The Works of Sir Henry Taylor

The curtain falls upon the fancied stage,
The tale half told: here rest thee, reader sage;
Pause here and trim thine intellectual light,
Which, more than mine, shall make my meanings bright.

186

That ancient writer whose romantic heart
Loved war in every shape,—its pride, its art,
Its shows, appurtenance,—whose page is still
The theatre of war turn where we will,—
That old historian of whose truthful text
I dog the heels,—me whither leads he next?
To dark descents he guides me; sad and stern,
Him following forth, the lesson that I learn:
That in the shocks of powers so wild and rude
Success but signifies vicissitude;
That of that man who seeks a sovran sphere
The triumph is the trial most severe.
And yet in times so stormy, in a land
Where Virtue's self held forth a bloody hand
To greet arm'd Justice,—in such times as these
Still woman's love could find the way to please.
Thus in the tissue of my tale, herein
By records not unvouch'd, again I spin,
As heretofore, an interwoven thread
Of feminine affection fancy-fed.

—Rest thee a space: or if thou lov'st to hear
A soft pulsation in thine easy ear,
Turn thou the page and let thy senses drink
A lay that shall not trouble thee to think.
Quitting the heroine of the past, thou'lt see
In this prefigured her that is to be,
And find what life was hers before the date
That with the Fleming's fortunes link'd her fate.
This sang she to herself one summer's eve
A recreant from festivities that grieve
The heart not festive; stealing to her bower
With this she wiled away the lonely evening hour.

University of Virginia Library