Through absence, stirring scenes among,
And harrowing silence, suffering long,
Still to love on, and pray and weep
For that dear one, while others sleep,
To dwell upon each precious word
Which the charm'd ear in whispers heard,
To treasure up a lock of hair,
To watch the heart with jealous care,
To live on a remember'd smile,
And still the wearisome day beguile
With rosy sweet imaginings,
And all the soft and sunny things
Look'd and spoken, ere they parted,
Full of hope, though broken-hearted, —
O there is very virtue here,
Retiring, holy, deep, sincere,
And self-pois'd virtue, working still
To compass good, and combat ill,
Which none but worldlings count earth-born,
And they who know it not, can scorn.
Ah yes, let common sinners jeer,
And Mammon's slaves suspect and sneer,
While each idolator of pelf,
Judging from his gross-hearted self,
Counts Love no purer and no higher
Than the low plot of base desire;
Let worldly craft nurse its false dreams
Of happiness, from selfish schemes
By heartless, hungry parents plann'd,
Of wedded fortune, rank and land, -
There is more wisdom, and more wealth,
More rank in being, more soul's health,
In wedded love for one short hour,
Than endless wedded pelf and power:
Yes, there is virtue in these things:
A balm to heal the scorpion-stings
That others' sins and sorrows make
In hearts that still can weep and ache;
There is a heavenly influence,
A secret spiritual fence,
Circling the soul with present power
In temptation's darkest hour,
Walling it round from outward sin,
While all is soft and pure within.
(BEING THE FIFTH AND LAST OF CHRISTABEL.)
For thy beauty's light subdued
Hath a soothing charm,
In sympathy with all things good
That weep for hate and harm;
And none can ever see unmov'd
Thy poor wet face, with sorrow white,
O none have seen, who have not lov'd
The sadly sweet religious light
That doth with pearly radiance shine
From those sainted eyes of thine!
A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port,
A hundred horse in the castle-court!
From border-wastes, a weary way,
Through Halegarth wood and Knorren moor,
A mingled numerous array,
On panting palfreys black and grey,
With foam and mud bespatter'd o'er, Hastily cross the flooded Irt,
And rich Waswater's beauty skirt,
And Sparkling-Tairn, and rough Scathwaite,
And now that day is dropping late,
Have passed the drawbridge and the gate.
By thy white flowing beard, and reverend mien,
And gilded harp, and chaplet of green,
And milk-white mare in the castle-yard,
Welcome, glad welcome to Bracy the bard!
And, by thy struggle still to hide
This generous conquest of thy pride,
More than by yon princely train,
And blazon'd banner standing near,
And snorting steed with slacken'd rein,
Hail, O too long a stranger here,
Hail, to Langdale's friendly hall,
Thou noble spirit, most of all,
Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!
Like aspens tall beside the brook
The stalwart warriors stood and shook,
And each advancing fear'd to look
Into the other's eye;
'Tis fifty years ago to-day
Since in disdain and passion they
Had flung each other's love away
With words of insult high:
How had they long'd and pray'd to meet!
But memories cling; and pride is sweet;
And which could be the first to greet
The haply scornful other?
What if De Vaux were haughty still, -
Or Leoline's unbridled will
Consented not his rankling ill
In charity to smother?
Their knees give way, their faces are pale,
And loudly beneath the corslets of mail
Their aged hearts in generous heat
Almost to bursting boil and beat;
The white lips quiver, the pulses throb,
They stifle and swallow the rising sob,-
And there they stand, faint and unmann'd,
As each holds forth his bare right hand!
Yes, the mail-clad warriors tremble,
All unable to dissemble
Penitence and love confest,
As within each aching breast
The flood of affection grows deeper and stronger, Till they can refrain no longer,
"Oh, my long-lost brother!
To their hearts they clasp each other,
Vowing in the face of heaven
All forgotten and forgiven!
Then the full luxury of grief
That brings the smothered soul relief,
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