The Lay of Marie - And Vignettes in Verse | Page 2

fate suggests is
sufficiently removed from narration to be natural, or not near it enough
to be clear, the judgment of others must determine. No wish or
determination to have it one way or another, in sentiment, stile, or story,
influenced its composition; though, occasionally, lines previously
written are interwoven; and, in one instance, a few that have been
published.

Her Twelve Lays are added in a second Appendix, as curious in
themselves, and illustrative of the manners and morals of an age when
they formed the amusement of the better orders.
THE LAY OF MARIE.
CANTO FIRST.
The guests are met, the feast is near,
But Marie does not yet appear!

And to her vacant seat on high
Is lifted many an anxious eye.
The
splendid show, the sumptuous board,
The long details which feuds
afford,
And discontent is prone to hold,
Absorb the factious and the
cold;--
Absorb dull minds, who, in despair,
The standard grasp of
worldly care,
Which none can quit who once adore--
They love,
confide, and hope no more;
Seek not for truth, nor e'er aspire
To
nurse that immaterial fire,
From whose most healthful warmth
proceed
Each real joy and generous deed;
Which, once extinct, no
toil or pain
Can kindle into life again,
To light the then unvarying
eye,
To melt, in question or reply,
Those tones, so subtil and so
sweet,
That none can look for, none repeat;
Which, self-impell'd,
defy controul,--
They bear the signet of the soul;
And, as attendants

of their flight,
Enforce persuasion and delight.
Words that an instant have reclin'd
Upon the pillow of the mind,
Or
caught, upon their rapid way,
The beams of intellectual day,
Pour
fresh upon the thirsty ear,
O'erjoy'd, and all awake to hear,
Proof
that in other hearts is known
The secret language of our own.
They
to the way-worn pilgrim bring
A draught from Rapture's sparkling
spring;
And, ever welcome, are, when given,
Like some few
scatter'd flowers from heaven;
Could such in earthly garlands twine,

To bloom by others less divine.
Where does this idle Minstrel stay?
Proud are the guests, august the
day;
And princes of the realm attend
The triumph of their
sovereign's friend;--
Triumph of stratagem and fight
Gain'd o'er a
young and gallant knight,
Who, the last fort compell'd to yield,

Perish'd, despairing, in the field.
The Norman Chief, whose sudden blow
Had laid fair England's
banner low;
Spite of resistance firm and bold
Secur'd the latest,
surest hold
Its sceptre touch'd across the main,
Important, difficult
to gain,
Easy against her to retain;--
Baron de Brehan--seem'd to
stand
An alien in his native land;
One whom no social ties endear'd

Except his child; and she appear'd
Unconsciously to prompt his
toil,--
Unconsciously to take the spoil
Of hate and treason; and,
'twas said,
The pillage of a kinsman dead,
Whom, for his large
domain, he slew:
'Twas whisper'd only,--no one knew.
At tale of
murderous deed, his ear
No startling summons seem'd to hear;
Yet
should some sudden theme intrude
Of friend betray'd--ingratitude;--

Or treacherous counsel--follies nurs'd
In ardent minds, who, dying,
curs'd
The guileful author of their woes;
His troubled look would
then disclose
Some secret anguish, inward care,
Which mutely,
sternly, said, Forbear!
He spake of policy and right,
Of bold exploits in recent fight,--
Of

interest, and the common weal,
Of distant empire, slow appeal.

Skill'd to elicit thoughts unknown
In other minds, and hide his own,

His brighter eye, in darting round
Their purposes and wishes found.

Praises, and smiles, and promise play'd
Around his speech; which
yet convey'd
No meaning, when, the moment past,
Memory retold
her stores at last.
Courtiers were there, the old and young,
Of high and haughty lineage
sprung;
And jewell'd matrons: some had been,
Erewhile, spectators
of a scene
Like this, with mien and manners gay;
Who now, their
hearts consum'd away,
Held all the pageant in disdain,
And seem'd
to smile and speak with pain.
Of such were widows, who deplor'd

Husbands long lost, but still ador'd;
To grace their children, fierce and
proud,
Like martyrs led into the crowd:
Mothers, their sole
remaining stay,
In some dear son, late snatch'd away;
Whose duty
made them better brook
Their lords' high tone and careless look;

Whose praises had awaken'd pride
In bosoms dead to all beside.
Warriors, infirm with battles grown,
Were there, in languid grandeur
thrown
On the low bench, who seem'd to say,
"Our mortal vigour
wanes away;"
And gentle maid, with aspect meek,
While cloud-like
blushes cross her cheek,
Restless awaits the Minstrel's power
To
dispossess the present hour,
And by a spirit-seizing charm,
Her
thoughts employ, her fancy warm,
And snatch her from the mute
distress
Of conscious, breathless bashfulness.
Young knights, who never tamely wait,
Crowd in the porch, or near
the gate,
By quick return, and sudden throng,
Announcing the
expected song.
The Minstrel comes, and, by command,
Before the nobles of the land,

In her poor order's simple dress,
Grac'd only by the native tress,

A flowing mass of yellow'd light,
Whose bold swells gleam with
silver bright,
And dove-like shadows sink from sight.
Those long,

soft locks, in many a wave
Curv'd with each turn her figure gave;

Thick, or if threatening to divide,
They still by sunny meshes hide;

Eluding, by commingling lines,
Whatever severs or defines.
Amid the crowd of beauties there,
None were so exquisitely fair;

And, with the tender, mellow'd air,
The taper, flexile, polish'd limb,

The form so perfect, yet so slim,
And movement, only thought to
grace
The dark and yielding