It was after having witnessed a scene of the latter kind,
that she arranged the following stanzas:

THE MARINER

Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow’d the tide;
And blue the heaven in its mirror smil’d;
The white sail trembled, swell’d, expanded wide,
The busy sailors at the anchor toil’d. With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,
The deck was throng’d—how swift the moments fly! The vessel heaves, the farewell signs appear;
Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye! The last dread moment comes!—The sailor youth
Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,
Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,
“Farewell, my love—we shall—shall meet again!”

Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;
The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,
As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
His bride is seen no more—“Adieu!—adieu!”

The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o’er,
Dim steals her twilight down the crimson’d west,
He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more
The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest. He views its dark line on the distant sky,
And Fancy leads him to his little home,
He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,
He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come. Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,
In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;
He turns his aching eyes,—his spirit fails,
The chill tear falls;—sad to the deck he goes! The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl’d,
Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,
Fast o’er the waves the wretched bark is hurl’d,
“O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!”

Lightnings, that show the vast and foamy deep,
The rending thunders, as they onward roll,
The loud, loud winds, that o’er the billows sweep—
Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul! Ah! what avails the seamen’s toiling care! The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv’n;
The sounds of terror groan along the air,
Then sink afar;—the bark on rocks is driv’n! Fierce o’er the wreck the whelming waters pass’d,
The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main! Henry’s faint accents trembled in the blast—
“Farewell, my love!—we ne’er shall meet again!”

Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,
When summer-breezes linger on the wave,
A melancholy voice is heard to pour
Its lonely sweetness o’er poor Henry’s grave! And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard
Around the grove, where Ellen’s form is laid;
Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear’d,
For lovers’ spirits guard the holy shade! CHAPTER X

Oh! the joy
Of young ideas painted on the mind
In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads
On objects not yet known, when all is new,
And all is lovely! SACRED DRAMAS


We now return to Languedoc and to the mention of Count De Villefort,
the nobleman, who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis De Villeroi
situated near the monastery of St. Claire. It may be recollected, that
this château was uninhabited, when St. Aubert and his daughter were in
the neighbourhood, and that the former was much affected on discovering
himself to be so near Château-le-Blanc, a place, concerning which the
good old La Voisin afterwards dropped some hints, that had alarmed
Emily’s curiosity. It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which St. Aubert
died, that Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into possession
of the mansion and extensive domain called Château-le-Blanc, situated
in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. This
estate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his family, now
descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the Marquis De
Villeroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners and austere
character; circumstances, which, together with the duties of his
profession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any
degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De Villefort. For many
years, they had known little of each other, and the Count received the
first intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part of
France, together with the instruments, that gave him possession of the
domain Château-le-Blanc; but it was not till the following year, that
he determined to visit that estate, when he designed to pass the autumn
there. The scenes of Château-le-Blanc often came to his remembrance,
heightened by the touches, which a warm imagination gives to the
recollection of early pleasures; for, many years before, in the
life-time of the Marchioness, and at that age when the mind is
particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had once
visited this spot, and, though he had passed a long intervening period
amidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too
frequently corrode the heart, and vitiate the taste, the shades of
Languedoc and the grandeur of its distant scenery had never been
remembered by him with indifference. During many years, the château had been abandoned by the late Marquis,
and, being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife, had been
suffered to fall much into decay. To superintend the repairs, that
would be requisite to make it a comfortable residence, had been a
principal motive with the Count for passing the autumnal months in
Languedoc; and neither the remonstrances, nor the tears of the
Countess, for, on urgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful
enough to overcome his determination. She prepared, therefore, to obey
the command, which she could not conquer, and to resign the gay
assemblies of Paris,—where her beauty was generally unrivalled and won
the applause, to which her wit had but feeble claim—for the twilight
canopy of woods, the lonely grandeur of mountains and the solemnity of
gothic halls and of long, long galleries, which echoed only the
solitary step of a domestic, or the measured clink, that ascended from
the great clock—the ancient monitor of the hall below. From these
melancholy expectations she endeavoured to relieve her spirits by
recollecting all that she had ever heard, concerning the joyous vintage
of the plains of Languedoc; but there, alas! no airy forms would bound
to the gay melody of Parisian dances, and a view of the rustic
festivities of peasants could afford little pleasure to a heart, in
which even the feelings of ordinary benevolence had long since decayed
under the corruptions of luxury. The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage,
who, he designed, should accompany him to the south of France; Henri,
who was in his twentieth year, was in the French service; and Blanche,
who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto confined to the convent,
where she had been placed immediately on her father’s second marriage.