Yet that bright lady's eye methinks hath less As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. Haply one moment o'er its rest serene She hung-but no! it could not thus have been, For she went on !-forsook her home, her hearth, To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing, Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king, Her lord, in very weariness of life, Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife; He reck'd no more of glory-grief and shame Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls ; Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew Check'd on her lip the flow 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, Ev'n to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low, In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears And thus it was with her. A mournful sight In one so fair-for she indeed was fairNot with her mother's dazzling eyes of light, Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek, Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek, Still that fond child's-and oh! the brow above, Το gaze upon in silence!--but she felt That love was not for her, tho' hearts would melt Where'er she mov'd, and reverence mutely given Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven To bless the young Isaure. One sunny morn, With alms before her castle gate she stood, Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'erworn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, A stranger thro' them broke :-the orphan maid And that pale woman, suddenly subdued By some strong passion in its gushing mood, Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears As rain the hoarded agonies of years From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd I am thy mother--spurn me not, my child!" Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept But never breath'd in human ear the name Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame. What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise, Awhile o'erpower'd her ?—from the weeper's touch She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. Her child bent o'er her-call'd her--'twas too late- Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate! The joy of Courts, the star of knight and bard.How didst thou fall, O bright-hair'd Ermengarde! |