The Effigies

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb, With shield and crested head, Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom By the stain'd window shed; The records of thy name and race Have faded from the stone, Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace What thou hast been and done. A banner, from its flashing spear, Flung out o'er many a fight; A war-cry ringing far and clear, And strong to turn the flight; An arm that bravely bore the lance On for the holy shrine; A haughty heart and a kingly glance– Chief! were not these things thine? A lofty place where leaders sate Around the council-board; In festive halls a chair of state When the blood-red wine was pour'd; A name that drew a prouder tone From herald, harp, and bard;– Surely these things were all thine own,– So hadst thou thy reward. Woman! whose sculptur'd form at rest By the armed knight is laid, With meek hands folded o'er a breast In matron robes array'd; What was thy tale?–Oh! gentle mate Of him, the bold and free, Bound unto his victorious fate, What bard hath sung of thee? He woo'd a bright and burning star– Thine was the void, the gloom, The straining eye that follow'd far His fast-receding plume; The heart-sick listening while his steed Sent echoes on the breeze; The pang–but when did Fame take heed Of griefs obscure as these? Thy silent and secluded hours Thro' many a lonely day, While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, With spirit far away; Thy weeping midnight prayers for him Who fought on Syrian plains, Thy watchings till the torch grew dim– These fill no minstrel strains. A still, sad life was thine!–long years With tasks unguerdon'd fraught, Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, Vigils of anxious thought; Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd, Alms to the pilgrim given– Oh! happy, happier than thy lord, In that lone path to heaven!