Part I

The glorious Maid, whose soul to heaven is goneAnd left the rest cold earth, she who was grownA pillar of true valour, and had gain'dMuch honour by her victory, and chain'dThat god which doth the world with terror bind,Using no armour but her own chaste mind;A fair aspect, coy thoughts, and words well weigh'd,Sweet modesty to these gave friendly aid.It was a miracle on earth to seeThe bow and arrows of the deity,And all his armour broke, who erst had slainSuch numbers, and so many captive ta'en;The fair dame from the noble sight withdrewWith her choice company,--they were but few.And made a little troop, true virtue's rare,--Yet each of them did by herself appearA theme for poems, and might well inciteThe best historian: they bore a whiteUnspotted ermine, in a field of green,About whose neck a topaz chain was seenSet in pure gold; their heavenly words and gait,Express'd them blest were born for such a fate.Bright stars they seem'd, she did a sun appear,Who darken'd not the rest, but made more clearTheir splendour; honour in brave minds is found:This troop, with violets and roses crown'd,Cheerfully march'd, when lo, I might espyAnother ensign dreadful to mine eye--A lady clothed in black, whose stern looks wereWith horror fill'd, and did like hell appear,Advanced, and said, "You who are proud to beSo fair and young, yet have no eyes to seeHow near you are your end; behold, I amShe, whom they, fierce, and blind, and cruel name,Who meet untimely deaths; 'twas I did makeGreece subject, and the Roman Empire shake;My piercing sword sack'd Troy, how many rudeAnd barbarous people are by me subdued?Many ambitious, vain, and amorous thoughtMy unwish'd presence hath to nothing brought;Now am I come to you, while yet your stateIs happy, ere you feel a harder fate.""On these you have no power," she then replied,(Who had more worth than all the world beside,)"And little over me; but there is oneWho will be deeply grieved when I am gone,His happiness doth on my life depend,I shall find freedom in a peaceful end."As one who glancing with a sudden eyeSome unexpected object doth espy;Then looks again, and doth his own haste blameSo in a doubting pause, this cruel dameA little stay'd, and said, "The rest I callTo mind, and know I have o'ercome them all:"Then with less fierce aspect, she said, "Thou guideOf this fair crew, hast not my strength assay'd,Let her advise, who may command, preventDecrepit age, 'tis but a punishment;From me this honour thou alone shalt have,Without or fear or pain, to find thy grave.""As He shall please, who dwelleth in the heavenAnd rules on earth, such portion must be givenTo me, as others from thy hand receive,"She answered then; afar we might perceiveMillions of dead heap'd on th' adjacent plain;No verse nor prose may comprehend the slainDid on Death's triumph wait, from India,From Spain, and from Morocco, from Cathay,And all the skirts of th' earth they gather'd were;Who had most happy lived, attended there:Popes, Emperors, nor Kings, no ensigns woreOf their past height, but naked show'd and poor.Where be their riches, where their precious gems,Their mitres, sceptres, robes, and diadems?O miserable men, whose hopes ariseFrom worldly joys, yet be there few so wiseAs in those trifling follies not to trust;And if they be deceived, in end 'tis just:Ah! more than blind, what gain you by your toil?You must return once to your mother's soil,And after-times your names shall hardly know,Nor any profit from your labour grow;All those strange countries by your warlike strokeSubmitted to a tributary yoke;The fuel erst of your ambitious fire,What help they now? The vast and bad desireOf wealth and power at a bloody rateIs wicked,--better bread and water eatWith peace; a wooden dish doth seldom holdA poison'd draught; glass is more safe than gold;But for this theme a larger time will ask,I must betake me to my former task.The fatal hour of her short life drew near,That doubtful passage which the world doth fear;Another company, who had not beenFreed from their earthy burden there were seen,To try if prayers could appease the wrath,Or stay th' inexorable hand, of Death.That beauteous crowd convened to see the endWhich all must taste; each neighbour, every friendStood by, when grim Death with her hand took hold,And pull'd away one only hair of gold,Thus from the world this fairest flower is ta'enTo make her shine more bright, not out of spleenHow many moaning plaints, what store of criesWere utter'd there, when Fate shut those fair eyesFor which so oft I sung; whose beauty burn'dMy tortured heart so long; while others mourn'd,She pleased, and quiet did the fruit enjoyOf her blest life: "Farewell," without annoy,"True saint on earth," said they; so might she beEsteem'd, but nothing bates Death's cruelty.What shall become of others, since so pureA body did such heats and colds endure,And changed so often in so little space?Ah, worldly hopes, how