The Venetian bracelet the lost Pleiad, a history of the lyre, and other poems. By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] |
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| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VII. | VII. |
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| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
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 | The Venetian bracelet |  |
VII.
The weary day pass'd on—night came again:—Amenaïde has join'd the glittering train;
Self-torturer—self-deceiver—cold and high,
She said it was to mock the curious eye.
Such strength is weakness. Was it not to be
Where still, Leoni, she might gaze on thee?
—She heard the history of his English bride:
A patient nurse at her pale mother's side
Leoni saw her first:—that mother's hand
(A stranger she and wanderer in the land)
Gave the sweet orphan to his care,—and here
Was all to soften, all that could endear.
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His the sole heart she had to lean upon.
Now months had pass'd away, and he was come
To bring his beautiful, his dear one home.
Her beauty was like morning's, breathing, bright,
Eyes glittering first with tears, and then with light,
And blue, too glad to be the violet's blue,
But that which hangs upon it, lucid dew,—
Its first clear moment, ere the sun has burst
The azure radiance which it kindled first;—
A cheek of thousand blushes; golden hair,
As if the summer sunshine made it fair;
A voice of music, and such touching smile,
Amenaïde sigh'd, “Well might they beguile!”
—Love, what a mystery thou art!—how strange
Thy constancy, yet still more so thy change!
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Holds over different hearts such different power;
How the same feeling lighted in the breast
Makes one so wretched, and makes one so blest;
How one will keep the dream of passion born
In youth with all the freshness of its morn;
How from another will thine image fade!
Far deeper records on the sand are made.
—Why hast thou separate being? why not die
At once in both, and not leave one to sigh,
To weep, to rave, to struggle with the chains
Pride would fling off, but memory retains?
There are remembrances that will not vanish,—
Thoughts of the past we would but cannot banish:
As if to show how impotent mere will,
We loathe the pang, and yet must suffer still:
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—It is a power no science teaches yet.
Oh love, how sacred thy least words should be,
When on them hangs such abject misery!
| The Venetian bracelet | |