University of Virginia Library

Alas! alas for me! I cannot sing
Of happiness or joy's imagining;
I touch my wild and mournful lyre in vain,
It but returns the murmurings of pain;
Or if perchance I strike the chord of love,
It breathes the plaintive moanings of the dove
Who wails in loneliness her long lost mate:
I sing of love—but love left desolate!
Time passed away—how rapidly time fleets,
When every hour is redolent of sweets!
'Tis vain to trace the progress of love's power—
What eye can mark the springing of a flower?
All those impassioned feelings that so long
Were sealed in Guido's heart, the countless throng
Of early hopes and fancies, all were poured
Upon one altar. O, how rich the hoard
Of treasured love in such a heart must be!
And must its sole reward be misery?
'Tis vain to trace the progress of love's power—
Love was not here the plaything of an hour:
They walked together, and the lovely face
Of nature wore for Guido richer grace;
And e'en the breath of heaven more perfume cast,
When o'er Floranthe's cheek and lip it past;
They read together, and new beauties shone
Upon the poet's page, till then unknown.
Ah, woman's eye may charm, but there is nought
That with such peril to man's heart is fraught,
As when he breathes the poet's thoughts that burn
With passionate energy, and those eyes turn
With pleasure on him; or when both are stirred
With simultaneous feeling; though no word
Is uttered, yet the meeting look, the smile,
Betray how they have felt alike the while;
Or when, with gentle care, he leads her mind
To loftier energies and thought refined,
And she is blushing, half with shame to know
She needs such knowledge, half with joy, to owe
Its wealth to him: aye, Guido knew too well
How strongly this may aid love's powerful spell:
Within his breast self-love too had its part
(Ever an active spirit in man's heart):
He oft had known the voice of praise, but ne'er
Till now had heard its tones from lips so dear;
His song had called forth tears in those bright eyes,
And could the minstrel ask a richer prize?

And yet Floranthe loved him not—the pride
Of womanhood had taught her how to hide
Her struggling feelings; but she well had known
Those sorrows so peculiarly love's own.
So young, and proud, and beautiful, and born
To princely honors—could there be a thorn
Amid these flowers of life? The heart replies—
There dwells no balm in earthly vanities
To soothe a wounded spirit; and the sway
Of the wide universe can ne'er repay
One who beholds love's early hopes decay.
She was a high souled woman: her proud race
Had ever won Ambition's loftiest place:
What marvel, then, that, from her childhood, she
Should dwell on the wild tales of chivalry?
She loved to roam alone through the rich halls
Where pictured shades of heroes decked the walls,
Until a dream was formed within her heart
Which no cold light of truth could bid depart:
A visioned form too beautiful to fade,
Within her breast its dwelling-place had made;
And e'en when lofty ones before her bowed,
She gladly turned from the adoring crowd
To meet her spirit-love. There was one name
She oft had heard breathed by the voice of fame;
And half unconsciously her visions bright
Were linked with fancies of that wondrous knight.
At length a tournament was held, and fair
Was the array of youth and beauty there.
Queen of the festival Floranthe shone,
The palm of peerless beauty hers alone;
And O, what feelings then her bosom swelled,
When first that youthful hero she beheld!
And O, how richly did her young cheek glow,
When first she placed upon his bending brow
The laurel crown! The idol of her dreams,
Bright with the light of glory's sunny beams,
Now stood before her, and she felt how faint
Were fancy's tints a form like his to paint.
From that hour she was changed—the holy flame
Which long was fostered by the breath of fame,
Now, like the vestal's sacred fire, had won
A purer radiance from its parent sun:
That knight was Julio: hence it was that she
With pity looked on Guido's misery.
He was the brother of her love, and though
Nature had traced no beauty on his brow,
His voice, so like to Julio's, her heart stirred,
Like music o'er the moon-lit waters heard;
And in his eyes she saw the same sweet light
That oft in Julio's glances shone so bright.

Why does my song thus linger? The dark day
Of strife was gone, and peace resumed her sway.
E'en as the prophet's wand could once unlock
The hidden waters of the riftless rock,
So thou, sweet Peace, from iron hearts can bring
Th' unwonted freshness of affection's spring;
Till spurns the haughty chief his plumèd crest,
And clasps his smiling infant to his breast,
While the proud soldier turns from scenes of war,
Rejoiced to worship beauty's gentler star.
And 'mid the mailèd warriors Julio came,
His brow encircled with its wreaths of fame.
No more alone with Guido now were past
Floranthe's happiest hours; for Love had cast
His spell around them, and beneath his wing
Hope dared unfold her fragile blossoming;
For well could she, in Julio's eye, discern
(Ah, when was woman slow such tales to learn?)
The growing tenderness within his breast,
The love that made her all too wildly blest.
But where was Guido? Did not he too see
Within those tell-tale eyes Love's mastery?
One night there was a festival, and all
Of brave and lovely decked the joyous hall;
Guido beheld Floranthe's gentle hand
Meet Julio's in the graceful saraband;
Yet this was nothing; but when the light dance
Was ended, and he saw the thrilling glance
Exchanged between them, and her slender form
So tenderly upheld by Julio's arm,
While she repaid him with a timid look
Of soft confiding love, he could not brook
Longer to gaze upon that blasting sight;
Quickly he turned away—a mirror bright
Met his full gaze; reflected there, his own
Pale, sunken cheek, and wasted figure shone.
Then on his heart, like lightning flashes, came
The truth that woke despair's undying flame.
O! there are moments when the heart lives o'er
Ages of sorrow, when the eyes can pour
No gentle flood to ease the throbbing head;
But as if one among the mouldering dead
Should start to life, and vainly strive to burst
His prison-house, so that sad being, curst
With such o'erwhelming grief, in vain would find
A refuge from the horrors of the mind.