AT HOME.
BY MRS. ANNA BACHE.
“Her storied lore she next applies,
Taxing her mind to aid her eyes.”
BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.
Thou lookest wearily, my love, but now the toil some day
Is over, and the quiet eve its labors shall repay.
Come, I will pull the sofa round, and pile the cushions higher,
And Gheber-like, thou shalt adore this comfort-beaming fire.
How shall I pet thee, weary one?—I love to tend on thee;
Shall I sit here, and let thee rest thy head upon my knee?
I will not light the tapers yet—I like this pleasant gloom,
With the red blaze at intervals illumining the room,
Reflected in thy sparkling eye, and gleaming on thy brow:
My prized, my own, my only one, how lovely look’st thou now!
What happiness to gaze on thee! after the bitter years
Of absence and uncertainty, of solitude and tears.
Rememberest thou those dear, dear nights, so very long ago,
When love was younger, (not more true,) those nights of frost and snow,
When thou didst make, through storm and shower, thy pilgrimage to me?
Rememberest thou the forest walks, and the large willow tree,
And the white wild-flowers? I should like that dear old place to see.
What say’st thou, love?—a story, such as I told thee then.
What shall it be?—thou dost not want the old ones o’er again.
I’ve told thee all the tales I know, of witch and fairy lore,
Though, since we parted, I have read at least a thousand more.
Yet thoughts of thee, my absent one, so occupied my brain,
Few traces of their incidents in memory remain.
Shall I tell of Lady Eva and the brave Sir Agilthorn,
The Brother Knights of Lombardy, the Fate of Adelmorn,
The Legend of Sir Lancelot, the Fairy of the Well,
Sir Ethelberg of Brittany, the Quest of Jorindell?
Oh! glorious days of chivalry, what can with them compare?—
When all the cavaliers were brave, and all the ladies fair;
When hero-hands won tender hearts, and deeds of bold emprize
Were paid with lays from minstrels’ lutes and looks from ladies’ eyes.
Aye! love was worth the having then, and worth the giving too,
When knightly honor deem’d it shame to proffer vows untrue,
And nought but nature’s nobleness could beauty’s pride subdue.
Alas! the “march of intellect” has crush’d these fairy bowers,
Our heroes dress in good broadcloth, and courtship’s years are hours.
Yet still from Love’s celestial fount some honeyed waters fall,
Else were the cup of earthly life but an unmingled gall.
And if thou’lt listen to a tale of modern love and wo,
I’ll tell thee a true story, dear, that chanc’d not long ago.
The ship had quitted the glittering bay,
And graceful sped on her ocean way.
Stern eyes grew sad, as their native land
Sunk from the view of the convict band.
O’er tree and tower, and fortress wall,
O’er slender spire and steeple tall,
Distance drew her veil of haze;
One, one lingering tear-fraught gaze,
Earnest dwelt on the fading shore,
That fled from those eyes for evermore.
There was one cry, as if long-pent grief
Mastered resolve, and sought relief.
One indrawn gasp of the struggling breath—
And the lip that drew it seemed still’d in death.
They rais’d from the deck that senseless form,
And even those crime-chill’d hearts grew warm
With pity. They put back her raven hair,
Bar’d her white neck to the cool sea air,
And dash’d the spray on her forehead fair;
Till slowly unclos’d her languid eyes,
And Death relinquish’d his half-won prize.
· · · · ·
“So young, so lovely, are thine a face
And form for the brand of black disgrace?
So innocent seeming—can it be true
Thou art justly one of yon loathsome crew,
Whose savage ire, and more savage glee,
Mingle guilt, doom, and misery?”
“Oh! ask me, ask me not to speak
Of why I bear this felon thrall;
My senses reel, my heart grows weak,
The stain of shame is on my cheek,—
Yet would I not the past recall.
I thank thee for thy pitying care,
But must my lot unaided bear.
Enough, I unreluctant go
To banishment, disgrace, and wo.”
“Thy words are wild—I would not press
Intrusive on thy heart’s distress;
Nor do I seek thy griefs to know,
But in the hope to balm thy wo,
And point thee to that Mercy-seat,
Where penitence and pardon meet.
Heaven comfort thee, poor girl!”
——“And may
That Heaven thy words with blessings pay!
Stranger, all guilty as I seem,
Do not too harshly of me deem.
’Tis long since pitying word or look
To me were given—scorn I could brook;
But sympathy’s sweet accents rest
Like sunbeams on my frozen breast.”
Her bosom swell’d with choking sighs,
Her small hands hid her streaming eyes.
Those lily hands, of fairy mould,
No tale of menial usage told;
That slender youthful shape, though clad
In homely weeds, rare graces had;
And when stern effort had suppress’d
The grief that shook her throbbing breast,
Apart the veiling curls she flung,
That o’er her face dishevelled hung.
Though tear-strain’d, pale, and worn with care,
Surpassing loveliness was there;
And when she met the earnest eye
Of kind, yet dubious scrutiny,
O’er her chill paleness, rushing came
From breast to brow the crimson shame.
—“My father bears a noble name,
My birth-place was a lordly hall;
In that proud hall an orphan dwelt,
’Tis no new tale—when young hearts melt
And mingle, weak is Reason’s thrall,
Fear’s whisper, Duty’s thunder-call,
Alike unheard, unheeded all.
Oh! lov’d, though unrelenting sire,
Thou dost forget, in thy stern ire
Against the daughter once so dear,
Thyself didst bring temptation near.
I was a bride, a happy bride,
My gentle Malcolm’s joy and pride.
Though poverty was in our cot,
Love dwelt there, and we fear’d her not.
But sickness came—our daily toil
Alone had fed life’s lamp with oil.
O’er my poor Malcolm’s feverish bed
I watch’d all night, then sleepless sped
To labor for our wants. Oh! why
Did Heaven forbid us both to die?
The sleepless night, the scant repast,
The toilsome day—this could not last;
Unknown, uncar’d for, by his side
Sickening I lay, and Malcolm tried,
While yet pale cheek and tottering limb
Told how disease had prey’d on him,
His hireling task to ply.
Alas! the eager will in vain
Struggled with lassitude and pain;
Desperate, he sought his home again
To see his Marian die.
From fearful dreams I frenzied woke;
As famish’d nature crav’d, I spoke.
Unconscious of his soothings meek,
Of the hot tears that bath’d my cheek,
I pray’d for food. He could not bear
The wo of that delirious prayer;
He went, return’d—with gold he came—
But branded with a robber’s name.
They tore him from my wild embrace,
They dragg’d him to a prison cell;
I sought him in that fearful place,
I gaz’d once more upon his face,
Exchang’d one sad farewell—
And then, a crime-stain’d exile, he
Was sent to dwell beyond the sea.
Then, then, I was indeed alone—
Sense, duty, reason, all were gone,
Life was one racking sense of pain,
One only thought dwelt in my brain,
To see my victim-love again.
To soothe his grief, support his care,
His shame, his punishment, to share.
But how, from whom assistance claim?
Banish’d, disown’d—my very name
Forbidden to my father’s ear,
Would he my plaint or purpose hear?
Friendless and poor—one desperate thought
Amid my wilder’d musings wrought.
If mine the crime, the sentence too,
Whisper’d the demon. Oh! how few
Of those who bask in fortune’s glare,
Can fancy poverty’s despair!
On splendor’s gilded couch reclin’d,
With luxury-sated frame and mind,
They talk of labor and content,
And o’er the snares of wealth lament.
Oh! could they for brief time endure
The legion temptings of the poor,
Their fiery trial once gone o’er,
They’d mourn the snares of wealth no more.
—I spurn’d the sinful thought away,
I wept, I knelt, I strove to pray;
But Heaven is deaf to rebel prayer,
And mine sent no submission there.
Day after day crept torturing by,
And brought no hope, no comfort nigh.
Should I the penance seek to shun,
For whom the guilty deed was done?—
The urging fiend was at mine ear,
Maddening with sorrow, love, and fear,
’Twas done, detected—I am here.”
· · · · ·
Her haven the stately ship has won,
The convict crew to their toils have gone.
There’s a grove of palms in that southern isle,
Through their coronaled tops the moonbeams smile
On a fairy hut, where vine-boughs throw
Their cluster’d wealth o’er the lattice low,
And dim the silvery rays that pour
Their brightness aslant the humble floor.
Hark!—the accents of weeping prayer
Upon the vesper stillness glide;
The voices are yonder hut within,
They plead for pardon, and mourn for sin—
There Marian kneels at Malcolm’s side.
Now for the moral of my tale.—Although of heavenly birth,
Love sometimes deigns to fold his wings, and find a home on earth.
He strengthens woman’s hand to deeds that make the warrior quail,
He raises woman’s mind to thoughts that turn stout manhood pale;
The feeble frame, the fearful heart, for him grow strong, to brave
The tempest or the battle-field, the desert or the grave;
He led poor Malcolm’s faithful bride across the stormy sea:
So loves fond woman’s martyr-heart—so, dearest, love I thee.
The above poem is founded on an anecdote which appeared some years ago in an English gazette.