moment, whether he was smoking—whether he was in a club-room—whether he was sitting or standing. But, too proud and reserved to betray his emotions to a casual acquaintance, he asked no questions; and observing that the room was cold, buttoned up his coat, and left the house.

The next day he said to Emma,

“Did not you tell me you were going last evening to Mrs. Haight’s with your mother?”

“Yes,” she replied, “mamma and I went early to an old-fashioned cup of tea.”

“Hawthorn told me,” he said, bending his eyes upon her with an expression that brought her heart to her lips in an instant, “that he met you at Mrs. Pearsall’s.”

“Yes,” she replied, with a presence of mind worthy of a better cause—for she felt it was what is vulgarly called “neck or nothing”—“yes, it was so dull, that I could not bear it long. All my humanity and kindness for poor old Mrs. Haight could not stand her prosing; so I left mamma there, and went into Ellen’s—they live next door, you know.”

“Hawthorn said you apologized for me, saying I was engaged,” he continued, not yet quite satisfied.

“I said nothing of the kind,” she said, feeling that her only resource was to deny this in toto. “What could Mr. Hawthorn be thinking of? I said you were going to the club.”

His countenance cleared immediately; indeed, he was angry, and despised himself that he could have been uneasy, or doubted her for a moment. He grew animated and cheerful, and asked so pleasantly who she had met there, that, excited by her success, or “escape,” as she would have called it, she mentioned the gentlemen, among whom she even boldly named Mr. Cooper, who had been Miss Pearsall’s guests.

“Emma,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “perfect confidence must exist where there is perfect affection; so I will be frank with you at once. I do not like that gentleman’s manner toward you. It seems to me as if there were some secret between you;” and he fixed his searching eyes upon her with an inquiring expression.

She felt now that he had seen too much to be satisfied of the contrary, even if she denied it; so she said,

“Well, to be frank with you, there is something between us; but as it is not a secret of mine—I do not know that I am authorized to tell even you of it.”

He looked grave, as he replied,

“Certainly, if it is the secret of another, I have no right, nor wish, even, to inquire further. But I hope in future, Emma, you may have no secrets, even of others, from which I am excluded.”

It was half affectionately, half gravely said; and Emma promised most fully to have no reserves from him henceforth.

“Do you know,” continued he, smiling, though still not looking quite satisfied, “that I imagined it was something concerning that ring that Cooper sports?”

Emma felt again that she was treading on ice, that might give way the next instant, and that denial was unsafe, so she answered boldly,

“You are right again. And, upon the whole, I don’t know why I should not tell you the truth just as it is. I do not suppose Ellen will care about your knowing it, particularly as you, of course, will not repeat it. She gave him that ring, and wanted me to get it back for her.”

“Why did she not ask for it herself?” he said, somewhat sternly.

“She was afraid of her mother’s knowing it,” replied Emma. “You know what a prim, particular old lady Mrs. Pearsall is.”

“Foolish girl,” he said, contemptuously, “and worse than foolish, to be deceiving those she should most trust.”

Emma felt her heart die within her; but there was no help for her—so she agreed to all his animadversions on Miss Pearsall, and only said,

“Yes, so she is; but say nothing about it. Make no allusion to her, or to any one else.”

“Of course not,” he replied; and the subject dropped.

To Emma’s great relief she heard, a few days afterward, that Mr. Cooper was going to Europe very soon. Expected to sail, indeed, in the course of a fortnight.

“I have a little package for you,” he said; “when can I call,” he added, smiling, “when Mr. Dashwood is not at your house?”

Emma saw that he thought she was afraid of Mr. Dashwood, and supposed, too, that he was jealous; and the idea that he should presume to think Dashwood jealous, and of him, too, roused her temper; and she said with spirit,

“You may call whenever it suits you. Mr. Dashwood’s visits need not interfere with yours.”

“Indeed!” he said, looking at her inquiringly.

“Why,” said she, scornfully, provoked with his impudence, “do you imagine that Mr. Dashwood cares about that ring?”

“Does he know it to be yours?” he asked, with surprise.

“To be sure he does,” she boldly replied; and, to her great satisfaction, she saw at once that all the peculiar pleasure and interest in possessing the ring was dispelled.

“I will send you the package to-morrow,” he said, quietly, “if I have not time to call myself before I sail.”

He was very much occupied, however, during the day, and forgot it; but the evening prior to his departure, Dashwood called at his rooms to entrust him with some European letters. He found him making a few last arrangements, and a couple of gentlemen were with him. After some general conversation, just as Cooper was closing his writing-desk, where he had deposited Dashwood’s letters, his eye happened to fall upon Emma’s package, which he had forgotten in his hurry until then. Supposing that Dashwood knew all about it, and not wishing to mention names before the strangers, who were with him, he said, handing it to Dashwood, “I wish you would hand this to its fair owner; and tell Miss Percival,” he said, “that I should have called to make my adieux, if I had not been so pressed for time.”

It was a small package addressed to “Miss E. P.” which Dashwood, remembering his conversation with Emma, supposed he was to hand to Miss Ellen Pearsall; so, asking no questions, he put it in his pocket, and after bidding Cooper farewell, left him to go to a large party where he expected to meet Emma, and probably Ellen.

In the course of the evening he said,

“I have a small package for you, Miss Pearsall, which I will give you when you leave.”

“A package for me!” she exclaimed, with surprise. “What can it be! Oh, give it to me now.”

As Mrs. Pearsall, the “prim, particular old lady,” was not near, he handed Ellen the package, who instantly broke the seal of the envelope, from which fell two or three notes, while the young lady exclaimed,

“Why this is Emma’s ring. What were you thinking of, Mr. Dashwood?” she added, laughing. “You must be an absent gentleman, to be sure, to mistake me for Emma. Is not that a good joke?” and she laughed heartily, as he stooped to pick up the notes, which to his amazement he saw were directed, in Emma’s handwriting, to “Charles Cooper, Esq.”

“That Miss Percival’s ring?” he said, bewildered, and not knowing what to think.

“Yes, certainly!” she replied. “See, there is her name engraved inside”—and so it was. “Is not that amusing, mamma?” she continued, turning to her mother, and explaining what she seemed to think an excellent joke. Dashwood saw the truth at once in her tones and whole manner.

“What is that,” said Emma, crossing the room to join them, “that seems to be amusing you all so?”

“Only, my dear,” said Ellen, laughing, “that Mr. Dashwood has mistaken me for you. Very complimentary to me, certainly; though I don’t know what you’ll say to such compliments.”

“This package,” said Mr. Dashwood, gravely, without raising his eyes to Emma’s face, “is, it seems, addressed to you. Miss Pearsall broke the seal under a mistake. But there is no mistake now, I believe,” he added, with an emphasis that sent Emma’s blood tingling to the tips of her fingers. He handed her the package, slightly bowed and passed on.

Emma saw him no more that evening. Startled and terrified by the facts, which she felt even her powers of dissimulation were unequal to cover, she was yet more alarmed by the manner in which he had received them. Had he seemed angry, though frightened, she still would have had hope. Had he reproached her, she might have wept and apologized. But his manner had been cold and stern; he had merely bowed, he had not even looked at her, and left her.

She passed an agonized night of doubt and suspense.

He suffered no less than herself, but not from doubt and suspense. Unhappily, there was no room for that. He was a man of firm mind, and decided character. His sense of honor was fine, almost romantic; and he was the soul of truth and integrity. He was not angry, but worse than that, he was shocked; and, shall we say it, disgusted. He had been easily blinded, because he fully confided. He was too upright, too high-minded, readily to suspect others. But his eyes once opened, and his rapid, clear mind saw the whole at once. The falsehoods that Emma had told him, much as they pained him, were not to him the worst part of the affair. He remembered her innocent looks, her unconscious air, her apparently frank and careless manner; and his soul sickened—for he felt, in the emphatic language of the ritual, that “the truth was not in her.”

Confidence was destroyed forever. Happiness between them was out of the question. He wrote to her, “freeing her from an engagement with one whom she evidently not only did not trust, but feared.”

The letter was a manly, feeling letter; short, but breathing the anguish of a deeply wounded spirit.

Emma wept passionately over it; mourned, and mourned again, that she had not told him the truth in the beginning. “It was so unlucky,” as she kept repeating—for beyond that her sense of right did not go, even yet.

But Mr. Dashwood was on his way to New Orleans. He left the Percivals to tell what story they pleased; and it was soon announced by her friends that “Emma had dismissed him.”

When the reason was asked, Emma said “she felt she never could be happy with him;” and her mother intimated that his temper was a stern, unpleasant one.

“And I always should have been afraid of him,” said Emma to Alice, beginning to draw consolation as soon as she could from the first source that occurred to her. “He thought so much of trifles that I know that I should always have been in trouble, and horribly afraid of him.”

Alice sighed, for she believed so too. She had once hoped much from the influence of Dashwood’s superior character over her; but she now saw how fallacious those hopes would have been. Emma, she felt, was incorrigible, for she had no perception even yet of her fault. Dashwood had been right—“the truth was not in her.”

———

BY EDWARD POLLOCK.

