Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Keepsake, 1831/Legendary Fragments
THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY |
LEGENDARY FRAGMENTS.
BY MISS L. E. LANDON.
The lady turn'd her weary from a world;
She needed time for penitence, and tears,
And earnest prayer might win for her lone cell
The peace a palace wanted. Solitude
Grew fill'd with gentle thoughts of other years;
And one whom she had left in early youth
Was now as dear as ever. Once her cheek
Was a sweet summer altar for the rose—
'T was now its tomb; and in her dim blue eye
Was death; but one tie bound her yet to earth—
She could not die till she had look'd again
In that beloved face: she sent a ring—
Strange she had kept that gift of plighted truth,
Though false to all it pledged. The midnight came,
And the red torchlight fell upon a knight
Who stood beside the dying.
"And meet we thus again?" he said;
"And meet we thus again?
And why should meeting be for those
Who only meet in vain?
Call others round your dying bed,
The loved of many years!
The eyes whose smiles were all your own,
Those are the eyes for tears.
You thought not of me in the hall,
When gayer knights were nigh;
You thought not of me when the stars
Wrote memory on the sky.
My heart has been with other thoughts,
Of council and of fight;
I've bought forgetfulness with blood
Of one so false, so light.
It is a dream of shame and scorn,
That of your broken vow;
'T is with the vain frail hopes of youth,
Why speak you of it now?"
He nerved him with remember'd wrongs,
He grasp'd his heavy brand;
She raised her sweet eyes to his face,
She raised her dying hand:
She strove to speak—on her faint lip
The accents died unheard:
Ah! nothing could his heart have moved
Like that unspoken word.
A sadness stole upon his brow,
A softness to his eyes;
His heart was harden'd against smiles,
It could not be to sighs.
It was not years that wrought the change—
In life she yet was young;
Her locks of youth, her golden hair,
In wild profusion hung.
But youth's sweet lights had left her eye,
For from within they shine,
And pale her face, as those are carved
Around some sacred shrine;—
On funeral marble carved, and worn
With sorrow, sin, and shame;
Placed there in sign of penitence—
And her face was the same.
*****
"'T is written deep within—the vow
We pledged in other years,
And all that vanity effaced
Has long been fresh with tears.
The red torch held by yonder monk,
He holds to see me die;
'T will sink before the morning, sure,
And even so shall I.
And yet a voice is in my ear,
A hope is in my heart;
And I must have them both from thee
Before I can depart.
Alas! for festivals that leave
But lassitude behind;
For feelings deaden'd, gifts misused,
A worn and vacant mind,
That dreads its own thoughts, yet pursues
The vanities of yore;
Seeks pleasure's shade, though pleasure's self
Has long since been no more.
The weariness of future hours,
The sorrow for the past,
Desire of change, craving for joys,
Cling to us to the last.
I turn me to my days of youth,
My last thoughts fain would be
Of purer feelings, better hopes—
I dare not say of thee.
That beautiful, that blessed time,
'Mid all that has been mine;
I never knew such happiness,
Nor such a love as thine."
*****
Her pale lips closed, inaudible
The faint low accents came;
Yet the knight held his breath to hear—
Her last word was his name.
He flung him by the pallet's side,
He raised her fainting head;
Her fair hair fell around his arm,
He gazed upon the dead.
*****
'T is an old church, the Gothic aisles
See but the evening sun;
All light, except a fading light,
Would seem too glad a one.
For the dark pines close o'er the roof
Which sanctifies the dead,
And on the dim and sculptured walls
Only their names are read;
And in the midst a marble form
Is laid, as if to rest;
And meekly are the graceful arms
Folded upon the breast.
An old monk tells her history,
And ends as I do now,
"Oh, never yet could happiness
Dwell with a broken vow!"