Far as the poles, beneath one common roof,
She drew around her the cold spells, which part
From forward sympathies the unsocial heart.
Yet, strange to say, each seem'd to each still dear;
And love in her but curb'd by stronger fear;
And love in him by some mysterious pride,
That sought the natural tenderness to hide:
Did she but name him, you beheld her raise
Moist eyes to heaven, as one who inly prays.
News of her varying health he daily sought,
And his mood alter'd with the tidings brought:
If worse than wonted, it was sad to view
That stern man's trembling lip and waning hue—
Sad, yet the sadness with an awe was blent—
No words e'er gave the struggling passion vent;
And still that passion seem'd not grief alone,
Some curse seem'd labouring in the stifled groan:
Some angrier chord the mix'd emotion wrench'd;
The brow was darken'd, and the hand was clench'd.
There was a mystery that defied the guess,
In so much love, and so much tenderness.
What sword, invisible to human eyes,
So sternly sever'd Nature's closest ties:
To leave each yearning unto each—apart—
All ice the commune, and all warmth the heart?
V.
But how gain'd she, whom pity strange and rare
Gave the night's refuge—more than refuge there?
At morn the orphan hostess had received
The orphan outcast—heard her and believed—
And Lucy wept her thanks, and turn'd to part;
But the sad tale had touch'd a woman's heart.
Calantha's youth was lone, her nature kind,
She knew no friend—she sigh'd a friend to find;
That chasten'd speech, the grace so simply worn,
Bespoke the nurture of the gentle-born;
And so she gazed upon the weeping guest,
Check'd the intended alms, and murmur'd "Rest,
For both are orphans—I should shelter thee,
And, weep no more—thy smile shall comfort me."
Thus Lucy rested—finding day by day
Her grateful heart the saving hand repay.
Calantha loved her as the sad alone
Love what consoles them;—in that life her own
Seem'd to revive, and even hope to flower:
Ah, over Sorrow Youth has such sweet power!
The very menials linger'd as they went,
To spy the fairy to their dwelling sent,
To list her light step on the stair, or hark
Her song;—yes, now the dove was in the ark! Ev'n the cold Morvale, spell'd at last, was found Within the circle drawn his guest around; Less rare his visits to Calantha grew, And her eye shrunk less coldly from his view The presence of the gentle third one brought Respite to memory, gave fresh play to thought; And as some child to strifeful parents sent, Laps the long discord in its own content, This happy creature seem'd to reach that home, To say—"Love enters where the guileless come!" It was not mirth, for mirth she was too still; It was not wit, wit leaves the heart more chill; But that continuous sweetness, which with ease Pleases all round it, from the wish to please— This was the charm that Lucy's smile bestow'd; The waves' fresh ripple from deep fountains flow'd;— Below exhaustless gratitude—above, Woman's meek temper, childhood's ready love.
Yet oft, when night reprieved the tender care,
And lonely thought stole musing on to prayer;
As some fair lake reflects, when day is o'er,
With clearer wave from farther glades the shore,
So, her still heart remember'd sorrows glass'd;
And o'er its hush lay trembling all the past,
Again she sees a mother's gentle face;
Again she feels a mother's soft embrace;
Again a mother's sigh of pain she hears,
And starts—till lo, the spell dissolves in tears!
Tears that too well the faithful grief reveal,
Which smiles, by day made duties, would conceal.
VI.
It was a noon of summer in its glow,
And all was life, but London's life, below;
As by the open casement half reclined
Calantha's languid form;—a gentle wind
Brought to her cheek a bloom unwonted there,
And stirr'd the light wave of the golden hair.
Hers was a beauty that made sad the eye,
Lovely in fading, like a twilight sky;
The shape so finely, delicately frail,
As form'd for climes unruffled by a gale;
The lustrous eye, through which looks forth the soul,
Bright and more brightly as it nears the goal;
The fever'd counterfeit of healthful bloom,
The rose so living yet so near the tomb;
The veil the Funeral Genius lends his bride,
When, fair as Love, he steals her to his side,
And leads her on till at the nuptial porch,
He murmurs, "Know me now!" and lowers the torch.
What made more sad the outward form's decay,
A soul of genius glimmer'd through the clay;
Oft through the languor of disease would break
That life of light Parnassian dreamers seek;
And music trembled on each aspen leaf
Of the boughs drooping o'er the fount of grief.
Genius has so much youth no care can kill;
Death seems unnatural when it sighs—"Be still."
That wealth, which Nature prodigally gave,
Shall Life but garner for its heir the Grave?
What noble hearts that treasure might have bless'd!
How large the realm that mind should have possess'd!
Love in the wife, and wisdom in the friend,
And earnest purpose for a generous end,
And glowing sympathy for thoughts of power
And playful fancy for the lighter hour;
All lost, all cavern'd in the sunless gloom
Of some dark memory, beetling o'er the tomb;—
Like bright-wing'd fairies, whom the hostile gnome
Has spell'd and dungeon'd in his rocky home,
The wanderer hears the solitary moan,