———

Old Elva’s walls are leveled with the earth,

And weeds are green where glowed the blazing hearth;

The stately trees that once the roof topped o’er,

Now shed their brown leaves on the broken floor:

Where bloomed the rose and lily, browse the deer;

And springs the oak the cherished fruit tree near;

Where once were arbors, now, through thickest brake,

Slow winds, in many a fold, the glancing snake.

Time, tempest, violence, and dull decay,

Have worn at length the latest marks away;

One tower alone stands grimly where it stood,

Gray, torn, dismantled, frowning o’er the flood,

The dreariest mark those mournful ruins bear,

That human forms have been—but are not there.

Yet, Elva! once with thee it was not so:

Ere ruthless hearts and hands had wrought thee wo,

Thy long dim halls with happiness were rife,

And glad hearts to thy solitudes gave life.

And though nor gladsome voice, nor glancing oar,

Now stir the echoes on thy lake’s green shore,

That lake hath borne full oft the bark where sate

Forms warm with love, and hearts with hope elate,

And young bright eyes have bent with starry gleam

Above the mazy windings of thy stream.

From the dark turret, where the sweet bells swung,

All winged with joy the wedding peals have rung,

While Mirth, with kindling glance and rosy smile,

Kissed each young cheek and blessed each heart the while,

And Song sat, silver-tongued, and filled with sound

Those echoing walls, now sadly scattered round!

Oh list the lowly and the simple lay

The minstrel sings of Elva’s earlier day.

I.

Old Elva’s halls have many a guest to-night,

Yet the lamps shed not their accustomed light,

Nor music’s strain, nor garnished feast is there,

But all is sentineled by anxious care.

For they who rest within, in act and word,

Are leagued in hostile guise against their lord;

And much they dare who aid with kindly hand

The attainted members of that patriot band:

Men who had cast with daring hands aside

The cankering chains of feudal pomp and pride,

And roused by wrongs, long suffered, long forgiven,

Will now be free, if not on earth—in heaven.

Worn by long marching, wearied, dark with soil—

But not one fiery bosom tamed by toil—

On the hard floor their limbs they careless lay,

And wait their arms beside th’ approaching day—

Small thought have they of aught of daintier fare—

Few nights, I ween, for them such couch prepare.

II.

As one who watched his slumbering band to guard,

Their chieftain, Gilbert, slowly paced the sward.

His ebon locks thrown back to catch the breeze,

Cooled by the lake and scented by the trees,

His small hand resting on his dagger’s hilt,

Whose blade may yet retain its last red gilt,

With careful gaze he scans the darkening scene,

Marks each faint motion of the foliage green,

Or turns at times his flashing full gray eye,

To where the stars hang brightening o’er the sky.

Why waits he here when all the rest are deep

In the void realms of weird, mysterious sleep?

What thought—what scene doth hope or memory trace,

Which gilds and glooms alternately his face?

Dreams he of glory?—of revenge?—or love?

Or seek his eyes those silent suns above,

With strange, deep yearnings for the mystic lore

The eastern Magi proudly held of yore?

When stars were gods, and he who bent the knee

To their far thrones, the future there might see—

Or why hath power so soon her mantle flung,

On one so fair, so slender, and so young?

III.

Vain questions all! But ask the bold of deed

Who scarce can follow where he dares to lead,

Whose form is foremost in the reeling fight?

Whose arm is last to stay and first to smite?

Whose voice still rings the wavering ranks to cheer?

Whose counsel still partakes of aught but fear?

Whose face, when all was chill with blank despair,

Ne’er yet has worn one shade that looked like care?

Or whose the hand, when some well-won success

Might sure have named revenge a just redress,

Was still most prompt the conquered foe to save?

All his—the young—the beautiful—the brave!

He who had lightly held that slender hand,

Would scarce have scorned it when it grasped the brand;

And he who marked at rest that eye and cheek,

In war so wild, in peace so soft and meek,

Might well have wondered whence the spirit rose,

So dear to friends—so terrible to foes!

IV.

He came—they knew not whence—nor much they cared;

Yet seemed he one in luxury lapped and reared:

Some hideous wrong, perchance, they thought, had stung

Into rebellion one so soft and young.

A home laid desolate—a father slain—

Or else redress for injury, asked in vain;

But all was wild surmise—they questioned not,

But in the present soon the past forgot.

So mild his face, serene and calmly bright,

Like a sweet landscape in the morning light,

You might not guess what passions lurked apart

In the dim caverns of his hidden heart;

And in his eye gleamed such uncertain ray,

Full rarely sad, and still more rarely gay,

You ne’er could tell if joy or rage would speak

In the next moment from his changing cheek.

If wreathed in smiles, his beaming features shone

Like a breeze-dimpled streamlet in the sun;

But when the glance of anger fired his eye,

It struck like lightning from a cloudless sky.

Still in his glance, and in his lifted hand,

Was that which showed the soul that would command;

It might be art, or nature—none could tell—

But if a mask, he wore it rarely well.

V.

The western clouds have lost their purple dye,

A silver radiance tints the eastern sky—

That dream-like glory tells the eye, that soon

Above the hills shall sail the summer moon.

And Gilbert passed within that silent hall,

Lit by a dim lamp trembling from the wall,

His steps he turned by that uncertain ray,

Where stretched along his sleeping warriors lay.

’Twas a strange sight! each swart and stalwart form,

So scarred and seared by warfare and by storm,

There seemingly lay lapped in such sweet rest,

As lulls the infant on its mother’s breast.

But when the form in deepest trance lies still

Most wildly wakes the fancy and the will,

And much of tumult hushed, and passion stern,

Who watched the unconscious sleepers might discern.

Here one, whose quivering eyelids shunned the light,

Seemed struggling with some phantom child of night;

Yon grimly smiling form we well may guess

In dreams anticipates revenge—redress!

And there be fingers wandering to the brand,

And the sheathed dagger meets the unconscious hand;

And some there be whose quick convulsive clasp

The long brown rifle strains with iron grasp.

VI.

Where through the window, opening o’er the glade,

The shivering winds of night an entrance made,

There was an old man—old in years and care—

With wrinkled brow and scant and frosty hair,

Stretched out in sleep; the earliest moonbeams played

On the hard pillow where his cheek was laid,

And, with her spirit hand, the wind of night

Lifted the thin locks from his temples white.

Such ghastly pallor o’er the features spread,

So marble cold appeared the silent head,

That one might start, despite the deep drawn breath,

At life that looked so fearfully like death.

And Gilbert gazed, and as he gazed, a change

Passed o’er those features—beautiful but strange—

Such magic change as one might guess would be

When bursts the morning o’er a moonlit sea;

His brow relaxed, his thin lips dropped apart,

More boldly heaved his breast and leaped his heart,

And a faint smile, the ghost of gladness gone,

Played round his mouth like radiance round the sun.

Now sinks his breathing indistinct and low—

Hark! from his lips unmeaning murmurs flow—

He speaks: “Dear father—mother—” Heaven above!

That old man dreams of childhood’s guiltless love.

The daylight shines not on a fiercer brow,

A fiercer eye, a haughtier lip, and now,

Serenely, sweetly, there, a sinless boy,

He smiles in slumber o’er a childish joy.

To Gilbert’s eyes those words recalled a scene,

That ah! no more for Gilbert shall be green;

And at those syllables so lightly spoke,

Long channeled fountains in his bosom broke;

Along his cheek faint flushes went and came,

As o’er an evening cloud the lightning’s flame;

And his frame thrilled and trembled as the trees

All quivering bend them to the autumn breeze.

Hell has no fiend like memory, when she brings

Repentance without hope, remorse’s stings,

And a long file of days, in sable weeds,

Mourning and weeping over past misdeeds.

Like a pale ghost that shuns the rising day,

Strode Gilbert fast, but stealthily, away;

Nor paused he till again the dewy sod

With lighter heart and firmer step he trod.

VII.

Like warriors of the knightly times of old,

All sheathed in armor rough with fretted gold,

So seem the trees round Elva’s mansion white,

So glance their wet leaves in the silver light.

Still Gilbert watches—still his eyelids keep

At bay the approaches of deceitful sleep;

The sun was sinking when his watch begun,

Now far beneath him rolls the unwearied sun;

The moon, whose glory woke a fainter day,

When on the hill-tops died the gold away,

Now from mid-heaven, with face serene, looks down

On lake and stream and Elva’s forest brown.

He leaned against a tree, whose trunk around

With hoary moss and ivy green was bound,

His flashing eyes were turned upon a scroll

Whose pictured words drew echoes from his soul:

As the Æolian harp, by night winds stirred,

By turns is silent, or by snatches heard,

So wildly sweet, in fitful fragments rung

The syllables unconscious from his tongue.

THE LETTER.

Sweet land of shadows—dear, delightful shore—

Oh could I seek thee to return no more!

What dreams of joy each misty valley fills,

What scented blossoms fringe the sparkling rills,

What angel visions float through rainbow skies,

Where rich and warm a sunless glory lies!

There, ’mid the blossoms, love lies stretched along,

And fills the air with passion and with song,

And dancing waves below, and winds above,

Seem warm with kisses from the lips we love.

Ah! Gilbert, shall our spirits haunt no more

Those bowers of love on fancy’s airy shore?

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

Fierce as the waves of ocean lashed to strife,

Wild as the winds that wake them into life,

Through my sore heart the crimson billows roll,

And rush the thoughts tumultuous o’er my soul,

When to my memory’s eye returns that day

They tore thee bleeding from my heart away.

O cursed, yet blessed, all wild with joy and pain,

How cling those moments to my tortured brain—

That last embrace my bosom answers still,

Still to that kiss my lips responsive thrill.

Again mine arms are wildly round thee flung—

I drink each accent falling from thy tongue—

Again—again—O God!—the steel gleams bright—

As speeds the deadly blow before my sight,

I see the warm blood gushing from thy breast—

But grim despair and darkness hold the rest.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

High hangs that blade above my chamber-door—

The fiend that from my heart its idol tore,

Before my gaze displays the unwiped steel,

And feeds his vengeance on the pangs I feel.

There must I see, each morning’s life begun,

Thy best blood rusting in the rising sun;

By night—by night, whene’er the moonbeams pale

Have wreathed the chamber in their mystic veil,

Through the dim haze, like spectral lamp, it gleams,

Or fills with baleful light my midnight dreams.

From hideous sleep with quivering limbs I start—

That blade seems rusting in my throbbing heart;

Like a red cloud it shuts the light away,

And glooms with horror all the joys of day.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

I know thou didst not die—this much I know

From him who wert thou dead were still thy foe;

I know thy dwelling, in the deep recess

Of the greenwood’s remotest wilderness,

And he can tell, who bears this scroll from me,

How my heart bounded at the thought of thee.

Fame speaks thee fierce of heart, of deadly hand,

The outlawed leader of an outlawed band;

I heed not that, I only joy to hear

Thy name as one the boldest hearts must fear;

Would only pray, that fate would kindly twine.

In life or death, my destiny with thine.

Alas, how vain! my love, my spirit’s pride,

A hunted lion, roves the mountain-side.

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

There is a fairy spot, thou knowest it well,

By Elva’s stream, in Elva’s deepest dell,

Where oaks and larches bend their heads above,

And flowering shrubs beneath are thickly wove,

While through the boughs, in many a broken beam,

Dances the sunlight on the sparkling stream;

There, when my guardian’s eyes I can elude,

I sometimes steal and sit with solitude;

But all too dreadful is the contrast there,

Where hope lies tombed and guarded by despair,

To the dear joys, all passionate and wild,

With which we once the passing hours beguiled.

Oh there be times when nature’s every voice,

All tuned in one sweet descant, sing, “rejoice!”

When rolls the sun refulgently away,

And strives the red moon with the dying day,

When golden tints and misty gleams of snow

Have met and mingled in the vale below,

When winds and waters, sweetly toned and clear,

In melting murmurs strike the raptured ear;

The rippling sound by waving branches made,

The varying cadence of the far cascade,

Now high, now low, as sweeps the breeze along,

Now calmly faint, now tremulously strong;

There is a spirit thrills the sense, the soul,

Till the full heart spurns reason’s cold control,

Steeps anxious care and coward fear in sleep,

And melts the bosom into raptures deep!

Such have we known full oft in that lone dell,

How dear—how dear—the thought—our hearts can tell!

. . . . . . . . . . .

Like a green island, poised on ocean’s brim,

Seem these last scenes in distance faint and dim;

The swift, deep gulf my helmless bark floats o’er

Still bears me further from that lovely shore;

I stretch my arms, I shriek, but dark and strong

Rolls the wild flood of destiny along—

Oh, there are hours of rapture buried there

That envying angels might have longed to share!

Dear hours of love! delusive if thou wilt,

But wild with passion—stained perchance with guilt;

Yet would I peril for such joys again,

Life—time—eternity—but all is vain!

. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . .

Farewell! I ask thee not if day by day

Thy heart hath cast its young romance away;

I could not doubt thy truth—I ask thee not

If Clara’s image be at last forgot;

O! love like ours, impetuous, wild and high,

Drinks at one draught the spirit’s fountains dry!

Farewell!—it chills my blood that lonely word;

My heart is sinking like a wounded bird;

The sky that once with gladness lit my life

Is dull with gloom and desolate with strife,

Yet still, methinks, there dimly shines afar,

Through the rent clouds, one little lonely star—

The star of Hope. I suffer not in vain

If life return thee to my arms again.

——

He pauses—starts—what sees he in the brake?

What stealthy steps the slumbering echoes wake?

“Stand, on thy life!” His knife hath left its sheath,

And the poised pistol grimly threatens death.

No answer comes—but light as forest fawn

Glides a slight female o’er the dewy lawn.

Why tempts that tender form the midnight air?

What makes she here so fragile and so fair?

Had the earth yawned, and from the shades below

A demon sprung, it had not moved him so.

To earth the deadly weapons wild he dashed;

With a strange light his eyes dilated—flashed.

“Great God, ’tis she!” the accents trembling rung

On his pale lips, when to his breast she sprung;

Oh, to that moment what were years of pain,

For young life’s glory has returned again!

Nor words nor murmur break the night’s profound—

Thus still the full heart robs the lips of sound;

And save the glances from their eyes that shoot

There is no sign—for happiness is mute.

VIII.

Oh she was beautiful, that lady fair,

Though pale her seeming in the midnight air;

The slenderest tendrils of the clasping vine

Less rarely than her raven ringlets twine;

The snowiest that e’er the moon looked on

Than her white forehead less serenely shone;

The wavy billows in the morning light,

Now tinged with red, now melting back to white,

Have less of heaven’s serenest dyes than wore

That cheek, the tresses dankly clustered o’er.

With trembling hand she dashed the locks away,

And from her damp brow swept the glittering spray,

“And have we met, and most we part—alas!

Must this long looked for bliss so quickly pass?

Patience, my heart—” and then the accents broke

In calmer tones, though hurriedly she spoke;

“Gilbert, within Gleneden’s halls to-night

Are armed forms that counsel hold of fight;

In ruthless hands are weapons bared for strife,

I scarce need tell thee what they seek—thy life.

’Tis known to-night in Elva camps thy host,

Few, worn, asleep—unarmed and weak the post—

Thus ran their words, and much they talked of gold,

And chieftains by repentant rebels sold;

Unseen myself, I heard their counsel; fear

Has winged my steps to warn thee—I am here.”

Kindly he smiled—“And didst thou dare, dear maid,

For one like me, the midnight forest’s shade?

Thy robes are torn and wet, thy parched lips dry.

And a wild fire is glancing in thine eye—

Poor trembling heart—” and closer still he pressed

The exhausted maiden to his throbbing breast.

“Ten thousand curses strike the onward hind

Who haunts thee thus with cruelty refined!

Alas, my Clara! I could weep for thee,

But tears have long been strangers unto me.

But let him come—” a scornful tone he took,

Darkened his brow and deadly grew his look—

“’Tis time this hand had wreaked its treasured wrong,

And vengeance has delayed her sweets too long;

Twice have I crossed him when the fight was red,

But fate befriended still his guilty head.

Ay, let him come—my band, in one short hour,

Shall equal his, whate’er may be his power,

For long before these hills shall hail the dawn,

Five hundred blades shall glance on Elva’s lawn;

Even now, methinks, the bugles faint I hear,

Which warn their leader that his troops draw near.

But thou, my gentle love, thou ill may’st brook

On scenes of battle and of blood to look!

Small refuge can these feeble walls afford

From war’s rude shocks, the musket and the sword.”

Fierce flashed her eye, and proudly rose her head—

“Think not my woman’s heart so weak,” she said—

“No, from this hour, whatever fate betide,

My post is ever by my Gilbert’s side.

Mine were thy wrongs, my vengeance shall be thine,

Through danger or success, thy path be mine!”

“A thousand thanks, my Clara, for that word!

Thy voice has nerved my heart—has edged my sword!

Nor deem thy lover weak—this peril past,

On different scenes thine eyes thou soon shall cast,

For in these wars my hand shall carve a name

Whose sheen shall dim my sires’ ancestral fame—

Enduring as the stars—and thou shall be,

First in a land where every heart is free—”

Quick he breaks off—for glancing through the trees,

Rank after rank of bayonets bright he sees.

“Clara! they come—the blood-hounds would not wait

The morning light, so eager burns their hate;

’Tis fearful odds, my Clara, but away,

Awhile at least we’ll hold their ranks at bay.”

Around her slender waist his arm he flung,

And lightly through the opened door he sprung,

Noiseless behind the heavy portal turns,

Before him still that glimmering taper burns;

He reached the centre of that chamber wide,

Where slumber still his warriors side by side—

“Now to your chamber haste, my Clara, haste,

For life hangs on each moment that we waste!

How goes the battle, soon myself shall tell;

One kiss—one more—now, Clara, fare thee well!”

IX.

He watched her glide reluctant from the hall,

Then snatched an unsheathed sabre from the wall,

One instant’s glance around the chamber cast,

Where sleep so many that have slept their last;

“Rouse ye, my mates!” Upspringing at the sound,

From their rough couch the startled warriors bound,

Noiseless they start, and all prepared they stand,

Glances the knife and shines the ready brand,

Nor sign nor motion show they of surprise,

But mutely turn on Gilbert their bright eyes.

He stands their centre; round his form they wheel,

A dusky phalanx, lit by gleams of steel,

Serene, but pale as sculptured marble stone

His cheeks—while in his eye there coldly shone

A wintry starlight—well ’tis understood,

That freezing glance prophetic speaks of blood.

Proud he looked round, yet struggling with his pride

Was something of regret he strove to hide,

And low, though resolute, those accents clear,

That fired the listener’s heart and thrilled his ear.

“Comrades and friends—my trusty, fearless few,

Still to yourselves and injured freedom true,

Our foes are here—we are at last beset—

Be calm, be firm, and we shall foil them yet.

They think us helpless, hopeless, all undone,

And scorn their conquest as too easy won;

But can we hold our post—ere morn be gray

We’ll change their triumph into blank dismay.

Yet—for I scorn the hope one hour may blast,

Nor speak through fear—this fight may prove our last;

If one half hour unmastered we hold our post,

All shall be well—if broken, all is lost.

So friends, dear friends, ere yet this cast we dare,

This closing game twixt triumph and despair,

One friendly grasp, not one regretful sigh,

We have been true, and as we lived we’ll die.

Now then, all’s well—be resolute—be dumb,

Let your good rifles speak—ah, hark! they come!”

X.

Flew from its massive hinge the shattered door,

The splintered fragments strewed the marble floor;

Wild through the breach like flashing waves they rolled,

All plumed and armed, and glittering o’er with gold;

Up to the aim rose Gilbert’s rifles all,

Rung the report and sped the deadly ball.

Th’ exulting shout that swelled the foeman’s breath,

Is quenched in yells of anguish and of death—

Once more they crowd—once more the volley came,

They sink like withered grass that feels the flame,

A ghastly pile of quivering limbs and gore

Bars up the way and chokes the narrow door,

But fast and thick, on numbers numbers press,

And death that thins seems scarce to leave them less,

Till in one mass, confused and fierce they close;

Shot answers shot, and blows are met by blows,

Useless the rifle now in that red strife,

Swings the short sword and speeds the gory knife,

The sulphurous smoke hangs o’er them like a pall,

While reeling round they struggle, strike and fall.

Foremost of all, conspicuous, Gilbert stood,

His whirling sabre dripping red with blood;

Gleamed his gray eye, his lordly brow was bare,

In tangled masses fell his raven hair,

Like weeds they fall where’er his weapon swept,

Still round his form a vacant ring he kept,

Where his blade gleams they sink with quivering cry,

And still through all one plume attracts his eye.

As through wild waves the vessel hold her course

Straight for the port, so through the serried force

He cleaves his way—as winds and waves will turn

The bark aside, that struggles to her bourne,

So still opposing numbers bar his way,

And rush between the avenger and his prey.

XI.

Borne back—repulsed—defeated—conquered—no!

Not while one wearied arm can strike a blow—

Stand the lorn few, and deeply draw their breath

For one last stroke, one struggle more with death

As sometimes, when the tempest wildest raves,

Comes a short lull along the flashing waves,

So seemed that pause in havoc’s mad career,

So deep you almost might their breathing hear.

Then, too, oh contrast strange! who looked might see

The moonlight sleeping on the hill’s green lea,

The trees where ’mid the boughs the wild bird swings,

And rocked in slumber folds her wearied wings,

The jeweled grass, the flower whose sun-parched lip

Fresh health and beauty from the night may sip,

The rippling streams that feed with ceaseless flow

The pulseless bosom of the lake below,

Where, glassed between long shadows dusk and brown,

In lines of light the mirrored skies sweep down.

Oh, gazing on such scene, how sweetly come

O’er the full soul dear memories of home!

And were but griefs forgot, and faults forgiven,

The heart might dream this earth should yet be heaven;

All this the long wide window could disclose,

With frame festooned by many a folded rose—

But not for eyes like theirs that gentle sight,

So calm, so sweet, so beautiful, so bright.

XII.

Gilbert looked round—oh now no more they turn,

With answering glances, to his looks that burn.

Wounded and bleeding, scarce the nerveless hand

Can now sustain the deeply reddened brand,

Yet, half unconscious, round his form they close—

Alas! weak fence are they from savage foes.

Around the room his gaze uncertain strayed,

Till on the chamber-door where Clara staid

It rested for a moment—in his heart

Some half-forbidden purpose seemed to start;

But in that moment, when suspended strife

Gave time for thoughts to rise of death and life,

Stepped from the opposing ranks Gleneden’s chief,

And thus in haughty tones demanded brief:

“Now, Gilbert, yield; thy short success is past,

Thy king compels thy rebel knee at last.

Justice or mercy, choose thee which we deal,

Thy monarch’s pardon or his vengeful steel!”

Flashed Gilbert’s eye, and curled his lip with scorn—

“Remorseless caitiff, to thy land forsworn,

False to all ties, in every treason dyed,

Here with thy country’s fellest foes allied,

Darest thou to brand me rebel? Thank thy fear,

And thy less guilty tools that guard thee here,

That long ere now my hand has not repaid

My wrongs—and hers—and my poor land betrayed!

Thy mercies too—ay, prate of such to me!

I know them well—the halter and the tree!

Thou, loathed by all—by every heart accurst—

But words are idle—do thy best—or worst!

Dear friends, once more, one closing stroke with me,

For home, for Liberty—we will be free!”

Hark! was’t a wandering echo that brought back

That shout returning on its airy track?

Do my ears mock me—heard I not the sound

Of trampling hoofs that shake the solid ground?

Wildly they meet—that final strife shall close

On none but victors and their silent foes.

XIII.

And where was Clara? In that chamber dark

She might by sounds the battle’s progress mark;

She heard when Gilbert woke them to the fray,

And when the door to angry blows gave way;

The volleyed crash that sped the deadly hail,

And the long shout that quivered to a wail,

She heard—but still as wilder grew the din,

And crept the sulphurous smoke the room within,

One maddening thought—her Gilbert—torture grew,

His single form her frenzied fancy drew,

Each blade was bent at Gilbert’s heart alone,

In every cry rung Gilbert’s dying moan,

Till a dull sense—like slumber or like death—

Unnerved her limbs and quenched her struggling breath,

Seemed the wild strife in distance far to die.

And gleamed with rainbow tints her closing eye.

She wakes—how dark and chill! Confused she hears—

She scarce knows what—her cheek is drench’d with tears,

And forms and scenes distorted cross her mind,

Like images on water, swept by wind.

She starts—ah, now all’s known—that voice—for well

Each tone of that loved voice her ear can tell!

’Twas then that Gilbert strove, with voice and hand,

To that last charge to cheer his drooping band;

She hears and flies—flings wide the door, and all

Is there revealed within that gory hall.

XIV.

Low lay Gleneden’s chief—his crimson vest

Dark with the blood warm springing from his breast;

O’er him stood Gilbert—still his sabre kept

At bay the circling host that round him swept,

When, with a long, wild shout, and bursting shock,

The ranks are riven, the reeling masses rock,

And piercing through the midst fresh troops are seen,

With weapons bared and clad in robes of green.

“Oh welcome, welcome!” burst from Gilbert’s tongue,

As proudly to that column’s head he sprung;

Not long the foe that sweeping charge may bide,

Wildly they fly, or fall on every side.

XV.

And the last blow has fallen—all is still!

Hark to the murmur of the gentle rill—

List to the breezy song the night wind sings—

How the leaves shiver when the long bough swings—

And this is nature—beautiful by night!

Most beautiful, most heavenly in such light

As now sleeps on her. Mighty God! how mean

Seems the poor reptile man in such a scene!

But where are they—the forms who lately stood

On that wide floor, so slippery now with blood?

Oh many stay there still, around they sleep

In tortured attitudes of anguish deep,

And some, but few, are fugitives; far down

In the deep gorges of the forest brown,

Are forms that struggle through the long rank grass,

And pause, and start, and tremble as they pass.

And Gilbert—the triumphant—where is he?

Lo! ’neath the shadow of yon ivied tree

A group of sorrowing, sobbing warriors bend

O’er him they bled for, but could not defend.

Oh destiny inscrutable! through all

Unharmed to pass—the bayonet and the ball—

And in the moment of success to fall!

His life bleeds slowly from him; and beside

Kneels she who was—or should have been—his bride;

Mutely she kneels, nor moves, nor weeps, nor sighs,

But only gazes on his glazing eyes,

And presses his cold temples. Time rolls past,

Each moment an eternity—they cast

Inquiring glances on her; and they see

At last his dauntless spirit is set free,

Yet in her see no motion. But when gray

In the far east appeared the rising day,

They strove to raise the little arms that bound

His silent head and stony temples round,

They found her gentle spirit, too, had gone—

She was a corpse, like him she rested on!

OR, ROSE BUDD.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.

———

(Continued from page 96.)