Chapter XLIII: Part II (6)

Now fair thou art,
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart!
Yet all the vision that within me wrought,
I cannot make thee. Oh! I might have given
Birth to creations of far nobler thought;
I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,
Things not of such as die! But I have been
Too much alone! A heart whereon to lean,
With all these deep affections that o’erflow
My aching soul, and find no shore below;
An eye to be my star; a voice to bring
Hope o’er my path like sounds that breathe of spring?
These are denied me--dreamt of still in vain.
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain
Are ever but as some wild fitful song,
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long
In dirge-like echoes.

IV.

Yet the world will see
Little of this, my parting work! in thee.
Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed
From storms a shelter--give the drooping vine
Something round which its tendrils may entwine--
Give the parch’d flower a rain-drop, and the meed
Of love’s kind words to woman! Worthless fame!
That in _his_ bosom wins not for my name
Th’ abiding place it ask’d! Yet how my heart,
In its own fairy world of song and art,
Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o’er?
That which I have been can I be no more?
Never! oh, never more! though still thy sky
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!
And though the music, whose rich breathings fill
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still;
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams.
Never! oh, never more! Where’er I move,
The shadow of this broken-hearted love
Is on me and around! Too well _they_ know
Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled! But I go
Under the silent wings of peace to dwell;
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words--“_in vain_,”
Sear’d on the heart--I go. ’Twill soon be past!
Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven,
And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth--who know’st not what was given
In that devotedness--the sad, and deep,
And unrepaid--farewell! If I could weep
Once, only once, beloved one! on thy breast,
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!
But that were happiness!--and unto me
Earth’s gift is _fame_. Yet I was form’d to be
So richly bless’d! With thee to watch the sky,
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh;
With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept even as part of our sweet air along--
To listen silently; with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days--
This had been joy enough; and hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,
How had my spirit soar’d, and made its fame
A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams!--The fire
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name--
As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hush’d--awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive
Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o’er memory, mournfully profound;
I leave it, on my country’s air to dwell--
Say proudly yet--“_’Twas hers who loved me well_!”

GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH.

[The Baron Von der Wart, accused--though it is believed unjustly--as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonising hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled _Gertrude Von der Wart; or, Fidelity unto Death_.]

“Dark lowers our fate,
And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us;
But nothing, till that latest agony
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose
This fix’d and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,
In the terrific face of armed law,
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be,
I never will forsake thee.” Joanna Baillie.

Her hands were clasp’d, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed--
All that she loved was there.
The night was round her clear and cold,
The holy heaven above,
Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.

“And bid me not depart,” she cried;
“My Rudolph, say not so!
This is no time to quit thy side--
Peace! peace! I cannot go.
Hath the world aught for _me_ to fear,
When death is on thy brow?
The world! what means it? _Mine is here_--
I will not leave thee now.

“I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss;
Doubt not its memory’s living power
To strengthen me through _this_!
And thou, mine honour’d love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!
We have the blessed heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won.”

And were not these high words to flow
From woman’s breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;
But oh! with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek--
Love, Love! of mortal agony
Thou, only _thou_, shouldst speak!

The wind rose high--but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:--
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;
While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,
And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had still’d his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o’er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press’d
As hope and joy ne’er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!
She had her meed--one smile in death--
And his worn spirit pass’d!
While even as o’er a martyr’s grave
She knelt on that sad spot,
And, weeping, bless’d the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not.

IMELDA.

“Sometimes
The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,
And loved when they should hate--like thee, Imelda!”[346]
Italy; a Poem.

“Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma.”--Tasso.

We have the myrtle’s breath around us here,
Amidst the fallen pillars: this hath been
Some Naiad’s fane of old. How brightly clear,
Flinging a vein of silver o’er the scene,
Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells,
And music with it, gushing from beneath
The ivied altar! That sweet murmur tells
The rich wild-flowers no tale of woe or death;
Yet once the wave was darken’d, and a stain
Lay deep, and heavy drops--but not of rain--
On the dim violets by its marble bed,
And the pale-shining water-lily’s head.

Sad is that legend’s truth.--A fair girl met
One whom she loved, by this lone temple’s spring.
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set,
And eve’s low voice in whispers woke, to bring
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair,
With the blue heaven of Italy above,
And citron-odours dying on the air,
And light leaves trembling round, and early love
Deep in each breast. What reck’d _their_ souls of strife
Between their fathers? Unto them young life
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years;
And if they wept, they wept far other tears
Than the cold world brings forth. They stood, that hour,
Speaking of hope; while tree, and fount, and flower,
And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs,
Seem’d holy things, as records of their vows.

But change came o’er the scene. A hurrying tread
Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew
The footstep of her brother’s wrath, and fled
Up where the cedars make yon avenue
Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught--
Was it the clash of swords? A swift dark thought
Struck down her lip’s rich crimson as it pass’d,
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook
Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more,
She still’d her heart to listen--all was o’er;
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh,
Bearing the nightingale’s deep spirit by.

That night Imelda’s voice was in the song--
Lovely it floated through the festive throng
Peopling her father’s halls. That fatal night
Her eye look’d starry in its dazzling light,
And her cheek glow’d with beauty’s flushing dyes,
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies--
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze
Follow’d her form beneath the clear lamp’s blaze,
And marvell’d at its radiance. But a few
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue
With something of dim fear; and in that glance
Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest,
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance,
Where Thought, if present, an unbidden guest,
Comes not unmask’d. Howe’er this were, the time
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime
Alike: and when the banquet’s hall was left
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft;
When trembling stars look’d silvery in their wane,
And heavy flowers yet slumber’d, once again
There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone,
Through the dim cedar shade--the step of one
That started at a leaf, of one that fled,
Of one that panted with some secret dread.
What did Imelda there? She sought the scene
Where love so late with youth and hope had been.
Bodings were on her soul; a shuddering thrill
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad’s rill
Met her with melody--sweet sounds and low:
We hear them yet, they live along its flow--
_Her_ voice is music lost! The fountain-side
She gain’d--the wave flash’d forth--’twas darkly dyed
Even as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge,
Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep,
There lay, as lull’d by stream and rustling sedge,
A youth, a graceful youth. “Oh! dost thou sleep?
Azzo!” she cried, “my Azzo! is this rest?”
But then her low tones falter’d:--“On thy breast
Is the stain--yes, ’tis blood! And that cold cheek--
That moveless lip!--thou dost not slumber?--speak,
Speak, Azzo, my beloved! No sound--no breath--
What hath come thus between our spirits? Death!
Death?--I but dream--I dream!” And there she stood,
A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood,
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown,
Her form sustain’d by that dark stem alone,
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old,
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold;
When from the grass her dimm’d eye caught a gleam--
’Twas where a sword lay shiver’d by the stream--
Her brother’s sword!--she knew it; and she knew
’Twas with a venom’d point that weapon slew!
Woe for young love! But love is strong. There came
Strength upon woman’s fragile heart and frame;
There came swift courage! On the dewy ground
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round
Like a long silken stole; she knelt, and press’d
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo’s breast,
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight!
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night!
--So the moon saw them last.
The morn came singing
Through the green forests of the Apennines,
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging,
And steps and voices out amongst the vines.
What found that dayspring _here?_ Two fair forms laid
Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade
Casting a gleam of beauty o’er the wave,
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the grave?
Could it be so indeed? That radiant girl,
Deck’d as for bridal hours!--long braids of pearl
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining,
As tears might shine, with melancholy light;
And there was gold her slender waist entwining;
And her pale graceful arms--how sadly bright;
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying,
And round her marble brow red roses dying.
But she died first!--the violet’s hue had spread
O’er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress’d;
She had bow’d heavily her gentle head,
And on the youth’s hush’d bosom sunk to rest.
So slept they well!--the poison’s work was done;
Love with true heart had striven--but Death had won.

[346] The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi’s _Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. iii. p. 443.

EDITH.

A TALE OF THE WOODS.[347]

“Du Heilige! rufe dein Kind zuruck
Ich habe genossen das irdische Gluck,
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.” Wallenstein.

The woods--oh! solemn are the boundless woods
Of the great western world when day declines,
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods,
More deep the rustling of the ancient pines.
When dimness gathers on the stilly air,
And mystery seems o’er every leaf to brood,
Awful it is for human heart to bear
The might and burden of the solitude!
Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there sate
One young and fair; and oh! how desolate!
But undismay’d--while sank the crimson light,
And the high cedars darken’d with the night.
Alone she sate; though many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,
Were sever’d from her need and from her woe,
Far as death severs life. O’er that wild spot
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low,
And left them, with the history of their lot,
Unto the forest oaks--a fearful scene
For her whose home of other days had been
Midst the fair halls of England! But the love
Which fill’d her soul was strong to cast out fear;
And by its might upborne all else above,
She shrank not--mark’d not that the dead were near.
Of him alone she thought, whose languid head
Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell;
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled,
While heavily she felt his life-blood well
Fast o’er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound--
Yet hoped, still hoped! Oh! from such hope how long
Affection woos the whispers that deceive,
Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong!
And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne’er believe
The blow indeed can fall. So bow’d she there
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer
Fill’d all her soul. Now pour’d the moonlight down,
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown,
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place,
Cast fitful radiance o’er the warrior’s face.
Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye,
The eye that faded look’d through gathering haze,
Whence love, o’ermastering mortal agony,
Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze,
When voice was not; that fond, sad meaning pass’d--
She knew the fulness of her woe at last!
One shriek the forests heard--and mute she lay
And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death!
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth.
Many and sad!--but airs of heavenly breath
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth
Is far apart.

Now light, of richer hue
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew;
The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play’d;
Bright-colour’d birds with splendour cross’d the shade,
Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke
From reed, and spray, and leaf--the living strings
Of earth’s Æolian lyre, whose music woke
Into young life and joy all happy things.
And she, too, woke from that long dreamless trance,
The widow’d Edith: fearfully her glance
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange,
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change
Flash’d o’er her spirit, even ere memory swept
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept;
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread
Her arms, as ’twere for something lost or fled,
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough,
With all its whispers, waved not o’er her now.
Where was she? Midst the people of the wild,
By the red hunter’s fire: an aged chief,
Whose home look’d sad--for therein play’d no child--
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief,
To that lone cabin of the woods; and there,
Won by a form so desolately fair,
Or touch’d with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung,
O’er her low couch an Indian matron hung;
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye,
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by,
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head,
And leaning on his bow.

And life return’d--
Life, but with all its memories of the dead,
To Edith’s heart; and well the sufferer learn’d
Her task of meek endurance--well she wore
The chasten’d grief that humbly can adore
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair,
Even as a breath of spring’s awakening air,
Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen
A daughter to the land of spirits go;
And ever from that time her fading mien,
And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low,
Had haunted their dim years: but Edith’s face
Now look’d in holy sweetness from her place,
And they again seem’d parents. Oh! the joy,
The rich deep blessedness--though earth’s alloy,
Fear, that still bodes, be there--of pouring forth
The heart’s whole power of love, its wealth and worth
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow,
On something all its own! that kindly glow,
Which to shut inward is consuming pain,
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again,
When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares
Th’ adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs
Who loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the while
With the departed, and her patient smile
Spoke of farewells to earth; yet still she pray’d,
E’en o’er her soldier’s lowly grave, for aid
_One_ purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place
Had been among the wilds; for well she knew
The secret whisper of her bosom true,
Which warn’d her hence.

And now, by many a word
Link’d unto moments when the heart was stirr’d--
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn,
Sung when the woods at eve grew hush’d and dim--
By the persuasion of her fervent eye,
All eloquent with childlike piety--
By the still beauty of her life she strove
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love
Pour’d out on her so freely. Nor in vain
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain
The soul in gentle bonds; by slow degrees
Light follow’d on, as when a summer breeze
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade,
And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was made
Even such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide,
By faith and sorrow raised and purified,
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led,
Until their prayers were one. When morning spread
O’er the blue lake, and when the sunset’s glow
Touch’d into golden bronze the cypress bough,
And when the quiet of the Sabbath-time
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime
Waken’d the wilderness, their prayers were one.
Now might she pass in hope--her work was done:
And she _was_ passing from the woods away--
The broken flower of England might not stay
Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright
Even yet with something of a starry light,
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak,
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh
Of autumn through the forests had gone by,
And the rich maple o’er her wanderings lone
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown,
Flushing the air; and winter’s blast had been
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green
Fringed their dark boughs: for spring again had come,
The sunny spring! but Edith to her home
Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad
To part with life when all the earth looks glad
In her young lovely things--when voices break
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake:
Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time,
If _here_ such glory dwell with passing blooms,
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs?
So thought the dying one. ’Twas early day,
And sounds and odours, with the breezes’ play
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door,
Unto her couch life’s farewell sweetness bore.
Then with a look where all her hope awoke,
“My father!”--to the gray-hair’d chief she spoke--
“Know’st thou that I depart?” “I know, I know,”
He answer’d mournfully, “that thou must go
To thy beloved, my daughter!” “Sorrow not
For me, kind mother!” with meek smiles once more
She murmur’d in low tones: “one happy lot
Awaits us, friends! upon the better shore;
For we have pray’d together in one trust,
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own,
Under the cedar shade: where he is gone,
Thither I go. There will my sisters be,
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee
My childhood’s prayer was learn’d--the Saviour’s prayer
Which now _ye_ know--and I shall meet you there.
Father and gentle mother! ye have bound
The bruisèd reed, and mercy shall be found
By Mercy’s children.” From the matron’s eye
Dropp’d tears, her sole and passionate reply.
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep
Solemnly beautiful--a stillness deep,
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow,
And mantling up his stately head in woe,
“Thou’rt passing hence,” he sang, that warrior old,
In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll’d.

“Thou’rt passing from the lake’s green side,
And the hunter’s hearth away:
For the time of flowers, for the summer’s pride,
Daughter! thou canst not stay.

“Thou’rt journeying to thy spirit’s home,
Where the skies are ever clear:
The corn-month’s golden hours will come,
But they shall not find thee here.

“And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
Under our whispering pine;
Music shall midst the leaves be heard,
But not a song like thine.

“A breeze that roves o’er stream and hill,
Telling of winter gone,
Hath such sweet falls--yet caught we still
A farewell in its tone.

“But thou, my bright one! thou shalt be
Where farewell sounds are o’er;
Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt see
No fear of parting more.

“The mossy grave thy tears have wet,
And the wind’s wild moanings by,
Thou with thy kindred shalt forget,
Midst flowers--not such as die.

“The shadow from thy brow shall melt
The sorrow from thy strain,
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt
Our hearts shall thirst in vain.

“Dim will our cabin be, and lone,
When thou, its light, art fled;
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown
Unto the happy dead.

“And we will follow thee, our guide!
And join that shining band;
Thou’rt passing from the lake’s green side--
Go to the better land!”

The song had ceased, the list’ners caught no breath:
That lovely sleep had melted into death.

[347] Founded on incidents related in an American work, “Sketches of Connecticut.”

THE INDIAN CITY.[348]

“What deep wounds ever closed without a sear?
The heart’s bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it.” Childe Harold.

[348] From a tale in Forbes’s _Oriental Memoirs_.

I.

Royal in splendour went down the day
On the plain where an Indian city lay,
With its crown of domes o’er the forest high,
Red, as if fused in the burning sky;
And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made
A bright stream’s way through each long arcade,
Till the pillar’d vaults of the banian stood
Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood;
And the plantain glitter’d with leaves of gold,
As a tree midst the genii gardens old,
And the cypress lifted a blazing spire,
And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire.
Many a white pagoda’s gleam
Slept lovely round upon lake and stream,
Broken alone by the lotus flowers,
As they caught the glow of the sun’s last hours,
Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed
Its glory forth on their crystal bed.
Many a graceful Hindoo maid,
With the water-vase from the palmy shade,
Came gliding light as the desert’s roe,
Down marble steps, to the tanks below;
And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard,
As the molten glass of the wave was stirr’d,
And a murmur, thrilling the scented air,
Told where the Bramin bow’d in prayer.

--There wander’d a noble Moslem boy
Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy;
He gazed where the stately city rose,
Like a pageant of clouds, in its red repose;
He turn’d where birds through the gorgeous gloom
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume;
He track’d the brink of the shining lake,
By the tall canes feather’d in tuft and brake;
Till the path he chose, in its mazes, wound
To the very heart of the holy ground.

And there lay the water, as if enshrined
In a rocky urn, from the sun and wind,
Bearing the hues of the grove on high,
Far down through its dark still purity.
The flood beyond, to the fiery west,
Spread out like a metal mirror’s breast;
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep,
Seem’d made for the swimmer’s joyous leap,
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase,
For all free things of the wild wood’s race.

Like a falcon’s glance on the wide blue sky,
Was the kindling flash of the boy’s glad eye;
Like a sea-bird’s flight to the foaming wave,
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave;
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white,
O’er the glossy leaves in its young delight,
And bowing his locks to the waters clear--
Alas! he dreamt not that fate was near.

His mother look’d from her tent the while,
O’er heaven and earth with a quiet smile:
She, on her way unto Mecca’s fane,
Had stay’d the march of her pilgrim train,
Calmly to linger a few brief hours
In the Bramin city’s glorious bowers;
For the pomp of the forest, the wave’s bright fall,
The red gold of sunset--she loved them all.

II.

The moon rose clear in the splendour given
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven;
The boy from the high-arch’d woods came back--
Oh! what had he met in his lonely track?
The serpent’s glance, through the long reeds bright?
The arrowy spring of the tiger’s might?
No! yet as one by a conflict worn,
With his graceful hair all soil’d and torn,
And a gloom on the lids of his darken’d eye,
And a gash on his bosom--he came to die!
He look’d for the face to his young heart sweet,
And found it, and sank at his mother’s feet.
“Speak to me! whence doth the swift blood run
What hath befallen thee, my child, my son?”
The mist of death on his brow lay pale,
But his voice just linger’d to breathe the tale,
Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn,
And wounds from the children of Brahma borne
This was the doom for a Moslem found
With a foot profane on their holy ground--
This was for sullying the pure waves, free
Unto them alone--’twas their god’s decree.

A change came o’er his wandering look--
The mother shriek’d not then nor shook:
Breathless she knelt in her son’s young blood,
Rending her mantle to stanch its flood;
But it rush’d like a river which none may stay,
Bearing a flower to the deep away.
That which our love to the earth would chain,
Fearfully striving with heaven in vain--
That which fades from us, while yet we hold,
Clasp’d to our bosoms, its mortal mould,
Was fleeting before her, afar and fast;
One moment--the soul from the face had pass’d!
Are there no words for that common woe?
Ask of the thousands its depth that know!
The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest,
Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast;
He had stood, when she sorrow’d, beside her knee,
Painfully stilling his quick heart’s glee;
He had kiss’d from her cheek the widow’s tears,
With the loving lip of his infant years:
He had smiled o’er her path like a bright spring day--
Now in his blood on the earth he lay!
_Murder’d!_ Alas! and we love so well
In a world where anguish like this can dwell!

She bow’d down mutely o’er her dead--
They that stood round her watch’d in dread;
They watch’d--she knew not they were by--
Her soul sat veil’d in its agony.
On the silent lip she press’d no kiss--
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this:
She shed no tear, as her face bent low
O’er the shining hair of the lifeless brow;
She look’d but into the half-shut eye
With a gaze that found there no reply,
And, shrieking, mantled her head from sight,
And fell, struck down by her sorrow’s might.

And what deep change, what work of power,
Was wrought on her secret soul that hour?
How rose the lonely one? She rose
Like a prophetess from dark repose!
And proudly flung from her face the veil,
And shook the hair from her forehead pale,
And midst her wondering handmaids stood,
With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood--
Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky
A brow in its regal passion high,
With a close and rigid grasp she press’d
The blood-stain’d robe to her heaving breast,
And said--“Not yet, not yet I weep,
Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep!
Not till yon city, in ruins rent,
Be piled for its victim’s monument.
Cover his dust! bear it on before!
It shall visit those temple gates once more.”

And away in the train of the dead she turn’d,
The strength of her step was the heart that burn’d;
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled,
As the mother pass’d with her slaughter’d child.

III.

Hark! a wild sound of the desert’s horn
Through the woods round the Indian city borne,
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar--
War! ’tis the gathering of Moslem war!
The Bramin look’d from the leaguer’d towers--
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers;
And the lake that flash’d through the plantain shade,
As the light of the lances along it play’d;
And the canes that shook as if winds were high,
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by;
And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea,
Wide round the sheltering banian-tree.

There stood one tent from the rest apart--
That was the place of a wounded heart.
Oh! deep is a wounded heart, and strong
A voice that cries against mighty wrong;
And full of death as a hot wind’s blight,
Doth the ire of a crush’d affection light.

Maimuna from realm to realm had pass’d,
And her tale had rung like a trumpet’s blast.
There had been words from her pale lips pour’d,
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword.
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear,
And the dark chief of Araby grasp’d his spear,
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall,
And a vow was recorded that doom’d its fall.
Back with the dust of her son she came,
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame;
She came in the might of a queenly foe,
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow;
But a deeper power on her forehead sate--
_There_ sought the warrior his star of fate:
Her eye’s wild flash through the tented line
Was hail’d as a spirit and a sign,
And the faintest tone from her lip was caught
As a sibyl’s breath of prophetic thought.

Vain, bitter glory!--the gift of grief,
That lights up vengeance to find relief,
Transient and faithless! It cannot fill
So the deep void of the heart, nor still
The yearning left by a broken tie,
That haunted fever of which we die!

Sickening she turn’d from her sad renown,
As a king in death might reject his crown.
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way--
_She_ wither’d faster from day to day:
All the proud sounds of that banner’d plain,
To stay the flight of her soul were vain;
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn
The frail dust, ne’er for such conflicts born,
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come
For its fearful rushing through darkness home.

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride,
As on that eve when the fair boy died:
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell
O’er her weary heart with the day’s farewell;
She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone,
Had an echo of feelings that long seem’d flown.
She murmur’d a low sweet cradle-song,
Strange midst the din of a warrior throng--
A song of the time when her boy’s young cheek
Had glow’d on her breast in its slumber meek.
But something which breathed from that mournful strain
Sent a fitful gust o’er her soul again;
And starting, as if from a dream, she cried--
“Give him proud burial at my side!
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave,
When the temples are fallen, make there our grave.”
And the temples fell, though the spirit pass’d,
That stay’d not for victory’s voice at last;
When the day was won for the martyr dead,
For the broken heart and the bright blood shed.

Through the gates of the vanquish’d the Tartar steed
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed;
Free swept the flame through the idol fanes,
And the streams glow’d red, as from warrior veins;
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay,
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey,
Till a city of ruin begirt the shade
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid.

Palace and tower on that plain were left,
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft;
The wild vine mantled the stately square,
The Rajah’s throne was the serpent’s lair,
And the jungle grass o’er the altar sprung--
This was the work of one deep heart wrung!

THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.

----“There is but one place in the world--
Thither, where he lies buried!
...
There, there is all that still remains of him:
That single spot is the whole earth to me.”

Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

“Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.”--Childe Harold.

There went a warrior’s funeral through the night,
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone,
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,
Under the moaning trees, the home-hoof’s tread
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains pass’d; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o’er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves’ low shiver,
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,
Wore man’s mute anguish sternly;--but of _one_,
Oh, who shall speak? What words _his_ brow unveil?
A father following to the grave his son!--
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,
Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly train,
With youth’s fair form upon the bier laid low--
Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain,
Stretch’d by its broken lance. They reach’d the lone
Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shudder’d through the pile,
Till crested heads at last in silence bent
Round the De Coucis’ antique monument,
When dust to dust was given:--and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broider’d folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o’er fields of Palestine.
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave;
And the pale image of a youth, array’d
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid
In slumber on his shield. Then all was done--
All still around the dead. His name was heard
Perchance when wine-cups flow’d, and hearts were stirr’d
By some old song, or tale of battle won
Told round the hearth. But in his father’s breast
Manhood’s high passions woke again, and press’d
On to their mark; and in his friend’s clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life’s rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave’s dark side;
Alas! to think of this!--the heart’s void place
Fill’d up so soon!--so like a summer cloud,
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace!--
He lay forgotten in his early shroud.
Forgotten?--not of all! The sunny smile
Glancing in play o’er that proud lip erewhile,
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw
A gladness round, whene’er their shade withdrew
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying
Within that eagle eye’s jet radiance deep,
And all the music with that young voice dying,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter’s bugle--these things lived
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day,
On Aymer’s tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Through the dim fane soft summer odours breathing,
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
Through storied windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love--a secret love and lowly;
And the rose image all things fleet and fair;
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
To blush through every season? Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods; but duly still
For years those gorgeous coronals renew’d,
And brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even through mid-winter, fill’d the solitude
With a strange smile--a glow of summer’s realm.
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring
Its youth’s vain worship on the dust, adoring
In lone devotedness!
One spring morn rose,
And found, within that tomb’s proud shadow laid--
Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose
From the fierce noon--a dark-hair’d peasant maid.
Who could reveal her story? That still face
Had once been fair; for on the clear arch’d brow
And the curved lip there linger’d yet such grace
As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low
The deep black lashes, o’er the half-shut eye--
For death was on its lids--fell mournfully.
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair
Dimm’d, the slight form all wasted, as by care.
Whence came that early blight? _Her_ kindred’s place
Was not amidst the high De Couci race;
Yet there her shrine had been! She grasp’d a wreath,
The tomb’s last garland!--This was love in death.

INDIAN WOMAN’S DEATH-SONG.

[An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband’s desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long’s “Expedition to the Source of St Peter’s River.”]

“Non, je ne puis vivre avec un cœur brise. Il faut que je retrouve
la joie, et que je m’unisse aux esprits libres de l’air.”

“Bride of Messina.” Translated by Madame de Stael.

“Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman.”
“The Prairie.”

Down a broad river of the western wilds,
Piercing thick forest-glooms, a light canoe
Swept with the current: fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest’s wing
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray
Rose with the cataract’s thunder. Yet within,
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone,
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,
A woman stood! Upon her Indian brow
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved
As if triumphantly. She press’d her child,
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile
Above the sound of waters, high and clear,
Wafting a wild proud strain--a song of death.

“Roll swiftly to the spirits’ land, thou mighty stream and free!
Father of ancient waters,[349] roll! and bear our lives with thee!
The weary bird that storms have toss’d would seek the sunshine’s
calm,
And the deer that hath the arrow’s hurt flies to the woods of balm.

“Roll on!--my warrior’s eye hath look’d upon another’s face,
And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a moonbeam’s trace:
My shadow comes not o’er his path, my whisper to his dream--
He flings away the broken reed. Roll swifter yet, thou stream!

“The voice that spoke of other days is hush’d within _his_ breast,
But _mine_ its lonely music haunts, and will not let me rest;
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that is gone--
I cannot live without that light. Father of waves! roll on!

“Will he not miss the bounding step that met him from the chase?
The heart of love that made his home an ever-sunny place?
The hand that spread the hunter’s board, and deck’d his couch of
yore?--
He will not! Roll, dark foaming stream, on to the better shore!

“Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright land must flow,
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory of this woe;
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose breath may waft away
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of the day.

“And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for woman’s weary lot,
Smile!--to that wasting of the heart, my own! I leave thee not;
Too bright a thing art _thou_ to pine in aching love away--
Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn! from sorrow and decay.

“She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none are heard to weep,
And where th’ unkind one hath no power again to trouble sleep;
And where the soul shall find its youth, as wakening from a dream:
One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, dark-rolling stream!”

[349] “Father of waters,” the Indian name for the Mississippi.

JOAN OF ARC IN RHEIMS.

[“Jeanne d’Arc avait eu la joie de voir à Chalons quelques amis de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore l’attendait à Rheims, au sein de son triomphe: Jacques d’Arc, son père, y se trouva, aussitôt que de troupes de Charles VII. y furent entrées; et comme les deux frères de notre héroine l’avaient accompagnée, elle se vit pour un instant au milieu de sa famille, dans les bras d’un père vertueux.”--_Vie de Jeanne d’Arc_.]

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame!
A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earth-born frame
Above mortality:
Away! to me--a woman--bring
Sweet waters from affection’s spring!

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old,
When peal on peal of mighty music roll’d
Forth from her throng’d cathedral; while around,
A multitude, whose billows made no sound,
Chain’d to a hush of wonder, though elate
With victory, listen’d at their temple’s gate.
And what was done within? Within, the light,
Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight--
The chivalry of France their proud heads bowing
In martial vassalage! While midst that ring,
And shadow’d by ancestral tombs, a king
Received his birth-right’s crown. For this, the hymn
Swell’d out like rushing waters, and the day
With the sweet censer’s misty breath grew dim,
As through long aisles it floated o’er th’ array
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone
And unapproach’d, beside the altar-stone,
With the white banner forth like sunshine streaming,
And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance gleaming.
Silent and radiant stood? The helm was raised,
And the fair face reveal’d, that upward gazed,
Intensely worshipping--a still, clear face,
Youthful, but brightly solemn! Woman’s cheek
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek,
Yet glorified, with inspiration’s trace
On its pure paleness; while, enthroned above,
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love,
Seem’d bending o’er her votaress. That slight form!
Was that the leader through the battle-storm?
Had the soft light in that adoring eye
Guided the warrior where the swords flash’d high?
’Twas so, even so!--and thou, the shepherd’s child,
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild!
Never before, and never since that hour,
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power,
Stood forth as _thou_ beside the shrine didst stand,
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land,
And, beautiful with joy and with renown,
Lift thy white banner o’er the olden crown,
Ransom’d for France by thee!

The rites are done.
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken,
And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken,
And come thou forth, that heaven’s rejoicing sun
May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies,
Daughter of victory! A triumphant strain,
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies,
Gush’d through the portals of the antique fane,
And forth she came. Then rose a nation’s sound:
Oh! what a power to bid the quick heart bound,
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer
Man gives to glory on her high career!
Is there indeed such power?--far deeper dwells
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells
Whence happiness flows forth! The shouts that fill’d
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still’d
One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone,
As of a breeze that o’er her home had blown,
Sank on the bright maid’s heart. “Joanne!”--Who spoke
Like those whose childhood with _her_ childhood grew
Under one roof? “Joanne!”--_that_ murmur broke
With sounds of weeping forth! She turn’d--she knew
Beside her, mark’d from all the thousands there,
In the calm beauty of his silver hair,
The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy,
From his dark eye flash’d proudly; and the boy,
The youngest born, that ever loved her best:--
“Father! and ye, my brothers!” On the breast
Of that gray sire she sank--and swiftly back,
Even in an instant, to their native track
Her free thoughts flow’d. She saw the pomp no more
The plumes, the banners: to her cabin-door,
And to the Fairy’s Fountain in the glade,[350]
Where her young sisters by her side had play’d,
And to her hamlet’s chapel, where it rose
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose,
Her spirit turn’d. The very wood-note, sung
In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt
Where o’er her father’s roof the beech leaves hung,
Was in her heart; a music heard and felt,
Winning her back to nature. She unbound
The helm of many battles from her head,
And, with her bright locks bow’d to sweep the ground,
Lifting her voice up, wept for joy and said--
“Bless me, my father! bless me! and with thee,
To the still cabin and the beechen tree,
Let me return!”

Oh! never did thine eye
Through the green haunts of happy infancy
Wander again, Joanne! Too much of fame
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name;
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price--
The trusting heart’s repose, the paradise
Of home, with all its loves--doth fate allow
The crown of glory unto woman’s brow.

[350] A beautiful fountain, near Domremi, believed to be haunted by fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d’Arc in her childhood.

PAULINE.

To die for what we love! Oh! there is power
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this:
It is to live without the vanish’d light
That strength is needed.

“Cosi trapassa al trapassar d’un Giorno
Della vita mortal il fiore e’l verde.” Tasso.

Along the starlit Seine went music swelling,
Till the air thrill’d with its exulting mirth;
Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling
For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth;
And a glad sound the measure lightly beat,
A happy chime of many dancing feet.

For in a palace of the land that night,
Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung;
And from the painted walls, a stream of light
On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung;
But loveliest far amidst the revel’s pride
Was one--the lady from the Danube side.[351]

Pauline, the meekly bright! though now no more
Her clear eye flash’d with youth’s all-tameless glee,
Yet something holier than its dayspring wore,
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see;
A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught--
The blending of deep love and matron thought.

Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair,
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky
Sat on her brow beneath its graceful hair,
As her young daughter in the dance went by,
With the fleet step of one that yet hath known
Smiles and kind voices in this world alone.

Lurk’d there no secret boding in her breast?
Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh?
Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest
Midst the light laughter of festivity.
Whence come those tones? Alas! enough we know
To mingle fear with all triumphal show!

Who spoke of evil when young feet were flying
In fairy rings around the echoing hall?
Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing,
Glad pulses beating unto music’s call?
Silence!--the minstrels pause--and hark! a sound,
A strange quick rustling which their notes had drown’d!

And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking--
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed!
From the gay dream of revelry awaking,
One moment holds them still in breathless dread.
The wild fierce lustre grows: then bursts a cry--
_Fire!_ through the hall and round it gathering--fly!

And forth they rush, as chased by sword and spear,
To the green coverts of the garden bowers--
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear,
Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers:
While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven.

And where is she--Pauline? The hurrying throng
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast
Might sweep some faint o’erwearied bird along--
Till now the threshold of that death is past,
And free she stands beneath the starry skies,
Calling her child--but no sweet voice replies.

“Bertha! where art thou? Speak! oh! speak, my own!”
Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while,
The gentle girl, in fear’s cold grasp alone,
Powerless had sunk within the blazing pile;
A young bright form, deck’d gloriously for death,
With flowers all shrinking from the flame’s fierce breath!

But oh! thy strength, deep love! There is no power
To stay the mother from that rolling grave,
Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower,
And forth like banners from each lattice wave:
Back, back she rushes through a host combined--
Mighty is anguish, with affection twined!

And what bold step may follow, midst the roar
Of the red billows, o’er their prey that rise?
None!--Courage there stood still--and never more
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes!
Was one bright meeting theirs, one wild farewell?
And died they heart to heart?--Oh! who can tell?

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke
On that sad palace, midst its pleasure shades;
Its painted roofs had sunk--yet black with smoke
And lonely stood its marble colonnades:
But yester eve their shafts with wreaths were bound,
Now lay the scene one shrivell’d scroll around!

And bore the ruins no recording trace
Of all that woman’s heart had dared and done?
Yes! there were gems to mark its mortal place,
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone!
Those had the mother, on her gentle breast,
Worn round her child’s fair image, there at rest.

And they were all!--the tender and the true
Left this alone her sacrifice to prove,
Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew,
To deep lone chasten’d thoughts of grief and love.
Oh! we have need of patient faith below,
To clear away the mysteries of such woe!

[351] The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story of her fate is beautifully related in _L’Allemagne_, vol. iii. p. 336.

JUANA.

[Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state, in a magnificent dress; and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of returning life.]

It is but dust thou look’st upon. This love,
This wild and passionate idolatry,
What doth it in the shadow of the grave?
Gather it back within thy lonely heart,
So must it ever end: too much we give
Unto the things that perish.

The night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace room,
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous gloom,
And o’er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red,
Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the dead.

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see,
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and step were
free:
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay,
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty’s array.