Laurella and other poems by John Todhunter |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
ROMAUNT OF THE MYRTLE. |
| III. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | Laurella and other poems |  |
138
ROMAUNT OF THE MYRTLE.
I.
Never was song stranger than mine—All of a falcon that flew through the brine,
All of a falcon that flew o'er the sea
To the dim Islands of Twilight; where be
Groves of pale myrtle—where wander and wait,
Hovering and hoping, before heaven's gate,
The ghosts of sad lovers!
There wait and wander, frail meteors of fire,
Spirits, death-snatched in their morn of desire,
Their April of passion—when lips, at his kiss,
Freeze, ere the heart be made perfect thro' bliss
To pass the glad portals.
There came the falcon that flew o'er the sea—
To the wan white bosom of Eulalie.
II.
Never was song stranger than mine—All of a dove that flew back through the brine,
139
With a pale myrtle-spray from the wan Eulalie,
To Mainz in the Rhineland!
In Mainz was high-feasting, and Berthold was there;
And Frauenlob chanted the praise of the fair,
And eyes grew more bright, cheeks more beauteous, and wine
Foamed fresh to their lips, in great flagons ashine;
And the king's heart was merry, the courtiers were clad
In robes of rejoicing; but Berthold was sad
For the loss of his falcon.
To him came the dove that flew back o'er the sea,
With that pale sweet token from Eulalie.
III.
Never was song sweeter than mine—All of this dove that flew back through the brine,
To Berthold—mute-brooding, and wroth at their glee—
With the flower of love-longing from wan Eulalie,
Sweet, sweet with her sighing!
Sweet with her sighing, and pale with her kiss—
What glimpse of forgotten deep byeways of bliss
Grew clear to his vision—what fragrance of dreams,
What nightingale music by weird-flowing streams
Made mystic each sense—what wild glamour bid start
The passionate fountains long-failed in his heart,
Till he fainted for yearning!
140
His ghittern—the music died harshly; and all
Was tumult. Men rose, women shrieked, and 'twas said
By knots of scared whisperers: ‘Berthold is dead!
In Mainz in the Rhineland.’
But Berthold was speeding far, far o'er the sea,
To the warm breast of his own Eulalie!
| Laurella and other poems | |