 | Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. |  |
THE LAST LOOK.
“'Tis the very lightness of childish impressions that makes them so dear and lasting.”
The shade of the willow fell dark on the tide,
When the maid left her pillow to stand by its side;
The wind, like a sweet voice, was heard in the tree,
And a soft lulling music swept in from the sea.
When the maid left her pillow to stand by its side;
The wind, like a sweet voice, was heard in the tree,
And a soft lulling music swept in from the sea.
The land was in darkness, for mountain and tower
Flung before them the shadows of night's deepest hour;
The moonlight unbroken lay white on the wave,
Till the wide sea was clear as the shield of the brave.
Flung before them the shadows of night's deepest hour;
The moonlight unbroken lay white on the wave,
Till the wide sea was clear as the shield of the brave.
She flung from her forehead its curls of bright hair,—
Ere those ringlets fell round her another was there;
Red flushed her cheek's crimson, and dark drooped her eye,
A stranger had known 'twas her lover stood by.
Ere those ringlets fell round her another was there;
Red flushed her cheek's crimson, and dark drooped her eye,
A stranger had known 'twas her lover stood by.
One note on his sea-call, the signal he gave,
And a boat like a plaything, danced light on the wave;
Her head on his shoulder, her hand in his hand,
Yet the maiden looked back as they rowed from the strand.
And a boat like a plaything, danced light on the wave;
Her head on his shoulder, her hand in his hand,
Yet the maiden looked back as they rowed from the strand.
She wept not for parents, she wept not for friends,
Yet fast the bright rain from her dark eye descends;
The portionless orphan left nothing behind
But the green leaves—the wild flowers sown by the wind.
Yet fast the bright rain from her dark eye descends;
The portionless orphan left nothing behind
But the green leaves—the wild flowers sown by the wind.
But how the heart clings to that earliest love,
Which haunts the lone garden, and hallows the grove;
Which makes the old oak-tree and primrose-bank fair,
With the memories of childhood whose playtime was there.
Which haunts the lone garden, and hallows the grove;
Which makes the old oak-tree and primrose-bank fair,
With the memories of childhood whose playtime was there.
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'Tis our spirits which fling round the joy which they take;
The best of our pleasures are those which we make:
We look to the past, and remember the while,
Our own buoyant step and our own sunny smile.
The best of our pleasures are those which we make:
We look to the past, and remember the while,
Our own buoyant step and our own sunny smile.
A pathway of silver was tracked on the wave,
The oars left behind them the light which they gave,
And the slight boat flew over the moonlighted brine,
Till the coast afar-off was one shadowy line.
The oars left behind them the light which they gave,
And the slight boat flew over the moonlighted brine,
Till the coast afar-off was one shadowy line.
They reached the proud ship, and the silken sails spread,
And the gallant flag shone like a meteor blood red;
And forth from the scabbard flashed out each bright sword,
In fealty to her the young bride of their lord.
And the gallant flag shone like a meteor blood red;
And forth from the scabbard flashed out each bright sword,
In fealty to her the young bride of their lord.
From a cup of pale gold then she sipped the clear wine,
And clasped on her arm the green emeralds shine;
The silver lamps swinging with perfume were fed,
And the rich fur beneath her light footstep was spread.
And clasped on her arm the green emeralds shine;
The silver lamps swinging with perfume were fed,
And the rich fur beneath her light footstep was spread.
From the small cabin window she looked to the shore,
Lost in night she could see its dim outline no more:
She sighed as she thought of her earlier hours,
Ah, who will now watch o'er my favourite flowers!”
Lost in night she could see its dim outline no more:
She sighed as she thought of her earlier hours,
Ah, who will now watch o'er my favourite flowers!”
| Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. | |