# Records of Woman: with Other Poems/Costanza

COSTANZA.
——Art thou then desolate? Of friends, of hopes forsaken?—Come to me! I am thine own.—Have trusted hearts prov'd false? Flatterers deceiv'd thee? Wanderer, come to me! Why didst thou ever leave me? Know'st thou all I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear, For thy sake? Know'st thou that thy voice had power To shake me with a thrill of happiness By one kind tone?—to fill mine eyes with tears Of yearning love? And thou—oh! thou didst throw That crush'd affection back upon my heart;— Yet come to me!—it died not.
She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell Thro' the stain'd window of her lonely cell, And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna-brow,
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw Bright waves of gold—the autumn forest's hue— Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread By painting's touch around some holy head, Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye, Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, What solemn fervour lived! And yet what wo. Lay like some buried thing, still seen below The glassy tide! Oh! he that could reveal What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel, Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears! But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, And of the gentle saint no more was known, Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn Rose thro' each murmur of the green, and dim, And ancient solitude; where hidden streams Went moaning thro' the grass, like sounds in dreams,
Music for weary hearts! Midst leaves and flowers She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread To the sick peasant on his lowly bed, Came, and brought hope; while scarce of mortal birth He deem'd the pale fair form, that held on earth Communion but with grief.
Ere long a cell,  A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone Gleam'd thro' the dark trees o'er a sparkling well,  And a sweet voice, of rich, yet mournful tone, Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again Thro' the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, That made the cypress quiver where it stood In day's last crimson soaring from the wood Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, Other and wilder sounds in tumult met
The floating song. Strange sounds!—the trumpet's peal, Made hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel, The rallying war-cry.—In the mountain-pass, There had been combat; blood was on the grass, Banners had strewn the waters; chiefs lay dying, And the pine-branches crashed before the flying.
And all was chang'd within the still retreat, Costanza's home:—there enter'd hurrying feet,  Dark looks of shame and sorrow; mail-clad men,  Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-roof, bore A wounded warrior in: the rocky floor Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, As there they laid their leader, and implor'd The sweet saint's prayers to heal him; then for flight. Thro' the wide forest and the mantling night, Sped breathlessly again.—They pass’d—but he, The stateliest of a host—alas! to see
What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep, Thus changed!—a fearful thing! His golden crest Was shiver'd, and the bright scarf on his breast— Some costly love-gift—rent:—but what of these? There were the clustering raven-locks—the breeze As it came in thro' lime and myrtle flowers, Might scarcely lift them steep'd in bloody showers So heavily upon the pallid clay Of the damp cheek they hung! the eye's dark ray— Where was it?—and the lips!—they gasp'd apart, With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, Still proudly beautiful! but that white hue— Was it not death’s?—that stillness—that cold dew On the scarr'd forehead? No! his spirit broke From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke To wander in wild dreams; and there he lay, By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, The haughty chief of thousands—the forsaken
Of all save one!—She fled not. Day by day— Such hours are woman's birthright—she, unknown. Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong man’s raving. He felt them not, nor mark'd the light veil'd form Still hovering nigh; yet sometimes, when that storm  Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low As a young mother's by the cradle singing, Would sooth him with sweet aves, gently bringing  Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow Ebb'd from his hollow cheek.
At last faint gleams Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams, And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, And gazing round him from his leafy bed, He murmur'd forth, "Where am I? What soft strain Pass'd, like a breeze, across my burning brain?
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone Of life's first music, and a thought of one— Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side? All lost!—and this is death!—I cannot die Without forgiveness from that mournful eye! Away! the earth hath lost her. Was she born To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn? My first, my holiest love!—her broken heart Lies low, and I—unpardon'd I depart."
But then Costanza rais'd the shadowy veil From her dark locks and features brightly pale, And stood before him with a smile—oh! ne'er Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear— And said, "Cesario! look on me; I live To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust As should be Heaven's alone—and Heaven is just! I bless thee—be at peace!"
But o'er his frame Too fast the strong tide rush’d—the sudden shame, The joy, th' amaze!—he bow'd his head—it fell On the wrong'd bosom which had lov'd so well; And love still perfect, gave him refuge there,— His last faint breath just wav'd her floating hair.