Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

And though my faint and tributary rhymes
Add nothing to the glory of thy day,
Yet every poet hopes that after-times

Shall set some value on his votive lay;
And I would fain one gentle deed record,

Among the many such with which thy life is stored.

So when these lines, made in a mournful hour,

Are idly opened to the stranger's eye,
A dream of thee, aroused by Fancy's power,
Shall be the first to wander floating by;

And they who never saw thy lovely face
Shall pause, to conjure up a vision of its grace!

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that leaned to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given-
Obedient, easy to be reconciled,

And meekly cheerful-such wert thou, my child.

Not willing to be left: still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide

Through the dark room, where I was sadly lying; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,

Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness-prone to fadeAnd bending weakly to the thunder showerStill round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung like woodbine shaken in the wind.

Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee

Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, With thy sweet temper and thy spirit free,

Didst come as restless as a bird's wing glancing, Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth!

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy!

Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth;

Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply

Lurked in the laughter of thy dark blue eye!

And thine was many an art to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile-the frequent soft caress

The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found,

But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

At length thou camest-thou, the last and least,

Nicknamed "the emperor" by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile

A mimic majesty that made us smile.

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou!

An eye of resolute and successful scheming-
Fair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless brow-
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming;
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.
Different from both! yet each succeeding claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forth with admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either by this love's comparing,
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,
But in the mother's heart found room for all.

WOMAN'S FORTITUDE.

Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,
And what they do, or suffer, men record;

But the long sacrifice of woman's days

Passes without a thought, without a word;

And many a lofty struggle for the sake

Of duties sternly, faithfully fulfill'd

For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,
And the strong feelings of the heart be still'd-
Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,

And leaves no memory and no trace behind!

Yet it may be, more lofty courage dwells

In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate,

Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells

Warm'd by the fight, or cheer'd through high debate: The soldier dies surrounded: could he live Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?

"A fine proof of Mrs. Norton's wide range of sympathy is to be found in the poem descriptive of an Arab's farewell to his horse. The enthusiastic regard, which it is well known the Arab always entertains for his steed, finds a most eloquent expositor in our author. The feeling is a beau ful one, and it is beautifully rendered."

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,

With thy proudly-arch'd and glossy neck, thy dark and fiery eye-
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed;
I may not mount on thee again-thou'rt sold, iny Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy wind,
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, thy master hath his gold,
Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold!
Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roarn,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bread prepare-
Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care.
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be.
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes! thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's house, from all of these my exil'd one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting, wake to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side;
And the rich blood that's in thee swells in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be
Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd, so gentle yet so free.
And yet if baply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the same hand which casts thee off command thee to return?

Return? Alas, my Arab steed, what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanish'd from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,
Thy bright form for a moment like the false mirage appears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam with weary foot alone,

Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on:
And, sitting down by that green well, will pause and sadly think,
'Twas here he bow'd his glossy neck when last I saw him drink.

When last I saw him drink! Away! the fever'd dream is o'er;
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more;
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong;
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have lov'd too long:
Who said that I had given thee up?
Who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false, 'tis false! my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold.
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains-
Away!-Who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!

THE BLIND MAN'S BRIDE.

When first, beloved, in vanish'd hours
The blind man sought thy love to gain,
They said thy cheek was bright as flowers
New freshen'd by the summer rain:
They said thy movements, swift yet soft,
Were such as make the wingéd dove
Seem, as it gently soars aloft,

The image of repose and love.

They told me, too, an eager crowd
Of wooers praised thy beauty rare,
But that thy heart was all too proud

A common love to meet or share.
Ah! thine was neither pride nor scorn,
But in thy coy and virgin breast
Dwelt preference, not of PASSION born,
The love that hath a holier rest!

Days came and went-thy step I heard-
Pause frequent as it pass'd me by:
Days came and went; thy heart was stirr'd,
And answer'd to my stifled sigh!
And thou didst make a humble choice,
Content to be the blind man's bride,

Who loved thee for thy gentle voice,
And own'd no joy on earth beside.

And well by that sweet voice I knew
(Without the happiness of sight)
Thy years, as yet, were glad and few-
Thy smile most innocently bright:
I knew how full of love's own grace
The beauty of thy form must be;
And fancy idolized the face

Whose loveliness I might not see!

Oh! happy were those days, beloved!
I almost ceased for light to pine,

When through the summer vales we roved,
Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine,

Thy soft"Good night" still sweetly cheer'd
The unbroken darkness of my doom;
And thy "Good morrow, love," endear'd
Each sunrise that return'd in gloom!

At length, as years roll'd swiftly on,
They spoke to me of Time's decay-
Of roses from thy smooth cheek gone,
And ebon ringlets turn'd to gray.
Ah! then I bless'd the sightless eyes
Which could not feel the deepening shade,
Nor watch beneath succeeding skies
Thy withering beauty faintly fade.

I saw no paleness on thy cheek,

No lines upon thy forehead smooth-
But still the BLIND MAN heard thee speak
In accents made to bless and soothe:
Still he could feel thy guiding hand

As through the woodlands wild we ranged

Still in the summer light could stand,

And know thy HEART and VOICE unchanged.

And still, beloved, till life grows cold,
We'll wander 'neath a genial sky,

And only know that we are old

By counting happy years gone by:

For thon to me art still as fair

As when those happy years began-
When first thou cam'st to soothe and share
The sorrows of a sightless man!

Old Time, who changes all below,
To wean men gently for the grave,
Hath brought us no increase of woe,
And leaves us all he ever gave:
For I am still a helpless thing,

Whose darken'd world is cheer'd by thee-
And thou art she whose beauty's spring

The blind man vainly yearn'd to see!

A MOTHER.

Ah! blessed are they for whom, 'mid all their pains,
That faithful and unaltered love remains;

Who, Life wrecked round them-hunted from their rest

And, by all else forsaken or distressed

Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine-
As I, my Mother, claimed my place in thine!
Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace
My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face;

« AnteriorContinuar »