Narrative poems on the Female Character in the various relations of life. By Mary Russell Mitford ... Vol. I |
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| I. |
| II. | CANTO II. |
| III. |
 | Narrative poems on the Female Character |  |
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CANTO II.
I.
Thou heavenly blessing of the earthly breast,Whether or Love or Charity thy name,
That in one gentle heart a cherish'd guest,
Would'st in another wake a kindred flame;
Droop not, immortal Love! tho' vain thy aim,
Nor close thy trembling wings in anguish'd pause!
Chang'd, but not lost, thy haven is the same;
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So sure a purer flame the outcast Love shall cause.
II.
The seeds we scatter on a barren rock,The tempest's angry breath may sweep away;
Yet to the valley wafted by the shock,
And firmer planted by its boisterous sway,
There may they brave unhurt the wintery day;
And peep and brighten in the showers of spring;
And, shelter'd from the sun's oppressive ray,
Through the mild hours of summer blossoming,
Reach their autumnal prime, and golden harvests fling.
287
III.
So was it now: The quick and anxious throbWhich stirr'd the plumage of the sleeping dove,
As, sooth'd on Frederic's breast, its gasping sob
And fluttering heart were quieted by love;
That throb had power his faltering voice above,
The passions each fair sister rous'd, to tell;
For Mary, it was all that love could prove;
For Grace, contemptuous indignation's swell;
And anger fann'd the flame which sweetness lit so well.
IV.
Now in the wood he lies, beneath a birchWhich overspreads a winding narrow stream;
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Though nor the pebbles that transparent gleam,
Nor slender grass that intercepts the beam,
One wandering thought have stolen or conscious glance:
For he is listening to the dearest theme
That ever fill'd a youthful lover's trance,
Nor would he lose one sound for Europe's wide expanse.
V.
To tales of those we love, all sense is ear;Patience exhaustless; and enamor'd youth
Holds garrulous age too brief, and bends to hear
A grandame's praise, or nurse's tale uncouth,
As wisdom speaking from the lips of truth;
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Long Frederic listen'd to the aged Ruth,
Who seated on a beech root by his side,
Of Mary's goodness told with all a nurse's pride.
VI.
O never since the nurse that Shakspeare drew—(Shakspeare or Nature—are they not the same?)
Was tongue so prone, or memory so true,
To give to childhood's pranks affection's fame.
Each spot that they survey'd, some tale could claim:
In yonder path the dying lamb she found;
Pluck'd on that bank sweet cowslips for her dame;
And with her simple breakfast totter'd round,
To feed the gipsey's child beneath yon woody mound.
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VII.
How sweet the forest seem'd to Frederic's eyes,Of Mary's infant sports the happy scene!
Still on the bank the seeded cowslips rise;
And still the ashes on the wither'd green,
Tell where the gipsey's recent camp has been;
And half he deem'd in that lone path to view
The lovely babe o'er the dead lambkin lean;
Its stiffening limbs with freshest flowrets strew,
And bathe the cold mild face with childhood's holy dew.
VIII.
And Frederic smil'd as, at the wand of truth,The painted visions, rear'd by fancy, fled;
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Appear'd alone in her fair nursling's stead;
Yet from her lips he learn'd that, humbly bred,
His Mary's father was their curate good;
Who, whilst in paths of righteousness he led
His happy flock, death's early victim stood,
And left a lovely wife to cheerless widowhood.
IX.
Two cherub children liv'd to soothe her care,And beautiful it was to see young Grace
Hide in her elder sister's bosom fair,
From each admiring eye, her blushing face;
And beautiful it was to see them chace,
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Till flush'd and breathless with the merry race,
The sportive babes, lull'd by the wood-lark's song,
Slept in each other's arms the forest shades among.
X.
But soon a wealthy aunt the younger bore,Reluctant, from her weeping mother's arms.
Unhappy Grace! Oh never, never more
Shall thy chang'd heart enjoy such simple charms;
Or feel such hope as now thy bosom warms,
Again to share thy sister's fond caress!
Unhappy Grace!—Ah sure the fond alarms,
Which rent sweet Mary's breast with kind distress,
Presag'd you ne'er again should know such happiness!
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XI.
Long was it ere they met: rear'd in the domeOf splendid opulence in cities gay,
Grace Neville soon forgot her cottage home,
And the dear partner of her simple play.
Command dwelt in her look; and all gave way,
Obedient to the infant beauty's frown;
She was the theme of every minstrel's lay;
Her smile was happiness, her praise renown,
And added conquests still her ripening beauties crown.
XII.
Mary, the whilst, an humble cottage maid,Pursued her simple path in gay content;
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To those far walls, where, in soft durance pent,
In mirth and sloth her sister's hours were spent:
Except that when she breath'd the breeze of morn,
Or on the rustic gate at evening leant,
A wish, of fondness and of pleasure born,
Would spring, that Grace were there, to share and to adorn!
XIII.
Ah! little deem'd she that to Grace's eye,No joy the breathing charms of morn could bring;
The roseate blushes of the eastern sky;
The dews, seen through the mists, which seem to fling
Cold trembling diamonds on the lap of spring;
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The brook where swallows skim with glancing wing;
The fragrant gale; the clouds that roll above;
Such scenes the vain can see, nor feel one touch of love.
XIV.
To taste the bliss which scenes like these inspire,Belongs but to the pure and blameless breast,
Where never selfish wish, or low desire,
Or vain ungenerous thoughts disturb its rest.
As in the stainless mirror, brighter drest,
And lovelier far the finish'd landscape seems,
So in the virtuous bosom, doubly blest,
Nature in all her radiant beauty gleams,
And snatches higher grace from intellectual beams.
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XV.
Nor yet alone could Nature's lovelinessBring bliss to Mary's heart, or charm her sight;
Much she enjoy'd the merry idleness,
What time she led the dance in moonshine bright;
And better still she lov'd in winter's night,
At her dear mother's side to sit and pore,
By the quick blazing faggot's flickering light,
On wild Arabia's sweetly magic lore,
Glowing with strange delight, yet trembling evermore.
XVI.
Her's too the joy, which those, who proudly liveIn gorgeous mansions and in courtly state,
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Not the gay baubles, which in equal rate
They take and give—the commerce of the great!
Not Charity, that flies to distant lands,
And leaves unfed the beggar at the gate;
Nor the cold boon, with which reluctant hands
Would bribe the trump of Fame at Vanity's commands.
XVII.
Of humble usefulness how cheap the power!Little she had, but kindness made it dear:
The cordial cup, press'd from the cowslip's flower,
Or elder-berry rich, or currant clear;
The homely meal, enrich'd with pity's tear,
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The smile of power the sinking heart to cheer;
And cares which hovering round the sleepless bed,
Oft in their rosy chains the fiend Disease have led.
XVIII.
Such were the tales the happy lover heardOf her by age belov'd, by youth admir'd;
And much he wish'd, yet fear'd, to speak the word,
To know if none a softer passion fir'd;
To know if her dear heart, still uninspir'd,
Held yet unsear'd by love its healthful beat;
Ruth shook her head, as faltering he inquir'd,
“Has no one sought that flower, so fair, so sweet?”
And soon her story came with wondrous change replete.
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XIX.
“Yes; many a youth had caught from Mary's eyeThe spark which kindles love's devouring flame,
And many a broken phrase and smother'd sigh
Had told soft secrets to the lovely dame.
But none so well could hopeless passion tame,
Dismiss the lover, and retain the friend;
At once refuse, yet seem her fate to blame,
And wayward heart, which would, yet could not, blend
With those whose honest worth might prouder maidens bend.
XX.
“At length a youthful knight the valley sought,To join the may-day sports beneath the tree;
Handsome and gay, with grace and riches fraught,
And the near kinsman of our Lord was he;
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The blushes which on Frederic's features play'd.
Nor heard him softly sigh—“And can it be!
Is this then, Mowbray, thy sweet cottage maid!
And is it thy betroth'd, that has my heart betray'd!”
XXI.
Ruth heard him not: but reckless of his smartPursued in simple guise her artless tale;
And told how Mary won Sir Walter's heart,
And how, resistless as th' autumnal gale
Scatters the leaves when withering frosts assail,—
Ev'n so his sighs upon the anxious breast
Of the fond mother, sick and poor, prevail;
And Mary, wondering if the stranger guest
That stirr'd her heart were love,—obey'd her kind behest.
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XXII.
“If love it were, 'twas love resembling fear!A strange dislike from humble peace to roam;
Aversion to the rank he held so dear,
The sumptuous equipage, the splendid dome,
Serv'd to endear the more her native home.
And she would say, ‘Does it not seem to thee
That the light sea-weed, floating on the foam,
Must happier than yon lotos-blossom be
In leaden bason pent?—happier, for it is free!
XXIII.
“‘And yet that lotos, on th' Egyptian wave,Enjoy'd its native sun, its freshening shower;
Till brought to northern climes, a torpid slave,
And nurs'd to sickly life in art's warm bower,
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The fancied charms, which forc'd it here to pine!
Ah! Mowbray, should I, in some after hour,
Sigh for the humble blessings I resign,
To share thy splendid lot,—Will not such fate be mine?’
XXIV.
“So (as with Mowbray o'er the fair domainOf Claremont's Lord she roam'd,) the maiden said:
A sunny smile, sweet, transitory, vain,
Around her lovely mouth full archly play'd;
And the fond youth, not by such threat dismay'd,
Press'd her to name the blest, th' important day,
When he (O happiest!) from her native glade,
The sweet unfading flower should bear away,
To bloom in softer skies, and brighter charms display.
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XXV.
“The day was fix'd, when, as Sir Walter's bride,Sweet Mary from her peaceful home should go.
Yet much she long'd, in Grace's arms to hide,
On that auspicious morn, doubt's painful glow;
And bid her tears on that white bosom flow,
Which could to infant grief such balm impart;
And Grace obey'd her call: and came to show
Proud man's inconstancy,—Vain woman's art;—
The serpent's glittering form, and worse than serpent's heart.
XXVI.
“Canst thou not guess that which I hate to tell?Grace Neville's beauty might a world ensnare;
And lur'd from Mary by her witching spell,
Mowbray beheld and lov'd the worthless fair.—
304
She echo'd every strain that Mowbray sang;
If the cool grove he trod, he found her there:
She in the evening dance to meet him sprang;
And in the moonlight walk their mutual carols rang.
XXVII.
“Successful were her arts.—Nor Mary stroveTo win again the heart she once had fir'd:
She gain'd her mother's blessing to their love,
With difficulty gain'd—and then retir'd,
(E'en by the changeful youth rever'd, admir'd,)
To cheerful toils, contentment, and repose.
Whilst, not by love but vanity inspir'd,
To-morrow's bridals Grace's empire close,
And from her native plains, the Lady Mowbray goes.”
305
XXVIII.
Still Frederic listen'd, though the tale was told:Rousing at length, to the good dame he turn'd;
And his sweet gracious thanks, more than his gold,
Might claim the tear that on her bosom burn'd.
Oh! how false Mowbray's fickle vows he spurn'd,
Yet blest th' inconstancy his soul despis'd!
Ah, ye such mingled feelings well have learn'd,
Who loving one, by faithless fools mispriz'd,
In wrongs that left her free, have joy'd and sympathis'd!
XXIX.
Ye best can tell with what contemptuous hateAnd scornful pity Frederic's bosom glow'd,
For the false fair, whom even-handed fate
Plung'd in the gulph from whence their treachery flow'd.
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Will be,” he cried, “ye cold and heartless twain!
How different from her calm and peaceful road,
Whom sweetness leads and virtue's lovely train!”
He said, and left the woods to view her charms again.
| Narrative poems on the Female Character | |