 | Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . |  |
288
THE CONFESSIONAL.
‘When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold,
Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold—
Not changeless, as the loved and left of old—
Remember me—remember me—
I passionately pray of thee!”
Lady E. S. Wortley.
Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold—
Not changeless, as the loved and left of old—
Remember me—remember me—
I passionately pray of thee!”
Lady E. S. Wortley.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
On ocean many a weary night—
When heaved the long and sullen sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along by isles of balm,
We furl'd before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,
We flew beneath the straining sail—
But thou wert lost for years to me,
And, day and night, I thought of thee!
On ocean many a weary night—
When heaved the long and sullen sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along by isles of balm,
We furl'd before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,
We flew beneath the straining sail—
But thou wert lost for years to me,
And, day and night, I thought of thee!
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In France—amid the gay saloon,
Where eyes as dark as eyes may be
Are many as the leaves in June—
Where life is love, and even the air
Is pregnant with impassion'd thought,
And song and dance and music are
With one warm meaning only fraught—
My half-snared heart broke lightly free,
And, with a blush, I thought of thee!
In France—amid the gay saloon,
Where eyes as dark as eyes may be
Are many as the leaves in June—
Where life is love, and even the air
Is pregnant with impassion'd thought,
And song and dance and music are
289
My half-snared heart broke lightly free,
And, with a blush, I thought of thee!
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Florence,—where the fiery hearts
Of Italy are breathed away
In wonders of the deathless arts;
Where strays the Contadina down
Val d'Arno with a song of old;
Where clime and woman seldom frown,
And life runs over sands of gold;
I stray'd to lone Fiesolé
On many an eve, and thought of thee.
In Florence,—where the fiery hearts
Of Italy are breathed away
In wonders of the deathless arts;
Where strays the Contadina down
Val d'Arno with a song of old;
Where clime and woman seldom frown,
And life runs over sands of gold;
I stray'd to lone Fiesolé
On many an eve, and thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Rome,—when on the Palatine
Night left the Cæsar's palace free
To Time's forgetful foot and mine;
Or, on the Coliseum's wall,
When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone,
Reclining, with a thought of all
That o'er this scene has come and gone—
The shades of Rome would start and flee
Unconsciously—I thought of thee.
In Rome,—when on the Palatine
Night left the Cæsar's palace free
To Time's forgetful foot and mine;
Or, on the Coliseum's wall,
When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone,
Reclining, with a thought of all
That o'er this scene has come and gone—
The shades of Rome would start and flee
Unconsciously—I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Vallombrosa's holy shade,
Where nobles born the friars be,
By life's rude changes humbler made.
Here Milton framed his Paradise;
I slept within his very cell;
And, as I closed my weary eyes,
I thought the cowl would fit me well—
The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me,
Of heart's-ease—but I thought of thee.
In Vallombrosa's holy shade,
Where nobles born the friars be,
By life's rude changes humbler made.
290
I slept within his very cell;
And, as I closed my weary eyes,
I thought the cowl would fit me well—
The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me,
Of heart's-ease—but I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Venice,—on a night in June;
When, through the city of the sea,
Like dust of silver slept the moon.
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier,
And, as the black barks glided by,
The water to my leaning ear
Bore back the lover's passing sigh—
It was no place alone to be—
I thought of thee—I thought of thee.
In Venice,—on a night in June;
When, through the city of the sea,
Like dust of silver slept the moon.
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier,
And, as the black barks glided by,
The water to my leaning ear
Bore back the lover's passing sigh—
It was no place alone to be—
I thought of thee—I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In the Ionian isles—when straying
With wise Ulysses by the sea—
Old Homer's songs around me playing;
Or, watching the bewitch'd caique,
That o'er the star-lit waters flew,
I listen'd to the helmsman Greek,
Who sung the song that Sappho knew—
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
All vanish'd—as I thought of thee.
In the Ionian isles—when straying
With wise Ulysses by the sea—
Old Homer's songs around me playing;
Or, watching the bewitch'd caique,
That o'er the star-lit waters flew,
I listen'd to the helmsman Greek,
Who sung the song that Sappho knew—
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
All vanish'd—as I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Greece—when rose the Parthenon
Majestic o'er the Egean sea,
And heroes with it, one by one;
When, in the grove of Academe,
Where Lais and Leontium stray'd
Discussing Plato's mystic theme,
I lay at noontide in the shade—
The Egean wind, the whispering tree,
Had voices—and I thought of thee.
291
Majestic o'er the Egean sea,
And heroes with it, one by one;
When, in the grove of Academe,
Where Lais and Leontium stray'd
Discussing Plato's mystic theme,
I lay at noontide in the shade—
The Egean wind, the whispering tree,
Had voices—and I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
In Asia—on the Dardanelles;
Where swiftly as the waters flee,
Each wave some sweet old story tells;
And, seated by the marble tank
Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old,
(The fount where peerless Helen drank,
And Venus laved her locks of gold,)
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see,
Yet even here—I thought of thee.
In Asia—on the Dardanelles;
Where swiftly as the waters flee,
Each wave some sweet old story tells;
And, seated by the marble tank
Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old,
(The fount where peerless Helen drank,
And Venus laved her locks of gold,)
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see,
Yet even here—I thought of thee.
I thought of thee—I thought of thee,
Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters,
All palace-lined from sea to sea;
And ever on its shores the daughters
Of the delicious East are seen,
Printing the brink with slipper'd feet.
And oh, the snowy folds between,
What eyes of heaven your glances meet!
Peris of light no fairer be—
Yet—in Stamboul—I thought of thee.
Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters,
All palace-lined from sea to sea;
And ever on its shores the daughters
Of the delicious East are seen,
292
And oh, the snowy folds between,
What eyes of heaven your glances meet!
Peris of light no fairer be—
Yet—in Stamboul—I thought of thee.
I've thought of thee—I've thought of thee,
Through change that teaches to forget;
Thy face looks up from every sea,
In every star thine eyes are set,
Though roving beneath Orient skies,
Whose golden beauty breathes of rest,
I envy every bird that flies
Into the far and clouded West:
I think of thee—I think of thee!
Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me?
Through change that teaches to forget;
Thy face looks up from every sea,
In every star thine eyes are set,
Though roving beneath Orient skies,
Whose golden beauty breathes of rest,
I envy every bird that flies
Into the far and clouded West:
I think of thee—I think of thee!
Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me?
| Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . | |