Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 398, December 1848. Various

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      For Werner sat beneath the linden tree,

      That sent its lulling whispers through his door,

      Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be

      With some deep care, and thus can find no more

      Th' accustomed joy in all which evening brings

      Gathering a household with her quiet wings.

      His wife stood hushed before him, sad, yet mild

      In her beseeching mien, – he marked it not.

      The silvery laughter of his bright-haired child

      Rang from the greensward round the sheltered spot,

      But seemed unheard; until at last the boy

      Raised from his heaped up flowers a glance of joy,

      And met his father's face; but then a change

      Passed swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee,

      And a quiet sense of something dimly strange

      Brought him from play to stand beside the knee

      So often climbed, and lift his loving eyes,

      That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.

      Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;

      But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid

      Her hand on his, and with a pleading look

      Through tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and said,

      "What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its prey,

      That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?

      "It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!

      Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow,

      Missing the smile from thine? Oh, cheer thee! bend

      To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now!

      Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share

      Of tried affection in thy secret care."

      He looked up into that sweet earnest face,

      But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band

      Was loosened from his soul.

      And she that ever through her home had moved

      With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile

      Of woman, calmly loving and beloved

      And timid in her happiness the while,

      Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour —

      Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.

      Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,

      And took her fair child to her holy breast,

      And lifted her soft voice, that gathered might

      As it found language: – "Are we thus oppressed?

      Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,

      And man must arm, and woman call on God!

      "I know what thou wouldst do; – and be it done!

      Thy soul is darkened with its fears for me.

      Trust me to heaven, my husband; this, thy son,

      The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free!

      And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth

      May well give strength – if aught be strong on earth.

      "Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread

      Of my desponding tears; now lift once more,

      My hunter of the hills, thy stately head,

      And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!

      I can bear all but seeing thee subdued —

      Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.

      "Go forth beside the waters, and along

      The chamois' paths, and through the forests go;

      And tell in burning words thy tale of wrong

      To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow,

      God shall be with thee, my beloved! – away!

      Bless but thy child and leave me – I can pray!"

      Away! to me, a woman, bring

      Sweet waters from affection's spring.

      They crown me with the glistening crown,

      Borne from a deathless tree;

      I hear the pealing music of renown —

      O Love, forsake me not!

      Mine were a lone dark lot,

      Bereft of thee!

      They tell me that my soul can throw

      A glory o'er the earth;

      From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!

      Shed by thy gentle eyes,

      It gives to flower and skies

      A bright new birth!

      "Move along these shades

      In gentleness of heart – with gentle hand

      Touch – for there is a spirit in the woods."

      Child.– There are the aspens with their silvery leaves

      Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime

      And chestnut boughs, and these long arching sprays

      Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood

      Were all one picture!

      Father.– Hast СКАЧАТЬ