RECORDS OF WOMAN.

ARABELLA STUART.

["THE LADY ARABELLA," as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret but early discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and at break of day a French vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, “which," says D'Israeli, “occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with

a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the king's service, and brought back to a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. "What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history, but enough is known-that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers."-D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.

The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.]

"And is not love in vain,

Torture enough without a living tomb ?"

"Fermossi al fin il cor che balzò tanto."

I.

BYRON.

PINDEMONTE.

'Twas but a dream!-I saw the stag leap free,

Under the boughs where early birds were singing,

I stood o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree,
And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing
Far through a royal forest: then the fawn
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn
To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook,
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career,
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear,
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance
Into the deep wood's heart; and all pass'd by
Save one-I met the smile of one clear eye,
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there.
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away,
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side; and we, that met and parted,
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power,

Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-hearted,
Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour,
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath
Dim woven leaves, and 'midst the floating breath
Of hidden forest-flowers.

II.

'Tis past!-I wake,

A captive, and alone, and far from thee, My love and friend! Yet fostering, for thy sake, A quenchless hope of happiness to be; And feeling still my woman-spirit strong,

In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love Shall yet call gentle angels from above,

By its undying fervour, and prevail—

Sending a breath, as of the Spring's first gale,
Through hearts now cold; and, raising its bright face,
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase
The characters of anguish: in this trust,
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust,
That I may bring thee back no faded form,
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm,
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet,
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.

III.

And thou too art in bonds!-yet droop thou not, my beloved-there is one hopeless lot,

But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead
There sits the grief that mantles up its head,
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight
Covers its beautiful! If thou wert gone

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant browIf thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone

Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now Seems floating through my soul, were music taken For ever from this world-oh! thus forsaken, Could I bear on?—thou livest, thou livest, thou'rt mine!

With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, Sit a lone watcher for the day's return.

IV.

And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning,
Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care!
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning
The wild and busy whispers of despair!
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven—I wait

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee.
Oh! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate
As a star shoots!-but on the breezy sea
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour!
Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss,
Faint and give way within me, as a flower

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss? Yet shall I fear that lot-the perfect rest, The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, After long suffering won? So rich a close Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.

V.

Sunset!I tell each moment-from the skies
The last red splendour floats along my wall,
Like a king's banner!—Now it melts, it dies!
I see one star-I hear-'twas not the call,
Th' expected voice; my quick heart throbb'd too

soon.

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon

Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream
Of summer-lands afar, where holy love,
Under the vine or in the citron grove,
May breathe from terror.