 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
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ROSOLIA.
A DRAMATIC SKETCH.
“Rammenta chi t'adora
Ancora in questo stato.”
Ancora in questo stato.”
Adrian, Ludovico.
Adr.
Ask me no more of her.—
The tale is idle,—past—'tis of the things
That lie i' the heart, as in a monument;
Faded—but holy, not to be disturb'd.
Yet 't were not much to say that she was fair,
No, nor that when she smiled her smile was sweet,
For so said all; nor that her slender form
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Sinking in lines of silver,—this green stem
Bowing its purple clusters o'er our heads;
That willow, swaying in the sunset wind,
Were but its lifeless images.
Lud.
I saw her portrait once. 'T was in your sleep:
It had escaped your bosom.
Adr.
Dared you gaze?
No eye but mine should have beheld that face;
No eye but mine should on that face have wept;
No eye but mine should that dead face have loved;
For by all else its beauty were profaned.
It was my secret pleasure, pain, hope, fear,
My life's deep mystery.
Lud.
It was beautiful,
And I half wonder'd, stranger as I was,
To find my heart so waken'd by that smile.
Adr.
It could not show Rosolia. See those streaks
Painting the western clouds; the living flush
That dyes their white with crimson of the rose;
And there, the zone of burnish'd hyacinth,
That streams across the crimson like a wave;
There is the summer beauty of her cheek
With the rich tress that veil'd it.
Painting the western clouds; the living flush
That dyes their white with crimson of the rose;
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That streams across the crimson like a wave;
There is the summer beauty of her cheek
With the rich tress that veil'd it.
When I sat
Beneath her eye, I felt it on my heart
Like a bright spell. 'Tis not the blaze of gems,
Nor vesper starlight, nor aught beautiful
In this descending sun, or in this world,
That can bring back its splendour: 't was a beam
Beyond all picturings of earth: a look
As we have heard of angels, where no lips
Are wanted to give utterance to the thought;
Its glance was radiant thought. Yet when her voice
Breathed some old melody, or closed the day
With her due hymn to the Virgin, I have turn'd
Even from the glory of her eye, to weep
Tears, painful from delight. I weep no more:
My world is done—there shines—Rosolia's grave.
Beneath her eye, I felt it on my heart
Like a bright spell. 'Tis not the blaze of gems,
Nor vesper starlight, nor aught beautiful
In this descending sun, or in this world,
That can bring back its splendour: 't was a beam
Beyond all picturings of earth: a look
As we have heard of angels, where no lips
Are wanted to give utterance to the thought;
Its glance was radiant thought. Yet when her voice
Breathed some old melody, or closed the day
With her due hymn to the Virgin, I have turn'd
Even from the glory of her eye, to weep
Tears, painful from delight. I weep no more:
My world is done—there shines—Rosolia's grave.
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