Читать книгу The Lay of Marie and Vignettes in Verse - Matilda Betham - Страница 7

Some, fearing Marie's tale was o'er,

Lamented that they heard no more;

While Brehan, from her broken lay,

Portended what she yet might say.

As the untarrying minutes flew,

More anxious and alarm'd he grew.

At length he spake:—"We wait too long

The remnant of this wilder'd song!

And too tenaciously we press

Upon the languor of distress!

'Twere better, sure that hence convey'd,

And in some noiseless chamber laid,

Attentive care, and soothing rest,

Appeas'd the anguish of her breast."

Low was his voice, but Marie heard:

He hasten'd on the thing he fear'd.

She rais'd her 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 for the arrow and the lance,

Bore not unharm'd my smiling glance;

At other times collected, brave,

Recoiled when I that picture gave;

As if their inmost heart, laid bare,

Shrank from the bleak, ungenial air.

"Proud of such prescience, on I went;—

The youthful monarch was content.

'Edgar de Langton, take this ring—

No! hither the young Minstrel bring:

Ourself can better still dispense

The honour and the recompence.'

I came, and, trembling, bent my knee.

He wonder'd that my looks were meek,

That blushes burnt upon my cheek!

'We would our little songstress see!

Remove those tresses! raise thy head!

Say, where is former courage fled,

'That all must now thy face infold?

At distance they were backward roll'd.

Whence, then, this most unfounded fear?

Are we so strange, so hateful here?'

"I strove in vain to lift my eyes,

And made some indistinct replies;

When one, more courteous and more kind,

Stepp'd forth to save my fainting mind.

'My liege, have pity! for, in truth,

It is too hard upon her youth.

Though so alert and fleet in song,

The strain was high, the race was long;

And she before has never seen

A monarch, save the fairy queen:

But does the lure of thought obey

As falcons their appointed way;

Train'd to one end, and wild as those

If aught they know not interpose.

Vain then is strength, and skill is vain,

Either to lead them or restrain.

The eye-lid closes, and the heart,

Low-sinking, plays a traitor's part;

While wings, of late so firmly spread,

Hang flagg'd and powerless as the dead!

With courts familiar from our birth,

Is it fit subject for our mirth,

That thus awakening from her theme,

Where she through air and sea pursues,

And all things governs, all subdues,

(Like fetter'd captive in a dream,)

Blindly to tread on unknown land,

Without a guide or helping hand,

No previous usage to befriend,

(As well we might an infant lend

Our eyes' experience, ear, or touch!)

Can we in reason wonder much,

Her steps are tottering and unsure

Where we have learnt to walk secure?

Is it not true, what I have told?'

Her paus'd, my features to behold—

Earl William paus'd: across his mien

A strong and sudden change was seen,

The courtier bend, protecting tone.

And smile of sympathy, were gone.

Abrupt his native accents broke,

And his lips trembled as he spoke.

"'How thus can Memory, in its flight,

On wings of gossamer alight,

Nor showing aim, nor leaving trace,

From a poor damsel's living face

To features of a brave, dead knight!

In eyes so young, and so benign,

What is it speaks of Palestine?

Of toils in early life I prov'd,

And of a comrade dearly lov'd!

'Tis true, he, like this maid, was young,

And gifted with a tuneful tongue!

His looks [Errata: locks], like her's, were bright and fair,

But light and laughing was his eye;

The prophecy of future care

In those thin, helmet lids we spy,

Veiling mild orbs, of changeful hue,

Where auburn half subsides in blue!

Lord Fauconberg, canst thou divine

What is the curve, or what the line,

That makes this girl, like lightning, send

Looks of our long lamented friend?

If Richard liv'd, that sorcery spell

Quickly his lion-heart would quell:

He never could her glance descry,

And any wish'd-for boon deny!

She's weeping too!—most strangely wrought

By workings of another's thought!

She knows no English; yet I speak

That language, and her paling cheek

With watery floods is overcast.—

Fair maid, we talk of times long past;

A friend we often mourn in vain—

A knight in distant battle slain,

Whose bones had moulder'd in the earth

Full many a year before thy birth.

He fed our ears with songs of old,

And one was of a heart of gold—

A native ditty I would fain,

But never yet could hear again.

It spoke of friendship like his own,

Once only in existence known.

My prime of life the blessing crost,

And with it life's first charm I lost!'

"'Chieftain, allow me, on my knee

To sing that English song to thee!

For then I never dare to stand,

Nor take the harp within my hand;

Sacred it also is to me!

And it should please thy fancy well,

Since dear the lips from whence it fell;

'And dear the language which conveys

The only theme of real praise!

O! if in very truth thou art

A mourner for that loyal heart,

A lowly minstrel maid forgive,

Who strives to make remembrance live!'