Another and another day
Rolled soft and swift their hours away.
Said Hubert: "Emiline!
Tell me, in what sequestered grove,
From laughing eyes concealed, doth rove
This wounded deer of thine?"
Said she: "I now in truth do read
Change, as thou say'st, complete indeed!
Our sight he shuns. I strive in vain
To win him to our walks again.
He rides all day in thoughtful mood,
Alone in forest solitude.
By chance we met him yesterday;
The rein on Sultan's shoulder lay;
He saw us—turned and dashed away."
Another morning came, and all
Assembled in the breakfast hall,
And Ulric with the rest.
No more he kneeled at Satan's shrine,
Nor sought the glance of Emiline;
But calmed at last, by aid divine,
The earthquake of his breast.
Their parting such—and such their meeting.
After one light and courteous greeting,
That careless seemed and gay,
He strove to keep—oh heavy task!
His gaze from hers—no more to bask
And revel in those soothing eyes.
Of .mw-parser-output .wst-bar{text-decoration:line-through}.mw-parser-output .wst-bar-inner{color:transparent}—— —— righteousness the sacrifice!
He ever turned away.
The tide of merriment flowed brightly,
He heard her jesting, laughing lightly,
With sweet, unstudied grace;
When, sudden, some unconscious word,
Within his breast new madness stirred,
He raised his eyes, and hers, oh heart!
Drawn from the others back, apart,
Full rested on his face.
He started as their glances met,
And sudden turned away; but yet
Not ere he marked, o'er cheek and brow,
The transient, soft suffusion flow;
And trembling as he looked around,
He saw the guests were gone;
Dispersed about the wooded ground,
The terrace and the lawn;
And she remained—oh was it guile,
That manner sweet?
And motioned him, with artless smile,
To a low seat.
Where, should he sit, he must, the while
Sit at her feet;
And yet he went with a strange feeling,
And sat—unless one call it kneeling.
"Thou unkind and capricious one!
Mak'st thou sweet sonnets to the moon?
And shows the forest's lonely way,
At midnight, fairer than by day?
"They who in their own thoughts delight,
Find forests fair both day and night."
"Indeed! And thou art one!"
"It cannot, cousin fair, to thee,
A very wondrous matter be,
That pleasure and frivolity
Sometimes my footsteps shun."
"But, from thy wise lips, dost thou know,
Strange contradictions, cousin, flow!
To-day, 'tis yes—to-morrow, no.
Mark thou my purpose well!
Flattered I surely ought to be,
When, for I know it all, you see,
The pretty secrets, locked from me,
You to my husband tell!"
Then heaved his heart—one instant more,
His bended knee had touched the floor,
That radiant vision to adore;
So had his snared soul vainly striven,
When entering from the balmy heav'n,
A sudden breeze swept by.
It seemed as if an angel there,
From his hot brow put back the hair,
And said: "Remember and beware!
Fly, Ulric, fly!"
Rising, he said: "It may be strange,
I did not think my mind would change;
But now, upon my life!
The pretty Marie seems to me
Fashioned by Love himself to be
A model of a wife.
What with her beauty and her land,
'Twere not amiss to seek her hand.
Thou hast forgotten, in the grove
The young Marie, I do not love!
Such things, about, one does not go,
Telling to all the world, you know!"
His words, and colder gesture too,
Struck with a strange surprise;
Over her brow a shadow threw,
And, or his thoughts deceived him, drew
A moisture to her eyes.
To meet their look he did not stay—
Lead him, oh unseen hand, away—
Nor turned he back, unlike Lot's wife—
For terror of the unequal strife.
And as he wandered thoughtful on,
Old Hubert met him on the lawn.
"Hubert, come hither! I've a grace
To beg—but smooth thy laughing face!
Didst thou not lately hint
That, an I would, the young Marie
Would prove no cruel maid to me?"
"Aye! or the devil's in't!"
"I am a soldier, sir, you know,
Too rude in courtly terms to woo.
you will undertake
To her my poor request to bear,
And she my claim with favor hear,
To know, I wait her fair commands,
How soon the church's holy bands
A man and wife shall make.
And tell her I shall never find
A woman nearer to my mind."
"Now, by my troth!" good Hubert said,
Thy life with such a beauteous maid,
Will be one scene of bliss.
Nor flies the arrow from its how,
Swifter than I, thy wish to do.
I told my wife—I always knew
The thing would come to this!
And hear an ancient comrade swear,
Though sweet the bachelor's courses are,
At last, their pleasures pall;
And there is, really, in the case,
The calm, the safety, and the peace,
Over the tranquil pathway shed,
Of married people, happ'ly wed,
Something that's worth them all.
A thousand times I wish thee joy!
I'll straightway to the damsel coy."
"And, look ye, Hubert, there,
Where o'er the lawn that old oak grove
Flings its black shade alone, I'll rove,
Till thou her answer bear."
A heavy hour passed on and then,
Hubert—with slower step, again,
And laughing, said:
"In faith, Dear Ulric, I have tried
To talk the matter with thy bride,
But I had rather, any day,
Meet mounted knight, in deadly fray,
Than have one serious word to say
To a young maid!
