 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
98
CATHERINE SEYTON.
Is it a gift so rare on earth,—
So seldom proved to worldly eyes,
That we invest with matchless worth,—
With something more than mortal birth,
The heart that for another's weal
Can smiling make, and yet conceal
Its own self-sacrifice?
Like Curtius, when a nation's breath,
Hung trembling o'er his doom;
Or he who, on the pass of death,
Swept tyrants to the tomb,
And, foremost 'mid the combat, cried,—
“Make way for Liberty!”—and died.
And thus with thee, heroic girl:
Though all that's feminine and fair
Dwells in thy sweet and noble air,—
Though love smiles out from every curl,—
Yet thou, with more than woman's soul,
Stept boldly forth in danger's hour,
And, self-devoted, faced the power
That would thy hapless Queen control.
So seldom proved to worldly eyes,
That we invest with matchless worth,—
With something more than mortal birth,
The heart that for another's weal
Can smiling make, and yet conceal
Its own self-sacrifice?
Like Curtius, when a nation's breath,
Hung trembling o'er his doom;
Or he who, on the pass of death,
Swept tyrants to the tomb,
And, foremost 'mid the combat, cried,—
“Make way for Liberty!”—and died.
99
Though all that's feminine and fair
Dwells in thy sweet and noble air,—
Though love smiles out from every curl,—
Yet thou, with more than woman's soul,
Stept boldly forth in danger's hour,
And, self-devoted, faced the power
That would thy hapless Queen control.
When clash'd the swords of death around,—
With but one boltless door between
The murderous ruffians and thy Queen,—
Thou,—graced with every female charm,—
Yet prized thy living beauty less
Than honour's higher loveliness;—
Thou through the staple fixed thine arm,
And, like the Douglas heart of old,
Bade them come on,—if on they could,—
Through thy resolved, heroic blood!
With but one boltless door between
The murderous ruffians and thy Queen,—
Thou,—graced with every female charm,—
Yet prized thy living beauty less
Than honour's higher loveliness;—
Thou through the staple fixed thine arm,
And, like the Douglas heart of old,
Bade them come on,—if on they could,—
Through thy resolved, heroic blood!
And for this noble sacrifice,—
For this devoted, bold emprise,
The Poet's harp should wreathe thy name,
And link it to undying fame.
Hadst thou been loveless, dark, and dull,
As thou wert lov'd and beautiful;
For, oh! the hero's proudest crown,
The bravest scutcheon sword e'er gained,
The trophy dearest to renown,
Is by self-sacrifice attained.
And he who, for the general cause,
Seeks first to reach that path sublime,
Oh! give his name a world's applause,—
Engrave it on the heart of Time!
For this devoted, bold emprise,
The Poet's harp should wreathe thy name,
And link it to undying fame.
100
As thou wert lov'd and beautiful;
For, oh! the hero's proudest crown,
The bravest scutcheon sword e'er gained,
The trophy dearest to renown,
Is by self-sacrifice attained.
And he who, for the general cause,
Seeks first to reach that path sublime,
Oh! give his name a world's applause,—
Engrave it on the heart of Time!
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |