Of Him alone she thought, whose languid head
Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell,
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled,
While heavily she felt his life-blood well
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound,
Yet hoped, still hoped!—Oh! from such hope how long
Affection woos the whispers that deceive,
E'en when the pressure of dismay grows strong,
And we, that weep, watch, tremble,—ne'er believe
The blow indeed can fall!—So bow'd she there
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer
Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight down,
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown,
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place,
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face,
Whereby she caught its changes:—to her eye
The eye that faded look'd through gathering haze,
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony,
Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze,
When voice was not:—that fond sad meaning pass'd—
She knew the fulness of her woe at last!
One shriek the forests heard—there mute she lay,
And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death!
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth,
Many and sad!—but airs of heavenly breath
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth
Is far apart!
Now light, of richer hue
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew;
The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play'd,
Bright-colour'd birds with splendour cross'd the shade,
Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke
From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living strings
Of Earth's Æolian Lyre, whose music woke
Into young life and joy all happy things.
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance,
The widow'd Edith;—fearfully her glance
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange,
And dusky forms:—a sudden sense of change
Flash'd o'er her spirit, even ere memory swept
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept;
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread
Her arms, as missing somewhat lost or fled,
Then faintly sank again.—The forest-bough
With all its whispers waved not o'er her now;
Where was she?—Midst the people of the wild,
By the red Hunter's fire:—an aged Chief,
Whose home look'd sad—for therein play'd no child—
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief,
To that lone cabin of the woods, and there,
Won by a form so desolately fair,
Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung,
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung,
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye,
The ancient Warrior of the Waste stood by,
Bending in watchfulness his proud grey head,
And leaning on his bow.—
Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 20 1827.pdf/4
