I, who too well divined
That when two cavaliers were thus confined,
When wrath and valour prompted the dispute,
And swords were eloquent, though lips were mute;
Nothing would end their strife
Less than the death of one, the other's life,
Without life, soul, or sense,
Amidst night's dusky stillness, fled from hence ; (Whose cold and darksome shade,
Fit image of my own dark fortunes made,)
I strove to make my way,
Here stumbling, falling there, and here astray,
While my numb'd senses found
A prison
prison
Alone, disturb'd, dejected,
in the silk that wrapt me round.
I reach'd (by my distraction ill-directed)
The sphere which proved the scene
Of my confinement, when it should have been
My refuge and my port.
But ah! what refuge need misfortune court!-
Beneath its very shade
(How fast the heavens rain ills upon our head)
Don Juan stood! my brother !
For oh! no longer need I strive to smother
That secret from your ear;
This very silence 'twas that leaves me here
In danger and dismay!
Strange that a woman e'er should have to say
Silence was her undoing;
Yet such I am, and silence proves my ruin.
Beside this door he stood
Waiting, O heaven! while I, by fear pursued,
Beneath its shadow came,
(A snow volcano or an Alp of flame ;)
He by the scanty light,
With which a gentle moonbeam cheer'd the night, Saw the faint gleam my bosom's jewels made, (Not I the first whom jewels have betray'd,) Or the slight rustle of my garments caught, (Not I the first whose ruin dress has wrought ;) He thought his mistress came,
And like a moth he flutter'd to his flame,
Found the poor shadow of his star in me.
Who of a jealous lover could believe
That, seeking cause for such, he should perceive
Some ill so infinitely worse,
As to deem jealousy the lighter curse!
He tried to speak, the words refused to come,
For deep anxiety is ever dumb.
At last, in words of woe,
That faint and faltering from his lips did flow,
Borne swiftly from the tongue,
He did demand the reason of his wrong.
I strove to answer still,
(I've said that feeling finds not words at will,)
Was terror such as mine to sharpen wit.
Of all excuses for my fault I thought;
But when the exculpation must be sought,
It comes not, or it never comes in time,
And the denial but confirms the crime.
"Come, sister," did he cry,
"First blot upon our honour'd ancestry,
"Thou shalt be left immured
"In this safe spot secluded and secured;
" I shall detect, erelong,
"The author and occasion of my wrong."
He left me here, where Heaven
The sight of thee to cheer my grief has given.
It was the love I bore thee
That made me as a phantom flit before thee:
'Twas my esteem for thee
That made my breast my passion's prison be;
She could not truly love
Whose bosom-worth, like yours, could fail to move,
Nor she respect that worth,
Who, face to face, could speak her passion forth.
It was my fate to choose thee,
My aim to win thy love, my fear to lose thee,
My effort to preserve thee,
My life to pleasure thee, my soul to serve thee;
My heart's desire to love thee,
And these the tears which now I shed, to move thee
Aid to my griefs to lend,
To shelter me, to shield me, and befriend.
D. Man. My ills are hydras, since they still contrive
Even from their lifeless ashes to revive.
What in this darkness shall I do?
My thoughts a labyrinth without a clue!
She is Don Luis's sister, whom I deem'd
His mistress. If when love in peril seem'd
His rage was thus awake,
What will it be when honour is at stake?
She is his sister. If I then endeavour
To set her free, and with my blood to save her,-
Committing to my sword her exculpation,
That were an aggravation-
For that were to proclaim
That I had stain'd his honour'd house with shame,
Since he must find me here:-and yet t' accuse
A loving lady in mine own excuse,
And lay the blame upon her
Of such a step, revolts against my honour.
What course then can I see?
Defending her I should a traitor be:
Heartless if I forsake her,
A faithless guest if from her home I take her ;
Inhuman if I to her brother yield her,
A thankless friend if I protect and shield her;
To friendship faithless if I interfere,
To love ungrateful if I leave her here!
Then since in either way
Hard fate besets me, dying let me say,
Señora, fearless be,
I am a nobleman-rely on me.
He places Dona Angela behind him, and awaits the return of Don Luis, who enters with another weapon. He comes, however, only with the
intention of depositing his sword at Don Manuel's feet, and owning himself vanquished by his courtesy. But the sight of Angela in the apartment
revives his rage: he rejoices at having found a justification for renewing the combat, and lifting his sword from the ground again challenges Don Manuel.
An explanation now ensues; Don Manuel relates in what way Angela had entered his apartment, and arms his resolution at all hazards to protect her. "That right belongs to none," replies Don Luis, "but her brother
or her husband." Don Manuel presenting his hand to Angela, expresses his readiness to acquire a husband's right to protect her: Don Luis acquiesces: while Don Juan and Beatrice enter just in time to witness this happy solution of events which were assuming so tragical a complexion, and to congratulate Don Manuel on his union with THE GOBLIN LADY.
SIR WALTER SCOTT AT THE TOMB OF THE STUARTS IN ST PETER'S.*
EVE's tinted shadows slowly fill the fane
Where Art has taken almost Nature's room,
While still two objects clear in light remain,
An alien pilgrim at an alien tomb.
A sculptured tomb of regal heads discrown'd,
Of one heart-worshipp'd, fancy-haunted name,
Once loud on earth, but now scarce else renown'd
Than as the offspring of that stranger's fame.
There lie the Stuarts! There is Walter Scott!
Strange congress of illustrious thoughts and things!
A plain old moral, still too oft forgot-
The power of genius and the fall of kings.
The curse on lawless Will high planted there,
A beacon to the world, shines not for him;
He is with those who felt their life was sere,
When the large love of loyalty grew dim.
He rests his chin upon a sturdy staff,
Historic as that sceptre, theirs no more;
His gaze is fix'd; his thirsty heart can quaff
For a short hour, the spirit-draughts of yore.
Each figure in its pictured place is seen,
Each fancied shape his actual vision fills,
From the long-pining, death-deliver'd Queen,
To the worn outlaw of the heathery hills.
O grace of life, which shame could never mar!
O dignity, that circumstance defied!
Pure is the neck that wears the deathly scar,
And sorrow has baptised the front of pride.
But purpled mantle, and blood-crimson'd shroud,
Exiles to suffer and returns to woo,
Are gone, like dreams by daylight disallow'd;
And their historian-he is sinking too!
A few more moments, and that labouring brow
Cold as those royal busts and calm will lie;
And, as on them his thoughts are resting now,
His marbled form shall meet the attentive eye.
When Sir Walter Scott was at Rome, the year of his death, the history and localities of the Stuarts seemed to absorb all other objects of his interest. The circumstance of this poem fell within the observation of the writer.
Thus face to face the dying and the dead,
Bound in their solemn ever-living bond,
Communed; and I was sad that ancient head
Ever should pass those holy walls beyond.
ELYSIAN FIELDS AT LOWTHER IN WESTMORELAND.
A YOUTH caress'd and nurtured long,
Beneath the sky, beside the sea,
Where rules a vivid world of song
The clear-eyed Queen Parthenopе, —
And wont to blend with outward grace,
The soul Virgilian memory yields,
Might seek with dull, uneager pace,
The cloudy north's Elysian Fields.
"Lowther," he cried, " of ancient strength,
Thy lofty towers the harness wear ;-
Thy terraces their mossy length
Extend through centuries of care.
In thine old oaks may Fancy read
A green traditionary chain
Of Worth and Power; - Thou dost not need
To take the classic name in vain."
Up Lowther's banks, that very eve,
This scornful youth was seen to wind
Still tardier steps, that seem'd to grieve
For joy or beauty left behind:
But ere he reach'd the lordly roof,
High portal and cathedral stair,
His thoughts in other, fairer, woof,
Were offer'd to the attentive air.
"Not once to Baiæ's column'd bay,
Or Cumæ's glade my spirit fled,
While on that storm-cast trunk I lay,
Above yon torrent's stormy bed:
Crystal and green sufficed so well
To solace and delight mine eyes;
They yearn'd for no remember'd spell
Fashion'd beneath serener skies.
"If golden light, or azure void
The Poet's radiant dream fulfills,
Are clouds and shadows unenjoy'd,
The ghostly guardians of the hills?
Nature an open Faith demands:
And we have little else to do,
But take the blessing from her hands,
Feeling-Here is Elysium too.”
A SUMMER nightfall on a summer sea!
From sandy ridges wildering o'er the deep,
The wind's familiar under-song recalls
The fishermen to duty, though that eve
To unversed eyes their embarkation seem'd
Rather a work of festival than toil.
Women were there in gay precise attire,
Girls at their skirts, and boys before at play,
And many an infant sweet asleep on arm.
Emulous which the first shall set his boat
Free-floating from the clutches of deep sand,
Men lean and strive; till one, and two, and all,
Poised in descent, receive the leaping crews:
And following close, where leads the ripply way,
One craft of heavier freight and larger sail.
Serene and silent as th' horizon moon,
That fair flotilla seeks the open main.
Some little room of waters sever'd now
Those seeming sons of peaceful industry
From their diseased and desperate fatherland,
That France, where reign'd and raged for many a year
Madness, (the fearful reservoir of strength
Which God will open, at his own high will,
In men and nations,) so that very babes
Would tear the mother-breast of ancient Faith
To suck the bloody milk of Liberty.
The Christian name was outcast there and then;
For Power and Passion were the people's gods,
And every one that worshipp'd not must die.
The shore extended one thin glittering line,
When, at the watch'd-for tinkling of a bell,
Fast fall the sails, and round their captain-boat,
Which rested steady as the waters would,
Each other bent its own obedient prow,
Making imperfect rays about a sun:
Nor paused they long before great change of form
Came o'er that centre. From the uncouth deck
Rose a tall altar, 'broider'd curiously,
With clear outcarven crucifix i' th' midst
Of tapers, lambent in the gentle gale:
Before it stood the reverend-robed Priest,
Late a rude fisherman-an awful head,
Veteran in griefs and dangers more than years;
Perchance not finely moulded, but as seen
There upright to the illuminating moon,
With silver halo rather than white hair,
Beauteous exceedingly!
The tender eyes then fix'd on him, while slow
And quiet, as when he perform'd the rites
Of his old village church on Sabbath morn,
He set all things in order and began
That Litany, which, gathering voice on voice,
Made vocal with the names of God and Christ,
And the communion of the blest in heaven,
Space that had lain long silent of all sound
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