faint passions wage,(The small heart-conflicts which disturb the wise,
Whom reason succours when the anger tries,
Such as to this meek social ring belong,
In conscience weak, but in discretion strong;)
But that known only to man's franker state,
In love a demigod—a fiend in hate,
Him, not the reason but the instincts lead,
Prompt in the impulse, ruthless in the deed.
And if the wrong might seem too weak a cause
For the fell hate—not his were Europe's laws.—
Some think dishonour, if it halt at crime,
A stingless asp—what injury in the slime?
As if but this poor clay—this crumbling coil
Of dust for graves—were all the foul can soil!
As if the form were not the type (nor more
Than the mere type) of what chaste souls adore!
That Woman-Royalty, a spotless name,
For sires to boast—for sons unborn to claim,
That heavenly purity of thought—as free
From shame as sin, the soul's virginity,
If these be lost—why what remains?—the form?
Has that such worth?—Go, envy then the worm!
And well to him may such belief belong,
And India's memories blacken more the wrong;
In Eastern lands, by tritest tales convey'd,
How Honour guards from sight itself the maid;
Home's solemn mystery, jealous of a breath,
Screen'd by religion, and begirt with death:—
Again he cower'd beneath the hissing tongue,
Again the gibe of scurril laughter rung,
Again the Plague-breath air itself defiled,
And Mockery grinn'd upon his mother's child!
All the heart's chaste religion overthrown,
And slander scrawl'd upon the altar-stone!
And if that memory pause, what shapes succeed?
The martyr leaning on the broken reed!
The life slow-poison'd in the thoughts that shed
Shame o'er the joyless earth;—and there, the dead!
Marvel not ye, the soft, the fair, the young,
Whose thoughts are chords to Love's sweet music strung,
Whose life the sterner genius—Hate, has spared,
If on his soul no torch but Atè's glared!
If in the foe was lost to sight the bride,
The foe's meek child!—that memory was denied!
The face, the tale, the sorrow, and the love, }
All fled—all blotted from the breast: Above }
The Deluge not one refuge for the Dove! }
There is no Lethé like one guilty dream,
It drowns all life that nears the leaden stream;
And if the guilt seem sacred to the creed,
Between the stars and earth, but stands the Deed!
So in his breast the Titan feud began:
Which shall prevail—the Angel or the Man?
The Injurer comes! the lone light breaking o'er }
The gloom, waves flickering to the open door, }
And Arden's step is on the fatal floor! }
Around he gazed, and hush'd his breath—for Fear
Cast its own shadow on the wall—a drear
And ominous prescience of the Death-king there
Breathed its chill horror to the heavy air;
O'er yon recess—which bars with draperied pall
The baffled gaze—the unbroken shadows fall.
The lurid embers on the hearth burn low;
The clicking time-piece sounds distinct and slow;
And the roused instinct hate's suspense foreshows
In the pale Indian's lock'd and grim repose.
So Arden enter'd, and thus spoke; the while
His restless eye belied his ready smile:
"Return'd, I find thy mandate, and attend
To hear a mystery, or to serve a friend."
"Or front a foe!"
A stifled voice replied.
O'er Arden's temples flush'd the knightly pride.
"What means that word, which jars, not daunts, the ear?
I own no foe—if foe there be, no fear."
"Pause and take heed—then with as firm a sound
Disdain the danger—when the foe is found!
What, if thou had'st a sister, whom the grave
To thy sole charge—a sacred orphan—gave—
What, if a traitor had, with mocking vows,
Won the warm heart, and woo'd the plighted spouse,
Then left—a scoff;—what, if his evil fame,
Alone sufficed to blast the virgin name,
What—hourly gazing on a life forlorn,
Amidst a solitude wall'd round with scorn,
Shame at the core—death gnawing at the cheek—
What, from the suitor, would the brother seek?"
"Wert thou that brother," with unsteady voice, Arden
