Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 14 1825.pdf/14

Still that fond Child's!—and oh! the brow above,
So pale and pure! so form'd for holy love
To gaze upon in silence!—but she felt
That love was not for her—though hearts would melt
Where'er she moved, and reverence, mutely given,
Went with her, and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven
To bless the young Isaure.

———One laughing morn,
With alms before her Castle-gate she stood,
'Midst peasant groups; when breathless and o'erworn,
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
A stranger through them broke: the orphan maid,
With her soft voice and proffer'd hand of aid,
Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met her's, a gaze that all her spirit shook,
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years
From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd
The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest
Her brow's quick flush, sobb'd out, "Oh undefiled!
I am thy Mother!—spurn me not, my Child!"

—Isaure had pray'd for that lost Mother—wept
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture's smile of other days;
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame!
—What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances—the alter'd guise,
Awhile o'erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch
She shrank—'twas but a moment—yet too much
For that all-humbled one!—its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning's,—and her full heart broke
At once, in silence!—heavily and prone
She sank, while o'er her Castle's threshold-stone
Those long fair tresses—they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more—
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold!

Her child bent o'er her—call'd her—'twas too late—
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard—
—How didst thou fall, oh! bright hair'd Ermengarde!
F. H.