University of Virginia Library

2. Leon—Part II

I wish I had a little quiet spot,
Some wild-wood dell and bower-enshaded grot,
Where never glimpse of human face was seen,
And none but fairy feet have trod the green,
That with one trusting friend who loved me well,
Unseen, unknown, I might forever dwell;
And, far from woman's spell, sequestered move
Beyond the doubts, the fears, the crimes, the woes of love.
Poor son of sorrow, child of sighs and tears,
Born in wild hopes, and nursed in wilder fears,
Short are the joys that glad thy weeping eyes
As rainbow tints that vanish while they rise,
Glimpses of heaven that only serve to show
The double deepness of succeeding woe.
Oh, why, sweet cherub of celestial birth,
In mercy sent to light and warm the earth,
Why are thy purposed gifts forever lost,
Crushed by cold prudence, or in passion tossed?
Still the warm hearts that bend to thy control,
Must bend in sorrow, or in frenzy roll,
And reason only wakes to tell despair
How blest they might have been, how curst they are.
But why should dark foreboding dreams destroy
The fleeting forms of momentary joy?
Why damp the bliss with such presagings sad
While eyes around are bright, and hearts are glad?
For her, in every corner of the place,
Dressed up in smiles is seen each happy face,
Grandsire and crone, brisk youth and maiden gay,
And children pranked in holiday array
Around the castle stand, or sit, or trip,
Joy in each eye and smiles on every lip;
While talk and whisper buzzes far and wide,
Of the brave bridegroom and the bonny bride.
Some crowd the gates, some lie along the grass
On the green road through which the train will pass;
Some, more impatient to behold the band
Around the chapel archway take their stand,
Or, climbing to the windows, strive in vain
To send their glances through the painted pane.
The nearest bend their ears toward the lay,
And strive to hear, although they cannot see;
While some more daring, forward thrust their chin,
And set the door acrack and peep within.
Oh, 'tis an awful and glorious sight!
The dim sun flings his stained light,
The flame-tipped columns of the altar torch
Strike a long gleam along the fretted porch,
And lustres, with their branchy arms outspread,
From pendant drops ten thousand sparkles shed;
The velvet surface of the pulpit pall
In gentle waves and crimson flashes fall,
While the gay arches of the ceiling throw
Broad massy shades and darkening streaks below.
Then might you see, with nod, and smile, and stoop
Of knights and dames, a gallant joyous group
Filling the space and glancing here and there.
A brilliant eye, or turning smooth and fair
A neck of marble white, or with a bow
Shaking the plume that quivers on the brow.
Within the altar paling stands the choir,
With mitred priest, the cowled and shaven friar,
And novice boy, who, with a holy look
Carries the pyx, or bears the sacred book,
Or, as the words of reverent praise are spoke,
Heaves to the Saviour-cross the curling incense smoke.
But hark! from yonder sable-curtained dome
In long low strains the female voices come,
Swell, sink, subside, and as the murmur dies,
Full, clear, and strong the solemn chantings rise,
And gentle organ stops, with breathing sound,
Like songs of distant angels, float around;
And now they mingle, pause, and now alone
Peals in deep majesty the lengthened tone;
Slowly, as sinks the faint receding wail,
The stolèd priest advances to the pale.