---

Felicia Dorothea Hemans - The Effigies
Work rating: Low

Warrior! whose image on thy tomb,
  With shield and crested head,
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom
  By the stain`d window shed;
The records of thy name and race
  Have faded from the stone,
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace
  What 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 lance
  On for the holy shrine;
A haughty heart and a kingly glance–
  Chief! were not these things thine? 

A lofty place where leaders sate
  Around the council-board;
In festive halls a chair of state
  When the blood-red wine was pour`d;
A name that drew a prouder tone
  From herald, harp, and bard;–
Surely these things were all thine own,–
  So hadst thou thy reward.

Woman! whose sculptur`d form at rest
  By the armed knight is laid,
With meek hands folded o`er a breast
  In matron robes array`d;
What was thy tale?–Oh! gentle mate
  Of 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 far
  His fast-receding plume;
The heart-sick listening while his steed
  Sent echoes on the breeze;
The pang–but when did Fame take heed
  Of griefs obscure as these? 

Thy silent and secluded hours
  Thro` many a lonely day,
While bending o`er thy broider`d flowers,
  With spirit far away;
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him
  Who fought on Syrian plains,
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim–
  These fill no minstrel strains. 

A still, sad life was thine!–long years
  With 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!
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.