 | The Sorrows of Rosalie |  |
50
PART III.
I
I journeyed on—the weary sun had set,And darkness shadowed o'er the face of heaven;
Sleep, that can bid the wretched to forget,
To my sweet babe its late repose had given;
When changed the aspect of that gentle even,
The bitter blast came sweeping o'er my path;
Far off, in eddying rounds, the snow was driven—
Burst o'er my head the thunder's dreadful wrath—
I turned to God, my stay, the hope the wanderer hath.
51
II
“Shield, shield my child, All-merciful, All-just!Grant but the shelter of the meanest shed!
If that mine hour is come, if die I must,
Spare me at least to house his gentle head!
Have mercy, oh! have mercy!—Cold the bed
His form must press, if I should perish now.
Yet, yet a little while, and with the dead,
Smiling and thankful, I would lay me low.
Hear me, by all my woes—before thy throne I bow.”
III
Oh, night of horror and of agony!When chilling fear came like some fell disease;
When the blue lightning shot along the sky,
Flashing bright ruin round, its prey to seize;
When the cold wind howled through the rocking trees,
And shivering, wet, and weary, I pursued,
Struggling against the strong opposing breeze,
Trembling with anguish, faint for lack of food,
Across the wintry waste, a path unknown and rude.
52
IV
At length the whirlwind ceased, the morning broke:Oh! never had I seen the sun arise,
Ere from my dream of pleasure I awoke,
In all the radiance of blue summer skies,
With half the bliss with which my weeping eyes
Received the gray and melancholy morn,
Which, pale and tearful, seemed to bid the ties
Which bound me to the world again be born—
Those ties which but last night I deemed in sunder torn.
V
I reached a hamlet, and a moment's peaceDwelt in my heart. 'Twas sweet to hear once more
The busy sounds I fancied were to cease
To animate a heart whose beat was o'er.
I gently tapped a lowly cottage door,
And asked for food with faint and humble voice;
I fed my child, with bliss unknown before,
When I had plenty round and viands choice:
Oh! those who suffer much are those who most rejoice!
53
VI
Again I turned to wend my weary way,Hoping to reach my home ere evening came;
And the sun gladdened soon the misty day,
Infusing life and vigour in my frame;
Half faded from my heart the sense of shame,
Arose again the hope that had expired;
And thoughts of him who would not harshly blame,
Of penitence, of love, my bosom fired,
And prayer to Him whom prayer and sorrow never tired.
VII
I reached my home when the warm sun was set—When o'er the beauties of that peaceful scene
A few faint rosy beams were lingering yet:
I thought, while gazing on that lovely e'en,
On what I was, on what I once had been;
I thought, as round me lay the drifted snow,
How bright the summer when I last had seen
That cottage sleeping in the sunset glow,
Where now are leafless trees, through which the bleak winds blow.
54
VIII
Such was the change my heart had undergone—There all was gloomy, dark, and desolate,
And winter reigned where brightest spring had shone.
I stood a moment at the wicket gate,
Lingering, and trembling on the verge of fate,
With weeping eyes upraised to that calm Heaven,
With fear and shame, that urged me yet to wait,
While from my heart all confidence was driven;
And now I deemed my crime too great to be forgiven.
IX
On, Rosa, on—a father must forgive!The heart which judges truly cannot love;
He waits to welcome thee, to bid thee live
For him, no more in misery to rove:
Oh, haste thee yet, a father's pity prove:
I oped the gate, advanced—retreated—no,
I dare not seek that injured heart to move.
What shall I say? yet whither can I go?
Oh, help me, Heaven! give strength for more than mortal woe.
55
X
I paused—across the latticed window came,While cold and hesitating there I stayed,
The cheerful blazing of the hearth's bright flame—
That hearth where oft in infancy I played,
And many a gambol by my father made,
Reckless of stormy winds, which raged without,
Save when, with lisping, innocent tongue, I prayed
That God would save, in terror, grief, and doubt,
Wandering and weary ones, condemned to venture out.
XI
I was that wanderer now!—I oped the door;I stood upon the threshold of my home;
A gasp of agony,—a moment more,
And pardoned Rosalie should cease to roam!
To that bright room my faltering steps had come;
Methought e'en now I felt the cheering glow,
Saw the brown bread, the bright ale's sparkling foam,
Which once my hand had bade for him to flow
To whom but hirelings now their tardy duty show.
56
XII
The latch was lifted, and I gazed around—But oh, my heart! there were bright faces there,
And cheerful voices, but it ceased, that sound;
A youth, and aged man with silver hair,
Knelt with clasped hands, to breathe their evening prayer;
And a young wife, who rocked her cradled child,
Ceased her low murmuring song, that on the air
No voice but his might sound, and gently smiled,
Till startled by my shriek, which rose long, loud, and wild.
XIII
Yes—bright and cheerful as 'twas wont to be,The hearth was blazing, but, alas! for whom?
Oh what was I to them—or they to me?
I gazed around, hoping my steps had come
Astray, but no! too well I knew the room;
Too true the certainty struck on my heart—
I read in stranger eyes my dreadful doom!
Their welcome, only an astonished start—
Their links on earth, fond ties, in which I had no part!
57
XIV
“My father! oh, my father!” vain the cry—I had no father now; no need to say
“Thou art alone!” I felt my misery—
My father, yet return,—return! the day
When sorrow had availed is past away;
Tears cannot raise the dead, grief cannot call
Back to the earthly corse the spirit's ray—
Vainly eternal tears of blood might fall;
One short year since, he lived—my hopes now perished all!
XV
A shriek, and low I sank upon the ground;The last dim sound that fell upon my ear,
Those pitying voices murmuring around,
The last dim glance showed pity's trembling tear;
It ceased—and fled the power to see or hear.
My child was taken from my failing arms,
Happy, unconscious now of hope or fear;
Dead to the poignant sense of earthly harms,
Dried were my bitter tears, and hushed my heart's alarms.
58
XVI
On, on—through many a dark and mournful dayI lived, half conscious, in a dreamy land,
While many a vision came, and passed away,
And many a fairy scheme of bliss was planned,
And ever by me Arthur seemed to stand;
With him in sunny fields and bowers I ranged,
In scenes where we had wandered hand in hand;
And I was happy till the vision changed;
'Twas Arthur still, but oh! with heart and looks estranged!
XVII
And then, methought, beneath a stormy sky,With his gray hair thin streaming on the wind,
My father stood in hopeless agony;
Reproached me as ungrateful and unkind;
And prayed that I as hard a fate might find;
Or on a lowly couch his form was lying,
Whispering sad words, which, still with head inclined,
I vainly strove to hear; and, he while dying,
Cast a reproachful glance at me for not replying.
59
XVIII
And then again it changed, and bound I stoodWhile demons tore my baby limb from limb,
And still the stream of gushing living blood
Came trickling on the earth, all fresh from him
Who might have mingled with the cherubim,
And been as bright as they: warm o'er my feet,
All seen too plain, though vision-like and dim,
Those crimson rivulets appeared to meet,
While powerless still I stood, unable to retreat.
XIX
At length I slept; and when I woke againThose fevered dreams had fled, and left me weak,
With but the sense confused of grief and pain:
I gazed around, and feebly tried to speak;
And kindly eyes, that watched my slumber break,
Turned to the couch,—I asked them for my child,
And that young wife replied, in accents meek:
My babe was brought me—I was wan and wild;
And, shrinking back, it turned to that kind one, and smiled.
60
XX
Long, long I wept with weak and piteous cryO'er my sweet infant, in its rosy bloom,
As memory brought my hours of agony
Again before my mind;—I mourned his doom;
I mourned my own: the sunny little room
In which, oppressed by sickness, now I lay,
Weeping for sorrows past, and woes to come,
Had been my own in childhood's early day.
Oh! could those years indeed so soon have passed away!
XXI
Past, as the waters of the running brook;Fled, as the summer winds that fan the flowers;
All that remained, a word—a tone—a look,
Impressed, by chance, in those bright joyous hours:
Blossoms which, culled from youth's light fairy bowers,
Still float with lingering scent, as loth to fade,
In spite of sin's remorseless 'whelming powers,
Above the wreck which time and grief have made,
Nursed with the dew of tears, though low in ruin laid.
61
XXII
And they had watched me all that weary while—Those kindly hearts, and made my child their own,
And saw with pleasure still its infant smile;
And even now, when fell disease was gone,
Besought me not to wander forth alone
In the bleak stormy world where friends were not;
And bade me stay, although my tale was known,
Here in the shelter of their lonely cot,
Where I might yet attain a not unhappy lot!
XXIII
But no—I could not stay in that sweet place,So changed, so fallen from all which once I was,
And see reflected, in each well-known face,
My shame and sorrow—never!—human laws
Were framed against me, while the unpitying cause
Of all my misery, secure from blame,
Passed the gay hours in mirth, nor made one pause
To think of me in mournfulness and shame—
Heaven might forgive, but man would scorn my blighted name.
62
XXIV
And I departed thence, with thanks and tears;The meed I offered they declined to take,
But prayed Heaven would prolong my baby's years,
That he might wrestle for his mother's sake;
And said, if misery came, that I might make
Their home again my home—ye tender-hearted!
'Twas yours the fount of tenderer grief to wake!
And tears, unfeigned and half unconscious, started,
As, slow and mournfully, once more I thence departed.
XXV
Once more a weary wanderer—once moreWithout a shelter for the coming eve!
Why did I dream my woes would soon be o'er?
Why did my heart my reason thus deceive,
To think the sinful could forget to grieve?
Oh! dream soon broken! hope forgotten now!
Last feeling which the human heart can leave,
Teach me again to trust the broken vow!
Friend of the desolate—in misery help me thou!
63
XXVI
I rested in the churchyard, where, alone,The verdant mound raised o'er his buried head,
Marked by a rude and solitary stone,
My father lay—the long-lamented dead!
I knelt, and many a bitter tear I shed.
“O thou much injured, yet devoutly loved,
Who first in infancy my footsteps led!
If pardon may be found for her who roved,
And left thee lonely—oh! may Heaven, mayest thou be moved!
XXVII
“If days of agony and nights of tearsCan aught atone for passion's wild excess;
If mercy e'en the worst of sinners cheers,
When sunk in penitence and mournfulness,
Oh! then let Mercy hear my moan, and bless,
Although unworthy, her who prostrate lies—
Hear me in anguish and in bitterness!
If grief can reach thy home, beyond the skies,
A late repentance take, since death the rest denies.”
64
XXVIII
All that remained, the grave, the silent graveOf him o'er whose unconscious form I pined,
In early youth the generous and the brave,
In age the tender-hearted and the kind,
The past, the happy past! rushed o'er my mind,
Tinging with hues, from Memory's painful dart,
Those busy scenes with his dear image twined;
And then the future struck upon my heart—
That future in which he should never bear a part.
XXIX
That future came—sad months had rolled away—Tears had been shed, and sighs been heaved in vain;
And I, that Rosalie, so young and gay,
Was now a withered form of want and pain;
My voice, which now but sounded to complain
In hollow accents, startled e'en my ear;
And my weak limbs could scarce the power retain
To drag me forth, in lingering doubt and fear,
Imploring food for him who now alone was dear.
65
XXX
Oh, Heaven! the hour arrived when I had nought,When sick and sorrowful I gazed around,
Knowing, alas! the little store I brought
Was all exhausted—where could help be found?
Hard hearts had they to whom I now was bound;
For the dark wretched room in which I lay
They ask'd for payment—scarce the falt'ring sound
Of vain excuse and vainer prayer to stay
Had pass'd my lips, when stern they bade me speed away.
XXXI
“Away, and in the loneliness of night!”To wait fresh pain with ev'ry varying hour;
“Oh! yet delay—abuse not thus your right!
List to the pelting of the dreary shower!
Angry and fierce the opposing tempests lower;
Oh! yet till daylight!”—vain, alas! the cry!
With brow repulsive, and resistless power,
She thrust me forth beneath the inclement sky—
Woman to woman did this deed of cruelty.
66
XXXII
A miserable night of useless weeping,Shiv'ring beneath the pillar'd portico
Of some great house, were all were softly sleeping,
Deaf to the storm that beat, the winds that blow,
Reckless of those that wander to and fro,
Houseless and homeless, near their proud abodes.
Unconscious slumberers! little do ye know
The nightly weight of misery which o'erloads
Near you, unpitied crowds, and to destruction goads!
XXXIII
The morrow—and the grey and silent streetsSwarmed with the varied multitudes anew,
Still changing with each fev'rish hour that fleets.
The busy many and the anxious few
In quick succession pass before my view.
And now my infant, pining in my arms,
With cheeks like faded roses in the dew,
Awoke in me a mother's dread alarms—
Huger and cold oppress'd and nipp'd his baby charms.
67
XXXIV
The day wore on, the gleamy sun was setting,A deep conviction stole upon my mind;
All but my cherished innocent babe forgetting—
I rose—I cried—“Have mercy, passers kind,
Upon my child! let misery pity find—
Oh! hear me”—and they pass'd one after one,
Some frowned—some cast a pitying look behind,
And some few gave—at length the day was gone,
And then I bowed my head and wearily sank down.
XXXV
But I had food for him, though I was leftUnpitied thus to struggle with my fate—
This ling'ring mournful hope was not bereft,
That he would live to feel a generous hate
Of all the cold restraints of pomp and state;
And then, when proud and beautiful he stood,
His father would, repentant, though too late,
Sigh o'er past evil and neglected good,
With useless tears, oft shed in penitential mood.
68
XXXVI
'Twas not to be—day vanished after day,And fewer gave, and fainter grew my prayer—
In vain I watch'd my baby as he lay—
Night came—his couch was in the open air—
What could avail a mother's tenderest care!
With miser hand—the pittance hoarded still,
Dealt out to him alone a frugal fare,
But to delay, not banish, future ill,
While famine spared the babe whom misery was to kill.
XXXVII
At last 'twas spent—I asked for alms in vain—Tired of relieving one who still prayed on,
With frowning brow they turn'd from sight of pain,
With silent tongue and tearless eyes were gone.
I waited till the close of day, but none
Had taken pity on me, and I went
Once more to him who doom'd me to be low;
Mothers are humble—o'er my child I bent;
I rose to ask his alms who scorned the gold he sent.
69
XXXVIII
Lonesome and wearily I reached the door,But he was gone—gone with his happy bride,
Where—oh! I asked not—wish'd to hear no more;
His heart was far away—the world was wide,
And I was lonelier than all beside!
Another day of sad and anxious weeping;
Another day of famine—all denied;
Another night my mournful vigils keeping
Above my pining child, whom hunger hinder'd sleeping.
XXXIX
Dreamily had the heavy days gone by,And Albert faded—fainter grew his cries—
Oh! ye that ever bent in agony
Above your pallid infant! ye that rise,
And glance, half fearfully, with 'wildered eyes,
Expecting death—then kneel in tears to pray,
With tongue that speech articulate denies,
That God will yet awhile the stroke delay,
Think what I suffered then, from weary day to day.
70
XL
You softly place that little languid head,You tempt him with the comforts spread around,
But I could envy now the meanest shed—
My babe was starving—bless'd if I but found
A morsel destined for the hungry hound!
Moving his pale sweet lips with grateful smile,
Unwitting of the fate that o'er him frowned;
His was the present—gladdened for awhile—
The future mine, of woe no hope might now beguile.
XLI
There came a day—I sat alone—alone!The dismal showers had drench'd my thread-worn dress,
And, seated on the cold and dripping stone,
Without the power to ask for alms—still less
The strength to wander in my wretchedness,
My dying baby laid upon my knee;
I look'd on those who pass'd, and sought to guess
Where pity dwelt, still gazing wistfully,
With hope, but half extinct, for that which could not be.
71
XLII
A carriage stopp'd—a lady, richly dress'd,Alighted, and I rose in doubt and fear—
The faint and murm'ring tones, but half express'd,
Fell on a hardened heart and deafened ear;
She pass'd—I gazed—and felt the blow severe;
But as she went, upon the stones there fell
A sparkling cross, of jewels rich and rare;
Rushed o'er my mind the thoughts that dared not dwell—
I had a child—that child!—oh! needs there more to tell?
XLIII
I seized it—fled—behind me rose a shout—On!—on!—my trembling knees could scarce sustain
The weight above—near, nearer came the rout—
On! on!—oh! shall the effort be in vain?
A few yards more, and then would end my pain—
I reached a shop—flung down the cross, and said,
“Food for my child!” I could no more restrain
My weakness and my woe—I snatched the bread,
Gave it to him, and sunk lifeless, unconscious, dead!
72
XLIV
I woke—oh! would that I had slept for ever!Stern forms were standing round—I heard the cry
Of that dear little one they sought to sever
From his poor mother! one long gasping sigh,
One lingering pause of nature's agony,
And I recovered: let it not be told
What followed next—suffice it, that to die
Contains no pang so sickening, deep, and cold,
As that which rent my heart in those barbarians' hold.
XLV
An hour, and I was pent in prison walls—The shriek of woe, the bursting sob, the tear—
Not that, the soft and sad, which gently falls,
But scalding bitterness was shedding here—
Oh, God! those prisoned hours, so long, so drear!
Still—still I feel the damp and heavy cell
Strike on my numbing sense, palsied with fear;
Yet I had him, loved tenderly and well,
Dear link of life, to whom I clung, whate'er befel.
73
XLVI
Where is my child? great God! forgive these moans!Forgive the question—wildly, vainly spoke!
'Tis over now, but then—ye sad grey stones,
Graves of the lovely and the loved, revoke
Your cruel mandate; let the chain be broke,
And give me back my own—my own! alas!
'Tis mine no more—the dead may not be woke—
Unfading treasures misers may amass,
But rosy cheeks—bright eyes—like airy visions pass.
XLVII
I watch'd—I pray'd—I knelt all desolate,While fev'rish throbbed my baby's pulse—I tried
Not to repine at the decrees of fate;
I sought for resignation—yea, I cried,
“Thy will be done,”—but no—it was denied.
Oft as I gazed upon that flushing cheek,
Oft as those eyelids turn'd, submission died;
I held his hand, so languid, faint, and weak,
And laid my lips on his, with vain attempt to speak.
74
XLVIII
Three nights—the fourth, sleep closed my weary eyes,While kneeling by his couch—a happier dream
Stole o'er my mind—methought I saw him rise
From slumber's arms, with eyes whose sunny beam
Outshone his own—by our own trickling stream
I stood, and still my father bless'd my boy,
While bright and joyous, as on earth could seem,
All shone around—'twas hope without alloy—
A sound—a painful start—and broke my dream of joy.
XLIX
I bent above my child—the life was gone!Cold was the hand and pulseless was the heart,
And I was lock'd in darkness, and alone!
I could not watch the ling'ring ray depart
From those half-conscious eyes—Death's silent dart
Had pierced him whom the stormy lightning spared—
Whom famine failed to slay: a groan—a start—
Were welcomed now with rapture—Nature dared
All agonies but one; in silence she despaired.
75
L
Was it then true? it was. No hideous dream,“Making night horrible,” obscured my sense—
The soul was fled—how nothing all things seem
When those we toiled for are departed hence:
There, with a mournful silent eloquence
Rending my heart, lay the untasted crust—
Alas! the day they bore my infant thence,
In vain I prayed the merciful—the just—
They laid my rosy babe low with the worm i' the dust.
LI
My trial came, and I could only sayI lived—I breathed—I felt nor hope nor fear;
My thoughts were in a distant world, away
With him who was—who once had been so dear!
One only sentence struck upon my ear,
A question of that wretched day—“My Lord,
She gave it to her child!” was answered—drear
And dark as was my soul, I felt that word—
My shriek so long, so wild, was never wilder heard.
76
LII
It pass'd, that day, and then they set me free—I gazed in melancholy stupor round;
The prison walls had been the same to me—
Sorrow remained—sorrow that knew no bound!
They gave me shelter—I nor smiled nor frowned—
My heart was dead within me—sad I sate,
With but one thought, my baby's grassy mound;
Night came—I rested—food was brought—I ate,
Nor ever murmur made for my unhappy fate.
LIII
Years have gone by—my thoughts have risen higher—I sought for refuge at the Almighty's throne;
And when I sit by this low mould'ring fire,
With but my Bible, feel not quite alone,
Lingering in peace, till I can lay me down,
Quiet and cold in that last dwelling place,
By him o'er whose young head the grass is grown—
By him who yet shall rise with angel face,
Pleading for me, the lost and sinful of my race.
77
LIV
And if I still heave one reluctant sigh—If earthly sorrows still will cross my heart—
If still to my now dimmed and sunken eye
The bitter tear, half checked, in vain will start,
I bid the dreams of other days depart,
And turn, with clasping hands and lips compress'd,
To pray that Heaven will soothe sad memory's smart,
Teach me to bear and calm my troubled breast,
And grant her peace in Heaven who not on earth may rest.
| The Sorrows of Rosalie | |