Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view;— Her eyes from that object convulsively start,
For, Ó God! what cold horror thrilled through her heart,
When the name of her Richard she knew.
Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by,
His gibbet is now to be seen;
Not far from the inn it engages the eye,
The traveller beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.
CII. THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.
WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded careless by.
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead;
And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away;
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset;-
Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead;
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.
But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;
And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.
So long they looked-but never spied
His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.
AND this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom
To each poor brother who offends against us-
Most innocent, perhaps-and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
By ignorance and parching poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart
And stagnate and corrupt, till, changed to poison,
They break on him like a loathsome plague-spot!
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks-
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapors of his dungeon
By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
'Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence hopelessly deformed
By sights of evermore deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O nature,
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets;
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters;
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.
THE other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had
Been stove in the beginning of the gale;
And the long-boat's condition was but bad
As there were but two blankets for a sail,
And one oar for a mast, which a young lad
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail:
And two boats could not hold, far less be stored,
To save one half the people then on board.
'Twas twilight, for the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail;
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown,
And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale
And the dim desolate deep; twelve days had Fear,
Been their familiar, and now Death was here.
At half past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, spars,
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose,
That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,
For yet they strove, although of no great use:
There was no light in heaven but a few stars;
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews;
She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port,
And going down head-foremost-sunk, in short.
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell!
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave;
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,
And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
And first one universal shriek there rush'd,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek-the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
The seventh day, and no wind-the burning sun
Blister'd and scorch'd; and stagnant on the sea
They lay like carcasses; and hope was none,
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely
They glared upon each other-all was done,
Water, and wine, and food-and you might see
The longings of the cannibal arise
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.
At length one whisper'd his companion, who
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round,
And then a hoarser murmur grew,
An ominous and wild, and desperate sound;
And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew,
'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found:
And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood,
And who should die to be his fellows' food.
There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,
And with them their two sons, of whom the one
Was more robust and hardy to the view,
But he died early; and when he was gone,
His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw
One glance on him, and said, "Heaven's will be done! I can do nothing!" and he saw him thrown
Into the deep, without a tear or groan.
The other father had a weaklier child,
Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate;
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
And patient spirit, held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he smiled,
As if to win a part from off the weight
He saw increasing on his father's heart,
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part.
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam
From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed;
And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come
And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed,
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam,
He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain
Into his dying child's mouth-but in vain.
The boy expired-the father held the clay,
And looked upon it long, and when at last
Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past,
He watched it wistfully until away
'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; Then he himself sunk down, all dumb and shivering, And gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. BYRON.
CV. THE WORLD ILLUSIVE.
THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion giv'n;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-
There's nothing true but Heav'n!
And false the light on Glory's plume
As fading hues of Even,
And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb,—
There's nothing bright but Heav'n.
Poor wand'rers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driv'n;
And Fancy's flash and Reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way—
There's nothing calm but Heav'n !-MOORE.
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