THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE
"There is but one place in the world
Thither, where he lies buried!
There, there is all that still remains of him;
That single spot is the whole earth to me."
WALLENSTEIN.
"Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert."-CHILDE HAROLD.
THERE went a warrior's funeral through the night,
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone,
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead,
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoof's tread
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell,
As chieftains passed; and solemnly the swell
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver,
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,
Wore man's mute anguish sternly ;-but of one,
Oh, who shall speak? What words his brow unveil?
A father following to the grave his son !-
That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,
Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly train, With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low
THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE
Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain,
Stretched by its broken lance. They reached the lone
Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown
Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb.
Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle,
A strange deep echo shuddered through the pile,
Till crested heads at last in silence bent
Round the De Coucis' antique monument,
When dust to dust was given;-and Aymer slept
Beneath the drooping banners of his line,
Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept
Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine.
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave;
And the pale image of a youth, arrayed
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid
In slumber on his shield.
All still around the dead.
Then all was done
His name was heard
Perchance when wine-cups flowed, and hearts were stirred
By some old song, or tale of battle won
Told round the hearth. But in his father's breast
Manhood's high passions woke again, and pressed
On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by;
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tide
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side.
Alas! to think of this !—the heart's void place
Filled up so soon !-so like a summer cloud,
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace !—
He lay forgotten in his early shroud.
Forgotten?-not of all! The sunny smile
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile,
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew
From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying
Within that eagle eye's jet radiance deep,
And all the music with that young voice dying,
Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap
As at a hunter's bugle-these things lived
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day,
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay,
Through the dim fane soft summer odours breathing,
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing
Through storied windows down. The violet there
Might speak of love-a secret love and lowly;
And the rose image all things fleet and fair;
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy,
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand,
As for an altar, wove the radiant band?
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells,
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells,
To blush through every season? Blight and chill
Might touch the changing woods; but duly still
For years those gorgeous coronals, renewed,
And brightly clasping marble spear and helm,
Even through mid-winter filled the solitude
With a strange smile-a glow of summer's realm.
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring
In lone devotedness!
THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE
And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid-
Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose
From the fierce noon--a dark-haired peasant maid.
Who could reveal her story? That still face
Had once been fair; for on the clear arched brow
And the curved lip, there lingered yet such grace
As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye-
For death was on its lids-fell mournfully.
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair
Dimmed, the slight form all wasted, as by care.
Whence came that early blight? Her kindred's place
Was not amidst the high De Couci race;
Yet there her shrine had been! She grasped a wreath,
The tomb's last garland !-This was Love in Death.
INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG
[AN Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in which she perished. The tale is related in Long's Expedition to the Source of St Peter's River.]
"Non je ne puis vivre avec un cœur brise. Il faut que je retrouve la joie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de l'air."- BRIDE OF MESSINA.
"Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman."-THE PRAIRIE.
Down a broad river of the Western wilds,
Piercing thick forest-glooms, a light canoe
Swept with the current. Fearful was the speed
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yet within,
Proudly and dauntlessly, and all alone,
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast,
A woman stood! Upon her Indian brow
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved
As if triumphantly. She pressed her child,
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart,
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile
Above the sound of waters, high and clear,
Wafting a wild proud strain-a song of death.
|