The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury

“Jeanne de France étoit fille de Louis XI. et sœur de Charles VIII. On la maria à l'âge de vingt deux ans avec Louis XII., l'an 1476. Elle en usa bien avec lui pendant qu'il étoit disgracié; et ce fut elle qui, par ses prières, le fit sortir de prison, l'an 1491; mais cela ne fut point capable de balancer dans le coeur de son mari l'inclination violente qu'il avoit pour la veuve de Charles VIII. C'étoit Anne de Bretagne; il l'avoit aimée, et en avoit été aimé avant qu'elle epousâ Charles. Afin donc de contenter son envie, il fit rompre son mariage, et il promit tant de récompense au Pape Alexandre VI. qu'il en obtint tout ce qu'il voulut.”

Bayle, Dictionnaire.

Pale, cold, and statue-like she sat, and her impeded breath
Came gaspingly, as if her heart was in the grasp of death,
While listening to the harsh decree that robbed 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 sat, 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 breathed her hopeless grief:—

“O! 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 dreamed the hour might yet arrive when, sick of passion's strife,
Thy heart would turn with quiet joy to thy neglected wife.

“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 darkened scroll would other thoughts erase
The loathing that was in thine eye, whene'er it met my face:
O! I would give the fairest realm beneath the all-seeing sun,
To win but such a form as thou mightst love to look upon.

“Woe, woe 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 fixed 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 learned
The gentleness of thought and word which once my proud heart spurned;
The treasures of an untouched 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, 'twas mockery of prayer;
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 O! should his have been the hand to wield the avenging rod?”

SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A LOVER.

Anne Boleyn, when maid of honor to Queen Catharine, was betrothed to Henry Percy, afterwards Earl of Northumberland, but at that time a page in the household of Cardinal Wolsey. The king, discovering their attachment by means of some gem, a love-gift from Percy to Anne, ordered him to be removed from court. The young lover, after beholding the object of his affection elevated to the highest station in the realm, was finally compelled, as one of the peers of England, to preside at her trial and condemnation.—

Miss Benger's Memoirs of Anne Boleyn.

SCENE I.

Within a green and flower-decked glade they stood;
The harvest moon was shedding a rich flood
Of light around them, and revealed to view
The youth's bright glance, the deep and burning hue
That flushed the maiden's cheek; her lover's arm
Was fondly clasped around her graceful form:
But half aside she turned; she could not brook
The passionate fondness of his earnest look;
And proudly did his o'er-fraught bosom swell
As there, to hide her blushing face, she fell.
Upon her brow he pressed one burning kiss.
And then in all the speechlessness of bliss
Stood gazing on her, till low murmurs broke
From her sweet lips, and his heart's pulses woke:
“Now am I thine, beloved one; doubt me not
Amid the splendors of my courtly lot;
For dearer far to me this little gem
Than e'er could be a queenly diadem;
And when no more my bosom it shall grace,—
The sweet remembrance of this fond embrace,—

Then deem me faithless, Henry, and despise
The heart that only lives beneath thine eyes.”
Then to her rosy lips the maiden prest
The gem with which his hand had decked her breast:
“Now fare thee well, beloved one, I must go
Once more to mingle in the heartless show
That fills yon haughty castle—one last kiss—
And shouldst thou doubt me, Henry, think on this.”
She glided from his arms; her flying feet
Scarce from the violet pressed its fragrance sweet;
He was alone, and thus to music's spell
He joined the murmurs of his low farewell:—

Farewell to thee, dear;
When I meet thee again,
Light hearts will be round us
And pageantries vain;
But well do I know,
In life's sunniest hours,
Thou'lt think of our meeting
'Mid moonlight and flowers.

Farewell to thee, dear one,
And O! in thy dreams
When fancy sheds o'er thee
Her loveliest beams,
Then think that thou rovest
Through Percy's fair bowers,
And remember our meeting
'Mid moonlight and flowers.

SCENE II.

Hark! hark to the tumult! the trumpets and drums
Are waking wild mirth as the pageantry comes;
'Mid knights and fair dames, see the king proudly ride,
While near him is borne in her glory his bride;
And never could England's proud diadem gleam
On a brow where more beauty and majesty beam.

There's a flush on her cheek like the deep crimson glow
That sunset sheds over the pure Alpine snow;
And her eye sheds a brightness more glorious by far
Than the splendor that beams from heaven's loveliest star;
There is joy in her heart, but does happiness speak
In the wildly bright eye, and the fever-flushed cheek?

'Tis she—'tis the maiden! but where now is gone
The gem that so long on her bosom had shone?
Though diamonds are sparkling, and pearls rich and rare,
Yet the earliest offering of love is not there;
And the king at her side is not he on whose breast,
In that still hour of bliss, her sweet face had found rest.

Look, look to the queen! o'er her features are spread
A hue like the paleness that dwells with the dead;
Her wandering glance, as if urged by a spell,
Turned full on the form she had loved but too well;
And how did her heart with wild agony beat,
As she thought of those hours still in memory too sweet!

O! sadly he looked on her robes rich and gay,—
He had seen that form fairer in simple array,—
And shuddering he gazed on her jeweled tiar
Less bright than her eye, once his loveliest star:
And his proud heart swelled high as he thought of past hours,
And remembered their meeting 'mid moonlight and flowers.

But vain such remembrance; a tyrant's fierce love
Had broken the bonds young affection had wove.
The youth to another in sorrow is wed;
In glory the maid as a queen is now led;
And soon as a subject he humbly must bow
To her on whose lips he had breathed his love-vow.

SCENE III.

With black the stately hall was hung; a cloud was on each brow
That gathered round the council board in solemn silence now;
And pain and anxious doubt within each noble's bosom stirred,
For well they knew that life and death now hung upon their word.

With snow-white robes and veilèd brow, a female form drew nigh;
With calm and stately air she stepped, while fixed was every eye;

And 'mid the dark, stern visaged guards around her, she might seem
The being of a higher sphere, the creature of a dream.

Now like a criminal she stood, while plainly she could trace
The fearful workings of his soul upon each noble's face;
Yet was she calm; with queenly grace her veil aside was thrown—
Unhappy Percy! from thy lips burst that convulsive groan?

Well might his breast with anguish thrill! few years had passed away
Since that fair form within his arms in love's deep fondness lay;
Since then she moved the stately queen—now the disloyal wife,
For her deep treachery and wrong must answer with her life.

Yet she was innocent; O! none could gaze upon her eye
And deem that sin's dark stain within her bosom's depths could lie;
But who might dare assert her truth, when, wearied with her charms,
The tyrant had decreed that she should sleep in death's cold arms?

Now, placed 'mid England's haughty peers, must Percy seal the doom
That gave the creature of his love to fill a bloody tomb;

Too soon the fatal deed was done—though pure as unsunned snow,
Yet must the fearful hand of death stamp guilt upon her brow.

He heard no more; but wildly from the judgment hall he rushed,
Too strong the tenderness within his anguished spirit gushed;
Till worn by such resistless pangs, o'ermastered by the spell
Of demon thought, upon the earth in senselessness he fell.

Stately and calm the queen had sat, but when she heard his cry,
From her quick heaving bosom burst the half-convulsive sigh.
One pleading look to heaven she cast, then spoke in murmured tone:
“Slight is the bitterness of death when spotless fame is gone.”

Thus did she die—the young, the fair, the good, compelled to bow
Her graceful, swan-like neck beneath the headsman's heavy blow;
Her shining locks were dabbled in the blood that flowed like rain;
But o'er the whiteness of her soul, e'en blood could leave no stain.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

“Sir James Melvil tells us that this princess, the evening of his arrival in London, had given a ball to her court at Greenwich, and was displaying all that spirit and alacrity which usually attended her on these occasions: but when news arrived of the prince of Scotland's birth, all her joy was damped; she sunk into melancholy; she reclined her head upon her arm, and complained to some of her attendants, that the Queen of Scots was mother of a fair son, while she herself was but a barren stock.”

Hume's History of England.

Coldly she sat, while graceful hands her stately form arrayed
In silken robes, and wreathed her hair in many a jeweled braid;
But all a woman's vanity was in the vivid glow
That flattery's magic tones awoke upon her cheek and brow.

Beside her hung the pictured form of Scotland's matchless queen—
O! language would need rainbow hues to paint that glorious mien,
That face which bore the high impress of majesty, and yet
Where Love, as if to win all hearts, his fairest seal had set.

And bitter was the scorn that filled Elizabeth's proud eye,
As turning from her mirrored self, she saw her rival nigh;

But transient was the cloud, and soon she bent with smiles to greet
The graceful little page who now was kneeling at her feet:—

“Letters from Scotland”—eagerly she grasped the proffered scroll
Which sharper than a scorpion's sting could pierce her haughty soul;
And timidly her maidens shrunk; for quickly could they trace
Fierce passion in the darkening hue that gathered o'er her face.

The white foam stood upon her lip, and wildly beat her heart,
Till its convulsive throbbings rent her 'broidered zone apart:
“Away!” she cried—awe-struck they stood to hear that anguished tone,—
“Away!”—like frighted fawns they fled, and she was left alone.

O! fiercer than the angry burst of ocean's tameless wave
Is woman's soul, when thus unchecked its maddening passions rave;
But soon the storm was spent, and then like rain-drops fell her tears,
While thus the heart-struck queen bewailed her lone and blighted years:—

“All, all but this I could have borne—methought that queenly pride
Had checked within my woman's breast affection's swelling tide;
But vainly has my spirit sought 'mid glory to forget
The youthful dreams whose faded light gleams o'er my fancy yet.

“And she has realized those dreams—aye, she whose gentle brow,
In all its graceful loveliness, is turned upon me now;
Mary of Scotland! gladly would my lofty heart resign
The pomps and vanities of power, to win such joy as thine.

“O! dearer far than halls of state the humble cottage hearth,
Where childhood's joyous tones awake in all their reckless mirth;
And happier far the meanest churl, than she, within whose breast
Affection's soft and pleading voice by pride must be represt.

“A mother's joy! a mother's pride!—O! what is regal power
To the sweet feelings that are born in such a blissful hour?
Now well art thou avenged, fair queen, of all my jealous hate,
For thou hast clasped a princely son, and I—am desolate!”

A slight, perhaps not unpardonable liberty has been taken with historical fact. The queen is supposed to be at her toilette, preparing for the ball.

THE DEATH OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

A BALLAD.

Could this be England's boasted pride?
Where were her glories now?
Where the rich jewels that were wont
To deck her princely brow?
Where were the pomps of regal state,
The charms of lady's bower?
Not on such couch the island queen
Should meet her dying hour.

In vain her anxious maidens decked
Her bed of royal state;
With finger pressed upon her lip,
Upon the floor she sate;
Sorrow had bowed her stately form,
And time had blanched her hair;
While her proud eye, now glazed and dim,
Was filled with wild despair.

She took no heed of aught; her thoughts
Were in the bloody grave
That her own hand had dug for him
She would have died to save;
And ever to her heart she pressed
A ring, a trifling gem,
But far more precious to her now
Than England's diadem.

It was a pledge of special grace—
For hours had often been
When the proud dame could not forget
The woman in the queen;
And to the hand of Essex then,
In such an hour she gave
The ring, and promised any boon
That with it he might crave.

And when they called him rebel chief,
And told her he must die,
How long, how fondly did she wait
To see that pledge brought nigh;
But time passed on, and it came not:
Then, forced by harsh decree,
Her hand confirmed his doom, and sealed
Her own deep misery.

Now when 'twas all too late, she learned
How treachery and wrong
Around the noble earl had wove
Their toils so deep and strong;
For he had sent the fatal ring,
But ere it met her eye,
The hapless youth had sunk beneath
The death that traitors die.

This was the fearful thought that weighed
Upon her noble heart,
And never more could earthly pomps
A ray of joy impart;

The crown her hand had decked with gems
Oppressed her weary head,
And what cared she for princely power?
It could not wake the dead.

Thus days passed on, while fixed she sat
A statue of despair,
Unheeding aught save when arose
The murmured voice of prayer;
Then slowly down her wasted cheek
The gathering tear-drops stole,
But O! what human voice may speak
The anguish of her soul?

Are there who smile that thus in age
Affection should awake
And scorn to think a heart so late
In hopelessness may break?
Go look upon the mountain stream—
Its wild wave rushes by,
Till wasted by its own excess
Behold the channel dry!

