./ 
 
DE RANGE 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 BT 
 
 jrwrCUNNINGHAM, A. M 
 
 ../ 
 
 MIDDLEBORO, MASS. 
 PUBLISHED BY STILLMAN PRATT 
 
 MDCCCLYII. 
 

 Entered according to an Act of Congress, in the year 1857- 
 By STILLMAN PRATT. 
 
 Middloboro : Frintdd at the Namasket Gaiatt* Offlo«. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 The plot of the following beautiful Poem was laid amid the sceree 
 of the seventeenth century. The hero of the story, Abbot De Rance, 
 the descendant of an ancient English family, was born in Paris, in 162<;, 
 His ancestors were high in office and of honorable rank. The God- 
 father of De Eance was the celeferated Cardinal Richlicu. Mary de 
 Medicis paid him rpccial honors. Eeing born a titled dignitary, he 
 was early destined to the profession of aims, but by the death of a 
 brother he became at the age often, the eldest of the family. He, 
 therefore, studied for the priesthood and became poFcessor of all the 
 beneficies belonging to his brother. When twenty-six, his father died, 
 leaving him an annual income of more than $60C0. Of high birth, 
 great personal attractions, courtly m.anners, untold wealth, possesfcfd 
 of superior mental endowments, a commanding eloquence, glowing 
 wiih the fire of youth, it is not strange that as temptations beset his 
 path, he should abandon himself to delusive vanities; such was the 
 pad result. He soon lost the spirit of his holy office, became fond of 
 hunting, gaming, luxury and dissipation. Having formed an intimacy 
 with a beautiful lady of high rank, his love for her became an un- 
 quenchable passion. The result of her seduction was prematuie 
 death. After this, De Eance's grief becam.e unbounded, so that tie 
 #ipent bis time in wandering through the most solitary 'o oods, pouring 
 
VI INTKODUCTION. 
 
 out torrents of tears, calling upon the deceased as if she could hear 
 his wailings. His emotions betrayed hinx into the belief that there 
 ■svere methods of invoking the dead. But, after trj'ing these mysterious 
 arts, in vain, he was convinced of their folly. This mental anguish 
 brought on a sicknsss, which nearly proved fatal. On recovering, 
 his melancholy increased. Ths lapse of time brought no alleviation. 
 To him, trials as usual came in clusters. Powerfvil friends suffered 
 misfortunes, or, suddenly died. The result was, that De Ranee became 
 convinced of the vanity of all earthly possessions. Disappointed in 
 the most powerful of human passions, he at length became misan- 
 thropic and renounced the world. By severe afflictions, he learned 
 the important truth, that God is the only proper object of supreme 
 attachment. His soul becoming entirely absorbed in this one grand 
 idea, he bestowed his extensive estates on charitable purposes, resigned 
 his presidency of three Abbeys and two priories. 
 
 In 1664, he took the monastic vow, and according to the spirit of the 
 times, immersed himself in the solitude of La Trappe, a monastery 
 under the most strict rules of St. Benedict. The inmates of this in- 
 stitution were never allowed to speak, perpetual silence being the fun- 
 damental rule. The language of the place consisted in signs. They 
 lived in constant mortification of every appetite ; their food consisted 
 of herbs, roots, and milk with salt and water. The hovrs, from 
 two to four at night, were spent at their matins. They slept on 
 rough mattresses, but never undressed. Physicians were not suffered 
 to enter the place. Amid these austerities and self-mortifications De 
 Ranee spent the residue of his life, and died there at the clp.se of tl},e 
 seventeenth century much lamented^ 
 
 MlDDLEBORO, ISo^.. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Hk who seeks merelv to please, can hope to touch only those chords 
 in our bosoms, which if they vibrate at all, cease to vibrate as soon as 
 the touch is withdrawn. But he who labors also to instruct, and who, 
 with this object, takes up the great themes of morality or religion, il- 
 lustrating by examples, the misery of vice, or the struggles of virtue, 
 may hope, if the execution of his work at all correspond with the 
 grandeur of his object,, to wake in the heart a thousand feelings, which 
 kare all the force and permanence of the great principles and interests 
 with which they are allied, and from which they spring. 
 
 The proper objects of taste, are beauty and sublimity. And these 
 arise chiefly from t^€ ascoeiations suggested to the mind. In order, 
 tlien, to ascertain the Lnfiiiicnee of religion upon the pleasures of taste, 
 it may be well, for a momerat, t© place the irreligious man in situations 
 of which the beauty or sablamiity ar€ universally admitted. 
 
 Present, then, to the man witkeut reiigien, a rich and varied land- 
 scape. It is beautiful to him, and net merely because its lines are reg- 
 ular, or its colors vivid, but beegMW it suggests to his mind a train of 
 images which, from the ecuetitution of our nature, sooth and delight 
 him. He sees in the sunmy vale, and laughing valley, signs of peace 
 and plenty, and joy. If Ive is an agriculturist, he sees arise fromi «eweiy 
 spot, some witness to the piinciples and capalbjli-ties ,©f Ms fevisrite art- 
 
V'.n PREFACE. 
 
 If lie is a philanthroplsit, he, perhaps, fancies in every coLtage an abode 
 
 nf hr.ppiiicss and love ; and in every peasant, a being pure and calm at 
 
 the scci;e which he contemplates, B\it, at this point, the mere econo- 
 
 Trtist, or the man of benevolence, will stop. But, on the contrary, in» 
 
 tror::ec the devout man to the same landscape, he also may be an ag-^ 
 
 rioulturjst, and is necessarily a philanlhropiot. All the same images^ 
 
 ihfir ■fore, with those which delighted the man without religion, may 
 
 present themselves to'his taste ; but these impressions, by their very 
 
 nature, deeay. At the instant, however, when hey are beginning to 
 
 fado, and when, therefore, fehe imagination demands some new stimu^ 
 
 lu:--, the devout man, perhaps, discovers In the distant horizon, some 
 
 ♦* Sletider spire 
 And missy terser from deep embowering shades, 
 Oft rising in the vale, or on the side 
 Of gently slooping hiits, or loftier placed, 
 Crowning the wooded eminence !" 
 
 At once a crowd of nev.' and iinfading visions burst upon his mind. 
 
 Itc riser, in r. moment, as it v.-ero from eaith to heaven. In his eyes, 
 
 the sunny vale, the unruffied lake, the flock sleeping on the brow, and 
 
 ihe cottage peeping from the vineyard, are not merely the signs of 
 
 mercy and goodoss in heaven. The grove, as it whispers, appears to 
 
 liim to say that God is good, Soothed and elevated by this silent ref* 
 
 ei-cnce to thu Creator of so fair a scene, he seems himself to gain a^ 
 
 oueo a new property and interest in all he sees ; 
 
 " His are the mountain?;, and the vallies his, 
 
 ♦' And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy 
 
 '* With a propriety that none <nin foel, 
 
 " But who, with filial confidence inspired. 
 
 " Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye 
 
 " And smiling say, * my Father 7nade them all /' " 
 
 Can it be questioned in which of these two cases the tasto will ba 
 most gratified— in which instance its enjojonents will be most pure, 
 most numerous, most enduring ? 
 
 Nor is the case different with regard tp those objects usually dcnom* 
 iuidcd sublime. Place ti^e inan, for instance, who is without religioo, 
 
PREFACE. i^ 
 
 »iiii>it the wilJ and Jesolato scenory of savage nature, amidst sunlesiji 
 fjrmU, bleak m^antains an:I roolvs reft by the ligbtnings of heaven ; 
 |ho spectaola miy, even in his eyes, be truly sublime. If his imagina» 
 tiai be vij.)L-o-.n, ha at once as':>ooiatGS with the landscape many scenes 
 ©f terror aai wo ; he, perhips, peoples the desert with the warriors of 
 other days ; he sees them scale the rugged mountain, he hears their 
 shout upon the v/ind. Perhaps, in each speck which diversifies thefac^ 
 of the wilderness, he fancies the bone of some pilgrim who has perish^ 
 ^d there. Or, aoeording to his familiarity with history, he connectg 
 certain interesting facts with the scenery which he cantemplates ; an4 
 ■while, perhaps, his insensible conspaniou conceives him merely to be 
 contemplating a barren void, the rnighty dead are passing in solemn re- 
 riew before him, and his eye is melted at the recollection of their com-? 
 plicated wants and agonies. He fancies, perhaps, the print of their last 
 struggles upon the sand; and listens to their last groan in the low 
 murmur of the torrent. But these grand illusions are not permanent, 
 Boon the iraa:5e3 which thus move and interest his mind are exhausted. 
 Images derived from the scenes of this world, as from the events of 
 time, seem to partake of the transitory nature of the scene of theip 
 origin. On the contrary, let the man of piety be carried into the sama 
 scenes. As ho surveys the leafless desert, or blasted rock, steeps frowns 
 tng upon steeps, rocks which stand like the skeleton of the world, 
 waiting to be clothed, interminable wastes, where the Creator seema 
 almost to have " forgotten to be gracious," he feels much, in common 
 with the man without religion, to awe and solemnize his mind, Hiaj 
 sensibility is not less aAvakened, his sympathies with the woes and suf- 
 ferings of other men, and other ages, are not less acute. He begins, aa 
 it were, by " exhausting these words ;" but then he proceeds to "ima 
 ftgine new." He contemplates the landscape before him, by the solemti 
 light of the sanctuary. He connects its stern and awful features, witf> 
 IliB history of the dispensatigns of Goi), JJe sees in tfce disorclergd 
 
X PREFACE- 
 
 f-xco of nature, the evidence of that wrath wkich broke up the fountains 
 of the great deep, swept the earth with its hurricane, and involved in 
 one universal ruin, the race of man. 
 
 There is indeed, no pure and chastened gratification which the devout 
 spectator is not able to enjoy, in common with the man of the world_ 
 If a lover of the fine arts, he also will rejoice to fix his eye, and let 
 loose his imagination on the birth-place of his favorite pursuits. If a 
 scholar, he will delight to study the pages of antiquity in the light by 
 which they were written, and amidst the scenes by which many of their 
 images and expressions were suggested. Many are the images of tender 
 melancholy and mitigated awe, which will thus arise upon his mind. 
 But these are in him only the beginning of those emotions which are 
 properly denominated sublime. To him the wreck of grandeur which 
 is scattered around, in one vast monument of the vengeance of an 
 angry Gob. He sees inscribed upon the thousand prostrate pillars, the 
 awful lessons, that God will not resign his throne to idols — that mere 
 letters cannot secure the grandeur, or even the permanence of nations. 
 He hears a voice echoing among the deserted walls, which says, ' happy 
 is the people who have the Lord for their God.' He sees, as it were, 
 lingering amidst the ruins, the venerable figures of a Socrates or a 
 Plato; and hears them exclaim, ''there is no true philosophy but the 
 Bible." Whilst others survey the mere beauty of the broken altar, he 
 r«»gards it with peculiar awe, as, perhaps, a part of that dedicated to 
 "the unknown GoD." And whilst they coldly measure the propor- 
 tions of the Areopagus, he r«memt>ers that he there stands in the foot- 
 steps of an apostle, and surveys the ruin of those " temples made with 
 hands," in which the messenger of heaven had predicted the downfall 
 of idolatry. Here again, then, the question may be confidently asked 
 —is not religion a fruitful source of the sublime — and is not he as bad 
 a philosopher as a christian, who, lifting his hand against religion, 
 Strive :• thereby to annihilate those images of delight or of awe, with 
 
Preface. xi 
 
 which her hand peoples both the ruins of art, and the wilderness of 
 nature ? It is evident that many similar illustrations might easily le 
 produced. 
 
 If, however, these suggestions should Le considered as of too spec- 
 ulative a nature, it may be desirable to consider how mucn of the ce- 
 lebrity of men of genius has been owing, either to their possession, 
 or to their assumption, of the religious character. 
 
 When, for instance, the a^iists of antiquity undertook to chisel 
 the statutes which should command the admiration of all times and 
 places, they did not choose for their subjects the mere heroes of their 
 country, but the gods ! It was a Hercules or Appolo, which levied the 
 tribute of applause throughout all the regions of Heathenism. These 
 great men were well acquainted with human nature, and they felt, that 
 those emotions with which the spectator should approach the labors of 
 genius, so as best to appreciate their worth, are called out by some ob- 
 ject, which at once lifts him out of this lower sphere j and fills him witk 
 awe, astonishment and humility. 
 
 In like manner, when \\\e j^ainters and sculpters of Italy arose, as it 
 were, from the slumber of ages, they did not roam for subjects in the 
 regions of romance, or even of modern history. They did not even 
 follow the track of older artists amidst the temples of Heathenism ; 
 but whilst they profitted from the example of antiquity, they availed 
 themselves of their own more favorable circumstances, and sought their 
 subjects in the pages of the sacred writings. 
 
 Thus also in invsic ; if it be asked in what circumstances has the 
 genius of music chiefly displayed itself ? — it may be answered confiden-s 
 lially — when music has borrowed the aid of religion. It is Handel who 
 is the musician of all times and countries. It is Handel who is called 
 " immortal," from the immortality of the subjects to which he has con- 
 secrated his powers. It is Handel who has almost caught a portiQ?i Qf 
 
Xn PREFACE. 
 
 the inspiration of his themes, and has sung the songs of angels, in 
 strains scarcely unworthy of them — whose music has had power to col- 
 lect large crowds to commemorate his name, and perpetuate his honors 
 to the remotest ages. 
 
 The poets of England may confidently be brought to the same 
 test. Why is it, for instance, that Spencer, though he has half 
 buried his genius in the grave of allegory ; though he is often prolix 
 and obscure ; though he exhausts the reader by a detail of uninter- 
 esting circumstances, is still contemplated, with reverence, as the father 
 of English verse ? It is, in great part, for a reason Vv'hich Milton has 
 assigned — that he is "sage and serious," that behind the cloud in 
 which he veils his morals, you see the hallowed figures of piety and 
 truth. Why is it again, that Milton, though inferior to his elder 
 brethren of Greece and Rome, in the embodying of his ideas, and the 
 execution of his vast designs, yet takes the precedency of them ? It is 
 partly, because his theme embraces all the highest concerns of man. 
 
 There is only one point more to which the axithor feels it necessary 
 to advert. He has been taught, by frequent experience, that there are 
 certain topics on which it is difficult not to be misunderstood — and 
 such a topic appears to be that change of character which is wrought 
 by the influence of religion upon the mind. If any critic, then, should 
 bo tempted to represent him as dcsgining to give. In the history of De 
 Ranee, such a precedent as may encourage the hopes of the enthusiast, 
 or betray his readers into a conception, that a youth of profligacy is 
 likely to end in an old age of religion— the author begs leave, to dis, 
 claim any such intention. lie well remembers the sentiment of a dis- 
 tinguished divine, upon the only case of late repentance, which is re- 
 corded in the Scriptures : " one instance is given that the humble ma^ 
 jjot despair — and but one, that the careless may not prcsuiue." 
 
CANTO FIRST 
 
DE RANGE 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 r 
 
 ** I tell thee, Eugene, it is chance 
 
 That speeds the arrosv's fatal flight ; 
 Life is the momentary glance, 
 
 Of morn before an endless night — 
 Death is but dreamless, endless sleep : 
 Those who are wept, and those who weep^ 
 Ftom the cold grave to which they go, 
 Rise never or to joy or wo ; 
 I bow the knee to Chance alone, 
 And ^vorship at her shadowy throne." 
 
DE Ri^CE, 
 
 2. 
 
 Thus s-pake De Ranee— and no sign 
 
 In earth or heav'n was seen ; 
 No reddening bolt, from hand divine^ 
 
 Flam'd in the blue serene. 
 All, all was silence, as though Chance 
 Ileign'd through the fathomless expanse :• 
 As though no arm those spheres of gold, 
 On winged wheels, harmonious rolFd : 
 As though the God of this fair world 
 Shrunk from the proud defiance hurl'd ; 
 And, mounted on his cloudy car, 
 Had fled to other skies afai% 
 Afraid to wasre this Atheist war. 
 
 3. 
 
 Thus spake De Ranee. Who is he 
 Thus school' d in bold impiety ? 
 What pregnant spot of Paynim earth 
 Gave to the godless monster birth ?' 
 Say, did some lawless robber clan 
 Nurse the infant into man ? 
 Teach him to tread the path they trod, 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 To hate "his fellow, curse his God ? 
 Or dwelt the child, bereft, alone, 
 Where no bright lamp of science shone ; 
 Like some dark mountain, on whose head 
 The sun's blest rays were never shed ? 
 Or on the tented field of strife, 
 Say — did he breathe the breath of life ? 
 And, cradled in an ark of blood. 
 Deemed he the brave alone the good ; 
 All softer feelings laugh' d to scorn, 
 His music the shrill bugle horn — 
 His pride the deeply dented scar — 
 His only God, the God of war — 
 For battle lost his only sigh, 
 His only pray'r for victory ? 
 
 4. 
 
 No Paynim country gave him birth, 
 Nor shivering land of night. 
 
 Nor starved he 'midst the savage dearth. 
 Of wisdom's sacred light ; 
 
 No robber rear'd him up to man, 
 A branded outcast from the good, 
 
 In no loose camp his life began, 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 To horrors train'd, and iiurs''d in blood. 
 The infant op'd his sparkling eye 
 In thy fair fields, sweet Brittany ; 
 Whence many a mai'tyred Saint of old, 
 Aj'ose to fill Bis throne of gold ; 
 And bold crusaders took the road^. 
 To win the city of their God. 
 
 Nor of a s.ordid race was he^ 
 Sprung from thy stem, great Chavigni : 
 Whose title to thy vast domain 
 Was writ by mighty Charlemagne-. 
 Nor lack'd he aught that man could give^. 
 To bid his lifeless virtues live. 
 With sign of cross, at blessed font, 
 Pdciilieu had stanip'd his infant from ;. 
 In cloister'd cell, with lessons sage. 
 Grave priests had fed his tender age ; 
 And taught his ardent eye to pore,. 
 O'er classic tomes, and holv lore.. 
 
 Nor toil'd in vain tbe letter'd monk. 
 Into De Ranee's thirsty ear^ 
 
©E KANCE. 
 
 And thirstier memory, deeply sunk, 
 These lessons to fair science dear. 
 And he was skill' d, from earliest age, 
 
 To delve in mathematic nyne, 
 Or roam along the breathing page, 
 
 Where Tully's living splendors shine ; 
 Or scan, with philosophic eye, 
 The blazing wonders of the sky ; 
 And he could touch the sacred lyre. 
 And glow with all a prophet's fire-r- 
 They came to hear a 'prophet sing, 
 Alas ! a demon swept the string 
 
 6. 
 
 The poet's lamp, as poets tell. 
 
 Is kindled only at the skies ; 
 But there's a flame — the birth of hell. 
 
 Which sometimes lights the poet's eyes.. 
 Such was De Ranee's— and the flash 
 
 \Vhich shot along his vivid page, 
 Like that which wakes the pealing crash, 
 
 And strife of elemental rage. 
 "That flash could stir the soul to war. 
 
 But could not light the pilgrim's road; 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 Oil ! — it was not that eastern star. 
 
 That led the guilty to his God. 
 It lit imconseerated flame 
 
 In many a virgin's snowy breast ; 
 It blcach'd the reddening eheek of shame 
 
 It scorch'd the vestal's modest vest ; 
 Unawed, its desolating fires, 
 
 The hallow'd hill of God assail ; 
 They strike the temple's awful spires. 
 
 They rend its venerable veil. 
 
 Such was De Ranee's foul offence '^ 
 A fouler sees not heaven — 
 
 To blot the bright intfelligencCj^ 
 For holiest purpose given-r- 
 To turn the sword which God has steel'd 
 
 Against the eternal throne- 
 To lift the wither' d arm he heal'd 
 
 Against the Mightiest One. 
 rd rather be the wretch who scrawls. 
 His idiot nonsense on the walls — - 
 His gallant bark, of reason wreck'dj, 
 A poor q^uench'd ray of intellect ; 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 I^ot -quite a man, nor quite a brute—- 
 
 Than I would basely ]U'ostiiute 
 
 My powers, to serve the cause of vice, 
 
 To build some jewell'd edifice, 
 
 So fair, so foul — form'd with such art 
 
 To please the eye, and soil the heart ; 
 
 That he, who has not power to shun, 
 
 Comes, looks, and feels himself undone, 
 
 8, 
 
 'Tis true that, in her hurried flight, 
 On some diviner themes 
 
 Pe Ranee's soaring muse would light- 
 To hate them all she seems ; 
 
 And harpy-like, she soars and sings, 
 
 And sheds pollution froir^ her wings. 
 
 Where sweet Provence her blushing rose 
 Hangs on the rocks, or gay alcove, 
 
 Her thousand maidens all arose 
 To hear De Ranee sing of love. 
 
 They came, they heard, they turn'd away- 
 Oh ! 'twas a song impure and rude ; 
 
 lie did not paint th' ethereal ray, 
 Which ^yarms the bosom of the good. 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 His harp lie swept with bolder hand, 
 
 To hymn the praise of liberty ; 
 Around, a thousand warriors stand 
 
 To catch the blessed harmony. 
 Jhey came, they heard, they turn'd away- 
 More loyal than the brav e are none ; 
 They loath'd the lawless, graceless lay, 
 Which curs' d the altar and the throne. 
 
 9. 
 
 Such was the bard, and such the mind— 
 
 Himself the model of his verse ; 
 Bad though the portrait he design' d, 
 
 The sad original was worse. 
 His was the lawless love, the hate 
 Which time nor space cm mitigate ; 
 The giant rage the hills which rent, 
 And hurl'd them at the Omnipotent. 
 
 Such was the bard, and, ! his look 
 Bore witness to the hell wdthin— 
 
 Study that face — you read a book, 
 Stamp'd with the wretchedness of sin. 
 And yet, upon this haggard face, 
 Would sometimes wake a sudden grace ; 
 
DE HANCE. 
 
 A milder beam would warm his eyes, 
 
 A blush upon bis cheek arise, 
 
 ^Vhich seemed to say — that, in that breast, 
 
 By demon spirits long possest. 
 
 Virtues with vices rarely link'd 
 
 Lay pent, and struggling, not extinct ; 
 
 And promis'd that, in happier hours, 
 
 This rugged soil should burst with flowers,. 
 
 But — better trust the fleeting skies, 
 
 Than all these airy prophecies ; 
 
 "What flowers ai-e now — are such as those 
 
 That spring on ^liltna's ardent side ; 
 The peasant climbs to pluck the rose. 
 
 As at his touch, the fiery tide 
 Sweeps down the mountain and he dies 
 To his fooVs hopes a sacrifice. 
 
 10. 
 
 D& Ranee lov'd the chase — his horrs 
 Would often wake the lazy morn ; 
 And, echoing the dark ^vood3 among. 
 Rouse to the sport the loitering throng, 
 O, it was brave to see them mount, 
 When numbers you could scarcely county 
 With sylvan trophies gayly deck'd;^ 
 
1.0 iDE RANGE. 
 
 And champing coursers, rainbow-neck' d, 
 Issued in all tlie pride of state, 
 From Viret's antiquated gate, 
 Dashing the virgin frost away 
 Which silvers every dancing spray- 
 To see them bit the indignant steed, 
 Now urge, and now restrain his speed ; 
 And, noWj some misty headland scale, 
 Whence they may view the waking valCj 
 The kindlhig orb, half set, half risen, 
 Just breaking from his cloudy prison ; 
 Of day and night the dubious strife, 
 The landscape struggling into life — 
 O, it were brave — could you forget, 
 That on De Pvance's brow is set 
 Thy mitre Tours — to man terrene, 
 J^ought but a crown of thorns I ween ; 
 That heaven has to his v/atch consign'd, 
 A measureless expanse of mind. 
 Souls that are kindred v/ith the sky, 
 The sparks, the breath, of Deity. 
 Who, if the reckless shepherd sleep. 
 
 Ah, wlio shall feed these million sheep ? 
 11. 
 
 Many a chase have hunters rode, 
 
DE EANCE. n 
 
 Swift as the mountain wind ; 
 All, all, the panting courser goad. 
 
 One half are left behind. 
 But never chase like that was known, 
 When from the w^oods that skirt the Rhone^ 
 The deer was rous'd — his fiery glance 
 Stretching at once o'er half of France. 
 He spans her vales, he climbs her steeps^ 
 From giddy rock to rock he leaps, 
 And covers, in a single chase, 
 Plains it fatigues the eye to trace : 
 See, now, he flags, he gasps for breath, 
 Hangs over him the bird of death, 
 He dives into the yawning flood — 
 Dyed are its silver waves with blood ► 
 
 12. 
 
 But, who are those, the mighty two, 
 Sole relics of the Sylvan crew. 
 That headlong from yon hill descend ? 
 De Ranee, and De Ranee's friend, 
 The noble Eugene — two in name, 
 In love, or fiery hate, the same. 
 Of all the troop that rous'd the deer. 
 But these, his dying murmurs heaa' ;: 
 
V2 t)E RANCl^. 
 
 And tlicir's, if mead it be — tlie mead—-' 
 The honors of his palmy head ; 
 Which mounted high, in hall of state. 
 The hunter's praise shall celebrate. 
 
 13. 
 
 rhe chase is o'er — and spent the day — = 
 
 The sun's last ineifcctual ray 
 
 Dies on the mountains — not a star 
 
 Shines o'er their path — alone, afar 
 
 The hunters tread some unknown soil, 
 
 Tlirough weary wastes, and forests toil ; 
 
 They see alone the lightning's gleam, 
 
 They hear alone the raven's scream, 
 
 Or lean vvolfs melancholy howl, 
 
 Or screeches of the boding owl. 
 
 But in De Ranee's frozen breast, 
 
 Was cow'ring fear an unknown guest ; 
 
 And, darker light — 'twas one to him, 
 
 The battle, or the cloister dim ; 
 
 The icy caverns of the_dead. 
 
 Where the pale ghost is thought to tread , 
 
 At all, this man of iron laughed ; 
 
 Draughts from the holy chalice quafi'ed, 
 
DE RANGE. 13 
 
 And cursed, for superstitious fool, 
 The man who, taught in stricter school, 
 With reTerend eye, and feet unshod, 
 Approached the altar of his God. 
 
 14. 
 
 Nor blame I him whose smile serere. 
 
 Rebukes the superstitious fear 
 
 Of fancy-ridden men who quake, 
 
 If but a leaf unbidden shake ; 
 
 Or, if they stumble o'er the tomb, 
 
 Or hear, through evening's deepening gloom, 
 
 A distant bell, with note profound, 
 
 A solemn " requiesant " sound; 
 
 Or, in some aisle, at dead of night, 
 
 Sees the pale moon's unearthly light 
 
 Cast through the deeply tiuted pane. 
 
 What fancy deems, a bloody stain. 
 
 Such fears are growth of sordid root, 
 
 lieligon's weeds, and not her fruit ; 
 
 Yet not so vile these baby fears. 
 
 As Levity, which naught reveres ; 
 
 Which, when the thunder shakes the sky. 
 
 Feels not the present Deity ; 
 
 2 
 
14 . DE RANGE. 
 
 Which rashly treads the holy place, 
 Gazes where aiigels veil their face ; 
 And when the shaft of vengeance flies. 
 Dares it by new impieties.. 
 
 15. 
 
 Such, as fresh terrors mutter round, 
 As sheeted lightnings swept the ground, 
 And forky flashes through the gloom 
 Seemed opening up a world to come ; 
 Such was De Ranee's impious mood. 
 Such accents echoed through the wood ; 
 Boldly the smoking waste he trod ; 
 He spoke of Chance, and mocked at God. 
 It was as though some maddening wretch 
 His pointed steel to heaven should stretch, 
 Bare to the bello^v'ing cloud his head, 
 And bid the I'ghtnings strike him dead. 
 
 16. 
 
 They struck him not — for mercy flew 
 To sheath the sword which justice drew. 
 " But, ah, yon pointed rocks among. 
 What giant figures steal along ? 
 
DE EANCE. 15 
 
 Sawest thou De Eance, as the ray. 
 
 Of lightning kindled sudden day, 
 
 Its living flashes sudden glance 
 
 Along some carabine or lance ? 
 
 There was a hand that grasp' d that steel ; 
 
 I seemed to see, with hasty wheel, 
 
 A martial troop no eye could count, 
 
 Check their svvift steeds, stop, look, dismount, 
 
 And sink yon tangled brakes between. 
 
 As though to see and be unseen. 
 
 Grant this be not the bloody glen. 
 
 Where Pirot keeps his robber den ; 
 
 And, from the ledges of the rock, 
 
 Springs like the tiger on the flock ; 
 
 For swift, indeed, the traveller's wing, 
 
 Who 'scapes that tiger's deadly spring." 
 
 17, 
 
 Thus, Eugene, — and as yet he spoke. 
 Another flash the darkness broke : 
 " Hark ! is not that the signal word !" 
 At once the volleying peal is heard. 
 The hissing bullet cuts its way. 
 The ruffians spring upon their prey : 
 
16 DE EANCE. 
 
 Will no one stay the crimson flood 
 Of honored Eugene's ehbing blood ? 
 Will no hand staunch the mortal wound 
 Alas ! he staggers to the ground ; 
 A robber shuts his stiffened eyes, 
 And murderers sing his obsequies. 
 
 18. 
 
 But where's De Ranee ? Did he fall 
 A victim to the fatal ball ? 
 Or, shielded by an unseen hand. 
 Did he escape the robber band ? 
 See him amidst the unequal strife^ 
 Nor spare, nor prodigal of life, 
 Now boldly deal the dexterous blow, 
 Now flying from the thickening foe ; 
 Too brave, what might be met to shun^, 
 Too cool to fight and be undone. 
 See where he cleaves the lofty crest 
 Of him who on his footsteps prest ; 
 And now he gives his courser rein. 
 And now it smokes along the plain. 
 Speed, speed, De Ranee — in thy rear 
 Their clattering hoofs of flint I hear ; 
 
I»E KANCE. 17 
 
 Hark ! where yon torrent mutters hoarse, 
 Tliither, ah, thither bend thy course ; 
 Plunge boldly o'er its rocky side ; 
 Who knov.'s — that darkly rolling tide 
 May save, whom nothing else can savei 
 E'en robbers reverence the brave ; 
 Fear for themselves, respect for thee, 
 May give thee life and liberty. 
 
 1^. 
 
 He leaps the rocks — they crowd the brink 
 '' See, see, this daring spirit sink :" 
 He rises— mark his struggling hand ; 
 " Will none of all the robber band 
 Dive for the prey ?" One hardy wretch 
 Leaps desperate down — I see him stretch 
 His crimson hand— that well-aimed shot,, 
 Must fix Do Ranee's lingering lot. 
 
 20. 
 
 ^Tis fired— an angel sees its flight. 
 And, stooping from his throne of light, 
 Ouards with a Seraph wing a breast 
 
 2* 
 
18 DE RANGE. 
 
 Untenanted by lieavenly guest ; 
 
 Guides the swift ball to where his side 
 
 By belt of p.teel is fortified ; 
 
 From which his hunter quiver hung, 
 
 And arrow with its forky tongue, 
 
 And bugle, that proclaimed afar 
 
 The triumphs of the Sylvan war. 
 
 It struck — and, bounding from the blow% 
 
 Fell flattened in the wave below. 
 
 21. 
 
 I will not say, that as he stood 
 
 Firm on the mountain brow, 
 And saw behind that glen of blood, 
 
 And gulf that roar'd below ; 
 And heard the robbers' lessening shout, 
 And watched them track their backward rout ; 
 And mused of the unequal strife. 
 Where Eugene paid his forfeit life ; 
 And traced upon his shattered side 
 The death that he had almost died ; 
 I will not say — that heart so rude 
 Felt not a touch of gratitude ; 
 That on that mind of thickest night. 
 
DE RANGE. IS 
 
 Beamed not a ray of heavenly light ; 
 
 But, if it beamed, short was the day. 
 
 Soon quenched in clouds that morning ray ; 
 
 And if a tear bedews his eye, 
 
 He hastes that woman's drop to dry. 
 
 No accents from his lips arose 
 
 To break the mountain's dead repose ; 
 
 No echo from the rock or wood 
 
 fleturn'd his song of gratitude? 
 
CANTO SECOND. 
 
D E RANGE 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 The old in guilt, though young in years,. 
 Shed few, and those but transient tears. 
 The silver dew-drops on the spray, 
 Which the first sun-beam dries away ; 
 The weepings of the polar shower. 
 Which harden ere they reach the flower ; 
 The iixsect sporting on the beam, 
 The fleecy cloud, the summer stream. 
 The manna melting on the plain ^ 
 The midnight image of the brain, 
 Are not so fugitive and brief, 
 As their unconsecrated grief : 
 
24 
 
 DE RANGE. 
 
 Soon, in the scorching flame of sense, 
 Dries their pale tear of penitence. 
 And such, I ween, the swift career 
 
 Of virtue in De Ranee's breast ; 
 Thus dried his penitential tear ; 
 
 Thus sank his shadowy grief to rest. 
 Whatever met the rising sun, 
 Had vanished ere his race was run. 
 
 The morn is bright, the mountain's side 
 "With million airy tints is dyed ; 
 Glitters the thorn and purple heath, 
 And fan him with their dewy breath : 
 The monarch eagle climbs the sky, 
 At the fierce sun to light his eye ; 
 Her giddy course the skylark steers. 
 To catch the music of the spheres; 
 To learn the notes to angels given. 
 And steal for man the songs of Heaven. 
 
 3. 
 
 De Ranee, musing, trod his way, 
 
 " Heaven meant us (cried he) to be gay /' 
 
DE RANGE. 25 
 
 Aye — GOOD and gay : But he who tries 
 To cut the knot which nature ties, 
 To break thehans proclaimed by God, 
 
 To seek his happiness in Vice, 
 Shall feel the terrors of the rod, 
 
 Which sways our mortal destines. 
 Dark are the flowers which round him blow, 
 The chaplet on a victim's brow ; 
 Sad are the joys of which he's vain. 
 The music of a maniac's chain. 
 De Ranee talked of Peace — her nest 
 She made not in that stormy breast. 
 She hovers round the martyr's pile, 
 She lingers in the sacred aisle. 
 Seizes the prisoner's dungeon key. 
 Touches his chains — and he is free. 
 She hovers o'er the sick man's bed, 
 Rests on her downy wing his head ; 
 Lifts from bright heaven the awful veil, 
 And bids his eye the Godhead hall. 
 
 Such peace De Ranee never knew ; 
 Still as the breath of morning blew. 
 
26 
 
 DE RANGE.. 
 
 And flowers the glittering dew-drop sjquaffed. 
 And every sunny valley laughed, 
 And round the giddy Chamois jDlay, 
 And all the world kept holiday ; 
 E'en his stern features caught awhile 
 Sweet nature's universal smile ; 
 And he who saw, and knew him not, 
 Had said — " how blest De Ranee's lot !" 
 But he who watched with searching eye 
 The smiles that on his pale lip3 played, 
 
 Saw daggered grief in ambush lie. 
 Eager to sally from her shade. 
 
 Such smiles are sorrow's flimsiest dress, 
 
 The tortur'd bosom's drunkenness ; 
 
 The roses scattered on a shroud, 
 
 The flashes of the thunder cloud. 
 
 5. 
 
 And now he spans the tedious vales. 
 And now the mountain's height he scales, 
 Uncertain, in the blaze of day. 
 Whither to bend his doubtful way. 
 But when the star of eve arose, 
 
BE RANGE. 27 
 
 Her place the fainting traveller knows ; 
 
 At once lie lifts his aching eye, 
 
 And finds his compass in the sky ; 
 
 'Tis nature's compass, seen by all 
 
 Her traveller's o'er this mazy ball ; 
 
 The pilot, as his crazy bark 
 
 Shoots round the headland, vast and dark, 
 
 Sees, shuddering, as these beacons glow. 
 
 The hungry rock that lurk'd below ; 
 
 Panting, amidst the dark simoom. 
 
 The thirsty Arab waits his doom ; 
 
 He hears the death-bird's fatal shriek. 
 
 He hears the vulture whet her beak ; 
 
 At once, amid the kindling skies. 
 
 These million holy lamps arise ; 
 
 It seems as though some hand unfurled 
 
 A spangled standard to the world ; 
 
 To scatter every pilgrim's fears. 
 
 To light his path, to dry his tears. 
 
 Nor these alone refresh their eye 
 
 With yonder jewelled canopy ; 
 
 How joys the Saint, in cloister dim. 
 
 By this chaste light to chant the hymn. 
 
 To let his winged fancy rove 
 
 Amidst these orbs of Rest and Love ; 
 
2^ PE RANGE. 
 
 To dream of all that feeds the sight^. 
 Of those who fill the thrones of light ; 
 AVhiist ever and anon his ear 
 8 wee t and mysterious hymnings cheer ; 
 Faint echoes of the mystic ode, 
 That chants the glory of our God ; 
 The song which rolls from east to west, 
 Poclaming that " the good are blest.'" 
 
 6.. 
 
 Nor only these — De Eance, too-, 
 
 Pelt courage kindle in the vieWy 
 
 As bright Orion's belted ray, 
 
 Shed on the night a milder d'aj^. 
 
 Not slow, or hesitating, now. 
 
 He boldly breasts the mountain brow ; 
 
 And,, piloted by heavenly guides. 
 
 Through dark ravine or torrent glides ; 
 
 Thoughtless, and thankless, onward hies,. 
 
 Musing on new felicities ; 
 
 For past and present want the power 
 
 To cheer the bad man's aching eye ;, 
 And, bankrupt at the present hour. 
 
 He draws upon futurity. 
 
DE EANCE. 
 
 7. 
 
 29 
 
 And now tlie sleeping rocks among, 
 Echoes this minstrel's gracious song; 
 The wakeful bird that shuns the morn, 
 Sits listening on her pointed thorn ; 
 And starts to hear, in spot so lone, 
 A song., O, how unlike her own. 
 
 -' I was not born, the lamp to trim,'' 
 Of viewless gods the praise to hymn ; 
 To stifle all the joys of sense. 
 And make a joy of abstinence. 
 
 -' Mine be the lamp of Laura's eye. 
 Her praise my only melody ; 
 Tier's be the shrine at which I bovs,% 
 To her be paid my only vow." 
 
 Mere ceased the unpriestly bard to sing ; 
 
 For now the moon with crimson ray, 
 Rose on the horizontal ring^ 
 
 As reddening at the guilty lay ; 
 
3U DE EANCE. 
 
 Just as you've seen a sudden blusli 
 
 Wake on a virgin's cheek of shame. 
 O'er the pale white unbidden rush, 
 
 And wrapt it in a robe of flame. 
 O, as that conscious orb arose, 
 
 How gleams the hill, the vale, the stream, 
 And all their sleeping charms disclose. 
 
 At once to the unobtrusive beam. 
 It fell upon the snowy flock, 
 Which slept beneath the frowning reck ; 
 It fell upon that rock's dark brow, 
 And seemed to silver it with snow; 
 So swiftly all its darkness fled, 
 So brightly beamed its hoary head. 
 
 9. 
 
 lUit, not this flock of silver fleece^ 
 
 Nor sable brow, in gems arrayed. 
 Nor sleeping nature's smile of peace, 
 
 De Ranee's steps delayed. 
 See, as the moonlight circle spreads, 
 With what hurrying step he treads 5 
 And as he gains that mountain top. 
 
DE EAXCE. 
 
 I see the eager wanderer slop 
 And gaze, as if to pierce the cloud 
 Which wraps the valley in its shroud. 
 And now I see the moon-beam fall 
 On yonder torren'/s bannered wall ; 
 O, 'tis the hall of Chaumont's power, 
 And Laura sleeps in yonder tower ; 
 Of that fierce chief, the darling child, 
 
 Xor brighter does yon moon-beam rise, 
 Than the swift ray so brightly wild, 
 
 Which flashes in her glancing eyes. 
 
 10. 
 
 Ts'ot brighter — but, alas ! more pure — 
 Once she was pure as she was bright, 
 Pc Ranee spread the accursed lure, 
 
 And quenched that ray of virgin light. 
 Both, nurs'd in superstitious bowers, 
 Were pledged to consecrate their hours, 
 Their passions, bodies, souls, to God ; 
 On all these awful vows they trod. 
 
 11. 
 I laud, and love the man, around 
 
 31 
 
DE EANCE. 
 
 Whose brow, or force, or craft has bound, 
 
 Boucls such as these — if he forsake 
 
 A bigot's creed, and refuge take 
 
 Where sainted mercy's modest gem 
 
 Shines in religion's diadem ; 
 
 And bigot priestcraft dares not bind 
 
 Her gnawing irons on the mind : 
 
 And reason fastens every tie 
 
 Forged by the hand of piety. 
 
 I laud him if, with high disdain 
 
 Of bonds like this he burst his chain, 
 
 And nobly panting to be free, 
 
 Seek on the soil of Liberty 
 
 The honored altar of my sires, 
 
 Whose chaste and holy fires, 
 
 Kindled by seraph'd hosts above. 
 
 Illume the torch of wedded love ; 
 
 Rise on us, like some better sun, 
 
 And melt two beings into one. 
 
 But, red with guilt, the hands which rend 
 
 Their unchanged compact with the skies, 
 And Deity essay to bend 
 
 To fickle man's inconstancies; 
 Who still retain the bigot creed, 
 
 Are strict in faith, but foul in deed. 
 
DE RANGE. 33 
 
 12. 
 
 Such "vvas their crimson crime — but who 
 That saw heaven's arch of liquid blue, 
 That watch'd the moonlight vault serene, 
 
 That drank the evening's scented breath, 
 Could dream that in such smiling scene, 
 
 Lay ambush'd deep the bolt of death ? 
 Heaven seemed to lend its brightest ray 
 To light the robber to his prey ; 
 It did but seei'fi — in that fair sky, 
 Was planted heaven's artillery ; 
 Prophetic rolled that crimson star. 
 The herald of approachiug war. 
 
 13. 
 
 But, O, De Ranee has no eye 
 For omen, now, or prophecy. 
 Before that sky has time to lower, 
 
 His lover's feet have swept the vale; 
 He pants beneath the frowning tower 
 
 "Where wont to sing his nightingale. 
 She sang not now — but yet the lamp 
 
 Shone from her airy cell. 
 
34 DE RANGE. 
 
 As though, of all that drowsy camp, 
 She was the sleepless sentinel. 
 
 14. 
 
 But is she sleepless ? — then her ear 
 Must catch the signal note he tries ; 
 
 He strains her silver voice to hear, 
 'Tis echo's heartless voice replies. 
 
 '' And can she sleep ! faithless maid. 
 Sleep — when De Ranee wakes ; 
 
 Sleep — when, by steps so long delayed. 
 His plighted vow he breaks ? 
 
 " Twice seven times rose the summer sun. 
 
 He came not with the light ; 
 As oft its tedious course was run, 
 
 He came not with the night. 
 
 " The widowed turtle does not sleep. 
 
 She wanders o'er the heath, 
 She goes alone to droop and weep. 
 
 She sleeps the sleep of death." 
 
DE KANCE. 35 
 
 15. 
 
 Thus sang De Ranee — but the strain 
 
 Of anger died upon his lyre ; 
 Love mounting on her throne again, 
 
 Extinguished every other fire. 
 De Ranee loved, as few can love 
 Who wantonly delight to rove, 
 From sweet to sweet — the honeyed flower 
 With thirsty talon to devour ; 
 Then wing their flight to unknown sky, 
 And leave the withering stalk to die. 
 De Ranee loved as those have done 
 Whose souls are satisfied with one. 
 
 16. 
 
 " Sleeps she?" — he cries — " a lover's grief, 
 
 A broken heart's intense distress, 
 In waking dreams denied relief, 
 
 Pursues it in forgetfulness ; 
 O, if she sleeps she sleeps in vain ; 
 
 He who should watch her feverish form 
 Would see an inward hurricane 
 
 That fairy bower of peace deform. 
 
36 DE RANGE. 
 
 Tlie body sleeps — the restless mind 
 Roves wildly on the viewless wind, 
 Dives with De Ranee in the flood, 
 Shrinks from a dagger wet in blood ; 
 Like withered hag, with midnight spell, 
 Peoples the air with shapes of hell, 
 O, let me wake her — and destroy 
 These dreams of wo by sights of joy." 
 The lover said, and fondly flew 
 To fright the dreams his fancy drew. 
 
 17, 
 
 Built on a rock, that high Chateau, 
 Frown' d on the wondering vale below ; 
 Its fragments scattered far and nigh, 
 Taught this world's mutability. 
 Hugfe masses of its antique tower, 
 Beat down by the resistless power 
 That slowly rears its iron mace. 
 And shakes the rocky bounds of space, 
 Lay, in the wildest ruin hurl'd, 
 Like telics of an older world. 
 On these, its gaily painted wreath. 
 The flaunting Clematis had hung ; 
 
DE RANGE. 37 
 
 And, here and there the purple heath 
 
 Glittermg amidst the gray stones sprung ; 
 Like youth and age, in fond embrace. 
 Or garland on a beldame's face. 
 And there, I ween, that no gray stone 
 Was to De Ranee's eye unknown. 
 For often had he lingered there, 
 Watching for Laura's foot of air ; 
 And loitered oft with that weak maid, 
 Amidst this unfrequented shade. 
 
 18 
 
 It might have been the thundering shod 
 
 Of crimson-handed war ; 
 But the hard face of that dark rock 
 
 Was seamed by many a scar ; 
 It might have been the fiery bolt 
 
 Which, as the angels fell. 
 Flamed vengeance on their foul revolt 
 
 And drove them down to hell ; 
 That deeply rent its iron face, 
 But, at its stern and awful base, 
 There yawned upon the startled eye, 
 
38 DE RANGE. 
 
 Depths which the daring dared not try ; 
 None dared, save one — whose heart of steel 
 Felt not the throbs which others feel. 
 De Ranee feared not — though no sound 
 Disturb'd that cavern'd world profound, 
 Though nought that lives explored that gloom, 
 
 Save the small bat on leathern wings ; 
 Though vast the vault as the awful tomb 
 
 Where Egypt sepulchres her kings. 
 
 19. 
 
 Fearless was he — and oft he trod, 
 With Lion's heart that drear abode ; 
 For sooth to tell, when first his lamp 
 Gleamed on those walls so dark and damp, 
 And each bright drop appeared a gem 
 Set in a kingly diadem; 
 He saw, amidst that cavern wide, 
 A door pierced in its rocky side. 
 Which, opening to a spiral stair. 
 Led from this region of despair, 
 From caves where night her vigil kept. 
 To the lone tower where Laura slept. 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 39 
 
 Once found, that patli was ne'er forgot ; 
 In these dark caves the lovers plot 
 How to evade a father's eye, 
 And how to shroud her infamy. 
 And often down that spiral stair, 
 Would Laura wind, like vision fair 
 Seen in the shades of night — and start, 
 For fearful is the guilty heart ; 
 If but a sparkling dew-drop fell, 
 Or tolled the sullen castle bell. 
 
 20. 
 
 And 'twas to this deep-veiled ascent. 
 That now his steps De Ranee bent, 
 Eager to dry the waking tear. 
 
 Or scare the feverish dream. 
 Night's visionary fear, 
 
 By love's enchanting beam. 
 He gains the arch — he enters there, 
 Treads the deep cave, ascends the stair, 
 Mounts o'er the ample corridor. 
 Reaches and grasps the unhallowed door, 
 Xor halts he lonoj — his eaj^er hands 
 
Throw wide the portal, and he stands 
 In that fair room which aye had been 
 Of his sad joys the blushing scene j 
 ITie thorny bower of sordid vice-, 
 The sinner's mournful Pairadisa 
 
 21. 
 
 But where is she — Queen of that bower^ 
 
 'Midst many sweet, the sweetest flower?" 
 
 " Laura — De Ranee calls thee — eome 
 
 " Tx-eet a poor wanderer to his home ; 
 
 " 'Twas force detained me — for my soul, 
 
 ^' True as those circlers round the pole, 
 
 " Ne'er left thee, sweet one — ^but, with thee 
 
 **■ A prisoner, deemed it liberty ; 
 
 " Laura — De Ranee calls thee — come 
 
 " Find in my breast thy wonted home/'* 
 
 !2. 
 
 She lists not — comes not — not a word 
 Responsiye to his call is heard ; 
 No rising laugh, but half concealed,, 
 
DE RANGE. 41 
 
 Tlie playfulj hidden maid revealed ; 
 
 Xo struggling sigh, but half supprest, 
 
 Betrayed the agonized breast. 
 
 'Twas still as death — still as the hour 
 
 When heaven's half exerted power 
 
 Had framed the worlds — had spread the sea 
 
 But life had not begun to be , 
 
 *' Laura ! De Eance calls — arise 
 
 " And sun me with those angel eyes , 
 
 " Well mightst thou shroud those orbs in slee^ 
 
 ^' When thou couldst only wake to weep." 
 
 She rose not — looked not — can it be ^ 
 " Is Laura tired of love and me ? 
 '• Or, scared to feel nerself alone, 
 *' To other whig than mine hath flown ^ 
 " Return, poor bird, to thy cold nest, 
 *' To the altar of De Ranee's breast." 
 But, ah ! in yonder distant room 
 A lamp half dissipates the gloom : 
 " She MAY be there — ay, there she is ; 
 
 " Ha.ste, haste De Ranee — print thy kiss 
 
 4* 
 
\2 DE KANCE. 
 
 " On those full lips — gaze on that eye, 
 " The living throne of ecstacy." 
 
 24. 
 
 He comes — O mark his eye -ball glare ; 
 Not Laura — Laura's cohpse is there. 
 Disease has laid his withering hands 
 On that fair form — the brittle bands, 
 That chained the soul gave way ; 
 It burst its tenement of clay 
 How bright she was, let memory dream 
 Death has put out that morning beam. 
 
 2o. 
 
 In coffined pomp, benoia ner ne, 
 Vacant that throne of ecstacy. 
 Extinct, at once, its living fires, 
 As when the spiry blaze expires. 
 Of snowy Hecla's ardent head, 
 
 And o'er the smoky plains, 
 A stiller, deeper night is shed. 
 
 And double darkness reigns. 
 
DE EAXCE. 43 
 
 " Go print thy kiss on that full lip ;" 
 Alas ! — the bower where bees might sip 
 Fragrant no more — that marble cheek 
 Corruption's purple fingers streak ; 
 Though many a flower is scattered ther. 
 To show that she v\^as young and fair ; 
 Corruption's dark and fetid breath 
 Hangs, cloud like, o'er that bed of death. 
 
 26. 
 
 De Ranee might nave lear^^a uo enuure 
 The pangs no mortal hand could cure ; 
 And to the storm of dark distress 
 Have turned the shield of stubbornness ; 
 Or filled with new and varied bliss 
 His aching bosom's sad abyss ; 
 Perhaps he might have learned to gaze 
 
 On that wan cheek where death might blur. 
 But had not power to raze 
 
 Eeauty's ethereal character. 
 But as he watched the prostrate maid, 
 
 He saw, or seemed to see, 
 On that dark brow the darker shade 
 
 Of mental agony. 
 
44 DE RANGE. 
 
 And stamped upon that front so fair, 
 The ghastly frown of dumb despair ; 
 And, lingering on the Up of death, 
 
 A curse on him who broke the fence, 
 And rudely from the unspotted wreath 
 
 Kent the sweet flower of innocence. 
 Seemed she from that dark bier to rise, 
 And fix on him her rayless eyes ; 
 Seemed she — her fleshless arm to stretch, 
 As though to drag the struggling wretch 
 Whom angry heaven refused to save, 
 Down to her cheerless, hopeless grave ; 
 There, on a couch of fire to lie. 
 Wedded in hopeless misery. 
 
 27 
 
 It might be fancy — but the power 
 Of fancy in that penal hour, 
 When heaven, to avenge the foul abuse 
 Of goodness, lets its terrors loose ; 
 Is great, as though her shadowy train 
 Were not the figments of the brain ; 
 As though not sketched in lifeless dies 
 Her fleet and airy nullities ; 
 
DE RANGE.' 45 
 
 It might be fancy — be it so ; 
 
 Still, to the inward eye 
 More dread such visionary show 
 
 Than broad reality. 
 A single tear he did not shed, 
 
 He did not strike his throbbing breast ; 
 You saw him clasp his bursting head, 
 
 An idiot laugh proclaimed the rest. 
 
CANTO THIRD 
 
D E RANGE. 
 
 CANTO THIRD 
 
 1. 
 
 Of all the knots \\hicli nature ties, 
 The secret, sacred sympathies, 
 That, as with viewless chains of gold, 
 The heart a happy prisoner hold ; 
 None is more chaste, more bright, more pure, 
 Stronger stern trials to endure ; 
 None is more purged of earthly leaven, 
 More like the love of highest heaven, 
 Than that which binds, in bonds how blest, 
 .A daughter to a father's breast. 
 He robbed by death of half his life ; 
 
 That better half his bosom's wife : 
 Sees, as his widowed eye-lids rove, 
 
 In quest of well remembered bliss, 
 
50 DE KANCE. 
 
 In this fair creature of their love, 
 As though let loose from Paradise, 
 
 The sainted mother breathe again ; 
 
 Unwrinkled now by age or pain ; 
 
 Not as when last he drank her breath, 
 
 And watch' d the troubled brow of death, 
 
 But, clad in nature's earliest dress, 
 
 In all her virgin loveliness ; 
 
 As when, like vision from above, 
 
 She taught his youthful soul to love. 
 
 He sees — and all the man revives ; 
 
 Sees — and a second life he lives. 
 
 He loves to watch the daughter's tear 
 Fall as he speaks the mother's praise : 
 
 He loves to fill her hungry ear 
 With tender tales of other days. 
 
 Still more he loves — to feed her eye 
 
 With visions of futurity ; 
 
 To bid her bow before the Throne 
 
 Of the Eternal One ; 
 
 Content, nay glad, to linger here, 
 
 This solitary flower to rear. 
 
 2. 
 But, 0, if in some unblessed hour, 
 
DE RANGE. 51 
 
 The spoiler seeks that single flower ; 
 And — spite of all the hallowed fence 
 That guards the breast of innocence ; 
 Spite of the watch which angels keep, 
 Those air}'" guards — who never sleep ; 
 Spite of the naked svvord of vvTath 
 Suspended o'er his guilty path ; 
 Treads on its head of maiden white, 
 Quenches its beam in shades of night. 
 What anguish rends that father's heart, 
 From his pale lip what curses part ; 
 Till taught by better creed to know, 
 That Heaven which gave, can heal the blow ; 
 O, what a sum of bliss destroyed, 
 0, what an aching boundless void 
 In that poor heart, so rich before, 
 Scarce heaven itself could yield it more. 
 He might have borne to see the flood 
 " Run purple " with her virgin blood ; 
 For then, as pure that crimson tide. 
 As the p^le limpid wave it dyed ; 
 He might have borne to see her fall 
 Pierced by the gaunt assassin's ball ; 
 For, through the v/ound, so basely given, 
 Her soul had winged its way to heaven. 
 
52 DE KANCE. 
 
 But, O, that bipod is doubly spilt 
 Whose crimson is the dye of guilt ; 
 And that sad heart ^Yithout relief 
 Where anger dries the tear of grief. 
 
 Such are the childless father's pangs ; 
 
 And such that sire's intense distress, 
 Who o'er the ruined Laura hangs, 
 
 Like the pale ghost of wretchedness. 
 O, it was then, when rack'd with pain 
 
 And death's dark visions round her roll, 
 When fever fired the sluggish brain, 
 
 And loosed the secrets of her soul ; 
 'Twas then, as touched by that dread dart, 
 
 Which all the hidden man unseals ; 
 She breaks an aged parent's heart. 
 
 And all her tale of guilt reveals. 
 
 4. 
 
 Now — give the march sepulchral way. 
 Yon aged mourner must not wait; 
 
 He must not me3t the light of day ; 
 He must not pass the castle gate* 
 
DE RANGE. 53 
 
 That trophied gate must ne'er expand, 
 
 Sa\e to th.e triumphs of his name ; 
 By day, the crowds' insulting hand 
 
 Would point to Laura's spot of shame. 
 No — down the secret spiral stair 
 
 They wind — and through the shadowy cave, 
 And in its gloomy womb preprire 
 
 A sunless, melancholy grave. 
 
 Slow rolls the melancholy dirge 
 
 To that dark vault confined ; 
 As you have heard the sullen surge 
 
 Strive with that laboring wind ; 
 But, to a father's struggling sigh. 
 Fit echo was the minstrelsy. 
 Dim burned the torch — its pale blue light, 
 
 Half stifled in the stagnant air, 
 Shed on the cheek with terror white, 
 
 The sicklier hue of cold despair ; 
 But dimmer than this torch the eye 
 Of that sad father's misery, 
 
 6. 
 
 Hark ! there are footsteps ircad 
 
 5* 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 Those cliilly caverns of tlie dead ; 
 Seemed not some low responsive moan 
 To ceho to that father's groan ? 
 And, from yon angle of the cave, 
 
 Some mantled form to take his flight ? 
 Those mourners hearts were stout and brave, 
 Yet throbbed those iron hearts with fright, 
 Darkness, I ween, has power to awe, 
 
 Whom nothing awes beside ; 
 For fancy mightier ills can draw 
 
 Than e'er are verified. 
 They paused, the startling sound to catch ; 
 "Tis gone again- — in vain they watch, 
 Silence resumes her lonely throne. 
 In that mifathomed world of stone. 
 Once more he bids the mourners " speed " 
 And let the m^arch of wo proceed. 
 
 Tliey reach the cave, whose rugged mouth 
 
 Inhaled the open air ; 
 They lodge this fallen flower of youth, 
 
 The coffin'd load they bear. 
 Vast was that unfrequented cave, 
 
DE KANCE. -)0 
 
 Of hundreds it miglit be tlie grave, 
 
 But, 0, of one lone girl, the doom, 
 
 To occupy the giant tomb ; 
 
 As if these stubborn rocks were rent 
 
 To be her frowning monument. 
 
 Deep was the sepulchre, as though 
 
 To bury all a father's wo ; 
 
 'Twas deep, as though from curious eye 
 
 To shroud a daughter's infamy. 
 
 And, now, around the chilly grave, 
 
 The hooded mourners press ; 
 " Friar, the lost child thou could'st not save 
 
 But, O, the Father bless. 
 Now let some high and hallowed verse, 
 Chase from his pallid lip the curse ; 
 O, now by solemn tonch assuage, 
 The mingling storm of grief and rage." 
 
 9. 
 
 The chant begins— that holy friar 
 
 Had watched o'er Laura's infant hour. 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 Had loved lier as another sire, 
 
 Had named her once " his ov/n sweet flower.' 
 How had it gladdened now his breast 
 Could he have called that lost one blest ; 
 Could he have seen the glittering star 
 
 Of hope, upon her grave arise ; 
 And pointed to the rising car 
 
 On which she mounted to the skies. 
 But, though he loved that flower of youth, 
 Still more he loved celestial truth ; 
 And dared he not his prophet's harp 
 From heaven's high purposes to warp, 
 And bid it say — that foul offence, 
 Unwashed by tear of penitence, 
 Unwashed by that atoning flood, 
 T-ie pure, the sacrificial blood 
 Of Him — the Holy One — who dies 
 The lost world's sinless sacrifice ; 
 Could e'er be razed, by priestly art. 
 By tears wrung from a father's heart, 
 By blood of victims vainly spilt, 
 From the dark register of guilt. 
 
 10. 
 He bent him o'er that youthful bier. 
 
DE RANGE. 5/ 
 
 He shed one old man's precious tear. 
 
 But, as the sacred hymn began 
 
 Uprose the venerable man. 
 
 It was, as tnough the mystic word 
 
 Touched in his breast some hidden chord, 
 
 And bowed his agonized soul, 
 
 With angel hand, to heaven's control. 
 
 Seemed then the prophet's kindling eye 
 
 At once to fill with Deity, 
 
 And seemed to set his earthly woes 
 
 As bright devotion's star arose. 
 
 See, where liP tends the funeral rite 
 
 By which the living mourn the dead ; 
 The requiem, now, his lips recite ; 
 
 He lays her on her icy bed. 
 And — '* dust to dust"'— you hear him cry, 
 And — " dust to dust " — the rocks reply. 
 
 11 
 
 Nor only ihey— some other sound 
 Awakes the caverned depth profound ; 
 Some echoing foot, whose hurried tread 
 III fits the mourner of the dead ; 
 
oS ■ i)E EANCE. 
 
 Some struggling voice ^Yllere terror drowns 
 
 Soft pity's sweeter, gentler tones ; 
 
 And, lo ! a man — whose haggard form 
 
 Shows like the spirit of the storm ; 
 
 And, like its dark and bellowing cloud 
 
 His accents burst upon the crowd ; 
 
 " Not, " dust to dust," but life to dust — 
 
 " Where Laura sleeps, De Kance must ! 
 
 *' These hands, the bridal couch have spread, 
 
 " Now wed the living to the dead." 
 
 "Wildly he spake, and wildly le-apt 
 
 Into the grave where Laura slept 
 
 The sleep of eath — that awful sleep 
 
 Alas — too motionless, and deep 
 
 At sight, or sound, or touch to wake, 
 
 Save when the last loud thunders shake 
 
 The heavens, and elemental war 
 
 Summons the dead to God's high bar. 
 
 12 
 
 Could she have waked — her startled form 
 
 Had fled the touch of vice ; 
 For, haply now, she felt the worm 
 
 That neither sleeps nor dies. 
 
DE EANCE. 59 
 
 She waked not — and De Ranee lay- 
 As still as though himself were clay ; 
 Stunned by the fall, it seemed as though 
 Both perished by a single blov/. 
 
 ! o'er the aged Chaumont's soul, 
 "What stormy visions dimly roll. 
 Grief, wjath, and fierce revenge in turns, 
 In that distempered bosom burn ; 
 As when within the mountain's side, 
 Impatient heaves the fiery tide. 
 Swift, from the now reluctant sheath, 
 
 His thirsty falchion flew ; 
 His dull eye shot the fire of death, 
 
 And glowed his cheek with crimson hue ; 
 He stood above this vital grave 
 As though, not that itself should save 
 The spoiler from his arm — as though 
 Resolved that blood should flow 
 To expiate the rank ofl*ence 
 Of violated innocence. 
 
 14. 
 
 But as the torches, quiveiing light, 
 Flashed on the livid form below ; 
 
GO DE RANGE. 
 
 then — that heart-appalling sight 
 Turned back the meditated blow, 
 Palsied, as if by wizard charm, 
 Fell idly down his hostile arm ; 
 For, on De Ranee's lifeless face, 
 Such lines of ruin could he trace ; 
 Of future wo, such dark presage, 
 Such prematurity of age ; 
 Such lengthened wo, for crimes so brief — 
 Such awful emphasis of grief ; 
 At once he felt to let him wake 
 Was measureless revenge to take ; 
 That all the monstrous energy 
 Of hate itself could not supply, 
 A weapon of such deadly force 
 As the barbed arrow of remorse. 
 To HATE — but mortal arms are given , 
 Remorse unsheaths the arm of heaven. 
 *' Then let him live " — he fiercely cries, 
 *' The wretch, thus living, doubly dies." 
 
 15 
 
 He spake — and, now, his wrinkled hand* 
 O'er his wan face his mantle roll ; 
 
OE RANGE. 61 
 
 One moment o'er the grave he stands 
 
 In dumb dejectedness of soul. 
 Then flies — as if to leave behind 
 The anguish of his mind ; 
 In vain — alas — poor, childless man, 
 Thy grief, thy feeble steps outran ; 
 Seek, wanderer — seek some happier road, 
 Flee from revenge and hate — to God. 
 
 16. 
 
 Of all that sad and sable train. 
 None in the vault of death remain ; 
 They vanished— as the clouds of night, 
 Melt in the morning's bursting light; 
 All went save one— that holy friar, 
 In whom, extinct all other fire, 
 That flame which lights an angel's eye, 
 Burned brightly — blessed charity. 
 He was a man whose wrinkled cheek, 
 Might sorrow's furrowing hand bespeak, 
 Yet, in those furrows, seemed to spring 
 
 Harvests of golden die ; 
 Peace, like the lark on morning wing, 
 
 Seeking her native sky. 
 
62 DE RANGE. 
 
 17. 
 
 Skilled was the reverend marx to impart 
 
 P'it medicines to a broken heart. 
 
 On the hoar mountain's rocky breast, 
 
 Where the lone eagle builds her nest, 
 
 Hung his small cell — 'twas poised so high. 
 
 To hold deep commerce with the sky ; 
 
 To 'scape the din, the toil, the strife, 
 
 That cloud the troubled vale of life ; 
 
 But, not to shun the aching eye, 
 
 Or wrinkled hand of misery. 
 
 Throned in that lone and airy cell, 
 
 He seemed the wide world's sentinel. 
 
 Pilgrim's would climb the mountain's side 
 
 As though to reach some healing tide. 
 
 They came, ihey saw, they smiled — their care 
 
 Had mounted on his winged prayer. 
 
 Still seemed he to that sorrowing crowd 
 
 An angel stooping from his cloud. 
 
 To medicate, with sweet control, 
 
 The troubled waters of the soul. 
 
 The wretched loved him — so did heaven ; 
 
 Though much, I ween, of priestly leaven 
 
DE RANGE. 63 
 
 Debased his creed- — cradled in youth 
 Far from the lap of brightest truth. 
 Denied our common heritage, 
 That long and late imprisoned page, 
 Of which God broke the hallowed seals, 
 "Which highest heaven to earth reveals ; 
 Heaven loved him — and shall we 
 Quench the bright lamp of charity ? 
 
 18. 
 
 Such was the man whose melting eye 
 
 Surveyed the awful wreck below ; 
 No curses mingled with his sigh, 
 
 No vengeance rolled upon his brow. 
 If vice triumphant crossed his path, 
 
 It stirred the lion of his wrath ; 
 Show him that vice in grief or pain. 
 
 The lion laid him down again. 
 O, as he stood above the grave, 
 
 And saw the ruined man beneath ; 
 But yesterday, so bright, so brave. 
 
 Now, stifling in the bed of death ; 
 And saw that strong and sinewy form 
 Just sinking to the hungry worm ; 
 
6.4 JDE RANGE, 
 
 And saw a man which wore the stamp 
 
 And high impress of heaven. 
 Dying, like some sepulchral lamp^ 
 
 And dying— unforgiven ; 
 Then, all his fiery wrath and hate 
 
 Were buried in that grave ; 
 You heard him only supplicate 
 
 That fallen man to save ; 
 To draw him from the worm's ahode^ 
 To lead the sufferer up to God, 
 
 19. 
 
 Nov prayed alone the aged man ; 
 Finished his hands what prayer began. 
 Plunged in the grave he toils to bear 
 De Ranee to the purer air. 
 And, in that high and generous strain. 
 Seems all his youth to come again. 
 His vein with boyish vigor warms, 
 And, nerves, long palsied, string his arms. 
 Though now, in life's last, feeblest stage, 
 Zeal seemed to check the march of age ; 
 And lend the limb, the nerve, the eye> 
 Some touch of immortality. 
 
DE KANCE. 65 
 
 20. 
 
 O sight suVlime — to see the mind 
 Vainly, by bars of clay, confined. 
 Burst from its prison, and diffuse 
 O'er its dark dungeon living hues. 
 The half-extinguished man revive, 
 The body's very life outlive ; 
 Then, as the strings of life decay, 
 Spread its light wings and soar away, 
 'Midst visions of eternal day. 
 Thus have I seen the struggling star, 
 Rise from the East, on ebon car ; 
 Soon, o'er her sable seat she throws, 
 Her glittering robe of virgin snows. 
 Transforms, by touches soft and bright, 
 Her throne of clouds, to throne of light 
 Pursues the bright moon to the West, 
 And melts upon its silver breast. 
 
 21. 
 
 So, in that venerable friar. 
 
 Blazed out the mind's ethereal fire, 
 
 &* 
 
G6 DE RANGE. 
 
 Though stiffened 'with the frosts of age, 
 Wasted by weary pilgrimage, 
 He bore, with heart and arm unspent, 
 What many a tougher nerve had bent. 
 
 22. 
 
 Soon 'scap'd he then the cave of death, 
 And drank the fresh night's dewy breath. 
 And see him, now, with trembling hands, 
 
 The healing water bear ; 
 Over the torpid form he stands 
 
 To shed its virtue there. 
 And, as the cooling drop descends, 
 His unreluctant knee he bends, 
 And supplicates — this silver stream, 
 Touched by some sanctifying beam. 
 May change to a baptismal wave, 
 Body and soul, at once, to save. 
 
 23. 
 
 Just as he spoke — the infant day 
 Awaking from his cloudy bed. 
 
DE RANGE. 67 
 
 Secret, and soft, one purple ray 
 
 Upon that ashy visage shed. 
 •' He lives, he lives !" — the good man cries ; 
 
 Seemed it the gush of blood : 
 *' All righteous heaven " — he dies, he dies ; 
 
 " Ebb'd, has the crimson flood." 
 O'er that young orb, some fleeting cloud 
 Then swiftly spread its chilly shroud ; 
 De "Ranee's cheek had ceased to glow ; 
 The shade of death cross'd o'er his bro\Y. 
 
 24. 
 
 And yet, as rose the sun again. 
 
 Bright from this brief and cloudy strife ; 
 
 Seemed not the old man's toil in vain, 
 Seemed this the sign of coming life. 
 
 And sign it was — the powder that sent 
 
 That sun to gild the firmament, 
 
 Quickened, by mystic touch, the brain 
 
 And bade the spirit come again. 
 
 The icy bands of death gave way, 
 
 And the soul struggles into day. 
 
 25. 
 
 But here the muse must briefly stay 
 
68 DE RANGE. 
 
 The course of her adventurous lay. 
 She may not soar, in one bold flight, 
 To scenes of day, from dens of night ; 
 Or grasp in one undaunted strain 
 The heights of joy, and d3pths of pain. 
 He who compassionates her toil, 
 Or loves with her to pause awhile, 
 Shall haply see her pinion rise 
 'Midst happier scenes, and blighter skies ; 
 But let him not wdth cold disdain 
 Turn from the moralizing strain 
 Which, ere she sinks upon her nest, 
 She leaves him as her fond bequest. 
 
 26. 
 
 Go — stranger — seek the av/ful gloom 
 Of Laura's unfrequented tomb ! 
 What, though no soothing verse be thero 
 To chase the demons of despair ; 
 What, though no guardian spirit weeps 
 Around the grave where Laura sleeps ; 
 What, though no plant of health be found 
 On that unconsecrated ground ; 
 Still, in the dark unlettered stones 
 
DE KANCE. 69 
 
 Reared over her unhallowed bones, 
 And, in the weeds which slowly wave 
 On her uncanonized grave, 
 And, in the fitful blast which falls 
 Upon those shapeless, sunless -walls, 
 There is a voice, so deep, so dread, 
 So like the accents of the dead, 
 It strikes the culprit's iron ear 
 And fills him wdth unearthly fear. 
 He sees a more than mortal light 
 Break o'er these regions of the night ; 
 He clasps his hands — he bends his knee ; 
 '' Vice, Vice," he cries — " is Misery !'* 
 
 And — so IT IS — treasure that truth 
 Deep in the suowy breast of youth ; 
 Hence the dead Laura's hapless lot ; 
 The living Laura knew it not. 
 
CANTO FOURTH 
 
D E RANGE 
 
 CANTO FOURTH 
 
 1. 
 
 The roar of brazen-throated war, 
 
 The smoking steel, the purple car ; 
 
 The weeping valley, once so fair. 
 
 Now ploughed by ruin's deadly share ; 
 
 The once unspotted virgin flood 
 
 Now rolling in its bed of blood; 
 
 The mountain bleached by many a bone, 
 
 These works, vile man, are all thine own. 
 
 The shepherd's pipe amid the rocks. 
 
 The mountain blanched with thousand flocks, 
 
 The warbling language of the grove, 
 
 The mellow harmony of love. 
 
 The simple spire that climbs the sky, 
 
Ti DE RANGE. 
 
 vSo cheering to the good man's eye ; 
 The laughing vale uncursed with strife, 
 The teaming landscape full of life, 
 The happy father's green ahode ; 
 These, these are all the works of God ; 
 Man sheds destruction o'er the plain ; 
 God bids the landscape live again. 
 
 O, then, if e'er our ark of clay, 
 
 Is tinged and warmed by heavenly ray 
 
 If e'er to prostrate man is given 
 
 The mind and high impress of heaven, 
 
 'Tis when, on his uplifted eye 
 
 God sheds the beam of charity ; 
 
 'Tis when, in Misery's cold recess, 
 
 He seeks the bed of wretchedness ; 
 
 Or — nobler — roves from pole to pole 
 
 To save a life — or win a soul ; 
 
 And, if there's aught of human bliss 
 
 Kindred to that of Paradise, 
 
 'Tis that which fills his bursting heart 
 
 Whose holy, happy bands impart 
 
 Life to the lifeless — and detain 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 A spirit from the world of pain ; 
 His bliss they nevei^ never feel, 
 Who fiercely whet the thirsty steel, 
 And draw, as though with vulture's beak, 
 Blood from the guiltless and the weak ; 
 Who, on their laureled trophy see 
 The cold, dark drop of misery ; 
 And who, with orphan tears cement 
 Their perishable monument. 
 
 But, O, if such the joy which sweeps 
 
 Over the bosom of the good. 
 Why stands that aged friar and weeps ? 
 
 His are the tears of gratitude ; 
 Tears, whose dumb eloquence express 
 That choked heart's thankfulness. 
 None — none— may proudly hope to paint 
 The transport of that aged saint, 
 As on De Ranee's faded cheek 
 He saw health's ruddy morning break. 
 
 4. 
 
 O mark him, now, upon the bed 
 Of his own bosom prop his head ; 
 
TS BE RANCU. 
 
 And now, lie calls the well-known bind. 
 Whose steps along the valley wind. 
 Promptly to lend his sinewy arm, 
 De Ranee's chilly brow to warm,. 
 And bear that lost one to the spot. 
 Where stands the peasant's lonely cot ; 
 Where 'midst Vvild nature's mountain scene^ 
 And pillowed on her lap of green ; 
 'Midst million sweets that spring to birth^ 
 From the full breast of mother earth ; 
 Deems he that fallen man may find 
 Health of the body and the mind ; 
 For, in that cot, as well he knows, 
 Devotion's modest plant arose ; 
 Whose living leaf of sacred balm 
 
 Could peace and joy bestow, 
 The ruffled soul could sweetly calm 
 
 And make a heaven below. 
 
 5. 
 
 They bear him there — the humble bed 
 AVith hands assiduous spread ; 
 By potent drug the nerves compose ; 
 Bless him, and leave him to repose. 
 
SE RA.NCE. 
 
 TAey leave him — "but God left him not ; 
 •O — on the peasant's lowly cot 
 Was bent the eye that never sleeps. 
 Which, as it swiftly circling, sweeps 
 O'er the dark world — ^beheld and shed 
 One drop of mercy on his head. 
 
 Long was his sleep — for long had rest 
 Fled from De Ranee's stormy breast ; 
 And seemed, e'en now the starting limb 
 
 Too conscious of his foul offence ; 
 Peace loves her little lamp to trim 
 
 Around the couch of innocence ; 
 O — over that distempered brain, 
 •Crossed many a sad and ghastly train 
 •Of woes, and crimes of darkest die. 
 The busy fancy's progeny- 
 Radiant with more than living bloom. 
 Now the dead Laura seems to come ; 
 He strains her willing hand to clasp : 
 His baffled hands a spectre grasp. 
 Or, lulled by soothing visions, now 
 He listens to her tender vow ; 
 
 77 
 
 7* 
 
TS DE KANCE. 
 
 Strives with fond ear to catch the sound. 
 
 Terrific curses roll around ; 
 
 Or, now, beneath that bannered tower 
 
 He plants and rears love's pamted bower ; 
 
 And many a dewy flow'ret there 
 
 He trains to please that giddy fair ; 
 
 At once, the scented fabric shakes ; 
 
 Those twining flowers are coiling snakes ; 
 
 His joys illusory expire, 
 
 He tosses on a sea of fire ; 
 
 I.aura — her hand with vengeance warm, 
 
 Stands like the demon of the storm. 
 
 7. 
 
 Who would not wake from sleep like this, 
 And count all waking misery bliss r 
 How dread to feed the torpid brain, 
 To dreams like this fall back again, 
 And conjure from the world below 
 Visions of more than mortal wo. 
 Thus slept De Ranee, till at length. 
 Exhausted even fancy's strength, 
 He found a refuge from distress 
 In deep and dumb forgetfulness ; 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 Nor woke — till sunk the sun to rest 
 On that soft bosom of the west. 
 
 8. 
 
 De Ranee woke — but where is he ? 
 
 '• Whose this abode of penury ; 
 
 " Where is the Friar — .and Chaumont, where, 
 
 *' And where the tomb of dark despair ; 
 
 " And whose the sweet and simple lay, 
 
 " That seems my soul to ease. 
 *' Seems that untutored strain to say 
 
 " There is a way to peace r" 
 He lists to hear the artless song, 
 Which swelled the rustic chords among; 
 So simple was the note he heard, 
 It might have been some mountain bird. 
 
 A wanderer on the world of waves, 
 In vain, the little swallow craves 
 
 Some clime of spring ; 
 How sad she eyes the watery waste. 
 Till, lighting on some friendly mast, 
 
 She rests her aching wing. 
 
80 DE RANGE. 
 
 n. 
 
 "" Thus have I wandered far and long 
 
 ^' The barren world's wide wastes among^ 
 
 " In search of peace ; 
 *' I found it not — till from afar, 
 " Arose the holy eastern star, 
 
 " And bade my sorrows cease. 
 
 IlL 
 
 *' Now near the altar of my God, 
 ^' I choose my safe and blest abode, 
 
 " From morn till even ; 
 '■'^ 0, still, upon its hallowed breast, 
 " My heart shall build her lowly nest, 
 
 " And find &.\\ earthly heaven/' 
 
 9. 
 
 ^' And can it be ?" De Ranee cries, 
 
 " That peace, which from the mighty flies, 
 
 ^' Dwells in the cottage ? Can it be 
 
 '' That God must banish misery ? 
 
 *' But hark — for now some gentler strain 
 
 '■^ Awakes the artless lyre again." 
 
DE KANCE. &i 
 
 A lighter finger crossed tlie string, 
 A sweeter voice began to sing ; 
 Again he hushed the heart's deep sigh 
 To catch the rustic melody, 
 
 I, 
 
 '' Dear is the hallowed morn to me, 
 " When village bells awake the day ; 
 
 " And, by their sacred minstrelsy, 
 " Call me from earthly cares away. 
 
 n. 
 
 " And dear to me the winged hour, 
 
 " Spent in thy hallowed courts, O Lord ; 
 
 " To feel devotion's soothing power, 
 " And catch the manna of thy word. 
 
 II J. 
 
 " And, dear to me the loud ' Amen,' 
 " Which echoes through the blest abode, 
 
 " Which swells, and sinks, and swells again, 
 " Dies on the v^tJIs, but lives to God» 
 
 lY. 
 
 " And, dear the simple melody, 
 
 " Sung with the pomp of rustic art ; 
 
S^ DE RANGE* 
 
 *' That lioly, teavenly harmonj', 
 *' The music of a thankful hearl. 
 
 V. 
 
 " In secret I have often prayed^ 
 
 " And still the anxious tear would fall | 
 
 " But on thy sacred altar laid, 
 
 " The fire descends and dries them all. 
 
 vi. 
 
 " Oft when the world, with iron bands, 
 " Has bound me in its six-days chain, 
 
 " This bursts them, like the strong man's hands, 
 " And lets my spirit loose again. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ' Then, dear to me the Sabbath morn, 
 " The village bells the shepherd's voice ; 
 
 " These oft have found my heart forlorn, 
 " And always bid that heart rejoice, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre, 
 
 '• Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms ; 
 " Ours are the prophet's car of fire, 
 *^ Which bears us to a Father's arms," 
 
DE RANGE. 83 
 
 10. 
 
 De Ranee listened — and each word 
 
 Touclied in his heart some echoing chord ; 
 
 So sweet upon his ear it broke, 
 
 It was as though an aagel spoke. 
 
 And even ere she ceased to sing. 
 
 His long-imprisoned soul took wing, 
 
 And soared to that high throne, whence she 
 
 Had learned this hallowed harmony ; 
 
 And sought, amidst the heavenly choir, 
 
 A spark of that seraphic fire, 
 
 Which might dark memory's dreams destroy, 
 
 And tune his soul to songs of joy. 
 
 11. 
 
 Nor ceased he till that rustic sire, 
 
 No longer musical the strain, 
 Yet pregnant with celestial fire, 
 
 Began to speak again. 
 For. he was wont — his labors done, 
 As softly set the summer's sun, 
 
84 DE RANGE. 
 
 And from the chambers of the west 
 Called an exhausted world to rest ; 
 To watch the haF-extinguished ray, 
 And cheek the giddy foot of play, 
 And busier housewife's homely task, 
 And summoned all to bend and ask, 
 Whilst lingered yet the ray of even, 
 Pardon and peace from heaven. 
 And he would pray, that when the night 
 
 Of death should quench in clouds his sun, 
 Just such a beam, so mildly bright, 
 
 Might gild the course which he had run. 
 
 12. 
 
 'Twas now the hour — and through the door, 
 Part opened, might De Ranee see ; 
 
 How falsely those are deemed the poor, 
 Whose breasts are rich in piety ; 
 
 No brighter gem, I ween, is set, 
 
 In royal blazing coronet. 
 
 O, how his pulse beat quick and high ; 
 
 How rushed the tear-drop to his eye. 
 
 As, one by one, the little clan 
 
 Came trooping round the plain good man ; 
 
DE RANGE. 85 
 
 And won a smile, or stole a kiss, 
 The roses of their paradise. 
 Seemed it to him — that holy love, 
 Exiled from courts — like some lone dove 
 Which ruffian violence expels, 
 Fled here — and to the village bells 
 Sat listening, while she plumed her wing ; 
 Then 'gan responsive notes to sing, 
 Till every rock and waving wood, 
 Hang with the hymn of gratitude. 
 
 13, 
 
 The greeting o'er, that happy sire 
 Trims cheerly up his little fire ; 
 And strives to light in every eye. 
 The ray of reverend gayety ; 
 For well he knew^ — the ear of youth 
 Is trebly barred against the truth 
 That comes disfigured in the dress 
 Of cold and scowling wretchedness ; 
 That, who the infant soul would move 
 Must make it feel — that "God is love." 
 
 14. 
 
 Then, when his watchful eve could trace 
 
 8 
 
86 DE KANCE. 
 
 Joy throned upon eacli ruddy face ; 
 
 Do Ranee sees him raise his hand, 
 
 To that high shelf where marshalled stand 
 
 A few lean volumes, all his store. 
 
 Small prize to him — of worldly lore. 
 
 High o'er the rest — one volume stood, 
 
 It was the sacred book of God ; 
 
 That book which, to the astonished eye, 
 
 Unveils the present Deity ; 
 
 Which, from the tossing couch of pain, 
 
 Oft lifts us as with viewless chain, 
 
 And recreates the famished sense. 
 
 With highest heaven's magnificence. 
 
 O, as the rustic father took. 
 
 With sun-burnt hand, that poor man's book, 
 
 'Tsvas just as when the morning's breath, 
 
 Crosses the wan and withering wreath. 
 
 And sheds, as though with mystic power, 
 
 A sudden freshness o'er the flower ; 
 
 You saw the beam of gladness break 
 
 In sudden lustre o'er his cheek, 
 
 15. 
 Then, as the wary pilot tries 
 
 To land his bark on safest shores. 
 
DE RANGE. 87 
 
 This treasured wisdom of the skies, 
 
 The parent's anxious eye explores, 
 Some simple, touching page to find, 
 Such as might win the infant mind. 
 Nor sought he long, for though there lie 
 Plunged in the abyss of mystery, 
 (Like gems in deepest caverns found,) 
 Depth for the deepest too profound ; 
 Yet, float upon that sacred sea, 
 The flowers of sweet simplicity ; 
 Flowers, perfumed by breath of heaven, 
 To simplest minds profusely given. 
 
 16. 
 
 He sought not long — for soon his eye 
 
 Lights on the moving history, 
 
 Where he, the guilty world's High Lord, 
 
 By infant cherubim adored, 
 
 Bade " little children come " and rest 
 
 Their heads upon his hallowed breast. 
 
 Finished the tale— the holy man. 
 
 To school his little tribe began ; 
 
 At once — -arose that childish band, 
 
SS DE RANGE, 
 
 At once, tliey seized his horny hand', 
 And bade him guide them on the road 
 That leads — to happiness and God. 
 
 ! if there be whose scornful eyes 
 The poor man's simple joys despise \ 
 
 1 would they had been there to sea 
 AVhat arc the joys of poverty. 
 
 To count the precious tears which startj. 
 Warm from a poor man's thankful heart > 
 He wept to see the golden morn 
 Of piety, thus early dawn ; 
 He wept to see the breathing page 
 Thus sweetly touch their tender age y 
 Transform them as with Prophet's rod,. 
 And make his child — the child of Gcd. 
 Then — for in that more southern clime 
 They fondly love the tinkling rhyme^ 
 And each gay peasant, as he roves,. 
 Catches the music of the groves,. 
 The warbling language of the sky. 
 Sweet nature's- holy melody ; 
 Then might you see that happy sire 
 Resume his ne'er forgotten lyre : 
 And as he swept the simple strmgj. 
 Wake every infant lip to ssng 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 89 
 
 Stiains which might wound a critic's ear, 
 But which a God delights to hear. 
 
 17. 
 
 De Ranee heard the song — and such 
 
 The magic of the truth, 
 So do the notes of nature touch 
 
 Sung by a childish mouth, 
 He fondly thought, that as they sang. 
 Heaven's azure vault responsive rang ; 
 And, sailing by on angel wing, 
 A million spirits seemed to sing, 
 A million voices seemed to say, 
 -' Come, fellow-spirits, come away." 
 Fain would he, then, have burst his chain. 
 To soar amidst that infant train. 
 De Ranee — no — ere that shall be, 
 Oft must thou bend thine unbent knee ; 
 Oft, on that sin of scarlet dye., 
 Shed the hot tear of misery ; 
 iStoop from thine airy throne of pride. 
 And bow before " the crucified." 
 
91) 
 
 DE EANCE. 
 
 18, 
 
 But, — how labored every vein 
 
 In that poor prostrate man, 
 As thHS, to moralize again. 
 
 The rustic sire began : 
 "" My children — if your infant eyes 
 •• Would see the wretchedness of vice ; 
 '• Go, count the wrinkles of the head . 
 '• Now stretched upon our lowly bed ; 
 *' Go there, and mark that blasted tree 
 '• Cursed by the breath of Deity ; 
 " Go, read the lessons writ in blood, 
 '• That * none are happy but the good.' 
 " Then, sweet ones, shall our simple prayer 
 " Ask heaven to smooth his brow of care ; 
 '• To heal the branch so deeply riven, 
 " And lift its leafless head to heaven." 
 
 19. 
 
 They bow the knee — prefer the prayer ; 
 0, as it floated in mid air, 
 Above that agonized bed ; 
 
DE KANCE. ' 91 
 
 An angel, from his censor, shed 
 Sweet incense — on whose sainted wings 
 To Mercy's golden throne it springs ; 
 And brings a thousand blessings down, 
 On him who dared not hope for one. 
 
 20. 
 
 I must not linger, no^v, to paint 
 
 The raptures of that rustic saint, 
 
 When, echoing to his own, arise 
 
 De Ranee's accents to the skies. 
 
 When, from the ground, and prostrate there 
 
 He breathed the penitential prayer ; 
 
 When heaven a beam of mercy shed 
 
 Upon that lost one's aching head ; 
 
 Nor may the infant muse essay, 
 
 To trace, in metaphysic lay, 
 
 The mind's slow march from earth to heaven, 
 
 The acquittal of the unforgiven; 
 
 The gradual dawn — the burst of light, 
 
 Upon that soul of thickest night ; 
 
 The mental flowers which strangely blov\', 
 
 Like roses on a waste of snow. 
 
9Z OE RANGE. 
 
 21 
 
 He who has climbed the giddy height 
 
 Where Polar mountains rise, 
 Mantled in everlasting white, 
 
 Pillared on props of ice ; 
 And seen, from six months' chilly sleep, 
 
 The tardy sun arise ; 
 'Now, on the horizon dimly creep,] 
 
 Now, rush o'er all the skies ; 
 And seen the frozen thousands come, 
 To greet the wanderer home ; 
 And heard each cavern's deep recess. 
 Echo the shout of thankfulness ; 
 That favored man might not despair. 
 With magic colors borrowed there. 
 And other skill than mine — to trace 
 The lights which, slowdy stealing, chase 
 The mental shades—and o'er the soul 
 A golden tide of glories roll. 
 Still lest, the more ambitious muse 
 To touch this lowly theme refuse, 
 Ere sinks to rest my dying strain, 
 I sweep the timid string again. 
 
DE RANGE. 93 
 
 22, 
 
 Where, 'midst her gloomy waste of wood, 
 And girt by many a rushing flood, 
 Whose deep and melancholy moan 
 Seems but the never-ceasing groan 
 Of those who, fell'd by secret blow, 
 Sink in the hungry gulf below ; 
 La Trappe her mitred forehead rears, 
 Gray M'ith the storms of thousand years ; 
 There — rises, 'midst the unbroken gloom. 
 One low and solitary tomb ; 
 Which, if the hooded palmer see. 
 At once he bends his nerveless knee ; 
 Crosses, devout, his aged breast. 
 And seems to lay his cares to rest. 
 The wretched often wander there 
 To shed the tear of dark despair ; 
 They kneel — the tear has dried away. 
 Like mist- drops in the blush of day. 
 And often, when the midnight bell 
 Wakes the cold slumbers of his cell. 
 The watchful monk, with feet unshod, 
 Comes here, as though to meet his Ctod ; 
 
91 
 
 DE RANGE. 
 
 As though there dwelt, in that dark hour. 
 And darker grave, mysterious power. 
 To touch the hidden springs of vice, 
 And all its power to paralyze ; 
 To break corruption's awful spell, 
 And rout the rebel hosts of hell. 
 
 23. 
 
 Ask — lohy he comes ? — and he replies, 
 
 " O, 'tis a heaven below the skies; 
 
 " There is a spirit lingers here 
 
 " Which chases every scalding tear ; 
 
 *' Angels keep watch around the tomb, 
 
 '' And light from God dispels the gloom." 
 
 Ask " ivhose the canonized bones 
 
 " That sleep 'midst yonder unhewn stones 
 
 " De Ranee s — there imprisoned lies, 
 
 *' Whatever of a good man dies, 
 
 " The man himself has burst his prison, 
 
 "' And to his Masters bosom risen. 
 
 " Once bad and ivr etched — to his God, 
 
 " At length, the stiffened knee he bent; 
 
 " Some spirit waved a viewless rod 
 
 " Above the prostrate penitent. 
 
 "0, then, a sacred influence stole 
 
DE RANGE. 
 
 *^ Over his agonized soul, 
 
 *' And beamed upon his aching eye, 
 
 *' Those sister visions of the sky, 
 
 " The stars of peace and 2^i^iy' 
 
 " 'Twas just as when, ere time began, 
 
 *' Ere wakened uncreated man, 
 
 " Some breath o'er all the chaos blows ; 
 
 " At once the Lord of earth arose, 
 
 " And, as with front erect he trod, 
 
 " Seemed to be only less than God. 
 
 " So— rose De Ranee — from the dust 
 
 *' Of sordid, selfish, brutal lust ; 
 
 ** So bright the altered course he ran, 
 
 " Men deemed him something more than man, 
 
 " Oft would he climb yon hill at even, 
 
 " To catch a nearer glimpse of heaven ; 
 
 " With moralizing eye to trace 
 
 *' The lessens writ on nature's face ; 
 
 " To see, in rocks by lightning rent, 
 
 *' Wrath's melancholy monument ; 
 
 *' In the gay flower and spicy grove, 
 
 " The fairer evidence of love." 
 
 Then kindling with a Prophet's fire, 
 
 Seized he his prostituted lyre, 
 
 As, anxious, to expunge the stain, 
 
96 DE RANGE. 
 
 Of liis once wild and lawless strain ; 
 
 And first upon the listening sense, 
 
 Stole the sad notes of penitence ; 
 
 With trembling hand, and stifling breath. 
 
 He sang of guilt, and wo, and death. 
 
 Soon railed to heaven his dewy eye, 
 
 Subsides that touching melody ; 
 
 Seems, then, fair peace, with golden wing, 
 
 To light upon his sorrowing string. 
 
 At once, there bursts upon the ear 
 
 Such harmony as angels hear ; 
 
 And the glad rock, and hill, and flood. 
 
 Echo the notes of gratitude. 
 
 Thus lived and died the holy man, 
 
 And, stranger — who, Avith weary span, 
 
 Has reached these lonely towers — would'st thou 
 
 Some surer path to rapture know. 
 
 Than that his erring footsteps trod ? 
 
 Then — shun his crimes — but — serve his God, 
 
DE RAXCE. 
 
 24. 
 
 97 
 
 " What, then, the moralist may say ; 
 
 ** And does the superstitious lay 
 
 «' Direct the pilgrim to the lap 
 
 *' Of bigotry, and dark La Trappc 
 
 *' In search of bliss— to sunless towcra, 
 
 *' Where fast and penance waste the houra 
 
 *' Which man demands — to Moloch's throne, 
 
 *' To gloomy rites — to men of stone, 
 
 *' To the cold cell — and midnight grove, 
 
 «' Where 'tis forgot that ' God is Love ?' '* 
 
 25. 
 
 No, reasoner— no — perish the lay 
 That would the pilgrim load astray ; 
 To one, sole altar points this hand. 
 The altar of my native land. 
 
 Church of ray sires — my love to thee 
 
 Was nurtured with my infancy ; 
 
 And now maturer thoughts approve 
 
 The object of that infant love ; 
 
 Linked to my soul with hooks of steel 
 
9% D3 PvAXCE. 
 
 By all I say, and do, and feel ; 
 
 By records that refresh my eye 
 
 In the rich page of memory ; 
 
 By blessings at thine altar given, 
 
 By scenes which lift the soul to heaven, 
 
 By monuments which proudly rise. 
 
 The trophies of the good and wise ; 
 
 By graves, forever sad and dear, 
 
 Still reeking with my constant tear ; 
 
 Where those in honored slumber lie, 
 
 Whose deaths have taught me how to die ; 
 
 And shall I not, with all my powers, 
 
 Watch round my venerable towers ? 
 
 And can I bid the pilgrim flee 
 
 To holier mother than to thee ? 
 
 And can I bid him turn his feet, 
 
 From fields with flowers of mercy sweet, 
 
 To gloomy wastes, and chilly cells. 
 
 Where frowning superstition dwells ? 
 
 Still — such is truth's resistless art, 
 
 To heal a lost and broken heart ; 
 
 And such, though wrapped in deep disguise, 
 
 Its sleepless, countless, energies ; 
 
 That though De Ranee's erring eye, 
 
 Woo'd the dark pliade of piety. 
 
DE RANGE. 99 
 
 Heard but the thunders of its law, 
 Quenched more than half his love in awe ; 
 Sweet mercy marked that suppliant's knee, 
 Who bowed too low her smils to see ; 
 And heard his penitential prayer, 
 And made him happy — even theee. 
 
 ore. 
 
S>H 
 
 LBJu?9