The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 16, Pages 469-470
RECORDS OF WOMAN.—NO. VII.
Gertrude.*[1]
The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing moments, with the most heroic fidelity. Her own sufferings, and those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago at Haarlem, in a book entitled "Gertrude Von der Wart, or Fidelity unto death."
Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed,
All that she loved was there.
The night was round her clear and cold,
The holy heaven above;
Its pale stars watching to behold
The night of earthly love.
"And bid me not depart," she cried,
"My Rudolph! say not so!
This is no time to quit thy side,
Peace, peace! I cannot go.
Hath the world aught for me to fear
When death is on thy brow?
The world!—what means it?—mine is here—
I will not leave thee now!
"I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss,
Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honour'd love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!
We have the blessed Heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."—
And were not these high words to flow
From Woman's breaking heart?
—Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part:
But oh! with such a freezing eye,
With such a curdling cheek—
—Love, love! of mortal agony,
Thou, only thou, shouldst speak!
The winds rose high—but with them rose
Her voice, that he might hear;—
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near:
While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,
And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.
- ↑ * The author was not aware, at the time this little poem was written, that the courage and affection of Gertrude Von der Wart had previously been celebrated by another writer in a yet unpublished poem.
