Impressions of Italy and Other Poems By the Lady E. Stuart Wortley |
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TO TELL THEE THAT I LOVE THEE AND
TO DIE. |
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 | Impressions of Italy and Other Poems |  |
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TO TELL THEE THAT I LOVE THEE AND TO DIE.
It was a lovely Maiden, wan and pale,
Her mournful aspect told her mournful tale,
Grief was stamped deeply on that pallid face,
And on her fragile form's slight willowy grace.
She wandered hither—thither—resting not,
As ill at ease in every different spot,
As seeking, ever seeking something still,
With Hope as blank as Disappointment's chill;
Or flying, ever flying, something there,
To meet at every turn a new despair.
So hied she hither, thither—now she gazed
Wildly, as though at her own grief amazed;
And now she fixed her dimmed eyes on the ground,
As though she could not—dared not look around.
Then, on the sudden, clasping her pale hands,
And standing as some mournful statue stands,
A Niobe, or Ariadne—lone—
For ever saddening in eternal stone!
She burst into a low, faint, earnest strain,
As though its passion could subdue her pain.
Her mournful aspect told her mournful tale,
Grief was stamped deeply on that pallid face,
And on her fragile form's slight willowy grace.
She wandered hither—thither—resting not,
As ill at ease in every different spot,
As seeking, ever seeking something still,
With Hope as blank as Disappointment's chill;
Or flying, ever flying, something there,
To meet at every turn a new despair.
So hied she hither, thither—now she gazed
Wildly, as though at her own grief amazed;
And now she fixed her dimmed eyes on the ground,
As though she could not—dared not look around.
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And standing as some mournful statue stands,
A Niobe, or Ariadne—lone—
For ever saddening in eternal stone!
She burst into a low, faint, earnest strain,
As though its passion could subdue her pain.
“To tell thee that I love thee—oh! to tell thee this and die!
This is my Soul's one fervent wish, my Heart's eternal cry!
I love thee—aye! I love thee, and thou know'st not—dream'st it not,
Nor thinkest of all my maddening pangs, nor pitiest my lorn lot.
This is my Soul's one fervent wish, my Heart's eternal cry!
I love thee—aye! I love thee, and thou know'st not—dream'st it not,
Nor thinkest of all my maddening pangs, nor pitiest my lorn lot.
“How torturingly—how torturingly—those pangs wound this racked brain,
This wrung and heavy heart of love—of wretchedness and pain,
I have dragged through the dull languor of such dark, chill, mortal hours,
As have enfeebled soul and mind, and all their withering powers.
This wrung and heavy heart of love—of wretchedness and pain,
I have dragged through the dull languor of such dark, chill, mortal hours,
As have enfeebled soul and mind, and all their withering powers.
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“I have watched my very life's life melt, and fade, and waste away,
With a conscious and a certain, but a long, cold, slow decay!
To tell thee that I love thee—but to tell thee this and die,
When I've read one answering meaning in thy deep, dark, glorious eye!
With a conscious and a certain, but a long, cold, slow decay!
To tell thee that I love thee—but to tell thee this and die,
When I've read one answering meaning in thy deep, dark, glorious eye!
“To press thy hand unto my lips—to my fading lips and heart,
And to that pressure sweetly feel my ebbing life depart;
A change—a deep and sudden change—even then, and thus to prove,
Forgetting then to live—yet not forgetting thus to love!
And to that pressure sweetly feel my ebbing life depart;
A change—a deep and sudden change—even then, and thus to prove,
Forgetting then to live—yet not forgetting thus to love!
“To see the world sink fast away, and pass off from my gaze,
And still thine image to retain, thro' all the gathering haze;
Oh! in thine ear, thy pitying ear, to breathe my last long sigh,
To tell thee that I love thee, and then, even in telling, die!”
And still thine image to retain, thro' all the gathering haze;
Oh! in thine ear, thy pitying ear, to breathe my last long sigh,
To tell thee that I love thee, and then, even in telling, die!”
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A pause—methought the Maiden's wish was crowned,
And that, while Fancy's haunting shapes gleamed round,
And haply rose before her fevered eye
Her lover's form, and stood fair imaged by.
She deemed she had that secret love betrayed,
Long nursed in silence, solitude, and shade;
Then found the fate she had so prayed, so sought,
And raptured—died upon the very thought!
While in that passionate burst, her sorrows ceased,
And her soul parted, lightened, and released.
But once again the plaintive sounds I heard,
With more of faultering weakness in each word;
More choaked, more hollow, came the tearful tone,
A low swan-music—death in every moan!
And that, while Fancy's haunting shapes gleamed round,
And haply rose before her fevered eye
Her lover's form, and stood fair imaged by.
She deemed she had that secret love betrayed,
Long nursed in silence, solitude, and shade;
Then found the fate she had so prayed, so sought,
And raptured—died upon the very thought!
While in that passionate burst, her sorrows ceased,
And her soul parted, lightened, and released.
But once again the plaintive sounds I heard,
With more of faultering weakness in each word;
More choaked, more hollow, came the tearful tone,
A low swan-music—death in every moan!
“To tell thee that I love thee, and to die!
Can iron Fate itself that prayer deny?
To ask but this, and yet have this denied—
For this to sigh, and vainly to have sighed!
I am so lessoned and so lost in woe—
Oh! I can weave no brighter dream below—
I dwell on this until it seems the excess,
The crown and height of all earth's happiness.
My soul hath but one wish, my heart one cry,—
To tell thee that I love thee, and to die!”
Can iron Fate itself that prayer deny?
To ask but this, and yet have this denied—
For this to sigh, and vainly to have sighed!
I am so lessoned and so lost in woe—
Oh! I can weave no brighter dream below—
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The crown and height of all earth's happiness.
My soul hath but one wish, my heart one cry,—
To tell thee that I love thee, and to die!”
She paused—and Echo answered, with faint sigh,
O! treacherous counsellor and gloomy—“die!”
O! treacherous counsellor and gloomy—“die!”
'Twas thus she wailed in Sorrow's choicest tone,
Till felt the hearer like herself—undone.
Till felt the hearer like herself—undone.
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