Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 14 1825.pdf/13



seest her pictured with her shining hair (Famed were its tresses in Provençal song), Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along Her gorgeous vest. A Child's light hand is roving 'Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving Its earnest looks are lifted to the face Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace! —Yet that bright Lady's eye methinks hath less Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, Than might beseem a Mother's!—on her brow Something too much there sits of native scorn, And her smile kindles with a conscious glow, As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. —These may be dreams?—but how shall woman tell Of woman's shame?—that radiant creature fell! That Mother left that Child!—went hurrying by Its cradle—haply not without a sigh— Haply one moment o'er its rest serene She hung—but no! it could not thus have been, For she pass'd on!—forsook her home and hearth, All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing, Sharing in guilt the splendors of a King!

Her Lord, in very weariness of life, Girt on his mail for scenes of distant strife , He reck'd no more of glory; grief and shame Crush 'd out his fiery nature, and his name Died silently. A shadow o'er his Halls Crept year by year; the Minstrel pass'd their walls, The Warders horn hung mute: meantime the Child On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew Into sad youth, for well, too well, she knew Her Mother's tale!—Its memory made the sky Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye; Froze on her lip the stream of song, which fain Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain If met by sudden glance, and gave a tone Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, Even to the Spring's glad voice!—Her own was low As drooping bird's—there lie such depths of woe In a young blighted spirit!—Manhood rears A haughty brow, and Age hath done with tears, But Youth bows down to misery, in amaze At the dark cloud o'ermantling its young days; And thus it was with her!—A mournful sight In one so fair—for she indeed was fair,— Not with her Mother's dazzling eyes of light, Her's were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek Drooping in gloom; but tender still, and meek