Peter's Unsung Spheres

METRICAL TALES 

 

Tale II.—

THE POISONED ARROW 

 

            Love lives on Hope and Memory. 

 

'Tis an old tale of love and truth 

We used to read, I scarce know when. 

And still it brings back to my heart 

All that my heart was full of then. 

We read it one blue summer night, 

Half by lamp, half by moonlight, — 

An English summer night, thrice fair, 

For that its loveliness is so rare ; 

Just three or four nights at the full of the moon, 

When the flower-filled air is breathing of June ; 

Three or four nights that rejoice the year 

With a dream of light from another sphere. 

I remember a pink woodbine 

That hung round the lattice its coral twine; 

I remember the vine, whose green 

Shone in the ray like silver sheen ; 

And how through the leaves a sweet air came, 

For beside grew a rose with a crimson flame 

Lighting its life, as love lived on its spring; 

But all are departed or withering. 

I remember a fond arm placed, 

Zone of my heart, around my waist ; 

I remember a dark eye that shone, 

And turned to me, as the tale went on, 

To look its so gentle sympathies, 

And ask, Are we not as fond as these ? 

I remember an honey tone, — 

But that clasp and that look and that voice are gone! 

Why think I now of them ? Oh, woman's heart 

Treasures the memories that depart

From sterner man, — when will love be 

Enshrined as in her memory ! — 

Thou wert not false, — I cannot now 

Reproach thee with one broken vow ; 

I may not say thou art estranged, 

I rather feel than know thee changed ; 

Thy heart is now in other things 

Than love's once dear imaginings; 

The world has claimed thee, — crowds and care 

Are things in which love has no share ; 

You would but smile now to recall 

Many sweet vows and gentle fears, 

Or marvel they were ever felt, — 

Such change is in a lapse of years. 

But I have treasured looks and words, 

Till memory's links are as soft chords. 

O'er which, if but one breath shall fall, 

They wake in tones thrice musical. 

But thou! thou hast forgotten all. 

Oh this is vain, I cannot bring 

Again the freshness of our spring. — 

      On to my tale — it will recall 

All that is from my bosom reft, 

      Bereaved of love's original, 

’Tis much to have its picture left. 

      Amid the groves of Lebanon, 

The scented cedar groves, is one, 

The very loveliest of all, 

So clear, so cool, the fountain fall, 

So gracefully the roses grow, 

Mirrored in the clear water's flow ; 

So beautiful athwart the boughs 

Comes morning's rise or evening's close; 

And when the moon shines forth at night, 

Or, in her absence, gleaming light 

Darts from the stars upon the vale, 

Sings to them the lone nightingale, 

As an enchanted harp were breaking 

The calm with its delicious waking. 

’Tis strange to find in such a place 

Aught that resembles human trace ; 

Yet, underneath a cedar's shade, 

Whose boughs, defying sun or rain, 

Keep the white marble free from stain, 

A tomb is placed ; a statue there — 

A woman, by the flowing hair, 

The small feet and the delicate hand ; 

Yet by it lies the warrior's brand, 

And on it is a warrior's dress, 

Ill suited to its gracefulness : 

’Tis exquisitely carved : the brow 

Seems as if life were in its glow, 

As the small fingers still could guide 

The broken lute-chords by their side. — 

      There was a hermit once, whose cell 

Of loneliness was in this dell : 

He lived in silence and in gloom, 

His sole employ to raise this tomb; 

None heard his voice, none saw his face, 

Few ventured near his dwelling place, 

For the fair tomb was said to be 

The work of potent witcherie ; 

’Twas potent, for grief was the spell, 

And love that wrought the miracle. - - - 

      Oh Glory, sunlight of the grave, 

What is thy spell to charm the brave ? 

What thy spell, that it could divide 

Earl Richard from his young fair Bride ? 

The first spring blossoms saw her his,— 

The fruit shone on their parting kiss. 

The Earl to Palestine is gone, 

The Bride sits in her bower alone. 

Alone ! so thought her lord, when, turning, 

His full heart with the fancy burning, 

To the white shores, he breathed her name — 

An echo to his murmur came, 

’Twas answered by his name, — his breast 

Again is to his Edith's prest ! 

Garbed as a page, her home she left ; 

Bereaved of him, of all bereft. 

Lost, in that thought all else above, 

A woman's fear in woman's love. 

Woman, what fearless faith is thine ! 

She went with him to Palestine; 

She went with him,— through toil, through fear, 

Her gentle smile was ever near. 

And sometimes, from the rush of war, 

Beneath the lovely evening star 

They stole a quiet hour, to share 

The perfumed coolness of the air ; 

And she would take her lute, and sing 

Sweet songs of old remembering, 

Breathing of home — talk of the fame 

Gathering round her Warrior's name, 

And mix with future hope a sigh 

Given to pleasant lays gone by. — 

      The day of battle ! Hark, the sound 

Of the deep trumpet swells around ; 

The Earl goes forth : 'tis Edith's hand 

Has girded her own Warrior's brand, 

Has smoothed the war-plumes on his crest, 

Has buckled on the mailed vest. 

Felt she not proud at heart to see 

He was the flower of chivalry, 

As, curbing in his steed of gray. 

He rode the first to lead the way ? 

That morn he went forth like a king, 

Glorious in his first triumphing ; 

But the sweet evening's scented breath 

Flowed cool upon his wound of death ! 

Curses upon the coward craft, 

His foeman's was a poisoned shaft. 

There came no tear to Edith's eye, 

But she knelt by him tenderly, 

And parted his thick raven hair, 

That he might feel the soothing air; 

And placed his head upon her breast, 

And lulled him with soft words to rest. 

'Twas as she hoped, — he sleeps ; and now 

Her lips are on his throbbing brow, 

Sucking the poison forth : 't was bliss 

To know she gave her life for his. 

He woke, but not to feel again 

The hot fire rushing through each vein, 

But as aroused from slumbers deep, 

And sweet as those which infants sleep. 

But Edith ! ah. her pulse beats low, 

Her cheek has lost its sunset glow, 

The violet of her eye is dim, — 

He knows it all, — she dies for him. 

 

The Literary Gazette, 6th March 1824