Save in the rolls of heaven, where hers may live
A theme for angels, when they celebrate
The high-souled virtues which forgetful earth
Has witness'd. Oh! that winds and waves
could speak

Of things which their united power called forth
From the pure depths of her humanity!

Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call, Firm and unflinching, as the Lighthouse reared On the Island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place; Or like the invincible Rock itself that braves, Age alter age, the hostile elements, As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell. All night the storm had raged, nor ceased,

nor paused,

When, as day broke, the Maid, through misty

air,

Espies far off a Wreck, amid the surf,
Beating on one of those disastrous isles-
Half of a Vessel, half-no more; the rest
Had vanished, swallowed up with all that there
Had for the common safety striven in vain,
Or thither thronged for refuge. With quick
glance

Daughter and Sire through optic-glass discern,
Clinging about the remnant of this Ship,
Creatures-how precious in the Maiden's sight!
For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still more
Than for their fellow-sufferers engulfed
Where every parting agony is hushed,
And hope and fear mix not in further strife.
"But courage, Father! let us out to sea-
A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's

words,

Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith,
Dispel the Father's doubts: nor do they lack
The noble-minded Mother's helping hand
To launch the boat; and with her blessing
cheered,

And inwardly sustained by silent prayer
Together they put forth, Father and Child!
Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go—
Rivals in effort; and, alike intent

Here to elude and there surmount, they watch
The billows lengthening, mutually crossed
And shattered, and re-gathering their might;
As if the tumult, by the Almighty's will
Were, in the conscious sea, roused and pro-
longed,

That woman's fortitude-so tried, so proved-
May brighten more and more!

True to the mark, They stem the current of that perilous gorge, Their arms still strengthening with the

strengthening heart,

Though danger, as the Wreck is near'd, be

comes

More imminent. Not unseen do they ap proach;

And rapture, with varieties of fear
Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames
Of those who, in that dauntless energy,
Foretaste deliverance; but the least perturbed
Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives
That of the pair-tossed on the waves to bring
Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life-
One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister,
Or, be the Visitant other than she seems,
A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven,
In woman's shape. But why prolong the tale,

Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts
Armed to repel them? Every hazard faced
And difficulty mastered, with resolve
That no one breathing should be left to perish,
This last remainder of the crew are all
Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep
Are safely borne, landed upon the beach,
And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged
Within the sheltering Lighthouse. -Snout, ye
Waves!

Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and
Winds,

Exult in this deliverance wrought through In Him whose Providence your rage hath faith

served!

Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join!

And would that some immortal Voice--a Voice
Fitly attuned to all that gratitude

Breathes out from floor or couch, through
Of the survivors-to the clouds might bear-
pallid lips
Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden grew
Blended with praise of that parental love,
Though young so wise, though meek so
Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave,

resolute

Might carry to the clouds and to the stars, Yea, to celestial Choirs, GRACE DARLING'S name!

1842.

XVII.

THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE.

PART I.

ENOUGH of rose-bud lips, and eyes
Like harebells bathed in dew,
Of cheek that with carnation vies
And veins of violet hue:

Earth wants not beauty that may scorn

A likening to frail flowers;

Yea, to the stars, if they were born

For seasons and for hours.

Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred,
Stepped One at dead of night,

Whom such high beauty could not guard
From meditated blight;

By stealth she passed, and fled as fast
As doth the hunted fawn,

Nor stopped, till in the dappling east
Appeared unwelcome dawn.

Seven days she lurked in brake and field,
Seven nights her course renewed,
Sustained by what her scrip might yield,
Or berries of the wood;

At length, in darkness travelling on,
When lowly doors were shut,
The haven of her hope she won,
Her Foster-mother's hut.

"To put your love to dangerous proof
I come," said she, "from far:
For I have left my Father's roof,
In terror of the Czar."
No answer did the Matron give,
No second look she cast,
But hung upon the Fugitive,

Embracing and embraced.
She led the Lady to a seat

Beside the glimmering fire,

Bathed duteously her wayworn feet,
Prevented each desire:-

The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed,
And on that simple bed,

Where she in childhood had reposed,
Now rests her weary head.

When she, whose couch had been the sod,
Whose curtain, pine or thorn,
Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God,
Who comforts the forlorn;
While over her the Matron bent

Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole
Feeling from limbs with travel spent,
And trouble from the soul.

Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn,
And soon again was dight
In those unworthy vestments worn
Through long and perilous flight;
And "O beloved Nurse," she said,
"My thanks with silent tears

Have unto Heaven and You been paid:
Now listen to my fears!

"Have you forgot"-and here she smiled-
"The babbling flatteries
You lavished on me when a child
Disporting round your knees?

I was your lambkin, and your bird,
Your star, your gem, your flower;

Light words, that were more lightly heard
In
many a cloudless hour!

"The blossom you so fondly praised Is come to bitter fruit;

A mighty One upon me gazed;

I spurned his lawless suit,

And must be hidden from his wrath:
You, Foster-father dear,

Will guide me in my forward path;
I may not tarry here!

"I cannot bring to utter woe
Your proved fidelity.

"Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so!
For you we both would die."

"Nay, nay, I come with semblance feigned
And cheek embrowned by art;
Yet, being inwardly unstained,
With courage will depart."

'But whither would you, could you, flee?
A poor Man's counsel take;
The Holy Virgin gives to me

A thought for your dear sake;

Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace,
And soon shall you be led
Forth to a safe abiding-place,
Where never foot doth tread."

PART II.

THE dwelling of this faithful pair
In a straggling village stood,
For One who breathed unquiet air
A dangerous neighbourhood;
But wide around lay forest ground
With thickets rough and blind;
And pine-trees made a heavy shade
Impervious to the wind.

And there, sequestered from the sight,
Was spread a treacherous swamp,
On which the noonday sun shed light
As from a lonely lamp;

And midway in the unsafe morass,

A single Island rose

Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass
Adorned, and shady boughs.

The Woodman knew, for such the craft
This Russian vassal plied,
That never fowler's gun, nor shaf
Of archer, there was tried;
A sanctuary seemed the spot
From all intrusion free;
And there he planned an artful Cot
For perfect secrecy.

With earnest pains unchecked by dread
Of Power's far-stretching hand,
The bold good Man his labour sped,
At nature's pure command;
Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren,
While, in a hollow nook,

She moulds her sight-cluding den
Above a murmuring brook.
His task accomplished to his mind,
The twain ere break of day

Creep forth, and through the forest wind
Their solitary way;

Few words they speak, nor dare to slack
Their pace from mile to mile,

Till they have crossed the quaking marsh,
And reached the lonely Isle.

The sun above the pine-trees showed
A bright and cheerful face;
And Ina looked for her abode,

The promised hiding-place:

She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled;
No threshold could be seen,

Nor roof, nor window ;-all seemed wild
As it had ever been.

Advancing, you might guess an hour,
The front with such nice care
Is masked, "if house it be or bower,"
But in they entered are;

As shaggy as were wall and roof
With branches intertwined,
So smooth was all within, air-proof,
And delicately lined:

And hearth was there, and maple dish,
And cups in seemly rows,

And couch-all ready to a wish

For nurture or repose;

And Heaven doth to her virtue grant
That here she may abide

In solitude, with every want

By cautious love supplied.

No queen, before a shouting crowd,
Led on in bridal state,

E'er struggled with a heart so proud,
Entering her palace gate;

Rejoiced to bid the world farewell,
No saintly anchoress

E'er took possession of her cell
With deeper thankfulness.

"Father of all, upon thy care
And mercy am I thrown;

Be thou my safeguard!"-suoh her p ayer
When she was left alone,
Kneeling amid the wilderness
When joy had passed away,

And smiles, fond efforts of distress

To hide what they betray!

329

330

The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, Diffused through form and face, Resolves devotedly serene;

That monumental grace

Of Faith, which doth all passions tame
That Reason should control;
And shows in the untrembling frame
A statue of the soul.

PART III.

'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy
That Phoebus wont to wear
The leaves of any pleasant tree
Around his golden hair;

Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit

Of his imperious love,

At her own prayer transformed, took root,

A laurel in the grove.

Then did the Penitent adorn

His brow with laurel green;

And 'mid his bright locks never shorn
No meaner leaf was seen

And poets sage, through every age,
About their temples wound

The bay and conquerors thanked the Gods,
With laurel chaplets crowned.

Into the mists of fabling Time

So far runs back the praise

Of Beauty, that disdains to climb
Along forbidden ways;

That scorns temptation; power defies
Where mutual love is not;

And to the tomb for rescue flies
When life would be a blot.

To this fair Votaress, a fate

More mild doth Heaven ordain

Upon her Island desolate;

And words, not breathed in vain, Might tell what intercourse she found, Her silence to endear;

What birds she tamed, what flowers the ground
Sent forth her peace to cheer.

To one mute Presence, above all,
Her soothed affections clung,

A picture on the cabin wall

By Russian usage hung

The Mother-maid, whose countenance bright
With love abridged the day;
And, communed with by taper light,
Chased spectral fears away.

And oft, as either Guardian came,
The joy in that retreat

Might any common friendship shame,
So high their hearts would beat;
And to the lone Recluse, whate'er
They brought, each visiting
Was like the crowding of the year
With a new burst of spring.

But, when she of her Parents thought,
The pang was hard to bear;
And, if with all things not enwrought,
That trouble still is near.
Before her flight she had not dared

Their constancy to prove,

Too much the heroic Daughter feared
The weakness of their love.

Dark is the past to them, and dark
The future still must be,

Till pitying Saints conduct her bark
Into a safer sea-

Or gentle Nature close her eyes
And set her Spirit free
From the altar of this sacrifice,
In vestal purity.

Yet, when above the forest-glooms
The white swans southward passed,
High as the pitch of their swift plumes
Her fancy rode the blast;

And bore her toward the fields of France
Her Father's native land,

To mingle in the rustic dance,

The happiest of the band!

Of those beloved fields she oft

Had heard her Father tell

In phrase that now with echoes soft
Haunted her lonely cell;

She saw the hereditary bowers,

She heard the ancestral stream; The Kremlin and its haughty towers Forgotten like a dream!

PART IV.

THE ever-changing moon had traced
Twelve times her monthly round,
When through the unfrequented Waste
Was heard a startling sound;

A shout thrice sent from one who chased
At speed a wounded deer,

Bounding through branches interlaced,
And where the wood was clear.

The fainting creature took the marsh,
And toward the Island fled,

While plovers screamed with tumult harsh
Above his antlered head:

This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear,

Shrunk to her citadel:

The desperate deer rushed on, and near
The tangled covert fell.

Across the marsh, the game in view,

The Hunter followed fast,
For paused, till o'er the stag he blew
A death-proclaiming blast;
Then, resting on her upright mind,
Came forth the Maid-"In me
Behold," she said, "a stricken Hind
Pursued by destiny!

"From your deportment, Sir! I deem
That you have worn a sword,
And will not hold in light esteem
A suffering woman's word;
There is my covert, there perchance
I might have lain concealed,
My fortunes hid, my countenance
Not even to you revealed.

"Tears might be shed, and I might pray, Crouching and terrified,

That what has been unveiled to-day,
You would in mystery hide:

But I will not defile with dust

The knee that bends to adore

The God in heaven;-attend, be just;
This ask I, and no more!

"I speak not of the winter's cold,
For summer's heat exchanged,
While I have lodged in this rough hold,
From social life estranged;

Nor yet of trouble and alarms:
High Heaven is my defence;
And every season has soft arms
For injured Innocence.

"From Moscow to the Wilderness
It was my choice to come,
Lest virtue should be harbourless,
And honour want a home;
And happy were I, if the Czar
Retain his lawless will,

To end life here like this poor deer,

Or a lamb on a green hill."

"Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried,
"From Gallic parents sprung,
Whose vanishing was rumoured wide
Sad theme for every tongue:
Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest?
You, Lady, forced to wear
These rude habiliments, and rest
Your head in this dark lair!

But wonder, pity, soon were quelled;
And in her face and mien
The soul's pure brightness he beheld
Without a veil between:

He loved, he hoped, -a holy flame
Kindled 'mid rapturous tears;
The passion of a moment came
As on the wings of years.
"Such bounty is no gift of chance,"
Exclaimed he; "righteous Heaven,
Preparing your deliverance,

To me the charge hath given.
The Czar full oft in words and deeds
Is stormy and self-willed:

But, when the Lady Catherine pleads,
His violence is stilled.

"Leave open to my wish the course,
And I to her will go;

From that humane and heavenly source,
Good, only good, can flow."

Faint sanction given, the Cavalier
Was eager to depart

Though question followed question, dear
To the Maiden's filial heart.

Light was his step,-his hopes, more light
Kept pace with his desires:

And the fifth morning gave him sight
Of Moscow's glittering spires.
He sued:-heart-smitten by the wrong,
To the lorn Fugitive

The Emperor sent a pledge as strong
As sovereign power could give.

O more than mighty change! If e'er
Amazement rose to pain,

And joy's excess produced a fear
Of something void and vain :

'Twas when the Parents, who had mourned So long the lost as dead, Beheld their only Child returned,

The household floor to tread.
Soon gratitude gave way to love
Within the Maiden's breast:
Delivered and Deliverer move
In bridal garments drest

Meek Catherine had her own reward;
The Czar bestowed a dower:
And universal Moscow shared
The triumph of that hour.

Flowers strewed the ground; the nuptial feast
Was held with costly state:

And there, 'mid many a noble guest,
The Foster-parents sate;
Encouraged by the imperial eye,
They shrank not into shade;
Great was their bliss, the honour high
To them and nature paid!

1830.

One wooed the silent Art with studious pains: These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;

Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
And Love protect it from all injury!

And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
Here may some Painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renowned
When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of him who sang how spear and
shield

In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self
approved,

Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.

II.

IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME.

OFT is the medal faithful to its trust
When temples, columns, towers, are laid in
dust;

And 'tis a common ordinance of fate
That things obscure and small outlive the great:
Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim
Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim,
And all its stately trees, are passed away,
This little Niche, unconscious of decay,
Perchance may still survive. And be it known
That it was scooped within the living stone,-
Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains
Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,
But by an industry that wrought in love;
With help from female hands, that proudly

strove

To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers

Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely

hours.

111.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINA TION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS.

YE Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,

Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's re

turn;

And be not slow a stately growth to rear
Of pillars, branching off from year to year,
Till they have learned to frame a darksome
aisle ;-

That may recal to mind that awful Pile Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead,

In the last sanctity of fame is laid. -There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep

Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep, Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private

tear:

Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I
Raised this frail tribute to his memory;
From youth a zealous follower of the Art
That he professed; attached to him in heart;
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.

IV.

FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.

BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground
Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view,
The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU
Erst a religious House, which day and night
With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite:
And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave
birth

To honourable Men of various worth:
There, on the margin of a streamlet wild,
Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child;