No sign of troubled visions there was shown,
No marks of mental anguish like her own;
O'er her fair brow, unsullied feelings shed
A sleep as calm as that which lulls the dead;
That deep mild air of angel-like repose,
Which innocence round slumbering beauty throws.
"Oh! what a contrast!" Julia inly cried,
And from her soul's most deep recesses sighed.
"With what sweet nights her guiltless days are
crowned,
How calm her dreams, her slumber how profound!
This is no breast that bleeds with inward woes
This is not grief's-this is not love's repose;
For love is ever wakeful, soon alarmed,
By no fond hopes, to false confiding, charmed;
Yet sees she not that Desmond is estranged,
Nor marks his absent mien, his manner changed;
And if indeed she loved him, could it be?
No! no! she loves him not- or not like me.
Like me! and can I, dare I, love him then?
Oh! weakest I of women, he of men!
What can I cherish, in my hidden heart,
One treacherous hope where Desmond has a part?
Beats that blind heart for one so prone to range,
That, free to choose, he chooses but to change?
Rather by me be every thought employed,
That change to hide this meeting to avoid.
Avoid! but how? an answer he demands,
And that, at least, he merits at my hands.
Well I will meet him-yes, I will restore
These perjured lines-then never see him more;
Or see him only as my sister's lord,
To peace, to honour, and to thee restored."
She pressed her soft lip with a sister's kiss
"Laura! I seal the sacred vow with this!"
Roused by the touch, the wond'ring sleeper rose,
"And what (she cried) detains thee from repose?
Oh heaven! a tear-drop trembling in thine eye!
Does Julia weep? and knows not Laura why?
Come to this faithful breast-a heart is there
That pants, whate'er thy grief, that grief to share;
Thus let me, oh my love! be pressed to thine,
And either chase thy tears, or mingle mine!"
There is a mood of mind we sometimes prove,
In which one tender word from those we love
Will strike some secret chord of mental pain,
That long had struggled for relief, in vain ;
And melt the frozen tide of feeling's stream,
As ice dissolves beneath the noon-day beam.
And thus-her confidence so kindly sought
By one whom she had wronged, though but in thought-
Flashed o'er her soul a pang of keen remorse,
That stirred her feelings from their inmost source,
And wakening all the love that late had slept,
She sunk into her Laura's arms, and wept.
She, while her sister sobbed upon her neck,
Strove not with fruitless care her tears to check,
Nor, with one idle question whence they flowed,
Chilled the soft charm her sympathy bestowed.
It was enough for her her sister grieved,
Enough, that grief her sympathy relieved;
But when the woes that late so wildly gushed
In silent calmness of despair, seemed hushed,
With all the fondness of a sister's fears,
She sought the cause of those mysterious tears.
Fresh tears-fond thanks--but no reply she gained; They were too soon-too fatally-explained!
Not poppy nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever med'cine thee to that sweet sleep
Thou owed'st yesterday!
Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!
Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us -Oh! and is all forgot?
HAST thou e'er felt, in life's first flowery stage,
Ere hope was checked by care, or chilled by age,
A sense of secret joy, and sudden mirth,
That from no outward cause derived its birth,
But sprang spontaneous in thy bounding breast,
And bade thee feel to be, was to be blest -
Felt thy full bosom heave, unconscious why,
And tears of causeless transport dim thine eye :
Till, rapt in dreams of undefined delight,
All earth became Elysium in thy sight?
Then tremble! for the hour is near at hand,
That shows thee all thy hopes are built on sand,
That low in dust thy lofty dreams shall lay,
And rend the anchor of thy trust away.
Strange, that when Fate most deeply would destroy,
She leads her victim to the heights of joy ;
Strange, that when most her threatening aspect lowers,
She crowns her destined sacrifice with flowers;
Lures him through rosy paths to Rapture's steep,
Then hurls him downward to the yawning deep!
With heart thus light-with hopes thus soon destroyed, The rising morn saw Laura's thoughts employed; "And whence," she musing cried, "this wond'rous change,
That even to myself appears so strange?
Why to my eyes do tears of transport steal?
Whence springs the bright presentiment I feel?
What doubts did yesterday my soul oppress !
Julia was sad, and Desmond loved me less.
Oh! cold of heart, insensible, and blind,
To deem that Desmond could be aught but kind.
|