The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry And other poems. By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] |
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| 2. | THE SECOND DAY. |
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 | The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry |  |
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THE SECOND DAY.
Sweet Spirit of delicious Song,
To whom, as of true right, belong
The myriad music notes that swell
From the poet's breathing shell;
We name thy name, and the heart springs
Up to the lip, as if with wings,
As if thy very mention brought
Snatches of inspired thought.
To whom, as of true right, belong
The myriad music notes that swell
From the poet's breathing shell;
We name thy name, and the heart springs
Up to the lip, as if with wings,
As if thy very mention brought
Snatches of inspired thought.
Is it war? At once are borne
Words like notes of martial horn.
Is it love? Comes some sweet tale
Like that of the nightingale.
Is it Nature's lovely face?
Rise lines touch'd with her own grace.
Is it some bright garden scene?
There, too, hath the minstrel been,
Linking words of charmed power
With the green leaf and the flower.
Is it woman's loveliness?
He hath revell'd to excess,
Caught all spells that can beguile
In dark eye or rosy smile.
Is it deed that hath its claim
Upon earth's most holy fame,
Or those kindly feelings sent
But for hearth and home content?
Lofty thought, or counsel sage,
Seek them in the poet's page;
Laurel, laud, and love belong
To thee, thou Spirit sweet of Song.
Words like notes of martial horn.
Is it love? Comes some sweet tale
Like that of the nightingale.
Is it Nature's lovely face?
Rise lines touch'd with her own grace.
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There, too, hath the minstrel been,
Linking words of charmed power
With the green leaf and the flower.
Is it woman's loveliness?
He hath revell'd to excess,
Caught all spells that can beguile
In dark eye or rosy smile.
Is it deed that hath its claim
Upon earth's most holy fame,
Or those kindly feelings sent
But for hearth and home content?
Lofty thought, or counsel sage,
Seek them in the poet's page;
Laurel, laud, and love belong
To thee, thou Spirit sweet of Song.
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Not in courtly hall to-day
Meets the lady's congress gay.
'T is a bright and summer sky,—
They will bear it company;
Odours float upon the gale,
Comrades suiting minstrel tale;
Flowers are spreading, carpet meet
For the beauty's fairy feet.
Shame to stay in marble hall
Thus from nature's festival.
Meets the lady's congress gay.
'T is a bright and summer sky,—
They will bear it company;
Odours float upon the gale,
Comrades suiting minstrel tale;
Flowers are spreading, carpet meet
For the beauty's fairy feet.
Shame to stay in marble hall
Thus from nature's festival.
The garden had one fair resort,
As if devised for minstrel court:
An amphitheatre of trees
Shut from soft cheeks the ruder breeze;
While all around the chestnuts made,
With closing boughs, a pleasant shade,
Where, if a sunbeam wander'd through,
'T was like the silver fall of dew;
The middle was an open space
Of softest grass, and those small flowers,
Daisies, whose rose-touch'd leaves retrace
The gold and blush of morning's hours.
As if devised for minstrel court:
An amphitheatre of trees
Shut from soft cheeks the ruder breeze;
While all around the chestnuts made,
With closing boughs, a pleasant shade,
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'T was like the silver fall of dew;
The middle was an open space
Of softest grass, and those small flowers,
Daisies, whose rose-touch'd leaves retrace
The gold and blush of morning's hours.
To-day the Countess had for throne
An ancient trunk with moss o'ergrown;
And at her feet, as if from air
A purple cloud had fallen there,
Grew thousand violets, whose sighs
Breathed forth an Eastern sacrifice;
And, like a canopy, o'erhead
A Provence rose luxuriant spread,
And its white flowers, pale and meek,
Seem'd sisters to the lady's cheek.
An ancient trunk with moss o'ergrown;
And at her feet, as if from air
A purple cloud had fallen there,
Grew thousand violets, whose sighs
Breathed forth an Eastern sacrifice;
And, like a canopy, o'erhead
A Provence rose luxuriant spread,
And its white flowers, pale and meek,
Seem'd sisters to the lady's cheek.
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And ranged in a graceful order round,
A fairy court upon fairy ground,
Group'd the bright band; and, like a tent,
Leaves and bloom over all were blent,
Flinging bright colours, but changing fast,
As ever the varying sunbeams pass'd;
And in the midst grew a myrtle tree,
There was the minstrel's place to be,
And its buds were delicate, frail, and fair,
As the hopes and joys of his own heart are.
A fairy court upon fairy ground,
Group'd the bright band; and, like a tent,
Leaves and bloom over all were blent,
Flinging bright colours, but changing fast,
As ever the varying sunbeams pass'd;
And in the midst grew a myrtle tree,
There was the minstrel's place to be,
And its buds were delicate, frail, and fair,
As the hopes and joys of his own heart are.
Dark was the brow, and the bearing proud,
Of the bard who first stept forth from the crowd;
A small cloak down from his shoulder hung,
And a light guitar o'er his arm was slung;
Many a lady's casement had known
The moonlight spell of its magic tone:
But the fire of youth from his cheek had pass'd,
And its hopes and its dreams had faded as fast;
The romance of his earlier time was over,
The warrior had half forgotten the lover;
And the light grew dark in his radiant eyes,
As he told his tale of high emprize.
Of the bard who first stept forth from the crowd;
A small cloak down from his shoulder hung,
And a light guitar o'er his arm was slung;
Many a lady's casement had known
The moonlight spell of its magic tone:
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And its hopes and its dreams had faded as fast;
The romance of his earlier time was over,
The warrior had half forgotten the lover;
And the light grew dark in his radiant eyes,
As he told his tale of high emprize.
THE YOUNG AVENGER:
THE SPANISH MINSTREL'S TALE.
The warrior's strength is bow'd by age, the warrior's step is slow,
And the beard upon his breast is white as is the winter snow;
Yet his eye shines bright, as if not yet its last of fame were won;
Six sons stand ready in their arms to do as he has done.
And the beard upon his breast is white as is the winter snow;
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Six sons stand ready in their arms to do as he has done.
“Now take your way, ye Laras bold, and to the battle ride;
For loud upon the Christian air are vaunts of Moorish pride:
Your six white steeds stand at the gate; go forth, and let me see
Who will return the first and bring a Moslem head to me.”
For loud upon the Christian air are vaunts of Moorish pride:
Your six white steeds stand at the gate; go forth, and let me see
Who will return the first and bring a Moslem head to me.”
Forth they went, six gallant knights, all mail'd from head to heel;
Is it not death to him who first their fiery strength shall feel?
They spurr'd their steeds, and on they dash'd, as sweeps the midnight wind;
While their youngest brother stood and wept that he must stay behind.
Is it not death to him who first their fiery strength shall feel?
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While their youngest brother stood and wept that he must stay behind.
“Come here, my child,” the father said, “and wherefore dost thou weep?
The time will come when from the fray nought shall my favourite keep;
When thou wilt be the first of all amid the hostile spears.”
The boy shook back his raven hair, and laugh'd amid his tears.
The time will come when from the fray nought shall my favourite keep;
When thou wilt be the first of all amid the hostile spears.”
The boy shook back his raven hair, and laugh'd amid his tears.
The sun went down, but lance nor shield reflected back his light;
The moon rose up, but not a sound broke on the rest of night.
The old man watch'd impatiently, till with morn o'er the plain
There came a sound of horses' feet, there came a martial train.
The moon rose up, but not a sound broke on the rest of night.
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There came a sound of horses' feet, there came a martial train.
But gleam'd not back the sunbeam glad from plume or helm of gold,
No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the turban's emerald fold.
A Moorish herald; six pale heads hung at his saddle-bow,
Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew the lines of each fair brow.
No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the turban's emerald fold.
A Moorish herald; six pale heads hung at his saddle-bow,
Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew the lines of each fair brow.
“Oh! did they fall by numbers, or did they basely yield?”
“Not so; beneath the same bold hand thy children press'd the field.
They died as Nourreddin would wish all foes of his should die;
Small honour does the conquest boast when won from those who fly.
“Not so; beneath the same bold hand thy children press'd the field.
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Small honour does the conquest boast when won from those who fly.
“And thus he saith, ‘This was the sword that swept down thy brave band,
Find thou one who can draw it forth in all thy Christian land.’
If from a youth such sorrowing and scathe thou hast endured,
Dread thou to wait for vengeance till his summers are matured.”
Find thou one who can draw it forth in all thy Christian land.’
If from a youth such sorrowing and scathe thou hast endured,
Dread thou to wait for vengeance till his summers are matured.”
The aged chieftain took the sword, in vain his hand essay'd
To draw it from its scabbardforth, or poise the heavy blade;
He flung it to his only child, now sadly standing by.
“Now weep, for here is cause for tears; alas! mine own are dry.”
To draw it from its scabbardforth, or poise the heavy blade;
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“Now weep, for here is cause for tears; alas! mine own are dry.”
Then answer'd proud the noble boy, “My tears last morning came
For weakness of my own right hand; to shed them now were shame:
I will not do my brothers' names such deep and deadly wrong;
Brave were they unto death, success can but to God belong.”
For weakness of my own right hand; to shed them now were shame:
I will not do my brothers' names such deep and deadly wrong;
Brave were they unto death, success can but to God belong.”
And years have fled, that boy has sprung unto a goodly height,
And fleet of foot and stout of arm in his old father's light;
Yet breathed he never wish to take in glorious strife his part,
And shame and grief his backwardness was to that father's heart.
And fleet of foot and stout of arm in his old father's light;
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And shame and grief his backwardness was to that father's heart.
Cold, silent, stern, he let time pass, until he rush'd one day,
Where mourning o'er his waste of youth the weary chieftain lay.
Unarm'd he was, but in his grasp he bore a heavy brand,
“My father, I can wield his sword; now knighthood at thine hand.
Where mourning o'er his waste of youth the weary chieftain lay.
Unarm'd he was, but in his grasp he bore a heavy brand,
“My father, I can wield his sword; now knighthood at thine hand.
For years no hour of quiet sleep upon my eyelids came,
For Nourreddin had poison'd all my slumber with his fame.
I have waited for my vengeance; but now, alive or dead,
I swear to thee by my brothers' graves that thou shalt have his head.”
For Nourreddin had poison'd all my slumber with his fame.
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I swear to thee by my brothers' graves that thou shalt have his head.”
It was a glorious sight to see, when those two warriors met:
The one dark as a thunder-cloud, in strength and manhood set;
The other young and beautiful, with lithe and graceful form,
But terrible as is the flash that rushes through the storm.
The one dark as a thunder-cloud, in strength and manhood set;
The other young and beautiful, with lithe and graceful form,
But terrible as is the flash that rushes through the storm.
And eye to eye, and hand to hand, in deadly strife they stood,
And smoked the ground whereon they fought, hot with their mingled blood;
Till droop'd the valiant infidel, fainter his blows and few,
While fiercer from the combat still the youthful Christian grew.
And smoked the ground whereon they fought, hot with their mingled blood;
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While fiercer from the combat still the youthful Christian grew.
Nourreddin falls, his sever'd head, it is young Lara's prize:
But dizzily the field of death floats in the victor's eyes.
His cheek is as his foeman's pale, his white lips gasp for breath:
Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the victory and death.
But dizzily the field of death floats in the victor's eyes.
His cheek is as his foeman's pale, his white lips gasp for breath:
Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the victory and death.
He raised him on his arm, “My page, come thou and do my will;
Canst thou not see a turban'd band upon yon distant hill?
Now strip me of my armour, boy, by yonder river's side,
Place firm this head upon my breast, and fling me on the tide.”
Canst thou not see a turban'd band upon yon distant hill?
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Place firm this head upon my breast, and fling me on the tide.”
That river wash'd his natal halls, its waters bore him on,
Till the moonlight on the hero in his father's presence shone.
The old chief to the body drew, his gallant boy was dead,
But his vow of vengeance had been kept, he bore Nourreddin's head.
Till the moonlight on the hero in his father's presence shone.
The old chief to the body drew, his gallant boy was dead,
But his vow of vengeance had been kept, he bore Nourreddin's head.
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'T was sad to gaze on the wan brow
Of him who now awoke the lute,
As one last song life must allow,
Then would those tuneful lips be mute.
His cheek was worn, what was the care
Had writ such early lesson there?
Was it Love, blighted in its hour
Of earliest and truest power
By wordly chills which ever fling
Their check and damp on young Love's wing;
Or unrequited, while the heart
Could not from its fond worship part?
Or was it but the wasting woe
Which every human path must know;
Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain,
And seeking not their ark again;
Friends in their very love unjust,
Or faithless to our utmost trust;
Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard;
Or fame, that is its own reward
Or has no other, and is worn
Mid envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn?
Of him who now awoke the lute,
As one last song life must allow,
Then would those tuneful lips be mute.
His cheek was worn, what was the care
Had writ such early lesson there?
Was it Love, blighted in its hour
Of earliest and truest power
By wordly chills which ever fling
Their check and damp on young Love's wing;
Or unrequited, while the heart
Could not from its fond worship part?
Or was it but the wasting woe
Which every human path must know;
Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain,
And seeking not their ark again;
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Or faithless to our utmost trust;
Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard;
Or fame, that is its own reward
Or has no other, and is worn
Mid envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn?
All these ills had that young bard known,
And they had laid his funeral stone.
Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd,
As thus the minstrel sung his last.
And they had laid his funeral stone.
Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd,
As thus the minstrel sung his last.
THE ROSE:
THE ITALIAN MINSTREL'S TALE.
The Count Gonfali held a feast that night,
And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous light
Over gold carvings and the purple fall
Of tapestry; and around each stately hall
Were statues, pale and finely shaped and fair,
As if all beauty save her life were there;
And, like light clouds floating around each room,
The censers roll'd their volumes of perfume;
And scented waters mingled with the breath
Of flowers, which died as if they joy'd in death;
And the white vases, white as mountain snow,
Look'd yet more delicate in the rich glow
Of summer blossoms hanging o'er each side,
Like sunset reddening o'er a silver tide.
There was the tulip with its rainbow globe;
And, like the broidery on a silken robe
Made for the beauty's festal midnight hours,
The sparkling jessamine shook its silver showers;
Like timid hopes the lily shrank from sight;
The rose leant as it languish'd with delight,
Yet, bride-like, drooping in its crimson shame;
And the anemone, whose cheek of flame
Is golden, as it were the flower the sun
In his noon-hour most loved to look upon.
And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous light
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Of tapestry; and around each stately hall
Were statues, pale and finely shaped and fair,
As if all beauty save her life were there;
And, like light clouds floating around each room,
The censers roll'd their volumes of perfume;
And scented waters mingled with the breath
Of flowers, which died as if they joy'd in death;
And the white vases, white as mountain snow,
Look'd yet more delicate in the rich glow
Of summer blossoms hanging o'er each side,
Like sunset reddening o'er a silver tide.
There was the tulip with its rainbow globe;
And, like the broidery on a silken robe
Made for the beauty's festal midnight hours,
The sparkling jessamine shook its silver showers;
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The rose leant as it languish'd with delight,
Yet, bride-like, drooping in its crimson shame;
And the anemone, whose cheek of flame
Is golden, as it were the flower the sun
In his noon-hour most loved to look upon.
At first the pillar'd halls were still and lone,
As if some fairy palace all unknown
To mortal eye or step. This was not long;
Waken'd the lutes, and swell'd a burst of song,
And the vast mirrors glitter'd with the crowd
Of changing shapes. The young, the fair, the proud,
Came thronging in; and the gay cavalier
Took some fair flower from the fairest near,
And gave it to the dark-eyed beauty's hand,
To mark his partner for the saraband;
And graceful steps pass'd on, whose tender tread
Was as the rose-leaf in the autumn shed;
And witching words, raising on the young cheek
Blushes that had no need of words to speak.
Many were lovely there; but, of that many,
Was one who shone the loveliest of any,
The young Olympia. On her face the dyes
Were yet warm with the dance's exercise,
The laugh upon her full red lip yet hung,
And, arrow-like, flash'd light words from her tongue.
She had more loveliness than beauty: hers
Was that enchantment which the heart confers;
A mouth sweet from its smiles, a glancing eye,
Which had o'er all expression mastery;
Laughing its orb, but the long dark lash made
Somewhat of sadness with its twilight shade,
And suiting well the upcast look which seem'd
At times as it of melancholy dream'd;
Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so changed,
As each emotion o'er its surface ranged;
And every word had its companion blush,
But evanescent as the crimson flush
That tints the daybreak; and her step was light
As the gale passing o'er the leaves at night;
In truth those snow feet were too like the wind,
Too slight to leave a single trace behind.
She lean'd against a pillar, and one hand
Smooth'd back the curls that had escaped the band
Of wreathed red roses,—soft and fitting chain
In bondage such bright prisoners to retain.
The other was from the white marble known
But by the clasping of its emerald zone:
And lighted up her brow, and flash'd her eye,
As many that were wandering careless by
Caught but a sound, and paused to hear what more
Her lip might utter of its honey store.
She had that sparkling wit which is like light,
Making all things touch'd with its radiance bright;
And a sweet voice, whose words would chain all round,
Although they had no other charm than sound.
And many named her name, and each with praise;
Some with her passionate beauty fill'd their gaze,
Some mark'd her graceful step, and others spoke
Of the so many hearts that own'd the yoke
Of her bewildering smile; meantime, her own
Seem'd as that it no other love had known
Than its sweet loves of nature, music, song,
Which as by right to woman's world belong,
And make it lovely for Love's dwelling-place.
Alas! that he should leave his fiery trace!
But this bright creature's brow seem'd all too fair,
Too gay, for Love to be a dweller there;
For Love brings sorrow: yet you might descry
A troubled flashing in that brilliant eye,
A troubled colour on that varying cheek,
A hurry in the tremulous lip to speak
Avoidance of sad topics, as to shun
Somewhat the spirit dared not rest upon;
An unquiet feverishness a change of place,
A pretty pettishness, if on her face
A look dwelt as in scrutiny to seek
What hidden meanings from its change might break.
As if some fairy palace all unknown
To mortal eye or step. This was not long;
Waken'd the lutes, and swell'd a burst of song,
And the vast mirrors glitter'd with the crowd
Of changing shapes. The young, the fair, the proud,
Came thronging in; and the gay cavalier
Took some fair flower from the fairest near,
And gave it to the dark-eyed beauty's hand,
To mark his partner for the saraband;
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Was as the rose-leaf in the autumn shed;
And witching words, raising on the young cheek
Blushes that had no need of words to speak.
Many were lovely there; but, of that many,
Was one who shone the loveliest of any,
The young Olympia. On her face the dyes
Were yet warm with the dance's exercise,
The laugh upon her full red lip yet hung,
And, arrow-like, flash'd light words from her tongue.
