Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey

music; there lay her flower garden beneath the window, and the walks through which he had wandered with her in the intoxication of youthful love. Can we wonder that amidst the tender recollections which every object around him was calculated to awaken, the fond passion of his boyhood should rush back in full current to his heart? He was himself surprised at this sudden revulsion of his feelings, but he had acquired self-possession and could command them. His firmness, however, was doomed to undergo a further trial. While seated by the object of his secret devotions, with all these recollections throbbing in his bosom, her infant daughter was brought into the room. At sight of the child he started; it dispelled the last lingerings of his dream, and he afterward confessed, that to repress his emotion at the moment, was the severest part of his task.
    The conflict of feelings that raged within his bosom, throughout this fond and tender, yet painful and embarrassing visit, are touchingly depicted in lines which he wrote immediately afterward, and which, though not addressed to her by name, are evidently intended for the eye and the heart of the fair lady of Annesley:
    “Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.
    Thy husband’s blest—and ‘twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass—Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!
    “When late I saw thy favorite child
I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss’d it for its mother’s sake.
    “I kiss’d it, and repress’d my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother’s eyes,
And they were all to love and me.
    “Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I’ll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay:
My heart would soon again be thine.
    “I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride
Had quench’d at length my boyish flame
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all, save love, the same.
    “Yet I was calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime—
We met, and not a nerve was shook.
    “I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling could’st thou trace;
The sullen calmness of despair.
    “Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe’s fabled stream?
My foolish heart, be still, or break.”
    The revival of this early passion, and the melancholy associations which it spread over those scenes in the neighborhood of Newstead, which would necessarily be the places of his frequent resort while in England, are alluded to by him as a principal cause of his first departure for the Continent:
    “When man expell’d from Eden’s bowers
A moment lingered near the gate,
Each scene recalled the vanish’d hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.
    “But wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief.
    “Thus, Mary, must it be with me,
And I must view thy charms no more;
For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before.”
    It was in the subsequent June that he set off on his pilgrimage by sea and land, which was to become the theme of his immortal poem. That the image of Mary Chaworth, as he saw and loved her in the days of his boyhood, followed him to the very shore, is shown in the glowing stanzas addressed to her on the eve of embarkation—
    “‘Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o’er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone.
Because I cannot love but one.
    “And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne’er shall find a resting place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
    “To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we’ve been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe—
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
    “And who that dear loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see,
And why that early love was cross’d,
Thou know’st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
    “I’ve tried another’s fetters