The Effigies

“Der rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann:Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied.Allein die Thränen, die unendlichenDer überbliebnen, der verlass’nen Frau,Zählt keine Nachwelt.” Goethe.

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb,With shield and crested head,Sleeps proudly in the purple gloomBy the stain’d window shed;The records of thy name and raceHave faded from the stone,Yet, through a cloud of years, I traceWhat thou hast been and done.

A banner, from its flashing spear,Flung out o’er many a fight;A war-cry ringing far and clear,And strong to turn the flight;An arm that bravely bore the lanceOn for the holy shrine;A haughty heart and a kingly glance--Chief! were not these things thine?

A lofty place where leaders sateAround the council board;In festive halls a chair of stateWhen the blood-red wine was pour’d;A name that drew a prouder toneFrom herald, harp, and bard:Surely these things were all thine own--So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptured form at restBy the arm’d knight is laid,With meek hands folded o’er a breastIn matron robes array’d;What was thy tale?--O gentle mateOf him, the bold and free,Bound unto his victorious fate,What bard hath sung of thee?

He woo’d a bright and burning star--Thine was the void, the gloom,The straining eye that follow’d farHis fast-receding plume;The heart-sick listening while his steedSent echoes on the breeze;The pang--but when did Fame take heedOf griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hoursThrough many a lonely dayWhile bending o’er thy broider’d flowers,With spirits far away;Thy weeping midnight prayers for himWho fought on Syrian plains,Thy watchings till the torch grew dim--These fill no minstrel strains.

A still, sad life was thine!--long yearsWith tasks unguerdon’d fraught--Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,Vigils of anxious thought;Prayer at the cross in fervour pour’d,Alms to the pilgrim given--Oh! happy, happier than thy lord,In that lone path to heaven!