"Like winter rose, and summer ice,
"Her joys are still untimely ;
"Before her, hope-behind, remorse;
"Fair first, in fine unseemly."
ROBERT SOUTHWELL, Ed. 1590.
" AVE MARIA! 'tis a night of fear!
"Hark! how the wind sweeps hollowly among "The branches of the forest! 'Tis as if "It sighed upon the raven's morning meal, "O'er murder wrought at midnight! Our wise host "Of the Fleur de Lis, predicted so much for us! "Better have quaffed till day his Sherris-sack 1 "Than thus to be bewildered: 'twas ill done "To venture from our hostelry. "Whither may we direct us?—"
In hoarse low tone-as from a sepulchre
A spirit might have muttered-Bertrand spoke.
"What reck 1? 'tis not the first hour I've couched
"Beneath the greenwood tree, and slept as sound,
"As heedless of the battling elements
"As of the rustling leaf. Belike thou dream'st
"Of plunder? or, mayhap, of murderous deed
"Done in the deep of night? or goblin seen
"By the quick meteor, or the lightning flash,
"To ride upon the storm; and like an ape
Mowing at our disaster, pelt us on ?—
"What are thy terrors, honest Edwin? What "Alarms thy fast integrity of soul?"
His comrade answered not; or if there came
A murmur from the lip, 'twas lost amid
The bellowing thunder. From his coal black steed
Leapt Bertrand to the earth. His armour rang,
And the sheathed falchion clashed upon his thigh.
'Twas strange, between these midnight wanderers
How great the dissimilitude! The one,
Tall and broad-shouldered, with an eye of flame,
And heart like very Etna! Sallow his cheek,
Save when the lava-flood of passion poured
A desolating redness; long coarse locks
Of raven hair spread downward; and his beard,
Jagged and short, curled round the tapering chin.
His look was a torpedo, numbing all
The heart's expanding feelings.-But the other
Was fair as light-most femininely fair.
His young limbs delicately fashioned, yet
Well knit, and promising a warlike soul :
It answered not the promise; all within
Was vanity and fearfulness. The first
Leading on peril, from which turned the last
With a base craven's shudder. As a rose
His cheek bloomed beauteously, when nought of dread
Spread the wild lily over it: his eye
Shone like an animated gem, but full,
Where'er it glanced, of that licentious gaze
Which droops the lid of female modesty.-
For ever branded be the dastard wretch
Who puts the breast of innocence to shame;
And calls the warm blood to the tingling cheek
Of maiden honor-be he shunned for aye!
They cast them from their steeds, beside an old
And withered oak, that flung its leafless boughs
To heaven, as supplicating the return
Of its past beauty and forgotten pride.
The trunk was hollowed, or by art, or time,
And there they skreened them from the tempest, while They communed with their hearts. Had peace her home, Had conscious rectitude a harbour there?
Alas! Vice held her revels-Vice in all
Her loathsome shapes claimed undisputed power!
A bloody coronal enwreathed her brow,
Mingled with tears of innocence beguiled—
Of broken hearts, and daggers drenched in gore!
So, by that ancient oak, in moody thought,
Sat Bertrand and young Edwin. It was like
A thing thine eye hath scanned: a poison-flower
Of beautiful colors, springing by a grave
Of rank mortality-even such were they!
The sterner form seemed brooding on the strife
Of hostile fields; blood-shot his scowling eye.
In constant scorn, curled the proud lip, and on
His gauntletted left hand he rested him; the right
Mechanically poized an ashen lance.
The moon rose in her majesty; ye had seen
A solemn sight, when her pale splendor streamed
Through Autumn's withered foliage, and on him
Shed an unearthly brightness :—then he smiled,
But 'twas a smile of ghastliness; as if
It were the herald of Revenge; the flash
That showed the consummation of a wrath
Implacable as death.
Slept not, though feigning sleep: his cautious eye,
Unclosed at intervals, in eager quest
Of that it would not; and his aching ear
Caught at the gentlest motion of the blast
Passing upon its way. The courser's tread,
As of advancing footsteps, startled him ;
And the big sweat-drop, like a heart-wrenched tear,
Fell on his quivering bosom. Beads he told;
And grasped an amulet of wondrous power
O'er night-disturbing hags, and sprites unblessed
That rove in that wild season-but in vain!
There was a spirit in his heart, which not
The consecrated relic could destroy:
It mocks at incantations-it defies
The potentest magician that e'er charmed
By wizzard spells, the mighty prince of Air!
That spirit was his Conscience; for he felt
It still was quick within him; still he felt
The goading pang that slumbers not, nor sleeps.
Mentally came before him, days gone by;
Hours not to be recalled-and innocence
Lost, when young life put forth its choicest flower.
There was a vision met his eye-perchance
In sleep, when nature was exhausted-but
There stood, inclining over him, a form,
The shape of one whom he remembered. "Twas
In feature as a woman; pale, but lovely
E'en in her very paleness. On her arm
She held a new-born babe! the infant wept
And struggled to be free, but could not-for
The female pressed her finger on its throat,
And its faint cry waxed fainter. Then it seemed
Gasping for breath; and then a livid stain
Told that the pang was past. The cruel one
Gazed on the child, and in her countenance
Despair and madness left their scathing trace.
The dead was in her arms-she bent, and placed
The lifeless corse upon the living heart
Burning beneath her; deathly cold it fell,
And heavy-like a monumental load
Up-piled upon him. One deep groan went forth,
A groan unutterably wild, as on
The earth he writhed; and screaming fearfully
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