Canto Second

In the gay and crowded cityWhere the tall and jostling roof-treesJealous seem of one another,Jealous of the ground they stand on,Each one thrusting out its neighborFrom the sunrise, or the sunset,In a boarding school of fashionWas Miranda comprehended,Goal of her supreme ambition.

--Girls were there from different regions,Distant States, and varying costumes,She was beautiful they told her,And her mirror when she sought itGave concurrent testimony.

--Many teachers met their classesIn this favorite InstitutionWhere accomplishments or studiesWere pursued as each selected,Or their parents gave commandment.But Miranda was impededIn successful application,By the consciousness of beautyAnd the vanity it fosters.

--Very fond was she of walkingIn the most frequented places,Fondly fancying all beholdersGazed on her with admiration.Striking dresses, gay with colorsShe disported and commended,Not considering that the highestOf attractions in a womanIs simplicity of costume,And a self-forgetful sweetness.

--Men with business over-laden,Men of science, pondering axioms,Men of letters, lost in reverie,She imagined when they passed herGaz'd with secret admiration,Ask'd in wonder, "who can that be?"Backward turned perchance, to view her,As she lightly glided onward.

--So completely had this beautyLeagued with vanity, uprootedSerious thought and useful purpose,And the nobler ends of being,That even in the solemn TempleWhere humility befittethAll who offer adoration,Close observance of the apparelOf acquaintances or strangers,And a self-display intrudedOn the service of devotion,While her fair cheek oft-times restedDaintily on gloveless fingersWhere the radiant jewels sparkledOn a hand like sculptured marble.

Meantime in the rural mansionWhence with gladness she departed,Sate the mother and the sisterBy the hearth-stone or the lamp-light,Thinking of their loved Miranda,Speaking of her, working for her,Writing tender, earnest lettersTo sustain her mid her studies,Fearing that her health might sufferBy the labor and privationThat a year at school demanded.

--As the autumnal evenings lengthen'd,Bertha with a filial sweetnessSought her mother's favorite authors,And with perfect elocutionMade their sentiments and feelings,Guests around the quiet fireside.

--Page of Livy, or of Caesar,Stirring scenes of tuneful Maro,From their native, stately numbersTo the mother's ear she rendered;Or with her o'er ancient regions,Fallen sphynx, or ruin'd column,Led by guiding Rollin, wandered,Deeply mused with saintly Sherlock,Or through Milton's inspirationScanned the lore of forfeit Eden.

With the vertic rays of SummerHomeward came the fair Miranda.How the village people wonder'dAt her fashions, and her movements,How she made the new pianoTremble to its inmost centreWith andante, and bravura,What a piece she had to show themOf Andromache the Trojan,Wrought in silks of every color,And 'twas said a foreign languageSuch as princes use in Paris,She could speak to admiration.

--Greatly their surprise amused her,But the Mother and the SisterWith their eagle-eyed affection,Spied a thorn amid the garland,Heard the sighing on her pillow,Saw the flush invade her forehead,And were sure some secret sorrowRankled in that snowy bosom.

Rumor, soon with hundred voicesWhisper'd of a dashing lover,Irreligious and immoral,And the anxious Mother counsel'dSad of heart her fair-hair'd daughter.

--Scarce with any show of reverenceListen'd the impatient maiden,Then with tearless eyes wide openLike full orbs of shadeless sapphireAll unpausing, thus responded.

--"I have promised Aldebaran,To be his,--alone,--forever!And I'll keep that promise, Mother,Though the firm skies fall around me,And yon stars in fragments shatter'd,Each with thousand voices warn'd me.

--Thou hast spoken words reproachful,Doubting of his soul's salvation,Of his creed I never question'd,But where'er he goes, I follow.Whatsoe'er his lot, I'll share it,Though it were the darkest chamberIn the lowest hell. 'Twere betterThere with him, than 'mid the carolsOf the highest heaven, without him."Swan-like arms were wrapped around herWith a cry of better pleading,"Oh Miranda!--Oh my Sister!Gather back the words you've spoken,Quickly, ere the angel write themWeeping on the doom's day tablet.

--You have grieved our blessed Mother:See you not the large tears trickleDown those channels deeply furrow'dWhich the widow-anguish open'd?Kneel beside me, Oh my Sister!Darling of my cradle slumbers,Ask the grace of God to cleanse theeFrom thy blasphemy and blindness,Supplicate the Great EnlightenerHere to purge away thy madness,Pray our Saviour to forgive thee."

"Bertha! Bertha! speak not to me,What knowest thou of love almighty?Naught except that craven spiritMeasuring, weighing, calculating,That goes shivering to its bridal.On this deathless soul, all hazardHere I take, and if it perish,Let it perish.From the socketThis right eye I'd pluck, extinguishThis right hand, if he desire it,And go maim'd through all the agesThat Eternity can number.

--Prayer is not for me, but action,Against thee, and Her who bare meStand I at Love's bidding, boldlyIn the armor that he giveth,For life's battle, strong and ready.--Hush! I've sworn, and I'll confirm it."

In due time, the handsome suitorPaid his devoirs to Miranda,In her own paternal dwelling.Very exquisite in costume,Very confident in manner,Pompous, city-bred, and fearlessWas the accepted Aldebaran.

--Axious felt she, lest the customsOf the rustic race around her,So she styled her rural neighbors,Might discourage or disgust him,But he gave them no attention,Quite absorbed in other matters.

--In their promenades togetherShe beheld the people watchingMid their toils of agriculture,Saw them gaze from door and windows,Little ones from gates and fences,On the stylish Alderbaran,And her heart leap'd up exulting.

--Notice took he of the homestead,With an eye of speculation,Ask'd the number of its acres,And what revenue they yielded.Notice took of herds and buildingsWith their usufruct, and value,Closer note than seem'd consistentWith his delicate position;But Miranda, Cupid blinded,No venality detected.

--He, in gorgeous phrase address'd her,With an oriental worship,As some goddess condescendingTo an intercourse with mortals.Pleas'd was she with such observance,Pleas'd and proud that those around herShould perceive what adorationWas to her, by him accorded.

--When he left, 'twas with the assuranceThe next visit should be final.Marking on his silver tabletWith gay hand, the day appointedWhen he might return to claim herIn the nuptial celebration.

There's a bridal in the spring-time,When the bee from wintry covertTalking to the unsheath'd blossoms,Meditates unbounded plunder,And the bird mid woven branchesBrooding o'er her future treasuresHarkeneth thrilling to the love-songOf her mate, who nestward tendeth.

--There's a bridal in the spring-time,And the beautiful MirandaThrough her veil of silvery tissueGleams, more beautiful than ever.From the hearth-stone of her fathers,With the deathless love of womanTrusting all for earth or heavenTo a mortal's rule and guidance,One, but short time since, a stranger,Forth she goes.The young beholdersGazing on the handsome bridegroom,Gazing on the nuptial carriage,Where the milk-white horses sportedKnots of evergreen and myrtle,Felt a pleasure mix'd with envyAt a happiness so perfect.

--But more thoughtful ones, instructedBy the change of time and sorrow,By the cloud and by the sunbeam,Felt the hazard that attendedSuch intrustment without limit,Vows that none had right to cancelSave the hand of Death's dark Angel.

Of the sadness left behind herIn the mansion whence she parted,Loneliness, and bitter heart-ache,Deep, unutter'd apprehension,Fearful looking for of judgment,It were vain in lays so feebleTo attempt a true recital.

--Still, to Mother and to SisterCame epistles from Miranda,Essenc'd and genteelly written,Painting happiness so perfect,So transcending expectation,So surpassing all that fancyIn her wildest flights had pencil'd,That even Eden ere the tempterCoil'd himself amid the blossomsFail'd to furnish fitting symbol.

Heartfelt bliss is never boastful,Like the holy dew it stealethTo the bosom of the violet,Only told by deeper fragrance.

--He who saith "See! see! I'm happy?Happier than all else around me,"Leaves, perchance, a doubt behind himWhether he hath comprehendedWhat true happiness implieth.

Oh, the storm-cloud and the tempest!Oh, the dreary night of winter!Drifting snows, and winds careeringDown the tall, wide-throated chimney,Like the shrieking ghosts from Hades.Shrieking ghosts of buried legions.

--"Mother! hear I not the wailingOf a human voice?""My daughter!'Tis the blast that rends the pine-trees.The old sentry-Oak is broken,Close beside our chamber-window,And its branches all are moaning.'Tis their grief you hear, my daughter."

But the maiden's car was quicken'dTo all plaint of mortal sorrow,And when next, the bitter north windLull'd, to gather strength and vigor,For a new exacerbation,Listening close, she caught the murmur,"Hush mein daughter! hush mein baby."Then she threw the door wide open,Though the storm rush'd in upon her,With its blinding sleet and fury.

What beheld she, near the threshold,Prostrate there beside the threshold,But a woman, to whose bosomClung a young and sobbing infant?

--Oh the searching look that kindled'Neath those drooping, straining eye-lids,Searching mid the blast and darkness,For some helper in her anguish,Searching, kindling look, that settledInto heavy, deadly slumber,As the waning taper flashesOnce, to be relumin'd never.

Still her weak arm clasp'd the baby,Rais'd its pining, pinching features,Faintly cried, "Mein kind! Have pity,Pity, for the love of Jesus!"

--Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer,Thy poor, failing feet have brought theeWhere the love of Jesus dwelleth.Gently in a bed they laid her,Chafed her stiffening limbs and temples,Pour'd the warm, life-giving cordial,But what seem'd the most to cheer her,Were some words by Bertha spokenIn her own, dear native language.Voice of Fatherland! it quicken'dAll the heart's collapsing heart-strings,As though bath'd, and renovatedIn the Rhine's blue, rushing waters.

O'er the wildering waste of ocean,Moved by zeal of emigrationShe had ventured with her husbandTo this western World of promise,Rainbow-vested El-Dorado.

On that dreary waste of watersHe had died, and left her mourning,All unguided, unbefriended.--There the mother-sorrow found herAnd compell'd her by the weepingOf the new-born, to encounterWith a broken-hearted welcomeLife once more, which in the torrentof her utter desolationShe had cast aside, contemningAs a burden past endurance.

--Outcast in this land of strangers,Strange of speech, and strange in manner,She had travel'd, worn and weary,Here and there, with none to aid her,Ask'd for work, and none employ'd her,Ask'd for alms, and few reliev'd her,Till at length, the wintry tempestSmote her near that blessed roof-tree.

Heavy slumber weigh'd her downward,Slumber from whence none awaketh.Yet at morn they heard her sighing,On her pillow faintly sighing,"I am ready! I am ready!""Leonore! my child! my darling!"

Then they brought the infant to her,Cleanly robed, and sweetly smiling,And the parting soul turn'd backward,And the clay-seal on the eyelidsLifted up to gaze upon it.

Bertha kiss'd the little forehead,Said "mein kind," and lo! a shudderOf this earth's forgotten pleasureTrembled o'er the dying woman,And the white hand cold as marbleStrove to raise itself in blessing,For the mother-joy was strongerThat one moment, while it wrestledWith the pausing king of terrors,Stronger than the king of terrors.

Then they laid her icy fingersMid the infant's budding ringlets,And the pang and grasp subsidedIn a smile and whispering cadence,"God, mein God, be praised!"--and silenceSettled on those lips forever.

Favor'd is the habitationWhere a gentle infant dwelleth,When its brightening eye revealethThe immortal part within it,And its curious wonder scannethAll its wide spread, tiny fingers,And its velvet hand caressingPats the nurse's cheek and bosom,Hoary Age grows young before it,As the branch that Winter blightedAt the touch of Spring reviveth.

When its healthful form evolveth,And with quadrupedal pleasureCreeping o'er the nursery carpet,Aiming still, its flowery surfaceWith faint snatches to appropriate,Or the bolder art essayingOn its two round feet to balanceAnd propel the swaying bodyAs with outstretch'd arms it hastensTottering toward the best beloved,Hope, her freshest garland weavethGlittering with the dews of morning.

When the lisping tongue adventuresThe first tones of imitation,Or with magic speed o'ermastersThe philosophy of languageTwining round the mind of others,Preferences, and pains and pleasures,Tendrils strong, of sentient being,Seeking kindness and indulgence,Loving sports and smiles, and gladness,Tenderest love goes forth to meet it,Love that every care repayeth.

Thus the little German exileLeaning on her foster parentsBrought a love that soothed and cheer'd them,And with sweet confiding meeknessTaught to older ones the lessonOf the perfect trust, we childrenOf One Great Almighty ParentShould repose in His protectionGoodness and unerring wisdom:Though His discipline mysteriousOft transcendeth feeble reason,And perchance overthrows the fabricsThat in arrogance we builded,Call'd our own, and vainly rentedTo a troop of hopes and fancies,Gay-robed joys, or fond affections.

'Tis a solemn thing and lovely,To adopt a child, whose motherDwelleth in the land of spirits:In its weakness give it succor,Be in ignorance its teacher,In all sorrow its consoler,In temptation its defender,Save what else had been forsaken,Win for it a crown in Heaven,--Tis a solemn thing and lovely,Such a work as God approveth.

Blessed are the souls that nurtureWith paternal care the orphan,Neath their roof-tree lending shelter,At their table breathing welcome,Giving armor for the journeyAnd the warfare that awaitethEvery pilgrim, born of woman,Blessed, for the grateful prayerRiseth unto Him who hearethThe lone sigh of the forsaken,Bendeth, mid the song of seraphs,To the crying of the ravens,From whose nest the brooding pinionBy the archer's shaft was sever'd.

Pomp and wealth, and pride of officeWith their glitter and their shouting,May not pass through death's dark valley,May not thrill the ear that restethMid the silence of the grave-yard;But the deed that wrought in pityMid the outcast and benighted,In the hovel or the prison,On the land or on the ocean,Shunning still the applause of mortals,Comes it not to His remembranceWho shall say amid the terrorsOf the last Great Day of Judgment,"Inasmuch as ye have done itUnto one, the least, the lowest.It was done to Me, your Saviour."