 | Orta-undis, and other poems |  |
50
A PARABLE.
I lay one night and saw a dream
That thus, Irene appeared:
I saw sit shivering by a stream
A maiden silken-haired.
That thus, Irene appeared:
I saw sit shivering by a stream
A maiden silken-haired.
Her tender arms dejectly crossed,
Her radiant head bent down;
In melancholy fancies lost,
Her eyelids sought the ground.
Her radiant head bent down;
In melancholy fancies lost,
Her eyelids sought the ground.
‘All things in nature harmonize,
And sorrows joys enhance;
Why when the sunshine golden lies,
Art thou in mournful trance?
And sorrows joys enhance;
Why when the sunshine golden lies,
Art thou in mournful trance?
51
‘Why mournest thou?’ I said, and took
Her hands within mine own.
—All calmness straight my soul forsook
With tenderness o'erflown.
Her hands within mine own.
—All calmness straight my soul forsook
With tenderness o'erflown.
But lo, while thus the child apart
My arms encircling held,
And pressed against my throbbing heart,
Her bosom throbbed and swelled;
My arms encircling held,
And pressed against my throbbing heart,
Her bosom throbbed and swelled;
My lifted eyes a mocking crowd
Beheld about us stand:
With well-bred air each phantom bowed,
And smiled behind his hand.
Beheld about us stand:
With well-bred air each phantom bowed,
And smiled behind his hand.
‘Why smile ye, Sirs?’—I briefly cried:
‘Why come ye here at all?’
‘Faith,’ spoke a Shade, ‘thy bosom's pride
Hath sat beside us all!
‘Why come ye here at all?’
‘Faith,’ spoke a Shade, ‘thy bosom's pride
Hath sat beside us all!
52
‘We, as you see us standing here,
In turn have shared her heart.
A new Alcina charms thy ear,
And thou her Roland art.
In turn have shared her heart.
A new Alcina charms thy ear,
And thou her Roland art.
‘Not long its fragrance keeps the rose
That blooms to every gale.
For her who broadcast love bestows,
My heart is cased in mail.’
That blooms to every gale.
For her who broadcast love bestows,
My heart is cased in mail.’
Thus spoke in courteous tones the Shade,
Sarcastic smiled and turned.
With blushes burning stood the maid;
For me,—I no more burned!
Sarcastic smiled and turned.
With blushes burning stood the maid;
For me,—I no more burned!
Read me this parable, Irene,
That I may judge aright
If visions such by day are seen,
Or only haunt the night.
That I may judge aright
If visions such by day are seen,
Or only haunt the night.
1846.
| Orta-undis, and other poems | |