Mary de Rochford; or, The Banks of Cam, a Poem.

]> Mary de Rochford; or, The Banks of Cam, a Poem.Bullen, Miss.Rianna Au,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition124KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162002BullMMaryD

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series93Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorMary de Rochford; or, the banks of Cam: a poemBullen, MissPrinted by J. F. Dove, St. John's‐Square, for Richard Priestley, High HolbornLondon, 1821[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. ISuppl:116. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler ISuppl:116mf.]

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[Title page]

MARY DE ROCHFORD;OR, THEBANKS OF CAM.A POEM.[A note in contemporary contemporary manuscript hand has been added to the title page between the title and the epigraph: "By Miss Bullen" and "Hoop Hotel Cambridge"]Anne Bullen! No—I'll no Anne Bullens for him.Shakespeare' s Henry the Eighth.London:PRINTED BY J. F. DOVE, ST. JOHN'S‐SQUARE, FOR RICHARD PRIESTLEY, HIGH HOLBORN.1821.TOTHE HIGHLY‐GIFTED AUTHOR OF THE TALES OF MY LANDLORD,

THE following PoemIS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY HIS OBEDIENT, HUMBLE SERVANT, THE

INN‐KEEPER' s DAUGHTER.Cambridge, Dec. 30, 1820.ERRATA.Page␣␣␣Line␣␣4 — 7 —for prospect read prospects,␣␣5 —␣14 —for flowers read flower.␣␣6 —␣18 —for in read of.␣␣7 —␣16 —for tears read tear.␣␣9 —␣␣1 —omit the word the. ␣11 —␣16 —for showers read shower.␣15 —␣10 —for observe read observed.␣21 —␣␣2 —for bowers read bower.—␣␣␣—␣␣9 —insert play after to.␣26 —␣␣1 —for whispering read whisper'd.␣40 —␣20 —for bane read ban.␣42 —␣11 —for bowers read bower.␣50 —␣21 —insert sense after each.␣53 —␣␣7 —for elders read elder.␣64 —␣␣3 —insert what after but.␣81 —␣␣3 —for Tell read Fell.101 —␣␣8 —for above read abase.105 —␣␣2 —for bride read pride.116 —␣12 —for matchless read watchful.117 —␣␣4 —for sorrows read Saviour. 122 —␣14 —for sprung read swung. 125 —␣␣3 —for Wardow's read Wardour.—␣␣␣—␣13 —for prayers read prayer.MARY DE ROCHFORD;OR,THE BANKS OF CAM.A Poem.PART I.ALL hail to the ruin, the time‐hallow'd fane,The pride of the mountain, the valley and plain:All hail to the scenes, that have witness'd our birth,And honour'd the spot which receives us to earth:To the ivy‐grown mansion our fathers possest,To the relic‐strewn cell where forgotten they rest,Neglected by beauty's proportionate grace,Unhappy in climate, in prospect, in place;It may be they charm not the traveller's eye,It may be they claim not the wanderer's sigh;But virtues they cherish'd and passions they sway'd,In fleeting succession of light and of shade.The same in their onset, their progress, career,Whatever the point whence the pinnace may steer,Are Nature's own offspring, or wild or serene,Let Cam or the Hellespont furnish the scene:There only is wanting the masterly hand,Which holds them to view as they shrink or expand.Such Byron—but softly, where language must failTo express admiration, 'twere better the veil*Once lending its friendly assistance be mine,The vesture of feeling it fails to define.Abbey† all hail, though long since gone Dimension of thy corner‐stone;Though science, sounded to the depth,May scarcely find its length or breadth;Though Time's rude hand has torn awayThe lingering grace that marks decay;And turret high and dungeon deep,If such were thine, no records keep;With prouder boast of glory's day,Thy hall with royal banners gay,The warrior's shout, the minstrel's lay;Though these and more have pass'd away.For sake of one thy sometime guest,Whose ashes 'mid these ruins rest;For sake of one superior mindThat here its mortal task resign'd,Without an effort to redeemThine honours from oblivion's stream;Without an effort for renownThou shalt not to the dust go down:No! strangers may possess thy gate,And farther spoil thine age await;Love's blooming wreath no more be wove,Where stands thy pool, where stood thy grove;But traffic ply the busy oar,And hoof imprint thy chalky shore, And only sound thine echoes tell,The watch‐dog's bark, the bargeman's yell;But still the Muse, the poor unknown,Whose day of pride like thine has flown,Will greet thee, dear and native home, Kindly as never adverse blast,Had either prospect overcast; But tepid gales and sunny skiesHad risen, and were still to rise; The vista of untroubled scene,And slumber'd yet the fitful theme,Of what thou art, and what hast been.* It is reported of one, who painted the sacrifice of Iphigenia, the daughter of Agamemnon, that, despairing to express the countenance of the prince, he threw a veil over his face. †Barnwell Abbey, Cambridgeshire, built by Sir Peter Peverell, standard‐bearer to William the Conqueror.'Tis Autumn, and in faded bowers,Where sped the halcyon summer hours;The thrush has ceased his matin lay, The nightingale, at closing day, No longer trills the varied strainInspiring joy—inspiring pain;The triumph of the rose is o'er,And beauteous vestment Nature wore,Bedew'd with tears her children shed,As bending low the drooping head,They die and mingle with the dead.But not unwept, so hapless doom,The maid who hail'd their rising bloom,And watch'd each glowing tint expandHerself of Heaven's indulgent hand;The fairest flower that meets the sight,E'en she so form'd to yield delight;And votive love in thraldom bind,Alone on rustic bench reclin'd,In flowers and falling leaf surveysAn emblem of her future days——Mary her name—and she is fairAs Spring's unfolding blossoms are,When yielding to a smiling sky—Sweet earnest of maturity.Scarce fifteen summers—lustres threeShe prattled on her nurse's knee,Nor yet the babe's simplicityHas yielded to the woman's wile, Still wears her mouth the playful smile,Her hazel eye the sportive glee,That mark'd her hours of infancy.Not mean her birth, though bred amongA simple race unknown to song:'Twas even said, in olden time,When monarchs bow'd at Beauty's shrine,A scion of the parent stem,Transplanted from its native glen,Had bloom'd beneath auspicious skyThe chosen palm of royalty:—But this as may be—hers is worthWhate'er the soil that gave it birth,Of weight intrinsical the sameWhether the laurel wreath of fame,Encircling, clasp its owner's head,And gold in either India spreadThe banquet of satiety,Or chilling blasts of penury,Their soul‐benumbing influence shedAcross the path his footsteps tread;Titles and wealth prefer their claim,And find with man enduring fame;And higher order deeds enrol,Which grace the pure and spotless soul.But wealth nor poverty is hers,The simple prayer her heart prefers,For righteousness and daily breadIs heard and duly answered:Nor does she lack affection's tieThough sometimes breath'd the thankless sigh,Nor father's fondness, brother's care,Nor sister's love, was given to share,The youthful ardour of a breast That these had lov'd, nor less carest,Surviving parent last and best—And tears would fall in memoryOf absent friend, whose sympathyIn taste, pursuit, hard destinyHad borne away to distant shore,Isabel, St. Gille lov'd the moreFor frown disastrous Fortune wore.That orphan girl, by dying prayerCommended to her mother's careA Swiss by birth, and lately claim'dOf faithful guardian, still retain'dUnrivall'd sway o'er waken'd sense,Doom'd ne'er to know indifference.All have their wishes—none so blestBut covet something unpossest.Attain'd fruition wanting still,Earth never gave nor ever will;And she our theme, to nature true,Bids fancy fly, and hope pursue—On fruitless errand sends the doveSoon to depart, unblest to rove,Of verdant olive—leaf nor sprayThere is not found to win its stay;And but the hand that gave it wingWill back receive the weary thing,And press it to the bosom fair,Though disappointment rankle there;Long hovering 'twixt the earth and skyNeeds must it languish, droop, and die. But let us praise or blame defer'Tis action stamps the character,Which circumstance in league with fateMay heighten or extenuate;Till rise to view the perfect form,Or brilliant, or of lustre shorn,As hitherto her life has beenEpitome of golden scene,When innocence and smiling peaceWent hand in hand—Ah! why should ceaseSuch intercourse for cold distrust—'Tis Heaven's decree, and Heaven is justTo prove its own by sacrifice,Of all the bosom learns to prize;The work of no mean agency,Her ardent spirit soars too highFor sordidness to bid it stoop,Yet shall its wavy pinions droop—Shall fall the dupe of tendernessBy that same hand it seeks to bless.Love, jealous of her liberty, Beholds with keen invidious eye,And aims the arrow wantonly,That brings the tow'ring falcon downAnd Love's she is, the smile or frown,To swell his fame, or blast renown.Yes, he is born nor school‐boy now,Who asks and shares unchanging vow;The fateful era 's nigh to come,When every passion yields to oneObject, of which since time began,And plastic Nature moulded man,None fairer 'mong the sons of earth Obey'd her voice and sprang to birth,Nor ever shall arise to dwell,Than Henry, lord of Arundel.For her, the maid he sought and won,As beauty is by worth outdone,So much she lack'd of outward grace—Hers was the fair expressive face,Liker the argent queen of nightThan risen day's refulgent light:Not such as may the eye abase,But rather win through shade to traceIts latent beauties—binding spell!Resistless and endurable.Ye banks of Cam, at even‐tide'Twas now she lay thy stream beside,Sooth'd by the sense that sleep precedes,And music of thy whispering reeds,When sound reverb'rate struck her earAnd showers of gun‐shot rattled near.Startled, she listened—breathless rose,Then 'shamed such sound should discomposeResumed again forsaken lairAs bounding at her feet, a hareOf strength exhausted, couched to claimProtection from the sportsman's aim:Was soon unbound her scarf of gauze,'Twill serve (she said) Oppression's cause,And threw it lightly on the ground;Scarce had she spoke, when sigh profoundAgain surprised—no form was nigh,At least was none that met her eye.Maybe she thought—My timid guest,The panting of thy weary breast,But glazed eye bespoke its rest,And unresolv'd mysterious sigh,She 'gan to frame soliloquy."Poor, inoffensive, dying thing,Stopt short on Pleasure's airy wing;What hand has bade thee life resign,Now were it here to triumph mine,In chiding for its wanton sportWould point to this thy last resort,And——pardon the delinquency."He spoke the author of the sigh,She turned and met her destiny."Bright vision of a higher sphereThan man might hope to meet with here;Lovely thou art, and quick to blameThe timid hare was not my aim,But felon‐kite low coweringBeside yon broken arch‐way's spring:Art satisfied? Thus much I yield,That sentence past may be repeal'd.Didst ask whose hand perform'd the deed?'Twas his, who sure that hour of needSuch tributary wail might bring,Would meet his doom unsorrowing;But he, alas! denounced ere known—He, miscreant! must never ownWhat every turn of fate had blest,Memorial in so fair a breast."In turn reproved the maid bow'd low,"Chance haps to all or weal or woe,And come which may, the fair intentDeserves nor blame nor punishment.Farther, the fact by thee denied,Has left the censure unapplied;Nor thou nor I of guilt take fee,And neither owing, both are free."What other pretext for delay?Oh many where our wishes stay,And he would learn her history:But how! the score of courtesyAlready paid! "The evening airIf far her home—Yon abbey there,The residence deserv'd of fame."Might he inquire the owner's name?Anna of Rochford—Barnwell now—No coronet invests her brow,And vanity to name or traceThe honours of a fallen race—"And thou, fair Naiad of the Cam,She calls me child, and such I am."—Then paus'd, and seem'd exalted lotRelinquish'd, rather than forgot:Her cheek assum'd more lively glow,And quicker heav'd her breast of snow;The struggle of inherent pride,Her manner told, her tongue denied.For him, as cloud the sky o'erspreadsWhen April's sun its lustre sheds,Such changeful hue the features wore,Which blythe and bland smil'd sweet before.Coldly he answer'd, distantly,Observe the soul's nobility,Superior to casualty,Might fortune and her frowns defy—"One of thy name remember'd wellMine craving favour—Arundel!"He made to go—"I pray thee 'bide—Lives Emily? the perjur'd bride—My kinsman's shame?—who was thy sire?""The friend of thine, till woman's ire;Brief be the sequel cause of strife—She lives—lord Howard's second wife." "Thy mother!—I the hapless son,Whose being cost a dearer one.The sacrifice, too soon forgot—My mother! but I knew her not." "Ah, but thou wilt! There is, who diedAnd lives—of whom 'tis certified,He taught, though soul and body sever,Death shall not separate for ever Whom sin has not in bondage led—Believest thou?" He shook his head,Bosom to noblest impulse deadThat signal token'd—heart be free,The sceptic owns no hope with thee;But somehow pity there had crept, And woke the sigh which nursling slept;He mark'd that sigh and osier band,Which pendant wooed contiguous hand:Despoil'd of leaves ere sentence broke The silence negative bespoke—"I have not scann'd with curious eyeThy faith's unfathom'd mystery;"Then seeing that she looked sedateHe added to ameliorate,—Perhaps through life, termed pilgrimage—Such matters may pursuit engageWith some persuasive monitressAs thou to guide—"Higher must bless,And will I trust, ere rung thy knell,Dum spiro spero—fare thee well."A scholar! and a saint withal,In both somewhat original;What have we here? her cloak I trowIf any lacked occasion now'Tis portable—but, what am ITo play the foot‐page?—better fly,—Mine was her father's enemy."But friend or foe, what were my hopeAlready plighted?—hence the yoke,The lust of wealth that marries landsThe heirs still wrapp'd in swathing bands,To mate with uncongenial mindIs sacrilege of rite enjoined:And she, sir Eustace, dotage blest,Is mere automaton at best;Fair as the statue wrought of old,As beautiful, and, oh! as cold."And I to be the slave of such,Transformed by gold's transmuting touch,No, never—God so curse or blessMy lot with peace or bitterness,As I shall keep or violateThy faith, with Him—ere yet too late, All other form of oath forbear:"There is who says, 'Thou shalt not swear:'And on his lips a hand was placedOn sudden laid—withdrawn in haste,As acting from impulsive fear,And eyes soft beaming with a tearConscious met his—those eyes, that voice,Were Mary's and Lord Howard's choice,"Woman! or angel! mortal yetAs speaks my errand—vain regret,I came unbidden—hast thou seenA scarf that matched yon hillock—green?I left it there its loss to feel,Unnoticed in the warmth of zeal.""Lady, it shares the fate of war,Is taken spoil—but near or far, Or soon or late, as serves the time,My word is pledged to yield it thine."She bow'd assent and blythe tripp'd on,A second time the maid is gone;And gone alone, the cause I weenNo other than that scarf of green,Which found conceal'd beneath his vest,Had told the tale he meant supprest.Oh! heart of man, deceitful thing,More frail than that light covering,—What is thy aim?—the wild rose spare,Though banished from the gay parterre;The plant of too luxuriant growth It wildling puts its blossoms forth,And smiling wooes the face of day,The spoiler's unprotected prey;Stranger to passion's withering grasp,Oh leave it to its woodbine clasp,Nor pluck it to ensure the sting—The thorn that mars its rifling.What is thy aim? not then he askedMonition of that moment past,Preservative from guilt and pain,Henceforth forever sought in vain.As little thought that simple maidOf trusting love by guile betrayed;As little recked she, giddy thing,Of falsehood's wrong, of sorrow's sting;Who woke on harp the minstrel strain,And matron bade attend the same;While sweet she sung how 'witching manIn hawthorn bowers on banks of CamHad taken pledge—and, mother dear,This night he means to bring it here.Entreat him kindly—thine the smileMust bid him welcome—I meanwhileWith fruit and flowers our stores affordWill decorate our frugal boardThou lovest to the friendly host:[The word "play", on p. 21, line 9, has been added in contemporary manuscript hand between the words "to" and "the"]Then begged the question—Yes, thou dost,And Howard shall have kindness shewn.'Twas thus she playful, coaxing, wonThe boon—To be repented on? No, never—heart for which she pleadsIs fitter soil for flowers than weeds;The which to plant and cherish thereWith kindly beams shall be her care;And deed so fair must win regard,And hers will be the sweet reward.Woman! whose unsuspecting breastBids welcome the insidious guest,Specious to gain admission there,Though warned the serpent to beware,Longing thou eyest the gilded bait,And touching, tasting, find'st too lateIn fairest cluster germ of gall, External and extrinsic all.Lights in the Abbey‐hall are shining,St. Mary's bells the hour are chiming,And lingers there a welcome guest,Lord Arundel—his lip has pressedThe cup of peace—and blessing, blest,Has pass'd the wonted hour of rest.The matron's wheel, her task and pride,The flax well‐spent is laid aside,And fairy hand the shuttle plied,Has twisted knot of fringe untiedTo tie again, lest wearinessShould seem its mistress to oppress:But time outstays each subtle art,And Arundel must needs depart.He read it in the matron's eye,He recked it in the maiden's sigh.What happiness!—but hence the dream'Twere selfish to prolong a sceneWhich stays such beauty from reposeAnd rose to part, by effort rose;Breathed many a wish to friendship due,And lingered still to bid adieu.Now has the latest star arose,Now is the hour of deep repose;Within the Abbey all is hushed,Save when the wind, with sudden gust,Rattles the ivy‐mantled pane,Loose hanging in its time‐worn frame.Along the eastern galleryWanders the only wakeful eyeIts massive arches' canopy.Half leaning o'er its ballustrade,In musing mood reclined the maid—Mary, whose thoughts unbidden flyTo that fair land of liberty,And castle reared on Alpine browWhere Isabel is sleeping now,From Switzerland and IsabelHer thoughts revert to Arundel—Her brother. Oh! how sweet to proveFor Henry Howard sister's love,To wean from pride and sophistry,And lead him imperceptiblyBy that pure light, which sprang from high,To life and immortality.Enthusiast—devoted one!The end were noble, let it come;Meantime take rest, while yet 'tis foundShe rose, and sleep with blessing crownedVeiled the bright lustre of her eye,And vision of futurity.The morrow and the morrow came,And countless morrows lost to fame;In witness of that growing flameThe youthful heart will feel or feign.Lord Arundel the morning sceneBade realize the nightly dream,In waking as in sleeping thought,Mary the lovely object sought.Thus sober Autumn sped away,And dreary winter's lagging day,And flowery spring—the first and lastOf happiness, that either pastWith pleasure's thornless roses strewed,The path their loitering stops pursued.Hours were as minutes, months as days,Both loved, but neither dared to raiseThe partial veil, which hopes concealedEach gentle bosom wished revealed.But sigh supprest, and sigh deep breathed,The glance withdrawn—the glance received—The pause—the start—the quick suggest,To seem but all the mood exprestForbade despair—nay, whispering bland,No hopeless flame such zephyrs fanned.Time conquers all things—trite as true,And Chance will wear his trophy too.It happened vigil of our dame, That Arundel as usual came,To pass the intervening time'Twixt chapel and the bells' last chime.Beneath that roof of calm content,Where all his happy hours were spent,That Mary, absent to attendThe sick‐bed of an aged friend, Had missed—(with love, presumptuous sin!)Appointed time for meeting him; And wayward as a humoured child, At aught his simplest wishes foiled,In no inclining mood to rove,He took his pathway through the grove.O creature, marring wisdom's plan, What inconsistent thing is man—He met her—to approve her zeal?No, but to make her bosom feel,Weighed in just balance him she prizedTo mean self‐love had sacrificed.The Abbey reached, return to greet,His spaniel gambolled at her feet."Poor Bane, thou wilt not chide me home,Nor misinterpret kindness shownLess happy friend:" then changing tone,From grave to gay, she archly said—"I pray, my lord, is any dead?Thou hold'st it sin to wear a smile;"He spoke, and looked so sad the while, She almost wished her words retrieved—"Mary! (he sighed) I once believed"—Then checked his speech, and twirled his glove—''But what have I to do with love?""Thou dost not love me!" timidlyWas raised to his her speaking eye.Oh then did faith and frailty Make interchange of solemn vow.Then first did love shed o'er her browThe breath, whose wasteful influenceShall cause to fade and banish thenceThe blooming wreath his temples pressFor sweets diffusing bitterness;The sting of grief and thorn of careFor every flower which blossoms there.But let it pass—their hour of doom,Howe'er delayed, will come too soon.Rest, loving girl, securely rest—Pursue the dream that makes thee blest.Those arms thy faultless form entwine,That beating heart which answers thine.Ah! didst thou think will come the time,When fate shall write such fondness crime;This vision to thy senses given,Which tempting—proving leads to heavenHad never been—and thou hadst died—Thy love unknown, thy faith untried.Commencement comes—of joy to some,Who absent long from friends and home Leave science to her cloistered nookFor Nature's more enchanting book;In social circle long denied,Renounce the lonely pedant's pride, And own reward for every toilIn woman's converse, woman's smile.But first the ball—and where the heart,To whom such scenes no joys impart—Or, ne'er imparted, dull the brainThat listens mirth's inspiring strain,Nor fleeting hour recalls again,Which welcomed every fair pretence,Unchilled by sage experience.But this beyond with Mary swayed,And era of high interest madeThe long‐remembered festival,Expected guest this coming ball,Is Norfolk's duke—his grace besideMaria Lucie, Warwick's pride,And Machiavel of splendid train,The noble Howard's widowed dame,Whom Arundel's persuasive voice Has influenced to approve his choice;And she is promised courtesyFrom all his kin, and longs to seeThe future dutchess—she, whose charms,Once destined for her lover's arms,Are plight to less fastidious one—The graceful Surrey, Norfolk's son;Surrey, who late on travel sentMakes tour of Europe's continent.'Tis summer's morn—alas! the plain Of Cambridgeshire forbids the strainThat hills and dales and lakes inspire,No fuel here for poet's fire;No picturesque for simile,No giant Andes, rocks, nor sea,But still old Cam thou'rt dear to me;Wert dear to Mary—dear to her,As on this morn of Midsummer,She woke from sleep, and drew asideHer curtain, and beheld with prideAgnes, as for a wedding‐day,With careful hands the dress display,Designed for evening—all delightSummed up in this—the ball's to night.Uprose the maid, and rose as soonWho reached the Abbey‐gates at noon.No vulgar herald