Chapter 11.

The moment he had quitted Venetia, Lord Cadurcis returned home. He could not endure the usual routine of gaiety after her society; and his coachman, often waiting until five o’clock in the morning at Monteagle House, could scarcely assure himself of his good fortune in this exception to his accustomed trial of patience. The vis-à-vis stopped, and Lord Cadurcis bounded out with a light step and a lighter heart. His table was covered with letters. The first one that caught his eye was a missive from Lady Monteagle. Cadurcis seized it like a wild animal darting on its prey, tore it in half without opening it, and, grasping the poker, crammed it with great energy into the fire. This exploit being achieved, Cadurcis began walking up and down the room; and indeed he paced it for nearly a couple of hours in a deep reverie, and evidently under a considerable degree of excitement, for his gestures were violent, and his voice often audible. At length, about an hour after midnight, he rang for his valet, tore off his cravat, and hurled it to one corner of the apartment, called for his robe de chambre, soda water, and more lights, seated himself, and began pouring forth, faster almost than his pen could trace the words, the poem that he had been meditating ever since he had quitted the roof where he had met Venetia. She had expressed a wish to read his poems; he had resolved instantly to compose one for her solitary perusal Thus he relieved his heart:
i.

Within a cloistered pile, whose Gothic towers

Rose by the margin of a sedgy lake,

Embosomed in a valley of green bowers,

And girt by many a grove and ferny brake

Loved by the antlered deer, a tender youth

Whom Time to childhood’s gentle sway of love

Still spared; yet innocent as is the dove,

Nor mounded yet by Care’s relentless tooth;

Stood musing, of that fair antique domain

The orphan lord! And yet, no childish thought

With wayward purpose holds its transient reign

In his young mind, with deeper feelings fraught;

Then mystery all to him, and yet a dream,

That Time has touched with its revealing beam.
ii.

There came a maiden to that lonely boy,

And like to him as is the morn to night;

Her sunny face a very type of joy,

And with her soul’s unclouded lustre bright.

Still scantier summers had her brow illumed

Than that on which she threw a witching smile,

Unconscious of the spell that could beguile

His being of the burthen it was doomed

By his ancestral blood to bear: a spirit,

Rife with desponding thoughts and fancies drear,

A moody soul that men sometimes inherit,

And worse than all the woes the world may bear.

But when he met that maiden’s dazzling eye,

He bade each gloomy image baffled fly.
iii.

Amid the shady woods and sunny lawns

The maiden and the youth now wander, gay

As the bright birds, and happy as the fawns,

Their sportive rivals, that around them play;

Their light hands linked in love, the golden hours

Unconscious fly, while thus they graceful roam,

And careless ever till the voice of home

Recalled them from their sunshine find their flowers;

For then they parted: to his lonely pile

The orphan-chief, for though his woe to lull,

The maiden called him brother, her fond smile

Gladdened another hearth, while his was dull

Yet as they parted, she reproved his sadness,

And for his sake she gaily whispered gladness.
iv.

She was the daughter of a noble race,

That beauteous girl, and yet she owed her name

To one who needs no herald’s skill to trace

His blazoned lineage, for his lofty fame

Lives in the mouth of men, and distant climes

Re-echo his wide glory; where the brave

Are honoured, where ’tis noble deemed to save

A prostrate nation, and for future times

Work with a high devotion, that no taunt,

Or ribald lie, or zealot’s eager curse,

Or the short-sighted world’s neglect can daunt,

That name is worshipped! His immortal verse

Blends with his god-like deeds, a double spell

To bind the coming age he loved too well!
v.

For, from his ancient home, a scatterling,

They drove him forth, unconscious of their prize,

And branded as a vile unhallowed thing,

The man who struggled only to be wise.

And even his hearth rebelled, the duteous wife,

Whose bosom well might soothe in that dark hour,

Swelled with her gentle force the world’s harsh power,

And aimed her dart at his devoted life.

That struck; the rest his mighty soul might scorn,

But when his household gods averted stood,

’Twas the last pang that cannot well be borne

When tortured e’en to torpor: his heart’s blood

Flowed to the unseen blow: then forth he went,

And gloried in his ruthless banishment.
vi.

A new-born pledge of love within his home,

His alien home, the exiled father left;

And when, like Cain, he wandered forth to roam,

A Cain without his solace, all bereft,

Stole down his pallid cheek the scalding tear,

To think a stranger to his tender love

His child must grow, untroubled where might rove

His restless life, or taught perchance to fear

Her father’s name, and bred in sullen hate,

Shrink from his image. Thus the gentle maid,

Who with her smiles had soothed an orphan’s fate,

Had felt an orphan’s pang; yet undismayed,

Though taught to deem her sire the child of shame,

She clung with instinct to that reverent name!
vii.

Time flew; the boy became a man; no more

His shadow falls upon his cloistered hall,

But to a stirring world he learn’d to pour

The passion of his being, skilled to call

From the deep caverns of his musing thought

Shadows to which they bowed, and on their mind

To stamp the image of his own; the wind,

Though all unseen, with force or odour fraught,

Can sway mankind, and thus a poet’s voice,

Now touched with sweetness, now inflamed with rage,

Though breath, can make us grieve and then rejoice:

Such is the spell of his creative page,

That blends with all our moods; and thoughts can yield

That all have felt, and yet till then were sealed.
viii.

The lute is sounding in a chamber bright

With a high festival; on every side,

Soft in the gleamy blaze of mellowed light,

Fair women smile, and dancers graceful glide;

And words still sweeter than a serenade

Are breathed with guarded voice and speaking eyes,

By joyous hearts in spite of all their sighs;

But byegone fantasies that ne’er can fade

Retain the pensive spirit of the youth;

Reclined against a column he surveys

His laughing compeers with a glance, in sooth,

Careless of all their mirth: for other days

Enchain him with their vision, the bright hours

Passed with the maiden in their sunny bowers.
ix.

Why turns his brow so pale, why starts to life

That languid eye? What form before unseen,

With all the spells of hallowed memory rife,

Now rises on his vision? As the Queen

Of Beauty from her bed of sparkling foam

Sprang to the azure light, and felt the air,

Soft as her cheek, the wavy dancers bear

To his rapt sight a mien that calls his home,

His cloistered home, before him, with his dreams

Prophetic strangely blending. The bright muse

Of his dark childhood still divinely beams

Upon his being; glowing with the hues

That painters love, when raptured pencils soar

To trace a form that nations may adore!
x.

One word alone, within her thrilling ear,

Breathed with hushed voice the brother of her heart,

And that for aye is hidden. With a tear

Smiling she strove to conquer, see her start,

The bright blood rising to her quivering cheek,

And meet the glance she hastened once to greet,

When not a thought had he, save in her sweet

And solacing society; to seek

Her smiles his only life! Ah! happy prime

Of cloudless purity, no stormy fame

His unknown sprite then stirred, a golden time

Worth all the restless splendour of a name;

And one soft accent from those gentle lips

Might all the plaudits of a world eclipse.
xi.

My tale is done; and if some deem it strange

My fancy thus should droop, deign then to learn

My tale is truth: imagination’s range

Its bounds exact may touch not: to discern

Far stranger things than poets ever feign,

In life’s perplexing annals, is the fate

Of those who act, and musing, penetrate

The mystery of Fortune: to whose reign

The haughtiest brow must bend; ’twas passing strange

The youth of these fond children; strange the flush

Of his high fortunes and his spirit’s change;

Strange was the maiden’s tear, the maiden’s blush;

Strange were his musing thoughts and trembling heart,

’Tis strange they met, and stranger if they part!