University of Virginia Library

It was a lovely summer eve; the bay
As calmly as a slumbering infant lay:
Floranthe sat within her lonely bower,
Her heart filled with strange feelings; the calm hour
To her brought no tranquillity; the bright
And glowing west, the clouds of rosy light,
She gazed upon but saw not, and she heard
Not e'en a sound; altho' the mild breeze stirred
And made sweet music in the leaves, her ear
Was all unheeding; but there was one near
Who long had gazed on her; the breeze had fanned
The clustering ringlets from her cheek; her hand,
As delicate as a wreath of new fallen snow,
Was pressed against her wildly throbbing brow,
And, but that on her cheek there dwelt a flush
Like young Aurora's rosy-tinted blush,
And but for her bright lip, she might have seemed
A changeless statue; but she little deemed
He whom she loved to think on was so nigh.
Julio stood long and gazed on her; a sigh
Burst from her heaving bosom, and that eye,
Whose varying glance seemed meant but to express
The joy of love, the pride of loveliness,
Was clouded by sad tears; a moment more,
And Julio with bright cheek was bending o'er
The trembling girl—but why should I repeat
Love's follies?—words as gentle and as sweet
As the soft welling of the distant waves
Of ocean o'er his deep and hollow caves;
Or summer breeze that sweeps the trembling strings
Of the Æolian harp—sweet as when sings
Some rose-lipped cherub in the starry sky.
And O! how quickly can Love's thrilling sigh
Win all it seeks: when Julio vowed he ne'er
Would brook the lonely weight of life, a tear
Stood in her eye; he felt she was his own,
For she had paused to hear him, and the tone
Of her low voice grew fainter—they are gone.

That hour of deep, impassioned feeling past,
They sat within the hall; the moonbeam cast
A dim, sweet light through the thick orange-trees
That filled the casement, and the evening breeze
Was faint with their rich perfume. With a smile
That once could Guido's every grief beguile,
Floranthe bade him wake, in cheerful song,
Strains that to love and happiness belong:—

'Tis all in vain—I cannot sing
The joys that happy Love may bring;
I cannot win mirth's blooming wreath
Its fragrance o'er my lyre to breathe.
They say that in bright summer bowers,
All redolent of buds and flowers,
Young Love is dwelling; o'er his head
The calmest, bluest skies are spread,
And flowerets spring beneath his feet,
As though to die by him were sweet;
That some, with rapturous feeling, gaze
Upon his brow's unclouded blaze,
While others prize the gentler grace
That glows around his half-veiled face,
And all are happy—is it so?
Does Love ne'er see a shade of woe?
Ask not the smiling lip to tell
The joys in Love's sweet home that dwell—
Go ask the cheek where paleness sits
If no cloud o'er that blue sky flits;
If o'er those bowers so green and bright
Grief's chilling breath ne'er throws a blight;
If hope's young buds ne'er fade away
Beneath the touch of slow decay.
But pride may dye the faded cheek
With hues that seem of joy to speak;
And bright the eye may still appear,
Though all its lustre be a tear.
Then wonder not that my sad lyre
Breathes not of fancy's thrilling fire:
The man who ne'er beheld the sun
Save when dark mists its face had shrouded,
Could never paint flowers shone upon
By summer skies and light unclouded.
Thus I must shun each brighter theme,
And still of wasted feeling dream;
Still tales of blighted love impart,
Because—I read them in my heart.

Floranthe little knew the thoughts that stirred
In Guido's breast; she knew not he had heard
Their plighted vows, her tender tones, when she
Confessed the love long cherished hopelessly.
Aye, Guido felt her falsehood had been bliss
To the wild thought she never had been his!
Is it not ever thus? O, who could brook
The knowledge that each gentle word, each look
Which hope had fancied filled with tenderness,
Was only meant cold pity to express?
O, surely it is far less grief to see
Upon the altered brow inconstancy,
Than still to view the loved eye's chilling beam,
Like sun rays glittering o'er a frozen stream.
Guido had seen his dearest hopes depart,
And now one high resolve filled his lone heart;
He knew her sire would ne'er bestow her hand
On one whose wealth was but his battle-brand;
Inly he vowed that not by him should she
Be doomed to long and hopeless misery:
The star of life had set—why should he care
For honors that Floranthe could not share?
On the next morning Julio sought to bear
His joyful tale to his loved Guido's ear,
But vainly did he seek—the orange bower,
The lonely grotto, and the ruined tower,
All his loved haunts, were silent now and lone;
His harp-strings, too, were broken, as if none
Might wake its gentle voice now he was gone.
They sought the chamber of his nightly rest—
It was untenanted, his couch unprest;
But on his ivory tablets he had traced
Words that a burning tear had half effaced:
“He loathed the false, deceptive world, and now
A cowl must hide his early furrowed brow;
And to the brother of his heart he gave
A name proud as Ambition's self could crave,
While for himself he sought an early grave.”

O! there is never need of words to tell
To woman's heart that she is loved too well:
The glance, the sigh, in ill-dissembled hour,
Quickly betray the fullness of her power.
Haply Floranthe would not then unfold
Her every thought, while memory unrolled
Its darkened record, and her heart hung o'er
Each gentle look and tone unmarked before;
And haply, too, in after years, when prest
To her adoring husband's manly breast,
Floranthe felt she had not been thus blest
But for the self-devoted love which gave
Itself to be stern sorrow's veriest slave.