good or ill,His mandate hastens to fulfil.What draws he from his folded vest?A packet to herself addressed.She read its tidings o'er and o'er—From Isabel—St. Gille no more! Then gave her hand—approved most dear,St. Pierre of Zurich, welcome here.But why alone? why come she not, The happy partner of thy lot?He named the cause—her duteous zealDetained to sooth the Sieur St. Gille,At whose request on claim of wealthHe'd sought her isle, and thence herself.In green retreat, the sun yet high,She listened to the historyOf love, with joy's fruition crowned,Of peace in sweet retirement found;Assented to the grateful wish,An hour might come resembling this,When love again should furnish theme—Herself the happy heroine.Now shadows haste, and sets the sun,And business of the toilet done;As bride in snowy vest arrayed,Forth from her chamber peered the maid.Uncancelled yet her virgin vow,Chaste myrtle wreathed the lovely brow,Whose wavy ringlets fell on breastAll stainless as the robe it prest;Wax to receive, and adamantTo wear unchanged affection's stamp.And now is reached the festive scene,Where beauteous face and faultless mienAre read the index of a mindNo less attractive and refined;Where smiles and sighs, languid and loving,Will greet the maid for the first time rovingThe flower‐strewn paths of delight and joy,And many a dart, from the winged boy,Be hurled this night of festivity,While Mary's soul, in her tell‐tale eye,Is seeking the lover, whom novelty Or beauty, or worse, is essaying to bindTo the fairest and falsest of woman kind.The dance began—and hand unclaimed By Arundel, the novice feigned A preference for looking on;But when she saw that wayward oneLead Lucie's daughter to the set,She seemed such purpose to forget,And challenged as devoted fereThe handsome Swiss—the brave St. Pierre.With heart of sadness, eye of glee,She looked and moved Terpsichore;For not yet humbled to complain,Hers was no outward sign of painInstructed in the art to hideThe bosom's scourge, the bosom's pride;No seeming told the deep despair,The deadly poison lurking there;But spirits buoyant as the wave,Which bears the bark it fails to save. No! I will die—she proudly thoughtAs wearied with the dance she soughtRefreshing air—ere pain extortConfession of the ruin wroughtFalse Howard! who invokes that nameBeside herself? Howard! againIs she awake? he passes byAlone! oh, heavens! familiarlyUpon his faithless bosom leanedHer hated rival—"Sorceress! fiend!"She uttered almost franticly:Well for her fame no list'ner nigh—Then rushed towards the porticoA chariot waited—"Let me go,Drive to the Abbey, any where!""There's some mistake—you can't come here."The voice her wandering sense recalled,It was the same that late had palledWith fulsome strain, now framed to flowIn rougher speech—"Mistake! even so"—The half‐distracted Mary cried.To ask and have our suit denied,To trust the heart and be undone,Why 'tis mistake!—the common one. Till now the lights had dimly burned,Replenished from their glare she turnedWith irritated step away—Whither! the ball‐room's proud display,The scene so late of fancied bliss—What might it sooth at hours like this:But she must on—must wear the smileOf pleasantry the mournful while;She yearns to pace her chamber 'lone,Or desperate on her pillow thrown,Exhaust that load of misery,The bosom weighs so heavily:Must on, though every sound she hearsIs turned to discord—who appearsTo scan her with inquiring eyeAs doubting of reality?'Twas Arundel in mute amaze,She met his deep and fixed gaze;Rushed to her cheek the crimson tide,Next moment brought him to her side;"I have been seeking"—"Seeking me?"She asked with pointed irony.Just then a message sped to sayHer mother waited—"Best delay!"He urged with seeming innocence,Resentment for supposed offenceTill proved 'twas meant—offended yet!Why, Mary! Love's capricious pet,"What cause hast thou to frown or chide?""Oh none"—she haughtily replied:Who that some ignis fatuus leadsThrough flowery paths, deceitful meads,By specious promise, fair device,To border of a precipice,Timely to save from guilt despair,Behold the pageant fade to air,Nor blesses the protecting powerWhich rescued from destruction's hour.The angel ended—What to herWas text from Milton—"Briefly, sir,Your lightness warns me to forgetWhat well were lost—we ever met:She trembled—pride, unconquered love,Alternately for mastery strove,She passed her hand across her brow,Perhaps to hide indignant glow,Or dash aside rebellious tear—Whate'er the cause, she feigned good cheer,And bade him leave her—"Go!" she cried,"More fickle has my place supplied;More faithful, never!"—but the heart—(He drew her from the crowd apart)So lightly prized has broke its chain,The last was spoke in faltering strain;Such strain who lists and loves the whileMay guess result:—returning smileSate on the features of the maid,Whether by word or look conveyed,Was never told, intuitive thought,As some affirm, conviction wrought;Chaste influence, that dove‐like moved,And either whispered each was loved.But this was known, she pitied herWhom late she blamed—a messengerAs Howard told the mournful tale,But now had furnished bitter baleTo all who tendered Surrey well,That noble youth seduced by spell,Which beauty binds in evil hour,Had braved the Sultan Mahmut's power;And now was pent in fortress rude,Or doomed to death or servitude."And what may cheer Maria's lot?"He asked—but Mary answered not,Blushing she stood as thought recurredOf sentence passed, no pleading heard—Then timidly confessed her shame,At having wronged that wretched dame:"By secret hate, avowed disdain,I deemed (pursued the self‐accused)My confidence had been abused:I saw her folded to thy breast,Fondly, methought, for such strange guest;I heard the claim her lips preferred,Ill to my judgment, how it erred,Forgive me, Howard! and, forgiveMe, Howard's injured relative;But seemed the sound mine ears to pressAs knell of buried happiness.""Nay, let it not disturb thy brow,Such idle dream—'twas false, you know—Oh sure 'twas false—will ever be;"He answered somewhat hurriedly."For my fair cousin, hush thy fears,Her finger Surrey's signet wears,Not mine perceiving that she soughtTo penetrate his inmost thought;Not mine its brightness to remove,I love her not—shall never love—Whereof take pledge, the holiest"—And ring upon her hand he prest:"Wear it," he whispered—"Thine alone,The motto which begirts its stone."And she did wear it, talisman,Her present blessing, future bane.'Twas evening of the following day,The last St. Pierre designed to stay,That Mary from his hand receivedToken from her who never grieved,Or trifled with affection's claimHer Isabel changed but in name:The gem still glittered in her hand,When, as convened by magic wand,Lord Arundel in thoughtful moodApproached the window where they stood."This from my friend"—and playfullyShe held the ring—unconscious sighEscaped St. Pierre, as angry glanceFrom Arundel forbade advance Of that love‐token—Oh! he thought,The gentle bird in trammel caught,Must brook the chiding of the handThat lately lured with silken band,Nor once complain of slavery—Lest uncaged songsters, as they fly,Attracted mark his prison grateAnd mock at thraldom's bitter fate.Thus mused St. Pierre, and idle plea,His thoughts and words alike left free;'Twas hour for musing, scarcely stirredThe spiry aspen—distant heardEach rural sound, attractive light Makes dull through day now gave the night;Returning day again adornsThe winning charm which contrast forms.The bowers, so oft the favorite themeOf her he loved, and destined sceneOf sorrow and of sacrifice,To her whom next he learned to prize;That bower he entered, hawthorn crowned,The woodbine wreathed its lattice round,And over‐arched the gothic door,Which many a fair inscription boreTo idleness and love devote—Within stood couch of knotty oak;The variegated moss crept o'erAnd rushes strewed its pebbly floor: Next through the ruined cloisters greyHis steps pursued their lonely way; Not lonely long, a voice bade stay,And joined him there with well‐feigned glee,The subject of his reverie.It seemed she would apologize,And do away all rash surmise,"Lord Arundel!"—the magic name!She paused, her colour went and came."Lord Arundel is vexed with newsThat bids him hence—Duke Norfolk suesWhose heir he is, to have him nearThe heaviness of grief to cheer—If less imperious mandate swayed.""Oh name it not," the hero said,Anxious to spare ingenuous prideThe sacrifice that if implied."I know thy zeal in friendship's cause,And bearing hence thy sweet applause,I go"—the stranger entertainedBeyond what hope or merit claimed;Then pledged the vow, in Zurich heard,Had been approved and registered;And farewell given—wind and tideHave borne him to his youthful bride.And Arundel! he too is gone,Leaving the heart, so lately won,Of veering doubt the restless prey.Oh cruel! thus to go away,Nor once reward for parting painSuggest the hope to meet again.Despite of wounded love and prideMary had sought his fault to hideAnd speak him fair—that sacred veil,Affection throws o'er object frail,She would not lift to stranger's eye,Nor violate, no not to die,For that one act of secrecy,Her given faith—yet thoughts would rise—Actions she dared not scrutinize,The conflict of her soul renew—What might portend his cold adieu?And was it cold? or did he feignIndifference? she asked in vain:And joy prevailed, or grief dismayed,As hope and fear alternate swayed.But, Mary, if thy gentle breastWas tempest‐tost, what port of restLay open to that guiltier one,Whose voice beguiling lured thee onTo quit thy native bowers of ease,And trust thy bark to stormy seas;Then, pirate like, for richer freightThy love betray—thy cause forsake.What rest for him? Oh he shall roamA wanderer still, in sight of homeBy rocks encompassed—shallows bound,His aching eye shall glance around,Nor find within the realms of spaceOne solitary resting place.Whilst memory, that fondly twinesAround the bosom truth enshrines,Shall, like the deadly Upas, waveO'er friendship's bier—affection's grave.PART II.AT Worksop Manor all is gloom,Its youthful lord's untimely doomWith sadness clouds each inmate's brow,Save hers who thinks to win the vow,And higher prized the title shareOf him who comes apparent heir.With mind where sound is leading senseYour Grace has high pre‐eminence,And managed by that artful dame,With whom defeat alone is shame—That scourge of Rochford's race and name,Dame Emily—the web is woveFor eyes that wander, feet that roveBeyond the limits truth prescribes,Where virtue leaves, and impulse guides.Ah, youth! the labyrinth beware—Flee for thy life—the pit, the snare,The prison of thy future hours,Lay hid beneath its rootless flowers.And did he shun it—Arundel?He shunned, nor sought, but sad to tell,Forewarned, transgressed—foreknowing, fell.His fallacy a world's defeat—"The woman gave, and I did eat."Oh Arundel, bethought thou thenOf beechen shade and flow'ry glen,Of vision bright thy fancy woveOf her thy first—thine only love?Yes he did think—aye, sometimes thoughtHis golden honours dearly bought;Did think on virtue's peaceful paths,No tempest shakes, no lightning scathes,And wish his own those pleasant ways,That faithful love which never strays,That watchful love which never sleeps;But still as guardian angel keepsThe vigil sweet, nor sordid wealth,Nor pride, that seeks to bless itself,Nor aught the earth's vast treasures ownMay recompense—but love alone.Poor Mary! Cam's neglected flowerFast fading 'neath thy hawthorn bowerThou hadst no witness of that hour,In which thou gav'st thy trusting heart,No earthly one to take thy part'Gainst wicked, cunning, fraudful art.But she thy rival wrought not so,She, worldly wise, has bond to show,And day is fixed that seals thy woe.Softly the vernal showers descend,And tarries yet the faithless friend;Long has he tarried—long delayedRenewal of the promise made To be to her in place of allFor him resigned—"May vengeance fallThe heaviest (he oft had said).Nor ever Mercy's arm be spreadTo succour my defenceless headIf I forsake thee—what! dost fearMe faithless!—by thyself most dearI love—adore"——hyperboleWas lover's strain, she mournfullyAdmitted, as she mused by stealthOn theme that robbed her cheek of health,But added lustre to her eye—A fearful brightness—shadowy—Were grown the hands oft stretched in vain,To greet the wanderer back again.He will return! what agony Possessed each, when doubtingly[The word "sense", on p. 50, last line, has been added in contemporary manuscript hand between the words "each" and "when".]She first made question of his zeal,—It seemed her soul's eternal weal Depended on his faithfulness.If Howard swerve—if he transgress'Gainst honour's law—but hence the thought—'T were sin to doubt him—and she soughtTo hush its restlessness asleep; But love that may not soar will creep,And like the worthless plant that climbsThe forest's pride, and underminesThe power that strength and beauty lent,It feeds on vital nourishment.And she is changed—in all but heart,—There lay transfixed the rankling dart,The vulture's never‐ceasing fangOf memory, the sudden pang,Which o'er the pallid front of deathAdorning that it withereth;The vermeil tint of freshness throwsThe fleeting beauty of the rose,That palely in the dark shade blows.Yes, it is anniversaryOf Nature's birth—from shrub and treeIs poured the strain of harmonyTo Nature's God:—but who is sheYon willow's shading moves along,All disregarding—boast of song,As planet of effulgence shorn?'Tis Mary—hers that touching form,Graceful as erst Apelles drew.And who are they—those other twoIn earnest converse?—Agnes Brown,That foremost stands—the last unknown.Who knows not rugged scene suits bestThe tempers of a mind distrest?[The 's' after "temper", on p. 52, line 14, has been crossed out in contemporary manuscript hand.]Beneath the influence of despair,Who that inhales the ambient airNor feels its breath a mockery?"Scenes of my childhood! what to me"—(The lovely, luckless Mary sighed)"Your flow'ry fields' translucent tide,Reflecting fair the face of day;And thou, O Sun! whose glorious rayI once met joyous—envious cloudHas passed between us"—"Speak not loud;She comes, to whom his life is dear:"Such were the words which met her ear,Approaching towards the elders twain;[The 's' after "elder", on p. 53, line 7, has been crossed out in contemporary manuscript hand.]She paused, and half turned back again;Then, shuddering at prolonged suspense,Blushed, and inquired their conference."What tidings, nurse?"—"Oh! mere hear‐say—Lord Arundel is worse to‐day."The less considerate made reply—Mary surveyed her steadfastly:"Worse! is he ill?" she calmly asked."Peace to his soul! he's dying fast.""Ha! comest thou from Nottingham?Or where is he?" "At Cambridge, Ma'am.""I thank you," in unchanging tone,The fair girl murmur'd—God aloneAttesting to the bitter throeWhich wrung her soul, that hour of woe—The sudden purpose of her breast,As, turning from her heedless guest,She sought beneath more kindly glanceTo give her sorrow utterance,Dark cloud was lowering in the north,But cheering ray the sun shot forth,As if reproving of its frown,When Mary wretched sate her downBeside the couch, where languidlyHer mother lay—"Returned to die!I asked his presence, 'twas the sumOf every wish—and he is come.""Who's come?" her auditress exclaimed,"Lord Arundel"—and silence reigned:Silence, unbroken by a sigh,And, save the silken lash of eye,Made music with the draperyOf damask stuff 'gainst which it prest,That scene had figured of the rest,Oft coveted and once possest. "Dost think," at length the matron asked,"He feels compunction for the past?No precedent may give it weight,His error was deliberate,And augurs more obduracy.""And yet (sighed Mary) charity,Long‐suffering, kind, would scarce denyForgiveness of the injury;And prayer ere now has pierced the skyFor action quite as fallibleAs this referred to Arundel." "I loathe his name, yet more his sin:Pray! I will pray—but not for him!Has he not robbed me?—stolen awayThe budding staff which propped decayMade wilderness where Eden bloomed?"Not he, but mightier, has doomed,If doomed they are thy hopes to fade"—Pursued the still entreating maid."Mother! I have not long to live,And, dying, shall I not forgive?I do forgive him—and I ask,Aye covet, to fulfil the task,Of being near him—pride may blameBut truth and mercy, still the same,Will mark the effort and approve,For they are His, who taught me love,And framed my nature to relent;Nay, do not frown to yield consent.Bethink thee of thy life's sweet primeO'erclouded with a grief like mine;Bethink thee of thy heart's adored,Thy bosom friend—thy bosom's lord—My father! Mother, was it sinOn bed of death to visit him?"No husband, sayst thou!—wedded not!In that thine was the happier lot;Thou hadst no sacrifice to make,At which the world offence might take.Thy cup of bliss, though dashed asideEre satiate the lip that pliedIts nectared brim, was yet complete;Thy draught of love, though brief was sweet,But mine with bitter dregs must flow,Nor earthlier consummation knowThan once the dying hand to press—Than once the parting soul to bless."And mock not thou my purpose high,'Tis love's last solemn embassy;Not passion now, but principle—Oh! let me go! In cloistered cellE'en now he languishes alone—(Then in more wild and hurried tone)What hinders?—warping prejudice,Pride's unavailing sacrifice:Mother! by hopes of paradise"— The matron raised a brow of care,But pride nor prejudice were there:As Patience meek, as Mercy mild,She bended o'er the suppliant child,And kissed her cold and faded cheek."Mary! in vain does pity seekTo reconcile with man's applauseThy daring—consequence not causeHe looks to, and thy spotless fame,Thy hitherto unsullied name,Will serve detraction's base pretence,The heartless fool, the slave of sense;And thou, unworthy destiny!Wilt live the mark of obloquy.""Not live!"—and mournfully she smiled"Of peace bereaved, of hope beguiled,Long have I struggled with my fate,Till now the earliest hour seems lateTo stretch me on my narrow bed, To shroud in dust my weary head,And I shall die! are blossomingThe rosy buds of parting spring,Which, ere the yellow harvests wave,Shall droop and wither on my grave."Uprose the dame with tearful eye,She caught her hand while passing by;She hid her face in sable vest,Which folded on that widow's breast."Oh thou! that loving, lovest still!Bless me, my mother!—come what will."Then burst the sob of agony,The long uninterrupted cryOf suffering humanity.The voice prevailed—and she was blest,And all save her have sought their rest.She too has closed her chamber‐door,And stands the virgin saint beforeThat bears her name—the rosary,And crucifix of ebony,With relic of mortality.The eyeless scull disposed nighUnclaspt the written manual lay.She bowed the knee, she knelt to pray;But whirring thought had truant fled,Attendant on the sick man's bed;And scene distracted fancy drewWas present to her anguished view."He will die! (she exclaimed) neglected, die!''Then stretched her hands imploringly—"Oh blessed virgin, intercede: But what canst thou, if fixed, decreedThe purpose of eternity—Yet might I see him, ere he die!"She rose from off her bended knee,Distressed one, whither wouldst thou flee?Dark is the night, and loud the blast,The doors are shut, the gates are fast.All egress denying this desolate hour,The wicket is open that leads to the bower,And boat that is stationed on this side the fosse,Shall presently bear its light burden across.The moon was gone down, but in casement she placedThe newly‐trimmed lamp, then unresolved pacedHer chamber again—"What if I go?'Twere some relief from present woe;Nor may remorse attend the deed—The world will scoff unstable reed:On thee I have no faith to leanThough sure thy mark thine arrows keen.How pleads the voice that spake from high,Do good unto thy enemy;And, for affection's dearer tie,Witness the grave at Bethany."She laid her snowy veil aside,And glossy ringlets closely tiedIn braided band around her head,And cloke and hood, that served insteadOf more fantastic drapery,Concealed from vain and curious eyeHer form of perfect symmetry. The wall of stone which skirts the green,That ruined wall may still be seenTremendous bolt from heaven had cleft,And aperture extended left:Through this she passed—chill wind and rainBeat on the low and marshy plain,Where lay her path—but wind nor rainMight urge her footsteps back again;Nor sigh she gave to her hapless fate,But measured the plain and reached the gateDespite of the night's inclemency, The gate of the holy Trinity."Who calls?"—"A woman"—"Errand report:""The nurse of the sick—to Neville's Court.""God speed!"—"Amen"—was the brief reply,The portal unclosed, and she hastened by.Her feet had pressed that earth before,And she had passed its vaulted doorAt later hour, without alarm,But not alone—protecting armClose linked in hers had banished fear,But now no friendly arm was near, No soothing accents met her ear.Flushed was her cheek, and parched her tongue,Heavy her dripping mantle hung,And sinking 'neath oppressive weightShe leant against that stone‐raised plate,Still noting there diurnallyTime's progress tow'rds eternity.A deathlike chill possest her frame,A shrinking as it were of shame;The why or wherefore undefined,But dominant o'er woman's mind;Till quite thrown down the barrier fence,Placed betwixt guilt and innocence,Rose militant unvanquished pride"And pardon—Oh! my sex (she cried)The aught of blame my steps impart.Ah! did ye know the breaking heartThat supplicates—there are who liveWould yield to pity—and forgive."Hark! 'tis the neighb'ring turrets' chimeMonotonous. Again! O Time—Above, below, the historyThe hand that points at vanity—And I!—but avails regret—[The word "what", on p. 64, line 3, has been added in contemporary manuscript hand between the words "but" and "avails".]The brightest sun is doomed to set,And, task of weary mortals done,Sweet sabbath of repose will come.Not always thus! of hope forlorn—Not always thus!"