# Records of Woman: with Other Poems/The Peasant Girl of the Rhone

THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE.
——There is but one place in the world. Thither where he lies buried!
******** There, there is all that still remains of him, That single spot is the whole earth to me. Coleridge's Wallenstein.
Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert. Childe Harold.
There went a warrior's funeral thro' the night, A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, Far down the waters. Heavily and dead, Under the moaning trees the horse-hoof's tread
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, As chieftains pass'd; and solemnly the swell Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river Borne with the gale, and with the leaves low shiver, Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale,  Wore man's mute anguish sternly;—but of one Oh! who shall speak? What words his brow unveil?  A father following to the grave his son! That is no grief to picture! Sad and slow,  Thro' the wood-shadows moved the knightly train, With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low,  Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain, Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reached the lone  Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown  Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. Stately they trod the hollow ringing aisle, A strange deep echo shuddered thro' the pile, Till crested heads at last, in silence bent Round the De Coucis' antique monument,
When dust to dust was given:—and Aymer slept  Beneath the drooping banners of his line, Whose broidered folds the Syrian wind had swept  Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine: So the sad rite was clos'd.—The sculptor gave Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave, And the pale image of a youth, arrayed As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid  In slumber on his shield.—Then all was done, All still, around the dead.—His name was heard. Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were stirr'd  By some old song, or tale of battle won, Told round the hearth: but in his father's breast Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd On to their mark; and in his friend's clear eye There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by; And with the brethren of his fields, the feast Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceas'd
Mingled with theirs.—Ev'n thus life's rushing tide Bears back affection from the grave's dark side: Alas! to think of this!—the heart's void place  Filled up so soon!—so like a summer-cloud, All that we lov'd to pass and leave no trace!—  He lay forgotten in his early shroud. Forgotten?—not of all!—the sunny smile Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile, And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew From the bright brow; and all the sweetness lying  Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep, And all the music with that young voice dying,  Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap As at a hunter's bugle—these things lived Still in one breast, whose silent love survived The pomps of kindred sorrow.—Day by day, On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, Thro' the dim fane soft summer-odours breathing, And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing,
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing Thro' storied windows down. The violet there Might speak of love—a secret love and lowly, And the rose image all things fleet and fair, And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, As for an altar, wove the radiant band? Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, To blush through every season?—Blight and chill Might touch the changing woods, but duly still, For years, those gorgeous coronals renewed,  And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, Even thro' mid-winter, filled the solitude  With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm. Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring In lone devotedness!
One spring-morn rose,  And found, within that tomb's proud shadow laid— Oh! not as midst the vineyards, to repose  From the fierce noon—a dark-hair'd peasant maid: Who could reveal her story?—That still face  Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow, And the curv'd lip, there lingered yet such grace  As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye— For death was on its lids—fell mournfully. But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care. Whence came that early blight?—Her kindred's place Was not amidst the high De Couci race; Yet there her shrine had been!—She grasp'd a wreath— The tomb's last garland!—This was love in death!