Summer and Winter Hours

Front matter

SUMMER AND WINTER HOURS.

BY

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.

The Uncle

POEMS.

POEMS.

THE UNCLE.—A MYSTERY.

I had an uncle once—a man Of three score years and three— And when my reason's dawn began, He'd take me on his knee, And often talk whole winter nights Things that seem'd strange to me.

He was a man of gloomy mood, And few his converse sought; But, it was said, in solitude His conscience with him wrought, And there, before his mental eye, Some hideous vision brought.

There was not one in all the house Who did not fear his frown, Save I, a little careless child, Who gambol'd up and down, And often peep'd into his room, And pluck'd him by the gown.

I was an orphan and alone— My father was his brother, And all their lives I knew that they Had fondly loved each other; And in my uncle's room there hung The picture of my mother.

There was a curtain over it; 'Twas in a darken'd place, And few or none had ever look'd Upon my mother's face, Or seen her pale, expressive smile Of melancholy grace.

One night I do remember well— The wind was howling high,

And through the ancient corridors It sounded drearily— I sat and read in that old hall, My uncle sat close by.

I read, but little understood The words upon the book, For with a side-long glance I mark'd My uncle's fearful look, And saw how all his quivering frame In strong convulsions shook.

A silent terror o'er me stole, A strange unusual dread; His lips were white as bone, his eyes Sunk far down in his head; He gazed on me, but 'twas the gaze Of the unconscious dead.

Then suddenly he turn'd him round And drew aside the veil That hung before my mother's face— Perchance my eyes might fail,

But ne'er before that face to me Had seem'd so ghastly pale.

"Come hither, boy!" my uncle said,— I started at the sound, 'Twas choked and stifled in his throat, And hardly utterance found,— "Come hither, boy!" then fearfully He cast his eyes around.

"That lady was thy mother once, Thou wert her only child— O God! I've seen her when she held Thee in her arms, and smiled,— She smiled upon thy father, boy, 'Twas that which drove me wild!

"He was my brother, but his form Was fairer far than mine; I grudged not that,—he was the prop Of our ancestral line, And manly beauty was to him A token and a sign.

"Boy! I had loved her too,—nay more, 'Twas I who loved her first; For months—for years—the golden thought Within my soul was nurst; He came—he conquer'd—they were wed— My air-blown bubble burst!

"Then on my mind a shadow fell, And evil hopes grew rife; The damning thought stuck in my heart And cut me like a knife, That she, whom all my days I loved, Should be another's wife!

"By Heaven! it was a fearful thing To see my brother now, And mark the placid calm which sat For ever on his brow, That seem'd in bitter scorn to say, 'I am more loved than thou!'

"I left my home—I left the land— I cross'd the raging sea;

In vain, in vain—where'er I turn'd My memory went with me; My whole existence, night and day, In memory seem'd to be.

"I came again, I found them here— Thou'rt like thy father, boy— He doated on that pale face there; I've seen them kiss and toy,— I've seen him lock'd in her fond arms, Wrapt in delirious joy.

"He disappear'd—draw nearer, child!— He died—no one knew how; The murder'd body ne'er was found; The tale is hush'd up now; But there was one who rightly guess'd The hand that struck the blow.

"It drove her mad; yet not his death,— No—not his death alone; For she had clung to hope when all Knew well that there was none,—

No, boy! it was a sight she saw That froze her into stone!

"I am thy uncle, child—why stare So frightfully aghast?— The arras waves, but know'st thou not 'Tis nothing but the blast? I too have had my fears like these, But such vain fears are past.

"I'll show thee what thy mother saw,— I feel 'twill ease my breast, And this wild tempest-laden night Suits with the purpose best.— Come hither—Thou hast often sought To open this old chest:

"It has a secret spring, the touch Is known to me alone; Slowly the lid is raised, and now— What see you that you groan So heavily?—that thing is but A bare-ribb'd skeleton."

