 | Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . |  |
260
V.
I shrink from the embitter'd close
Of my own melancholy tale.
'Tis long since I have waked my woes—
And nerve and voice together fail!
The throb beats faster at my brow,
My brain feels warm with starting tears,
And I shall weep—but heed not thou!
'Twill soothe awhile the ache of years!
The heart transfix'd—worn out with grief—
Will turn the arrow for relief.
Of my own melancholy tale.
'Tis long since I have waked my woes—
And nerve and voice together fail!
The throb beats faster at my brow,
My brain feels warm with starting tears,
And I shall weep—but heed not thou!
'Twill soothe awhile the ache of years!
The heart transfix'd—worn out with grief—
Will turn the arrow for relief.
The painter was a child of shame!
It stirr'd my pride to know it first,
For I had question'd but his name,
And thought, alas! I knew the worst,
Believing him unknown and poor.
His blood, indeed, was not obscure;
A high-born Conti was his mother,
But, though he knew one parent's face,
He never had beheld the other,
Nor knew his country or his race.
The Roman hid his daughter's shame
Within St. Mona's convent wall,
And gave the boy a painter's name—
And little else to live withal!
And, with a noble's high desires
Forever mounting in his heart,
The boy consumed with hidden fires,
But wrought in silence at his art;
And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine,
Worn thin with penance harsh and long
He saw his mother's form divine,
And loved her for their mutual wrong.
I said my pride was stirr'd—but no!
The voice that told its bitter tale
Was touch'd so mournfully with wo,
And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of Melanie,
And gazed so gaspingly on me—
The demon in my bosom died!
“Not thine,” I said, “another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!”
It stirr'd my pride to know it first,
For I had question'd but his name,
And thought, alas! I knew the worst,
Believing him unknown and poor.
His blood, indeed, was not obscure;
A high-born Conti was his mother,
But, though he knew one parent's face,
He never had beheld the other,
Nor knew his country or his race.
The Roman hid his daughter's shame
Within St. Mona's convent wall,
And gave the boy a painter's name—
And little else to live withal!
And, with a noble's high desires
Forever mounting in his heart,
261
But wrought in silence at his art;
And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine,
Worn thin with penance harsh and long
He saw his mother's form divine,
And loved her for their mutual wrong.
I said my pride was stirr'd—but no!
The voice that told its bitter tale
Was touch'd so mournfully with wo,
And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of Melanie,
And gazed so gaspingly on me—
The demon in my bosom died!
“Not thine,” I said, “another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!”
| Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . | |