Poems (Campbell)/Orphan Joan
ORPHAN JOAN.
The blush of morn was on the sky, The fields were fair and green,The rippling streamlet murmur'd by, And bright was ev'ry scene;Fresh o'er the fields the zephyr blows, Each eye with rapture shone;But vain the cloudless morning rose, And beam'd on orphan Joan.
Pale was her cheek, and wild her eye, Loose flow'd her yellow hair,And oft her bosom heav'd the sigh;— Poor daughter of despair!And cold and cheerless was the maid As thus she made her moan—"Is there no friend, no pitying aid, To save poor orphan Joan.
I was a father's proud delight, A mother's tend'rest care;Each day was jocund, calm each night, And ev'ry prospect fair;But soon of ev'ry joy bereft, Ere fourteen summers gone,No sire, no mother, was there left To guide the steps of Joan.
My only brother, far from home Pour'd forth his dearest blood,Ambition's dang'rous path to roam Through glory's crimson flood;And all my father's little store, Regardless of my moan,Rapacious monsters fiercely tore, From poor deserted Joan.
No friend in all the world I had, To snatch me from despair;And soon my brain was wild and mad,— The dreadful sleep of care!Returning reason but restor'd My broken heart to groan,Nor would the world one smile afford, To soothe the griefs of Joan,
And now I wander day by day, Soft pity's boon to crave;And weep each dreary night away, Upon my parents' grave:No hope, no comfort, now remains, For ev'ry friend is gone;—And all unpitied are the pains That wring the heart of Joan."
Thus all day long the mourner sat, Like drooping dying flow'r,And wept and mourn'd her hapless fate, Till ev'ning's silent hour. At length a stranger passing by Was startled by her groan;He turn'd, with pity in his eye, To look on orphan Joan.
"Oh! gentle maid! what heavy grief, Thus swells thy labouring breast,Say, can I bring thy woes relief, Or give thy sorrows rest?""Ah! no relief my pangs can know, To hush my bosom's moan,—Yet soon my tears shall cease to flow, For Death will pity Joan."
With wild amaze the stranger gaz'd Upon the weeping maid,When slow her sinking head she rais'd, And thus dejected said:—"Yet, think not gratitude denied, To thee, that all unknown———""Eternal Heav'n!" the youth replied, "'Tis she,—my sister Joan!"
He press'd her to his beating breast;— "Oh! ever lov'd and dear!Revive, and once again be blest, And dry each falling tear.And is it thus that thou art found Neglected and alone;No friend to soothe the pangs that wound The gentle heart of Joan?
But honour, wealth, and fame are mine Nor Heav'n in vain bestow'd,For, ah! to make those blessings thine, How oft this heart has glow'd!Then let it be my tend'rest care To hush each anxious moan—And, oh! may fond affection's pray'r Restore sweet health to Joan."
Soft as the balmy dews of night His cheering accents fell,And bade once more each dear delight The orphan's bosom swell."Fraternal love, domestic care, For all her griefs atone;And plenty, comfort, love, and peace, Now smile on happy Joan.