Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 5

scarce he knew he madly breathed
her name; But, as a bark before the tempest tost, Rushed from the scene,

exclaiming wildly, "Lost!"
XIV.
Two days of sorrow slowly round had crept, And Helen lonely in her
chamber wept, Shunning her father's guests, and shunning, too, The
glance of rage and scorn which now he threw Upon the child that e'er to
him had been Dear as immortal hope, when o'er the scene 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