A SKETCH
I.
The hand of Death upon his brow had stamped
Its never-changing impress; — yet his cheek
Had lost its wonted paleness, and appeared —
As if in mockery of the hues of health —
Tinged with a crimson flush, which came and went,
Like the red streaks of summer's evening sky,
When Phaebus floats upon the western wave;
And from the depths of his soul-searching eyes,
Glances, of more than mortal brightness, beamed
On those around him, — till they quailed in fear
From his so ardent gaze. Sadness had sunk
Into his inmost soul, though none knew why,
And few might guess the cause. Some deemed the grave
Had terrors for him; but, though he had need
(Like other earth-born creatures) of the grace
From Heaven to man accorded, no foul crime
Hung on his spirit's pinions; — and if grief —
Intensest suffering — those wild woes which wring
The human heart to breaking, may atone
For youthful follies, — then, the fear of death.
Wrought not the gloom that clouded his dark brow.
II.
But there were other feelings deeply shrined
Within his heart of heart; — thoughts he had nursed,
Through years, with fond inquietude, and hopes
Cherished in passionate silentness; — their source,
Love, — fadeless and unquenchable. Long time
He strove, by mixing with the empty crowd
In bowers of heartless revelry, to break
The charm that spelled his bosom; for he feared
The gentle one he prized, might ne'er be his.
Was it the Demon of Fatality
That whispered this dark omen in his ear?
It might, or might not be; yet still he wove
Her name with his rude minstrelsy, and poured
Full many a tender strain from his wild lyre,
She heeded not; — perchance she never heard!
III.
Was he beloved again? — This, who may tell?
'Tis said, a strange and wayward chance first threw
The youth and maid together: she had leaned
Upon his arm, and listened to his lays
With seeming gladness, and had often praised
The earliest wreath of song his muse had twined;
And words of gentle import, on the soul
Of the young poet, waked a feeling sweet
He knew not to define; — they fell like dew
Upon the thirsting flowerets of his heart,
Giving them strength and freshness; for, till then,
The voice of soothing kindness ne'er had shed
Its rich melodious music on his ear!
IV.
The minstrel loved, but never told the maid
His deep devotedness; — for he was one
On whom the smiles of Fortune seldom dwelt;
And though a Craesus in his heart, had few
Of what the world calls riches; so he quelled,
Or strove to quell, the tumult in his breast,
And left his gentle Deity, to seek,
Not other idols, but forgetfulness!
The maiden knew not of his love, unless
His passionate glance at parting, when he clasped
Her hand in token of farewell, revealed
The tale his lips had uttered not. Howbeit,
He was not long remembered; for when time,
Whose days were years, had passed, and fate again
Led him to gaze a moment on the face
Of her he loved so well, her eye betrayed
No beam of kind acknowledgment, but turned,
Hurriedly, from his. He had not asked for love;
But, ah! how little had he looked for scorn!
V.
He bent him then, in silence, on his way,
To where the Alpine monarch, crowned with snows, —
The eminent Montblanc — heaves into Heaven
Its pure and stainless pinnacle. Amid
Nature's stupendous scenes the minstrel roved,
And half forgot his sorrows. He would climb
The lofty Jura, and from thence look down
Upon the world beneath him, till deep thoughts,
Passions and feelings, crowded on his mind
In swift and numberless succession; but
The first, the last, the sweetest, and the best,
Was love, though wild and hopeless! He would dwell
Intensely on the past, and oft evoke
Bright shades of visionary bliss from out
The inmost depths of his day-dreaming soul;
Till Reason, with her flaming sword, sprang up
And drove him from his Paradise of thought.
VI.
Moons rolled away; yet still it was his choice
To make the wilderness his home, and wander
'Mid Nature's giant offspring. When the sun
Shed its retiring beams of crimson on
The glittering snows that shroud their searchless heights,
In breathless admiration, would he mark
The last rich halo sinking; — and when day
Had left the world to darkness, would return
Home to his low-roofed dwelling at the foot
Of frowning Jura, — silently to muse
On all the wild vicissitudes of life!
This might not long endure: back to man's haunts
Once more the minstrel, with unwilling feet,
Wended; — for there were duties, unfulfilled,
The world professed to claim from him, and he
Was not disposed to disavow, although
They had no charms for him. Again he sought
The busy mart, and mingled with the throng;
Was flattered, cheated, and caressed; — now basked
Awhile in Fortune's sunshine, — and now mourned
His little, lessened by the wiles of those
Who prey upon credulity; and this
Because he had not learned to hate the world,
Nor deem men villains, till he found them such!
VII.
BuTheavier woes awaited him. The seeds
Of sickness, which Misfortune's hand had sown,
Began to germinate. His spirit pined
In voiceless anguish, for he scorned complaint;
And whilst his lips were wreathed into a smile,
The worm of death was preying on his heart.
Kinless, and almost friendless, was he left
To sink into the grave. No anxious eye
To gaze upon his face, and soothe his pain
With looks of tenderness. And there was Hope
In wild contention with Despair, within
The cell of his dark bosom; — and they strove
Which might obtain the mastery, till a sweet
And calm-browed angel, with her lamp of light,
Religion, scared the ravening fiend away!
Then were the minstrel's dreams all gentleness,
And he could bear to think on years gone by,
And those yet hidden in the womb of time!
VIII.
Still there was one regret, one deep regret,
Which haunted his young spirit; — 'twas thaThe,
The unowned breathings of whose lyre had wrought
Favour with those who knew him not, should speed
To his eternal home, nor leave behind
A wreath of sweet remembrance for his name; —
And so he garlanded the wilding flowers
His youthful muse had gathered from the mount
Of time-hallowed Aonia, and deemed,
Most fondly deemed, his chaplet would find grace
(Even for the sake of him who culled its blooms)
With one sweet breast at least; since pride might now
No longer interpose its chilling chain
Between him and the load-star of his love!
It was an idle thought: — those simple strains
(The only incense he could offer then)
Which he had breathed for her in earlier years,
Had perished from her memory; and even
His name was unremembered now, who never
Had parted with a tender thought of her!
IX
Such was to be. — They said her vows were given
To one of Fortune's favorites, and one
Of whom the world, and its reports, spake fair;
Then what had she to do with thoughts of him,
Whose only wealth was of the mind, — whose rank
Was slight, — unless nobility of soul
May cope with blazoned 'scutcheons? It was meet
ThaThe should be forgotten — if he e'er
Had been remembered, — 'till the grave had closed
Between him and mankind, — and then his name
Might ask the tribute of a tear , nor wrong
Those who possessed a title to her smiles!
X.
Did he reproach her, even in thought? — Ah, no!
She had not wronged him; — she had vowed no truth
To him; and he had never sought to gain
Her pity or her love; — nor even revealed
Aught thaThe felt for her; — unless, indeed,
In years long past, when — (though so brief the time
Relentless Fate allotted for such bliss) —
She sometimes leaned upon his arm, and held
Sweet converse on the mighty ones of old,
(The immortal poets of their native land)
With him — that wild enthusiast; — then the fire
She kindled in his soul would burst to light,
And each deep-rooted sentiment shine out
In glances, from his passion-darting eyes!
Yet, it may be, she marked them not, — or deemed
The mention of their fadeless names who were
As stars of his idolatry, called up
The deep suffusion of his cheek, and lit
His eye with momentary brightness. Once,
Ay once, he fancied that the maiden gazed
As if she guessed the secret of his soul,
And pitied, — almost loved him; — and he clasped
The hand that she withheld not, — but was silent! —
Why was he mute at such an hour as this?
Ye to whom feeling is beyond a name,
Perchance, can answer for him! Had the wealth
Of " Ormus or of Ind" been his, — his love
Had surely found a tongue; but as it was,
Honour — it may be pride too — made him voiceless!
XI.
They parted, — never more to meet, as once
They had been wont to meet; — yet glorious Hope,
That morning-star of Love, put forth its beams —
Its beautiful beams of promise, — and the youth,
Spite of the clouds that circled it, believed
The sun of Fortune, the deep noon of bliss,
And the calm evening of subdued delight,
Would follow their bright harbinger. But, ah!
How many a day of turbulence and gloom
Is ushered by the sweet and peaceful rays
Of fair Aurora's planet! So it was
Even with the minstrel's Lucifer; — for soon
It shrouded its bright beams, and left his soul
To a dark day of ceaseless cloud and storm.
XII.
They parted; — and, since then, his bark hath ridden
The rough and roaring waters of the world,
Now whelmed beneath the billows of Despair,
Striving with Passion's whirlwind; and now dashed
With furious violence upon the rocks
Hate, and Oppression, and blind Chance have reared
Amid the waves of life's tumultuous sea
The tempest hath subsided; and that bark
Sailless, not rudderless, with tremulous heave
(As mindful of the ills it hath sustained)
Now drifts before a mild and favouring gale
To its deep haven of repose — the grave!
Master of mortal bosoms, Love! — O, Love!
Thou art the essence of the universe!
Soul of the visible world! and canst create
Hope, joy, pain; passion, madness, or despair,
As suiteth thy high will! To some thou bringest
A balm, a lenitive for every wound
The unkind world inflicts on them; to others
Thy breath but breathes destruction, and thy smile
Scathes like the lightning! — Now a star of peace
Heralding sweet evening to our stormy day;
And now a meteor, with far scattering fire,
Shedding red ruin on our flowers of life! —
In all —
Whether arrayed in hues of deep repose,
Or armed with burning vengeance to consume
Our yielding hearts, — alike OMNIPOTENT !
