"BETWENE the cytee and the chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, that is to seyne, the felde floriched. For als moche as a fayre mayden was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that she hadde don fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise werein the first Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. And thus was this maiden saved be the grace of God."-The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundeville.
NAY EDITH! spare the rose ;-it lives, it lives, It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'd The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand Tear its life-strings asunder, and destroy The sense of being!--Why that infidel smile? Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, And thou shalt have a tale of other times, For I am skill'd in legendary lore,
So thou wilt let it live. There was a time
Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard
How first by miracle its fragrant leaves Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid And Zillah was her name, so passing fair That all Judea spake the damsel's praise. He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance How it revealed her soul, and what a soul Beam'd in the mild effulgence, woe was he! For not in solitude, for not in crowds, Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid Her imaged form which followed every where, And filled the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, For Zillah on her God had centered all Her spirit's deep affections. So for her Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes.
One man there was, a vain and wretched man, Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her. His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek Even till the flush of angry modesty
Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, And the strong workings of brute selfishness Had moulded his broad features; and she fear'd The bitterness of wounded vanity
That with a fiendish hue would overcast His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports Which soon obtain belief; how Zillah's eye When in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'd Did wim with rapturous zeal, but there were those Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance With other feelings filled;—that 'twas a task Of easy sort to play the saint by day Before the public eye, but that all eyes
Were closed at night;-that Zillah's life was foul, Yea, forfeit to the law.
Shame-shame to man That he should trust so easily the tongue Which stabs another's fame! the ill report Was heard, repeated, and believed, and soon, For Hamuel by his damned artifice
Produced such semblances of guilt, the maid Was judged to shameful death.
There was a barren field; a place abhorr'd,
For it was there where wretched criminals
Received their death; and there they built the stake, And piled the fuel round, which should consume
The accused maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd,
The assembled Bethlemites
Beheld the scene, and when they saw the maid Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness She lifted up her patient looks to heaven, They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts Stood Hamuel near the pile; him savage joy Led thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs
Of wakening guilt, anticipating hell. The eye of Žillah as it glanced around Fell on the murderer once, but not in wrath; And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hour Of triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch, Not in the hour of infamy and death
Forsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake,- And lo! the torch!-hold hold your erring hands! Yet quench the rising flames!-they rise! they spread! They reach the suffering maid! Oh God protect The innocent one!
They rose, they spread, they raged;- The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames In one long lightning flash concentrating, Darted and blasted Hamuel,—him alone. Hark-what a fearful scream the multitude Pour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stake Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves, and bowers, The innocent maid, and roses bloom around,
Now first beheld since Paradise was lost,
And fill with Eden odours all the air.
THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
SWEET to the morning traveller The sky-lark's early song,
Whose twinkling wings are seen at fits The dewy light among.
And cheering to the traveller
The gales that round him play,
When faint and heavily he drags
Along his noon-tide way.
And when beneath the unclouded sun
Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him
A pleasant melody.
And when the evening light decays And all is calm around,
There is sweet music to his ear In the distant sheep-bells' sound.
But oh! of all delightful sounds Of evening or of morn,
The sweetest is the voice of love. That welcomes his return.
NAY William, nay, not so; the changeful year In all its due successions to my sight Presents but varied beauties, transient all, All in their season good. These fading leaves That with their rich variety of hues
Make yonder forest in the slanting sun So beautiful, in you awake the thought
Of winter, cold, drear winter, when these trees
Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch
Its bare brown boughs; when not a flower shall spread Its colours to the day, and not a bird
Carol its joyaunce-but all nature wear One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. To me their many-coloured beauties speak Of times of merriment and festival, The year's best holyday: I call to mind The school-boy days, when in the falling leaves I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign Of coming Christmas, when at morn I took My wooden kalender, and counting up Once more its often-told account, smooth'd off Each day with more delight the daily notch. To you the beauties of the autumnal year
Make mournful emblems, and you think of man Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broke, Bending beneath the burthen of his years,
Sense-dull'd and fretful, "full of aches and pains,"
Yet clinging still to life. To me they shew The calm decay of nature, when the mind Retains its strength, and in the languid eye Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy
That makes old age look lovely. All to you Is dark and cheerless; you in this fair world See some destroying principle abroad,
Air, earth, and water full of living things, Each on the other preying; and the ways Of man, a strange perplexing labyrinth, Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope "That should in death bring comfort. Oh my frien That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see Death still producing life, and evil still
Working its own destruction; couldst behold The strifes and tumults of this troubled world With the strong eye that sees the promised day Dawn through this night of tempest! all things then Would minister to joy; then should thine heart Be healed and harmonized, and thou shouldst feel God, always, everywhere, and all in all,
THOU chronicle of crimes! I read no more For I am one who willingly would love His fellow kind. O gentle poesy,
Receive me from the court's polluted scenes, From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war, Receive me to your haunts,-that I may nurse My nature's better feelings, for my soul Sickens at man's misdeeds!
I spake when lo! She stood before me in her majesty, Clio, the strong-eyed muse. Upon her brow Sate a calm anger. Go-young man, she cried, Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul. Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet, That love-sick maids may weep upon thy page In most delicious sorrow. Oh shame! shame!
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