A Poem of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in La Belle Assemblée, 1832/The Death of Margaret Audeley
THE DEATH OF MARGARET AUDELEY.
BY L. E. L.
The shadow of the yew-trees has left an open space;
The sunshine rests upon it as if it loved the place.
A growth of early primroses and green grass hides the tomb—
How can it be the place of death with all the spring in bloom!
And she who there is sleeping, how ever could she die!
So beautiful, so happy, death should have past her by.
But last week she was singing in the fulness of her mirth—
Can a place so soon be desolate as is her place of birth!
She had known one only dwelling, where every thing refers,
With an agony of fondness, to something that was her's:
The flowers she sowed are opening their blossoms to the spring;
Her favourite bird is singing; how can they bloom—or sing!
But though the month be April, there is upon the air
A shadow and a silence, though the sun and wind be there.
For darkened are the windows, and lonely are the grounds,
And sad low steps and voices with unfamiliar sounds.
For Margaret was so joyous, so full of youth's delight,
You heard her song or laughter long ere she came in sight.
Now that sweet voice is silent; it seems not stilled alone,
But from parents, friends and servants, all life seems also gone.
Her mother has not spoken since the day she saw her last,
When they closed the cruel coffin, and the pall was o'er it cast.
And the bold Earl, her father, who has looked so oft on death,
His eyes are wan with weeping, and he speaks below his breath.
The summons was so sudden, at morning she was bright
With rosy health and gladness, who was a corpse ere night.
To her cheek there came no paleness, no shadow to her brow,
She looked as glad and beautiful as does her picture now.
She laid her head so quietly upon her mother's knee,
There came no mortal agony when Margaret ceased to be.
And when they wound around her the white shroud of the dead,
Her smile was sweet like slumber, and her cold cheek was red.
Oh, such a death is blessed—so happy and so young,
As yet unpaid the penalty from crime and sorrow wrung.
For though direct from Heaven the spirit in our clay,
Too much its earthly fetters do wear the soul away.
Yes, blessed are the youthful, who leave this mortal strand,
And come before their Maker as when they left his hand;
Who bring a life, as pure almost as when it first was given—
For of such is the kingdom, our Saviour said, of Heaven.