A sudden crash—the lid fell down— Three strides he backwards gave,— "O God! it is my brother's self Returning from the grave! His grasp of lead is on my throat— Will no one help or save?"

That night they laid him on his bed In raving madness tost; He gnash'd his teeth, and with wild oaths Blasphemed the Holy Ghost; And, ere the light of morning broke, A sinner's soul was lost!

Mary Queen of Scots

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

Elle etait de ce monde ou les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin. Malherbe.

I look'd far back into the past, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages pass'd away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls; And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow past, And, all around, the noon-day sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn. And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please;

And little reck'd they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers, That Scotland knew no prouder names—held none more dear than theirs; And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine, Of royal blood, and high descent from the ancient Stuart line: Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And, as they flew, they left behind a long continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court-the gay court of Bourbon— And, 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng; And proudly kindles Henry's eye, well pleased, I ween, to see The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry: Gray Montmorency, o'er whose head has pass'd a storm of years, Strong in himself and children, stands, the first among his peers; And next the Guises, who so well fame's steepest heights assail'd, And walk'd ambition's diamond ridge, where bravest hearts have fail'd,— And higher yet their path shall be, and stronger wax their might, For before them Montmorency's star shall pale its waning light;

Next Louis Prince of Condé wears his all-unconquer'd sword, With great Coligni by his side,—each name a household word! And there walks she of Medici—that proud Italian line, The mother of a race of kings—the haughty Catharine! The forms that follow in her train a glorious sunshine make— A milky way of stars that grace a comet's glittering wake: But fairer far than all the rest, who bask on fortune's tide, Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride! Woodlandersv2p144The homage of a thousand hearts—the fond deep love of one— The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun,— They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek, They sparkle on her open brow, and high-soul'd joy bespeak. Ah! who shall blame if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours, She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

No marvel that the lady wept,—there was no land on earth She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth: It was her mother's land—the land of childhood and of friends— It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends— The land where her dead husband slept—the land where she had known The tranquil convent's hush'd repose, and the splendours of a throne: No marvel that the lady wept,—it was the land of France- The chosen home of chivalry-the garden of romance! The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her bark; The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark! One gaze again—one long last gaze,—"Adieu, fair France, to thee!" The breeze comes forth-she is alone on the unconscious sea.

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, And, in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood, Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, That seem'd to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanch'd her cheek, her smile was sadder now; The weight of royalty had press'd too heavy on her brow; And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field; The Stuart sceptre well she sway'd, but the sword she could not wield. She thought of all her blighted hopes—the dreams of youth's brief day— And summon'd Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel play The songs she loved in early years,—the songs of gay Navarre, The songs, perchance, that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar: They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles, They won her thoughts from bigot zeal, and fierce domestic broils— But hark! the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' battle-cry! They come, they come! and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hollow eye! And swords are drawn, and daggers gleam, and tears and words are vain, The ruffian steel is in his heart—the faithful Rizzio's slain! Then Mary Stuart brush'd aside the tears that trickling fell; "Now for my father's arm!" she said, "my woman's heart, farewell!"

The scene was changed. It was a lake, with one small lonely isle, And there, within the prison walls of its baronial pile, Stern men stood menacing their queen, till she should stoop to sign The traitorous scroll that snatch'd the crown from her ancestral line: "My lords, my lords!" the captive cried, "were I but once more free, With ten good knights on yonder shore, to aid my cause and me, That parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows, And once more reign, a Stuart queen, o'er my remorseless foes!" A red spot burn'd upon her cheek, stream'd her rich tresses down; She wrote the words—she stood erect—a queen without a crown!

The scene was changed. A royal host a royal banner bore, And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling queen once more: She staid her steed upon a hill, she saw them marching by, She heard their shouts, she read success in every flashing eye; The tumult of the strife begins—it roars—it dies away; And Mary's troops and banners now, and courtiers—where are they?

Scatter'd, and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone— O God! to see what she has lost, and think what guilt has won! Away! away! thy gallant steed must act no laggard's part; Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bear the arrow in thy heart.

The scene was changed. Beside the block a sullen headsman stood, And gleam'd the broad axe in his hand that soon must drip with blood. With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall, And breathless silence chain'd the lips, and touch'd the hearts of all; Rich were the sable robes she wore, her white veil round her fell, And from her neck there hung the cross—that cross she loved so well! I knew that queenly form again, though blighted was its bloom— I saw that grief had deck'd it out,—an offering for the tomb! I knew the eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone; I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrill'd with every tone;

I knew the ringlets, almost gray, once threads of living gold; I knew that bounding grace of step, that symmetry of mould Even now I see her far away, in that calm convent aisle, I hear her chant her vesper-hymn, I mark her holy smile,— Even now I see her bursting forth, upon her bridal morn, A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born! Alas, the change! she placed her foot upon a triple throne, And on the scaffold now she stands—beside the block, alone! The little dog that licks her hand, the last of all the crowd Who sunn'd themselves beneath her glance, and round her footsteps bow'd! Her neck is bared—the blow is struck—the soul has pass'd away; The bright—the beautiful—is now a bleeding piece of clay!— A solemn text! Go, think of it, in silence and alone, Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne!

To One I Love

TO ONE I LOVE.

Flowers make me think of thee— Thou hast a deep and gentle love for flowers, Those golden children of the summer sun; Their beauty and their innocence appeal, With a soft magic, to thy happy heart, And, in their dewy fragrance, there doth dwell A spirit like thine own, unseen and pure, For ever yielding to the perfumed air A richness like the breathings of fond love, When, as a flower, the proud high heart of man Is faint beneath the fulness of its joy— Flowers make me think of thee!

Streams make me think of thee— Whether they glide midst mossy banks away, In sweet low murmurings, to the distant main,

Or, with a prattling merriment, dance on In mazy windings o'er the pebbled strand. Heaven bless the streams! They are like sunny days In life's long winter. Not a tone have they That speaks not to my heart, and there awakes An answering echo of remember'd joy! And with remember'd joy is ever link'd Thy queenly form, thy light elastic tread, Thy voice, that, like the wimpling crystal, falls In silvery clearness on affection's ear— Streams make me think of thee!

Hills make me think of thee— The lights and shadows that alternate blend, Until the eye rests dazzled in the blaze Of purple splendour, flooding the high peak, Illumine all my soul, so that it glows A temple, dearest! not unworthy thee! Hills are creation's gift to our own land, The peerless feature of its scenery! If love of nature and of country be Man's best prerogative, how can I feel Their value as I ought, unless there rush Into my heart thy image blent with theirs?— Hills make me think of thee!

Stars make me think of thee— Beneath the silence of their holy beam, The bosom hath its own thoughts to itself— Thoughts which through all the day unheeded slept, Lost midst the cares and false lights of the world; But, in the hush of evening, they return, Like Sabbath music to a sacred shrine; And in their presence there is deep delight, Devotion, and revival of old hopes That long lay crush'd, and recollections bright, And feelings to be cherish'd, but not told: Small is that sister band of starry thoughts, But one is in itself a galaxy— Stars make me think of thee!

When think I not of thee?— Nor flowers, nor hills, nor streams, nor stars alone, Recall thee to a heart, in which thou liv'st As perfume in the flower, light in the stream, Beauty in hills, and God himself in stars! I take thee with me wheresoe'er I go, And in my spirit's wildest flights thy form, As in a morning dream, shines by my side! At home, abroad, alone, or in a crowd, When think I not of thee?

The Death-Watch

THE DEATH-WATCH.

Scene.—An antique chamber in a solitary castle.

Leave me. To-night I'll watch the corpse alone. Set the lamp there, that its faint light may rest On this pale face. Fold back the winding-sheet. Lay the white arm above the sable pall. 'Tis cold and stiff. Thou tremblest, boy! Perchance Thou never look'dst on death before? Away! It is no sight for thee. Hie thee to bed, And let me hear thy footsteps as they pass Along the corridor.

