Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore Thus changed!—a fearful thing! His golden crest Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark ray, He felt them not, nor mark'd the light veil'd form 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; He murmur'd forth, "Where am I? What soft strain 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 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? With such sure confidence as to a mother ?"-JOANNA BAILLIE "My child, my child, thou leavest me! I shall hear 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- But the farewell was said; and on the deep, 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- Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower? 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 MILMAN. Ir stands where northern willows weep, A temple fair and lone; Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep 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, 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 To wake yet deeper thought: 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 The standard of their sires borne down, She slumber'd: but it came-it came, 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 And the crown'd eagle spread again And the strong land shook off its chain-- But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone 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- A spell to waken solemn thought— That calls back days of childhood, fraught For who, that gazes on the stone 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? |