Poems By Alfred Domett |
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THE BROKEN TRYST. |
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115
THE BROKEN TRYST.
Alas! poor lady! desolate and left—
Two Gent. of Verona,
Two Gent. of Verona,
What! all alone desponding,
Fairest, quite alone?
Love's adoring minions,
Vanished, every one!
Fairest, quite alone?
Love's adoring minions,
Vanished, every one!
None to praise the tangles
Of thy jetty hair,
And brokenly to tell thee,
Thou art very fair!
Of thy jetty hair,
And brokenly to tell thee,
Thou art very fair!
To draw thy breath in sighing—
To kiss thy soft blue eye,
And of very tenderness
Almost to die!
To kiss thy soft blue eye,
And of very tenderness
Almost to die!
The whispering voice of Night—
But cheerless things it says;
The Moon's a silent lover—
Cold the Fountain's praise!
But cheerless things it says;
The Moon's a silent lover—
Cold the Fountain's praise!
116
Moon! Moon! shine not so brightly—
Those beams are idly thrown
To tell the poor forlorn one
She is all alone!
Those beams are idly thrown
To tell the poor forlorn one
She is all alone!
Moon! Moon! shine not so coldly—
Thy kisses cold and wan
Poorly supply the place of those
For ever, ever gone!
Thy kisses cold and wan
Poorly supply the place of those
For ever, ever gone!
Oh shine no more, no more, Moon!
Thy tender look but mocketh!
Thy light—it is not Love's light—
Its brightness only shocketh!—
Thy tender look but mocketh!
Thy light—it is not Love's light—
Its brightness only shocketh!—
Cease, Fountàin, cease thy murmur!
Thy sweet tender tone,
Reminds her of another
Sweeter than thine own!
Thy sweet tender tone,
Reminds her of another
Sweeter than thine own!
Last night thy waters murmured
In the self-same tone;
But then he listened with her—
And now she's all alone!
In the self-same tone;
But then he listened with her—
And now she's all alone!
Oh, rest thy weary bosom,
Sweet, on the balustrade—
Cold as the heart is, that so late
Its warm, warm pillow made!
Sweet, on the balustrade—
Cold as the heart is, that so late
Its warm, warm pillow made!
117
Thou wert a simple Flower,
And he, the pilfering Bee
Who stole thy love, the honey—
Cruel, cruel he!
And he, the pilfering Bee
Who stole thy love, the honey—
Cruel, cruel he!
Sorrow now must woo her—
Constant lover, he,
All unlike her first love,
Is not wont to flee.
Constant lover, he,
All unlike her first love,
Is not wont to flee.
He's a jealous Lover;
Miser of the heart,
Grudging Joy his rival,
Any, any part!—
Miser of the heart,
Grudging Joy his rival,
Any, any part!—
Prythee, weep, forlorn one!
Tears will give thee ease—
Strange—dark Grief should father
Children bright as these!—
Tears will give thee ease—
Strange—dark Grief should father
Children bright as these!—
Nay, do not, do not weep so!
Lest it break thy heart—
Did'st not know that bright dreams
Soonest, first depart?
Lest it break thy heart—
Did'st not know that bright dreams
Soonest, first depart?
Did'st not know that Sorrow
Comes when Joys are dearest—
To the most confiding
Treachery is nearest?—
Comes when Joys are dearest—
To the most confiding
Treachery is nearest?—
118
She will ever weep so—
She will never smile—
Death will dry those meek eyes
In a little while.
She will never smile—
Death will dry those meek eyes
In a little while.
I have seen a poor dove,
With a broken wing—
Surely, surely thou art
Such a maimëd thing!
With a broken wing—
Surely, surely thou art
Such a maimëd thing!
I have seen a Rainbow,
One half dissolved and gone—
More than half her bright soul
With her love has flown!
One half dissolved and gone—
More than half her bright soul
With her love has flown!
Die, then, die, forlorn one!
Peace returneth never—
In the cold grave, poor one,
There is rest for ever!
Peace returneth never—
In the cold grave, poor one,
There is rest for ever!
August, 1831.
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