Wilsons Tales of the Borders and of Scotland | Page 4

meaner things, Whose honours echoed not the breath of kings.
XI.
Wild were the passions, fierce the anguish now, Which tore the very soul, and clothed the brow Of the Enthusiast; while gaunt despair Its heavy, cold, and iron hand laid bare, And in its grasp of torture clenched his heart, Till, one by one, the life-drops seemed to start In agony unspeakable: within His breast its freezing shadow--dark as sin, Gloomy as death, and desolate as hell-- Like starless midnight on his spirit fell, Burying his soul in darkness; while his love, Fierce as a whirlwind, in its madness strove With stern despair, as on the field of wrath The wounded war-horse, panting, strives with death. Then as the conflict weakened, hope would dash Across his bosom, like the death-winged flash That flees before the thunder; yet its light Lived but a moment, leaving deeper night Around the strife of passions; and again The struggle maddened, and the hope was vain.
XII.
He heard the maidens of the valley say, How they upon their lady's wedding-day Would strew her path with flowers, and o'er the lawn Join in the dance, to eve from early dawn; While, with a smile and half deriding glance, Some sought him as their partner in the dance: And peasant railers, as he passed them by, Laughed, whispered, laughed again, and mocked a sigh. But he disdained them; and his heaving breast Had no room left to feel their vulgar jest, For it ran o'er with agony and scorn, As water dropping on a rock was borne.
XIII.
Twas a fair summer night, and the broad moon Sailed in calm glory through the skies of June, Pouring on earth its pale and silv'ry light, Till roughest forms were softened to the sight; And on the western hills its faintest ray Kissed the yet ruddy streaks of parted day. The stars were few, and, twinkling, dimly shone, For the bright moon in beauty reigned alone. One cloud lay sleeping 'neath the breathless sky, Bathed in the limpid light; while, as the sigh Of secret love, silent as shadows glide, The soft wind played among the leafy pride Of the green trees, and scarce the aspen shook; A babbling voice was heard from every brook, And down the vale, in murmurs low and long, Tweed poured its ancient and unwearied song. Before, behind, around, afar, and near, The wakeful landrail's watchword met the ear. Then Edmund leaned against the hallowed tree, Whose shade had been their temple, and where he Had carved their names in childhood, and they yet Upon the rind were visible. They met Beneath its branches, spreading as a bower, For months--for years; and the impassioned hour Of silent, deep deliciousness and bliss, Pure as an angel's, fervid as the kiss Of a young mother on her first-born's brow, Fled in their depth of joy they knew not how; Even as the Boreal meteor mocks the eye, Living a moment on the gilded sky, And dying in the same, ere we can trace Its golden hues, its form, or hiding-place. But now to him each moment dragged a chain, And time itself seemed weary. The fair plain, Where the broad river in its pride was seen, With stately woods and fields of loveliest green, To him was now a wilderness; and even Upon the everlasting face of heaven A change had passed--its very light was changed, And shed forth sickness; for he stood estranged From all that he had loved, and every scene Spoke of despair where love and joy had been. Thus desolate he stood, when, lo! a sound Of voices and gay laughter echoed round. Then straight a party issued from the wood, And ere he marked them all before him stood. He gazed, he startled, shook, exclaimed aloud, "Helen!" then burst away, and as a shroud The sombre trees concealed him; but a cry Of sudden anguish echoed a reply To his wild word of misery, though he Heard not its tone of heart-pierced agony. She, whom his fond soul worshipped as its bride, He saw before him by her wooer's side, 'Midst other proud ones. 'Twas a sight like death-- Death on his very heart. The balmy breath Of the calm night struck on his brow with fire; For each fierce passion, burning in its ire, Raged in his bosom as a with'ring flame, And 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