TO

ARABELLA STUART.

["THE LADY ARABELLA," as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret but early discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and at break of day a French vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, "which," says D'Israeli, " occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the king's service, and brought back to a captivity,

["The little volume, Records of Woman,' which you kindly gave me permission to inscribe to you," wrote Mrs H. to Mrs Joanna Baillie, "is now in the press, and I hope I shall soon be able to send you a copy; and that the dedication, which is in the simplest form, will be honoured by your approval. Mr Blackwood is its publisher."

Mrs Hemans always spoke with pleasure of her literary intercourse with Mr Blackwood, in whose dealings she recog

WORDSWORTH.

SCHILLER.

under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. "What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history, but enough is known that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers."~ D'ISRAELI'S Curiosities of Literature.

The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.]

TWAS but a dream! I saw the stag leap free, Under the boughs where early birds were singing; I stood o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree,

And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing Far through a royal forest. Then the fawn Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook, And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook, And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance Into the deep wood's heart; and all pass'd by Save one I met the smile of one clear eye,

nised all that uprightness and liberality which belonged to the sterling worth of his character. The "Records of Woman," the first of her works published by him, was brought out in May 1828. This volume was, to use the words of its author the one in which "she had put her heart and individual feelings more than in any thing else she had written ;" and it is also, and perhaps consequently, the one which has held its ground the most steadily in public favour.-Memoir, p. 136.]

Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there,
Seymour! A soft wind blew the clustering hair
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away,
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power,
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-
hearted,

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath Of hidden forest-flowers.

II.

'Tis past! I wake,

A captive, and alone, and far from thee, My love and friend! Yet fostering, for thy sake, A quenchless hope of happiness to be; And feeling still my woman-spirit strong, In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love Shall yet call gentle angels from above, By its undying fervour, and prevail— Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, [face, Through hearts now cold; and, raising its bright With a free gush of sunny tears, erase The characters of anguish. In this trust, I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, That I may bring thee back no faded form, No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm, But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.

III.

And thou too art in bonds! Yet droop thou not,
O my beloved! there is one hopeless lot,
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead
There sits the grief that mantles up its head,
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight
Covers its beautiful! If thou wert gone

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant browIf thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone

Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now Seems floating through my soul, were music taken For ever from this world-oh! thus forsaken Could I bear on? Thou livest, thou livest, thou'rt mine!

With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine,

1 "Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel wept and would not be comforted, because her children were no more. And that

And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, Sit a lone watcher for the day's return.

IV.

And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning,
Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care!
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning
The wild and busy whispers of despair!
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven-I wait

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee.
Oh! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate
As a star shoots!-but on the breezy sea
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour!
Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss,
Faint and give way within me, as a flower
Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss?
Yet shall I fear that lot—the perfect rest,
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast,
After long suffering won? So rich a close
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.

V.

Sunset! I tell each moment. From the skies

The last red splendour floats along my wall, Like a king's banner! Now it melts, it dies! I see one star-I hear-'twas not the call, Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd too

soon.

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream
Of summer lands afar, where holy love,
Under the vine or in the citron grove,
May breathe from terror.

Now the night grows deep,
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.
I hear my veins beat. Hark! a bell's slow chime!
My heart strikes with it. Yet again—'tis time!
A step-a voice!—or but a rising breeze?
Hark-haste!-I come to meet thee on the seas!

VI.

Now never more, oh! never, in the worth
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth
Trust fondly-never more! The hope is crush'd
That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd
That spoke sweet oracles; and I return
To lay my youth, as in a burial urn,
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost!
No tempest met our barks-no billow toss'd;

indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else!"-From a letter of Arabella Stuart's to her husband.-See Curiosities of Literature.

Yet were they sever'd, even as we must be,
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free
From their close-coiling fate! In vain-in vain!
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again,
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood,
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood,
Like some proud bird of ocean; then mine eye
Strain'd out, one moment earlier to descry
The form it ached for, and the bark's career
Seem'd slow to that fond yearning: it drew near,
Fraught with our foes! What boots it to recall
The strife, the tears? Once more a prison wall
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight,
And joyous glance of waters to the light,
And thee, my Seymour!-thee!

Your haunts by dell and stream-the green, the free, The full of all sweet sound-the shut from me!

IX.

There went a swift bird singing past my cell

O Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things! With you the peasant on the hills may dwell,

And by the streams. But I-the blood of kings,
A proud unmingling river, through my veins
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains!
Kings! I had silent visions of deep bliss,
Leaving their thrones far distant; and for this
I am cast under their triumphal car,

An insect to be crush'd! Oh! heaven is far-
Earth pitiless!

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am proved
So long, so sternly! Seymour, my beloved!
There are such tales of holy marvels done.
By strong affection, of deliverance won

Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken;
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears.

VII.

My friend! my friend! where art thou? Day by day,
Gliding like some dark mournful stream away,
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while,
Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs
Round hall and hamlet; summer with her smile
Fills the green forest; young hearts breathe their
Vows;

Brothers long parted meet; fair children rise
Round the glad board; hope laughs from loving eyes:
All this is in the world!-these joys lie sown,
The dew of every path! On one alone
Their freshness may not fall-the stricken deer
Dying of thirst with all the waters near.

VIII.

Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers!
By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent;
O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers,
And the lark's nest was where your bright cups
bent,

Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen
Of twilight stars. On you heaven's eye hath been,
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you
Hath murmur'd, and the rill. My soul grows faint
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint

now,

I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray Still first for thee. O gentle, gentle friend! How shall I bear this anguish to the end?

Aid!-comes there yet no aid? The voice of blood Passes heaven's gate, even ere the crimson flood Sinks through the greensward! Is there not a cry From the wrung heart, of power, through agony, To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy!-hear me! None

That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun Have heavier cause! Yet hear!-my soul grows

dark!

Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone,
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown,
Its freight of human hearts? Th' o'ermastering

wave!

Who shall tell how it rush'd-and none to save!

Thou hast forsaken me! I feel, I know,
There would be rescue if this were not so.
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board,
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd,
Thou'rt where the dancers meet! A magic glass
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass,
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall:
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all—

Father in Heaven! thou, only thou, canst sound The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd, For human line too fearfully profound. Therefore, forgive, my Father! if thy child, Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild, And sinn'd in her despair! It well may be That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee, By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'dThe stricken love which hath perchance adored A mortal in thy place! Now let me strive With thy strong arm no more! Forgive, forgive! Take me to peace!

And peace at last is nigh.

A sign is on my brow, a token sent

Th' o'erwearied dust from home: no breeze flits by, But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent Of many mysteries.

Hark! the warning tone Deepens-its word is Death! Alone, alone, And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart, Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, Even in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness, Thee, its first love! O tender still, and true! Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, Though but a moment!

1 "And if you remember of old, I dare die. Consider what the world would conceive if I should be violently enforced to do it."-Fragments of her Letters.

Now, with fainting frame, With soul just lingering on the flight begun, To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, I bless thee! Peace be on thy noble head, Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead! I bid this prayer survive me, and retain Its might, again to bless thee, and again! Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate Too much; too long, for my sake, desolate Hath been thine exiled youth: but now take back, From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack (After a few kind tears for her whose days Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send Even then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend! Down to my voiceless chamber; for thy love Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, Though bought with burning tears! It is the sting Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing In this cold world! What were it, then, if thou, With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now? Too keen a pang! Farewell! and yet once more, Farewell! The passion of long years I pour Into that word! Thou hear'st not-but the woe And fervour of its tones may one day flow To thy heart's holy place: there let them dwell. We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell!

COME from the woods with the citron-flowers,
Come with your lyres for the festal hours,
Maids of bright Scio! They came, and the breeze
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas;
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown'd,
The bride of the morn, with her train around.
Jewels flash'd out from her braided hair,
Like starry dews midst the roses there;
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone,
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone.
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale,
Gleam'd from beneath her transparent veil;
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue,
Though clear as a flower which the light looks
through;

2 Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a picture in the "Painted Biography" there described.

And the glance of her dark resplendent eye,
For the aspect of woman at times too high,
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam.

She look'd on the vine at her father's door,
Like one that is leaving his native shore;
She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own,
As it greenly waved by the threshold stone;
She turn'd-and her mother's gaze brought back
Each hue of her childhood's faded track.
Oh! hush the song, and let her tears
Flow to the dream of her early years!
Holy and pure are the drops that fall

When the young bride goes from her father's hall;
She goes unto love yet untried and new,

She parts from love which hath still been true :
Mute be the song and the choral strain,
Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again!
She wept on her mother's faithful breast,
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest;
She wept-yet laid her hand awhile
In his that waited her dawning smile-
Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less
For the gush of nature's tenderness !
She lifted her graceful head at last-
The choking swell of her heart was past;

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.1

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

Why do I weep? To leave the vine
Whose clusters o'er me bend;
The myrtle-yet, oh call it mine !—
The flowers I loved to tend.
A thousand thoughts of all things dear
Like shadows o'er me sweep;
I leave my sunny childhood here,
Oh therefore let me weep!

I leave thee, sister! We have play'd
Through many a joyous hour,

Where the silvery green of the olive shade

Hung dim o'er fount and bower.

Yes! thou and I, by stream, by shore,

In song, in prayer, in sleep,

Have been as we may be no more-
Kind sister, let me weep!

I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon
Must now light other feet,

1 A Greek bride, on leaving her father's house, takes leave of her friends and relatives frequently in extemporaneous verses. -See FAURIEL'S Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne.

With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune, Thy homeward step to greet.

Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,

Lay tones of love so deep,

Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled— I leave thee! let me weep!

Mother! I leave thee! On thy breast
Pouring out joy and woe,

I have found that holy place of rest

Still changeless-yet I go !

Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain!
Eyes, that have watch'd my sleep!
Will earth give love like yours again?—
Sweet mother! let me weep!

And like a slight young tree, that throws
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs,
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing
Is the human heart-as a mountain spring
That works its way, through the torrent's foarn,
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home!
It is well!-The cloud on her soul that lay,
Hath melted in glittering drops away.
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre !
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire.
Mother! on earth it must still be so:
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go !

Still and sweet was the home that stood
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood,
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread,
As if from the glow of an emerald shed,
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high,
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky.
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glow'd,
Making a gleam round the lone abode :
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver
Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river;
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd,
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound;
And brightly before it a fountain's play
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay,