Imágenes de páginas

And thus it was with her.-A mournful sight
In one so fair; for she indeed was fair-
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light,
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still, and meek,
Still that fond child's-and oh! the brow above,
So pale and pure! so form'd for holy love
To gaze upon in silence !-but she felt

That love was not for her, though hearts would melt Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven

To bless the young Isaure.

One sunny morn, With alms before her castle gate she stood, 'Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'er


And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
A stranger through them broke-the orphan maid
With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook ;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years

From the heart's urn-and with her white lips prest
The ground they trod-then, burying in her vest

Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out, "Oh! undefiled! I am thy mother!-spurn me not, my child!"

Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother-wept
O'er her stain'd memory, when the happy slept,
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days;
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish of surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her ?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank-'twas but a moment-yet too much
For that all humbled one-its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning's, and her full heart broke
At once in silence.-Heavily and prone

She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, Those long fair tresses—they still brightly wore Their early pride, though bound with pearls no


Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.

Her child bent o'er her call'd her-'twas too late! Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate.The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard— How didst thou fall, oh! bright-hair'd Ermengarde!



OH! how could Fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the god of wine,

And bid thee at the banquet be,
Companion of the vine?

Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o'er;

Where song's full notes once peal'd around,
But now are heard no more.

The Roman, on his battle plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent, Entwined thee, with exulting strains,

Around the victor's tent;

Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,-
Better thou lov'st the silent scene,
Around the victor's grave.

Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past,

[ocr errors]

Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair-
Thou in thy solitary grace,

Wreath of the tomb! art there.

Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue, Italian sky,
Hath nought of beauty left by time,

Save thy wild tapestry.

And rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, Along his rocky shore.

High from the fields of air, look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass'd and left no trace.

But thou art there-thy foliage bright,

Unchanged, the mountain-storm can brave-

Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.

The breathing forms of Parian stone,
That rise round Grandeur's marble halls;

The vivid hues by painting thrown
Rich o'er the glowing walls;

Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes,

In sculptured beauty waving fair,These perish all-and what remains ?— Thou, thou alone art there.

"Tis still the same-where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvels of all ages fled,

Left to Decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,


August in beauty, grace, and strengthDays pass, thou "Ivy never sere,' And all is thine at length.

* "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."


« AnteriorContinuar »