Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.
By Jane of FranceEmma C. Embury (18061863)
P
Came gaspingly, as if her heart was in the grasp of death,
While listening to the harsh decree that robb’d her of a throne,
And left the gentle child of kings in the wide world alone.
With all affection’s tender care, round her whom well they loved;
Stirless she sate, as if enchained by some resistless spell,
Till with one wild, heart-piercing shriek in their embrace she fell.
The veriest wretch might pity then the envied Jane of France;
But soon her o’erfraught heart gave way, tears came to her relief,
And thus in low and plaintive tones she breath’d her hopeless grief:
My trembling hand first felt the cold, reluctant clasp of thine;
And yet I hoped—My own beloved, how may I teach my heart
To gaze upon thy gentle face and know that we must part?
That years of such deep love as mine some change ere this had wrought:
I dream’d the hour might yet arrive, when sick of passion’s strife,
Thy heart would turn with quiet joy to thy neglected wife.
And think that e’er the time might come when thou wouldst cease to charm?
For ne’er till then wilt thou be freed from beauty’s magic art,
Or cease to prize a sunny smile beyond a faithful heart.
The loathing that was in thine eye, where’er it met my face:
Oh! I would give the fairest realm, beneath the all-seeing sun,
To win but such a form as thou mightst love to look upon.
Vainly within her gentle breast affection wildly stirs;
And bitterly will she deplore, amid her sick heart’s dearth,
The hour that fix’d her fearful doom—a helot from her birth.
Had taught me then from my young heart thine image to efface;
But surely even love’s sweet tones could ne’er have power to bless
My bosom with such joy as did thy pitying tenderness.
And bid th’ unbending spirit bow that never knew control;
But harder still when thus the heart against itself must rise,
And struggle on, while every hope that nerved the warfare dies.
The gentleness of thought and word which once my proud heart spurn’d;
The treasures of an untouch’d heart, the wealth of love’s rich mine,
These are the offerings that I laid upon my idol’s shrine.
In vain I knelt before the cross, I saw but Louis there:
To him I gave the worship that I should have paid my God
But oh! should his have been the hand to wield the avenging rod?”