II.
I may not tell what ills o'er Edmund passed;
Enough to say that fortune smiled at last.
In the far land where the broad Ganges rolls;
Where nature's bathed in glory, and the souls
Of me alone dwell in a starless night,
While all around them glows and lives in light:
There now we find him, honoured, trusted, loved,
For from the humblest stations he had proved
Faithful in all, and trust on trust obtained,
Till, if not wealth, he independence gained—
Earth's noblest blessing, and the dearest given
To man beneath the sacred hope of heaven.
And still, as time on silent pinions flew,
His fortunes flourished and his honours grew;
But as they grew, an anxious hope, that long
Had in his bosom been but as the song
Of viewless echo, indistinct, and still
Receding from us, grew as doth a rill
Embraced by others and increasing ever,
Till distant plains confess the sweeping river.
And, need I say, that hope referred alone
To her who in his heart had fixed her throne,
And reigned within it still, the sovereign queen.
Yet darkest visions oft would flit between
His fondest fancies, as the thought returned
That she for whom his soul still restless burned,
Would be another's now, while haply he,
Lost to her heart, would to her memory be
As the remembrance of a pleasing dream,
Vague and forgotten half, but which we deem
Worthy no waking thought. Thus years rolled by;
Hope wilder glowed and brightened in his eye.
Nor knew he why he hoped; but though despair
The Enthusiast's heart may madly grasp, and glare
Even on his soul, it may not long remain
A dweller on his breast, for hope doth reign
There as o'er its inheritance; and he
Lives in fond visions of futurity.
III.
Twelve slow and chequered years had passed.—Again
A stately vessel ploughed the pathless main,
And waves and days together glided by,
Till, as a cloud on the Enthusiast's eye,
His island home rose from the ocean's breast—
A thing of strength, of glory, and of rest—
The giant of the deep!—while on his sight
Burst the blue hills, and cliffs of dazzling white—
Stronger than death! and beautiful as strong!
Kissed by the sea, and worshipped with its song!
"Home of my fathers!" the Enthusiast cried;
"Their home—ay, and their grave!" he said and sighed.
But gazing still upon its glorious strand,
Again he cried, "My own, my honoured land!
Fair freedom's home and mine! Britannia! hail!
Queen of the mighty seas; to whom each gale
From every point of heaven a tribute brings,
And on thy shores earth's farthest treasure flings!
Land of my heart and birth! at sight of thee
My spirit boundeth, like a bird set free
From long captivity! Thy very air
Is fragrant with remembrance! Thou dost bear,
On thy Herculean cliffs, the rugged seal
Of godlike Liberty! The slave might kneel
Upon thy shore, bending the willing knee,
To kiss the sacred earth that sets him free!
Even I feel freer as I reach thy shore,
And my soul mingles with the ocean's roar
That hymns around thee! Birthplace of the brave!
My own—my glorious home!—the very wave,
Rolling in strength and beauty, leaps on high,
As if rejoicing on thy beach to die!
My loved—my father-land! thy faults to me
Are as the specks which men at noontide see
Upon the blinding sun, and dwindle pale
Beneath thy virtue's and thy glory's veil.
Land of my birth! where'er thy sons may roam,
Their pride—their boast—their passport is their home!"
IV.
'Twas early spring; and winter lingered still
On the cold summit of the snow-capt hill;
The day was closing, and slow darkness stole
Over the earth as sleep steals on the soul,
Sealing the eyelids up—unconscious, slow,
Till sleep and darkness reign, and we but know,
On waking, that we slept—but may not tell;
Nor marked we when sleep's darkness on us fell.
A lonely stranger then bent anxious o'er
A rustic gate before the cottage door—
The snow-white cottage where the chestnuts grew,
And o'er its roof their arching branches threw.
It was young Edmund, gazing, through his tears,
On the now cheerless home of early years—
While as the grave of buried joys it stood,
Its white walls shadowed through the leafless wood;
The once arched woodbine waving wild and bare;
The parterre, erst the object of his care,
With early weeds o'ergrown; and slow decay
Had changed or swept all else he loved away.
Upon the sacred threshold, once his own,
He silent stood, unwelcomed and unknown;
Gazed, sighed, and turned away; then sadly strayed
To the cold, dreamless churchyard, where were laid
His parents, side by side. A change had come
O'er all that he had loved: his home was dumb,
And through the vale no accent met his ear
That he was wont in early days to hear;
While childhood's scenes fell dimly on his view,
As a dull picture of a spot we knew,
Where we but cold and lifeless forms can trace.
But no bold truth, nor one familiar face.
V.
Night sat upon the graves, like gloom to gloom,
As silent treading o'er each lowly tomb,
Thoughtful and sad, he lonely strove to trace,
Amidst the graves, his father's resting-place.
And well the spot he knew; yea, it alone
Was all now left that he might call his own
Of all that was his kindred's; and although
He looked for no proud monument to show
The tomb he sought, yet mem'ry marked the spot
Where slept his ancestors; and had it not,
He deemed—he felt—that if his feet but trode
Upon his parents' dust, the voice of God,
As it of old flashed through a prophet's breast,
Would in his bosom whisper, "Here they rest!"
'Twas an Enthusiast's thought;—but, oh! to tread,
With darkness round us, 'midst the voiceless dead,
With not an eye but Heaven's upon our face—
At such a moment, and in such a place,
Seeking the dead we love—who would not feel.
Yea, and believe as he did then, and kneel
On friend or father's grave, and kiss the sod
As in the presence of our father's God!
VI.
He reached the spot; he startled—trembled—wept;
And through his bosom wildest feelings swept.
He sought a nameless grave, but o'er the place
Where slept the generations of his race,
A marble pillar rose. "Oh Heaven!" he cried,
"Has avaricious Ruin's hand denied
The parents of my heart a grave with those
Of their own kindred?—have their ruthless foes
Grasped this last, sacred spot we called our own?
If but a weed upon that grave had grown,
I would have honoured it!—have called it brother!
Even for my father's sake, and thine, my mother!
But that cold marble freezes up my heart,
And seems to tell me that I have no part
With its proud dead; while through the veil of night
The name it bears yet mocks my anxious sight."
Thus cried he bitterly; then, trembling, placed
His finger on the marble, while he traced
Its letters one by one, and o'er and o'er;—
Grew blind with eagerness, and shook the more,
As with each touch, the feeling o'er him came—
The unseen letters formed his father's name!