The Sorrows of Rosalie :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Sorrows of Rosalie

A Tale. With Other Poems [by C. E. S. Norton]

Norton, Caroline Sheridan (1808-1877)

[section]

TO LORD HOLLAND.

[Oh, ye for whom this tale of woe is told]

THE SORROWS OF ROSALIE.

II.

WHILE I THINK OF YOU, LOVE!

On T. B. S.

THE DARKNESS OF THE GRAVE.

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THE SORROWS OF ROSALIE.

A TALE.

I. PART I.

I

Ye marble-hearted ones, whose sighs and tears
Are granted only to a gilded woe—
Whose sick and misdirected pity fears
To look on all that penury can show,
When guilt and want have made a hell below;
In whom the unreal mockeries of the stage
Alone can wake a momentary glow;
Whom griefs impossible, and mimic rage,
Far more than sorrow's truth, and wan disease, engage:

II

To such I would not speak—but oh! to you
Whose generous hearts can feel another's grief;
Who all you can, are willing still to do,
Though loathsome be the wretch who asks relief.
To those who turn—where sorrow claims us chief—
To the lone hut where cheerless misery
Clings wistfully to life, though sad and brief,
And hopes, however vain those hopes may be—
To those alone I call, for they can feel for me.

III

Yet little reck I now for pity's throb:
Can it recal the years that are no more?
Can it repress the deep convulsive sob
That, choking, comes from my heart's inmost core?
Can it bid those return whose day is o'er?
Can it remove the sad sepulchral stone,
Or raise again my ruined cottage door?
Those whom your pity might have saved, are gone,
And now it is not prized, for I am left alone.

IV

No friend shall watch my lingering soul depart—
Unwept, unhonoured, I must pass away;
Then pity forced from each reluctant heart
Shall pour upon my tomb its useless ray,
Condemn my faults, yet mourn my clouded day;
Then, when a late compassion smiles in vain,
A hand divine shall bid my sorrows stay;
And I shall see the forms I love again,
And rest my weary head where all are free from pain.

V

Oh, woman! in this hour of agony
Trample not rudely on the fallen one;
I have been weak, been guilty, but I die
Spurned at, forgotten, friendless, and alone:
All that I had, save hope of heaven, is gone;
From that safe port no wand'rer shall be driven;
God, before whom I bow, will hear my moan;
For there's no sin too great to be forgiven
By him who pities all—the Omnipotent of heaven.

VI

Home of my childhood! quiet, peaceful home!
Where innocence sat smiling on my brow,
Why did I leave thee, willingly to roam,
Lured by a traitor's vainly-trusted vow?
Could they, the fond and happy, see me now,
Who knew me when life's early summer smiled,
They would not know 'twas I, or marvel how
The laughing thing, half woman and half child,
Could e'er be changed to form so squalid, wan, and wild.

VII

I was most happy—witness it, ye skies,
That watched the slumbers of my peaceful night!
Till each succeeding morning saw me rise
With cheerful song, and heart for ever light;
No heavy gems—no jewel, sparkling bright,
Cumbered the tresses nature's self had twined;
Nor festive torches glared before my sight;
Unknowing and unknown, with peaceful mind,
Blest in the lot I knew, none else I wished to find.

VIII

I had a father—a gray-haired old man,
Whom Fortune's sad reverses keenly tried;
And now his dwindling life's remaining span,
Locked up in me the little left of pride,
And knew no hope, no joy, no care beside.
My father!—dare I say I loved him well?
I, who could leave him to a hireling guide?
Yet all my thoughts were his, and bitterer fell
The pang of leaving him, than all I have to tell.

IX

Each morn, before the dew was brushed away,
When the wide world was hushed in deep repose,—
When only flowerets hailed the early day,
I gathered many a diamond-spangled rose,
And many a simple bud that wildly blows;
Then, quick returning to my father's bed,
Before his heavy eyelids could unclose,
I shook away the tears that Nature shed,
And placed them with a kiss beside his slumbering head.

X

My father!—still I see thy silvery hairs
Uplifted gently by the evening breeze,
That placid brow, furrowed with many cares,
The Bible resting on thy aged knees,
Thine eyes that watched the sunset through the trees,
The while I read aloud that holy book,
Or brought wild flowers with childish zeal to please,
Culled by the mossy bank or running brook,
And guess'd thine every wish and feeling from a look.

XI

And oh! my childhood's home was lovelier far
Than all the stranger homes where I have been;
It seem'd as if each pale and twinkling star
Loved to shine out upon so fair a scene;
Never were flowers so sweet, or fields so green,
As those that wont that lonely cot to grace.
If, as tradition tells, this earth has seen
Creatures of heavenly form and angel race,
They might have chosen that spot to be their dwelling place.

XII

In evil hour (for me unfortunate)
Did the deceiver come; I will not say
That he was all on earth most good and great,
Or fairer than the other sons of clay;
But he was all to me—a single day
Spent without him was as a year of pain;
And, when he went, I wept whole hours away,
Musing upon that love so light and vain,
Or trembling lest I ne'er should see his face again.

XIII

Oh, Arthur! if thine eye should view these lines,
Bid not the tear of vain compassion flow;
On thee the sun of pleasure brightly shines,
For thee the ruby wines still sparkling glow,
Though I am pining here in want and woe.
When at thy festive board peals loud and long
The jocund laugh, or music stealing slow,
Think not on her, who once with simple song,
And smiles, repaid thee well for luring her to wrong.

XIV

Oh! still enjoy the cup, the song, the dance,
While yet that life of thoughtlessness may be;
And should some happier beauty's fav'ring glance
Force thee, despite thyself, to think on me,
Cold and ungrateful, know that even she
Whom thou hadst injured and then left to die,
In death forgave thee—loved thee—pitied thee:
For, heartless as thou art, the time is nigh
When thou shalt mourn my woes, and echo every sigh!

XV

Oh! still the charm clings round my broken heart
With which his early love its cords had bound;
In vain I bid his imaged form depart,
For when I pray, with sad and fault'ring sound,
His name is on my lips,—and, hov'ring round,
He, the young Arthur of my happy days,
Stands on some green and flow'ry spot of ground,
With sunny smile and bright enraptured gaze,
Greeting me kindly still with visionary praise.

XVI

Oh, Arthur! by each fond endearing name—
By every melody in youth I sung—
By my lost hopes—by my departed fame,
By the sad ling'ring dream to which I clung,
By every bitter tear from anguish rung,
By all my love—by all my untold grief,
Let not another weep that she has hung
Upon thy words, and die without relief;
For sorrow makes too long a life, however brief.

XVII

He came—admired the pure and peaceful scene,
And offer'd money for our humble cot.
Oh! justly burned my father's cheek, I ween,
“His sires by honest toil the dwelling got;
Their home was not for sale.” It matters not
How, after that, Lord Arthur won my love.
He smiled contemptuous on my humble lot,
Yet left no means untried my heart to move,
And call'd to witness his the glorious heavens above.

XVIII

Oh! dimmed are now the eyes he used to praise,
Sad is the laughing brow where hope was beaming,
The cheek that blushed at his impassioned gaze
Wan as the waters where the moon is gleaming;
For many a tear of sorrow hath been streaming
Down the changed face, which knew no care before;
And my sad heart, awakened from its dreaming,
Recals those days of joy, untimely o'er,
And mourns remembered bliss, which can return no more.

