Records of Woman: with Other Poems

Front matter

RECORDS OF WOMAN:

WITH OTHER POEMS.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY JOHN JOHNSTONE.

Arabella Stuart

ARABELLA STUART.

"The Lady Arabella," as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII. and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth, as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret, but early discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and, at break of day, a French vessel, engaged to receive her, was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, "which," says D'Israeli, "occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower;—he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on hoard, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders."—Arabella, meantime, while imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the King's service, and brought back to a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank.—"What passed in that dreadful imprisonment, cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history,—but enough is known; that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers."—D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.——The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, while her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.

ARABELLA STUART.

And is not love in vain, Torture enough without a living tomb? Byron.

Fermossi al fin il cor che balzò tanto. Pindemonte.

I. 'Twas but a dream!—I saw the stag leap free, Under the boughs where early birds were singing, I stood, o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree, And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing Far thro' a royal forest: then the fawn Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook, And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook,

And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance Into the deep wood's heart; and all pass'd by, Save one—I met the smile of one clear eye, Flashing out joy to mine.—Yes, thou wert there, Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, And fling, methought, thy hunting-spear away, And, lightly graceful in thy green array, Bound to my side; and we, that met and parted, Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearless-hearted, Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour, Ev'n like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath Of hidden forest flowers.

II. 'Tis past!—I wake, A captive, and alone, and far from thee, My love and friend! Yet fostering, for thy sake, A quenchless hope of happiness to be; And feeling still my woman's spirit strong, In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love Shall yet call gentle angels from above, By its undying fervour; and prevail, Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, Thro' hearts now cold; and, raising its bright face, With a free gush of sunny tears erase The characters of anguish; in this trust, I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, That I may bring thee back no faded form, No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm, But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.

III. And thou too art in bonds!—yet droop thou not, Oh, my belov’d!—there is one hopeless lot, But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead There sits the grief that mantles up its head, Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, When darkness, from the vainly-doting sight, Covers its beautiful!1 If thou wert gone To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow,— If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone Of earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n now, Seems floating thro' my soul, were music taken For ever from this world,—oh! thus forsaken, Could I bear on?—thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou'rt mine! With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return.

IV, And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning, Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care! I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning The wild and busy whispers of despair! Thou has sent tidings, as of heaven.—I wait The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. Oh! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate As a star shoots!—but on the breezy sea We shall meet soon.—To think of such an hour! Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss, Faint and give way within me, as a flower Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss? Yet shall I fear that lot?—the perfect rest, The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, After long-suffering won? So rich a close Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.

V. Sunset!—I tell each moment—from the skies The last red splendour floats along my wall, Like a king's banner!—Now it melts, it dies! I see one star—I hear—'twas not the call, Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd too soon. I must keep vigil till yon rising moon Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam Thro' my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream Of summer-lands afar, where holy love, Under the vine, or in the citron-grove, May breathe from terror. Now the night grows deep, And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. I hear my veins beat.—Hark! a bell's slow chime. My heart strikes with it.—Yet again—'tis time! A step!—a voice!—or but a rising breeze? Hark!—haste!—I come, to meet thee on the seas. * * * * * * * *

VI. Now never more, oh! never, in the worth Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth Trust fondly never more!—the hope is crush'd That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd That spoke sweet oracles; and I return To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn, Where sunshine may not find it.—All is lost! No tempest met our barks—no billow toss'd; Yet were they sever'd, ev'n as we must be, That so have lov'd, so striven our hearts to free From their close-coiling fate! In vain—in vain! The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, And press out life.—Upon the deck I stood, And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, Like some proud bird of ocean; then mine eye Strained out, one moment earlier to descry The form it ached for, and the bark's career Seem'd slow to that fond yearning: It drew near,

Fraught with our foes!—What boots it to recall The strife, the tears? Once more a prison-wall Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, And joyous glance of waters to the light, And thee, my Seymour, thee!

I will not sink! Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee; And this shall be my strength—the joy to think That thou mayst wander with heaven's breath around thee, And all the laughing sky! This thought shall yet Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet, Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken, And unto me, I know, thy true love's token Shall one day be deliverance, tho' the years Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears.

VII. My friend, my friend! where art thou? Day by day, Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away, My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while, Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs Round hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile, Fills the green forest;—young hearts breathe their vows; Brothers long parted meet; fair children rise Round the glad board; Hope laughs from loving eyes: All this is in the world!—These joys lie sown, The dew of every path—On one alone Their freshness may not fall—the stricken deer, Dying of thirst with all the waters near.

VIII. Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers! By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent; O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers, And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent,

Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been, Thro' the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you Hath murmur'd, and the rill.—My soul grows faint With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint Your haunts by dell and stream,—the green, the free, The full of all sweet sound,—the shut from me!

IX. There went a swift bird singing past my cell— O Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things! With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, And by the streams; but I—the blood of kings, A proud, unmingling river, thro' my veins Flows in lone brightness,—and its gifts are chains! Kings!—I had silent visions of deep bliss, Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this

I am cast under their triumphal car, An insect to be crush'd.—Oh! Heaven is far,— Earth pitiless!

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am prov'd So long, so sternly! Seymour, my belov'd! There are such tales of holy marvels done By strong affection, of deliverance won Thro' its prevailing power! Are these things told Till the young weep with rapture, and the old Wonder, yet dare not doubt,—and thou, oh! thou, Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay?— Thou canst not!—thro' the silent night, ev'n now, I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray Still first for thee.—Oh! gentle, gentle friend! How shall I bear this anguish to the end?

Aid! comes there yet no aid?—the voice of blood Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood

Sinks thro' the greensward!—is there not a cry From the wrung heart, of power, thro' agony, To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy! hear me! None That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun, Have heavier cause!—yet hear!—my soul grows dark— Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark, On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, And bearing to th' abyss, unseen, unknown, Its freight of human hearts?—th' o'ermastering wave! Who shall tell how it rush’d—and none to save?

Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know, There would be rescue if this were not so. Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd, Thou'rt where the dancers meet!—a magic glass Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall;— I see one shadow, stateliest there of all,—

Thine!—What dost thou amidst the bright and fair, Whispering light words, and mocking my despair? It is not well of thee!—my love was more Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore, And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, With all its blighted hopes around it lying; Ev'n thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf— Yet smile, smile on! too bright art thou for grief!

Death!—what, is death a lock'd and treasur'd thing, Guarded by swords of fire?2 a hidden spring, A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, As if the world within me held no cure? Wherefore not spread free wings—Heaven, Heaven! controul These thoughts—they rush—I look into my soul As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array Of fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray, So shall their dark host pass.

The storm is still'd. Father in Heaven! Thou, only thou, canst sound The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd, For human line too fearfully profound. Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child, Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild, And sinn'd in her despair! It well may be, That Thou wouldst lead my spirit back to Thee, By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd, The stricken love which hath perchance ador'd A mortal in Thy place! Now let me strive With Thy strong arm no more! Forgive, forgive! Take me to peace!

And peace at last is nigh. A sign is on my brow, a token sent Th' o'erwearied dust, from home: no breeze flits by, But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent Of many mysteries.

Hark! the warning tone Deepens—its word is Death. Alone, alone, And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart, Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness, Thee, its first love!—oh! tender still, and true! Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, Tho' but a moment.

Now, with fainting frame, With soul just lingering on the flight begun, To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, I bless thee! Peace be on thy noble head, Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead! I bid this prayer survive me, and retain Its might, again to bless thee, and again! Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate Too much; too long, for my sake, desolate

Hath been thine exiled youth; but now take back, From dying hands, thy freedom, and re-track (After a few kind tears for her whose days Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send, Ev'n then, in silent hours a thought, dear friend! Down to my voiceless chamber; for thy love Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, Tho' bought with burning tears! It is the sting Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing In this cold world! What were it then, if thou, With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now? Too keen a pang!—Farewell! and yet once more, Farewell!—the passion of long years I pour Into that word: thou hear'st not,—but the wo And fervour of its tones may one day flow To thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell— We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet—Farewell!

The Bride of the Greek Isle

THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.

Fear!—I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death? A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom? * * * * * * I will not live degraded. Sardanapolus.

Come from the woods with the citron-flowers, Come with your lyres for the festal hours, Maids of bright Scio! They came, and the breeze Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas;— They came, and Eudora stood rob'd and crown'd, The bride of the morn, with her train around.

Jewels flash'd out from her braided hair, Like starry dews midst the roses there; Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, Heav'd by her heart thro' its golden zone: But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, Gleam'd from beneath her transparent veil; Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, Tho' clear as a flower which the light looks through; And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, For the aspect of woman at times too high, Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam.

She look'd on the vine at her father's door, Like one that is leaving his native shore; She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own, As it greenly wav'd by the threshold stone; She turn’d—and her mother's gaze brought back Each hue of her childhood's faded track.

Oh! hush the song, and let her tears Flow to the dream of her early years! Holy and pure are the drops that fall When the young bride goes from her father's hall; She goes unto love yet untried and new, She parts from love which hath still been true; Mute be the song and the choral strain, Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again! She wept on her mother's faithful breast, Like a babe that sobs itself to rest; She wept—yet laid her hand awhile In his that waited her dawning smile, Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less For the gush of nature's tenderness! She lifted her graceful head at last— The choking swell of her heart was past; And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.3

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

Why do I weep?—to leave the vine Whose clusters o'er me bend,— The myrtle—yet, oh! call it mine!— The flowers I lov'd to tend. A thousand thoughts of all things dear, Like shadows o'er me sweep, I leave my sunny childhood here, Oh, therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, sister! we have play'd Thro' many a joyous hour, Where the silvery green of the olive shade Hung dim o'er fount and bower. Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore, In song, in prayer, in sleep, Have been as we may be no more— Kind sister, let me weep!

I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon Must now light other feet, With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune, Thy homeward step to greet. Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, Lay tones of love so deep, Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled— I leave thee! let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee! on thy breast, Pouring out joy and wo, I have found that holy place of rest Still changeless,—yet I go! Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain, Eyes, that have watch'd my sleep! Will earth give love like yours again? Sweet mother! let me weep!

And like a slight young tree, that throws The weight of rain from its drooping boughs,

Once more she wept. But a changeful thing Is the human heart, as a mountain spring, That works its way, thro' the torrent's foam, To the bright pool near it, the lily's home! It is well!—the cloud, on her soul that lay, Hath melted in glittering drops away. Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre! She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. Mother! on earth it must still be so, Thou rearest the lovely to see them go!

They are moving onward, the bridal throng, Ye may track their way by the swells of song; Ye may catch thro' the foliage their white robes' gleam, Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream. Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed; They have light leaves around them, blue skies above, An arch for the triumph of youth and love!

II. Still and sweet was the home that stood In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood, With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread, As if from the glow of an emerald shed, Pouring thro' lime-leaves that mingled on high, Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. Citrons amidst then: dark foliage glow'd, Making a gleam round the lone abode; Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river; Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd, Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound, And brightly before it a fountain's play Flung showers thro' a thicket of glossy bay, To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane.

And thither Ianthis had brought his bride, And the guests were met by that fountain-side;

They lifted the veil from Eudora's face, It smiled out softly in pensive grace, With lips of love, and a brow serene, Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene.— Bring wine, bring odours!—the board is spread— Bring roses! a chaplet for every head! The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd On the young and fair from the world embower'd, The sun look'd not on them in that sweet shade, The winds amid scented boughs were laid; But there came by fits, thro' some wavy tree, A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea.

Hush! be still!—was that no more Than the murmur from the shore? Silence!—did thick rain-drops beat On the grass like trampling feet?— Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword! The groves are filled with a pirate-horde!

Thro' the dim olives their sabres shine;— Now must the red blood stream for wine!

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang, The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang; Under the golden-fruited boughs There were flashing poniards, and darkening brows, Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled; And the dying soon on a greensward bed.

Eudora, Eudora! thou dost not fly!— She saw but Ianthis before her lie, With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, Like a child's large tears in its hour of wo, And a gathering film in his lifted eye, That sought his young bride out mournfully.— She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, As if the passion of that fond grasp Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp.

