 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
356
TO A YOUNG GIRL.
I.
Oh! thou hast charmed me well,Far more than tongue can tell;
Yet go, my sweet Gazelle,
Go, singing free:
Happy and bright the skies,
That woo thy wing to rise,
Bright as Heaven's beams, those eyes,
So bright to me.
II.
Go, lest the sunny graceOf that sweet, smiling face,
Win me to mad embrace,
In frenzies wild!
Better in peace depart!—
Even thou, with nought of art,
May'st rouse to fire my heart—
Thou, but a child!
III.
Ah! 'twere for both a doom,Did thy sweet, innocent bloom,
Within this breast relume
That ancient fire—
Full of the madd'ning might,
Delirium, not delight,
Which brought the heart to blight,
Bringing desire!
357
IV.
Better that thou should'st beStill the dear child I see,
Laughing, and going free,
Heedless of aught—
Save the glad song, the smile,
Child-play and childish wile,
As innocent of guile,
As Love of thought.
V.
I would not have thee come,Down, from thy native home,
Fresh with its matin bloom,
To forfeit here
One smile of that dear face,
Laugh, motion, look of grace,
For which we cry out: “Place!—
Bright ones appear!”
VI.
Alas! thou little know'st,How, round thy steps, a host—
Passions of evil boast—
Crowd to consume;
Armed each with cunning power,
Rifling, as birds the flower,
They sing thee, one short hour,
Sing thee to doom!
358
VII.
Of all that thus pursue,Seeming most fond, and woo—
How few are brave and true!
Scarce shalt thou win
One young heart, free of blame,
With a fond, generous flame,
Untouch'd with self and shame,
Unsmutcht with sin!
VIII.
The Love, which here they bring,Himself's an earthy thing—
Crawls, creeps, without a wing,
So—without heart:
Can make no sacrifice,
And, with a cunning nice,
Still polishes the vice,
To the abuse of art.
IX.
Crawling about the bloom,He robs the fresh perfume,
Cares naught, though bringing doom,
And, like a thief,
Pursues his cruel toil,
Not to delight, but spoil,
And turns, with serpent guile,
The joy to grief.
359
X.
Alas! the frequent tale!Then thy young hope would fail—
Then thy young heart would ail,
And, ere many days,
Over thy cheeks, the red
Of thy beauty would be spread,
With a pall, as of the dead,
And with a dread amaze!
XI.
Then, no longer high,Lifted to the sky,
Thy down-looking eye
Would commune with blame;
Thy free step and grace
Fleet, and leave no trace,
And upon thy face
Would be shame! Oh, shame!
XII.
And they'd have no care—They who wrought the snare—
When, no longer fair,
Thou hast felt the doom;
Of the crowd that knew,
Fawn'd and fondled too,
Scarcely one would strew
Flow'rs upon thy tomb!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |