  ''T were best that I should wed! Thou said'st it, Louis; Say it once more! LOUIS. In honesty I think so. DUCHESS. My choice is made, then—I obey the fiat, And will become a bride!' Bulwer. ''T were best that I should wed!' 'Tis Louis' voice Has sped Fate's summons to this breaking heart; The vassal of his will, I make my choice, And bid my love for earth and him depart! No! not my love for him! I will resign The court's gay mockery, and the courtiers' praise— The incense offered on a baseless shrine, Which truth and honor gild not with their rays. ''T were best that I should wed!' how strangely cold These few yet bitter words fall on my brain! The sum of life's brief day-dream has been told, By one who cares not what may be the pain; But I submit—yea, hail the sacrifice; And like some sleeper startled from a trance, I of my saddened spirit take advice— Asking the meaning of this strange romance. For Hope's the food of life, and Love its dream, To cheat our fancy o'er Time's rugged way: 'Tis man's false text. 'Tis woman's holiest theme, And in her bosom holds supremest sway. She lives to love—her soul, sustained thereby, Makes to itself a 'green spot' on Life's sea— Where every feeling for repose may fly, And sorrow, penury, guilt, forgotten be. But man's affection's like the sun-born flower That gaily flaunts, to woo and to be won, And quickens, blossoms, ripens in an hour, Yet fades before the sun his race has run; So with man's love, a strange and wayward thing, Its opening, flashing in the rays of Truth; But oh! how brief the time, ere change will fling, The locks of age upon its brow of youth! Oh, Louis! thou art throned in majesty— Thy sway as boundless as thy realms are wide; And millions hail thee from the boundless sea, To where the Rhine pours down its sounding tide. But mighty as thou art, thou canst not scan That one frail thing, a woman's trusting heart; Thou may'st search out the purposes of man, But woman's truth defies thy potent art! Thou wert not worthy, Louis, of the love Which in my breast for thee hath garnered been; Thou wert the pole-star gleaming from above, Swathing my feelings in its radiant sheen: Thou wert my all! a mother's broken heart, A noble soldier's fortunes, paled by me, Attest too well that I have read my part In Misery's calends—written there by thee! Charlotte Cushman. |
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