To a determined point, even and straight,
Onward he sped-and now his calmer mood
Imaged the landscape's gay reflection

In chequered brightness rich: as is a shawl
From far Cashmere spread to the wondering eyes
Of village maiden. Inly he thanked his God,
That he could feel the season's graciousness,
Darkened to him of late by his soul's cloud;
Nor only feel, but render what he felt
To him who gave it, in like grace again,
E'en with the spirit of adoring love.
And now he felt the air breathe tenderly,
As from his home; he passed the village through,
Straggling and far between, broken with wood,
Orchard, and garden trim and pastures green,
Betokening plenty; and, from door to door,
Still as he past he scattered from his heart
The largess of his words, prized not the less
For their small cost, but bearing still a rate
Of friendliness and grace and of good will,
Such as o'erpeers all price. His dewy words,
As best beseems a preacher of God's grace,
Fell every where. The old dame out of doors
Basking in the sun beside her spinning-wheel,
Intent on work, but yet not so intent

As not to greet him coming with blithe phrase,
And bless him parting for his ministry,
Whereby he wrought on her and other souls
Such saving worth :-the old shepherd who best loves
Serious talk, and she who needs it most,
The simple maid, pert in her prettiness,
O'erweening of herself. All had their turn
Of question, or kind word, or kinder smile,
As each one crost his way-so on he past,
Glad with the radiance of that sweet scene,
And gladder still in sunshine of his heart,
Until, well nigh before his consciousness,

He reached his father's house. Him, there he found,
'Scaped from his scholars' impish noisomeness,
Taking his solace in the sunny ground

He tilled with his own hands-and tilled it so,
That scarce could a born peasant of them all
Better his work: faith, if he only wrought
His scholars' minds to the like pregnancy,
They past all praise. It seem'd some kindly sprite
Had ta'en a turn at the delightful task,

To show how best 'twere done. The rounded beds
Were swelling to the birth, the stately flowers
Rose daintily, as ladies of the soil,

Clean from the level mould. The gravelled path
Showed like a golden stream, bright glistening
In the rich day. The earth smelt gratefully:
The hedges in their shapeliness of trim
Presented a smooth couch, where the hot sun

Might take his mid-day rest. Through the whole space
The soul of summer shed its influence,

And not a weed was there, foully to mar

The sweet society of herbs and flowers.

Hermann viewed all in thoughtful consciousness,

And inly thus he said-" Old man, thou'rt blest
Both in thy toil, and in the fruit of it,
And I, in thy example, were blest too,
Did but the sire descend unto the son,

As like should gender like-but oh! harsh Fate,
And harsher Love!" So as he thought, he paced
Evermore on in silent thoughtfulness,

"Till at the sound of his step, the old man turned
Hastily, and with like haste, thus began :"-Book iv.

Philosophical and Pious Reflections on Family Estrangement.

"So did the sire and son hold their discourse-
Meeting in love, parting as those whose hope
And dearest wish is ne'er to meet again,
Lest that their love, being in substance lost,
Should lose in their contention e'en to its show,
Sinking from chill to cold-meeting but so
As shadows meet, darkly and silently,
And so pass scowling by. O who can look
Upon such passages in life as this!

'Strangement of blood from blood, father 'gainst son,

Nor wish to be vilest of those vile things

That have no feeling; change humanity

For an ape's grin, and bide whate'er may chance
To be no more a slave in the social gang,

Manacled to companionship, where each

Being bound by such shrewd ties as cut to the quick
Where'er they bind, must bear both gall and jar
When that his fellow starting from caprice,
Or swerving from his line and rightful way,
Or flinging himself foully on the path,
Drags the whole chain awry. O who was he,
The shallow fool, that would fain have his soul
Gifted with observation and sure sight

Of the human heart? Such sight as his eye hath
For things of outward form; that sight once seen
In all its foulness, and its hideousness,

"Twere a bold man would look on it again

Much rather would he tear the memory

From his mind, and fling it to the winds away
For a devil's charm. Truly, far lovelier
Were the aspect of the Libyan wilderness,
Bare of all else, but teeming with strange shapes,
Whose venom is their life; who but would fly
From such a horror to his darkest dreams,
And think them heaven? For to look once on it
Were to put out with tears the light of our eyes,
And weep all joy away, Such were our life,
Being itself alone; if man's whole hope
Rested but only on his fellow men:

But when that hope is perished, then comes faith

The angel-guide, showing where refuge is

From the world to God, making all smooth where all
Was rough before; visiting home the heart

Of the sad pilgrim-lightening the way
And pointing to the end: blest be that faith
As they are blest that do partake of it.

A Domestic Scene.-Mother and daughter communing concerning the state of the latter's affections and their object. The quotation. will be found to consist both of the lyrical and the epic.

The careful dame marked her fair daughter's brow

Woefully drooping, and thus spoke to her.

"Lucy, the sun is golden bright,

The sky is silver clear,

And all is full of joy and light,

O be of better cheer!

And tell me whither hast thou been
To find thy silent care?

For in thee only is it seen,
And all is gay elsewhere.

Prithee, is aught upon thy heart?
For sure if crosses fall,

A simple maiden as thou art,
Should tell her mother all.
"Mother, thou knowest all I know,
For oft I've heard thee say,

There's many a cloud that will not go,
For brightness of the day:

And sometimes we are apt to smile,
And then again to cry;

Joying or grieving all the while,
And yet we know not why.

And I felt something of distress,
Some dark and distant fear;

And for I knew it foolishness,

I came to hide it here."

"Nay, Lucy, hide what else you will,
But hide not truth from me;

For truth beseems a maiden still,
Whate'er the matter be.

For thou hast wept; and in thine eye,
I see the glistening tear:

And when a maid weeps silently,

A mother must needs fear.

The clouds upon a virgin face,
Full lightly come and go:
But tears are of a deeper place,
Whenever they do flow."
"Yes, mother, I will tell thee true,
And I have wept full sore:
And let me weep, 'tis sorrow's due;
Or I must grieve the more,"
"Ah! is it love? yes, sure 'tis so,-
For nought but love could bow
A pretty maiden's heart so low,
As thine is bent e'en now.
But when did love become a crime,
A thing of shame and scorn?
'Twas not so rated in my time,
Or thou hadst ne'er been born.
And other maiden hearts are light,
And why shouldst thou despair;

With brow so smooth and eye so bright,

And golden flowing hair?

And soon will Linsingen be here,
And he hath much to say

"

Will sound like music in thine ear,
And grief will then away.'
"But he is come of ancient line,
And courteous though he be,
Yet never can I call him mine;
He may not stoop to me.
No! never can he share our lot,
Then wherefore dream in vain?
Oh leave me to this lowly cot,
And name him not again."

The maiden ceased: the mother looked on her

With such a look as, through the encountering eye,
Pierces to the heart in penetration keen;

Angrily at the first, then earnestly;

So to discern by the significance,

Featured in that most pure and guileless face

If that her speech were sooth. Much did she fear,
(For much had she suspected of long time,
Since that the maiden neither talked nor wept,

While yet her spirit dwelt within a cloud),
That there lay something lodged within her heart

Too deep for words. Oft had that dame discoursed
(For misery from its darkness loves to look,

Up to the merest chink that lets light in,
And with it hope) of the young Linsingen,
His youth, his beauty, his wealth and parentage,
All that commends a man, both to the eyes
And judgment too-she spake, and Lucy heard,
And haply listened; but it might well be
Felt not at all, or whatsoe'er she felt,
'Twas not the pulse of love.-Nor matters what;
The truth will speak itself in her after acts,
Clearer than words-only thus much is sure,
That this most prudent dame, knowing full well,

VOL. II.

с

How love when poor is but a beggar boy,
And, like his kind, wretched in beggary,

Wretched the more, as waking from rich dreams;
This having learned, as use taught her the truth,
Not knowingly alone, but feelingly,

In daily desolation of her heart;

Fain would she compensate her own sad chance
With a golden fortune for her child achieved:
Its substance for her child, and for herself
Its warm reflected golden radiance,

To be the comfort of her later life.

Therefore on Hermann, in that scope of thought,
Her countenance was cold, as being one
Whose industry was all his faculty

To push his fortune on; and his high hopes
O'erlooking worldly aims, were winged to a mark
Though beauteous, yet distant, bare, and cold,
As a far glacier, rich with many rills

To fertilize and bless the nether earth,
But barren for itself. From such a man
Her eager eyes would turn to Linsingen
As to an angel, that should take the hand
Of her child and lead her forth to paradise,
There to be blest, and from her father's house,
Bringing her virtues to a worthier home,
Would leave that house a blessing in her stead,
Rich as herself. So did the mother hope,
And as she hoped so trusted a long time;
In confidence that her most gentle girl
Was to her will, but as a gentle boat

Is to a willful stream, that goes nor stirs

But as the stream will have it: else she had deemed, If that the maid should choose of her own choice,

A

very miracle were sprung to life,

Shocking old use-so had security
Set up its habit for the very truth,
Rating all else that likelihood did urge,
At a dream's rate; nor e'er imagining
That the young eye seeing but by itself,
Not with the artifice and glass of age,
Eager, but nothing curious of search,
Doth oft forerun expedience with desire,
Taking a glitter of sand for very gold,

A hope for a sure good.-Such is man's law,
But, for that law is nowhere writ in brass,
Nor trumpeted abroad with brazen sound,
The hopeful matron took no note of it,

When 'twere most need. But yet something ere this
Had she misdoubted of the things she saw,
As caution gave the alarm; and this new doub
Forth issuing from her daughter's cloudiness
And covert phrase, sudden with violent start,
Burst ope the door where Surety lay asleep,
And let Suspicion in; she addressed herself
Forthwith to wring the spungy secret out,
And so had done; for in such circumstance
A parent's heart is hard, and maiden souls
Are all as soft; and what she could she would,
Though with it she had wrung the life-blood forth

To its last drop: but he on whose behalf
She was solicitous, sudden appeared
While yet his noble name was in their ears,
Himself more nobly present to their eyes,

Her hope, her joy, the gallant Linsingen.-Book v.

Arthur Hermann's supposed father, the old shoolmaster, having impeached his confederates, occasion is taken to evade the suit The consequent meeting between Arthur Hermann and Lucy Hess, is delicately as well as vigorously touched-off.

of the son.

Sir, there's one thing I'd ask,

To see your daughter, and so hear from her
What I have good assurance from your lips,
But nearer yet from hers." "'Tis just and right,"
Answered the father, "and shall surely be.
Wait but her coming down; nay, 'tis herself
There in the garden-she shall know your wish,
Yours and her own." He went, and Hermann alone
Remained: 'twas a short space; but large enough
For thousand various thoughts to crowd between,
Confounded in one vague, thronging like motes,
Though joyless of the sun : then was all still,
Save the unruly beating of his heart,

That broke the stillness: soon another sound
That none might hear, save who had listened it;
A quick light step, and then a gentle hand
Upon the door, and gliding through the room
A youthful presence of pale loveliness,
Lovely though pale, she moved as in a dream,.
Noiseless and vague and all unconsciously,
For her deep passion had enveloped her

As with a cloud: she stood, and had sunk there
Ere she could speak; but Hermann hastily
Rose and encountered her, and took her hand,
And seated her in drooping passiveness,
That so she might collect her spirit again
And be herself. Sadly he gazed on her,

Then broke the sad pause, Lucy, look on me,
And speak me a word--surely we may be friends.
Such severance as ours it breeds not hate
But pity-speak to me, and let me hear
That this same gulf but parts us being friends
No hostile distance-nay, but weep not so,
Thy grief is my worst pain. Oh answer me
Only a word." "Oh yes, I'll answer thee;
But what to say? Forgive me; that is all.
Forgive me now as thou didst love me once,
Wholly-so shall my pain haply be less :
But no-that I deserve not-nor dare hope-
Only forgive me." "Lucy 'tis too much:

Wherefore forgive? What thou hast done, from my heart
I do commend it for a noble deed:

But if thou lovest more the other word,

Then do I tell thee I forgive it all,

As free as we forgive our dearest friends

For seeking our best good: nay, mark me this—

Had I such cause and motive for the act,

I'd done no less myself-I loved thee much--