The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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“DOLORES” |
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
“DOLORES”
Seville's towers are worn and old;
Seville's towers are gray and gold:
Saffron, purple, and orange dyes,
Meet at the edge of her sunset skies:
Bright are Seville's maidens' eyes,
Gay the cavalier's guitar:
Music, laughter, low replies,
Intermingling; and afar,
Over the hill, over the dell,
Soft and low: Adagio!
Comes the knell of the vesper-bell,
Solemnly and slow.
Seville's towers are gray and gold:
Saffron, purple, and orange dyes,
Meet at the edge of her sunset skies:
Bright are Seville's maidens' eyes,
Gay the cavalier's guitar:
Music, laughter, low replies,
Intermingling; and afar,
Over the hill, over the dell,
Soft and low: Adagio!
Comes the knell of the vesper-bell,
Solemnly and slow.
Hooded nun, at the convent wall,
Where the purple vines their tendrils throw,
Lingering, looking, wouldst recall
Aught of this giddy scene below?
Turn that pensive glance on high:
Seest thou the floods in yon blessed sky,
The shores of those isles of the good and blest,
Meeting, mingling, down the west?
E'en as thou gazest, lo! they fade:
So doth the world from these walls surveyed;
Fleeting, false, delusive show;
Beauty's form, but hectic's glow.
[OMITTED]
Where the purple vines their tendrils throw,
Lingering, looking, wouldst recall
Aught of this giddy scene below?
Turn that pensive glance on high:
Seest thou the floods in yon blessed sky,
295
Meeting, mingling, down the west?
E'en as thou gazest, lo! they fade:
So doth the world from these walls surveyed;
Fleeting, false, delusive show;
Beauty's form, but hectic's glow.
[OMITTED]
“The convent-walls are steep and high:
Dolores! why are your cheeks so pale?
Why do those lashes silent lie
Over the orbs they scarce can veil,
E'en as the storm-cloud, dim and dark,
Shrouding the faint electric spark?
Canst thou those languid fires conceal,
Which scorched the youth of fair Castile?
That tender half-distracted air—
Can that be faith; or is 't despair?
That step, now feeble, faltering, slow;
Is that the lightly tripping toe
That gayly beat the throbbing floor,
Or woke the echoing corridor,
By purple Tagus' rippling shore,
A summer month ago?”
Dolores! why are your cheeks so pale?
Why do those lashes silent lie
Over the orbs they scarce can veil,
E'en as the storm-cloud, dim and dark,
Shrouding the faint electric spark?
Canst thou those languid fires conceal,
Which scorched the youth of fair Castile?
That tender half-distracted air—
Can that be faith; or is 't despair?
That step, now feeble, faltering, slow;
Is that the lightly tripping toe
That gayly beat the throbbing floor,
Or woke the echoing corridor,
By purple Tagus' rippling shore,
A summer month ago?”
Sister, listen, nearer, higher!
Voices sweet in the distant choir:
“Salve! salve! ave Maria!
Virgin, blest with Jesus' love,
Turn our thoughts to thee above!”
[OMITTED]
Voices sweet in the distant choir:
“Salve! salve! ave Maria!
Virgin, blest with Jesus' love,
Turn our thoughts to thee above!”
[OMITTED]
“Dolores!” Mark ye that dying fall?
“Dolores!” Ho there! within the wall:
Fly ye! the Ladye Superior call:
A nun has fled from the convent wall!
“Dolores!” Ho there! within the wall:
Fly ye! the Ladye Superior call:
A nun has fled from the convent wall!
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |