Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Rose
For works with similar titles, see The Rose.
The Rose.
Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be brent in that place, to the whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he wold help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace; and whanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge, becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise weren the first Roseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. And thus was this Maiden saved be the Grace of God.
The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundevile.
THE ROSE.
Nay EDITH! spare the rose!—it lives—it lives,It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh'dThe dews of night; let not thy gentle handTear sunder its life-fibres and destroyThe sense of being!—why that infidel smile?Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful,And thou shall have a tale of other times,For I am skill'd in legendary lore,So thou wilt let it live. There was a timeEre this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms,Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heardHow first by miracle its fragrant leavesSpread to the sun their blushing loveliness. There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maidAnd Zillah was her name, so passing fairThat all Judea spake the damsel's praise.He who had seen her eyes' dark radianceHow quick it spake the soul, and what a soulBeam'd in its mild effulgence, woe was he!For not in solitude, for not in crowds,Might he escape remembrance, or avoidHer imaged form that followed every where,And fill'd the heart, and fix'd the absent eye.Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no loveSave the strong ardours of religious zeal,For Zillah on her God had centered allHer spirit's deep affections. So for herHer tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverencedThe obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopes.
One man there was, a vain and wretched man,Who saw, desired, despair'd, and hated her.His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek Even till the flush of angry modestyGave it new charms, and made him gloat the more.She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold,And the strong workings of brute selfishnessHad moulded his broad features; and she fear'dThe bitterness of wounded vanityThat with a fiendish hue would overcastHis faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear,For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plotAgainst her virgin fame. He spread abroadWhispers that travel fast, and ill reportsThat soon obtain belief; that Zillah's eyeWhen in the temple heaven-ward it was rais'dDid swim with rapturous zeal, but there were thoseWho had beheld the enthusiast's melting glanceWith other feelings fill'd; that 'twas a taskOf easy sort to play the saint by dayBefore the public eye, but that all eyesWere closed at night; that Zillah's life was foul,Yea forfeit to the law. Shame—shame to manThat he should trust so easily the tongueThat stabs another's fame! the ill reportWas heard, repeated, and believed,—and soon,For Hamuel by most damned artificeProduced such semblances of guilt, the MaidWas judged to shameful death.Without the wallsThere was a barren field; a place abhorr'd,For it was there where wretched criminalsWere done to die; and there they built the stake,And piled the fuel round, that should consumeThe accused Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd,By God and man. The assembled BethlemitesBeheld the scene, and when they saw the MaidBound to the stake, with what calm holinessShe lifted up her patient looks to Heaven,They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughtsStood Hamuel near the pile, him savage joyLed thitherward, but now within his heart Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangsOf wakening guilt, anticipating Hell.The eye of Zillah as it glanced aroundFell on the murderer once, but not in wrath;And therefore like a dagger it had fallen,Had struck into his soul a cureless wound.Conscience! thou God within us! not in the hourOf triumph, dost thou spare the guilty wretch,Not in the hour of infamy and deathForsake the virtuous! they draw near the stake—And lo! the torch! hold hold your erring hands!Yet quench the rising flames!—they rise! they spread!They reach the suffering Maid! oh God protectThe innocent one!They rose, they spread, they raged—The breath of God went forth; the ascending fireBeneath its influence bent, and all its flamesIn one long lightning flash collecting fierce,Darted and blasted Hamuel—him alone.Hark—what a fearful scream the multitude Pour forth!—and yet more miracles! the stakeBuds out, and spreads its light green leaves and bowersThe innocent Maid, and roses bloom around,Now first beheld since Paradise was lost,And fill with Eden odours all the air.