Pauline, the meekly bright!—though now no more
Her clear eye flash d with youth's all tameless glee,
Yet something holier than its dayspring wore,
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see;
A charm with graver, tenderer sweetness fraught—
The blending of deep love and matron thought.
Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair,
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky,
Sate on her brow, beneath its graceful hair,
As her young daughter in the dance went by,
With the fleet step of one that yet hath known
Smiles and kind voices in this world alone.
Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast?
Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh?
—Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest
'Midst the light laughter of festivity:
Whence come those tones?—alas! enough we know,
To mingle fear with all triumphal show!
Who spoke of Evil, when young feet were flying
In fairy rings around the echoing hall,
Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing,
Glad pulses beating unto music's call?
—Silence! the minstrels pause—and hark! a sound;
A strange quick rustling which their notes had drown'd!
And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking—
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed!
From the gay dream of revelry awaking,
One moment holds them still in breathless dread;—
The wild fierce lustre grows—then bursts a cry—
Fire! through the hall and round it gathering—fly!
And forth they rush—as chased by sword and spear—
To the green coverts of the garden-bowers;
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear,
Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers:
While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight Heaven.
And where is she, Pauline?—the hurrying throng
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast
Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along,—
—'Till now the threshold of that Death is past,
And free she stands beneath the starry skies,
Calling her child—but no sweet voice replies.
"Bertha! where art thou?—speak, oh! speak, my own!"—
Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while,
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone,
Powerless hath sunk amidst the blazing pile;
A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for Death,
With flowers all shrinking at the flame's fierce breath!
But oh! thy strength, deep Love!—there is no power
To stay the mother from that rolling grave,
Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower,
And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave.
Back, back she rushes through a host combined—
Mighty is anguish, with affection twined!
Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 19 1827.pdf/5
