by William Duthie.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.1 #2 (Dec 1866).
The lattice-window, diamond-paned,
Stood open as the twilight waned,
And scattered lustre crimson-rayed
Upon the cottage floor,
As, half his disk above the ground,
The angry, sinking sun around
His shining lances played,
In blood steeped o'er and o'er.
"He will not come, he will not come!"
A plaintive whisper faltered out,
As rose the shadows round about:
"The night is blind, the wind is dumb;
The dew will change to frosty rime—
O, weary, weary, weary time!
He will not come, he will not come!"
The ruddy lustre of the sun
Grew copper-bronzed, then purply dun,
And all the crush of piled-up cloud,
Like scarcely molten ore,
Cooled quickly down from gray to swart,
While here and there a flickering dart,
That almost seemed to hiss aloud,
Lit up the glowing core.
O wistful eyes, O straining sight!
There is no passing shadow falls
Upon the distant, leafy walls,
Athwart the sinking purple light;
No youthful footfalls gaily pass
From ringing road to silent grass,
And echo through the coming night.
"He will not come!" pale Lilly sighed,
Say rather whispered hoarsely low,
As in her hand she laid her brow.
O, better she aloud had cried,
With flood of tears and throbbing breast,
Than thus had watched the sun to rest,
And felt with light how hope outdied!
O, weary, weary, weary time!
The Summer's dew makes Winter's rime,
The flush of hope brings chilling fears,
And Joy is drowned in her own tears.
The sun is gone, the fires died out
Which warmed the heaped-up, cindery bank
Of rugged clouds, piled rank on rank;
And not a star all round about,
Nor glimmer of the moon on high,
Was seen in all the dreary sky.
Perhaps the fever in the sight
Of that lone watcher of the night
Shone out into the sombre air;
For surely there was life and light
And ghostly, wandering figures there.
Her soul looked forth into the gloom,
And in a misty glimmer traced
Now eyes, now lips, hands interlaced,
A breezy down, a sheltered room,
A waste with yellow heather broom;
And every where with beauty graced
A figure smiling, double-faced:—
A singing brook came leaping down
'Tween broken banks; the summer rain
Had filled them to the very crown;
Had changed the limpid drops to brown,
The purling note to loud refrain.
The low-arched bridge which spanned the stream
Lay half beneath the brawling rush
Of saucy waves, now low, now flush
With either shore, and white as cream.
A timid form—it was her own—
Stood bending near the narrow ridge,
Which now was all of that old bridge
The water had not overflown;
And as she quivered on the shore
,
A cheering voice spoke in her ear,
A handsome form stood by her side,
And in the tumult of her fear,
With nervous arm and rapid stride,
Her safely o'er the torrent bore.
With drooping lids and heaving breast
Her more than thanks her voice confessed,
And love, full-armed in tender might,
Flashed on the stranger's eager sight
In quiv'ring lip and flushing cheek,—
O, let thine eyes no further seek,
Pale watcher by the lattice-pane
Since twilight trembled on the wane,
To trace the downward path of flowers,
Trod blissfully on summer eve
With him the lord of Lyndon's towers,
Till leaves and blossoms seemed to weave
A deathless garland round thine head,
As one to joy and honour led.
Fair path, which grew so wild and steep!
Bright eve, which darkened into cloud!
Till storm-drops round thee 'gan to weep,
And sullen winds to wail aloud,
And leaves and blossoms tempest-tossed,
All withered as by sudden frost,
Fell dead in whispering thy name—
Thy name! So young, so weak,—lost, lost!
O, lost to all but death and shame!
"He will not come!" with listless hand,
And outward show of self-command,
She closed the lattice, but a throb
Of pain, that was not sigh nor sob,
Clove through her heart and brain;
She never bent beneath the throe,
But slowly whispered hoarse and low,
"He'll never come again!"
There was a merry rout on Lyndon Hill;
The amber light
Through all the mansion's many windows shone;
On stately tree and garden's flowery zone,
And with its fan-like rays
Woke to a glow the swarthy cheek of night.
And from its low-browed hall, of wont so still,
The busy hum of many voices came;
The chant of blithesome lays,
Of boastful words the loud acclaim,
All hailing one proud name;
And made the air
With joyous sound and radiance fair
Exultant and aflame.
Thus rang the words from voice to voice:
"Fair Margaret, our Lyndon's choice!"
There came an echo on the wind,
A glimmer on the midnight blind,
That murmured at the cottage-door,
That lit the lattice-pane,
To tell the news from Lyndon Hill,
Of Lyndon's choice, of Lyndon's will,
To Lilly watching, sick, heart-sore,
Since twilight 'gan to wane.
She never moved, she never spoke,
When on her ear the tidings broke,
But with a strangely vivid glance,
That flashed in one bright ray,
Then settled in a deadly stare,
She sat upon her lowly chair,
And head unbent in rigid trance
Of living death she lay.
O, weary, weary, weary time!
The Summer's dew makes Winter's rime,
The flush of hope brings chilling fears,
And Joy is drowned in her own tears.
On Lyndon Hill the summer Eve
Sat crowned with gold; her fleecy robe
Of white and rosy-tinted cloud
But half concealed her azure sleeve,
And girdle of the ruby proud;
And on her flushing cheek from each ear-lobe
There hung a diamond star,
That glittered wide and far.
And as the Eve, so was the Morning fair,
As following Night, who stole betimes away,
He came in vigour through the radiant air.
Forth shone the lovely day,
Not lovely only in its liquid light,
And breezes leste, but in its flush of hope,
Which all encompassed in its living scope,
And made its very shadows bright.
