 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
73
MARGARET OF ANJOU.
A LEGEND FROM THE WARS OF THE ROSES.
The strife had ceased: on Hexham's charnel plain,
Fattening the thirsty soil with blood for rain,
Peasant and prince—Earth's vain distinction past—
Slept their cold sleep, the soundest, and the last.
A thousand fiery hearts, that ne'er again
Shall leap in rapture at the trumpet's strain;
A thousand eyes, that never more shall beam
With mild affection, nor with fury gleam;
A thousand hands, that never more shall grasp
The mortal sword, nor flutter in the clasp
Of fairy palms, when passion's sweeping tide
Hath whelmed the barriers of controlling pride;
A thousand tongues, that never more shall swell
The earthquake clamor of the battle's yell,
Nor breathe sweet music to the harmonious wire,
Nor win soft fantasies with sighs of fire,
Chill—glassy—nerveless—silent—as the clay
Whence sprang their forms, which grows with their decay.
The broad May moon her tranquil glory shed
On friend and foe—the dying and the dead;
The glittering casque upon the pallid brow
Flouting the ghastly smile that grinned below.
The gorgeous stripling, with his locks of light
All stained and dripping in the dews of night;
The hoary grandsire, with his thin gray hair
Plucked from his front to deck the raven's lair,
Rider and steed, their course of glory run;
The loyal father and the rebel son;
York's snowy rose beside the rival flower,—
All blended there in death's impartial hour!
Fattening the thirsty soil with blood for rain,
Peasant and prince—Earth's vain distinction past—
Slept their cold sleep, the soundest, and the last.
A thousand fiery hearts, that ne'er again
Shall leap in rapture at the trumpet's strain;
A thousand eyes, that never more shall beam
With mild affection, nor with fury gleam;
A thousand hands, that never more shall grasp
The mortal sword, nor flutter in the clasp
Of fairy palms, when passion's sweeping tide
Hath whelmed the barriers of controlling pride;
A thousand tongues, that never more shall swell
The earthquake clamor of the battle's yell,
Nor breathe sweet music to the harmonious wire,
Nor win soft fantasies with sighs of fire,
Chill—glassy—nerveless—silent—as the clay
Whence sprang their forms, which grows with their decay.
The broad May moon her tranquil glory shed
On friend and foe—the dying and the dead;
The glittering casque upon the pallid brow
Flouting the ghastly smile that grinned below.
The gorgeous stripling, with his locks of light
All stained and dripping in the dews of night;
The hoary grandsire, with his thin gray hair
Plucked from his front to deck the raven's lair,
74
The loyal father and the rebel son;
York's snowy rose beside the rival flower,—
All blended there in death's impartial hour!
The shaft of Lancaster was shot—his brand
Forever broken! To a firmer hand
His kingdom's majesty had passed; and he,
A houseless wanderer on the barren lea,
Dethroned, deserted, desolate, alone,
Without one hand, one heart, to call his own,
Desperate of human hope, deplored the fate
That cursed him with that misery—to be great!
Forever broken! To a firmer hand
His kingdom's majesty had passed; and he,
A houseless wanderer on the barren lea,
Dethroned, deserted, desolate, alone,
Without one hand, one heart, to call his own,
Desperate of human hope, deplored the fate
That cursed him with that misery—to be great!
Northumbria's woodlands wide are robed in mist;
The last faint gleam of waning day hath kissed
Old Cheviot's heathery sides, and forehead bare
Of living granite; while the evening air,
Though chill and shivering, lacks the breezy power
To shake the dew-drops from each forest flower,
That droops, surcharged with tears, its modest head,
Like some pale girl whose first fond dreams are fled.
White curled the vapor from the river's breast;
The pearly boughs, by watery weight oppressed,
Distilled their showers condensed, with heavy sound
The big drops plashing on the steamy ground.
At times with booming knell the bittern's note
Rose from the marsh—wild as the tones that float
On the still midnight, ominous of death
When Erin's noblest gasp their failing breath,
And shuddering vassals mark, in hopeless gloom,
The Spirit wailing for the mortal's doom;
At times, in fiercer strains, the wild-cat's yell
Awoke the echoes of the mountain dell:
But voice of man was none, nor cheery light
Gilding the dark unlovely face of night;
Nor shepherd's beacon on the distant hill,
Nor huntsman's fire beside the tinkling rill,
Told aught of human aid—of refuge nigh,
From the harsh peltings of the inclement sky.
Yet there,—even there!—in solitude and woe,
With streaming locks, with “faltering steps and slow,”
Her royal robes by chilling tempests drenched,
Bent her proud form—her spirit still unquenched,
Margaret of Anjou—with that princely boy,
Sole source to her of love, and fear, and joy,
Through the dread wilderness toiled feebly on,
But knew no terror, e'en when hope was gone.
