4596806Poems — The Parting of Decourcy and WilhelmineLucretia Maria Davidson
TO MAMMA.
Thy love inspires the Story-Teller's tongue. To tales of hearts with disappointment wrung, Thy love inspires; fresh flows the copious stream, And what's not true, let fruitful fancy dream. The Story-Teller.
THE PARTING OF DECOURCY AND WILHELMINE.
Lo! enthroned on golden clouds, Sinks the monarch of the day; Now yon hill his glory shrouds, And his brilliance fades away.
But as it fled, one ling'ring beam Played o'er yon spire, which points on high; It cast one bright, one transient gleam, Then hastened from the deep'ning sky.
Lo! the red-tipped clouds remain But to tell of glories past; Mark them gathering o'er the plain, Mark them fade away at last.
The lake is calm, the breeze is still, Nor dares to whisper o'er a leaf; And nothing save the murm'ring rill, Can give the vacant ear relief.
Around yon hawthorn in the vale, White garments float like evening mist: 'Tis Wilhelmine; and cold and pale, A simple marble stone she kissed.
She knelt her by a lowly tomb, And wreathed its urn anew with flowers; She taught the white rose there to bloom, And watered it with sorrow's showers.
Like raven's wing, her glossy hair In ringlets floated on the gale, Or hung upon a brow as fair As snow-curl crested in the vale.
And her dark eye, which rolls so wild, Once brightly sparkled with hope's light, For Wilhelmine was pleasure's child, When fortune's smiles shone sweetly bright.
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Decourcy loved—the morn was clear, And fancy promised bliss; For now the happy hour was near, Which made the maiden his.
And Wilhelmine sat smiling sweet Beneath the spreading tree; Her nimble foot was quick to meet, Her glancing eye to see.
Decourcy came upon. his steed, His brow and cheek were pale; "Speak—speak, Decourcy!" cried the maid, "'Tis sure a dreadful tale."
"My love, my Wilhelmine," cried he, "Be calm and fear thee not; In battle I will think on thee, And O, forget me not.
"Adieu!" he clasped her to his breast, And kissed the trickling tear Which 'neath her half-closed eyelids prest And ling'ring glistened there,
He gazed upon that death-like face, So beautiful before; He gazed upon that shrine of grace, And dared to gaze no more.
He trembled, pressed his burning brow, And closed his aching eyes: His limbs refuse their office now, The maid before him lies.
But hark! the trumpet's warlike sound Echoes from hill to vale; He caught the maiden from the ground, And kissed her forehead pale.
Why should Decourcy linger there, When the bugle bids him speed? One long last look of calm despair, And he springs upon his steed;
He strikes the sting of his bloody spur In his foaming courser's side, And he gallops on where the wave of war Rolls on with its bursting tide.
Whose was the sword that flashed so bright, Like the flaming brand of heaven? And whose the plume, that from morn till night Was a star to the hopeless given?
'Twas thine, Decourcy! that terrible sword Hath finished its work of death; But the hand which raised it on high is lowered To the damp green earth beneath.
The sun went down, and its parting ray Smiled sorrow across the earth, The light breeze moaned—then died away, And the stars rose up in mirth.
And the timid moon looked down with a smile On the blood-stained battle ground, And the groans of the wounded rose up the while With a sad, heart-rending sound,—
While the spectre-form of some grief-worn man Steals slowly and silently by, Each corpse to note—each face to scan, For his friend on that field doth lie.
But whose is the figure dimly seen By the trembling moonbeam's light? 'Tis the form of the weeping Wilhelmine, And she kneels by the slaughtered knight.
Weep not for the dead, for he died 'mid the din, And the rapturous shouts of strife, And the bright sword hath ushered his soul within The portals of future life.
Weep not for the dead! who would not die As that gallant soldier died? With a field of glory whereon to lie, And his foeman dead beside.
A year passed by, and a simple tomb Rose up 'neath a willow tree; 'Twas decked with flowers in vernal bloom As fresh as flowers could be;
And oft as the twilight's dusky gleam O'er the scene was gently stealing, The form of the sorrowful maid was seen By the grave of her lover kneeling.
But wild is the glance of her dove-like eye, And her cheek, O how pale and fair And the mingled smile, and the deep-drawn sigh, Show that reason's no longer there.
Another year passed, and another grave 'Neath the willow tree is seen; By the side of her lover, Decourcy the brave, Lay the corpse of Wilhelmine.
