The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 14, Pages 257-258
THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.
From "The Portrait-Gallery," an unfinished Poem.
Thou seest her pictured with her shining hair
(Famed were its tresses in Provençal song),
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. A Child's light hand is roving
'Midst the rich curls, and oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
—Yet that bright Lady's eye methinks hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a Mother's!—on her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow,
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
—These may be dreams?—but how shall woman tell
Of woman's shame?—that radiant creature fell!
That Mother left that Child!—went hurrying by
Its cradle—haply not without a sigh—
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene
She hung—but no! it could not thus have been,
For she pass'd on!—forsook her home and hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendors of a King!
Her Lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his mail for scenes of distant strife ,
He reck'd no more of glory; grief and shame
Crush 'd out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o'er his Halls
Crept year by year; the Minstrel pass'd their walls,
The Warders horn hung mute: meantime the Child
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth, for well, too well, she knew
Her Mother's tale!—Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Froze on her lip the stream of song, which fain
Would there have linger'd; flush'd her cheek to pain
If met by sudden glance, and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,
Even to the Spring's glad voice!—Her own was low
As drooping bird's—there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit!—Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and Age hath done with tears,
But Youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o'ermantling its young days;
And thus it was with her!—A mournful sight
In one so fair—for she indeed was fair,—
Not with her Mother's dazzling eyes of light,
Her's were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom; but tender still, and meek