She had more loveliness than beauty: hers
Was that enchantment which the heart confers;
A mouth sweet from its smiles, a glancing eye,
Which had o'er all expression mastery;
Laughing its orb, but the long dark lash made
Somewhat of sadness with its twilight shade,
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At times as it of melancholy dream'd;
Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so changed,
As each emotion o'er its surface ranged;
And every word had its companion blush,
But evanescent as the crimson flush
That tints the daybreak; and her step was light
As the gale passing o'er the leaves at night;
In truth those snow feet were too like the wind,
Too slight to leave a single trace behind.
She lean'd against a pillar, and one hand
Smooth'd back the curls that had escaped the band
Of wreathed red roses,—soft and fitting chain
In bondage such bright prisoners to retain.
The other was from the white marble known
But by the clasping of its emerald zone:
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As many that were wandering careless by
Caught but a sound, and paused to hear what more
Her lip might utter of its honey store.
She had that sparkling wit which is like light,
Making all things touch'd with its radiance bright;
And a sweet voice, whose words would chain all round,
Although they had no other charm than sound.
And many named her name, and each with praise;
Some with her passionate beauty fill'd their gaze,
Some mark'd her graceful step, and others spoke
Of the so many hearts that own'd the yoke
Of her bewildering smile; meantime, her own
Seem'd as that it no other love had known
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Which as by right to woman's world belong,
And make it lovely for Love's dwelling-place.
Alas! that he should leave his fiery trace!
But this bright creature's brow seem'd all too fair,
Too gay, for Love to be a dweller there;
For Love brings sorrow: yet you might descry
A troubled flashing in that brilliant eye,
A troubled colour on that varying cheek,
A hurry in the tremulous lip to speak
Avoidance of sad topics, as to shun
Somewhat the spirit dared not rest upon;
An unquiet feverishness a change of place,
A pretty pettishness, if on her face
A look dwelt as in scrutiny to seek
What hidden meanings from its change might break.
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One gazed with silent homage, one who caught
Her every breath, and blush, and look, and thought;
One whose step mingled not with the gay crowd
That circled round her as of right allow'd,
But one who stood aloof with that lone pride
Which ever to deep passion is allied.
Half scorning, yet half envying the gay ring
That gather'd round with gentle blandishing,
He stood aloof; and, cold and stern and high,
Looked as he mock'd at their idolatry:
Yet long'd his knee to bend before the shrine
Of the sweet image his heart own'd divine;
While, half in anger that she had not known
What even to himself he would not own.
He knew not how a woman's heart will keep
The mystery of itself, and like the deep
Will shine beneath the sunbeam, flash and flow
O'er the rich bark that perishes below.
She felt he gazed upon her, and her cheek
Wore added beauty in its crimson break;
And softer smiles were on her lip, like those
The summer moonlight sheds upon the rose;
And her eye sparkled, like the wine-cup's brim,
Mantling in light, though it turn'd not to him.
Again the dancers gather'd; from them one
Took gaily her fair hand, and they are gone.
Leoni follow'd not, yet as they pass'd
How could Olympia's light step be the last?
Yet pass'd she quickly by him, and the haste
From her wreathed hair one fragrant rose displaced.
Leoni saw it fall; he is alone,
And he may make the fairy gift his own.
He took the flower, and to his lip 't was press'd,
One moment, and 't is safe within his breast;
But while he linger'd dreaming o'er its bloom,
Olympia's step again is in the room
With the young cavalier, who urged her way,
And said her rose beside the column lay,
For there he miss'd it, and some flattering word
Fill'd up the whisper which he only heard.
Leoni flung it down in carelessness,
As he had mark'd them not, and held it less
From knowledge of his act than vacant thought,
While the mind on some other subject wrought.
In haste he left them both, but he could hear
The pleading of the gallant cavalier
For that rose as a gift. He might not tell
What answer from the maiden's lip then fell,
But when they met again he mark'd her hair
Where it had wreathed,—the rose-bud was not there.
They pass'd and repass'd: he, cold, silently,
As was his wont; but she, with flashing eye,
And blush lit up to crimson, seem'd to wear
More than accustom'd gladness in her air.
Ah! the heart overacts its part; its mirth,
Like light, will all too often take its birth
Mid darkness and decay; those smiles that press,
Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness:
For peace broods quiet on her dovelike wings,
And this false gaiety a radiance flings,
Dazzling but hiding not; and some who dwelt
Upon her meteor beauty, sadness felt;
Its very brilliance spoke the fever'd breast;
Thus glitter not the waters when at rest.
Her every breath, and blush, and look, and thought;
One whose step mingled not with the gay crowd
That circled round her as of right allow'd,
But one who stood aloof with that lone pride
Which ever to deep passion is allied.
Half scorning, yet half envying the gay ring
That gather'd round with gentle blandishing,
He stood aloof; and, cold and stern and high,
Looked as he mock'd at their idolatry:
Yet long'd his knee to bend before the shrine
Of the sweet image his heart own'd divine;
While, half in anger that she had not known
What even to himself he would not own.
He knew not how a woman's heart will keep
The mystery of itself, and like the deep
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O'er the rich bark that perishes below.
She felt he gazed upon her, and her cheek
Wore added beauty in its crimson break;
And softer smiles were on her lip, like those
The summer moonlight sheds upon the rose;
And her eye sparkled, like the wine-cup's brim,
Mantling in light, though it turn'd not to him.
Again the dancers gather'd; from them one
Took gaily her fair hand, and they are gone.
Leoni follow'd not, yet as they pass'd
How could Olympia's light step be the last?
Yet pass'd she quickly by him, and the haste
From her wreathed hair one fragrant rose displaced.
Leoni saw it fall; he is alone,
And he may make the fairy gift his own.
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One moment, and 't is safe within his breast;
But while he linger'd dreaming o'er its bloom,
Olympia's step again is in the room
With the young cavalier, who urged her way,
And said her rose beside the column lay,
For there he miss'd it, and some flattering word
Fill'd up the whisper which he only heard.
Leoni flung it down in carelessness,
As he had mark'd them not, and held it less
From knowledge of his act than vacant thought,
While the mind on some other subject wrought.
In haste he left them both, but he could hear
The pleading of the gallant cavalier
For that rose as a gift. He might not tell
What answer from the maiden's lip then fell,
188
Where it had wreathed,—the rose-bud was not there.
They pass'd and repass'd: he, cold, silently,
As was his wont; but she, with flashing eye,
And blush lit up to crimson, seem'd to wear
More than accustom'd gladness in her air.
Ah! the heart overacts its part; its mirth,
Like light, will all too often take its birth
Mid darkness and decay; those smiles that press,
Like the gay crowd round, are not happiness:
For peace broods quiet on her dovelike wings,
And this false gaiety a radiance flings,
Dazzling but hiding not; and some who dwelt
Upon her meteor beauty, sadness felt;
Its very brilliance spoke the fever'd breast;
Thus glitter not the waters when at rest.
189
The scene is changed, the maiden is alone
To brood upon Hope's temple overthrown;
The hue has left her lip, the light her eye,
And she has flung her down as if to die.
Back from her forehead was the rich hair swept,
Which yet its festal braid of roses kept.
She was in solitude: the silent room
Was in the summer's sweet and shadowy gloom;
The sole light from the oratory came,
Where a small lamp sent forth its scented flame
Beneath the Virgin's picture; but the wind
Stole from the casement, for the jasmine twined,
With its luxuriant boughs, too thickly grew,
To let the few dim star-beams wander through.
In her hand was a rose; she held the flower
As if her eye were spell-bound by its power.
It was spell-bound; coldly that flower repress'd
Sweet hopes,—ay, hopes, albeit unconfess'd.
Check'd, vainly check'd, the bitter grief recurs—
That rose flung down because that rose was hers!
And at the thought paleness in blushes fled,
Had he, then, read her heart, and scorn'd when read?
Oh! better perish, than endure that thought.
She started from her couch; when her eye caught
The Virgin's picture. Seem'd it that she took
Part in her votary's suffering; the look
Spoke mild reproof, touch'd with grave tenderness,
Pitying her grief, yet blaming her excess.
Olympia turn'd away, she might not bear
To meet such holy brow, such placid air,
At least not yet; for she must teach her breast
A lesson of submission, if not rest,
And still each throbbing pulse, ere she might kneel
And pray for peace she had not sought to feel.
To brood upon Hope's temple overthrown;
The hue has left her lip, the light her eye,
And she has flung her down as if to die.
Back from her forehead was the rich hair swept,
Which yet its festal braid of roses kept.
She was in solitude: the silent room
Was in the summer's sweet and shadowy gloom;
The sole light from the oratory came,
Where a small lamp sent forth its scented flame
Beneath the Virgin's picture; but the wind
Stole from the casement, for the jasmine twined,
With its luxuriant boughs, too thickly grew,
To let the few dim star-beams wander through.
In her hand was a rose; she held the flower
As if her eye were spell-bound by its power.
190
Sweet hopes,—ay, hopes, albeit unconfess'd.
Check'd, vainly check'd, the bitter grief recurs—
That rose flung down because that rose was hers!
And at the thought paleness in blushes fled,
Had he, then, read her heart, and scorn'd when read?
Oh! better perish, than endure that thought.
She started from her couch; when her eye caught
The Virgin's picture. Seem'd it that she took
Part in her votary's suffering; the look
Spoke mild reproof, touch'd with grave tenderness,
Pitying her grief, yet blaming her excess.
Olympia turn'd away, she might not bear
To meet such holy brow, such placid air,
At least not yet; for she must teach her breast
A lesson of submission, if not rest,
191
And pray for peace she had not sought to feel.
