How low his brother's mood had fallen, Mastering the lawless science of our law, fetch'd His richest beeswing from a binn reserved For banquets, praised the waning red, and told The vintage-when this Aylmer came of age Then drank and past it; till at length the two, Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed That much allowance must be made for men. After an angry dream this kindlier glow Faded with morning, but his purpose held. Yet once by night again the lovers met, A perilous meeting under the tall pines That darken'd all the northward of her Hall. Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest He should not be rejected. Write to me! That codeless myriad of precedent, The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's room, Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale, Old scandals buried now seven decads deep In other scandals that have lived and died, And left the living scandal that shall die— Were dead to him already; bent as he was To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes, And prodigal of all brain-labour he, Charier of sleep, and wine, and exercise, Except when for a breathing-while at eve, Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran Beside the river-bank: and then indeed Harder the times were, and the hands of power Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men Seem'd harder too; but the soft river breeze, Which fann'd the gardens of that rival rose They loved me, and because I love their Yet fragrant in a heart remembering child They hate me: there is war between us, dear, Which breaks all bonds but ours; we must remain Sacred to one another.' So they talk'd, Poor children, for their comfort: the wind blew ; His former talks with Edith, on him breathed Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, After his books, to flush his blood with air, Then to his books again. My lady's cousin, Half-sickening of his pension'd afternoon, Drove in upon the student once or twice, Ran a Malayan amuck against the times, Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, Had golden hopes for France and all The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears, Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger | They barr'd her : yet she bore it: yet her forth cheek From where his worldless heart had kept Kept colour: wondrous! but, O mystery! What amulet drew her down to that old it warm, Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him Approvingly, and prophesied his rise: For heart, I think, help'd head: her letters too, Tho' far between, and coming fitfully Like broken music, written as she found Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he saw An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. But they that cast her spirit into flesh, Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued themselves To sell her, those good parents, for her good. Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth Might lie within their compass, him they lured Into their net made pleasant by the baits Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. So month by month the noise about their doors, oak, So old, that twenty years before, a part Falling had let appear the brand of JohnOnce grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now The broken base of a black tower, a cave Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. There the manorial lord too curiously Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove; Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read Writhing a letter from his child, for which Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly, But scared with threats of jail and halter gave To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits The letter which he brought, and swore besides To play their go-between as heretofore Nor let them know themselves betray'd; and then, Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went And distant blaze of those dull banquets, Hating his own lean heart and miserable. In babyisms, and dear diminutives All would be well-the lover heeded not, The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all, Yet bitterer from his readings: once indeed, Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her, She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly Not knowing what possess'd him: that one kiss Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth; A Martin's summer of his faded love, nies: Never one kindly smile, one kindly word : So that the gentle creature shut from all Her charitable use, and face to face With twenty months of silence, slowly lost Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. Last, some low fever ranging round to spy The weakness of a people or a house, Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men, Or almost all that is, hurting the hurtSave Christ as we believe him-found the girl And flung her down upon a couch of fire, Where careless of the household faces near, And crying upon the name of Leolin, She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. Star to star vibrates light: may soul to soul Strike thro' a finer element of her own? So, from afar,-touch as at once? or why That night, that moment, when she named his name, Did the keen shriek 'Yes love, yes, Edith, yes,' Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke, And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling, His hair as it were crackling into flames, His body half flung forward in pursuit, And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer: Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry; And being much befool'd and idioted Beside him, and the dagger which himself Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's blood: 'From Edith' was engraven on the blade. Then Averill went and gazed upon his death. And when he came again, his flock believed Beholding how the years which are not Time's Had blasted him-that many thousand days Were clipt by horror from his term of life. Yet the sad mother, for the second death Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the first, And being used to find her pastor texts, Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying him To speak before the people of her child, And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose: Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded Was all the life of it; for hard on these, since The parents' harshness and the hapless loves And double death were widely murmur'd, left Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, To hear him; all in mourning these, and With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove night, except one When since had flood, fire, earthquake, Such waste and havock as the idolatries, And worshipt their own darkness in the 'Gash thyself, priest, and honour thy And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, Then came a Lord in no wise like to The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, No coarse and blockish God of acreage Still paler the pale head of him, who Thy God is far diffused in noble groves And princely halls, and farms, and flowing tower'd Above them, with his hopes in either grave. lawns, And heaps of living gold that daily grow, Long o'er his bent brows linger'd In such a shape dost thou behold thy Averill, God. His face magnetic to the hand from which Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him; for Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labour'd thro' His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse Your house is left unto you desolate !' Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry Against the desolations of the world. Never since our bad earth became one sea, thine Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair Thee therefore with His light about thy Thee with His message ringing in thine ears, Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, Which rolling o'er the palaces of the Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty proud, God, And all but those who knew the living Count the more base idolater of the two; Eight that were left to make a purer Bodies, but souls-thy children's—thro' world the smoke, The blight of low desires-darkening thine own To thine own likeness; or if one of these, Thy better born unhappily from thee, Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one By those who most have cause to sorrow for her Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn, Fair as the Angel that said "Hail!" she seem'd, Who entering fill'd the house with sudden light. For so mine own was brighten'd: where indeed The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven Dawn'd sometime thro' the doorway? whose the babe Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, Warm'd at her bosom? The poor child of shame The common care whom no one cared for, leapt To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart, As with the mother he had never known, In gambols; for her fresh and innocent eyes Had such a star of morning in their blue, That all neglected places of the field Broke into nature's music when they saw her. Low was her voice, but won mysterious way Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one Was all but silence-free of alms her hand The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowers Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones; How often placed upon the sick man's brow Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth! Had you one sorrow and she shared it Softening thro' all the gentle attributes Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd not? One burthen and she would not lighten it? his face, |