XIX

Lord Arthur came, when ev'ning beams had set,
That then my aged father might not know
How often and how tenderly we met.
My heart was doubly weigh'd by guilt and woe,
And sometimes, or perchance I fancied so,
Methought he gazed on me reproachfully.
Oh! more than once I thought I would not go;
For piteous and remorseful 'twas to see
How bright the old man's smile whene'er he look'd on me.

XX

But yet I went—my weak and wicked heart
Could not resolve to bid a last adieu;
I could not say I would with Arthur part;
I felt I could not live but in his view,
And deem'd his love as fervent and as true.
I went—to shield the future from my sight,
A veil around my reason close I drew;
O'er my dark path there hung no friendly light,
But yet I knew each step led farther from the right.

XXI

It was upon a gentle summer's eve,
When Nature lay all silently at rest—
When none but I could find a cause to grieve,
I sought in vain to soothe my troubled breast,
And wander'd forth alone, for well I guess'd
That Arthur would be lingering in the bower
Which oft with summer garlands I had drest;
Where blamelessly I spent full many an hour
E'er yet I felt or love's or sin's remorseless power.

XXII

No joyful step to welcome me was there;
For slumber had her transient blessing sent
To him I loved—the still and balmy air,
The blue and quiet sky, repose had lent,
Deep as their own—above that form I bent,
The rich and clustering curls I gently raised,
And, trembling, kissed his brow—I turned and went—
Softly I stole away, nor, lingering, gazed;
Fearful and wondering still, at my own deed amazed.

XXIII

My step had roused him, for he lightly sprung
From the green couch that Nature's hand had made.
Aside the drooping woodbine wreaths he flung:—
“And art thou, then, of Arthur, love, afraid?
Am I less dear to thee in slumber laid?
Or dost thou think I should have watched for thee,
Unwearied, till thy footsteps in the shade
Echoed the sound my heart keeps faithfully,
Sleeping or waking, still my dream of hope to be?”

XXIV

That night, to me a night of misery,
In silence thought upon, in silence wept,—
I gazed, through tears, on the unconscious sky,
While peacefully my poor old father slept.—
That night I vowed (and well my vow I kept)
That Arthur should be more than all to me.
High swelled my heart, and in my bosom leap'd
As I looked round, and thought no more to see
My village, home, or sire—but Arthur's bride to be.

XXV

'Twas not ambition—no—for though he said
That I should mistress be of hill and dell,
And many a glorious jewel deck my head:
No, 'twas not these,—it was enough to dwell
Poor, unadorned, so he had loved me well,
E'en where I was, or in some humbler spot,
Remote and far, where I might truly tell
How well I loved (because 'twas his) my cot,
And how I would not change with queens my happy lot.

XXVI

The morning broke, and I was left alone,
Bewildered, sorrowful, as in a dream;
The small birds sang—the heavens serenely shone,
But oh! to me did nothing joyful seem,
And tears unknown—most bitter tears, would stream
For love's rash vow irrevocably made;
And when my father spoke—sincere, I deem,
Was the sad wish my heart's faint whisper said,
On a far colder couch to lay my unconscious head.

XXVII

The evening came—would it had never come!
And I prepared to go, with many a tear;
A sad, yet willing exile from my home,
Forsaking all I held on earth most dear.
My father called me, for he loved to hear
The Bible read by his loved child alone:—
I tried to read; but, oh! I could not bear
The fond dim look—the gentle, trembling tone;
I scarcely heard his words, and sorrow choked my own.

XXVIII

Murmuring I still read on—my words unheeded,
With fear, and doubt, and sorrow almost wild;
From him I could not ask the help I needed,
Till breaking on my trance, in accents mild
And fatherly, he said, “What ails my child?
What sorrow, Rosalie, is in thy breast?
Perchance thy favourite lamb has been beguiled
To quit its home—perchance some ringdove's nest
A truant boy hath torn from out its place of rest.

XXIX

“Nay, sob not thus, my Rosalie; whate'er
Thy griefs, thou surely, love, canst tell them me.”
I could not answer—choking with despair,
I hid my throbbing brow upon his knee;
Then looked up to his face in agony.
I had confessed, had one word more been said.
But whispering, “this is childish,” smilingly,
He laid his trembling hand upon my head,
“Heaven bless thee now, my child! sweet sleep await thy bed!”

XXX

He went; and when I thought upon the morning,
When he would wake to solitary woe,
And when I gazed upon the flowers adorning
The spot I once deemed happiest below—
When I beheld the Bible cherished so,
For sake of those who now were fallen asleep,
I thought within my heart I could not go;
And with repentance, silent, sad, and deep,
I sat me down alone in bitterness to weep.

XXXI

My face was buried in my hands: a voice
Awoke me from my cheerless dream of grief;
Those tones were wont to make my heart rejoice,
But now—I turned—salt tears had brought relief,
I spoke in hurried accents, faint and brief:—
“Oh, not to-morrow! then I cannot go.”
He heard, as though he gave my words belief,
And, turning from me, said, in tones of woe,
“Farewell to thee and life, if thou canst wound me so!”

XXXII

“Oh, Arthur! stay”—he turned, and all was o'er—
My sorrow, my repentance—all was vain—
I dreamt the dream of life and love once more,
To wake to sad reality of pain.
He spoke, but to my ear no sound was plain,
Until the little wicket-gate we passed—
That sound of home I never heard again,
And then “drive on—drive faster—yet more fast.”
I raised my weeping head—Oh! I had looked my last.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

II. PART II.

I

It was in spring—that time of extacy,
When but to breathe the fresh and gladsome air,
To gaze upon the blue and sunny sky,
The bright green fields, the trees, the meadows fair,
And cull the wanton wild flowers springing there,
To happy youth is worth full many a joy,
Which the cold world vainly deems worthy care.
Then—then to live, is hope without alloy,
The sense of being, bliss—which nought on earth can cloy.

II

And I had deemed there was no bliss beyond
That feeling, till we wandered side by side—
Till shone on me those eyes so brightly fond,
Now my sole sunbeam in the world so wide;
Till we together watched the waters glide,
In silvery ripples, by the silent shore;
Till I had tried—alas! how vainly tried
To think on aught as I had thought before.
To cease to think of him, must be to think no more.

III

And he had bought for me a little cot,
Where creeping jasmine and light woodbine twined;
Oh! beautiful and bright that fairy spot!
Yet all its loveliness but brought to mind
The one, more beautiful, I left behind;
But still I loved it, for beneath each tree
Arthur's dear form upon those banks reclined.
Whatever faults a stranger's eye might see,
That tiny spot of earth was Paradise to me.

IV

Day after day, and hour succeeding hour,
For me Time's flight outstripp'd the flagging wind;
And never Love had fetter'd with his power
A heart more fondly true, more wholly blind,
To all that might to others seem unkind,
Than mine;—although his absence seemed an age,
Fondly I made excuses in my mind.
Think me not tedious—scorn me not, ye sage,
But weep that all my bliss is centred in a page!

