The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
 |
From “The Minstrel Girl.”—James G. Whittier.
|
 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
110
From “The Minstrel Girl.”—James G. Whittier.
Again 'twas evening.—Agnes knelt,
Pale, passionless,—a sainted one:
On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt
The last beams of the setting sun.
Alone—the damp and cloistered wall
Was round her like a sepulchre;
And at the vesper's mournful call
Was bending every worshipper.
She knelt—her knee upon the stone—
Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye,
As it were sin to gaze upon
The changes of the changeful sky.
It seemed as if a sudden thought
Of her enthusiast moments came
With the bland eve—and she had sought
To stifle in her heart the flame
Of its awakened memory:
She felt she might not cherish, then,
The raptures of a spirit, free
And passionate as hers had been,
When its sole worship was, to look
With a delighted eye abroad;
And read, as from an open book,
The written languages of God.
Pale, passionless,—a sainted one:
On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt
The last beams of the setting sun.
Alone—the damp and cloistered wall
Was round her like a sepulchre;
And at the vesper's mournful call
Was bending every worshipper.
She knelt—her knee upon the stone—
Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye,
As it were sin to gaze upon
The changes of the changeful sky.
It seemed as if a sudden thought
Of her enthusiast moments came
With the bland eve—and she had sought
To stifle in her heart the flame
Of its awakened memory:
She felt she might not cherish, then,
The raptures of a spirit, free
And passionate as hers had been,
When its sole worship was, to look
With a delighted eye abroad;
And read, as from an open book,
The written languages of God.
How changed she kneels!—the vile, gray hood,
Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair;
And where the jewelled silk hath flowed,
Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire.
And wherefore thus? Was hers a soul,
Which, all unfit for Nature's gladness,
Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl,
And drain with joy its draught of madness?
Read ye the secret, who have nursed
In your own hearts intenser feelings,
Which stole upon ye, at the first,
Like bland and musical revealings
From some untrodden Paradise,
Until your very soul was theirs;
And from their maddening ecstasies
Ye woke to mournfulness and prayers.
But she is sometimes happy now—
And yet her happiness is not
Such as the buoyant heart may know—
And it is blended with her lot
To chasten every smile with tears,
And look on life with tempered gladness,
That, undebased by human fears,
Her hope can smile on Memory's sadness,
Like sunshine on the falling rain,
Or as the moonlight on the cloud;—
Nor would she mingle once again
With life's unsympathising crowd;—
But, yielding up to earnest prayer
Life's dark and mournful residue,
She waiteth for her summons where
The pure in heart their faith renew.
Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair;
And where the jewelled silk hath flowed,
Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire.
And wherefore thus? Was hers a soul,
Which, all unfit for Nature's gladness,
Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl,
And drain with joy its draught of madness?
Read ye the secret, who have nursed
In your own hearts intenser feelings,
Which stole upon ye, at the first,
Like bland and musical revealings
From some untrodden Paradise,
Until your very soul was theirs;
And from their maddening ecstasies
Ye woke to mournfulness and prayers.
111
And yet her happiness is not
Such as the buoyant heart may know—
And it is blended with her lot
To chasten every smile with tears,
And look on life with tempered gladness,
That, undebased by human fears,
Her hope can smile on Memory's sadness,
Like sunshine on the falling rain,
Or as the moonlight on the cloud;—
Nor would she mingle once again
With life's unsympathising crowd;—
But, yielding up to earnest prayer
Life's dark and mournful residue,
She waiteth for her summons where
The pure in heart their faith renew.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |