The sweetbriar and wild honeysuckle twin'd
Their scented blossoms ;-while young flowrets round,
The blue-tipp'd violet, and the heath-bell pale,
As if to add more fragrance to a scene,
Where Nature had been prodigal of sweets,
Gave, like some youthful beauty, coyly kind,
Their dewy perfume to the wooing breeze,
That kiss'd them as it pass'd.—
When nothing save the nightingale, was heard,
Breathing her lonely lay, the maiden came,
With noiseless step gliding unmark'd along,
To join her Soldier-lover.-He was one,
Who to "the pomp and circumstance of war,"
And the fond eloquence that Women prize,
Owed many a village conquest ;-nobly born,
And ranking with the lofty ones of earth
At courtly feast, or princely-crowded hall,
Where jewel'd dames contended for his smile;
Yet would he stoop to pluck a lowly flower;
And having snatch'd it from the parent stem,
To blossom in his heartless breast awhile,
Leave it to droop and perish. Light of mood,
Light too of love was he; and oft would make,
With gay companions, o'er the festal board,
Such griefs a theme for merriment.
(The last that would behold him in these shades, For War had waved her crimson banner high,
And call'd her sons to arms;)—this very eve,
Ere the chaste moon should look upon the world,
Blushing, to mark its follies;-she had sworn,-
She, who now stands beneath the woodbine boughs,
That drop their honied blossoms on her head,—
To share a Soldier's fortunes;-though she knew,
For "quickly comes such knowledge" to the heart,
She could be his, by none but guilty ties,
Ties, Virtue may not sanction.—
On the appointed spot, in pensive mood,
Listening the well-known footstep, her blue eyes
Bent on the earth, her finger on the lip,
In silent contemplation;-through the leaves
A gentle rustling stirr'd.-Not HIS the step,
Nor his the touch, that met her drooping hand,
And rous'd her musing fancy; but she turn'd,
And at her side beheld an humble friend,
The dumb attendant on her infant sports,
Whose shaggy neck, in childhood's blameless years
She oft had wreathed with flowers ;-his presence now,
As with caressing joy he greeted her,
Wak'd feelings stiffl'd long, but unsubdu'd!
How oft in life the simplest incidents,
A word, a look, a tone-at once recall,
Striking some answering chord within the soul,
The wanderer back to virtue ;—or arrest
Vice in her mad career ;-o'er LILLIAS' heart
Such feelings now held empire;-when a child,
A fearless, happy, laughter-loving thing,
Reaching for water-lilies in the stream,
Its faithless bank gave way; ere any saw,
Ere any guessed her danger, TRAY had borne
His little mistress, dripping to the shore,
Pale as the flowers she sought for!
Brought thoughts of others with it;-how, alas!
How shall her trembling, swelling heart decide,
"Twixt Love and DUTY? shall she cling to him,
And fearless follow on through distant climes,
War's chequer'd prospects? Love has mighty power,
But Duty's "still small voice" pleads in her soul
With greater eloquence;—at Nature's bidding,
A thousand tender, gentle thoughts arise,
To win her from such purpose !-now they steal,
Like distant music, o'er her struggling heart,
And melt it into softness;-Memory too,
(Memory, the potent sorceress, who keeps
The golden key that opes the gate of tears,)
Tries her kind influence ;-leads the doubting maid,
Untwisting many a thread of tangled thought,
Back to the pleasures of her cottage-home;
Painting in glowing tints to Fancy's eye,
Joys she would sigh to leave ;—the rustic dance,
To the brisk pipe upon the village green,
At summer's sunset hour;-the merry tale,
Or sportive jest, told o'er the social fire,
When wintry torrents fall.
And lo! the sterner attributes of war
The field of carnage and the bed of death,
Rise to her mental sight;-with all the wants,
The wasting cares, indignities, and woes,
That women, never meant to share such toils,
Following a camp, must suffer :-then, again,
As busy Fancy plies her skilful loom,
Weaving the griefs of many years to come
Into a moment's space;-again she sees
Tears, (and the bitterest tears that man can shed),
Wept for a daughter's shame, in eyes that once
Gleam'd with affection's pride;—those hallow'd lips,
Whose morning prayer, whose nightly orison,
Breath'd o'er her head new blessings,-shall they grow
Wither'd and pale with curses?—shall the heart
That did enshrine her, as a precious gem,
And own'd no other treasure, live to feel
Its milk of love turn'd into bitter gall,
Loathing a child's dishonour? Ah! strange chance.
Cupid! thou boasted archer!-could thy dart
Sever at once, as with a giant's stroke,
Kind Nature's earliest ties!-Happy the maid,
Who, pausing upon vice's flower-crown'd brink,
Feels that no lover, and no power in love,
Can pay her, for a parent's banish'd smile,
Made stranger by her folly.
Nor dar'd to trust her heart;-fled when she saw
A waving plume between the opening boughs;
Nor sought another glance;-nor stay'd to view
One pleading look, nor hear one subtle sigh,—
Convinc'd the maid who hesitates-is lost!
Time, with his chequer'd wing, lightly pass'd on,
And shew'd beneath a wealthy yeoman's roof
A happy family;-beside the fire
In the warm chimney's nook, a grey-hair'd man,
Loaded with age, reclin'd;-around his knees
Two playful urchins gambol'd;-one, a boy,
Robust and sturdy, fearlessly bestrode
His grandsire's idle crutch ;-his gentler mate,
A lovely girl, who wore her mother's smile,
Hung fond and silent on the old man's cheek;
And with her little hands parted the locks
That envious Time had left him!—
Well spread with rural luxuries, a form
Of manly grace presided-while, beside
Her husband's chair, a youthful matron sat,
Blessing the comforts round her ;—it was SHE,
Who, at the twilight hour, ten summers past,
Yielded her girlish love, with scarce a sigh,
At DUTY's bidding!
MRS. CORNWELL-BARON WILSON.
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