PART I. I. BERKLEY'S BRIDE. My grandsire, when he built the place, Sir Hugh (you may behold him there, With ruffles, cue, and powdered And proper blandness on his face) No rebel dream could e'er beguile: He would have had the land in whole, Colossal, touching either pole, A likeness of his native isle! Hence the Elizabethan gables, The lawns, the elms, the antique stables, And all this lumber called rirtù, This old time frowning down the new. But, ere I tell you more of him, Or point the objects strange and quaint, I pray you note these figures dim, Half hid in dust and cracking paint. That picture of those little ones, Which represent Alcmena's sons, Young Hercules and his weaker brother, One with the snake in his baby hands, Crushing it as in iron bands, While in affright recoils the other,Are portraits which the Berkley mother, In all the wealth of parental joys, Had painted of her two fair boys; And pictured thus, because she knew There was that difference 'twixt the two. The child who holds the writhing snake Was Ralph; the one who seems to quake And shudder back,-that was Sir Hugh. They grew, and oft the quarrel loud Raged 'twixt them when they were together: Sir Hugh was sullen, wintry, proud, The other fierce as mad March weather, A swift, cloud-blowing, whirling day, That o'er all obstacles makes way, Whether in wrath or whether in play, Striding on to the stormy end, Breaking what will not bow or bend. The soul which lights that face of paint, You well discern, would scorn геstraint; And when he grew a stripling tall, Knowing himself the younger brother, And feeling the coldness of the other, The place for him proved far too small: So, staying not for leave to ask, Sir Hugh was then the only son Sheer to the past he held his face, Like some mad boatman on a river, With eyes still on some long-gone place, Until he feels the shock and shiver Which tells him he is gone forever. The empty hall, or vacant heart, When a new-comer passes in, Throwing the dusty doors apart, Sounds and re-echoes with a din Which makes the ghostly shadows start And fly into the dusk remote; The webs about the casements float, And flutter on the sudden gust; The sun pours in its golden dust ; The phantom Silence dies in air, And rapidly from hall to hall, With questioning eyes and backward hair, Wild Wonder speeds, and mounts the stair, Chasing the echoes' far footfall. Thus into Berkley's hall and heart, Led by his fancy's sudden whim, Passed a new bride,-a face to dart Strange lustre through the twilight dim, A soul that even startled him, Until he half forgot his pride: Else had he never stooped to embower Beneath his ancient roof the flower To common wild-wood vines allied. Thus oft the passion most profound, Which triumphed over all the past, With unexpected halt, wheels round, And contradicts itself at last. He took her from a rival's breast. Her heart was like a crystal spring, sun. Her black hair, oft with violets twined (Her heart was with the wildest flowers), Tossed back at random, wooed the wind, That chased her through the forest The woodman felt his hand relax As through the vistas of the trees He saw her glide, a spirit blithe; Or, when she tript the harvest leas, The singing mower stayed his scythe, Watched where she fled, then took his way, And, mowing, sang no more that day. With no misgiving thought or doubt, Her fond arms clasped his child about, In the full mantle of her love; For whoso loves the darling flowers Must love the bloom of human bowers, The types of brightest things above. One day- -one happy summer day She prest it to her tender breast: The sunshine of its head there lay As pillowed in its native rest,- One only day,-and then the sire, Lest the young bud should take the Of that which glowed too fondly by her, Of that sweet wildling, nature's own, And thereby learn the look and tone And one of his own many ships Ere half the summer passed away, Mourned for her native mountain- Tradition adds how, night by night, wild, And, when she met her husband's eyes, Her sad soul burst to instant tears. He wondered with a cold surmise, And questioned with as heartless words: And could it be a woodland flower Would pine within such stately bower? Or, favored o'er all forest birds, Could this one droop with strange desires Within a cage of golden wires? Have you beheld the mountain brook Turned to some cultured gardennook, How it grows stagnant in the pool, Like some wild urchin in a school That saddens o'er a hateful book? Thus grew the lady, and her look Became at last as one insane; The cloud that long o'ercast her brain Still whirled with gusty falls of Which drowned her heart and One morn, strange wonder filled the place, And fruitless searching filled the day; The stream, the woodland, gave no trace: They only knew she passed away,Passed like a vision in the air, With naught to tell of how or where. With hanging hair and robes of white, With pallid hands together prest Fearing to meet that breathless For some averred her form had been Afloat upon the river seen; While some, with stouter words, replied, Upon her native mountain-side. |