 | Poems |  |
99
MARGARET.
I.
Hard by a crumbling castle wallAn old deserted garden spread,
With many a quaintly-shapen bed,
And many a mazy path that led
To postern, drawbridge, bower, and hall,
Through gloomy groves of evergreens,
Dark, low-browed rocks, and shady scenes
Hemmed in by fir-trees black and tall.
100
The dreary ground
Was heard the sound
Of many a mournful fountain falling,
And many a feeble echo calling,
To waving trees, and low-voiced streams,
Where day but rarely spread his beams;—
It seemed a living land of dreams.
II.
There ruined summer-arbours stood,Covered with moss and untrained vine,
A wilderness of sweet woodbine,
Ivy, and starry jessamine.
And mirrored in a murmuring flood
Were marble forms of many a god,
Some gazing on the sedgy sod,
Or half-seen through the underwood;
101
With parted hair,
Was bending there.
Some seemed to mock the sculptor's art,
And listening stood with lips apart;
Others, half-buried 'mid the flowers,
Dryads and Satyrs, Nymphs and Hours,
Stood peeping through the leafy bowers.
III.
Beside a richly-sculptured urn,The lady Margaret was kneeling,
The tears were down her fair cheeks stealing,
And many an outward sign, revealing
How deeply her young heart did mourn.
She held a portrait to her breast,
And sighing, said, “Oh, be at rest!
Hush, heart! no more will he return
102
And whispered vow!—
All's over now.”
Her glance upon the picture fell,
It was the knight she loved too well.
A silken scarf his helmet bore.
“By that love-token thou oft swore,”
Said Margaret, “I'll think no more.
IV.
“And yet when I that token see,And think what nights these wakeful eyes
Bent o'er its fond embroidery,—
Painful emotions will arise,
Such as I felt not till we parted,
Such as but spring from doubts and fears,
And grow on until broken-hearted,
Nursed amid sighs and bathed in tears.
103
V.
“Perhaps for me he cares not now,Nor heeds my tears, nor minds my sighing;
Perchance he has forgot his vow,—
Or he—oh, God!—he may be dying!
And no one near—oh misery!
Breathing my name with his last breath,—
And yet his image smiles on me—
Away!—I will not think of death.
VI.
“No! he still wears my true-love token,Still presses it with many a sigh;
I will not think his vow is broken,
I will not say so, though I die.
It brings before him many a scene,
That we have passed amid these bowers,
Our moonlight walks through alleys green,
When love was sweeter than the flowers.
104
VII.
“I marked the corners with my hair,I wove his name along with mine,
And fondly hoped, as they clung there,
So would our hearts together twine;
Oh, Hope! delusive Hope, 'tis Time
Alone that proves thee a deceiver;
Thou bringest buds of promised prime,
But the keen frost attends thee ever.
VIII.
“Oh! I am sadly altered now,My summer's changed to winter's gloom;
I've torn the garland from my brow,
And hung it on my mother's tomb.
I seem upon a pathless sea,
A lonely ark that still remains,
Doomed to glide on in misery,
And float alone with all its pains.
105
IX.
“And Love still lives, though Hope is fled,And Memory that brings no delight,
Telling of Spring whose flowers are shed,
A sunny day long changed to night,
A music, all in mournful tone,
Sounding awake, and heard asleep,
A solemn dirge that rings alone
To tell me I am born to weep.
X.
“Oh! I have loved, and still I love,And yet my life is like a dream;
I look around, below, above,
And thoughts like hovering shadows seem,
Clouds drifting o'er the face of heaven,
That float along in loose array,
The dark and bright together driven,
And mingling but to pass away.
106
XI.
“Though he is false I will not chide,I feel my heart is all to blame,
And though I may not be his bride,
But see another bear that name,
Yet will I pray that every blessing—
Alas! I cannot pray, for weeping;
A coldness round my heart is pressing,
A tremor through my veins is creeping.
XII.
“Oh! I am weary of my life;My eyes with weeping have grown weary;
Nature too long hath been at strife,
My very thoughts to me are dreary;
Oh! I am weary of the day,
And wish again that it was night,
And when night comes wish it away,
And then grow weary of the light.”
107
XIII.
She on that marble urn did rest,'Twas sacred to her mother's name,
She clasped its coldness to her breast
And called on death, but no death came.
The grave is far too cold for love;
Why should it sleep within a tomb,
When for its mate the wandering dove,
But coos amid the forest gloom?
XIV.
Hark! heard ye not that rustling sound?It was no gust that shook the leaves,
But coursers' hoofs that rent the ground,—
How quick her panting bosom heaves.
Tramp! tramp! behold the scarf, 'tis he;
Now he alights! his voice she hears,
“My Margaret, didst wait for me?”
He stooped, and kissed away her tears.
| Poems | |