Page images
PDF
EPUB

Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword,
As there they laid their leader, and implored
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him: then for flight,
Through the wide forest and the mantling night,
Sped breathlessly again. They pass'd; but he,
The stateliest of a host-alas! to see
What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep,
Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep,

Thus changed!—a fearful thing! His golden crest
Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast-
Some costly love-gift-rent: but what of these?
There were the clustering raven locks-the breeze,
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers,
Might scarcely lift them; steep'd in bloody showers,
So heavily upon the pallid clay

Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark ray,
Where was it? And the lips!-they gasp'd apart,
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art,
Still proudly beautiful! But that white hue-
Was it not death's-that stillness-that cold dew
On the scarr'd forchead? No! his spirit broke
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke
To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay,
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken,
The haughty chief of thousands-the forsaken
Of all save one. She fled not. Day by day-
Such hours are woman's birthright-she, unknown,
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone;
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving
His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong
man's raving.

He felt them not, nor mark'd the light veil'd form
Still hovering nigh! yet sometimes, when that

storm

Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low As a young mother's by the cradle singing, Would soothe him with sweet ares, gently bringing Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow Ebb'd from his hollow cheek.

At last faint gleams

Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams;
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head,
And gazing round him from his leafy bed,

He murmur'd forth, "Where am I? What soft strain
Pass'd like a breeze across my burning brain?
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone
Of life's first music, and a thought of one-
Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride,
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side?
All lost-and this is death -I cannot die
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye!

Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? My first, my holiest love!-her broken heart Lies low, and I-unpardon'd I depart."

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil
From her dark locks and features brightly pale,
And stood before him with a smile-oh! ne'er
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear-
And said, "Cesario! look on me; I live
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive.
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust,
As should be heaven's alone-and heaven is just
I bless thee-be at peace!"

But o'er his frame

Too fast the strong tide rush'd-the sudden shame, The joy, th' amaze! He bow'd his head-it fell On the wrong'd bosom which had loved so well; And love, still perfect, gave him refuge thereHis last faint breath just waved her floating hair.

MADELINE.

A DOMESTIC TALE.

"Who should it be ?-Where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we turn for succour ;
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye

With such sure confidence as to a mother ?"-JOANNA BAILLIE

"My child, my child, thou leavest me! I shall hear
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear
With its first utterance: I shall miss the sound
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around,
And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight's close,
And thy 'Good-night' at parting for repose.
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone,
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee,
My child! and thou, along the moon-light sea,
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance,
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France,
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go!
Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile's woe
From thy young heart be far! And sorrow not
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot,
God shall be with me. Now, farewell! farewell!
Thou that hast been what words may never tell
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days
When thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to raise
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye [by-
That still sought mine: these moments are gone

Thou too must go, my flower! Yet with thee dwell The peace of God! One, one more gaze: farewell!"

This was a mother's parting with her child-
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled,
And woo'd her with a voice of love away
From childhood's home: yet there, with fond delay,
She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note
Of her caged bird through trellis'd rose-leaves float,
And fell upon her mother's neck and wept,
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept,
Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day,
As in one picture traced, before her lay.

But the farewell was said; and on the deep,
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep,
With a calm'd heart, young Madeline ere long
Pour'd forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song,
Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar,
And duly rising with the first pale star,
That voice was on the waters; till at last
The sounding ocean solitudes were pass'd,
And the bright land was reach'd, the youthful world
That glows along the West: the sails were furl'd
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride
Look'd on the home that promised hearts untried
A bower of bliss to come. Alas! we trace

The map of our own paths, and long ere years With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, [tears!

On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with That home was darken'd soon: the summer breeze Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas: Death unto one, and anguish-how forlorn! To her that, widow'd in her marriage morn, Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him,

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, As from the sun shut out on every side By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill, [heart When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part Which life will teach-to suffer and be still, And with submissive love to count the flowers Which yet are spared, and through the future hours To send no busy dream! She had not learn'd Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd In weariness from life. Then came th' unrest, The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, The haunting sounds of voices far away, And household steps: until at last she lay On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams In her own sunny land; and murmuring oft Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft,

To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. To strangers? Oh! could strangers raise the head Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow? Something was there that, through the lingering night,

Outwatches patiently the taper's light-
Something that faints not through the day's distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness-
Love, true and perfect love! Whence came that
power,

Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower?
Whence?-who can ask? The wild delirium pass'd,
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old!—and had she come,
Thus in life's evening from her distant home,
To save her child? Even so-nor yet in vain ;
In that young heart a light sprang up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seem'd this fair world, though faded; still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
"Sweet mother! gentlest mother! can it be?"
The lorn one cried, "and do I look on thee?
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore:
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more."

THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB.

["This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance-not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life. Here the king brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother."-SHERER'S Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.]

"In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and brokenhearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed."

MILMAN.

Ir stands where northern willows weep, A temple fair and lone;

Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep
From cypress branches thrown ;
While silently around it spread,
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined? A sculptured woman's form, Lovely, in perfect rest reclined,

As one beyond the storm: Yet not of death, but slumber, lies The solemn sweetness on those eyes.

The folded hands, the calm pure face,
The mantle's quiet flow,
The gentle yet majestic grace

Throned on the matron brow; These, in that scene of tender gloom, With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet
Of the fair image wrought;
A kingly emblem-nor unmect

To wake yet deeper thought:
She whose high heart finds rest below,
Was royal in her birth and woe.

There are pale garlands hung above, Of dying scent and hue;

She was a mother-in her love

How sorrowfully true! Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf, The record of her children's grief!

She saw their birthright's warrior-crown
Of olden glory spoil'd,

The standard of their sires borne down,
The shield's bright blazon soil'd:
She met the tempest, meekly brave,
Then turn'd o'erwearied to the grave.

She slumber'd: but it came-it came,
Her land's redeeming hour,
With the glad shout, and signal flame

Sent on from tower to tower! Fast through the realm a spirit moved― "Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.

Then was her name a note that rung
To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung
Forth by the Baltic deep;
Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd
To sanctify th' avenger's sword

And the crown'd eagle spread again
His pinion to the sun;

And the strong land shook off its chain--
So was the triumph won!

But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone
Still blends with victory's !-She was gone!

THE MEMORIAL PILLAR.

[On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a small pillar, with this inscription:-"This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess-Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d April 1616."-See notes to the Pleasures of Memory.]

MOTHER and child! whose blending tears

Have sanctified the place,

Where, to the love of many years,

Was given one last embrace-
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power
Deep in your record of that hour!

A spell to waken solemn thought—
A still, small under tone,

That calls back days of childhood, fraught
With many a treasure gone;
And smites, perchance, the hidden source,
Though long untroubled-of remorse.

For who, that gazes on the stone
Which marks your parting spot,
Who but a mother's love hath known-
The one love changing not?
Alas! and haply learn'd its worth
First with the sound of "Earth to earth!"

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, O'er whose bright honour'd head Blessings and tears of holiest flow

E'en here were fondly shedThou from the passion of thy grief, In its full burst, couldst draw relief.

For, oh! though painful be th' excess, The might wherewith it swells,

In nature's fount no bitterness

Of nature's mingling dwells; And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, Poison'd the free and healthful tide.

But didst thou meet the face no more Which thy young heart first knew?

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]
« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »