I.
Oft to a creek, in Shakspeare's haunted stream,
What time the noon invites of song to dream,
Where stately oak with silver poplar weaves
The hospitable shade of amorous leaves,
And, lightly swerved by winding shores askance,
The limpid river wreathes its flying dance,[A] Young Constance came;—a bank with wild flowers drest As for a fairy's sleep, her sylvan rest. Behind, the woodlands, opening, left a glade, With swards all sunshine in the midst of shade; Save where pale lilacs droop'd against the ray Around the cot which meekly shunn'd the day: But stern and high, above the deep repose Of vale and wave, the towers of Ruthven rose; Like souls unshelter'd because high they are, The nearer heaven the more from peace afar; Built by the mighty Architect, to form Bulwarks for man, and battle with the storm; To soar and suffer with defying crest, And guard the humble, not partake their rest.
A lonely spot! at times a passing oar
Dash'd the wave quicker to the gradual shore;
But swift, as, when some footfall nears her lair,
Starts the fond cushat from her tender care,
Silence came back, with wings that seem'd to brood
In watch more loving over solitude.
II.
Thus Constance sate, by some sweet sorcerer's rhyme
Charm'd into worlds beyond the marge of Time,
When a dim shadow o'er the herbage stole,
And light boughs stirr'd above the violet knoll;
In vain the shadow stole, the light bough stirr'd,
Her sense yet spell-bound by the magic word;
Spell-bound no less, his steps the stranger stay'd—
And gazed as Cymon on the sleeping Maid.—
And, oh! that brow so angel-clear from guile,
That childlike lip unconscious of its smile,
That virgin bloom where blushes went and came
From deeps of feeling never stirr'd by shame,
Seem'd like the Una of the Poet's page
Charm'd into life by some bright Archimage.
Not till each gaudier Venus crowds adore,
And desecrate adoring—dupes no more,
Comes the true Goddess, by her blushes known—
The dove her symbol, innocence her zone!
At the first glance her birth the Urania proves.
Heaven smiles, and Nature blossoms where she moves.
III.
The virgin rose; the gazer quick withdrew;
The favouring thicket closed her form from view.
Slow went she homeward up the sunlit ground;
Unseen he followed, where the woodlands wound;
The spell that first arrested now lured on,
And in that spell a frown from earth seem'd gone.
As in the languid noon of summer day
Birds fold the pinion and suspend the lay—
So hopes lie silent in the human heart
Till all at once the choirs to music start,
From the long hush rejoicing wings arise,
Sport round the blooms, or glance into the skies.
IV.
She gain'd the cot; irresolute he stood,
Where the wall ceased amidst the circling wood,
When voices rude and sudden jarr'd his ear,
And thro' the din came woman's wail of fear;
Then all grew silent as he gain'd the door
Which gaped ajar;—he cross'd the threshold floor:
Now sounds more low;—he still pass'd on and saw,
Track'd to its covert, Want at bay with Law.—
The Daughter clinging to the Father's breast;
The Father's struggle from the clasp that press'd;
The hard officials, with familiar leer
And ribald comfort barb'd with cynic sneer;
On these, the Lord of lavish thousands glanced,
Law louted lowly as that Wealth advanced.
"And what this old Man's crime?"—"My orders say,"
Quoth Law, and smiled—"a debt he cannot pay!"
Then from his child the poor proud captive broke—
Sign'd to the door—raised moistening eyes, and spoke—
"I thank thee, Heaven! that in my prosperous time
I was not harsh to others—for this crime;
Sirs, I am ready!"—Ere the word was o'er,
The parchment fell in fragments on the floor.
"The crime is rased!" cried Wealth.—"My Lord," said Law,
"I humbly thank your Lordship, and withdraw."
V.
Hat'st thou the world, O Misanthrope, austere?
Do one kind act, and all the world grows dear!
Say'st thou—"Alas, kind acts requited ill,
Made me loathe men!"—I answer, "Do them still."
On its own wings should Good itself upbuoy;
Rejoicing heaven, because it feels but joy.—
Oft from that date did Ruthven gaily come,
Where hope, revived, with Constance found a home;
Well did he soothe the griefs his host had known,
But well—too proud for pity—veil'd his own.
Silent, he watch'd the gentle daughter's soul,
Scann'd every charm, and peerless found the whole,
He spoke not love; and if his looks betray'd,
The anxious Sire was wiser than the Maid.
Still, ever listening, on her lips he hung,
Hush'd when she spoke—enraptured when she sung;
And when the hues her favourite art bestow'd,
Like a new hope from the fair fancy glow'd,
As the cold canvas with the image warms,
As from the blank start forth the breathing forms,
So would he look within him, and compare
With those mute shapes the new-born phantoms there.
Upon the mind, as on the canvas rose,
The young fresh world the Ideal only knows;
The world of which both Art and Passion are
Builders;—to this so near—from this so far.
What music charm'd the verse