 | Narrative Poems |  |
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COMINGE.
'Twas where La Trappe had raised its savage seat,
Of Grief and Piety the last retreat;
And dark the Rocks, and dark the Forest lay,
And shrill the wind blew o'er the Abbey grey,
House of Remorse, of Penitence and Care,
Its inmate Grief, its architect Despair!
Of Grief and Piety the last retreat;
And dark the Rocks, and dark the Forest lay,
And shrill the wind blew o'er the Abbey grey,
House of Remorse, of Penitence and Care,
Its inmate Grief, its architect Despair!
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The Shepherd from the stony pasture flies,
No Music warbles in those silent skies;
Where in the Wilderness the Cypress waves,
The pale-eyed Votaries hover round their graves;
Silence and Solitude perpetual reign
Around this hermit-family of Pain!
No Music warbles in those silent skies;
Where in the Wilderness the Cypress waves,
The pale-eyed Votaries hover round their graves;
Silence and Solitude perpetual reign
Around this hermit-family of Pain!
Mark the dread Portal!—who without a tear
Forgets the murmuring earth to enter here?
As the deep Solitude more sternly grows,
With social tenderness the Pilgrim glows;
And while he reads the awful lines above,
Turns to his native vale and native love.
Forgets the murmuring earth to enter here?
As the deep Solitude more sternly grows,
With social tenderness the Pilgrim glows;
And while he reads the awful lines above,
Turns to his native vale and native love.
“Lo Death, the pale instructor! guards this Porch,
And Truth celestial waves her mighty torch!
Far from the World's deceiving path we fly
To find a passage to Eternity!”
And Truth celestial waves her mighty torch!
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To find a passage to Eternity!”
All are not Sinners here! these walls detain
Much injured loves,—the Men of softer vein!
Hope to their breast in fond delirium springs—
The Laugher, while she charmed, concealed her wings;
And from her lap the copious seeds she threw,
Which never, to the eye of promise grew.
Much injured loves,—the Men of softer vein!
Hope to their breast in fond delirium springs—
The Laugher, while she charmed, concealed her wings;
And from her lap the copious seeds she threw,
Which never, to the eye of promise grew.
Here bade Cominge the world for ever close;
Soothing his spirit with the dread Repose,
He called it Peace!—while in the midnight prayer,
The bed of ashes and the cloth of hair
Vainly his soul Oblivion's charm would prove!
Alas! there's no oblivion in his love!
Around the altar's shade the Exile trod;
The soul that lost its Mistress sought its God!
Soothing his spirit with the dread Repose,
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The bed of ashes and the cloth of hair
Vainly his soul Oblivion's charm would prove!
Alas! there's no oblivion in his love!
Around the altar's shade the Exile trod;
The soul that lost its Mistress sought its God!
Hark! to that solemn sound!—the passing bell
Tolls, the still Friery catch the awful knell;
Loud as it bursts the message from the skies,
Why drops the human tear from holiest eyes?
Tolls, the still Friery catch the awful knell;
Loud as it bursts the message from the skies,
Why drops the human tear from holiest eyes?
The dying Father bends! they start!—they trace
A fine proportion and a slender grace;
Touched by the magic circle of his eye
The heart that slept for years, now wakes to sigh;
O sacred form of Beauty! sacred here!
Prevailing softness e'en in souls austere!
A fine proportion and a slender grace;
Touched by the magic circle of his eye
The heart that slept for years, now wakes to sigh;
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Prevailing softness e'en in souls austere!
As falls his cowl the lengthening tresses rest,
Twine a white neck, and veil a rising breast,
And lo! as the fair-handed Father kneels,
Pale on the eye a Woman-hermit steals!
All gaze with wonder, but Cominge with dread—
She dies, whom long his hopeless heart thought dead!
Twine a white neck, and veil a rising breast,
And lo! as the fair-handed Father kneels,
Pale on the eye a Woman-hermit steals!
All gaze with wonder, but Cominge with dread—
She dies, whom long his hopeless heart thought dead!
Fathers! (she cries) my sex profanes your gown!
I made your silence, not your griefs, my own.
I loved Cominge—my Parents frowned—and Power
Long chained my Lover in the tyrant's Tower.
Ah, could I live, and think Cominge for me
Was worn by chains, and lost in Misery?
Those Parents doomed me to a loveless mind;
Not to their daughter but a stranger kind.
Ruthless Ambition! immolating Sires
With victim-children crowd thy Moloch fires.
The early Rose by hands ungentle cast,
Feels o'er its youth of sweets the wasting blast;
Such woe, the ransom of my Lover paid,
And something more than Constancy displayed.
I made your silence, not your griefs, my own.
I loved Cominge—my Parents frowned—and Power
Long chained my Lover in the tyrant's Tower.
Ah, could I live, and think Cominge for me
Was worn by chains, and lost in Misery?
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Not to their daughter but a stranger kind.
Ruthless Ambition! immolating Sires
With victim-children crowd thy Moloch fires.
The early Rose by hands ungentle cast,
Feels o'er its youth of sweets the wasting blast;
Such woe, the ransom of my Lover paid,
And something more than Constancy displayed.
To me Cominge on Love's swift pinions flew,
No other use of Liberty he knew—
“Be free in all but Love!”—and here I sighed.
“Can there be freedom without Love?” he cried.
“Was it for this I woke, O vision blest!
Romantic fondness in a woman's breast,
And thought my painted Heaven was true!—to sigh
My ruined feelings in thine altered eye.
A Woman's magic will but last its hour,
Her heart a wandering wave, her face a short-lived flower!”
No other use of Liberty he knew—
“Be free in all but Love!”—and here I sighed.
“Can there be freedom without Love?” he cried.
“Was it for this I woke, O vision blest!
Romantic fondness in a woman's breast,
And thought my painted Heaven was true!—to sigh
My ruined feelings in thine altered eye.
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Her heart a wandering wave, her face a short-lived flower!”
How bitter in my soul his words I found!
He gave my wounded breast another wound.
He knew it not!—the fond recital spare!—
Tormenting Memory cease!—my tears declare
More than my words our Fate—silent he stood,
Looking at once Reproach and Gratitude!
He gave my wounded breast another wound.
He knew it not!—the fond recital spare!—
Tormenting Memory cease!—my tears declare
More than my words our Fate—silent he stood,
Looking at once Reproach and Gratitude!
In vain we part—the peril still was near!
The madness of sweet words had charmed the ear;
And while the last farewell was told so sweet,
'Twas but an invitation still to meet.
But Sympathy, that softer kind of Love,
Would rack the breast it hardly seemed to move.—
Was this a crime? ah, piteous Fathers! mourn
From Love's soft witcheries the Virgin torn,
Still let me plead ye hallowed sons of Time!
The daughter's error was the Father's crime.
The madness of sweet words had charmed the ear;
And while the last farewell was told so sweet,
'Twas but an invitation still to meet.
But Sympathy, that softer kind of Love,
Would rack the breast it hardly seemed to move.—
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From Love's soft witcheries the Virgin torn,
Still let me plead ye hallowed sons of Time!
The daughter's error was the Father's crime.
My Lord within an Arbour's green retreat
My unblessed Lover weeping at my feet
Beheld—to me the fervent steel he flung;
Cominge, a living shield around me clung,
Warm on my breast I felt his welling blood!
My lover fell—the coward victor stood!
My unblessed Lover weeping at my feet
Beheld—to me the fervent steel he flung;
Cominge, a living shield around me clung,
Warm on my breast I felt his welling blood!
My lover fell—the coward victor stood!
No transient vengeance fills so base a mind,
His was no stream that trembles with the wind;
But dark and wild, his soul the Furies form,
His soul was like a sea, blown by a storm.
His was no stream that trembles with the wind;
But dark and wild, his soul the Furies form,
His soul was like a sea, blown by a storm.
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Now frowned the dungeon's vault—there sunk so drear
Cold on my grate I poured the fruitless tear;
Each day more sharply felt the iron bound
Inexorable, close the world around.
The Sun, my sole companion! and he cheers
With Morning light,—the Evening sets in tears.
There the fresh breeze would melancholy swell
To pale-eyed Beauty fading in a cell.
The vermeil cheek, the golden tress decay,
And Love's delicious hour in Youth's brief day,
That drops such sweets and flies so swift away!
Cold on my grate I poured the fruitless tear;
Each day more sharply felt the iron bound
Inexorable, close the world around.
The Sun, my sole companion! and he cheers
With Morning light,—the Evening sets in tears.
There the fresh breeze would melancholy swell
To pale-eyed Beauty fading in a cell.
The vermeil cheek, the golden tress decay,
And Love's delicious hour in Youth's brief day,
That drops such sweets and flies so swift away!
Yet could the Cell the liberal soul detain?
It knows no Solitude, it feels no chain;
There its sweet habitudes like Nature bless,
And what it doats on, it will still possess.
My Lover's image in my slumbers stole;
There Love and Fancy, Painters of the soul!
In no weak tints their airy pencils steep,
Holding their pictures to the pillowed Sleep.
It knows no Solitude, it feels no chain;
There its sweet habitudes like Nature bless,
And what it doats on, it will still possess.
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There Love and Fancy, Painters of the soul!
In no weak tints their airy pencils steep,
Holding their pictures to the pillowed Sleep.
Again I live to Hope, to Love again,
The hour my tyrant died, unbound my chain.
'Twas for Cominge my pensive soul was gay,
And sprung exulting to the life of day.
The hour my tyrant died, unbound my chain.
'Twas for Cominge my pensive soul was gay,
And sprung exulting to the life of day.
With Love's inventive mind Cominge I trace,
And Hope still changes with each changing place,
Oft tracked yet never found—in stern despair
No more the softness of my sex I share;
A restless Exile in my native home,
Love waved the torch of Hope, and bade me roam.
The verdant groves within whose shades I grew,
The cherished Mates my gayer childhood knew,
All that a Woman loves—from these I flew.
And Hope still changes with each changing place,
Oft tracked yet never found—in stern despair
No more the softness of my sex I share;
A restless Exile in my native home,
Love waved the torch of Hope, and bade me roam.
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The cherished Mates my gayer childhood knew,
All that a Woman loves—from these I flew.
A novel Sex I take—the ruder air
Yet ill conceals the Woman's heart I bear.
No guide save Love, thro' pathless ways for me,
Earth was my Couch, my Canopy a Tree!
For still the mountain Girl, the Peasant rude,
The curious Hamlet's cautious neighbourhood,
Frowned on the Vagrant loitering at their door;
Still are the Poor suspicious of the Poor.
Yet ill conceals the Woman's heart I bear.
No guide save Love, thro' pathless ways for me,
Earth was my Couch, my Canopy a Tree!
For still the mountain Girl, the Peasant rude,
The curious Hamlet's cautious neighbourhood,
Frowned on the Vagrant loitering at their door;
Still are the Poor suspicious of the Poor.
Oft by some River's brink, with wistful eyes
Leaning I viewed the soft inverted skies;
How oft, my Spirit darkened by despair,
I breathed a sigh to find a passage there!
Yet then with sweet enchantment to my Mind
On Earth's green bed some curious plant inclined;
Some tender bird the woodland song would troll,
And leave the melting music in my soul;
Gazing on lovely Nature while I grieve,
I think on Nature's Author—fear and live!
Leaning I viewed the soft inverted skies;
How oft, my Spirit darkened by despair,
I breathed a sigh to find a passage there!
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On Earth's green bed some curious plant inclined;
Some tender bird the woodland song would troll,
And leave the melting music in my soul;
Gazing on lovely Nature while I grieve,
I think on Nature's Author—fear and live!
I hail the desert which Religion chose,
Severe, to build the Wanderer's last sad House;
Grown weary of the World's unpiteous eye,
Wailing for him who never heard the sigh,
Fresh tears stood in my eyes, and sweetly stole,
Melting the fears that shake a Woman's soul.
Severe, to build the Wanderer's last sad House;
Grown weary of the World's unpiteous eye,
Wailing for him who never heard the sigh,
Fresh tears stood in my eyes, and sweetly stole,
Melting the fears that shake a Woman's soul.
The air was still, the sleepy light was grey,
When faint and sad I crossed my hands to pray;
The Evening star illumed her bashful beam;
The holy Abbey in the twilight gleam,
Breathed a celestial calm—How rapturous stole
The Oraison from my delighted soul!
'Twas Inspiration all, ecstatic prayer!
I bend, and lo! a Vision fills the air!
Heaven opens here, and here its Seraphs dwell!—
I hear your Vesper's sweet responses swell!
Amid the choral symphonies ye sung,
I hear the warblings of my Lover's tongue!
When faint and sad I crossed my hands to pray;
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The holy Abbey in the twilight gleam,
Breathed a celestial calm—How rapturous stole
The Oraison from my delighted soul!
'Twas Inspiration all, ecstatic prayer!
I bend, and lo! a Vision fills the air!
Heaven opens here, and here its Seraphs dwell!—
I hear your Vesper's sweet responses swell!
Amid the choral symphonies ye sung,
I hear the warblings of my Lover's tongue!
'Twas like a dream when Madness shakes the brain;
The trembling pleasure fills my soul with pain.
The trembling pleasure fills my soul with pain.
At length 'twas silence—your lone gate I found,
Strike the small bell, and tremble with the sound;
That sound so dear to many a pilgrim nigh,
Who seeks the Desert's hospitality.
There without breath to form a sigh, I wait,
While my heart bounded to the turning Gate;
And lo! with downcast eyes a Father meek!
Scarce mounts the life-blood to his ashy cheek—
Ah, 'twas Cominge!—the' imperfect face inclined
Marked by the traces of a ruined Mind.
Strike the small bell, and tremble with the sound;
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Who seeks the Desert's hospitality.
There without breath to form a sigh, I wait,
While my heart bounded to the turning Gate;
And lo! with downcast eyes a Father meek!
Scarce mounts the life-blood to his ashy cheek—
Ah, 'twas Cominge!—the' imperfect face inclined
Marked by the traces of a ruined Mind.
'Twas then I vowed, the impious deed forgive,
A Woman vowed beneath your roof to live;
From Silence, and from Solitude, I sought
Stillness of soul, and loneliness of thought.
But gives the holy spot a holy mind?
A Saint is oft a Criminal confined.
The lifted torch that gilds the pomp of Night,
The anthem swelling in the gorgeous rite;
Think ye such forms can wing the Sinner's soul,
When Passion burns beneath the saintly stole?
A Woman vowed beneath your roof to live;
From Silence, and from Solitude, I sought
Stillness of soul, and loneliness of thought.
But gives the holy spot a holy mind?
A Saint is oft a Criminal confined.
The lifted torch that gilds the pomp of Night,
The anthem swelling in the gorgeous rite;
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When Passion burns beneath the saintly stole?
These frightful shades some transient pleasures move;
How sweet to watch the motions of my love!
O'er his still griefs in secrecy to melt,
And kneel on the same cushion where he knelt;
Musing on him, to sit beneath the Tree,
Where a few minutes past, he mused on me!
How sweet to watch the motions of my love!
O'er his still griefs in secrecy to melt,
And kneel on the same cushion where he knelt;
Musing on him, to sit beneath the Tree,
Where a few minutes past, he mused on me!
With manual toil my slender frame is worn,
The Faggot gathered and the Water borne.
Faint where the gushing Rock its current spread,
The ponderous waters trembled on my head;
Or toiling breathless in the winding wood,
Moaning beside the forming pile I stood;
Silent he viewed me with a pitying smile,
Bore half my Vase, and bound with his, my pile.
The Faggot gathered and the Water borne.
Faint where the gushing Rock its current spread,
The ponderous waters trembled on my head;
Or toiling breathless in the winding wood,
Moaning beside the forming pile I stood;
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Bore half my Vase, and bound with his, my pile.
Oft hovering near him has my fluttering heart
Bade me my life's unfinished tale impart;
Once lost in frenzy at the solemn hour
Ye dig your channels to Death's silent shore,
And more than human in the' unnatural glooms
With Hope and Fear ye sit beside your tombs,
I marked his eager hand sublimely mould
The house sepulchral which himself must hold;
I hear the sullen spade with iron sound,
Wild on his grave I shriek and wail around!