Aye, thus she suffered—she who scorned
To share her envied throne;
She who had spurned a sceptered hand,
Proud to but reign alone;
Now sunk beneath the fatal strength
Of passion, and forgot
The glories of a stately queen,
To die by woman's lot.

BOSCOBEL.

“By the Earl of Derby's directions, Charles went to Boscobel, a lone house, on the borders of Staffordshire, inhabited by one Penderell, a farmer. To this man Charles intrusted himself. Penderell took the assistance of his four brothers, equally honorable with himself; and having clothed the king in a garb like their own, they led him into a neighboring wood, put a bill into his hand, and pretended to employ themselves in cutting fagots. For a better concealment, he mounted upon an oak, where he sheltered himself among the leaves and branches for twenty-four hours. He saw several soldiers pass by. All of them were intent in search of the king; and some expressed in his hearing, their earnest wishes of seizing him.”

Hume's History of England.

'Twas sunset, and the forest trees
Glowed 'neath the golden sky,
While evening's soft and dew-fraught breeze
Awoke its gentle sigh.

Slowly the toil-worn woodman came;
His glance was high and proud;
Though 'neath the fagots' painful weight
His drooping form was bowed.

At length in weariness he cast
His burden to the earth;
And never such a look could beam
From one of lowly birth.

The peasant's summer toil seemed traced
Upon his swarthy cheek;
But not more native pride than his
A kingly eye could speak.

Aye, majesty upon his brow
Its signet had imprest;
And lofty was the heart that heaved
Beneath the woodman's vest;

For he was one of royal race,
His heritage a throne:
What doth he in the pathless wood,
Thus peasant-clad and lone?

Beside the silver brook he threw
His wearied limbs, and sighed:
“Alas! must this then be the end
Of Stuart's kingly pride?

“Woe for the glorious hopes that once
My lofty heart could fill!
The hand that grasped the warrior's sword,
Now bears the woodman's bill;

“The neck that never bent before,
Now bows itself to wear
A burden that, in better days,
My slaves had scorned to bear.

“Better, far better 'twere to die
Beneath the assassin's knife,
Than thus drag on, 'mid toil and care,
A painful load of life.”

Hark to the sound of crashing boughs!
A stranger's step is heard!
Again the love of life within
The prince's bosom stirred.

With lithe and active limb he climbed
An oak's majestic height;
And, sheltered 'mid its clustering leaves,
Looked on a fearful sight.

A band of fierce-eyed men were there;
Their swords were stained with blood;
And they bent to lave their burning brows
Within the crystal flood.

Then rose the ribald jest, the laugh,
The tale of daily guilt;
And, demon-like, the exulting boast
Of blood their hands had spilt.

But still they sought one victim more—
The Prince! the Prince! for him
With frantic haste they hurry through
The forest-shadows dim.

He heard their cries of baffled rage;
He saw their eyes' fierce glare;
He knew that he was hunted like
A wild beast in his lair.

Then all death's bitterness was his;
And down his swart cheek rolled
Big drops of agony that well
His soul's dread conflict told.

[OMITTED]

Night dews upon the green sward shed
Full many a precious gem,
And on the midnight skies was seen
Heaven's glorious diadem.

Stillness was on the peaceful earth,
And beauty filled the grove,
While nature seemed too fair for aught
Save gentleness and love.

A hallowed sound that stillness broke;
For, lowly kneeling there,
To pitying heaven the rescued prince.
Poured his unwonted prayer.

And O! in after years, when placed
On England's glorious throne,
The wealth and power of regal state
Around him richly shone—

When pleasure o'er his fancy wove
Her bright and powerful spell,
Did not the monarch's proud heart bless
The shades of Boscobel?

THE LAMENT OF COLUMBUS.

“Until now I have wept for others; have pity upon me, Heaven, and weep for me, earth! In my temporal concerns, without a farthing to give in offering; in spiritual concerns, cast away here in the Indies; isolated in my misery, infirm, expecting each day will be my last; surrounded by cruel savages, separated from the holy sacraments of the Church, so that my soul will be lost if separated here from my body! Weep for me whoever has charity, truth, and justice. I came not on this voyage to gain honor or estate; for all hope of that kind is dead within me. I came to serve your majesties with a sound intention and an honest zeal, and I speak no falsehood.”

Extract of a Letter from Columbus.

“He looked upon himself as standing in the hand of Heaven, chosen from among men for the accomplishment of its high purpose. He read, as he supposed, his contemplated discovery foretold in holy writ, and shadowed forth darkly in the mystic revelations of the prophets. The ends of the earth were to be brought together, and all nations and tongues and languages united under the banners of the Redeemer.”

Irving's Life of Columbus. “There is a fire
And motion of the soul which will not dwell
In its own narrow being [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
And but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him that bears, to all who ever bore.”
Childe Harold.

Not mine the dreams,
The vague chimeras of an earth-stained soul,
O'er which the mists of error darkly roll;
For Heaven-sent beams
Have chased the gloom that round my soul was flung,
And pierced the clouds that o'er creation's mysteries hung.

From my youth up
For this high purpose was I set apart—

An unbreathed thought, it lived within my heart;
And though life's cup
Was filled with all earth's agonies, I quaffed
Unmurmuring, for that hope could sweeten any draught.

There were who jeered,
And laughed to scorn my visionary scheme;
They thought yon glorious sun's resplendent beam
So brightly cheered
And vivified alone the spot of earth
Where they, like worms, had lived and groveled from their birth.

But, called by God,
From home and friends my willing steps I turned;
Led by the light that in my spirit burned,
Strange lands I trod;
And lo! new worlds, uncurtained by my hand,
Before th' admiring East in pristine beauty stand.

And what was given
To recompense the many nameless toils
That won my king a new found empire's spoils?
The smile of Heaven
Blessed him who sought amid those Eden plains
To plant the holy cross; but man's reward was chains.

Forgot by all,
Amid a land of savages, I wait
From cruel, hostile hands my coming fate;
Or else to fall

Beneath the grief that weighs upon my heart
While unaneled, unblessed, my spirit must depart.

How have I wept
In pity for my followers, when afar
O'er the wide sea with scarce a guiding star
Our course we kept;
But night winds only o'er my grave shall sigh;
For, bowed with cruel wrongs, on stranger shores, I die.

No selfish hope
Of fame or honor led me here again
To tread this weary pilgrimage of pain;
He who must cope
With treachery and wrong, until the flame
Of pure ambition dies, has nought to do with fame.

To serve my king
I came, with zeal unkindness could not chill;
To glorify my God, whose holy will
Taught me to fling
The veil of error from before my eyes,
And teach mankind his power as shown 'neath other skies.

Weep for me, earth!
Thou whose bright wonders I have oft explored,
Weep for me heaven! to whose proud heights has soared,
E'en from its birth,
My strong winged spirit in its might alone;
Lo! he who gave new worlds now dies unwept, unknown.

THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS.

“On his return from banishment, Camoens was shipwrecked at the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved himself by clinging to a plank, and of all his little property succeeded only in saving his poem of the Lusiad, deluged with the waves as he brought it in his hand to shore.” —

Sismondi. “I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him.”
Tempest.

Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky,
The sun waxed dim and pale,
And the music of the waves was changed
To the plaintive voice of wail;
And fearfully the lightning flashed
Around the ship's tall mast,
While mournfully through the creaking shrouds
Came the sighing of the blast.

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank
Before the deepening gloom;
For they gazed on the black and boiling sea
As 'twere a yawning tomb:
But on the vessel's deck stood one
With proud and changeless brow;
Nor pain nor terror was in the look
He turned to the gulf below.

And calmly to his arm he bound
His casket and his sword;
Unheeding, though with fiercer strength
The threatening tempest roared;
Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried:
“For me there yet is hope;
The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain
With the stormy wave may cope.

“Now let the strife of nature rage,
Proudly I yet can claim,
Where'er the waters may bear me on,
My freedom and my fame.”
The dreaded moment came too soon,
The sea swept madly on,
Till the wall of waters closed around,
And the noble ship was gone.

Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;
The swimmer's bubbling breath
Was all unheard, while the raging tide
Wrought well the task of death:
But 'mid the billows still was seen
The stranger's struggling form;
And the meteor flash of his sword might seem
Like a beacon 'mid the storm.

For still, while with his strong right arm
He buffeted the wave,
The other upheld that treasured prize
He would give life to save.

Was then the love of pelf so strong
That e'en in death's dark hour,
The base-born passion could awake
With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him,
Compared with what lay hid,
Through lonely years of changeless woe,
Beneath that casket's lid;
For there was all the mind's rich wealth,
And many a precious gem
That, in after years, he hoped might form
A poet's diadem.

Nobly he struggled till o'erspent,
His nerveless limbs no more
Could bear him on through the waves that rose
Like barriers to the shore;
Yet still he held his long prized wealth,
He saw the wished for land—
A moment more, and he was thrown
Upon the rocky strand.

Alas! far better to have died
Where the mighty billows roll,
Than lived till coldness and neglect
Bowed down his haughty soul:
Such was his dreary lot, at once
His country's pride and shame;
For on Camoens' humble grave alone
Was placed his wreath of fame.

He is described with his sword in his hand, upon the authority of his own words:—

“N'huma maō livros, n'outra, ferro et aço,
N'huma maō sempre a espada, n'outra a pena.”

LAMENT OF CAMOENS.

Donna Catharina de Atayde, a lady of rank and fortune, inspired Camoens with a love as deep as it proved lasting. He was her equal in birth, though destitute of riches. His poverty, however, in the opinion of her parents, was a crime which could be expiated only by exile; and as she was attached to the court, they found no difficulty in procuring from the sovereign a decree for his banishment. This summary mode of proceeding, though it separated the lovers, served but to increase their mutual affection, while it brought upon the unhappy Camoens misfortune and disgrace. After a lapse of years, during which he had suffered penury, shipwreck, and the loss of the little property he had accumulated in the East Indies, he returned to his native country, broken in health and in spirits, only to weep over the grave of his beloved Catharina, who had cherished her hopeless love for him to the last moments of her life.—

Life of Camoens. “O when in boyhood's happier scene,
I pledged my love to thee,
How very little did I ween
My recompense would now have been
So much of misery!”
Camoens.

My brow is wasted with its throbs of pain;
My limbs have worn the exile's heavy chain;
And now, in weariness of heart, I come
To seek my home—
Alas! alas! what home is left me save
The marble stone that marks my Catharine's grave.

Amid the loneliness of banished years,
When every hour was traced in bitter tears,
When 'gainst itself my bosom learned to war,
Thou wert the star
That o'er my path of dreary darkness shone,
My own sweet Catharine, and thou too art gone!

Too well thy faith, my gentle one, was kept;
The love, the perfect tenderness that slept

Within thy bosom, on itself has preyed,
Till thou wert laid
Within the shelter of earth's quiet breast,
The sinless victim of a love unblest.

Still thou didst glory in that love; thy brow
With deep affection's brightest flush would glow;
And though with bitter tears, when last we met,
Thy cheek was wet,
Yet thou didst bear a spirit high and proud,
And bid me suffer on with soul unbowed.

Alas! I hoped thou wouldst have heard my name
Linked with the voice of song, the breath of fame:
I fondly deemed that thou wouldst yet behold
My name enrolled
Amid my country's records, while my lyre
Should wake within all hearts a patriot fire.

But that is past; one I had wept, and raved,
And cursed the fate that, through such perils, saved
Me to lament o'er early-faded dreams;
Now reason seems
Gifted with life to add new stings to pain;
For frenzy rules my heart, but not my brain.

No outward sign such mortal woe may speak;
No tears, my Catharine, stain my hollow cheek;
For ah! this languid frame, this sinking heart
Tell me we part
But for a season; soon my toil-worn soul
Shall throw aside this weary life's control.

Then shall death sanctify my lyre; and then
Shall nations praise “him of the sword and pen;”
Then shall my grave become a pilgrim shrine;
And then too thine,
Thus hallowed by a poet's love, shall be
Sought when forgot are thy proud ancestry.

THE POOL OF BETHESDA.

(St. John v. 2–9.)

Tranquil Bethesda's waters lay,
No breeze the surface stirred,
When sudden through the brightening air
A rustling wing was heard;
Then loudly rose the joyous cry:
“The angel of the pool is nigh!”

Well might they shout, the lame, the blind,
The fevered who had lain
Beside Bethesda's healing wave,
Through many a day of pain;
They knew it was the destined hour
When God would show his pitying power.

Then with the selfishness that marks
Deep misery, they rushed
Towards the holy fount that now
With heaven-sent freshness gushed;

For he who first should reach its brink,
New being from its wave might drink.

But there was one who stirless lay
Upon his weary couch;
Nor sought amid the hurrying crowd
The troubled waters' touch;
But in his bitter sigh was heard
The agony of “hope deferred.”

Almost reproachfully he turned
His eye upon the stream;
When lo! a gentle voice awoke,
Like music in a dream,
So soft, so sweet its accents stole,—
“My brother! wilt thou not be whole?”

Slowly he turned his feeble frame,
And gazed upon a face
Of more than woman's loveliness,
Of more than kingly grace;
“Alas! in vain my will,” he cried,
“I cannot reach Bethesda's tide.

“In more than infant feebleness,
Through long and changeless years,
I've lain beside this healing pool
And yet no help appears;
For ere my palsied limbs draw nigh,
The hour of mercy is gone by.”

The Saviour bent his noble form,
A heavenly smile passed o'er
His placid lip: “Arise!” he cried,
“Go hence and sin no more!”
Lo! touched by those almighty hands,
Once more in manhood's strength he stands.

Surely this deed of wondrous power
A truth to us imparts:
When Heaven's best gifts have not the skill
To heal our broken hearts,
May we not look through faith to thee
Thou first-born of eternity?

CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.

(St. Matthew viii. 24–27.)

Midnight was on the mighty deep,
And darkness filled the boundless sky,
While 'mid the raging wind was heard
The sea-bird's mournful cry;
For tempest clouds were mustering wrath
Across the seaman's trackless path.

It came at length; one fearful gust
Rent from the mast the shivering sail,
And drove the helpless bark along,
The plaything of the gale;
While fearfully the lightning's glare
Fell on the pale brows gathered there.

But there was One o'er whose bright face
Unmarked the vivid lightnings flashed;
And on whose stirless, prostrate form
Unfelt the sea-spray dashed;
For 'mid the tempest fierce and wild,
He slumbered like a wearied child.

O! who could look upon that face,
And feel the sting of coward fear?
Though hell's fierce demons raged around,
Yet Heaven itself was here;
For who that glorious brow could see
Nor own a present Deity?

With hurried fear they press around
The lowly Saviour's humble bed,
As if his very touch had power
To shield their souls from dread;
While, cradled on the raging deep,
He lay in calm and tranquil sleep.

Vainly they struggled with their fears,
But wilder still the tempest woke,
Till from their full and o'erfraught hearts
The voice of terror broke:
“Behold! we sink beneath the wave;
We perish, Lord! but thou canst save.”

Slowly he rose; and mild rebuke
Shone in his soft and heaven-lit eye:
“O ye of little faith,” he cried,
“Is not your master nigh?

Is not your hope of succor just?
Why know ye not in whom ye trust?”

He turned away, and conscious power
Dilated his majestic form,
As o'er the boiling sea he bent,
The ruler of the storm;
Earth to its centre felt the thrill,
As low he murmured: “Peace! Be still!”

Hark to the burst of meeting waves,
The roaring of the angry sea!
A moment more, and all is hushed
In deep tranquillity;
While not a breeze is near to break
The mirrored surface of the lake.

Then on the stricken hearts of all,
Fell anxious doubt and holy awe,
As timidly they gazed on him
Whose will was nature's law:
“What man is this,” they cry, “whose word
E'en by the raging sea is heard?”

THE SURRENDER OF CALAIS.

The king was in his tent,
And his lofty heart beat high,
As he gazed on the city's battered walls
With proud and flashing eye;
But darker grew his brow and stern,
As slowly onward came
The chiefs who long had dared to spurn
The terror of his name.

With calm and changeless cheek
Before the king they stood,
For their native soil to offer up
The sacrifice of blood.
Like felons were they meanly clad,
But the lightning of their look,
The marble sternness of their brow,
E'en the monarch could not brook.

With angry voice he cried:
“Haste! bear them off to death;
Let the trumpet's joyous shout be blent
With the traitors' parting breath!”
Then silently they turned away,
Nor word nor sound awoke,
Till from the monarch's haughty train,
The voice of horror broke.

When hark! a step draws near,
Not like the heavy clang
Of the warrior's tread, and through the guards
A female figure sprang:—
“A boon! a boon! my noble king!
If still thy heart can feel
The love Philippa once could claim,
Look on me while I kneel!

“'Tis for thyself I pray;
Let not the dark'ning cloud
Of base-born cruelty arise,
Thy glory to enshroud!
Nay, nay, I will not rise;
For never more thy wife
Will hail the victor, till thy soul
Can conquer passion's strife!

“Turn not away, my king,
Look not in anger down,
I've lived so long upon thy smile
I cannot bear thy frown;
O! doom me not, dear lord, to feel
The pang all pangs above—
To see the light I worship fade,
And blush for him I love.

“Think how for thee I laid
My woman's fears aside,
And dared where charging squadrons met,
With dauntless front to ride;

Think how, in all the matchless strength
Of woman's love, I spread
Thy banners, till they proudly waved
In victory o'er my head.

“Thou saidst that I deserved
To share thy glorious crown;
O, force me not to turn away
In shame from thy renown.
My Edward, thou wert wont to bear
A kind and gentle heart;
Then listen to Philippa's prayer,
And let these men depart.”

O, what is all the pride
Of man's oft boasted power,
Compared with those sweet dreams that wake
In love's triumphant hour?
Slowly the haughty king unbent
His stern and vengeful brow,
And the look he turned upon her face
Was filled with fondness now.

Ne'er yet was woman slow
To read in tell-tale eyes
Such thoughts as these; a moment more,
And on his breast she lies;
Then while her slender form still clung
To his supporting arm,
He cried, “Sweet, be it as thou wilt—
They shall not meet with harm.”

Then from the patriot band
Arose one thrilling cry,
And tears rained down the iron cheek
That turned unblenched to die;
“Now we indeed are slaves,” they cried,
“Now vain our warlike arts;
Edward has now our shattered walls,
Philippa wins our hearts.”

At the battle of Neville's Cross, in which the Scots were defeated and their king taken prisoner.

MARY'S LAMENT.

“The queen ceased not to direct her looks to the shore of France, until the darkness interrupted her wishful eyes. At the dawn of day the coast of France was still in sight, the galleys having made but little progress during the night. While it remained in view she often repeated, ‘Farewell, France! farewell! I I shall never see you more.’”—

Chalmers' Life of the Scottish Queen.

Farewell, dear France, my sad heart's chosen home,
Land of my earliest joys, a last farewell.
Still o'er thy shores mine eyes delighted roam,
But O! the cruel winds the white sails swell,
And when to-morrow dawns my look shall dwell
Only upon the rushing waves that bear
My bark too swiftly on to reach its port of care.

Alas! alas! till now I never knew
How sharp might be the thorns that line a crown;
O! woe is mine that thus am doomed to view
At once the smile of fortune and her frown,
And find my spirit in the dust cast down,

When pride would bid me think on queenly state,
And spurn mid glory's dreams the humbler ills of fate.

Yet ah! how can the mournful widow's heart
Turn to the thoughts ambition might awake!
Doomed from the husband of my youth to part,
What pleasure now in glory can I take!
When most I prized it, 'twas for his dear sake;
My loftiest aim was but to share his throne—
How can my weak hand bear the sceptre's weight alone!

Like you, pale moon, must be my dreary way.
Lonely she shines, although so pure and bright,
And as she blends not with the sun's rich ray,
But waits his absence to diffuse her light,
So only since my day has turned to night
Has so much splendor gathered round my name;
Alas! how happier far had I but shared his fame!

But he is gone, and I his heavy loss
Through many a lonely year am doomed to weep;
Yet oft my thoughts the dark blue sea will cross
To seek the spot where all I love doth sleep;
For in my husband's grave is buried deep
The all of joy that I could ever taste,
And glory but illumes my lone heart's blighted waste.

University of Virginia Library

SKETCHES FROM HISTORY.

JANE OF FRANCE.