SHE sat, where on each wind that sighed The citron's breath went by, While the red gold of eventide Burned in the Italian sky. Her bower was one where daylight's close Full oft sweet laughter found, As thence the voice of childhood rose To the high vineyards round. But still and thoughtful at her knee Her children stood that hour, Their bursts of song and dancing glee Hushed as by words of power. With bright fixed wondering eyes, that gazed Up to their mother's face, With brows through parted ringlet raised, They stood in silent grace. While she -- yet something o'er her look Of mournfulness was spread -- Forth from a poet's magic book The glorious numbers read; The proud undying lay, which poured Its light on evil years; His of the gifted pen and sword, The triumph, and the tears. She read of fair Erminia's flight, Which Venice once might hear Sung on her glittering seas at night By many a gondolier. Of him she read, who broke the charm That wrapt the myrtle grove; Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, That slew his Paynim love. Young cheeks around that bright page glowed, Young holy hearts were stirred; And the meek tears of woman flowed Fast o'er each burning word. And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, Came sweet, each pause between, When a strange voice of sudden grief Burst on the gentle scene. The mother turned -- a wayworn man, In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, of proud yet mournful eye. But drops which would not stay for pride From that dark eye gushed free, As pressing his pale brow, he cried, "Forgotten! e'en by thee! "Am I so changed? -- and yet we two Oft hand in hand have played; This brow hath been all bathed in dew From wreaths which thou hast made. We have knelt down and said one prayer, And sung one vesper strain: My soul is dim with clouds of care -- Tell me those words again! "Life hath been heavy on my head -- I come a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled, To bleed in stillness here." She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept Shook all her thrilling frame -- She fell upon his neck and wept, Murmuring her brother's name. Her brother's name! -- and who was he, The weary one, the unknown, That came the bitter world to flee, A stranger to his own? He was the bard of gifts divine To sway the souls of men; He of the song for Salem's shrine, He of the sword and pen! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BOATS IN A FOG by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE CORAL INSECT by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY QUITS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE POET, AND HIS INTERPRETERS by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON MUSIC ON CHRISTMAS MORNING by ANNE BRONTE AN EPITAPH ON MR.WM. HOPTON by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THE MAIDEN'S SORROW by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT |