Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 5

Of human life, death, slow as twilight, lowers. She was the sunlight of his widowed hours-- The all he loved, the glory of his eye, His hope by day, the sole remaining tie That linked him with the world; and rudely now That link seemed broken; and upon his brow Wrath lay in gloom; while, from his very feet, He spurned the being he was wont to meet With outstretched arms of fondness and of pride, While all the father's feelings in a tide Of transport gushed. But now she wept alone, Shunning and shunned; and still the bitter tone In which she heard her Edmund breathe her name, Rang in her heaving bosom; and the flame That lit his eye with frenzy and despair, Upon her naked spirit seemed to glare With an accusing glance; yet, while her tears Were flowing silently, as hours and years Flow down the tide of time, one whom she loved, And who from childhood's days had faithful proved, Approached her weeping, and within her hand A packet placed, as Edmund's last command! Wild throbbed her heart, and tears a moment fled, While, tremblingly, she broke the seal, and read; Then wept, and sobbed aloud, and read again, These farewell words, of passion and of pain.
XV.
EDMUND'S LETTER.
Helen!--farewell!--I write but could not speak That parting word of bitterness; the cheek Grows pale when the tongue utters it; the knell Which tells "the grave is ready!" and doth swell On the dull wind, tolling--"the dead--the dead!" Sounds not more desolate. It is a dread And fearful thing to be of hope bereft, As if the soul itself had died, and left The body living--feeling in its breast The death of deaths, its everlasting guest! Such is my cheerless bosom; 'tis a tomb Where Hope lies buried in eternal gloom, And Love mourns o'er it--yes, my Helen--Love-- Like the sad wailings of a widowed dove Over its rifled nest. Yet blame me not, That I, a lowly peasant's son, forgot The gulf between our stations. Could I gaze Upon the glorious sun, and see its rays Fling light and beauty round me, and remain Dead to its power, while on the lighted plain The humblest weed looked up in love, and spread Its leaves before it! The vast sea doth wed The simple brook; the bold lark soars on high, Bounds from its humble nest and woos the sky; Yea, the frail ivy seeks and loves to cling Round the proud branches of the forest's king: Then blame me not;--thou wilt not, canst not blame; Our sorrows, hopes, and joys have been the same-- Been one from childhood; but the dream is past, And stern realities at length have cast Our fates asunder. Yet, when thou shalt see Proud ones before thee bend the suppliant knee, And kiss thy garment while they woo thy hand, Spurn not the peasant boy who dared to stand Before thee, in the rapture of his heart, And woo thee as thine equal. Courtly art May find more fitting phrase to charm thine ear, But, dearest, mayst thou find them as sincere! And, oh! by every past and hallowed hour! By the lone tree that formed our trysting bower! By the fair moon, and all the stars of night, That round us threw love's holiest, dearest light! By infant passion's first and burning kiss! By every witness of departed bliss! Forget me not, loved one! forget me not! For, oh, to know that I am not forgot-- That thou wilt still retain within thy breast Some thought of him who loved you first and best-- To know but this, would in my bosom be Like one faint star seen from the pathless sea By the bewildered mariner. Once more, Maid of my heart, farewell! A distant shore Must be thy Edmund's home--though where the soul Is as a wilderness; from pole to pole The desolate in heart may ceaseless roam, Nor find on earth that spot of heaven--a home! But be thou happy!--be my Helen blessed!-- Thou wilt be happy! Oh! those words have pressed Thoughts on my brain on which I may not dwell! Again, farewell!--my Helen, fare-thee-well!
XVI.
A gallant bark was gliding o'er the seas, And, like a living mass, before the breeze, Swept on majestic, as a thing of mind Whose spirit held communion with the wind, Rearing and rising o'er the billowed tide, As a proud steed doth toss its head in pride. Upon its deck young Edmund silent stood-- A son of sadness; and his mournful mood Grew day by day, while wave on wave rolled by, And he their homeward current with a sigh Followed with fondness. Still the vessel bore The wanderer onward from his native shore, Till in a distant land he lonely stood 'Midst