The Venetian bracelet the lost Pleiad, a history of the lyre, and other poems. By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] |
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| I. | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
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 | The Venetian bracelet |  |
8
I.
They stood beside the river, that young pair—
She with her eyes cast down, for tears were there,
Glittering upon the eyelash, though unshed;
He murmuring those sweet words so often said
By parting lover, still as fondly spoken
As his could be, the only ones not broken.
The girl was beautiful; her forehead high
Was white as are the marble fanes that lie
On Grecian lands, making a fitting shrine
Where the mind spoke; the arch'd and raven line
Was very proud, but that was soften'd now,—
Only sad tenderness was on her brow.
She wore the peasant dress,—the snowy lawn
Closely around her whiter throat was drawn,
A crimson bodice, and the skirt of blue
So short, the fairy ankle was in view;
The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeve,
She with her eyes cast down, for tears were there,
Glittering upon the eyelash, though unshed;
He murmuring those sweet words so often said
By parting lover, still as fondly spoken
As his could be, the only ones not broken.
The girl was beautiful; her forehead high
Was white as are the marble fanes that lie
On Grecian lands, making a fitting shrine
Where the mind spoke; the arch'd and raven line
Was very proud, but that was soften'd now,—
Only sad tenderness was on her brow.
She wore the peasant dress,—the snowy lawn
Closely around her whiter throat was drawn,
9
So short, the fairy ankle was in view;
The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeve,
But the small hand was snow; around her hair
A crimson net, such as the peasants weave,
A crimson net, such as the peasants weave,
Bound the rich curls, and left the temples bare.
She wore the rustic dress, but there was not
Aught else in her that mark'd the rustic's lot:
Her bearing seem'd too stately, though subdued
By all that makes a woman's gentlest mood—
The parting hour of love. And there they leant,
Mirror'd below in the clear element
That roll'd along, with wild shrubs overhung,
And colour'd blossoms that together clung—
That peasant girl, that high-born cavalier,
Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear,
And answer'd by flush'd cheek, and downcast eye,
And roselip parted, with half smile, half sigh.
Young, loving, and beloved,—these are brief words,
And yet they touch on all the finer chords,
Whose music is our happiness: the tone
May die away and be no longer known
In the harsh wisdom brought by after years,
Lost in that worldliness which scars and sears,
And makes the misery of life's troubled scene;—
Still it is much to think that it has been.
They loved with such deep tenderness and truth,—
Feelings forsaking us as does our youth,—
They did not dream that love like theirs could die,
And such belief half makes eternity.
Yes, they were parting; still the fairy hope
Had in their clear horizon ample scope
For her sweet promises, without the showers
That are their comrades in life's after hours.
They parted trustingly; they did not know
The vanity of youthful trust and vow;
And each believed the other,—for each read
In their own hearts the truth of what each said.
The dews are drying rapidly:—away,
Young warrior! those far banners chide thy stay.
Hark! the proud trumpet swells upon the wind,—
His first of fields, he must not be behind.
She wore the rustic dress, but there was not
Aught else in her that mark'd the rustic's lot:
Her bearing seem'd too stately, though subdued
By all that makes a woman's gentlest mood—
The parting hour of love. And there they leant,
Mirror'd below in the clear element
That roll'd along, with wild shrubs overhung,
And colour'd blossoms that together clung—
That peasant girl, that high-born cavalier,
Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear,
10
And roselip parted, with half smile, half sigh.
Young, loving, and beloved,—these are brief words,
And yet they touch on all the finer chords,
Whose music is our happiness: the tone
May die away and be no longer known
In the harsh wisdom brought by after years,
Lost in that worldliness which scars and sears,
And makes the misery of life's troubled scene;—
Still it is much to think that it has been.
They loved with such deep tenderness and truth,—
Feelings forsaking us as does our youth,—
They did not dream that love like theirs could die,
And such belief half makes eternity.
Yes, they were parting; still the fairy hope
Had in their clear horizon ample scope
11
That are their comrades in life's after hours.
They parted trustingly; they did not know
The vanity of youthful trust and vow;
And each believed the other,—for each read
In their own hearts the truth of what each said.
The dews are drying rapidly:—away,
Young warrior! those far banners chide thy stay.
Hark! the proud trumpet swells upon the wind,—
His first of fields, he must not be behind.
The maiden's cheek flush'd crimson, and her eye
Flash'd as the martial music floated by.
She saw him spring upon his snow-white steed,—
It dash'd across the plain with arrowy speed.
The beat of heart, the flush of cheek, are gone,
Amenaïde but felt she was alone.
The vow which soothed her, and the hope which cheer'd,
The pride which nerved, with him had disappear'd.
“Leoni, dear Leoni!”—'twas in vain:—
The mocking echo answer'd her again.
—It is deep wretchedness, this passionate burst
Of parting's earlier grief, but not the worst;
It is the lingering days of after care,
That try the wasted spirit most to bear.
Now listless, languid, as the world had left
Nothing to interest, of him bereft;
Now lull'd by opiate thoughts that but restore
The mind its tone, to make it sink the more;
Now fever'd by anxiety, for rife
Are fears when fancy calls them into life;
And then that nameless dread of coming woe,
Which only those who've felt it e'er can know:
These still have been in absence, still will be,
And these, Amenaïde, were all for thee.
Flash'd as the martial music floated by.
She saw him spring upon his snow-white steed,—
It dash'd across the plain with arrowy speed.
The beat of heart, the flush of cheek, are gone,
Amenaïde but felt she was alone.
12
The pride which nerved, with him had disappear'd.
“Leoni, dear Leoni!”—'twas in vain:—
The mocking echo answer'd her again.
—It is deep wretchedness, this passionate burst
Of parting's earlier grief, but not the worst;
It is the lingering days of after care,
That try the wasted spirit most to bear.
Now listless, languid, as the world had left
Nothing to interest, of him bereft;
Now lull'd by opiate thoughts that but restore
The mind its tone, to make it sink the more;
Now fever'd by anxiety, for rife
Are fears when fancy calls them into life;
13
Which only those who've felt it e'er can know:
These still have been in absence, still will be,
And these, Amenaïde, were all for thee.
The valley in a summer twilight lay—
That fairy confine of the night and day—
When leant Amenaïde behind the shade
The fragrant shrubs around her lattice made,
'Scaped from her nurse, and each consoling phrase
Sinking the spirit that it fain would raise.
The room was small and dark; but when the wind
Moved the green branches of the myrtle-blind,
A crimson beauty wooed the maiden's eye:—
She look'd and saw, where, dark against the sky,
His father's battlements rose on the air;—
Alas, how haughty and how high they were!
An orphan she, a rustic's nursling child,
Oh, how could hope have ever so beguiled!
That fairy confine of the night and day—
When leant Amenaïde behind the shade
The fragrant shrubs around her lattice made,
'Scaped from her nurse, and each consoling phrase
Sinking the spirit that it fain would raise.
The room was small and dark; but when the wind
Moved the green branches of the myrtle-blind,
A crimson beauty wooed the maiden's eye:—
She look'd and saw, where, dark against the sky,
His father's battlements rose on the air;—
Alas, how haughty and how high they were!
14
Oh, how could hope have ever so beguiled!
“Amenaïde!” her kind old nurse's voice;
“Nay, come to me, dear child, come and rejoice.”
Wondering, she enters, strangers round her stand,
And kindly takes their lordly chief her hand.
“So fair a peasant, sooth, but it is shame
To tell thee, maiden, of another name.
In the wild troubles which have rent our state
Thy noble father met an exile's fate:—
Nay, not that anxious look; he is no more,
And sorrowing Genoa can but restore
His honours to his child: I was aware,
Thanks to that faithful creature's parent care,
His daughter lived; and dear the task to me
To bring these words, and let Arezzi be
The first to greet and honour, Countess, mine,
Loveliest, and last of Alfiori's line.
“Nay, come to me, dear child, come and rejoice.”
Wondering, she enters, strangers round her stand,
And kindly takes their lordly chief her hand.
“So fair a peasant, sooth, but it is shame
To tell thee, maiden, of another name.
In the wild troubles which have rent our state
Thy noble father met an exile's fate:—
Nay, not that anxious look; he is no more,
And sorrowing Genoa can but restore
His honours to his child: I was aware,
Thanks to that faithful creature's parent care,
His daughter lived; and dear the task to me
To bring these words, and let Arezzi be
15
Loveliest, and last of Alfiori's line.
| The Venetian bracelet | |