The improvisatrice; and other poems By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] With embellishments. A new edition |
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| I. | [I] |
| II. |
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 | The improvisatrice; and other poems |  |
[I]
'Tis a wild tale—and sad, too, as the sigh
That young lips breathe when Love's first dreamings fly;
When blights and cankerworms, and chilling showers,
Come withering o'er the warm heart's passion-flowers.
Love! gentlest spirit! I do tell of thee,—
Of all thy thousand hopes, thy many fears,
Thy morning blushes, and thy evening tears;
What thou hast ever been, and still will be,—
Life's best, but most betraying witchery!
It is a night of summer,—and the sea
Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity.
Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks;
Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone,
Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it seeks
Some face it loves, yet fears to dwell upon.
The waves are motionless, save where the oar,
Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone,
Has broken in upon their azure sleep.
Odours are on the air:—the gale has been
Wandering in groves where the rich roses weep,—
Where orange, citron, and the soft lime-flowers
Shed forth their fragrance to night's dewy hours.
Afar the distant city meets the gaze,
Where tower and turret in the pale light shine,
Seen like the monuments of other days—
Monuments Time half shadows, half displays.
And there are many, who, with witching song
And wild guitar's soul-thrilling melody,
Or the lute's melting music, float along
O'er the blue waters, still and silently.
That night had Naples sent her best display
Of young and gallant, beautiful and gay.
That young lips breathe when Love's first dreamings fly;
When blights and cankerworms, and chilling showers,
Come withering o'er the warm heart's passion-flowers.
Love! gentlest spirit! I do tell of thee,—
Of all thy thousand hopes, thy many fears,
Thy morning blushes, and thy evening tears;
What thou hast ever been, and still will be,—
Life's best, but most betraying witchery!
110
Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity.
Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks;
Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone,
Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it seeks
Some face it loves, yet fears to dwell upon.
The waves are motionless, save where the oar,
Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone,
Has broken in upon their azure sleep.
Odours are on the air:—the gale has been
Wandering in groves where the rich roses weep,—
Where orange, citron, and the soft lime-flowers
Shed forth their fragrance to night's dewy hours.
Afar the distant city meets the gaze,
Where tower and turret in the pale light shine,
Seen like the monuments of other days—
Monuments Time half shadows, half displays.
111
And wild guitar's soul-thrilling melody,
Or the lute's melting music, float along
O'er the blue waters, still and silently.
That night had Naples sent her best display
Of young and gallant, beautiful and gay.
There was a bark a little way apart
From all the rest, and there two lovers leant:—
One with a blushing cheek and beating heart,
And bashful glance, upon the sea-wave bent;
She might not meet the gaze the other sent
Upon her beauty;—but the half-breathed sighs,
The deepening colour, timid smiling eyes,
Told that she listened Love's sweet flatteries.
Then they were silent:—words are little aid
To Love, whose deepest vows are ever made
By the heart's beat alone. Oh, silence is
Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss!—
Music swept past:—it was a simple tone;
But it has wakened heartfelt sympathies;—
It has brought into life things past and gone;
Has wakened all those secret memories,
That may be smothered, but that still will be
Present within thy soul, young Rosalie!
The notes had roused an answering chord within:—
In other days, that song her vesper hymn had been.
Her altered look is pale:—that dewy eye
Almost belies the smile her rich lips wear;—
That smile is mocked by a scarce-breathing sigh,
Which tells of silent and suppressed care—
Tells that the life is withering with despair,
More irksome from its unsunned silentness—
A festering wound the spirit pines to bear;
A galling chain, whose pressure will intrude,
Fettering Mirth's step, and Pleasure's lightest mood
From all the rest, and there two lovers leant:—
One with a blushing cheek and beating heart,
And bashful glance, upon the sea-wave bent;
She might not meet the gaze the other sent
Upon her beauty;—but the half-breathed sighs,
The deepening colour, timid smiling eyes,
Told that she listened Love's sweet flatteries.
