The Lay of Marie - And Vignettes in Verse | Page 4

restor'd.
As generous
themes engag'd my tongue
In pleadings for the fond and young:

Towards his child the father leant,
In fast-subsiding discontent:
I
made that father's claims be felt,
And saw the rash, the stubborn, melt;

Nay, once, subdued, a rebel knelt.
"Thus skill'd, from pity's warm excess,
The aching spirit to caress;

Profuse of her ideal wealth,
And rich in happiness and health,
An
alien, class'd among the poor,
Unheeded, from her precious store,

Its best and dearest tribute brought;
The zeal of high, adventurous
thought,
The tender awe in yielding aid,
E'en of its own soft hand
afraid!
Stealing, through shadows, forth to bless,
Her venturous
service knew no bound;
Yet shrank, and trembled, when success
Its
earnest, fullest wishes crown'd!
This alien sinks, opprest with woe,

And have you nothing to bestow?
No language kind, to sooth or
cheer?--
No soften'd voice,--no tender tear?--
No promise which
may hope impart?
No fancy to beguile the heart;
To chace those
dreary thoughts away,
And waken from this deep dismay!
"Is it that station, power, or pride,
Can human sympathies divide?

Or is she deem'd a thing of art,
Form'd only to enact a part,
Whose
nice perceptions all belong
To modulated thought and song,
And, in
fictitious feeling thrown,
Lie waste or callous in her own?
"Is it from poverty of soul;
Or does some fear some doubt, controul?

So round the heart strong fibres strain,
That it attempts to beat in
vain?
Does palsy on your feelings hang,
Deaden'd by some severer
pang?

If so, behold, my eyes o'erflow!
For, O! that anguish well I
know!
When once that fatal stroke is given,--
When once that finest
nerve is riven,
Our love, our pity, all are o'er;
We even sooth
ourselves no more!
"Back, hurrying feelings! to the time
I learnt to clothe my thoughts in
rhyme!
When, climbing up my father's knees,
I gaily sang, secure to

please!
Rounded his pale and wasted cheek,
And won him, in his
turn, to speak:
When, for reward, I closer prest,
And whisper'd
much, and much carest;
With timorous eye, and head aside,
Half
ask'd, and laugh'd, and then denied;
Ere I again petition made
To
hear the often-told crusade.
How, knowing hardship but by name,

Misled by friendship and by fame,
His parents' wishes he disdain'd,

With zeal, nor real quite, nor feign'd;
And fought on many a famous
spot;--
The suffering of a captive's lot;
My Georgian mother's
daring flight;
The day's concealment, march by night;
Her death,
when, touching Christian ground,
They deem'd repose and safety
found:
How, on his arm, by night and day,
I, then a happy infant,
lay,
And taught him not to mourn, but pray.
How, when, at length,
he reach'd his home,
His heart foretold a gentle doom;
With tears of
fondness in his eyes,
Hoping to cause a glad surprize;
Full of
submission, pondering o'er
What he too lightly priz'd before;
The
curse with tenfold vengeance fell.--
Those who had lov'd him once so
well,
In whose indulgence perfect trust
Had still been wise, though
most unjust,
Were in the grave!--Their hearts were cold!
His
penitence might still be told--
Told to the winds! for few would hear,

Or, hearing, deem that tale sincere
His patrimony's lord denied,

Who, hardening in possession's pride,
Affirm'd the rightful owner
died.
"A victim from devouring strife,
And slavery, return'd with life;

Possessions, honours, parents gone,
The very hand that urg'd him on,

Now, by its stern repelling, tore
The veil that former falsehood
wore!
"When he first bar'd his heart before thy view,
Told all its inmost
beatings--told them true;
Nay, e'en the pulse, the secret, trembling
thrill,
On which the slightest touch alone would trill [Errata: kill];
While thou, with secret aim, collected art,
Didst wind around that
bold, confiding heart,
And, in its warm and healthful breathings fling


A subtle poison, and a deadly sting!
"Where shall we else so fell a traitor find?
The wilful, hard misleader
of the blind
And what can be the soul-perverter's meed,
Plotting to
lure his friend to such a deed,
As made self-hatred on the conscience
lay
That heavy weight she never moves away?
O! where the good
man's inner barriers close
'Gainst the world's cruel judgments, and his
foes
Enfolding truth, and prayer, and soul's repose,
Thine is a
mournful numbness, or a din,
For many strong accusers lurk within!
"And, since this fatal period, in thine eyes
A shrewd and unrelaxing
witness lies;
While, on the specious language of the tongue,
Deceit
has hateful, warning accents hung;
And outrag'd nature, struggling
with a smile,
Announces nought but discontent and guile;
Each
trace of fair, auspicious meaning flown,
All that makes man by man
belov'd and known.
Silence, indignant thought! forego thy sway!

Silence! and let me measure on my way!
"Soul-struck, and yielding to his fate,
My father left his castle gate.

'Thou,' he would cry, with flowing eyes,
'That moment wert the
sacrifice!
Little, alas! avails to thee
Wealth, honours, titles, ancestry;

All lost by me! I dar'd to lift
On high thy welfare, as a gift!
To
save thee, dearest, dar'd resign
Thy worldly good! it was not mine!

But, O! I felt around thee twin'd
My very self,--my heart and mind!

All that may chance is dead to me,
Save only as it touches thee!

Could self-infliction but atone
For one who lives in thee alone;
If
my repentance and my tears
Could spare thy future smiling years,

The fatal curse should only rest
Upon this firm, though guilty breast?

Yet, tendering from thy vessel's freight
Offerings