The Troubadour. Canto 3 B (Death)

I saw her!—on the ground she lay,
  The life blood ebbing fast away;
  But almost as she could not die
  Without my hand to close her eye!
  When to my bosom press'd, she raised
  Her heavy lids, and feebly gazed,

  And her lip moved: I caught its breath,
  Its last, it was the gasp of death!
  I leant her head upon my breast,
  As I but soothed her into rest;—
  I do not know what time might be
  Past in this stony misery,
  When I was waken'd from my dream
  By my forgotten infant's scream.
  Then first I thought upon my child.
  I took it from its bed, it smiled,
  And its red cheek was flush'd with sleep:
  Why had it not the sense to weep?
  I laid its mother on the bed,
  O'er her pale brow a mantle spread,
  And left the wood. Calm, stern, and cold,
  The tale of blood and death I told;
  Gave my child to my brother's care
  As his, not mine were this despair.
  I flung me on my steed again,
  I urged him with the spur and rein,—
  I left him at the usual tree,
  But left him there at liberty.

  With madd'ning step I sought the place,
  I raised the mantle from her face,
  And knelt me down beside, to gaze
  On all the mockery death displays,
  Until it seem'd but sleep to me.
  Death,—oh, no! death it could not be.

  The cold grey light the dawn had shed,
  Changed gradual into melting red;
  I watch'd the morning colour streak
  With crimson dye her marble cheek;
  The freshness of the stirring air
  Lifted her curls of raven hair;
  Her head lay pillow'd on her arm,
  Sweetly, as if with life yet warm;--
  I kiss'd her lips: oh, God, the chill!
  My heart is frozen with it still:—
  It was as suddenly on me
  Open'd my depths of misery.
  I flung me on the ground, and raved,
  And of the wind that past me craved
  One breath of poison, till my blood
  From lip and brow gush'd in one flood.
  I watch'd the warm stream of my veins
  Mix with the death wounds clotted stains;
  Oh! how I pray'd that I might pour
  My heart's tide, and her life restore!

  And night came on:—with what dim fear
  I mark'd the darkling hours appear,—
  I could not gaze on the dear brow,
  And seeing was all left me now.
  I grasp'd the cold hand in mine own,
  Till both alike seem'd turn'd to stone.
  Night, morn, and noontide pass'd away,
  Then came the tokens of decay.

  'Twas the third night that I had kept
  My watch, and, like a child, had wept
  Sorrow to sleep, and in my dream
  I saw her as she once could seem,
  Fair as an angel: there she bent
  As if sprung from the element,
  The bright clear fountain, whose pure wave
  Her soft and shadowy image gave.
  Methought that conscious beauty threw
  Upon her cheek its own sweet hue,
  Its loveliness of morning red;
  I woke, and gazed upon the dead.
  I mark'd the fearful stains which now
  Were dark'ning o'er the once white brow,
  The livid colours that declare
  The soul no longer dwelleth there.
  The gaze of even my fond eye,
  Seem'd almost like impiety,
  As it were sin for looks to be
  On what the earth alone should see.
  I thought upon the loathsome doom
  Of the grave's cold, corrupted gloom;—
  Oh, never shall the vile worm rest
  A lover on thy lip and breast!
  Oh, never shall a careless tread
  Soil with its step thy sacred bed!
  Never shall leaf or blossom bloom
  With vainest mockery o'er thy tomb!

  And forth I went, and raised a shrine
  Of the dried branches of the pine,—
  I laid her there, and o'er her flung
  The wild flowers that around her sprung;
  I tore them up, and root and all,
  I bade them wait her funeral,
  With a strange joy that each fair thing
  Should, like herself, be withering.
  I lit the pyre,—the evening skies
  Rain'd tears upon the sacrifice;
  How did its wild and awful light
  Struggle with the fierce winds of night;
  Red was the battle, but in vain
  Hiss'd the hot embers with the rain.
  It wasted to a single spark;
  That faded, and all round was dark:
  Then, like a madman who has burst
  The chain which made him doubly curst,
  I fled away. I may not tell
  The agony that on me fell:—
  I fled away, for fiends were near,
  My brain was fire, my heart was fear!

  I was borne on an eagle's wing,
  Till with the noon-sun perishing;
  Then I stood in a world alone,
  From which all other life was gone,
  Whence warmth, and breath, and light were fled,
  A world o'er which a curse was said:
  The trees stood leafless all, and bare,
  The sky spread, but no sun was there:
  Night came, no stars were on her way,
  Morn came without a look of day,—
  As night and day shared one pale shroud,
  Without a colour or a cloud.
  And there were rivers, but they stood
  Without a murmur on the flood,
  Waveless and dark, their task was o'er,—
  The sea lay silent on the shore,
  Without a sign upon its breast
  Save of interminable rest:
  And there were palaces and halls,
  But silence reign'd amid their walls,
  Though crowds yet fill'd them; for no sound
  Rose from the thousands gather'd round;
  All wore the same white, bloodless hue,
  All the same eyes of glassy blue,
  Meaningless, cold, corpse-like as those
  No gentle hand was near to close.
  And all seem'd, as they look'd on me,
  In wonder that I yet could be
  A moving shape of warmth and breath
  Alone amid a world of death.
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Submitted by Madeleine Quinn on June 19, 2016


Letitia Elizabeth Landon

Letitia Elizabeth Landon was an English poet. Born 14th August 1802 at 25 Hans Place, Chelsea, she lived through the most productive period of her life nearby, at No.22. A precocious child with a natural gift for poetry, she was driven by the financial needs of her family to become a professional writer and thus a target for malicious gossip (although her three children by William Jerdan were successfully hidden from the public). In 1838, she married George Maclean, governor of Cape Coast Castle on the Gold Coast, whence she travelled, only to die a few months later (15th October) of a fatal heart condition. Behind her post-Romantic style of sentimentality lie preoccupations with art, decay and loss that give her poetry its characteristic intensity and in this vein she attempted to reinterpret some of the great male texts from a woman’s perspective. Her originality rapidly led to her being one of the most read authors of her day and her influence, commencing with Tennyson in England and Poe in America, was long-lasting. However, Victorian attitudes led to her poetry being misrepresented and she became excluded from the canon of English literature, where she belongs. more…

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"The Troubadour. Canto 3 B (Death)" STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 10 Jul 2020. <>.

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