Poems from Published Collections - 2
THE COMBAT BY ETTY
THEY fled,--for there was for the brave
Left only a dishonour'd grave.
The day was lost; and his red hand
Was now upon a broken brand,
The foes were in his native town,
The gates were forced, the walls were down,
The burning city lit the sky,--
What had he then to do but fly;
Fly to the mountain-rock, where yet
Revenge might strike, or peace forget!
They fled,--for she was by his side,
Life's last and loveliest link, his bride,--
Friends, fame, hope, freedom, all were gone,
Or linger'd only with that one.
They hasten'd by the lonely way
That through the winding forest lay,
Hearth, home, tower, temple, blazed behind,
And shout and shriek came on the wind;
And twice the warrior turn'd again
And cursed the arm that now in vain,
Wounded and faint, essay'd to grasp
The sword that trembled in its clasp.
At last they reach'd a secret shade
Which seem'd as for their safety made;
And there they paused, for the warm tide
Burst in red gushes from his side,
And hung the drops on brow and cheek,
And his gasp'd breath came thick and weak.
She took her long dark hair, and bound
The cool moss on each gaping wound,
And in her closed-up hands she brought
The water which his hot lip sought,--
And anxious gazed upon his eye,
As asking, shall we live or die?
Almost as if she thought his breath
Had power o'er his own life and death.
But, hark!--'tis not the wind deceives,
There is a step among the leaves:
Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high,
It is their fiercest enemy;
He of the charm'd and deadly steel,
Whose stroke was never known to heal,--
He of the sword sworn not to spare,--
She flung her down in her despair!
The dying chief sprang to his knee,
And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully;
But his gash'd arm, what is it now?
Livid his lip, and black his brow,
While over him the slayer stood,
As if he almost scorn'd the blood
That cost so little to be won,--
He strikes,--the work of death is done!
From The Troubadour
THE CONISTON CURSE:
A YORKSHIRE LEGEND.
There is a tradition of such a curse attached to one of the old mansions of the north of England : I am not aware of any cause for the malediction. This will, I trust, be sufficient excuse for placing its origin in a period when such a circumstance was most likely to have taken place; when enough of superstition remained for terror to have produced its fulfilment.
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They knelt upon the altar steps, but other looks were there
Than the calm and inward looks which suit the evening hour of prayer;
Many a cheek was deadly pale, while some were flush'd with red,
And hurriedly and falteringly the holy words were said.
They knelt their last, they sang their last; for deep the king hath sworn,
The silent cells should strangely change before the coming morn:
The cloister'd votary henceforth is free from vow or veil,
Her grey robes she may doff, and give her bright hair to the gale.
And pardon be to them, if some, in their first hour of bloom,
Thought all too lightly in their hearts 't was not so hard a doom;
For they were young, and they were fair, and little in their shade
Knew they of what harsh elements the jarring world was made.
There knelt one young, there knelt one fair, but, unlike those around,
No change upon her steady mien or on her brow was found,
Save haughtier even than its wont now seem'd that lady's face,
And never yet was brow more proud among her haughty race.
Betroth'd to one who fell in war, the last of all her name,
In her first youth and loveliness the noble maiden came;
Vigil and prayer, and tears perchance, had worn her bloom away,
When held that youthful prioress in St. Edith's shrine her sway.
She gave her broad lands to its use, she gave her golden dower,—
Marvel ye that ill she brook'd the chance that ruled the hour?
And it may be more fiercely grew her pious zeal allied
To this her all of earthly power—her all of earthly pride.
Comes from the aisle a heavy sound, such steps as tread in steel,
The clash of sword, the ring of shield, the tramp of armed heel.
The prioress bade her nuns upraise the vesper's sacred tone,
She led the hymn, but mute the rest—no voice rose but her own:
For open now the gates were flung, in pour'd the soldier train,
And shout and shriek, and oath and prayer, rang through the holy fane.
Then forth the prioress stepp'd, and raised the red cross in her hand—
No warrior of her race e'er held more fearless battle brand.
" Now turn, Sir John De Coniston, I bid thee turn and flee,
Nor wait till Heaven, by my sworn lips, lay its dread curse on thee!
Turn back, Sir John De Coniston, turn from our sainted shrine,
And years of penance may efface this godless deed of thine."
Rough was Sir John De Coniston, and hasty in his mood,
And, soldier-like, then answer'd he, in angry speech and rude:
" I would not back although my path were lined with hostile swords,
And deem'st thou I will turn aside for only woman's words?"
She raised her voice, the curse was pass'd; and to their dying day
The sound, like thunder in their ears, will never pass away;
Still haunted them those flashing eyes, that brow of funeral stone.
When the words were said, she veil'd her face— the prioress was gone.
No more in that calm sanctuary its vestal maids abide,
Save one, Sir John De Coniston, and that one is thy bride;
The sister band to other homes at will might wander free,
And their lonely prioress had fled a pilgrim o'er the sea.
Seven years St. Edith's votary had wander'd far and near,
Barefoot and fasting, she has call'd on every saint to hear:
Seven years of joy and festival have pass'd away like hours,
Since that priory had changed its state to a baron's lordly towers.
There was revelling in that stately hall, and in his seat of pride
The Lord of Coniston was placed, with his lady by his side;
And four fair children there were ranged beside their parents' knee,
All glad and beautiful—a sight for weary eyes to see.
Rang the old turrets with the pledge —"Now health to thee and thine;
And long and prosperous may thy name last in thy gallant line!"
When a voice rose up above them all, and that voice was strange and shrill,
Like autumn's wind when it has caught winter's first shriek and chill;
And forth a veiled figure stepp'd, but back she flung her veil,
And they knew St. Edith's prioress by her brow so deadly pale;
No sickly paleness of the cheek whence health and hope have fled,
But that deadly hue, so wan, so cold, which only suits the dead.
" The prey of the ungodly is taken by God's hand—
I lay the endless curse of change upon this doomed land:
They may come and possession take, even as thou hast done,
But the father never, never shall transmit it to his son.
" Yet I grieve for the fair branches, though of such evil tree;
But the weird is laid, and the curse is said, and it rests on thine and thee."
Away she pass'd, though many thought to stay her in the hall,
She glided from them, and not one had heard her footstep fall.
And one by one those children in their earliest youth declined,
Like sickening flowers that fade and fall before the blighting wind;
And their mother she too pined away, stricken by the same blast,
Till Sir John De Coniston was left, the lonely and the last.
He sat one evening in his hall, still pride was on his brow,
And the fierce spirit lingering there nor time nor grief could bow;
Yet something that told failing strength was now upon his face,
When entered that dark prioress, and fronted him in place.
" Sir John, thy days are numbered, and never more we meet
Till we yield our last dread reckoning before God's judgment-seat!
My words they are the latest sounds thine ear shall ever take—
Then hear me curse again the land which is cursed for thy sake.
"Oh, Coniston! thy lands are broad, thy stately towers are fair,
Yet woe and desolation are for aye the tenants there;
For Death shall be thy keeper, and two of the same race
Shall ne'er succeed each other in thy fatal dwelling place!"
The curse is on it to this day: now others hold the land;
But be they childless, or begirt with a fair infant band,
Some sudden death, some wasting ill, some sickness taints the air,
And touches all,—no master yet has ever left an heir.
From The Golden Violet
CORINNA
She stood alone ; but on her every eye
Dwelt in mute ravishment; her long black hair
Flew loose upon the gale, but half confin'd
By the light veil and wreathes of braided rose,
Shading her bosom's matchless ivory,
And fell upon the lyre, like hyacinths
Twin'd fancifully round ; a pensive shade
Was on the brightness of her deep blue eyes,
Where the sweet tenderness of woman's glance
Softened the minstrel's fire that sparkled there.-
The song arose ; it was just such a strain
The soft Erato wakes, when she would sing
Of loveliness, and love by sorrow shaded;
Her voice (the Syren's is not sweeter, when
She breathes her music to calm moonlight seas,)
Was fraught with tender feelings, and called forth
An answering harmony within the heart;
And even when it ceas'd, the list'ner's ear,
Thrill'd with its wild and witching melody.
She stood, like some fair creature of the skies,
In mild unconscious beauty, and her eyes
Sunk to their timid station on the ground :
Her cheek was delicately pale; but when
They placed the laurel crown upon her brow,
Her face was mantled by a burning blush,
Bright, beautiful, like summer's glowing eve,
Such as young Psyche wore, when Love first taught
His own sweet language.
From The Fate of Adelaide
THE COVENANTERS
Mine home is but a blackened heap
In the midst of a lonesome wild,
And the owl and the bat may their night-watch keep
Where human faces smiled.
I rocked the cradle of seven fair sons,
And I worked for their infancy;
But, when like a child in mine own old age,
There are none to work for me!
- - - - - -Never!
I will not know another home.
Ten summers have pass'd on, with their blue skies,
Green leaves, and singing birds, and sun-kiss'd fruit,
Since here I first took up my last abode,--
And here my bones shall rest. You say it is
A home for beasts, and not for humankind,
This bleak shed and bare rock, and that the vale
Below is beautiful. I know the time
When it looked very beautiful to me!
Do you see that bare spot, where one old oak
Stands black and leafless, as if scorched by fire
While round it the ground seems as if a curse
Were laid upon the soil? Once by that tree,
Then covered with its leaves and acorn crop,
A little cottage wood: 'twas very small,
But had an air of health and peace. The roof
Was every morning vocal with the song
Of the rejoicing swallows, whose warm nest
Was built in safety underneath the thatch;
A honeysuckle on the sunny side
Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets,
Around was a small garden; fruit and herbs
Were there in comely plenty; and some flowers,
Heath from the mountains, and the wilding bush
Gemm'd with red roses, and white apple blossoms,
Were food for the two hives, whence all day long,
There came a music like the pleasant sound
Of lulling waters. And at even-tide
It was a goodly sight to see around
Bright eyes, and faces lighted up with health
And youth and happiness! these were my children,
That cottage was mine home. . . .
There came a shadow o'er the land, and men
Were hunted by their fellow men like beasts,
And the sweet feelings of humanity
Were utterly forgotten; the white head,
Darkened with blood and dust, was often laid
Upon the murdered infant, for the sword
Of pride and cruelty was sent to slay
Those who in age would not forego their faith
They had grown up in. I was one of these:
How could I close the Bible I had read
Beside my dying mother, which had given
To me and mine such comfort? But the hand
Of the oppressor smote us. There were shrieks,
And naked swords, and faces dark as guile,
A rush of feet, a bursting forth of flame,
Curses, and crashing boards, and infant words
Praying for mercy, and then childish screams
Of fear and pain. There were these the last night
The white walls of my cottage stood; they bound
And flung me down beside the oak, to watch
How the red fire gathered, like that of hell,
There sprang one to the lattice, and leant forth,
Gasping for the fresh air,--my own fair girl!
My only one! The vision haunts me still:
The white arms raised to heaven, and the long hair,
Bright as the light beside it, stiff on the head
Upright, from terror. In the accursed glare
We knew each other; and I heard a cry
Half tenderness, half agony,--a crash,--
The roof fell in,--I saw my child no more!
A cloud closed around me, a deep thunder cloud,
Half darkness and half fire. At length sense came,
With a rememb'ring like that which a dream
Leaves, of vague horrors: but the heavy chain,
The loathsome straw which was mine only bed,
The sickly light through the dim bars, the damp,
The silence, were realities; and then
I lay on the cold stones and wept aloud,
And prayed the fever to return again
And bring death with it. Yet did I escape,--
Again I drank the fresh blue air of heaven,
And felt the sunshine laugh upon my brow;
I thought then I would seek my desolate home,
And die where it had been. I reached the place:
The ground was bare and scorched, and in the midst
Was a black heap of ashes. Frantickly (sic)
I groped amid them, ever and anon
Meeting some human fragment, skulls and bones
Shapeless and cinders, till I drew a curl,
A long and beautiful curl of sunny hair,
Stainless and golden, as but then just severed,
A love gift from the head: I knew the hair--
It was my daughter's! There I stood, and howled
Curses upon that night. There came a voice,
There came a gentle step;--even on that heap
Of blood and ashes did I kneel, and pour
To the great God my gratitude! That curl
Was wet with tears of happiness; that step,
That voice, were sweet familiar ones,--one child,
My eldest son, was sent me from the grave!
That night he had escaped. . . . .
We left the desolate Valley, and we went
Together to the mountains and the woods,
And there inhabited in love and peace,
Till a strong spirit came upon men's hearts,
And roused them to avenge their many wrongs.
Yet stood they not in battle, and the arm
Of the oppressor was at first too mighty.
Albeit I have lived to see their bonds
Rent like burnt flax, yet much of blood was spilt
Or ever the deliverance was accomplished.
We fled in the dark night. At length the moon
Rose on the midnight,--when I saw the face
Of my last child was ghastly white, and set
In the death-agony, and from his side
The life-blood came like tears: and then I prayed
That he would rest, and let me stanch the wound.
He motioned me to fly, and then lay down
Upon the rock, and died! This is his grave,
His home and mine. Ask ye now why I dwell
Upon the rock, and loathe the vale beneath?
From The Improvisatrice
CRESCENTIUS (or THE EXECUTION OF CRESCENTIUS)
I LOOKED upon his brow, -- no sign
Of guilt or fear were there,
He stood as proud by that death shrine
As even o'er Despair
He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,
A spirit that could dare
The deadliest form that Death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.
He stood, the fetters on his hand, --
He raised them haughtily;
And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high
With freer pride than it waved now.
Around he looked with changeless brow
On many a torture nigh:
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.
I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,
And tens of thousands thronged the road
And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,
And graved with many a dint that told
Of many a soldier's deed;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume on the gale.
But now he stood chained and alone,
The headsman by his side,
The plume, the helm, the charger, gone;
The sword, which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near;
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncovered eye;
A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who thronged to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,
A nation's funeral cry,
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot, and her latest one.
From The Improvisatrice
THE CRUSADER
HE is come from the land of the sword and shrine,
From the sainted battles of Palestine;
The snow-plumes wave o'er his victor crest,
Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast.
His courser is black as black can be,
Save the brow star white as the foam of the sea,
And he wears a scarf of 'broidery rare,
The last love-gift of his lady fair:
It bore for device a cross and a dove,
And the words, "I am vowed to my God and my love!"
He comes not back the same that he went,
For his sword has been tried, and his strength has been spent;
His golden hair has a deeper brown,
And his brow has caught a darker frown,
And his lip hath lost its boyish red,
And the shade of the South o'er his cheek is spread;
But stately his step, and his bearing high,
And wild the light of his fiery eye;
And proud in the lists were the maiden bright
Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her knight.
But he rides for the home he has pined to see
In the court, in the camp, in captivity.
He reached the castle,--the gate was thrown
Open and wide, but he stood there alone;
He entered the door,--his own step was all
That echoed within the deserted hall;
He stood on the roof of the ancient tower,
And for banner there waved one pale wall-flower;
And for sound of the trumpet and sound of the horn,
Came the scream of the owl on the night-wind borne;
And the turrets were falling, the vassals were flown,
And the bat ruled the halls he had thought his own.
His heart throbbed high: oh, never again
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain,
He never might think on his boyish years
Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears
Which Hope and Memory shed when they meet.
The grave of his kindred was at his feet:
He stood alone, the last of his race,
With the cold wide world for his dwelling-place.
The home of his fathers gone to decay,--
All but their memory was pass'd away;
No one to welcome, no one to share
The laurel he no more was proud to wear:
He came in the pride of his war success
But to weep over very desolateness.
They pointed him to a barren plain
Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain;
They showed him the lowly grave, where slept
The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept;
But they could not show him one living thing
To which his withered heart could cling. . . .
Amid the warriors of Palestine
Is one, the first in the battle-line;
It is not for glory he seeks the field,
For a blasted tree is upon his shield,
And the motto he bears is, "I fight for a grave:"
He found it--that warrior has died with the brave!
From The Improvisatrice
CUPID AND SWALLOWS FLYING FROM WINTER
BY DAGLEY
"We fly from the cold."
AWAY , away, o'er land and sea,
This is now no home for me;
My light wings may never bear
Northern cloud or winter air.
Murky shades are gathering fast,
Sleet and snow are on the blast,
Trees from which the leaves are fled,
Flowers whose very roots are dead,
Grass of its green blade bereft,
These are all that now are left.
--Linger here another day,
I shall be as sad as they;
My companions fly with spring,
I too must be on the wing.
Where are the sweet gales whose song
Wont to waft my darts along?
Scented airs! oh, not like these,
Rough as they which sweep the seas;
But those sighs of rose which bring
Incense from their wandering.
Where are the bright flowers that kept
Guard around me while I slept?
Where the sunny eyes whose beams
Waken'd me from my soft dreams?—
These are with the swallows gone,--
Beauty's heart is chill'd to stone.
Oh! for some sweet southern clime,
Where 'tis ever summer time,--
Where, if blossoms fall, their tomb
Is amid new birth of bloom,--
Where green leaves are ever springing,
Where the lark is always singing,--
One of those bright isles which lie
Fair beneath an azure sky,
Isles of cinnamon and spice,
Shadow each of Paradise,--
Where the flowers shine with dyes,
Tinted bright from the sun-rise,--
Where the birds which drink their dew,
Wave wings of yet brighter hue,
And each river's course is roll'd
Over bed of pearl and gold!
Oh! for those lime-scented groves
Where the Spanish lover roves,
Tuning to the western star,
His soft song and light guitar,--
Where the dark hair'd girls are dancing,
Fairies in the moonlight glancing,
With pencill'd brows, and radiant eyes,
Like their planet-lighted skies!
Or those clear Italian lakes
Where the silver cygnet makes
Its soft nest of leaf and flower,
A white lily for its bower!
Each of these a home would be,
Fit for beauty and for me:
I must seek their happier sphere
While the Winter lords it here.
From The Troubadour
At present, I am unable to find any image of this painting.
CURTIUS
There is a multitude, in number like
The waves of the wide ocean; and as still
As are those waters, when the summer breeze
Sleeps on the moveless billow; there is awe
On every countenance; and each does stand
In gasping breathlessness, as terror chain'd
The life pulse down; or, as they deem'd, a sound
Might call down new destruction on their heads—
The sun look'd smiling from his clear blue throne,
And nature seem'd to gladden in the ray ;
When suddenly a cloud came over heaven,
A black and terrible shadow, as the gloom
Of the destroying angel's form ; the wind
Swept past with hollow murmur; and the birds
Ceasing their song of joyfulness, with mute,
And quick, and tremulous flight, for shelter sought!
Fear was on every living thing : the earth
Trembled as she presag'd some coming ill;
The voice of thunder spake ; and in the midst
Of that proud city, in the midst of Rome,
The ground was riven in twain ; and in the spot,
Where human steps had but so lately been,
There yawn'd a fearful gulf, dark as the powers
Of hell were gather'd there—no eye might scan
That fathomless abyss; the augur's voice
Hath told the will of heaven—nought may close
That gulf of terror, till it is the grave
Of all Rome holds most precious. Then came forth
A youthful warrior—" What is dear to Rome,
But patriot valour ? Ye infernal Gods,
Who now look wrathful from your deep abodes,
Behold your ready sacrifice !" He comes,
Arm'd as for battle, save no plumed helm
His black hair presses : he is on the steed
Which has so often borne him to the field.—
Young Curtius came, but with a brow as firm,
And cheek unchang'd, as he was wont to wear,
When he essay'd the glorious strife of men ;
Pride glanced upon his eye—but pride that seem'd
As a remembrance of the higher state
In which aspiring spirits move ; whose thoughts
Of avarice, indolence, and selfish care,
The chains of meaner ones, have given way
Before the mighty fire of the high soul—
Whose hope is immortality, whose steps
Are steps of flame, on which the many gaze,
But dare not follow. He on moment paus'd,
And cast a farewell look on all around.
How beautiful must be the sky above,
And fair the earth beneath, to him who gives
A lingering look, and knows it is his last!—
Then onward urg'd his courser. Hark! a voice,
A wild shriek rings upon the air : he turn'd,
And his glance fell on her, his own dear love.
She rush'd upon his bosom silently,
As if her life were in that last embrace.
All was so still around, that every sob,
And the heart's throb of agony, were heard.
He clasp'd her, without power to soothe her grief,
But press'd her coral lip—did never flower
Yield fresher incense forth !—and kiss'd away
The tears on her pale cheek, then on her gaz'd.—
All his deep feeling, anguish, high resolves,
And love intense, were in that passionate glance.
He clasp'd her wildly, and his dark eye swam
In tenderness ; but he has nerv'd his soul—
He has spurr'd on—and the dread gulf is clos'd !
From The Fate of Adelaide
THE DANISH WARRIOR'S DEATH SONG
AWAY , away! your care is vain;
No leech could aid me now;
The chill of death is at my heart,
Its damp upon my brow.
Weep not--I shame to see such tears
Within a warrior's eyes:
Away! how can ye weep for him
Who in the battle dies?
If I had died with idle head
Upon my lady's knee—
Had Fate stood by my silken bed,
Then might ye weep for me.
But I lie on my own proud deck
Before the sea and sky;
The wind that sweeps my gallant sails
Will have my latest sigh.
My banner floats amid the clouds,
Another droops below:
Well with my heart's best blood is paid
Such purchase from a foe.
Go ye and seek my halls, there dwells
A fair-hair'd boy of mine;
Give him my sword, while yet the blood
Darkens that falchion's shine.
Tell him that only other blood
Should wash such stains away;
And if he be his father's child,
There needs no more to say.
Farewell, my bark! farewell, my friends!
Now fling me on the wave;
One cup of wine, and one of blood,
Pour on my bounding grave.
From The Vow of The Peacock
Original in The Keepsake, 1828 (anonymous)
THE DESERTER
Alas, for the bright promise of our youth!
How soon the golden chords of hope are broken,
How soon we find that dreams we trusted most
Are very shadows.
‘TWAS a sweet summer morn,--the lark had just
Sprang from the clover bower around her nest,
And poured her blithe song to the clouds; the sun
Shed his first crimson o'er the dark grey walls
Of the old church, and stained the sparkling panes
Of ivy-covered windows. The damp grass,
That waved in wild luxuriance round the graves,
Was white with dew, but early steps had been
And left a fresh green trace round yonder tomb:
'Twas a plain stone, but graven with a name
That many stopped to read--a Soldier's name--
And two were kneeling by it, one who had
Been weeping; she was widow to the brave,
Upon whose quiet bed her tears were falling.
From off her cheek the rose of youth had fled,
But beauty still was there, that softened grief,
Whose bitterness is gone, but which was felt
Too deeply for forgetfulness; her look,
Fraught with high feelings and intelligence,
And such as might beseem the Roman dame
Whose children died for liberty, was made
More soft and touching by the patient smile
Which piety had given the unearthly brow,
Which Guido draws when he would form a saint
Whose hopes are fixed on Heaven, but who has yet
Some earthly feelings binding them to life.
Her arm was leant upon a graceful youth,
The hope, the comfort of her widowhood;
He was departing from her, and she led
The youthful soldier to his father's tomb--
As in the visible presence of the dead
She gave her farewell blessing; and her voice
Lost its so tremulous accents as she bade
Her child tread in that father's steps, and told
How brave, how honoured he had been. But when
She did entreat him to remember all
Her hopes were centered in him, that he was
The stay of her declining years, that he
Might be the happiness of her old age,
Or bring her down with sorrow to the grave,
Her words grew inarticulate, and sobs
Alone found utterance; and he whose cheek
Was flushed with eagerness, whose ardent eye
Gave animated promise of the fame
That would be his, whose ear already rang
With the loud trumpet's war song, felt these dreams
Fade for a moment, and almost renounced
The fields he panted for, since they must cost
Such tears as these. The churchyard left, they pass'd
Down by a hawthorn hedge, where the sweet May
Had showered its white luxuriance, intermixed
With crimson clusters of the wilding rose,
And linked with honeysuckle. O'er the path
Many an ancient oak and stately elm
Spread its green canopy. How EDWARD'S eye
Lingered on each familiar sight, as if
Even to things inanimate he would bid
A last farewell! They reached the cottage gate;
His horse stood ready; many, too, were there,
Who came to say Good-by, and kindly wish
To the young soldier health and happiness.
It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling
To know we are regretted. "Farewell" said
And oft repeated, one last wild embrace
Given to his pale mother, who stood there,
Her cold hands prest upon a brow as cold,
In all the bursting heart's full agony--
One last last kiss--he sprang upon his horse,
And urged his utmost speed with spur and rein.
He is past . . . out of sight. . . .
The muffled drum is rolling, and the low
Notes of the death-march float upon the wind,
And stately steps are pacing round that square
With slow and measured tread; but every brow
Is darkened with emotion, and stern eyes,
That looked unshrinking on the face of death,
When met in battle, are now moist with tears.
The silent ring is formed, and in the midst
Stands the Deserter! Can this be the same,
The young, the gallant EDWARD? and are these
The laurels promised in his early dreams?
Those fettered hands, this doom of open shame!
Alas, for young and passionate spirits! Soon
False lights will dazzle. He had madly joined
The rebel banner! Oh 'twas pride to link
His fate with ERIN'S patriot few, to fight
For liberty or the grave! But he was now
A prisoner; yet there he stood, as firm
As though his feet were not upon the tomb:
His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold;
But his lip trembled not, and his dark eyes
Glanced proudly round. But when they bared his breast
For the death-shot, and took a portrait thence,
He clenched his hands, and gasped, and one deep sob
Of agony burst from him; and he hid
His face awhile--his mother's look was there.
He could not steel his soul when he recalled
The bitterness of her despair. It passed--
That moment of wild anguish; he knelt down;
That sunbeam shed its glory over one,
Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy;
The next fell over cold and bloody clay. . . .
There is a deep-voiced sound from yonder vale
Which ill accords with the sweet music made
By the light birds nestling by those green elms,
And a strange contrast to the blossomed thorns.
Dark plumes are waving, and a silent hearse
Is winding through that lane. They told it bore
A widow, who died of a broken heart:
Her child, her soul's last treasure,--he had been
Shot for desertion!
From The Improvisatrice
DIRGE
Oh, calm be thy slumbers !
The cypress shall wave,
The harp pour its numbers
Of grief o'er thy grave.
I'll scatter each blossom
Upon thy cold stone :
The rose's white bosom,
Pure, fair, as thine own ;
The violet glowing,
Blue, like to thine eyes ;
The jessamine, throwing
Its sweets, like thy sighs.
Like thee, they'll be gather'd
All fresh in their prime ;
Like thee, they'll be wither'd
Before it is time :
The flowers we strew o'er thee,
Will fade like thy bloom;
Like the hearts that adore thee,
They'll die on thy tomb !
From The Fate of Adelaide
THE DYING CHILD
The woman was in abject misery—that worst of poverty, which is haunted by shame—the only relic left by better days. She shrunk from all efforts at recovery, refused to administer the medicines, and spoke of the child's death but as a blessing.
My God! and is the daily page of life
Darken'd with wretchedness like this?
HER cheek is flush'd with fever red;
Her little hand burns in my own;
Alas! and does pain rack her sleep?
Speak! for I cannot bear that moan.
Yet sleep, I do not wish to look
Again within those languid eyes;
Sleep, though again the heavy lash
May never from their beauty rise.
—Aid, hope for me?—now hold thy peace,
And take that healing cup away:
Life, length of life, to that poor child!—
It is not life for which I pray.
Why should she live for pain, for toil,
For wasted frame, and broken heart;
Till life has only left, in death,
With its base fear of death to part!
How could I bear to see her youth
Bow'd to the dust by abject toil,
Till misery urge the soul to guilt,
From which its nature would recoil?
The bitterness of poverty,
The shame that adds the worst to woe,—
I think upon the life I've known,
Upon the life that I shall know.
Look through yon street,—a hundred lamps
Are lighting up the revels there,—
Hark! you can hear the distant laugh
Blending with music on the air.
The rich dwell there, who know not want;
Who loathe that wretchedness whose name
Is there an unfamiliar sound:—
Why is not my estate the same?
I may have sinn'd, and punishment
For that most ignorant sin incur;
But be the curse upon my head,—
Oh, let it not descend to her!
Sleep, dear one! 'tis a weary world;
Sleep the sweet slumber of the grave!
Vex me no more with thy vain words:
What worth is that you seek to save?
Tears—tears—I shame that I should weep;
I thought my heart had nerved my eye:—
I should be thankful, and I will,—
There, there, my child, lie down and die!
