XV.

Judge both Fugitives with knowledge:

In those old romantic days
Mighty were the soul's commandments

To support, restrain, or raise.

Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle near,
But nothing from their inward selves had they to fear.

XVI.

Thought infirm ne'er came between them

Whether printing desert sands
With accordant steps, or gathering

Forest-fruit with social hands;

Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moonbeam Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal stream.

XVII.

On a friendly deck reposing

They at length for Venice steer;

There, when they had closed their voyage,

One, who daily on the pier

Watched for tidings from the East, beheld his Lord,
Fell down and clasped his knees for joy, not uttering word.

XVIII.

Mutual was the sudden transport;

Breathless questions followed fast,

Years contracting to a moment,

Each word greedier than the last;

"Hie thee to the Countess, friend return with speed, And of this Stranger speak by whom her lord was freed.

THE ARMENIAN LADY'S LOVE.

XIX.

Say that I, who might have languished,

Drooped and pined till life was spent,

Now before the gates of Stolberg

My Deliverer would present

*

For a crowning recompense, the precious grace

Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient place.

XX.

Make it known that my Companion

Is of royal eastern blood,
Thirsting after all perfection,

Innocent, and meek, and good,

Though with misbelievers bred; but that dark night
Will holy Church disperse by beams of gospel-light."

XXI.

Swiftly went that grey-haired Servant,
Soon returned a trusty Page

Charged with greetings, benedictions,
Thanks and praises, each a gage

For a sunny thought to cheer the Stranger's way,
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay.

227

XXII.

And how blest the Reunited,

While beneath their castle-walls,
Runs a deafening noise of welcome!--
Blest, though every tear that falls

A small town in Prussian-Saxony, the residence of the Counts of Stolberg-Stolberg.-ED.

Doth in its silence of past sorrow tell,

And makes1 a meeting seem most like a dear farewell.

XXIII.

Through a haze of human nature,
Glorified by heavenly light,

Looked the beautiful Deliverer

On that overpowering sight,

While across her virgin cheek pure blushes strayed,
For every tender sacrifice her heart had made.

XXIV.

On the ground the weeping Countess
Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's hand;
Act of soul-devoted homage,

Pledge of an eternal band:

Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie,
Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify.

XXV.

Constant to the fair Armenian,

Gentle pleasures round her moved,

Like a tutelary spirit

Reverenced, like a sister, loved.

Christian meekness smoothed for all the path of life,

Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, their only strife.

Fancy (while, to banners floating
High on Stolberg's Castle walls,
Deafening noise of welcome mounted,
Trumpets, Drums, and Atabals,)

The devout embraces still, while such tears fell

As made

1835.

THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE.

229

XXVI.

Mute memento of that union

In a Saxon church survives,

Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculptured

As between two wedded Wives

Figures with armorial signs of race and birth,

And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while yet on earth.

[Early in life this story had interested me, and I often thought it would make a pleasing subject for an opera or musical drama.]

PART I.

ENOUGH of rose-bud lips, and eyes
Like harebells bathed in dew,
Of cheek that with carnation vies
And veins of violet hue;†

* Peter Henry Bruce, having given in his entertaining Memoirs the substance of this Tale affirms that, besides the concurring reports of others, he had the story from the lady's own mouth.

The Lady Catherine, mentioned towards the close, is the famous Catherine, then bearing that name as the acknowledged Wife of Peter the Great.-W. W., 1835.

The title of this poem in the MS. copy by Mrs Wordsworth is—

IN A,
OR,

THE LODGE IN THE FOREST,

A Russian Tale.

+ Compare S. T. Coleridge's verses, To a Lady

""Tis not the lily brow I prize,
Nor roseate cheeks, nor sunny eyes,
Enough of lilies, and of roses;

-ED.

A thousand-fold more dear to me,
The look that gentle Love discloses,-
That look which love alone can see.'

Also Keats' lines beginning

"Woman! when I beheld thee flippant, vain."

--ED.

1

1835.

Earth wants not beauty that may scorn

A likening to frail flowers;

Yea, to the stars, if they were born1
For seasons and for hours.

Through Moscow's gates, with gold unbarred,2
Stepped One at dead of night,

Whom such high beauty could not guard

From meditated blight;

By stealth she passed, and fled as fast

As doth the hunted fawn,

Nor stopped, till in the dappling east
Appeared unwelcome dawn.

Seven days she lurked in brake and field,
Seven nights her course renewed,
Sustained by what her scrip might yield,
Or berries of the wood;

At length, in darkness travelling on,
When lowly doors were shut,
The haven of her hope she won,
Her Foster-mother's hut.

"To put your love to dangerous proof
I come," said she, "from far;
For I have left my Father's roof,
In terror of the Czar."

No answer did the Matron give,
No second look she cast,
But hung upon the Fugitive,3
Embracing and embraced.

Yea, to the stars themselves, if born

by gold unbarred,

3 1837.

She hung upon

MS. copy by Mrs Wordsworth.

1835