The Wood.

But two miles more, and then we rest! Well, there is still an hour of day, And long the brightness of the West Will light us on our devious way; Sit then, awhile, here in this wood-- So total is the solitude, We safely may delay.

These massive roots afford a seat, Which seems for weary travellers made. There rest. The air is soft and sweet In this sequestered forest glade, And there are scents of flowers around, The evening dew draws from the ground; How soothingly they spread!

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart; No--that beats full of sweet content, For now I have my natural part Of action with adventure blent; Cast forth on the wide world with thee, And all my once waste energy To weighty purpose bent.

Yet--sayst thou, spies around us roam, Our aims are termed conspiracy? Haply, no more our English home An anchorage for us may be? That there is risk our mutual blood May redden in some lonely wood The knife of treachery?

Sayst thou, that where we lodge each night, In each lone farm, or lonelier hall Of Norman Peer--ere morning light Suspicion must as duly fall, As day returns--such vigilance Presides and watches over France, Such rigour governs all?

I fear not, William; dost thou fear? So that the knife does not divide, It may be ever hovering near: I could not tremble at thy side, And strenuous love--like mine for thee-- Is buckler strong ‘gainst treachery, And turns its stab aside.

I am resolved that thou shalt learn To trust my strength as I trust thine; I am resolved our souls shall burn With equal, steady, mingling shine; Part of the field is conquered now, Our lives in the same channel flow, Along the self-same line;

And while no groaning storm is heard, Thou seem’st content it should be so, But soon as comes a warning word Of danger--straight thine anxious brow Bends over me a mournful shade, As doubting if my powers are made To ford the floods of woe.

Know, then it is my spirit swells, And drinks, with eager joy, the air Of freedom--where at last it dwells, Chartered, a common task to share With thee, and then it stirs alert, And pants to learn what menaced hurt Demands for thee its care.

Remember, I have crossed the deep, And stood with thee on deck, to gaze On waves that rose in threatening heap, While stagnant lay a heavy haze, Dimly confusing sea with sky, And baffling, even, the pilot’s eye, Intent to thread the maze--

Of rocks, on Bretagne’s dangerous coast, And find a way to steer our band To the one point obscure, which lost, Flung us, as victims, on the strand;-- All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword, And not a wherry could be moored Along the guarded land.

I feared not then--I fear not now; The interest of each stirring scene Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow, In every nerve and bounding vein; Alike on turbid Channel sea, Or in still wood of Normandy, I feel as born again.

The rain descended that wild morn When, anchoring in the cove at last, Our band, all weary and forlorn Ashore, like wave-worn sailors, cast-- Sought for a sheltering roof in vain, And scarce could scanty food obtain To break their morning fast.

Thou didst thy crust with me divide, Thou didst thy cloak around me fold; And, sitting silent by thy side, I ate the bread in peace untold: Given kindly from thy hand, ‘twas sweet As costly fare or princely treat On royal plate of gold.

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, And, rising wild, the gusty wind Drove on those thundering waves apace, Our crew so late had left behind; But, spite of frozen shower and storm, So close to thee, my heart beat warm, And tranquil slept my mind.

So now--nor foot-sore nor opprest With walking all this August day, I taste a heaven in this brief rest, This gipsy-halt beside the way. England’s wild flowers are fair to view, Like balm is England’s summer dew Like gold her sunset ray.

But the white violets, growing here, Are sweeter than I yet have seen, And ne’er did dew so pure and clear Distil on forest mosses green, As now, called forth by summer heat, Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat-- These fragrant limes between.

That sunset! Look beneath the boughs, Over the copse--beyond the hills; How soft, yet deep and warm it glows, And heaven with rich suffusion fills; With hues where still the opal’s tint, Its gleam of prisoned fire is blent, Where flame through azure thrills!

Depart we now--for fast will fade That solemn splendour of decline, And deep must be the after-shade As stars alone to-night will shine; No moon is destined--pale--to gaze On such a day’s vast Phoenix blaze, A day in fires decayed!

There--hand-in-hand we tread again The mazes of this varying wood, And soon, amid a cultured plain, Girt in with fertile solitude, We shall our resting-place descry, Marked by one roof-tree, towering high Above a farmstead rude.

Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare, We’ll seek a couch of dreamless ease; Courage will guard thy heart from fear, And Love give mine divinest peace: To-morrow brings more dangerous toil, And through its conflict and turmoil We’ll pass, as God shall please.

[The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes acted in France during the last year of the Consulate.]

FRANCES.

She will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed.

Obedient to the goad of grief, Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, In varying motion seek relief From the Eumenides of woe.

Wringing her hands, at intervals-- But long as mute as phantom dim-- She glides along the dusky walls, Under the black oak rafters grim.

The close air of the grated tower Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, And, though so late and lone the hour, Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet;

And on the pavement spread before The long front of the mansion grey, Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, Which pale on grass and granite lay.

Not long she stayed where misty moon And shimmering stars could on her look, But through the garden archway soon Her strange and gloomy path she took.

Some firs, coeval with the tower, Their straight black boughs stretched o’er her head; Unseen, beneath this sable bower, Rustled her dress and rapid tread.

There was an alcove in that shade, Screening a rustic seat and stand; Weary she sat her down, and laid Her hot brow on her burning hand.

To solitude and to the night, Some words she now, in murmurs, said; And trickling through her fingers white, Some tears of misery she shed.

“God help me in my grievous need, God help me in my inward pain; Which cannot ask for pity’s meed, Which has no licence to complain,

“Which must be borne; yet who can bear, Hours long, days long, a constant weight-- The yoke of absolute despair, A suffering wholly desolate?

“Who can for ever crush the heart, Restrain its throbbing, curb its life? Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, With outward calm mask inward strife?”

She waited--as for some reply; The still and cloudy night gave none; Ere long, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, Her heavy plaint again begun.

“Unloved--I love; unwept--I weep; Grief I restrain--hope I repress: Vain is this anguish--fixed and deep; Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss.

“My love awakes no love again, My tears collect, and fall unfelt; My sorrow touches none with pain, My humble hopes to nothing melt.

“For me the universe is dumb, Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; Life I must bound, existence sum In the strait limits of one mind;

“That mind my own. Oh! narrow cell; Dark--imageless--a living tomb! There must I sleep, there wake and dwell Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.”

Again she paused; a moan of pain, A stifled sob, alone was heard; Long silence followed--then again Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred.

“Must it be so? Is this my fate? Can I nor struggle, nor contend? And am I doomed for years to wait, Watching death’s lingering axe descend?

“And when it falls, and when I die, What follows? Vacant nothingness? The blank of lost identity? Erasure both of pain and bliss?

“I’ve heard of heaven--I would believe; For if this earth indeed be all, Who longest lives may deepest grieve; Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call.

“Oh! leaving disappointment here, Will man find hope on yonder coast? Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, And oft in clouds is wholly lost.

“Will he hope’s source of light behold, Fruition’s spring, where doubts expire, And drink, in waves of living gold, Contentment, full, for long desire?

“Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed? Rest, which was weariness on earth? Knowledge, which, if o’er life it beamed, Served but to prove it void of worth?

“Will he find love without lust’s leaven, Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, To all with equal bounty given; In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure?

“Will he, from penal sufferings free, Released from shroud and wormy clod, All calm and glorious, rise and see Creation’s Sire--Existence’ God?

“Then, glancing back on Time’s brief woes, Will he behold them, fading, fly; Swept from Eternity’s repose, Like sullying cloud from pure blue sky?

“If so, endure, my weary frame; And when thy anguish strikes too deep, And when all troubled burns life’s flame, Think of the quiet, final sleep;

“Think of the glorious waking-hour, Which will not dawn on grief and tears, But on a ransomed spirit’s power, Certain, and free from mortal fears.

“Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end.

“And when thy opening eyes shall see Mementos, on the chamber wall, Of one who has forgotten thee, Shed not the tear of acrid gall.

“The tear which, welling from the heart, Burns where its drop corrosive falls, And makes each nerve, in torture, start, At feelings it too well recalls:

“When the sweet hope of being loved Threw Eden sunshine on life’s way: When every sense and feeling proved Expectancy of brightest day.

“When the hand trembled to receive A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, And the heart ventured to believe Another heart esteemed it dear.

“When words, half love, all tenderness, Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, When the long, sunny days of bliss Only by moonlight nights were broken.

“Till, drop by drop, the cup of joy Filled full, with purple light was glowing, And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high Still never dreamt the overflowing.

“It fell not with a sudden crashing, It poured not out like open sluice; No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice.

“I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, My eager lips approached the brim; The movement only seemed to waste it; It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim.

“These I have drunk, and they for ever Have poisoned life and love for me; A draught from Sodom’s lake could never More fiery, salt, and bitter, be.

“Oh! Love was all a thin illusion Joy, but the desert’s flying stream; And glancing back on long delusion, My memory grasps a hollow dream.

“Yet whence that wondrous change of feeling, I never knew, and cannot learn; Nor why my lover’s eye, congealing, Grew cold and clouded, proud and stern.

“Nor wherefore, friendship’s forms forgetting, He careless left, and cool withdrew; Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, Nor ev’n one glance of comfort threw.

“And neither word nor token sending, Of kindness, since the parting day, His course, for distant regions bending, Went, self-contained and calm, away.

“Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, Which will not weaken, cannot die, Hasten thy work of desolation, And let my tortured spirit fly!

“Vain as the passing gale, my crying; Though lightning-struck, I must live on; I know, at heart, there is no dying Of love, and ruined hope, alone.

“Still strong and young, and warm with vigour, Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow; And many a storm of wildest rigour Shall yet break o’er my shivered bough.

“Rebellious now to blank inertion, My unused strength demands a task; Travel, and toil, and full exertion, Are the last, only boon I ask.

“Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming Of death, and dubious life to come? I see a nearer beacon gleaming Over dejection’s sea of gloom.

“The very wildness of my sorrow Tells me I yet have innate force; My track of life has been too narrow, Effort shall trace a broader course.

“The world is not in yonder tower, Earth is not prisoned in that room, ‘Mid whose dark panels, hour by hour, I’ve sat, the slave and prey of gloom.

“One feeling--turned to utter anguish, Is not my being’s only aim; When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, But courage can revive the flame.

“He, when he left me, went a roving To sunny climes, beyond the sea; And I, the weight of woe removing, Am free and fetterless as he.

“New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, May once more wake the wish to live; Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, New pictures to the mind may give.

“New forms and faces, passing ever, May hide the one I still retain, Defined, and fixed, and fading never, Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain.

“And we might meet--time may have changed him; Chance may reveal the mystery, The secret influence which estranged him; Love may restore him yet to me.

“False thought--false hope--in scorn be banished! I am not loved--nor loved have been; Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished; Traitors! mislead me not again!

“To words like yours I bid defiance, ‘Tis such my mental wreck have made; Of God alone, and self-reliance, I ask for solace--hope for aid.

“Morn comes--and ere meridian glory O’er these, my natal woods, shall smile, Both lonely wood and mansion hoary I’ll leave behind, full many a mile.”

GILBERT.