See, where yon towering, rocky ledge, Hangs jutting o'er the river's edge, There channelled dark, and dull, and deep, The lazy, lagging waters sleep; Thence follow, with thine eagle sight, A double stone's cast to the right, Mark where a white-walled cottage stands, Devised and reared by cunning hands, A stately pile, and fair to see! The chisel's touch, and pencil's trace, Have blent for it a goodly grace; And yet, it much less pleaseth me, Than did the ****** rustic cot, Which occupied of yore that spot. For, 'neath its humble shelter, grew The fairest flower that e'er drank dew; A lone exotic of the wood, The fairy of the solitude, Who dwelt amid its loneliness To brighten, beautify, and bless. The summer sky's serenest blue, Would best portray her eye's soft hue; From her white brow were backward rolled Long curls of mingled light and gold; The flush upon her cheek of snow, Had shamed the rose's harsher glow; And haughty love had, haughtier grown, To own her breast his fairest throne. The eye that once behold her, ne'er Could lose her image;--firm and bright, All-beautiful, and pure, and clear, 'Twas stamped upon th' enamoured sight; Unchangeable, for ever fair, Above decay, it lingered there! As it has lingered on mine own, These many years, till it has grown, In its mysterious strength, to be A portion of my soul and me.
X.
Not in the peopled solitude Of cities, does true love belong; For it is of A thoughtful mood, And thought abides not with the throng. Nor is itwon by glittering wealth, By cunning, nor device of art, Unheralded, by silent stealth, It wins its way into the heart. And once the soul has known its dream, Thenceforth its empire is supreme, For heart, and brain, and soul, and will, Are bowed by its subduing thrill. My love, alas! not born to bless, Had birth in nature's loneliness; And held, at first, as a sweet spell, It grew in strength, till it became A spirit, which I could not quell,-- A quenchless--a volcanic flame, Which, without pause, or time of rest, Must burn for ever in my breast. Yet how ecstatically sweet, Was its first soft tumultuous beat! I little thought that beat could be The harbinger of misery; And daily, when the morning beam Dawned earliest on wood and stream, When, from each brake and bush were heard, The hum of bee, and chirp of bird, From these, earth's matin songs, my ear Would turn, a sweeter voice to hear-- A voice, whose tones the very air Seemed trembling with delight to bear; From leafy wood, and misty stream, From bush, and brake, and morning beam, Would turn away my wandering eye, A dearer object to descry, Till voice so sweet, and form so bright, Grew part of hearing and of sight.
XI.
Yet my fond love I never told, But kept it, as the miser keeps,In his rude hut, his hoarded heaps Of gleaming gems, and glittering gold: Gloating in secret o'er the prize, He fears to show to other eyes; And so passed many months away, Till once I heard a comrade say:-- "To-morrow brings her bridal day; Mazelli leaves the greenwood bower, Where she has grown its fairest flower, To bless, with her bright, sunny smile, A stranger from a distant isle, Whom love has lured across the sea, O'er hill and glen, through wood and wild, Far from his lordly home, to be Lord of the forest's fairest child." It was as when a thunder peal Bursts, crashing from a cloudless sky, It caused my brain and heart to reel And throb, with speechless agony: Yet, when wild Passion's trance was o'er, And Thought resumed her sway once more, I breathed a prayer that she might be Saved from the pangs that tortured me; That her young heart mightnever prove The sting of unrequited love. My task I then again began, But ah! how much an altered man,-- A single hour, a few hot tears, Had done the wasting work of years.
XII.
Nor was it I alone, to whom Those words had been as words of doom, By some malicious fiend rehearsed: Another one was standing by, With princely port, and piercing eye, Of dusky cheek, and brow, and plume; I thought his heaving heart would burst, His labouring bosom's heave and swell, So strongly, quickly, rose and fell! A long, bright blade hung at his side, Its keen and glittering edge he tried; He bore a bow, and this he drew, To see if still its spring were true; But other sign could none be caught, Of what he suffered, felt, or thought. And then with firm and haughty stride, He turned away, and left my side; I watched him, as with rapid tread, Along the river's marge he sped, Till the still twilight's gathering gloom Hid haughty form, and waving plume.
