One evening a social party met at Sir Philip's. Singing and dancing were going on; but Alfred was unusually dull, he could not be prevailed upon to join in any amusement. The baronet, fancying his wife's coldness might have had some influence in producing this effect, said to her in the hearing of all the party:
"My lady, was Mr. Brookbank so dull when he visited at Estcourt Hall? Did he never sing to you there?"
"Mr. Brookbank has a very fine voice," was the reply; "I have often heard him sing beautiful melodies."
"Nay, then, call upon him, in memory of 'Auld lang syne,' to sing for you, my lady; no other has the power to arouse him to-night."
Annie turned to Alfred and said in a dignified manner, "You here Sir Philip's request, Mr. Brookbank; will you consider it mine?"
Alfred started, looked at her, and bowed. He answered in a tone so low that only she could hear its purport:
"You have asked for a madman's song, my lady; what else can memory produce?"
Declining the offer of an accompaniment, he seated himself at the piano, and drew forth notes so wild, so terrific, that the whole party were electrified; then assuming the mien and gesture of one crazed in his intellect, his loud and clear voice gave full force to the following:
Oh! bid me not recall the past,
Though calm appear my features now
Hid though from sight the fevered blast,
That caused the spirit's overthrow.
'Tis not in mortal power again
Youth's buoyant transport to recall;
'Tis hushed—forever hushed—the strain
That could with Schilling the heart enthral.
Visions of truth have passed me by,
Mocking the sense, with shapes unreal,
Filling each pulse with melody,
Thrilling the heart with joys ideal.
And freedom, independence, love.
In dreams have risen to my sight—
In dreams essayed my heart to prove.
They vanished at return of light.
And earth is all unholy now.
Venal its joys!—its highest bliss
To lay that false ideal low—
To crush the hope of happiness.
Love gone! one wish doth yet remain—
One thought the maddened brain to whet:
Joy vanished! Its fell rival—pain—
Forbids the spirit to forget.
Pain, pain triumphant, speaks of power
To seize the serpent's foulest sting.
Therewith to bid the tyrant cower.
Back to return the poisoned spring.
Yes! I'll unveil those mocking forms,
Those shapes of grace, all seat from hell;
I will reveal the latent storms
That 'neath the placid surface dwell.
Thus proudly I'll unveil deceit;
Thus fearfully I'll stifle pain—
The mask torn off—made known the cheat—
Ne'er shall the false one rest again!
With trust destroyed, with pleasure gone,
Earth yields the soul no fitting mate;
But standing fearless and alone
The vengeful spirit lives—to hate.