The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry And other poems. By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] |
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| MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
 | The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
271
THE CONISTON CURSE:
A YORKSHIRE LEGEND.
[_]
There is a tradition of such a curse attached to one of the old mansions in the north of England; I am not aware of any cause for the malediction. This will, I trust, be sufficient excuse for placing its origin in a period when such a circumstance was most likely to have taken place; when enough of superstition remained for terror to have produced its fulfilment.
They knelt upon the altar steps, but other looks were there
Than the calm and inward looks which suit the evening hour of prayer;
Many a cheek was deadly pale, while some were flush'd with red,
And hurriedly and falteringly the holy words were said.
Than the calm and inward looks which suit the evening hour of prayer;
Many a cheek was deadly pale, while some were flush'd with red,
And hurriedly and falteringly the holy words were said.
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They knelt their last, they sang their last; for deep the king hath sworn,
The silent cells should strangely change before the coming morn:
The cloister'd votary henceforth is free from vow or veil,
Her grey robes she may doff, and give her bright hair to the gale.
The silent cells should strangely change before the coming morn:
The cloister'd votary henceforth is free from vow or veil,
Her grey robes she may doff, and give her bright hair to the gale.
And pardon be to them, if some, in their first hour of bloom,
Thought all too lightly in their hearts 't was not so hard a doom;
For they were young, and they were fair, and little in their shade
Knew they of what harsh elements the jarring world was made.
Thought all too lightly in their hearts 't was not so hard a doom;
For they were young, and they were fair, and little in their shade
Knew they of what harsh elements the jarring world was made.
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There knelt one young, there knelt one fair, but, unlike those around,
No change upon her steady mien or on her brow was found,
Save haughtier even than its wont now seem'd that lady's face,
And never yet was brow more proud among her haughty race.
No change upon her steady mien or on her brow was found,
Save haughtier even than its wont now seem'd that lady's face,
And never yet was brow more proud among her haughty race.
Betroth'd to one who fell in war, the last of all her name,
In her first youth and loveliness the noble maiden came;
Vigil and prayer, and tears perchance, had worn her bloom away,
When held that youthful prioress in St. Edith's shrine her sway.
In her first youth and loveliness the noble maiden came;
Vigil and prayer, and tears perchance, had worn her bloom away,
When held that youthful prioress in St. Edith's shrine her sway.
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She gave her broad lands to its use, she gave her golden dower,—
Marvel ye that ill she brook'd the chance that ruled the hour?
And it may be more fiercely grew her pious zeal allied
To this her all of earthly power—her all of earthly pride.
Marvel ye that ill she brook'd the chance that ruled the hour?
And it may be more fiercely grew her pious zeal allied
To this her all of earthly power—her all of earthly pride.
Comes from the aisle a heavy sound, such steps as tread in steel,
The clash of sword, the ring of shield, the tramp of armed heel.
The prioress bade her nuns upraise the vesper's sacred tone,
She led the hymn, but mute the rest—no voice rose but her own:
The clash of sword, the ring of shield, the tramp of armed heel.
The prioress bade her nuns upraise the vesper's sacred tone,
She led the hymn, but mute the rest—no voice rose but her own:
275
For open now the gates were flung, in pour'd the soldier train,
And shout and shriek, and oath and prayer, rang through the holy fane.
Then forth the prioress stepp'd, and raised the red cross in her hand—
No warrior of her race e'er held more fearless battle brand.
And shout and shriek, and oath and prayer, rang through the holy fane.
Then forth the prioress stepp'd, and raised the red cross in her hand—
No warrior of her race e'er held more fearless battle brand.
“Now turn, Sir John De Coniston, I bid thee turn and flee,
Nor wait till Heaven, by my sworn lips, lay its dread curse on thee!
Turn back, Sir John De Coniston, turn from our sainted shrine,
And years of penance may efface this godless deed of thine.”
Nor wait till Heaven, by my sworn lips, lay its dread curse on thee!
Turn back, Sir John De Coniston, turn from our sainted shrine,
And years of penance may efface this godless deed of thine.”
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Rough was Sir John De Coniston, and hasty in his mood,
And, soldier-like, then answer'd he, in angry speech and rude:
“I would not back although my path were lined with hostile swords,
And deem'st thou I will turn aside for only woman's words?”
And, soldier-like, then answer'd he, in angry speech and rude:
“I would not back although my path were lined with hostile swords,
And deem'st thou I will turn aside for only woman's words?”
She raised her voice, the curse was pass'd; and to their dying day
The sound, like thunder in their ears, will never pass away;
Still haunted them those flashing eyes, that brow of funeral stone.
When the words were said, she veil'd her face—the prioress was gone.
The sound, like thunder in their ears, will never pass away;
Still haunted them those flashing eyes, that brow of funeral stone.
When the words were said, she veil'd her face—the prioress was gone.
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No more in that calm sanctuary its vestal maids abide,
Save one, Sir John De Coniston, and that one is thy bride;
The sister band to other homes at will might wander free,
And their lonely prioress had fled a pilgrim o'er the sea.
Save one, Sir John De Coniston, and that one is thy bride;
The sister band to other homes at will might wander free,
And their lonely prioress had fled a pilgrim o'er the sea.
Seven years St. Edith's votary has wander'd far and near,
Barefoot and fasting, she has call'd on every saint to hear:
Seven years of joy and festival have pass'd away like hours,
Since that priory had changed its state to a baron's lordly towers.
Barefoot and fasting, she has call'd on every saint to hear:
Seven years of joy and festival have pass'd away like hours,
Since that priory had changed its state to a baron's lordly towers.
278
There was revelling in that stately hall, and in his seat of pride
The Lord of Coniston was placed, with his lady by his side;
And four fair children there were ranged beside their parents' knee,
All glad and beautiful—a sight for weary eyes to see.
The Lord of Coniston was placed, with his lady by his side;
And four fair children there were ranged beside their parents' knee,
All glad and beautiful—a sight for weary eyes to see.
Rang the old turrets with the pledge—“Now health to thee and thine;
And long and prosperous may thy name last in thy gallant line!”
When a voice rose up above them all, and that voice was strange and shrill,
Like autumn's wind when it has caught winter's first shriek and chill;
And long and prosperous may thy name last in thy gallant line!”
When a voice rose up above them all, and that voice was strange and shrill,
Like autumn's wind when it has caught winter's first shriek and chill;
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And forth a veiled figure stepp'd, but back she flung her veil,
And they knew St. Edith's prioress by her brow so deadly pale;
No sickly paleness of the cheek whence health and hope have fled,
But that deadly hue, so wan, so cold, which only suits the dead.
And they knew St. Edith's prioress by her brow so deadly pale;
No sickly paleness of the cheek whence health and hope have fled,
But that deadly hue, so wan, so cold, which only suits the dead.
“The prey of the ungodly is taken by God's hand—
I lay the endless curse of change upon this doomed land:
They may come and possession take, even as thou hast done,
But the father never, never shall transmit it to his son.
I lay the endless curse of change upon this doomed land:
They may come and possession take, even as thou hast done,
But the father never, never shall transmit it to his son.
280
“Yet I grieve for the fair branches, though of such evil tree;
But the weird is laid, and the curse is said, and it rests on thine and thee.”
Away she pass'd, though many thought to stay her in the hall,
She glided from them, and not one had heard her footstep fall.
But the weird is laid, and the curse is said, and it rests on thine and thee.”
Away she pass'd, though many thought to stay her in the hall,
She glided from them, and not one had heard her footstep fall.
And one by one those children in their earliest youth declined,
Like sickening flowers that fade and fall before the blighting wind;
And their mother she too pined away, stricken by the same blast,
Till Sir John de Coniston was left, the lonely and the last.
Like sickening flowers that fade and fall before the blighting wind;
And their mother she too pined away, stricken by the same blast,
Till Sir John de Coniston was left, the lonely and the last.
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He sat one evening in his hall, still pride was on his brow,
And the fierce spirit lingering there nor time nor grief could bow;
Yet something that told failing strength was now upon his face,
When enter'd that dark prioress, and fronted him in place.
And the fierce spirit lingering there nor time nor grief could bow;
Yet something that told failing strength was now upon his face,
When enter'd that dark prioress, and fronted him in place.
“Sir John, thy days are numbered, and never more we meet
Till we yield our last dread reckoning before God's judgment-seat!
My words they are the latest sounds thine ear shall ever take—
Then hear me curse again the land which is cursed for thy sake.
Till we yield our last dread reckoning before God's judgment-seat!
My words they are the latest sounds thine ear shall ever take—
Then hear me curse again the land which is cursed for thy sake.
282
“Oh, Coniston! thy lands are broad, thy stately towers are fair,
Yet woe and desolation are for aye the tenants there;
For Death shall be thy keeper, and two of the same race
Shall ne'er succeed each other in thy fated dwelling-place!”
Yet woe and desolation are for aye the tenants there;
For Death shall be thy keeper, and two of the same race
Shall ne'er succeed each other in thy fated dwelling-place!”
The curse is on it to this day: now others hold the land;
But be they childless, or begirt with a fair infant band,
Some sudden death, some wasting ill, some sickness taints the air,
And touches all,—no master yet has ever left an heir.
But be they childless, or begirt with a fair infant band,
Some sudden death, some wasting ill, some sickness taints the air,
And touches all,—no master yet has ever left an heir.
283
THE OMEN.
“Oh! how we miss the young and bright,
With her feet of wind, her eyes of light,
Her fragrant hair like the sunny sea
On the perfumed shores of Araby,
Her gay step light as the snow-white deer,
And her voice of song! oh! we miss her here.
There is something sad in the lighted hall;
Without her can there be festival!
There is something drear in the meteor dance,
When we do not catch her laughing glance.
But pledge we her health.” Each one took up,
In that ancient hall, the red wine-cup:
Each started back from the turbid wine—
What could have dimm'd its purple shine?
Each turn'd for his neighbour's look to express
The augury himself dared not to guess.
With her feet of wind, her eyes of light,
Her fragrant hair like the sunny sea
On the perfumed shores of Araby,
Her gay step light as the snow-white deer,
And her voice of song! oh! we miss her here.
There is something sad in the lighted hall;
Without her can there be festival!
There is something drear in the meteor dance,
When we do not catch her laughing glance.
284
In that ancient hall, the red wine-cup:
Each started back from the turbid wine—
What could have dimm'd its purple shine?
Each turn'd for his neighbour's look to express
The augury himself dared not to guess.
Swept the vaulted roof along,
A sound like the echo of distant song,
When the words are lost, but you know they tell
Of sorrow's coming and hope's farewell.
Such sad music could only bear
Tale and tidings of long despair.
Pass'd the sound from the ancient hall;
You heard in the distance its plaining fall,
Till it died away on the chill night-wind:
But it left its fear and its sadness behind;
And each one went to his pillow that night
To hear fearful sound, and see nameless sight;
Not such dreams as visit the bower
Of the gay at the close of the festal hour.
A sound like the echo of distant song,
When the words are lost, but you know they tell
Of sorrow's coming and hope's farewell.
Such sad music could only bear
Tale and tidings of long despair.
Pass'd the sound from the ancient hall;
You heard in the distance its plaining fall,
Till it died away on the chill night-wind:
But it left its fear and its sadness behind;
285
To hear fearful sound, and see nameless sight;
Not such dreams as visit the bower
Of the gay at the close of the festal hour.
But next morning rose: 't was a cheerful time;
For the sunshine seem'd like the summer prime,
While the bright laurel leaves round the casements spread,
And the holly with berries of shining red,
The heaven of blue, and the earth of green,
Seem'd not as if the winter had been.
Welcomed they in the Christmas morn,
With the sound of the carol, the voice of the horn.
There was white snow lay on the distant hill,
The murmuring river was cold and still;
But their songs were so glad that they miss'd not its tune,
And the hearth-fire was bright as an August noon.
As if youth came back with the joyous strain,
The aged lord welcomed in the train
Of guest and vassal; for glad seem'd he
To make and to share their festivity.
For the sunshine seem'd like the summer prime,
While the bright laurel leaves round the casements spread,
And the holly with berries of shining red,
The heaven of blue, and the earth of green,
Seem'd not as if the winter had been.
