4523841Poems — Robert of NormandyMary Caroline Denver and Jane Campbell Denver
ROBERT OF NORMANDY.
["This unfortunate son of William the Conqueror seems to have been born to be the sport of fortune, or rather the victim of his own indiscretion. He was a prince of great courage, and for some time of great reputation. But his profusion and thoughtless imprudence caused him twice to lose the opportunity of ascending the throne of England, which was his indisputable birth-right. After spending his youth amidst toil and fatigues, he saw himself at last deprived of his fortune, his friends and his freedom, and condemned to languish the remainder of his days in hopeless captivity. He expired in Cardiff Castle, where he had been kept twenty-six years a prisoner."—Bigland's History of England.]
Alone! alone! when wilt thou cease to be, O, weary life? when, when shall I be free? Too long, too long I pine! the caged bird From its wire-prison mournfully is heard Pleading for sympathy! but I no more! The hopes that led me on, dreams can restore To me no longer. I have dreamed in vain! The cherished visions will not come again To cheer my prison-house; they too forsake, And leave my heart in loneliness to break In its own sepulchre—to perish o'er The glorious things it worshiped so before— Life's withered flowers, affection's broken ties, And deeds of valor that around me rise In glittering ruins!
In glittering ruins! Could these perish too, I might be happier! but before my view They rise, and spectre-like point to the days Of buried greatness, when the warrior's bays Bloomed round my brow, and many a deed of fame The minstrel sung in honor of my name! When kings were my companions, when afar Came bannered hosts on to the Holy War In distant Palestine; when blood was poured Forth, like the mountain-torrent, when the sword Was drawn and left unsheathed, and wrath was sent Upon the wings of every element Dealing destruction!
O, for one short hour Wherein to dream! to feel again the power Of a free spirit on the battle-plain! To hear the martial call to arms again, The rousing up to conquest, and to see The red-cross flag wave on to victory Hosts of brave men! to mark thy ancient walls, O, high Jerusalem! shake at the call Of crowned heads, who struggled hard to die Low at thy jeweled feet!
I heard the cry Of the wild Saracen rise on the air, Shouting defiance—and the crescent there, Above the battlements spread gaily out Her field of spotless snow. I heard a shout, That soared to the middle depths of azure heaven, Rending the clouds!
Strong hearts to men are given, To lead them through disaster and through death; And stronger still, to cast the laurel-wreath Of triumph hardly won, from off their brow! But what can make the haughty spirit bow Submissively to wrong—bend to the dust Each passionate impulse and there let it rust?
As well the sword, whose flash led on to fame, Might live in honor, while its owner's name Was lost amidst the past, nor history's page Told of his deeds to each succeeding age! Nor minstrel breathed his name, nor aftertimes Echoed it, when they heard the joyful chimes Peal for some triumph won; as well might fame Die with the dead, or echo back no name. As the proud heart hide in the dust its wrongs, And tamely stoop above them!
There are songs Sung in sweet childhood, that will fill the heart With after-dreams of glory—bid upstart Before the eye, whole ranks of mailed men, Armed for high conquest, people the wide glen With warrior-hearts that move in proud array Beneath victorious banners, mark the play Of nodding plumes, the rush of fiery steeds, That wildly bound wherever courage leads, Heedless of dead or dying. Such things fill The bosom oft with an impassioned thrill, That robs it of a life-time of sweet dreams, To pour into their place the counter-streams Of Pride and of Ambition—and the throngs That follow after them.
And there are songs That haunt the heart of manhood like a gush Of melting tenderness, heard in the hush Of twilight, summoning departed things Before the mind, upborne on spirit's wings From the far spirit-land. The fond, the true, The first affections our glad boyhood knew, So wound up with our being, that a thread Snapt rudely, well may lay us with the dead, To bloom on earth no longer; and the bright Young hopes that fled so quickly out of sight, Soaring, e'en while we watched their rainbow dyes, Like birds of paradise unto the skies; These haunt the heart, where hope hath found a grave, Like music floating o'er a midnight wave, Mournful, yet beautiful, melting to tears The sterner passions of succeeding years, Roused but to be subdued.
Roused but to be subdued. One strain, one strain! My spirit pines to hear them once again, The songs I loved in childhood! yet once more, I would drink in their sweetness; I would pour My spirit out in the dear melody, And smile to call it a deliverance; I, Upon whose brow they sought to place the crown Of high Jerusalem! I would lay down All knightly honors, but to hear one song. One little song of childhood, float along, From my own blessed land! I pine, I die, For thy free airs, my happy Normandy!
False king and brother! have the years thus failed To wake thee to repentance? have they paled Thy cheek in vain, and left upon thy brow, Traces of change and suffering, such as bow The haughtiest hearts to earth? Have they o'erthrown Hopes, born amidst the splendors of a throne? My father's throne, my birth-right thou did'st claim, And for a brother's took a traitor's name, Linked unto conqueror. Thought'st thou of these, When the white ship went bounding o'er the seas, When Norman hearts were sunk, and Norman skies Looked on unweaponed hands, and downcast eyes? Thought'st thou of these, false king! thought'st thou of these, When fast the buoyant ship went o'er the seas, In gallant trim and gay? Did not the cry That rose from those dark waves unto the sky, Find echo in thy heart? Thy best beloved, Thy brave, thy beautiful, he, who had proved Worthy to wear a crown—my crown—beneath The waves of ocean sank; he sank, and thou, As I, art desolate and hopeless now![1] Thou didst lay down the name of friend and grasp With a strong hand—the same that once did clasp Mine own in fond affection—from my brow Fair England's crown! Fair England's crown! I am avenged! but, how, How bitter the revenge!—alone, alone! Within my spirit-depths I hear a tone That tells me, 'midst the splendors of thy state. And all the honors that around thee wait, Thou, too, art lonely! I, in this lone tower, Thou in the royalty of kingly power. Think, think we of each other? Think, think we of each other? Could T drink Once more of thy cool waters—could I think, Even in my dreams, that thy blue, blessed skies, Were looking on me like a mother's eyes, Tender and beautiful—I could forgive The wrongs that made me captive, and would live, My own dear land, for thee! would live for thee, Even in hopeless, stern captivity. But thou art distant far—I may not roam, Thy grove-crowned hills again—my own, my home, Fain would I lay my weary head upon Thy tranquil bosom—for the day is done, And night draws darkly round—and I would rest, Would rest in peace on thy maternal breast.
But 0, for those sweet songs that haunt me yet, Like far-off music when the stars have set; My soul will not forget them—they are wound So round my heart, and with my being bound, That to undo would break. I fain would hear Their melody once more upon my ear, And in my heart—ere from its prison-home, Like sea-bird floating homeward o'er the foam, My wearied soul escapes—I pine, I die, For thy familiar airs, my Normandy!
↑Prince Henry, the only son of Henry, was drowned in the passage home from Calais while attempting to rescue his sister from the waves.
