XLVIII.

Fair Angoulême! in what empurpled bower
Pass'd thy young innocence the sunny hour?—
Her sun was dim. The prison was the clime
That struck upon the royal infant's prime.
Her joys, to watch the sentinel's dull round,
Till her ear sicken'd at the weary sound;
To count, yet care not for the hour's slow wheel,
As one on whom the grave had set its seal;
To pine upon her pillow for the day,
Yet, seen, to wish its cheerless beam away;
Then, tremble as drew on the tedious night,
And feel as life were parting with the light;—
Then—to her couch, to weep and watch for morn,
To shew her she was living—and forlorn!

She had companions. Deeper misery!
All whom she loved on earth were there—to die!
And they must perish from her—one by one—
And her soul bleed with each, till all were gone.
This is the woe of woes, the sting of fate,
To see our little world grow desolate,
The few on whom the very soul reclined
Sink from the eye, and feel we stay behind;—
Life, to the farthest glance, a desert road,
Dark, fearful, weary—yet that must be trod.

Daughter of France! did not such pangs compress
Thy heart in its last, utter loneliness?
Didst thou not droop thy head upon thy hand,
Then, starting, think that time was at a stand,
And find its flight but by the thicker gloom
That dimm'd thy solitary dungeon room?
Didst thou not gaze upon thy glimpse of sky,
And long to bid the last, best hour be nigh?
Or melted even by that moment's view,
Stoop to the world again, and think, how blue,
How bright to thousands spread its canopy;
How many a joyous heart and laughing eye,
Buoyant with life and hope, and free,—oh, free!—
Bask'd in the brightness thou shouldst never see?
Her world was past; her hours, or few or more,
Left her bound, wretched—all she was before!
This, this is misery—the headsman's steel
Strikes, and we perish—but we cease to feel.

XLIX.

The Temple tower is fallen; yet still the grot
Lives in pale mockery of the woeful spot;
The weedy walk still borders the parterre,
A few wild shrubs still drink the heavy air;
And, help'd by some rude tracery on the green,
The eye may image where the pile has been:
But all is past,—trench, buttress, bustling guard,—
For silence, ruin, and the pale, dead sward.
Heaven! what wild weight of suffering was prest
In this close den, this grave in all but rest!
What hope, fear, agony the high hearts thrill'd,
That mercy, though 'twas blood, so quickly still'd;
And what high hearts that fiery circle ran,
And what fiends urged them, in the shape of man!
I trod the ground with reverence, for that ground
Was holy to my tread; its dungeon-bound,
Dear as the spot where blood and ashes tell
That there the martyr closed his triumph well;
The torture's tools ev'n hallow'd—brand and stake,
Scourge, fetter—all, all relics for his sake.
Ev'n on that weedy path had moved the train
Who never move to human eyes again.
Sad Antoinette! Alas! her morning star
Was set, and all its worshippers were far.

She had no sphere to lighten now; that wall
Enclosed her palace, kingdom, world—her all!
Yet, to the last, her glance was majesty,
Or dimm'd but when it met her partner's eye;—
And learn'd its patience of the eye that met
The chain, the dungeon, death, as nature's debt;
No murmur on the monarch's lip, in heaven
The heart, the world forgotten and forgiven.
And there their infants clung, subdued and nigh;
There follow'd the meek sister, fix'd to die.

It was a walk of woe. By spy and guard
The converse of the pining heart debarr'd;
Forced to hear taunts that shock'd the purer ear,
And while they wrung their souls, not seem to hear;
Longing to lay down life, yet driven to win,
For their unconscious babes, the men of sin;—
Till the bell toll'd, and some grim centinel
Block'd up their path, and turn'd them to their cell.

Yet hours were spent within that fearful pile,
When the lip wore the sainted spirit's smile;
When books, and such light toil as smooths away,
If aught can smooth, the lingering prison day:
And more, that holy unity of heart
That smiled together, only wept apart;
Peace, prayer, and heaven, their gentle hearts enwove,
Dungeons themselves but ministers of love!
Their days were number'd, and the grave's dark stone
Soon chill'd their agonies;—one, orphan'd one
Left here to weep:—no!—left to wait the time
Destined to give them the revenge sublime;
Destined to bid their child, their heroine, bear
A nation's sorrows to their sepulchre.