And so, as I remember, thou,
My courting partly hast to do,
With her; I've ordered Emiline
To try the young Marie with thine.
She comes—oh ho! like death thou'rt pale
Pity thou couldst not drop a veil,
And hide from all unfeeling eyes
Thy changeful cheek—thy anxious sighs!"
With graceful gesture, grave and sweet,
He saw her come his glance to meet,
And marked her deepening cheek the while,
Her downcast eyes—her serious smile,
And in her softening presence caught
Hope—joy—despair—he knew not what.
"Ulric," she said, "the deed is done—
Marie is wooed and nearly won.
Thy love I have confessed,
And I have been surprised to find
A heart, a feeling, and a mind
I knew not she possessed.
We had some blushes and some tears;
She pleaded first her tender years;
Yet, hiding on my breast her brow,
Owned more than I must tell thee now.
I thought all settled—but,
Amid her happiness, I find,
Lurks, firmly, in her girlish mind,
A fancy, which, with all my art,
I could not banish—that thy heart
Is fairly conquered not.
And so she says thy faithful love,
By a year's trial thou must prove.
Said Ulric, with a secret joy,
"Since the fair maiden is so coy,
To-morrow at the earliest dawn,
From her too witching charms withdrawn,
To Berlin back again I ride,
And wait at home my doubting bride."
Said Emiline: "To-morrow! back!"
While moody Hubert's brow grew black!
"Go, when you like, you may,
Since all the pains that we could take
Have failed our poor Chateau to make
More worthy of your stay."
"I thought the country thou didst love,"
Said Emiline, "and that to rove,
Through its soft wonders, did impart
Such rapture to thy grateful heart."
"Why so I do," he cold replied,
And drew him sternly from her side;
"I love it for a time—but then,
One pines for livelier scenes again.
At last I find the country dull,
'Tis of monotony too full,
The hours so empty and so long,
The same eternal ceaseless song,
Of hill and dale and wood and plain,
Then dale and wood and hill again;
I weary for the city's crowd,
The dazzling throng—the clamor loud."
Now whispered Hubert with a frown:
"What a strange fellow hath he grown!
The devil I think his humor sways.
By Lucifer! such haughty ways
I am unused to meet.
He snaps and snarls on all around,
As if too mean, our humble ground,
For his disdainful feet.
Come, Emiline! I hie me home,
Dost hear me, wife? I bid thee come!
One look on Ulric's face she bent,
Then without answer, slowly went.
"And so," he thought, "the die is cast,
'Tis over. She hath gone at last.
Meet we again? No, never!
To-morrow, with dawn's earliest gleam,
Ere she awake from her pure dream,
Which, heav'n be praised! will not be broke
By any word my lips have spoke,
I fly from love's unworthy sway,
With resolute steps—away—away—
For ever and for ever."
His gloomy thought—his deep drawn sigh
Were sudden interrupted by
A small and gentle hand—Oh bliss!
Oh love!—slow stealing into his.
He thrilled with deep surprise,
And turned, afraid his breath to take
Lest from so wild a dream he wake;
'Twas Emiline—she had come back,
And tears were in her eyes.
"Ulric! dear Ulric! can it be!
How have I so offended thee?
Why art thou angry? End like this
Our friendship and our happiness?
What is the matter?" He withdrew
His hand—hers coldly from him threw,
And gazed on her unconscious charms,
With haughty brow and folded arms.
"Oh how thou'rt altered! I have done,
I know not what to meet thy frown;
Some cruel slander thou hast heard!
One parting—one forgiving word!"
She held her hand. Eternal Foe!
He yields! thou hast thy victim now!
When—underneath—far down below—
As from Hell's deep infernal sphere—
Triumphant laughter stuns his car.
And then a chorus—faint and sweet,
Far from above—his soul to greet;
Ethereal—clear—and distant fell,
As on the smoky air might swell,
Upon the madd'ning battle's plain,
Some old cathedral's solemn strain:
"Ulric beware! oh have a care!
Trust not thy feet within the snare!
Angels watch thee from the air!"
Then shouted Hubert, loud and stern:
"What, Emiline! what, ho! return!
Whither have roved thy feet away?
Art deaf? What, wife! Come back, I say!"
She paused, when, between them,
Uprising, there came,
From the earth. a dim phantom
Of guilt and of shame,
Invisible, glancing
His bright burning eyes,
To her side doth he glide,
And with eagerness pries
Deep into her heart,
With demoniac gaze,
Back starts, unbelieving,
And shrinks with amaze—
Then shuddered—retreating,
From her bosom, quick beating,
Where his arts had no sway,
He fled baffled away.
And she—the pure-hearted,
With a sad prayer, departed.
While Ulric, attending,
His rapt ear was bending,
To catch the soft sound
Of those voices around,
That came, louder and nearer,
And sweeter and clearer;
To the heart of the hearer.
Over him stealing,
Wisdom revealing,
And loftier feeling,
His courage reviving,
In his struggling and striving,
For he heard without scorning
Their whispering—and warning.
From the sweetest of sweetness,
On earth ever given,
He had broken, by faith
In the promise of heaven!