II. THE PARLOUR. Warm is the parlour atmosphere,
Serene1 the lamp's soft light； The vivid embers, red and clear, Proclaim a frosty night. Books,
varied2, on the table lie, Three children o'er them bend, And all, with curious, eager eye, The turning leaf attend.
Picture and tale alternately Their simple hearts delight, And interest deep, and tempered glee, Illume their aspects bright. The parents, from their fireside place, Behold3 that pleasant scene, And joy is on the mother's face, Pride in the father's mien4.
As Gilbert sees his blooming wife, Beholds5 his children fair, No thought has he of transient strife6, Or past, though piercing fear. The voice of happy infancy7 Lisps sweetly in his ear, His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye, Sits, kindly8 smiling, near.
The fire glows on her silken dress, And shows its ample grace, And warmly tints9 each hazel tress, Curled soft around her face. The beauty that in youth he wooed, Is beauty still, unfaded； The brow of ever placid10 mood No churlish grief has shaded.
Prosperity, in Gilbert's home, Abides11 the guest of years； There Want or Discord12 never come, And seldom Toil13 or Tears. The carpets bear the peaceful print Of comfort's velvet14 tread, And golden gleams, from plenty sent, In every nook are shed.
The very silken spaniel seems Of quiet ease to tell, As near its mistress' feet it dreams, Sunk in a cushion's swell15 And smiles seem native to the eyes Of those sweet children, three； They have but looked on tranquil16 skies, And know not misery17.
Alas18！ that Misery should come In such an hour as this； Why could she not so calm a home A little longer miss？ But she is now within the door, Her steps advancing glide19； Her sullen20 shade has crossed the floor, She stands at Gilbert's side.
She lays her hand upon his heart, It bounds with agony； His fireside chair shakes with the start That shook the garden tree. His wife towards the children looks, She does not mark his mien； The children, bending o'er their books, His terror have not seen.
In his own home, by his own hearth21, He sits in solitude22, And circled round with light and mirth, Cold horror chills his blood. His mind would hold with desperate clutch The scene that round him lies； No——changed, as by some wizard's touch, The present prospect23 flies.
A tumult24 vague——a viewless strife His futile25 struggles crush； 'Twixt him and his an unknown life And unknown feelings rush. He sees——but scarce can language paint The tissue fancy weaves； For words oft give but echo faint Of thoughts the mind conceives. Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim, Efface26 both light and quiet； No shape is in those shadows grim, No voice in that wild riot. Sustain'd and strong, a wondrous27 blast Above and round him blows； A greenish gloom, dense28 overcast29, Each moment denser30 grows.
He nothing knows——nor clearly sees, Resistance checks his breath, The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze Blows on him cold as death. And still the undulating gloom Mocks sight with formless motion： Was such sensation Jonah's doom31, Gulphed in the depths of ocean？
Streaking32 the air, the nameless vision, Fast-driven, deep-sounding, flows； Oh！ whence its source, and what its mission？ How will its terrors close？ Long-sweeping, rushing, vast and void, The universe it swallows； And still the dark, devouring33 tide A typhoon tempest follows.
More slow it rolls； its furious race Sinks to its solemn gliding34； The stunning35 roar, the wind's wild chase, To stillness are subsiding36. And, slowly borne along, a form The shapeless chaos37 varies； Poised38 in the eddy39 to the storm, Before the eye it tarries.
A woman drowned——sunk in the deep, On a long wave reclining； The circling waters' crystal sweep, Like glass, her shape enshrining. Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned, Seems as in sleep reposing40； A feeble light, now first discerned, The features well disclosing.
No effort from the haunted air The ghastly scene could banish41, That hovering42 wave, arrested there, Rolled——throbbed——but did not vanish. If Gilbert upward turned his gaze, He saw the ocean-shadow； If he looked down, the endless seas Lay green as summer meadow.
And straight before, the pale corpse43 lay, Upborne by air or billow, So near, he could have touched the spray That churned around its pillow. The hollow anguish44 of the face Had moved a fiend to sorrow； Not death's fixed45 calm could rase the trace Of suffering's deep-worn furrow46.
All moved； a strong returning blast, The mass of waters raising, Bore wave and passive carcase past, While Gilbert yet was gazing. Deep in her isle-conceiving womb, It seemed the ocean thundered, And soon, by realms of rushing gloom, Were seer and phantom47 sundered48.
Then swept some timbers from a wreck49. On following surges riding； Then sea-weed, in the turbid50 rack Uptorn, went slowly gliding. The horrid51 shade, by slow degrees, A beam of light defeated, And then the roar of raving52 seas, Fast, far, and faint, retreated.
And all was gone——gone like a mist, Corse, billows, tempest, wreck； Three children close to Gilbert prest And clung around his neck. Good night！ good night！ the prattlers said, And kissed their father's cheek； 'Twas now the hour their quiet bed And placid rest to seek.
The mother with her offspring goes To hear their evening prayer； She nought53 of Gilbert's vision knows, And nought of his despair. Yet, pitying God, abridge54 the time Of anguish, now his fate！ Though, haply, great has been his crime： Thy mercy, too, is great.
Gilbert, at length, uplifts his head, Bent55 for some moments low, And there is neither grief nor dread56 Upon his subtle brow. For well can he his feelings task, And well his looks command； His features well his heart can mask, With smiles and smoothness bland57.
Gilbert has reasoned with his mind—— He says 'twas all a dream； He strives his inward sight to blind Against truth's inward beam. He pitied not that shadowy thing, When it was flesh and blood； Nor now can pity's balmy spring Refresh his arid58 mood.
"And if that dream has spoken truth," Thus musingly59 he says； "If Elinor be dead, in sooth, Such chance the shock repays： A net was woven round my feet, I scarce could further go； Ere shame had forced a fast retreat, Dishonour60 brought me low.
"Conceal61 her, then, deep, silent sea, Give her a secret grave！ She sleeps in peace, and I am free, No longer terror's slave： And homage62 still, from all the world, Shall greet my spotless name, Since surges break and waves are curled Above its threatened shame."
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