V.
Sickening and faint, he gain'd the outer air,
Reach'd the still lake, and saw the master there;
Listless lay Ruthven, droopingly the boughs
Veil'd from the daylight melancholy brows;
Listless he lay, and with indifferent eye
Watch'd the wave darken as the cloud swept by.
The father bounded to the idler's side— }
"Awake, cold guardian of a soul!" he cried; }
"Why, sworn to cherish, fail'st thou ev'n to guide?" }
"Why?" echoed Ruthven's heart—his eye shot flame—
"Dare she complain, or he presume to blame?"
Thus ran the thought, he spoke not;—silent long
As Pride kept back the angry burst of wrong.
At length he rose, shook off the hand that prest,
And calmly said, "I listen for the rest—
Whatever charge be in thy words convey'd,
Speak;—I will answer when the charge is made!"
VI.
Like many an offspring of our Saxon clime,
Who makes one seven-day labour-week of time,
Who deems reprieve a sloth, repose a dearth,
And strikes the Sabbath of the soul from earth;
In Seaton's life the Adam-curse was strong;
He loved each wind that whirl'd the sails along;
He loved the dust that wrapt the hurrying wheel;
And, form'd to act, but rarely paused to feel.
Thus men who saw him move among mankind,
Saw the hard purpose and the scheming mind,
And the skill'd steering of a sober brain,
Prudence the compass and the needle gain.
But now, each layer of custom swept away,
The Man's great nature leapt into the day:
He stretch'd his arms, and terrible and wild,
His voice went forth—"I gave thee, Man, my child;
I gave her young and innocent—a thing
Fresh from the Heaven, no stain upon its wing;
One form'd to love, and to be loved, and now
(Few moons have faded since the solemn vow)
How do I find thou hast discharged the trust?
Account!—nay, frown not—to thy God thou must,
Pale, wretched, worn, and dying: Ruthven, still
These lips should bless thee, couldst thou only kill.
But is that all?—Death is a holy name,
Tears for the dead dishonour not!—but Shame!
O blind, to bid her every hour compare
With thine his love—with thy contempt his care!
Yea, if the light'ning blast thee, I, the Sire,
Tell thee thy heart of steel attracts the fire;
Hadst thou but loved her, that meek soul I know—
Know all"—His passion falter'd in its flow;
He paused an instant, then before the feet
Of Ruthven fell. "Have mercy! Save her yet!
Take back thy gold: say, did I not endure,
And can again, the burthen of the poor?
But she—the light, pride, angel, of my life—
God speaks in me—O husband, save thy wife!"
VII.
"Save! and from whom, old Man?" Yet, as he spoke,
A gleam of horror on his senses broke;
"From whom? What! know'st thou not who made the first,
Though fading fancy, youth's warm visions nurst?
This Harcourt—this"—he stopp'd abrupt—appall'd!
Those words how gladly had his lips recall'd;
For at the words—the name—all life seem'd gone
From Ruthven's image:—as a shape of stone,
Speechless and motionless he stood! At length
The storm suspended burst in all its strength:
"And this to me—at last to me!" he cried,
"Thine be the curse, who hast love to hate allied:
Why, when my life on that one hope I cast,
Why didst thou chain my future to her past—
Why not a breath to say, 'She loved before;
Pause yet to question, if the love be o'er!'
Didst thou not know how well I loved her—how
Worthy the Altar was the holy vow?
That in the wildest hour my suit had known,
Hadst thou but said, 'Her heart is not her own,'
Thou hadst left the chalice with a taste of sweet?
I—I had brought the Wanderer to her feet—
Had seen those eyes through grateful softness shine,
Nor turn'd—O God!—with loathing fear from mine;
And from the sunshine of her happy breast
Drawn one bright memory to console the rest!—
But now, thy work is done—till now, methought,
There was one plank to which the shipwreck'd caught.
Forbearance—patience might obtain at last
The distant haven—see! the dream is past—
She loves another! In that sentence—hark
The crowning thunder!—the last gleam is dark;
Time's wave on wave can but the more dissever;
The world's vast space one void for ever and for ever!"
VIII.
Humbled from all his anger, and too late
Convinced whose fault had shaped the daughter's fate,
The father heard; and in his hands he veil'd
His face abash'd, and voice to courage fail'd;
For how excuse—and how console? And so,
As when the tomb shuts up the ended woe,
Over that burst of anguish closed the drear
Abyss of silence—sound's chill sepulchre!
At length he dared the timorous looks to raise,
But gone the form on which he fear'd to gaze.
Calm at his feet the wave crept murmuring;
Calm sail'd the cygnet with its folded wing;
Gently above his head the lime-tree stirr'd,
The green leaves rustling to the restless bird;
But he who, in the beautiful of life,
Alone with him should share the heart at strife,
Had left him there to the earth's happy smile—
Ah! if the storms within earth's calmness could beguile!
IX.
With a swift step, and with disorder'd mind,
Through which one purpose still its clue could find,
Lord Ruthven sought his home. "Yes, mine no more,"
So mused his soul, "to hope or to deplore;
No more to watch the heart's Aurora break
O'er that loved face, the light to life to speak—
No more, without a weakness that degrades,
Can Fancy steal from Truth's eternal shades!
Yes, we must part! But if one holier thought
Still guards that shrine my fated footstep sought,
Perchance, at least, I yet her soul may save,
And leave her this one hope—a husband's grave!"