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And soon he felt his father's blood
On, through his veins, more strongly flow : Desires intense had he to roam, Like birds which seek a foreign home,
Unknowing why they go.
The school became a weary place:
The vicar's kindness was a pain : He read of Bamfylde Moore Carew, Till nothing for his heart would do
But gipsies, and the lane.
“ Be mine, my father's life," he cried,
“Although I suffer pains severe, There is a something in my breast That wars with this inglorious rest,
I cannot linger here.”
“ And who can tell what I may be?”.
That feeling was ambition's spring :
He was the Gipsy King.
And worked or starved as chance befell :
It was his lot to dwell.
His was an undirected mind
He ever undetermined stood:
For evil or for good.
And by degrees he grew in knowledge;
Taught in the wide world's college.
And gazed in tall young gipsies' eyes:
To stir their tears and sighs.
But left his children in the land :
Her eggs amongst the sand.
The dull disquietude of towns :
Across the waving downs.
Not that he ever paused to look
Intently on a summer flower.-
The presence and the power:
He would be free-like the wild steed
That tramples on the desert wind :
His soul was unconfined.
From year to year, from strength to strength
Firm as a tower his manhood grew :
To suffer or subdue.
It is the spirit of the times
That breathes the soul into the man;
Was he in his own clan.
And now the crew with whom he went
Were 'camped beside the river Grete ;
To Emsley's calm retreat.
Sought he direct the vicar's door?
Thither he went not-through the grounds By sinuous ways he closely crept; And thence, like Satan, lightly leapt
The garden's sacred bounds.
The wild career that he had run:
The vicar's face to shun.
There fell, but with no fall profound,
An ever-murmuring sound.
Distinctly in the moonlight seen,
So showed what he had been ;
Repentant, sad, yet unforgiven, When turned the bowers of bliss to see, Felt more than felt young Harry Lee,
When in his boyhood's heaven. And when he started from that dream,
It was to meet a piercing look: To feel himself more keenly foiled, More back into himself recoiled,
For there stood Ellen Brooke.
Ashamed to feel what he had felt,
Of one unused to melt.
And then as promptly questioned he“ You look as though you knew me not, It may be that you have forgot
Your playmate, Harry Lee?" Then of his life he told the story,
Far ranging past the bounds of truth;
His inexperienced youth.
For disobedience to her sire;
She bade him thence retire.
Looked down on that delightful place,
His steps did he retrace.
And still she chid him for his coming ;
Still blended pity with her blame: All unsuspicious as the dove, Unknowing by such arts how love
Most fans his conquering flame. None yet had praised fair Ellen Brooke,
None fondly gazed upon her face ;
In that secluded place.
Alone, or by her father's side :
The day her mother died.
And more than ever loves the night: And many an anxious glance she turns, To where her father's taper burns,
As though she feared its light. For very wondrous is the tale
The gipsy tells of his free life;
To be the gipsy's wife.
Ingratitude as black as hell :
And that he loves her well.
That theme may be a glorious theme:
To chase away the dream.
Thy wife, thy morning star, has set:
Though sadly lingering yet. A day of stealth, a day of tears,
A day of watching and of dread, Was that on which the bands were tied, When Ellen Brooke, a thoughtful bride,
Was to the woodlands led. And when she reached the gipsies' camp,
Fain would I here conclude the story, Such scenes uncouth distressed her sight; The death of love's created light,
The dimming of its glory.
With which she had the life invested, And tribe with whom she link'd her lot, Utterly vanished when the spot
She reached, whereon it rested.
She saw what love should never see ;
What truth and honour grieved behold;
A heart beloved, grow cold.
A breaking heart, a soul of fears ;
With unrelieving tears.
And but one living wish had she:
One wish-her home to see.
Where fell, but with no fall profound, That sheet of water, broad and white, Which made, amid the quiet night,
An ever-murmuring sound.
A sense of all the past was given;
Since she forsook that heaven. She felt her pulse more strongly beat,
Her blood rush on, then cease to flow, And the world vanished from her sight, And down she sank amid the night,
As falls a wreath of snow.
Like some fair statue overthrown;
Unweeping in the stone.
Unto her heart the purple flood,
And there for ever stood.
Behold her not as there she played ; When to her own sweet songs she danced, Or like the butterfly she glanced
Out in the sun and shade.
Attended by her own fair light,
She would dispel the night.
By dwelling on a mournful theme; The dews are dried, the leaves are shed, The fragrance and the bloom are dead,
And all is but a dream.