Original Poetry.

Thames Star, Volume XV, Issue 4952, 22 November 1884, Page 1

Original Poetry.

CONSTANCY.

Long, long ago, in a Norman Hall, Dwelt a ladye, young and fair, And the moonbeams pale, like a bridal veil, Nightly foil on her raven hair. Love's sacred fire on the shrine of her heart With a steady flame burned high— Its radiance bright, revealed by the light In the maiden's soft dark eye. The ladyo was noble, her path seemed smooth, Hope's star like a diadem gleamed On her fair young brow, as recalling Loye'i vow, Of Harold she fondly dreamed. Her love for Harold was tender and true, And well was the maiden aware That nothing would part, from that gallant heart, His Edith devoted and fair. But time brought changes! No longer knight He is King, with a sceptre and crown : And a beauteous Queen made Edith I ween, Adding fame to her lord's renown ? Ah no !ah no! Didst ever find True Love's course smoothly run ? The heart may ache, the heart may break, Though it has been sought and won. Harold, as England's King, must wed A maiden of English race, With keenest pain he sought again His lovely Edith's face. With downcast eyes and faltering tongo* Poor Edith soon he told, As England's King, no wedding ring Their plighted faith might hold: That he must wed an English wife His people had decreed; For Harold's weal woke Edith's zeal, And quick declared him freed. Her love was true, so true that self Could there no portion claim; She bade him go, forget his woe— For Edith would not blame. He still would have her heart's pure love As in the happy past, And she would pray, that o'er hie way, No shadow might be cast. Her name was punctured o'er his heart— A fashion of that day; With one fond look, farewell he took, And Harold went away. High-souled, unselfish Edith left, Her star of promise set: Life's sunshine gone, her pathway lone, No more the lovers met. With thrill of pain at times she thought A name was o'er her own— On Harold's heart; the tears might Btart, But the pale lips made no moan. The years went by I—Who cared or knew That in Harold's heart was a grave, Where his love lay deep, in its last long sleep, For the ladye beyond the wave. A graceful consort shared his throne, Her silken hair was bright: And loyal in mem towards his English Queen Was Harold in Heaven's sight. * # * * # • At eventide, on a battle-field, When the dreadful fight was done, With cautious tread 'mongst the dying ajid dead, A mournful search was begun By a woman attired in humble garb, With a veiled and bandaged brow— Alone, undismayed, 'tis the Norman maid! She is looking for Harold now. She hears the murmurous dying prayer, The heart-wrung groan of pain, Bnt never a tone of the voice well known Will fall on her ear again! She found the casket, but not the gem, Her lover's soul had fled. 'Neath the starlight cold, on the blood-stained mould, Harold the King lay dead. " Edith" still on his heart he bore, And "England" above it traced, While true to his love, yet duty above Had the noble spirit placed. Tenderly pressed on his silent brow Were her kisses, warm and pure. Thus Edith grave, so tried and brave, Learned the etern task —Endure! AUFHA. Thames.