第7章 II(1)

THE PARLOUR.

Warm is the parlour atmosphere, Serene the lamp's soft light;The vivid embers, red and clear, Proclaim a frosty night.

Books, varied, 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, Behold that pleasant scene, And joy is on the mother's face, Pride in the father's mien.

As Gilbert sees his blooming wife, Beholds his children fair, No thought has he of transient strife, Or past, though piercing fear.

The voice of happy infancy Lisps sweetly in his ear, His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye, Sits, kindly smiling, near.

The fire glows on her silken dress, And shows its ample grace, And warmly tints each hazel tress, Curled soft around her face.

The beauty that in youth he wooed, Is beauty still, unfaded;The brow of ever placid mood No churlish grief has shaded.

Prosperity, in Gilbert's home, Abides the guest of years;There Want or Discord never come, And seldom Toil or Tears.

The carpets bear the peaceful print Of comfort's velvet 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 swell And smiles seem native to the eyes Of those sweet children, three;They have but looked on tranquil skies, And know not misery.

Alas! 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 glide;Her sullen 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 hearth, He sits in solitude, 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 prospect flies.

A tumult vague--a viewless strife His futile 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, Efface both light and quiet;No shape is in those shadows grim, No voice in that wild riot.

Sustain'd and strong, a wondrous blast Above and round him blows;A greenish gloom, dense overcast, Each moment denser 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 doom, Gulphed in the depths of ocean?

Streaking the air, the nameless vision, Fast-driven, deep-sounding, flows;Oh! whence its source, and what its mission?

How will its terrors close?