Elgiva
[A FRAGMENT.]
O H ! time had only breathed a jettier gloss
On those wild ringlets, and, with lip as soft
And tremulous as a lover's, press'd that cheek
Till it blushed riper roses: nay, the hand
Of sorrow had but touched to finer grace
A form it could not mar:
She was a flower so soft and delicate,
The breeze that scarcely stirred the leaves around,
Ruffled her's too severely; yet she owned
A spirit that forgave, and heart that blessed
The injuries and the injurer, like the rose,
That with its sweetness scents the very gale
That blows it into ruin. She had lived
In a bright world of Fancy's own creation,
Where never cloud dimmed the pure firmament,
Where never storm arose; and when the stern
And dull realities of human life
Oppressed her most; then some green solitude
By dimpled brook or high o'er-arching grove
She sought, and there with some sweet volume charm'd
Of bright romance or fervent poesy,
Oft wandered, and the silken-shodden hours
Stole away softly. Soon her heart grew like
The food it loved. The heart is nursed by Fancy,
Who takes her tender charge to goodly heights,
And shews it all the glorious scenes around,
And tells their charms; but as she tells, her feet
Are straying widely, wildly, and too oft
The nurse will wander till she's out of call,
And then the babe is lost . . . . . .
*****
*****
Lost Elgiva!
No more the solace, but the grief and shame
Of her who bore thee, like a berry crushed,
Staining the stalk it grew on. Now no more
His age's staff; to whom, when Fortune turned
Her face with angry tempests black, thou wast
Like violets planted by an aged oak:
The self-same winds which tore him by the roots,
Woke all the fragrance of thy soul, and breathed
An odorous Eden round him.
*****
She faded like a dream;
And day by day the roses on her cheek
Withered, and hour by hour the living lustre
That in her eye gleamed brightly, waned away.
Yet still the smile that used to lighten up
Her gay glad features, lingered round her lip
As loath to leave its temple; but, alas!
Smiles do not always speak a soul at ease.
They are Hope's children — when the mother dies,
The orphans can but hide her grave with flowers,
Not raise her from the dead. Better, go weep —
For, grief shut up and hidden in the heart
Is like a secret fire that burns unseen,
And unsuspected too, until it breaks
The vessel that contains it.
The cold grave
Has closed on poor Elgiva. —
O H ! time had only breathed a jettier gloss
On those wild ringlets, and, with lip as soft
And tremulous as a lover's, press'd that cheek
Till it blushed riper roses: nay, the hand
Of sorrow had but touched to finer grace
A form it could not mar:
She was a flower so soft and delicate,
The breeze that scarcely stirred the leaves around,
Ruffled her's too severely; yet she owned
A spirit that forgave, and heart that blessed
The injuries and the injurer, like the rose,
That with its sweetness scents the very gale
That blows it into ruin. She had lived
In a bright world of Fancy's own creation,
Where never cloud dimmed the pure firmament,
Where never storm arose; and when the stern
And dull realities of human life
Oppressed her most; then some green solitude
By dimpled brook or high o'er-arching grove
She sought, and there with some sweet volume charm'd
Of bright romance or fervent poesy,
Oft wandered, and the silken-shodden hours
Stole away softly. Soon her heart grew like
The food it loved. The heart is nursed by Fancy,
Who takes her tender charge to goodly heights,
And shews it all the glorious scenes around,
And tells their charms; but as she tells, her feet
Are straying widely, wildly, and too oft
The nurse will wander till she's out of call,
And then the babe is lost . . . . . .
*****
*****
Lost Elgiva!
No more the solace, but the grief and shame
Of her who bore thee, like a berry crushed,
Staining the stalk it grew on. Now no more
His age's staff; to whom, when Fortune turned
Her face with angry tempests black, thou wast
Like violets planted by an aged oak:
The self-same winds which tore him by the roots,
Woke all the fragrance of thy soul, and breathed
An odorous Eden round him.
*****
She faded like a dream;
And day by day the roses on her cheek
Withered, and hour by hour the living lustre
That in her eye gleamed brightly, waned away.
Yet still the smile that used to lighten up
Her gay glad features, lingered round her lip
As loath to leave its temple; but, alas!
Smiles do not always speak a soul at ease.
They are Hope's children — when the mother dies,
The orphans can but hide her grave with flowers,
Not raise her from the dead. Better, go weep —
For, grief shut up and hidden in the heart
Is like a secret fire that burns unseen,
And unsuspected too, until it breaks
The vessel that contains it.
The cold grave
Has closed on poor Elgiva. —
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