Gertrude of Wyoming. Part II

A valley from the river shore withdrawnWas Albert’s home, two quiet woods between,Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn;And waters to their resting-place sereneCame freshening, and reflecting all the scene:(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;)So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)Have guessed some congregation of the elves,To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.

Yet wanted not the eye far scope to muse,Nor vistas opened by the wandering stream;Both were at evening Allegany viewsThrough ridges burning in her western beam,Lake after lake interminably gleam:And past those settlers’ haunts the eye might roamWhere earth’s unliving silence all would seem;Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home.

But silent not that adverse eastern path,Which saw Aurora’s hills the horizon crown;There was the river heard, in bed of wrath(A precipice of foam from mountains brown),Like tumults heard from some far distant town;But softening in approach he left his gloom,And murmured pleasantly, and laid him downTo kiss those easy curving banks of bloom,That lent the windward air an exquisite perfume.

It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence hadOn Gertrude’s soul, and kindness like their ownInspired those eyes affectionate and glad,That seemed to love whate’er they looked uponWhether with Hebe’s mirth her features shone,Or if a shade more pleasing them o’ercast,(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)Yet so becomingly the expression past,That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.

Nor, guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,With all its picturesque and balmy grace,And fields that were a luxury to roam,Lost on the soul that looked from such a face!Enthusiast of the woods! when years apaceHad bound thy lovely waist with woman’s zone,The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee traceTo hills with high magnolia overgrown,And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.

The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,That thus apostrophised its viewless scene:“Land of my father’s love, my mother’s birth!The home of kindred I have never seen!We know not other—oceans are between:Yet say! far friendly hearts, from whence we came,Of us does oft remembrance intervene?My mother sure—my sire a thought may claim;—But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.

“And yet, loved England! when thy name I traceIn many a pilgrim’s tale and poet’s song,How can I choose but wish for one embraceOf them, the dear unknown, to whom belongMy mother’s looks,—perhaps her likeness strong?Oh, parent! with what reverential awe,From features of thine own related throng,An image of thy face my soul could draw!And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!”

Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy;To soothe a father’s couch her only care,And keep his reverend head from all annoy:For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,While boatmen carolled to the fresh-blown air,And woods a horizontal shadow threw,And early fox appeared in momentary view.

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore.Tradition had not named its lonely spot;But here (methinks) might India’s sons exploreTheir fathers’ dust, or lift, perchance of yore,Their voice to the great Spirit:—rocks sublimeTo human art a sportive semblance bore,And yellow lichens coloured all the clime,Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time.

But high in amphitheatre above,His arms the everlasting aloes threw:Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the groveAs if with instinct living spirit grew,Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;And now suspended was the pleasing din,Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew,Like the first note of organ heard withinCathedral aisles,—ere yet its symphony begin.

It was in this lone valley she would charmThe lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strewn;Her cheek reclining, and her snowy armOn hillock by the palm-tree half o’ergrown:And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,Which every heart of human mould endears;With Shakespeare’s self she speaks and smiles alone,And no intruding visitation fears,To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.

And nought within the grove was heard or seenBut stock-doves ’plaining through its gloom profound,Or winglet of the fairy humming bird,Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;When, lo! there entered to its inmost groundA youth, the stranger of a distant land;He was, to wit, for eastern mountains bound;But late the equator suns his cheek had tanned,And California’s gales his roving bosom fanned.

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o’er his arm,He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,Close he had come, and worshipped for a spaceThose downcast features:—she her lovely faceUplift on one, whose lineaments and frameWere youth and manhood’s intermingled grace:Iberian seemed his boot—his robe the same,And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.

For Albert’s home he sought—her finger fairHas pointed where the father’s mansion stood.Returning from the copse he soon was thereAnd soon has Gertrude hied from dark green woodNor joyless, by the converse, understoodBetween the man of age and pilgrim youngThat gay congeniality of mood,And early liking from acquaintance sprung;Full fluently conversed their guest in England’s tongue.

And well could he his pilgrimage of tasteUnfold,—and much they loved his fervid strain,While he each fair variety retracedOf climes, and manners, o’er the eastern main.Now happy Switzer’s hills,—romantic Spain,—Gay lilied fields of France,—or, more refined,The soft Ausonia’s monumental reign;Nor less each rural image he designedThan all the city’s pomp and home of human kind.

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;Of Nature’s savage glories he would speak,—The loneliness of earth that overawes,—Where resting by some tomb of old Cacique,The llama-driver on Peruvia’s peak,Nor living voice nor motion marks around;But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,Or wild-cane arch high flung o’er gulf profound,That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.

Pleased with his guest, the good man still would plyEach earnest question, and his converse court;But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not whyA strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.“In England thou hast been,—and, by report,An orphan’s name,” quoth Albert, “may’st have known.Sad tale!—when latest fell our frontier fort,—One innocent—one soldier’s child—aloneWas spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own.

“Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful yearsThese very walls his infant sports did see;But most I loved him when his parting tearsAlternately bedewed my child and me:His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:By kindred he was sent for o’er the sea,They tore him from us when but twelve years old,And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!”

His face the wanderer hid—but could not hideA tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;—“And speak! mysterious stranger!” Gertrude cried,“It is!—it is!—I knew—I knew him well!’Tis Waldegrave’s self, of Waldegrave come to tell!”A burst of joy the father’s lips declare;But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:At once his open arms embraced the pair,Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care.

“And will ye pardon then,” replied the youth,“Your Waldegrave’s feignèd name, and false attire?I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth,The very fortunes of your house inquire;Lest one that knew me might some tidings direImpart, and I my weakness all betray;For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire,I meant but o’er your tombs to weep a day,Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.

“But here ye live,—ye bloom,—in each dear face,The changing hand of time I may not blame;For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,And here of beauty perfected the frame:And well I know your hearts are still the same—They could not change—ye look the very way,As when an orphan first to you I came.And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous day?”

“And art thou here? or is it but a dream?And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou, leave us more?”—“No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seemThan aught on earth—than e’en thyself of yore—I will not part thee from thy father’s shore;But we shall cherish him with mutual arms,And hand in hand again the path explore,Which every ray of young remembrance warms,While thou shalt be my own, with all thy truth and charms!”

At morn, as if beneath a galaxyOf over-arching groves in blossoms white,Where all was odorous scent and harmony,And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:There, if, oh, gentle Love! I read arightThe utterance that sealed thy sacred bond,’Twas listening to these accents of delight,She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyondExpression’s power to paint, all languishingly fond—

“Flower of my life, so lovely, and so lone!Whom I would rather in this desert meet,Scorning, and scorned by fortune’s power, than ownHer pomp and splendours lavished at my feet!Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisiteThan odours cast on heaven’s own shrine—to please—Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet,And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze,When Coromandel’s ships return from Indian seas.”

Then would that home admit them—happier farThan grandeur’s most magnificent saloon,While, here and there, a solitary starFlushed in the darkening firmament of June,And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soonIneffable, which I may not portray;For never did the hymenean moonA paradise of hearts more sacred sway,In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.