Gertrude; Or, Fidelity Till Death

Felicia Dorothea Hemans

1793 to 1835

Track 1

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But oh! with such a glazing eye,

Which severs thee from nature, shall un— loose

The wind rose high—but with it rose

Love, love, of mortal agony

Doubt not its memory's living power

Bear on, bear nobly on!

Whose rest shall soon be won.

With such a curdling cheek—

Its pale stars watching to behold

And were not these high words to flow

The holy heaven above,

In the terrific face of armed law,

But nothing, till that latest agony

Her voice, that he might hear:

My Rudolph, say not so!

And his worn spirit pass'd.

And bid me not depart,' she cried;

Through all that night of bitterest woe

Beside his tortured form,

JOANNA BAILLIE

We have the blessed heaven in view

Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be

Hath the world aught for me to fear,

And on his cheek such kisses press'd

The world! what means it?—mine is here—

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,

She bore her lofty part;

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,

I will not leave thee now.

I never will forsake thee.

This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,

Whose touch upon the lute-chords low

Strength to forsake it not!

She had her meed—one smile in death—

When death is on thy brow?

To strengthen me through this!

From woman's breaking heart?

She bathed his lips with dew,

The might of earthly love.

And pouring her deep soul in prayer

To happy bosoms near;

Peace! peace! I cannot go.

And thou, mine honour'd love and true,

Had still'd his heart so oft.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow

All that she loved was there.

While she sat striving with despair

And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave

Enduring to the last!

The night was round her clear and cold,

The breeze threw back her hair;

With her pale hands and soft,

This is no time to quit thy side—

Dark lowers our fate,

And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;

Of glory and of bliss;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed—

Perchance that dark hour brought repose

Forth on the rushing storm.

Thou, only thou, should'st speak!

As hope and joy ne'er knew.

She knelt on that sad spot,

While even as o'er a martyr's grave

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,

I have been with thee in thine hour

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Dark lowers our fate,
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;
But nothing, till that latest agony
Which severs thee from nature, shall un— loose
This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,
In the terrific face of armed law,
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be
I never will forsake thee.
JOANNA BAILLIE

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,
The breeze threw back her hair;
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed—
All that she loved was there.
The night was round her clear and cold,
The holy heaven above,
Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.

'And bid me not depart,' she cried;
'My Rudolph, say not so!
This is no time to quit thy side—
Peace! peace! I cannot go.
Hath the world aught for me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?
The world! what means it?—mine is here—
I will not leave thee now.

'I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss;
Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honour'd love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!
We have the blessed heaven in view
Whose rest shall soon be won.'

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;
But oh! with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek—
Love, love, of mortal agony
Thou, only thou, should'st speak!

The wind rose high—but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;
While she sat striving with despair
Beside his tortured form,
And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had still'd his heart so oft.
She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!
She had her meed—one smile in death—
And his worn spirit pass'd.
While even as o'er a martyr's grave
She knelt on that sad spot,
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!

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Gertrude; Or, Fidelity Till Death

Felicia Dorothea Hemans

1793 to 1835

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