I.
The hand of Death upon his brow had stamped
Its never-changing impress; — yet his cheek
Had lost its wonted paleness, and appeared —
As if in mockery of the hues of health —
Tinged with a crimson flush, which came and went,
Like the red streaks of summer's evening sky,
When Phaebus floats upon the western wave;
And from the depths of his soul-searching eyes,
Glances, of more than mortal brightness, beamed
On those around him, — till they quailed in fear
From his so ardent gaze. Sadness had sunk
Into his inmost soul, though none knew why,
And few might guess the cause. Some deemed the grave
Had terrors for him; but, though he had need
(Like other earth-born creatures) of the grace
From Heaven to man accorded, no foul crime
Hung on his spirit's pinions; — and if grief —
Intensest suffering — those wild woes which wring
The human heart to breaking, may atone
For youthful follies, — then, the fear of death.
Wrought not the gloom that clouded his dark brow.
II.
But there were other feelings deeply shrined
Within his heart of heart; — thoughts he had nursed,
Through years, with fond inquietude, and hopes
Cherished in passionate silentness; — their source,
Love, — fadeless and unquenchable. Long time
He strove, by mixing with the empty crowd
In bowers of heartless revelry, to break
The charm that spelled his bosom; for he feared
The gentle one he prized, might ne'er be his.
Was it the Demon of Fatality
That whispered this dark omen in his ear?
It might, or might not be; yet still he wove
Her name with his rude minstrelsy, and poured
Full many a tender strain from his wild lyre,
She heeded not; — perchance she never heard!
III.
Was he beloved again? — This, who may tell?
'Tis said, a strange and wayward chance first threw
The youth and maid together: she had leaned
Upon his arm, and listened to his lays
With seeming gladness, and had often praised
The earliest wreath of song his muse had twined;
And words of gentle import, on the soul
Of the young poet, waked a feeling sweet
He knew not to define; — they fell like dew
Upon the thirsting flowerets of his heart,
Giving them strength and freshness; for, till then,
The voice of soothing kindness ne'er had shed
Its rich melodious music on his ear!
IV.
The minstrel loved, but never told the maid
His deep devotedness; — for he was one
On whom the smiles of Fortune seldom dwelt;
And though a Craesus in his heart, had few
Of what the world calls riches; so he quelled,
Or strove to quell, the tumult in his breast,
And left his gentle Deity, to seek,
Not other idols, but forgetfulness!
The maiden knew not of his love, unless
His passionate glance at parting, when he clasped
Her hand in token of farewell, revealed
The tale his lips had uttered not. Howbeit,
He was not long remembered; for when time,
Whose days were years, had passed, and fate again
Led him to gaze a moment on the face
Of her he loved so well, her eye betrayed
No beam of kind acknowledgment, but turned,
Hurriedly, from his. He had not asked for love;
But, ah! how little had he looked for scorn!
V.
He bent him then, in silence, on his way,
To where the Alpine monarch, crowned with snows, —
The eminent Montblanc — heaves into Heaven
Its pure and stainless pinnacle. Amid
Nature's stupendous scenes the minstrel roved,
And half forgot his sorrows. He would climb
The lofty Jura, and from thence look down
Upon the world beneath him, till deep thoughts,
Passions and feelings, crowded on his mind
In swift and numberless succession; but
The first, the last, the sweetest, and the best,
Was love, though wild and hopeless! He would dwell
Intensely on the past, and oft evoke
Bright shades of visionary bliss from out
The inmost depths of his day-dreaming soul;
Till Reason, with her flaming sword, sprang up
And drove him from his Paradise of thought.
VI.
Moons rolled away; yet still it was his choice
To make the wilderness his home, and wander
'Mid Nature's giant offspring. When the sun
Shed its retiring beams of crimson on
The glittering snows that shroud their searchless heights,
In breathless admiration, would he mark
The last rich halo sinking; — and when day
Had left the world to darkness, would return
Home to his low-roofed dwelling at the foot
Of frowning Jura, — silently to muse
On all the wild vicissitudes of life!
This might not long endure: back to man's haunts
Once more the minstrel, with unwilling feet,
Wended; — for there were duties, unfulfilled,
The world professed to claim from him, and he
Was not disposed to disavow, although
They had no charms for him. Again he sought
The busy mart, and mingled with the throng;
Was flattered, cheated, and caressed; — now basked
Awhile in Fortune's sunshine, — and now mourned
His little, lessened by the wiles of those
Who prey upon credulity; and this
Because he had not learned to hate the world,
Nor deem men villains, till he found them such!
VII.
BuTheavier woes awaited him. The seeds
Of sickness, which Misfortune's hand had sown,
Began to germinate. His spirit pined
In voiceless anguish, for he scorned complaint;
And whilst his lips were wreathed into a smile,
The worm of death was preying on his heart.
