ROSALIND AND HELEN, A MODERN ECLOGUE. ADVERTISEMENT TO ROSALIND AND HELEN, &c. NAPLES, Dec. 20, 1818. THE story of Rosalind and Helen is undoubtedly not an attempt in the highest style of poetry. It is in no degree calculated to excite profound meditation; and, if, by interesting the affections and amusing the imagination, it awaken a certain ideal melancholy favourable to the reception of more important impressions, it will produce in the reader all that the writer experienced in the composition. I resigned myself, as I wrote, to the impulse of the feelings which moulded the conception of the story: and this impulse determined the pauses of a measure which only pretends to be regular, inasmuch as it corresponds with and expresses the irregularity of the imaginations which inspire it. I do not know which of the few scattered poems I left in England will be selected by my bookseller to add to this collection. One, which I sent from Italy, was written after a day's excursion among those lovely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. If any one is inclined to condemn the insertion of the introductory lines, which image forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn, on the highest peak of those delightful mountains, I can only offer as my excuse that they were not erased at the request of a dear friend with whom added years of intercourse only add to my apprehension of its value, and who would have had more right than any one to complain that she has not been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadness. SCENE. The Shore of the Lake of Como. HELEN. COME hither, my sweet Rosalind. 'Tis long since thou and I have met : And yet methinks it were unkind Those moments to forget. Come, sit by me. I see thee stand To the hues of yon fair heaven. Ere we were disunited? None doth behold us now: the power Will be but ill requited If thou depart in scorn: oh! come And we are exiles. Talk with me Of that our land, whose wilds and floods, Were dearer than these chesnut woods; Which altered friendship leaves. I seek That cannot be. Rosalind, speak, Speak to me! Leave me not !—When morn did come, I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken. ROSALIND. Is it a dream, or do I see And hear frail Helen? I would flee Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. I share thy crime. I cannot choose But weep for thee; mine own strange grief But seldom stoops to such relief: Nor ever did I love thee less, Though mourning o'er thy wickedness Even with a sister's woe. I knew What to the evil world is due, And therefore sternly did refuse Bewildered by my dire despair, Wondering I blush and weep that thou Shouldst love me still-thou only !—There, Let us sit on that grey stone, Till our mournful talk be done. HELEN. Alas! not there; I cannot bear Even here where now we meet. It stirs In the dell of yon dark chesnut wood Less like our own :-The ghost of Peace And I will follow. ROSALIND. Thou lead, my sweet, HENRY. 'Tis Fenici's seat Where you are going?-This is not the way, Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow HELEN. Yes, I know; I was bewildered. Kiss me and be gay, Dear boy; why do you sob? HENRY. I do not know: But it might break any one's heart to see HELEN. It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home, VOL. I. R The boy Lifted a sudden look upon his mother; And, in the gleam of forced and hollow joy Which lightened o'er her face, laughed with the glee Of light and unsuspecting infancy, And whispered in her ear, "Bring home with you That sweet strange lady-friend." Then off he flew; But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning smile, Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while, Hiding her face, stood weeping silently. In silence then they took the way It was a vast and antique wood Through which they took their way; And the gray shades of evening Pursuing still the path that wound O'er which the columned wood did frame A roofless temple, like the fane Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, The overhanging deity. O'er this fair fountain hung the sky, Now spangled with rare stars. The snake, In the light of his own loveliness; The fitful wind is heard to stir One solitary leaf on high; The chirping of the grasshopper Fills every pause. There is emotion In all that dwells at noontide here: A maze of life and light and motion Only the glow-worm is gleaming; Wake in this dell when daylight fails, In a merrier glen to hoot and play, But she is mute, for her false mate Has fled and left her desolate. This silent spot tradition old Had peopled with the spectral dead. Till a naked child came wandering by, Had solemnized a monstrous curse, For beneath yon very sky Had they resigned to one another Body and soul. The multitude, And stabbed and trampled on its mother; |