Love's jubilee it was, and so it shone,
And made day's eyes as lovely as its own.
The bride of Lyndon met the dawn
With eyes of light and cheek of rose,
And heart that throbbed with joyous throes
In greeting of the love-lit morn.
But there was one with face forlorn,
Whose cheek was as the falling snow:
Upon an icy stream below,
False Lyndon's love-bride all forsworn.
From her deep sunken eyes a fire
Streamed forth with sullen flame,
While firmly closed in anguished ire
And bitterness of shame
Were her thin lips, now white, now red,
As if from sudden wounds they bled.
Two brides—but one false groom!
Fair Margaret and Lilly fair;
The one with living blossoms in her hair,
And brow of light and cheek of bloom;
The other with a sallow skin
All blanched without and seared within.
For bridal both arrayed
In fleecy robes of chastest white,
A coronal of orange-blossoms made
Decked Margaret's braids of night;
The virgin bridal-wreath
Which trembled with her breath:
In pallid Lilly's tresses brown
With silver leaves there gleamed a crown
Of roses blanch as death.
Fair bridesmaids deftly flitted round
The bride of hope with tender care,
And voices tuned unto the sound
Of fond solicitude were there;
And treasures rare
Of gifts on every side were found.
But ah, alone, alone!
With frozen cheek, but burning brain,
Pale Lilly like a bleach white stone
Stood by the lattice-pane.
Alone, alone, alone!
The merry bells were ringing out
With boastful clang and joyous tone
The joyful message round about;
But every clear and tuneful note
Her weary heart in discord smote,
For on her lonely ear they fell
The boom of death's low solemn knell.
Then as the hour nearer sped
When Lyndon false his bride should wed,
She drew from out a sombre niche
A flask of sallow green,
And drop by drop upon her lip
She let the draught unhallowed drip;
'Twas full of gouts as black as pitch,
With shining film between.
The poppy and the henbane juice
Were there, and herbal poisons fell,
To woe and shame of dreadful use,
Whose hellish names I dare not tell.
And as she drank the deadly brew,
Her features sickened in the sight;
And not her robe of snowy hue,
Nor wreath of roses pure and bright,
As lip and cheek were half so white.
Then from her throbbing heart the rush
Of blood came mantling to her face;
And o'er her neck and cheek the flush
Of ruby life brought fire and grace.
Light filled her eyes, and forth she shone
With all the loveliness her own.
And so in beauty heavenly fair,
While not a cloud her face o'ercast,
Into the sunny air she passed;
And at a tranquil pace,
In bridal white and roses in her hair,
Within her heart despair,
And poison in her very breath,
Went forth upon her walk of death.
Across the garden, with its flowery host
Of bright-rayed petals, breathing odours sweet,
And through the orchard where the branches meet
Just overhead, all gnarled and weather-tossed;
Along the pleasant lane, where green
The grass fringed all the way, and sunshine came
The wild-flowered hedge and pollard trees between,
Her snowy robe shone like a brighter flame.
The birds, which once would flutter to her feet,
Flew scared away, and e'en the household cur,
Who brisk with joy would gambol up to her,
Slunk whining back; and some she chanced to meet
Of humble villagers, who used to greet
Her coming with a hand upraised,
And hearty speech, in tribute to her worth,
Beside the path stood silent and amazed,
As if she were some spirit upon earth.
So passed she on in loveliness supreme
And vestal white; now through the serried field,
By nodding ranks of wheat-ears half revealed,
Where trembling poppies shone with ruddy gleam,
And blue-eyed corn-flowers watched her half concealed.
There by the creaking gate, where lazy midge
Hung floating in the air, or toilsome bee
Swept buzzing by; then o'er the narrow bridge—
The very key-stone of her memory!—
Where once had rolled the waves so white and hoarse,
Now gurgling gaily in their narrow course;
And so, by bleach-white road and deep green-sward,
She reached the border of the gray churchyard.
An instant by the open gate
Her silent footstep paused to wait.
Forth rang the merry marriage-peal
Above the sacred roof,
When mid the clang there smote her ear
An echo rolling swiftly near,
The echo of a carriage-wheel,
And clamp of horses' hoof.
She glided with a spirit-tread
Among the living, o'er the dead,
Upon her face a hectic bloom,
A glitter in her eye.
Low whispers followed by her side
Of breathless awe: "Is this the bride?"
From clustered crowds on grass and tomb,
Who watched her flitting by.
Mid champ of bit and klirr of steel,
The jingling of the harness bright,
And whirr of many a carriage-wheel,
Fair Margaret, all love and light,
By Lyndon's side in beauty trod
The pathway to the house of God—
O bridegroom false! bride fair and leal!
But as they neared the open door,
There stood a phantom them before,
A second bride, in like array,
With lovely face unveiled,
Which flushed and bright an instant shone,
Then sickened to the hue of stone;
A rigid form, which barred the way,
As if 'twere armed and mailed.
How quailed false Lyndon at her gaze,
With feeble knee and parching tongue,
And craven hands that clutched and clung
About his bride, dumb with amaze!
"What brings you here?" he whining said—
Her white face looked so like the dead,
Her deep eyes set in deadly glaze.
"I am your bride!" No other word
Between her parted lips was heard;
Then with a shiver and a moan,
And hands that to her bosom clang,
Upon the earth a white form rolled.
False bells! ye should a dirge have tolled,
That, echoing through wood and stone,
The bride-peal had outrang!
O bridal bells! O jangling chords!
O discord far too deep for words!
O wedding morn, with hope so rife,
You brought two brides, but not one wife!