blind you be, how base!If since I bathe the ground with flowing tearsFor that mild soul, who sees it, witness bears;And thou who read'st mayst judge she fetter'd meThe sixth of April, and did set me freeOn the same day and month. Oh! how the wayOf fortune is unsure; none hates the dayOf slavery, or of death, so much as IAbhor the time which wrought my liberty,And my too lasting life; it had been justMy greater age had first been turn'd to dust,And paid to time, and to the world, the debtI owed, then earth had kept her glorious state:Now at what rate I should the sorrow prizeI know not, nor have heart that can sufficeThe sad affliction to relate in verseOf these fair dames, that wept about her hearse;"Courtesy, Virtue, Beauty, all are lost;What shall become of us? None else can boastSuch high perfection; no more we shallHear her wise words, nor the angelicalSweet music of her voice." While thus they cried,The parting spirit doth itself divideWith every virtue from the noble breast,As some grave hermit seeks a lonely rest:The heavens were clear, and all the ambient airWithout a threatening cloud; no adversaire'Durst once appear, or her calm mind affright;Death singly did herself conclude the fight;After, when fear, and the extremest plaintWere ceased, th' attentive eyes of all were bentOn that fair face, and by despair becameSecure; she who was spent, not like a flameBy force extinguish'd, but as lights decay,And undiscerned waste themselves away:Thus went the soul in peace; so lamps are spent,As the oil fails which gave them nourishment;In sum, her countenance you still might knowThe same it was, not pale, but white as snow,Which on the tops of hills in gentle flakesFalls in a calm, or as a man that takesDesir'ed rest, as if her lovely sightWere closed with sweetest sleep, after the spriteWas gone. If this be that fools call to die,Death seem'd in her exceeding fair to be.

And now closed in the last hour's narrow spanOf that so glorious and so brief career,Ere the dark pass so terrible to man!And a fair troop of ladies gather'd there,Still of this earth, with grace and honour crown'd,To mark if ever Death remorseful were.This gentle company thus throng'd around,In her contemplating the awful endAll once must make, by law of nature bound;Each was a neighbour, each a sorrowing friend.Then Death stretch'd forth his hand, in that dread hour,From her bright head a golden hair to rend,Thus culling of this earth the fairest flower;Nor hate impell'd the deed, but pride, to dareAssert o'er highest excellence his power.What tearful lamentations fill the airThe while those beauteous eyes alone are dry,Whose sway my burning thoughts and lays declare!And while in grief dissolved all weep and sigh,She, in meek silence, joyous sits secure,Gathering already virtue's guerdon high."Depart in peace, O mortal goddess pure!"They said; and such she was: although it nought'Gainst mightier Death avail'd, so stern--so sure!Alas for others! if a few nights wroughtIn her each change of suffering dust below!Oh! Hope, how false! how blind all human thought!Whether in earth sank deep the dews of woeFor the bright spirit that had pass'd away,Think, ye who listen! they who witness'd know.'Twas the first hour, of April the sixth day,That bound me, and, alas! now sets me free:How Fortune doth her fickleness display!None ever grieved for loss of libertyOr doom of death as I for freedom grieve,And life prolong'd, who only ask to die.Due to the world it had been her to leave,And me, of earlier birth, to have laid low,Nor of its pride and boast the age bereave.How great the grief it is not mine to show,Scarce dare I think, still less by numbers try,Or by vain speech to ease my weight of woe.Virtue is dead, beauty and courtesy!The sorrowing dames her honour'd couch around"For what are we reserved?" in anguish cry;"Where now in woman will all grace be found?Who with her wise and gentle words be blest,And drink of her sweet song th' angelic sound?"The spirit parting from that beauteous breast,In its meek virtues wrapt, and best prepared,Had with serenity the heavens imprest:No power of darkness, with ill influence, daredWithin a space so holy to intrude,Till Death his terrible triumph had declared.Then hush'd was all lament, all fear subdued;Each on those beauteous features gazed intent,And from despair was arm'd with fortitude.As a pure flame that not by force is spent,But faint and fainter softly dies away,Pass'd gently forth in peace the soul content:And as a light of clear and steady ray,When fails the source from which its brightness flows,She to the last held on her-wonted way.Pale, was she? no, but white as shrouding snows,That, when the winds are lull'd, fall silently,She seem'd as one o'erwearied to repose.E'en as in balmy slumbers lapt to lie(The spirit parted from the form below),In her appear'd what th' unwise term to die;And Death sate beauteous on her beauteous brow.