THE CONFESSION-HAMMERTON.
FRAIL vestiges of summer night,
The summer dews have ta'en their flight,
And upward from the earth have borne
The fragrant gladness of the morn,
To bind the joyous earth and sky
In a mute bond of sympathy.
The myriad flowers of field and mead,
From their deep sleep and drowsihead,
Had woke all tremulous and coy
To ecstacies of light and joy.
Though gay the morn, the panelled room
Bore traces of funereal gloom,
Where Janet lay, so still, so fair,
Old Ralph but deemed her spirit there,
And half in reverence of the sight,
And give her gentle spirit flight,
Strode softly from the maiden's side,
And slowly oped the casement wide,
As if free air and summer day
Could lure her mortal form away,
And his sad eyes and aching heart
Might see or feel that form depart.
But naught in angel shape or guise,
Or spirit bound for Paradise,
Passed from the chamber's twilight gray
To ampler scenes and fuller day.
The air, as laden with its grief,
Trembled around each quivering leaf,
And softly stole the casement through,
Softly aside the curtain drew,
And lingered, fearful to intrude
On such funereal solitude;
Then waxing bolder, fold on fold,
Slowly the curtain's breadth unrolled,
And drew with deep-drawn breath anear,
As mother to her infant's bier.
While softly round the maiden's head
The sweet air crept and languished,
And through the auburn tresses stole
E'en to the precincts of her soul,
With whisperings of a vast delight
In summer fields and dawning light,
The ring-dove, earliest with his lay,
And wooing of the summer day,
Like minstrel-errant from the war,
Returns from foray free and far,
And wakes again the hawthorn grove
With murmurs of his plaintive love.
To hearts, by Nature rude and fierce,
That plaint of love should surely pierce,
And all the dormant soul impress
With sense of its own tenderness;
As spirit-song from nearer heaven,
When mortals list and feel forgiven,
And all their waking senses thrill
With consciousness of rest from ill;
So to the maiden's heart it spoke,
And from her death-like sleep she woke,
Sighing as if some weary weight
Or hand of overwhelming fate
Were slowly from her breast upborne,
And she to some new life were born.
Old Ralph had marked with mute surprise,
And wistful shading of his eyes,
The trembling lip, the quivering lid
That slowly from the eyeball slid,
The flush like shadow on her cheek,
The voice still impotent to speak,
And bending to the maiden's ear,
Whispered his solace to her fear.
“Bryan is safe—the chase was done
An hour before the rise of sun;
I heard the troopers pass the gate,
And curse their luck unfortunate;
I heard them say that 'Bryan now
Has reached the Ouse two hours ago.’
Bryan, I warrant, knew no fear,
When Bryan rode such bold career ;
And Bryan knew not Janet's heart,
Or ne'er had played such venturous part.”
The yeoman's words, though plain and brief,
Brought to her heart supreme relief;
Her hand the maiden placed in his,
And softly blessed him with a kiss
Of silent gratitude, in token
The dismal spell of woe was broken;
E'en stranger's eye might surely guess
The dreary sense of wretchedness
Had flown, and in her soul was born
The joy of day from night forlorn.
She strove to speak, her accents came
In fragments, halting, weak and lame,
Till strength returned, and waking joy
Gave a glad lustre to her eye,
And look and speech alike confessed
The rising raptures in her breast,
And proved, if aught were left to prove,
How fondly she had learned to love.
Yet much on Bryan's life she dwelt,
His love in angry silence felt,
His proud and wayward dauntlessness,
Unbroke by dungeon's foul duress,
His wild escape, the fearless love
That led him home her faith to prove;
Then of her plighted love she told,
And base designs of Ennisgold.
The sudden blow, and Bryan's flight,-
His rival slain—at dead of night;
Yet naught of hurt she shewed nor smart
At Bryan's waywardness of heart,
Nor aught her tone revealed of blame
At mention of her Bryan's name;
She saw but Bryan brave and strong,
The champion of his Janet's wrong.
Old Ralph with effort strong repressed
The struggling tumult in his breast;
One moment on his rugged face
Sorrow and anguish found a place,
But faded sudden as they came
From flushing cheek and eye of flame,
Where wrath and fiercely gathering scorn
Fire every lineament in turn;
But with them somewhat of the joy
Of triumph mingled in his eye,
And strove for mastery in his look.
Three strides across the room he took
To where an ancient heirloom stood,
Carved with grim shapes in oaken wood
And many a symbol quaint and rude,
A massive chest with ponderous clasp,
And iron band and curious hasp.
He raised the lid and therefrom drew
A parchment tome of ancient hue,
Then sate him by the maid once more,
And turned the pages o'er and o'er,
Until both eye and finger fell
Where Deborah did God's triumph tell;
Then paused and read the Hebrew song
In tones sonorous, glad and strong,
While louder to the triumph's close
His voice in fiercer accents rose,
Till, when the final prayer was prayed,
His tone some other thought betrayed,
For "forty years the land had rest
Wrought sorrow in the yeoman's breast
And sadness for the land distraught,
And wrecked by royal camp and court.
So, ill at ease the yeoman strode
To view his fields and meadows broad,
And gain such comfort from the scene
As come from fields with summer green.
But scarce his eye had travelled o'er
The nearer meads to Monkton Moor,
When all the long and brave array,
Marshalled for fight with banners gay,
Burst on his startled view ;
Athwart the Yorkward roadway thrown,
The long bright lines of helmets shone,
And ever lengthening grew;
Pennon and coronet in air,
With many a Scottish ensign fair,
Above them proudly flew.
Such sight might warn e'en village swain That death was hovering o'er the plain
To drench the earth with blood,
And bid him fly and linger not
In wonder near the parlous spot
Where War full-ordered stood.
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