—she paused—is goneWith hurried step of wild despair,Has climbed the dark and narrow stair—And now upon the landing stands,That prospect of her goal commands.Along its wall of dusky greyOne shadowy line of light there lay;Another transverse marked the floor,The shade of rude and broken door,Above whose lintel ruin sate—Fit emblem of her mind's estate.She raised the latch—it fell again—No voice inquiring asked her name;No answering footstep—but a groanHollow as wintry blasts, which moanAround the dwelling of the dead,Warning the list'ner hence hath fledAll that affection cherished.The watchers slept—ah! who besideThe wedded or affianced bride—Mother or sister, who but they,At sorrow's couch will watch or pray;Save who of these most kind, most dear,With timid step approaches near,Essaying doubt and fears to quell[The 's' after "fear", on p. 65, line 12, has been crossed out in contemporary manuscript hand.]The restless bed of Arundel?Retired within a dark recessAs marble pale, and motionlessWith lips unmoving to complain,A statue's form her limbs maintain.The shock is given—the bolt has sped,And heavier that may rouse the deadMust urge its course, with pealing tone,Ere feeling find its desert home.It comes! the watch‐word, Murder—haste!Swift, as by raging tigers chased,The menial herd is seen to fly—Vile recreants of adversity.But one is left who would not shrink,Though on destruction's veriest brink,Where perisheth each living thing,The form she loved were tottering? But braving peril, rush to save Or share with him one fate—one grave!And she is there—that couch beside,Whence human prowess, human pride,By dread decree are banished—Her arm supports the drooping head,And staunches the still gushing wound,Too deeply lanced, or slightly bound,For strong exertion's desperate aim—And hers is that persuasive strain, So sweetly eloquent—in vain.He hears not, and his frenzied eyeIs filling senseless vacancy. "Maria loves me"—and he tookHer trembling hand, and bade her lookOn imagery his fancy fed;"And one there is would have me wed,"He muttered incoherently."And one there is—ah! wert thou she!Young, beautiful, where none betray"—Then laughed, and threw her hand away.'Twas done in madness—done and said;But Mary shuddered; round her headGirt, as it were, a fiery zone,And reason tottered on its throneWith boding to the past unknown.Ha! jealous Mary, not yet dead?The fiend so scantily dieted; Thy rival listens not the praise,The homage wandering fancy pays;Or, if she did, and swayed, his heart,Thine was professed the nobler partTo sooth his sufferings, win his soul,To hope encircling glory's goal;Conductress to a brighter sphere,Else whence thine errand? wherefore here? More asked than one in tone severe,From whence thine errand?—wherefore here?Howbeit the soul's accepted guide,That ne'er of guilt had taken bribe,Was answered latest hireling's tongue,She cannot brook should prate so long.Her dress was rustic, and to feignThe manners which such garb became,Had been her purpose—but the yoke,Soon as her seeming equal spoke,Was found too galling—and replyTo question, meant to terrify,Evinced the daring of a mind,The base and sordid failed to bind."It matters not to tell my name,Enough it is not linked with shameSuperior to design or fear, The purpose of my coming hereAttaches to myself alone;Nay, unavailing angry tone,Hither I came, and go or stay,As cause may hasten or delay;But resting here or parting henceNo subject for impertinence."Retired the low‐born threatening,Revenge through hood‐winked Slander's sting,Nor knew how blindly impotentWould fall the shaft in vengeance meant,To rankle at the inmost coreOf heart such weapon wounds no more.No! it may bleed, and inly pine,But not at Fame's dismantled shrine;Not that when others stood aloof,Unawed by censure or reproof,She dared refuse the Levite's part:Towards him the wedded of that heart,And like Samaria's son draw nighTo shame the twain that passed by.Such deed as this, the only oneHer enemies might fix upon,Had motive promised to avail,When tongues should cease and slander fail;And thought and deed, alike disclosed, On equal ground should stand opposed:But they are gone, and other guest,More welcome than her words confest,Approached, if human skill might save,To rescue from untimely grave."Well, nurse!" the doctor met her eyes,And sudden pause betrayed surprise;Perhaps, that one so young and fairAlone performed the matron's care.Around her neck, upon her breast,Suspended hung, was closely prest,Memorial form, unconscious shade,By Love's unerring hand portrayed;The golden chain one glittering row,Like daffodil on bed of snow,Had 'scaped the plaited kerchief's fold,And more than rustic wearer told;And ever and anon the sighThe blushing face, averted eye,Awakened curiosity.But sacred be thy veil, distress,And hallowed touch of tenderness—The only one that dares to traceThe features of thy hidden face.So thought the generous Haviland,As at that couch he took his stand,Where bent as angel to receiveThe parting soul, about to leaveThe drear abode of night;And bear it on unflagging wingTo fount, whence streams are issuingOf unalloyed delight.The meekest child of sorrow born,Pity enshrined in woman's form.Upraised in moment of dismay,Still on her arm that pillow lay,Whereon reclined the weary headLong absent sleep had visited.The feverish pulse his fingers prestWas beating prodigal of rest,And crisis of disease drew nigh,When doubt must yield to certainty. But, oh! the dreadful interimShe must sustain who sits by him,Companion of his altered state,Meek, gentle, and affectionate;Whether or bliss or woe attend,Woman enduring to the end.Unhappy Mary! heavinessHas fled her eye, unseen to pressRemorselessly the softer heart—And must she lose him? must they part?The loving and the best beloved!Behold her heaven far removedFrom all on earth!—behold and hearHer prostrate form, her fervent prayer."Author of life—efficient One!Omnipotent! thy will be done:But if the creature of thy power,Through mercy might be spared this hour—Father! I yet will trust in thee,Oh let him live—if not for me." Unmark'd by human ear or eye,Her faith as incense reached the sky;None saw it rising into flame,None listened to its closing strain;But angel which that night kept watch,Bowed down the murmuring sound to catch,Then up to heaven remounted—Unclasped the holy book, and thereBeheld that brief, effectual prayer,For righteousness accounted.Time flies regardless of our woes,The night waned past, the morrow rose;Slowly the gates of light unfold,But not, as once, may she beholdThe coming of a joyous day,Though now, as then, the sober grayIs yielding to the ruddy rayThat chased her morning dreams away.Still sleeps the object of her care,And milder form his features wear,While light she treads, lest sound destroyFrom sorrow's waste this glimpse of joy.But louder step the stairs ascend,"Ha! Agnes—did my mother send?She missed me, then—go back to her,Promise I will not long deferOur wretched meeting—Yes, the browThou gazest on is tranquil now.But nurse! (she spoke in whisper low)Thy child has passed such night of woe—Oh! such a night—but go thy way,The message I have bade thee—say:Then, if still zealous to obey,Return—will suit thine age the best—Remaining task"—deep sigh confestWhat that might be. The nurse replied,"No care hast thou for aught besideThan this thy life‐destroying bane?No memory of others claim?No thought, no feeling, for the breastThy waywardness deprives of rest?"My mother! She, who gave me birth,The heart, it seems, has proved her worthThat judges mine composed of steel.Strict casuist! if thine canst feel,Well may be spared the boast of zeal,Which probes the wound it cannot heal:But I will go, 'tis purposed well—No grief to thee, my Arundel:Peace, rebel heart! one pang the less,None other feels thy heaviness.Oh! my poor Henry!" Faint and weakShe bended o'er him, on his cheekA bright tear fell, and rested there—He felt it not—that crystal tear!—He heeded not the tone of woe,Whose helplessness had bade it flow."Agnes! (she turn'd her to the nurse)He does not know me—this is worseThan all I boded—senseless still!Be kind to him"—"I will, I will,"The matron answered, as she caughtHer look with deepest anguish fraught—That lingering, pleading look of woe;Fixed to depart, yet loath to go."Come, Mary, come"—the mother cried,And knit her brow, and thought to chideThe loiterer. And will she chide?The refuge of her arms denied,Ah! whither shall the wanderer turn,If nature's self her offspring spurn,The first to love, the last to leave—Who then will pity or receive?But cheer thee, 'reft of all beside,Those friendly arms are opened wide,Or pleased with good, or vexed with ill,To shelter and protect thee still.She came—they met—are reconciled—The parent and offending child:And one, with balmy blessing crowned,In tranquil sleep reprieve has foundFrom wasting care's anxiety:—But Mary shuts not weary eye,Nor chooses food, nor lays asideHer garment, with the life‐blood diedOf him she loves—but hurried walksFrom room to room, and wildly talks;Quick pausing, if a step pass near;Of stars malignant—fate severe—Now pious names the skies her trust,Now impious calls her God unjust.Wherefore? O passions of the soul!Resisting reason's mild control;Eccentric, as the orbs that flyBeyond the sphere of harmony;Now travelling heavenward, light embost,Now whirled where even thought is lost;Too subtilized, at ease to dwellIn dust—compounded vehicle.Ye are the source of bitterness, The ladened soul would fain confess;But writhing 'neath the stunning blowOf incommunicable woeIs found, as darts the aching senseFrom centre to circumference.No fixed point affording rest,Where hope, aspiring to be blest,May lighting plume the ruffled wing,Through journey long and wearying.Passion is madness—kind, degree—The worst, the heart's insanity;All other owns a second cause,All other rests in self‐applause;But this, without appeal from fate,Is lonely, wild, and desolate:—Tantalian source—Sysiphean stone,Still seeking rest, and finding none.But madness has its intervals,When frenzied act no more appalsThe gazer's eye—the listener's ear; When all the doting heart holds dearArrayed in garb of happier days,With more than mortal brightness plays,And bids the sufferer taste of joy,Aye deeply quaff, nor fear alloy. Such sweet delirium—opiate—balm,Such cloudless sky, such waveless calm,Now rests on Mary—ah! the cause—Nature exhausted asks a pause;Respite from pain demands supply,To feed the flame, or ere it die—Agnes the agent—oh 'twas bliss—Ascension from despair's abyssTo joy‐crowned height to know he lived;And gladly had her ear receivedMinutiæ, wearisome to tell,As thus and thus spake Arundel.But nurse was careful for her health,Her every act renouncing self:The ravages distress had madeUrged farther tidings, best delayed;And lightened of the load that prestSo heavily, the maid takes rest.Yes! she is sleeping—fled her bane—Is dreaming how with bridal chainLove graceful binds her snowy arms,Nor wakes to tremble with alarms,Which, heretofore, with dread distrest,Albeit a listlessness opprest,Reflection might not chase away;Hope smiled—but not with wonted sway,And fainter beamed, from day to day,Till at the last its powerless rayAs wandering fire, on frozen height,Tell on a bosom, cold and white,[The word "Fall" is written in contemporary manuscript hand above the word "Tell" on p. 81, line 4]To all of pleasure's lively glow—Impassive as the mountain snow.'Twas strange her mother waved the themeDelighting most—and what could mean,Agnes so fond of vain dispute,Her lover named performed the mute.How irksome to the bounding steedThe curb that leads from flowery mead,To starve upon the barren moor;Nor less annoys the schoolman's loreTo heart that bleeds at every pore.What axiom gives remedy?"I cannot choose philosophy,"Mary would say, when urged to bearHer lot with patience:—"Let me hearI am not hated;" and she thought,When next the nurse refreshment brought,To shake off fear's imposing yoke.Occasion was—and thus she spoke:"Agnes! I am recovered now,And sooth, if thou hast made no vow To hold thy peace, 't would please me wellTo hear thee speak of Arundel.Hast thou no tidings may atoneFor long neglect—no message?"—"None,"—The nurse made answer, 'gainst her will."How looked he then?—what! silent still?Thou saidst he lives!"