Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 14 1825.pdf/8

 But she had told her griefs to Heaven alone, And of the gentle saint no more was known, Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made A temple of the pine and chesnut shade, Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn Rose through each murmur of the green and dim And ancient solitude; where hidden streams Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams, Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, All Nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread To the sick peasant on his lowly bed Came, and brought hope; while scarce of mortal birth He deem'd the pale fair form, that held on earth Communion but with grief. Ere long a cell, A rock-hewn chapel rose; a cross of stone Gleam'd through the dark trees o'er a sparkling well, And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there Costanza lifted her sad soul in prayer.

And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood In day's last crimson, soaring from the wood Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met The floating song. Strange sounds!—the trumpet's peal, Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel, The rallying war-cry!—In the mountain-pass There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strew'd the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine-branches crash'd before the flying

And all was changed within the still retreat, Costanza's home!—there entered hurrying feet, Dark looks of shame and sorrow!—Mail-clad men, Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, Scaring the white doves from the porch-roof, bore A wounded warrior in: the rocky floor Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, As there they laid their leader, and implored The sweet saints prayers to heal him; then for flight, Through the wide forest and the mantling night Sped breathlessly again. They pass'd—but he, The stateliest of a host—alas! to see What mothers' eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep, Till joy, for very fullness turn'd to weep, Thus changed!—a fearful thing!—His golden crest Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast (Some costly love-gift) rent: but what of these? There were the clustering raven locks—the breeze As it came in through lime and myrtle-flowers, Might scarcely lift them;—steep'd in bloody showers So heavily upon the pallid clay Of the damp cheek they hung!—the eye's dark ray, Where was it?—and the lips!—they gasp'd apart, With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, Still proudly beautiful!—but that white hue— Was it not death's?—that stillness—that cold dew