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.

PART I.

II.

WHILE I THINK OF YOU, LOVE!

On T. B. S.

THE DARKNESS OF THE GRAVE.

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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.