On Avon's stream, in day's declining hours, The loitering Angler sees reflected towers; Adown the hill the stately shadows glide, And force their frown upon the gentle tide: Another shade, as stately and as slow, Steals down the slope and dims the peace below: There, side by side, your noiseless shadows fall, Time-wearied Lord, and time-defying hall!

As Song's sweet Master fled the roar of Rome, For the Bandusian fount and Sabine home, A soul forsook the beaten tracks of life, Sought the lone bye-path and escaped the strife; And paused, reviving 'mid the haunts of youth, To conjure fancies back, or muse on truth.

One home there is, from which, howe'er we stray, True as a star, the smile pursues our way; The home of thoughtful childhood's mystic tears, Of earliest Sabbath bells on sinless ears, Of noonday dreamings under summer trees, And prayers first murmur'd at a mother's knees.

Ah! happy he, whose later home as man Is made where Love first spoke, and Hope began, Where haunted floors dear footsteps back can give, And in our Lares all our fathers live!

Graced with those gifts the vulgar mostly prize, And if used wisely, precious to the wise, Wealth and high lineage;--Ruthven's name was known Less for ancestral greatness than its own: With boyhood's dreams the grand desire began Which, nerved by labour, lifts _from_ rank the man Ev'n as the eye in Art's majestic halls Not on the frame but on the portrait falls; So to each n.o.bler life the gaze we bound, Nor heed what casework clasps the picture round.

But who can guess that crisis of the soul When the old glory first forsakes the goal?

When Knowledge halts and sees but cloud before; When sour'd Experience whispers 'hope no more;'

When every onward footstep from our side Parts the slow friend or hesitating guide; When envy rots the harvest in the sheaf; When faith in virtue seems the child's belief; And life's last music sighs itself away On some false lip, that kiss'd but to betray?

Thus from a world that wrong'd him, self-exiled, The man resought the birthplace of the child.

Rest comes betimes, if toil commence too soon; The brightest sun is stillest at the noon; Weary at mid-day, genius halts the course, And hails the respite which renews the force.

II.

Deep in the vale from which those towers arose, A life more shatter'd, sought more late repose; In Seaton long had men and marts obey'd The unerring hierarch in thy temple, Trade.

Trade, the last earth-G.o.d; whom the Olympian Power Begot on Danae, as the Golden Shower, To whose young hands the weary Jove resign'd.

Some ages since, the scales that weigh mankind.

But that dire Fate, who Jove himself controll'd, Still shakes the urn, although the lots are gold: Reverses came, the whirlwind of a day Swept the strong labours of a life away; Rased out of sight whate'er is sold or bought, And left but name and honour--men said "nought."

True, knavery whisper'd, "Only still disguise: Credit is generous, if you blind its eyes; The borrow'd prop arrests the house's fall, And one rich chance may yet reconquer all."

There on his priest the earth-G.o.d lost control, And from the wreck the merchant saved his soul "Alone, I rose," he said; "I fall alone-- Nor one man's ruin shall accuse mine own."

And so, life pa.s.sing from the gorgeous stage, The curtain fell on Poverty and Age.

III.

Yet one fair flower survived the common dearth, And one sweet voice gave music still to earth; On Fortune's victim Nature pitying smiled; "Still rich!" the father cried, and clasp'd his child.

Beautiful Constance!--As the icy air Congeals the earth, to make more clear the star, So the meek soul look'd lovelier from thine eyes, Through the sharp winter of the alter'd skies.

Yet the soft child had memories unconfess'd, And griefs that wept not on a father's breast.

In brighter days, such love as fancy knows (That youngest love whose couch is in the rose) Had sent the shaft, which, when withdrawn in haste, Leaves not a scar by which the wound is traced; But if it rest, more fatal grows the smart, And deepening from the surface, gains the heart; In truth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please,-- Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease; The courtier's mien to veil the miser's soul, And that self-love which brings such self-control.

High-born, but poor, no Corydon was he To dream of love and cots in Arcady; His tastes were like the Argonauts of old, And only pastoral if the fleece was gold.

The less men feel, the better they can feign-- To act a Romeo, needs it Romeo's pain?

No, the calm master of the Histrio's art Keeps his head coolest while he storms your heart; Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept, Charm'd when he smiled, and conquer'd when he wept.

Meanwhile, what pa.s.s'd the father had not guess'd, Nor learn'd the courtship till the suit was press'd; Then prudence woke, and judgment, grown austere, } Join'd trade's slow caution with affection's fear, } And whisper'd this wise counsel--"Wait a year!" } In vain the lover pleaded to the maid; "A year soon pa.s.ses," Constance smiling said.

Just then--for Harcourt's service was the sword-- Duty ordain'd what gentle taste abhorr'd; Cursed by a country which at times forgets It boasts an empire where the sun ne'er sets, Some isle, resentful of our lax control, Rebels on purpose to distract his soul.

A month had scorch'd him on that hateful sh.o.r.e, When paled those charms to which such faith he swore; News came that left to Constance not a grace, The sire's reverses changed the daughter's face;-- "Oh heavens!--so handsome! Gone in one short hour!"

"What," quoth a friend, "The Lady?"

"No, the dower."

IV.

Yet still, fair Constance in her lone retreat Cheer'd the dull hours with faithful self-deceit; What though no tidings came to brighten time, To doubt of Harcourt seem'd less grief than crime.

Easier to blame the elements unkind, The distant clime, the ocean, and the wind, Think them all leagued to intercept the scroll, Than place distrust where soul confides in soul.

But ever foremost in her wish was yet To hide remembrance lest it seem'd regret; That in her looks this comfort still might be, "Father, I smile--and joy yet lives for thee!"

Thus Seaton deem'd her childish fancy flown; To the worn mind fresh hearts are realms unknown; As we live on, the finer tints of truth Fade from the landscape.--Age is blind to youth.

PART THE SECOND.

I.

Oft to a creek, in Shakspeare's haunted stream, What time the noon invites of song to dream, Where stately oak with silver poplar weaves The hospitable shade of amorous leaves, And, lightly swerved by winding sh.o.r.es askance, The limpid river wreathes its flying dance,[A]

Young Constance came;--a bank with wild flowers drest As for a fairy's sleep, her sylvan rest.

Behind, the woodlands, opening, left a glade, With swards all sunshine in the midst of shade; Save where pale lilacs droop'd against the ray Around the cot which meekly shunn'd the day: But stern and high, above the deep repose Of vale and wave, the towers of Ruthven rose; Like souls unshelter'd because high they are, The nearer heaven the more from peace afar; Built by the mighty Architect, to form Bulwarks for man, and battle with the storm; To soar and suffer with defying crest, And guard the humble, not partake their rest.

A lonely spot! at times a pa.s.sing oar Dash'd the wave quicker to the gradual sh.o.r.e; But swift, as, when some footfall nears her lair, Starts the fond cushat from her tender care, SILENCE came back, with wings that seem'd to brood In watch more loving over solitude.

II.

Thus Constance sate, by some sweet sorcerer's rhyme Charm'd into worlds beyond the marge of Time, When a dim shadow o'er the herbage stole, And light boughs stirr'd above the violet knoll; In vain the shadow stole, the light bough stirr'd, Her sense yet spell-bound by the magic word; Spell-bound no less, his steps the stranger stay'd-- And gazed as Cymon on the sleeping Maid.-- And, oh! that brow so angel-clear from guile, That childlike lip unconscious of its smile, That virgin bloom where blushes went and came From deeps of feeling never stirr'd by shame, Seem'd like the Una of the Poet's page Charm'd into life by some bright Archimage.

Not till each gaudier Venus crowds adore, And desecrate adoring--dupes no more, Comes the true G.o.ddess, by her blushes known-- The dove her symbol, innocence her zone!

At the first glance her birth the Urania proves.

Heaven smiles, and Nature blossoms where she moves.

III.

The virgin rose; the gazer quick withdrew; The favouring thicket closed her form from view.

Slow went she homeward up the sunlit ground; Unseen he followed, where the woodlands wound; The spell that first arrested now lured on, And in that spell a frown from earth seem'd gone.

As in the languid noon of summer day Birds fold the pinion and suspend the lay-- So hopes lie silent in the human heart Till all at once the choirs to music start, From the long hush rejoicing wings arise, Sport round the blooms, or glance into the skies.

IV.

She gain'd the cot; irresolute he stood, Where the wall ceased amidst the circling wood, When voices rude and sudden jarr'd his ear, And thro' the din came woman's wail of fear; Then all grew silent as he gain'd the door Which gaped ajar;--he cross'd the threshold floor: Now sounds more low;--he still pa.s.s'd on and saw, Track'd to its covert, Want at bay with Law.-- The Daughter clinging to the Father's breast; The Father's struggle from the clasp that press'd; The hard officials, with familiar leer And ribald comfort barb'd with cynic sneer; On these, the Lord of lavish thousands glanced, Law louted lowly as that Wealth advanced.

"And what this old Man's crime?"--"My orders say,"

Quoth Law, and smiled--"a debt he cannot pay!"

Then from his child the poor proud captive broke-- Sign'd to the door--raised moistening eyes, and spoke-- "I thank thee, Heaven! that in my prosperous time I was not harsh to others--for this crime; Sirs, I am ready!"--Ere the word was o'er, The parchment fell in fragments on the floor.

"The crime is rased!" cried Wealth.--"My Lord," said Law, "I humbly thank your Lordship, and withdraw."

V.

Hat'st thou the world, O Misanthrope, austere?

Do one kind act, and all the world grows dear!

Say'st thou--"Alas, kind acts requited ill, Made me loathe men!"--I answer, "Do them still."

On its own wings should Good itself upbuoy; Rejoicing heaven, because it feels but joy.--

Oft from that date did Ruthven gaily come, Where hope, revived, with Constance found a home; Well did he soothe the griefs his host had known, But well--too proud for pity--veil'd his own.

Silent, he watch'd the gentle daughter's soul, Scann'd every charm, and peerless found the whole, He spoke not love; and if his looks betray'd, The anxious Sire was wiser than the Maid.

Still, ever listening, on her lips he hung, Hush'd when she spoke--enraptured when she sung; And when the hues her favourite art bestow'd, Like a new hope from the fair fancy glow'd, As the cold canvas with the image warms, As from the blank start forth the breathing forms, So would he look within him, and compare With those mute shapes the new-born phantoms there.