The' eternal silence broke!—he censures mild
A holy man with worldly sorrow wild—
Hast thou not known (I cried) some human woe
That lives beyond the tears it caused to flow?—
Deep was the groan the fond enquiry moved;
Deep was the groan that told how still he loved!
He flies me, but to the recalling tone
He turns! he hears a voice so loved, so known!
But ah, the' uncertain voice but fancy deems,
Starting like one half-wakeful in his dreams.
Bade me my life's unfinished tale impart;
Once lost in frenzy at the solemn hour
Ye dig your channels to Death's silent shore,
And more than human in the' unnatural glooms
With Hope and Fear ye sit beside your tombs,
I marked his eager hand sublimely mould
The house sepulchral which himself must hold;
I hear the sullen spade with iron sound,
Wild on his grave I shriek and wail around!
The' eternal silence broke!—he censures mild
A holy man with worldly sorrow wild—
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That lives beyond the tears it caused to flow?—
Deep was the groan the fond enquiry moved;
Deep was the groan that told how still he loved!
He flies me, but to the recalling tone
He turns! he hears a voice so loved, so known!
But ah, the' uncertain voice but fancy deems,
Starting like one half-wakeful in his dreams.
Who with Religion's pale atonements pleads,
Leans on a thorn, and tho' supported bleeds;
She, the stern Mother of each stubborn child,
Scares its desponding eyes with terrors wild;
Yet a soft balm her seraph-hand can pour
On hearts that pant not, and can love no more;
Me all ungracious, Prayer nor Penance moved,
My heart rebellious grasped the crime it loved.
What tho' I dropt a tear before the Shrine?—
Thine was the Image and the tear was thine!
Ah, let thy voice but speak, thy hand but wave!
Approach! and hide the horror of the Grave!
Cominge! how chill my blood! how dark my eye!
Ah, soon perhaps—farewel Cominge!—I die!
Leans on a thorn, and tho' supported bleeds;
She, the stern Mother of each stubborn child,
Scares its desponding eyes with terrors wild;
Yet a soft balm her seraph-hand can pour
On hearts that pant not, and can love no more;
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My heart rebellious grasped the crime it loved.
What tho' I dropt a tear before the Shrine?—
Thine was the Image and the tear was thine!
Ah, let thy voice but speak, thy hand but wave!
Approach! and hide the horror of the Grave!
Cominge! how chill my blood! how dark my eye!
Ah, soon perhaps—farewel Cominge!—I die!
She dies to all, but to Cominge!—he prest
Once more his Mistress to his hermit breast;
Love's sweet vibration woke his trembling soul;
Tears dropt his stony eyes, and murmurs stole
From his mute tongue—ah, poor Distraction's child!
He holds with her who was, a converse wild;
Distraction's child! still doat upon thy shade!
Still grasp a corse thou deemest thy living Maid.
O could thy soul this little moment keep,
Gaze on cold eyes, and kiss the' unkissing lip!
But all has past!—Despair, and Thought, and Pain
Rend the fine texture of the working brain.
Few hours shall part ye, and one Tomb receive,
While Hermit-Lovers there, assembling grieve!
Once more his Mistress to his hermit breast;
Love's sweet vibration woke his trembling soul;
Tears dropt his stony eyes, and murmurs stole
From his mute tongue—ah, poor Distraction's child!
He holds with her who was, a converse wild;
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Still grasp a corse thou deemest thy living Maid.
O could thy soul this little moment keep,
Gaze on cold eyes, and kiss the' unkissing lip!
But all has past!—Despair, and Thought, and Pain
Rend the fine texture of the working brain.
Few hours shall part ye, and one Tomb receive,
While Hermit-Lovers there, assembling grieve!
The Founder, or rather Reformer, of the severe Order of the Monks of La Trappe, was the Abbé Rancé, whose romantic adventure with his mistress is so well known. As the last effort of despair he planned this institution; among the frightful austerities there practised, were those of perpetual silence, midnight prayers, manual labours, and digging their own graves. The story of Cominge may be found in a little novel, by Madame Tencin.
| Narrative Poems | |