Part 3 (2/2)
Now in Fancy's airy play, Near at hand, and far away, All that was sportive, wild, and gay!
Now led by Pity to deplore Hearts that can ache and bleed no more, We roam'd long tales of sadness o'er!
Now, prompted by achievements higher, We caught the hero's, martyr's fire!
Who, listening to an angel choir, Rapt and devoted, following still Where duty or religion led, The mind prepar'd, subdued the will, Bent their grand purpose to fulfil: Conquer'd, endur'd, or meekly bled!
Nor wonder'd we, for we were given, Like them, to zeal, to truth, and heaven.
”Receding silently from view, Freedom, unthought of, then withdrew; We neither mark'd her as she flew, Nor ever had her absence known From care or question of our own.
At court, emotion or surprize Reveal'd the truth to other eyes.
The pride of England's n.o.bles staid Too often near the minstrel maid; And many in derision smil'd, To see him pay a peasant's child, For such they deem'd me, deep respect, While birth and grandeur met neglect.
Soon, sway'd by duty more than wealth, He listen'd and he look'd by stealth; And I grew careless in my lays; Languish'd for that exclusive praise.
Yet, conscious of an equal claim, Above each base or sordid aim, From wounded feeling and from pride, My pain I coldly strove to hide: And when, encounter'd by surprize, Rapture rose flas.h.i.+ng in his eyes, My formal speech and careless air Would call a sudden anger there.
”Reserv'd and sullen we became, Tenacious both, and both to blame.
Yet often an upbraiding look Controul'd the sentence as I spoke; Prompt and direct its flight arose, But sunk or waver'd at the close.
Often, beneath his softening eye, I felt my resolution die; And, half-relentingly, forgot His splendid and my humble lot.
”Sometimes a sudden fancy came, That he who bore my father's name, Broken in spirit and in health, Was weary of ill-gotten wealth.
I to the cloister saw him led, Saw the wide cowl upon his head; Heard him, in his last dying hour, Warn others from the thirst of power; Adjure the orphan of his friend Pardon and needful aid to lend, If heaven vouchsaf'd her yet to live; For, could she pity and forgive, 'Twould wing his penitential prayer With better hope of mercy there!
Then did he rank and lands resign, With all that was in justice mine; And I, pretending to be vain, Return'd the world its poor disdain, But smil'd on Eustace once again!
”Thus vision after vision flew, Leaving again before my view That [Errata: The] hollow scene, the scornful crowd, To which that heart had never bow'd, Whose tenderness I hourly fed; While thus I to its nursling said;--
”Be silent, _Love!_ nor from my lip In faint or hurried language speak!
Be motionless within my eye, And never wander to my cheek!
Retir'd and pa.s.sive thou must be, Or truly I shall banish thee!
”Thou art a restless, wayward sprite, So young, so tender, and so fair, I dare not trust thee from my sight, Nor let thee breathe the common air!
Home to my heart, then, quickly flee, It is the only place for thee!
”And hush thee, sweet one! in that cell, For I will whisper in thine ear Those tales that Hope and Fancy tell, Which it may please thee best to hear!
I will not, may not, set thee free-- I die if aught discover thee!”
Where are the plaudits, warm and long, That erst have follow'd Marie's song?
The full a.s.senting, sudden, loud, The buz of pleasure in the crowd!
The harp was still, but silence reign'd, Listening as if she still complain'd: For Pity threw her gentle yoke Across Impatience, ere he spoke; And Thought, in pondering o'er her strains, Had that cold state he oft maintains.
But soon the silence seem'd to say, ”Fair mourner, rea.s.sume thy lay!”
And in the chords her fingers stray'd; For aching Memory found relief In mounting to the source of grief; A tender symphony she play'd, Then bow'd, and thus, unask'd, obey'd.
The Lay of Marie
_CANTO THIRD._
”Careless alike who went or came, I seldom ask'd the stranger's name, When such a being came in view As eagerly the question drew.
'The Lady Osvalde,' some one cried, 'Sir Eustace' late appointed bride, His richest ward the king's behest Gives to the bravest and the best.'
”Enchantments, wrought by pride and fear, Made me, though mute, unmov'd appear.
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