[Lines suggested by a picture, in] The token and Atlantic souvenir a Christmas and New Year's present |
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 | [Lines suggested by a picture, in] The token and Atlantic souvenir |  |
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LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.
[_]
The picture represents the beautiful La Vallière, in her retirement at the convent of the Carmelites; and under it are inscribed the words once uttered by her in reply to the interrogatory of a friend,—“Not happy, but content.”
How calmly beautiful
The pencilled scene! It is the evening hour,—
The golden close of an autumnal day.
Seen through yon time-worn arch, the parting sun
Rests like a weary hunter on the brow
Of the far western hills,—and there lingering,
To mark the silent flight of his last arrow
Through the liquid air.
The pencilled scene! It is the evening hour,—
The golden close of an autumnal day.
Seen through yon time-worn arch, the parting sun
Rests like a weary hunter on the brow
Of the far western hills,—and there lingering,
To mark the silent flight of his last arrow
Through the liquid air.
Through the tall Gothic casement pours a flood
Of golden glory, streaming o'er the walls,
The marble pavement, and the vaulted roof;
While in the far-perspective waving woods,
Vineyards, and fields, and trellised cottages
Are brightly tinged with the rich sunset glow,
And autumn casts her mellow tints o'er all,
Deepening the beauty of the quiet scene.
Of golden glory, streaming o'er the walls,
The marble pavement, and the vaulted roof;
While in the far-perspective waving woods,
Vineyards, and fields, and trellised cottages
Are brightly tinged with the rich sunset glow,
And autumn casts her mellow tints o'er all,
Deepening the beauty of the quiet scene.
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The hour, the season, breathe of calm decay,
Of life's brief splendor and approaching gloom,
And touchingly accord with that sweet form
Of fading loveliness, so calm and pale.
It seemeth some fair statue there enshrined;
The brow of marble beauty, raised to heaven,
Is smooth and peaceful as the unclouded front
Of sleeping innocence; yet sober thought,
Full of sweet sadness, there asserts her reign,—
While the dark eye, once eloquent of love,
And fraught with human sympathies, now seems
But the calm mirror of that tranquil heaven
On which its rapt gaze lingers.
Of life's brief splendor and approaching gloom,
And touchingly accord with that sweet form
Of fading loveliness, so calm and pale.
It seemeth some fair statue there enshrined;
The brow of marble beauty, raised to heaven,
Is smooth and peaceful as the unclouded front
Of sleeping innocence; yet sober thought,
Full of sweet sadness, there asserts her reign,—
While the dark eye, once eloquent of love,
And fraught with human sympathies, now seems
But the calm mirror of that tranquil heaven
On which its rapt gaze lingers.
Did'st thou find,
Sweet sufferer, within those hallowed walls,
That heavenly peace which the world cannot give?
And did'st thou, through thy solitary hours,
Feel that support which those can never know
Who cling to broken reeds, and bow before
The self-created idols of the heart?
Did thy fond fancy never lead thee back
To vanished hours, and pleasures long gone by;—
Nor memory linger round those dazzling halls
Of regal splendor, where thy dawning charms,
Thy dreamlike beauty, and unconscious grace
Enthralled a monarch's heart, and shone awhile
The light of courts, a nation's cynosure?
Sweet sufferer, within those hallowed walls,
That heavenly peace which the world cannot give?
And did'st thou, through thy solitary hours,
Feel that support which those can never know
Who cling to broken reeds, and bow before
The self-created idols of the heart?
Did thy fond fancy never lead thee back
To vanished hours, and pleasures long gone by;—
Nor memory linger round those dazzling halls
Of regal splendor, where thy dawning charms,
Thy dreamlike beauty, and unconscious grace
Enthralled a monarch's heart, and shone awhile
The light of courts, a nation's cynosure?
Could that fond heart
Its early dream forget,—its dream of love?
Ah, when did woman e'er that dream forget?
Man's love lives but with hope; while woman's heart
Still echoes to the music of the past;—
And never heart was formed more prone than thine
To the impulsive, trustful tenderness
Of innocence and youth;—its thrilling chords
Responded to the burning breath of love,
With all the sweet, wild, mournful harmony
Which passion wakens in the youthful breast,
Ere the rude hand of stern reality,
And all the earth-born interests of life,
Have marred its music, and its chords unstrung!
Its early dream forget,—its dream of love?
Ah, when did woman e'er that dream forget?
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Still echoes to the music of the past;—
And never heart was formed more prone than thine
To the impulsive, trustful tenderness
Of innocence and youth;—its thrilling chords
Responded to the burning breath of love,
With all the sweet, wild, mournful harmony
Which passion wakens in the youthful breast,
Ere the rude hand of stern reality,
And all the earth-born interests of life,
Have marred its music, and its chords unstrung!
Ay, thou hast loved as woman only loves,—
A love all sacrifice and suffering; a star
That gathers lustre from the gloom of night;
A martyr's fond idolatry; a faith
Baptized in tears, to sorrow consecrate;
And still one liquid gem, unmarked before,
Seems trembling on that pale and faded cheek;
As if some dream of other days had thrown
A passing shadow o'er thy thoughts, and dimmed
Heaven's image, pictured on their peaceful stream.
Yet all seems tranquil now, and that warm trace
Of recent sorrow lends a touching charm
To the deep sanctity and holy rest
That breathe o'er all thy beauty, and bespeak
A heart resigned,—“not happy, but content;”—
A heart, that, like the Dove, long sought its rest
In vain o'er earth's wide waters,—till, at last,
Wearied and faint, it wings its homeward way,
And folds its pinions in the ark of peace.
A love all sacrifice and suffering; a star
That gathers lustre from the gloom of night;
A martyr's fond idolatry; a faith
Baptized in tears, to sorrow consecrate;
And still one liquid gem, unmarked before,
Seems trembling on that pale and faded cheek;
As if some dream of other days had thrown
A passing shadow o'er thy thoughts, and dimmed
Heaven's image, pictured on their peaceful stream.
Yet all seems tranquil now, and that warm trace
Of recent sorrow lends a touching charm
To the deep sanctity and holy rest
That breathe o'er all thy beauty, and bespeak
A heart resigned,—“not happy, but content;”—
A heart, that, like the Dove, long sought its rest
In vain o'er earth's wide waters,—till, at last,
Wearied and faint, it wings its homeward way,
And folds its pinions in the ark of peace.
| [Lines suggested by a picture, in] The token and Atlantic souvenir | |