At length the banquet. It was spread,
Voluptuous, in the cooling shade;
And well had Emiline obeyed
Her generous lord's behest.
The dullest appetite might wake,
The sharpest, ample pleasure take
At such a noble feast.
And not a rosy angel there
But was content, its charm to share,
A mortal plain to be.
Quick passed the sparkling goblet round
With mingling mirth the woods resound,
And ne'er those ancient oaks astound
Such bursts of revelry.
And hearty laughter, jest, and song,
The brightly rolling hours prolong.
And now, at last,
Concludes the feast,
And o'er the grassy ground,
By fancy led,
In chance groups stray'd
The idle guests around.
Her lord a secret gesture made
To Emiline, who timid laid
In Ulric's arm her own;
And on they wandered, till they stood
Within a breathless solitude,
Apart, upon the mountain's brow,
O'erlooking all the vale below,
In a thick grove alone.
"Is it not lovely? Didst thou e'er,
Ulric, behold a scene go fair?"
"I think, when, life's dull fetters riv'n,
The freed soul stands at last in heav'n,
'Twill gaze, in wonder and in bliss,
Upon some vision, such as this.
Oh, Emiline! hast never pined
To leave the weary world behind?
To pass, at length, the gates of death—
Sin, doubt, temptation far beneath?"
"So melancholy at our feast?
Such fancies in a soldier's breast?"
"In truth, I scarcely know wherefore
Sadness should sweep my bosom o'er;
But dost thou never, Emiline,
Feel some cold shadow steal o'er thine?"
"No, not in such a scene as this.
My soul is calmed to perfect bliss,
As if by music—"
"Well expressed!
As if by music! so my breast
Has felt enchanting nature's pow'r,
Like music, many a lonely hour.
The vine-clad shore, the hollow dell—
The spotless meadow's tender swell,
The clouds in silver shapes that roll,
Steal like soft anthems o'er the soul;
The massive rocks, the ample ground,
Yield up their deeper tones around;
The broken cliff, the bending plain,
The sweeps of clover and of grain—
Each adds to each its mingling strain.
From each a sweet impression sent,
As from a breathing instrument.
All touch the spirit, as the eyes,
A blending of the earth and skies
In soul-subduing harmonies."
"How oft I feel—how oft I seek,
My feelings, as with thee to speak,
Ulric! It is a joy to find
Communion with another mind.
Through wood and vale alone I range,
And see all beautiful and strange.
At every step behold, unfurled,
Some shadowing of a lovelier world.
The forms of things—what tongue can trace
Of each, th' unutterable grace?
And then the color—hast thou not
Observed how steeped each untrod spot
In some bright hue, or heavenly stain,
That makes one feel description vain?
'Tis exquisite! We cannot pass
A tiny stone or blade of grass,
Rocks, woods, streams, frowning crags that lean,
Dark, o'er the valley's velvet green,
Or mossy banks, or trunks, earth-bound,
Of time-worn trees that hug the ground—
Not toned, as if some painter's power
Had labored on them many an hour.
Spirit of radiance! every where,
It wanders through the very air,
And pours around its treasures rare.
Touches with many a nameless hue
The sunny cloud, the conclave blue,
Melts the rough rocks—makes soft the hills—
All nature with enchantment fills."
"'Tis Wonderful, dear Emiline,
In what clear forms of beauty, shine,
Unheeded, earth, and air, and sky,
But by some poet's raptured eye.
The laborer, on his daily way,
Sees not what beams of glory stray
Across his path. The pilgrim's feet
Toil weary on, o'er meadows sweet,
By hill, through vale, at morn, at even,
Yet marks he not what rays from heaven
Fall every where, above, around,
Gild his tired form, inspire the ground,
And teach him, if he will but hear,
'Look up!—faint not, for I am near.'"
"And, Ulric, thou whose bosom feels
So well what nature's hand reveals,
See—canst thou watch that green, below,
Melt to the soft aerial blue,
Till where the river gleams between,
Those lovely mountains close the scene;
Canst thou behold a sight so fair—
An azure dream, half earth, half air—
And yield to sorrow or to care?"
"Yes! for their high and rocky forms
Guard not the vale from passion's storms,
Nor make its paths so seeming sweet,
From sin and shame a safe retreat!"
"Sin! shame! what mean'st thou? Tell me why,
So oft, to-day, I mark thee sigh?
Art thou unhappy? Let me share,
If pains thy heart some secret care!"
With arms upon his bosom crossed,
Still Ulric stood, in silence lost.
"Then listen, Sir! Thy uncle says,
Too long endure thy lonely days;
Now thou must marry. Yes! a wife
Must win thee to a better life."
"I? Marry?"
"Marry. Even thou!
Nay, nay, unbend thy frowning brow;
That young, fair girl—the good Marie,
Is it a secret then to thee?
If, in her soft and guileless breast,
She hither brought a heart at rest,
She ne'er, I've seen it many a day,
Will carry such a one away!"
"I understand thee, Emiline,
And perfect frankness, such as thine,
Frankness begets, deserves it too;
I've heard thy words, impatient, through.
Name not again that subject ever;
I never mean to marry—never.
Mark thou my purpose well!
There is not one thing in the range
Of possibility, so strange,
And so impossible."
"Impossible! men often swear,
Knowing their words all idle air;
Sometimes with changeful fancies, too,
Believe themselves what is not true."
"I trifle not—not now—with thee,
I do not love the fair Marie.
From such a stupid destiny
Good Heaven, my bosom shield!
I seek to spend life's rolling hours,
Not mid soft books and summer bow'rs,
Toying with love's quick fading flow'rs,
But on the battle-field—
There my poor star, unhonored yet,
Shall brightly mount or briefly set—"
"Shall briefly set! what stirs thy brow?
What gloomy thought disturbs thee now?
We should be willing, true, to die,
But not seek death. That Being high,
Who gave our life—He doth require
To Him should bend each deep desire;
A cheerful heart, an humble mood,
Love, patience, faith, and gratitude.
Then need we, in the world's wild strife,
Not shrink from either death or life."
"Thou, Emiline, art happy!"
"Well!
Content in every breast should dwell.
Accept, each one, his different lot,
With humble trust, and murmur not.
But, Ulric, look! his journey done,
How grandly sinks the setting sun—
All nature waits before his throne!
And earth and heaven, adoring, tell
Their sorrow at his last farewell!"
"Yet I have marked, dear Emiline!
That his departing splendors shine,
Most beautiful, not in the west,
Where sinks the fiery god to rest;
Not on the field, or mountain height,
Where latest gleams his rosy light;
Nor on the lake—nor in the sky,
Whore clouds, like happy islands, lie,
Tinted with many a heavenly die;
But watch the sunset's fading ray,
In the thick forest's darkened way.
Across its broad, uneven floor,
Already see his radiance pour,
In long and level lines, that glow
With burning splendor, as they flow
The woods hushed haunts and columns through,
Where, 'mid the shadows, shine, revealed,
Secrets, from noon's bright eye concealed."
"Oh," murmured Emiline, "in heav'n,
Could a more lovely hour be giv'n?"
"And mark, o'er every common thing,
What glory nature knows to fling!
This withered leaf—a jewel rare—
Instinct with light, and radiant air;
And, look! in broken spots around,
The lustrous trees, the burning ground,
Gleam, crimson-red, as dome and spire,
In cities roused by midnight fire!"
"And how yon stream, that murmurs by,
Chimes with the cricket's silver cry!
And how the moon, ere falls night's shroud,
Hangs lightly o'er yon silver cloud!"
"The scene is fair. It is divine.
Thou lovest nature, Emiline!"
"Each moment more—each passing year—
It seems more holy and more clear;
And newer, higher meaning lies
In all chance things that meet the eyes.
Each airy cloud, each simple flow'r,
That blooms and passes in an hour,
To the attentive spirit brings
Plain hints and bright foreshadowings,
Truths ever as we gaze less dim,
Voices and messages from Him.
No leaf so small but something shows—
Here at my feet behold this rose,
In its moist cheek what beauty glows!
To passion, shines the world thus fair,
But lo! what sharp thorns menace there!
What silent voice that cries, 'Beware!
Nor venture on forbidden ground,
With piercing dangers guarded round!
Behold the flow'r with sweetness fraught,
Inhale—enjoy, but—pluck it not!'
By chance, was such a lesson sent?
Is this sweet rose an accident?"
"Why, thou art full of learned lore!
I never knew thee thus before!
A lovely girl, dear Emiline!
I well remember how, with mine,
Thy sportive stops have often strayed
By murmuring brook, in forest shade,
But hear my shamed lips confess
My blind and boyish thoughtlessness.
I deemed thee then as light as fair—
For so I deemed all women were;
Far fonder of the court and ball,
And beauty's power, and pleasure's call,
Than sylvan haunt, in silent wood,
And nature's thoughtful solitude."
"Know'st thou this little plant?" she said,
And, from the moss's velvet bed,
Picked a small azure flow'ret, and
Gave careless into Ulric's hand.
"Its name," he said, "I never knew—"
"Yet in its modest leaves of blue,
Lies couched a pretty secret too,
As many a country swain can prove,
'The more I see—the more I love.'"
A short pause followed, broken by,
From Ulric's breast, a deep-drawn sigh.
When started Emiline and said,
"But look! how fast the light doth fade!
And falls the evening's dewy shade,
On all but yonder broken height,
I fear me, it is very late—
And see our guests, already gone,
Yon distant steep are winding down,
On their way homeward through the pass
That leads around the mountain's base.
"'Tis true! and vain our feet to tire,
A horse's fleetness we require
To reach them now—unless thou dare
Descend this shorter way—"
What, there?
Oh, 'tis too steep—too high—indeed!"
"Nay, nay, let me thy footsteps lead.
Trust me thine arm—nay, do not fear!
Thou shalt not fall while I am here;
Our presence else the rest will miss."
She paused, and placed her arm in his;
And thus supporting her, they went,
All careful down the slope descent:
How thrilled his heart with deep content.
But now, below assembled, meet
The rest, to watch the merry feat.
Among them Hubert, in a mood
Of mirth unwonted, laughing stood.
In order not to dull the feast,
In wine he shamed the merriest guest,
And lighter grew, as more he drank,
His open manners, jovial, frank,
Simple and honest, generous, true,
Though oft, the courtier piercing through,
The guests amuse, perchance amaze,
The rougher soldier's noisier ways.
When Emiline descended down,
At length stood fairly on the lawn,
Hubert, half earnest and half jest,
Folded her sweet form to his breast,
And, struck with new surprise,
To mark the color and the light,
That floated o'er her cheek so bright,
And sparkled in her eyes,
He said: "Hey dey! wife! what is this?
Now, by St. Paul! I'll have a kiss."
With heightened cheek—averted eye,
From his mad humor bent to fly,
She struggled, but in vain;
And the old knight, mid many a peal,
Full on her lips his pledge did seal,
And such a cordial smack did steal,
That the wood rang again.
Quick starting, Ulric backward sprung,
As sudden by a serpent stung,
And stood, unmoving and apart.
Oh Death! what quivered in his heart!
The merry revellers passed on,
And, gayly disappearing down
A hollow glen, before that lay,
Their voices, as they onward stray,
Faint in the wood retreat, and die, at length, away.
Still Ulric, cold and breathless, stood,
Stunned, in that noiseless solitude,
Alone—his hand upon his brow—
Oh Hell! receive thy vassal now!
At length he kneeled at Satan's shrine,
The serpent round his heart did twine,
He loved the Lady Emiline!
He raised his head when—dark and tall—
He saw an uncouth shadow fall,
And slowly glide upon the ground.
He looked above—below—around,
Yet still it passed before his eyes,
As one who caught by quick surprise,
Off—off—with stealthy footsteps flies.
While a faint warning, from the air,
Bewailed, "Lost one! Despair! Despair!"
A moment, rooted to the spot,
He stood. Yet—yet, he heeded not,
Of heaven the voice—of hell, the sign,
But murmured, “oh sweet Emiline!"