ELEGY ON THE FATE OF JANE M’CREA.
Reading edition
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BY THOMAS G. SPEAR.
———
When Genius, Valor, Worth, too soon decays,
The world sings vocal with posthumous praise,
And o’er the love that fate has sorely tried,
Oft have the hearts of pitying mortals sigh’d.
What then to thee, oh, hapless maid! is due,
Whose form was lovely as thy soul was true?
Who fell ere life hope’s promise could impart,
Or love’s fruition cheer thy constant heart?
As some sweet bird that leaves its nest to fly,
With sportive wings along the alluring sky,
’Midst greener scenes and groves of happier song,
To wake its wild notes with its kindred throng,
Feels the quick shot its gushing bosom smite,
Just when it seeks to ease its tiring flight,
And ere its glance can tell the ball is sped,
Finds the cold sod its blood-encrimson’d bed.
Ah, sad for thee! when life’s frail thread was shorn,
Few near thee wept, though many liv’d to mourn.
No arm was there to stay the savage deed,
That left thy form with gory wounds to bleed.
No mystic rites from holy tongues were thine,
In death’s cold sleep thy beauty to resign—
No hearse-drawn train, with mournful steps and slow,
Was nigh to yield the accustomed signs of woe,
But Peace was priestess o’er the virgin clay,
When Nature’s arms embrac’d thee in decay,
While duteous there a remnant of the brave,
Bent o’er thy dust, and form’d thy humble grave,
And ’neath the pine-tree’s unfrequented shade,
Lone and compos’d thy blood-stain’d relics laid,
Where from the boughs the wild-bird chim’d its song,
And gurgling leap’d the fountain’s stream along—
In earth’s green breast by warrior hands enshrin’d,—
Beauty in earth by Valor’s side reclined!
But unforgetful Grief her debt hath paid,
In sad remembrance of thy lovely shade;
And friendly hands have op’d this cell of sleep,
Thy dust to honor, and thy fall to weep,
And maiden trains from village hamlets nigh,
Have borne thy relics thence to where they lie,
There rear’d the slab that tells thy joyless doom,
Points to the skies, and shows thy hallow’d tomb.
Ne’er shall thy fate around thee fail to draw,
Hearts ever true to Nature’s kindliest law—
To trace the spot whereon thy bosom bled,
Where Guilt to Death Life’s sinless semblance wed—
Where startling shrieks in savage madness rose,
That rous’d the panther from his lair’s repose—
Where stood dismay’d the feeble hand that bore
Thy form where savage hands thy ringlets tore—
Where flows the fount, and still the pine-tree stands,
Notch’d by the bird’s beak, and the stranger’s hands,
Rocking its wide boughs to the shivering gale,
The time-worn witness of thy chilling tale.
Now shall the feet of pensive wanderers turn,
With heedless steps from thy more classic urn;
But sadly tread the village grave-yard round,
’Midst tombs defac’d, and many a mouldering mound,
And pause and ponder where, embower’d in green,
Thy marble crowns the fair surrounding scene—
Where gentle gales their flowery fragrance strew,
And morn and eve thy lowly turf bedew—
Where the fresh sward and trembling tree-leaves wave,
While night-winds sing their dirges round thy grave—
And slow-wing’d warblers on their airy way,
Breathe their sad wails o’er Murder’s beauteous prey.
Fair maid belov’d! whose vows were kept in heav’n,
By angels welcom’d ere pronounc’d forgiven—
’Tis not alone that thou didst early die,
That rain thee tears from every manly eye—
Not that thy love’s unanswer’d wish was pure,
Does the touch’d heart remember and deplore;
But that thy form a savage hand should doom,
In bridal robes to share a nuptial tomb—
Just as hope held life’s blissful prize in view,
That death should prove it mockery and untrue,
And make thee share, who sought the plighted brave,
A lover’s anguish and a martyr’s grave!
But vain for thee may roll the tuneful line,
Since praises breath’d from every tongue are thine—
In vain may song its mournful strain bestow,
Since grief to feel is but thy fate to know—
In vain may sorrow her sad dirge impart,
For Pity’s throb is thine from every heart—
In vain thy tale these thoughtful numbers chime,
Since trac’d in blood upon the scroll of time.
Cease then the song, and drop the tear instead,
O’er the still slumbers of the lovely dead—
Heave from the breast the unaffected sigh,
Where spreads her name, and where her ashes lie.
For when from art the world shall cease to know,
Afflicted Beauty’s all-surviving woe—
When poet’s verse and sculptor’s shaft decay,
Time o’er the wreck the story shall display,
And simple truth, with tragic power relate
The love that perish’d from the wrongs of fate,
While Pity melts, and listening Fear turns pale,
With each stern horror of the harrowing tale.