Then they were silent:—words are little aid
To Love, whose deepest vows are ever made
112
Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss!—
Music swept past:—it was a simple tone;
But it has wakened heartfelt sympathies;—
It has brought into life things past and gone;
Has wakened all those secret memories,
That may be smothered, but that still will be
Present within thy soul, young Rosalie!
The notes had roused an answering chord within:—
In other days, that song her vesper hymn had been.
Her altered look is pale:—that dewy eye
Almost belies the smile her rich lips wear;—
That smile is mocked by a scarce-breathing sigh,
Which tells of silent and suppressed care—
Tells that the life is withering with despair,
More irksome from its unsunned silentness—
A festering wound the spirit pines to bear;
113
Fettering Mirth's step, and Pleasure's lightest mood
Where are her thoughts thus wandering?—A spot,
Now distant far, is pictured on her mind,—
A chesnut shadowing a low white cot,
With rose and jasmine round the casement twined,
Mixed with the myrtle-tree's luxuriant blind.
Alone, (oh! should such solitude be here?)
An aged form beneath the shade reclined,
Whose eye glanced round the scene;—and then a tear
Told that she missed one in her heart enshrined!
Then came remembrances of other times,
When eve oped her rich bowers for the pale day;
When the faint, distant tones of convent chimes
Were answered by the lute and vesper lay;—
When the fond mother blest her gentle child,
And for her welfare prayed the Virgin mild.
Now distant far, is pictured on her mind,—
A chesnut shadowing a low white cot,
With rose and jasmine round the casement twined,
Mixed with the myrtle-tree's luxuriant blind.
Alone, (oh! should such solitude be here?)
An aged form beneath the shade reclined,
Whose eye glanced round the scene;—and then a tear
Told that she missed one in her heart enshrined!
Then came remembrances of other times,
When eve oped her rich bowers for the pale day;
When the faint, distant tones of convent chimes
Were answered by the lute and vesper lay;—
114
And for her welfare prayed the Virgin mild.
And she has left the aged one to steep
Her nightly couch with tears for that lost child,—
The Rosalie,—who left her age to weep,
When that the tempter flattered her and wiled
Her steps away, from her own home beguiled.
Her nightly couch with tears for that lost child,—
The Rosalie,—who left her age to weep,
When that the tempter flattered her and wiled
Her steps away, from her own home beguiled.
She started up in agony:—her eye
Met Manfredi's. Softly he spoke, and smiled.
Memory is past, and thought and feeling lie
Lost in one dream—all thrown on one wild die.
They floated o'er the waters, till the moon
Look'd from the blue sky in her zenith noon,—
Till each glad bark at length had sought the shore,
And the waves echoed to the lute no more;—
Then sought their gay palazzo, where the ray
Of lamps shed light only less bright than day;
And there they feasted till the morn did fling
Her blushes o'er their mirth and revelling.
And life was as a tale of faërie,—
As when some Eastern genie rears bright bowers,
And spreads the green turf and the coloured flowers;
And calls upon the earth, the sea, the sky,
To yield their treasures for some gentle queen,
Whose reign is over the enchanted scene.
And Rosalie had pledged a magic cup—
The maddening cup of pleasure and of love!
There was for her one only dream on earth!
There was for her one only star above!—
She bent in passionate idolatry
Before her heart's sole idol—Manfredi!
Met Manfredi's. Softly he spoke, and smiled.
Memory is past, and thought and feeling lie
Lost in one dream—all thrown on one wild die.
They floated o'er the waters, till the moon
Look'd from the blue sky in her zenith noon,—
115
And the waves echoed to the lute no more;—
Then sought their gay palazzo, where the ray
Of lamps shed light only less bright than day;
And there they feasted till the morn did fling
Her blushes o'er their mirth and revelling.
And life was as a tale of faërie,—
As when some Eastern genie rears bright bowers,
And spreads the green turf and the coloured flowers;
And calls upon the earth, the sea, the sky,
To yield their treasures for some gentle queen,
Whose reign is over the enchanted scene.
And Rosalie had pledged a magic cup—
The maddening cup of pleasure and of love!
There was for her one only dream on earth!
There was for her one only star above!—
116
Before her heart's sole idol—Manfredi!
| The improvisatrice; and other poems | |