—and quick she breathed,"But no—mine ear was not deceived.""He lives—does well"—was answer givenOft as I asked—Ah! well in heaven,Is't so? pronounce it, say he diedAnd I—"My words were then belied,"Muttered the dame; then, after pause,Resumed, "He is not as he was; Or if his native self arise 'Tis quickly changed for artifice,And ever when I nam'd thy name, He sigh'd and blush'd—perhaps for shame;If all were true young Gambio said,The sable page:"—Nurse shook her head."Thou treat'st the matter solemnly," Observ'd the maid—"And what said he?""That Surrey's death—Lord Surrey's—well:Pour'd golden showers on Arundel,And Lucie's daughter trusted yetTo wear the ducal coronet.""Who! what!" she uttered rapidly;Then, heedless of delay'd reply,Cried, "Hark! thou'rt called"—"I heard no voice,But, as I urged, thy master's choiceIs"—"Peace! enough—some other timeI'll list this gossip tale of thine.Now I would think:"—The point was gain'd,Agnes retir'd; and thought remain'd,As swelling flood denied its course,To rise, to rush, with whirlwind forceIt came—the tempest of the soul,Compar'd to which the billows' roll As undulating wave appears;The lightning's vivid flash that searsThe rooted monument of years,A glancing meteor's playful light,Illumining the waste of night.It came—no open enemyDefiance bade or told was nigh;The weapon they who feel and live,Have proved the keenest fate can give,Oh none! nor sickness, poverty,Stabs deep as two‐edged perfidy;That act by which love's mask is torn,And face of insult and of scornProclaims the truth, in vain disproved,A demon as an angel loved.It was the solemn midnight hour,Raged wild the devastating power;On couch, by gnawing anguish strown,Mary, forsaken and alone,Heard not the thunder's battering din;The fiercer storm that warred withinDisspread its blasting influence,And barred the avenues of sense,Feeling alone distinct stood by,All else beside was anarchy,The past, the present, earth and heaven;May she not die, and be forgiven?Oh welcome were the power, to saveFrom pangs more cruel than the grave!Now would she woo the grisly king,Approach, implore, and fondly cling,His chosen love, his crowned queen,Whose pride in every age has beenFrom nature's lavish hand to cullThe young, the brave—the beautiful.And this thy work, thou faithless one;Oh, more than faithless, lost, undone!If penitence for pangs thou'st costThe once warm heart, to pleasure lost,Melt not obduracy to shame,No angel‐hand shall trace thy name,But false as thou thy deeds proclaim'Fore heaven's tribunal, and thy doom,In this and in that world to come,Shall be to see, appreciate,Rejected good, when all too lateTo make it thine, and enter inThose golden doors that close on sin.Thus Mary raved in bitterness,Though scarcely had it pained her less,To know the stern decree gone forthAgainst herself—the child of wrath;He as her own soul's welfare prized,He shall not thus be sacrificed,Nor warning voice his steps restrain, Without him life or death how vain!She reasoned from distempered brain,And heaven—what heaven! he not there,Accepted guest, heaven's bliss to share—Yet will I see him—and she rose—Yet shall the bosom tell its woes;'Tis eloquent that grief can plead,And let his faithless ear take heed,This last appeal—denied report,His be the guilt, she trembled—wrote."Speak to me, man of mystery,For pity! for humanity!For sake of heart, at point to break,In peace or chiding once more speak!How have I erred? what artificeHas been employed? what fair deviceConspires thy better sense to cheat,And truth and justice lulls asleep?O, heartless! wherefore didst thou smile,Then leave me as the worthless—vile!Cast off, forsaken, scorned, reprovedAs never loving—never loved.The past, the past! yet name it not,Fain would I 'scape distraction's lot,But seeing distance, absence, time,The grave of love no grave of mine,Obey my soul's constrained request,Give me whereon in peace to rest.MARY."———'Tis signed and sent away,And pass we o'er the long delay;For long to anxious love it seemed,The waiting time that intervened,Before she heard the bearer tellIn simple phrase, "My lord was well;As chance would have it so befal,I met him as he came from hall,"Prattled the lad—"Not then he readThe note I gave, but this he said,—My duty—no respects—that's right,I'll come this evening:"—"This! to‐night!"Repeated Mary, as withdrewThe herald of the interview—"And shall I see him?"—first the thoughtWas ecstacy—the mirror sought,No flatterer to bid it stay,In melting tear it passed away—To sober sadness changed her brow,No beauty there to charm him now!That faded cheek and wasted frameMay never waken love again."And yet, she sighed, the manly breastThe kindest, bravest, noblest, best,Feels for the worm that heedlesslyThe foot has crushed in passing by;Nor sees, o'er flower once cherished The dark and silent mildew shedIts withering blight, but breathes the sighThat consecrates its destiny—And Arundel! will he prize lessThis bloom‐destroying tenderness? What he will do, what say, what hear,Must soon be known, he hastens near."His is that steed whose jet reins twineThe lowest branch of spreading lime;His is that footstep mocking rule,Quick hurrying through the vestibule;And his the hand that sways the door!"Which yields him to her gaze once more.She rose, sat down, rose up again,Walked to the casement, breathed his name;And only breathed—oppressive fear,The cherished hope of many a year,Contending powers her senses crost,And at their chiding voice was lost.Nor looked her guest to chase awayThe striving of her heart's dismay.His quickened breath, his slackened pace,Approaching sorrow's resting‐placeSuggested only farther dreadImpending o'er its victim's' head.As streams, opposing barrier gone, Meet, mingle, and in peace glide on;So had met these, if pride, remorse,Might be subdued—one fertile source.But now both wretched stood aloof,Alike the prey of self‐reproof.The end attained, so anxious sought,Were scanned the means by which 'twas wrought.Why had she sought him? would the heartHad broken ere the hand took partTo still its throbbing!—would the tombHad shrouded her—earth's spacious womb,The wrongs remembered or forgot,Hidden or told availed her not.But pause must end, and turning round,Her eyes still fixing on the ground,"Lord Arundel! I think to die,Therefore, O fallen dignity,Art thou bade hither"—Life's last hour,Sure triumph of superior power,The grave made present to her view, 'Twas more than nature might subdue.One hand grasped his, a staff of rest—The other on his shoulder prest;Her eyes, till now averted, chill, Beamed woman, pitying woman still;And voice, late raised in haughty tone,Plaintive as weary infant's moanUpon the chiding nurse's breast,Its helpless tenderness confest."Dearest, in bliss thy form to meet,As waking from its latest sleepMine own in humble hope shall riseTo hail thee partner of the skies,Inheritor of heaven's rest;This were to meet, and meet thee blest:But oh! the fears that intervene,[The word "ah" is written in contemporary manuscript hand on top of the word "oh" on p. 92, line 3]It seems of hope this lingering beamWill fail if thou unfaithful prove:Oh Henry! by the ardent loveDeparted hours have registered—By every prayer for thee preferred,Whether in joy or heaviness—By all that woman may confess,To feeling sacred, manhood dear—I charge—implore thee—be sincere;Wilt thou be faithful?—stays my soulIn prospect of its final goal,To ask the effort—bind the tieThat links us—highly—holily;Wilt thou?"—"Yes, yes!"—wild was the toneIn which he spake—"Mary, hadst known,Deceived, but still confiding maid,The torture which thy words conveyed—But this was spared thee"—Bowed the headAll radiant hope encircled;So long o'ershadowed with dismay,It drooped unequal to the rayWhich ushered in long‐absent day;Downcast that spirit‐searching eye,Awaiting, prompting his reply;And eloquence has ceased to moveThe tongue of truth, the lip of love—But not less lovely or endearedThat meek and bending form appeared,Than when in beauty's proudest hour,His yielding heart confessed its power,And still confesses—Child of heaven!Look up, thy frailties are forgiven,Halo of peace, that's o'er thee shed,Announce them past and pardoned.But his! what means that fixed eye,Those hard‐wrung drops of agonyWhich stand upon his close‐knit brow?They tell of violated vow,Disguised in awful mystery,Of broken faith pledged solemnly.Look up! for thou art innocentOf wilful error's dark intent,And canst not share his punishment;But thou mayst view beyond control,The fearful working of his soul,And soothe him with thy gentle voice,Though past the season to rejoice.One glance, one pity‐beaming glanceShe gave—and horror's tranceWas gone—clasped in his armsHer own soft sigh his wilder calms;Her almost infantile caress,Her uncomplaining tenderness,The guileless, stranger to offence,Rebuked the fiend and chased him hence.And he is leaning on a breast,Where never yet unholy guestAbiding sanctuary found;Nor purer, till an angel crownedHe treads the star‐paved courts above,Shall bear for him such spotless love:No feigning of affected scornFantastic wreathed that faded form,Which as a beauteous ruin lay,A temple hastening to decay:With splendid lights irradiateNo more—sinking subdued by fateThe blush of morn and noon‐tide raySuccessively have passed away,And burnish of attraction gone,No fervid beam is found thereon,Only the shade that marks the dead,The edifice untenanted.But soft! the ebbing sand has run,And they must part—the hour is come,The dark inevitable hour,When, earth, thine oft‐contested dower—Empires, kingdoms, riches, power—Might vainly tempt the eager grasp:All that her outstretched arms would claspIs present—him she fondly holds,In fast embrace the heart enfolds;Which, unambitious as her own,Had been her kingdom, crown, and throne.The Prodigal! how answered heThis dumb appeal of misery?While on his bended neck she hung,While to his heaving bosom clung,He stood as tempest‐shaken pine,Around whose trunk the clasping vineIts wild luxuriant tendrils spread,There to be propt and nourished.But when was rived the linked chainIn fealty binding heart and brain,When effort of the Christian roseTo triumph o'er the woman's woes,And she was severed from his side,The gentle friend, companion, guide,He looked that tall and branchless treeThe pitying eye will weep to see,As, desolate and hoar, It stands amid the sylvan sceneWith hanging flowers and mantle green,Infoliate no more."Henry!"—once more her voice and mienRenewed of joy the waning beam."I die!—but virtue will remain,And if we never meet again—On earth ne'er meet"—her voice grew faint—She looked on him—words cannot paintThe eloquence of that still gaze.It seemed to ask, if equal waysWould join them elsewhere:—well he guestThe boding of her anxious breast,And something felt of humbled pride,Of fallacy such doubt implied."Bless! Heaven bless thee"—heard he right?Was that soft murmur Love's good‐night?It was—and she has glided by,Stilly as showers forsake the skyThe lustrous bow to form;Which, ere the winds had ceased, cameTo renovate tired Nature's frame—The angel of the storm.The star that crossed his destiny,To elevate affection high,As point where bright it shone;But warned no farther to oppose,Has back returned from whence it rose,Unheeded and alone.Whose act and fault? Ambition, thine,Thou habitant of earthly clime,Didst lay thy soul‐ensnaring lime,When vanity was on the wingTo catch the weak unstable thing,And victim to thine altar bring.Love inefficient marked the deed,Passive beheld the bosom bleed,It willingly had died to save—The bosom, merciful and brave,Till met and tempted—changed by thee,That seat of heaven‐born liberty,Was ceded to the power abhorred,And freedom sunk subdued—destroyed.PART III.TO‐MORROW's St. Swithin—To‐morrow?—To‐day:The fifteenth of—Hush! she is coming this way;Be our's the first greeting—no, yonder she goes,I marvel so early she leaves her repose;And they looked tow'rd the east the year‐stricken pair,Grown gray in the service of Arundel's heir.The sun has arisen on Wardour's fair plain,But it cheers not the lord of that ancient domain;And she, who is destined his fortunes to share,Has quitted a pillow o'ershadowed with care.The bridegroom is missing—the bridal is stayed,The banquet prepared, but the blessing delayed;The priest is arrayed in his vestment of snow,But the bride in her chamber sits silent in woe.What thinks he?—where stays? is he lost by the way? Yes, wide as the points of the heaven astray,His heart is not whole with thee, Avon's fair flower,Though he lead thee in triumph from temple to bower:By willow‐crowned stream, less ennobled than thine,In grotto unvocal with shell of the Nine,He wanders to reconcile, lingers to bless,The daughter of virtue, the child of distress.But triumph, he hastens, thrice perjured, to claimJust recompence waiting disloyalty's stain.Exult, for thou wilt, in the conquest obtained,Apt pupil of her who to artifice trained;Fatuity left to its natural bent,Had lived in obscurity, died in content,Unsought as unloved by the guiltier man,Sworn husband of Mary, the maid of the Cam,And mate for none other—for other is none,Whose heart will respond to the tone of his own.Thine is not the glance that will pierce through disguise,Thine is not the bosom will echo his sighs.The visible world, the unprincipled gay,And these, only these, wilt thou honour—obey;But her he has left, though dove‐like her eye,When angel of peace was encompassing nigh,As eagles would gaze on the gathering sky,Nor eyelid above, when its lightnings played by.[The word "abase" is written in contemporary manuscript hand on top of the word "above" on p. 101, line 8.]But triumph, he hastens—whose heart fainteth now?Not thine the expectant of altar‐pledged vow,Though sluggish the motion of his drawing nigh,As gamesters abiding the luckless‐thrown die,Was subject, the body nor spirit was free,Or, Mary, it then had not wandered to thee.He could not, for conscience' sake, unction apart,But wish thy remembrance effaced from his heart;But this might not be every charm of thy soul,The grace that surprised, or the beauty that stole,As ghost of the injured arose to upbraidThe trust he had coveted, wronged, and betrayed. How fares the forsaken one? visions of woeAre flitting before—disquieting showIs haunting her pillow, distracting her brain—Oh! ne'er may she look on such pageant again;But she thought that in chapel, unwillingly trod,At the foot of the cross, by the altar of God,Unassured as the light which at intervals shone,And wreathingly played on the pillars of stone,Stood Henry—and, richly attired by his side,Maria de Lucie—her rival, his bride.Seemed faded his eye, and of death's livid hueThe cheek that was turned to her agonized view;And his hand, as it placed on the sacred bookLove's mystical pledge, as a murderer's shook;But, peace! it was only a vaporish fume,A dream of the morning, the pulse out of tune—A dream that has shadowed the utmost of woe,A pulse which shall never just temp'rament know.A torpor succeeded, an indolent rest,Effect of despair, sensibility's guest;Now cherished, now chidden, unworthy the mind,Through trial made perfect, for conflict designed.One effort, faith whispered, one sacrifice more,And arm that has scattered shall blessing restore:Are numbered thy days, their existence nigh run,And night of deep sleep,—it will come, it will come.She knelt, and was shaken the fortress of dread:She prayed, and the shield of the mighty was spread:She looked tow'rd the point whence the day‐star arose,Which hallowed her pleasures and tempered her woes,And higher uprose on the dove's silver wing,Where angel, archangel, and cherubim sing;The thoughts of her heart, for that heart was refinedAs gold of the furnace, and she was resigned;She wept, and was calm—it was foretaste of rest,Unchanging, unending, reserved for the blest;The gourd 'neath whose shadow the pilgrim reclines,And earth and its fading possessions resigns.That day of darkness, storm, and blast,Of wail and woe—that day is past;'Twas nigh its close, when tidings came,Revealed to only Rochford's dame;A letter sealed and superscribedTo meet her eye and none beside:But one there sate at tambour frame,So deep intent, it seemed her aim,Her only one, to trace the flower,Whose growth beguiled the weary hour;But what is seeming? she has heardThat boon in mystery preferred;And seen enough, to satisfyThe boding heart's uncertainty. Mary beheld the countenanceOf her who read the anxious glance,The mother gave from time to timeWhilst pondering o'er each guilty line;And tenderness, not yet subdued,Has sought her chamber's solitude. There on a couch outstretched and pale,Breathing the summer's sultry gale,Betrayed by him she trusted most,The gloomy bride of suffering lost, [On p. 105, line 2, the 'b' in "bride" has been changed to a 'p' in contemporary manuscript hand.]And peace and pleasure passed away,The uncomplaining victim lay;There too at vigil long and late,The tender watchful parent sate,The fragile form she bended o'er:What! must she bid it rest no more?Must voice ne'er lifted but to blessPronounce it wronged beyond redress?Impossible! it might not be,Oh false and cruel!—This from thee,This at thy hand!—aloud she spake,For trusting love contempt and hate,All kindness cancelled and forgot,So God requite thee—"Curse him not,"Exclaimed the sufferer,—"hard to bearHis own heart's chiding—no nor fearMy senses rave succinct and clear.Oh mother, most unfortunateThy child perceives her wretched fate,And tidings pity shrinks to tell,Herself proclaims—lord ArundelIs false to me—I know it all,My bridal robes the shroud and pall.I am not mad! Behold this ring,He put it on—ah senseless thing!Another has usurped thy claim,But nevertheless do thou remain:Me he has left more rich to take,But him I never will forsake."I am not mad!—thus day by dayShe urged what none might dare gainsay;For she was tranquil as the wave,What time the halcyon stoops to laveUnruffled wing—conviction deep!She should not long survive to weepWith something of balsamic powerHad followed grief's tempestuous hour;And this it was the spirit stayed,In earthly hold—the view displayedOf fairer mansion; all her fear,She thought she might not welcome there,The man with all his failings dear—Renouncing whom she shrunk to formThe blessedness its courts adorn.Oh! to behold him once again,Her youthful love! the soul's deep stainExpunged by deeper penitence;To pardon him his high offence'Gainst her and heaven—needs must breastApproving virtue pant for rest;Whate'er the boast of frailer charms,Found only in her wife‐like arms.And loves she still? who ever yetThat loved like her may love forget:He was her life, the alimentOn which she fed—the shade that leant,To screen the plant from sun and storm:What wonder then such shelter gone,It languishes—more genial sky May bid it bloom unfadingly,But here it cannot choose but die.Her heart is broken—and 'twere vainTo think it e'er will beat againWith healthful music—hope or joy,The word was given to destroy;Its idol, which as those of yore,Th' impassioned spirit bowed before;Making earth heaven and its home,E'er yet life's sojourning be done.Severe it was to mortal seeming,To dash the cup with pleasure beamingFrom lips so faithful—hands so fair—And some of human mould there were;As memory on stream of thought,The soul‐entrancing vision broughtOf what she was—how like a graceIn every movement, form, and face.She led the sportive train along—Herself the queen of pleasure's throng;How in life's humbler path she trodThe unassuming child of God.His gentle minister of peace,To bid the throb of anguish cease,To smooth the pillow—raise the head—And hope's immortal banquet spreadFor fainting souls:—yes, some who keptSuch scenes in view, beheld and weptThe fate which fairer promise wore;But what may pity but deplore,Only the hand that bruised can bind,And she is wretched—but resigned.Now seek we him whose bridal bedThe furies in their vengeance spread,On pillow which his temples press,Love is not—nor forgetfulness.Of aggravated injury,The faded form he left to die,The trusting heart he won to break,At rising early, sitting late,Pursue him still, and banish thenceAll kinder, gentler influence.What soothed it that the public voiceThe venal herd approved his choice;A monitor that swayed within,More boldly spake, and called it sin;No venial trespass—all whose weightHimself must bear or expiate. For whom incurred? oh bitterness!For one who lacked the power to bless,Though will had never played the churl,How all unlike the artless girl,Whose life confest no grosser sin'Fore God and man than love of him.How all unlike who shared his lot,Oh mockery! she shared it not;For misery cast it, and her stateForbade so stern associate,And chose a more congenial one,Surrey returned—Duke Norfolk's sonReported dead—returned and wonA heart that like the wanton gale,Wooed all it met—'twere tedious taleTo tell of Howard's wounded pride,How from the world he sought to hideThe struggles of regret and shame,"Oh! that she ne'er had borne my name,"He madly cried—"fool that I wasTo trust her smile—the fatal cause:Yet wherefore blame her! 'twas myself!Mine! mine the guilt!—ambition! wealthWell have ye paid your votary.My Mary! if beneath the sky,Where'er thou art—in earth or air,Now write me cursed—'twas despairThat urged the lover's dread appeal:A little while, and he shall feelHer blessing all that binds to lifeA little while intestine strifeShall slumber by exhaustion prest,Then rise again unwelcome guest,To goad him on—till grief, not age,Finish his weary pilgrimage.'Tis done—is past the law's delay,And Howard's free to seek the wayThat leads to Mary's lone abode;Heavy his heart, as forth he rodeTo learn the oracle of fate,Pronounced by love, but found too late. The song is hushed in Mary's bower,And speeds away the sunny hour;When 'habitant of earth and airWere wont to view her resting there:Her harp upon the willow hung,Its silver chords untouched, unstrung;The favourite spaniel, faithful Bane!Lay couching there—the wren, grown tame,Fled not the coming of its guest,But that security exprestThe generous scorn to violate,And but no form approached the gateTo bid him welcome—ArundelHad deemed beneath some fairy spellThe unchanged scenes he loved so well. But where is she, the saint whose shrineNor feels the shock of age nor time?Where's Mary? Stranger! if to seeHer dark eye blinking bonnilyWith love's own tear. To hear her speakTh' impassioned vow that tints the cheekWith love's own hue, to touch, to pressHer lip of purest loveliness;If thought of this arrest thy stay,Unhappy stranger, go thy way;'Twere vain and fruitless here to bide,She will not come this even‐tide.Matters of sadder import call,A mourner in her father's hall;She muses on the past and sighs—Last night save one she closed the eyesOf Rochford's countess, and she standsPrepared to yield the last demandsThe dead may claim, the living pay.See! now they bear the corpse away.Look, Arundel! yon sable pall,Waving in air is shrouding allOf faithfulness she ever knew;Ha, Isabel! yes, she was true,And Agnes! to life's latest breath,But love there is that's strong as death,And Mary feels it even now.Oh man! that hast her virgin vow,Approach! He did—the bier moved on,The dirge is sung, the service done;And Arundel, his senses bound,As in a dream, listens the soundOf lamentation—Hark! a voice,Low, tremulous, "It is my choiceTo linger here sometime alone."'Tis Mary speaks—in solemn toneShe bids dismissal to her train.But one has purposed to remain,Spectator of her last farewell,And he, the wretched Arundel,By mound of earth concealed from view.He watched her as the crowd withdrew;And grating turned the chapel door,And echoing step was heard no more;Then saw her as a meteor ray,'Mid shades of darkness flit away:Nor long behind the vision staid,But followed where the dead was laid,Where coffins stood in row and tier,And charcoal fire burnt bright and clear.To stay as village gossips taught,The lesser plague Columbus broughtFrom western world; there shuddering creptIn nook, where many a victim slept,Unmindful of the foot that prest,Intrusive on their bed of rest.In sable cloke, thrown back the hood,Within his ken the mourner stood;A living monument of woe,Crossed on her bosom's heaving snow,Lay either arm, as if to stillThe throbbing there: "It is thy will,"She meekly said, "most holy one—It is thy will, and be it done."Trembling she paused—some little space—Her fair hands spread, concealed her face;Appeared that some distracting thoughtIn conflict with the spirit wrought—A shaft, that plied the lightning's wing,And left the fabric tottering.Abrupt she spake—"Both have transgrest,Both at forbidden shrine confest,And God forgive us! him and me!His falsehood—mine idolatry.""Mary!" was such the thrilling tone,Once echoing through that rock‐hewn dome,Where woman, faithful to the dead,At early dawn had matchless sped?[On p. 116, line 12, the word "matchless", has been changed to "watchful" in contemporary manuscript hand.]Surpassing this—oh Magdalene!Well might thy wishes stay the sceneEnamoured of that dulcet strain,Thou hadst not thought to list again."Mary!" the voice less heavenly cried,"Forsaken love! betrothed bride!My life's neglected monitress!Look up, thou injured! see! and blessThe penitent—'midst kindred dustHear him confess his better trust—Thy God! nor death nor hell could bind,Sorrows of him and all mankind."[On p. 117, line 4, the word "Sorrows" has been changed to "Saviour" in contemporary manuscript hand.]As bursts upon the traveller's sight,Through shadows of surrounding night,And dark defile and paths unknown,The lustrous orb that lights him home;As music of celestial sphere,Sounds sweetly to th' awakened earOf spirit long inured to woe,And recent stunned by mortal blow—So were received in earthly cell,The form that rose—the words which fell."Speak to me, Mary! once to hearThy voice in blessing less severe,Probation's term—who may attainThe summit, whether joy or pain;Nor pause for breath? and she has wonEarth's fairest height—has seen the sunFrom everlasting hills arise,That leads with her to kinder skies,The loved! the lost—and happinessWords were but feeble to express,Is hers at last"—She moved away,He followed where the light of dayIn long and lengthening shadow thrownWith crimson died the cross of stone:One slanting beam played o'er her face,'Twas solemn scene,—the time—the place;Who saw it, and remained unmoved,Had never sinned—had never loved.None such were there—and tears that flowHave saved the heart its bursting throe.He wept aloud, while o'er his headHer hands their icy coldness shed;He trembled, as towards the skyShe raised her meek imploring eye.The penitent—"Angels of heaven!Now is your joy—absolved—forgiven,In earnest of unending rest,Bless him, oh God, as thou hast blestThe suppliant—regenerate.She felt was nigh the hour of fate.Receive me thine—on earth to part,"He caught and strained her to his heart.Hereafter earthly bondage riven,Nor marrying, nor in marriage given,As soul meets soul immaculate,Whate'er the law that binds their statePossess—upon her faltering tongueThe half‐unfinished sentence hung,Slightly she shrunk—the eyelids closed,In listlessness the head reposed.But this, and checked respiring breath,Was all that marked the deed of death;No struggle nor convulsive gaspGave signal when the spirit past;But twining hand which claspt his ownRetained it as it chilled to stone,And parted lip as if to speak,Vermilion hue that tinged her cheekMight well conspire the wretch to cheatAnd whisper hope she did but sleep.And hope with Arundel remained,Or scarcely had his limbs sustainedAcross that dark and lettered floorThe fair unconscious form they bore,Never to tread its precincts more.But he did bear it, precious freight!His all that earth could give or takePassed the low postern of the wall,And breathless reached the prior's hallImploring aid—the nurse attends,In wreaths the pungent fume ascends,And grosser element in vainIs sprinkled o'er the stiff'ning frame:These are—but may not life restore—She sleeps on earth to wake no more;Or ere those gates, which shut out pain,Lift up to meet the light again—Ere bright they shine reflecting soulMore splendid orbs shall cease to roll,And earth depart a cancelled scroll.Since that first cry of smothered pain,Which roused the wondering vassal train,Had Arundel by look nor wordHeld converse with the busy herd;Apart he stood—where roses spreadOn trellis frame their fragrance shed:The branching stem when love was new,His hand had grafted where it grew—And oh! if tongues are found in trees,And flowers may speak, what told not these—Of sighs that rose as summer breeze—Of tears which washed their silken leaves—When voice now hushed in bowers and glen,Had prayed for him that planted them.Apart he stood—till matron saidWere best in inner chamber laidThe undecked corse—'twas then his hand,The fairest of a clustering band Made captive, and he sought the bier,No loud lament proclaimed how dear,To heart that long must strive with care,The peaceful form reposing there;Proud to the last—not every eyeMay scan his grief's extremity.Emblem of beauty—flower at best,He laid the rose upon her breast,Contrasted it with paler hue,And something muttered—ainsi fut—Except that once he Mary named,Was all the untaught ear retained,Of sounds importing joy or woeThey knew not—But the priest would knowMost like the last—for when in hasteTo go away the hall was paced—He gave the look which seemed to tellOf sorrow fixed—indelible—And arm on sudden lifted high,Sprung back—as if in agony.[On p. 122, line 14, the word "Swung" is added on top of the word "Sprung" in contemporary manuscript hand.]Now farewell Mary!—gem of earth—Who knew thee shall attest thy worth,[On p. 122, line 16, the word "wore" is written in the left margin in contemporary manuscript hand perhaps to replace the word "knew" which is underlined.]Beyond the precious ruby's rays—Beyond the sparkling diamond's blaze—Thou modest flower! life's little span,Fair flourishing the pride of Cam,Then withering beside its stream,Faded to air, the Poets dream—What 'vails to tell of dirges said,When thy fair form in dust was laid:What village youths and maidens thought,When to its lowly dwelling brought,They strewed unfading rosemary,And gave sweet sensibility.Thy unbought tears—thy heartfelt sighThe rather haste we to attend,His fate who left without a friend,In this wide world stands all alone;Oh ye! who his sad fate have known,Have felt the shock of that rude stroke,Which felled to earth your fairest hope,Have heard while damps o'erspread the browThe voice that whispered, This didst thouThy waywardness to name no sinWhate'er his failings pity him!"Bring me my horse!—Dost hear aright?Bring me my horse—I rest to‐nightAt Huntingdon."—The steed is brought,Why vaults he not? His ear has caughtThe sound of pity's cautious tread,Friend of the living and the dead,'Twas Agnes,—she whose tearful eye,Had last met his when hurriedly,He gave into her arms that form,From cradle to the coffin borne;Beloved and mourned—remembered too,However it pained him to renewThe bitter past—when sickness raged,That she had every art engaged;Still bearing with his waywardness,To soothe, to succour, and to bless;What though the aching brow she bound,In death more welcome rest had found!What though the cup her hand reached forth,Was cup of vengeance and of wrath!To lips unused with guile to press,It savoured not of bitterness,And she was blameless—more he owedReturn for kindness thus bestowed."Agnes!—and from the saddle bowHe turned himself—It may be thou,Just tribute yielded to the dead,Will lift again dejected head;It may be too this ancient pileFor thee no more a home will smile,But stranger lord thy claim deny;Then go to Wardow's barony.Take heart! be happy, for thou mayest,Thou never didst on pageant wasteWhat should have been affection's stay:Me! destiny calls hence away,Where once to linger!—But 'tis o'er,And day that's past will dawn no more;I shall not see her die again—My murdered love! Oh! peace, my brain,'Tis apt to wander—prayers they say[On p. 125, line 13, the 's' after "prayer", has been crossed out in contemporary manuscript hand.]Will do it good—I cannot pray!Not now, I cannot, child of sin!""My dear lord Arundel! come inStay till to‐morrow," Agnes said.Sudden he turned his horse's head,And mounted instantaneously,"To‐morrow!" reiterated he,"What can to‐morrow do for me?"—While yet he spake—funereal tollThe passing bell for Mary's soul,Made tremulous his bosom heave,Nor staid he longer to take leave,But urged his steed to quickest flight,And from that night, that fatal night,On banks of Cam, nor England's shore,Lord Arundel was seen no more—Alas, my brother! this alone'Neath willow wreath describes the stone,Sacred, as Zurich's records tell,To Henry lord of Arundel.What time the patriot's hymn was sung,And proud St. Goatherd's valley rungWith Switzerland and liberty,An Englishman whose destinyHad been perverse to glory prest,And found his everlasting rest,'Mid din of arms and battle‐roar,An exile from his native shore.'Twas Howard—baffled in his aimOf happiness; ascent of fameInvited, and he climbed the steep,The precipice whence dark and deepThe gulf of ruin yawns below;This might not daunt him—woe on woeHad met him in the humbler vale;Onward he rushed, heart‐stricken, pale—He staggered, fell, and life's last sighBreathed in the arms of victory.—Now close the scene—The lover dies,And past the solemn obsequies: Muse of deserted bowers ariseAnd strike the parting strain!Tell how ambition, pride, and love,The tissue of his fortune woveIn misery's linked chain—How soon he found external show No remedy for inward woe,The heart must bear alone—How late he rued approving test,Dismissed the erring mortal's breastHe may not choose but roam—How soon, how late, how constantly,His bosom felt satietyIn all that earth can give—How deep repentant of the past,He turned him to that faith at last,Through which who die shall live.Now both are gone—the grace and blur,The injured and the injurer,Th' oppressor and oppress'd;And man may pity or decry,But thou, enduring charity!Wilt bid their ashes rest.Awhile exclusively his own, In mild and living lustre shone;Fair image of the Godhead's mind,The human soul from dross refined:Woman in earthly destiny,And angel through eternity.THE END.Printed by J. F. DOVE, St. John's Square.