Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 16 1826.pdf/7



A banner from its flashing spear Flung out o'er many a fight; A war-cry ringing far and clear, And strong to turn the flight; An arm that bravely bore the lance On for the holy shrine, A haughty heart and a kingly glance— —Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sate Around the council-board; In festive halls a chair of state, When the blood-red wine was pour'd; A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard;— —Surely these things were all thine own, So hadst thou thy reward!

Woman! whose sculptured form at rest By the armed knight is laid, With meek hands folded o'er a breast In matron-robes array'd; What was thy tale?—Oh gentle mate Of him, the bold and free, Bound unto his victorious fate, What bard hath sung of thee?

He woo’d a bright and burning star; Thine was the void, the gloom, The straining eye that follow'd far His oft receding plume; The heart-sick listening while his steed Sent echoes on the breeze; The pang—but when did Fame take heed Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours, Through many a lonely day, While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, With spirit far away; Thy weeping midnight prayers for him Who fought on Syrian plains; Thy watchings till the torch grew dim,— —These fill no minstrel-strains.

A still, sad life was thine!—long years, With tasks unguerdon'd fraught, Deep, quiet Love, submissive tears, Vigils of anxious thought; Prayers at the Cross in fervour pour'd;    Alms to the Pilgrim given;— —Oh! happy, happier than thy Lord In that lone path to Heaven!F. H.