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They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, on earth!
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rollid on - he would not go,
Without his father's word: That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He call’d aloud — “Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done ?”
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone! And” – but the booming shots replied –
And fast the flames rollid on.
And shouted but once more aloud,
“My father! must I stay ?” While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound
The boy - oh! where was he ? Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strew'd the sea !
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part —
SHE clung to him with woman's love,
Like ivy to the oak,
And when the world look'd cold on him,
And blight hung o'er his name,
And bid him rise again.
When care had furrow'd o'er his brow,
And clouded his young hours, She wove, amidst his crown of thorns,
A wreath of love's own flowers.
And never did that wreath decay,
Or one bright floweret wither, For woman's tears e'er nourish'd them
That they might bloom for ever.
'Tis ever thus with woman's love,
True till life's storms are past, And like the vine around the tree,
It braves them to the last.
STAY, gaoler, stay and hear my woe,
She is not mad who kneels to thee! For what I was too well I know,
And what I am, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair !
My language shall be mild, tho’ sad, But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,
I am not mad ! I am not mad !
My tyrant husband forged the tale
Which chains me in this dismal cell : My fate unknown my friends bewail,
Oh! gaoler, haste that fate to tell !
Oh! haste my father's heart to cheer;
His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad, To know though kept a captive here,
I am not mad! I am not mad !
He smiles in scorn and turns the key!
He quits the grate, I knelt in vain ! His glimmering lamp, still, still I see
'Tis gone — and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold! no warmth! no light !
Life, all thy comforts once I had :
Altho' not mad ! no, no! not mad !
'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,
What I, the child of rank and wealth ; Am I the wretch that clanks this chain,
Deprived of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,
Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart ; how burns my head !
But 'tis not mad! no ! 'tis not mad!
Hast thou, my child, forgot ere this
A mother's face, a mother's tongue; She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung,
Nor how that suit your sire denied,
They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!
His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!
His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone !
And shall I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, pretty lad; I will be free, unbar the door!
I am not mad! I am not mad!
Oh hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks ;
Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes ;
Such screams to hear, such sights to see ;
I am not mad, but soon shall be !
Yes soon ! for, lo, you! while I speak,
Mark how yon demon's eye-balls glare, He sees me— now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crush'd and sad ! Ay, laugh ye fiends! I feel the truth,
Your task is done! I'm mad! I'm mad !
THE OLD ARM CHAIR.
I love it! I love it! and who shall dare