From The Venetian Bracelet
EDITH
WEEP not, weep not, that in the spring
We have to make a grave;
The flowers will grow, the birds will sing,
The early roses wave;
And make the sod we're spreading fair,
For her who sleeps below:
We might not bear to lay her there
In winter frost and snow.
We never hoped to keep her long,
When but a fairy child,
With dancing step, and birdlike song,
And eyes that only smiled;
A something shadowy and frail
Was even in her mirth;
She look'd a flower that one rough gale
Would bear away from earth.
There was too clear and blue a light
Within her radiant eyes;
They were too beautiful, too bright,
Too like their native skies:
Too changeable the rose which shed
Its colour on her face,
Now burning with a passionate red,
Now with just one faint trace.
She was too thoughtful for her years,
Its shell the spirit wore;
And when she smiled away our fears,
We only feared the more.
The crimson deepen'd on her cheek,
Her blue eyes shone more clear,
And every day she grew more weak,
And every hour more dear.
Her childhood was a happy time,
The loving and beloved;
Yon sky which was her native clime
Hath but its own removed.
This earth was not for one, to whom
Nothing of earth was given;
'Twas but a resting-place, her tomb,
Between the world and heaven.
From The Vow of The Peacock
Original in The Keepsake, 1832
THE EMERALD RING (or THE RING)
A SUPERSTITION
IT is a gem which hath the power to show
If plighted lovers keep their faith, or no:
If faithful, it is like the leaves of spring;
If faithless, like those leaves when withering.
Take back your emerald gem,
There is no colour in the stone;
It might have graced a diadem,
But now its hue and light are gone!
Take back your gift, and give me mine--
The kiss that sealed our last love-vow;
Ah, other lips have been on thine,--
My kiss is lost and sullied now!
The gem is pale, the kiss forgot,
And, more than either, you are changed;
But my true love has altered not,
My heart is broken--not estrange.
From The Improvisatrice
THE ENCHANTED ISLAND
BY DANBY
AND there the island lay, the waves around
Had never known a storm; for the north wind
Was charm'd from coming, and the only airs
That blew brought sunshine on their azure wings,
Or tones of music from the sparry caves,
Where the sea-maids make lutes of the pink conch.
These were sea breezes,--those that swept the land
Brought other gifts,--sighs from blue violets,
Or from June's sweet Sultana, the bright rose,
Stole odours. On the silver mirror's face
Was but a single ripple that was made
By a flamingo's beak, whose scarlet wings
Shone like a meteor on the stream: around,
Upon the golden sands, were coral plants,
And shells of many colours, and sea weeds,
Whose foliage caught and chain'd the Nautilus,
Where lay they as at anchor. On each side
Were grottoes, like fair porticoes with steps
Of the green marble; and a lovely light,
Like the far radiance of a thousand lamps,
Half-shine, half-shadow, or the glorious track
Of a departing star but faintly seen
In the dim distance, through those caverns shone,
And play'd o'er the tall trees which seem'd to hide
Gardens, where hyacinths rang their soft bells
To call the bees from the anemone,
Jealous of their bright rivals' golden wealth.
--Amid those arches floated starry shapes,
Just indistinct enough to make the eye
Dream of surpassing beauty; but in front,
Borne on a car of pearl, and drawn by swans,
There lay a lovely figure,--she was queen
Of the Enchanted Island, which was raised
From ocean's bosom but to pleasure her:
And spirits, from the stars, and from the sea,
The beautiful mortal had them for her slaves.
She was the daughter of a king, and loved
By a young Ocean Spirit from her birth,--
He hover'd o'er her in her infancy,
And bade the rose grow near her, that her cheek
Might catch its colour,--lighted up her dreams
With fairy wonders, and made harmony
The element in which she moved; at last,
When that she turn'd away from earthly love,
Enamour'd of her visions, he became
Visible with his radiant wings, and bore
His bride to the fair island.
From The Troubadour
There is a painting with this title in wikigallery. However, it does not appear to be the one described here unless Letitia invented the car of pearl drawn by swans. However, the literature refers to Danby's celebrated picture of 'The Enchanted Island', so here it is:
