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

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 griev'd resentment, doubt, and pain,?Each dread of anger or disdain.?A deeper sorrow also lent?The sharpen'd pang of discontent;?For unconceal'd attachment prov'd?Destructive to the man she lov'd.
"Owning, like her, an orphan's doom,?He had not that prescriptive home?Which wealth and royal sanction buys;?No powerful friends, nor tender ties;--?No claims, save former promise given,?Whose only witness was in heaven;?And promise takes a slender hold,?Where all is selfish, dull, and cold.
"Slowly that bloomless favour grew,?Before his stern protectors knew?The secret which arous'd disdain.?Declaring that he did but feign,?They, in unpitying vengeance, hurl'd?A sister's offspring on the world.?Thus outrag'd, pride's corroding smart,?The fever of a throbbing heart,?Impell'd him first to wander round,?And soon to leap that barrier