The fete was o’er, the revellers gone,
And, broad and high, the spotted moon
Her calm and noiseless journey still
Held on, alike o'er good and ill;
And melted half, and half revealed,
Each silver rock and gleaming field,
Each sloping wood and mountain height,
And vale half lost in azure light.
Oh gentle orb! what different eyes
Watch thy hushed progress thro' the skies!
Behind his dungeon's silvered bars,
The captive views, amid the stars,
The infinite concave that throng,
Thy shape of wonder float along.
Feels, o'er his heart, thy softness break,
And gild the tear upon his cheek.
O'er the lone pilgrim's weary way,
Thy presence sheds a tenderer day,
Who pauses oft to mark thee ride,
Above the mountains at his side,
Or plunge into the silent shroud,
That veils thy orb, of some thick cloud,
Then issue forth, and pour again
Thy splendor o'er the darkened plain.
The murderer, with guilt oppressed,
Folds his rough arms upon his breast,
Touched by thy soft and solemn power,
Thinks of God's word, and death's dark hour,
And wishes that his soul might be,
Once more, bright, calm, and pure like thee.
And the poor lover, on thy face,
Gazed, from a statue's silent base,
And thought, with wild despairing mien,
Of all that was, and might have been.
"Oh woe is me!" he lowly said,
"What mighty curse is on my head!
From my foul hand she lies as far
As yonder pure unconscious star.
She sleeps, and tranquil virtue throws,
Round her bright form a sweet repose.
Oh Innocence! thy robes of snow,
Still o'er thy fairest treasure throw.
My madness may she never know!"
And starting, stung, he turned away,
With black remorse and shame to stray
Once more through each beloved scene,
Where that blessed day her feet lad been.
And as he trod, his wild despair
Thus uttered to the midnight air—
"How I have laughed at love! What scorn
Have cast upon the wretch forlorn.
Caught in his boyish bower.
What wonder and what ridicule
Have wasted on the simple fool,
Who gives his manly self control,
Perhaps his country or his soul,
To woman's wayward power.
Yet now, oh Emiline!" he said,
Upon his bosom sank his head,
He heaved a sigh profound;
In tears the grief he could not speak,
Rolled down the unmanned soldier's cheek,
And dropped upon the ground.
"How many a vacant time, while yet
A careless student, I have met
And talked and danced with Emiline!
Aye! had her sweet hand clasped in mine,
With frank adieu or friendly greeting,
At parting light, or merry meeting!
How oft, by chance together brought,
Without a care, without a thought,
We've wandered with each other,
And laughing fled the summer shower,
To some thick wood or tangled bower,
Aye, roved in moonlight's loveliest hour,
And never dreamed there was a power,
That o'er our peaceful hearts could throw
A softer shade, a livelier glow,
Than through the tranquil veins might flow,
Of sister and of brother!
Yet now, whene'er her eyes, by chance,
Meet mine, each gentle, careless glance
Strikes like some spell my senses through,
To melt, bewilder, and subdue.
And when I hold my breath to feel
Her voice's sweetness through me steal,
Not fear of Heaven itself restrains
The tender tumult in my veins.
I strive, from her enchanted sway,
My fainting heart to tear away,—
I strive—but cannot. Still I trace
All the deep beauty of her face,
Still drink the charming smile, although,
Each blissful glance, too well I know,
Is fraught with death and endless woe.
And yet her beauty, not alone,
Lies in her smile, her glance, her tone,
But hath a sweet light of its own;
Or like the altar's incense wreathes,
Floats on the very air she breathes,
And all around her must inhale
Its poison on the scented gale.
Each gentle word, each graceful mood,
Each sweet unconscious attitude,
The very movement of her dress,
The very ground her footsteps press,
Emit a sense of loveliness."
Thus raved the wretch, not once aware,
Was round him wove, what fatal snare.
Thus raved—thus writhed—and little knew
Whose deadly shaft had pierced him through.
"And once, oh fiery thought! a maid,
By my blest side, unclaimed, she strayed.
And Hubert then did feel love's pain,
And sought by me his suit to gain.
And I laughed at him (sure a, spell
Wove round my eyes some fiend of Hell!)
But pressed his suit, and pressed it well!
Spoke of his worth, his land;
And almost, on that fatal day,
Sweet Emiline, did give away,
With my own hand!"
On, on he went, through wood, o'er dale,
Down rugged steep, by winding vale,
Now fired with hope—now filled with shame,
Now murmuring low th' enchanted name,
Now stopped as he had wounded been,
And so he was. Remorse, I ween,
Had struck him with her arrow keen.
"Love! and the Lady Emiline!
Oh sooner, on this brow of mince,
Ask haughty Charles to place his crown,
And, from his high throne stepping down,
Expect earth's proudest lord to see
Do homage on his bended knee.
By Heaven! sooner this, than seek
The faintest color on her cheek!
Or any thought not summoned there
By modest truth and virtue fair!
What! Emiline a guilty love!
What! Emiline consent to rove
O'er sin's impure and fiery road,
One instant from the path of God!
Cease, slanderer! cease thy monstrous thought!
In falsehood steeped—with madness fraught.
And Hubert too—my host—my friend—
Oh wore I once but Hubert, and
Caught, in some unsuspecting hour,
A serpent gliding in my bow'r,
With jealous doubt and damning fear
To blast my eyes by venturing near
My sweet forbidden fruit,
In tortures should the reptile die—
No, by the powers of earth and sky,
And Hell! I would not do't.
With other wife than Emiline,
Perchance! But she! The pure one, mine,
Whose innocence could never stray
From virtue's path, one step away,—
The harmless wretch, I would not kill!
Live on he might, and gaze his fill,
And feed his burning madness still;
Of hopeless love, learn all the thrill,
From other pain exempt.
Upon his base, presumptuous brow,
I would but dash a scornful blow,
Marking the wretch in public so,
For laughter and contempt."
He paused, deep plunged in gloomy shade,
When sudden on his shoulder laid,
He felt a human hand that made,
From his hot cheek the life-blood fade,
Within that midnight wood.
And though unused to fear his heart,
Yet shame and guilt had done their part.
He started, and he well might start—
Hubert before him stood.
Was it by chance that, ere'a word,
Ulric's hand slowly to his sword
With tremulous action stole?
Was it by chance—that hope of flame,
For earth too black—toe low for shame—.
Too fierce for Heaven itself to tame—
Rejected wild, more wildly came
Back on his soul?
The hope that Hubert follow'd there,
For deadly quarrel frank and fair,
That some sharp blows of clashing steel
Such as a soldier's hand might deal,
Upon that silent slope,
And ere an hour's time were told—
The hateful Hubert's image bold,
Stretched on the red turf, stiff and cold—
No more his madd'ning steps should hold
From his one hope.
Still on his sword his hand was laid.
With ominous calm he slowly said:
"Count Rodolphe! you have doubtless heard,
Of my poor thought, each frenzied word!"
"Have doubtless heard? No, surely not.
Nor frenzied word—nor careless thought.
No mean eavesdropper, I,
To watch a friend's unguarded mood,
In noonday hall, or midnight wood,
Or into secret care, with rude
And stealthy step to pry.
I heard thy voice, and waited still,
Astonished, upon yonder hill;
Nor would, till thou wert silent, come,
To break thy thought—to cheer thy gloom."
"You dog my steps," said Ulric, and
Still with his sword-hilt played his hand;
Nor e'er did dangerous brawler burn,
For strife more ready and more stern.
One instant more—infernal snare!
And insult fierce—without repair,
Had stretched the murdered Hubert there.
When breathed another voice, "Forbear,
The Pow'rs of Hell thy breast inspire.
And flame thy lips with damned fire.
What! would'st thou take the husband's life,
Foul recreant! in the unequal strife,
With streaming hands to seek the wife?"
And Hubert stood, and silent scanned
His friend's dark brow and threat'ning hand;
But then, although at passion's call,
Quick, as when sudden lightnings fall,
He felt no wrath within him rise,
But only mirth and light surprise.
Sure some good angel at his side,
Withheld, that hour, his passion's tide.
"Good faith! and merry master mine!
I was sent forth by Emiline,
Who, from an open window, where
She drank the night's refreshing air—
A passing faintness brought her there—
Did mark thee pacing to and fro,
Then up the lonely forest go,
And deemed thy footstep thither bent
Some sadness—or some accident.
Or that thou would'st, as happed before,
Get lost among the hills once more.
Or that perchance some sickness might
Fall on thee, as too oft the night
Our climate sharply cools.
And other fears—now this—now that—
The tooth-ache—or the Lord knows what!
Women are always fools!
So I came forth thy steps to track,
Nor leave thee till I bring thee back,
A man, thy moody madness over—
And not—ha! ha! a moonstruck lover."
"What I?—a lover!"—"Nay, no more!
Thy thoughts, sir, are no hidden lore.
I know thy secret—cheat me not!
Thou'st had some quarrel with Marie.
By Venus' doves! By Cupid's dart!
How that young thing hath witched thy hea.mw-parser-output ._reconstructbracket{font-style:normal;font-weight:normal}⟨.mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip{cursor:help;border-bottom:thin dotted cornflowerblue}.mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip-nodash{border-bottom:none}rt⟩
Thank Heaven! not mine the lover's smart!
For ever 'tis his lot,
To think, if droops her tender eye,
Or stirs her breast the passing sigh,
Or comes a cloud across the sky,
Or any other reason why—
His mistress loves him not,
Ha! ha! What folly hath come o'er thee!
Good friend! no maid can so adore thee;
But like a girl she shrinks before thee.
Young, tender, timid, as a fawn,
Who must be wooed and waited on,
With gentle arts all gently won,
Not quarrelled with—not frowned upon.
That is no way to win, I ween,
A coy young thing of seventeen.
Come! Down upon thy knees. Confess,
'Tis love makes thy unhappiness.
Come! out with it! Thou madly lov'st—
Ha! ha! And hence at midnight rov'st.
And hence, with haggard cheek dost brood
Ho, ho! in savage solitude!
For little Marie thou dost pine!
I know thou dost—though Emiline—"
He paused, and Ulric turned away,
With hollow voice and low, to say,
"Well! Emiline—"
Said Hubert, gay,—
"Tut! that is neither here nor there!
Now, Ulric, by my troth! I swear!
I hold it neither kind nor fair,
That thou should'st keep me from thy heart,
And all its thoughts so far apart.
Why, I scarce know thee! what! a girl!
With mincing face, and sunny curl,
So to disturb a soldier's breast,
So pale thy brow, so break thy rest?
Or may there really be, forsooth!
In Emiline's surmise, some truth?
And doth there, in thy sickness, lie
A deeper cause than meets the eye?"
Now started Ulric, "By my soul!
No deeper cause, Who can control
His stronger destiny?
I yield! you've named the reason why
Alone I steal—alone I sigh—
I love—the young Marie!"
"Ho! ho!" quoth Hubert, "now it's out!
I was a fool one hour to doubt
My judgment and my sight.
I knew the matter all along;
My wife is ever in the wrong,
I, ever, in the right!
'Tis true! We men are on our station
As lords and masters of Creation.
We know each cause and how it springs,
And see the farthest into things!
There are, deceived by poets' lies,
Who prate of woman's keener eyes,
Her subtler mind and clearer thought—
Her finer instincts, and what not.
But I must say that, after all,
By my own sense I stand or fall;
And be it fair and frank contest,
I always find my judgment best.
Come, sighing swain! no more to roam,
Be mine to guide thee safely home,
Like careful sire.
And, by St. Hubert! So to speak,
'Tis well we had thee not to seek
With the town-crier."
Thus back they took, o'er vale and hill,
Their winding way, and Ulric still
Speechless, as if the hand of death
Had chilled his heart and froze his breath.
While laughing Hubert onward pressed
With many a light and merry jest,
And little, in his mirth, did think,
Upon the high and giddy brink
Of what deep precipice he stood,
That night within the lonely wood.