HUGO STEILFORT.

Up from thy childhood, gentle to the bound
Of very weakliness, and that thou could'st,
At the recital of a piteous tale,

Unwilling sigh or weep, though the cause e'en
Were fiction's baldest effort. I have seen
The moment next, a rosy dimple strive
To chase the latent sorrow from your face,
Like the bright sun break through a watery cloud,
The rain drops glittering in the golden beam.
And then thou'dst sweep with hasty hand away
The little gem from off thy glowing cheek,
And hide thy blushes in thy father's bosom :
Thine iv'ry arms twined round his aged neck,
While, fondly laughing, he would clasp thee near,
A kiss imprinting on thy marble brow,
And with a quiv'ring finger part the locks,
Star thron'd Juno might have envied e'en,
That lightly wanton'd in the summer air.
I have seen this, and stood oft by, a son
In term, affection, and yet not in name :
Link'd in the bonds of love to him and thee,
And yet by blood a stranger-yet not so;
I could not be a stranger: love is not
Tied down to accident, and birth'd of rule;

It owns no precedent, but is as free,

Unfetter'd as the air: it springeth up

In kindred hearts, and mated sympathies,

Heedless of rank, bound, distance, fitness-all!
Another tear? I am too rough of way,
Too thoughtless, and too talkative.

Iole.-Oh say not so!

'Tis I that am too thoughtless, and too weak;
I weary thee with this most foolish sorrow,
Appearing causeless, and yet felt too deep.
Forgive me, oh! forgive me, if thou canst.

Lyndert.-Forgive thee, dearest? Why should I forgive thee?
First tell in what thou hast offended me,

For what I should forgive thee, and in what
Term thy offence be noted, and then I

Will from my heart forgive thee. Now, in sooth,
I cannot comprehend thee! Surely sorrow

Is not forth pictured in the weeping face
Without some special reason, there must be
Some cause for this that I can think not of;
And, since thou ask'st me to forgive thee, sure
With me the fault lies, could I trace it out.
Oh, thou art dear to me as my soul's price!
God knows but little could I see below
To pleasure me, did'st thou not triply share it.
Come, cheer thee up! how is it, that, since I
Return'd o'erwearied from the field of war;

Forced, by my sov'reign's voice, to leave thee in
His glitt'ring city, seat of feast and rule,

He doubtless feared thy presence might unman me,
And spoil the soldier he had help'd to form,
Amidst the toil and tumult of the camp.
How is it, loved one, that thou art so given

To seek seclusion, and to sigh so oft?

And when I press'd thee, thou didst turn away.
Once, once thou didst not so; I felt a pain

Shoot strangely o'er my heart, as thine eye turn'd-
Turn'd cold-ay, coldly round.

Iole. Oh, that I had

In some dark cavern hid my wand'ring head--
Sear'd ev❜ery vagrant thought, or thoughtless wish,
To view the great world and its tempting scenes.
Oh! like a basilisk, the spell-tranced eye,
With demon gaze it onward lures to sin;
Like the pale marsh-light of the reeky waste,
The sick red death lamp of the seething wold,
That hazed in dull fog in the distance peeps.
Out-throwing thin a wet and misty beam,
To cheer the lated traveller, with hope
Of cultured tract and hospitable inn,

But hangs o'er stealthy quagmire, which in wait,
Lies, like a shrouded enemy, for ill.

Was not the sun bloom'd forest,-
-azure length
Of distant upland, gloried eve, grey mist
Curl'd o'er the lake sleep cradled, rocky knoll,
Gloom'd by the purple thunder cloud, whose sail
Lagg'd on the sultried atmosphere slow through,-
Sun gilded eminence, at noontide still,

Save when the hum of insect faint o'ercrept it,-
Flock of the snow flake,-gush of bubbled stream,-
Love breathing zephyr,-plash of tumbling fall,—
Wave of the green-scarf'd wood tree,-flecked sward,
O'er which in majesty its wafture swam,
And soft upsailing of the yellow moon,-
Were not such sights as these, far sweeter than
The reek of sickly perfume,-starred halls,
Gold cinctured chambers,-lull of am'rous strains,
To grandeur minist'ring,-wreaths festive,-blaze
Of dainty beauties fashion'd to the eye;
Swarth'd deep in luxury, whose ready lips,
Lisp'd empty compliment and lighter parle ;
Bright eyes; gems flashing; hollow smiles; brief wit ;
Encount'ring titles; knightly forms; glass'd shapes ;
Light hearted laughter; and the slow parade
Of regal luxury and ostentation.

Lyndert. And why, indeed, should I have left thee here,
To mope in solitude? my absence then

Had been but trebly irksome. I should not

HUGO STEILFORT.

Have dream'd that company had work'd this change;
But now thou hast forsaken it, and ne'er,

Should it so please thee, shalt thou back again.

We'll be as heretofore.

Iole.-Oh God! that we

Might be as we have been: 'tis hopeless; no!
We never can be so.

Lyndert,-You wonder me,

Why hang these scales before my striving eyes?
We never can be so? and why not? What
May mean this strange emotion? Let me see-
I would I would perceive it. I am dark!
Why feel I so translated? The sky looks
E'en as it did before this; but I feel

As if some mighty change had fallen on me.
Iole, my voice quivers, tell, what mean you!

Iole-Oh, look not thus upon me; thine eye pierces;
In pity take it from me.
Lyndert.-So! why should
You dread mine eye?

Iole. I know not ;-but I do.

Lyndert (aside).—A devil thought was busy in my brain,

But I will crush it. False? ha! ha! ha!

No! no, it could not be! Why, what a wretch
Was I to dream it !-false ? the unstain'd snow,
Ere that the ground it kisses, might I tax
As well with its pollution. 'Tis some whim :
She is so childlike, that a single thought
Might to a sin be outstretch'd: thus it is.
Why is my brain so ready to accuse?
How many men have suffered for suspicion!
Letting the leer-eyed monster gather strength
In their deformed vision, till a look,
From guile as free, e'en as an angel's lip,
Were tortured to a proof. No let me not

These foundless mopings: what should be the cause?

I may relieve thee if thou tell'st it out.

There's something cross'd thee in the city. No?

Well, I must rest in shapeless speculation,

Till that thou pleasest to lay ope thy grief.

I am but a rough comforter; but to

Such ill as thine I may turn doctor. Heaven
Shields thee from great mishap.

Iole (aside). That holy name

I shudder at; it may not look upon me.

Lyndert.—The storm is past, and the pale moon looks out
From out the parting cloud-piles. Come, we'll sit.
Thou lack'st thy sister's spirit; she, I warrant,
While thou stood'st shrinking from the thunder peal,

167

With eye averted here, look'd boldly forth
Upon the tempest as a thing to please.

Shall I go fetch her to thee? now 'tis o'er
She'll lack inducement the cold air to brave.
See, as I said, she comes! Hail, Bertha ! here
Enter BERTHA.

Is a poor trembler that may need thy tongue
To put to self-possession. Use it, girl !
Mine has hard wagg'd in vain.
Bertha.-Could she remain

Here, when such grandeur ask'd her eye

without ?

I could have wish'd a three hours' longer life To such a peerless tempest. You did look? Lyndert.-In sooth I did, and much did strive to make Her, also, view it, but my pains were lost. Bertha.--She would prefer a festal meeting. I, Believe me, had some task among them. Lyndert.-Sooth?

Here has she rail'd in good round terms against them ;

So passion'd in the utterance, that I

Could shape them to no object. You are gibing.

I grew half frighted at her earnest terms,

And, but I knew her sins were ever nothings,

Might e'en have fancied some ill lurk'd beneath them. Bertha.Some ill, indeed ! what ill ?

Lyndert.-Nay, nay, I know not.

She must be roused; we'll fill our halls with mirth,
And deal in rustic fetes: we will be merry ;
Chase from her mind all tinctures of the past,
If 'tis the past which irks her, which I cannot
Blame as productive of a single thing

Of likelihood to render her so ill

In mental ease, as she would make me think her.
What! have I 'scaped so many dangers past,
To see a dear wife mope herself at home?
When that my safe returning, quested show
Of lightsome satisfaction, and a port
Reverse of drooping listlessness. Say, Bertha;
Had'st thou a partner that, thou truly held'st
In modest measure of regard, who, when
The battle thunders hurtled round his head,
And thirsty spear-points cross'd beneath his eye,
Look'd not upon the death scene folded round him,

But on a loved face, that, to fancy's ken,

Beam'd through the hoarse din, and the volley'd clouds, That smirch'd the far eye of the weeping day;

Lighting him on to victory, and fore

His heart, love harness'd, forth extending such
A shield of adamant, that danger fled

E'en cowed by daring, and the icy eye

HUGO STEILFORT

Of horror-steeded Death, that like a ghost

Strode the gore muddied slaughter field, quail'd off
In chill discomforture; would'st thou with thought,
Unsettled and solicitous, with hand

But coldly decorous, bestow'd when sought,
Withdrawn when not retain'd, expressionless,
With well turned welcome, marvellous correct,
Agreeably diction'd, and drawn out by rote,
Welcome the war worn and expectant one,
That, flush'd with gladness, scarce had time to throw
His frame, joy fevered, from his steaming steed,
Ere that he press'd the angel of his life,

The one fair idol of his being, in

A long embrace, which pain'd e'en with its pleasure?
Bertha.-I know not what I might do, were it so.
Weak prove resolves, pour'd in an untried hour.
When danger's distant, we can face it bravely,
When death is distant, we can die contented,
But how, alas! shrinks in our far blown strength,
When plain reality the bubble touches.
Therefore I think that we best know ourselves,
When boasting nothing, of what can be proven
But in the sufferance. That man who seeks
By no self-vaunting to out rudely trumpet
His unscath'd fortitude, may front the storm,
Unshamed in person by a show of fear.

Words are but breath; we spend-they cost us nothing.
How much we owe to circumstance and time!

Our spirits are elastic; rise they will,

And

yea be lighter for the weight past o'er.
The man that trembles in the hush of night,
At the low whisper of the stirring leaf,
Unstilted by the fellowship of kind,

May rush unfearing on the cannon's mouth;
We are the playthings of caprice and impulse,
The moment shapes us-we are things of nothing.

169

(The bugle at the Castle gate sounds.)
Lyndert.-Soft! hear you yonder summons? It is late;
Our creaking gates are somewhat unaccustom'd
To ope for visitors; but 'tis too late.

Some way-worn trav'ller craves admittance. Well!
He shall be welcome, be it peer or peasant.

If his nobility asks noble treatment,

We here will tend him, and if but a carle,

Our offices have chimnies, benches, beds.

(Enter HUBERT.)

Your message, Hubert?

Hubert.-Sir, a gentleman,

Whose panting barb some rank denoteth, asks
To wait upon your pleasure.