Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1826.pdf/7

Rh

Rh

She stood—a statue which has every charm Of woman's perfect beauty—but her blush. The silver veil that o'er her forehead hung Half hid its paleness, and the downcast eye That droop'd with tears, seem'd only modest fear.


 * On they went to the temple, and they paused

Before the altar, where for the first time The bridegroom leant close beside Isabel,— And the next moment she lay on the steps, White as the marble which her cold cheek press'd. —The feast was turn'd to mourning, and the flowers, The bridal flowers, bestrew'd her winding-sheet: The instruments broke off in a dead pause, And the rich festive board was spread in vain.— —


 * Next night, by torchlight, did they bear the bride

Into the vault where slept her ancestors. Wail'd the wild dirge, and waved the sable plume, Spread the dark pall—and childless they went home.


 * But there was one whose misery was madness—

One to whom Isabel had been the hope Which had made life endurable, who lived For her, and in her—who, in childhood's days, Had been the comrade of her summer walk. They had grown up together, and had loved, Uncheck'd, until Cesario's father died, And the proud fortunes of his ancient house Seem'd falling, and the orphan youth had left But little, save his honourable name. Then came the greeting cold, the careless look, All that adversity must ever know;— They parted, he and Isabel; but still There is a hope in love, unquenchable,— A flame, to which all things are oil, while safe In the affection which it knows return'd. And the young lover had some gallant dreams Of wooing fame and fortune with his sword, And by these winning his own Isabel.


 * At that time Genoa battled with the Turk,

And all her young nobility went forth To earn their country and themselves renown: Then home they came again, and with them brought Tidings of victory o'er the infidel. Cesario was the first that sprung to land, While his name rose in triumph from the crowd, For his fame was before him; yet he made No pause to listen, though his breast beat high With honourable joy; but praise was not Worth love to the young hero, and he sought Tidings, sweet tidings of his Isabel.


 * He drew his cloak around his martial garb,

Look'd on the evening sky, which was to him Like morning to the traveller, and found The garden nook, where one small hidden bower Was the green altar Memory raised to Love. How much the heart, in its young hours of passion, Delights to link itself with lovely things, With moonlight, stars, and songs, fountains and flowers As if foreboding made its sympathy,—