Cordelia
“The jewels of our father, with washed eyes Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are And, like a sister, am most loth to tell Your faults, as they are named. Use well our father: To your professed bosoms I commit him. But yet, alas!—stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So farewell to you both.”
Cordelia, unabashed and strong, Her voice's quite scarcely less Than yester-eve, enduring wrong And curses of her father's tongue, Departs, a righteous-souled princess; Bidding her sisters cherish him.
They turn on her and fix their eyes, But cease not passing inward;—one Sneering with lips still curled to lies, Sinuous of body, serpent-wise; Her footfall creeps, and her looks shun The very thing on which they dwell.
The other, proud, with heavy cheeks And massive forehead, where remains A mark of frowning. If she seeks With smiles to tame her eyes, or speaks, Her mouth grows wanton: she disdains The ground with haughty, measured steps.
The silent years had grown between Father and daughter. Always she Had waited on his will, and been Foremost in doing it,—unseen Often: she wished him not to see, But served him for his sake alone.
He saw her constant love; and, tho' Occasion surely was not scant, Perhaps had never sought to know How she could give it wording. So His love, not stumbling at a want, Among the three preferred her first.
Her's is the soul not stubborn, yet Asserting self. The heart was rich; But, questioned, she had rather let Men judge her conscious of a debt Than freely giving: thus, her speech Is love according to her bond.
In France the queen Cordelia had Her hours well satisfied with love: She loved her king, too, and was glad: And yet, at times, a something sad, May be, was with her, thinking of The manner of his life at home.
But this does not usurp her mind. It is but sorrow guessed from far Thro' twilight dimly. She must find Her duty elsewhere: not resigned— Because she knows them what they are, Yet scarcely ruffled from her peace.
Cordelia—a name well revered; Synonymous with truth and tried Affection; which but needs be heard To raise one selfsame thought endeared To men and women far and wide; A name our mothers taught to us.
Like placid faces which you knew Years since, but not again shall meet; On a sick bed like wind that blew; An excellent thing, best likened to Her own voice, gentle, soft, and sweet; Shakpere's Cordelia;—better thus.