That morn had seen her, with her gallant train,
Trampling in fearless pomp the fated plain,
Elate in coming triumph, and secure
Of all her friends should win, her foes endure;
Noon came; and lo! the invincible array
Dispersed—hewn down—cold as their kindred clay!
Night found her, shivering, with her infant child,
Benumbed and famished on the houseless wild,
Crowning with this despite—the worst and last—
A hopeless future and a hapless past!
The last faint gleam of waning day hath kissed
Old Cheviot's heathery sides, and forehead bare
Of living granite; while the evening air,
Though chill and shivering, lacks the breezy power
To shake the dew-drops from each forest flower,
That droops, surcharged with tears, its modest head,
Like some pale girl whose first fond dreams are fled.
White curled the vapor from the river's breast;
The pearly boughs, by watery weight oppressed,
Distilled their showers condensed, with heavy sound
The big drops plashing on the steamy ground.
At times with booming knell the bittern's note
Rose from the marsh—wild as the tones that float
On the still midnight, ominous of death
When Erin's noblest gasp their failing breath,
And shuddering vassals mark, in hopeless gloom,
The Spirit wailing for the mortal's doom;
At times, in fiercer strains, the wild-cat's yell
Awoke the echoes of the mountain dell:
But voice of man was none, nor cheery light
Gilding the dark unlovely face of night;
Nor shepherd's beacon on the distant hill,
Nor huntsman's fire beside the tinkling rill,
75
From the harsh peltings of the inclement sky.
Yet there,—even there!—in solitude and woe,
With streaming locks, with “faltering steps and slow,”
Her royal robes by chilling tempests drenched,
Bent her proud form—her spirit still unquenched,
Margaret of Anjou—with that princely boy,
Sole source to her of love, and fear, and joy,
Through the dread wilderness toiled feebly on,
But knew no terror, e'en when hope was gone.
That morn had seen her, with her gallant train,
Trampling in fearless pomp the fated plain,
Elate in coming triumph, and secure
Of all her friends should win, her foes endure;
Noon came; and lo! the invincible array
Dispersed—hewn down—cold as their kindred clay!
Night found her, shivering, with her infant child,
Benumbed and famished on the houseless wild,
Crowning with this despite—the worst and last—
A hopeless future and a hapless past!
From the red sway of York's unsparing sword
Escaped—escaped from the relentless horde
Of outlawed ruffians,—far from mortal ken
She fled for safety to the savage den;
Safer midst ravening wolves and starless night,
Than girt with thousands in day's garish light.
Yet on that pallid cheek no selfish dread
Paled the warm flush nor shook the stately head;
Nor recked she that her limbs were chilled and torn
By the keen night air and the rending thorn;
Nor that the traitor's guile, the usurper's doom,
Might hurl her headlong to a felon's tomb:
Fame, power, and pleasure, reft by fortune's frown,
A royal husband and a queenly crown,
She heeded not, so he might stem the flood
Of stern misfortune—he for whom her blood
Was turned to bitterest gall, for whom her heart
Had felt all womanish emotions part,
Till she had donned stern manhood's iron guise,
And banished mercy fled her burning eyes.
Yet was she gentle once—while young and fair
She breathed enraptured the enchanting air
Of her own Anjou; while the tints of youth,
Undimmed as yet by graver hues of truth,
And sad experience, lent their glorious tone
To earth and heaven, the cottage and the throne
While every soul seemed warm, and pure and high,
While faith and friendship beamed from every eye,
Till the young pilgrim through this vale of woe
Saw in the skies above, the world below,
One boundless paradise of hope and joy,
With naught to temper this, or that to cloy.
But fast and fatal fell the shafts of fate,
And nature yielded to affliction's weight,
Till the fair damsel of that southern land
Could wield with murderous grasp the fatal brand;
All—all the thousand lovely traits that graced
Her glorious prime, evanished or debased,
Save one alone, which o'er that wreck of soul
Soared proudly heavenward, and defied control.
Ye who have felt the pangs which mothers know,
And loved more deeply as more deep the woe;
Ye who have known what 'tis to watch the smiles,
The first faint accents, and the endearing wiles,
Of your new infant,—was it not the glow
Of MOTHER'S LOVE, which ebbed not when the flow
Of stormy passions and engrossing care
Had whelmed the mind in guilt and dark despair?
Escaped—escaped from the relentless horde
Of outlawed ruffians,—far from mortal ken
She fled for safety to the savage den;
Safer midst ravening wolves and starless night,
Than girt with thousands in day's garish light.
Yet on that pallid cheek no selfish dread
Paled the warm flush nor shook the stately head;
Nor recked she that her limbs were chilled and torn
By the keen night air and the rending thorn;
Nor that the traitor's guile, the usurper's doom,
Might hurl her headlong to a felon's tomb:
Fame, power, and pleasure, reft by fortune's frown,
A royal husband and a queenly crown,
She heeded not, so he might stem the flood
Of stern misfortune—he for whom her blood
76
Had felt all womanish emotions part,
Till she had donned stern manhood's iron guise,
And banished mercy fled her burning eyes.
Yet was she gentle once—while young and fair
She breathed enraptured the enchanting air
Of her own Anjou; while the tints of youth,
Undimmed as yet by graver hues of truth,
And sad experience, lent their glorious tone
To earth and heaven, the cottage and the throne
While every soul seemed warm, and pure and high,
While faith and friendship beamed from every eye,
Till the young pilgrim through this vale of woe
Saw in the skies above, the world below,
One boundless paradise of hope and joy,
With naught to temper this, or that to cloy.
But fast and fatal fell the shafts of fate,
And nature yielded to affliction's weight,
Till the fair damsel of that southern land
Could wield with murderous grasp the fatal brand;
All—all the thousand lovely traits that graced
Her glorious prime, evanished or debased,
Save one alone, which o'er that wreck of soul
Soared proudly heavenward, and defied control.
Ye who have felt the pangs which mothers know,
And loved more deeply as more deep the woe;
Ye who have known what 'tis to watch the smiles,
The first faint accents, and the endearing wiles,
Of your new infant,—was it not the glow
Of MOTHER'S LOVE, which ebbed not when the flow
Of stormy passions and engrossing care
Had whelmed the mind in guilt and dark despair?
And now, when all was o'er, she clasped him close
To her lorn breast, and soothed his childish woes:
She spoke of happier days, and joys to come,
His noble father, and his cheerful home;
By soft endearments whiled the weary hours,
Till paly dawn o'ergilt the forest bowers.
Sudden she paused! An armèd tread, a cry
Rose from the copse! She turned—she sprang to fly,
When, bursting from the tangled thicket's shade,
With eye of gloom, red hand, and brandished blade,
The woodland rover bounded! Fixed she stood
As some tall marble; but the boiling blood
Rushed to her brow—her cheek! Her glance of pride
Quailed not. “Behold!” in haughty tones she cried,
“Vassal, behold thy prince! To thee is given—
His faithless subjects from their master riven—
To shield thy monarch's son from chains and death,
To guard his footsteps with thy latest breath;
To live—to die for him, and leave thy name,
Though branded now with blots of foulest shame,
More honored so than if thy days had flowed
Forever in pure virtue's spotless road.”
Aghast the robber started! O'er his soul
High thoughts and noble, with the surge-like roll
Of memory's ocean, swept; the impetuous sway
Of frantic passion calmly passed away.
Down dropt the weapon, and with suppliant mien
The ruffian bent to the majestic queen;
And, “Hear,” he cried, “Earth, Air, and Ocean, hear!
By Him who made both these and me, I swear!
By my pure boyhood and my sullied name,
By my fierce yearnings for a better fame,
That I will save him: man nor fiend shall part
The deep resolve from my unconquered heart!
Thy son shall rule, a king, his father's land,
Or rest in safety on a foreign strand.”
To her lorn breast, and soothed his childish woes:
She spoke of happier days, and joys to come,
His noble father, and his cheerful home;
77
Till paly dawn o'ergilt the forest bowers.
Sudden she paused! An armèd tread, a cry
Rose from the copse! She turned—she sprang to fly,
When, bursting from the tangled thicket's shade,
With eye of gloom, red hand, and brandished blade,
The woodland rover bounded! Fixed she stood
As some tall marble; but the boiling blood
Rushed to her brow—her cheek! Her glance of pride
Quailed not. “Behold!” in haughty tones she cried,
“Vassal, behold thy prince! To thee is given—
His faithless subjects from their master riven—
To shield thy monarch's son from chains and death,
To guard his footsteps with thy latest breath;
To live—to die for him, and leave thy name,
Though branded now with blots of foulest shame,
More honored so than if thy days had flowed
Forever in pure virtue's spotless road.”
Aghast the robber started! O'er his soul
High thoughts and noble, with the surge-like roll
Of memory's ocean, swept; the impetuous sway
Of frantic passion calmly passed away.
Down dropt the weapon, and with suppliant mien
The ruffian bent to the majestic queen;
And, “Hear,” he cried, “Earth, Air, and Ocean, hear!
By Him who made both these and me, I swear!
By my pure boyhood and my sullied name,
By my fierce yearnings for a better fame,
That I will save him: man nor fiend shall part
The deep resolve from my unconquered heart!
Thy son shall rule, a king, his father's land,
Or rest in safety on a foreign strand.”
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |