 | Pampinea and other poems |  |
21
THE TRAGEDY.
LA DAME AUX CAMELIAS.
The “Dame with the Camelias”—
I think that was the play;
The house was packed from pit to dome
With the gallant and the gay,
Who had come to see the Tragedy,
And while the hours away!
I think that was the play;
The house was packed from pit to dome
With the gallant and the gay,
Who had come to see the Tragedy,
And while the hours away!
There was the faint Exquisite,
With gloves and glass sublime;
There was the grave Historian,
And there the man of Rhyme,
And the surly Critic, front to front,
To see the play of Crime.
With gloves and glass sublime;
There was the grave Historian,
And there the man of Rhyme,
And the surly Critic, front to front,
To see the play of Crime.
22
And there was heavy Ignorance,
And Vice in Honiton lace;
Sir Crœsus and Sir Pandarus—
And the music played apace.
But of all that crowd I only saw
A single, single face!
And Vice in Honiton lace;
Sir Crœsus and Sir Pandarus—
And the music played apace.
But of all that crowd I only saw
A single, single face!
'Twas that of a girl whom I had known
In the summers long ago,
When her breath was like the new-mown hay,
Or the sweetest flowers that grow—
When her heart was light, and her soul was white
As the winter's driven snow.
In the summers long ago,
When her breath was like the new-mown hay,
Or the sweetest flowers that grow—
When her heart was light, and her soul was white
As the winter's driven snow.
'Twas in our own New England
She breathed the morning air;
'Twas the sunshine of New England
That blended with her hair;
And modesty and purity
Walked with her everywhere!
She breathed the morning air;
'Twas the sunshine of New England
That blended with her hair;
And modesty and purity
Walked with her everywhere!
23
All day like a ray of light she played
About old Harvey's mill;
And her grandsire held her on his knee
In the evenings long and still,
And told her tales of Lexington,
And the trench at Bunker's Hill—
About old Harvey's mill;
And her grandsire held her on his knee
In the evenings long and still,
And told her tales of Lexington,
And the trench at Bunker's Hill—
And of the painted Wamponsags,
The Indians who of yore
Builded their wigwams out of bark
In the woods of Sagamore;
And how the godly Puritans
Burnt witches by the score!
The Indians who of yore
Builded their wigwams out of bark
In the woods of Sagamore;
And how the godly Puritans
Burnt witches by the score!
Or, touching on his sailor-life,
He told how, years ago,
In the dark of a cruel winter night,
In the rain and sleet and snow,
The good bark Martha Jane went down
On the rocks off Holmes' Ho'!
He told how, years ago,
In the dark of a cruel winter night,
In the rain and sleet and snow,
The good bark Martha Jane went down
On the rocks off Holmes' Ho'!
24
The years flew by, and the maiden grew
Like a harebell in the glade;
The chestnut shadows crept in her eyes—
Sweet eyes that were not afraid
To look to heaven at morn or even,
Or any time she prayed!
Like a harebell in the glade;
The chestnut shadows crept in her eyes—
Sweet eyes that were not afraid
To look to heaven at morn or even,
Or any time she prayed!
She walked with him to the village church,
And his eyes would fill with pride
To see her walk with the man she loved—
To see them side by side!
Sweet Heaven! she were an angel now
If she had only died.
And his eyes would fill with pride
To see her walk with the man she loved—
To see them side by side!
Sweet Heaven! she were an angel now
If she had only died.
If she had only died! Alas!
How keen must be the woe
That makes it better one should lie
Where the sunshine cannot go,
Than to live in this sunny world of ours.
Where the happy blossoms blow!
How keen must be the woe
That makes it better one should lie
Where the sunshine cannot go,
Than to live in this sunny world of ours.
Where the happy blossoms blow!
25
Would she had wed some country clown
Before the luckless day
When her cousin came to that lowly home—
Her cousin Richard May,
With his city airs and handsome eyes,
To lead her soul astray!
Before the luckless day
When her cousin came to that lowly home—
Her cousin Richard May,
With his city airs and handsome eyes,
To lead her soul astray!
One night they left the cottage—
One night in the mist and rain;
And the old man never saw his child
Nor Richard May again;
Never saw his pet in the clover patch,
In the meadow, nor the lane.
One night in the mist and rain;
And the old man never saw his child
Nor Richard May again;
Never saw his pet in the clover patch,
In the meadow, nor the lane.
Ah! never was a heart so torn
Since this wild world began,
As day by day he looked for her,
This pitiful old man.
“Where's my pretty maid?” he said,
This pitiful old man.
Since this wild world began,
As day by day he looked for her,
This pitiful old man.
“Where's my pretty maid?” he said,
This pitiful old man.
26
Many a dreary winter came,
And he had passed away;
And we never heard of her who fled
In the night with Richard May;
Never knew if she were alive or dead
Till I met her at the play!
And he had passed away;
And we never heard of her who fled
In the night with Richard May;
Never knew if she were alive or dead
Till I met her at the play!
And there she sat with her great brown eyes,
They wore a troubled look;
And I read the history of her life
As it were an open book;
And saw her Soul, like a slimy thing
In the bottom of a brook.
They wore a troubled look;
And I read the history of her life
As it were an open book;
And saw her Soul, like a slimy thing
In the bottom of a brook.
There she sat in her rustling silk,
With diamonds on her wrist,
And on her brow a slender thread
Of pearl and amethyst.
“A cheat, a gilded grief!” I said,
And my eyes were filled with mist.
With diamonds on her wrist,
And on her brow a slender thread
Of pearl and amethyst.
“A cheat, a gilded grief!” I said,
And my eyes were filled with mist.
27
I could not see the players play,
I heard the music moan;
It moaned like a dismal autumn wind,
That dies in the woods alone;
And when it stopped I heard it still,
The mournful monotone!
I heard the music moan;
It moaned like a dismal autumn wind,
That dies in the woods alone;
And when it stopped I heard it still,
The mournful monotone!
What if the Count were true or false?
I did not care, not I;
What if Camille for Armand died?
I did not see her die.
There sat a woman opposite
Who held me with her eye!
I did not care, not I;
What if Camille for Armand died?
I did not see her die.
There sat a woman opposite
Who held me with her eye!
The great green curtain fell on all,
On laugh, and wine, and woe,
Just as death some day will fall
'Twixt us and life, I know!
The play was done, the bitter play,
And the people turned to go.
On laugh, and wine, and woe,
Just as death some day will fall
'Twixt us and life, I know!
The play was done, the bitter play,
And the people turned to go.
28
And did they see the Tragedy?
They saw the painted scene;
They saw Armand, the jealous fool,
And the sick Parisian quean;
But they did not see the Tragedy—
The one I saw, I mean!
They saw the painted scene;
They saw Armand, the jealous fool,
And the sick Parisian quean;
But they did not see the Tragedy—
The one I saw, I mean!
They did not see that cold-cut face,
Those braids of golden hair;
Or, seeing her jewels, only said,
“The lady's rich and fair.”
But I tell you, 'twas the Play of Life,
And that woman played Despair!
Those braids of golden hair;
Or, seeing her jewels, only said,
“The lady's rich and fair.”
But I tell you, 'twas the Play of Life,
And that woman played Despair!
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