A stern hard man, of Calvin's iron mould,And yet I moved him, and his tale he told.
It seem'd (by me unmark'd), amidst the rest,
My uncle's board had known this homely guest.
Our evil star had led the guest, one day,
Where through the lone glade wound our lovers' way,
To view, with Age's hard, suspecting eyes,
The high-born courtier in the student's guise.
Thus, when the father, startled to vague fears,
By his child's waning cheek and unrevealing tears,
First to his brother priest for counsel came,
He urged stern question—track'd the grief to shame,
Guess'd the undoer, and disclosed the name.
"Time went—the priest had still a steady trust
In Mary's honour; but, to mine unjust,
Divined some fraud—explored, and found a clue,
There had been marriage, if the rites were due;
Had learn'd Clanalbin's name, as one whose eye
Had seen, whose witness might attest the tie.
This news to Mary's father was convey'd
The eve her infant on her heart was laid.
"That night he left his home, he did not rest
Till found Clanalbin—'Well, and he confess'd?'
I cried impatient;—my informer's eye
Flash'd fire—'Confess'd the fraud,' was his reply.
'The fraud!'—'The impious form, the vile disguise!
Mock priest, false marriage, hell's whole woof of lies!'
'Lies!—had the sound earth open'd its abyss
Beneath my feet, my soul had shudder'd less.
Lies!—but not mine!—his own!—not mine such ill.
O wife, I fly—to right, avenge, and claim thee still!'"
"Thy hand—I wrong'd thee," Morvale falter'd, while
His strong heart heaved—"Thou didst avenge the guile?
Thou found'st thy friend—thy witness—well! and he?"—
"Had spoken truth, the truth of perfidy.
This man had loved me in his own dark way,
Loved for past kindness in our wilder day,
Loved for the future, which, obscure for him,
Link'd with my fate, with that grew bright or dim.
I told thee how he warr'd with my intent,
The strong dissuasion, and the slow consent:
The slow consent but veil'd the labour'd wile;
That I might yet be great, he grovell'd to be vile.
'Twas a false Hymen—a mock priest—and she The pure, dishonour'd—the dishonourer free!
"This then the tale that, while it snapp'd the chord,
Still to the father's heart the child restored;
This told to her by the hard zealot's tongue,
Had the last hope from spoil'd existence wrung;
Had driven the outcast through the waste to roam,
And with the altar shatter'd ev'n the home.
No! trust ev'n then—ev'n then, hope, was not o'er:
One morn the wanderer reach'd Clanalbin's door.
O steadfast saint! amidst the lightning's scathe,
Still to the anchor clung the lingerer Faith;
Still through the tempest of a darken'd brain,
Where misery gnaw'd and memory rack'd in vain,
The last lone angel that deserts the grief
Of noble souls, survived and smiled—Belief!
There had she come, herself myself to know,
And bow'd the head, and waited for the blow!
What matter how the villain soothed, or sought
To mask the crime?—enough that it was wrought;
She heard in silence—when all said, all learn'd,
Still silent linger'd; then a flush return'd
To the pale cheek—the Woman and the Wrong
Rear'd the light form—the voice came clear and strong.
'Tell him my father's grave is closed; the dread
Of shame sleeps with him—dying with the dead:
Tell him on earth we meet no more;—in vain
Would he redress the wrong, and clear the stain,
His child is nameless; and his bride—what now
To her, too late, the mockery of the vow?
I was his wife—his equal;—to endure
Earth's slander? Yes!—because my soul was pure!
Now, were he kneeling here—fame, fortune won—
My pride would bar him from the fallen one.
Say this; if more he seek my fate, reply—
'Once stain the ermine, and its fate—to die!'
I need not tell thee if my fury burst
Against the wretch—the accurser—the accurst!
I need not tell thee if I sought each trace
That lured false hope to woe's lorn resting-place;
If, when all vain—gold, toil, and art essay'd,
Still in my sunlight stalk'd the avenging shade,
Lost to my life for ever;—on the ground
Where dwell the spectres—Conscience—ever found!"
