I
Gilbert: The Garden
Above the city hung the moon,Right o’er a plot of groundWhere flowers and orchard-trees were fencedWith lofty walls around:’Twas Gilbert’s garden—there to-nightAwhile he walked alone;And, tired with sedentary toil,Mused where the moonlight shone.
This garden, in a city-heart,Lay still as houseless wild,Though many-windowed mansion frontsWere round it; closely piled;But thick their walls, and those withinLived lives by noise unstirred;Like wafting of an angel’s wing,Time’s flight by them was heard.
Some soft piano-notes aloneWere sweet as faintly given,Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearthWith song that winter-even.The city’s many-mingled soundsRose like the hum of ocean;They rather lulled the heart than rousedIts pulse to faster motion.
Gilbert has paced the single walkAn hour, yet is not weary;And, though it be a winter nightHe feels nor cold nor dreary.The prime of life is in his veins,And sends his blood fast flowing,And Fancy’s fervour warms the thoughtsNow in his bosom glowing.
Those thoughts recur to early love,Or what he love would name,Though haply Gilbert’s secret deedsMight other title claim.Such theme not oft his mind absorbs,He to the world clings fast,And too much for the present lives,To linger o’er the past.
But now the evening’s deep reposeHas glided to his soul;That moonlight falls on Memory,And shows her fading scroll.One name appears in every lineThe gentle rays shine o’er,And still he smiles and still repeatsThat one name—Elinor.
There is no sorrow in his smile,No kindness in his tone;The triumph of a selfish heartSpeaks coldly there alone;He says: “She loved me more than life;And truly it was sweetTo see so fair a woman kneel,In bondage, at my feet.
“There was a sort of quiet blissTo be so deeply loved,To gaze on trembling eagernessAnd sit myself unmoved.And when it pleased my pride to grantAt last some rare caress,To feel the fever of that handMy fingers deigned to press.
“’Twas sweet to see her strive to hideWhat every glance revealed;Endowed, the while, with despot-mightHer destiny to wield.I knew myself no perfect man,Nor, as she deemed, divine;I knew that I was glorious—butBy her reflected shine;
“Her youth, her native energy,Her powers new-born and fresh,’Twas these with Godhead sanctifiedMy sensual frame of flesh.Yet, like a god did I descendAt last, to meet her love;And, like a god, I then withdrewTo my own heaven above.
“And never more could she invokeMy presence to her sphere;No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hersCould win my awful ear.I knew her blinded constancyWould ne’er my deeds betray,And, calm in conscience, whole in heart.I went my tranquil way.
“Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish,The fond and flattering painOf passion’s anguish to createIn her young breast again.Bright was the lustre of her eyes,When they caught fire from mine;If I had power—this very hour,Again I’d light their shine.
“But where she is, or how she lives,I have no clue to know;I’ve heard she long my absence pined,And left her home in woe.But busied, then, in gathering gold,As I am busied now,I could not turn from such pursuit,To weep a broken vow.
“Nor could I give to fatal riskThe fame I ever prized;Even now, I fear, that precious fameIs too much compromised.”An inward trouble dims his eye,Some riddle he would solve;Some method to unloose a knot,His anxious thoughts revolve.
He, pensive, leans against a tree,A leafy evergreen,The boughs, the moonlight, intercept,And hide him like a screenHe starts—the tree shakes with his tremor,Yet nothing near him pass’d;He hurries up the garden alley,In strangely sudden haste.
With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet,Steps o’er the threshold stone;The heavy door slips from his fingers—It shuts, and he is gone.What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul?—A nervous thought, no more;‘Twill sink like stone in placid pool,And calm close smoothly o’er.