 | The Fate of Adelaide |  |
VI.
Oh, love! how exquisite thy visions are!
Spring of the soul, what flowers can equal thine?
When every other virtue fled from earth,
Thou linger'dst still, last solace of our path.
What were the world, bereft of thee?—a void,
Without one sunny place on which the eye
Might rest for sweet refreshment. Thou art not
A summer blossom only; it is thine
To bloom in beauty on the wint'ry hour:
When storms and sorrows press the spirit down,
Then dost thou come, a gentle comforter,
Tenderly binding up the broken heart.—
Celestial thy first dawning! it is like
The Morn awakening the smiling Hours,
Calling the flowers from their fragrant dreams,
And breathing melody and perfume around.
So does thy influence brighten on the soul,
Waking it to a new enchanted world,
Where every thought is gladness.
Spring of the soul, what flowers can equal thine?
When every other virtue fled from earth,
Thou linger'dst still, last solace of our path.
What were the world, bereft of thee?—a void,
Without one sunny place on which the eye
Might rest for sweet refreshment. Thou art not
A summer blossom only; it is thine
To bloom in beauty on the wint'ry hour:
When storms and sorrows press the spirit down,
15
Tenderly binding up the broken heart.—
Celestial thy first dawning! it is like
The Morn awakening the smiling Hours,
Calling the flowers from their fragrant dreams,
And breathing melody and perfume around.
So does thy influence brighten on the soul,
Waking it to a new enchanted world,
Where every thought is gladness.
Never yet
Hath love dwelt in a lovelier temple than
That youthful maiden's form: she had now reach'd
Youth's fairest season, when the opening flower
Is just between the green bud and full rose.
There was a melancholy beauty in
The deep blue of her eyes;—'twas sad, yet soft,
Melting in tenderness 'neath the dark lash
That curtain'd its mild splendor; ev'ry glance
Bespoke a spirit wild and fanciful,—
A heart that answer'd sorrow's slightest thrill;
And thoughts that dwelt not on reality,
But lov'd to wander in imagin'd scenes,
'Mid fancy's fair creation revelling.
A tender bloom just dawn'd upon her cheek,
Too pale, to say the rose was glowing there,
But the soft hue which the white violet
Wears on its perfum'd leaf; save when a blush.
Deepen'd to crimson radiance o'er her face.
Her voice was sweet as the last dying close
Waked from the wild guitar in Spanish groves,
When the fond lover pours his soul in song,
And echo answers like a maiden's sigh.
It had those silvery tones which, lingering, hang
Upon the ear, and melt into the heart.
Young, lovely with the sunny brow of youth,
More touching from the pensive shade which threw
A magic charm around it. Such she was,
Fair as the spring time of her native vales.
I need not say how sweet the accents fell,
When first Orlando told his tale of love—
How tender was the blush that welcom'd it;
Nor need I tell how happy were the hours
That pass'd away in love's enchanted dreams;
'Twas all the bard e'er feign'd, or young hearts felt,
Of joys, like spring days, bright and fugitive.—
But not long in the myrtle bowers of bliss
The warrior may remain; he may not see
His laurels pine in shade, or the deep stain
Of rust upon his sword. Again the sound
Of arms recall'd Orlando to the field;
And he will go: not Adelaide's, the love
That would enchain him to its witchery—
No; she would bid her lover from her arms,
E'en tho' her heart were breaking; point to fame,
Albeit 'twere more than death unto her soul!
Hath love dwelt in a lovelier temple than
That youthful maiden's form: she had now reach'd
Youth's fairest season, when the opening flower
Is just between the green bud and full rose.
There was a melancholy beauty in
The deep blue of her eyes;—'twas sad, yet soft,
Melting in tenderness 'neath the dark lash
That curtain'd its mild splendor; ev'ry glance
Bespoke a spirit wild and fanciful,—
16
And thoughts that dwelt not on reality,
But lov'd to wander in imagin'd scenes,
'Mid fancy's fair creation revelling.
A tender bloom just dawn'd upon her cheek,
Too pale, to say the rose was glowing there,
But the soft hue which the white violet
Wears on its perfum'd leaf; save when a blush.
Deepen'd to crimson radiance o'er her face.
Her voice was sweet as the last dying close
Waked from the wild guitar in Spanish groves,
When the fond lover pours his soul in song,
And echo answers like a maiden's sigh.
It had those silvery tones which, lingering, hang
Upon the ear, and melt into the heart.
Young, lovely with the sunny brow of youth,
More touching from the pensive shade which threw
A magic charm around it. Such she was,
Fair as the spring time of her native vales.
17
When first Orlando told his tale of love—
How tender was the blush that welcom'd it;
Nor need I tell how happy were the hours
That pass'd away in love's enchanted dreams;
'Twas all the bard e'er feign'd, or young hearts felt,
Of joys, like spring days, bright and fugitive.—
But not long in the myrtle bowers of bliss
The warrior may remain; he may not see
His laurels pine in shade, or the deep stain
Of rust upon his sword. Again the sound
Of arms recall'd Orlando to the field;
And he will go: not Adelaide's, the love
That would enchain him to its witchery—
No; she would bid her lover from her arms,
E'en tho' her heart were breaking; point to fame,
Albeit 'twere more than death unto her soul!
| The Fate of Adelaide | |