Welcomed they in the Christmas morn,
With the sound of the carol, the voice of the horn.
There was white snow lay on the distant hill,
The murmuring river was cold and still;
286
And the hearth-fire was bright as an August noon.
As if youth came back with the joyous strain,
The aged lord welcomed in the train
Of guest and vassal; for glad seem'd he
To make and to share their festivity.
Though he may not see his Edith's brow,
Though far away be his fair child now,
Over the sea, and over the strand,
In the sunny vales of Italian land,
He may reckon now the days to spring,
When her native birds and she will take wing,
Blithe and beautiful, glad to come
With the earliest flowers to their own dear home.
Pass a short space of dark cold days,
Of drear nights told by the pine-wood's blaze,
And the snow showers will melt into genial rain,
And the sunshine and she be back again.
And when she returns with her sweet guitar,
The song and the tale she has learn'd afar,
And caught the sweet sound to which once he clung,
The southern words of her mother's tongue,
With her soft cheek touch'd with a rosier dye,
And a clearer light in her deep dark eye,
He will not mourn that the winter hour
Has pass'd unfelt by his gentle flower.
It is Christmas-day—'t is her natal morn,
Away be all thoughts of sorrowing borne:
There is no prayer a vassal can frame
Will fail to-day, if breathed in her name;
Henceforth that guest is a bosom friend,
Whose wish a blessing for her may send.
Though far away be his fair child now,
Over the sea, and over the strand,
In the sunny vales of Italian land,
He may reckon now the days to spring,
When her native birds and she will take wing,
Blithe and beautiful, glad to come
With the earliest flowers to their own dear home.
287
Of drear nights told by the pine-wood's blaze,
And the snow showers will melt into genial rain,
And the sunshine and she be back again.
And when she returns with her sweet guitar,
The song and the tale she has learn'd afar,
And caught the sweet sound to which once he clung,
The southern words of her mother's tongue,
With her soft cheek touch'd with a rosier dye,
And a clearer light in her deep dark eye,
He will not mourn that the winter hour
Has pass'd unfelt by his gentle flower.
It is Christmas-day—'t is her natal morn,
Away be all thoughts of sorrowing borne:
There is no prayer a vassal can frame
Will fail to-day, if breathed in her name;
288
Whose wish a blessing for her may send.
Her picture hung in that hall, where to-day
Gather'd the guests in their festal array.
T'was a fragile shape, and a fairy face,
A cheek where the wild rose had sweet birthplace;
But all too delicate was the red,
Such rainbow hues are the soonest fled:
The sweet mouth seem'd parted with fragrant air,
A kiss and a smile were companions there:
Never was wild fawn's eye more bright,
Like the star that heralds the morning's light;
Though that trembling pensiveness it wore
Which bodes of a lustre too soon to be o'er.
But to mark these signs long gazing took;
Seem'd it at first but that your look
Dwelt on a face all glad and fair,
Mid its thousand curls of sunny hair.
They raised the cup to pledge her name;
Again that strange sad music came,
But a single strain,—loud at its close
A cry from the outer crowd arose.
Gather'd the guests in their festal array.
T'was a fragile shape, and a fairy face,
A cheek where the wild rose had sweet birthplace;
But all too delicate was the red,
Such rainbow hues are the soonest fled:
The sweet mouth seem'd parted with fragrant air,
A kiss and a smile were companions there:
Never was wild fawn's eye more bright,
Like the star that heralds the morning's light;
Though that trembling pensiveness it wore
Which bodes of a lustre too soon to be o'er.
But to mark these signs long gazing took;
Seem'd it at first but that your look
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Mid its thousand curls of sunny hair.
They raised the cup to pledge her name;
Again that strange sad music came,
But a single strain,—loud at its close
A cry from the outer crowd arose.
All rush'd to gaze; and, winding through
The length of the castle avenue,
There was a hearse with its plumes of snow,
And its night-black horses moved heavy and slow.
One moment,—they came to the festal hall,
And bore in the coffin and velvet pall.
A name was whisper'd; the young, the fair,
Their Edith was laid in her last sleep there.
It was her latest prayer to lie
In the churchyard beneath her native sky;
She had ask'd and pined for her early home,
She had come at last,—but how had she come!
Oh! that aged lord, how bore he this grief,
This rending off of his last green leaf?
He wasted away as the child that dies
For love of its absent mother's eyes;
Ere the spring flowers o'er her grave were weeping,
The father beside his child was sleeping.
The length of the castle avenue,
There was a hearse with its plumes of snow,
And its night-black horses moved heavy and slow.
One moment,—they came to the festal hall,
And bore in the coffin and velvet pall.
A name was whisper'd; the young, the fair,
Their Edith was laid in her last sleep there.
It was her latest prayer to lie
In the churchyard beneath her native sky;
290
She had come at last,—but how had she come!
Oh! that aged lord, how bore he this grief,
This rending off of his last green leaf?
He wasted away as the child that dies
For love of its absent mother's eyes;
Ere the spring flowers o'er her grave were weeping,
The father beside his child was sleeping.
291
ONE DAY.
And this the change from morning to midnight.
The sunshine of the morning
Is abroad upon the sky,
And glorious as that red sunshine
The crimson banners fly;
The snow-white plumes are dancing,
Flash casques and helms of gold:
'Tis the gathering of earth's chivalry,
Her proud, her young, her bold.
The fiery steeds are foaming,
Sweeps by the trumpet blast,
I hear a long and pealing shout,
The soldier bands are past.
Is abroad upon the sky,
And glorious as that red sunshine
The crimson banners fly;
The snow-white plumes are dancing,
Flash casques and helms of gold:
'Tis the gathering of earth's chivalry,
Her proud, her young, her bold.
292
Sweeps by the trumpet blast,
I hear a long and pealing shout,
The soldier bands are past.
The sunshine of the morning
Is abroad upon the sea,
And mistress of the wave and wind
Yon vessel seems to be.
Like the pine-tree of the forest
Her tall mast heaven-ward springs,
Her white sails bear her onwards
Like the eagle's rushing wings.
That deck is nobly laden,
For gallant hearts are there;
What danger is they would not face,
The deed they would not dare?
Is abroad upon the sea,
And mistress of the wave and wind
Yon vessel seems to be.
Like the pine-tree of the forest
Her tall mast heaven-ward springs,
Her white sails bear her onwards
Like the eagle's rushing wings.
That deck is nobly laden,
For gallant hearts are there;
What danger is they would not face,
The deed they would not dare?
293
The sunshine of the morning
Is abroad upon the hills,
With the singing of the green-wood leaves,
And of a thousand rills.
There springs the youthful hunter
With his winged spear and bow,
He hath the falcon's flashing eye,
The fleet foot of the roe.
He goes with a light carol,
And his own heart is as light;
On, on he bounds from rock to rock,
Rejoicing in his might.
Is abroad upon the hills,
With the singing of the green-wood leaves,
And of a thousand rills.
There springs the youthful hunter
With his winged spear and bow,
He hath the falcon's flashing eye,
The fleet foot of the roe.
He goes with a light carol,
And his own heart is as light;
On, on he bounds from rock to rock,
Rejoicing in his might.
The sunshine of the morning
Is abroad upon yon fane,
There mid his country's monuments
Dreams the young bard his strain.
Stand there on marble pedestal
The great of olden time;
Marvel ye minstrel's brow is flush'd
With thoughts and hopes sublime?
Is abroad upon yon fane,
There mid his country's monuments
Dreams the young bard his strain.
294
The great of olden time;
Marvel ye minstrel's brow is flush'd
With thoughts and hopes sublime?
The moonshine of the midnight
Is abroad upon the plain,
Where gather'd morning's glorious ranks,
There welter now the slain.
Thousands are sunk there dying,
Pillow'd upon the dead;
The banner lies by the white plume,
But both alike are red.
Is abroad upon the plain,
Where gather'd morning's glorious ranks,
There welter now the slain.
Thousands are sunk there dying,
Pillow'd upon the dead;
The banner lies by the white plume,
But both alike are red.
The moonshine of the midnight
Is abroad upon the seas,
The waves have risen in their might
To battle with the breeze.
