Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 16 1826.pdf/7

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 sculptured 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 oft 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,
    Through 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;
Prayers at the Cross in fervour pour'd;
    Alms to the Pilgrim given;—
—Oh! happy, happier than thy Lord
    In that lone path to Heaven!F. H.