 | This, that and the other |  |
LAURA TO PETRARCH.
Alas, alas! bound by a tie I hate,
And forced to call the man I scorn my lord,
Thou canst not wonder that I curse my fate,
And wildly dream about each blessed word
In golden days of old spoke by thy lips,
While Cupid lurked 'mong beds of passion-flowers,
Ere yet my life's sunshine had met eclipse,
Or I had measured with my prayers the hours!
Thou canst not wonder that, in looking back,
I pour out blood for tears along the path,
And sprinkle drops upon each once fair track,
Now blackened by the Simoom's deadly wrath.
And yet, O, what am I, that make my moan?
A woman, with her hair to silver turned;
A bird, whom all its mates have left alone;
A vase, whence all the roses have been burned!
A seed left choking in some stony ground,
I fittest liken to my wretched plight;
A cry, a moment heard, then deeply drowned,
By dash of waves, on Pluto's shores of night!
I see thee climbing up Fame's rugged height,
And know thy heart sends after mine a cry,
As traveller, in some fairy land bedight,
Amid its flowers gives utterance to a sigh!
And forced to call the man I scorn my lord,
Thou canst not wonder that I curse my fate,
And wildly dream about each blessed word
In golden days of old spoke by thy lips,
While Cupid lurked 'mong beds of passion-flowers,
Ere yet my life's sunshine had met eclipse,
Or I had measured with my prayers the hours!
Thou canst not wonder that, in looking back,
I pour out blood for tears along the path,
And sprinkle drops upon each once fair track,
Now blackened by the Simoom's deadly wrath.
And yet, O, what am I, that make my moan?
A woman, with her hair to silver turned;
A bird, whom all its mates have left alone;
A vase, whence all the roses have been burned!
A seed left choking in some stony ground,
I fittest liken to my wretched plight;
A cry, a moment heard, then deeply drowned,
By dash of waves, on Pluto's shores of night!
I see thee climbing up Fame's rugged height,
And know thy heart sends after mine a cry,
As traveller, in some fairy land bedight,
Amid its flowers gives utterance to a sigh!
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The bridal-roses, bound about my brow,
A crown of thorns I wear for thee this hour;
The winter moon, slow-sailing, lights thee now,
While o'er my path fierce waves of baptism lower.
Time was, I decked my heart and spread my feast,
And called thee gayly to my rustic board, —
As sceptred monarch, in the far-off East,
Shows to some cherished guest his glittering hoard.
And thou didst come: that simple feast the last,
Those words of love the only glory left,
Of all the mocking radiance of the past,
To gild the life of hope and light bereft.
But, as the dead Christ crowns some funeral pile,
And crosses gleam through mists of vanished years,
So I will give my life to shrine thy smile,
And pave thy future with my woman's tears!
A crown of thorns I wear for thee this hour;
The winter moon, slow-sailing, lights thee now,
While o'er my path fierce waves of baptism lower.
Time was, I decked my heart and spread my feast,
And called thee gayly to my rustic board, —
As sceptred monarch, in the far-off East,
Shows to some cherished guest his glittering hoard.
And thou didst come: that simple feast the last,
Those words of love the only glory left,
Of all the mocking radiance of the past,
To gild the life of hope and light bereft.
But, as the dead Christ crowns some funeral pile,
And crosses gleam through mists of vanished years,
So I will give my life to shrine thy smile,
And pave thy future with my woman's tears!
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