Kinless, and almost friendless, was he left
To sink into the grave. No anxious eye
To gaze upon his face, and soothe his pain
With looks of tenderness. And there was Hope
In wild contention with Despair, within
The cell of his dark bosom; — and they strove
Which might obtain the mastery, till a sweet
And calm-browed angel, with her lamp of light,
Religion, scared the ravening fiend away!
Then were the minstrel's dreams all gentleness,
And he could bear to think on years gone by,
And those yet hidden in the womb of time!
VIII.
Still there was one regret, one deep regret,
Which haunted his young spirit; — 'twas thaThe,
The unowned breathings of whose lyre had wrought
Favour with those who knew him not, should speed
To his eternal home, nor leave behind
A wreath of sweet remembrance for his name; —
And so he garlanded the wilding flowers
His youthful muse had gathered from the mount
Of time-hallowed Aonia, and deemed,
Most fondly deemed, his chaplet would find grace
(Even for the sake of him who culled its blooms)
With one sweet breast at least; since pride might now
No longer interpose its chilling chain
Between him and the load-star of his love!
It was an idle thought: — those simple strains
(The only incense he could offer then)
Which he had breathed for her in earlier years,
Had perished from her memory; and even
His name was unremembered now, who never
Had parted with a tender thought of her!
IX
Such was to be. — They said her vows were given
To one of Fortune's favorites, and one
Of whom the world, and its reports, spake fair;
Then what had she to do with thoughts of him,
Whose only wealth was of the mind, — whose rank
Was slight, — unless nobility of soul
May cope with blazoned 'scutcheons? It was meet
ThaThe should be forgotten — if he e'er
Had been remembered, — 'till the grave had closed
Between him and mankind, — and then his name
Might ask the tribute of a tear , nor wrong
Those who possessed a title to her smiles!
X.
Did he reproach her, even in thought? — Ah, no!
She had not wronged him; — she had vowed no truth
To him; and he had never sought to gain
Her pity or her love; — nor even revealed
Aught thaThe felt for her; — unless, indeed,
In years long past, when — (though so brief the time
Relentless Fate allotted for such bliss) —
She sometimes leaned upon his arm, and held
Sweet converse on the mighty ones of old,
(The immortal poets of their native land)
With him — that wild enthusiast; — then the fire
She kindled in his soul would burst to light,
And each deep-rooted sentiment shine out
In glances, from his passion-darting eyes!
Yet, it may be, she marked them not, — or deemed
The mention of their fadeless names who were
As stars of his idolatry, called up
The deep suffusion of his cheek, and lit
His eye with momentary brightness. Once,
Ay once, he fancied that the maiden gazed
As if she guessed the secret of his soul,
And pitied, — almost loved him; — and he clasped
The hand that she withheld not, — but was silent! —
Why was he mute at such an hour as this?
Ye to whom feeling is beyond a name,
Perchance, can answer for him! Had the wealth
Of " Ormus or of Ind" been his, — his love
Had surely found a tongue; but as it was,
Honour — it may be pride too — made him voiceless!
XI.
They parted, — never more to meet, as once
They had been wont to meet; — yet glorious Hope,
That morning-star of Love, put forth its beams —
Its beautiful beams of promise, — and the youth,
Spite of the clouds that circled it, believed
The sun of Fortune, the deep noon of bliss,
And the calm evening of subdued delight,
Would follow their bright harbinger. But, ah!
How many a day of turbulence and gloom
Is ushered by the sweet and peaceful rays
Of fair Aurora's planet! So it was
Even with the minstrel's Lucifer; — for soon
It shrouded its bright beams, and left his soul
To a dark day of ceaseless cloud and storm.
XII.
They parted; — and, since then, his bark hath ridden
The rough and roaring waters of the world,
Now whelmed beneath the billows of Despair,
Striving with Passion's whirlwind; and now dashed
With furious violence upon the rocks
Hate, and Oppression, and blind Chance have reared
Amid the waves of life's tumultuous sea
The tempest hath subsided; and that bark
Sailless, not rudderless, with tremulous heave
(As mindful of the ills it hath sustained)
Now drifts before a mild and favouring gale
To its deep haven of repose — the grave!
Master of mortal bosoms, Love! — O, Love!
Thou art the essence of the universe!
Soul of the visible world! and canst create
Hope, joy, pain; passion, madness, or despair,
As suiteth thy high will! To some thou bringest
A balm, a lenitive for every wound
The unkind world inflicts on them; to others
Thy breath but breathes destruction, and thy smile
Scathes like the lightning! — Now a star of peace
Heralding sweet evening to our stormy day;
And now a meteor, with far scattering fire,
Shedding red ruin on our flowers of life! —
In all —
Whether arrayed in hues of deep repose,
Or armed with burning vengeance to consume
Our yielding hearts, — alike OMNIPOTENT !