+2>So, he is gone; And thou and I remain; I as I am, Thou in the stiff rigidity of death,— A thing of solemn and mysterious meaning. Silence is round us; but it is not yet The appointed hour. At midnight thou wilt come To animate again this inert clay;

And, if the laws that govern thee permit, Impart to me a sign, that I may know We yet shall meet hereafter. In this world We grew together, like two trees that twine Their branches into one; and, if to die Be but to pass away to other realms, Be they of light or darkness, our twin souls Will there be found united.

O God! It is a fearful thing to see The strong man stretch'd upon the bed of death, Writhing in agony beneath the grasp Of unseen power. Even as its victim strives To shake the tiger from its throat, he strives Against the shadowy tyrant. And yet why? If death be but the herald to a state Of alter'd being, why should nature shrink With horror from his touch? Alas! look there, And thou art answer'd. In those stiffening limbs— That cold blank piece of nothingness—a weight Of passive matter destined for the worms— What can we read of immortality? If this be what we loved, is that black box, And the damp earth, a fit receptacle? Has not the light of life been in those eyes?

The eloquence of health upon those cheeks? The grace of action in those manly limbs? The dignity of virtue on that brow?— Thoughts! thoughts! ye madden me.

How still is this lone hour! The lamp burns feebly, And casts a flickering shadow on the dead. Hark! from a distant turret midnight sounds— Now, heart, be firm! I'll gaze upon the corpse, And move not, breathe not, till it look on me. The wind is up, and murmurs moaningly; I hear it in the corridor. Ha!—no!— That slow and measured tread is something more. The corpse! the corpse! it is not where it lay. The door is opening. How those eyeballs glare! Oh! Heaven and Earth! 'Tis he as when he lived! But wan, and sad, and changed—changed though the same. The lamp expires. His breath, his touch are on me; And lo! I see him in the darkness still,— The dead cannot become invisible! It speaks not, stirs not, but strange meanings flit Across its pallid countenance. And now— Just powers! this is too horrible!

The Scarf of Gold and Blue

THE SCARF OF GOLD AND BLUE.

A BALLAD.

"God speed thee, Eustace D'Argencourt! be brave as thou art true, And wear this scarf I wove for thee—this scarf of gold and blue!" He bent his knee, he kiss'd her hand, and fervently he swore, That, till his sword had lost its might, till life's last pulse was o'er, That scarf should never part from him, in tournament or fight; That scarf should be his pride by day, his dream of joy by night: Then bounded he upon his steed, and, with one parting glance, Forth rode Sir Eustace D'Argencourt, the bravest knight in France!

Scarce had he ridden one short week, one short week and a day, When he was aware of twelve Spanish knights, all bent to cross his way;

Then his squire unto Sir Eustace said, "I pray thee, turn thy steed, For little hope is left us now, save in our coursers' speed." "And think'st thou, craven-hearted squire," Sir D'Argencourt replied, "That I have ever turn'd my steed, because a foe I spied? Twelve Spaniards are there in the field, and we are only two, But wear I not my lady's scarf—her scarf of gold and blue?"

Then up rode Don Pedrillo, and tauntingly spoke he,— "I envy thee thy fortune, Knight, whate'er thy name may be, For if thou 'rt slain by my right hand, a happy death thou❜lt die." Sir Eustace placed his lance in rest, but deign'd him no reply. As thunder rides on lightning's wings, he rode on his good steed, And soon beneath his charger's feet he saw Pedrillo bleed. Then up came Garcia Perez, Don Carlos by his side, "O, dearly shalt thou rue, Sir Knight, thy self-deceiving pride!" Sir Eustace stroked his gallant Barb, and, with a sudden bound, Hurled Garcia Perez from his seat, sore mangled, on the ground; Then turning on Don Carlos, like a lion in his wrath, He stretch'd him with one desperate blow all stiff across his path.

Nine Spaniards still remain'd behind, but motionless they stood, And look'd with silent wonder on the young knight's hardihood; "Come one—come all!" Sir Eustace cried; "I neither yield nor fly; But, for the Lady Isabel, or you or I must die!" Then the Count Alcaras recognized Sir Eustace D'Argencourt, His favour'd rival in the love of Isabel D'Etours; And on he urged his coward friends, and as a cloud they came: "Base traitors!" shouted D'Argencourt, "how can ye fight, for shame! Such odds were never seen before—nine armed men 'gainst one! God guard thee, Lady Isabel—my race of life is run!"

Yet fiercely did Sir Eustace fight, and fast flow'd Spanish gore, Till the Count Alcaras came behind—he dared not come before— And stabb'd that brave Knight in the back—a false, dishonest blow. Sir Eustace turn'd him round, and fix'd one long gaze on his foe, Then feeble fell his gallant arm, and clouds swam round his head, And the Spaniards raised a joyful shout, for they thought Sir Eustace dead.

They bound his arms behind his back, they tied him to a tree, And beside him stuck his broken lance, in graceless mockery. "And now, Sir Knight," Alcaras cried, "I'll wear that gewgaw too; Methinks I guess who wove this scarf—this scarf of gold and blue. Away! my friends, there's little breath in proud Sir D'Argencourt, Away! my friends, I'll win her yet—fair Isabel D'Etours!"

Bright shines the sun upon the waves—the waves of blue Garonne, But brighter shine those diamond eyes within the lists at Roussilon; And trumpets sound, and banners stream, and chargers gallop round, And noble hearts beat quick for praise, with many an aching bound. But who is she, who wins all looks, for whom all ride the ring, To gain a smile of whose dark eye were glory for a king? Ha! did you mark that sudden blush—that deadly paleness next; Know you the Knight on whom her glance so eagerly is fix'd?

It is the Count Alcaras! for his Spanish crest she knew, But why wears he that plighted scarf—that scarf of gold and blue?

"I took it, lady," boastingly, the crafty Spaniard said, "From one I forced to yield beneath my more victorious blade; He gave it me with right good will, his life was all he sought— Too cheaply with the coward's death so rich a prize I bought" "Now, by St Louis! braggart base?" fair Isabel replied, "I tell thee in thy craven teeth, that loudly thou hast lied!" Then bared she straight her snow-white hand, and down she threw her glove, "Oh! is there any knight who here, for honour or for love, Will make the Count Alcaras his unhallow'd falsehood rue, And win me back that well-known scarf—that scarf of gold and blue?"

A hundred swords leap'd forth at once to do her proud behest, A hundred lords were at her feet, a hundred spears in rest; But she has singled from them all that solitary Knight, Who wears his coal-black vizor down, nor yet has proved his might.

The heralds sound the onset, and they meet with deadly shock— The Count has fallen from his horse, the Knight sits as a rock: But when he saw Alcaras down, he staid not on his steed, And when he saw Alcaras' lance was shiver'd as a reed, Away, without one word, the Knight that instant cast his own; And forth he drew his glorious sword, that as a sunbeam shone, And with one blow he cleft the casque the Spaniard proudly wore, And with the next struck off the arm on which the scarf he bore; Then thrice he kiss'd that well-won scarf—that scarf of gold and blue, And raised his vizor as he knelt to her he found so true: O! dearly was that scarf beloved by Sir Eustace D'Argencourt, But dearer far the prize he won in Isabel D'Etours!

The Tale of the Desolate

THE TALE OF THE DESOLATE.

The mark of Cain is on my brow, And in my soul a deeper curse, And 'tis with scorn that even now I weave my feelings into verse; For what has verse with them to do? Or why should song of mine reveal Thoughts foreign to the vulgar crew, Who yelp round genius' chariot wheel?

Yet gushingly the song rolls on; The tale of passion and of guilt Assumes, untaught, a loftier tone, And on the page, like blood-drops spilt, The fierce words glare before mine eyes, And bounds my pulse, and throbs my brain; And in my ears a deep voice cries,— "The past! the past!—it comes again!"

I tell not of her peerless charms,— By me—by all—their spell was felt; They might have roused a world to arms, And round her conquerors would have knelt: I tell not of the queenlike grace Endiadem'd upon her brow; Why waste weak words? I see her face— O God! it shines upon me now!

And what was I?—In outward form An abject and a vulgar thing; For o'er me, like a darkening storm, Pale ugliness sat gibbering; And if the mind within redeem'd Its outer case—its worthless shrine— They knew it not,—it never gleam'd Through features so deform'd as mine.

Yet there were moments, fraught with pride, When I have felt my inward power; And walk'd erect with haughty stride, As if bold beauty was my dower;

And often, with a glistening eye, "Shall mind," I taught myself to say, "A portion of eternity, Bow down before the idol clay?"

'Twas well,—they own'd my mental might; Yet not the less they pass'd me by; Or, when I join'd their revels light, They look'd with cold averted eye— All except her,—she sought me out; She ever met me with a smile— Heaven! how I scorn'd the rabble rout, Whom I had envied so erewhile!

True, true, most true! I dared not think, But wildly drank the poisoning cup; I stood upon the dizzy brink, And gave myself to madness up. Oh! never mortal loved as I! Love! 'tis a word profaned and vain; It was a rapturous agony— 'Twas burning tears that fell like rain.

But did she love me? Does the sun Love the base worm its heat brings forth? Could she—the bright—the glorious one— On me bestow—by Heaven! there's mirth— A horrid mirth in such a thought!— On me bestow her world of light, With all its starry glories fraught, – On me,—a thing of hopeless night?

"Twas only pity!—Burst my brain! That damning thought! she pitied me! The common boon each wretch might gain, Was all that she had given to me! 'Twas charity—ay, call it that— In charity her smiles she gave, As bounty to the beggar's brat, Whom gold from penury may save!

She loved another!—They were wed: I saw the bridal train, and stood A breathing corpse—a form of lead— They left me to my solitude:

I started wildly from my trance, In handfuls tore away my hair, And, taking for my god blind Chance, I wander'd forth—I know not where.

My life became a feverish dream— I think, I sought a foreign land, And saw strange faces round me gleam, And join'd an outlaw's roaming band: I got inured to scenes of blood, Yet can I not remember how; Upon my mind there fell a cloud, And that same cloud is on it now.

I've sat on rocks alone at night, And howl'd to every wind that blew; I've pray'd that there might fall a blight Upon my head, instead of dew: I've made my haunt with desert beasts, And loved to see their gory fangs; I've mingled with them at their feasts, And watch'd their victims' dying pangs.

Years pass'd, and left with me no track, Save such as marks uncertain dreams; At length it chanced I wander'd back, And look'd, and saw my native streams: I saw her house!—the setting sun Had bathed it in a holy calm; My mood was changed; and, one by one, Thoughts stole into my heart like balm.

I ventured near. Beneath a tree A sad and gray-hair'd man I spied; I named her name,—"Alas!" said he, "Scarce three hours since my lady died!" I look'd and trembled; but to me There was no meaning in his words; Dead!—No! that horror could not be,— I caught the voice of singing birds!

Unquestion'd and unquestioning, The house I enter'd, and I heard Nought but a hush'd low whispering, That scarce the solemn silence marr'd:

I walk'd at once into the room— The awful room in which she lay; I found her ready for the tomb,— I knelt beside the stiffen'd clay.

Tempt me no more—I dare not write— I might blaspheme the earth and sky: They buried her—I saw the sight— I know that she is dead; and I, A crazed, bewilder'd man, live on; My life a vision—heaven a dream— The soul a mist—the heart a stone— Away! things are not what they seem!