And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom!
'But, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear, to drink its last, deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!
"And now farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death, so like a gentle slumber, on thee;
And thy dark sin! oh! I could drink the cup,
If, from this woe, its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himself,
A moment, on his child; then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall,
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
CXLVI.—MARMION AND DOUGLAS.
THE train from out the castle drew;
But Marmion stopped to bid adieu—
Though something I might 'plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,
While in Tantallon's towers I stayed
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone-
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp!"
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And "This to me!" he said;
"An 't were not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And first I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate!
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
(Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword),
I tell thee thou'rt defied!
And if thou saidst I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"
On the earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age;
Fierce he broke forth: "And darest thou, then,
To beard the lion in his den
The Douglas in his hall?
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms!-what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."
Lord Marmion turned-well was his need-
And dashed the rowels in his steed;
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
The ponderous gate behind him rung:
To pass, there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise:
Nor lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached his band,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
A shout of loud defiance pours,
And shakes his gauntlet at the towers!
CXLVII.-SHORT SELECTIONS.
A PLAGUE upon them! Wherefore should I curse them?
Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,
I would invent as bitter, searching terms,
As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear,
Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many signs of deadly hate,
As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave.
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words,
Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint,
Mine hair be fixed on end like one distract;
Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban,
And even now my burdened heart would break,
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest meat they taste!
Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees!
Their choicest prospects murd'ring basilisks!
Their softest touch as smart as lizards' stings!
Their music frightful as the serpents' hiss!
And boding screech-owls make the concert full!
THERE are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;
And do a willful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!
WHEN self-esteem, or others' adulation,
Would cunningly persuade us we are something
Above the common level of our kind;
The grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd flatt'ry,
And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.
OH! nothing now can please me;
Darkness and solitude, and sighs and tears,
And all the inseparable train of grief,
Attend my steps forever.
THE chiefest action for a man of spirit,
Is never to be out of action; we should think
The soul was never put into the body,
Which has so many rare and curious pieces
Of mathematical motion, to stand still.
Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds.
TRUE, I am old; but 't is not years alone
Have thinned and whitened thus these locks that do But mock my temples with a covering.
Grief hastens age: her wand can wave with Time's; The wrinkles she inscribes upon the brow
Are deep as his; and deeper on the heart
Her footprints. Years may bow the body down,
But, Sorrow! thine the power to bend the soul,—
And who like Want can teach humility?
Affliction's hand has pressed me to the earth,
And lean and withered Poverty has thrown
Around me, as you see, her tattered mantle;
Whilst my old days behold me here-a beggar!
As houseless as the deer upon the hills
That knows not where to seek a shelter when
The snow-storm loads the bent and groaning air,—
Asking from door to door precarious bread,
The crumbs that fall from Plenty's burthened table.
The world is full of men, but none have I
For Fellow; of some other race, methinks,
I am—the last remaining of my kind!
Amid the crowd I move as by myself:
Like some lone bird transported from its place,
And freed beneath some sky it never saw,
'Mong birds of every song except its own.
There is not one on earth that knows me; none
To look with kindness on me as I pass,
Save now and then some gentle ones-and they,
Only because their pity is a tribute,
They give to every wretched thing that lives.
All that have ever loved me have departed;
They who would in mine age have ministered
To me are not. A little group of graves
Grown thickly o'er with grass and mount'n flowers,
And yearly dressed by their old father's hand,
Is all that God hath left me of my children.
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