by C.E.V. [Caroline Elizabeth Villiers].
Originally published in Hood's Magazine (Henry Hurst) vol.6 #2 (Aug 1846).
(No. 2.)
The earliest picture there, of rude design,
And execution scarcely more refined,
Claimed from the passing eye no second glance.
'Twas Hugh—first Count—who won nobility
From royal gratitude, for Knightly deeds
By his dead Sire achieved.—Alas, for man!
How oft he gathers all that he can boast,
From a small handful of ancestral dust.
The habit of a barefoot Carmelite,
The tonsured crown, the girding rope, and beads,
More fitting far had been for gentle Hugh
Than hauberk, greaves, or shield, or battle-axe:
For, in his heart, dwelt peace and charity,
With gen'rous mercy even for his foes.
"Saint," with the Pilgrim—"Milk-heart," with the Knight,
He was not for his time.
Upon the same broad canvass with Count Hugh,
Was limned his vicious, haughty Countess, Maude;
Whose fearful crimes from Heaven provoked a curse
That, blighting, fell on her descending line:
For, on her sleeping lord, her wedded hand
Wrought the dark deed of Jael to her foe
The vanquished Sisera!
The awful secret, buried in her breast,
Was shut from human eye, until she lay
Struggling with death—then, frenzied words broke forth,
Of import terrible, yet not distinct:
But, when they went to lay her with her lord,
His coffin, at the contact, burst in twain,
Disclosing to each horror-stricken eye
A fleshless skull pierced with a rusty nail!
Funereal hymns were chaunted—vigils held—
Masses were solemnized at midnight-hour—
The daily alms bestowed with lavish hands—
And Maud's one son, Count Raimond, vow'd to leave
Linda, his newly-wed and beauteous bride,
Against usurping infidels to war,
A soldier of the Cross:—All—to avert
The wrath impending o'er his doomëd house.
So run the Legend, with quaint comment made,
On sin—on punishment—and power of prayer.
Throw open wide the Castle-gate,
Raise the portcullis high;
A gath'ring troop, with hearts elate,
Go forth to victory.
The trumpet's shrill note cleaves the air;
The war-steeds paw the ground;
Arm'd men are hurrying here and there,
Obedient to the sound.
The silken banner of the Cross
Unfurls its peaceful fold;
Symbols of piety emboss
Its edge, with gems and gold.
How proudly doth its bearer clasp
And shake it in the wind!
A victory is in his grasp,
A triumph in his mind!
The morning sun, like lightning, plays
Upon the burnished steel,
Which dazzlingly reflects his rays,
Flashing from helm to heel.
The warriors are mounted all;
They wait but for their Chief,
Count Raimond—ling'ring in the hall,
To soothe his Ninda's grief.
No marvel made when he appears,
With clouding on his brow:
All own the force of woman's tears
In partings such as now.
But, lightly on his steed he springs,
Though cased in pond'rous mail;
Their Leader, as the clarion rings,
Five hundred voices hail!
Helm, plume, and banner—gallant show—
Proud pomp of war's array—
To music's martial measure, go!
Wend on your chosen way!
On sacred mission ye depart,
"The Sepulchre to save:"
A shout goes up from ev'ry heart—
"God shield and bless the brave!"
(No. 3.)
We may behold how lovely Linda's face,
How radiant the lustre of her eye;
The deep expression of calm energy
Upon her lofty forehead too we trace.
The mouth, though rose-like in its sweetness, bears
Impress of will not lightly turned aside;
And something that, perchance, is o'er much pride,
The curving lip upon its softness wears.
Large diamonds are sparkling round her head,
But add not to its beauty: each dark tress
Is bright enough in its own loveliness,
Nor asks the light from jewel-splendour shed.
A robe of regal purple, broidered deep
In precious stones, and fine Venetian gold,
With sable bordered, in full ample fold
Doth round her form majestically sweep.
* * * * *
(No. 4.)
Another picture shows an armëd Knight
Attended by his page—an Infidel—
The stern dejection of whose mien may tell,
How drear captivity, how dread its blight.
An Eastern Prince, he wears his country's dress,
In simplest mode—deprived of ornament—
His dusky brow is turban-bound; and blent
His eyes' dark glance, with shame and bitterness.
His olive hue, his lithe and slender form,
Are set in contrast with the fair-haired knight;
Whose Herculean sinews, strength and height,
Might rock-like stem the fiercest battle-storm.
Clad in the panoply of war HE stands,
Nor lightly could his prowess be defied;
The giant-axe that glimmers by his side
Was never wielded yet by other hands.
Happy for Linda, if her warrior-lord
Had made no captive on the blood-red plain;
Or, ransomless, had set him free again;
Or smote him as he lay beneath his sword!
When first he came, Azolpha's bitter sighs
Betrayed his centred thought in Palestine;
And hopeless did his failing spirit pine,
With yearning to behold his native skies.
But Linda's eyes on his abstracted sight
Rose in soft beauty; and her veilless face,
Her arching brow, her neck of peerless grace,
Wore all the promised Houri's shape of light.
The whelming fire of passion in his soul
Burn'd with a flame the North-born never know:
Hate crowned with jealousy, against his foe
Raged with a force he recked not to control!
* * * * *
Hark! in the silent midnight hour,
Bursts out a piercing cry!
One note prolonged, of fearful pow'r,
Rings wild and thrillingly!
From woman's lip, from woman's heart,
That anguish-note awakes—
Sudden the uproused dreamers start,
As, through their sleep, it breaks!
Oh, haste ye—haste ye! seize your arms,
Grasp firm the trusty brand—
Sound loud the bell—ring quick alarms—
And summon all the band:
The gallant Raimond murdered lies!—
Lo! kneeling by his side,
Linda, with anguish, vainly tries
To staunch the crimson tide.
'Tis past!—upspringing from her knee,
A NEMESIS she stands:
Trembling with voiceless agony,
She lifts her widowed hands—
Up—up to Heaven! but not in prayer,
Nor with a mourner's cries—
But, in the wildness of Despair,
With vengeance in her eyes,
The gathered band are mute as death:
One hoarsely murmured word
Comes lab'ring on her gasping breath—
"Revenge!" alone is heard.
* * * * *
High on a rock above the sea,
Bound in an iron cage,
Through long long years of misery,
Lingered the murd'rous Page.
The summer sun blazed on his head,
Cold winter pierced his frame,
The bolted thunder round him sped,
With lightnings' lurid flame.
Through years as long, from morn 'till night,
Did Linda sit below,
And feed her never-wearied sight
With gazing on her foe.
Her one first widowed day had turned
Her raven locks to grey;
Her step the pace of age had learned,
Her form had shrunk away:
Her voice had lost its ringing tone;
Her brow was furrowed deep;
All lustre from her eyes had flown;
But none beheld her weep.
The cage was thunder-rent at last!
Down, down—from rock to rock—
The pow'rless prisoner was cast,
Mangled with every shock.
All Linda's triumph was complete:
Deep seas engulphed her foe!
The strong waves bare him to her feet,
And laid their tribute low.
Dead!—quite, quite dead!—her task was o'er;
Her wrathful watch was past:
Relentless vengeance, sworn before,
Was all fulfill'd at last.
That solemn night she passed in gloom,
In sad and softened mood,
Beside her murdered husband's tomb,
With grief in solitude.
At matin hour, an aged priest
Sought her to soothe and pray:—
From earth and earthly care released,
Her soul had passed away!
Upon the monumental breast
Her stiffened arms were thrown,
Upon the cheek her cheek was pressed,
White as the veinless stone.