International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1

Two weeks passed without a word from Ireneus. What was he about? It was Known that he had passed through Paris, and should be in La Vendée. Could he not correspond with his friends? Could his letters have been intercepted? Might he not already have fallen a victim to his chivalric ardor, and be wounded, a prisoner, perhaps dead!

The post was looked for with anxiety. The newspapers were read anxiously. Vain hope! those of Sweden gave very meager details of the legitimist movement.

At last M. de Vermondans became angry and humiliated at suffering his impatience to become manifest, and forbade Ireneus or La Vendée to be mentioned. He could not, however, stifle thought in his own mind or in Ebba's.

One morning the young girl arose in great distress, and with a feverish agitation which made her look better. She dressed hastily, and went to her father's room. She said she wanted to see her sister.

"Really," said the old man, deceived by this deceitful animation, and quivering with joy at the idea of her recovery. "Do you wish to go? I will go with you."

He hurried to the stable, had his horse harnessed, and in a few minutes, seated in his cabriolet, was crossing the fields. On her way, Ebba, with peculiar tenderness, pointed out various scenes of her childhood and youth, the home of old servants, spots where she had been with Alete, and made memorable by various little incidents.

Suddenly she ceased to speak—looked at the scenery with deep interest glancing at the sea and the sky, and seemed absorbed in a melancholy reminiscence.

Her father had listened to her with pleasure, and turned to ask why she was silent. He was filled with delight. Had he been able, however, to look into her mind, he would have seen a deep sentiment of sadness and resignation, united with resignation and hopelessness.

In the silent meditation of the poor invalid there might be read a last adieu to the blue wave, the green wood, the distant prospects which so often had occupied her reverie. The warm summer breeze, which played in her hair, the clear sky, the whole tapestry of nature she was about to leave, instinct as it was with poetic fancy. By her half open lips, by her wondering eye, she bade adieu to the scenes amid which she had lived, to the flowers which smiled on her as a sister, and where birds sang their matin lays as if she had been one of their kindred.

When he reached the parsonage, her father stopped to chat with the old pastor. Ebba took Alete by the hand, and hurried her into the chamber.

"Dear sister," said she, "I wished to see you again."

"Again, Ebba—I hope you will, and for many a year."

"Yes—yes—but not here, in another world." She grew pale as she spoke.

"What an idea!" said Alete. "I was so agreeably surprised by your visit.

Have you come to distress me?"

As she spoke, Alete covered her face, now suffused with tears, with her hands.

"Excuse me, Alete. I was wrong to give way so. Let us talk of something else."

"Yes, yes," said Alete, smiling amid her tears. "Has anything been heard of Ireneus?"

"Ireneus is—dead!" said Ebba sadly.

"Dead!" exclaimed Alete; "how so?"

"I know he is. I saw him last night."

"Ah, I have sometimes dreamed of a person's death, whom on the next morning I met perfectly well."

"I tell you I saw him struck by a ball in the breast, the blood running from the wound, looking staringly around, and smiling in the agonies of death."

"Madness! my dear Ebba," said Alete, with a burst of strange unnatural laughter, for in spite of herself she was impressed by the words of her sister. "Come, Eric and his father expect us. Let us pass our evening happily together, and shake off all these presentiments, which I pray to God may never be realized."

"Yes, come," and attempting to look gay, she said, "Madness! we will see."

During the next week, a letter from the mother of Ireneus informed them that the young officer had died on the very day of Ebba's dream, of a wound received at the siege of the Castle of Penissiere.

Ebba soon died, pronouncing the names of her father and sister, who wept at her bedside. Her last breath uttered one other name, that of Ireneus.

* * * * *

POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN

The following pieces by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, have never before, we believe, been printed in this country.

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS

  The way was lone, and the hour was late,  And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate.  The night came down, by slow degrees,  On the river stream, and the forest-trees;  And by the heat of the heavy air,  And by the lightning's distant glare,  And by the rustling of the woods,  And by the roaring of the floods,  In half an hour, a man might say,  The Spirit of Storm would ride that way.  But little he cared, that stripling pale,  For the sinking sun, or the rising gale;  For he, as he rode, was dreaming now,  Poor youth, of a woman's broken vow,  Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted,  Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted,  Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes.  And the Baron of Katzberg's long mustaches,  So the earth below, and the heaven above,  He saw them not;—those dreams of love,  As some have found, and some will find,  Make men extremely deaf and blind.  At last he opened his great blue eyes,  And looking about in vast surprise,  Found that his hunter had turned his back,  An hour ago on the beaten track,  And now was threading a forest hoar,  Where steed had never stepped before.  "By Caesar's head," Sir Rudolph said,      "It were a sorry joke.  If I to-night should make my bed      On the turf, beneath an oak!  Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;—      Now, for thy sake, good roan,  I would we were beneath a roof,      Were it the foul fiend's own!"  Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close  The sound of a listener's laughter rose.  It was not the scream of a merry boy  When harlequin waves his wand of joy;  Nor the shout from a serious curate, won  By a bending bishop's annual pun;  Nor the roar of a Yorkshire clown;—oh, no!  It was a gentle laugh, and low;  Half uttered, perhaps, perhaps, and stifled half,  A good old-gentlemanly laugh;  Such as my uncle Peter's are,  When he tells you his tales of Dr. Parr.  The rider looked to the left and the right,  With something of marvel, and more of fright:  But brighter gleamed his anxious eye,  When a light shone out from a hill hard by.  Thither be spurred, as gay and glad  As Mrs. Maquill's delighted lad,  When he turns away from the Pleas of the Crown,  Or flings, with a yawn, old Saunders down,  And flies, at last, from all the mysteries  Of Plaintiffs' and Defendants' histories,  To make himself sublimely neat,  For Mrs. Camac's in Mansfield Street.    At a lofty gate Sir Rudolph halted;  Down from his seat Sir Rudolph vaulted:  And he blew a blast with might and main,  On the bugle that hung by an iron chain.  The sound called up a score of sounds;—  The screeching of owls, and the baying of hounds,  The hollow toll of the turret bell,  The call of the watchful sentinel.  And a groan at last, like a peal of thunder,  As the huge old portals rolled asunder,  And gravely from the castle hall  Paced forth the white-robed seneschal.  He stayed not to ask of what degree  So fair and famished a knight might be;  But knowing that all untimely question  Ruffles the temper, and mars the digestion,  He laid his hand upon the crupper.  And said,—"You're just in time for supper."     They led him to the smoking board.  And placed him next to the castle's lord.  He looked around with a hurried glance:  You may ride from the border to fair Penzance,  And nowhere, but at Epsom Races,  Find such a group of ruffian faces,  As thronged that chamber; some were talking  Of feats of hunting and of hawking,  And some were drunk, and some were dreaming,  And some found pleasure in blaspheming.  He thought, as he gazed on the fearful crew,  That the lamps that burned on the walls burned blue.  They brought him a pasty of mighty size,  To cheer his heart, and to charm his eyes;  They brought the wine, so rich and old,  And filled to the brim the cup of gold;  The knight looked down, and the knight looked up,  But he carved not the meat, and he drained not the cup.  "Ho ho," said his host with angry brow,      "I wot our guest is fine;  Our fare is far too coarse, I trow,      For such nice taste as thine:  Yet trust me I have cooked the food,      And I have filled the can,  Since I have lived in this old wood,      For many nobler man."—  "The savory buck and the ancient cask      To a weary man are sweet;  But ere he taste, it is fit he ask      For a blessing on bowl and meat.  Let me but pray for a minute's space,      And bid me pledge ye then;  I swear to ye, by our Lady's grace,      I shall eat and drink like ten!"  The lord of the castle in wrath arose,      He frowned like a fiery dragon;  Indignantly he blew his nose,      And overturned the flagon.  And, "Away," quoth he, "with the canting priest.  Who comes uncalled to a midnight feast,  And breathes through a helmet his holy benison,  To sour my hock, and spoil my venison!"  That moment all the lights went out;  And they dragged him forth, that rabble rout,  With oath, and threat, and foul scurrility,  And every sort of incivility.  They barred the gates: and the peal of laughter,  Sudden and shrill that followed after,  Died off into a dismal tone,  Like a parting spirit's painful moan.  "I wish," said Rudolph, as he stood  On foot in the deep and silent wood;  "I wish, good Roland, rack and stable  May be kinder to-night than their master's table!"  By this the storm had fleeted by;    And the moon with a quiet smile looked out  From the glowing arch of a cloudless sky,    Flinging her silvery beams about  On rock, tree, wave, and gladdening all    With just as miscellaneous bounty,  As Isabel's, whose sweet smiles fall    In half an hour on half the county.  