The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/Magdalen
MAGDALEN.8
I.
sword, whose blade has ne’er been wet
With blood, except of freedom’s foes;
That hope which, though its sun be set,
Still with a starlight beauty glows;
A heart that worshipped in Romance
The Spirit of the buried Time,
And dreams of knight, and steed, and lance,
And ladye-love, and minstrel-rhyme;
These had been, and I deemed would be
My joy, whate’er my destiny.
II.
Born in a camp, its watch-fires bright
Alone illumed my cradle-bed;
And I had borne with wild delight
My banner where Bolivar led,
Ere manhood’s hue was on my cheek,
Or manhood’s pride was on my brow.
Its foes are furled—the war-bird’s beak
Is thirsty on the Andes now;
I longed, like her, for other skies
Clouded by Glory’s sacrifice.
III.
In Greece, the brave heart’s Holy Land,
Its soldier-song the bugle sings;
And I have buckled on my brand,
And waited but the sea-wind’s wings,
To bear me where, or lost or won
Her battle, in its frown or smile,
Men live with those of Marathon,
Or die with those of Scio’s isle;
And find in Valor’s tent or tomb,
In life or death, a glorious home.
IV.
I could have left but yesterday
The scene of my boy-years behind,
And floated on my careless way
Wherever willed the breathing wind.
I could have bade adieu to aught
I’ve sought, or met, or welcomed here,
Without an hour of shaded thought,
A sigh, a murmur, or a tear.
Such was I yesterday—but then
I had not known thee, Magdalen.
V.
To-day there is a change within me,
There is a weight upon my brow,
And Fame, whose whispers once could win me
From all I loved, is powerless now.
There ever is a form, a face
Of maiden beauty in my dreams,
Speeding before me, like the race
To ocean of the mountain-streams—
With dancing hair, and laughing eyes,
That seem to mock me as it flies.
VI.
My sword—it slumbers in its sheath;
My hopes—their starry light is gone;
My heart—the fabled clock of death
Beats with the same low, lingering tone:
And this, the land of Magdalen,
Seems now the only spot on earth
Where skies are blue and flowers are green;
And here I build my household hearth,
And breathe my song of joy, and twine
A lovely being’s name with mine.
VII.
In vain! in vain! the sail is spread;
To sea! to sea! my task is there;
But when among the unmourned dead
They lay me, and the ocean air
Brings tidings of my day of doom,
Mayst thou be then, as now thou art,
The load-star of a happy home;
In smile and voice, in eye and heart
The same as thou hast ever been,
The loved, the lovely Magdalen.