Specimens of American poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pale, cold and statue-like she sate, and her impeded breath
Came gaspingly, as if her heart was in the grasp of death,
While listening to the harsh decree that robb'd her of a throne,
And left the gentle child of kings in the wide world alone.

And fearful was her look; in vain her trembling maidens moved,
With all affection's tender care, round her whom well they loved;
Stirless she sate, as if enchained by some resistless spell,
Till with one wild, heart-piercing shriek in their embrace she fell.

How bitter was the hour she woke from that long dreamless trance;
The veriest wretch might pity then the envied Jane of France;
But soon her o'erfraught heart gave way, tears came to her relief,
And thus in low and plaintive tones she breath'd her hopeless grief:

“Oh! ever have I dreaded this, since at the holy shrine
My trembling hand first felt the cold, reluctant clasp of thine;
And yet I hoped—My own beloved, how may I teach my heart
To gaze upon thy gentle face and know that we must part?

“Too well I knew thou lovedst me not, but ah! I fondly thought
That years of such deep love as mine some change ere this had wrought:
I dream'd the hour might yet arrive, when sick of passion's strife,
Thy heart would turn with quiet joy to thy neglected wife.

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“Vain, foolish hope! how could I look upon thy glorious form,
And think that e'er the time might come when thou wouldst cease to charm?
For ne'er till then wilt thou be freed from beauty's magic art,
Or cease to prize a sunny smile beyond a faithful heart.

“In vain from memory's darken'd scroll would other thoughts erase
The loathing that was in thine eye, where'er it met my face:
Oh! I would give the fairest realm, beneath the all-seeing sun,
To win but such a form as thou mightst love to look upon.

“Wo, wo for woman's weary lot if beauty be not hers;
Vainly within her gentle breast affection wildly stirs;
And bitterly will she deplore, amid her sick heart's dearth,
The hour that fix'd her fearful doom—a helot from her birth.

“I would thou hadst been cold and stern,—the pride of my high race
Had taught me then from my young heart thine image to efface;
But surely even love's sweet tones could ne'er have power to bless
My bosom with such joy as did thy pitying tenderness.

“Alas! it is a heavy task to curb the haughty soul,
And bid th' unbending spirit bow that never knew control;
But harder still when thus the heart against itself must rise,
And struggle on, while every hope that nerved the warfare dies.

“Yet all this have I borne for thee—aye, for thy sake I learn'd
The gentleness of thought and word which once my proud heart spurn'd;
The treasures of an untouch'd heart, the wealth of love's rich mine,
These are the offerings that I laid upon my idol's shrine.

“In vain I breathed my vows to heaven, 't was mockery of prayer;

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In vain I knelt before the cross, I saw but Louis there:
To him I gave the worship that I should have paid my God
But oh! should his have been the hand to wield the avenging rod?”

STANZAS.

Oh! knowest thou, dear one, the love of youth
With its wayward fancies, its untried truth;
Yet cloudless and warm as the sunny ray
That opens the flowers of a summer's day,
Unfolding the passionate thoughts that lie
'Mid feelings pure as an angel's sigh;
Till the loftiest strength of our nature wakes
As an infant giant from slumber breaks:
Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be?
In earlier days such was mine for thee.

Oh, knowest thou, dear one, of woman's love
With its faith that woes more deeply prove;
Its fondness wide as the limitless wave,
And chainless by aught than the silent grave;
With devotion as humble as that which brings
To his idol the Indian's offerings;
Yet proud as that which the priestess feels,
When she nurses the flame of the shrine while she knee
Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be?
Such ever has been in my heart for thee.

Oh knowest thou the love of a poet's soul,
Of the mind that from heaven its brightness stole,
When the gush of song, like the life-blood springs
Uncheck'd from the heart, and the spirit's wings
Are nerved anew in a loftier flight
To seek for its idol a crown of light;
When the visions that wake beneath fancy's beam,
But serve to brighten an earthly dream:
Oh, knowest thou, dear, what this love may be?
Such long has been in my heart for thee.

Oh, tell me, dear, can such love decay
Like the sapless weed in the morning ray?
Can the love of earlier, brighter years
Be chased away like an infant's tears?
Can the long tried faith of a woman's heart

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Like a summer bird from its nest depart?
Can affection nursed within fancy's bowers,
Find deadly herbs 'mid those fragrant flowers?
Oh! no, beloved one, it cannot be:
Such end awaits not my love for thee.

Youth's pure fresh feelings have faded now;
But not less warm is love's summer glow;
Dark frowns may wither, unkindness blight
The heart where thou art the only light;
And coldness may freeze the wild gush of song,
Or chill the spirit once tameless and strong;
And the pangs of neglected love may prey
Too fatally, dear, on this fragile clay;
But never, Oh! never beloved, can it be
That my heart should forget its deep fondness for thee.