The Lay of Marie and Vignettes in Verse. Matilda Betham
An alien, class'd among the poor,
Unheeded, from her precious store,
Its best and dearest tribute brought;
The zeal of high, adventurous thought,
The tender awe in yielding aid,
E'en of its own soft hand afraid!
Stealing, through shadows, forth to bless,
Her venturous service knew no bound;
Yet shrank, and trembled, when success
Its earnest, fullest wishes crown'd!
This alien sinks, opprest with woe,
And have you nothing to bestow?
No language kind, to sooth or cheer?—
No soften'd voice—no tender tear?—
No promise which may hope impart?
No fancy to beguile the heart;
To chace those dreary thoughts away,
And waken from this deep dismay!
"Is it that station, power, or pride,
Can human sympathies divide?
Or is she deem'd a thing of art,
Form'd only to enact a part,
Whose nice perceptions all belong
To modulated thought and song,
And, in fictitious feeling thrown,
Lie waste or callous in her own?
"Is it from poverty of soul;
Or does some fear some doubt, controul?
So round the heart strong fibres strain,
That it attempts to beat in vain?
Does palsy on your feelings hang,
Deaden'd by some severer pang?
If so, behold, my eyes o'erflow!
For, O! that anguish well I know!
When once that fatal stroke is given—
When once that finest nerve is riven,
Our love, our pity, all are o'er;
We even sooth ourselves no more!
"Back, hurrying feelings! to the time
I learnt to clothe my thoughts in rhyme!
When, climbing up my father's knees,
I gaily sang, secure to please!
Rounded his pale and wasted cheek,
And won him, in his turn, to speak:
When, for reward, I closer prest,
And whisper'd much, and much carest;
With timorous eye, and head aside,
Half ask'd, and laugh'd, and then denied;
Ere I again petition made
To hear the often-told crusade.
How, knowing hardship but by name,
Misled by friendship and by fame,
His parents' wishes he disdain'd,
With zeal, nor real quite, nor feign'd;
And fought on many a famous spot;—
The suffering of a captive's lot;
My Georgian mother's daring flight;
The day's concealment, march by night;
Her death, when, touching Christian ground,
They deem'd repose and safety found:
How, on his arm, by night and day,
I, then a happy infant, lay,
And taught him not to mourn, but pray.
How, when, at length, he reach'd his home,
His heart foretold a gentle doom;
With tears of fondness in his eyes,
Hoping to cause a glad surprize;
Full of submission, pondering o'er
What he too lightly priz'd before;
The curse with tenfold vengeance fell.—
Those who had lov'd him once so well,
In whose indulgence perfect trust
Had still been wise, though most unjust,
Were in the grave!—Their hearts were cold!
His penitence might still be told—
Told to the winds! for few would hear,
Or, hearing, deem that tale sincere
His patrimony's lord denied,
Who, hardening in possession's pride,
Affirm'd the rightful owner died.
"A victim from devouring strife,
And slavery, return'd with life;
Possessions, honours, parents gone,
The very hand that urg'd him on,
Now, by its stern repelling, tore
The veil that former falsehood wore!
"When he first bar'd his heart before thy view,
Told all its inmost beatings—told them true;
Nay, e'en the pulse, the secret, trembling thrill,
On which the slightest touch alone would trill [Errata: kill];
While thou, with secret aim, collected art,
Didst wind around that bold, confiding heart,
And, in its warm and healthful breathings fling
A subtle poison, and a deadly sting!
"Where shall we else so fell a traitor find?
The wilful, hard misleader of the blind
And what can be the soul-perverter's meed,
Plotting to lure his friend to such a deed,
As made self-hatred on the conscience lay
That heavy weight she never moves away?
O! where the good man's inner barriers close
'Gainst the world's cruel judgments, and his foes
Enfolding truth, and prayer, and soul's repose,
Thine is a mournful numbness, or a din,
For many strong accusers lurk within!
"And, since this fatal period, in thine eyes
A shrewd and unrelaxing witness lies;
While, on the specious language of the tongue,
Deceit has hateful, warning accents hung;
And outrag'd nature, struggling with a smile,
Announces nought but discontent and guile;
Each trace of fair, auspicious meaning flown,
All that makes man by man belov'd and known.
Silence, indignant thought! forego thy sway!
Silence! and let me measure on my way!
"Soul-struck, and yielding to his fate,
My father left his castle gate.
'Thou,' he would cry, with flowing eyes,
'That moment wert the sacrifice!
Little, alas! avails to thee
Wealth, honours, titles, ancestry;
All lost by me! I dar'd to lift
On high thy welfare, as a gift!