But they tore her thence in her wild despair, The sea's fierce rovers—they left him there; They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, And on the wet violets a pile of slain, And a hush of fear thro' the summer-grove,— So clos'd the triumph of youth and love!

III. Gloomy lay the shore that night, When the moon, with sleeping light, Bath'd each purple Sciote hill,— Gloomy lay the shore, and still. O'er the wave no gay guitar Sent its floating music far; No glad sound of dancing feet Woke, the starry hours to greet. But a voice of mortal wo, In its changes wild or low, Thro' the midnight's blue repose, From the sea-beat rocks arose.

As Eudora's mother stood Gazing o'er th' Egean flood, With a fix'd and straining eye— Oh! was the spoilers' vessel nigh? Yes! there, becalm'd in silent sleep, Dark and alone on a breathless deep, On a sea of molten silver dark, Brooding it frown'd that evil bark! There its broad pennon a shadow cast, Moveless and black from the tall still mast, And the heavy sound of its flapping sail, Idly and vainly wooed the gale. Hush'd was all else had ocean's breast Rock'd e'en Eudora that hour to rest?

To rest?—the waves tremble!—what piercing cry Bursts from the heart of the ship on high? What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire, Shoots from the deck up? Fire! 'tis fire!

There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow; There are shout, and signal-gun, and call, And the dashing of water, but fruitless all! Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame The might and wrath of the rushing flame! It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake, That coils up a tree from a dusky brake; It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvass rolls Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls; It hath taken the flag's high place in air, And redden'd the stars with its wavy glare, And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee, To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea. The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow— Eudora, Eudora! where, where art thou? The slave and his master alike are gone.— Mother! who stands on the deck alone? The child of thy bosom!—and lo! a brand Blazing up high in her lifted hand!

And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare, And her fragile form to its loftiest height Dilated, as if by the spirit's might, And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught,— Oh! could this work be of woman wrought? Yes! 'twas her deed!—by that haughty smile It was her’s!—She hath kindled her funeral pile! Never might shame on that bright head be, Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her free.

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride On the pyre with the holy dead beside; But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear, As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near, And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain To the form they must never infold again.

One moment more, and her hands are clasp'd, Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp’d,

Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd, And her last look rais'd thro' the smoke's dim shroud, And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move— Now the night gathers o'er youth and love!*

The Switzer's Wife

THE SWITZER'S WIFE.

Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with which the Austrian Bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appearance of wealth and comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been of an heroic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate with his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland was finally delivered.

THE SWITZER'S WIFE.

Nor look nor tone revealeth aught Save woman's quietness of thought; And yet around her is a light Of inward majesty and might. M. J. J.

Wer solch ein herz an seinen Busen drückt, Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten. Willholm Tell.

It was the time when children bound to meet Their father's homeward step from field or hill, And when the herd's returning bells are sweet In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still, And the last note of that wild horn swells by, Which haunts the exile's heart with melody.

And lovely smil'd full many an Alpine home. Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour, Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam, And pierced its lattice thro' the vine-hung bower; But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, Then first look'd mournful in its green repose.

For Werner sat beneath the linden-tree, That sent its lulling whispers through his door, Ev'n as man sits whose heart alone would be With some deep care, and thus can find no more Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings, Gathering a household with her quiet wings.

His wife stood hush'd before him,—sad, yet mild In her beseeching mien; he mark'd it not. The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child Rang from the greensward round the shelter'd spot, But seem'd unheard; until at last the boy Rais'd from his heap'd up flowers a glance of joy,

And met his father's face: but then a change Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, And a quick sense of something dimly strange Brought him from play to stand beside the knee So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook; But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and said, "What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey, That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend! Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, Missing the smile from thine? Oh! cheer thee! bend To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now! Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share Of tried affection in thy secret care."

He looked up into that sweet earnest face, But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band Was loosen'd from his soul; its inmost place Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand. "Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on high The white Alps glitter'd thro' the solemn sky:

"We must speak low amidst our ancient hills And their free torrents; for the days are come When tyranny lies couch'd by forest-rills, And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, Keep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.

"The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been Upon my heritage. I sit to-night Under my household tree, if not serene, Yet with the faces best-belov'd in sight: To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee— How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see?"