Shattered the temple, and the flames rose high;
And those who loved thee best could but implore
That Heaven would send the aid man dared not give?
Who braved the raging fire, the blinding smoke?
Who fought with Death to save thee from his grasp,
Or, being conquered, die embracing thee?
Oh, girl! one hair from thy flow’r-crownëd head
Is dearer than all boons apart from thee;
Yet thou dost hate me! Well, ’tis past, ’tis past!
And nevermore upon thine hour of rest
Shall plaint or prayer of mine break.
Shall plaint or prayer of mine break. Nevermore
Beneath thy window, through the long lone night,
Shall I pour forth my heart’s wild misery.
Never again shall laughing youths and maids
Point mockingly and flout me as I pass,
For cherishing a love that is despised.
My steps shall follow thine no more, no more!
At game or festival thou shalt not need
To hold thy perfumed garments, lest my hand
Should touch them covertly; so be at peace—
My death shall make atonement for my life.
No answer yet? The sobbing of the sea,
Borne on the moaning wind along the streets,
Is all I hear; no eyes look down on me,
Save the cold eyes of heaven—the far-off stars.
Not colder or more distant they than thou.
Farewell! I have a mother, old and weak,
Who loved me as they love whose lives afford
But one sole object they may call their own;
And in the madness of my worshipping
I have forgotten that I was her all.
Perchance she may upbraid thy cruelty,
And ask thee for the life so dear to her,
Which thou didst trample ’neath thy dancing feet.
If thus, be gentle to her agony.
And now, sleep on, sleep on, till morn shall break
And bring thy bridegroom with his joyous train,
To deck thy door with garlands.
To deck thy door with garlands. Welcome, death!
I cannot live to see my idol shrined
Amid the Lares of another’s home—
The mother of his children.”
The mother of his children.” Silence fell.
The sad low voice was hushed, and the night waned,
Till o’er the hill-tops came the shivering dawn,
And the stars melted in the bright’ning skies.
But when the east was robed to greet the sun
With gold and crimson, up the stony street
Came glad young voices and impatient feet
To greet the destined bride; and when they came
They found what had been Iphis, and was now
A ghastly thing to pale the brightest cheek,
And haunt the dreams of many a night to come;
But she whose pride had brought him to his doom
Smiled coldly on the rigid upturned face,
Crowned with the dewy curls of gold-bright hair;—
And with that smile the punishment of Heaven
Fell on her warm young life.
Fell on her warm young life. Old legends tell
That on the shore of Cyprus is a rock
Warring with winds and waves for evermore;
And to this hard, cold, sea-worn monument
The wrath of Jove changed her whom Iphis loved.
“BRING ME A LIGHT!”
A GHOST STORY.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF RABY.”
My name is Thomas Whinmore, and when I was a young man I went to spend a college vacation with a gentleman in Westmoreland. He had known my father’s family, and had been appointed the trustee of a small estate left me by my great aunt, Lady Jane Whinmore. At the time I speak of I was one-and-twenty, and he was anxious to give up the property into my hands. I accepted his invitation to “come down to the old place and look about me.” When I arrived at the nearest point to the said “old place,” to which the Carlisle coach would carry me, I and my portmanteau were put into a little cart, which was the only wheeled thing I could get at the little way-side inn.
“How far is it to Whinmore?” I asked of a tall grave-looking lad, who had already informed me I could have “t’horse and cairt” for a shilling a mile.
“Twal mile to t’ould Hall gaet—a mile ayont that to Squire Erle’s farm.”
As I looked at the shaggy wild horse, just caught from the moor for the purpose of drawing “t’cairt,” I felt doubtful as to which of us would be the master on the road. I had ascertained that the said road lay over moor and mountain—just the sort of ground on which such a steed would gambol away at his own sweet will. I had no desire to be run away with.
“Is there any one here who can drive me to Mr. Erle’s?” I asked of the tall grave lad.
“Nobbut fayther.”
I was puzzled; and was about to ask for an explanation, when a tall, strong old man, as like the young one as might be, came out from the door of the house with his hat on, and a whip in his hand. He got up into the cart, and looking at me, said,
“Ye munna stan here, sir. We shan’t pass Whinmore Hall afore t’deevil brings a light.”
“But I want something to eat before we start,” I remonstrated. “I’ve had no dinner.”
“Then ye maun keep your appetite till supper time,” replied the old man. “I canna gae past Whinmore lights for na man—nor t’horse neither. Get up wi’ ye! Joe, lend t’gentleman a hand.”
Joe did as he was desired, and then said—
“Will ye be home the night, fayther?”
“May be yees, may be na, lad; take care of t’place.”
In a moment the horse started, and we were rattling over the moor at the rate of eight miles an hour. Surprise, indignation, and hunger possessed me. Was it possible I had been whirled off dinnerless into this wilderness against my own desire?
“I say, my good man,” I began.
“My name is Ralph Thirlston.”
“Well! Mr. Thirlston, I want something to eat. Is there any inn between this desert and Mr. Erle’s house!”
“Nobbut Whinmore Hall,” said the old man, with a grin.
“I suppose I can get something to eat there, without being obliged to anybody. It is my own property.”
Mr. Thirlston glanced at me sharply.
“Be ye t’maister, lad?”
“I am, Mr. Thirlston,” said I. “My name is Whinmore.”
“Maister Tom!”
“The same. Do you know anything about me and my old house?”