She sought the casement, lured by the soft light
Of the young moon, now rising on the night.
The cool breeze kiss'd her, and a jasmine spray
Caught in her tresses, as to woo her stay.
And there were sights and sounds that well might fling
A charmed trance on deepest suffering.
For stood the palace close on the sea shore;
Not like those northern ones, where breakers roar,
And rugged rocks and barren sands are blent,—
At once both desolate and magnificent;
But here the beach had turf, and trees that grew
Down to the water-side, and made its blue
Mirror for their dark shapes. Is nought so fair
But must there come somewhat of shadow there?
Whate'er thou touchest there must be some shade,
Fair earth, such destiny for thee is made.
Of the young moon, now rising on the night.
The cool breeze kiss'd her, and a jasmine spray
Caught in her tresses, as to woo her stay.
And there were sights and sounds that well might fling
A charmed trance on deepest suffering.
For stood the palace close on the sea shore;
Not like those northern ones, where breakers roar,
And rugged rocks and barren sands are blent,—
At once both desolate and magnificent;
But here the beach had turf, and trees that grew
Down to the water-side, and made its blue
192
But must there come somewhat of shadow there?
Whate'er thou touchest there must be some shade,
Fair earth, such destiny for thee is made.
It was a night to gaze upon the sea,
Marvel, and envy its tranquillity;
It was a night to gaze upon the earth,
And feel mankind were not her favourite birth;
It was a night to gaze upon the sky,
Pine for its loveliness, and pray to die.
Olympia felt the hour; from her cheek fled
Passion's untranquil rose, she bow'd her head:
For the thick tears like hasty childhood's came;
She hid her face, for tears are shed with shame.
Her heart had spent its tempest, like the cloud
When summer rain bursts from its stormy shroud;
Pale, sad, but calm, she turn'd, and bent the knee,
In meekest prayer, Madonna fair, to thee.
Where might the maiden's soul, thus crush'd and riven,
Turn from its mortal darkness, but to Heaven?
It is in vain to say that love is not
The life and colour of a woman's lot.
It is her strength; for what, like love's caress,
Will guard and guide her own weak tenderness?
It is her pride, fleeting and false the while,
To see her master suing for her smile.
Calls it not all her best affections forth,—
Pure faith, devotedness, whose fruitless worth
Is all too little felt? Oh! man has power
Of head and hand,—heart is a woman's dower.
Youth, beauty, rank, and wealth, all these combined,—
Can these be wretched? Mystery of the mind!
Whose happiness is in itself, but still
Has not that happiness at its own will.
Marvel, and envy its tranquillity;
It was a night to gaze upon the earth,
And feel mankind were not her favourite birth;
It was a night to gaze upon the sky,
Pine for its loveliness, and pray to die.
Olympia felt the hour; from her cheek fled
Passion's untranquil rose, she bow'd her head:
For the thick tears like hasty childhood's came;
She hid her face, for tears are shed with shame.
Her heart had spent its tempest, like the cloud
When summer rain bursts from its stormy shroud;
193
In meekest prayer, Madonna fair, to thee.
Where might the maiden's soul, thus crush'd and riven,
Turn from its mortal darkness, but to Heaven?
It is in vain to say that love is not
The life and colour of a woman's lot.
It is her strength; for what, like love's caress,
Will guard and guide her own weak tenderness?
It is her pride, fleeting and false the while,
To see her master suing for her smile.
Calls it not all her best affections forth,—
Pure faith, devotedness, whose fruitless worth
Is all too little felt? Oh! man has power
Of head and hand,—heart is a woman's dower.
194
Can these be wretched? Mystery of the mind!
Whose happiness is in itself, but still
Has not that happiness at its own will.
And she was wretched; she, the young, the fair,
The good, the kind, bow'd down in her despair.
Ay, bitterest of the bitter, this worst pain,—
To know love's offering has been in vain;
Rejected, scorn'd, and trampled under foot,
Its bloom and leaves destroy'd, not so its root.
“He loves me not,”—no other word or sound
An echo in Olympia's bosom found.
She thought on many a look, and many a tone,
From which she gather'd hope,—now these were gone,
Life were too burthensome, save that it led
To death; and peace, at least, was with the dead.
One pang remain'd: perchance, though unconfess'd,
Some secret hope yet linger'd in her breast;
But this too was destroy'd. She learn'd next morn
Sea winds and waters had Leoni borne
Afar to other lands; and she had now
But only to her hapless fate to bow.
The good, the kind, bow'd down in her despair.
Ay, bitterest of the bitter, this worst pain,—
To know love's offering has been in vain;
Rejected, scorn'd, and trampled under foot,
Its bloom and leaves destroy'd, not so its root.
“He loves me not,”—no other word or sound
An echo in Olympia's bosom found.
She thought on many a look, and many a tone,
From which she gather'd hope,—now these were gone,
195
To death; and peace, at least, was with the dead.
One pang remain'd: perchance, though unconfess'd,
Some secret hope yet linger'd in her breast;
But this too was destroy'd. She learn'd next morn
Sea winds and waters had Leoni borne
Afar to other lands; and she had now
But only to her hapless fate to bow.
She changed, she faded, she the young, the gay,
Like the first rose Spring yields to pale decay.
Still her lip wore the sweetness of a smile,
But it forgot its gaiety the while.
Her voice had ever a low gentle tone,
But now 't was tremulous as Sorrow's own;
Her step fell softer as it were subdued
To suit its motion to her alter'd mood;
As if her every movement, gesture, look,
Their bearing from the spirit's sadness took;
And yet there was no word which told that grief
Prey'd on the heart as blight preys on the leaf.
But meeker tenderness to those around,
A soothing, sharing love, as if she found
Her happiness in theirs; more mild, more kind,
As if a holier rule were on her mind.
I cannot choose but marvel at the way
In which our lives pass on, from day to day
Learning strange lessons in the human heart,
And yet like shadows letting them depart.
Is misery so familiar that we bring
Ourselves to view it as a usual thing?
Thus is it; how regardless pass we by
The cheek to paleness worn, the heavy eye!
We do too little feel each others' pain;
We do relax too much the social chain
That binds us to each other; slight the care
There is for grief in which we have no share.
Like the first rose Spring yields to pale decay.
Still her lip wore the sweetness of a smile,
But it forgot its gaiety the while.
Her voice had ever a low gentle tone,
But now 't was tremulous as Sorrow's own;
Her step fell softer as it were subdued
To suit its motion to her alter'd mood;
196
Their bearing from the spirit's sadness took;
And yet there was no word which told that grief
Prey'd on the heart as blight preys on the leaf.
But meeker tenderness to those around,
A soothing, sharing love, as if she found
Her happiness in theirs; more mild, more kind,
As if a holier rule were on her mind.
I cannot choose but marvel at the way
In which our lives pass on, from day to day
Learning strange lessons in the human heart,
And yet like shadows letting them depart.
Is misery so familiar that we bring
Ourselves to view it as a usual thing?
Thus is it; how regardless pass we by
The cheek to paleness worn, the heavy eye!
197
We do relax too much the social chain
That binds us to each other; slight the care
There is for grief in which we have no share.
Olympia felt all this; it loosed one more
Of her heart's ties, and earth's illusions wore
The aspect of their truth,—a gloomy show,
But what it well befits the soul to know.
It taught the lesson of how vain the toil
To build our hopes upon earth's fragile soil.
Oh! only those who suffer, those may know
How much of piety will spring from woe.
Of her heart's ties, and earth's illusions wore
The aspect of their truth,—a gloomy show,
But what it well befits the soul to know.
It taught the lesson of how vain the toil
To build our hopes upon earth's fragile soil.
Oh! only those who suffer, those may know
How much of piety will spring from woe.
Days, weeks, and months pass'd onwards, and once more
Leoni stood upon his native shore.
Slight change there was in him: perchance his brow
Wore somewhat of more settled shadow now;
Somewhat of inward grief, too, though repress'd,
Was in his scornful speech and bitter jest;
For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all
In which it has no part, or one of gall.
I will say that he loved her, but say not
That his, like hers, was an all-blighted lot;
For ever in man's bosom will man's pride
An equal empire with his love divide.
Leoni stood upon his native shore.
198
Wore somewhat of more settled shadow now;
Somewhat of inward grief, too, though repress'd,
Was in his scornful speech and bitter jest;
For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all
In which it has no part, or one of gall.
I will say that he loved her, but say not
That his, like hers, was an all-blighted lot;
For ever in man's bosom will man's pride
An equal empire with his love divide.
It was one glorious sunset, lone and mute,
Save a young page who sometimes waked his lute
With snatches of sad song; Leoni paced
His stately hall, and much might there be traced
What were the workings of its owner's mind.
Red wine was in a silver vase enshrined,
But rudely down the cup was flung, undrain'd,
So hastily, the leaf below was stain'd;
For many an open'd volume lay beside,
As each for solace had in vain been tried:
And now, worn, wearied, with his solitude,
He strode, half sad, half listless in his mood,
Listening the lute or the deep ocean wave,
When an attendant enter'd in and gave
A packet to his hand. Careless he gazed,
And broke the seal. Why! the red flush has raised
Its passion to his brow—what! is the name
There written?—from Olympia, then, it came.
Save a young page who sometimes waked his lute
With snatches of sad song; Leoni paced
His stately hall, and much might there be traced
What were the workings of its owner's mind.
Red wine was in a silver vase enshrined,
199
So hastily, the leaf below was stain'd;
For many an open'd volume lay beside,
As each for solace had in vain been tried:
And now, worn, wearied, with his solitude,
He strode, half sad, half listless in his mood,
Listening the lute or the deep ocean wave,
When an attendant enter'd in and gave
A packet to his hand. Careless he gazed,
And broke the seal. Why! the red flush has raised
Its passion to his brow—what! is the name
There written?—from Olympia, then, it came.
“One word, Leoni, 't is my first and last,
And never spoken but that life is past.
It is earth's lingering dreaming, that I pine
To know these lines will meet one look of thine;
If possible upon thy heart to fling
One gentle memory, one soft thought to cling
To thy more mournful hours; to bid thee take
A pledge too dearly treasured for thy sake,
And one of mine. Ah! this may be forgiven;
'T is the last weakness of the bride of Heaven,
Which I shall be or e'er this comes to tell
How much thou hast been loved. Farewell, farewell!”
And never spoken but that life is past.
It is earth's lingering dreaming, that I pine
To know these lines will meet one look of thine;
200
One gentle memory, one soft thought to cling
To thy more mournful hours; to bid thee take
A pledge too dearly treasured for thy sake,
And one of mine. Ah! this may be forgiven;
'T is the last weakness of the bride of Heaven,
Which I shall be or e'er this comes to tell
How much thou hast been loved. Farewell, farewell!”
He took her gift: well known the pledges there,
A wither'd rose, a tress of silken hair.
Sunny and blue was the minstrel's eye,
A wither'd rose, a tress of silken hair.
Like the lake when noontide is passing by;
And his hair fell down in its golden rings,
As bright and as soft as his own harp-strings,
201
As forth the enthusiast spirit would break
To wander at times through earth and air,
And feed upon all the wonders there.
A changeful prelude his light notes rung,
As remembering all they had ever sung.
Now the deep numbers rolled along,
Like the fiery sweep of a battle song;
Now sad, yet bold, as those numbers gave
Their last farewell to the victor's grave;
Then was it soft and low, as it brought
The depths of the maiden's lovelorn thought:—
Harp of Erin! hath song a tone
Not to thy gifted numbers known?—
But the latest touch was light and calm,
As the voice of a hymn, the night-falling balm;
202
Less from a vision of earth than of heaven.
THE HAUNTED LAKE
The Haunted Lake is founded on the Irish tradition of
O'Donoghue, mentioned in one of Moore's charming melodies.
I trust the slight liberties taken with the story will be pardoned
on the plea of poetical variety.
The tulip symbol, alluded to in page 226., bears the allegorical
construction of eternal separation in the beautiful language
of Eastern flowers.
:
The Haunted Lake is founded on the Irish tradition of O'Donoghue, mentioned in one of Moore's charming melodies. I trust the slight liberties taken with the story will be pardoned on the plea of poetical variety.
The tulip symbol, alluded to in page 226., bears the allegorical construction of eternal separation in the beautiful language of Eastern flowers.
THE IRISH MINSTREL'S LEGEND.
Rose up the young moon; back she flung
The veil of clouds that o'er her hung:
Thus would fair maiden fling aside
Her bright curls in their golden pride;
On pass'd she through the sky of blue,
Lovelier as she pass'd it grew;
At last her gentle smiles awake
The silence of the azure lake.
Lighted to silver, waves arise,
As conscious of her radiant eyes.
Hark! floats around it music's tone,
Sweeter than mortal ear hath known:
Such, when the sighing night-wind grieves
Amid the rose's ruby leaves,
Conscious the nightingale is nigh,
That too soon his reluctant wing
Must rival song and rival sigh
To his own fair flower bring;
Such as the lute, touch'd by no hand
Save by an angel's, wakes and weeps;
Such is the sound that now to land
From the charmed water sweeps.
Around the snowy foam-wreaths break,
The spirit band are on the lake.
First, a gay train form'd of the hues
Of morning skies and morning dews:
A saffron-light around them play'd,
As eve's last cloud with them delay'd;
Such tints, when gazing from afar,
The dazed eye sees in midnight star.
They scatter'd flowers, and the stream
Grew like a garden, each small billow
Shining with the crimson gleam
The young rose flung upon its pillow;
And from their hands, and from their hair,
Blossoms and odours fill'd the air;
And some of them bore wreathed shells,
Blush-dyed, from their coral cells,
Whence the gale at twilight brought
The earliest lesson music caught:
And gave they now the sweetest tone,
That unto sea-born lyre was known;
For they were echoes to the song
That from spirit lips was fleeting,
And the wind bears no charm along
Such as the shell and voices meeting.
On pass'd they to the lulling tune,
Meet pageant for the lady moon.
A louder sweep the music gave:
The chieftain of the charmed wave,
Graceful upon his steed of snow,
Rises from his blue halls below;
And rode he like a victor knight
Thrice glorious in his arms of light.
But, oh! the look his features bear
Was not what living warriors wear;
The glory of his piercing eye
Was not that of mortality;
Earth's cares may not such calm allow,
Man's toil is written on his brow:
But here the face was passionless,
The holy peace of happiness,
With that grave pity spirits feel
In watching over human weal;
An awful beauty round him shone
But for the good to look upon.
Close by his side a maiden rode,
Like spray her white robe round her flow'd;
No rainbow hues about her clung,
Such as the other maidens flung;
And her hair hath no summer crown,
But its long tresses floating down
Are like a veil of gold which cast
A sunshine to each wave that past.
She was not like the rest: her cheek
Was pale and pure as moonlight snows;
Her lip had only the faint streak
The bee loves in the early rose;
And her dark eye had not the blue
The others had clear, wild, and bright;
But floating starry, as it drew
Its likeness from the radiant night
And more she drew my raised eye
Than the bright shadows passing by;
A meeker air, a gentler smile,
A timid tenderness the while,
Held sympathy of heart, and told
The lady was of earthly mould.
Blush'd the first blush of coming day,
Faded the fairy band away.
They pass'd, and only left behind
A lingering fragrance on the wind,
And on the lake, their haunted home,
One long white wreath of silver foam.
Heard I in each surrounding vale
What was that mortal maiden's tale:
Last of her race, a lonely flower,
She dwelt within their ruin'd tower.
Orphan without one link to bind
Nature's affection to her kind;
She grew up a neglected child,
As pure, as beautiful, as wild
As the field flowers which were for years
Her only comrades and compeers.
Time pass'd, and she, to woman grown,
Still, like a wood bird, dwelt alone.
Save that, beside a peasant's hearth,
Tales of the race which gave her birth
Would sometimes win the maiden's ear;
And once, in a worst hour of fear,
When the red fever raged around,
Her place beside the couch was found
Of sickness, and her patient care,
And soothing look, and holy prayer,
And skill in herbs, had power sublime
Upon the sufferer's weary time:
But, saving these, her winter day
Was pass'd within the ruins grey;
And ever summer noons were spent
Beside the charmed lake, and there
Her voice its silver sweetness sent
To mingle with the air.
Thus time pass'd on. At length, one day
Beside her favourite haunt she lay,
When rush'd some band who wish'd to make
Her prisoner for her beauty's sake.
The veil of clouds that o'er her hung:
Thus would fair maiden fling aside
Her bright curls in their golden pride;
On pass'd she through the sky of blue,
Lovelier as she pass'd it grew;
At last her gentle smiles awake
The silence of the azure lake.
Lighted to silver, waves arise,
As conscious of her radiant eyes.
203
Sweeter than mortal ear hath known:
Such, when the sighing night-wind grieves
Amid the rose's ruby leaves,
Conscious the nightingale is nigh,
That too soon his reluctant wing
Must rival song and rival sigh
To his own fair flower bring;
Such as the lute, touch'd by no hand
Save by an angel's, wakes and weeps;
Such is the sound that now to land
From the charmed water sweeps.
Around the snowy foam-wreaths break,
The spirit band are on the lake.
First, a gay train form'd of the hues
Of morning skies and morning dews:
204
As eve's last cloud with them delay'd;
Such tints, when gazing from afar,
The dazed eye sees in midnight star.
They scatter'd flowers, and the stream
Grew like a garden, each small billow
Shining with the crimson gleam
The young rose flung upon its pillow;
And from their hands, and from their hair,
Blossoms and odours fill'd the air;
And some of them bore wreathed shells,
Blush-dyed, from their coral cells,
Whence the gale at twilight brought
The earliest lesson music caught:
And gave they now the sweetest tone,
That unto sea-born lyre was known;
205
That from spirit lips was fleeting,
And the wind bears no charm along
Such as the shell and voices meeting.
On pass'd they to the lulling tune,
Meet pageant for the lady moon.
A louder sweep the music gave:
The chieftain of the charmed wave,
Graceful upon his steed of snow,
Rises from his blue halls below;
And rode he like a victor knight
Thrice glorious in his arms of light.
But, oh! the look his features bear
Was not what living warriors wear;
The glory of his piercing eye
Was not that of mortality;
206
Man's toil is written on his brow:
But here the face was passionless,
The holy peace of happiness,
With that grave pity spirits feel
In watching over human weal;
An awful beauty round him shone
But for the good to look upon.
Close by his side a maiden rode,
Like spray her white robe round her flow'd;
No rainbow hues about her clung,
Such as the other maidens flung;
And her hair hath no summer crown,
But its long tresses floating down
Are like a veil of gold which cast
A sunshine to each wave that past.
207
Was pale and pure as moonlight snows;
Her lip had only the faint streak
The bee loves in the early rose;
And her dark eye had not the blue
The others had clear, wild, and bright;
But floating starry, as it drew
Its likeness from the radiant night
And more she drew my raised eye
Than the bright shadows passing by;
A meeker air, a gentler smile,
A timid tenderness the while,
Held sympathy of heart, and told
The lady was of earthly mould.
Blush'd the first blush of coming day,
Faded the fairy band away.
208
A lingering fragrance on the wind,
And on the lake, their haunted home,
One long white wreath of silver foam.
Heard I in each surrounding vale
What was that mortal maiden's tale:
Last of her race, a lonely flower,
She dwelt within their ruin'd tower.
Orphan without one link to bind
Nature's affection to her kind;
She grew up a neglected child,
As pure, as beautiful, as wild
As the field flowers which were for years
Her only comrades and compeers.
Time pass'd, and she, to woman grown,
Still, like a wood bird, dwelt alone.
209
Tales of the race which gave her birth
Would sometimes win the maiden's ear;
And once, in a worst hour of fear,
When the red fever raged around,
Her place beside the couch was found
Of sickness, and her patient care,
And soothing look, and holy prayer,
And skill in herbs, had power sublime
Upon the sufferer's weary time:
But, saving these, her winter day
Was pass'd within the ruins grey;
And ever summer noons were spent
Beside the charmed lake, and there
Her voice its silver sweetness sent
To mingle with the air.
210
Beside her favourite haunt she lay,
When rush'd some band who wish'd to make
Her prisoner for her beauty's sake.
She saw them ere they gain'd her seat.
Ah! safety may she gain?
Though mountain deer be not more fleet,
Yet here flight is in vain.
The lake—oh, it is there to save!
She plunges—is it to a grave?
Moons waned; again is come the night
When sprites are free for earthly sight.
They see the mortal maiden ride
In honour by the chieftain's side,
So beautiful, so free from sin,
Worthy was she such boon to win:
The spirit race that floated round
Were not more pure, more stainless found;
Her utmost loveliness and grace
Were sole signs of her human race;
Happy, thus freed from earthly thrall,
She skims the lake, fairest of all.
Scarlet robe broider'd with gold;
Ah! safety may she gain?
Though mountain deer be not more fleet,
Yet here flight is in vain.
The lake—oh, it is there to save!
She plunges—is it to a grave?
Moons waned; again is come the night
When sprites are free for earthly sight.
They see the mortal maiden ride
In honour by the chieftain's side,
So beautiful, so free from sin,
Worthy was she such boon to win:
211
Were not more pure, more stainless found;
Her utmost loveliness and grace
Were sole signs of her human race;
Happy, thus freed from earthly thrall,
She skims the lake, fairest of all.
A turban's snowy, but gem-set fold,
And its heron plume fasten'd by diamond clasp;
Rubies red on his dagger-hasp;
Eyes dark as a midnight dream,
Yet flashing wild with starry beam;
Swarthy cheek untouch'd by red,
Told far had Clemenza's summons sped:
212
Mid these Northern halls, to the meed of fame.
THE WREATH:
TALE OF THE MOORISH BARD.
The earliest beauty of the rose,
Waking from moonlight repose,
In morning air and dew to steep
The blush of her voluptuous sleep;
This was her cheek: and for her eye,
Gaze thou upon the midnight sky,
And choose its fairest star, the one
Thou deem'st most lovely and most lone:
Her lip, oh! never flower of spring
Had smile of such sweet blandishing.
Waking from moonlight repose,
In morning air and dew to steep
The blush of her voluptuous sleep;
This was her cheek: and for her eye,
Gaze thou upon the midnight sky,
And choose its fairest star, the one
Thou deem'st most lovely and most lone:
Her lip, oh! never flower of spring
Had smile of such sweet blandishing.
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Ay, beautiful she was as light
Descending on the darken'd sight:
But these were not the spells that gave
Leila the heart for her charmed slave;
But all those sweetest gifts that win,
Like sunshine, instant entrance in;
Those gentle words and acts that bind
In love our nature with our kind.
Descending on the darken'd sight:
But these were not the spells that gave
Leila the heart for her charmed slave;
But all those sweetest gifts that win,
Like sunshine, instant entrance in;
Those gentle words and acts that bind
In love our nature with our kind.
She dwelt within a palace fair
Such as in fairy gardens are;
There grew her father's cypress-tree,
No other monument had he.
He bade that never funeral stone
Should tell of glory overthrown,—
What could it say, but foreign sky
Had seen the exile pine and die?
Such as in fairy gardens are;
There grew her father's cypress-tree,
No other monument had he.
He bade that never funeral stone
Should tell of glory overthrown,—
What could it say, but foreign sky
Had seen the exile pine and die?
214
The maiden grew beside the tomb;
Perhaps 't was that which touch'd her bloom
With somewhat of more mournful shade
Than seems for youth's first budding made.
It was her favourite haunt, she felt
As there her all of memory dwelt.
Alone, a stranger in the land
Which was her home, the only band
Between her and her native tongue
Was when her native songs she sung.
Perhaps 't was that which touch'd her bloom
With somewhat of more mournful shade
Than seems for youth's first budding made.
It was her favourite haunt, she felt
As there her all of memory dwelt.
Alone, a stranger in the land
Which was her home, the only band
Between her and her native tongue
Was when her native songs she sung.
Leila, thou wert not of our name;
Thy Christian creed, thy Spanish race,
To us were sorrow, guilt, and shame,
No earthly beauty might efface.
Yet, lovely Infidel, thou art
A treasure clinging to my heart:
A very boy, I yet recall
The dark light of thine eye's charm'd thrall;
Beneath thy worshipp'd cypress leant,
And flowers with thy breathing blent,
Less pure, less beautiful than thou,
I see thee; and I hear thee now
Singing sweet to the twilight dim—
Could it be sin?—thy vesper hymn.
Thy Christian creed, thy Spanish race,
To us were sorrow, guilt, and shame,
No earthly beauty might efface.
Yet, lovely Infidel, thou art
A treasure clinging to my heart:
215
The dark light of thine eye's charm'd thrall;
Beneath thy worshipp'd cypress leant,
And flowers with thy breathing blent,
Less pure, less beautiful than thou,
I see thee; and I hear thee now
Singing sweet to the twilight dim—
Could it be sin?—thy vesper hymn.
Burnt a sweet light in that fair shrine,
At once too earthly, too divine;
The heart's vain struggle to create
An Eden not for mortal state.
At once too earthly, too divine;
The heart's vain struggle to create
An Eden not for mortal state.
Love, who shall say that thou art not
The dearest blessing of our lot?
Yet, not the less, who may deny
Life has no sorrow like thy sigh?
A fairy gift, and none may know
Or will it work to weal or woe.
The dearest blessing of our lot?
216
Life has no sorrow like thy sigh?
A fairy gift, and none may know
Or will it work to weal or woe.
Spite of the differing race and creed,
Their fathers had been friends in need;
And, all unconsciously at first,
Love in its infancy was nursed;
Companions from their earliest years,
Unknown the hopes, the doubts, the fears,
That haunt young passion's early hour,
Spared but to come with deadlier power,
With deeper sorrow, worse unrest,
When once love stood in both confest.
Their fathers had been friends in need;
And, all unconsciously at first,
Love in its infancy was nursed;
Companions from their earliest years,
Unknown the hopes, the doubts, the fears,
That haunt young passion's early hour,
Spared but to come with deadlier power,
With deeper sorrow, worse unrest,
When once love stood in both confest.
217
The ground she trod, the air she breathed,
The blossoms in her dark hair wreathed,
Her smile, her voice, to Mirza's eyes
More precious seem'd than Paradise.
The blossoms in her dark hair wreathed,
Her smile, her voice, to Mirza's eyes
More precious seem'd than Paradise.
Yet was the silence sweet unbroken
By vows in which young love is spoken.
But when the heart has but one dream
For midnight gloom or noontide beam,
And one, at least, knows well what power
Is ruling, words will find their hour;
Though after growth of grief and pain,
May wish those words unsaid again.
By vows in which young love is spoken.
But when the heart has but one dream
For midnight gloom or noontide beam,
And one, at least, knows well what power
Is ruling, words will find their hour;
Though after growth of grief and pain,
May wish those words unsaid again.
'T was sunset, and the glorious heaven
Io Leila's cheek and eye seem'd given;
The one like evening crimson bright,
The other fill'd with such clear light,
That, as she bent her o'er the strings,
Catching music's wanderings,
Look'd she well some Peri fair,
Born and being of the air.
Waked the guitar beneath her hand
To ballad of her Spanish land;
Sad, but yet suiting twilight pale,
When surely tenderest thoughts prevail.
Io Leila's cheek and eye seem'd given;
218
The other fill'd with such clear light,
That, as she bent her o'er the strings,
Catching music's wanderings,
Look'd she well some Peri fair,
Born and being of the air.
Waked the guitar beneath her hand
To ballad of her Spanish land;
Sad, but yet suiting twilight pale,
When surely tenderest thoughts prevail.
SONG.
Maiden, fling from thy braided hair
The red rose-bud that is wreathed there;
For he who planted the parent tree
Is now what soon that blossom will be.
The red rose-bud that is wreathed there;
For he who planted the parent tree
Is now what soon that blossom will be.
219
Maiden, fling from thy neck of snow
The chain where the Eastern rubies glow;
For he who gave thee that jewell'd chain
Lies in his wounds on the battle plain.
The chain where the Eastern rubies glow;
For he who gave thee that jewell'd chain
Lies in his wounds on the battle plain.
Maiden, fling thou aside thy lute,
Be its chords, as thy own hopes, mute;
For he who first taught thy lips that strain
Never will listen its music again.
Be its chords, as thy own hopes, mute;
For he who first taught thy lips that strain
Never will listen its music again.
Give those roses to strew on his grave,
That chain for a mass for the soul of the brave,
And teach that lute, thou widow'd dove,
A dirge for the fall of thy warrior love.
That chain for a mass for the soul of the brave,
And teach that lute, thou widow'd dove,
A dirge for the fall of thy warrior love.
“Alas! that ever,” Leila said,
“The fond should mourn above the dead,
Thus all too early desolate,
Without one hope or wish from fate;
Save death, what can the maiden crave
Who weeps above her lover's grave?”
Darken'd her eyes with tearful dew,
Wore her soft cheek yet softer hue;
And Mirza who had lean'd the while,
Feeding upon her voice and smile,
Felt as if all that fate could bring
Were written on that moment's wing.
One moment he is at her knee,
“So, Leila, wouldst thou weep for me?”
Started she, as at lightning gleam,—
“Oh, Mirza, this I did not dream.
Moslem and Moor, may Spanish maid
Hearken such words as thou hast said?
My father's blood, my father's creed,
Now help me in my hour of need!”
“The fond should mourn above the dead,
220
Without one hope or wish from fate;
Save death, what can the maiden crave
Who weeps above her lover's grave?”
Darken'd her eyes with tearful dew,
Wore her soft cheek yet softer hue;
And Mirza who had lean'd the while,
Feeding upon her voice and smile,
Felt as if all that fate could bring
Were written on that moment's wing.
One moment he is at her knee,
“So, Leila, wouldst thou weep for me?”
Started she, as at lightning gleam,—
“Oh, Mirza, this I did not dream.
Moslem and Moor, may Spanish maid
Hearken such words as thou hast said?
221
Now help me in my hour of need!”
Still knelt he at the maiden's feet,
Still sought he those dear eyes to meet.
“Cruel, and is there nothing due
To love so fervid and so true?”
As with conflicting thought oppress'd,
She droop'd her head upon his breast;
Watch'd he the tears on her pale face,
When started she from that embrace.
“I know the weakness of my heart:
Mirza, in vain, for we must part.
Farewell, and henceforth I will be
Vow'd to my God and prayers for thee.”
Still sought he those dear eyes to meet.
“Cruel, and is there nothing due
To love so fervid and so true?”
As with conflicting thought oppress'd,
She droop'd her head upon his breast;
Watch'd he the tears on her pale face,
When started she from that embrace.
“I know the weakness of my heart:
Mirza, in vain, for we must part.
Farewell, and henceforth I will be
Vow'd to my God and prayers for thee.”
222
He strove to speak, but she was gone,
He stood within the grove alone,
And from that hour they met no more:
But what to either might restore
Or peace or hope; the gulf between,
They must forget what they had been.
Forget—oh! never yet hath love
Successfully with memory strove.
I then was Mirza's page; and strange
It was to me to watch the change
That over him like magic wrought.
Apart from all, in silent thought
He would pass hours; and then his mood,
As wearied of such solitude,
Alter'd to gaiety; that mirth,
Desperate as if it knew its birth,
Was like an earth flame's sudden breath,
Sprung from the ruin'd soil beneath.
He stood within the grove alone,
And from that hour they met no more:
But what to either might restore
Or peace or hope; the gulf between,
They must forget what they had been.
Forget—oh! never yet hath love
Successfully with memory strove.
I then was Mirza's page; and strange
It was to me to watch the change
That over him like magic wrought.
Apart from all, in silent thought
He would pass hours; and then his mood,
As wearied of such solitude,
Alter'd to gaiety; that mirth,
Desperate as if it knew its birth,
223
Sprung from the ruin'd soil beneath.
They had not met, since to the maid
His first rash vow of love was said;
But heard we how, by penance, prayer,
She strove to wash away the sin,
That ever Infidel had share
A Christian maiden's breast within:
And there perchance were other tears
Than those which flow'd from holy fears.
I know not what vain dream had sprung
In Mirza. Is it that despair,
Ere the last veil aside is flung,
Unable its own words to bear,
Will borrow from hope's charmed tongue?
To her a wreath he bid me take,
Such as in our fair garden wake
Love's hopes and fears,—oh! suiting well
Such gentle messages to tell.
That wreath I to the lady brought.
I found her in her hall alone,
So changed, your sculptors never wrought
A form in monumental stone
So cold, so pale. The large dark eye
Shone strangely o'er the marble cheek;
The lips were parted, yet no sigh
Seem'd there of breathing life to speak;
The picture at whose feet she knelt,
The maiden Mother and her Child,
The hues which on that canvass dwelt,
With more of human likeness smiled.
Awful the face, however fair,
When death's dark call is written there.
I gave the wreath, I named his name,
One moment the heart's weakness came,
Written in crimson on her brow,
The very blossoms caught the glow;
Or grew they bright but from the fall
Of tears that lit their coronal?
The next, the dark eye's sudden rain,
The cheek's red colour pass'd again,
All earthly feelings with them died;
Slowly she laid the gift aside.
When will my soul forget the look
With which one single stem she took
From out the wreath?—a tulip flower;
But, touch'd as by some withering power,
The painted leaves were drooping round
The rich but burning heart they bound.
She spoke,—oh! never music's tone
Hath sadder sweeter cadence known:—
“With jarring creed, and hostile line,
And heart with fate at enmity,
This wasting flower is emblem mine,
'T is faded, it hath but to die.”
His first rash vow of love was said;
But heard we how, by penance, prayer,
She strove to wash away the sin,
That ever Infidel had share
A Christian maiden's breast within:
And there perchance were other tears
Than those which flow'd from holy fears.
I know not what vain dream had sprung
In Mirza. Is it that despair,
Ere the last veil aside is flung,
Unable its own words to bear,
Will borrow from hope's charmed tongue?
224
Such as in our fair garden wake
Love's hopes and fears,—oh! suiting well
Such gentle messages to tell.
That wreath I to the lady brought.
I found her in her hall alone,
So changed, your sculptors never wrought
A form in monumental stone
So cold, so pale. The large dark eye
Shone strangely o'er the marble cheek;
The lips were parted, yet no sigh
Seem'd there of breathing life to speak;
The picture at whose feet she knelt,
The maiden Mother and her Child,
The hues which on that canvass dwelt,
With more of human likeness smiled.
225
When death's dark call is written there.
I gave the wreath, I named his name,
One moment the heart's weakness came,
Written in crimson on her brow,
The very blossoms caught the glow;
Or grew they bright but from the fall
Of tears that lit their coronal?
The next, the dark eye's sudden rain,
The cheek's red colour pass'd again,
All earthly feelings with them died;
Slowly she laid the gift aside.
When will my soul forget the look
With which one single stem she took
From out the wreath?—a tulip flower;
But, touch'd as by some withering power,
226
The rich but burning heart they bound.
She spoke,—oh! never music's tone
Hath sadder sweeter cadence known:—
“With jarring creed, and hostile line,
And heart with fate at enmity,
This wasting flower is emblem mine,
'T is faded, it hath but to die.”
I took those leaves of faded bloom
To Mirza; 't was of both the doom.
He died the first of the battle line,
When red blood dims the sabre's shine;
He died the early death of the brave,
And the place of the battle was that of his grave.
She died as dies a breath of song
Borne on the winds of evening along;
She fell as falls the rose in spring,
The fairest are ever most perishing.
Yet lingers that tale of sorrow and love,
Of the Christian maid and her Moslem love;
A tale to be told in the twilight hour,
For the beauty's tears in her lonely bower.
Rose the last minstrel; he was one
To Mirza; 't was of both the doom.
He died the first of the battle line,
When red blood dims the sabre's shine;
He died the early death of the brave,
And the place of the battle was that of his grave.
She died as dies a breath of song
Borne on the winds of evening along;
227
The fairest are ever most perishing.
Yet lingers that tale of sorrow and love,
Of the Christian maid and her Moslem love;
A tale to be told in the twilight hour,
For the beauty's tears in her lonely bower.
Well the eye loves to look upon.
Slight but tall, the gallant knight
Had the martial step he had used in fight;
Dark and rich curl'd the auburn hair
O'er a brow, like the ocean by moonlight, fair;
His island colour was on his cheek,
Enough of youth in its health to speak;
228
From much of toil and of peril known:
Frank was his courtesy, and sweet
The smile he wore at fair lady's feet;
Yet haughty his step, and his mien was high
Half softness, half fire his falcon eye.
England, fair England, hath earth or sea,
Land of hearth and home, aught to liken with thee!
SIR WALTER MANNY
The most touching incident on which
this little poem is founded is a historic fact, and as such recorded
in Mills's History of Chivalry; pages to which my debt
of obligation and delight is more freely though now regretfully
rendered, in the knowledge that it is gratitude, not flattery, which
is spoken of the dead.
AT HIS FATHER'S TOMB:
The most touching incident on which this little poem is founded is a historic fact, and as such recorded in Mills's History of Chivalry; pages to which my debt of obligation and delight is more freely though now regretfully rendered, in the knowledge that it is gratitude, not flattery, which is spoken of the dead.
THE ENGLISH KNIGHT'S BALLAD.
“Oh! show me the grave where my father is laid,
Show his lowly grave to me;
A hundred pieces of broad red gold,
Old man, shall thy guerdon be.”
Show his lowly grave to me;
A hundred pieces of broad red gold,
Old man, shall thy guerdon be.”
229
With torch in hand, and bared head,
The old man led the way;
And cold and shrill pass'd the midnight wind
Through his hair of silvery grey.
The old man led the way;
And cold and shrill pass'd the midnight wind
Through his hair of silvery grey.
A stately knight follow'd his steps,
And his form was tall and proud;
But his step fell soft, and his helm was off,
And his head on his bosom bow'd.
And his form was tall and proud;
But his step fell soft, and his helm was off,
And his head on his bosom bow'd.
They pass'd through the cathedral aisles,
Whose sculptured walls declare
The deeds of many a noble knight;
De Manny's name was not there.
Whose sculptured walls declare
The deeds of many a noble knight;
De Manny's name was not there.
They pass'd next a low and humble church,
Scarce seen amid the gloom;
There was many a grave, yet not even there
Had his father found a tomb.
Scarce seen amid the gloom;
230
Had his father found a tomb.
They traversed a bleak and barren heath,
Till they came to a gloomy wood,
Where the dark trees droop'd, and the dark grass grew,
As cursed with the sight of blood.
Till they came to a gloomy wood,
Where the dark trees droop'd, and the dark grass grew,
As cursed with the sight of blood.
There stood a lorn and blasted tree,
As heaven and earth were its foes,
And beneath was a piled up mound of stones,
Whence a rude grey cross arose.
As heaven and earth were its foes,
And beneath was a piled up mound of stones,
Whence a rude grey cross arose.
“And lo!” said the ancient servitor,
“It is here thy father is laid;
No mass has bless'd the lowly grave
Which his humblest follower made.
“It is here thy father is laid;
231
Which his humblest follower made.
“I would have wander'd through every land
Where his gallant name was known,
To have pray'd a mass for the soul of the dead,
And a monumental stone.
Where his gallant name was known,
To have pray'd a mass for the soul of the dead,
And a monumental stone.
“But I knew thy father had a son,
To whom the task would be dear;
Young knight, I kept the warrior's grave
For thee, and thou art here.”
To whom the task would be dear;
Young knight, I kept the warrior's grave
For thee, and thou art here.”
Sir Walter grasp'd the old man's hand,
But spoke he never a word;—
So still it was, that the fall of tears
On his mailed vest was heard.
But spoke he never a word;—
So still it was, that the fall of tears
On his mailed vest was heard.
232
Oh! the heart has all too many tears;
But none are like those that wait
On the blighted love, the loneliness
Of the young orphan's fate.
But none are like those that wait
On the blighted love, the loneliness
Of the young orphan's fate.
He call'd to mind when for knighthood's badge
He knelt at Edward's throne;
How many stood by a parent's side,
But he stood there alone!
He knelt at Edward's throne;
How many stood by a parent's side,
But he stood there alone!
He thought how often his heart had pined,
When his was the victor's name;
Thrice desolate, strangers might give,
But could not share his fame.
When his was the victor's name;
Thrice desolate, strangers might give,
But could not share his fame.
Down he knelt in silent prayer
On the grave where his father slept;
And many the tears, and bitter the thoughts,
As the warrior his vigil kept.
On the grave where his father slept;
233
As the warrior his vigil kept.
And he built a little chapel there;
And bade the deathbell toll,
And prayers be said, and mass be sung,
For the weal of the warrior's soul.
And bade the deathbell toll,
And prayers be said, and mass be sung,
For the weal of the warrior's soul.
Years pass'd, and ever Sir Walter was first
Where warlike deeds were done;
But who would not look for the gallant knight
In the leal and loyal son.
Sooth to say, the sight was fair,
Where warlike deeds were done;
But who would not look for the gallant knight
In the leal and loyal son.
When the lady unbound from her raven hair
234
Dear thou art to the poet's lays.
Many a flash from each dark eye pass'd,
Many a minstrel's pulse throbb'd fast,
As she held forth the flower.
The dream is past, hush'd is my lute,
At least, to my awaking, mute;
Past that fair garden and glad hall,
And she the lady queen of all.
Leave we her power to those who deign
One moment to my idle strain:
Let each one at their pleasure set
The prize—the Golden Violet.
Could I choose where it might belong,
Mid phantoms but of mine own song?
At least, to my awaking, mute;
Past that fair garden and glad hall,
And she the lady queen of all.
Leave we her power to those who deign
One moment to my idle strain:
Let each one at their pleasure set
The prize—the Golden Violet.
Could I choose where it might belong,
Mid phantoms but of mine own song?
235
My task is ended; it may seem
But vain regret for morning dream,
To say how sad a look is cast
Over the line we know the last.
The weary hind at setting sun
Rejoices over labour done,
The hunter at the ended chase,
The ship above its anchoring-place,
The pilgrim o'er his pilgrimage,
The reader o'er the closing page;
All, for end is to them repose.
The poet's lot is not with those:
His hour in Paradise is o'er;
He stands on earth, and takes his share
Of shadows closing round him more,
The feverish hope, the freezing care;
And he must read in other eyes,
Or if his spirit's sacrifice
Shall brighten, touch'd with heaven's own fire,
Or in its ashes dark expire.
Then even worse,—what art thou, fame?
A various and doubtful claim
One grants and one denies; what none
Can wholly quite agree upon.
A dubious and uncertain path
At least the modern minstrel hath;
How may he tell, where none agree,
What may fame's actual passport be?
But vain regret for morning dream,
To say how sad a look is cast
Over the line we know the last.
The weary hind at setting sun
Rejoices over labour done,
The hunter at the ended chase,
The ship above its anchoring-place,
The pilgrim o'er his pilgrimage,
The reader o'er the closing page;
All, for end is to them repose.
The poet's lot is not with those:
His hour in Paradise is o'er;
He stands on earth, and takes his share
Of shadows closing round him more,
The feverish hope, the freezing care;
236
Or if his spirit's sacrifice
Shall brighten, touch'd with heaven's own fire,
Or in its ashes dark expire.
Then even worse,—what art thou, fame?
A various and doubtful claim
One grants and one denies; what none
Can wholly quite agree upon.
A dubious and uncertain path
At least the modern minstrel hath;
How may he tell, where none agree,
What may fame's actual passport be?
For me, in sooth, not mine the lute
On its own powers to rely;
But its chords with all wills to suit,
It were an easier task to try
To blend in one each varying tone
The midnight wind hath ever known.
One saith that tale of battle brand
Is all too rude for my weak hand;
Another, too much sorrow flings
Its pining cadence o'er my strings.
So much to win, so much to lose,
No marvel if I fear to choose.
How can I tell of battle field,
I never listed brand to wield;
Or dark ambition's pathway try,
In truth I never look'd so high;
Or stern revenge, or hatred fell,
Of what I know not, can I tell?
I soar not on such lofty wings,
My lute has not so many strings;
Its dower is but a humble dower,
And I who call upon its aid,
My power is but a woman's power,
Of softness and of sadness made.
In all its changes my own heart
Must give the colour, have its part.
If that I know myself what keys
Yield to my hand their sympathies,
I should say it is those whose tone
Is woman's love and sorrow's own;
Such notes as float upon the gale,
When twilight, tender nurse and pale,
Brings soothing airs and silver dew
The panting roses to renew;
Feelings whose truth is all their worth,
Thoughts which have had their pensive birth
When lilies hang their heads and die,
Eve's lesson of mortality.
Such lute, and with such humble wreath
As suits frail string and trembling breath,
Such, gentle reader, woos thee now.
Oh! o'er it bend with yielding brow:
Read thou it when some soften'd mood
Is on thy hour of solitude;
And tender memory, sadden'd thought,
On the world's harsher cares have wrought.
Bethink thee, kindly look and word
Will fall like sunshine o'er each chord;
That, light as is such boon to thee,
'T is more than summer's noon to me;
That, if such meed my suit hath won,
I shall not mourn my task is done.
On its own powers to rely;
But its chords with all wills to suit,
It were an easier task to try
237
The midnight wind hath ever known.
One saith that tale of battle brand
Is all too rude for my weak hand;
Another, too much sorrow flings
Its pining cadence o'er my strings.
So much to win, so much to lose,
No marvel if I fear to choose.
How can I tell of battle field,
I never listed brand to wield;
Or dark ambition's pathway try,
In truth I never look'd so high;
Or stern revenge, or hatred fell,
Of what I know not, can I tell?
I soar not on such lofty wings,
My lute has not so many strings;
238
And I who call upon its aid,
My power is but a woman's power,
Of softness and of sadness made.
In all its changes my own heart
Must give the colour, have its part.
If that I know myself what keys
Yield to my hand their sympathies,
I should say it is those whose tone
Is woman's love and sorrow's own;
Such notes as float upon the gale,
When twilight, tender nurse and pale,
Brings soothing airs and silver dew
The panting roses to renew;
Feelings whose truth is all their worth,
Thoughts which have had their pensive birth
239
Eve's lesson of mortality.
Such lute, and with such humble wreath
As suits frail string and trembling breath,
Such, gentle reader, woos thee now.
Oh! o'er it bend with yielding brow:
Read thou it when some soften'd mood
Is on thy hour of solitude;
And tender memory, sadden'd thought,
On the world's harsher cares have wrought.
Bethink thee, kindly look and word
Will fall like sunshine o'er each chord;
That, light as is such boon to thee,
'T is more than summer's noon to me;
That, if such meed my suit hath won,
I shall not mourn my task is done.
| The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry | |