With earnest pains unchecked by dread
Of Power's far-stretching hand,
The bold good Man his labour sped
At nature's pure command;
Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren,
While, in a hollow nook,
She moulds her sight-eluding den
Above a murmuring brook.

His task accomplished to his mind,
The twain ere break of day
Creep forth, and through the forest wind

Their solitary way;

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Few words they speak, nor dare to slack
Their pace from mile to mile,
Till they have crossed the quaking marsh,

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And reached the lonely Isle.

The sun above the pine-trees showed

A bright and cheerful face; And Ina looked for her abode,

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The promised hiding-place;
She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled;
No threshold could be seen,
Nor roof, nor window;-all seemed wild

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As it had ever been.

Advancing, you might guess an hour,
The front with such nice care
Is masked, "if house it be or bower,"

But in they entered are;

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As shaggy as were wall and roof

With branches intertwined,

So smooth was all within, air-proof,

And delicately lined:

And hearth was there, and maple dish,
And cups in seemly rows,
And couch-all ready to a wish

For nurture or repose;

And Heaven doth to her virtue grant

That there she may abide

In solitude, with every want

By cautious love supplied.

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No queen before a shouting crowd
Led on in bridal state,

E'er struggled with a heart so proud,
Entering her palace gate;
Rejoiced to bid the world farewell,
No saintly anchoress
E'er took possession of her cell
With deeper thankfulness.

"Father of all, upon thy care

And mercy am I thrown;

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Be thou my safeguard!"-such her prayer

When she was left alone,

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Kneeling amid the wilderness

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And smiles, fond efforts of distress

When joy had passed away,

To hide what they betray!

The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, Diffused through form and face,

Resolves devotedly serene;

That monumental grace

Of Faith, which doth all passions tame
That Reason should control;
And shows in the untrembling frame
A statue of the soul.

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175 PART III.

'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy
That Phœbus wont to wear

The leaves of any pleasant tree
Around his golden hair;

Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit

Of his imperious love,

At her own prayer transformed, took root,

A laurel in the grove.

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Then did the Penitent adorn

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His brow with laurel green;
And 'mid his bright locks never shorn

No meaner leaf was seen;

And poets sage, through every age,

About their temples wound

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The bay; and conquerors thanked the Gods,

With laurel chaplets crowned.

Into the mists of fabling Time
So far runs back the praise
Of Beauty, that disdains to climb
Along forbidden ways;
That scorns temptation; power defies

Where mutual love is not; And to the tomb for rescue flies When life would be a blot.

To this fair Votaress a fate
More mild doth Heaven ordain

Upon her Island desolate;

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And words, not breathed in vain, Might tell what intercourse she found,

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Her silence to endear; What birds she tamed, what flowers the ground Sent forth her peace to cheer.

To one mute Presence, above all,

Her soothed affections clung,

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A picture on the cabin wall

By Russian usage hung

The Mother-maid, whose countenance bright

With love abridged the day;
And, communed with by taper light,

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Chased spectral fears away.

And oft, as either Guardian came,
The joy in that retreat
Might any common friendship shame,
So high their hearts would beat;
And to the lone Recluse, whate'er
They brought, each visiting
Was like the crowding of the year
With a new burst of spring.

But when she of her Parents thought,
The pang was hard to bear;
And, if with all things not enwrought,
That trouble still is near.

Before her flight she had not dared
Their constancy to prove,
Too much the heroic Daughter feared
The weakness of their love.

Dark is the past to them, and dark
The future still must be,
Till pitying Saints conduct her bark
Into a safer sea-

Or gentle Nature close her eyes,
And set her Spirit free
From the altar of this sacrifice,

In vestal purity.

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Yet, when above the forest-glooms

The white swans southward passed,

High as the pitch of their swift plumes

Her fancy rode the blast;

And bore her toward the fields of France, 245

Her Father's native land,

To mingle in the rustic dance,

The happiest of the band!

Of those beloved fields she oft
Had heard her Father tell
In phrase that now with echoes soft
Haunted her lonely cell;
She saw the hereditary bowers,

She heard the ancestral stream;
The Kremlin and its haughty towers
Forgotten like a dream!

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PART IV.

THE ever-changing Moon had traced
Twelve times her monthly round,
When through the unfrequented Waste
Was heard a startling sound;
A shout thrice sent from one who chased

At speed a wounded deer,
Bounding through branches interlaced,
And where the wood was clear.

The fainting creature took the marsh,
And toward the Island fled,
While plovers screamed with tumult harsh

Above his antlered head;

This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear,

Shrunk to her citadel;

The desperate deer rushed on, and near

The tangled covert fell.

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