Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

For hours, what crowds have throng'd its door!
From pit to gallery, what a sight!
St. Carlo holds its hundreds more
Than e'er it held before to-night.
From Scotland is she? Well, the South
At length is by the North outdone!
Her name's alone in every mouth;
They're here to see but one—but one—
But one—but one.

They say all London's at her feet;
Gay Paris worships only her;
Her steps' wild charm to fever heat
Even Moscow's sluggish soul could stir.
From West to East, all Europe through,
One round of triumph has she run;
Now here we crown this wonder too,
And Naples flocks to see but one,
But one—but one.

Alike from palace, quay, and street,
Her worshippers to-night are brought,
As if this dancer's glancing feet
Were sunny Naples' only thought;

Who is not burning to adore?
Unseen, her triumph's yet begun.
She comes; her fame has flown before,
And all are here to see but one,
But one—but one.

Look round before the curtain's raised;
How well that beauty acts it there,
In front, to have her white arm praised,
And flash the diamonds in her hair!
But that one face, what does it here?
Its sternness well each eye may shun!
Her countryman? Ah, then 'tis clear,
He too is here to see but one,
But one—but one.

Our Norma's good; yet much I fear
To-night no thunders wait for her;
And scarce, I think, were Grisi here,
Or Lind herself, a hand would stir;
Their favourite air—'tis all in vain;
They would the ballet were begun;
Of her alone a sight they'd gain;
To-night they've only eyes for one,
For one—for one.

She comes! she comes! that wreath of girls,
How fair they float adown the stage!
Now, swift the rosy circle whirls;
Now, breaks, one form to disengage.
'Tis she whom all are hush'd to see!
What thunders, still and still begun,
But hush'd to burst, proclaim, 'tis she!
A thousand eyes are strain'd on one,
On one—but one.

How wondrous fair! and yet, how cold
The perfect oval of her face,
Where all of beauty we behold,
And yet of triumph scarce a trace!

She bends; now, all unmoved, she stands,
As if her right she only won,
Her due, the rapture from our hands
That, well she knows, would greet but one,
But one—but one.

Away—away—her quivering feet
The raptured eye can scarcely trace,
Where all the forms of beauty meet,
And every motion's rarest grace.
She bounds; she whirls; with floating arms
She poises; each by each outdone;
Now proudly pants in all her charms
Amid the plaudits hail'd on one,
On one—but one.

Rain down your wreaths—your rarest flowers!
Heap'd to her feet, let blossoms fall!
Her queenly gaze is raised to ours,
Her lighted eyes are thanking all;
What brought that flush to breast and brow,
That flush that ne'er the dance had done?
That start? She saw each face but now;
Now, now, she sees—she sees but one,
But one—but one.

What does he here? why has he sped
O'er sea—o'er Alps, to front the gaze
Of her, to him but as the dead,
So loved—so lost in early days?
Can she, this bared thing of the stage,
From God and her youth's worship won,
This wept-for sin—can she engage
One thought of his—one thought, but one,
Even one—but one?

Are her old father's thoughts less stern?
Perchance his aged eyes grow dim
In watch for her; his heart may yearn
At last for her who yearns for him;

O baseless hope! he has not sent.
His daughter? Daughter he has none;
He knows not her, from God who went;
He has no child—no child—not one,
Not one—not one.

His home's old Bible holds her name,
Yet, nightly, when 'tis open'd there,
For her who brought his grey hairs shame,
For her, so loved! he has no prayer.
Prop of his age! how could she turn
From God, the world's vain ways to run!
O bait of hell! its fame to earn
With his old curse, but heap'd on one,
On one—but one!

His curse! his curse! O would his heart
Could feel, what unto Heaven is known,
No touch of vice need spot the art
His stern faith holds as sin alone!
Ah, could he know, who brought that start,
What paths of peril she has run,
Unstain'd in thought—in act—in heart,
Would still his sternness spurn the one,
The loved—the one?

'Tis he, her lover of the days
Ere yet she scorn'd her girlish home,
Ere yet she nursed a thought of praise,
Ere yet she knew a wish to roam;
And here, enchantress of the hour,
Her memory's thought has backward run
To the clear burn—the thorn in flower,
The gloaming meetings, shared with one,
With one—but one.

Fame whisper'd, and she weakly thought
She well could thrust her pride above
Her stifled heart, nor e'er be taught
No pride, for long, can conquer love;

Through joy—through triumph, soon that heart
Its deeper tones would ever run,
Till from all other love she'd start,
Through all her temptings, true to one,
To one—but one.

O doubt it not! there have been hours
When raptures pall'd, and praise was pain,
When, crown'd with pleasure's rosiest flowers,
She yearn'd for that still vale again,
Half loathed the city's feverish life,
Half wish'd the hopes of years undone,
To flee the fame—the thirst—the strife,
For some poor home, with him, the one,
The loved—the one.

Ah! still that home she yet may win,
Woo—win it through the world's applause;
To-night, will he not drink it in,
And, ere he dare to spurn her, pause?
She starts; away in air she springs,
Her every former grace outdone,
Till, round one storm of plaudits rings,
She heeds it not; she heeds but one,
But one—but one.

He rose; he's gone; even while, with him,
To leave that life of life she yearn'd;
He only saw before him swim
A scorn, his latest hope that spurn'd,
A fallen shape, that, in his sight,
Dared vaunt the heights its shame had won;
Of whom, to win to God and light,
Remain'd no hope—no hope—not one,
Not one—not one.

He's gone; all vainly may she look,
Through years, shall look for him in vain,
Whose love she once for fame forsook,
And now would give that fame to gain;

That fame, that scarce a pulse can stir,
To gaze on her, though thousands run,
Those gazing thousands—what to her
Are they? Still—still she looks for one,
For one—but one.

He's gone; amid her native hills
He dwells, no more to name her name,
A thought of whom with sternness fills
His heart, grown bitter with her shame;
He little thinks that worshipp'd star,
While crowds around her chariot run,
In thought, how oft! is wandering far
To that loved home—to him—the one,
The loved—the one.