Of that our land, whose wilds and floods Barren and dark although they be, Were dearer than these chestnut woods; Those heathy paths, that inland stream, And the blue mountains, shapes which seem Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream; Which that we have abandoned now, Weighs on the heart like that remorse Which altered friendship leaves. I seek No more our youthful intercourse: That cannot be ! Rosalind, speak, Speak to me.
Leave me not.-When morn did
When evening fell upon our common home, When for one hour we parted,-do not frown; I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken But turn to me. O by this cherished token Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown, Turn, as 'twere but the memory of me,
And not my scorned self who prayed to thee.
Is it a dream, or do I see
And hear frail Helen? I would flee Thy tainting touch; but former years Arise, and bring forbidden tears; And my o'erburthened memory Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. I share thy crime. I cannot choose But weep for thee: mine own strange grief But seldom stoops to such relief;
Nor ever did I love thee less,
Though mourning o'er thy wickedness
Even with a sister's woe. I knew What to the evil world is due, And therefore sternly did refuse To link me with the infamy Of one so lost as Helen. Now Bewildered by my dire despair, Wondering I blush and weep that thou Shouldst love me still,-thou only !-There, Let us sit on that gray stone, Till our mournful talk be done.
Alas! not there; I cannot bear The murmur of this lake to hear. A sound from thee, Rosalind dear, Which never yet I heard elsewhere But in our native land, recurs,
Even here where now we meet. It stirs Too much of suffocating sorrow!
In the dell of yon dark chestnut wood
Is a stone seat, a solitude
Less like our own. The ghost of peace Will not desert this spot. To-morrow, If thy kind feelings should not cease, We may sit here.
Where you are going?-This is not the way, Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow Close to the little river.
But it might break any one's heart to see
You and the lady cry so bitterly.
It is a gentle child, my friend. Henry, and play with Lilla till I come. We only cried with joy to see each other; We are quite merry now. Good night.
Lifted a sudden look upon his mother, And in the gleam of forced and hollow joy Which lightened o'er her face, laughed with the
Of light and unsuspecting infancy,
And whispered in her ear, Bring home with you That sweet, strange lady friend." Then off he flew
But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning smile, Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while, Hiding her face, stood weeping silently.
In silence then they took the way Beneath the forest's solitude.
It was a vast and antique wood, Through which they took their way; And the gray shades of evening O'er that green wilderness did fling Still deeper solitude.
Pursuing still the path that wound
The vast and knotted trees around,
Through which slow shades were wandering,
To a deep lawny dell they came,
To a stone seat beside a spring,
O'er which the columned wood did frame
A roofless temple like the fane
Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, Man's early race once knelt beneath
The overhanging deity.
O'er this fair fountain hung the sky,
Now spangled with rare stars.
The pale snake, that with eager breath Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake, Is beaming with many a mingled hue, Shed from yon dome's eternal blue, When he floats on that dark and lurid flood
In the light of his own loveliness;
And the birds that in the fountain dip
Their plumes, with fearless fellowship Above and round him wheel and hover The fitful wind is heard to stir One solitary leaf on high; The chirping of the grasshopper Fills every pause. There is emotion
In all that dwells at noontide here: Then, through the intricate wild wood, A maze of life and light and motion Is woven. But there is stillness now; Gloom, and the trance of Nature now. The snake is in his cave asleep; The birds are on the branches dreaming; Only the shadows creep;
Only the glow-worm is gleaming; Only the owls and the nightingales Wake in this dell when daylight fails, And gray shades gather in the woods; And the owls have all fled far away In a merrier glen to hoot and play, For the moon is veiled and sleeping now. The accustomed nightingale still broods On her accustomed bough,
But she is mute; for her false mate
Has filed and left her desolate.
This silent spot tradition old
Had peopled with the spectral dead. For the roots of the speaker's hair felt cold And stiff, as with tremulous lips he told
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