Marcian Colonna An Italian Tale with Three Dramatic Scenes and Other Poems: By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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| II. |
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| III. | III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
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| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| III. |
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 | Marcian Colonna |  |
36
III.
He mused, 'till from a garden, near whose wallHe leant, a melancholy voice was heard
Singing alone, like some poor widow bird
That casts unto the woods her desert call.
It was the voice—the very voice that rung
Long in his brain that now so sweetly sung.
He passed the garden bounds and lightly trod,
Checking his breath, along the grassy sod,
(By buds and blooms half-hidden, which the breeze
Had ravished from the clustering orange trees,)
Until he reached a low pavillion, where
He saw a lady pale, with radiant hair
Over her forehead and in garments white;
A harp was by her, and her fingers light
Carelessly o'er the golden strings were flung;
Then, shaking back her locks, with upward eye,
And lips that dumbly moved, she seemed to try
To catch an old disused melody—
A sad Italian air it was, which I
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And still—(tho' here and there perhaps a word
Be now forgot,) I recollect the song,
Which might to any lovelorn tale belong.
SONG.
Whither ah! whither is my lost love straying—
Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea?
Oh! ye winds now playing
Like airy spirits 'round my temples free,
Fly and tell him this from me:
Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea?
Oh! ye winds now playing
Like airy spirits 'round my temples free,
Fly and tell him this from me:
Tell him, sweet winds, that in my woman's bosom
My young love still retains its perfect power,
Or, like the summer blossom,
That changes still from bud to the full-blown flower,
Grows with every passing hour.
My young love still retains its perfect power,
Or, like the summer blossom,
That changes still from bud to the full-blown flower,
Grows with every passing hour.
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Say (and say gently) that since we two parted,
How little joy—much sorrow I have known:
Only not broken-hearted
Because I muse upon bright moments gone,
And dream and think of him alone.
How little joy—much sorrow I have known:
Only not broken-hearted
Because I muse upon bright moments gone,
And dream and think of him alone.
| Marcian Colonna | |