For I had heard of battles, and I longed
1 To follow to the field some warlike lord:
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rushed, like a torrent, down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succour. I alone.
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hovered about the enemy, and marked
The road he took; then hasted to my friends;
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumbered foe.
We fought and conquered! Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdained
The shepherd's slothful life; and, having heard
That our good king had summoned his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps-
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I passed these towers;
And, heaven-directed, came this day, to do
The happy deed, that gilds my humble name.
MORDAUNT TO LADY MABEL.
66 THE PATRICIAN'S DAUGHTER."
J. WESTLAND MARSTON, LL.D.
[Dr. Marston was born at Boston, Lincolnshire, Jan. 30, 1820. He was articled to a solicitor in London, but relinquished the law for the more genial, though frequently less profitable, profession of literature. His fine tragedy, "The Patrician's Daughter," produced some years ago, at once stamped him as a dramatist of the highest order. He has since produced "The Heart and the World," a play; "Strathmore," a tragedy; "Ann Blake," a play; "A Life's Ransom," a play; and, in 1863, "Pure Gold," a play. Dr. Marston is the author of several novels; and has contributed many charming lyrics to the Athenæum, of which journal he is understood to be one of the critics.]
Before we part, I have a word or two
For Lady Mabel's ear.-I know right well
The world has no tribunal to avenge
An injury like mine; you may allure
The human heart to love, warm it with smiles,
To aspirations of a dream-like bliss,
From which to wake is madness; and when spells
Of
your enchantment have enslaved it quite,
Its motives, feelings, energies, and hopes,
Abstracted from all objects save yourself,
So that you are its world, its light, its life,
And all beside is void, and dark, and dead:
say, that very heart, brought to this pass,
You may spurn from your path, pass on and jest,
And the crowd will jest with you; you will glide
With eye as radiant, and with brow as smooth,
And feet as light, through your charmed worshippers,
As though the angel's pen had failed to trace
The record of your crimes; and every night
Lulled by soft flatteries, you may calmly sleep,
As do the innocent ;-but it is crime,
Deep crime, that you commit. Had you, for sport,
Trampled upon the earth a favourite rose,
Pride of the garden, or, in wantonness,
Cast in the sea a jewel not your own,
All men had held you guilty of offence.
To crush those flowers of life, our freshest hopes,
With all the incipient beauty in the bud,
Which know no second growth ?-to cast our faith
In humankind, the only amulet
By which the soul walks fearless through the world,
Into those floods of memoried bitterness,
Whose awful depths no diver dares explore ;-
To paralyse the expectant mind, while yet
On the world's threshold, and existence' self
To drain of all save its inert endurance ?
To do all this unprovoked, I put it to you,
Is not this sin? To the unsleeping eye
Of Him who sees all aims, and knows the wrongs
No laws save Iis redress, I make appeal
To judge between us. There's an hour will come,
Not of revenge, but righteous retribution!
CLAUDE MELNOTTE ON PRIDE.
EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
Mel. Pauline, by pride
Angels have fallen ere thy time: by pride-
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould--
The evil spirit of a bitter love,
And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee:
I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy
Tended, unmark'd by thee-a spirit of bloom,
And joy and freshness, as if Spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy.
And from that hour I grew-what to the last
I shall be-thine adorer! Well; this love,
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope;
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell-how maidens sprung from Kings,
Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how Love like Death,
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future!
My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;
And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin gaolers of the daring heart-
Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image,
Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men! For thee I grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages!
For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace,
And every Muse, such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
And Passion taught me poesy-of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Of beauty!-Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
Men call'd me vain-some mad-I heeded not;
But still toil'd on-hoped on-for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee!
At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
And sent them to thee-such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name-appended by the burning heart
That long'd to show its idol what bright things
It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name,
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn
That very hour-when passion, turned to wrath,
Resembled Hatred most-when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos-in that hour
The tempters found me a revengeful tool
For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-
It turn'd and stung thee!
RICHELIEU'S SOLILOQUY.
EDWARD BULWER LYTTON.
Rich. (reading). "In silence, and at night, the conscience feels
That life should soar to nobler ends than Power."
So sayest thou, sage and sober moralist!
But wert thou tried? Sublime Philosophy,
Thou wert the Patriarch's ladder reaching heaven,
And bright with beck'ning angels-but alas!
We see thee, like the Patriarch, but in dreams,
By the first step-dull-slumbering on the earth.
I am not happy!-with the Titan's lust
I woo'd a goddess, and I clasp a cloud.
When I am dust, my name shall, like a star,
Shine thro' wan space, a glory—and a prophet
Whereby pale seers shall from their aëry towers
Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil,
That make the potent astrologue of Kings.
But shall the Future judge me by the ends
That I have wrought-or by the dubious means
Through which the stream of my renown hath run
Into the many voiced unfathom'd Time?
Foul in its bed lie weeds-and heaps of slime,
And with its waves-when sparkling in the sun,
Ofttimes the secret rivulets that swell
Its might of waters-blend the hues of blood.
Yet are my sins not those of CIRCUMSTANCE,
That all-pervading atmosphere, wherein
Our spirits, like the unsteady lizard, take
The tints that colour, and the food that nurtures ?
O! ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tranquil sands
In the unvex'd silence of a student's cell;
Ye, whose untempted hearts have never toss'd
Upon the dark and stormy tides where life
Gives battle to the elements, and man
Wrestles with man for some slight plank, whose weight
Will bear but one-while round the desperate wretch
The hungry billows roar-and the fierce Fate,
Like some huge monster, dim-seen through the surf,
Waits him who drops; ye safe and formal men,
Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand
Weigh in nice scales the motives of the Great,
Ye cannot know what ye have never tried.
History preserves only the fleshless bones
Of what we are-and by the mocking skull
The would-be wise pretend to guess the features!
Without the roundness and the glow of life
How hideous is the skeleton! Without
The colourings and humanities that clothe
Our errors, the anatomists of schools
CATO'S SOLILOQUY.
JOSEPH ADDISON.
[See page 117.]
Ir must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well!—
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into naught ?-Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction ?-
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heav'n herself, that points out an hereafter,
And intimates Eternity to man.
Eternity!-thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass !
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold: If there's a Power above us-
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works-He must delight in virtue,
And that which He delights in, must be happy.
But when! or where! This world was made for Cæsar!
I'm weary of conjectures-This must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death, my life,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This in a moment, brings me to an end;
Whilst this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.-
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements.
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.
|