New pastoral / by Thomas Buchanan Read [electronic text]

BOOK TWENTY-SIXTH.

Thus sang the poet-lover, mid the scenes Where happiness once brooded like a dove. The mournful tale is ended with a sigh, And she who listened weeps; and where they stand The sad moon ponders, like the ghost of Eve All night a-gazing on an Eden lost. The conjuring fancy fills the place with shapes, Holding their doubtful tryste; the o'ershadowed eye Peoples the dusk with phantoms; and the ear, By keen imagination finely tuned, Like a light cord to fullest tension drawn, Vibrates to each accordant sigh of air, And hears a world of sounds, where ruder sense Would only note the silence. Did you hear? Was it a rustle in the budding limbs, Or lone bird darting from his wakeful branch?

Did you not see? — There, through the light, and there! Was it a spirit swept across their path? And hark again! a sound as of a wave, Weary of rolling to a pitiless wind, Dashing its tired breast against a rock! Near by, the river reels around a point, Sweeping from darkness into sudden light —So near, the lovers' slanting shadows glide, Bending together, o'er the dreamy bank. An instant Arthur gazes on the stream, And bounds aside, and leaps into the flood, And bears a dripping figure to the shore; While, like a marble wonder, speechless stands The pale Olivia: even as one in sleep, Who fain would follow while the feet, enchained, Refuse their wonted office. On his arm The deluged form, with loosened, oozing locks, Hangs, like a sea-nymph, fainting; from her face, Which to the moon's astonishment gives back A look of pallid sorrow, the hair smoothed, Displays the well-known features of their friend. Olivia, frighted, bends above the form, And calls her "Amy! Amy!" till the ear, Dulled with the water, hears, and the sad eyes, Bewildered, ope, as if to meet the shapes

And scenes of other worlds — amazed, confused, Uncertain if an angel speaks her name, Or if a spirit bears her soul released. Conscious, at last, she clasps her bosom-friend, And sighs "forgive, forgive!" Sad heart, she feels The weight of crime attempted, yet scarce knows — So tangled, like a delicate web, her brain — 'Gainst whom or what! But e'er the night is o'er, While sits Olivia by the cabin couch,The sole receiver of her inmost thought—In concert to the under-going streamWhich, like the river of death, flows darkly near —She pours upon the sympathizing breast Her deep heart-drowning sorrow and her fears;And both, together, weep the long night through,Or pray in union while their comrades sleep.

Oh, Heaven, if e'er thy pitying angel stoops,As holiest faith believes, and in the hourOf fear and pain breathes his conosling voice,Like sounds of waters to the ear of oneWho droops in deserts lone — in this sad placePermit his wings to fold beside the couch,And bid him shed into the fainting soulThe holy calm whence courage only springs!The world is full of sadness: oft the smile

Is but the flower, above decaying hopes, Blooming to hide a ruin. But a sight, Saddest of all — sadder than suddden death — It is to see a young heart touched with frost, And all its freshness scattered to the wind; — A heart which had been full of joy, all hope, All love, all trust, break from its hold of all, And, like an easy, noiseless bank of sand, Fall, crumbling by continous degrees, Into the gulfy river of despair.