The Lay of Marie - And Vignettes in Verse | Page 9

sway'd by duty more than wealth,
He listen'd and he look'd by
stealth;
And I grew careless in my lays;
Languish'd for that
exclusive praise.

Yet, conscious of an equal claim,
Above each base
or sordid aim,
From wounded feeling and from pride,
My pain I
coldly strove to hide:
And when, encounter'd by surprize,
Rapture
rose flashing in his eyes,
My formal speech and careless air
Would
call a sudden anger there.
"Reserv'd and sullen we became,
Tenacious both, and both to blame.

Yet often an upbraiding look
Controul'd the sentence as I spoke;


Prompt and direct its flight arose,
But sunk or waver'd at the close.

Often, beneath his softening eye,
I felt my resolution die;
And,
half-relentingly, forgot
His splendid and my humble lot.
"Sometimes a sudden fancy came,
That he who bore my father's
name,
Broken in spirit and in health,
Was weary of ill-gotten wealth.

I to the cloister saw him led,
Saw the wide cowl upon his head;

Heard him, in his last dying hour,
Warn others from the thirst of
power;
Adjure the orphan of his friend
Pardon and needful aid to
lend,
If heaven vouchsaf'd her yet to live;
For, could she pity and
forgive,
'Twould wing his penitential prayer
With better hope of
mercy there!
Then did he rank and lands resign,
With all that was in
justice mine;
And I, pretending to be vain,
Return'd the world its
poor disdain,
But smil'd on Eustace once again!
"Thus vision after vision flew,
Leaving again before my view
That
[Errata: The] hollow scene, the scornful crowd,
To which that heart
had never bow'd,
Whose tenderness I hourly fed;
While thus I to its
nursling said;--
"Be silent, Love! nor from my lip
In faint or hurried language speak!

Be motionless within my eye,
And never wander to my cheek!

Retir'd and passive thou must be,
Or truly I shall banish thee!
"Thou art a restless, wayward sprite,
So young, so tender, and so fair,

I dare not trust thee from my sight,
Nor let thee breathe the
common air!
Home to my heart, then, quickly flee,
It is the only
place for thee!
"And hush thee, sweet one! in that cell,
For I will whisper in thine ear

Those tales that Hope and Fancy tell,

Which it may please thee
best to hear!
I will not, may not, set thee free--
I die if aught
discover thee!"

Where are the plaudits, warm and long,
That erst have follow'd
Marie's song?
The full assenting, sudden, loud,
The buz of pleasure
in the crowd!
The harp was still, but silence reign'd,
Listening as if
she still complain'd:
For Pity threw her gentle yoke
Across
Impatience, ere he spoke;
And Thought, in pondering o'er her strains,

Had that cold state he oft maintains.
But soon the silence seem'd to
say,
"Fair mourner, reassume thy lay!"
And in the chords her
fingers stray'd;
For aching Memory found relief
In mounting to the
source of grief;
A tender symphony she play'd,
Then bow'd, and
thus, unask'd, obey'd.
The Lay of Marie
CANTO THIRD.
"Careless alike who went or came,
I seldom ask'd the stranger's name,

When such a being came in view
As eagerly the question drew.

'The Lady Osvalde,' some one cried,
'Sir Eustace' late appointed bride,

His richest ward the king's behest
Gives to the bravest and the
best.'
"Enchantments, wrought by pride and fear,
Made me, though mute,
unmov'd appear.
My eye was quiet, and the while
My lip maintain'd
a steady smile.
It cost me much, alas! to feign;
But while I
struggled with the pain,
With beauty stole upon my sight
An inward
feeling of delight.
"Long did the silken lashes lie
Upon a dark and brilliant eye;
Bright
the wild rose's finest hue
O'er a pure cheek of ivory flew.
Her smile,
all plaintive and resign'd,
Bespake a gentle, suffering mind;
And
e'en her voice, so clear and faint,
Had something in it of complaint.

Her delicate and slender form,
Like a vale-lily from the storm,


Seem'd pensively to shrink away,
More timid in a crowd so gay.

Large jewels glitter'd in her hair;
And, on her neck, as marble fair,


Lay precious pearls, in countless strings;
Her small, white hands,
emboss'd with rings,
Announc'd high rank and amplest wealth,
But
neither freedom, power, nor health.
"Near her Sir Eustace took his stand,
With manner sad, yet soft and
bland;
Spoke oft, but her replies were tame;
And soon less frequent
both became.
Their converse seem'd by labour wrought,
Without
one sweet, free-springing thought;
Without those flashes of delight

Which make it tender, deep, or bright!
It was not thus upon the sea

He us'd to look and talk with me!
Not thus, when, lost to all around,

His haughty kinsmen saw and frown'd!
Then all unfelt the world's
controul,--
Its rein lay lightly o'er his soul;
Far were its prides and
cautions hurl'd,
And Thought's wide banner flew unfurl'd.
"Yet we should do fair Osvalde wrong
To class her with the circling
throng:
Her mind was like a gentle sprite,
Whose wings, though
aptly form'd for flight,
From cowardice are seldom spread;
Who
folds the arms, and droops the head;
Stealing, in pilgrim guise along,

With needless staff, and vestment grey,
It scarcely trills a vesper
song
Monotonous at close of day.
Cross but its path, demanding
aught,
E'en what its pensive mistress sought,
Though forward
welcoming she hied,
And its quick footstep glanc'd aside.
"Restraint, alarms, and solitude,
Her early courage had subdu'd;

Fetter'd her movements, looks, and tongue,
While on her heart more
weighty hung
Each