The heir of Rookwood.
247
High o'er a ledge,
That, level with the stream, had once upheld
Her hapless mother, on the rock's sharp edge,
Steadying the hollow of her daring foot,
Stood Lilia. Who hut Lilia so could venture?
What did she there? and what a trysting-place!
And where was Arthur?
In my eagerness,
Forward I pressed. The overhanging rock
She leaned from, nearly faced me. Clad in white,
In filmy white fair-robed from head to foot,
She stood, how like a form I well remembered!
My heart was sudden cold. Old stories thronged
My memory. Of a maniac mother born—
So strange in all her ways—alone, at night,
To wander hither? Lilia! oh the child!
The girl! the woman worth all life to me!
And I had wronged her by the cruelest thought!
Live, Lilia, live—be his—be anything—
Be aught but that! My sick heart paused, for Lilia
Lifting her eyes, thereon, as on full urns
Held the moon's glitter.
That, level with the stream, had once upheld
Her hapless mother, on the rock's sharp edge,
Steadying the hollow of her daring foot,
Stood Lilia. Who hut Lilia so could venture?
What did she there? and what a trysting-place!
And where was Arthur?
In my eagerness,
Forward I pressed. The overhanging rock
She leaned from, nearly faced me. Clad in white,
In filmy white fair-robed from head to foot,
She stood, how like a form I well remembered!
My heart was sudden cold. Old stories thronged
My memory. Of a maniac mother born—
So strange in all her ways—alone, at night,
To wander hither? Lilia! oh the child!
The girl! the woman worth all life to me!
And I had wronged her by the cruelest thought!
Live, Lilia, live—be his—be anything—
Be aught but that! My sick heart paused, for Lilia
Lifting her eyes, thereon, as on full urns
Held the moon's glitter.
