  III. Yet one fair flower survived the common dearth, And one sweet voice gave music still to earth; On Fortune's victim Nature pitying smiled; "Still rich!" the father cried, and clasp'd his child. Beautiful Constance!—As the icy air Congeals the earth, to make more clear the star, So the meek soul look'd lovelier from thine eyes, Through the sharp winter of the alter'd skies. Yet the soft child had memories unconfess'd, And griefs that wept not on a father's breast. In brighter days, such love as fancy knows (That youngest love whose couch is in the rose) Had sent the shaft, which, when withdrawn in haste, Leaves not a scar by which the wound is traced; But if it rest, more fatal grows the smart, And deepening from the surface, gains the heart; In truth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please,— Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease; The courtier's mien to veil the miser's soul, And that self-love which brings such self-control. High-born, but poor, no Corydon was he To dream of love and cots in Arcady; His tastes were like the Argonauts of old, And only pastoral if the fleece was gold. The less men feel, the better they can feign— To act a Romeo, needs it Romeo's pain? No, the calm master of the Histrio's art Keeps his head coolest while he storms your heart; Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept, Charm'd when he smiled, and conquer'd when he wept. Meanwhile, what pass'd the father had not guess'd, Nor learn'd the courtship till the suit was press'd; Then prudence woke, and judgment, grown austere, } Join'd trade's slow caution with affection's fear, } And whisper'd this wise counsel—"Wait a year!" } In vain the lover pleaded to the maid; "A year soon passes," Constance smiling said. Just then—for Harcourt's service was the sword— Duty ordain'd what gentle taste abhorr'd; Cursed by a country which at times forgets It boasts an empire where the sun ne'er sets, Some isle, resentful of our lax control, Rebels on purpose to distract his soul. A month had scorch'd him on that hateful shore, When paled those charms to which such faith he swore; The sire's reverses changed the daughter's face;— "Oh heavens!—so handsome! Gone in one short hour!" "What," quoth a friend, "The Lady?" "No, the dower." PART THE THIRD.I. Between two moments in the life of man An airy bridge divided worlds may span; Fine as the hair which sways beneath a soul By Azrael summon'd to the spectre goal, It springs abrupt from that sharp point in time Where, soft behind us in its orient clime, Lies the lost garden-land of young Romance: Beyond, with cloud upon the cold expanse, Looms rugged Duty;—and betwixt them swell Abysmal deeps, in which to fall were hell. O thou, who tread'st along that trembling line, The stedfast step, the onward gaze be thine! Dread Memory most!—the light thou leav'st would blind, Thy foot betrays thee if thou look behind! If Constance yet escaped not from the past, At least she strove:—the chain may break at last. Veil'd by the smile, Grief can so safely grieve: Love that confides, a smile can so deceive: And Ruthven kneeling at the altar's base Guess'd not the idol which profaned the place; But smiles forsake when secret hours bestow The angry self-confessional of woe; When trembling thought and stern-eyed conscience meet, And truth rebukes ev'n duty for deceit. Ah! what a world were this if all were known, And smiles on others track'd to tears alone! Oft, had he seem'd less lofty to her eye, Her soul had spoken and confess'd its lie: But sometimes natures least obscured by clay Shine through an awe that scares the meek away; And, near as life may seem to life,—alas! Each hath closed portals, nought but love can pass. Thus the resolve, in absence nursed, forsook Her lip, and died, abash'd, before his look; His foes his virtues—honour seem'd austere, And all most reverenced most provoked the fear. II. Pass by some weeks: to London Seaton went, His genius glorying in its wonted vent; New props are built, and new foundations laid, And once more rose thy crowded temple—Trade! Then back the sire and daughter bent their way, There, where the troth was pledged, let Hymen claim the day! With Constance came a friend of earlier years, Partner of childhood's smiles and pangless tears; Leaf intertwined with leaf, their youth together Ripen'd to bloom through life's first April weather. To Juliet Constance had no care untold, Here grief found sympathy and wept consoled; On woman's pitying heart could woman here Mourn perish'd hope, or pour remorseful fear; And breathe those prayers which woman breathes for one, Who fading from her world is still its sun. These made their commune, when from darkening skies, Pale as lost joys, stars gleam'd on tearful eyes. They guess'd not how the credulous gaze of love Dwelt on the moon that rose their roof above, Saw as on Latmos fall the enchanted beams— And bless'd the Dian for Endymion's dreams. III. Meanwhile, to England Harcourt's steps return'd, And Seaton's new-born state the earliest news he learn'd: What the emotions of this injured man? He had a friend—and thus his letter ran: "Back to this land, where merit starves obscure, Where wisdom says—'Be anything but poor,' Return'd, my eyes the path to wealth explore, And straight I hear—'Constance is rich once more!' Thou know'st, my friend, with what a dexterous craft I 'scaped the cup a tenderer dupe had quaff'd; For in the chalice misery holds to life, What drop more nauseous than a dowerless wife? Yet she was fair, and gentle, charming—all That man would make his partner at a ball! And, for the partner of a life, what more? Plate at the board, a porter at the door! Cupid and Plutus, though they oft divide, If bound to Hymen should walk side by side; A boon companion halves the longest way,— When Plutus join'd, I own that Love was gay; But Plutus left, where Hymen did begin, The way look'd dreary and the God gave in: And Cupid starts refresh'd upon the road. 'But how,' thou ask'st, 'how dupe again the ear, In which thy voice slept silent for a year? And how explain, how'—Why impute to thee Questions whose folly thy quick glance can see? Who loves is ever glad to be deceived, Who lies the most is still the most believed. Somewhat I trust to Eloquence and Art, And where these fail—thank Heaven she has a heart! More it disturbs me that some rumours run, That Constance, too, can play the faithless one; That, where round pastoral meads blue streamlets purl, ChloË has found a Thyrsis—in an Earl! And oh! that Ruthven! Hate is not for me; Who loves not, hates not,—both bad policy! Yet could I hate, through all the earth I know But that one man my soul would honour so. Through ties remote—by some Scotch grand-dam's side, We are, if scarce related, yet allied; And had his mother been a barren dame, Mine were those lands, and mine that lordly name: Nay, if he die without an heir, ev'n yet— Oh, while I write, perchance the seal is set! Farewell! a letter speeds to her retreat, The prayer that wafts her Harcourt to her feet; There to explain the past—his faith defend, And claim, et cetera—Yours, in haste, my friend!" IV. To Constance came a far less honest scroll, Yet oh, each word seem'd vivid from the soul! Fear, hope—reports that madden'd, yet could stir No faith in one who ne'er could doubt of her: Wild vows renew'd—complaints of no replies To lines unwrit; the eloquence of lies! And more than all, the assurance still too dear, Of Love surviving that vast age—a year! Such were the tidings to the maiden borne, And—woe the day—upon her Bridal Morn! V. It was the loving twilight's rosiest hour, The Love-star trembled on the ivied tower, As through the frowning archway pass'd the bride, With Juliet, whispering courage, by her side; For Ruthven went before, that first of all His voice might welcome to his father's hall: Show'd the stern wrecks of battle-storms gone by. Gleam'd the blue mail, indented with the glaive, Droop'd the dull banner, breezeless, on the stave; Below the Gothic masks, grotesque and grim, Carved from the stonework, like a wizard's whim, Hung the accoutrements that lent a grace To the old warrior-pastime of the chase. Cross-bows by hands, long dust, once deftly borne; The Hawker's glove, the Huntsman's soundless horn; On the huge hearth the hospitable flame Lit the dark portrait in its mouldering frame; Statesmen in senates, knights in fields, renown'd, On their new daughter ominously frown'd; To the young Stranger, shivering to behold, The Home she enter'd seem'd the tomb of old. VI. "Doth it so chill thee, Constance? Dare I own, The charm that haunts what childhood's years have known, How many dreams of fame beyond my sires, Wing'd the proud thought that now no more aspires! Here, while I paced, at the dusk twilight time, As the deep church-bell toll'd the curfew chime; In the dim Past my spirit seem'd to live, To every relic some weird legend give; And muse such hopes of glorious things to be, As they, the Dead, mused once;—wild dreams—fulfill'd in thee! Ah, never 'mid those early visions shone, A face so sweet, my Constance, as thine own! And what if all that charm'd me then, depart? Clear, through the fading mists, smiles my soft heav'n—thy heart! What, drooping still! Nay love, we are not all So sad within, as this time-darken'd hall. Come!"—and they pass'd (still Juliet by her side) To a fair chamber, deck'd to greet the bride. There, all of later luxury lent its smile, To cheer, yet still beseem, the reverend pile. What though the stately tapestry met the eyes, Gay were its pictures, brilliant were its dyes; There, graceful cressets from the gilded roof, In mirrors glass'd the landscapes of the woof. There, in the Gothic niche, the harp was placed, There ranged the books most hallow'd by her taste; Through the half-open casement you might view The sweet soil prank'd with flowers of every hue; And on the terrace, crowning the green mountain, Gleam'd the fair statue, play'd the sparkling fountain: The Queen of all—whose dowry was deceit! Soft breathed the air, soft shone the moon above— All save the bride's sad heart, whispering Earth's Hymn to Love! As Ruthven's hand sought hers, on Juliet's breast She fell; and passionate tears, till then supprest, Gush'd from averted eyes. To him the tears Betray'd no secret that could rouse his fears— For joy, as grief, the tender heart will melt— The tears but proved how well his love was felt. And, with the delicate thought that shunn'd to hear Thanks for the cares, which cares themselves endear, He whisper'd, "Linger not!" and closed the door, And Constance sobbed—"Thank Heaven, alone with thee once more!" VII. Across his threshold Ruthven lightly strode, And his glad heart from its full deeps o'erflow'd, Pass'd is the Porch—he gains the balmy air, Still crouch the night winds in their forest lair. The moonlight silvers the unrustling pines, On the hush'd lake the tremulous glory shines. A stately shadow o'er the crystal brink, Reflects the shy stag as its halt to drink; And the slow cygnet, where it midway glides, Breaks into sparkling rings the faintly heaving tides. Wandering along his boyhood's haunts, he mused; The hour, the heaven, the bliss his soul suffused; It seem'd all hatred from the world had flown, And left to Nature, Love and God alone! Ev'n holiest passion holier render'd there, His every thought breathed gentle as a prayer. VIII. Thus, as the eve grew mellowing into night, Still from yon lattice stream'd the unwelcome light— "Why loitering yet, and wherefore linger I?" And at that thought ev'n Nature pall'd his eye; He miss'd that voice, which with low music fill'd The starry heaven of the rapt thoughts it thrill'd; He gain'd the hall—the lofty stair he wound— Behold, the door of his heart's fairy-ground! The tapestry veil'd him, as its folds, half-raised, Gave to his eye the scene on which it gazed: Still Constance wept—and hark what sounds are those What awful secret those wild sobs disclose!— O Heaven! must life be ever one disguise! What seem'd indifference when we pledged the troth, Now grown—O wretch!—to terrors that but loathe! Oh that the earth might swallow me!" Again Gush forth the sobs, while Juliet soothes in vain. "Nay, nay, be cheer'd—we must not more delay; Cease these wild bursts till I his steps can stay; No, for thy sake—for thine—I must begone." She 'scaped the circling arms, and Constance wept alone. IX. By the opposing door, from that unseen, Where Ruthven stood behind the arras-screen, Pass'd Juliet. Suddenly the startled bride Look'd up, and lo, the Wrong'd One by her side! They gazed in silence face to face: his own, Sad, stern, and awful, chill'd her heart to stone. At length the low and hollow accents stirr'd His blanching lip, that writhed with every word: "Hear me a moment, nor recoil to hear; A love so hated wounds no more thine ear. I thank thee—I—!" His lips would not obey His pride,—and all the manly heart gave way. Low at his feet she fell: the alter'd course Of grief ran deep'ning into vain remorse; "Forgive me!—O forgive!" "Forgive!" he cried, And passion rush'd in speech, till then denied. "Vile mockery! Bid me in the desert live Alone with treason—and then say 'Forgive!' Thou dost not know the ruins thou hast made, Faith in all things thy falsehood has betray'd! Thou, the last refuge, where my baffled youth Dream'd its safe haven, murmuring—'Here is Truth!' Thou in whose smile I garner'd up my breast, Exult! thy fraud surpasses all the rest. No! close, my heart—grow marble! Human worth Is not; and falsehood is the name for earth!" X. Wildly, with long disorder'd strides, he paced The floor to feel the world indeed a waste; For as the earth if God were not above, Man's hearth without the Lares—Faith and Love! But what his woe to hers?—for him at least Conscience was calm, though ev'ry hope had ceased. To live in that worse anguish she had caused: "No, Ruthven, no! Thy pardon not for me; But oh that Heaven may shed its peace on thee So worthless I, so worthless thy regret; Oh that repentance could requite thee yet! Oh that a life that henceforth ne'er shall own, One thought, one wish, one hope, but to atone,— Obedience, honour——" "These may make the wife A faultless statue:—love but breathes the life! Poor child! Nay, weep not; bitterer far, in truth, Than mine, the fate to which thou doom'st thy youth: For manhood's pride the love at last may quell, But when could Woman with Indifference dwell? No sorrow soothed, no joy enhanced since shared. O Heaven—the solitude thy soul has dared! But thou hast chosen! Vain for each regret; All that is left—to seem that we forget. No word of mine my wrongs shall e'er recall; Thine, wealth and pomp, and reverence—take them all! May they console thee, Constance, for a heart That—but enough! So let the loathed depart; These chambers thine, my step invades them not; Sleep, if thou canst, as in thy virgin cot. Henceforth all love has lost its hated claim; If wed, be cheer'd; our wedlock but a name. Much as thou scorn'st me, know this heart above The power of beauty, when disarm'd of love. And so, may Heaven forgive thee!" "Ruthven, stay! Generous—too noble: can no distant day Win thy forgiveness also, and restore Thy trust, thy friendship, even though love be o'er?" He paused a moment with a soften'd eye;— "Alas! thou dreadest, while thou ask'st, reply: If ever, Constance, that blest day should come, When crowds can teach thee what the loss of Home; If ever, when with those who court thee there, The love that chills thee now, thou canst compare, And feel that if thy choice thou couldst recall, Him now unloved, thy love would choose from all Why then, one word, one whisper!—oh, no more—" And fearful of himself, he closed the door! PART THE FOURTH.I. Ah, yes, Philosopher, thy creed is true! 'Tis our own eyes that give the rainbow's hue: What we call Matter, in this outer earth, Takes from our senses, those warm dupes, its birth. How fair to sinless Adam Eden smiled; But sin brought tears, and Eden was a wild! Man's soul is as an everlasting dream, Glassing life's fictions on a phantom stream: To-day, in glory all the world is clad— Wherefore, O Man?—because thy heart is glad. To-morrow, and the self-same scene survey— The same! Oh no—the pomp hath pass'd away! Wherefore the change? Within, go, ask reply— Thy heart hath given its winter to the sky! Vainly the world revolves upon its pole;— Light—Darkness—Seasons—these are in the soul! II. "Trite truth," thou sayest—well, if trite it be, Why seek we ever from ourselves to flee? Pleased to deceive our sight, and loath to know, We bear the climate with us where we go! To that immense Bethesda, whither still Each worse disease seeks cures for every ill; To that great well, in which the Heart at strife, Merges its own amidst the common life,— Whatever name it take, or Public Zeal, Or Self-Ambition, still as sure to heal,— From his sad hearth his sorrows Ruthven bore; Long shunn'd the strife of men, now sought once more. Flock'd to his board the Magnates of the Hour Who clasp for Fame its spectre-likeness—Power! The busy, babbling, talking, toiling race— The Word-besiegers of the Fortress—Place! Waves, each on each, in sunlight hurrying on, A moment gilded—in a moment gone; For Honours fool but with deluding light— The place it glides through, not the wave, is bright! In Ruthven, Party hail'd a Leader's name! Night after night the listening Senate hung On that roused mind, by Grief to Action stung! Night after night, when Action, spent and worn, Left yet more sad the soul it had upborne; The sight of Home the frown of Life renew'd— The World gave Fame and Home a Solitude! III. And Constance? sever'd from a husband's side, No heart to cherish, and no hand to guide, Still, as if ev'n the very name of wife Drew her soul upward into loftier life, The solemn sense of woman's holiest tie Arm'd every thought against the memory. 'Mid shatter'd Lares stood the Marriage Queen— As on a Roman's hearth, with marble smile serene: New to her sight that galaxy of mind Which moves round men who light and guide their kind, Where all shine equal in their joint degrees And rank's harsh outlines vanish into ease. As Power and Genius interchange their hues So genial life the classic charm renews; Some Scipio's wit a Terence may refine, Some CÆsar's pomp exalt a Maro's line— The polish'd have their flaws, but least espied Amongst the polish'd is the angle pride; And, howsoever Envy grudge their state, Their own bland laws democratize the great. XI. And now he gains, and pauses at the door— } Why beats so loud the heart so stern before? } He nerved his pride—one effort, and 'tis o'er. } Thus, with a quiet mien, he enters:—there Kneels Constance yonder—can she kneel in prayer? What object doth that meek devotion chain In yon dark niche? Before his steps can gain Her side, she starts, confused, dismay'd, and pale, And o'er the object draws the curtain veil. But there the implements of art betray What thus the conscience dare not give to day. A portrait? whose but his, the loved and lost, Of a sweet past the melancholy ghost? So Ruthven guess'd—more dark his visage grown, And thus he spoke:—"Once more we meet alone. Once more—be tranquil—hear me! not to upbraid, And not to threat, thy presence I invade; But if the pledge I gave thee I have kept, If not the husband's rights the wife hath wept, If thou hast shared whatever gifts be mine— Wealth, honour, freedom, all unbought, been THINE, Hear me—O hear me, for thy father's sake! For the full heart that thy disgrace would break! By all thine early innocence—by all The woman's Eden—wither'd with her fall— I, whom thou hast denied the right to guide, Implore the daughter, not command the bride; Protect—nor only from the sin and shame, Protect from slander—thine, my Mother's—name! For hers thou bearest now! and in her grave I know thou lov'st another! Dost thou start? From him, as me—the time hath come to part; And ere for ever I relieve thy view— The one thou lov'st must be an exile too. Be silent still, and fear not lest my voice Betray thy secret—Flight shall seem his choice; A fair excuse—a mission to some clime, Where—weep'st thou still? For thee there's hope in time! This heart is not of iron, and the worm That gnaws the thought, soon ravages the form; And then, perchance, thy years may run the course Which flows through love undarken'd by remorse. And now, farewell for ever!" As he spoke, From her cold silence with a bound she broke, And clasp'd his hand. "Oh, leave me not! or know, Before thou goest, the heart that wrong'd thee so, But wrongs no more." "No more?—Oh, spurn the lie; Harcourt but now hath left thee! Well—deny!" "Yes, he hath left me!" "And he urged the suit That—but thou madden'st me! false lips, be mute!" —"He urged the suit—it is for ever o'er; Dead with the folly youth's crude fancies bore, One word, nay less, one gesture" (and she blush'd) "Struck dumb the suit, the scorn'd presumption crush'd." —"What! and yon portrait curtain'd with such care?" "There did I point and say 'My heart is there!'" Amazed, bewilder'd—struggling half with fear And half delight—his steps the curtain near. He lifts the veil: that face—It is his own! But not the face her later gaze had known; Not stern, nor sad, nor cold,—but in those eyes, The wooing softness love unmix'd supplies; The fond smile beaming the glad lips above, Bright as when radiant with the words "I love." An instant mute—oh, canst thou guess the rest? The next his Constance clinging to his breast; All from the proud reserve, at once allied To the girl's modesty, the woman's pride, Melting in sobs and happy tears—and words Swept into music from long-silent chords. Then came the dear confession, full at last. Then stream'd life's Future on the fading Past; And as a sudden footstep nears the door, As a third shadow dims the threshold floor— Pauses the tears, the joy, the heaven to share— The happy Ruthven raised his princely head, "Give her again—this day in truth we wed!" And when the spring the earth's fresh glory weaves In merry sunbeams and green quivering leaves, A joy-bell ringing through a cloudless air Knells Harcourt's hopes and welcomes Ruthven's heir. FOOTNOTESQuÀ pinus ingens albaque populus Umbram hospitalem consociare amant Ramis, et obliquo laborat Lympha fugax trepidare rivo.—Horat. Carm., ii. 3. |
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