Read Ebook: The Curse of Kehama Volume 2 (of 2) by Southey Robert

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Ebook has 177 lines and 16927 words, and 4 pages

These led to talks and dreams: how oft We sat at some wide window while The sun sank o'er the hills' far file, Serene; and of the cloud aloft Made one vast rose; and mile on mile Of firmament grew sad and soft.

And all in harmony with these Dim clemencies of dusk, afar Our talks and dreams went; while the star Of evening brightened o'er the trees: We spoke of home; the end of war: We dreamed of life and love and peace.

How on our walks in listening lanes Or confidences of the wood, We paused to hear the dove that cooed; Or gathered wild-flowers, taking pains To find the fairest; or her hood Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains.

No echo of the drum or fife, No hint of conflict entered in Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin-- Indifference to a nation's strife? What side might lose, what side might win, Both immaterial to our life.

Into the past we did not look; Beyond what was we did not dream; While onward rushed the thunderous stream Of war, that, in its torrent, took One of our own. No crimson gleam Of its wild course around us shook.

At last we knew. And when we learned How he had fallen, Margaret Wept; and, albeit my eyes were wet, Within my soul I half discerned A joy that mingled with regret, A grief that to relief was turned.

As time went on and confidence Drew us more strongly each to each, Why did no intimation reach Its warning hand into the dense Soul-silence, and confuse the speech Of love's unbroken eloquence!

But, no! no hint to turn the poise, Or check the impulse of our youth; To chill it with the living truth As with the awe of God's own voice; No hint, to make our hope uncouth; No word, to warn us from our choice.

To me a wall seemed overthrown That social law had raised between; And o'er its ruin, broad and green A path went, I possessed alone; The sky above seemed all serene; The land around seemed all my own.

What shall I say of Margaret To justify her part in this? That her young heart was never his? But had been mine since first we met? So would you say!--Enough it is That when he left she loved him yet.

So passed the Spring, and Summer sped; And early Autumn brought the day When she her hand in mine should lay, And I should take her hand and wed. And still no hint that might gainsay, No warning word of quick or dead.

The day arrived; and, with it born, A battle, sullying the East With boom of cannon, that increased, And throb of musket and of horn: Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased; And men with faces wild and worn,

In fierce retreat swept past; now groups; Now one by one; now sternly white, Or blood-stained; now with looks whose fright Said all was lost. Then sullen troops That, beaten, still kept up the fight. Then came the victors; shadowy loops

Of men and horse, that left a crowd Of officers in hall and porch.... While through the land around the torch Circled, and many a fiery cloud Marked out the army's iron march In furrows red, that pillage plowed,

Here we were wedded.--Ask the years How such could be, while over us A sword of wrath swung ominous, And on our cheeks its breath was fierce! All I remember is--'twas thus, And Margaret's eyes were wet with tears.

And then it was, when night had passed There came to me an orderly With word of a confederate spy Late taken, who, with head downcast, Had asked one favor, this: "That I Would see him ere he breathed his last."

I stand alone here. Heavily My thoughts go back. Had I not gone, The dead had still been dead!--for none Had yet believed his story--he, My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton, Who in the spy confronted me.

O you who never have been tried, How can you judge me!--in my place I saw him standing--who can trace My heart thoughts then!--I turned aside, A thing of some unnatural race, And did not speak; and so he died.

In hospital or prison, when It was he lay; what had forbid His home return so long: amid What hardships he had suffered, then I dared not ask; and when I did, Long afterwards, inquire of men,

No thing I learned. But this I feel-- He who had so returned to life Was not a spy. Through stress and strife,-- This makes my conscience hard to heal!-- He had escaped; he sought his wife; He sought his home that should conceal.

And Margaret! Oh, pity her! A criminal I sought her side, Still thinking love was justified In all for her--whatever were The price, a brother thrice denied, Or thrice a brother's murderer.

Since then long years have passed away. And through those years, perhaps, you'll ask How to the world I wore my mask Of honesty?--I can but say Beyond my powers it was a task; Before my time it turned me gray.

And when at last the ceaseless hiss Of conscience drove, and I betrayed All to her, she knelt down and prayed, Then rose; and 'twixt us an abyss Was opened; and she seemed to fade Out of my life: I came to miss

The sweet attentions of a bride: For each appealing heart's caress In me, her heart assumed a dress Of dull indifference; till denied To me was all responsiveness; And then I knew her love had died.

Ah, had she loaded me, perchance, With wild reproach or even hate, Such would have helped a hope to wait Forgiveness and returned romance; But 'twixt our souls, instead, a gate She closed of silent tolerance.

Yet, 't was for love of her I lent My soul to crime ... I question me Often, if less entirely I'd loved her, then, in that event, She had been justified to see The deed alone stand prominent.

The deed alone! But love records In his own heart, I will aver, No depth I did not feel for her Beyond the plummet-reach of words: And though there may be worthier, No truer love this world affords

Than mine was, though it could not rise Above itself. And so 't was best, Perhaps, that she saw manifest Its crime, that I, as saw her eyes, Might see; and so, in soul confessed, Some life atonement might devise.

Sadly my heart one comfort keeps, That, towards the end, she took my hands And said, as one who understands, "Had I but seen! But love that weeps, Sees only as its loss commands," And sighed. Beneath this stone she sleeps.

Yes; I have suffered for that sin; Yet in no instance would I shun What I should suffer. Many a one, Who heard my tale, has tried to win Me to believe that Hamilton It was not; and, though proven kin,

This had not saved him. Still the stain Of the intention--had I erred And 't was not he--had writ the word Red on my soul that branded Cain; For still my error had incurred The fact of guilt that would remain.

Ah, love at best is insecure, And lives with doubt and vain regret; And hope and faith, with faces set Upon the past, are never sure; And through their fever, grief, and fret The heart may fail that should endure.

For in ourselves, however blend The passions that make heaven and hell, Is evil not accountable For most the good we comprehend? And through these two, or ill, or well, Man must evolve his spiritual end.

It is with deeds that we must ask Forgiveness; for upon this earth, Life walks alone from very birth With death, hope tells us is a mask For life beyond of vaster worth, Where sin no more sets love a task.

Geraldine

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, That night of love, when first we met, You have forgotten, Geraldine-- I never dreamed you would forget.

Ah, Geraldine, sweet Geraldine, More lovely than that Asian queen, Scheherazade, the beautiful, Who in her orient palace cool Of India, for a thousand nights And one, beside her monarch lay, Telling--while sandal-scented lights And music stole the soul away-- Love tales of old Arabia, Full of enchantments and emprise-- But no enchantments like your eyes.

Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine, More lovely than those maids, I ween, Pampinea and Lauretta, who, In gardens old of dusk and dew, Sat with their lovers, maid and man, In stately days Italian, And in quaint stories, that we know Through grace of good Boccaccio, Told of fond loves, some false, some true,-- But, Geraldine, none false as you.

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, That night of love, when first we met, You have forgotten, Geraldine-- I never dreamed you would forget.

'T was summer, and the moon swam high, A great pale pearl within the sky: And down that purple night of love The stars, concurrent spark on spark, Seemed fiery moths that swarmed above: And through the roses, o'er the park, Star-like the fire-flies filled the dark: A mocking-bird in some deep tree, Drowsy with dreams and melody, Like a magnolia bud, that, dim, Opens and pours its soul in musk, Gave to the moonlight and the dusk Its heart's pure song, its evening hymn. Oh, night of love! when in the dance Your heart thrilled rapture into mine, As in a state of necromance A mortal hears a voice divine. Oh, night of love! when from your glance I drank sweet death as men drink wine.

You wearied of the waltz at last. I led you out into the night. Warm in my hand I held yours fast.

Your face was flushed; your eyes were bright. The moon hung like a shell of light Above the lake, above the trees: And borne to us with fragrances Of roses that were ripe to fall, The soul of music from the hall Beat in the moonlight and the breeze, As youth's wild heart grown weary of Desire and its dream of love.

I held your arm and, for awhile, We walked along the balmy aisle Of flowers that, like velvet, dips Unto the lake which lilies tile Like stars; and hyacinths, like strips Of heaven: and beside a fall, That, down a ferned and mossy wall, Fell in the lake,--deep, woodbine-wound, A latticed summer-house we found; A green kiosk,--through which the sound Of waters and of breezes swayed, And honeysuckle bugles played Soft serenades of perfume sweet,-- Around which ran a rustic seat. And seated in that haunted nook,-- I know not how it was,--a word, A touch, perhaps, a sigh, a look, Was father to the kiss I took;

Great things grow out of small I've heard. And then it was I took between My hands your face, loved Geraldine, And gazed into your eyes, and told The story ever new though old. You did not look away, but met My eyes with eyes whose lids were wet With tears of truth; and you did lean Your cheek to mine, sweet Geraldine,-- I never dreamed you would forget.

The night-wind and the water sighed: And through the leaves, that stirred above, The moonbeams swooned with music of The dance--soft things in league with love: I never dreamed that you had lied.

I loved you for the way you sighed; The way you said, "I love but you;" The smile with which your lips replied; Your lips, that from my bosom drew The soul; your looks, like undenied Caresses, that seemed naught but true: I loved you for the violet scent That clung about you as a flower; Your moods, where shine and shadow blent, An April-tide of sun and shower; You were my creed, my testament, Wherein I read of God's high power.

Was it because the loving see Only what they desire shall be There in the well-belov?d's soul, Affection and affinity, That I beheld in you the whole Of my love's image? and believed You loved as I did? nor perceived 'T was but a mask, a mockery!

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine, That night of love, when first we met, You have forgotten, Geraldine-- I never dreamed you would forget.

The Moated Manse

And now once more we stood within the walls Of her old manor near the riverside; Dead leaves lay rotting in its empty halls, And here and there the ivy could not hide The year-old scars, made by the Royalists' balls, Around the doorway, where so many died In that last effort to defend the stair, When Rupert, like a demon, entered there.

The basest Cavalier who yet wore spurs Or drew a sword, I count him; with his grave Eyes 'neath his plumed hat like a wolf's whom curs Rouse, to their harm, within a forest cave; And hair like harvest; and a voice like verse For smoothness. Ay, a handsome man and brave!-- Brave?--who would question it! although 't is true He warred with one weak woman and her few.

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