Page:Felicia Hemans in The Monthly Magazine Volume 1 1826.pdf/3



She sat where, on each wind that sighed, The citron's breath went by, While the deep gold of eventide Burn'd in th' Italian sky. Her bower was one where day-light's close Full oft sweet laughter found, As thence the voice of childhood rose To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee, Her children stood that hour— Their bursts of song and dancing glee, Hush'd as by words of power. With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes, that gaz'd   Up to their mother's face, With brows through parted ringlets rais'd,   They stood in silent grace.

While she—yet something o'er her look Of mournfulness was spread— Forth from a poet's magic book, The glorious numbers read: The proud undying lay which pour'd,   Its light on evil years; His of the gifted pen and sword,* The triumph—and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight, Which Venice once might hear Sung on her glittering seas, at night, By many a gondolier: Of Him she read, who broke the charm That wrapt the myrtle grove, Of Godfrey's deeds—of Tancred's arm, That slew his Paynim-love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd;   Young holy hearts were stirr'd, And the meek tears of woman flow'd    Fast o'er each burning word; And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, Came sweet each pause between, When a strange voice of sudden grief Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn'd—a way-worn man In pilgrim-garb stood nigh, Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, Of proud, yet restless eye: But drops, that would not stay for pride, From that dark eye gush'd free, As, pressing his pale brow, he cried— "Forgotten! ev'n by thee!"