V

Oh thou, though faithless, still to dearly loved,
When I remember that short year of bliss—
That sunny dream of love, as yet unmoved—
The transient tear chased by thy tender kiss,
I marvel how I can be sunk to this.
I see thee still in dreams, and deem, in sooth,
I hear thy voice, and watch no word to miss;
I see those eyes all tenderness and truth—
Alas! I wake in vain to mourn my blighted youth.

VI

It was not like the happiness I knew
When in my first sweet home of peaceful rest—
'Twas joy, or agony—each feeling grew
Wild, stormy, and tumultuous in my breast,
Though every wish was granted soon as guessed;
Though I had all for which the happiest sigh,
There was one thought—deep, silent, unexpressed,
Which called the unbidden tear-drop to mine eye,—
A thought of him I left—a thought of days gone by!

VII

Oft would the bitter tear unconscious roll;
And Arthur watched, and sought to chase away
All that could shade the sunlight of my soul—
Soothed, praised, caressed, and bade my grief not stay,
Cheeringly speaking of some distant day
When I should turn me to my childhood's home
As Arthur's bride—the gayest 'mid the gay,
And bid my fond and aged father come
To princely halls and bowers, no more from me to roam.

VIII

Yet when, with timid, trembling voice, I prayed
That holy ties our hearts might soon unite,
He turned, half playful, half displeased, and said—
“The links of love will best true love requite;
Cold are those worldly ties, and no delight
Can those unhappy find who love perforce,
Who drag the unwilling chain because 'tis right,
Struggling for duty, shrinking from remorse,
Sighing for earlier times when free their joyous course.

IX

“Oh no, my love!—my life—unchanged, unchanging,
Still let the flow'ry chain so lightly bind,
That hearts may fancy they are free for ranging,
And wander out the charmed links to find;
Yet still return to one most true, most kind,
Half loth to stay, yet powerless to rove,
To all but pleasure and each other blind.
Oh 'tis a glorious life, a life of love!
So may we live on earth as angels live above.

X

“Content thee, then, my love! for none shall be
So dear to me as thou! and look not grieved,
For I have given my life, my soul to thee,
My future bride!”—He spoke, and I believed;
Oh! who had listened and not been deceived!
Alas! I knew not all the bitter woe,
The scorn that waits on her of fame bereaved;
I had but menials round me proud to show
Respect for Arthur's sake, though I was sunk so low.

XI

Once, only once, the 'witching power to charm
Fled from those lips whose accents were so dear.
It was a summer evening, soft and warm;
I gazed upon the heaven, blue and clear,
From out my little latticed window; near
Was Arthur standing—and the woodbine, climbing,
Shed a wild fragrance round—when on my ear
Fell a sweet sound of distant church-bells chiming,
And onward came young forms, their steps to music timing.

XII

Alas! that day—I oped the casement wide,
And watched that gay group with a smiling face—
It was a village wedding; and the bride,
Rosy and rich in all youth's blooming grace,
Came lightly on, past this my fairy place;
Nearer and nearer still I saw them glide—
She turned, half startled, as she heard me rise,
When some grave matron, walking by her side,
Whispered her—slowly she withdrew her eyes,
With a sad farewell glance of pity and surprise!

XIII

Silent she passed, last of the white-robed train—
Oh! there was something in her pitying look,
Mingled with dread, that thrilled my heart with pain.
My proud and sinful spirit could not brook
To see those gay ones, as their way they took,
With half-suppressed contempt in every eye:
Tear after tear in vain away I shook,
As all, with downcast glance, went slowly by,
As if they felt, not saw, some evil thing was nigh.

XIV

Burst the convulsive sob from out my breast!
On Arthur's arm I leant my throbbing brow.
“And did I then forsake my home of rest
To be so scorned, so shunned, so hated now?
Oh! take me back where my own flowers still blow,
Where the beloved ones I left are dwelling;
Let me but see them once before I go
To that far land where none my sins are telling.
For strong against my breast this breaking heart is swelling!”

XV

“Nay, calm thee, love!”—in vain the words were spoken;
Sob after sob rose thick and chokingly—
My dream was past—Hope's fairy glass was broken,
Dreary and dark my prospects seem'd to be;
The path of life, where once I thought to see
Bright skies above, and flowers of joy beneath,
Faded before me in my agony.
'Twas all a wilderness, a desolate heath—
“Oh! Arthur, wed me now, or this will be my death.”

XVI

He dashed away the tear that would encroach,
And firmly said, in accents low and deep,
“I could from others bear this wild reproach,
But not from thee—Rosa! to see thee weep
Costs me far more than it would thee to keep
Thy sorrow within bounds: cease this vain strife,
And let my promise bid thy sorrows sleep.
Soon as a son is born, to glad my life,
Oh, then shall Heaven and man behold thee Arthur's wife!

XVII

“Pass some short months, and the—:” he turned—a sigh
Burst from his breast, and I could say no more;
But fancied, from that hour of agony,
That Arthur came less often than before:
And when he came!—ye that are weeping o'er
The lost affections of a heart whose care
Was once to please you only!—ye that pour
Tears silently, then strive your woes to bear,
And try the sunniest smile your faded cheek can wear!

XVIII

Pity me! for it came—the hour of sorrow
To me, that had forgotten how to weep;
To me, who gladly hailed each joyous morrow
That woke me from light dreams and peaceful sleep!
Oh, ne'er did happiness its vigil keep
Over the sinful—theirs is transient joy;
The trembling bliss—the feelings wild and deep,
Shooting like lightning o'er the heart—their toy,
Coming in brightness still, more darkly to destroy.

XIX

And Arthur was not what he was ere while,
Sad was his eye, and gloomy grew his brow;
Changed were his accents—sorrowful his smile—
Yes,—he was altered,—oh! I cared not how—
But gazed, and wept in bitterness; and now
With eyes averted, or impatient tread,
He saw his hapless Rosa's tear-drops flow;
No word of comfort soothingly he said,
But buried in his hands, with muttered oaths, his head.

XX

Oh! it was awful, starting from his trance,
To see him pace with hurried step the room;
Darting bright troubled fires from every glance.
Then calm, but pale, without youth's brightening bloom,
As storms, subsiding, leave a cheerless gloom.
In vain I supplicated him to tell
His grief to me, and let me share his doom,
Assured that death with him were welcomed well—
No word he spoke, but still on me those dark eyes fell.

XXI

Months passed: one evening, as of early days,
When first my bosom thrilled his voice to hear,
And thought upon the gentle words of praise
Which forced my lips to smile, and chased my fear;
I sang—a sob, deep, single, struck my ear;
Wondering, I gazed on Arthur, bending low—
His features were concealed, but many a tear,
Quick gushing forth, continued fast to flow,
Stood where they fell, then sank like dew-drops on the snow.

XXII

Oh yes! however cold in after years,
At least it cost thee sorrow them to leave me;
And for those few sincere, remorseful tears,
I do forgive (though thou couldst thus deceive me)
The years of peace of which thou didst bereave me.
Yes—as I saw those gushing life-drops come
Back to the heart which yet delayed to grieve me,
Thy love returned a moment to its home,
Far, far away from me for ever then to roam.

XXIII

I gazed a moment, mute with sad surprise;
My bosom thrilled by that deep sound of woe;—
“Oh Arthur, oh beloved! raise those dear eyes,
Let but my tears with thine together flow!
Whate'er thy grief, let, love, let Rosa know.”
Startled, he turned—sad as a funeral chime,
The slow words came—“Oh! Rosa, I must go:
This night I sail to reach a foreign clime;
Nay, look not thus appalled—it is but for a time.”

XXIV

Vain were his words—chill sank my fainting heart:
“Oh! if dark fate hath doomed us now to sever,
I do conjure thee, though all hope depart,
By our past love, by every vain endeavour
To hold thee here,—say, dost thou go for ever?”
“No; by my hopes of bliss—by all that's dear—
By the blue midnight sky—the silent river—
By Heaven, which only now my vow can hear,
Within three transient months expect me to appear.”

XXV

He went—he went! his shadow, as he passed,
Traced his dark outline in the silvery light;
And, as he closed the gate, he gave one last
Long lingering look of love, as if the sight
Recalled to memory many a fairer night;
He raised his eyes to heaven's blue vault serene,
And turned away;—he went—the moonbeams bright
Chequered with wavy lines the peaceful scene—
And long with dreamy thought I watched where he had been.

XXVI

Still hope was left me, and each tedious hour
Was counted, as it brought his coming near;
And joyfully I watched each fading flower;
Each tree, whose shadowy boughs grew red and sear;
And hailed sad Autumn, favourite of the year.
At length my time of sorrow came—'twas over,
A beauteous boy was brought me, doubly dear,
For all the fears that promise caused to hover
Round him—'twas past—I claimed a husband in my lover.

XXVII

Oh, beauteous were my baby's dark blue eyes,
Evermore turning to his mother's face,
So dove-like soft, yet bright as summer skies;
And pure his cheek as roses, ere the trace
Of earthly blight or stain their tints disgrace.
O'er my loved child enraptured still I hung;
No joy in life could those sweet hours replace,
When by his cradle low I watched, and sung;
While still in memory's ear, his father's promise rung.

XXVIII

Three months—three lingering months, had past away,
And my sweet infant had begun to know
Upon whose neck his clasping fingers lay,
And sought by little signs, his love to show;
And when my tears unconsciously would flow,
Raised those young innocent eyes, with questioning glance.
Hark! a quick step is tramping through the snow—
'Tis he, 'tis he! I cried, from distant France!
But my heart echoed low, 'tis he, 'tis he,—perchance.

XXIX

Close to my beating heart I strained my boy,
That moment's bliss repaid whole months of care.
Forward I sprang, in fulness of my joy;
In joy!—alas, it was not Arthur there.
Stern was the aspect, haughty was the air
Of him, who gazed around in wondering mood.
“Lady,” he said at length, “art thou aware
From whom I come?” Trembling, a while I stood;
Then wildly cried, “from him! oh, are thy tidings good?”

XXX

“Lord Arthur greets thee, and he bade me say,
That he no more thine image may retain;
That thou must cast the lingering hope away,
If hope thou hast of seeing him again;
A second parting would but give thee pain;
And nevermore”—the rest I could not hear:
There were words spoken, but I strove in vain
To catch the sense; stricken with doubt and fear,
Sick grew my fainting heart, and dull my senseless ear.

XXXI

Something, I know, was said in soothing tone,
As if some comfort in the words were told;
Something in praise of that dear little one,
And offers large of gold—accursed gold—
Oh! at that sound how every vein grew cold!
Would that bring back the hope that fled for ever?
All rushed upon my mind—the days of old—
The promise made when we were doomed to sever;
I asked, and weeping memory answered, never! never!

XXXII

I strove for speech—I lifted up my child;
With quivering lip that breathed imperfect sound,
“Tell him,” I said, with voice and gesture wild,
“If in his heart some vain excuse be found,
Tell him, this tie, and Heaven, will hold him bound;
Tell him, the heart he laboured to beguile
Will, breaking, firmly clasp his image round;
Tell him, my life will linger but a while,
Say that you saw his child, my rosy infant, smile.

XXXIII

“Take back your gold!—in the heart's agony
It is not valued—it is nothing worth;
Tell him, if he is changed, I soon shall die,
And then can only need a little earth.
Bid him think once, amid his hours of mirth,
On the young gladness of our mutual love—
Bid him remember, at my infant's birth,
The promise only heard by Heaven above;—
Oh! once he had a heart—seek thou that heart to move.”

XXXIV

He promised, and he went—oh, dire suspense!
To breaking hearts how terrible art thou!
When every sound strikes sickening on the sense,
And the cold drops stand on the pallid brow.
I watched—I waited—yea, I hoped e'en now—
I thought, perchance, that Arthur's self would come
To bid adieu!—I recked not, asked not how,
But thought, if he revisited his home,
And only saw his child, again he could not roam.

XXXV

The third day broke—a menial servant came,
And brought a letter—well I knew the hand;
Unkind to write—to send—my trembling frame
Could scarce the strength of tottering steps command.
With dim, but eager eyes, each line I scanned—
Oh! what the words?—the words—away! each one
Had lived for ever, even though writ in sand;
He said, he gave me back the heart he won,—
He said—hear it, bright Heaven! Albert was not his son!

XXXVI

I read it—yes! I read it—and my heart
Refused to break! I read it yet again,
Gazed on, and bade my spell-bound soul depart—
Looked up in anguish to the heavens—'twas vain!
I shrieked, I wept, sole witness of my pain!
Speak for me now, though sinful, lost, and wild,
By the vain passion I might not restrain—
By all my sufferings—by thy mercy mild—
Oh! witness, by all these, he did reject his child!

XXXVII

It was his child! ungrateful and unkind,
Thou could'st not think what yet thou dar'dst to say.
Oh! if remorse hath ever crossed thy mind,
May heaven forgive when I am far away!
Mayest thou ne'er think, amidst the proud and gay,
Of her who now so freely hath forgiven—
Of her who loved thee in life's earliest day,
Who lives to pray for thee, to love thee even—
Her latest hope, to meet thy pardoned soul in heaven.

XXXVIII

I rose—I took my child—the fatherless!
Wiped the big tear-drops from my heavy eyes,
That gushed at every mute and dear caress
My infant gave; and, as the lone dove flies
Far from her widowed nest, through stranger skies,
To seek her mate, so, reckless of the scorn
Which on the world's sad victim heavy lies,
I went, with racking doubt and anguish torn,
To die, or bid young Hope again with Love be born.

XXXIX

With weary limbs, parched lips, and fainting heart,
I reached the proud metropolis—around
Were busy throngs, of which I formed no part;
And cheerful faces, and the jocund sound
Of countless human voices; friends, who found
Those that they sought for; children, that could come
To meet their mother with a joyous bound.
Who welcomed me? who bade me cease to roam?
Alas! to me this scene was but my Arthur's home!

XL

I pressed my baby to my throbbing breast,
In the wide world he was my only tie;
Others had parents, husbands, homes of rest,
Loved and were loved again—Oh! what had I?
No voice was there to soothe mine agony,
I wandered on 'mid crowds, alone, alone;
None bade me stay, none bade me cease to sigh;
By all unpitied, and to all unknown,
I had my love—my grief—my child:—all else was gone.

