The Lay of Marie and Vignettes in Verse. Matilda Betham
No arrogance to keep aloof;
Her air absorb'd, her sadden'd mien,
Combin'd the mourning, captive queen,
With her who at the altar stands To raise aloft her spotless hands, In meek and persevering prayer, For such as falter in despair. All that was smiling, bright, and gay, Youth's show of triumph during May, Its roseate crown, was snatch'd away! Yet sorrows, which had come so soon, Like tender morning dew repos'd, O'er hope and joy as softly clos'd As moist clouds on the light at noon.
Opprest by some heart-withering pang,
Upon her harp she seem'd to hang
Awhile o'erpower'd—then faintly sang:
"Demand no lay of long-past times;
Of foreign loves, or foreign crimes;
Demand no visions which arise
To Rapture's eager, tearless eyes!
Those who can travel far, I ween,
Whose strength can reach a distant scene,
And measure o'er large space of ground,
Have not, like me, a deadly wound!
Near home, perforce, alas, I stray,
Perforce pursue my destin'd way,
Through scenes where all my trouble grows,
And where alone remembrance flows.
Like evening swallows, still my wings
Float round in low, perpetual rings;
But never fold the plume for rest
One moment in the tranquil nest;
And have no strength to reach the skies,
No power, no hope, no wish to rise!
"Blame me not, Fancy, if I now restrain Thy wandering footsteps, now thy wings confine; Tis the decree of Fate—it is not mine! For I would let thee free and widely stray— Would follow gladly, tend thee on thy way, And never of the devious track complain, Never thy wild and sportive flights disdain! Though reasonless those graceful moods may be, They still, alas! were passing sweet to me.
"Unhappy that I am, compell'd to bind
This murmuring captive! one who ever strove
By each endearing art to win my love;
Who, ever unoffending, ever bright,
Danc'd in my view, and pleas'd me to delight!
She scatter'd showers of lilies on my mind;
For, oh! so fair, so fresh, and so refin'd,
Her child-like offerings, without thorns to pain,
Without one canker'd wound, or earthly stain.
"And, darling! as my trembling fingers twine Those fetters round thee, they are wet with tears! For the sweet playmate of my early years I cannot thus afflict, nor thus resign My equal liberty, and not repine! For I had made thee, infant as thou art, Queen of my hopes, my leisure, and my heart; Given thee its happiest laugh, its sweetest tear, And all I found or conquer'd every year.
"I blame me now I let thy sports offend
Old Time, and laid thy snare within his path
To make him falter, as it often hath;
For he grew angry soon, and held his breath,
And hurried on, in frightful league with Death,
To make the way through which my footsteps bend,
Late rich in all that social scenes attend,
A desert; and with thee I droop, I die,
Beneath the look of his malignant eye.
"Me do triumphant heroes call
To grace with harp their festal hall?
O! must my voice awake the song?—
My skill the artful tale prolong?
Yes! I am call'd—it is my doom!
Unhappily, ye know not whom,
Nor what, impatient ye demand!
How hostile now the fever'd hand,
Across these chords unwilling thrown,
To echo plainings of my own!
Little indeed can ye divine
What song ye ask who call for mine!
"Till now, before the courtly crowd
I humbly and I gaily bow'd;
The blush was not to shame allied
Which on my glowing cheek I wore;
No lowly seemings pain'd nay pride,
My heart was laughing at the core;
And sometimes, as the stream of song
Bore me with eddying haste along,
My father's spirit would arise,
And speak strange meaning from these eyes,
At which a conscious cheek would quail,
A stern and lofty bearing fail:
Then could a chieftain condescend
In me to recognize his friend!
Then could a warrior low incline
His eye, when it encounter'd mine!
A tone can make the guilty start!
A glance can pierce the conscious heart,
Encountering memory in its flight,
Most waywardly! Such wounds are slight;
But I withdraw the painful light!
"Fair lords and princes! many a time
For you I wove my pictur'd rhyme;
Refin'd new thoughts and fancies crude
In deep and careful solitude;
'And, when my task was finish'd, came
To seek the meed of praise or blame;
While, even then, untir'd I strove
To serve beneath the yoke of love.
Whene'er I mark'd a fearful look,
When pride, or when resentment, spoke,
I bent the tenor of my strain,
And trembled lest it were in vain.
By many an undiscover'd wile
I brought the pallid lip to smile,
Clear'd the maz'd thought for ampler scope,
Sustain'd the flagging wings of hope;
And threw a mantle over care
Such as the blooming Graces wear!
I made the friend resist his pride,
Scarce aiming what he felt to hide
From other eyes, his own implor'd
That kindness were again restor'd.
As generous themes engag'd my tongue
In pleadings for the fond and young:
Towards his child the father leant,
In fast-subsiding discontent:
I made that father's claims be felt,
And saw the rash, the stubborn, melt;
Nay, once, subdued, a rebel knelt.
"Thus skill'd, from pity's warm excess,
The aching spirit to caress;
Profuse of her ideal wealth,
And rich in happiness and health,