Songs In Many Keys | Page 4

city, far and wide,?Their wandering feet have strayed,?From Alpine lake to ocean tide,?And cold Sierra's shade.
At length they see the waters gleam?Amid the fragrant bowers?Where Lisbon mirrors in the stream?Her belt of ancient towers.
Red is the orange on its bough,?To-morrow's sun shall fling?O'er Cintra's hazel-shaded brow?The flush of April's wing.
The streets are loud with noisy mirth,?They dance on every green;?The morning's dial marks the birth?Of proud Braganza's queen.
At eve beneath their pictured dome?The gilded courtiers throng;?The broad moidores have cheated Rome?Of all her lords of song.
AH! Lisbon dreams not of the day--?Pleased with her painted scenes--?When all her towers shall slide away?As now these canvas screens!
The spring has passed, the summer fled,?And yet they linger still,?Though autumn's rustling leaves have spread?The flank of Cintra's hill.
The town has learned their Saxon name,?And touched their English gold,?Nor tale of doubt nor hint of blame?From over sea is told.
Three hours the first November dawn?Has climbed with feeble ray?Through mists like heavy curtains drawn?Before the darkened day.
How still the muffled echoes sleep!?Hark! hark! a hollow sound,--?A noise like chariots rumbling deep?Beneath the solid ground.
The channel lifts, the water slides?And bares its bar of sand,?Anon a mountain billow strides?And crashes o'er the land.
The turrets lean, the steeples reel?Like masts on ocean's swell,?And clash a long discordant peal,?The death-doomed city's knell.
The pavement bursts, the earth upheaves?Beneath the staggering town!?The turrets crack--the castle cleaves--?The spires come rushing down.
Around, the lurid mountains glow?With strange unearthly gleams;?While black abysses gape below,?Then close in jagged seams.
And all is over. Street and square?In ruined heaps are piled;?Ah! where is she, so frail, so fair,?Amid the tumult wild?
Unscathed, she treads the wreck-piled street,?Whose narrow gaps afford?A pathway for her bleeding feet,?To seek her absent lord.
A temple's broken walls arrest?Her wild and wandering eyes;?Beneath its shattered portal pressed,?Her lord unconscious lies.
The power that living hearts obey?Shall lifeless blocks withstand??Love led her footsteps where he lay,--?Love nerves her woman's hand
One cry,--the marble shaft she grasps,--?Up heaves the ponderous stone:--?He breathes,--her fainting form he clasps,--?Her life has bought his own!
PART FIFTH
THE REWARD
How like the starless night of death?Our being's brief eclipse,?When faltering heart and failing breath?Have bleached the fading lips!
The earth has folded like a wave,?And thrice a thousand score,?Clasped, shroudless, in their closing grave,?The sun shall see no more!
She lives! What guerdon shall repay?His debt of ransomed life??One word can charm all wrongs away,--?The sacred name of WIFE!
The love that won her girlish charms?Must shield her matron fame,?And write beneath the Frankland arms?The village beauty's name.
Go, call the priest! no vain delay?Shall dim the sacred ring!?Who knows what change the passing day,?The fleeting hour, may bring?
Before the holy altar bent,?There kneels a goodly pair;?A stately man, of high descent,?A woman, passing fair.
No jewels lend the blinding sheen?That meaner beauty needs,?But on her bosom heaves unseen?A string of golden beads.
The vow is spoke,--the prayer is said,--?And with a gentle pride?The Lady Agnes lifts her head,?Sir Harry Frankland's bride.
No more her faithful heart shall bear?Those griefs so meekly borne,--?The passing sneer, the freezing stare,?The icy look of scorn;
No more the blue-eyed English dames?Their haughty lips shall curl,?Whene'er a hissing whisper names?The poor New England girl.
But stay!--his mother's haughty brow,--?The pride of ancient race,--?Will plighted faith, and holy vow,?Win back her fond embrace?
Too well she knew the saddening tale?Of love no vow had blest,?That turned his blushing honors pale?And stained his knightly crest.
They seek his Northern home,--alas?He goes alone before;--?His own dear Agnes may not pass?The proud, ancestral door.
He stood before the stately dame;?He spoke; she calmly heard,?But not to pity, nor to blame;?She breathed no single word.
He told his love,--her faith betrayed;?She heard with tearless eyes;?Could she forgive the erring maid??She stared in cold surprise.
How fond her heart, he told,--how true;?The haughty eyelids fell;--?The kindly deeds she loved to do;?She murmured, "It is well."
But when he told that fearful day,?And how her feet were led?To where entombed in life he lay,?The breathing with the dead,
And how she bruised her tender breasts?Against the crushing stone,?That still the strong-armed clown protests?No man can lift alone,--
Oh! then the frozen spring was broke;?By turns she wept and smiled;--?"Sweet Agnes!" so the mother spoke,?"God bless my angel child
"She saved thee from the jaws of death,--?'T is thine to right her wrongs;?I tell thee,--I, who gave thee breath,--?To her thy life belongs!"
Thus Agnes won her noble name,?Her lawless lover's hand;?The lowly maiden so became?A lady in the land!
PART SIXTH
CONCLUSION
The tale is done; it little needs?To track their after ways,?And string again the golden beads?Of love's uncounted days.
They leave the fair ancestral isle?For bleak New England's shore;?How gracious is the courtly smile?Of all who frowned before!
Again through Lisbon's orange bowers?They watch the river's gleam,?And shudder as her shadowy towers?Shake in the trembling stream.
Fate parts at length the fondest pair;?His cheek, alas! grows pale;?The breast that trampling death could spare?His noiseless shafts assail.
He longs