The Poet Lovers

"And soon I stood before a listening throng—Eager to criticise, to praise, deride—And poured the fervor forth, restrained so long,In one impassioned and impetuous tide.there is nothing upon earth more proud.More high, more flattering to the swelling soul,Than to chain every passion of the crowd.And with one word their sympathies control!

"To feel that you can sway them with a breath!And bind them with the mighty thoughts you make!To awe them into silence deep as death.Or from their lips responsive echoes wake!To hear a thousand tongues one answer speak!To make a thousand weep with one low tone!To see the changing of each earnest cheek.Which flushes or grows paler with your own!

"Yes! there is glorious triumph in that hour,That would the wildest dream of fame repay—Thus to feel conscious of your own great power.And thus with burning eloquence to swayThe hearts of others, as the waves obeyThe wind that stirs them! while beneath your eyeAll passions and all feelings powerless lay.Moved by the lifting of your hand on high!

"And I have felt this triumph! have seen allHang eager on the dropping of a word.With such a silence through the lofty hall,That scarce a breath the intense stillness stirred!Have stood, and with a motion or a wordHushed each heart-throbbing, fixed each careless eye!The shout of the tumultuous band have heardSwell upward wild and deaf'ning to the sky!

"But when I stole away from their acclaim.And sought my silent chamber, lone and still,

And said to my proud heart—'And this is fame!'It only answered with a feverish thrill.And so I turned away from that I sought,And poured my soul out on the poet's lyre,And much of bliss and much of pain it brought.Shall I tell further, love?—or dost thou tire?"

"Do the angels ever wearyOf the strains they hear above?Tell me how the poet's myrtlesShone among thy ringlets, love."

"Upon a placid brow their leaves did shine.But my wild heart was burning fire beneath,Because I strove Ambition's thorns to twineAmong the gentler blossoms of my wreath;One great thought struggled upward in my soul.As the sea heaves toward heav'n—that thought of fame!And the deep music of its surging rollThe world called song!—its echo was a name!

"The sound was hollow, and my brain soon burnedTo hear it ever ringing in my ear.Ambition was a mocker ! and I spurn'dWhat I had sought for as a prize most dear!In this deep restlessness I ever yearnedFor something, which I knew not then was love,And my soul's sea a saddened brow upturned.And murmured ever to the stars above.

"'Twas then that vision stole into my breast.So spiritual, so perfect, pure, and sweet;And all in glad surprise, I thought how blestWould my life be if I could only meet,Within this breathing world, a creature rare,Like that so exquisite, so young, so bright;With such a gift of song—such forehead fair—Such proud, pure eyes, full of deep, shadowy light!

"The vision haunted me! and soon becameA part of every thought and hope in life—And I forgot the mockery of fame—Its followers, its bitterness, its strife—And went forth with a wildly thrilling heartTo seek, and find, and wed my spirit-love,Whose sweet face of ray dreaming was a part.Whose spiritual grace seemed stolen from above.

"I went abroad—and wandered far and longIn search of her—my blessed spirit-bride;I mingled in full many a brilliant throng,Where were assembled loveliness and pride.Bewildering eyes looked softly into mine—Bright lips breathed low, sweet music on the air;Rich tresses their luxuriant wealth did twineAround young brows most eloquently fair.

"And peerless forms with gliding steps went by;And softer beauty stole behind the while;And dazzling haughtiness before my eyeMelted its cunning lip into a smile.Bewildering sweetness slept like a still dreamUpon pure foreheads stainless as the snow;And deep, dark eyes looked out with dewy gleamFrom timid lashes lifted soft and slow.

"But not the breathing charm of glowing lips,Nor the magnificence of midnight eyes,Nor brows which did the pearls they wore eclipse.,Nor the mute eloquence which sometimes liesWithin a smile, nor the exquisite graceOf tiny feet upon rich carpets prest,Could take away the beautiful yung faceWhose holy sweetness lay within my breast.

"Wearied with searching for its owner there,Amid such haunts of splendor and of pride,

I left the crowded halls, whose beings rareBut made me sigh for my own perfect bride.Then in each lovely clime I wandered long,With thoughts to meet her in some land of flowers—Perchance, in 'Italy's bright land of song,'Or 'neath the starry blossoms of Spain's bowers.

"I never wandered where the skies were bright,Or where the roses seemed to be more fair.Nor stood where ruined fanes rose on the sight;Nor thrilled to gaze upon some sunset rare.Nor climbed to some sublime or dizzy height.Nor marked a river rolling in its pride,Nor mused on the still splendor of the night.But that I wished thee, sweet one, at my side.

"Three years stole down into my spirit's halls,Bringing rich jewels on their flowing dress.And made them there a home, whose pictured wallsGlowed with the rarest tints of loveliness.Soft skies, and tinted clouds, and golden air,And shadowy haunts, and dimpled waves of light,And scenes of deep sublimity were there,Mingled with broken gleams of all things bright.

"And that one image! but its counterpartI sought for vainly in each sunny spot;Yet with a deeper feeling my wild heartClung to the thought that would not be forgot.Then homeward to my own sweet land I turned—Blessed be the stars that light it from above!Blessed every heart which ever toward it yearned.For here I met thee, sweet spirit-love!

"And when I saw thee, heard thee, clasped thee first—Held thee, thyself, unto my thrilling breast,The wild delirium of joy that burstUpon my soul, words never have expressed!

The deepest eloquence that language owns—The richest power of music, ne'er can tell,Since that sweet hour when first I heard thy tones,How dear thou art to me, my own Adel!"

The lovers parted for a little time—Oh, hapless parting! Yet one had but goneTo make a Paradise for his young bride—To gather birds and flowers to his home—To hang his palace walls with pictures rare—To place rich gifts and music in her room—To load the polished shelves with choicest books,And blend refinement with the lavish wealthProfusely scattered through that lovely home!And when the fruit hung golden on the trees,And the bright air of autumn wound the leavesWhose gorgeous hues robed earth in loveliness,And made soft, dreamy shadows on her breast,And all the air was full of a sweet soundMade by their rustling music, then was heTo claim the mistress of that fairy place.

Adel was slowly pacing to and froUpon a green bank by the river-side.Where first they met. The faint wind waved her hair,And sent the leaflets fluttering to her feet,That like bright butterflies, perched on the treesAnd humming to each other, swung above.Her tiny footsteps heedless pressed them downInto the mossy turf; and those bright curlsWore not the glowing wreath she loved to weaveOf autumn glory, in her idle hours,Was that young creature, with the musing step,Dreaming of future happiness and love—Dwelling upon the coming bridal hour—

Her heart all trembling with delicious joyMingled with timid fears?Upon that brow,So proud and pure, and once so shadowless,A troubled darkness lay; the sweet young lipWould quiver for a moment, and then growAs still and mute as marble; and her cheekWas whiter than a lily's, and her eyes.When ever and anon she raised them up,As if beseechingly to the blue sky.Were dark with an expression of despairAnd an unspoken anguish. Tightly twinedWere her small, slender fingers, with a claspThat pressed the crimson blood most painfullyThrough their clear nails.In broken murmuringsFrom these quivering lips came forth the words,Telling to the gay trees and the bright air.And all the beautiful and heedless scene,Of the wild sorrow that had come and hushedThe love and trust of her young, passionate soul.

"Oh, shining leaves, I would ye fellTo cover my dark grave!I would I dared to pray to HeavenTo take the life it gave!Oh, river! murmuring river!Flowing bright, and cold, and deep,Can your low song sing the anguishIn my aching heart to sleep?Never! never! earth is mournful!All things mock my weary sight!I turn away from sunny skies—From hope, and love, and light!Joy's radiant wing is folded;It will never wave again!Bright the hour when I met thee.Oh, impassioned Clarence Vane!

Like the fullness of that gladnessIs the wildness of this pain!I was artless when you sought me;I was but a dreaming child;But you woke my inner spiritTo devotion deep and wild.On the altar in my bosom—Laid I down my priceless trust—But the holy shrine is broken.And the gift lies in the dust!Not as others I esteemed thee,But so gifted and so grand.That upon thy placid foreheadDid I fear to lay my hand;And my love and reverence blendedWith a radiance purer far,Than the light yet undescendedFrom the circle of a star.In one glorious river gliding,Ev'ry word and every thought,In its bosom jewels hiding,To thy soul's deep fountain broughtAll the wealth of my affection,All emotions pure and deep,—As all waves in one directionTo the ocean onward sweep.I blessed you when you held my hands,And looked into my face;I blessed you when you folded meIn a mute, hushed embrace;I blessed you when your fervid lipsWere pressed upon my brow;I loved you—but oh! agony!I dare not love you now!Why did they come, those dearest ones.And whisper in my earThe words of fearful meaning,

That I shuddered but to hear?They told me of such hateful thingsIn all thy bygone life:—They said no woman pure and goodShould ever be thy wife!And o'er my girlish innocenceDistrustful shadows flung,And o'er love's, sunny radianceA cloud of sorrow hung!Oh! bitter, bitter knowledge,At my bosom entered in!I can not love thee, Clarence Vane,Thy soul is stained with sin!Oh! winning was your eloquence,And earnest was your tone,When telling of the rosy pathYour steps of life had known!And when I listened to your wordsMy bosom swelled with pride,That I should be your chosen one—Your spirit-love! your bride!I worshiped the great oral powerThat chained the silent throng;I loved the golden lyre that thrilledWith wild and passionate song.And when, with half-averted eyes,You spoke of ladies fair:—Of sweet, bewildering loveliness,And grace and beauty rare:—And how you turned away from allWith careless heart and cold:—In simple, girlish innocence,I trusted all you told.Oh! hapless fate! oh! cruel fate!That perfect love like mineShould have been given trustinglyAt an unhallowed shrine!False! you will mock me with that word,

Oh! wild, proud Clarence Vane!You'll taunt me with this faithlessness,Unknowing of this pain!And we must meet in bitterness,Who in full faith did part!Why should I heed reproach or scornBreathed by thy lips of art?And yet I knew that thy strong soulGives purest love to me—Can I not tell a star in heavenFrom a star in the sea?I feel that did an angel sitAnd smile upon my brow.No holier your tendernessCould be to me than now;But still I cast that love away—I banish my sweet trust—I can not soil my soul's white wingsBy stooping them to dust!If your great mind has been for yearsIn earthly fetters bound—If you have stooped your lofty flight.Base fires to flutter round—What! though from your soiled pinionsYou shake the groveling weight:—What! though you now soar to the stars,I can not be your mate;Ay! deck your glittering palaceWith a lover's gentle pride—And dream of wild devotion—And murmur of your bride—Oh! proud and passionate Clarence!You will never call me wife!Earth is mournful as the coffin,And pale sorrow shrouds my life!"

The beautiful young mourner hid her faceIn her small hands, and sank upon the earth.

Her tresses stole to kiss the silvery moss,And her white dress laid daintily and lightUpon bright, crisping leaves—the river sang—The sky was soft, and fresh, and delicate—The breeze went by, and its invisible wingsWere laden with perfume and melody—They were a mockery!

Her lip was mute,But there was something fraught with agonyIn the still drooping of her slender form,And the white face lying in her cold hands.

The sun went down and the wind asleep,And the sky shut its twilight eyelids close,While evening made her toilette. She came forth,Shining all over with soft, radiant gems.And eloquent in peace and loveliness;The dimpling bosoms of the silver wavesSwelled full of melody in praise of her.And the dark shadows crept beneath the treesTo hide away from her clear, azure eyes.Those deep, still eyes were on the stricken girl—The pure, proud, beautiful girl, whose first wild griefWas knowledge of the evil in man's heart:An agony awoke the bright young dreamsWhich lay within her bosom, thrilled with bliss,And turned them into sorrows, when her soulBent, shuddering, to hear the words of friendsBlending his name with images of sinShe had not known existed. Him—oh! him!To whom she gave such trust and reverence!Such perfect, earnest, spiritual love!Her heart shrank back from the black altar-placeWhere its sweet wealth was laid—she could not giveHer sacred offerings where unholy firesSo long had burned! Her very artlessnessAnd innocence of evil caused her grief!

So bitterly came knowledge to a heartAll radiant with purity and love.And thrilling with wild music—like a harpJust touched in heaven and sent, quiveringWith its unutterable melody, to earth.

The starry influence of the shining night,And the low murmur of the passing waves,Soothed, like a blessing, the wild, aching griefOf the sweet, desolate mourner. TenderlyThe starlight stole to kiss her pallid brow,The trees reached down their arms caressingly.And the bright river bade her not to griefIn tones of gentleness untaught by art.The beautiful love shattered so cruellyBy earthy fingers, here seemed proffered herBy the sweet angel-spirits of the night.Pale, placid, and subdued, the young girl rose—Her sweet face lifted to the sapphire sky,And her dark, mournful eyes surpassing thoughtIn their deep, pleading eloquence, upraised—And softly folding her white, slender handsUpon her weary bosom, prayed for peace!

"Break not! break not! break not, O mighty heart,With this fierce anguish rending all thy strings!Back! agonizing fires which from it start,Ere this wild torture which my spirit wrings.Shows itself on my brow or in my eye—Back! back! into my heart! ye may burn thereTill every feeling doth in ashes lie,But not a trace of pain my brow shall wear!

"To find her false! oh, anguish unexpressed!Be still, proud heart, be still! when will this burst

Of awful agony pass from my breast?This suffering racking me must be the worstOf mental pain that man can live and bear!Another pang would kill me; and to die,And let her know the depth of my despair—Better live on in endless agony!

"False! false! O God of heaven! is this so?And has another kissed that brow so bright,And held those tiny hands of moulded snow,And drank from those soft eyes their dewy light!Peace, tortured soul! why did I dream of herFor years and years before I saw her face?Why did my fiery soul its proud depths stirTo give to her alone its hallowed place?

"Burn on, fierce fire, in my consuming heartTill every thought of her—till every dreamAnd every hope in which she had a partHave perished in thy fearful, molten stream.Ashes! ashes! ashes alone are left!Each feeling and each passion have expired!The fire of this day's anguish has bereftMy heart of every thing it once desired.

"Tears? no, my tears are at their fountain dried—It sends no dew to cool my burning eyes;The only passion that remains is pride,And that upon my brow in mockery lies.Now I can taunt her! I can look unmovedUpon the loveliness a star might wear!Can mock her with the deathless love thus proved,While writhing sneers my lip and brow shall bear.

"And life, henceforth, shall be a hollow sound—The springs which all its arrogance control—Its emptiness—its nothingness I've found!No gentle thrill shall ever move my soul!

Bright dreams and lovely visions, ye are gone!My once high heart lies burnt upon your shrine!Oh, mockery! that I should deem that oneOf truth and purity could e'er be mine!

"Ah! glorious aspirations, where are ye?Oh, radiant hopes and blest, where have ye flown?Oh, heart! most mighty heart, once proud and free?Oh, starry dream of love? all gone! all gone!A dumb, cold, aching hollow is your grave—No beautiful emotion there doth dwell!The holiest, highest love that man e'er gaveI lost when I lost thee, oh, false Adel!

"But shall I mourn thee or thy treachery?Am I a woman to bewail my fate?Shall I sigh over this great misery,And of my sorrow piteously prate?No! every tone shall freeze like dropping ice,And she shall shrink from my cold, steady eye,And dainty scorn ray chosen words shall spice,While mockery upon my lip doth lie!"

Gorgeous and glowing, from the silver lampDepending from the ceiling, fell the lightOver the luxury of that rich room,Deepening the roses blooming in the tuftOf the soft, yielding carpet—lighting upWith golden glory the emblazoned namesGlittering o'er the array of rare, choice booksOn the dark, polished shelves—kissing the browsOf lovely statues, smiling from each nicheMost gloriously like life—and lingeringOver rich paintings and bright, perfumed flowersDrooping in antique vases—glowinglyThe soft light flooded the magnificent scene.Beneath the sparkling lamp the speaker stood;The fatal missive of the gentle girl

Lay on the floor, trodden beneath his feet.Sculpture a hollow form of cold, still stone,Transparent, stern, immovable, and pale,And kindle a wild, burning fire within—So did the mighty pain burn in his heart,And glow through his still features, as he stoodWith folded arms and high, proud, pallid form.His voice had died away 'mid shadows dimIn distant nooks of the luxurious room,And silently the fire consumed within him.

Then spirits came to haunt the hollow voidWhere once a great heart throbbed—pride and despairWrestled within his bosom, and his faceGrew fearfully contorted with their might.Now Pride looked out from his deep, flashing eye,And sat a moment on his haughty brow;Anon Despair gleamed wildly in his glance.And shrieked and quivered on his ashy lip.

Another spirit, wilder than the rest,Then rose within him—Shadow of the Past—And taunted him with hateful memories.Moaning in bitterness, the proud man sankUpon the floor in crouching agony,And pleaded with those mocking shapes of sinTo leave him to the fearful punishmentOf his own hollow loneliness—in vain!His brow lay on the letter he had castIn madness 'neath his feet—his hands were pressedConvulsively o'er his hot, tearless eyes—There was no "angel presence" near him then!The words his forehead touched had broke foreverThe silvery chain that bound his wayward soulTo purity, and peace, and innocence!Wildly he pleaded with rebuking shapesThat rose before the vision of his soul!Insensible things, glittering in that gay room,

Seemed shaken by his low, wild, aching tones:The flowers bent down, and drooped, and fainting, died;A harp-string snapped and broke, and a lute sighed;Dark shadows shivered in the fitful light,And all the crystals in the shining lampShut up their sparkling eyes, and looked no moreUpon his prostrate anguish—all was dark.Still struggled through the gloom his passionate voice!

"Oh! mocking memories! why haunt me now?Oh! phantoms of the past, that round me rise,Ye know not how your presence burns my browAnd taunts to agony my shrinking eyes!Leave me! oh, leave me! ye reproachful band,Why do you stand and gaze on my despair?Why do you circle round me, hand-in-hand,Pale, saddened spirits, once so bright and fair ?

"I know ye all! I know who wrought your fate—This retribution is too great to bear!If ye are pale, and sad, and desolate—Look on! and shudder at my great despair!Ye will not pity me! such as I gaveOf cold, false, hollow pretense, give you me!Away! away! pale phantoms of the grave!Taunt not the wildness of my misery.

"Oh, Ina! Ina! vision white and fair!How pale and sweet thou dost before me rise;I hear the pleading that thy lip doth bear—I see the agony in those soft eyes!And now I see thee mute and still in death,Thy golden curls dark with the dripping waveThy young, sweet lip robbed of its loving breath,Thy fairy form in a dishonored grave!

"And thou, proud, broken-hearted Isidore!Thy wild reproach, thy scorn, and thy strange curse—

Away! away! this suffering is moreThan thy wild prayer invoked for me, far worseThan any nature less than mine could brook,Or even dream of in its maddest power!Away! with that dark, scornful, fearful look,And leave me to the anguish of this hour !

"Ye haunting spirits of the past, away!Eyes once so soft now burn my very soul!I can not hope—I can not sleep—nor pray!Wild phantoms have me in their dark control.Pride! pride! where have you flown, my boasted pride?My brain is agony—my soul is hell!In vain my soul these visions has defied—Oh, this despair—Adel! Adel! Adel!"

By a Venetian window stood Adel—Her soft, deep eyes turned with a pensive lookUpon a sunset, rarely beautiful.One round and snowy arm held back the foldsOf a rich, crimson curtain, whose warm glowTinged with a deeper color the young cheekResting against the casement.

Purer still,And holier than ever, was her brow—Her eyes were deeper and more angel-like,And her sweet lip more placid and less bright—Her form more fragile even than of yore—Her manner so subdued and spiritual—Herself the exquisite embodimentOf purity, and loveliness, and grace—So sadly, softly beautiful she stood.

The muffled echo of a coming step,Wrapped up in roses from the Persian loom,

Stole through the fair apartment; but AdelListed not the soft echo 'mid its flowers.Her tlioughts were with her eyes, on the gay sky—Her dreams were with the sunset—purple, and gold,And crimson palaces she built in air,With her wild fancies for the artisans.And when she thought what spirit she would chooseTo dwell with her beneath their gorgeous roofs,She sighed, and her hp quivered mournfully.But still she mused on beautiful, bright things—With not a throb of her impassioned heart—With not a tremble of her delicate hand—Nor quiver of the lashes sweetly raised—Nor startling of the color in her cheek,To tell her that he stood almost beside her—That the dark eyes of Clarence Vane were fixedUpon the eloquence of her fair face!

Stilly he stood, and read her musing mood.He saw that all was beautiful and pure—That her young heart had turned away from himBecause he was unworthy—that her soulWas blessed with holy peace—the blessed peaceThat was denied unto his fevered brain.Wild waves of bitterness swept o'er his soul;Her quiet mood was maditess to his own—Her placid face was torture, when his ownHad grown so furrowed in his agony!One burning will, to crush her by the weightOf scorn and pride, held his wild passions down—Coldly and mockingly his dark eye smiled,And his lip curled maliciously—

"Adel!"The fair girl started from her rosy dreams,And the faint flusli upon her cheek went downAt the first sound of that cold, mocking voice.Love! O love! how fearful is thy power!

She had thought that Clarence was no moreThan the wild wind to her—that every linkThat bound her soul to his had broken beenBy the abhorrence of his sinful past—That the dark, struggling anguish of her soulHad been subdued forever—yet oh! now,The very instant that her eyes met his,She felt the spell upon her! A strange thrillCrept round her sinking heart—the weary pastWas all forgotten, and she only feltHis presence! Why stood he thus and smiled?The life seemed fainting in her heart; her lipSpoke not, but with uneven step she cameAnd leaned her forehead on his throbless breast!No word, and no caress! And summoning strengthShe lifted up her face and looked in his.Cold were his eyes, and stern his altered brow,And his fine lips were curled into a sneer.He thought to crush with coldness and contemptThe gentle spirit of the gifted girl;And for a moment she was powerlessWith sorrow, not with dread. She clung to himWith icy and faint grasp, her large, strange eyesFixed on his face, and murmured to herself,Slowly and soft, as in a painful dream:

"He greets me with no loving word—His brow is stern with pride;The stars our passionate vows have heard,Yet knows he not his bride!My brow with anguish is distressed—My heart is fainting in my breast;Yet soothes he not, and speaks he not!I know—I know I am forgot!"

Unconscious of her words was the young girl,In that dark moment of bewildermentWhen love came back, unbidden, to her heart;

It was as well; the evil in his breastHad quenched the starry light of love forever;Tlie fate of one so good and beautifulMust not be blended with so dark a fate.With a chill, bitter smile, he answered her:

"I much regret this knowledge comes so late;I did not dream your missive was a jest!But even in jest there sometimes lurks a fate,Pieventing love like ours from being blest;And as I deemed you earnest, I had thoughtIt was as well to seek another bride.The message with such just rebukings fraughtWas only play—you did not mean to chide?

"Most highly I approve your faith and trust;Nor caught nor held by slander's secret spring—What was it about stooping to the dust—Or 'bout an eagle with a dirty wing?Have you repented of your cruelty?Have you forgotten what you so detest?And do you prize me more than purity?I can not realize I am so blest!

"But think not, pretty puritan, I couldRequire the sacrifice that you must makeOf friends' approval and of all that's goodFor a low lover's most unworthy sake.No! no! the proffered bliss I must decline,Though it should break my heart to say farewell!Yet, if for love of me you still should pine,I'll wed thee out of pity, fair Adel!"

Back from his bosom had the maiden sprangAs his first words startled her 'wildered ear,And stood up calm and strong, but deathly pale;And when his sneering lips grew bitterer still,Her slender form grew stronger in its pride;

And the bright, haughty crimson in her cheekBurnt clear and beautiful; and her rich lipCurled outward in resentment, sweet and full.And when he ceased, she stood and gazed on himIn silent scorn, most deep and withering.Never a star looked on a petty flameWith clearer luster than her steady eyeAnswered the mock disdain that quailed in his!Never a queen so wore her regal crownAs she her conscious purity and pride!The tumult in his breast lay hushed and shamedBefore that peerless majesty of mien—The lip that breathed of pity paled with aweOf the bright being that before him stood,So lofty in her beauty and her scorn!But still pride struggled with a sense of shame,And with a husky voice he would have spokeStill further his unmanly bitterness;But with a matchless wave of her white handAnd flashing eye, she uttered, clear and quick—

"No more! no more! the spell is brokeWhich held me in its dizzy sway—My dream of thee at last lias wokeTo see thee in revealing day!I can not mourn the spell is pastWhich held my spirit's powers fast—I can not mourn the real light—I scorn thee from my waking sight—Away! away

Obedient to that gesture of command.From her proud, glorious presence, with no word,No sigh, and no farewell, young Clarence turned.The souls once blent in seeming perfectnessWere riven apart forever—evermore!Earth—earth! thy mystery—thy agony!

In the deep twilight, as it gathered 'round,Adel stood where he left her, with her handsPressed tight upon her heart, and murmuringIn one same accent low, "'Tis o'er—'tis o'er!"And from that hour she gathered up her strength,And grew more lofty and more beautiful,With all her pride of genius and of soul.She trusted not the world, nor hated it;But wnth a peerless manner, and a browLike snow in coldness and in purity,She walked amid its throngs, confiding not,But loved and wondered at for starry gifts—A marble casket, exquisitely fair,With priceless jewels glittering therein!At times she swept her lyre with hand divine,And eagerly the world listed the strainsThrilling its heart with their rare eloquence—So sweet, and soft, and passionate, and full;And through the fineness of each delicate noteA finer tone lingered on the 'tranced ear—A music mournfully and softly strange,Like a faint dirge played upon higher keys.Or tear-drops falling on the spirit's wires.

Have you ne'er seen a palace grand and high,And decked within by many costly things?Pictures of beauty and bright burning lamps,And books of wisdom, and sweet, pleasant flowers.And many tall, fair mirrors, giving backA thousand times the splendor that they saw?Like such a palace was proud Clarence VaneBefore he met his beautiful Adel.But the fair habitants who should have beenWithin so bright a dwelling, had gone out,And lowly slaves were rioting within.Virtue and Peace, and Truth and EloquenceWere frighted from its chambers—even PrideAnd stern Ambition fled the revelry

Of the dark slaves they could not fraternize.Passion, and Selfishness, and all their broodOf tyrant evils feasted in that home,And tore the bocks of wisdom, and defacedThe lovely pictures Fancy had designed,And crushed the flowers of Purity, and quenchedThe burning lamps of Genius where they hung!But a sweet angel-visitant then came,And with the aweing power of purityWalked through the palace, and the evils fled.With graceful hand the pictures she retouched,Re-lighted the dark lamps, re-wrote the books,And breathed new perfume in the withered flowers;And wheresoe'er she walked, the mirrors gaveOnly her own fair image pure and bright;And this sweet angel was Spiritual Love!

When she departed, desolate DespairTouched his wild torch to all the lovely scene;And while the flames rose over all within,Stood 'mid the fearful ruin, Samson-like,The maddened instrument of his own death.Yet who that stood and on that palace gazed,With its proud, marble front so calm and cold,Would even dream that all was dark within—All hollow, dreary, charred, and tenantless—Save by the ghosts of past magnificence!But thus it was with Clarence, since the hour,When doubly desolate, rebuked, and still,He went forth from the presence of his love.His mighty heart became the sepulcherHolding the ashes of its own dead friends.And haunted by pale shadows of the past;While mind, like a dumb slave, sat at the door.That none might know the desolation there!

If the young flowers of Adel's high heartWere laid upon a shrine that withered them,

Should no more bloom be gathered? While her handWith mournful sweetness swept her silver lyre,Attracted by its angel melody,A spirit came and bended at her feet.With earnest love and gentle reverence—A spirit worthy to commune with hers—Gifted and eloquent, and full of truth!And grateful for the homage offered her,While all her soul quivered with intense joy,She yielded up the jewels of the loveThat would not blend with darkness—and received,With blessings and with prayers and earnest trust,A love and tenderness as deep and pureAs the rich light that broods around a star.