The legendary consisting of original pieces, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners |
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THE NUN. |
 | THE NUN. The legendary |  |
116
THE NUN.
BY EMMA C. MANLY.
She was very fair,
And intellect had poured its richest light
Upon her nature; but, alas for her!
She had a woman's heart, and Love too soon
Twined his light fetters round her spirit's wing,
Binding it down to earth. Her life had been
Like a calm summer's day, and she had dreamed
Its hours away 'mid those sweet fantasies
That youthful feeling loves. No threatening cloud
Had darkened her pure heaven of sinless thought.
She looked on all things with the loving eye
Of happy innocence, and her sweet voice
Was like the carol of young birds in spring,
The echo of a glad and joyous heart.
Alas! alas! that grief should enter here!
But never yet was gentle woman led
By intellect to happiness. The light
Of genius serves but to illume the waste
Of blighted hope, and she who rashly fans
The sacred flame, like the poor Hindoo wife,
Lights her own funeral pyre. Ay, Aline loved
As the heart loves in youth—as women love
In every season. Genius, beauty, all
That man can prize, or woman boast, were given
As offerings to one deity. She lived
But in his presence. Absence was to her
The soul's deep midnight; for he was the sun
Of her bright world of dreams, and her young heart,
Like Memnon's harp, beneath his eyes alone
And intellect had poured its richest light
Upon her nature; but, alas for her!
She had a woman's heart, and Love too soon
Twined his light fetters round her spirit's wing,
Binding it down to earth. Her life had been
Like a calm summer's day, and she had dreamed
Its hours away 'mid those sweet fantasies
That youthful feeling loves. No threatening cloud
Had darkened her pure heaven of sinless thought.
She looked on all things with the loving eye
Of happy innocence, and her sweet voice
Was like the carol of young birds in spring,
The echo of a glad and joyous heart.
Alas! alas! that grief should enter here!
But never yet was gentle woman led
By intellect to happiness. The light
Of genius serves but to illume the waste
Of blighted hope, and she who rashly fans
The sacred flame, like the poor Hindoo wife,
Lights her own funeral pyre. Ay, Aline loved
As the heart loves in youth—as women love
In every season. Genius, beauty, all
That man can prize, or woman boast, were given
As offerings to one deity. She lived
But in his presence. Absence was to her
The soul's deep midnight; for he was the sun
Of her bright world of dreams, and her young heart,
Like Memnon's harp, beneath his eyes alone
117
Gave out its hidden music. It was deep,
Intense devotion, pure as infancy,
Yet strong as death, which dwelt within her breast.
A life of tenderness would scarce repay
Such self-forgetting love. But, ah! the lot
Of woman was upon her, and she met
A woman's recompense.
The time had come
For their first parting now, and days passed on;
Yet bright anticipations filled her heart,
And she was happy. But long weeks and months
Rolled by, and yet he came not. Then the rose
Faded from Aline's cheek; yet she was calm;
And, though her lip grew paler, it still wore
Its quiet smile; but, oh! what eye could trace
The daily withering of her heart, the slow
Protracted martyrdom of hope? At length
They told her he was married! No reproach
Broke from her lips, but meekly, like a flower,
She sunk beneath the blow. The heavy hand
Of sickness fell upon her, and she prayed
To leave a scene of suffering and of sin.
But death came not; and, when the healthful flow
Of life's pure current came again, she turned
From all her former joys, and found her home
Within a convent's walls.
When I first saw her, five long years had past,
And peace once more dwelt in her heart. Her cheek
Was pale as marble, and her features wore
The settled calmness of a spirit schooled
By early suffering. The fierce storm had past,
But left its trace of desolation. Time
Had done his kindly work, and she could smile
Intense devotion, pure as infancy,
Yet strong as death, which dwelt within her breast.
A life of tenderness would scarce repay
Such self-forgetting love. But, ah! the lot
Of woman was upon her, and she met
A woman's recompense.
The time had come
For their first parting now, and days passed on;
Yet bright anticipations filled her heart,
And she was happy. But long weeks and months
Rolled by, and yet he came not. Then the rose
Faded from Aline's cheek; yet she was calm;
And, though her lip grew paler, it still wore
Its quiet smile; but, oh! what eye could trace
The daily withering of her heart, the slow
Protracted martyrdom of hope? At length
They told her he was married! No reproach
Broke from her lips, but meekly, like a flower,
She sunk beneath the blow. The heavy hand
Of sickness fell upon her, and she prayed
To leave a scene of suffering and of sin.
But death came not; and, when the healthful flow
Of life's pure current came again, she turned
From all her former joys, and found her home
Within a convent's walls.
When I first saw her, five long years had past,
And peace once more dwelt in her heart. Her cheek
Was pale as marble, and her features wore
The settled calmness of a spirit schooled
By early suffering. The fierce storm had past,
But left its trace of desolation. Time
Had done his kindly work, and she could smile
118
Once more with cheerfulness; but, when she spoke
Of earlier days, a soft and dewy light
Shone in her dovelike eyes, as if a tear
Had burst from its sealed fountain.
Of earlier days, a soft and dewy light
Shone in her dovelike eyes, as if a tear
Had burst from its sealed fountain.
| THE NUN. The legendary | |