And thither doth her lord, remorseless, bear
Bianca with her child—his altered eye
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear,
While his dark spirit seals their doom—to die;
And the deep bodings of his victim's heart
Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part.
It is the summer's glorious prime—and blending
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep,
Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending,
Scarce murmurs as it heaves, in glassy sleep,
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright,
That lovely shore of solitude and light.
Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing;
Decked with young flowers the rich Maremma glows;
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing,
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows;
And far around, a deep and sunny bloom
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb.
Yes! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca! fairest flower!
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale,
Which, o'er thee breathing with insidious power,
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale,
And, fatal in its softness, day by day,
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.
But sink not yet—for there are darker woes,
Daughter of beauty! in thy spring-morn fading!
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved than those
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading!
Nerve, then, thy heart to meet that bitter lot,
'Tis agony—but soon to be forgot!
What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring,
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring,
O'er infancy's fair cheek the blight of death?
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast
The pale, smooth brow, yet watch it to the last!
Such pangs were thine, young mother! Thou didst bend
O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head,
And, faint and hopeless, far from every friend,
Keep thy sad midnight-vigils near his bed,
And watch his patient, supplicating eye,
Fixed upon thee—on thee!—who couldst no aid supply.
There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe
Through those dark hours;—to thee the wind's low sigh,
And the faint murmur of the ocean's flow,
Came like some spirit whispering—"He must die!"
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast
His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest.
'Tis past—that fearful trial—he is gone!
But thou, devoted! hast not long to weep;
The hour of Nature's chartered peace comes on,
And thou shalt share thine infant's holy sleep.
A few short sufferings yet, and death shall be
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee.
Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 41 1834.pdf/7
