The Widow Poem by John Wilson

The courtly hall is gleaming bright
With fashion's graceful throng--
All hearts are chained in still delight,
For like the heaven-borne voice of night
Breathes Handel's sacred song.
Nor on my spirit melts in vain
The deep—the wild—the mournful strain
That fills the echoing hall
(Though many a callous soul be there)
With sighs, and sobs, and cherished pain--
While on a face, as Seraph's fair,
Mine eyes in sadness fall.
Not those the tears that smiling flow
As fancied sorrow bleeds,
Like dew upon the rose's glow;
--That Lady 'mid the glittering show
Is clothed in widow's weeds.
She sits in reverie profound,
And drinks and lives upon the sound,
As if she ne'er would wake!
Her closed eyes cannot hold the tears
That tell what dreams her soul have bound--
In memory they of other years
For a dead husband's sake.
Methinks her inmost soul lies spread
Before my tearful sight--
A garden whose best flowers are dead,
A sky still fair (though darkenèd)
With hues of lingering light.
I see the varying feelings chase
Each other o'er her pallid face,
From shade to deepest gloom.
She thinks on living objects dear,
And pleasure lends a cheerful grace;
But oh! that look so dim and drear,
—Her heart is in the tomb.
Rivalling the tender crescent Moon
The Star of evening shines--
A warm, still, balmy night of June,
Low-murmuring with a fitful tune
From yonder grove of pines.
In the silence of that starry sky,
Exchanging vows of constancy,
Two happy lovers stray.
—To her how sad and strange! to know,
In darkness while the phantoms fade,
That one a widowed wretch is now,
The other in the clay.
A wilder gleam disturbs her eye.
Oh! hush the deep'ning strain!
And must the youthful Warrior die?
A gorgeous funeral passes by,
The dead-march stuns her brain.
The singing voice she hears no more,
Across his grave the thunders roar!
How weeps yon gallant band
O'er him their valour could not save!
For the bayonet is red with gore,
And he, the beautiful and brave,
Now sleeps in Egypt's sand.
But far away in cloud and mist
The ghastly vision swims.
—Unto that dying cadence list!
She thinks the voices of the blest
Now chant their evening hymns.
O for a dove's unwearied wing,
That she might fly where angels sing
Around the judgment-seat;
That Spirit pure to kiss again,
And smile at earthly sorrowing!
Washed free from every mortal stain,
At Jesus' blessèd feet.
How longs her spirit to recall
That prayer so vain and wild!
For, idly-wandering round the Hall,
Her eyes are startled as they fall
On her own beauteous Child.
Gazing on one so good and fair,
Less mournful breathes that holy air,
And almost melts to mirth:
Pleased will she sojourn here a while,
And see, beneath her pious care,
In heaven's most gracious sunshine smile
The sweetest Flower on earth.
The song dies 'mid the silent strings,
And the Hall is now alive
With a thousand gay and fluttering things;
--The noise to her a comfort brings,
Her heart and soul revive.
With solemn pace and loving pride
She walks by her fair daughter's side,
Who views with young delight
The gaudy sparkling revelry,--
Unconscious that from far and wide
On her is turned each charmèd eye--
The Beauty of the night!
A Spirit she! and Joy her name!
She walks upon the air;
Grace swims throughout her fragile frame,
And glistens like a lambent flame,
Amid her golden hair.
Her eyes are of the heavenly blue,
A cloudless twilight bathed in dew;
The blushes on her cheek,
Like the roses of the vernal year
That lend the virgin snow their hue--
And oh! what pure delight to hear
The gentle Vision speak!
Yet dearer than that rosy glow
To me yon cheek so wan;
Lovely I thought it long ago,
But lovelier far now blanched with woe
Like the breast-down of the swan.
Then worship ye the sweet—the young--
Hang on the witchcraft of her tongue,
Wild-murmuring like the lute.
On thee, O Lady! let me gaze,
Thy soul is now a lyre unstrung,
But I hear the voice of other days,
Though these pale lips be mute.
Lovely thou art! yet none may dare
That placid soul to move.
Most beautiful thy braided hair,
But awful holiness breathes there
Unmeet for earthly love.
More touching far than deep distress
Thy smiles of languid happiness,
That like the gleams of Even
O'er thy calm cheek serenely play.
--Thus at the silent hour we bless,
Unmindful of the joyous day,
The still sad face of Heaven.