Ethel Churchill/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V.
A POET'S MIDNIGHT.
Is not the lark companion of the spring?
And should not Hope—that sky-lark of the heart—
Bear, with her sunny song, youth company?
Still is its sweetest music poured for love:
And that is not for me: yet will I love,
And hope, though only for her praise and tears;
And they will make the laurel's cold bright leaves
Sweet as the tender myrtle.
Henrietta's was not the only step that crossed the churchyard on that night—it was, also, Walter Maynard's nearest way home. But he paused, and stood gazing around. It was a night solemn and lovely as ever seemed fitting atmosphere for the city of the dead. There was not a cloud upon the face of the sky; the vapours and the cares of day had dispersed in the pure clear atmosphere. The dews were rising, and the long grass seemed like a sheet of bright and waveless water in the moonlight. The panes of the Gothic window in the church glittered like a succession of small shining mirrors; and the vane on the spire was like a light placed there. The scattered tombstones lay white around; and nothing on that side the building told of the depth of shadow which was behind. The birds had long since been asleep; and not a breath of wind stirred the drooping leaves. There was an uncertain beauty in the distance, which gave an additional charm to the scene; the light, silvery and tremulous, was more indistinct than that of day. Familiar objects took new shapes, and every outline was softened down with a varying and undulating grace.
But Walter Maynard's eyes were fixed upon one spot. A light was in the window of a turret just caught among the old oaks that surrounded Mrs. Churchill's house. Once or twice a shadow flitted past, and the light was obscured. In the silence you might have heard the youthful watcher's heart beating. It was Ethel Churchill's window. At length the light was extinguished, and Walter turned slowly away.
"It is all dark now," said he, "and the better suited to me. Why should I even wish for her love? What have I to offer? only my hopes; and what are they?" As he spake, his eyes rested on the graves below. "Yes," muttered the youth, "they are sufficient answer; they are indeed the end of all human hope."
Mechanically he turned from one to another. Some were recently banded down with osiers, and the grass was varied with primrose roots; on some the foxglove grew luxuriantly, while others had a tombstone, carved with a name and a brief epitaph.
"Ay," said Walter, "this rude verse long outlasts those for whom it is written. The writer, the reader, the sorrow which it embalmed, have long past away,—not so the verse itself. Poetry is the immortality of earth: where shall we look for our noblest thoughts, and our tenderest feelings, but in its eternal pages? The spirit within me asserts its divine right. I know how different I am from those who surround me. Can the gifts of which I am conscious be given to me in vain? It were a mockery of the mind's supremacy, did I not believe in my own future?
He turned again in the direction of the turret-window, and the large, round moon shone above the old trees. It seemed as if she looked down tenderly and lovingly on that dearest spot.
"Ah, sweetest and loveliest!" exclaimed the watcher, "would to heaven those days were not past when the troubadour took his sword and lute, and taught far courts the light of his lady's eyes, and the music of her name! But the sympathy to which he appealed yet remains. There are still human hearts to be stirred by the haunted line, and the gifted word. My page may be read by those who will feel its deep and true meaning, because, like myself, they have loved and suffered. Farewell, sweetest Ethel! we, perhaps, shall meet no more, but you will hear of me; and the remembered beauty of that face will be my angel of inspiration—the one sweet muse lighting up my lonely heart."
Hastily he left the churchyard, his pace rapid as his thoughts, which framed, as he went along, his future plans; and to visit London as soon as possible was his last resolve. He soon reached the dilapidated house which called him master; but the ivy, silvered by the moonlight, hid the desolation which was so apparent by day.
His family had left his father a ruined fortune, which a life of adventures did not tend to improve. Mr. Maynard returned home with an orphan boy; and a wound in his side, received while defending his superior officer, led to his premature death. With many to advise, but none to govern, the orphan boy led a desultory life, often wasting his time, but still collecting material for the future productions of a creative and poetical mind.
In one of the most original and thoughtful works of our day, it is said,—
"It is a fatal gift; for, when possessed in its highest quality and strength, what has it ever done for its votaries? What were all those great poets of whom we talk so much? what were they in their lifetime? The most miserable of their species: depressed, doubtful, obscure; or involved in petty quarrels, and petty persecutions; often unappreciated, utterly uninfluential, beggars, flatterers of men, unworthy of their recognition. What a train of disgustful incidents, what a record of degrading circumstances, is the life of a great poet!"*[1]
This is too true a picture; still, what does it prove, but that this earth is no home for the more spiritual part of our nature—that those destined to awaken our highest aspirations, and our tenderest sympathies, are victims rather than votaries of the divine light within them? They gather from sorrow its sweetest emotions; they repeat of hope but its noblest visions; they look on nature with an earnest love, which wins the power of making her hidden beauty visible; and they reproduce the passionate, the true, and the beautiful. Alas! they themselves are not what they paint; the low want subdues the lofty will; the small and present vanity interferes with the far and glorious aim: but still it is something to have looked beyond the common sphere where they were fated to struggle. They paid in themselves the bitter penalty of not realising their own ideal; but mankind have to be thankful for the generous legacy of thought and harmony bequeathed by those who were among earth's proscribed and miserable. Fame is bought by happiness.
- ↑ * Contarini Fleming.