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!

'With Pity's softer-flowing strain,
Awake thy sleeping wires again!
For she must somewhere wander near,
In following danger, death, and fear!
From her regard no shade conceals;
Her ear e'en sorrow's whisper steals:
She leads us on all griefs to find;
To raise the fall'n, their wounds to bind--
Oh! not in that reproachful tone,
Advise me first to heal my own!

'Alas! I cannot blame the lyre!
What strain, what theme can she inspire,
Whose tongue a hopeless mandate brings!
Whose tears are frozen on the strings!
And whose recoiling, languid prayer,
Denies itself, in mere despair?
So tamely, faintly, forth it springs;
Just felt upon the pliant strings,
It flits in sickly languor by,
Nerv'd only with a feeble sigh!

'I yield submissive, and again
Resume my half-abandon'd strain!
Leading enchain'd sad thoughts along,
Remembrance prompting all the song!
But, in the journey, drawing near
To what I mourn, and what I fear,
The sad realities impress
Too deeply; hues of happiness,
And gleams of splendors past, decay;
The storm despoiling such a day,
Gives to the eye no clear, full scope,
But scatters wide the wrecks of Hope!
Yet the dire task I may not quit--
'Twas self impos'd; and I submit,
To paint, ah me! the heavy close,
The full completion of my woes!
And, as a man that once was free,
Whose fate impels him o'er the sea,
Now spreads the sail, now plies the oar,
Yet looks and leans towards the shore,
I feel I may not longer stay,
Yet even in launching court delay.

'Before De Stafford should unfold
That secret which must soon be told;
My terrors urg'd him to comply;
For oh! I dar'd not then be nigh;
And let the wide, tumultuous sea,
Arise between the king and me!
'O! tell him, my belov'd, I pine away,
So long an exile from my native home;
Tell him I feel my vital powers decay,
And seem to tread the confines of the tomb;
But tell him not, it is extremest dread
Of royal vengeance falling on my head!

''Say, if that favour'd land but bless my eyes,
That land of sun and smiles which gave me birth,
Like the renew'd Antaeus I shall rise,
On touching once again the parent earth!
Say this, but whisper not that all delight,
All health, is only absence from his sight!'

'My Eustace smil'd--' It shall be so;
From me and love shall Marie go!
But on the land, and o'er the sea,
Attended still by love and me!
The eagle's eye, to brave the light,
The swallow's quick, adventurous flight,
That faithfulness shall place in view,
That service, daring, prompt, and true,
Yet insufficient emblems be
Of zeal for her who flies from me!

''Deserter? hope not thus to scape!
Thy guardian still, in every shape,
Shall covertly those steps pursue,
And keep thy welfare still in view!
More fondly hovering than the dove
Shall be my ever watchful love!
Than the harp's tones more highly wrought,
Shall linger each tenacious thought!
Apt, active shall my spirit be
In care for her who flies from me!'

'And, it had been indeed a crime
To leave him, had I known the time,
The fearful length of such delay,
Protracting but from day to day,
Which reach'd at length two tedious years
Of dark surmises and of fears!

'How often, on a rocky steep,
Would I upon his summons keep
An anxious watch: there patient stay
Till light's thin lines have died away
In the smooth circle of the main,
And render'd all expectance vain.

'At the blue, earliest glimpse of morn,
Pleas'd with the lapse of time, return;
For now, perchance, I might not fail,
To see the long expected sail!
Then, as it blankly wore away,
Courted the fleeting eye to stay!
As they regardless mov'd along,
Wooed the slow moments in a song.
The time approaches! but the Hours
With languid steps advance,
And loiter o'er the summer flowers,
Or in the sun-beams dance!
Oh! haste along! for, lingering, ye
Detain my Eustace on the sea!

'Hope, all on tiptoe, does not fail
To catch a cheering ray!
And Fancy lifts her airy veil,
In wild and frolic play!
Kind are they both, but cruel ye,
Detaining Eustace on the sea!

'Sometimes within my cot I staid,
And with my precious infant play'd.
'Those eyes,' I cried, 'whose gaze endears,
And makes thy mother's flow in tears!
Those tender lips, whose dimpled stray
Can even chase suspense away!
Those artless movements, full of charms,
Those graceful, rounded, rosy arms,
Shall soon another neck entwine,
And waken transports fond as mine!
That magic laugh bespeaks thee prest
As surely to another breast!
That name a father's voice shall melt,
Those looks within his heart be felt!
Drinking thy smiles, thy carols, he
Shall weep, for very love, like me!

'Those who in children see their heirs,
Have numberless, diverging cares!
Less pure for them affection glows,--
Less of intrinsic joy bestows,
Less mellowing, less enlivening, flows!
Oh! such not even could divine
A moment's tenderness like mine!
Had he been destin'd to a throne,
His little darling self alone,
Bereft of station, grandeur, aught
But life and virtue, love and thought,
Could wake one anxious thrill, or share
One hallow'd pause's silent prayer!

'Ye scenes, that flit my memory o'er,
Deck'd in the smiles which then ye wore,
In the same gay and varied dress,
I cannot but admire and bless!
What though some anxious throbs would beat,
Some fears within my breast retreat,
Yet then I found sincere delight,
Whenever beauty met my sight,
Whether of nature, chance, or art;
Each sight, each sound, impress'd my heart,
Gladness undrooping to revive,
All warm, and grateful, and alive!
But ere my spirit sinks, so strong
Remembrance weighs upon the song,
Pass we to other themes along!

'Say, is there any present here,
Whom I can have a cause to fear?--
Whom it were wrongful to perplex,
Or faulty policy to vex?
In what affrights the quiet mind
My bitter thoughts employment find!
In what torments a common grief
Do I alone expect relief!
Our aching sorrows to disclose,
Our discontents, our wrongs repeat,
To hurl defiance at our foes,
And let the soul respire, is sweet!
All that my conscience wills I speak
At once, and then my heart may break!

'Too sure King Henry's presage rose;--
De Brehan link'd him with our foes:
Yes! ours! the Brehans us'd to be
Patterns of faith and loyalty:
And many a knightly badge they wore,
And many a trace their 'scutcheons bore,
Of noble deeds in days of yore,--
Of royal bounty, and such trust
As suits the generous and the just.

'From every record it appears,
That Normandy three hundred years
Has seen in swift succession run
With English kings, from sire to son:
But which of all those records saith,
That we may change and barter faith:
That if our favour is not sure,
Or our inheritance secure;
If envy of a rival's fame,
Or hatred at a foeman's name,
Or other reason unconfest,
Now feigning sleep in every breast;
Upon our minds, our interest weigh,
While any fiercer passion sway;
We may invite a foreign yoke,
All truth disown'd, allegiance broke?
Plot, and lay guileful snares to bring,
At cost of blood, a stranger king?
And of what blood, if it succeed,
Do ye atchieve the glorious deed?
Not of the base! when ye surprize
A lurking mischief in the eyes,
Dark hatred, cunning prompt to rise,
And leap and catch at any prey,
Such are your choice! your comrades they!
But if a character should stand
Not merely built by human hand;
Common observances; the ill
Surrounding all; a wayward will;
Envy; resentment; falsehood's ease
To win its way, evade, and please:
If, turning from this worldly lore,
As soul-debasing, servile, poor,
The growing mind becomes, at length,
Healthy and firm in moral strength;
Allows no parley and no plea,
The sources of its actions free,
They spring strait forward, to a goal
Which bounds, surmounts, and crowns the whole!
Ye seek not to allay such force,
To interrupt so bold a course!
What were the use of minds like these,
That will not on occasion seize,
Nor stoop to aid the dark design,
Nor follow in the devious line?
As soon, in the close twisted brake,
Could lions track the smooth, still snake,
As they the sinuous path pursue
Which policy may point to you!
Nay, menace not with eyes, my lords!
Ye could not fright me with your swords.

'E'en threats to punish, and to kill
With tortures difficult to bear,
Seem as they would not higher fill
The measure of my own despair!

'Such terrors could not veil the hand
Now pointing to my husband's bier;
Nor could such pangs a groan command
The childless mother should not hear!

'All now is chang'd! all contest o'er,
Here sea-girt England reigns no more;
And if your oaths are bound as fast,
And kept more strictly than the last,
Ye may, perchance, behold the time
Service to her becomes a crime!

'The troubles calling Eustace o'er,
Refresh'd my eyes, my heart, once more;
And when I gave, with pleasure wild,
Into his circling arms our child,
I seem'd to hold, all evil past,
My happiness secure at last;
But found, too soon, in every look,
In every pondering word he spoke,
Receding thought, mysterious aim:
As I did all his pity claim.
A watchfulness almost to fear
Did in each cautious glance appear.
And still I sought to fix his eye,

'And read the fate impending there,--
In vain; for it refus'd reply.

''Canst thou not for a moment bear
Even thy Marie's look,' I cried,
'More dear than all the world beside?'
He answer'd,' Do not thou upbraid!
And blame me not, if thus afraid
A needful, dear request to make.
One painful only for thy sake,
I hesitate, and dread to speak,
Seeing that flush upon thy cheek,
That shrinking, apprehensive air.--
Oh! born with me some ills to share,
But many years of future bliss,
Of real, tranquil happiness;
I may not think that thou wouldst choose
This prospect pettishly to lose
For self-indulgence! Understood,
Love is the seeking others' good.
If we can ne'er resign delight,
Nor lose its object from our sight;
And only present dangers brave,
That which we dearest hold to save;--
If, when remov'd beyond our eye,
All faith in heaven's protection die,
Can all our tenderness atone
For ills which spring from that alone?'
My fancy rush'd the pause between--
'What can this fearful prelude mean?
Art thou but seeking some pretence,
So lately met! to send me hence?
Believ'st thou terrors will not shake,
Nor doubts distract, nor fears awake,
In absence? when no power, no charm,
Can grant a respite from alarm!
Unreal evils manifold,
Often and differently told,
Scaring repose, each instant rise,
False, but the cause of tears and sighs.
How often I should see thee bleed!
New terrors would the past succeed,
With not a smile to intervene
Of fair security between!'

''No, Marie, no! my wife shall share
With me the trials soldiers bear:
No longer and no more we part.---
Thy presence needful to my heart
I now more evidently know;
Making the careful moments flow
To happy music! on my brow
The iron casque shall lighter prove,--
The corslet softer on my breast,
The shield upon my arm shall rest
More easy, when the hand of love
There places them. Our succours soon
Arrive; and then, whatever boon
I shall think fitting to demand,
My gracious monarch's bounteous hand
Awards as guerdon for my charge,
And bids my wishes roam at large.
Then if we from these rebels tear
The traitor honours which they wear,
Thy father's tides and domain
Shall flourish in his line again!
And Marie's child, in time to come,
Shall call his grandsire's castle, home!
Alas! poor babe! the scenes of war
For him too harsh and frightful are!
Would that he might in safety rest
Upon my gentle mother's breast!
That in the vessel now at bay,
In Hugh de Lacy's care he lay!
My heart and reason would be free,
If he were safe beyond the sea.

''Nay, let me not my love displease!
But is it fit, that walls like these
The blooming cherub should inclose!
And when our close approaching foes
Are skirmishing the country o'er,
We must adventure forth no more.'

'At length I gave a half consent,
Resign'd, submissive, not content:
For, only in intensest prayer,
For, only kneeling did I dare,
Sustaining thus my sinking heart,
Suffer my infant to depart.
Oh! yet I see his sparkling tears;
His parting cries are in my ears,
As, strongly bending back the head,
The little hands imploring spread,
Him from my blinding sight they bore,
Down from the fort along the shore.

'From the watch-tower I saw them sail,
And pour'd forth prayers--of no avail!
Yet, when a tempest howl'd around,
Hurling huge branches on the ground
From stately trees; when torrents swept
The fields of air, I tranquil kept.--

'Hope near a fading blossom
Will often take her stand;
Revive it on her bosom,
Or screen it with her wand:
But to the leaves no sunbeams press,
Her fair, thick locks pervading;
Through that bright wand no dew-drops bless,
Still cherish'd, and still fading:--
Beneath her eye's bright beam it pines,
Fed by her angel smile, declines.

'Eustace, meanwhile, with feverish care,
Seem'd worse the dire suspense to bear.
Bewilder'd, starting at the name
Of messenger, when any came,
With body shrinking back, he sought,
While his eye seem'd on fire with thought,
Defying, yet subdued by fear,
To ask that truth he dar'd not hear.

'He went his rounds.--The duty done,
His mind still tending toward his son;
With spirit and with heart deprest,
A judgment unsustain'd by rest;--
Fainting in effort, and at strife
With feelings woven into life;
And with the chains of being twin'd
By links so strong, though undefin'd,
They curb or enervate the brain,
Weigh down by languor, rack by pain,
And spread a thousand subtil ties
Across the tongue, and through the eyes;
Till the whole frame is fancy vext,
And all the powers of mind perplext.

'What wonder, then, it sunk and fail'd!
What wonder that your plans prevail'd!
In vain by stratagem you toil'd;--
His skill and prudence all had foil'd;
For one day's vigilance surpast
Seeming perfection in the last.
Each hour more active, more intent,
Unarm'd and unassail'd he went;
While every weapon glanc'd aside,
His armour every lance defied.
The blow that could that soul subdue
At length was struck--but not by you!
It fell upon a mortal part--
A poison'd arrow smote his heart;
The winds impelling, when they bore
Wrecks of the vessel to our shore!

'Oh! ever dear! and ever kind!
What madness could possess thy mind,
From me, in our distress, to fly?
True, much delight had left my eye;
And, in the circle of my bliss,
One holy, rapturous joy to miss
Was mine!--Yet I had more than this,
Before my wounds were clos'd, to bear!
See thee, an image of despair,
Just rush upon my woe, then shun
Her who alike deplor'd a son;
And, ere alarm had taken breath,
Be told, my husband, of thy death!
And feel upon this blighted sphere
No tie remain to bind me here!
Still in my life's young summer see
A far and weary path to thee!
Along whose wild and desert way
No sportive tribes of fancy play;
No smiles that to the lips arise,
No joys to sparkle in the eyes;--
No thrills of tenderness to feel,
No spring of hope, no touch of zeal.
All sources of heart-feeling stopt,
All impulse, all sustainment dropt.
With aching memory, sinking mind,
Through this drear wilderness to find
The path to death;--and pining, roam
Myriads of steps to reach the tomb!
Of which to catch a distant view,
The softest line, the faintest hue,
As symbol when I should be free,
Were happiness too great for me!'

Here clos'd at once, abrupt, the lay!
The Minstrel's fingers ceas'd to play!
And, all her soul to anguish given,
Doubted the pitying care of Heaven.
But evil, in its worst extreme,
In its most dire, impending hour,
Shall vanish, like a hideous dream,
And leave no traces of its power!

The vessel plunging on a rock,
Wreck threatening in its fellest shape,
No moment's respite from the shock,
No human means or power to 'scape,
Some higher-swelling surge shall free,
And lift and launch into the sea!
So, Marie, yet shall aid divine
Restore that failing heart of thine!
Though to its centre wounded, griev'd,
Though deeply, utterly bereav'd.
There genial warmth shall yet reside,
There swiftly flow the healthful tide;
And every languid, closing vein,
Drink healing and delight again!

At present all around her fades,
Her listless ear no sound pervades.
Her senses, wearied and distraught,
Perceive not how the stream of thought,
Rising from her distressful song,
In hurrying tide has swept along,
With startling and resistless swell,
The panic-stricken Isabel!
Who--falling at her father's feet,
Like the most lowly suppliant, kneels;
And, with imploring voice, unmeet
For one so fondly lov'd, appeals.--

'Those looks have been to me a law,
And solely by indulgence bought,
With zeal intense, with deepest awe,
A self-devoted slave, I caught
My highest transport from thy smile;
And studied hourly to beguile
The lightest cloud of grief or care
I saw those gracious features wear!
If aught induced me to divine
A hope was opposite to thine,
My fancy paus'd, however gay;
My silent wishes sunk away!
Displeasure I have never seen,
But sickness has subdued thy mien;
When, lingering near, I still have tried
To cheer thee, and thou didst approve;
But something still each act belied,
My manner chill'd, restrain'd my love!
E'en at the time my spirit died
With aching tenderness, my eye,
Encountering thine, was cold and dry!
To maim intention, fondness,--came
The sudden impotence of shame.
Thy happiness was thriftless wealth,
For I could only hoard by stealth!
Affection's brightly-glowing ray
Shone with such strong, o'erpowering sway,
That service fainted by the way!

'But now an impulse, like despair,
Makes me these inner foldings tear!
With desperate effort bids me wrest
The yearning secret from my breast!
Far be the thought that any blame
Can fix on thy beloved name!
The hapless Minstrel may not feign;
But thou, I know, canst all explain--
Yet let me from this place depart,
To nurse my fainting, sicken'd heart!
Yet let me in a cloister dwell,
The veiled inmate of a cell;
To raise this cowering soul by prayer!--
Reproach can never enter there!

'Turn quickly hence that look severe!
And, oh! in mercy, not a tear!
The most profuse of parents, thou
Didst every wish fulfil--allow;
Till that which us'd to please--invite,
Had ceas'd to dazzle and delight;
And all thy gifts almost despis'd,
The love that gave alone I priz'd.

'My yielding spirit bows the knee;
My will profoundly bends to thee:
But paltry vanities resign'd,
Wealth, gauds, and honours left behind,
I only wanted, thought to quit
This strange, wild world, and make me fit
For one of better promise--given
To such as think not this their heaven!
Nay, almost in my breast arose
A hope I scarcely dare disclose;
A hope that life, from tumult free,--
A life so harmless and so pure,
A calm so shelter'd, so secure,
At length might have a charm for thee!
That supplications, patient, strong,
Might not remain unanswer'd long!
And all temptations from thee cast,
The altar prove thy home at last!'

The artless Isabel prevails--
That hard, unbending spirit fails!
Not many words her lips had past,
Ere round her his fond arms were cast;
But, while his vengeful conscience prais'd,
He chid; and, frowning, would have rais'd
Till her resistance and her tears,
The vehemence of youthful grief,
Her paleness, his paternal fears,
Compell'd him to afford relief;
And forc'd the agonizing cry--
That he could never her deny!

Of what ambition sought, beguil'd,
His crimes thus fruitless! and his child,
The beautiful, the rich and young--
Now, in his most triumphant hours!
The darling he had nurs'd in flowers!
His pride, the prais'd of every tongue!
So gentle as she was!--the rein
Of influence holding, to restrain
His harsher power, without pretence,
In graceful, gay beneficence--
An angel deem'd, her only care
To comfort and to please!
Whose smiling, whose unconscious air,
Bespoke a heart at ease--
By her--on whom sweet hopes were built,
His cup when fill'd thus rashly spilt!
The treasures he had heap'd in vain,
Thrown thankless on his hands again!
While--father to this being blest,
He saw a dagger pierce her breast,
In knowledge of his former guilt!
And of his projects thus bereft,
What had the wretched parent left?
Oh! from the wreck of all, he bore
A richer, nobler freight ashore!
And filial love could well dispense
On earth a dearer recompense,
If he its real worth had known,
Than full success had made his own.

So ardent and so kind of late,
Is Marie careless of their fate,
That, wrapt in this demeanour cold,
Her spirits some enchantments hold?
That thus her countenance is clos'd,
Where high and lovely thoughts repos'd!
Quench'd the pure light that us'd to fly
To the smooth cheek and lucid eye!
And fled the harmonizing cloud
Which could that light benignly shroud,
Soothing its radiance to our view,
And melting each opposing hue,
Till deepening tints and blendings meet
Made contrast' self serene and sweet.