Less wild Sir Rudolph's pathway seemed,    As he fumed from that discourteous tower;  Small spots of verdure gaily gleamed    On either side; and many a flower,  Lily, and violet, and heart's-ease,    Grew by the way, a fragrant border;  And the tangled boughs of the hoary trees    Were twined in picturesque disorder:  And there came from the grove, and there came from       the hill,    The loveliest sounds he had ever heard,  The cheerful voice of the dancing rill,    And the sad, sad song of the lonely bird.  And at last he stared with wondering eyes,    As well he might, on a huge pavilion:  'Twas clothed with stuffs of a hundred dyes,    Blue, purple, orange, pink, vermilion;  And there were quaint devices traced    All round in the Saracenic manner;  And the top, which gleamed like gold, was graced    With the drooping folds of a silken banner;  And on the poles, in silent pride,    There sat small doves of white enamel;  And the vail from the entrance was drawn aside,    And flung on the humps of a silver camel.  In short it was the sweetest thing    For a weary youth in a wood to light on:  And finer far than what a king    Built up, to prove his taste, at Brighton.    The gilded gate was all unbarred;  And, close beside it, for a guard,  There lay two dwarfs with monstrous noses,  Both fast asleep upon some roses.  Sir Rudolph entered; rich and bright  Was all that met his ravished sight;  Soft tapestries from far countries brought,  Rare cabinets with gems inwrought,  White vases of the finest mould,  And mirrors set in burnished gold.  Upon a couch a grayhound slumbered;  And a small table was encumber'd  With paintings, and an ivory lute,  And sweetmeats, and delicious fruit.  Sir Rudolph lost not time in praising;  For he, I should have said was gazing,  In attitude extremely tragic,  Upon a sight of stranger magic;  A sight, which, seen at such a season,  Might well astonish Mistress Reason,  And scare Dame Wisdom from her fences  Of rules and maxims, moods and tenses.  Beneath a crimson canopy    A lady, passing fair, was lying;  Deep sleep was on her gentle eye,    And in her slumber she was sighing  Bewitching sighs, such sighs as say    Beneath the moonlight, to a lover,  Things which the coward tongue by day    Would not, for all the world, discover:  She lay like a shape of sculptured stone,  So pale, so tranquil:—she had thrown,    For the warm evening's sultriness,  The broidered coverlet aside  And nothing was there to deck or hide    The glory of her loveliness,  But a scarf of gauze, so light and thin  You might see beneath the dazzling skin,  And watch the purple streamlets go  Through the valleys of white and stainless snow,  Or here and there a wayward tress  Which wandered out with vast assurance  From the pearls that kept the rest in durance,  And fluttered about, as if 'twould try  To lure a zephyr from the sky.  "Bertha!"—large drops of anguish came  On Rudolph's brow, as he breathed that name,—  "Oh fair and false one, wake, and fear;  I, the betrayed, the scorned, am here."  The eye moved not from its dull eclipse,  The voice came not from the fast-shut lips;  No matter! well that gazer knew  The tone of bliss, and the eyes of blue.    Sir Rudolph hid his burning face  With both his hands for a minute's space,  And all his frame in awful fashion  Was shaken by some sudden passion.  What guilty fancies o'er him ran?—    Oh, pity will be slow to guess them;  And never, save the holy man,    Did good Sir Rudolph e'er confess them  But soon his spirit you might deem  Came forth from the shade, of the fearful dream;  His cheek, though pale, was calm again.  And he spoke in peace, though he spoke in pain    "Not mine! not mine! now, Mary mother.  Aid me the sinful hope to smother!  Not mine, not mine!—I have loved thee long  Thou hast quitted me with grief and wrong.  But pure the heart of a knight should be,—  Sleep on, sleep on, thou art safe for me.  Yet shalt thou know, by a certain sign,  Whose lips have been so near to thine,  Whose eyes have looked upon thy sleep,  And turned away, and longed to weep,  Whole heart,—mourn,—madden as it will,—  Has spared thee, and adored thee, still!"    His purple mantle, rich and wide,  From his neck the trembling youth untied,  And flung it o'er those dangerous charms,  The swelling neck, and the rounded arms.  Once more he looked, once more he sighed;  And away, away, from the perilous tent,    Swift as the rush of an eagle's wing,    Or the flight of a shaft from Tartar string,  Into the wood Sir Rudolph went:  Not with more joy the school-boys run  To the gay green fields, when their task is done;  Not with more haste the members fly,  When Hume has caught the Speaker's eye.    At last the daylight came; and then  A score or two of serving men,  Supposing that some sad disaster  Had happened to their lord and master,  Went out into the wood, and found him,  Unhorsed, and with no mantle round him.  Ere he could tell his tale romantic,  The leech pronounced him clearly frantic,  So ordered him at once to bed,  And clapped a blister on his head.    Within the sound of the castle-clock  There stands a huge and rugged rock,  And I have heard the peasants say,  That the grieving groom at noon that day  Found gallant Roland, cold and stiff,  At the base of the black and beetling cliff.    Beside the rock there is an oak,  Tall, blasted by the thunder-stroke,  And I have heard the peasants say,  That there Sir Rudolph's mantle lay,  And coiled in many a deadly wreath  A venomous serpent slept beneath.* * * * *

