Classic and Contemporary Poetry
COSTANZA, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell Last Line: His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea Subject(s): Death; Desolation; Women; Dead, The | ||||||||
SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell Through the stained window of her lonely cell, And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow, Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow, While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw Bright waves of gold -- the autumn forest's hue -- Seemed all a vision's mist of glory, spread By painting's touch around some holy head, Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, What solemn fervor lived! And yet what woe, Lay like some buried thing, still seen below The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal What life had taught that chastened heart to feel, Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears! But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, And of the gentle saint no more was known, Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymnose through each murmur of the green dim, And ancient solitude; where hidden streams Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in dreams -- Music for weary hearts! 'Midst leaves and flowers She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread To the sick peasant on his lowly bed Came and brought hope! while scarce of mortal birth He deemed the pale fair form that held on earth Communion but with grief. Ere long, a cell, A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone Gleamed through the dark trees o'er a sparkling well, And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood, In day's last crimson soaring from the wood Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met The floating song. Strange sounds! -- the trumpet's peal Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel; The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine branches crashed before the flying. And all was changed within the still retreat, Costanza's home: there entered hurrying feet, Dark looks of shame and sorrow -- mail-clad men, Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, As there they laid their leader, and implored The sweet saint's prayers to heal him: then for flight, Through the wide forest and the mantling night, Sped breathless again. They passed; but he, The stateliest of a host -- alas! to see What mother's eyes have watched in rosy sleep, Till joy, for very fulness, turned to weep, Thus changed! -- a fearful thing! His golden crest Was shivered, and the bright scarf on his breast -- Some costly love-gift -- rent: but what of these? There were the clustering raven locks -- the breeze, As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, Might scarcely lift them; steeped in bloody showers, So heavily upon the pallid clay Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark ray, Where was it? And the lips! -- they gasped apart, With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, Still proudly beautiful! but that white hue -- Was it not death's? -- that stillness -- that cold dew On the scarred forehead? No! his spirit broke From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay, By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, The haughty chief of thousands -- the forsaken Of all save one. She fled not. Day by day -- Such hours are woman's birthright -- she, unknown, Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving His brow with tears that mourned the strong man's raving. He felt them not, nor marked the light veiled form Still hovering night! yet sometimes, when that storm Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tone as low As a young mother's by the cradle singing, Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently bringing Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow Ebbed from his hollow cheek. At last faint gleams Of memory dawned upon the cloud of dreams, And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, And gazing round him from his leafy bed, He murmured forth, "Where am I? What soft strain Passed like a breeze across my burning brain? Back from my youth it floated, with a tone Of life's first music, and a thought of one -- Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride, Whose hollow splendor lured me from her side? All lost! -- and this is death! -- I cannot die Without forgiveness from that mournful eye! Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? My first, my holiest love! -- her broken heart Lies low, and I -- unpardoned I depart." But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil From her dark locks and features brightly pale, And stood before him with a smile -- oh! ne'er Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear -- And said, "Cesario! look on me; I live To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust, As should be heaven's alone -- and heaven is just! I bless thee -- be at peace!" But o'er his frame Too fast the strong tide rushed -- the sudden shame, The joy, the amaze! He bowed his head -- it fell On the wronged bosom which had loved so well; And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there -- His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND A DIRGE (1) by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS |
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