Edward and Margaret

Not rudely built that ancient hall, whose doors
Held widely open by the unsparing hand
Of active charity, gave amplest welcome;
Nor unadorned around with graceful trees,
Whose music all the seasons through was heard
Within the cheerful mansion. This abode,
Framed for the occupation of content,
Looked down upon a valley, where one lake
Received into its depths some circling hills,
Green in the summer, with majestic growth
Of lofty cedars, and time-hallowed oaks,
And the gay foliage of the birch and ash.
The sudden storms, nursed in the mountain's arms,
Visited that tranquil landscape in brief kind,
Coming with mighty speed, scarce touching there,
As if that valley were too fair for violence.

In this calm spot dwelt the sweet Margaret,
A maid of ruddy cheek and meaning eye,
Gentle, and good, and eloquently fair.
From earliest childhood, she had trod the paths
Leading among those wild precipitous hills,
Delight to trace the mountain-brook's descent,
Through shelving rocks, and deep, embowered linns,
Where, when the first warm beams of spring had come,
The fearless birds sang with the dashing spray.
Nor less in winter, mid the glittering banks
Heaped of unspotted snow, the maiden roved,
Charmed by the neat severity of frost.

And Margaret dwelt within the ancient hall,
The sunlight of her home, her parents' joy;
So framed for social converse, that the hut,
Or poorest shed of sorry cottager,
Had laughed with pleasure in her gladsome smile,
Her mind had harbored only virtuous thoughts,
Good wisdom that the Book of Life had taught,
Unceasing love for man, respect for worth,
And such calm judgment as a happy life,
Spent with industrious aims and filial pride,
Confers upon an innocent maiden's heart.
Sixteen fair summers bloomed upon her cheek,
That cheek unchannelled by an angry tear,
And dimpled with the modesty of youth.
But, from that clear, free air in which she lived,
The breath of mountain independence, she
Had caught a purpose firm and resolute,
Exacting honesty of speech, and something
Masculine almost, though softly carved in grace.

A stranger to the hamlet, Edward came,
From cities built afar, a nervous voyager,
To whom the streets crowded with anxious toil
Were weariness of life. But twenty years
Had marked his thoughtful brow, and this small space
Filled with irregular days, and nights as sad,
Sufficed to bruise a sympathetic heart,
Asking for love,—receiving careless words.
A narrow bridge across life's arrowy foam,
Is all that shrinking poverty controls,
And yields this straitened path to forward wealth.

To Edward's mind, the outward world supplied
The decorative gauds of pomp and show;
The liberal sky blazed freely forth for him,
The countless worlds of space, the landscape smiled,
And days among the hills were days of gold.
To him, this calm, secluded hamlet seemed
A tranquil island in the ocean's storm.
He did forget what he had lately shared,—
To follow mutely after empty state,
Supply by thought the indolence of wealth,
And frame for others that they could not shape.
The influences of this serene isle
Composed his turbulent fancies into dream.
Couched on the grass, beneath the monarch trees,
He drew fine pictures on the swimming air.
No longer careworn with his daily needs,
He revelled in a future, shining gay.
Thus might his life have passed in gentle thoughts,
If only silent trees, and purling brooks
Had varied that small hamlet's seeming calm.

But he had seen upon those lonely hills
A maiden's form, one mellow evening, stand,
Gazing in mute surprise upon the clouds
That piled their snowy summits in the west.
Lost as in trance, he dwelt upon the lines
Rounding her vermeil cheek, her stately brow,
Until her image, stamped upon his heart,
Defied the golden sunset, the bright clouds,
And broke that soft tranquillity in twain,
In one swift instant, never more to form.

On the next Sabbath, to the village church
Edward and Margaret came, how different!
She cast a modest glance upon the youth,
His stranger mien demanding some respect,
Then studious bent her soul on pious quest,
The youth forgotten, as he had not been.
How should she mark that wild and eager eye,
How should she read the secrets of his heart!
The week went by, and still another came,
And Edward sought the prints of Margaret's foot,
Along the streamlet's bank, and up the dell,
Even to the midst of that deep solitude
Where she was seated, braiding a green wreath,
Of the broad ferns that seek the utmost shade.
Yet even here a sunbeam wandered down,
And touched a golden curl of Margaret's hair,
And as she turned at Edward's soft approach,
That thread of light caught in her sparkling eye,
As if to pierce the rash intruder through.

Then first, she listened to dread passion's voice,
Toned with rich melody, but echoing
A dark and awful fate, if unreturned.
In gentle accents, with unheeded pace,
The youth thus poured his inmost thoughts for her:
Nay! look not on me with surprised air.
Have I not marked thy wanderings even here,
Where but the wind has entrance? Am I not,
One of thy lineage, though less beautiful?
Do not these shapely trees associate near,
To listen with glad ears to those sweet songs,
Which the wild birds pour in united notes,
And speeding on the way, the headlong brook
Conceals not its clear charms from any eye.
O! if these forms thus picture forth my heart,
How much more thou, twin image of my soul,
Myself, concealed in a diviner shape.
I do remember thee, as first I saw
Thy sweet, proud figure, where the setting sun
Vainly contrived to render thee more bright,
And dressed with splendor mosses at thy feet,
And built sublimest palaces within
The sky; yet only thee I saw, and now
And ever thou art in my eyes the same.
I wander through where never man hath trod,
I seek most desolate regions, and dim caves,
Where only reptiles crawl and hiss at me,
I stand below the precipice, and ask
The mighty rocks to fall and bury me,
So that I may shut out thy speechless beauty,
That compels me on, through wood, and fell, and moor,
Alone, yet in the breath of thy own being.
This gale, beneath which all my powers have bent,
Has borne me to thy feet, and now I seek
The shelter of thy love, my only hope.—

Its own wild music, by this wilder tale
Was hushed, the brook no longer foamed, the wind
Among the trees was stilled asleep, at least
To Margaret and Edward in their trance.
By different ways they left that lonely spot,
And Margaret mused upon her blessed home.

Next morn some peasants passing by the lake,
Saw the fresh morning gild a floating corpse,
Outstretched in placid slumber. On the face
A tender smile was lingering, as to say,—
This place of sepulture is girded round
With an enchanting beauty, once like thine.—

When Margaret heard the tale of Edward's death,
More solemn seemed the duties of her home,
And to her mother, who had heard the tale
Of helpless love, and Edward's frenzied looks,
She said:—How sad a fate was this, so young,
So fragrant was this flower, so soon cut off
By this strange mystery.—Then she replied:—
O Margaret, let us still more learn from this,
How the small bounds of home embrace the whole,
And never leave these sweet and sheltered spots.
As I have taught you, cheerful industry,
And regular tasks pursued with patient thought,
And the loved fireside of domestic peace,
With reverence for man, and charity,
Will strengthen, and preserve us from the dark,
Impenetrable agonies of life.
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