 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
DOLORES.
(SCENE IN A MADHOUSE).
1
She sings her wild dirges, and smiles 'mid the strain;Then turns to remember her sorrow.
Men gaze on that smile till their tears fall like rain,
And she from their weeping doth borrow.
She forgets her own story: and none, she complains,
Of the cause for her grief will remind her:
She fancies but one of her kindred remains:
She is certain he never can find her.
Whence caught you, sweet Mourner, the swell of that song?
‘From the arch of yon wind-laden billow.’
Whence learned you, sweet Lady, your sadness?—
‘From Wrong.’
Your meekness who taught you?—‘The Willow.’
2
She boasts that her tresses have never grown grey;Yet murmurs, ‘How long I am dying!
My sorrows but make me more lovely, men say;
But I soon in my grave shall be lying!
217
More warmly than thou, my false lover;
No Rival will steal to my couch without sound:
No Sister will come to discover!’
Whence caught you, sweet Mourner, the swell of that song?
‘From the arch of the wind-laden billow.’
Whence learned you, sweet Lady, your sadness?—
‘From Wrong.’
Your meekness who taught you?—‘The Willow.’
3
She courts the cold wind when the tempests blow hard,And at first she exults in their raving:
She clasps with her fingers the lattice close-barred:
Like the billows her bosom is waving:
But ere long with strange pity her spirit is crossed,
And she sighs for poor mariners drowning:
And—‘thus in my passion of old I was tossed’—
And—‘thus stood my grey Father frowning!’
Whence caught you, sweet Mourner, the swell of that song?
‘From the arch of the wind-laden billow.’
Whence learned you, sweet Lady, your sadness?—
‘From Wrong.’
Your meekness who taught you?—‘The Willow.’
4
On the wall the rough water chafes ever its breast;'Mid the willows my bark was awaiting;
Passing by, on her cold hand a sad kiss I prest,
And slowly moved on to the grating.
218
She cried with a laugh and light shiver:
‘You drift o'er the ocean, and I to the grave;
Henceforward we meet not for ever!’
Where found you, sweet Mourner, the swell of that song?
‘In the arch of yon wind-laden billow.’
Whence learned you, sweet Lady, your sadness?—
‘From Wrong.’
Your meekness who taught you?—‘The Willow.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |