 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
THE VILLAGE QUEEN.
The nuts hang ripe upon the chestnut boughs;
And the rich stars send forth their clear blue light,
O'er glistening leaves, and flowers that, fond as love,
Perfume the very dew that bows their heads,
And lays their sweet and quiet beauty low!
And dream-like voices float upon the ear,
With mingling harmony of birds and trees,
And gushing waters! Beautiful is night—
And beautiful the thoughts she calls to birth!—
The hopes which make themselves immortal wing;
The memories that slow and sadly steal,
Like moonlight music, o'er the watching heart;
Yet, with a tone thus light, stirring the mind
To themes beyond a trumpet's breath to rouse!
And the rich stars send forth their clear blue light,
O'er glistening leaves, and flowers that, fond as love,
Perfume the very dew that bows their heads,
And lays their sweet and quiet beauty low!
And dream-like voices float upon the ear,
With mingling harmony of birds and trees,
And gushing waters! Beautiful is night—
And beautiful the thoughts she calls to birth!—
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The memories that slow and sadly steal,
Like moonlight music, o'er the watching heart;
Yet, with a tone thus light, stirring the mind
To themes beyond a trumpet's breath to rouse!
My spirit wakes 'mid sad remembrances
Of one who shone the beauty of our vale—
The idol of our homes—our Village Queen!
Methinks I see her now!—the graceful girl!
The shadowy richness of her auburn hair
Half parted o'er a brow white as the bloom
Of the wild myrtle flower: and eyes whose hue
Was like the violet's, with more of light;
A silent poetry dwelt in their depths—
A melody inaudible!—Her neck—
Oh, elegant and fair as the young dove's!—
Gave to the mild expression of her form
The grace that artists study. Thus she looked,
Ere early blight had wasted her fine bloom,
And dimmed the gladness of her starry eyes!
Her home was small but very beautiful:
A pastoral cot—midst mountain, rock, and vale,
And pleasant water—all that constitutes
A picture of romance—a summer home!
There, like a rose, she grew from infancy,
The blessing of a widowed mother's heart—
Light of her eyes—the dial of her mind,
Round which her thoughts revolved!
Of one who shone the beauty of our vale—
The idol of our homes—our Village Queen!
Methinks I see her now!—the graceful girl!
The shadowy richness of her auburn hair
Half parted o'er a brow white as the bloom
Of the wild myrtle flower: and eyes whose hue
Was like the violet's, with more of light;
A silent poetry dwelt in their depths—
A melody inaudible!—Her neck—
Oh, elegant and fair as the young dove's!—
Gave to the mild expression of her form
The grace that artists study. Thus she looked,
Ere early blight had wasted her fine bloom,
And dimmed the gladness of her starry eyes!
Her home was small but very beautiful:
A pastoral cot—midst mountain, rock, and vale,
And pleasant water—all that constitutes
A picture of romance—a summer home!
There, like a rose, she grew from infancy,
The blessing of a widowed mother's heart—
Light of her eyes—the dial of her mind,
Round which her thoughts revolved!
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An orphan youth,
The offspring of a distant relative,
Dwelt with the aged matron and her child,
And rose to manhood 'neath their generous roof:
Alas, for the return!—'Tis strange that one
So mild and gentle in her loveliness,
Whose life was simple as the wilding broom,
And happiest in the shade, should nurse so fond,
So deep a passion for a youth whose moods
Were ever wayward, gloomy, wild, and bold,
Jealous and proud—the passionate reverse
Of her sweet, guileless self! And yet she loved,
With that intense affection, that deep faith,
Which knows no change, and sets but o'er the tomb!
'Twere vain to trace how, step by step, he fell—
How, deed by deed, he darkened into guilt,
And perished in his crimes!
The offspring of a distant relative,
Dwelt with the aged matron and her child,
And rose to manhood 'neath their generous roof:
Alas, for the return!—'Tis strange that one
So mild and gentle in her loveliness,
Whose life was simple as the wilding broom,
And happiest in the shade, should nurse so fond,
So deep a passion for a youth whose moods
Were ever wayward, gloomy, wild, and bold,
Jealous and proud—the passionate reverse
Of her sweet, guileless self! And yet she loved,
With that intense affection, that deep faith,
Which knows no change, and sets but o'er the tomb!
'Twere vain to trace how, step by step, he fell—
How, deed by deed, he darkened into guilt,
And perished in his crimes!
Sweet Eleanor!—
Pale, blighted girl!—she withered fast, like those
Who have no earthly hope; yet still she smiled,
And said she should be happy soon—and breathed,
Like a young dying swan, her music tones
Of parting tenderness, into that fount
Which might not hold them long—a mother's heart!
Pale, blighted girl!—she withered fast, like those
Who have no earthly hope; yet still she smiled,
And said she should be happy soon—and breathed,
Like a young dying swan, her music tones
Of parting tenderness, into that fount
Which might not hold them long—a mother's heart!
Oh! youth is like the emerald, which throws
Its own green light o'er all!—even to the last,
She spoke of brighter hours, of happier days,
Of nights that bring no sorrow—no regret;
That she would love none but her mother now,
And she henceforth should be the world to her.
Its own green light o'er all!—even to the last,
She spoke of brighter hours, of happier days,
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That she would love none but her mother now,
And she henceforth should be the world to her.
Do you behold where the lone rising moon
Tinges with holy light the village spire,
And braids with silver the far cypress boughs,
Bending, like Mercy, o'er the sorrowing brow,
And lonely heart, the weary and the worn?—
There, in her early tomb, reclines the pride
And beauty of our vale—The Village Queen!
Tinges with holy light the village spire,
And braids with silver the far cypress boughs,
Bending, like Mercy, o'er the sorrowing brow,
And lonely heart, the weary and the worn?—
There, in her early tomb, reclines the pride
And beauty of our vale—The Village Queen!
| Dryburgh Abbey and other poems | |