XLI

I reached his door—that door which once I thought
Had oped to welcome me as Arthur's bride;
Where oft in joyous fancy, I had brought
My poor old father, evermore beside
His couch to watch, and be his only guide!
Where were those buoyant hopes and feelings now?
Where was that vision, raised by youthful pride?
Fled with the pureness of that virgin brow
Which sorrow might have dimmed, but sin alone could bow.

XLII

I knocked—oh! louder knocked my beating heart!
When to the door a heavy footstep came;
The menial smiled, and bade me quick depart,
Muttering, “hard travelling for so fair a dame,”
While indignation shook my trembling frame;
I shrank away, the ready tears gushed forth,
But pride forbade—I could not speak my name;
A moment's silence, and upon the earth
That pitying servant threw some coins of little worth.

XLIII

Yea, pity touched his heart—but oh! for me—
Was this my fate?—I was condemned to take
From Arthur's servant common charity?
I rose—I said, “alas! for pity's sake
Let me see him—thy master—let me make
Myself appeal unto his hardened soul!
Some throb of dying mercy I might wake—
Some feeling interest cannot controul—
Some wish, the bitter grief he caused me, to console!”

XLIV

Hard, hard to be refused! he bade me wait,
The only favour he could now bestow—
To stand a mendicant at Arthur's gate,
Watching the time when he and all should go
To seek amusement in the sunny glow.
Oh! once the gladsome light had charms for me!
Once I could watch the dark blue river flow,
With smiles of joy, with thoughts of extacy;
But lips must cease to smile when hearts no more are free.

XLV

I waited—Heavens! how crept the weary hours,
Step after step, away!—They bring not him!
At length I caught his voice.—All-gracious Powers!
How throbbed my heart, how failed each quivering limb!
How seemed each object in my sight to swim!
That light, gay, laughing voice!—it ceased—the sound—
He came, he came, I raised mine eyes, though dim,
And indistinct all figures seemed around:
I saw him well—my hopes my fears, an answer found.

XLVI

Beautiful as in life's first early day;
Proud as the eagle on his airy height;
With that bright sparkling eye, whose glancing ray
Spoke from beneath his brow, like dawning light—
With stately form, to fix the wandering sight,
And those dark curls uncovered to the wind
Which oft, in happier days of sunshine bright,
With garlands wild my sportive fingers twined;
He stood, lingering awhile for those who came behind.

XLVII

Onward they came—the young, the gay, the free—
With eyes reflecting back the beams that shone,
With careless step, and youthful revelry,
And graceful laughter's light and silvery tone.
They pause—a gay adieu, and they are gone
To meet again at festival or dance;
And one fair creature now was left alone,
On whom my Arthur cast an anxious glance,
And she replied with smiles—a sister's smiles, perchance.

XLVIII

I could not rise—I vainly strove to speak,
The words, imperfect, died upon my tongue;
Like some sad dream we struggling try to break,
The scene around upon my spirit hung;
And ever in my ear the accents rung,
“If hope thou hast”—oh! could I hope again?
With tender care a mantle Arthur flung
Across that lady's steed, and smoothed his mane,
Then turned to mount his own, and seized the tightened rein.

XLIX

Despair gives strength.—With one convulsive bound
I reached him, clung to him with fevered grasp;
And when he gazed in wild amazement round,
And strove to disengage my frantic clasp,
I burst the bonds of silence with a gasp,
And Arthur answered. Oh! upon my ear,
Like the the cold poison of the deadly asp,
Freezing my life-blood, fell those accents drear—
Yet he had loved me well—what had I now to fear?

L

Hurried and passionate the words he spoke—
Pale grew his cheek, and darker fell his brow;
And from his breast a groan of anguish broke:
“Rosa I would that thou hadst spared me now,
'Tis vain—'tis past—alas! thou know'st not how
I struggled and entreated—'twas in vain;
I may not now renew my broken vow,—
I may not even visit thee again;
Rosa, forgive me—I have suffered equal pain.”

LI

Wild was my laugh—“Oh! heartless and unkind!
Thou suffer! may'st thou never feel like me!
Yea, give thy vows of passion to the wind;
Heaven heard them, though to man, unknown they be;
Heaven sees me shunned by all, betrayed by thee;
Lured from the happy home where once I smiled;
Heaven hears my moan of hopeless agony—
Heaven hears thee scorn thy young and innocent child—
Heaven sees us stand e'en now, beguiler and beguiled.”

LII

“Rosa! 'tis vain—whate'er I can, I will—
Ask what thou wilt, which riches may bestow;
The cot is thine—mayest thou be happy still!
In vain regret may rise, or tears may flow—
Angels may smile above—man weeps below;
The happiest hours of all my life are past—
The faded flower of love no more can blow—
Thou see'st my bride—my die for life is cast—
Write—ask whate'er thou wilt—this meeting is our last.”

LIII

With desperate step and strong he broke away,
Upon his courser in an instant sprung;
When soft I heard her voice in pity say—
“Hast thou relieved her, Arthur?” Still I clung
To him—to life—till at my feet was flung
A purse—a heavy purse—I loosed my hold.
Loud on the sounding stones the iron rung
Of those departing steeds—my blood ran cold—
I gazed on what remained—my child, my grief, and gold.

LIV

I did not faint—I did not tear my hair—
I did not shriek to Heaven and man for aid;
Once only, when some gazer's piteous care
Raised up the purse, and gentle offer made,
A groan of anguish, which might not be staid,
Burst forth; all then was mute as my despair.
I lifted up my child, who, half afraid,
Clung trembling to my heart in silence there,
And turned me to depart—returning home—ah! where?

LV

My cot! oh! was it mine? was I to be
A guilty thing, dependent, though unloved?
Yet whither turn, to shun the charity
Of him whose heart so cold and stern had proved?
Would strangers pity when he was not moved?
Or would the humble friends of happier days
Welcome the wanderer, who lonely roved
Through the dark world, shunning her fellows' gaze,
Unheard, unsought, the voice of pity or of praise?

LVI

Yet there was one—one on the boundless earth,
Who would not spurn me, even when fallen and lost;
Whose gentle fondness smiled upon my birth—
Who watched if e'er a shade of sadness crossed
My laughing brow—and when, by passion tossed,
My heart rebellious rose, had gently cheered
And watched, consoled, supported, loved me most
In sorrow sought, by Nature's ties endeared—
Father! to thee I turn, thy wrath no longer feared.

LVII

Once I bethought me, vain and hopeless thought!
To make appeal to her, that pitying one—
Woman to woman. Then I would have sought
To move her gentle heart with anguished moan;
But ever on my ear there fell the tone
Of Arthur's hurried words—“Thou see'st my bride!”
Was she indeed his bride? Yes, hope was gone—
I felt it true. Roll on, life's 'whelming tide,
Wreck the frail bark which now hath lost its only guide.

LVIII

And this was he who loved me; he who came
To whisper vows to my too willing ear
With lip of melody and heart of flame;
Vows whose glad truth I deemed so trebly dear
To him who breathed them, that had doubt or fear
Been raised within my heart, they could not grow—
He whose bright eyes bespoke a soul sincere—
This, this was he who—vain remembrance now!
He lives to scorn the past—he lives to break his vow.

LIX

Ah no! I could not turn me to that cot
Which in life's gladsome spring I loved so well;
I could not think upon my hopeless lot,
And then return, forgotten, there to dwell
Where once—oh memory! no longer tell
The tale too oft repeated, and in vain.
What reck we of the scenes that once befel,
If all the future is composed of pain?
Farewell, thou stranger home! welcome my own again!

END OF THE SECOND PART.

PART III.

I

I journeyed on—the weary sun had set,
And darkness shadowed o'er the face of heaven;
Sleep, that can bid the wretched to forget,
To my sweet babe its late repose had given;
When changed the aspect of that gentle even,
The bitter blast came sweeping o'er my path;
Far off, in eddying rounds, the snow was driven—
Burst o'er my head the thunder's dreadful wrath—
I turned to God, my stay, the hope the wanderer hath.

II

“Shield, shield my child, All-merciful, All-just!
Grant but the shelter of the meanest shed!
If that mine hour is come, if die I must,
Spare me at least to house his gentle head!
Have mercy, oh! have mercy!—Cold the bed
His form must press, if I should perish now.
Yet, yet a little while, and with the dead,
Smiling and thankful, I would lay me low.
Hear me, by all my woes—before thy throne I bow.”

III

Oh, night of horror and of agony!
When chilling fear came like some fell disease;
When the blue lightning shot along the sky,
Flashing bright ruin round, its prey to seize;
When the cold wind howled through the rocking trees,
And shivering, wet, and weary, I pursued,
Struggling against the strong opposing breeze,
Trembling with anguish, faint for lack of food,
Across the wintry waste, a path unknown and rude.

IV

At length the whirlwind ceased, the morning broke:
Oh! never had I seen the sun arise,
Ere from my dream of pleasure I awoke,
In all the radiance of blue summer skies,
With half the bliss with which my weeping eyes
Received the gray and melancholy morn,
Which, pale and tearful, seemed to bid the ties
Which bound me to the world again be born—
Those ties which but last night I deemed in sunder torn.

V

I reached a hamlet, and a moment's peace
Dwelt in my heart. 'Twas sweet to hear once more
The busy sounds I fancied were to cease
To animate a heart whose beat was o'er.
I gently tapped a lowly cottage door,
And asked for food with faint and humble voice;
I fed my child, with bliss unknown before,
When I had plenty round and viands choice:
Oh! those who suffer much are those who most rejoice!

VI

Again I turned to wend my weary way,
Hoping to reach my home ere evening came;
And the sun gladdened soon the misty day,
Infusing life and vigour in my frame;
Half faded from my heart the sense of shame,
Arose again the hope that had expired;
And thoughts of him who would not harshly blame,
Of penitence, of love, my bosom fired,
And prayer to Him whom prayer and sorrow never tired.

VII

I reached my home when the warm sun was set—
When o'er the beauties of that peaceful scene
A few faint rosy beams were lingering yet:
I thought, while gazing on that lovely e'en,
On what I was, on what I once had been;
I thought, as round me lay the drifted snow,
How bright the summer when I last had seen
That cottage sleeping in the sunset glow,
Where now are leafless trees, through which the bleak winds blow.

VIII

Such was the change my heart had undergone—
There all was gloomy, dark, and desolate,
And winter reigned where brightest spring had shone.
I stood a moment at the wicket gate,
Lingering, and trembling on the verge of fate,
With weeping eyes upraised to that calm Heaven,
With fear and shame, that urged me yet to wait,
While from my heart all confidence was driven;
And now I deemed my crime too great to be forgiven.

IX

On, Rosa, on—a father must forgive!
The heart which judges truly cannot love;
He waits to welcome thee, to bid thee live
For him, no more in misery to rove:
Oh, haste thee yet, a father's pity prove:
I oped the gate, advanced—retreated—no,
I dare not seek that injured heart to move.
What shall I say? yet whither can I go?
Oh, help me, Heaven! give strength for more than mortal woe.

X

I paused—across the latticed window came,
While cold and hesitating there I stayed,
The cheerful blazing of the hearth's bright flame—
That hearth where oft in infancy I played,
And many a gambol by my father made,
Reckless of stormy winds, which raged without,
Save when, with lisping, innocent tongue, I prayed
That God would save, in terror, grief, and doubt,
Wandering and weary ones, condemned to venture out.

XI

I was that wanderer now!—I oped the door;
I stood upon the threshold of my home;
A gasp of agony,—a moment more,
And pardoned Rosalie should cease to roam!
To that bright room my faltering steps had come;
Methought e'en now I felt the cheering glow,
Saw the brown bread, the bright ale's sparkling foam,
Which once my hand had bade for him to flow
To whom but hirelings now their tardy duty show.

XII

The latch was lifted, and I gazed around—
But oh, my heart! there were bright faces there,
And cheerful voices, but it ceased, that sound;
A youth, and aged man with silver hair,
Knelt with clasped hands, to breathe their evening prayer;
And a young wife, who rocked her cradled child,
Ceased her low murmuring song, that on the air
No voice but his might sound, and gently smiled,
Till startled by my shriek, which rose long, loud, and wild.

XIII

Yes—bright and cheerful as 'twas wont to be,
The hearth was blazing, but, alas! for whom?
Oh what was I to them—or they to me?
I gazed around, hoping my steps had come
Astray, but no! too well I knew the room;
Too true the certainty struck on my heart—
I read in stranger eyes my dreadful doom!
Their welcome, only an astonished start—
Their links on earth, fond ties, in which I had no part!

XIV

“My father! oh, my father!” vain the cry—
I had no father now; no need to say
“Thou art alone!” I felt my misery—
My father, yet return,—return! the day
When sorrow had availed is past away;
Tears cannot raise the dead, grief cannot call
Back to the earthly corse the spirit's ray—
Vainly eternal tears of blood might fall;
One short year since, he lived—my hopes now perished all!

XV

A shriek, and low I sank upon the ground;
The last dim sound that fell upon my ear,
Those pitying voices murmuring around,
The last dim glance showed pity's trembling tear;
It ceased—and fled the power to see or hear.
My child was taken from my failing arms,
Happy, unconscious now of hope or fear;
Dead to the poignant sense of earthly harms,
Dried were my bitter tears, and hushed my heart's alarms.

XVI

On, on—through many a dark and mournful day
I lived, half conscious, in a dreamy land,
While many a vision came, and passed away,
And many a fairy scheme of bliss was planned,
And ever by me Arthur seemed to stand;
With him in sunny fields and bowers I ranged,
In scenes where we had wandered hand in hand;
And I was happy till the vision changed;
'Twas Arthur still, but oh! with heart and looks estranged!

XVII

And then, methought, beneath a stormy sky,
With his gray hair thin streaming on the wind,
My father stood in hopeless agony;
Reproached me as ungrateful and unkind;
And prayed that I as hard a fate might find;
Or on a lowly couch his form was lying,
Whispering sad words, which, still with head inclined,
I vainly strove to hear; and, he while dying,
Cast a reproachful glance at me for not replying.

XVIII

And then again it changed, and bound I stood
While demons tore my baby limb from limb,
And still the stream of gushing living blood
Came trickling on the earth, all fresh from him
Who might have mingled with the cherubim,
And been as bright as they: warm o'er my feet,
All seen too plain, though vision-like and dim,
Those crimson rivulets appeared to meet,
While powerless still I stood, unable to retreat.

XIX

At length I slept; and when I woke again
Those fevered dreams had fled, and left me weak,
With but the sense confused of grief and pain:
I gazed around, and feebly tried to speak;
And kindly eyes, that watched my slumber break,
Turned to the couch,—I asked them for my child,
And that young wife replied, in accents meek:
My babe was brought me—I was wan and wild;
And, shrinking back, it turned to that kind one, and smiled.

XX

Long, long I wept with weak and piteous cry
O'er my sweet infant, in its rosy bloom,
As memory brought my hours of agony
Again before my mind;—I mourned his doom;
I mourned my own: the sunny little room
In which, oppressed by sickness, now I lay,
Weeping for sorrows past, and woes to come,
Had been my own in childhood's early day.
Oh! could those years indeed so soon have passed away!

XXI

Past, as the waters of the running brook;
Fled, as the summer winds that fan the flowers;
All that remained, a word—a tone—a look,
Impressed, by chance, in those bright joyous hours:
Blossoms which, culled from youth's light fairy bowers,
Still float with lingering scent, as loth to fade,
In spite of sin's remorseless 'whelming powers,
Above the wreck which time and grief have made,
Nursed with the dew of tears, though low in ruin laid.

XXII

And they had watched me all that weary while—
Those kindly hearts, and made my child their own,
And saw with pleasure still its infant smile;
And even now, when fell disease was gone,
Besought me not to wander forth alone
In the bleak stormy world where friends were not;
And bade me stay, although my tale was known,
Here in the shelter of their lonely cot,
Where I might yet attain a not unhappy lot!

XXIII

But no—I could not stay in that sweet place,
So changed, so fallen from all which once I was,
And see reflected, in each well-known face,
My shame and sorrow—never!—human laws
Were framed against me, while the unpitying cause
Of all my misery, secure from blame,
Passed the gay hours in mirth, nor made one pause
To think of me in mournfulness and shame—
Heaven might forgive, but man would scorn my blighted name.

XXIV

And I departed thence, with thanks and tears;
The meed I offered they declined to take,
But prayed Heaven would prolong my baby's years,
That he might wrestle for his mother's sake;
And said, if misery came, that I might make
Their home again my home—ye tender-hearted!
'Twas yours the fount of tenderer grief to wake!
And tears, unfeigned and half unconscious, started,
As, slow and mournfully, once more I thence departed.

XXV

Once more a weary wanderer—once more
Without a shelter for the coming eve!
Why did I dream my woes would soon be o'er?
Why did my heart my reason thus deceive,
To think the sinful could forget to grieve?
Oh! dream soon broken! hope forgotten now!
Last feeling which the human heart can leave,
Teach me again to trust the broken vow!
Friend of the desolate—in misery help me thou!

XXVI

I rested in the churchyard, where, alone,
The verdant mound raised o'er his buried head,
Marked by a rude and solitary stone,
My father lay—the long-lamented dead!
I knelt, and many a bitter tear I shed.
“O thou much injured, yet devoutly loved,
Who first in infancy my footsteps led!
If pardon may be found for her who roved,
And left thee lonely—oh! may Heaven, mayest thou be moved!

XXVII

“If days of agony and nights of tears
Can aught atone for passion's wild excess;
If mercy e'en the worst of sinners cheers,
When sunk in penitence and mournfulness,
Oh! then let Mercy hear my moan, and bless,
Although unworthy, her who prostrate lies—
Hear me in anguish and in bitterness!
If grief can reach thy home, beyond the skies,
A late repentance take, since death the rest denies.”

XXVIII

All that remained, the grave, the silent grave
Of him o'er whose unconscious form I pined,
In early youth the generous and the brave,
In age the tender-hearted and the kind,
The past, the happy past! rushed o'er my mind,
Tinging with hues, from Memory's painful dart,
Those busy scenes with his dear image twined;
And then the future struck upon my heart—
That future in which he should never bear a part.

XXIX

That future came—sad months had rolled away—
Tears had been shed, and sighs been heaved in vain;
And I, that Rosalie, so young and gay,
Was now a withered form of want and pain;
My voice, which now but sounded to complain
In hollow accents, startled e'en my ear;
And my weak limbs could scarce the power retain
To drag me forth, in lingering doubt and fear,
Imploring food for him who now alone was dear.

XXX

Oh, Heaven! the hour arrived when I had nought,
When sick and sorrowful I gazed around,
Knowing, alas! the little store I brought
Was all exhausted—where could help be found?
Hard hearts had they to whom I now was bound;
For the dark wretched room in which I lay
They ask'd for payment—scarce the falt'ring sound
Of vain excuse and vainer prayer to stay
Had pass'd my lips, when stern they bade me speed away.

XXXI

“Away, and in the loneliness of night!”
To wait fresh pain with ev'ry varying hour;
“Oh! yet delay—abuse not thus your right!
List to the pelting of the dreary shower!
Angry and fierce the opposing tempests lower;
Oh! yet till daylight!”—vain, alas! the cry!
With brow repulsive, and resistless power,
She thrust me forth beneath the inclement sky—
Woman to woman did this deed of cruelty.

XXXII

A miserable night of useless weeping,
Shiv'ring beneath the pillar'd portico
Of some great house, were all were softly sleeping,
Deaf to the storm that beat, the winds that blow,
Reckless of those that wander to and fro,
Houseless and homeless, near their proud abodes.
Unconscious slumberers! little do ye know
The nightly weight of misery which o'erloads
Near you, unpitied crowds, and to destruction goads!

XXXIII

The morrow—and the grey and silent streets
Swarmed with the varied multitudes anew,
Still changing with each fev'rish hour that fleets.
The busy many and the anxious few
In quick succession pass before my view.
And now my infant, pining in my arms,
With cheeks like faded roses in the dew,
Awoke in me a mother's dread alarms—
Huger and cold oppress'd and nipp'd his baby charms.

XXXIV

The day wore on, the gleamy sun was setting,
A deep conviction stole upon my mind;
All but my cherished innocent babe forgetting—
I rose—I cried—“Have mercy, passers kind,
Upon my child! let misery pity find—
Oh! hear me”—and they pass'd one after one,
Some frowned—some cast a pitying look behind,
And some few gave—at length the day was gone,
And then I bowed my head and wearily sank down.

XXXV

But I had food for him, though I was left
Unpitied thus to struggle with my fate—
This ling'ring mournful hope was not bereft,
That he would live to feel a generous hate
Of all the cold restraints of pomp and state;
And then, when proud and beautiful he stood,
His father would, repentant, though too late,
Sigh o'er past evil and neglected good,
With useless tears, oft shed in penitential mood.

XXXVI

'Twas not to be—day vanished after day,
And fewer gave, and fainter grew my prayer—
In vain I watch'd my baby as he lay—
Night came—his couch was in the open air—
What could avail a mother's tenderest care!
With miser hand—the pittance hoarded still,
Dealt out to him alone a frugal fare,
But to delay, not banish, future ill,
While famine spared the babe whom misery was to kill.

XXXVII

At last 'twas spent—I asked for alms in vain—
Tired of relieving one who still prayed on,
With frowning brow they turn'd from sight of pain,
With silent tongue and tearless eyes were gone.
I waited till the close of day, but none
Had taken pity on me, and I went
Once more to him who doom'd me to be low;
Mothers are humble—o'er my child I bent;
I rose to ask his alms who scorned the gold he sent.

XXXVIII

Lonesome and wearily I reached the door,
But he was gone—gone with his happy bride,
Where—oh! I asked not—wish'd to hear no more;
His heart was far away—the world was wide,
And I was lonelier than all beside!
Another day of sad and anxious weeping;
Another day of famine—all denied;
Another night my mournful vigils keeping
Above my pining child, whom hunger hinder'd sleeping.

XXXIX

Dreamily had the heavy days gone by,
And Albert faded—fainter grew his cries—
Oh! ye that ever bent in agony
Above your pallid infant! ye that rise,
And glance, half fearfully, with 'wildered eyes,
Expecting death—then kneel in tears to pray,
With tongue that speech articulate denies,
That God will yet awhile the stroke delay,
Think what I suffered then, from weary day to day.

XL

You softly place that little languid head,
You tempt him with the comforts spread around,
But I could envy now the meanest shed—
My babe was starving—bless'd if I but found
A morsel destined for the hungry hound!
Moving his pale sweet lips with grateful smile,
Unwitting of the fate that o'er him frowned;
His was the present—gladdened for awhile—
The future mine, of woe no hope might now beguile.

XLI

There came a day—I sat alone—alone!
The dismal showers had drench'd my thread-worn dress,
And, seated on the cold and dripping stone,
Without the power to ask for alms—still less
The strength to wander in my wretchedness,
My dying baby laid upon my knee;
I look'd on those who pass'd, and sought to guess
Where pity dwelt, still gazing wistfully,
With hope, but half extinct, for that which could not be.

XLII

A carriage stopp'd—a lady, richly dress'd,
Alighted, and I rose in doubt and fear—
The faint and murm'ring tones, but half express'd,
Fell on a hardened heart and deafened ear;
She pass'd—I gazed—and felt the blow severe;
But as she went, upon the stones there fell
A sparkling cross, of jewels rich and rare;
Rushed o'er my mind the thoughts that dared not dwell—
I had a child—that child!—oh! needs there more to tell?

XLIII

I seized it—fled—behind me rose a shout—
On!—on!—my trembling knees could scarce sustain
The weight above—near, nearer came the rout—
On! on!—oh! shall the effort be in vain?
A few yards more, and then would end my pain—
I reached a shop—flung down the cross, and said,
“Food for my child!” I could no more restrain
My weakness and my woe—I snatched the bread,
Gave it to him, and sunk lifeless, unconscious, dead!

XLIV

I woke—oh! would that I had slept for ever!
Stern forms were standing round—I heard the cry
Of that dear little one they sought to sever
From his poor mother! one long gasping sigh,
One lingering pause of nature's agony,
And I recovered: let it not be told
What followed next—suffice it, that to die
Contains no pang so sickening, deep, and cold,
As that which rent my heart in those barbarians' hold.

XLV

An hour, and I was pent in prison walls—
The shriek of woe, the bursting sob, the tear—
Not that, the soft and sad, which gently falls,
But scalding bitterness was shedding here—
Oh, God! those prisoned hours, so long, so drear!
Still—still I feel the damp and heavy cell
Strike on my numbing sense, palsied with fear;
Yet I had him, loved tenderly and well,
Dear link of life, to whom I clung, whate'er befel.

XLVI

Where is my child? great God! forgive these moans!
Forgive the question—wildly, vainly spoke!
'Tis over now, but then—ye sad grey stones,
Graves of the lovely and the loved, revoke
Your cruel mandate; let the chain be broke,
And give me back my own—my own! alas!
'Tis mine no more—the dead may not be woke—
Unfading treasures misers may amass,
But rosy cheeks—bright eyes—like airy visions pass.

XLVII

I watch'd—I pray'd—I knelt all desolate,
While fev'rish throbbed my baby's pulse—I tried
Not to repine at the decrees of fate;
I sought for resignation—yea, I cried,
“Thy will be done,”—but no—it was denied.
Oft as I gazed upon that flushing cheek,
Oft as those eyelids turn'd, submission died;
I held his hand, so languid, faint, and weak,
And laid my lips on his, with vain attempt to speak.

XLVIII

Three nights—the fourth, sleep closed my weary eyes,
While kneeling by his couch—a happier dream
Stole o'er my mind—methought I saw him rise
From slumber's arms, with eyes whose sunny beam
Outshone his own—by our own trickling stream
I stood, and still my father bless'd my boy,
While bright and joyous, as on earth could seem,
All shone around—'twas hope without alloy—
A sound—a painful start—and broke my dream of joy.

XLIX

I bent above my child—the life was gone!
Cold was the hand and pulseless was the heart,
And I was lock'd in darkness, and alone!
I could not watch the ling'ring ray depart
From those half-conscious eyes—Death's silent dart
Had pierced him whom the stormy lightning spared—
Whom famine failed to slay: a groan—a start—
Were welcomed now with rapture—Nature dared
All agonies but one; in silence she despaired.

L

Was it then true? it was. No hideous dream,
“Making night horrible,” obscured my sense—
The soul was fled—how nothing all things seem
When those we toiled for are departed hence:
There, with a mournful silent eloquence
Rending my heart, lay the untasted crust—
Alas! the day they bore my infant thence,
In vain I prayed the merciful—the just—
They laid my rosy babe low with the worm i' the dust.

LI

My trial came, and I could only say
I lived—I breathed—I felt nor hope nor fear;
My thoughts were in a distant world, away
With him who was—who once had been so dear!
One only sentence struck upon my ear,
A question of that wretched day—“My Lord,
She gave it to her child!” was answered—drear
And dark as was my soul, I felt that word—
My shriek so long, so wild, was never wilder heard.

LII

It pass'd, that day, and then they set me free—
I gazed in melancholy stupor round;
The prison walls had been the same to me—
Sorrow remained—sorrow that knew no bound!
They gave me shelter—I nor smiled nor frowned—
My heart was dead within me—sad I sate,
With but one thought, my baby's grassy mound;
Night came—I rested—food was brought—I ate,
Nor ever murmur made for my unhappy fate.

LIII

Years have gone by—my thoughts have risen higher—
I sought for refuge at the Almighty's throne;
And when I sit by this low mould'ring fire,
With but my Bible, feel not quite alone,
Lingering in peace, till I can lay me down,
Quiet and cold in that last dwelling place,
By him o'er whose young head the grass is grown—
By him who yet shall rise with angel face,
Pleading for me, the lost and sinful of my race.

LIV

And if I still heave one reluctant sigh—
If earthly sorrows still will cross my heart—
If still to my now dimmed and sunken eye
The bitter tear, half checked, in vain will start,
I bid the dreams of other days depart,
And turn, with clasping hands and lips compress'd,
To pray that Heaven will soothe sad memory's smart,
Teach me to bear and calm my troubled breast,
And grant her peace in Heaven who not on earth may rest.