He reck'd no more of glory-grief and shame Crept year by year; the minstrel pass'd their walls; If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, Ev'n to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low, At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days, And thus it was with her. A mournful sight In one so fair-for she indeed was fair Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light, Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer, And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek, To gaze upon in silence!-but she felt That love was not for her, tho' hearts would melt Where'er she mov'd, and reverence mutely given Went with her; and low prayers, that call'd on Heaven To bless the young Isaure. One sunny morn, With alms before her castle gate she stood, Midst peasant-groups; when breathless and o'erworn, And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, A stranger thro' them broke : -the orphan maid With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid, Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook; And that pale woman, suddenly subdued By some strong passion in its gushing mood, Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears As rain the hoarded agonies of years From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out-❝ Oh! undefiled! I am thy mother-spurn me not, my child!" Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze But never breath'd in human ear the name Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame. What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise, Awhile o'erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. Her child bent o'er her-call'd her-'twas too late- THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES. O good old man! how well in thee appears Thou art not for the fashion of these times. As You Like It. FALL'N was the House of Giafar; and its name, The high romantic name of Barmecide, A sound forbidden on its own bright shores, By the swift Tygris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath, Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, Had so pass'd sentence: but man's chainless heart Hides that within its depths, which never yet Th' oppressor's thought could reach. |