 | Christina |  |
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Canto the Third.
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I.
Whence springs the joy, ye gentle lovers tell!
To hover round the mistress of your heart,
As if enchanted by some magic spell,
Of witch accurst, or merry fairy art,
To feed, for aye, your bosom's raging smart?
Still at the hour, when all but lovers sleep,
Reckless tho' rivers, woods, or mountains part,
Still to the maiden's lov'd abode ye creep,
There, thro' the lingering night, for her dear sake to weep.
To hover round the mistress of your heart,
As if enchanted by some magic spell,
Of witch accurst, or merry fairy art,
To feed, for aye, your bosom's raging smart?
Still at the hour, when all but lovers sleep,
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Still to the maiden's lov'd abode ye creep,
There, thro' the lingering night, for her dear sake to weep.
Such joy the Spanish cavalier oft feels,
When to the lattic'd window of his fair,
At midnight hour, with noiseless step, he steals,
Content to breathe the love-perfumed air,
That fans her cheek, and wantons in her hair.
How sweetly then the tender serenade
Tells of his love as her own beauty rare;
The whilst, half kind, half coy, the listening maid
At times her veil'd form shows, at times is lost in shade.
When to the lattic'd window of his fair,
At midnight hour, with noiseless step, he steals,
Content to breathe the love-perfumed air,
That fans her cheek, and wantons in her hair.
How sweetly then the tender serenade
Tells of his love as her own beauty rare;
The whilst, half kind, half coy, the listening maid
At times her veil'd form shows, at times is lost in shade.
'Twas this soft charm that with resistless force,
Drew Henry to the cot ere break of day,
With vigorous stroke he steer'd his watery course,
Sprang o'er the wave, and bounding thro' the spray,
Swift to Fitzallan's dwelling took his way.
Where the vine mantles o'er the casement small
He stands, breathing the love inspiring lay
On the soft flute: lay that may well enthral,
So mellow those wild notes, so sweet that dying fall.
Drew Henry to the cot ere break of day,
With vigorous stroke he steer'd his watery course,
Sprang o'er the wave, and bounding thro' the spray,
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Where the vine mantles o'er the casement small
He stands, breathing the love inspiring lay
On the soft flute: lay that may well enthral,
So mellow those wild notes, so sweet that dying fall.
II.
Christina rose in strange delight,As if to meet some angel bright;
For as those strains unknown and clear,
Fell softly on her waking ear,
Her sense in sweet delirium whirl'd,
Deem'd it the sound of higher world.
Around her still, the maiden gaz'd
With holy joy, and awe amaz'd;
“Blest vision! for what purpose given?”
Alas! it sprang from earth not Heaven!
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The bright musician's glowing mien;
And as, with cheek of crimson hue,
From open casement she withdrew:
Unbidden gush'd a crystal tear,
“Ah why so excellent, so dear?
“Or why, so gifted, might not I”—
She check'd her speech, but not her sigh.
Again she caught that melting air,
Then bounded down the narrow stair,
Whilst pleasure strange, and sweet surprise
Beam'd joyous in her speaking eyes.
III.
The master's soul on her intent,Soon paus'd the magic instrument.
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The polish'd tube by Henry's side;
“And did those sounds seraphic spring,
“Such wondrous charm, from this bright thing?
“Yet have I heard Fitzallan tell
“Of music's ever varying spell;
“Call you it harp, guitar, or lute?”
“Neither, fair maid, a rustic flute:
“The sylvan pipe of England, still
“It cheers the shepherd on the hill,
“And less than his my simple skill.”
Fearful, yet curious much, the maid
The little talisman essay'd;
With fond impatience still she strove,
To swell again those notes of love;
No echoing nymph awoke the strain,
She spent her fragrant breath in vain.
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IV.
Gaily she gave it to his hand,“It bows but to its Lord's command;
“And, like a Briton bold and free,
“Will own no foreign mastery:
“Yet once again that strain to hear,
“Were it too much to ask?”—“Oh ne'er
“In vain can sweet Christina ask,
“Tho' Henry's death were in the task.”
Her breath on the smooth ivory dwelt,
His lips the balmy moisture felt,
While to his heart's emotion true,
Trembling and faint the notes he drew;
Yet could those trembling notes entrance
That girl of love—inspiring glance,—
Bewitching in her ignorance.
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V.
That soft strain past;—o'er flowery meadsThe unreluctant fair he leads;
He speaks of holy charms, which dwell
In pealing organ's awful swell,
Of power to sacred music given,
To bear the raptur'd thought to Heaven.
Now of creative art he told,
High gift! the massy rock to mould;
Now of that power, more wondrous still,
The painter's imitative skill;
Power, on small surface to compress
Nature's wide spreading loveliness;
Power, which can scenes long past revive,
And bid the buried beauty live.
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He told with sympathetic pleasure:
Whilst still the maid, with ravish'd sense,
Hung on his glowing eloquence;
Well to that maid the muse was known,
The voice of genius on his throne;—
Shakespeare and genius they are one!
VI.
In luxury of kindred taste,Unheeded the blest moments past:
No more he check'd love's generous flame,
But fondly woo'd the matchless dame:
“Christina, dearest, fairest maid!
“Rose, withering in the lonely shade!
“O quit this solitude profound!
“O come where kindred souls are found!
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“With faithful love, shall wait on thee!
“I have a lovely home, amid
“Soft vales and woody mountains hid;
“A gentle sister, young and fair,
“A tender mother shelter there.
“O come to that sweet sister's breast!
“O come by that dear mother blest!
“O come to grace that peaceful home!
“My love, my wife, to England come!”
VII.
He paus'd; that maiden's changeful hueWas to her varying feelings true.
The flush of joy and virgin shame
Those rosy blushes well might claim:
But was it awe or fear that cast
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Or was it hopeless love that past?
Like one from some bright dream awoke,
Trembling she stood, at length she spoke.
VIII.
“My thanks, unskill'd in courtly art,“Dwell not in words, but in my heart;
“Yet, gentle Henry, we must part.
“The wild rose in its native wood
“May please the wanderer's wanton mood,
“Within his breast the modest flower,
“Secure may pass its brilliant hour;
“But, sever'd from the parent tree,
“How short that blissful hour would be!
“Pale, wither'd, drooping, and forlorn,
“Soon would it drop the wild winds scorn.—
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“Rest safest in their native shade.”
IX.
Firm were her words; but trembling speechA softer lesson seem'd to teach;
“Christina, hear!” for she would fly
The pleading of that azure eye;
“Christina, hear! If, cruel fair,
“My friends, my home, thou wilt not share;
“Yet here consent my bride to be,
“And I shall find them all in thee!”
He gaz'd upon her angel face
An answering look of love to trace;
But pale, and paler still, she grew,
Fainter her quivering breath she drew,
That face so innocent, so fair,
It breath'd the sadness of despair.
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X.
Again she turn'd; he sought not nowTo look upon that anguish'd brow;
Again she turn'd, but starting stood,
As if grim death had chill'd her blood.
'Twas Hubert, who, with angry eyes,
Mark'd sternly her dismay'd surprise:
Sullen he spoke.—“The chief for you
“Attends with all your comrades true,
“Lady, within the cottage gate,
“Anna for you and Helen wait.”
Silent they parted; for the grot
The youths; Christina to the cot.
XI.
Slop'd in the misty mountain's side,The grot o'erhung the streamlet's tide;
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Was deck'd like the gay bower of love:
Bright garlands, streaming wild afar,
Hung from the arch irregular;
Each lowly herb that loves the shade,
Mosaic sweet! the ground inlaid;
Fond creepers round the grey rocks climb,
Aspiring flowerets rise sublime.
XII.
The scene has caught young Henry's glances,Whilst he at Hubert's side advances,
Alone they stood,—the massy rock
Parted abrupt with sudden shock:
The yawning stone admittance gave,
Strange entrance to a wondrous cave!
High swell'd the cavern's vaulted dome,
Stupendous, like some giant's home,
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Serv'd to admit a wavering light:
Glancing upon that dome erect,
Pois'd by no human architect,
On pillars that around it stand,—
Pillars not rais'd by mortal hand!
Pile most majestic, vast, and grand!
XIII.
How oft the mournful joy has rung,By travellers told, by poets sung,
The mournful joy to wander, where
Palmyra moulders in the air;
Where many a temple's holy fane
With sculptur'd fragments strews the plain,
‘Dust unto dust’ return'd again.
Where Desolation to the heart
Cries, “Perish thus thy triumphs, Art!”
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Unveil'd appears thy mighty plan;
Imperishable, high design,
A sweeter, holier voice is thine!
A voice which leads where saints have trod,
“Thro' nature up to nature's God.”—
With pious awe and wonder pale,
The strangers heard Fitzallan's tale.
XIV. Fitzallan's Narrative concluded.
Most lovely was the dawning rayThat lit the bowers of Matavai,
Lit palmy grove, and verdant plain,
And hills, we ne'er should see again;
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Then fade before our lingering eyes.
By many an isle of emerald hue,
By many a mount of misty blue,
We past; but still beside the flood,
With anxious gaze, the Indians stood;
Still, by the mountain's side so calm,
The light smoke curl'd above the palm;
Still open hut, or rude morai,
Peep'd out from mountain, wood, or bay.
XV.
Onward we past; till now no more,We met the ship-encumbering shore:
Upon the smooth and glassy sea,
We sail'd in tranquil majesty.
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Of our new friends, and England's men!
Those o'er the clear and wide expanse,
Cast many a wild and fearful glance,
Each breeze that o'er the billows past,
Seem'd to their ears the death-fraught blast;
Each gentle undulating wave,
Seem'd to their eyes their yawning grave;
Whilst these, on future hopes intent,
Fearless and full of gay content,
Blest the propitious element.
XVI.
Soon hopes and fears all past away,In certainty's refulgent ray.
We mark'd the fair isle's verdant hue,
The lonely Incarnation knew,
And joyful to the harbour drew.
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In vain we search'd the fertile land;
A lovely desart we had found,
If desart 'twere, where all around
Liv'd plant, and flower, and flowering tree,
A silent world of faëry!
Soon felt the vale the British spade;
Soon rose the cottage in the shade.
One wish had they, one wish had I,
“Here let us live, here let us die,
“By natural toil win nature's wealth,
“Food, raiment, cheerfulness, and health.
Love at our side, we heard the call
Of blameless hope—and listen'd all!
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XVII.
Save one alone, condemn'd to bearThe pangs of conscience, and despair;
Save Christian!—From the fatal hour,
He seiz'd on Bligh's long envied power,
And the fell stroke of vengeance dealt,
No joy, no comfort had he felt.
He spoke not of his grief; 'twas known,
By haggard eye, by hollow tone;
In heart, in brain, the pent up woe
Work'd to his senses' overthrow.
XVIII.
If ever o'er his gloomy soulOne hope of future blessing stole,
'Twas when the father's feelings mild
Dwelt fondly on the coming child;
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The sweet relief of friendly speech;
Blunted awhile remorse's force,
The parent's hopes would have their course.
It came at length, that anxious hour,
Pain's keenest thorn, hope's gayest flower!
It came, that hour of fearful joy!
The mother clasp'd her cherub boy;
The father gaz'd with father's pride,
The infant feebly gasp'd—and died!
XIX.
All who with parent's raptures swell,A parent's sorrows well can tell;
But Christian's anguish, Christian's woe,
Guilt, misery, frenzy only know;
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O'erflow'd the cup of his despair;
Silent by fits, by fits he spoke,
By fits in dreadful laughter broke;
Now would his wife adoring greet,
Now madly spurn her from his feet;
But still his ravings, loud and wild,
Turn'd on his captain and his child.
“Bligh! must I see that pale form still?
“Why frown on me?—I did not kill!—
“He is not dead!—He had a charm,
“See how he gnaws that little arm!
“The ocean bends not to his tread,
“He feeds with sharks upon the dead!
“Has he not robb'd my baby's grave?
“Oh! save my infant! Save him! save!
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XX.
Days, weeks, and months, had roll'd away,In silence, or in frenzy's sway;
At length more mild, more calm he grew,
Or seem'd: his friends, his wife he knew.
Again Iddeah's girdle bound
A pledge of Christian's love around:
He was so peaceful and so calm,
She thought to pour the healing balm,
Whilst walking on the cliff's high brow
The matron made the fond avow.
He stopp'd, he gaz'd upon the main,—
“See where the spectre comes again!
“He waits! I'll save this one!” he cried,
“Take me!” then plung'd into the tide.
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XXI.
Vain was all help;—the sudden shockScatter'd his brains upon the rock.
Vain was all help!—all hope was gone,
Vain was each comrade's heart-felt groan;
Vain his sad widow's ceaseless moan!
Of all his love, and crime, and pains,
Christina only now remains!
Yet died not then Iddeah! She
Bore with unyielding constancy;
For her child's sake she nobly strove,
To live for her, tho' dead to love;
Each care, each duty to fulfil,
And in Christine find Christian still.
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XXII.
In virtue and in friendship strong,Years, all unheeded, past along;
Our peace, our bliss knew no alloy,
Save from one Otaheitean boy,
Tupia, a wild and wayward youth,
Unknown to gratitude or truth;
Kindness was lost on him, he laugh'd
At generous care, and call'd it craft;
Never an angry word forgot,
But knew each virtuous deed to blot.
We fear'd him not, for even in ill
We deem'd that weak mind wanted skill;
We fear'd him not, that fickle slave,
Alas, too credulously brave!
The scorpion, with its deadly sting,
Crawls on, an unregarded thing;
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Till in our breast we feel the wound.
And, serpent like, that ruffian boy
Spread his fell poison to destroy.
XXIII.
By wily words, by specious arts,He won his faithless comrades' hearts;
“See ye not, countrymen!” he cried,
“Each white man with his lovely bride?
“For them we fish, we plant, we toil,
“Our's is the labor, their's the spoil!
“Are not our limbs as well compact?
“Lack we the will, or power to act?
“We have the power, we have the skill,
“The tyrants' hated blood to spill!
“Still will ye hug the galling chain,
“Still slaves, base crouching slaves, remain?
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“To win life, land, and liberty?”
XXIV.
Fast spread the bosom-storm, but still,As tempests gather on the hill,
It burst at last, and burst to kill.—
'Twas on a summer's eve,—O ne'er
Was eve so balmy, scene so fair!
The setting sun with tranquil ray
Gilt inland bower, and ocean spray;
Hush'd was the whispering wave, no breeze
'Woke the low murmuring of the trees;
The lovely scene cast o'er the sense
Its own enchanting indolence.
No longer sporting on the tide,
The dolphin gleams in azure pride;
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Peers the wild goat in rude affright;
No longer on the pebbly strand,
The faithful dogs obsequious stand,
Sporting with fond, yet cautious glee,
With joyous infants, gay and free;
No longer sounds along the beach
The baby laugh, the half-form'd speech.
XXV.
The happy children, tir'd of sport,Seek their sweet slumbers, mild and short;
Some round those dogs of generous race,
Twine the small limbs and blooming face;
Some clinging to a mother's charms,
Some cradled in a father's arms;
The parents watch'd, with tearful joy,
Each rosy girl, each dark-hair'd boy;
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Not e'en a fond caress was heard;
The very birds gay carols cease,
And man and nature seem'd at peace.
XXVI.
'Twas seeming all—Inconstancy,Thou dwellest not in sea or sky!
What tho' the sailor, tempest-tost,
What tho' the wanderer, lightning-crost,
Tell of their limbs by foul storms rent,
And curse each treacherous element;
Yet are they fix'd, that wave and wind,
Fix'd, when compar'd to mortal mind;
There is thy dwelling, there thy rest,
Thy empire there;—in man's light breast!
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XXVII.
I mark'd Avanna, bending, mild,With graceful fondness, o'er her child.
'Twas not the blushes mantling warm,
'Twas not the round and perfect form,
'Twas not the sparkling eye, that caught
My ardent gaze, my raptur'd thought;
But the soft bliss those blushes spoke,
The glance of joy thro' tears that broke,
The chaste maternal happiness;
Exstacy, where is no excess!
Delirium, which we wish not less!
XXVIII.
I gaz'd entranc'd; the sleeping childIn some gay vision sweetly smil'd;
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To mark if I that smile had seen;
She laugh'd—but, in one instant's space,
Grim horror chang'd that angel face!
She saw fell Tupia's dark eyes beaming!
Saw at my breast his dagger gleaming!
Like arrow rush'd;—like maniac spoke;—
I heard the scream;—I felt the stroke;—
In dear Avanna's arms I fell,
And faintly breath'd a sad farewell.
XXIX.
Beneath the Otaheitean knife,Each Briton yielded up his life;
In that one breath of love and dread,
All fell, and all but I were dead:
Stunn'd, bleeding, like to death, I lay,
And Tupia revell'd o'er his prey.
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Could pierce my dull and palsied ear;
Nor shrieks of widow'd anguish wild,
Nor screams of each affrighted child;
Sav'd from such scene of hopeless woe,
'Twas mercy dealt that death-like blow!
XXX.
Scene of triumphant guilt! how faintAre words those fiend-like slaves to paint;
On each devoted dame they seize,
And mock their frantic miseries;
The hands with recent slaughter red,
Hands, which their husbands' blood have shed,
Now woo them to the nuptial bed!
Is there no hope, no help? must all
Dishonor'd live, self-murder'd fall?
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Death, the fond mother may not dare!
A living death the mourners bear.
XXXI.
Yet there is hope; fatigued at lengthWith bootless prayers and useless strength,
Tupia, and his wild savage crew,
Baffled, from those chaste matrons drew.
Yes, there was hope; Iddeah then
Sought the fierce tyger in his den;
To Tupia's self, in accents bold,
She told of wine in secret hold:
(Wine cordial still, or poison, given
Blessing or curse by bounteous Heaven!)
Eager they hail'd the precious boon,
Eager they drank; but slumber'd soon:
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Ne'er shall ye wake on earth again!
XXXII.
Christian's brave dame the daggers bore,Still dripping with the white men's gore;
The bright steel caught the silvery gleam,
Her dark hair floated in the beam,
Hung round that sad and pallid face,
And that tall form of loftiest grace;
Like prophetess in gifted mood,
Before the widow's eyes she stood.—
“Revenge! revenge! this life blood cries,
“The murderers sleep. Arise! Arise!”
They rose. The soft and gentle fair,
Who even the creeping worm would spare,
Who wept the kid's gay life to spill,
Those fearful women rose—to kill!
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XXXIII.
All slept; but Tupia wildly dream'd,Even in his sleep the wretch blasphem'd;
Avanna bent, in anguish'd fear,
Shuddering his vision'd threats to hear,
Curses, half-mutter'd, still he breath'd,
Whilst in his breast her blade she sheath'd;
Swift as the thunder-bolt of Heaven,
Deep were the buried poniards driven:
Fir'd with thy energy, despair!
No weak or wavering stroke was there!
No time for speech, or shriek, or groan,
Life past in one low hollow moan,
The feeble cry, the writhing limb,
Soon sunk in death, mute, stiff, and grim!
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XXXIV.
Heroines! what Greek or Roman nameTo glory boasts a purer claim?
Alone, upon a desert soil,
Who shall relieve their ceaseless toil?
Who shall recruit their finny store?
Who drag the long canoe to shore?
If storms arise, who shall direct?
If the fell spoilers, who protect?
Remote from their dear native land;
Bereft of every succouring hand;
They bow'd them to th' avenging rod,
They sought His help—the Christian's God!
But prayer—the wounded spirit's balm—
Not yet their frantic grief could calm:
Extended on the bloody ground,
Their warm tears wash each yawning wound;
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Chafe the cold limbs, the pale lips press,
As if the pure and balmy breath
Could quicken the still pulse of death.
XXXV.
How many a mourner, in that hour,Woo'd fancy's visionary power!
Thought that again the fond heart beat,
The bosom own'd its vital heat,
The stiffen'd lungs began to play,
The dull eyes caught the visual ray.
Delusive hopes! Upon thy cheeks
'Tis the chill breeze of midnight breaks;
'Tis thy own tremors that impart
The quivering motion to his heart;
'Tis thy own fever'd breast which gives
The glow, that on his bosom lives;
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That glimmers in the bright moon-beam;
Silent and stiff the lov'd-one lies;
Death chills his blood! Death seals his eyes!
XXXVI.
Avanna sate, in tearless woe,Till rose a wail, sad, faint, and low;
The mother's heart the summons knew,—
To her neglected babe she flew.
Iddeah bent to drop a tear
O'er one to her lov'd Christian dear,
Starting, she breath'd an anxious cry,
For she has caught a feeble sigh;
Soon has she staunch'd the gaping wound,
Soon has she rais'd me from the ground;—
Hoping and doubting, her firm soul
Could fear and hope and doubt controul;
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Add the sad hope, that feeds despair;
Yet still with fond attention strove
To bring me back to life and love;
Nor vain her aid:—I breath'd again
To hear a wild and plaintive strain;
Motionless, speechless, on the verge
Of death, I caught the widow's dirge.
XXXVII. The Widow's Dirge.
Fly, night of murder, woe and dread,
Fly, for thy work is done!
The dawn will wake in blushes red,
Will glance on every honor'd head;
But when shall rise our sun?
They who gave life, and light, and love,
Warm as the day spring from above,
Their glorious race is run!
Fly, for thy work is done!
The dawn will wake in blushes red,
Will glance on every honor'd head;
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They who gave life, and light, and love,
Warm as the day spring from above,
Their glorious race is run!
Babes! who in peaceful slumbers steep
Those eyes of softest blue,
To-morrow to our knees ye'll creep
To ask if still your fathers sleep,
And seek them thro' the dew,
To rouse them try each fondling art;—
Will it not break the mother's heart
To think on them, to look on you?
Those eyes of softest blue,
To-morrow to our knees ye'll creep
To ask if still your fathers sleep,
And seek them thro' the dew,
To rouse them try each fondling art;—
Will it not break the mother's heart
To think on them, to look on you?
Britons! the widow's mournful tear
Alone bedews the brave!
Past the gay hope, the tender fear,
Which many an agonizing year
Friends, parents, kindred gave.
We weep alone;—but with the flood,
In mingled tide, the murderers' blood
Sweeps o'er the heroes' grave!
Alone bedews the brave!
Past the gay hope, the tender fear,
Which many an agonizing year
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We weep alone;—but with the flood,
In mingled tide, the murderers' blood
Sweeps o'er the heroes' grave!
XXXVIII.
Slow rose the morn. Thro' misty tearsThe glorious orb of day appears;
The rosy clouds around him roll'd
Awhile his radiant beams enfold;
As draperies, in sculptur'd art,
New charms to loveliness impart,
So the bright vapor's changeful hue
Attraction gave, attraction drew:
The Ocean, mingling with the sky,
Reflected back that rosy dye,
As smooth that glassy surface seems,
As bright that diamond radiance beams!
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Shone that bright ray on beach and bower,
Floated the fragrance on the breeze,
Caroll'd the small birds from the trees.
Nature, fair bride, in all her charms,
Woo'd her gay bridegroom to her arms.
But yester-morn, that ray so bright
Wak'd eyes as sheen, and hearts as light;
But yester-morn across the dew,
With buoyant step the Britons flew;
But yester-morn, the carol gay,
Was echo'd back with cheerful lay,
That hail'd and blest the coming day!
XXXIX.
Oh! who could hail or bless the mornAmid these scenes of horror born?
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Where never mortal strife had frown'd,
Murder'd and murderers, side by side
Lie weltering in the gory tide:
Both, unprepar'd, unwarn'd, were driven
To meet their dread account in Heaven!
Yet might the retributive sword
Pardon for one foul crime afford,
I would not of Almighty power
Implore to die in happier hour,
Than when upon the feelings press
The husband's, father's tenderness;
When all the stormy passions cease,
And all is gratitude and peace.
For Otaheite's men,—'tis not
For me to judge their final lot,
But they were ta'en even in the prime
Of heinous unrepented crime,
Scarce match'd in the long roll of time!
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Still dwelt rude passion's furious storm.
XL.
Such scene of bloody sacrificeStruck on my dim and wandering eyes,
When, as one risen from the dead,
I lifted up my drooping head.
Of doubt, of joy, the mingled feeling
From each sad dame to Heaven is pealing!
But not a word Avanna spoke,
She sunk beneath the sudden stroke;
Short was her swoon.—'Tis thine, bright joy,
To jar the frame, but not destroy!
What bliss was her's! Yet she represt
The swelling transport of her breast;
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The sight of joy, they could not share.
Her cares alone my life could save
From man's last narrow home,—the grave.
XLI.
Long time the widow'd fair ones wept;Unburied long their lords they kept;
Remnant of Otaheitean rite,
They dwelt upon the dismal sight;
Long in this cave the pile of woe
They watch'd;—and now it rests below.
Here sleeps Avanna too. That form
So fragile sank beneath the storm;
Awhile she liv'd, a drooping flower,
Then yielded to the tempest's power,
Dropt to the ground in youth's fair pride,
Blest me, and her young boys,—and died!
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Forbade to mourn o'er virtuous beauty;
Mine was the task to rouse the soul,
Subdu'd by sorrow's fond control;
To wipe the widow'd mourner's tear;
The orphan's tender form to rear,
To guide them on the virtuous way;
Sweet task! how fill'd I may not say,—
But how rewarded would you know,
Friends, sisters, children, ye can show!”
He ceas'd,—Around him fondly prest
Striving for speech each generous breast.
XLII.
Oft, soaring on the wings of thought,The bard the patriot's flame has caught;
With force resistless, pour'd along
The rousing eloquence of song;
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Even “to the imminent deadly breach,”
Start from their sheaths a thousand swords
To prove the omnipotence of words.—
But who can wake the tuneful shell,
The pause of gratitude to tell?
The tear-drop quivering in the eye,
The fond speech check'd by fonder sigh;
The pressure of the hand, the blush
Where tenderest feelings kindling rush,
Emotion thrilling every sense,
Silence more blest than eloquence!
The generous heart's ennobling zeal,
Ah! none can tell,—but all can feel!
| Christina | |