The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P. Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton
oh, each word seem'd vivid from the soul!
Fear, hope—reports that madden'd, yet could stir
No faith in one who ne'er could doubt of her:
Wild vows renew'd—complaints of no replies
To lines unwrit; the eloquence of lies!
And more than all, the assurance still too dear,
Of Love surviving that vast age—a year!
Such were the tidings to the maiden borne,
And—woe the day—upon her Bridal Morn!
V.
It was the loving twilight's rosiest hour,
The Love-star trembled on the ivied tower,
As through the frowning archway pass'd the bride,
With Juliet, whispering courage, by her side;
For Ruthven went before, that first of all
His voice might welcome to his father's hall:
There, on the antique walls, the lamp from high
Show'd the stern wrecks of battle-storms gone by.
Gleam'd the blue mail, indented with the glaive,
Droop'd the dull banner, breezeless, on the stave;
Below the Gothic masks, grotesque and grim,
Carved from the stonework, like a wizard's whim,
Hung the accoutrements that lent a grace
To the old warrior-pastime of the chase.
Cross-bows by hands, long dust, once deftly borne;
The Hawker's glove, the Huntsman's soundless horn;
On the huge hearth the hospitable flame
Lit the dark portrait in its mouldering frame;
Statesmen in senates, knights in fields, renown'd,
On their new daughter ominously frown'd;
To the young Stranger, shivering to behold,
The Home she enter'd seem'd the tomb of old.
VI.
"Doth it so chill thee, Constance? Dare I own,
The charm that haunts what childhood's years have known,
How many dreams of fame beyond my sires,
Wing'd the proud thought that now no more aspires!
Here, while I paced, at the dusk twilight time,
As the deep church-bell toll'd the curfew chime;
In the dim Past my spirit seem'd to live,
To every relic some weird legend give;
And muse such hopes of glorious things to be,
As they, the Dead, mused once;—wild dreams—fulfill'd in thee!
Ah, never 'mid those early visions shone,
A face so sweet, my Constance, as thine own!
And what if all that charm'd me then, depart?
Clear, through the fading mists, smiles my soft heav'n—thy heart!
What, drooping still! Nay love, we are not all
So sad within, as this time-darken'd hall.
Come!"—and they pass'd (still Juliet by her side)
To a fair chamber, deck'd to greet the bride.
There, all of later luxury lent its smile,
To cheer, yet still beseem, the reverend pile.
What though the stately tapestry met the eyes,
Gay were its pictures, brilliant were its dyes;
There, graceful cressets from the gilded roof,
In mirrors glass'd the landscapes of the woof.
There, in the Gothic niche, the harp was placed,
There ranged the books most hallow'd by her taste;
Through the half-open casement you might view
The sweet soil prank'd with flowers of every hue;
And on the terrace, crowning the green mountain,
Gleam'd the fair statue, play'd the sparkling fountain:
Within, without, all plann'd, all deck'd to greet
The Queen of all—whose dowry was deceit!
Soft breathed the air, soft shone the moon above—
All save the bride's sad heart, whispering Earth's Hymn to Love!
As Ruthven's hand sought hers, on Juliet's breast
She fell; and passionate tears, till then supprest,
Gush'd from averted eyes. To him the tears
Betray'd no secret that could rouse his fears—
For joy, as grief, the tender heart will melt—
The tears but proved how well his love was felt.
And, with the delicate thought that shunn'd to hear
Thanks for the cares, which cares themselves endear,
He whisper'd, "Linger not!" and closed the door,
And Constance sobbed—"Thank Heaven, alone with thee once more!"
VII.
Across his threshold Ruthven lightly strode,
And his glad heart from its full deeps o'erflow'd,
Pass'd is the Porch—he gains the balmy air,
Still crouch the night winds in their forest lair.
The moonlight silvers the unrustling pines,
On the hush'd lake the tremulous glory shines.
A stately shadow o'er the crystal brink,
Reflects the shy stag as its halt to drink;
And the slow cygnet, where it midway glides,
Breaks into sparkling rings the faintly heaving tides.
Wandering along his boyhood's haunts, he mused;
The hour, the heaven, the bliss his soul suffused;
It seem'd all hatred from the world had flown,
And left to Nature, Love and God alone!
Ev'n holiest passion holier render'd there,
His every thought breathed gentle as a prayer.
VIII.
Thus, as the eve grew mellowing into night,
Still from yon lattice stream'd the unwelcome light—
"Why loitering yet, and wherefore linger I?"
And at that thought ev'n Nature pall'd his eye;
He miss'd that voice, which with low music fill'd
The starry heaven of the rapt thoughts it thrill'd;
He gain'd the hall—the lofty stair he wound—
Behold, the door of his heart's fairy-ground!
The tapestry veil'd him, as its folds, half-raised,
Gave to his eye the scene on which it gazed:
Still Constance wept—and hark what sounds are those
What awful secret those wild sobs disclose!—
"No, leave me not!—I cannot meet his eyes!
O Heaven! must life be ever one disguise!
What seem'd indifference