Poems (Campbell)/The Wedding-day of Albert; a Northern Tale

by Dorothea Primrose Campbell

THE WEDDING-DAY OF ALBERT; A NORTHERN TALE.

Bright sparkled Albert's dark-blue eye,
 Like the lake's pure breast, when all is still,
And not a breeze is heard to sigh
 O'er the marshy moor, or the mossy hill.
Graceful and tall was his manly form,
As the pine on the barks of his native Glomin;
And but for the sun-beam, or winter storm,
His blush had been bright as the blush of woman.
But these a manlier brown had spread
O'er the snowy white and the ruby red—
Yet still was the native tint display'd
Where the parted curls profusely play'd.

Bright as the day, at Albert's side,
Matilda sat, his beauteous bride;
The wealthiest maid on northern strand—
A monarch might have sought her hand!
Her princely port and lofty air,
And her eye of piercing jet, declare
The haughty heart that ill could brook
On less than a prince with love to look—
But love had tam'd her soul of pride,
 And soften'd her heart of stone;
And long had she sigh'd to be Albert's bride,
 And sigh'd for him alone.
Pledge of a dying mother's love,
 A doating father's richest treasure,
Long had her moments been taught to move
 In one continued round of pleasure!
Torn from the bosom of the mine
 For her the diamond lent its glow;
And Ocean's pearly gems entwine
 Her polish'd arms and neck of snow,
Or sparkle in her raven hair,
 Whose spiral tresses darkly waving
Perfum'd the gently flutt'ring air,
 That fann'd her bosom, proudly heaving.

Though Danish lord, and Swedish knight,
 And many a Norway baron bold,
Essay'd to win this lady bright,
To tempt her ear, to charm her sight,
 Still, 'still her heart was proud and cold:
No answ'ring throb of love she felt,
Nor sigh, nor tear, her soul could melt.

From woods and wilds where Glomin roll'd
 His broad blue billows to the main,
Young Albert came, a warrior bold,
 In good Lord Norman's gallant train:
And in the bloody field of strife,
 Had won a name, by birth denied,
And twice had sav'd Lord Norman's life,
 When bravely fighting by his side.
The aged warrior's heart was warm,
Though time unnerv'd his stalwart arm—
Charm'd with his deeds of valour done,
He lov'd young Albert as his son;
Nor lov'd him less because his mind
Was noble, tender, and refin'd;
Nor frown'd to hear Matilda sigh,
Or mark her alter'd down-cast eye.

"Sweet flow'r! the last that's left to bloom
 On ancient Norman's with'ring tree;
And shall thy father harshly doom
 A life of hopeless love to thee?
Ah, no! though mean young Albert's birth,
 His soul is noble as thy own;
The proudest princess on the earth
 Might raise such virtue to her throne."
He join'd their hands—Matilda's eye
 Downcast through tears of rapture beam'd,—
But whence, oh, Albert! was the sigh
 That struggling with thy being seem'd?
The sigh was hush'd—th' incautious boy
 Resum'd again a lover's joy;
With more than equal warmth express'd
The rapture kindling in his breast;
 Clasp'd her soft hand, then at her feet,
With graceful ardour bent the knee—
 "Behold thy slave! his happiness complete—
Heav'n gives him worlds, oh! more than worlds in thee!"

The voice of joy is heard in Norman's halls,
And music echoes through his castle walls;
His festive vassals, on the flow'ry green,
Lead up the dance, the circling groves between,
Where mingling leaves and blossoms wave around,
And fairy streamlets, murmuring, join the sound
Of mirth and music, as they loudly float,
Wak'ning on hill and dale the echo's mimic note.
But who is she, that, brighter than the day,
Moves with superior grace the dance along—
The loves and graces in her dark eyes play,
Her breath is fragrance, and her voice is song;
Though youth, and rank, and beauty too, are there,
Dim are their beams beside Livonia's star—;
Where smiles Lord Norman's daughter, who seems fair?
She, fairest of the fair, surpassing far!
Bright sparkled Albert's dark-blue eye,—
Yet seem'd his bosom lab'ring with a sigh;
And while from a menial's hand he took
A golden cup, his own convulsive shook;
Yet, turning to his bride, with smiling air
He bow'd, and to his lips the goblet rais'd—
"This is to thee!" he cried———a stranger fair
His view that moment caught, as on his face she gaz'd.

Amid the gay and festive band
Her fairy form was seen to stand,
A wildness in her hasty glance
That spoke the soul in mournful trance;
Pale, 'mid the giddy sons of mirth,
She look'd not like a thing of earth!
The wildness in her azure eye
Quench'd not its beauty-beaming lustre;
And the quick throb, and frequent sigh,
Heav'd her modest bosom high
Round which her fair long tresses cluster,
While her polish'd cheek with ev'ry breath
Assum'd the rose's glow, or lily hue of death.
In her fair hand with anxious care
A pale and wither'd rose she bare;
Which sometimes to her lip she press'd,
Then hid it, smiling, in her breast—
Ah! me, that smile! though still a nameless charm,
Play'd round her lovely mouth and dimpled cheek,
It faded in a look of wild alarm,
And seem'd of madness more than joy to speak!
 She came, and stood at Albert's side,
 And gaz'd on him, and on his bride,—
Her lovely hand across her forehead drew;
The parted curls display'd its snowy hue,
And the soul-touching eye of softest blue.

"Albert! they said I was betray'd—
Left and abandon'd for a wealthier maid!
But, oh, my love! I knew it could not be,
And they who told the story knew not thee;—
They did not know thy soul—thy faith sincere,
And all that made thee to this heart so dear!
They watch'd my steps—they told me I was wild,
And would not let me go my love to seek;
But I at length their watchfulness beguil'd,—
And I am here—but, Albert, I am weak,
And sick at heart, for I had far to rove—
I could not find thee, Albert, in the grove
Where last we rested, while the setting sun———
Ah, me! I wander—lady, I have done—
I will away"—she turn'd her to depart—
"The rose he gave, is wither'd quite and gone;
And thou art wither'd too, poor broken heart!"
"Yet stay, one moment stay, dear injur'd maid!
 My sick'ning soul is struggling to be free;
Lo! the stern debt of gratitude is paid—
 Yon friendly cup restores me back to thee!—
Matilda, hear!—from early youth we lov'd;
 On Glomin's banks, her shady groves among,
My youthful heart love's tender passion prov'd,
 And fair Christina still inspir'd my song.
For her I chac'd the lynx through forests brown,
 His glossy fur at her dear feet to lay;
Unfelt the danger, and my toil's best crown
 To meet Christina's smile at close of day!
Where Ocean roar'd below, and storms above,
 Eager "mid black'ning rocks I careless sprung
The wild-bird's nest to plunder for my love,
 But spar'd, at her request, the callow young.
With her a Paradise the vale appear'd,
 When summer shed her short-liv'd fervours there,
And winter's lengthen'd reign was more than cheer'd,
 With all on earth that's happy, good, or fair.
Lord Norman's fost'ring friendship brought me here;
 Thy smile, alas! more fatal than thy frown,
 Rais'd me at once to honour and renown;—
Thou know'st the rest—and oh! thou hadst been dear,
Had this poor blighted flow'ret ne'er been known!
But she was my betroth'd, and I was all her own.
And think not, lady! that ambition burning
In Albert's bosom quench'd so pure a flame—
Loaded with favours, hopeless of returning,
I gave—oh! more than gratitude could claim-—
My plighted love to agony and mourning,
My spotless honour to eternal shame!
But ah, farewell! the debt is dearly paid—
For thee may happier scenes unclouded rise—
Oh! where, my poor Christina! hast thou stray'd?
Return, my first, best love! and close these dying eyes!"

"My love, my lord!—oh, Heav'n!—he faints! he falls!
Ah! stay thee yet, nor leave me here to pine—
It is thy bride—'tis thy Matilda calls!
Oh, fatal word! I am not, was not thine;—
That all too noble heart was never, never mine!"

 The voice so pleasing to her ear,
 So long belov'd, so early dear,
 Struck on Christina's soul—she came,
 And fault'ring forth her lover's name,
 Sunk in his out-stretch'd arms, and there
 Breath'd her last sigh on the summer-air
Clos'd her blue eyes to the beams of day,
And, like a with'ring flow'r, she droop'd and died away.

 "Oh! linger yet, my only bride,
 Thy long-betroth'd is at thy side;
 Oh! close not yet thine eyes of blue,
  Till Albert's eyes shall sleep for ever;
 For, oh! this heart is freezing too,
  And we have met, and will not sever!
 Thus in a first, a last embrace
Thy form I circle, and thy faded charms;
 Thus kiss thy dear adored face,
Nor death itself tear thee from my arms."—
He press'd her cold cheek closer to his own,
And flew to greet her in the world unknown.

Ill fated bride! unbraid thy raven hair,
 Give it abroad upon the winds to flow;
For ill such splendour suits with thy despair;
 And tear those circling diamonds from thy brow:
 Where is thy bridegroom,—where thy lover now?
  Poor widow'd bride! if thou would'st weep
  Where Albert's bones for ever sleep,
  Go seek them at Christina's urn,
  And o'er thy rival's ashes mourn;
 For there, in mournful silence laid,
 Thy plighted bridegroom, and his Norway maid
  In one low grave together rest.—
 Will the cold dews that fall around,
 Like tear-drops on the sacred ground,
E'er quench the fever raging in thy breast?
 Or the chill breezes, as they blow,
;;Cool thy parch'd lip and burning cheek?—ah, no!—