# Landon in The Literary Gazette 1829/Lines on Newton's Picture of the Disconsolate

Gilbert Stuart Newton
​9
Literary Gazette, 14th February, 1829, Page 113
ORIGINAL POETRY.
LINES ON NEWTON'S PICTURE OF THE DISCONSOLATE.
The present is the painter's—never words
Could be so eloquent of wretchedness
As are that bowed-down form, that hidden face,
Which but to look on fills the eyes with tears:
But in the past the poet has his part,
For memory is the music of the lute.
What is thy history, lady?—may I give
Thy sorrow language?
The room was hung with pictures, and the tints
Of a rich sunset touched them as with life;
The crimson varied o'er each cheek—the light
Was tremulous within the azure eyes—
The braided auburn hair was waved with gold
And she who gazed looked not more actual life
Than did her pictured likeness; only tears
Bespoke the sadness of reality.
 There were six paintings; all were very fair,
And of resembling beauty—chestnut curls,
A sunny autumn on the brow of youth,
Eyes of that blue which lights the violet
When rain-drops hang upon it, and each cheek
Was as a rose-leaf crushed on ivory.
The maiden paced the gallery, and wept;
She thought how each familiar voice was mute,
How she had watched, day after day, the rose
Wasting its colours in a hectic flush,
Till it grew pale for ever—how those eyes,
The blue, the bright, were closed in their long sleep. Of those sweet sisters she was now the last.
She thought o'er instances of daily love,
That rise so bitterly to memory
When the dark grave has shut out all return
Of hopes which they had mingled,—tears they shed,
But pleasant ones, together—laughing schemes
Of festival, snatches of favourite songs
Now never sung.—"There surely is a curse
Upon our house, that thus the young should die—
Alas, my sisters!"—Heavily the tears
Fell from the desolate girl: she turned to where
The open casement brought the summer wind,
As if to soothe her:—green the park beneath
Girdled its own bright river, and the deer
Had gathered on its banks—the ancient oaks
Waved their Ionian foliage—in each copse
The hawthorn was in blossom—and the limes,
Hung with pale yellow flowers, filled the air
As if with incense. Suddenly a horn
Rung from the old dark avenue of beech— A white steed came in sight—it cleared the lawn
As if its speed were in its rider's will—
That graceful rider—o’er his glossy hair
The white plumes waved, like his own spirit’s light;
The falcon on his wrist had not an eye
More flashing in its brightness:—as he past,
He plucked a handful of the hawthorn flowers,
And flung them to his sister. "Emily,
Come, for my hunter's toil is done, and now
I’ll play the poet with thy lute and thee;
Come, for already has the young pale moon
Risen, though colourless, by yon bright west;
Come, for I must not have one fall of dew
Unloose thy curls." A pang shot through her heart:
His eyes how very bright! and on his cheek
There burnt too clear a red for exercise.
 —That night beheld her at the Virgin’s feet,
That night was witness to her vow; no more
The lady Emily joined in the dance,
Or wreathed white pearls around her whiter brow; No more she waked the lute;—and on the day,
The last worst day, her youngest sister died,
She knelt before her father, and implored
A blessing on his consecrated child,
And said the cloister was her destiny.
In vain were prayers, reproaches,—forth she went;
Her heart had dwelt upon this sacrifice
Until it seemed accepted; and her tears,
Her vigils, at the lonely midnight hour,
Her youth resigning even its sweet self,
Would surely plead with Heaven, and win its boon, And that dear brother would be spared to make
His aged father happy. And this hope
Haunted her prayers until it grew to faith.
 A year had passed since last her auburn hair
Was loosed to catch the sunbeams and the breeze;—
A year had passed since in that lonely cell
Her knees had worn away the cold, dark stone:
Austerity and anxious orisons
Had made the paleness of her cheek more clear;
Her face was even as an angel's face
Eyes that have looked to heaven till they are filled
With light, the element of those pure skies;—
Still she was well and happy. Oh! the heart
Makes its own happiness, perchance the best,
When consecrate to one engrossing love!
 Two years had past away;—but once again
She is to stand within her father’s hall;
Her vows dispensed with just for one brief day,
Her brother had besought so earnestly
Her presence when he wed the Lady Blanche.
He said no other hand but hers should give
The bride her orange flowers; for Emily
Would bring a blessing with her.
 ’Twas early morning when that youthful nun
Gazed once again on her forgotten face.
How strange the mirror seemed! Again her hair
Was gathered up with pearls on each dark wave,— Once more the silken robe, the silver veil, Beseemed the Baron's daughter:—but she turned
From the fair glass, and knelt with lifted hands
Before the Virgin‘s image; while her eyes
Swam with sweet tears of earnest gratitude.
She thought upon her brother and his bride—
Of her old father’s joy;—and if one thought
Had crossed her when she saw her own sweet face—
How fair the world she had for aye resigned— That thought had past like some unholy thing,
Which found her heart too pure a resting-place;
And tenderest hopes, and gentle thankfulness,
And self-forgetfulness, filled up the soul,
Whose earthly love but bore it on to heaven.
The shade fell darker from the clustering vine,
Whose green boughs twined the lattice like a wreath;
The lark had ceased the musical glad laugh
With which he hails the morning; note by note
The matin song had died upon the wind;
The dew which hung upon the cypresses
Had turned to sunshine on the waving leaves;—
Yet came her father not for Emily.— How vain it is to say we reckon time
By hours or minutes! Time is in the mind,
And counted but by the events it brings:
Its length is in our feelings. Heavily
It past to her whose hopes were on the wing.
 At length a step sounds in the corridor
It is a letter—but her eye has caught
The dark seal on it, and the hand is strange.
She dropped the scroll—it told her brother's death!—
"My God! my sacrifice has been in vain—
My father desolate in his old age!" L. E. L.