But when the dawn began to gleam,
Ere yet the morning shone,
She vanish'd like a night-mare dream,
And Edmund stood alone.
Three days, bewilder'd and forlorn,
He sought his home in vain ;
At length he hail'd the hoary thorn
That crown'd his native plain.
'Twas evening :—All the air was balm,
The Heavens serenely clear:
When the soft music of a psalm
Came pensive o'er his ear.
Then sunk his heart; a strange surmise
Made all his blood run cold;
—a funeral met his eyes!
""Tis she! 'tis she!" He burst away;
And bending o'er the spot Where all that once was Ella lay, He all beside forgot!
A maniac now, in dumb despair,
With love bewildered mien,
He wanders, weeps and watches there,
Among the hillocks green.
And every eve of pale St. Mark,
As village hinds relate,
He walks with Ella in the dark,
And reads the rolls of fate!
Is she not beautiful, although so pale?
The first May flowers are not more colourless
Than her white cheek; yet I recall the time
When she was call'd the rose-bud of our village.
There was a blush, half modesty, half health,
Upon her cheek fresh as the summer morn
With which she rose. A cloud of chesnut curls
Like twilight darken'd o'er her blue-vein'd brow;
And through their hazel curtains eyes whose light
Was like the violets when April skies
Have given their own pure colour to the leaves,
Shone sweet and silent as the twilight star.
And she was happy; innocence and hope
Make the young heart a paradise for love.
And she loved and was loved. The youth was one
That dwelt upon the waters. He had been
Where sweeps the blue Atlantic a wide world-
Had seen the sun light up the flowers like gems
In the bright Indian isles-had breathed the air
When sweet with cinnamon and gum and spice,
But he said that no air brought health or balm
Like that on his own hills, when it had swept
O'er orchards in their bloom, or hedges, where
Blossom'd the hawthorn and the honeysuckle ;-
That, but one voyage more and he would come
To his dear Ellen and her cottage home-
Dwell there in love and peace. And then he kiss'd
Her tears away, talk'd of the pleasant years
Which they should pass together-of the pride
He would take in his constancy. Oh hope
Is very eloquent; and as the hours
Pass'd by their fireside in calm cheerfulness,
Ellen forgot to weep.
Of parting came; 'twas the first month of spring.
Like a green fan spread the horse-chesnut leaves,
A shower of yellow bloom was on the elm,
The daisies shone like silver, and the boughs
Were cover'd with their blossoms, and the sky
Was like an augury of hope, so clear
So beautifully blue. Love! oh young Love!
Why hast thou not security? Thou art
Like a bright river on whose course the weeds
Are thick and heavy: briars are on its banks,
And jagged stones and rocks are 'mid its waves.
Conscious of its own beauty, it will rush
Over its many obstacles, and pant
For some green valley as its quiet home.
Either it rushes with a desperate leap
Over its barriers, foaming passionate,
But prison'd still; or winding languidly
Becomes dark like oblivion, or else wastes
Itself away. This is Love's history!
They parted one spring evening; the green sea
Had scarce a curl upon its wave: the ship
Rode like a Queen of Ocean,-Ellen wept,
But not disconsolate, for she had hope;
She knew not then the bitterness of tears.
But night closed in, and with the night there came
Tempest upon the wind; the ocean light
Glared like a funeral pile; all else was black
And terrible as death. We heard a sound
Come from the ocean-one lone signal gun,
Asking for help in vain—follow'd by shrieks,
Borne by the ravening gale; then deepest silence;
Some gallant souls had perish'd. With the first
Dim light of morn we sought the beach; and there
Lay fragments of a ship, and human shapes,
A sight of living misery, met our gaze;
Ghastly and gash'd. But the worst sight of all
Seated upon a rock, drench'd by the rain,
Her hair torn by the wind, there Ellen sat,
Pale, motionless. How could love guide her there?
A corpse lay by her, in her arms its head
Found a fond pillow; and o'er it she watch'd
As the young mother watches her first child.
It was her lover!
A SENSITIVE Plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it open'd its fan-like leaves to the light,
And closed them beneath the kisses of night.
And the Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt every where;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
The snow-drop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mix'd with fresh odours, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
Then the pied-wind flowers, and the tulip tall,
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,
Till they die of their own dear loveliness;
And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,
Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green;
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