That ship has been the victim;
Stranded on yon bleak coast,
She has lost her mast, her winged sails,
And her deck its warlike boast.
O'er her bravest sweep the waters,
And a pale and ghastly band
Cling to the black rock's side, or pace
Like ghosts the sullen strand.
Is abroad upon the seas,
The waves have risen in their might
To battle with the breeze.
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Stranded on yon bleak coast,
She has lost her mast, her winged sails,
And her deck its warlike boast.
O'er her bravest sweep the waters,
And a pale and ghastly band
Cling to the black rock's side, or pace
Like ghosts the sullen strand.
The moonshine of the midnight
Is abroad upon the hills;
No hunter's step is ringing there,
No horn the echo fills.
He is laid on a snow pillow,
Which his red heart-blood has dyed;
One false step, and the jagged rock
Enter'd the hunter's side.
Is abroad upon the hills;
No hunter's step is ringing there,
No horn the echo fills.
He is laid on a snow pillow,
Which his red heart-blood has dyed;
One false step, and the jagged rock
Enter'd the hunter's side.
296
The moonshine of the midnight
Is shining o'er the fane,
Where the bard awoke the morning song
He 'll never wake again.
Go thou to yon lone cavern,
Where the lonely ocean sweeps
There, silent as its darkness,
A maniac vigil keeps.
'T is the bard; his curse is on him,
His fine mind is o'erthrown,
Contempt hath jarr'd its tuneful chords,
Neglect destroy'd its tone.
Is shining o'er the fane,
Where the bard awoke the morning song
He 'll never wake again.
Go thou to yon lone cavern,
Where the lonely ocean sweeps
There, silent as its darkness,
A maniac vigil keeps.
'T is the bard; his curse is on him,
His fine mind is o'erthrown,
Contempt hath jarr'd its tuneful chords,
Neglect destroy'd its tone.
These are but few from many
Of life's chequer'd scenes; yet these
Are but as all,—pride, power, hope,
Then weakness, grief, disease.
Oh, glory of the morning!
Oh, ye gifted, young, and brave!
What end have ye, but midnight;
What find ye, but the grave?
Of life's chequer'd scenes; yet these
Are but as all,—pride, power, hope,
Then weakness, grief, disease.
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Oh, ye gifted, young, and brave!
What end have ye, but midnight;
What find ye, but the grave?
298
LOVE'S LAST LESSON.
Teach it me, if you can,—forgetfulness!
I surely shall forget, if you can bid me;
I who have worshipp'd thee, my god on earth,
I who have bow'd me at thy lightest word.
Your last command, “Forget me,” will it not
Sink deeply down within my inmost soul?
Forget thee!—ay, forgetfulness will be
A mercy to me. By the many nights
When I have wept for that I dared not sleep,—
A dream had made me live my woes again,
Acting my wretchedness, without the hope
My foolish heart still clings to, though that hope
Is like the opiate which may lull a while,
Then wake to double torture; by the days
Pass'd in lone watching and in anxious fears,
When a breath sent the crimson to my cheek,
Like the red gushing of a sudden wound;
By all the careless looks and careless words
Which have to me been like the scorpion's stinging;
By happiness blighted, and by thee, for ever;
By thy eternal work of wretchedness;
By all my wither'd feelings, ruin'd health,
Crush'd hopes, and rifled heart, I will forget thee!
Alas! my words are vanity. Forget thee!
Thy work of wasting is too surely done.
The April shower may pass and be forgotten,
The rose fall and one fresh spring in its place,
And thus it may be with light summer love.
It was not thus with mine: it did not spring,
Like the bright colour on an evening cloud,
Into a moment's life, brief, beautiful;
Not amid lighted halls, when flatteries
Steal on the ear like dew upon the rose,
As soft, as soon dispersed, as quickly pass'd;
But you first call'd my woman's feelings forth,
And taught me love ere I had dream'd love's name.
I loved unconsciously: your name was all
That seem'd in language, and to me the world
Was only made for you; in solitude,
When passions hold their interchange together,
Your image was the shadow of my thought;
Never did slave, before his Eastern lord,
Tremble as I did when I met your eye,
And yet each look was counted as a prize;
I laid your words up in my heart like pearls
Hid in the ocean's treasure-cave. At last
I learn'd my heart's deep secret: for I hoped,
I dream'd you loved me; wonder, fear, delight,
Swept my heart like a storm; my soul, my life,
Seem'd all too little for your happiness;
Had I been mistress of the starry worlds
That light the midnight, they had all been yours,
And I had deem'd such boon but poverty.
As it was, I gave all I could—my love,
My deep, my true, my fervent, faithful love;
And now you bid me learn forgetfulness:
It is a lesson that I soon shall learn.
There is a home of quiet for the wretched,
A somewhat dark, and cold, and silent rest,
But still it is rest,—for it is the grave.
I surely shall forget, if you can bid me;
I who have worshipp'd thee, my god on earth,
I who have bow'd me at thy lightest word.
Your last command, “Forget me,” will it not
Sink deeply down within my inmost soul?
Forget thee!—ay, forgetfulness will be
A mercy to me. By the many nights
When I have wept for that I dared not sleep,—
A dream had made me live my woes again,
Acting my wretchedness, without the hope
My foolish heart still clings to, though that hope
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Then wake to double torture; by the days
Pass'd in lone watching and in anxious fears,
When a breath sent the crimson to my cheek,
Like the red gushing of a sudden wound;
By all the careless looks and careless words
Which have to me been like the scorpion's stinging;
By happiness blighted, and by thee, for ever;
By thy eternal work of wretchedness;
By all my wither'd feelings, ruin'd health,
Crush'd hopes, and rifled heart, I will forget thee!
Alas! my words are vanity. Forget thee!
Thy work of wasting is too surely done.
The April shower may pass and be forgotten,
The rose fall and one fresh spring in its place,
And thus it may be with light summer love.
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Like the bright colour on an evening cloud,
Into a moment's life, brief, beautiful;
Not amid lighted halls, when flatteries
Steal on the ear like dew upon the rose,
As soft, as soon dispersed, as quickly pass'd;
But you first call'd my woman's feelings forth,
And taught me love ere I had dream'd love's name.
I loved unconsciously: your name was all
That seem'd in language, and to me the world
Was only made for you; in solitude,
When passions hold their interchange together,
Your image was the shadow of my thought;
Never did slave, before his Eastern lord,
Tremble as I did when I met your eye,
And yet each look was counted as a prize;
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Hid in the ocean's treasure-cave. At last
I learn'd my heart's deep secret: for I hoped,
I dream'd you loved me; wonder, fear, delight,
Swept my heart like a storm; my soul, my life,
Seem'd all too little for your happiness;
Had I been mistress of the starry worlds
That light the midnight, they had all been yours,
And I had deem'd such boon but poverty.
As it was, I gave all I could—my love,
My deep, my true, my fervent, faithful love;
And now you bid me learn forgetfulness:
It is a lesson that I soon shall learn.
There is a home of quiet for the wretched,
A somewhat dark, and cold, and silent rest,
But still it is rest,—for it is the grave.
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She flung aside the scroll, as it had part
In her great misery. Why should she write?
What could she write? Her woman's pride forbade
To let him look upon her heart, and see
It was an utter ruin;—and cold words,
And scorn and slight, that may repay his own,
Were as a foreign language, to whose sound
She might not frame her utterance. Down she bent
Her head upon an arm so white that tears
Seem'd but the natural melting of its snow,
Touch'd by the flush'd cheek's crimson; yet life-blood
Less wrings in shedding than such tears as those.
In her great misery. Why should she write?
What could she write? Her woman's pride forbade
To let him look upon her heart, and see
It was an utter ruin;—and cold words,
And scorn and slight, that may repay his own,
Were as a foreign language, to whose sound
She might not frame her utterance. Down she bent
Her head upon an arm so white that tears
Seem'd but the natural melting of its snow,
Touch'd by the flush'd cheek's crimson; yet life-blood
Less wrings in shedding than such tears as those.
And this then is love's ending! It is like
The history of some fair southern clime.
Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth,
And the warm'd soil puts forth its thousand flowers,
Its fruits of gold, summer's regality,
And sleep and odours float upon the air:
At length the subterranean element
Breaks from its secret dwelling-place, and lays
All waste before it; the red lava stream
Sweeps like the pestilence; and that which was
A garden in its colours and its breath,
Fit for the princess of a fairy tale,
Is as a desert, in whose burning sands,
And ashy waters, who is there can trace
A sign, a memory of its former beauty?
It is thus with the heart; love lights it up
With hopes like young companions, and with joys
Dreaming deliciously of their sweet selves.
The history of some fair southern clime.
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And the warm'd soil puts forth its thousand flowers,
Its fruits of gold, summer's regality,
And sleep and odours float upon the air:
At length the subterranean element
Breaks from its secret dwelling-place, and lays
All waste before it; the red lava stream
Sweeps like the pestilence; and that which was
A garden in its colours and its breath,
Fit for the princess of a fairy tale,
Is as a desert, in whose burning sands,
And ashy waters, who is there can trace
A sign, a memory of its former beauty?
It is thus with the heart; love lights it up
With hopes like young companions, and with joys
Dreaming deliciously of their sweet selves.
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This is at first; but what is the result?
Hopes that lie mute in their own sullenness,
For they have quarrell'd even with themselves;
And joys indeed like birds of Paradise:
And in their stead despair coils scorpion-like
Stinging itself; and the heart, burnt and crush'd
With passion's earthquake, scorch'd and wither'd up,
Lies in its desolation,—this is love.
Hopes that lie mute in their own sullenness,
For they have quarrell'd even with themselves;
And joys indeed like birds of Paradise:
And in their stead despair coils scorpion-like
Stinging itself; and the heart, burnt and crush'd
With passion's earthquake, scorch'd and wither'd up,
Lies in its desolation,—this is love.
What is the tale that I would tell? Not one
Of strange adventure, but a common tale
Of woman's wretchedness; one to be read
Daily in many a young and blighted heart.
The lady whom I spake of rose again
From the red fever's couch, to careless eyes
Perchance the same as she had ever been.
But oh, how alter'd to herself! She felt
That bird-like pining for some gentle home
To which affection might attach itself,
That weariness which hath but outward part
In what the world calls pleasure, and that chill
Which makes life taste the bitterness of death.
Of strange adventure, but a common tale
Of woman's wretchedness; one to be read
Daily in many a young and blighted heart.
The lady whom I spake of rose again
From the red fever's couch, to careless eyes
Perchance the same as she had ever been.
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That bird-like pining for some gentle home
To which affection might attach itself,
That weariness which hath but outward part
In what the world calls pleasure, and that chill
Which makes life taste the bitterness of death.
And he she loved so well,—what opiate
Lull'd consciousness into its selfish sleep?—
He said he loved her not; that never vow
Or passionate pleading won her soul for him;
And that he guess'd not her deep tenderness.
Lull'd consciousness into its selfish sleep?—
He said he loved her not; that never vow
Or passionate pleading won her soul for him;
And that he guess'd not her deep tenderness.
Are words, then, only false? are there no looks,
Mute but most eloquent; no gentle cares
That win so much upon the fair weak things
They seem to guard? And had he not long read
Her heart's hush'd secret in the soft dark eye
Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek
Colouring all crimson at his lightest look?
This is the truth; his spirit wholly turn'd
To stern ambition's dream, to that fierce strife
Which leads to life's high places, and reck'd not
What lovely flowers might perish in his path.
Mute but most eloquent; no gentle cares
That win so much upon the fair weak things
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Her heart's hush'd secret in the soft dark eye
Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek
Colouring all crimson at his lightest look?
This is the truth; his spirit wholly turn'd
To stern ambition's dream, to that fierce strife
Which leads to life's high places, and reck'd not
What lovely flowers might perish in his path.
And here at length is somewhat of revenge:
For man's most golden dreams of pride and power
Are vain as any woman dreams of love;
Both end in weary brow and wither'd heart,
And the grave closes over those whose hopes
Have lain there long before.
For man's most golden dreams of pride and power
Are vain as any woman dreams of love;
Both end in weary brow and wither'd heart,
And the grave closes over those whose hopes
Have lain there long before.
| The golden violet, with its tales of romance and chivalry | |