 | Aonian Hours; And Other Poems |  |
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The Last but One.
As we walked with Zobëide, on the eve of the morrow which was to see her
departure by the same path, she said—“I have many times trod this path,
but this is the Last time—but One!”
When the hues of delight make brighter
Our hours, with a feeling pure,
And the heaviest heart grows lighter,
Misdeeming it long to endure;
If Grief on our steps advances
To sully the rays that shone,
How heavy the vain eye glances
To welcome the Last—but One!
Our hours, with a feeling pure,
And the heaviest heart grows lighter,
Misdeeming it long to endure;
If Grief on our steps advances
To sully the rays that shone,
How heavy the vain eye glances
To welcome the Last—but One!
In Love—when the breast e'en borrows
From rapture a shade of grief,
Most like to a child, whose sorrows
Will quarrel with their relief;
Though each kiss in its farewell stingeth,
And wisdom it were to shun
The anguish to which the lip clingeth,
How it lives on the Last—but One!
From rapture a shade of grief,
Most like to a child, whose sorrows
Will quarrel with their relief;
Though each kiss in its farewell stingeth,
And wisdom it were to shun
The anguish to which the lip clingeth,
How it lives on the Last—but One!
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In Grief—when remembrance lingers
O'er all that she held most dear,
And chides the unwelcome fingers
Would brush from her lids one tear;
When drugged are the dregs of her chalice,
And her fountain hath ceased to run,
With what self-tormenting malice,
Will she drink the Last drop—but One!
O'er all that she held most dear,
And chides the unwelcome fingers
Would brush from her lids one tear;
When drugged are the dregs of her chalice,
And her fountain hath ceased to run,
With what self-tormenting malice,
Will she drink the Last drop—but One!
In Hope—when the warm heart beateth
At the first light touch of love,
And our vision the wizard cheateth
With a bliss that seems from above;
Though the nightshade of dark denial
Our flourishing dreams o'errun,
How madly we look to her dial,
To seize the Last minute—but One!
At the first light touch of love,
And our vision the wizard cheateth
With a bliss that seems from above;
Though the nightshade of dark denial
Our flourishing dreams o'errun,
How madly we look to her dial,
To seize the Last minute—but One!
In Suspense—when the smile that fluttered
On Joy's vain cheek is set,
And each accent the Fair One uttered
Sounds winningly wooing yet;
How like to a Mermaid singing
To a listening heart undone,
Is fear with that sweet thought bringing
Her Last chilling frown—but One!
On Joy's vain cheek is set,
And each accent the Fair One uttered
Sounds winningly wooing yet;
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To a listening heart undone,
Is fear with that sweet thought bringing
Her Last chilling frown—but One!
In Distress—when the wild waves whiten
Around the tost ship they lash,
When the black clouds momently lighten,
And fast is the signal-flash;
To an ear at a distance from danger,
How mournfully peals the gun!
How a bosom that bleeds for the stranger
Thrills o'er the Last shriek—but One!
Around the tost ship they lash,
When the black clouds momently lighten,
And fast is the signal-flash;
To an ear at a distance from danger,
How mournfully peals the gun!
How a bosom that bleeds for the stranger
Thrills o'er the Last shriek—but One!
When Pleasure—her light form muffles
From the least rude wind that blows,
Though 'tis only that Zephyr ruffles
A billow—or bends a rose;
As she crushes in cups the sweetness
Of grapes that hang black in the sun,
How she feeds on the praise of discreetness,
In leaving the Last—but One!
From the least rude wind that blows,
Though 'tis only that Zephyr ruffles
A billow—or bends a rose;
As she crushes in cups the sweetness
Of grapes that hang black in the sun,
How she feeds on the praise of discreetness,
In leaving the Last—but One!
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In Autumn—ere frosts quite wither
The flower that loves the hill,
When the thistle's beard, hither and thither,
Flies on at its own gay will;
When sunbeams are brightest, though fewest,
How far from our path we run,
To crop but a harebell, the bluest—
Because 'tis the Last—but One!
The flower that loves the hill,
When the thistle's beard, hither and thither,
Flies on at its own gay will;
When sunbeams are brightest, though fewest,
How far from our path we run,
To crop but a harebell, the bluest—
Because 'tis the Last—but One!
In the magical pages of Byron,
With what passionate voice we hang
On the griefs which his being environ,
And feel with him pang for pang;
When with Manfred we wander, or Harold,
And think the long tale but begun,
Just ceasing the verse to be carolled,
How we sigh o'er the Last—but One!
With what passionate voice we hang
On the griefs which his being environ,
And feel with him pang for pang;
When with Manfred we wander, or Harold,
And think the long tale but begun,
Just ceasing the verse to be carolled,
How we sigh o'er the Last—but One!
But when Hesper began to glisten,
Presaging the eve's decline,
And we might no longer listen
To the magic of tones like thine;
And when thou, Zobëide, wert vanished
We asked ‘of the many that shone,
‘Is there not one joy unbanished?’
And an Echo replied—“Not One!”
Presaging the eve's decline,
And we might no longer listen
To the magic of tones like thine;
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We asked ‘of the many that shone,
‘Is there not one joy unbanished?’
And an Echo replied—“Not One!”
| Aonian Hours; And Other Poems | |