Part 2 — RECORDS OF WOMAN. (continued 2)

Art thou then desolate? Of friends, of hopes forsaken? Come to me! I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false? Flatterers deceived thee? Wanderer, come to me! Why didst thou ever leave me? Know’st thou all I would have borne, and call’d it joy to bear, For thy sake? Know’st thou that thy voice hath power To shake me with a thrill of happiness By one kind tone?—to fill mine eyes with tears Of yearning love? And thou—oh! thou didst throw That crush’d affection back upon my heart Yet come to me!—it died not.

She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell Through the stain’d window of her lonely cell, And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow, Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow, While o’er her long hair’s flowing jet it threw Bright waves of gold—the autumn forest’s hue— Seem’d all a vision’s mist of glory, spread By painting’s touch around some holy head, Virgin’s or fairest martyr’s. In her eye Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe, Lay like some buried thing, still seen below The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal What life had taught that chasten’d heart to feel, Might speak indeed of woman’s blighted years, And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears! But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, And of the gentle saint no more was known, Than that she fled the world’s cold breath, and made A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, Filling its depths with soul, whene’er her hymn Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim, And ancient solitude; where hidden streams Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams— Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, All nature’s balms, wherewith her gliding tread To the sick peasant on his lowly bed Came and brought hope! while scarce of mortal birth He deem’d the pale fair form that held on earth Communion but with grief. Ere long, a cell, A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone Gleam’d through the dark trees o’er a sparkling well; And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. And now ’twas prayer’s own hour. That voice again Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood, In day’s last crimson soaring from the wood Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met The floating song. Strange sounds!—the trumpet’s peal, Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel; The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine branches crash’d before the flying. And all was changed within the still retreat, Costanza’s home: there enter’d hurrying feet, Dark looks of shame and sorrow—mail-clad men, Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, As there they laid their leader, and implored The sweet saint’s prayers to heal him: then for flight, Through the wide forest and the mantling night, Sped breathlessly again. They pass’d; but he, The stateliest of a host—alas! to see What mother’s eyes have watch’d in rosy sleep, Till joy, for very fulness, turn’d to weep, Thus changed!—a fearful thing! His golden crest Was shiver’d, and the bright scarf on his breast— Some costly love-gift—rent: but what of these? There were the clustering raven locks—the breeze, As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, Might scarcely lift them; steep’d in bloody showers, So heavily upon the pallid clay Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes’ dark ray, Where was it? And the lips!—they gasp’d apart, With their light curve, as from the chisel’s art, Still proudly beautiful! But that white hue— Was it not death’s?—that stillness—that cold dew On the scarr’d forehead? No! his spirit broke From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay, By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, The haughty chief of thousands—the forsaken Of all save one. She fled not. Day by day— Such hours are woman’s birthright—she, unknown, Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving His brow with tears that mourn’d the strong man’s raving. He felt them not, nor mark’d the light veil’d form Still hovering nigh! yet sometimes, when that storm Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low As a young mother’s by the cradle singing, Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently bringing Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow Ebb’d from his hollow cheek. At last faint gleams Of memory dawn’d upon the cloud of dreams; And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, And gazing round him from his leafy bed, He murmur’d forth, “Where am I? What soft strain Pass’d like a breeze across my burning brain? Back from my youth it floated, with a tone Of life’s first music, and a thought of one— Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride, Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side? All lost!—and this is death!—I cannot die Without forgiveness from that mournful eye! Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? My first, my holiest love!—her broken heart Lies low, and I—unpardon’d I depart.” But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil From her dark locks and features brightly pale, And stood before him with a smile—oh! ne’er Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear— And said, “Cesario! look on me; I live To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust, As should be heaven’s alone—and heaven is just! I bless thee—be at peace!” But o’er his frame Too fast the strong tide rush’d—the sudden shame, The joy, th’ amaze! He bow’d his head—it fell On the wrong’d bosom which had loved so well; And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there— His last faint breath just waved her floating hair.

“Who should it be?—Where shouldst thou look for kindness? When we are sick, where can we turn for succour; When we are wretched, where can we complain; And when the world looks cold and surly on us, Where can we go to meet a warmer eye With such sure confidence as to a mother?”—Joanna Baillie.

“My child, my child, thou leavest me! I shall hear The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear With its first utterance: I shall miss the sound Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight’s close, And thy ‘Good-night’ at parting for repose. Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, And the low breeze will have a mournful tone Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, My child! and thou, along the moonlight sea, With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France, Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go! Love guard thee, gentlest! and the exile’s woe From thy young heart be far! And sorrow not For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot, God shall be with me. Now, farewell! farewell! Thou that hast been what words may never tell Unto thy mother’s bosom, since the days When thou wert pillow’d there, and wont to raise In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye That still sought mine: these moments are gone by— Thou too must go, my flower! Yet with thee dwell The peace of God! One, one more gaze: farewell!” This was a mother’s parting with her child— A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled, And woo’d her with a voice of love away From childhood’s home: yet there, with fond delay, She linger’d on the threshold, heard the note Of her caged bird through trellis’d rose-leaves float, And fell upon her mother’s neck and wept, Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, Gush’d o’er her soul, and many a vanish’d day, As in one picture traced, before her lay. But the farewell was said; and on the deep, When its breast heaved in sunset’s golden sleep, With a calm’d heart, young Madeline ere long Pour’d forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song, Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar, And duly rising with the first pale star, That voice was on the waters; till at last The sounding ocean solitudes were pass’d, And the bright land was reach’d, the youthful world That glows along the West: the sails were furl’d In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride Look’d on the home that promised hearts untried A bower of bliss to come. Alas! we trace The map of our own paths, and long ere years With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears! That home was darken’d soon: the summer breeze Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas: Death unto one, and anguish—how forlorn! To her that, widow’d in her marriage morn, Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him, Her bosom’s first beloved, her friend and guide, Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, As from the sun shut out on every side By the close veil of misery. Oh! but ill, When with rich hopes o’erfraught, the young high heart Bears its first blow! It knows not yet the part Which life will teach—to suffer and be still, And with submissive love to count the flowers Which yet are spared, and through the future hours To send no busy dream! She had not learn’d Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn’d In weariness from life. Then came th’ unrest, The heart-sick yearning of the exile’s breast, The haunting sounds of voices far away, And household steps: until at last she lay On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams In her own sunny land; and murmuring oft Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft, To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. To strangers? Oh! could strangers raise the head Gently as hers was raised? Did strangers shed The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow? Something was there that, through the lingering night, Outwatches patiently the taper’s light— Something that faints not through the day’s distress, That fears not toil, that knows not weariness— Love, true and perfect love! Whence came that power, Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower? Whence?—who can ask? The wild delirium pass’d, And from her eyes the spirit look’d at last Into her mother’s face, and wakening knew The brow’s calm grace, the hair’s dear silvery hue, The kind sweet smile of old!—and had she come, Thus in life’s evening from her distant home, To save her child? Even so—nor yet in vain; In that young heart a light sprang up again, And lovely still, with so much love to give, Seem’d this fair world, though faded; still to live Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast That rock’d her childhood, sinking in soft rest, “Sweet mother! gentlest mother! can it be?” The lorn one cried, “and do I look on thee? Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore: Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more.”

“In sweet pride upon that insult keen She smiled; then drooping mute and brokenhearted, To the cold comfort of the grave departed.” Milman.

It stands where northern willows weep, A temple fair and lone; Soft shadows o’er its marble sweep From cypress branches thrown; While silently around it spread, Thou feel’st the presence of the dead. And what within is richly shrined? A sculptured woman’s form, Lovely, in perfect rest reclined, As one beyond the storm: Yet not of death, but slumber, lies The solemn sweetness on those eyes. The folded hands, the calm pure face, The mantle’s quiet flow, The gentle yet majestic grace Throned on the matron brow; These, in that scene of tender gloom, With a still glory robe the tomb. There stands an eagle, at the feet Of the fair image wrought; A kingly emblem—nor unmeet To wake yet deeper thought: She whose high heart finds rest below, Was royal in her birth and woe. There are pale garlands hung above, Of dying scent and hue; She was a mother—in her love How sorrowfully true! Oh! hallow’d long be every leaf, The record of her children’s grief! She saw their birthright’s warrior-crown Of olden glory spoil’d, The standard of their sires borne down, The shield’s bright blazon soil’d: She met the tempest, meekly brave, Then turn’d o’erwearied to the grave. She slumber’d: but it came—it came, Her land’s redeeming hour, With the glad shout, and signal flame Sent on from tower to tower! Fast through the realm a spirit moved— ’Twas hers, the lofty and the loved. Then was her name a note that rung To rouse bold hearts from sleep; Her memory, as a banner flung Forth by the Baltic deep; Her grief, a bitter vial pour’d To sanctify th’ avenger’s sword. And the crown’d eagle spread again His pinion to the sun; And the strong land shook off its chain— So was the triumph won! But woe for earth, where sorrow’s tone Still blends with victory’s!—She was gone!

Mother and child! whose blending tears Have sanctified the place, Where, to the love of many years, Was given one last embrace— Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power Deep in your record of that hour! A spell to waken solemn thought— A still, small under tone, That calls back days of childhood, fraught With many a treasure gone; And smites, perchance, the hidden source, Though long untroubled—of remorse. For who, that gazes on the stone Which marks your parting spot, Who but a mother’s love hath known— The one love changing not? Alas! and haply learn’d its worth First with the sound of “Earth to earth!” But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, O’er whose bright honour’d head Blessings and tears of holiest flow E’en here were fondly shed— Thou from the passion of thy grief, In its full burst, couldst draw relief. For, oh! though painful be th’ excess, The might wherewith it swells, In nature’s fount no bitterness Of nature’s mingling dwells; And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, Poison’d the free and healthful tide. But didst thou meet the face no more Which thy young heart first knew? And all—was all in this world o’er With ties thus close and true? It was! On earth no other eye Could give thee back thine infancy. No other voice could pierce the maze Where, deep within thy breast, The sounds and dreams of other days With memory lay at rest; No other smile to thee could bring A gladdening, like the breath of spring. Yet, while thy place of weeping still Its lone memorial keeps, While on thy name, midst wood and hill, The quiet sunshine sleeps, And touches, in each graven line, Of reverential thought a sign; Can I, while yet these tokens wear The impress of the dead, Think of the love embodied there As of a vision fled? A perish’d thing, the joy and flower And glory of one earthly hour? Not so!—I will not bow me so To thoughts that breathe despair! A loftier faith we need below, Life’s farewell words to bear. Mother and child!—your tears are past— Surely your hearts have met at last.

I stood beside thy lowly grave; Spring odours breathed around, And music, in the river wave, Pass’d with a lulling sound. All happy things that love the sun In the bright air glanced by, And a glad murmur seem’d to run Through the soft azure sky. Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough That fringed the ruins near; Young voices were abroad—but thou Their sweetness couldst not hear. And mournful grew my heart for thee! Thou in whose woman’s mind The ray that brightens earth and sea, The light of song, was shrined. Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, With a dread curtain drawn Between thee and the golden glow Of this world’s vernal dawn. Parted from all the song and bloom Thou wouldst have loved so well, To thee the sunshine round thy tomb Was but a broken spell. The bird, the insect on the wing, In their bright reckless play, Might feel the flush and life of spring— And thou wert pass’d away. But then, e’en then, a nobler thought O’er my vain sadness came; Th’ immortal spirit woke, and wrought Within my thrilling frame. Surely on lovelier things, I said, Thou must have look’d ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed Odours and hues below. The shadows of the tomb are here, Yet beautiful is earth! What see’st thou, then, where no dim fear, No haunting dream hath birth? Here a vain love to passing flowers Thou gavest; but where thou art, The sway is not with changeful hours— There love and death must part. Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, A voice not loud but deep! The glorious bowers of earth among, How often didst thou weep? Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground Thy tender thoughts and high?— Now peace the woman’s heart hath found, And joy the poet’s eye.