 | [Dorothea, in] The gift |  |
54
DOROTHEA.
—“Behind a rock they espied a youth dressed like a peasant, sitting at the foot of an ash tree; whose face they could not discover, on account that he was washing his feet in a rivulet which ran by.”
Life and Exploits of Don Quixote, p. 179.
Beautiful being! thou art to me,
The morning star of my memory;
Not as a peasant in sylvan shade,
But the constant-hearted and tender maid:
With loving thoughts, in thy downcast eye,
Blue as the glimpse of an Autumn sky;
With a smile, like a rose-leaf o'er ivory cleft,
Where the ruby and lily their light have left.
The morning star of my memory;
Not as a peasant in sylvan shade,
But the constant-hearted and tender maid:
With loving thoughts, in thy downcast eye,
Blue as the glimpse of an Autumn sky;
With a smile, like a rose-leaf o'er ivory cleft,
Where the ruby and lily their light have left.
Thou art like the spell of some holy dream,
Where all things fair and delightsome seem:
Like a better angel, come down to bless,
The heart in its earthly loneliness;
To awaken an Eden, where'er thy tread,
And graceful presence, a pleasure shed;
Amid green bowers thy way to trace,
And “kindle a glow in the shady place.”
Where all things fair and delightsome seem:
Like a better angel, come down to bless,
The heart in its earthly loneliness;
To awaken an Eden, where'er thy tread,
And graceful presence, a pleasure shed;
Amid green bowers thy way to trace,
And “kindle a glow in the shady place.”
55
Something of Love dwells about thy form,
Its breathing influence, soft and warm;
Something that tells of the faithful maid,
Mournful in spirit, but not betrayed;
One still beloved, though she knows it not;
Whose matchless beauty is unforgot;
Whose looks are treasured with joyful pride,—
Whose song is dearer than all beside.
Its breathing influence, soft and warm;
Something that tells of the faithful maid,
Mournful in spirit, but not betrayed;
One still beloved, though she knows it not;
Whose matchless beauty is unforgot;
Whose looks are treasured with joyful pride,—
Whose song is dearer than all beside.
And wert thou, maiden! so known to fame,
With thy innocent breast and familiar name,—
Wert thou but a creature of busy mind,
Thy clay creator in chains confined?
Wert thou, a being of life and bloom,
Conceived in the span of a dungeon's gloom,
And placed mid a fairy world of flowers,
While thy parent pined through his weary hours!
With thy innocent breast and familiar name,—
Wert thou but a creature of busy mind,
Thy clay creator in chains confined?
Wert thou, a being of life and bloom,
Conceived in the span of a dungeon's gloom,
And placed mid a fairy world of flowers,
While thy parent pined through his weary hours!
Yes, thou wert!—but to thee and him,
Will the light of eminence ne'er be dim:
Brighter by time, he survives with thee,
Thou rural and sweet Divinity;—
The chronicler true of a tale of love,
That bids the pulses more quickly move:
That over the spirit a rapture flings,
Rich as the fragrance of seraph wings!
Will the light of eminence ne'er be dim:
Brighter by time, he survives with thee,
Thou rural and sweet Divinity;—
The chronicler true of a tale of love,
That bids the pulses more quickly move:
That over the spirit a rapture flings,
Rich as the fragrance of seraph wings!
Philadelphia.
| [Dorothea, in] The gift | |