Part 8 (1/2)
Vainly do voices tidings bring, That succours from the former king, Too late for that intent,--are come To take the dead and wounded home; Waiting, impatient, in the bay, Till they can safely bear away,-- Not men that temporize and yield, But heroes stricken in the field; True sons of England, who, unmov'd, Could hear their fears, their interest plead; Led by no lure they disapprov'd, Stooping to no unsanction'd deed!
Spirits so finely tun'd, so high, That grovelling influences die a.s.sailing them! The venal mind Can neither fit inducement find To lead their purpose or their fate-- To sway, to probe, or stimulate!
What knowledge can they gain of such Whom worldly motives may not touch?
Those who, the instant they are known, Each generous mind springs forth to own!
Joyful, as if in distant land, Amid mistrust, and hate, and guile, Insidious speech, and lurking wile, They grasp'd a brother's cordial hand!
Hearts so embued with fire from heaven, That all their failings are forgiven!
Nay, o'er, perchance, whose laurel wreath When tears of pity s.h.i.+ne, We softer, fonder sighs bequeath; More dear, though less divine.
Can kind and loyal bosoms bleed, And Marie not bewail the deed?
Can England's valiant sons be slain, In whose fair isle so long she dwelt-- To whom she sang, with whom she felt!
Can kindred Normans die in vain!
Or, banish'd from their native sh.o.r.e, Enjoy their sire's domains no more!
Brothers, with whom her mind was nurs'd, Who shar'd her young ideas first!-- And not her tears their doom arraign?
Alas! no stimulus avails!
Each former potent influence fails: No longer e'en a sigh can part From that oppress'd and wearied heart.
What broke, at length, the spell? There came The sound of Hugh de Lacy's name!
It struck like lightning on her ear-- But did she truly, rightly hear?
For terror through her senses ran, E'en as the song of hope began.-- His charge arriv'd on England's coast, Consign'd where they had wish'd it most, Had brave De Lacy join'd the train Which sought the Norman sh.o.r.es again?-- _Then_ liv'd her darling and her pride!
What anguish was awaken'd there!
A joy close mating with despair-- He liv'd for whom her Eustace died!
Yes! yes! he lives! the sea could spare That Island warrior's infant heir!
For whom, when thick-surrounding foes, Nigh spent with toil, had sought repose, Slow stealing forth, with wary feet, From covert of secure retreat,-- A soldier leading on the way To where his dear commander lay,-- Over the field, at dead midnight, By a pale torch's flickering light, Did _Friends.h.i.+p_ wander to behold, Breathing, but senseless, pallid, cold, With many a gash, and many a stain, Him,--whom the morrow sought in vain!
_Love_ had not dar'd that form to find, Ungifted with excelling grace!
Nor, thus without a glimpse of mind, Acknowledg'd that familiar face!
Disfigur'd now with many a trace Of recent agony!--Its power Had not withstood this fatal hour!
_Friends.h.i.+p_ firm-nerv'd, resolv'd, mature, With hand more steady, strong, and sore, Can torpid Horror's veil remove, Which palsies all the force of _Love!_
What is _Love's_ office, then? To tend The hero rescued by a friend!
All unperceiv'd, with balmy wing To wave away each restless thing That wakes to breathe disturbance round!
To temper all in peace profound.
With whisper soft and lightsome touch, To aid, a.s.suage,--relieving much Of trouble neither seen nor told-- Of pain, which it alone divines, Which scarcely he who feels defines, Which lynx-like eyes alone behold!
And heavy were De Stafford's sighs, And oft impatient would they rise; Though Friends.h.i.+p, Honour's self was there, Until he found a nurse more fair!
A nicer tact, a finer skill, To know and to perform his will-- Until he felt the healing look, The tones that only Marie spoke!