Victorian Women Writers Project

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BOOK VIII.

• 'TWAS not the waning year alone that threw
• Its sombre shadow where the poplar grew,
• page: 156
• And leafy chesnut spread its branches wide,
• And graceful ash, that stately ball beside.
• But many an anxious thought had lately come
• To cloud the sunshine of the farmer's home.
• Not that calamity had fallen there,
• But vague forebodings, with a secret fear
• That though the present hour was gilded o'er,
• The future held less smiling ones in store.

• Nor was it on the father's brow alone
• That care sat brooding; Henry, graver grown,
• Partook the feeling in its deepest tone.
• For his was disappointment—vain desire,
• Of which weak hope is born, soon to expire;
• With sense of wrong, as if his father could
• Give him his rightful portion, if he would.
• While his fair Emma, waiting for the bliss
• Of blending all her happiness with his,
• With childish murmuring oft provoked his spleen
• Against a parent, who had ever been
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• But too indulgent, and too proud of him,
• Noting his faults with partial eyes, and dim.

• Mean time had Helen happiness, beyond
• These grovelling thoughts, that seemed too weak and fond,
• And yet too much of calculation born,
• To move her pity, or escape her scorn.
• She had her store of happiness untold,
• To her more precious far than hoarded gold—
• Not tangible, alas! nor sure, nor real,
• But more enjoyed, for being all ideal.

• Autumn was past, and winter now had come,
• With storm and tempest, round the farmer's home,
• Yet brightly burned his cheerful hearth within,
• As when our social evenings first begin;
• When, in defiance of the blast without,
• We stir the fire, and shut the darkness out.
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• And while the night came on with gathering gloom,
• The crimson glow that lighted up that room
• Threw all around its mellow tints, and warm,
• As if in mockery of the raging storm.
• Then Helen struck the chords she loved so well,
• And sung of many a lover's fond farewell,
• Of mermaid's song where treacherous billows roar,
• Of exile pining for his native shore,
• Of battle-field, and “clarion wild and shrill,”
• And hunter's horn loud echoing o'er the hill.
• Then glowed her cheek with feelings warm and high,
• That found no voice save in her minstrelsy;
• Then flashed her eye with more than human light,
• While rose some fabled heroine on the sight.

• What form is that with high and courtly mien,
• His hand upon the charmed pages seen,
• Turning the leaves, yet with enraptured look
• Watching the page of beauty's fairer book?
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• Lord William Douglas, wearied with the chase,
• By Helen's side assumes his wonted place,
• Turns to depart, yet idly lingers still,
• For loud the wintry blast howls on the hill.
• Is it the storm that keeps him loitering there?f
• Or that enchantress with her raven hair?
• Sporting with chains that women love to throw
• Around their captives, and then bid them go.
• For Helen oft would answer his good-night
• As if she cared not when he left her sight,
• Then strike the notes of some wild mountain-air,
• He could not choose but turn again to hear.
• Thus sped those evening hours, so quickly gone
• That Helen scarce believed the vision flown,
• Ere some sweet morrow dawned upon her view,
• With the same colouring-bright, but how untrue!

• They know not half the beauties of the year,
• Who say that summer days alone look fair.
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• Give back the sunshine of a winter's morn
• To nature's child with genuine feeling born.
• The silent, breathless slumber of the breeze,
• The glittering hoar-frost on the leafless trees,
• The high blue vault of heaven without a cloud,
• The clay-cold earth encircled in her shroud
• Of silvery grey, concealment meet for death,
• Hiding the secrets of decay beneath.
• Oh, well-remembered mornings of delight!
• Ere the white frost-work vanished from the sight,
• To watch the fairy forest on the pane
• Melt with the breath, then grow to life again.
• With bounding step along the fields to go,
• And hear the pent-up torrent's gurgling flow;
• The crisp grass rustling underneath the tread,
• Its fleecy carpet all around us spread;
• The clear sharp air inhaling, fresh, and free;
• While health's own rose, so beautiful to see,
• Bloomed on each cheek, and made the lilies there
• More purely white, more exquisitely fair.

• Helen admired, but did not seek from art
• The purer joy that nature can impart.
• She loved her music, and she loved the charm
• That taste could blend even with a rustic farm;
• But more she loved the rosy morning's dawn,
• And traced with joyous step the grassy lawn.
• For still she drank those draughts of natural joy
• Which artificial wants so soon destroy.
• 'Twas thus she wandered forth one winter's morn,
• Say, could it be to hear the huntsman's horn?
• No; for her heart was feminine, and kind?
• In such rude sport what pastime could she find?
• But, hark! they come. The murderous pack is near,
• Their deep-mouthed yells loud echoing on the ear,
• The clattering horsemen whooping, wild and hollow,
• The furious steeds that tear the ground to follow,
• The scarlet coats that blaze along the wood,
• Where crashing boughs across the path obtrude.
• Away! away! as swiftly as they came,
• They speed, and vanish, like some meteor's flame.
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• But Helen wears a blush upon her cheek,
• And in her eyes' bright radiance, hopes that speak
• Sweet promise for that day's departing light,
• When from the field returns the wearied knight.

• Now spreads along the landscape far and near
• A shadow not of clouds, but something drear,
• That seems to whisper to the listening ear
• Of dark forebodings, and mysterious powers,
• Ranging the earth through winter's stormy hours.
• Now wakes the wind with melancholy tone
• Among the topmost boughs, that creak, and moan,
• And bow themselves before the gathering blast,
• Till the first rush of giant strength has passed;
• When, sweeping back, they meet the foe once more,
• And all becomes one universal roar.
• Then rise thick murky clouds before the sun,
• And evening closes in with darkness dun;
• While wends the peasant home his cheerless way,
• Ere the last light expires of dying day.
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• Sweet is it then to draw the curtains warm,
• And hear the ceaseless fury of the storm
• Howling around, without one thought of fear
• That the fierce enemy can enter there.
• Sweet is it then to stir the evening fire,
• To add fresh fuel, watch the blaze burn higher,
• Pity the sailors, and then look to see
• How many bright eyes beam with hope and glee.
• Sweet is it then to weave the social bond
• With minds congenial, faithful hearts, and fond;
• To feel the best beloved on earth are near,
• In that blest hour of safety, more than dear,
• Secure, and sheltered from the raging blast,
• The robe of comfort that our love would cast
• Around them ever, closely folded now,
• Warmth at their heart, and peace upon their brow.
• Love in the sunny hour is not like this,
• It wants more deep intensity of bliss,
• More contrast with a rude and stormy world,
• Whose jarring elements are tossed and hurled
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• Around the sacred precincts of that home,
• Where safety reigns, and tempests never come.

• And Douglas sate beside the farmer's hearth
• With those bright smiles that waken thoughts of mirth.
• Well pleased he seemed Matilda's tea to sip,
• A soldier's story ever on his lip,
• Chasing from William Herbert's brow of care
• The sombre shade that sometimes darkened there,
• Beguiling Henry to forget his love,
• By tales of battle-field, the patriot heart that move.

• This night more animated, more alive
• To all the joy that social hour can give,
• He sate amongst them, seeming happier far
• Than wearing on his breast the knightly star.
• Till Helen woke his favourite Highland strain,
• When stood the soldier by her side again;
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• While stooping low, as if to read the page
• That seemed so oft his notice to engage,
• He said in gentle accents, soft, and sad,
• “May you ne'er sing with heart and voice less glad.
• And think not, Helen, I am light or gay,
• I only laugh to chase my grief away.”

• “Grief?” Helen smiled; she ne'er had heard of woe
• That all around such merriment could throw.

• “Nay, smile not, Helen, cruel, heartless one,
• Or, if you will, smile only when I'm gone.”

• “Gone?”

• “Yes, I soon shall cross the raging sea,
• And you as soon will cease to think of me.
• Yet take this wreath of pearls, and sometimes wear
• The poor memorial in your raven-hair.”

• The maid was startled into helplessness.
• She felt his hand upon her forehead press,
• Binding the silken cord around her brow,
• While o'er her cheek there rushed a crimson glow,
• And then a sudden dimness to her eyes—
• Not tears of sorrow, only of surprise.
• She spoke not; how could language have expressed
• The mixed emotions struggling in her breast.
• And he was gone forth on that stormy night,
• To meet the winds, and battle with their might.
• Yet ere he left, a promise had been made
• To ride together through the beech-wood shade
• For the last time! Oh! words of fearful sound!
• Who has not felt your meaning, too profound,
• Too potent in its melancholy power,
• Ruling the destiny of some short hour
• On which depends the fate of future years,
• With all its wealth of joy, or waste of tears.

• Slowly and mournfully that morn awoke,
• And dimly daylight on the landscape broke.
• Yet Helen went at the appointed hour,
• Unfelt, the chilly blast, or glancing shower.
• Fresh beauty brightening in her cheek and eyes,
• With the brisk gale, and healthy exercise.
• The storm was hushed, but peace had not returned,
• The solemn beech-wood seemed as if it mourned
• The ruthless fury of the winter's blast,
• That from its boughs their leafy garland cast.
• While all around, beneath the horses' tread,
• Thick beds of rustling leaves the feet betrayed.
• Sad was the murmuring of that gale among
• Those stately trees that stood so firm and strong,
• With interwoven branches, cold and grey,
• To guard the traveller on his silent way.
• And meet that scene for love to say farewell,
• The cloudy heaven its pall, the moaning wind its knell.

• Douglas was gone, and with him passed away
• The golden light of many an autumn day.
• Winter's dark hours, how weary were they grown!
• Since that fair dream from Helen's heart had flown.
• Yet was there promise of his quick return,
• And memory's page on which her eye might turn;
• And all the magic colouring hope could bring
• To tinge life's picture with the hues of spring.
• These still were left, and in her secret soul
• Something that bade defiance to control—
• Something that grew out of her own conceit,
• Yet the dull lapse of many an hour would cheat,
• Telling strange stories of congenial minds,
• And that mysterious destiny that winds
• Its secret chain around the faithful-hearted,
• Though far away, by time and distance parted.
• Robbed of this confidence, with promise rife,
• Ill had she brooked the dull routine of life,
• When the last weeks of winter wore that gloom
• Well known to all within the farmer's home,
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• Ere lengthening days enlivening sunshine bring,
• With all the cheerful redolence of spring.

• There is a time when nature seems to make
• A stern determination not to wake;
• When the snows melt, and swollen streams run deep,
• And plashy pools the sere brown herbage steep;
• When first the snowdrop dares the storm endure,
• The only thing on earth which then looks pure;
• When tempted forth, because the days are long,
• Light only seems our misery to prolong,
• By forcing out, from every dark recess,
• The desolation, and the dreariness.

• This, the least lovely season of the year,
• Had now returned, with daylight cold and drear.
• Yet Henry smiled, for youth was in his breast,
• And hope, a still more animating guest,
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• Now conjured up a world of pure delight,
• Where scarce one cloud obscured his ardent sight.
• His father, oft assailed, and sorely tried
• With strange petitions, hard to be denied,
• Yielded at last a full and free consent,
• And Henry was, or seemed to be, content—
• Content at least, his gentle bride should come
• To share the comforts of his father's home;
• For there was room enough for him and her,
• And surely all her presence must prefer.
• So kind, so fair, so lovely to his eye,
• What envious caviller a fault could spy.
• She had been taught by Martha too, and now,
• Like other household dames, could sit and sew,
• Could talk of management, and count the cost
• Of some things, though not those she wanted most.
• True, she was portionless, but he would toil
• Oh, how unceasingly, to see her smile;
• And deem all labour sweet, all suffering light,
• That purchased her one moment of delight.
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• Martha had warned him not to make the trial
• Until the maid, more schooled in self-denial,
• Should learn a few plain rules of common sense,
• Her tears to check, and not with each pretence
• Of pain, or grief, to human nature common,
• To deem herself the most ill-fated woman.
• “Wait, Henry dear,” the prudent sister said,
• “Till a few years have rolled above her head.
• I cannot teach her all at once to know
• That earthly happiness must ever flow
• Back to ourselves, from bliss that we bestow.”

• Henry believed not half that Martha told;
• Possession was to him a mine of gold.
• And, like his lordly brethren, he felt sure,
• If there was evil, he himself could cure.
• He was the safest guide, he knew the best,
• Or, if be failed in ought, then love would do the rest.

• Thus came the orphan to her future home,
• Decked, as she thought a lovely bride should come.
• Nor spared her brother aught, nor Martha's hand
• Withheld whate'er its bounty could command.
• And Emma took their gifts with smiling brow,
• As if it was their duty to bestow,
• Hers to receive. Oh! ignorance of right!
• How oft this poor dependence meets the sight,
• And pains the heart, even in our favoured land,
• Where women cannot—will not understand,
• How they may lean on others, and depend,
• Yet never know what constitutes a friend;
• How they may be both gentle and refined,
• Yet want the noblest attributes of mind;
• How they may charm the ear, and please the eye,
• Yet live unhonoured, and unmourned-for die.

• And now with those bright bridal days of hope,
• Spring came at last, and every woodland slope
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• Lay smiling where the russet brown had been,
• Adorned again in velvet robe of green.
• Spring came at last, and with contented heart
• Henry prepared himself for that stern part
• Which duty prompted. To the fields he went
• With step alert, nor did his heart relent,
• Though Emma ofttimes would have lured his stay,
• By playful chiding ere he turned away.

• “Are we not bound by every claim,” said he,
• “That most imperative and just can be,
• To make my father feel, 'mid cares that goad,
• We are at least not willingly a load?”

• “A load? dear Henry, what a word to use!”

• “This is no time more polished phrase to choose.
• And let us soften as we will, the name,
• The truth—the serious truth—remains the same.”

• Henry was changed even now, and Emma felt
• Her tears had somewhat lost their power to melt.
• One only purpose seemed to fill his mind,
• It might be noble, but it scarce was kind
• To leave her gentle charms, once loved so well,
• For coarse rude men who came to buy and sell.

• Thus Emma reasoned, while she sate and wept;
• But Henry still his manly purpose kept.
• For well he knew he must no longer dream:
• His hand must labour, and his head must scheme,
• If he, with name unstained, and conscience clear,
• Would meet the trials of the coming year.
• And William Herbert now his counsels shared
• Gladly, with one who ever seemed prepared
• With willing service, and with feeling heart,
• To act an able and an upright part.

• Thus passed those summer months, while Lucv's care
• Was called to scenes of solemn service, where
• The reverend pastor bowed his hoary head,
• And she kept watch beside his dying bed.
• At length the scene was closed, and Eustace prayed
• In seeming fervency beside the maid,
• That he might catch that mantle as it fell,
• And in that parting spirit's glory dwell.
• It was a solemn scene, and Lucy felt
• The sordid world before her vision melt,
• With all its weariness, and all its strife,
• Lost in the balance with eternal life.
• Oh, could we linger by the bed of death,
• How might we trample earthly scenes beneath!
• But soon there comes a morrow less sublime,
• And we return to grovelling things of time.

• 'Twas thus with Lucy, though her faithful heart
• Asked only with one treasure not to part.
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• Yet that she hoarded with a miser's care,
• Pure though it seemed, perchance it was her snare.

• Eustace was pastor of that village now,
• And oft with Lucy in her walks would go,
• To hear the blessings of the needy poor
• Welcome her step at every cottage door.
• Why should they dwell apart? They long had known
• And oft acknowledged that their hearts were one.
• So Eustace won at last her free consent,
• And on the embassy of hope he went.

• It was one bright and smiling summer's day,
• When all around, in heaven and earth, looked gay.
• And Lucy sate within a cool alcove,
• Sweet flowers beside her, and blue skies above.
• Fair child of peace, with sunlight on her brow,
• If there be real happiness below,
• 'Twas hers in that bright golden hour to know.
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• Yes, she was happy—happy even here,
• For she had much to hope, and nought to fear;
• With the whole world, and with herself at rest,
• No anxious tumult thrilled her youthful breast.
• Nothing to envy, nothing to forgive,
• Was it not bliss enough to feel, and live?
• Yes; and the birds sang o'er her with delight,
• And the gay flowers sprang sweetly to her sight,
• While the whole voice of nature seemed to pour
• Praise and thanksgiving through that sunny hour.

• At length she heard a footstep on the grass,
• And saw a shadow o'er the threshold pass.
• She raised her eyes. What could there be to chase
• The smile of gladness from her lover's face?
• Yet so it seemed; but he began to speak,
• And she looked down to hide her blushing cheek.

• “Lucy, I know not how to act a part.
• Grieved, disappointed, you shall know my heart.
• I told vour father of our plighted love,
• And much he seemed our union to approve,
• Called you, as oft he does, his favourite child,
• And while he sighed to part with you, still smiled,
• To think a home—a surer home, he said,
• Than he could offer, soon would shield your head.
• I know not why, but something struck my mind
• Strange in his manner, though it seemed so kind;
• At length the truth was told—would you believe,
• Your father can no marriage portion give!”

• “And is that all?” said Lucy. “Heed it not.
• We can be happy in the poorest cot!”

• “Poetic visions, Lucy, charm not me.
• Have I not lived such happiness to see?”

• “Then what remains?” she asked, with timid voice.
• “ Can we not wait? or has your heart a choice?”

• “Yes, we could wait, if there was ought to cheer,
• Or brighter promise for the coming year.”

• “Then what remains?” asked Lucy once again,
• Her pale lip quivering with a thrill of pain.

• “I scarcely know,” said Eustace, “but I think
• 'Twere madness thus to venture on the brink
• Of hopeless poverty, with no pretence
• But creature-love, for tempting Providence.
• You know my yearly stipend is but small:”—

• He should have seen her turning to the wall
• As if the stones could pity; and the blush
• That grew upon her face, the burning gush
• Of woman's feeling, o'er her brow and cheek,
• And flashing eye that used to be so meek—
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• It passed—and never marble looked more pale
• Than Lucy, while she listened to his tale.

• He marked her not, his eye was cold, and clear,
• Fixed on a bed of withering roses there;
• He marked her not, for different thoughts possessed
• His anxious mind, and laboured in his breast
• At length he spoke—
• “The more I view the case,
• The more I see that misery and disgrace
• Await our union; yet it seems not well
• That our decision I alone should tell.”

• Lucy looked up, sheiid not quite perceive
• His real meaning, or could not believe.
• At length, however, it was made more clear;
• She heard—and understood—and shed no tear.
• He took her hand, she drew it not away,
• 'Twas cold as marble, and she let it stay.

• “You comprehend my meaning?”

• “Yes, I do.”

• “I thought you must, for all I say is true.
• And I am pleased we can so well agree.
• It makes the trial easier far to me.
• And you will say it was your own desire,
• Not mine, that our engagement should expire?”

• “I will.”

• “Farewell then, Lucy, ever dear;
• I'm glad your judgment is so cool and clear.
• True, I can ne'er be happy as with you,
• But something to my station still is due;
• And I, to give that office more respect,
• A portion with my partner must expect.”

• “Enough,” said Lucy; “I can understand.”
• And coldly she withdrew her captive hand.

• “Farewell!” he said, and left her standing there,
• Like some mute sculptured image of despair.
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• The birds sang o'er her as with fresh delight,
• The flowers looked up as if to meet her sight,
• The sun smiled high in cloudless light above,
• And the soft gale sighed with the breath of love.
• The birds sang o'er her, and she heard their song;
• Why should they now their melody prolong?
• The blooming flowers her care was wont to tend,
• Was there not one to droop like sorrowing friend?
• Great glorious orb of day, blest source of light!
• Thy noontide radiance mocks the mourner's sight;
• And thou soft breeze, with perfume-laden wing,
• To the seared heart, what healing canst thou bring?