Poems (Campbell)/Ethelinda
ETHELINDA.
"In vain, bright Sun! thou shinest here, For him thou canst not shine upon,That to this aching breast was dear, And, ah! for ever, ever gone!
The long, dull ev'ning pleases more, When in some dark sequester'd roomI sit, and hear the tempest roar, And mourn amid th' unsocial gloom.
He was the dearest, tend'rest friend! With him each joy, each pleasure dies;Ah me! what pangs my bosom rend— Cold in his bloody grave he lies.
Oh! fate too early and severe! Detested war! the work was thine;And never maiden's gushing tear Bewail'd a loss so deep as mine.
Oh! do not mock my downcast eye, Nor rudely scoff with bitter scorn,To hear th' involuntary sigh Burst from a heart with anguish torn.
Oh! Slander, let thy tongue be still,— Yet speak—thy tort'ring pow'r is o'er;Revile, and load with ev'ry ill The heart which thou canst pain no more.
'Tis past—but can it be a crime To weep a lover's timeless end,And dedicate life's early prime To mourn so true, so dear a friend?
Why o'er a friend's cold ashes mourn? Why weep a parent's death to see?Why languish at a husband's urn?— Oh! he was all and all to me.
Then wound not more my broken peace, Nor trample thus on bruised reed;For, ah! till life, till mem'ry cease, This widow'd heart must ever bleed.
And thou, bright Sun, withdraw thy rays; Nor hope, nor solace, they impart;—Unjoyous scenes, and cheerless days, Are fitter for an aching heart."
Thus, all dejected, weak, and pale, The mourning Ethelinda lay;And sigh'd her moanings to the gale That temper'd now the sultry day.
Her once so fair and polish'd form, On the green turf was careless laid;And on her cheek, grief's canker-worm Had beauty's half-blown rose decay'd.
In vain for her the summer sun With more than wonted splendour shone;To her his beams were dark and dun— With Arthur all her hopes had gone!
She rose to quit the smiling scene,— For her, alas! no charms it wore;And slowly pac'd the flow'ry green So oft had Arthur trod before.
When, lo! before the mournful maid Bent a poor aged son of war,Wrapp'd in his tatter'd Highland plaid, And seam'd with many a ghastly scar.
"Oh, lady! gentle lady! stay, A poor old soldier bends the knee;Weary and long has been the way, And youth and strength have gone from me.
From Spain's ensanguin'd fields I roam, Where valour's desp'rate deeds are done;Where glory's greenest laurels bloom Around the brows of Wellington.
Wounded and weak, I wend my way To my dear native Highland land;—Yet, ere I go, this charge convey In safety, lady, to your hand."
Heav'ns! what emotions shook her frame, When her own picture met her view;The same—oh, yes!—the very same She gave him with her last adieu!
She wept; her snowy hands she rung, And call'd in anguish on his name,—Till round the woodland echoes rung, And sadly sigh'd—"Oh! Arthur Graham!"
She gaz'd upon the soldier's face— His trembling hand the mask withdrew—And blooming bright in youthful grace, Her Arthur's form again she knew.
He threw the Highland plaid aside, And clasp'd her to his gallant breast:—"Oh! my best love, my promis'd bride!— And am I then so sweetly blest!
So bless'd in Ethelinda's faith, And love,—more dear to him than life!—Yes—dearer than the empty breath Of honour, won in fields of strife.
No bloody grave has Arthur found, Nor hurt—but this poor shatter'd knee;—And thou, my love, shalt nurse the wound That brings me back to love and thee."
Now roseate blushes once again Mantle on Ethelinda's face,Joy sparkled in her alter'd mien, And wak'd once more each vanish'd grace.
Soon to his native Highland land, Young Arthur led his beauteous bride;And love and glory, hand in hand, Walk'd by the youthful chieftain's side.
And loud the Highland echoes rung From hill to hill, with mirth and joy;The old bard woke his harp, and sung The mountain tale "of days gone by."
And praise and blessings flow'd around From humble love, and high-born pride;Nor could a happier pair be found Than Arthur and his lovely bride.