The Widow

The courtly hall is gleaming bright With fashion's graceful throng-- All hearts are chained in still delight, For like the heaven-borne voice of night Breathes Handel's sacred song. Nor on my spirit melts in vain The deep—the wild—the mournful strain That fills the echoing hall (Though many a callous soul be there) With sighs, and sobs, and cherished pain-- While on a face, as Seraph's fair, Mine eyes in sadness fall. Not those the tears that smiling flow As fancied sorrow bleeds, Like dew upon the rose's glow; --That Lady 'mid the glittering show Is clothed in widow's weeds. She sits in reverie profound, And drinks and lives upon the sound, As if she ne'er would wake! Her closed eyes cannot hold the tears That tell what dreams her soul have bound-- In memory they of other years For a dead husband's sake. Methinks her inmost soul lies spread Before my tearful sight-- A garden whose best flowers are dead, A sky still fair (though darkenèd) With hues of lingering light. I see the varying feelings chase Each other o'er her pallid face, From shade to deepest gloom. She thinks on living objects dear, And pleasure lends a cheerful grace; But oh! that look so dim and drear, —Her heart is in the tomb. Rivalling the tender crescent Moon The Star of evening shines-- A warm, still, balmy night of June, Low-murmuring with a fitful tune From yonder grove of pines. In the silence of that starry sky, Exchanging vows of constancy, Two happy lovers stray. —To her how sad and strange! to know, In darkness while the phantoms fade, That one a widowed wretch is now, The other in the clay. A wilder gleam disturbs her eye. Oh! hush the deep'ning strain! And must the youthful Warrior die? A gorgeous funeral passes by, The dead-march stuns her brain. The singing voice she hears no more, Across his grave the thunders roar! How weeps yon gallant band O'er him their valour could not save! For the bayonet is red with gore, And he, the beautiful and brave, Now sleeps in Egypt's sand. But far away in cloud and mist The ghastly vision swims. —Unto that dying cadence list! She thinks the voices of the blest Now chant their evening hymns. O for a dove's unwearied wing, That she might fly where angels sing Around the judgment-seat; That Spirit pure to kiss again, And smile at earthly sorrowing! Washed free from every mortal stain, At Jesus' blessèd feet. How longs her spirit to recall That prayer so vain and wild! For, idly-wandering round the Hall, Her eyes are startled as they fall On her own beauteous Child. Gazing on one so good and fair, Less mournful breathes that holy air, And almost melts to mirth: Pleased will she sojourn here a while, And see, beneath her pious care, In heaven's most gracious sunshine smile The sweetest Flower on earth. The song dies 'mid the silent strings, And the Hall is now alive With a thousand gay and fluttering things; --The noise to her a comfort brings, Her heart and soul revive. With solemn pace and loving pride She walks by her fair daughter's side, Who views with young delight The gaudy sparkling revelry,-- Unconscious that from far and wide On her is turned each charmèd eye-- The Beauty of the night! A Spirit she! and Joy her name! She walks upon the air; Grace swims throughout her fragile frame, And glistens like a lambent flame, Amid her golden hair. Her eyes are of the heavenly blue, A cloudless twilight bathed in dew; The blushes on her cheek, Like the roses of the vernal year That lend the virgin snow their hue-- And oh! what pure delight to hear The gentle Vision speak! Yet dearer than that rosy glow To me yon cheek so wan; Lovely I thought it long ago, But lovelier far now blanched with woe Like the breast-down of the swan. Then worship ye the sweet—the young-- Hang on the witchcraft of her tongue, Wild-murmuring like the lute. On thee, O Lady! let me gaze, Thy soul is now a lyre unstrung, But I hear the voice of other days, Though these pale lips be mute. Lovely thou art! yet none may dare That placid soul to move. Most beautiful thy braided hair, But awful holiness breathes there Unmeet for earthly love. More touching far than deep distress Thy smiles of languid happiness, That like the gleams of Even O'er thy calm cheek serenely play. --Thus at the silent hour we bless, Unmindful of the joyous day, The still sad face of Heaven.