The Lay of Marie.

CANTO FOURTH.

    Marie, as if upon the brink
    Of some abyss, had paus’d to think;
    And seem’d from her sad task to shrink. 
    One hand was on her forehead prest,
    The other clasping tight her vest;
    As if she fear’d the throbbing heart
    Would let its very life depart. 
    Yet, in that sad, bewilder’d mien,
    Traces of glory still were seen;
    Traces of greatness from above,
    Of noble scorn, devoted love;
    Of pity such as angels feel,
    Of clinging faith and martyr’d zeal!

      Can one, who by experience knows
    So much of trial and of woes,
    Late prone to kindle and to melt,
    To feel whatever could be felt,
    To suffer, and without complaint,
    All anxious hopes, depressing fears;
    Her heart with untold sorrows faint,
    Eyes heavy with unshedden tears,
    Through every keen affliction past,
    Can that high spirit sink at last? 
    Or shall it yet victorious rise,
    Beneath the most inclement skies,
    See all it loves to ruin hurl’d,
    Smile on the gay, the careless world;
    And, finely temper’d, turn aside
    Its sorrow and despair to hide? 
    Or burst at once the useless chain,
    To seem and be itself again?

      Will Memory evermore controul,
    And Thought still lord it o’er her soul? 
    Queen of all wonders and delight,
    Say, canst not thou possess her quite,
    Sweet Poesy! and balm distil
    For every ache, and every ill? 
    Like as in infancy, thy art
    Could lull to rest that throbbing heart! 
    Could say to each emotion, Cease! 
    And render it a realm of peace,
    Where beckoning Hope led on Surprize
    To see thy magic forms arise!

      Oh! come! all awful and sublime,
    Arm’d close in stately, nervous rhyme,
    With wheeling chariot, towering crest
    And Amazonian splendors drest! 
    Or a fair nymph, with airy grace,
    And playful dimples in thy face,
    Light let the spiral ringlets flow,
    And chaplet wreath along thy brow—­
    Thou art her sovereign!  Hear her now
    Again renew her early vow! 
    The fondest votary in thy train,
    If all past service be not vain,
    Might surely be receiv’d again!

      Behold those hands in anguish wrung
    One instant!—­and but that alone! 
    When, waving grief, again she sang,
    Though in a low, imploring tone.

      “Awake, my lyre! thy echoes bring! 
    Now, while yon phoenix spreads her wing! 
    From her ashes, when she dies,
    Another brighter self shall rise! 
    ’Tis Hope! the charmer! fickle, wild;
    But I lov’d her from a child;
    And, could we catch the distant strain,
    Sure to be sweet, though false and vain,
    Most dear and welcome would it be!—­
    Thy silence says ’tis not for me!