Denzil place a story in verse. By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
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| III. |
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 | Denzil place |  |
Constance had sought this land which, like herself,
Was bless'd (or cursed) by Heaven with the dow'r—
‘The fatal dow'r of Beauty,’ but alas
For her, altho' resembling Italy
In being born to this fair heritage—
E'en more unfortunate than that sweet land
She groan'd in faster fetters;—all in vain
For her Italia's liberators rose,
Mazzini, Garibaldi, and Cavour,
Breaking a bondage less inveterate
Than was her own; weighing upon the heart
The burden of a fatal servitude
Defies emancipation;—thus she sigh'd
A lovely slave in chains—(those chains that seem
To some like brittle bands of summer flow'rs,
As Love, descending airily on them
With the soft 'lighting of a butterfly,
Leaves no sad trace behind to mark the place
Where his white wings have press'd, whilst on another
More keenly sensitive, he burns a scar
Searing and withering unto the core
The hapless heart that never more is whole.)
How could she free herself from all the host
Of newly waken'd torments? How subdue
The multitude of restless enemies
Besieging her, and harassing her soul?
Love and Despair, and vascillating Hope,
And Self-reproach, and Jealousy, and Doubt?
How put to flight these fierce invading foes—
These tyrants—these Tedeschi of the heart?
Was bless'd (or cursed) by Heaven with the dow'r—
‘The fatal dow'r of Beauty,’ but alas
For her, altho' resembling Italy
In being born to this fair heritage—
E'en more unfortunate than that sweet land
She groan'd in faster fetters;—all in vain
For her Italia's liberators rose,
Mazzini, Garibaldi, and Cavour,
Breaking a bondage less inveterate
Than was her own; weighing upon the heart
The burden of a fatal servitude
135
A lovely slave in chains—(those chains that seem
To some like brittle bands of summer flow'rs,
As Love, descending airily on them
With the soft 'lighting of a butterfly,
Leaves no sad trace behind to mark the place
Where his white wings have press'd, whilst on another
More keenly sensitive, he burns a scar
Searing and withering unto the core
The hapless heart that never more is whole.)
How could she free herself from all the host
Of newly waken'd torments? How subdue
The multitude of restless enemies
Besieging her, and harassing her soul?
Love and Despair, and vascillating Hope,
And Self-reproach, and Jealousy, and Doubt?
How put to flight these fierce invading foes—
These tyrants—these Tedeschi of the heart?
| Denzil place | |