(_A Fragment._)
To thee--O palest phantom--clothed in white raiment, not like unto a
ghost risen with its grave-clothes to appal, but like a seraph
descending from the skies to bless--unto thee will we dare to speak, as
through the mist of years back comes thy yet unfaded beauty, charming
us, while we cannot choose but weep, with the self-same vision that
often glided before us long, long ago in the wilderness, and at the
sound of our voice would pause for a little while, and then pass by,
like a white bird from the sea, floating unscared close by the
shepherd's head, or alighting to trim its plumes on a knoll far up an
inland glen! Death seems not to have touched that face, pale though it
be--life-like is the waving of those gentle hands--and the soft, sweet,
low music which now we hear, steals not sure from lips hushed by the
burial-mould! Restored by the power of love, she stands before us as she
stood of yore. Not one of all the hairs of her golden head was singed by
the lightning that shivered the tree under which the child had run for
shelter from the flashing sky. But in a moment the blue light in her
dewy eyes was dimmed--and never again did she behold either flower or
star. Yet all the images of all the things she had loved remained in her
memory, clear and distinct as the things themselves before
unextinguished eyes--and ere three summers had flown over head, which,
like the blossom of some fair perennial flower, in heaven's gracious dew
and sunshine each season lifted its loveliness higher and higher in the
light--she could trip her singing way through the wide wilderness, all
by her joyful self, led, as all believed, nor erred they in so
believing, by an angel's hand! When the primroses peeped through the
reviving grass upon the vernal braes, they seemed to give themselves
into her hand; and 'twas thought they hung longer unfaded round her neck
or forehead than if they had been left to drink the dew on their native
bed. The linnets ceased not their lays, though her garment touched the
broomstalk on which they sung. The cushat, as she thrid her way through
the wood, continued to croon in her darksome tree--and the lark,
although just dropped from the cloud, was cheered by her presence into a
new passion of song, and mounted over her head, as if it were his first
matin hymn. All the creatures of earth and air manifestly loved the
Wanderer of the Wilderness--and as for human beings, she was named, in
their pity, their wonder, and their delight, the Blind Beauty of the
Moor!
She was an only child, and her mother had died in giving her birth. And
now her father, stricken by one of the many cruel diseases that shorten
the lives of shepherds on the hills, was bed-ridden--and he was poor. Of
all words ever syllabled by human lips, the most blessed is--Charity. No
manna now in the wilderness is rained from heaven--for the mouths of the
hungry need it not in this our Christian land. A few goats feeding among
the rocks gave them milk, and there was bread for them in each
neighbour's house--neighbour though miles afar--as the sacred duty came
round--and the unrepining poor sent the grateful child away with their
prayers.
One evening, returning to the hut with her usual song, she danced up to
her father's face on his rushy bed, and it was cold in death. If she
shrieked--if she fainted--there was but one ear that heard, one eye that
saw her in her swoon. Not now floating light like a small moving cloud
unwilling to leave the flowery braes, though it be to melt in heaven,
but driven along like a shroud of flying mist before the tempest, she
came upon us in the midst of that dreary moss; and at the sound of our
quaking voice, fell down with clasped hands at our feet--"My father's
dead!" Had the hut put already on the strange, dim, desolate look of
mortality? For people came walking fast down the braes, and in a little
while there was a group round us, and we bore her back again to her
dwelling in our arms. As for us, we had been on our way to bid the fair
creature and her father farewell. How could she have lived--an utter
orphan--in such a world! The holy power that is in Innocence would for
ever have remained with her; but Innocence longs to be away, when her
sister Joy has departed; and 'tis sorrowful to see the one on earth,
when the other has gone to heaven! This sorrow none of us had long to
see; for though a flower, when withered at the root, and doomed ere eve
to perish, may yet look to the careless eye the same as when it
blossomed in its pride,--its leaves, still green, are not as once they
were,--its bloom, though fair, is faded--and at set of sun, the dews
shall find it in decay, and fall unfelt on all its petals. Ere Sabbath
came, the orphan child was dead. Methinks we see now her little funeral.
Her birth had been the humblest of the humble; and though all in life
had loved her, it was thought best that none should be asked to the
funeral of her and her father, but two or three friends; the old
clergyman himself walked at the head of the father's coffin--we at the
head of the daughter's--for this was granted unto our exceeding
love;--and thus passed away for ever the Blind Beauty of the
Moor!--_Ibid_.
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