The Lay of Marie - And Vignettes in Verse | Page 3

Eastern race;
As if on pure and brilliant
day
Repose, as soft as moonlight, lay.
Reluctant still she seem'd,--her feet
Sought slowly the appointed seat:

Her hand, oft lifting to her head,
She lightly o'er her forehead
spread;
Then the unconscious motion check'd,
And, struggling with
her own neglect,
Seem'd as she but by effort found
The presence of
an audience round.
Meanwhile the murmurings died away
Which spake impatience of
delay:
A pitying wonder, new and kind,
Arose in each beholder's
mind:
They saw no scorn to meet reproof,
No arrogance to keep
aloof;
Her air absorb'd, her sadden'd mien,
Combin'd the mourning,
captive queen,
With her who at the altar stands
To raise aloft her
spotless hands,
In meek and persevering prayer,
For such as falter
in despair.
All that was smiling, bright, and gay,
Youth's show of
triumph during May,
Its roseate crown, was snatch'd away!
Yet
sorrows, which had come so soon,
Like tender morning dew repos'd,

O'er hope and joy as softly clos'd
As moist clouds on the light at
noon.
Opprest by some heart-withering pang,
Upon her harp she seem'd to
hang

Awhile o'erpower'd--then faintly sang:
"Demand no lay of long-past times;
Of foreign loves, or foreign
crimes;
Demand no visions which arise
To Rapture's eager, tearless
eyes!
Those who can travel far, I ween,
Whose strength can reach a

distant scene,
And measure o'er large space of ground,
Have not,
like me, a deadly wound!
Near home, perforce, alas, I stray,

Perforce pursue my destin'd way,
Through scenes where all my
trouble grows,
And where alone remembrance flows.
Like evening
swallows, still my wings
Float round in low, perpetual rings;
But
never fold the plume for rest
One moment in the tranquil nest;
And
have no strength to reach the skies,
No power, no hope, no wish to
rise!
"Blame me not, Fancy, if I now restrain
Thy wandering footsteps,
now thy wings confine;
Tis the decree of Fate,--it is not mine!
For I
would let thee free and widely stray--
Would follow gladly, tend thee
on thy way,
And never of the devious track complain,
Never thy
wild and sportive flights disdain!
Though reasonless those graceful
moods may be,
They still, alas! were passing sweet to me.
"Unhappy that I am, compell'd to bind
This murmuring captive! one
who ever strove
By each endearing art to win my love;
Who, ever
unoffending, ever bright,
Danc'd in my view, and pleas'd me to
delight!
She scatter'd showers of lilies on my mind;
For, oh! so fair,
so fresh, and so refin'd,
Her child-like offerings, without thorns to
pain,
Without one canker'd wound, or earthly stain.
"And, darling! as my trembling fingers twine
Those fetters round
thee, they are wet with tears!
For the sweet playmate of my early
years
I cannot thus afflict, nor thus resign
My equal liberty, and not
repine!
For I had made thee, infant as thou art,
Queen of my hopes,
my leisure, and my heart;
Given thee its happiest laugh, its sweetest
tear,
And all I found or conquer'd every year.
"I blame me now I let thy sports offend
Old Time, and laid thy snare
within his path
To make him falter, as it often hath;
For he grew
angry soon, and held his breath,
And hurried on, in frightful league
with Death,
To make the way through which my footsteps bend,


Late rich in all that social scenes attend,
A desert; and with thee I
droop, I die,
Beneath the look of his malignant eye.
"Me do triumphant heroes call
To grace with harp their festal hall?

O! must my voice awake the song?--
My skill the artful tale prolong?

Yes! I am call'd--it is my doom!
Unhappily, ye know not whom,

Nor what, impatient ye demand!
How hostile now the fever'd hand,

Across these chords unwilling thrown,
To echo plainings of my own!

Little indeed can ye divine
What song ye ask who call for mine!
"Till now, before the courtly crowd
I humbly and I gaily bow'd;

The blush was not to shame allied
Which on my glowing cheek I
wore;
No lowly seemings pain'd nay pride,
My heart was laughing
at the core;
And sometimes, as the stream of song
Bore me with
eddying haste along,
My father's spirit would arise,
And speak
strange meaning from these eyes,
At which a conscious cheek would
quail,
A stern and lofty bearing fail:
Then could a chieftain
condescend
In me to recognize his friend!
Then could a warrior low
incline
His eye, when it encounter'd mine!
A tone can make the
guilty start!
A glance can pierce the conscious heart,
Encountering
memory in its flight,
Most waywardly! Such wounds are slight;
But
I withdraw the painful light!
"Fair lords and princes! many a time
For you I wove my pictur'd
rhyme;
Refin'd new thoughts and fancies crude
In deep and careful
solitude;
'And, when my task was finish'd, came
To seek the meed
of praise or blame;
While, even then, untir'd I strove
To serve
beneath the yoke of love.
Whene'er I mark'd a fearful look,

When
pride, or when resentment, spoke,
I bent the tenor of my strain,
And
trembled lest it were in vain.
By many an undiscover'd wile
I
brought the pallid lip to smile,
Clear'd the maz'd thought for ampler
scope,
Sustain'd the flagging wings of hope;
And threw a mantle
over care
Such as the blooming Graces wear!
I made the friend
resist his pride,
Scarce aiming what he felt to hide
From other eyes,

his own implor'd
That kindness were again