The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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| X. | EXTRACT X. Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
313
EXTRACT X. Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.
Mantua.
They tell me thou'rt the favour'd guest
Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit, like thine, to wake the jest,
No voice like thine, to breathe the song.
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.
Alas, alas, how different flows,
With thee and me the time away.
Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows—
Still, if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know that without thee
The sun himself is dark for me.
Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit, like thine, to wake the jest,
No voice like thine, to breathe the song.
314
That thou and I are far apart.
Alas, alas, how different flows,
With thee and me the time away.
Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows—
Still, if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know that without thee
The sun himself is dark for me.
Do I put on the jewels rare
Thou'st always lov'd to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deck'd, through festive crowds to run,
And all th' assembled world to see,—
All but the one, the absent one,
Worth more than present worlds to me!
No, nothing cheers this widow'd heart—
My only joy, from thee apart,
From thee thyself, is sitting hours
And days, before thy pictur'd form—
That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers
Have made with all but life-breath warm!
And as I smile to it, and say
The words I speak to thee in play,
I fancy from their silent frame,
Those eyes and lips give back the same;
And still I gaze, and still they keep
Smiling thus on me—till I weep!
Our little boy, too, knows it well,
For there I lead him every day,
And teach his lisping lips to tell
The name of one that's far away.
Forgive me, love, but thus alone
My time is cheer'd, while thou art gone.
Thou'st always lov'd to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deck'd, through festive crowds to run,
And all th' assembled world to see,—
All but the one, the absent one,
Worth more than present worlds to me!
No, nothing cheers this widow'd heart—
My only joy, from thee apart,
From thee thyself, is sitting hours
And days, before thy pictur'd form—
That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers
Have made with all but life-breath warm!
315
The words I speak to thee in play,
I fancy from their silent frame,
Those eyes and lips give back the same;
And still I gaze, and still they keep
Smiling thus on me—till I weep!
Our little boy, too, knows it well,
For there I lead him every day,
And teach his lisping lips to tell
The name of one that's far away.
Forgive me, love, but thus alone
My time is cheer'd, while thou art gone.
Utque ferunt lætus convivia læta
Et celebras lentis otia mista jocis;
Aut cithara æstivum attenuas cantuque calorem.
Hei mihi, quam dispar nunc mea vita tuæ!
Nec mihi displiceant quæ sunt tibi grata; sed ipsa est,
Te sine, lux oculis pene inimica meis.
Non auro aut gemmâ caput exornare nitenti
Me juvat, aut Arabo spargere odore comas:
Non celebres ludos fastis spectare diebus.
[OMITTED] Sola tuos vultus referens Raphaelis imago
Picta manu, curas allevat usque meas.
Huic ego delicias facio, arrideoque jocorque,
Alloquor et tanquam reddere verba queat.
Assensu nutuque mihi sæpe illa videtur
Dicere velle aliquid et tua verba loqui.
Agnoscit balboque patrem puer ore salutat.
Hoc solor longas decipioque dies.
Et celebras lentis otia mista jocis;
Aut cithara æstivum attenuas cantuque calorem.
Hei mihi, quam dispar nunc mea vita tuæ!
Nec mihi displiceant quæ sunt tibi grata; sed ipsa est,
Te sine, lux oculis pene inimica meis.
Non auro aut gemmâ caput exornare nitenti
Me juvat, aut Arabo spargere odore comas:
Non celebres ludos fastis spectare diebus.
[OMITTED] Sola tuos vultus referens Raphaelis imago
Picta manu, curas allevat usque meas.
Huic ego delicias facio, arrideoque jocorque,
Alloquor et tanquam reddere verba queat.
Assensu nutuque mihi sæpe illa videtur
Dicere velle aliquid et tua verba loqui.
Agnoscit balboque patrem puer ore salutat.
Hoc solor longas decipioque dies.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |