The Lay of Marie - And Vignettes in Verse | Page 6

head, and, with deep sighs,
Shook the large
tear-drops from her eyes;
And, ere they dried upon her cheek,

Before she gather'd force to speak,
Convulsively her fingers play'd,

While his proud heart the prelude met,
Aiming at calmness, though
dismay'd,
A loud, high measure, like a threat;
Soon sinking to that
lower [Errata: slower] swell
Which love and sorrow know so well.
"How solemn is the sick man's room
To friends or kindred lingering
near!
Poring on that uncertain gloom
In silent heaviness and fear!
"How sad, his feeble hand in thine,
The start of every pulse to share!

With painful haste each wish divine,
Yet fed the hopelessness of
care!
"To turn aside the full-fraught eye,
Lest those faint orbs perceive the
tear!
To bear the weight of every sigh,
Lest it should reach that
wakeful ear!
"In the dread stillness of the night,
To lose the faint, faint sound of
breath!
To listen in restrain'd affright,
To deprecate each thought of
death!
"And, when a movement chas'd that fear,
And gave thy heart-blood
leave to flow,
In thrilling awe the prayer to hear
Through the clos'd
curtain murmur'd low!
"The prayer of him whose holy tongue
Had never yet exceeded truth!

Upon whose guardian care had hung
The whole dependence of thy
youth!
"Who, noble, dauntless, frank and mild,
Was, for his very goodness,
fear'd;
Belov'd with fondness like a child,
And like a blessed saint
rever'd!
"I have known friends--but who can feel
The kindness such a father

knew?
I serv'd him still with tender zeal,
But knew not then how
much was due!
"And did not Providence ordain
That we should soon be laid as low,

No heart could such a stroke sustain,--
No reason could survive the
blow!
"After that fatal trial came,
The world no longer was the same.
I
still had pleasures:--who could live
Without the healing aid they give?

But, as a plant surcharg'd with rain,
When radiant sunshine comes
again,
Just wakes from a benumbing trance,
I caught a feverish,
fitful glance.
The dove, that for a weary time
Had mourn'd the
rigour of the clime,
And, with its head beneath its wing,
Awaited a
more genial spring,
Went forth again to search around,
And some
few leaves of olive found,
But not a bower which could impart
Its
interchange of light and shade;
Not that soft down, to warm the heart,

Of which her former nest was made.
Smooth were the waves, the
ether clear,
Yet all was desert, cold, and drear!
"Affection, o'er thy clouded sky
In flocks the birds of omen fly;

And oft the wandering harpy, Care,
Must thy delicious viands share:

But all the soul's interior light,
All that is soothing, sweet, and
bright,
All fragrance, softness, colour, glow,
To thee, as to the sun,
we owe!
"Years past away! swift, varied years!
I learnt the luxury of tears;

And all the orphan's wretched lot,
'Midst those she pleas'd and serv'd,
forgot.
"By turns applauded and despis'd,
Till one appear'd who duly priz'd;

Bound round my heart a welcome chain,
And earthward lur'd its
hopes again;
When, careless of all worldly weal,
By Fancy only
taught to feel,
My raptur'd spirit soar'd on high,

With momentary
power to fly;
Or sang its deep, indignant moan,
With swells of

anguish, when alone.
"Yet lovely dreams could I evoke
Of future happiness and fame--
I
did not bow to kiss the yoke,
But welcom'd every joy that came.
"Often would self-complacence spread
Harmonious halos round my
head;
And all my being own'd awhile
The warm diffusion of her
smile.
"One morn they call'd me forth to sing
Fore our then liege, the
English king.
Thy guest, my Lord de Semonville,
His gracious
presence was the seal
Of favour to a servant true,
To boasted faith
and fealty due!
"It never suits a royal ear
Prowess of foreign lands to hear;
And,
leaving tales of Charlemagne
For British Arthur's earlier reign,
I,
preluding with praise, began
The feats of that diviner man;
Let
loose my soul in fairy land,
Gave wilder licence to my hand;
And,
learn'd in chivalrous renown,
By song and story handed down,

Painted my knights from those around,
But placed them on poetic
ground.
The ample brow, too smooth for guile;
The careless,
fearless, open smile;
The shaded and yet arching eye,
At once
reflective, kind, and shy;
The undesigning, dauntless look,--

Became to me a living book.
I read the character conceal'd,
Flash'd
on by chance, or never known
Even to bosoms like its own;

Shrinking before a step intrude;
Touch, look, and whisper, all too
rude;
Unsunn'd and fairest when reveal'd!
The first in every noble
deed,
Most prompt to venture and to bleed!
Such hearts, so veil'd
with angel wings,
Such cherish'd, tender, sacred things,
I since
discover'd many a time,

O Britain! in thy temper'd clime;
In dew, in
shade, in silence nurs'd,
For truth and sentiment athirst.
"As seas, with rough, surrounding wave,
Islands of verdant freshness
save
From rash intruder's waste and spoil;--
As mountains rear their

heads on high,
Present snow summits to the sky,
And weary patient
feet with toil,
To screen some sweet, secluded vale,
And warm the
air its flowers inhale;--
Reserve warns off approaching eyes
From
where her choicer Eden lies.
"Such are the English knights, I cried,
Who all their better feelings
hide;
Who muffle up their hearts with care,
To hide the virtues
nestling there,
Who neither praise nor blame can bear.
"My hearers, though completely steel'd
For all the terrors of the field;

Mail'd