fled,
And on their hearts their rip'ning influence shed;
Till one fair eve, when from the gorgeous west,
Cloud upon cloud in varied splendour pressed
Around the setting sun, which blinding shone
On the horizon like its Maker's throne,
Till veiled in glory, and its parting ray
Fell as a blessing on the closing day;
Or, like the living smile of Nature's God
Upon his creatures, shedding peace abroad.
The early lark had ceased its evening song,
And silence reigned amidst the feathered throng,
Save where the chaffinch, with unvarying strain,
Its short, sweet line of music trilled again;
Or where the stock-dove, from the neighbouring grove,
Welcomed the twilight with the voice of love:
Then Edmund wandered by the trysting-tree,
Where, at that hour, the maid was wont to be;
But now she came not. Deepening shade on shade,
The night crept round him; still he lonely strayed,
Gazed on the tree till grey its foliage grew,
And stars marked midnight, ere he slow withdrew.
Another evening came—a third passed on—
And wondering, fearing, still he stood alone,
Trembling and gazing on her father's hall,
Where lights were glittering as a festival;
And, as with cautious step he ventured near,
Sounds of glad music burst upon his ear,
And figures glided in the circling dance,
While wild his love and poverty at once
Flashed through his bursting heart, and smote him now
As if a thunderbolt had scorched his brow,
And scathed his very spirit; as he stood,
Mute as despair—the ghost of solitude!

X.

Strange guests were revelling at the princely hall—
Proud peers and ladies fair; but, chief of all,
A rich and haughty knight, from Beaumont side,
Who came to woo fair Helen as his bride;
Or rather from her father ask her hand,
And woo no more, but deem consent command.
He too was young, high-born, and bore a name
Sounding with honours bought, though not with fame;
And the consent he sought her father gave,
Nor feared the daughter of his love would brave
In aught his wishes, or oppose his will;
For she had ever sought it, as the rill
Seeketh the valley or the ocean's breast;
And ere his very wishes were expressed,
She strove to trace their meaning in his eyes,
Even as a seaman readeth on the skies
The coming breeze, the calm, or brooding gale,
Then spreads the canvas wide, or reefs the sail.
Nor did he doubt that still her heart was free
As the fleet mountain deer, which as a sea
The wilderness surrounds; for she had grown
Up as a desert flower, that he alone
Had watched and cherished; and the blinding pride
Of wealth and ancestry had served to hide
From him alone, what long within the vale
Had been the rustic gossip's evening tale.
That such presumptuous love could e'er employ
The secret fancies of the cottage boy,
He would have held impossible, or smiled
At the bold madness of a thought so wild—-
Reading his daughter's spirit by his own,
Which reared an ancient name as virtue's throne,
And only stooped to look on meaner things,
Whose honours echoed not the breath of kings.

XI.

Wild were the passions, fierce the anguish now,
Which tore the very soul, and clothed the brow
Of the Enthusiast; while gaunt despair
Its heavy, cold, and iron hand laid bare,
And in its grasp of torture clenched his heart,
Till, one by one, the life-drops seemed to start
In agony unspeakable: within
His breast its freezing shadow—dark as sin,
Gloomy as death, and desolate as hell—
Like starless midnight on his spirit fell,
Burying his soul in darkness; while his love,
Fierce as a whirlwind, in its madness strove
With stern despair, as on the field of wrath
The wounded war-horse, panting, strives with death.
Then as the conflict weakened, hope would dash
Across his bosom, like the death-winged flash
That flees before the thunder; yet its light
Lived but a moment, leaving deeper night
Around the strife of passions; and again
The struggle maddened, and the hope was vain.

XII.

He heard the maidens of the valley say,
How they upon their lady's wedding-day
Would strew her path with flowers, and o'er the lawn
Join in the dance, to eve from early dawn;
While, with a smile and half deriding glance,
Some sought him as their partner in the dance:
And peasant railers, as he passed them by,
Laughed, whispered, laughed again, and mocked a sigh.
But he disdained them; and his heaving breast
Had no room left to feel their vulgar jest,
For it ran o'er with agony and scorn,
As water dropping on a rock was borne.

XIII.

Twas a fair summer night, and the broad moon
Sailed in calm glory through the skies of June,
Pouring on earth its pale and silv'ry light,
Till roughest forms were softened to the sight;
And on the western hills its faintest ray
Kissed the yet ruddy streaks of parted day.
The stars were few, and, twinkling, dimly shone,
For the bright moon in beauty reigned alone.
One cloud lay sleeping 'neath the breathless sky,
Bathed in the limpid light; while, as the sigh
Of secret love, silent as shadows glide,
The soft wind played among the leafy pride
Of the green trees, and scarce the aspen shook;
A babbling voice was heard from every brook,
And down the vale, in murmurs low and long,
Tweed poured its ancient and unwearied song.
Before, behind, around, afar, and near,
The wakeful landrail's watchword met the ear.
Then Edmund leaned against the hallowed tree,
Whose shade had been their temple, and where he
Had carved their names in childhood, and they yet
Upon the rind were visible. They met
Beneath its branches, spreading as a bower,
For months—for years; and the impassioned hour
Of silent, deep deliciousness and bliss,
Pure as an angel's, fervid as the kiss
Of a young mother on her first-born's brow,
Fled in their depth of joy they knew not how;
Even as the Boreal meteor mocks the eye,
Living a moment on the gilded sky,
And dying in the same, ere we can trace
Its golden hues, its form, or hiding-place.
But now to him each moment dragged a chain,
And time itself seemed weary. The fair plain,
Where the broad river in its pride was seen,
With stately woods and fields of loveliest green,
To him was now a wilderness; and even
Upon the everlasting face of heaven
A change had passed—its very light was changed,
And shed forth sickness; for he stood estranged
From all that he had loved, and every scene
Spoke of despair where love and joy had been.
Thus desolate he stood, when, lo! a sound
Of voices and gay laughter echoed round.
Then straight a party issued from the wood,
And ere he marked them all before him stood.
He gazed, he startled, shook, exclaimed aloud,
"Helen!" then burst away, and as a shroud
The sombre trees concealed him; but a cry
Of sudden anguish echoed a reply
To his wild word of misery, though he
Heard not its tone of heart-pierced agony.
She, whom his fond soul worshipped as its bride,
He saw before him by her wooer's side,
'Midst other proud ones. 'Twas a sight like death—
Death on his very heart. The balmy breath
Of the calm night struck on his brow with fire;
For each fierce passion,