Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 3

after lot may be, That evening star shall speak of home and thee. Fancy will view it o'er yon mountain's brow That sleeps in solitude before us now; While memory's lamp shall kindle at its rays, And light the happy scenes of other days-- Such scenes as this; and then the very breeze That with it bears the odour of the trees, And gathers up the meadow's sweet perfume, From off my clouded brow, shall chase the gloom Of sick'ning absence; for the scented air To me wafts back remembrance, as the prayer Of lisping childhood is remembered yet, Like living words, which we can ne'er forget."
VIII.
Till now, their life had been one thought of joy, A vision time was destined to destroy-- As dies the dewy network on the thorn, Before the sunbeams, with the mists of morn. Thus far their lives in one smooth current ran-- They loved, yet knew not when that love began, And hardly knew they loved; though it had grown A portion of their being, and had thrown Its spirit o'er them; for its shoots had sprung Up in their hearts, while yet their hearts were young; Even like the bright leaves of some wandering seed, Which Autumn's breezes bear across the mead, O'er naked wild and mountain, till the wind, Dropping its gift, a stranger flower we find. And with their years the kindling feeling grew, But grew unnoticed, and no change they knew; For it had grown, even as a bud displays Its opening beauties--one on which we gaze, Yet note no seeming change from hour to hour, But find, at length, the bud a lovely flower.
IX.
Thus, thrice six golden summers o'er them fled, And on their hearts their rip'ning influence shed; Till one fair eve, when from the gorgeous west, Cloud upon cloud in varied splendour pressed Around the setting sun, which blinding shone On the horizon like its Maker's throne, Till veiled in glory, and its parting ray Fell as a blessing on the closing day; Or, like the living smile of Nature's God Upon his creatures, shedding peace abroad. The early lark had ceased its evening song, And silence reigned amidst the feathered throng, Save where the chaffinch, with unvarying strain, Its short, sweet line of music trilled again; Or where the stock-dove, from the neighbouring grove, Welcomed the twilight with the voice of love: Then Edmund wandered by the trysting-tree, Where, at that hour, the maid was wont to be; But now she came not. Deepening shade on shade, The night crept round him; still he lonely strayed, Gazed on the tree till grey its foliage grew, And stars marked midnight, ere he slow withdrew. Another evening came--a third passed on-- And wondering, fearing, still he stood alone, Trembling and gazing on her father's hall, Where lights were glittering as a festival; And, as with cautious step he ventured near, Sounds of glad music burst upon his ear, And figures glided in the circling dance, While wild his love and poverty at once Flashed through his bursting heart, and smote him now As if a thunderbolt had scorched his brow, And scathed his very spirit; as he stood, Mute as despair--the ghost of solitude!
X.
Strange guests were revelling at the princely hall-- Proud peers and ladies fair; but, chief of all, A rich and haughty knight, from Beaumont side, Who came to woo fair Helen as his bride; Or rather from her father ask her hand, And woo no more, but deem consent command. He too was young, high-born, and bore a name Sounding with honours bought, though not with fame; And the consent he sought her father gave, Nor feared the daughter of his love would brave In aught his wishes, or oppose his will; For she had ever sought it, as the rill Seeketh the valley or the ocean's breast; And ere his very wishes were expressed, She strove to trace their meaning in his eyes, Even as a seaman readeth on the skies The coming breeze, the calm, or brooding gale, Then spreads the canvas wide, or reefs the sail. Nor did he doubt that still her heart was free As the fleet mountain deer, which as a sea The wilderness surrounds; for she had grown Up as a desert flower, that he alone Had watched and cherished; and the blinding pride Of wealth and ancestry had served to hide From him alone, what long within the vale Had been the rustic gossip's evening tale. That such presumptuous love could e'er employ The secret fancies of the cottage boy, He would have held impossible, or smiled At the bold madness of a thought so wild--- Reading his daughter's spirit by his own, Which reared an ancient name as virtue's throne, And only stooped to look on