STANZAS, WRITTEN UNDER A DRAWING OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE

EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE  Most beautiful!—I gaze and gaze   In silence on the glorious pile;  And the glad thoughts of other days   Come thronging back the while.  To me dim Memory makes more dear   The perfect grandeur of the shrine;  But if i stood a stranger here,   The ground were still divine.  Some awe the good and wise have felt,   As reverently their feet have trod  On any spot where man hath knelt,   To commune with his God;  By haunted spring, or fairy well,   Beneath the ruined convent's gloom,  Beside the feeble hermit's cell,   Or the false prophet's tomb.  But when was high devotion graced   With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,  Than thus the limner's art hath traced   From the time-honored stone?  The spirit here of worship seems   To hold the heart in wondrous thrall,  And heavenward hopes and holy dreams,   Came at her voiceless call;—  At midnight, when the lonely moon   Looks from a vapor's silvery fold;  Or morning, when the sun of June   Crests the high towers with gold;  For every change of hour and form   Makes that fair scene more deeply fair;  And dusk and day-break, calm and storm,   Are all religion there.* * * * *

A FRAGMENT OF A BALLAD: TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR

Non voglio cento scudi.—Song.

  Oh say not that the minstrel's art,    The pleasant gift of verse,  Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,    Can ever be a curse;—  Though sorrow reign within his heart,    And Penury hold his purse.  Say not his toil is profitless;—    Though he charm no rich relation,  The Fairies all his labors bless    With such remuneration,  As Mr. Hume would soon confess    Beyond his calculation.  Annuities, and three per cents,    Little cares he about them;  And India bonds, and tithes, and rents,    He rambles on without them:  But love, and noble sentiments,—    Oh, never bid him doubt them!* * * * *  Young Florice rose from his humble bed,    And prayed as a good youth should;  And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,    Into the neighboring wood;  He knew where the berries were ripe and red,    And where the old oak stood.  Say not his toil is profitless;—    Though he charm no rich relation,  The Fairies all his labors bless    With such remuneration,  As Mr. Hume would soon confess    Beyond his calculation.  And as he lay, at the noon of day,    Beneath the ancient tree,  A grayhaired pilgrim passed that way;    A holy man was he,  And he was wending forth to pray    At a shrine in a far countrie.  Oh, his was a weary wandering,    And a song or two might cheer him.  The pious youth began to sing,    As the ancient man drew near him;  The lark was mute as he touched the string,    And the thrush said, "Hear him, hear him!"  He sand high tales of the martyred brave;    Of the good, and pure, and just;  Who have gone into the silent grave,    In such deep faith and trust,  That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save    Spring from their buried dust.  The fair of face, and the stout of limb,    Meek maids, and grandsires hoary;  Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,    As they passed to their doom of glory;—  Their radiant fame is never dim,    Nor their names erased from story.  Time spares the stone where sleep the dead    With angels watching round them;  The mourner's grief is comforted,     As he looks on the chains that bound them;  And peace is shed on the murderer's head,    And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.  Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard    In a trance of voiceless pleasure;  For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred,    By the sad and solemn measure:  "I give thee my blessing,"—was his word;    "It is all I have of treasure!"* * * * *  Oh say not that the minstrel's art,    The pleasant gift of verse,  Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,    Can ever be a curse;—  Though sorrow reign within his heart,    And Penury hold his purse.  A little child came bounding by;    And he, in a fragrant bower,  Had found a gorgeous butterfly,    Rare spoil for a nursery dower,  Which, with fierce step, and eager eye,    He chased from flower to flower.  "Come hither, come hither," 'gan Florice call;    And the urchin left his fun;  So from the hall of poor Sir Paul     Retreats the baffled dun;  So Ellen parts from the village ball,    Where she leaves a heart half won  Then Florice did the child caress,    And sang his sweetest songs:  Their theme was of the gentleness,    Which to the soul belongs,  Ere yet it knows the name or dress    Of human rights and wrongs.  And of the wants which make agree    All parts of this vast plan;  How life is in whate'er we see,    And only life in man:—  What matter where the less may be,    And where the longer span?An d how the heart grows hard without    Soft Pity's freshing dews;  And how when any life goes out    Some little pang ensues;—  Facts which great soldiers often doubt,    And wits who write reviews.  Oh, Song hath power o'er Nature's springs    Though deep the Nymph has laid them!  The child gazed, gazed, on the gilded wings,    As the next light breeze displayed them;  But he felt the while that the meanest things    Are dear to him that made them!* * * * *  The sun went down behind the hill,    The breeze was growing colder  But there the minstrel lingered still;    And amazed the chance beholder,  Musing beside a rippling rill,    With a harp upon his shoulder.  And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,    A sleek Arabian mare,  The Lady Juliana came,    Riding to take the air,  With Lords of fame, at whose proud name    A radical would swear.  The minstrel touched his lute again.—    It was more than a Sultan's crown,  When the lady checked her bridle rein,    And lit from her palfrey down:—  What would you give for such a strain,    Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?  He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes,    Of Beauty's melting tone;  And how her praise is a richer prize    Then the gems of Persia's throne:  And her love a bliss which the coldly wise    Have never, never, known.  He told how the valiant scoff at fear,    When the sob of her grief is heard;  How they couch the spear for a smile or tear    How they die for a single word;—  Things which, I own, to me appear    Exceedingly absurd.  The Lady soon had heard enough:    She turned to hear Sir Denys  Discourse, in language vastly gruff,    About his skill at Tennis—  While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff    His mistress wore at Venice.  The Lady smiled one radiant smile,    And the Lady rode away.—  There is not a lady in all our Isle,    I have heard a Poet say,  Who can listen more than a little while    To a poet's sweetest lay.* * * * *  His mother's voice was fierce and shrill,    As she set the milk and fruit:  "Out on thine unrewarded skill,    And on thy vagrant lute;  Let the strings be broken an they will,    And the beggar lips be mute!"  Peace, peace!—the Pilgrim as he went    Forgot the minstrel's song;  But the blessing that his wan lips sent    Will guard the minstrel long;  And keep his spirit innocent,    And turn his hand from wrong.  Belike the child had little thought    Of the moral the minstrel drew;  But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought—    Brings it not peace to you?  And doth not a lesson of virture taught    Teach him that reaches too?  And if the Lady sighed no sigh    For the minstrel or his hymn;—  But when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky,    Or lip the goblet's brim,  What a star in the mist of memory    Her smile will be to him!* * * * *

THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT FOR BOTHWELL BRIGG

  The men of sin prevail!    Once more the prince of this world lifts his horn:  Judah is scattered, as the chaff is borne    Before the stormy gale.    Where are our brethren? where  The good and true, the terrible and fleet?  They whom we loved, with whom we sat at meat,    With whom we kneeled in prayer?    Mangled and marred they lie,  Upon the bloody pillow of their rest:  Stern Dalzell smiles, and Clavers with a jest    Spurs his fierce charger by.    So let our foes rejoice;—  We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts.  Will call for comfort: to the God of Hosts    We will lift up our voice.    Give ear unto our song;  For we are wandering o'er our native land,  As sheep that have no shepherd: and the hand    Of wicked men is strong.    Only to thee we bow.  Our lips have drained the fury of thy cup;  And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up    To heaven for vengeance now.    Avenge—oh, not our years  Of pain and wrong; the blood of martyrs shed;  The ashes heaped upon the hoary head;    The maiden's silent tears;    The babe's bread torn away'  The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof;  The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof;    Judge not for those to-day!    Is not thine own dread rod  Mocked by the proud, thy holy book disdained,  Thy name blasphemed, thy temple's courts profaned?    Avenge thyself, O God!    Break Pharoah's iron crown;  Bind with new chains their nobles and their kings;  Wash from thy house the blood of unclean things;    And hurl their Dagon down!    Come in thine own good time!  We will abide: we have not turned from thee;  Though in a world of grief our portion be,    Of bitter grief, and crime.    Be thou our guard and guide!  Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go.  That we may worship where the torrents flow,    And where the whirlwinds ride.    From lonely rocks and caves  We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.—  On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we there    Safe temples, quiet graves!* * * * *