Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 9

father's sake, and thine, my mother! But that cold
marble freezes up my heart, And seems to tell me that I have no part
With its proud dead; while through the veil of night The name it bears
yet mocks my anxious sight." Thus cried he bitterly; then, trembling,
placed His finger on the marble, while he traced Its letters one by one,
and o'er and o'er;-- Grew blind with eagerness, and shook the more, As
with each touch, the feeling o'er him came-- The unseen letters formed
his father's name!
VII.
While thus, with beating heart, pursuing still His anxious task, slow o'er
a neighbouring hill The broad moon rose, by not a cloud concealed, Lit
up the valley, and the tomb revealed!-- His parents' tomb!--and now,
with wild surprise, He saw the column burst upon his eyes-- Fair,
chaste, and beautiful; and on it read These lines in mem'ry of his
honoured dead: "Beneath repose the virtuous and the just, Mingled in
death, affection's hallowed dust. In token of their worth, this simple
stone Is, as a daughter's tribute, reared by one Who loved them as such,
and their name would save As virtue's record o'er their lowly grave."
"Helen!" he fondly cried, "thy hand is here!" And the cold grave
received his burning tear; Then knelt he o'er it--clasped his hands in

prayer; But, while yet lone and fervid kneeling there, Before his eyes,
upon the grave appear Primroses twain--the firstlings of the year,-- And
bursting forth between the blossomed two, Twin opening buds in
simple beauty grew. He gazed--he loved them as a living thing; And
wondrous thoughts and strange imagining Those simple flowers spoke
to his listening soul In superstition's whispers; whose control The
wisest in their secret moments feel, And blush at weakness they may
not reveal.
VIII.
He left the place of death; and, rapt in thought, The trysting-tree of
love's young years he sought; And, as its branches opened on his sight,
Bathing their young buds in the pale moonlight, A whispered voice,
melodious, soft, and low, As if an angel mourned for mortal woe,
Borne on the ev'ning breeze, came o'er his ear: He knew the voice--his
heart stood still to hear! And each sense seem'd a listener; but his eye
Sought the sad author of the wand'ring sigh; And 'neath the tree he
loved, a form as fair As summer in its noontide, knelt in prayer. He
clasped his hands--his brow, his bosom burned; He felt the past--the
buried past returned! Still, still he listened, till, like words of flame,
Through her low prayer he heard his whispered name! "Helen!" he
wildly cried--"my own--my blest!" Then bounded forth.--I cannot tell
the rest. There was a shriek of joy: heart throbbed on heart, And hands
were locked as though they ne'er might part; Wild words were
spoken--bliss tumultuous rolled, And all the anguish of the past was
told.
IX.
Upon her love long had her father frowned, Till tales of Edmund's
rising fortunes found Their way across the wilderness of sea, And
reached the valley of his birth. But she, With truth unaltered, and with
heart sincere, Through the long midnight of each hopeless year That
marked his absence, shunned the proffered hand Of wealth and rank;
and met her sire's command With tears and bended knees, until his
breast Again a father's tenderness confessed.

X.
'Twas May--bright May: bird, flower, and shrub, and tree, Rejoiced in
light; while, as a waveless sea Of living music, glowed the clear blue
sky, And every fleecy cloud that floated by Appeared an isle of
song!--as all around And all above them echoed with the sound Of
joyous birds, in concert loud and sweet, Chanting their summer hymns.
Beneath their feet The daisy put its crimson liv'ry on; While from
beneath each crag and mossy stone Some gentle flower looked forth;
and love and life Through the Creator's glorious works were rife, As
though his Spirit in the sunbeams said, "Let there be life and love!" and
was obeyed. Then, in the valley danced a joyous throng, And happy
voices sang a bridal song; Yea, tripping jocund on the sunny green, The
old and young in one glad dance were seen; Loud o'er the plain their
merry music rang, While cripple granddames, smiling, sat and sang
The ballads of their youth; and need I say 'Twas Edmund's and fair
Helen's wedding-day? Then, as he led her forth in joy and pride, A
hundred voices blessed him and his bride. Yet scarce he heard them; for
his every sense, Lost in delight and ecstasy intense, Dwelt upon her;
and made their blessings seem As words breathed o'er us in a wand'ring
dream.
XI.
Now months and years in quick succession flew, And joys increased,
and still affection