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For in a palace of the land that night,
Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung, And from the painted walls a stream of light
On flying forms beneath soft splendor Aung :
Pauline, the meekly bright !—though now no more
Her clear eye flash'd with youth's all tameless glee, Yet something holier than its dayspring wore,
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see;
Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair,
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky, Sate on her brow beneath its graceful hair,
As her young daughter in the dance went by, With the fleet step of one that yet hath known Smiles and kind voices in this world alone.
Lurk’d there no secret boding in her breast ?
Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh?
'Midst the light laughter of festivity : Whence come those tones ?—Alas! enough we know, To mingle fear with all triumphal show !
Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying
In fairy rings around the echoing hall ?
Glad pulses beating unto music's call ?
And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed ! From the gay dream of revelry awaking,
One moment holds them still in breathless dread : The wild, fierce lustre grows—then bursts a cryFire ! through the hall and round it gathering—fly!
And forth they rush-as chased by sword and spear
To the green coverts of the garden-bowers ; A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear,
Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers : While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven.
And where is she, Pauline ?—the hurrying throng
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast Might sweep some faint, o'erwearied bird along
Till now the threshold of that death is past, And free she stands beneath the starry skies, Calling her child-but no sweet voice replies.
“ Bertha ! where art thou ?-Speak, oh! speak, my
Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while, The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone,
Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile; A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death, With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce
But oh! thy strength, deep love there is no power
To stay the mother from that rolling grave, Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower,
And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave; Back, back she rushes through a host combinedMighty is anguish, with affection twined !
And what bold step may follow, 'midst the roar
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise ? None !-Courage there stood still—and never more
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes ! Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell ? And died they heart to heart ?-Oh! who can tell ?
Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke
On that sad palace, 'midst its pleasure-shades; Its painted roofs had sunk-yet black with smoke
And lonely stood its marble colonnades: But yester-eve their shafts with wreaths were boundNow lay the scene one shrivell'd scroll around !
And bore the ruins no recording trace
Of all that woman's heart had dared and done? Yes! there were gems to mark its mortal place,
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone ! Those had the mother on her gentle breast, Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest.
And they were all !the tender and the true
Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew,
To deep, lone, chasten'd thoughts of grief and love. Oh! we have need of patient faith below, To clear away the mysteries of such wo!