Vainly do voices tidings bring,
That succours from the former king,
Too late for that intent,--are come
To take the dead and wounded home;
Waiting, impatient, in the bay,
Till they can safely bear away,--
Not men that temporize and yield,
But heroes stricken in the field;
True sons of England, who, unmov'd,
Could hear their fears, their interest plead;
Led by no lure they disapprov'd,
Stooping to no unsanction'd deed!
Spirits so finely tun'd, so high,
That grovelling influences die
Assailing them! The venal mind
Can neither fit inducement find
To lead their purpose or their fate--
To sway, to probe, or stimulate!
What knowledge can they gain of such
Whom worldly motives may not touch?
Those who, the instant they are known,
Each generous mind springs forth to own!
Joyful, as if in distant land,
Amid mistrust, and hate, and guile,
Insidious speech, and lurking wile,
They grasp'd a brother's cordial hand!
Hearts so embued with fire from heaven,
That all their failings are forgiven!
Nay, o'er, perchance, whose laurel wreath
When tears of pity shine,
We softer, fonder sighs bequeath;
More dear, though less divine.

Can kind and loyal bosoms bleed,
And Marie not bewail the deed?
Can England's valiant sons be slain,
In whose fair isle so long she dwelt--
To whom she sang, with whom she felt!
Can kindred Normans die in vain!
Or, banish'd from their native shore,
Enjoy their sire's domains no more!
Brothers, with whom her mind was nurs'd,
Who shar'd her young ideas first!--
And not her tears their doom arraign?

Alas! no stimulus avails!
Each former potent influence fails:
No longer e'en a sigh can part
From that oppress'd and wearied heart.

What broke, at length, the spell? There came
The sound of Hugh de Lacy's name!
It struck like lightning on her ear--
But did she truly, rightly hear?
For terror through her senses ran,
E'en as the song of hope began.--
His charge arriv'd on England's coast,
Consign'd where they had wish'd it most,
Had brave De Lacy join'd the train
Which sought the Norman shores again?--
_Then_ liv'd her darling and her pride!
What anguish was awaken'd there!
A joy close mating with despair--
He liv'd for whom her Eustace died!

Yes! yes! he lives! the sea could spare
That Island warrior's infant heir!
For whom, when thick-surrounding foes,
Nigh spent with toil, had sought repose,
Slow stealing forth, with wary feet,
From covert of secure retreat,--
A soldier leading on the way
To where his dear commander lay,--
Over the field, at dead midnight,
By a pale torch's flickering light,
Did _Friendship_ wander to behold,
Breathing, but senseless, pallid, cold,
With many a gash, and many a stain,
Him,--whom the morrow sought in vain!
_Love_ had not dar'd that form to find,
Ungifted with excelling grace!
Nor, thus without a glimpse of mind,
Acknowledg'd that familiar face!
Disfigur'd now with many a trace
Of recent agony!--Its power
Had not withstood this fatal hour!
_Friendship_ firm-nerv'd, resolv'd, mature,
With hand more steady, strong, and sore,
Can torpid Horror's veil remove,
Which palsies all the force of _Love!_

What is _Love's_ office, then? To tend
The hero rescued by a friend!
All unperceiv'd, with balmy wing
To wave away each restless thing
That wakes to breathe disturbance round!
To temper all in peace profound.
With whisper soft and lightsome touch,
To aid, assuage,--relieving much
Of trouble neither seen nor told--
Of pain, which it alone divines,
Which scarcely he who feels defines,
Which lynx-like eyes alone behold!

And heavy were De Stafford's sighs,
And oft impatient would they rise;
Though Friendship, Honour's self was there,
Until he found a nurse more fair!
A nicer tact, a finer skill,
To know and to perform his will--
Until he felt the healing look,
The tones that only Marie spoke!

How patient, then, awaiting ease,
And suffering pain, he cross'd the seas!
How patient, when they reach'd the shore,
A long, long tract he journey'd o'er!
Though days and months flow'd past, at length,
Ere he regain'd his former strength,
He yet had courage to sustain,
Without a murmur, every pain!
'At home once more--with friends so true--
My boy recover'd thus'--he cried,
'His mother smiling by my side--
Resigned each lesser ill I view!
As bubbles on the Ocean's breast,
When gloriously calm, will rise;
As shadows from o'er-clouded skies,
Or some few angry waves may dance
Nor ruffle that serene expanse;
So lightly o'er my comfort glides
Each adverse feeling--so subsides
Each discontent--and leaves me blest!'