Narrative poems on the Female Character in the various relations of life. By Mary Russell Mitford ... Vol. I |
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| I. | CANTO I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | Narrative poems on the Female Character |  |
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CANTO I.
I. Song.
Happiness is like virgin snows,
As soft, as smooth, as gay:
The leveret's step on its surface shows,
And the rustling pine-leaf the linnet throws;
While the beam in whose ruddy light it glows,
For ever melts its charms away.
As soft, as smooth, as gay:
The leveret's step on its surface shows,
And the rustling pine-leaf the linnet throws;
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For ever melts its charms away.
Content is like the meadow's breast,
Blooming with herbs and flowers:
No hillock betrays the skylark's nest;
No track remains where the arm'd hoof press'd;
And when the scythe shall its beauty wrest,
'Twill spring more fair in vernal hours.
Blooming with herbs and flowers:
No hillock betrays the skylark's nest;
No track remains where the arm'd hoof press'd;
And when the scythe shall its beauty wrest,
'Twill spring more fair in vernal hours.
II.
The song has ceas'd. If song indeed it were,That in one cheerful sweet monotony,
Sooth'd with its warblings faint the morning air,
Like the wild music of the summer bee,
Or wintery robin's dearer melody.
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Of rustic wheel that join'd the harmony,
Tells where the busy songstress may be found,
And guides the wanderer's steps along the turfy ground.
III.
And one there was, who, from the shady wood,Survey'd, with quick delight, the pleasant scene;
Deep in a verdant lawn a cottage stood
Circled by antique groves—save that between
One narrow arch, the distance smil'd serene:
Its spires, and hills, and towns, and sparkling streams
Contrasting with the darkly-fring'd ravine,
Or flowery path, where the tall forest gleams,
And rears its stately head, and brightens in the beams.
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IV.
Nor yet alone upon the crested oak,Fell with its lustre sheen that orient ray:
Sweetly it kiss'd the light and curling smoke,
That from the cottage chimney wreath'd its way;
Sweetly on the white walls it seem'd to play,
Seen but by snatches through the clustering vine;
And on the quick-hedg'd garden, trimly gay;
And on the lowly porch, where jasmines twine
With honeysuckle pale and modest eglantine.
V.
But chiefly the bright beam of morning shoneOn her, who plied the wheel before the door.
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Long on the songstress maid intent to pore,
And turn'd to go, yet came to gaze once more:
Charm'd, and much wondering what the charm could be
That fix'd, with magic power unfelt before,
Him who had hung on woman's dangerous glee,
And yet more dangerous sigh—and boasted, “I am free!”
VI.
It was not beauty: for, in very truth,No symmetry of features deck'd the maid.
Was it the vivid blush of early youth;
The Hebe lip where changeful dimples play'd;
The flaxen locks whose crisped ringlets stray'd
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The rose-tipp'd fingers that her toil betray'd;
The rounded form, luxuriantly wild,
Of woman's graces full;—the face so like a child?
VII.
Or was it the expression, calm and even,Which tells of blest inhabitants within;
A look as tranquil as the summer Heaven;
A smile that cannot light the face of sin;
A sweetness so compos'd that passion's din
Its fair unruffled brow has never mov'd;
Beauty, not of the features nor the skin,
But of the soul;—and loveliness best prov'd
By one unerring test—No sooner seen than lov'd?
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VIII.
Such were the charms that fix'd the wanderer's eye,And staid his steps to watch the youthful fair;
Her dress, accordant with her industry,
Spoke her some happy peasant's blooming care;
A simple cap confin'd her flowing hair,
A snowy 'kerchief veil'd her bosom sheen;
No covering hid her arms of beauty rare,
And underneath her robe of brightest green,
In a rude slipper cas'd, one fairy foot was seen.
IX.
Yet though so simple the fair rustic cot,So plain its fairer inmate's modest dress,
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Saddening young joy with pictures of distress.
Rather it seem'd, as searching eyes might guess,
Of humble competence the calm retreat;
And visions of scarce-imag'd happiness
Made the young stranger's pulses quicker beat,
And woke the passing thought,—A cot with her how sweet!
X.
Whilst thus he gaz'd, looking his soul away,An upper casement on its hinges rung,
And a small hand, white as the ocean spray,
Upon the clustering vine recumbent hung:
Swift at the sight, the songstress maiden flung
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Where many a cherish'd tender blossom sprung,
Where nice exotics wintery shelter found,
And artificial showers refresh'd the parching ground.
XI.
A sprig of myrtle, gay with pearly flowersAnd coral-tinctur'd buds, the maiden chose;
The rich geranium next,—then to the bowers
Of native sweets she turn'd, and pluck'd a rose;
A mossy rose whose beauty brighter shows
Through its light sparkling dew-drops!—binding fast
The offering, which with her own graces glows,
Back to the door with sylph-like bound she past,
And round a stately maid her snowy arms she cast.
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XII.
'Twas beauty's very self her arms embrac'd!Beauty so perfect, that the Grecian form,
‘Which fix'd proportion and gave laws to taste,’
Seem'd but a copy of those graces warm.
Her figure was majestic, as the storm
That broods upon the mountain;—and her face,
Dazzlingly fair and bright and uniform,
As the refulgent sun 'mid cloudless space,
When in the summer noon he runs his ardent race.
XIII.
Yet in those faultless features and that shape,So slender, yet so round, a varying line,
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Likeness which all can trace and none define,
Seem'd in its bonds the cottage maids to twine.
Though the majestic fair one's golden hair
Broke from the comb that would its pride confine:
Though, as her breast, her flowing robe was fair,
And each nice fold betray'd the toilet's pleasing care;
XIV.
Full hard it were the secret source to traceOf that resemblance undefinable:
For not more different was the blooming face
Where smiling innocence had fix'd her cell,
From that where grandeur rode in beauty's shell;
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Which like a chubby babe's in dimples fell,
From that, whose towering stature seem'd to grow
With every sudden turn, and every gesture slow.
XV.
And still more different seem'd the breathing soul,Which in the stranger maid's fine features spoke:
The self-admiring glance uncheck'd that stole;
The smile of proud contempt; the frown that broke
Her snowy brow, with beauty-killing stroke;
The cheek, now pale, now flush'd with ardent glee,
As bent to envy's or to passion's yoke;
All seem'd to say, In this fair creature see,
How bright, yet how unlovely, beauty's form may be!
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XVI.
All seem'd to say; nor was the voice unheard,Though the heart's core it reach'd not by the ear:
But the young stranger keen remark deferr'd,
His first, his favorite maid, to see, to hear.
Though little caught he of those accents clear,
Yet they their kindred and their names reveal—
“Did Mary's song awake thee, sister dear?
Or com'st thou, Grace, the blush of morn to steal?”
Scarcely the words he caught—long he the voice shall feel.
XVII.
A voice it was so sweet, so musical,So sighing, yet so cheerful, that it press'd
Upon the ear, like the low dying fall
Of the dear bird of night—when from her nest
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Each angry passion and each worldly thought.
Flinging a summer feeling o'er the breast,
Came that soft voice, with peace and gladness fraught:
Oh what of joy and love might not such tones have taught!
XVIII.
Yet though she spake again, and though he stoodListening, not with his ear, but with his soul;
No other word across the envious wood
Could the rapt stranger hear beneath the knoll.
Faint, sweet, and indistinct, her accents stole;
But he could watch his Mary's lovely face;
Could read on Grace's features passion's scroll;
And, well I ween, was none more skill'd to trace
Good humor's witching charm, or anger's louring race.
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XIX.
He saw the dear one round her sister's waistOne dimpled arm with gay affection fling,
Whilst on fair Grace's snowy breast she plac'd
Her new-blown flowers—the treasures of the spring.
But not one smile arose on cherub wing,—
One grateful smile, to say, How dear thy care!
Shrinking averse, as from a hornet's sting,
Mary's embrace she shunn'd with frowning air,
Nor need her chiding lips her proud contempt declare.
XX.
Yet long she seem'd to chide, and pluck'd at lastFrom her white bosom each balm-breathing flower;
Then on the gale the exil'd blossoms cast;
The gentler gale, which to love's secret bower
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And his own Mary's sweeter breath retain'd.
There stood the maid, unconscious of her power,
Nor frown, nor pouting lip her beauty stain'd;
The look of joy was gone, the smile of love remain'd.
XXI.
Temper! thy power more sweetly magicalThan that which grac'd of old Amphion's lyre,
Can savage hearts with wondrous spell enthral;
Can clear Suspicion's mists with gladdening fire;
Can chain in rosy bonds impetuous Ire;
Can melt the ice-bound heart of cold Disdain;
Can dying Love with vital breath inspire;
From every passion pluck the cancerous pain,
And seeming still to yield, lead captive all the train:
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XXII.
Save one alone—pale Envy, it was thouThat gav'st to Grace's heart the venom'd pang;
O never throned on so fair a brow!
Nor ever deeper didst thou strike thy fang,
Than when the smile to Mary's features sprang,
As from her sister's side she turn'd away,
To tend a dove, whose plaintive murmurs rang
Through the thick vine in faint melodious lay,
Seeking her tender care, through each revolving day.
XXIII.
Lovely, but drooping, was the lonely bird,Sav'd from the fowler's half-successful aim;
Startled and trembling at each sound it heard,
Save when its gentle mistress breath'd its name,
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Was the mild warbler, that it lov'd to spring
From its close shelter to the fostering dame,
And, drooping on her breast its wounded wing,
Peck at her rosy lip, and softer murmurs sing.
XXIV.
And on her bosom now it lay reclin'd—Soft as its pillow! when in boisterous play
Grace seiz'd the fluttering bird, and sought to bind
Around its downy neck a collar gay;
The startled favorite quickly flew away;
Mary with breathless speed its flight pursued:
Then first in Grace's eye shone pleasure's ray,
While her sweet sister turn'd with strength subdued,
And, at the cottage door, her graceful toil renew'd.
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XXV.
Yet, as she turn'd, her burning blushes driedThe tear-drop on her cheek that glitter'd sheen,
And her soft smiles soon check'd the gushing tide;
For she her dear lamented bird had seen
Caught by a stranger youth of noblest mien;
Had mark'd his glance, where awe and fondness strove;
Had guess'd what sprig he held of brightest green:
And, blushing, view'd her myrtle and her dove,
Love's emblems! deep enshrin'd in the warm breast of love.
| Narrative poems on the Female Character | |