But now there was a moaning air abroad;
And ever and anon, over the road,
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees,
Whose trunks, wet, bare, and cold, seem'd ill at ease.
The people, who, from reverence, kept at home,
Listen'd till afternoon to hear them come;
And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard
But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirr'd,
Till tow'rds the vesper hour; and then, 'twas said,
Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read;
And others said, that they could hear a sound
Of many horses trampling the moist ground.
Still nothing came :-till on a sudden, just
As the wind open'd in a rising gust,
A voice of chaunting rose, and, as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers, who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turn'd aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roll'd.
Many a gentle spirit ill could bear
To keep the window, when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see
The hearse approaching, slow and steadily,
In which those two in senseless coldness lay,
Who, not two brief years since, it seem'd a day,-
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind;
In sunny manhood he,-she honour'd, fair, and kind.
OLD is the tale I tell, and yet as young
And warm with life as ever minstrel sung:
Two lovers fill it,-two fair shapes-two souls
Sweet as the last, for whom the death-bell tolls :
What matters it how long ago, or where
They liv'd, or whether their young locks of hair,
Like English hyacinths, or Greek, were curl'd?
We hurt the stories of the antique world
By thinking of our school-books, and the wrongs
Done them by pedants and fantastic songs,
Or sculptures, which from Roman "studios" thrown,
Turn back Deucalion's flesh and blood to stone.
Truth is for ever truth, and love is love;
The bird of Venus is the living dove.
Sweet Hero's eyes, three thousand years ago,
Were made precisely like the best we know,
Look'd the same looks, and spoke no other Greek
Than eyes of honey-moons begun last week.
Alas! and the dread shock that stunn'd her brow
Strain'd them as wide as any wretch's now.
I never think of poor Leander's fate,
And how he swam, and how his bride sat late,
And watch'd the dreadful dawning of the light,
But as I would of two that died last night.
So might they now have liv'd, and so have died
The story's heart, to me, still beats against its side.
Beneath the sun which shines this very hour, There stood of yore-behold it now-a tow'r,
Half set in trees and leafy luxury,
And through them look'd a window on the sea.
The tow'r is old, but guards a beauteous scene
Of bow'rs, 'twixt purple hills, a gulf of green,
Whose farthest side, from out a lifted grove,
Shows a white temple to the Queen of Love.
Fair is the morn, the soft trees kiss and breathe ;
Calm, blue, and glittering is the sea beneath;
And by the window a sweet maiden sits,
Grave with glad thoughts, and watching it by fits;
For o'er that sea, drawn to her with delight,
Her love Leander is to come at night;
To come, not sailing, or with help of oar,
But with his own warm heart and arms--no more-
A naked bridegroom, bound from shore to shore.
A priestess Hero is, an orphan dove,
Lodg'd in that turret of the Queen of Love;
A youth Leander, born across the strait,
Whose wealthy kin deny him his sweet mate,
Beset with spies, and dogg'd with daily spite;
But he has made high compact with delight,
And found a wondrous passage through the welter-
ing night.
So sat she fix'd all day, or now was fain
To rise and move, then sighs, then sits again;
Then tries some work, forgets it, and thinks on,
Wishing with perfect love the time were gone,
And lost to the green trees with their sweet singers,
Taps on the casement's ledge with idle fingers.
An aged nurse had Hero in the place, An under priestess of an humbler race, Who partly serv'd, partly kept watch and ward Over the rest, but no good love debarr'd. The temple's faith, though serious, never cross'd Engagements, miss'd to their exchequer's cost;
And though this present knot was to remain
Unknown awhile, 'twas bless'd within the fane,
And much good thanks expected in the end
From the dear married daughter, and the wealthy
friend.
Poor Hero look'd for no such thanks. Her hand,
But to be held in his, would have giv'n sea and land.
The reverend crone accordingly took care To do her duty to a time so fair,
Saw all things right, secur'd her own small pay, (Which brought her luxuries to her dying day,) And finishing a talk, which with surprise
She saw made grave e'en those good-humour'd eyes, Laid up, tow'rds night, her service on the shelf, And left her nicer mistress to herself.
Hesper meanwhile, the star with amorous eye,
Shot his fine sparkle from the deep blue sky.
A depth of night succeeded, dark, but clear,
Such as presents the hollow starry sphere
Like a high gulf to heaven; and all above
Seems waking to a fervid work of love.
A nightingale, in transport, seemed to fling
His warble out, and then sit listening:
And ever and anon, amidst the flush
Of the thick leaves, there ran a breezy gush;
And then, from dewy myrtles lately bloom'd,
An odour small, in at the window, fumed.
At last, with twinkle o'er a distant tower,
A star appear'd, that was to show the hour.
The virgin saw; and going to a room
Which held an altar burning with perfume,
Cut off a lock of her dark solid hair,
And laid it, with a little whisper'd prayer,
Before a statue, that of marble bright
Sat smiling downwards o'er the rosy light.
Then at the flame a torch of pine she lit,
And o'er her head anxiously holding it,
Ascended to the roof; and leaning there,
Lifted its light into the darksome air.
The boy beheld, beheld it from the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, in swimming, more triumphantly.
Smooth was the sea that night, the lover strong,
And in the springy waves he danced along.
He rose, he dipp'd his breast, he aim'd, he cut
With his clear arms, and from before him put
The parting waves, and in and out the air
His shoulders felt, and trail'd his washing hair;
But when he saw the torch, oh! how he sprung,
And thrust his feet against the waves, and flung
The foam behind, as though he scorn'd the sea,
And parted his wet locks, and breath'd with glee,
And rose, and panted, most triumphantly !
Arriv'd at last on shallow ground, he saw
The stooping light, as if in haste, withdraw ;
Again it issued just above the door
With a white hand, and vanished as before.
Then rising, with a sudden-ceasing sound
Of wateriness, he stood on the firm ground,
And treading up a little slippery bank,
With jutting myrtles mix'd, and verdure dank,
Came to a door ajar,—all hush'd, all blind
With darkness; yet he guess'd who stood behind; And entering with a turn, the breathless boy
A breathless welcome finds, and words that die for joy.
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