|
MEMENTOS
Arranging long-locked drawers
and shelves
Of cabinets, shut up for
years,
What a strange task we've
set ourselves!
How still the lonely room
appears!
How strange this mass of
ancient treasures,
Mementos of past pains and
pleasures;
These volumes, clasped with
costly stone,
With print all faded, gilding
gone;
These fans of leaves from
Indian trees--
These crimson shells, from
Indian seas--
These tiny portraits, set
in rings--
Once, doubtless, deemed
such precious things;
Keepsakes bestowed by Love
on Faith,
And worn till the receiver's
death,
Now stored with cameos,
china, shells,
In this old closet's dusty
cells.
I scarcely think, for ten
long years,
A hand has touched these
relics old;
And, coating each, slow-formed,
appears
The growth of green and
antique mould.
All in this house is mossing
over;
All is unused, and dim,
and damp;
Nor light, nor warmth, the
rooms discover--
Bereft for years of fire
and lamp.
The sun, sometimes in summer,
enters
The casements, with reviving
ray;
But the long rains of many
winters
Moulder the very walls away.
And outside all is ivy, clinging
To chimney, lattice, gable
grey;
Scarcely one little red
rose springing
Through the green moss can
force its way.
Unscared, the daw and starling
nestle,
Where the tall turret rises
high,
And winds alone come near
to rustle
The thick leaves where their
cradles lie,
I sometimes think, when late
at even
I climb the stair reluctantly,
Some shape that should be
well in heaven,
Or ill elsewhere, will pass
by me.
I fear to see the very faces,
Familiar thirty years ago,
Even in the old accustomed
places
Which look so cold and gloomy
now,
I've come, to close the window,
hither,
At twilight, when the sun
was down,
And Fear my very soul would
wither,
Lest something should be
dimly shown,
Too much the buried form
resembling,
Of her who once was mistress
here;
Lest doubtful shade, or
moonbeam trembling,
Might take her aspect, once
so dear.
Hers was this chamber; in
her time
It seemed to me a pleasant
room,
For then no cloud of grief
or crime
Had cursed it with a settled
gloom;
I had not seen death's image
laid
In shroud and sheet, on
yonder bed.
Before she married, she
was blest--
Blest in her youth, blest
in her worth;
Her mind was calm, its sunny
rest
Shone in her eyes more clear
than mirth.
And when attired in rich
array,
Light, lustrous hair about
her brow,
She yonder sat, a kind of
day
Lit up what seems so gloomy
now.
These grim oak walls even
then were grim;
That old carved chair was
then antique;
But what around looked dusk
and dim
Served as a foil to her
fresh cheek;
Her neck and arms, of hue
so fair,
Eyes of unclouded, smiling
light;
Her soft, and curled, and
floating hair,
Gems and attire, as rainbow
bright.
Reclined in yonder deep recess,
Ofttimes she would, at evening,
lie
Watching the sun; she seemed
to bless
With happy glance the glorious
sky.
She loved such scenes, and
as she gazed,
Her face evinced her spirit's
mood;
Beauty or grandeur ever
raised
In her, a deep-felt gratitude.
But of all lovely things,
she loved
A cloudless moon, on summer
night,
Full oft have I impatience
proved
To see how long her still
delight
Would find a theme in reverie,
Out on the lawn, or where
the trees
Let in the lustre fitfully,
As their boughs parted momently,
To the soft, languid, summer
breeze.
Alas! that she should e'er
have flung
Those pure, though lonely
joys away--
Deceived by false and guileful
tongue,
She gave her hand, then
suffered wrong;
Oppressed, ill-used, she
faded young,
And died of grief by slow
decay.
Open that casket-look how
bright
Those jewels flash upon
the sight;
The brilliants have not
lost a ray
Of lustre, since her wedding
day.
But see--upon that pearly
chain--
How dim lies Time's discolouring
stain!
I've seen that by her daughter
worn:
For, ere she died, a child
was born;--
A child that ne'er its mother
knew,
That lone, and almost friendless
grew;
For, ever, when its step
drew nigh,
Averted was the father's
eye;
And then, a life impure
and wild
Made him a stranger to his
child:
Absorbed in vice, he little
cared
On what she did, or how
she fared.
The love withheld she never
sought,
She grew uncherished--learnt
untaught;
To her the inward life of
thought
Full soon was open laid.
I know not if her friendlessness
Did sometimes on her spirit
press,
But plaint she never made.
The book-shelves were her
darling treasure,
She rarely seemed the time
to measure
While she could read alone.
And she too loved the twilight
wood
And often, in her mother's
mood,
Away to yonder hill would
hie,
Like her, to watch the setting
sun,
Or see the stars born, one
by one,
Out of the darkening sky.
Nor would she leave that
hill till night
Trembled from pole to pole
with light;
Even then, upon her homeward
way,
Long--long her wandering
steps delayed
To quit the sombre forest
shade,
Through which her eerie
pathway lay.
You ask if she had beauty's
grace?
I know not--but a nobler
face
My eyes have seldom seen;
A keen and fine intelligence,
And, better still, the truest
sense
Were in her speaking mien.
But bloom or lustre was
there none,
Only at moments, fitful
shone
An ardour in her eye,
That kindled on her cheek
a flush,
Warm as a red sky's passing
blush
And quick with energy.
Her speech, too, was not
common speech,
No wish to shine, or aim
to teach,
Was in her words displayed:
She still began with quiet
sense,
But oft the force of eloquence
Came to her lips in aid;
Language and voice unconscious
changed,
And thoughts, in other words
arranged,
Her fervid soul transfused
Into the hearts of those
who heard,
And transient strength and
ardour stirred,
In minds to strength unused,
Yet in gay crowd or festal
glare,
Grave and retiring was her
air;
'Twas seldom, save with
me alone,
That fire of feeling freely
shone;
She loved not awe's nor
wonder's gaze,
Nor even exaggerated praise,
Nor even notice, if too
keen
The curious gazer searched
her mien.
Nature's own green expanse
revealed
The world, the pleasures,
she could prize;
On free hill-side, in sunny
field,
In quiet spots by woods
concealed,
Grew wild and fresh her
chosen joys,
Yet Nature's feelings deeply
lay
In that endowed and youthful
frame;
Shrined in her heart and
hid from day,
They burned unseen with
silent flame.
In youth's first search
for mental light,
She lived but to reflect
and learn,
But soon her mind's maturer
might
For stronger task did pant
and yearn;
And stronger task did fate
assign,
Task that a giant's strength
might strain;
To suffer long and ne'er
repine,
Be calm in frenzy, smile
at pain.
Pale with the secret war
of feeling,
Sustained with courage,
mute, yet high;
The wounds at which she
bled, revealing
Only by altered cheek and
eye;
She bore in silence--but
when passion
Surged in her soul with
ceaseless foam,
The storm at last brought
desolation,
And drove her exiled from
her home.
And silent still, she straight
assembled
The wrecks of strength her
soul retained;
For though the wasted body
trembled,
The unconquered mind, to
quail, disdained.
She crossed the sea--now
lone she wanders
By Seine's, or Rhine's,
or Arno's flow;
Fain would I know if distance
renders
Relief or comfort to her
woe.
Fain would I know if, henceforth,
ever,
These eyes shall read in
hers again,
That light of love which
faded never,
Though dimmed so long with
secret pain.
She will return, but cold
and altered,
Like all whose hopes too
soon depart;
Like all on whom have beat,
unsheltered,
The bitter blasts that blight
the heart.
No more shall I behold her
lying
Calm on a pillow, smoothed
by me;
No more that spirit, worn
with sighing,
Will know the rest of infancy.
If still the paths of lore
she follow,
'Twill be with tired and
goaded will;
She'll only toil, the aching
hollow,
The joyless blank of life
to fill.
And oh! full oft, quite spent
and weary,
Her hand will pause, her
head decline;
That labour seems so hard
and dreary,
On which no ray of hope
may shine.
Thus the pale blight of time
and sorrow
Will shade with grey her
soft, dark hair;
Then comes the day that
knows no morrow,
And death succeeds to long
despair.
So speaks experience, sage
and hoary;
I see it plainly, know it
well,
Like one who, having read
a story,
Each incident therein can
tell.
Touch not that ring; 'twas
his, the sire
Of that forsaken child;
And nought his relics can
inspire
Save memories, sin-defiled.
I, who sat by his wife's
death-bed,
I, who his daughter loved,
Could almost curse the guilty
dead,
For woes the guiltless proved.
And heaven did curse--they
found him laid,
When crime for wrath was
rife,
Cold--with the suicidal
blade
Clutched in his desperate
gripe.
'Twas near that long deserted
hut,
Which in the wood decays,
Death's axe, self-wielded,
struck his root,
And lopped his desperate
days.
You know the spot, where
three black trees,
Lift up their branches fell,
And moaning, ceaseless as
the seas,
Still seem, in every passing
breeze,
The deed of blood to tell.
They named him mad, and laid
his bones
Where holier ashes lie;
Yet doubt not that his spirit
groans
In hell's eternity.
But, lo! night, closing o'er
the earth,
Infects our thoughts with
gloom;
Come, let us strive to rally
mirth
Where glows a clear and
tranquil hearth
In some more cheerful room. |
