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.

PART II.

[part]

ELVIRA;

THE YOUNG CRUSADER.

WHILE I THINK OF YOU, LOVE!

On T. B. S.

THE DARKNESS OF THE GRAVE.

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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.