The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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SECOND LOVE. |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
261
SECOND LOVE.
“L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois: c'est la première. Les amours
qui suivent sont moins involontaires!”—La Bruyère.
How shall he woo her?—Let him stand
Beside her as she sings;
And watch that fine and fairy hand
Flit o'er the quivering strings:
And let him tell her he has heard,
Though sweet the music flow,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was sweeter, long ago.
Beside her as she sings;
And watch that fine and fairy hand
Flit o'er the quivering strings:
And let him tell her he has heard,
Though sweet the music flow,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was sweeter, long ago.
How shall he woo her?—Let him gaze
In sad and silent trance
On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays
Look love in every glance:
And let him tell her, eyes more bright,
Though bright her own may beam,
Will fling a deeper spell to-night
Upon him in his dream.
In sad and silent trance
On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays
Look love in every glance:
And let him tell her, eyes more bright,
Though bright her own may beam,
Will fling a deeper spell to-night
Upon him in his dream.
262
How shall he woo her?—Let him try
The charms of olden time,
And swear by earth and sea and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme:
And let him tell her, when he bent
His knee in other years,
He was not half so eloquent,—
He could not speak for tears
The charms of olden time,
And swear by earth and sea and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme:
And let him tell her, when he bent
His knee in other years,
He was not half so eloquent,—
He could not speak for tears
How shall he woo her?—Let him bow
Before the shrine in prayer;
And bid the priest pronounce the vow
That hallows passion there:
And let him tell her, when she parts
From his unchidden kiss,
That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.
Before the shrine in prayer;
And bid the priest pronounce the vow
That hallows passion there:
And let him tell her, when she parts
From his unchidden kiss,
That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.
Away, away! the chords are mute,
The bond is rent in twain;
You cannot wake that silent lute,
Nor clasp those links again;
Love's toil, I know, is little cost,
Love's perjury is light sin;
But souls that lose what his hath lost,—
Oh what have they to win?
The bond is rent in twain;
You cannot wake that silent lute,
Nor clasp those links again;
Love's toil, I know, is little cost,
Love's perjury is light sin;
But souls that lose what his hath lost,—
Oh what have they to win?
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |