The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold |
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| XXI. |
THE GAME AT CHESS.
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 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
213
THE GAME AT CHESS.
Love with a Lady—would you know
Her name, then read this heart, for there
'Tis written, like the words of woe,
Imprinted in the hyacinth fair—
Love with a Lady played-but where,
Or when, or how, 'tis yours to guess,
Enough if we this truth declare,
Love with a Lady played at Chess!
Her name, then read this heart, for there
'Tis written, like the words of woe,
Imprinted in the hyacinth fair—
Love with a Lady played-but where,
Or when, or how, 'tis yours to guess,
Enough if we this truth declare,
Love with a Lady played at Chess!
Most innocent, and calm, and high
The mind which in that Lady's face
Was mirrored, as the morning-sky
In a clear brook's green dwelling-place,
And, robed in each serenest grace,
She mused, more tranquil than the dove;
So there, as time grew on apace,
The Lady played at Chess with Love.
The mind which in that Lady's face
Was mirrored, as the morning-sky
In a clear brook's green dwelling-place,
And, robed in each serenest grace,
She mused, more tranquil than the dove;
So there, as time grew on apace,
The Lady played at Chess with Love.
'Twas like a dream to see them play;
So deeply, marvellously still,
And hushed in charmed thought sat they,
One influence of the tyrant will
Controlling both for well or ill!
And surely in that silentness,
Angels, on heaven's own azure hill,
Watched the sweet pair who played at Chess.
So deeply, marvellously still,
And hushed in charmed thought sat they,
One influence of the tyrant will
214
And surely in that silentness,
Angels, on heaven's own azure hill,
Watched the sweet pair who played at Chess.
But see, a smile succeeds to doubt
In her fair eyes-they see ‘the move;’
And swift as thought she stretches out
Her small white hand, without a glove,
And moves the piece—below, above,
Across on all sides, unafraid,
Joy in her soul; and thus with Love
Her game at Chess the Lady played.
In her fair eyes-they see ‘the move;’
And swift as thought she stretches out
Her small white hand, without a glove,
And moves the piece—below, above,
Across on all sides, unafraid,
Joy in her soul; and thus with Love
Her game at Chess the Lady played.
What is the world, and what is life,
To her whose heart is in the grave!
The bliss of that ungenerous strife
Is dear to her as health or fame!
With whomsoe'er she plays, the same,
E'en losing has some power to bless;
And were Love dead, she'd feel no shame
To sit with Hatred down to Chess.
To her whose heart is in the grave!
The bliss of that ungenerous strife
Is dear to her as health or fame!
With whomsoe'er she plays, the same,
E'en losing has some power to bless;
And were Love dead, she'd feel no shame
To sit with Hatred down to Chess.
Love, brooding o'er the board, grows dull,
And, beaten, seems but half awake;
Her hope meanwhile grows ripe and full,
She takes whate'er she wills to take;
When lo! what nothings sometimes make
A mighty shock! That Lady's lip
Quivers with some convulsive ache—
Her hand just touched Love's finger-tip.
And, beaten, seems but half awake;
Her hope meanwhile grows ripe and full,
She takes whate'er she wills to take;
When lo! what nothings sometimes make
A mighty shock! That Lady's lip
Quivers with some convulsive ache—
Her hand just touched Love's finger-tip.
215
Her heedless hand! while wandering o'er,
Eager to snatch the ivory prize,
It touched Love's lightly, once—no more!
How can a touch thus paralyse?
How flush her cheek, how fire her eyes?
How fill her soul with sweet distress,
Delight, despair, beyond disguise,
And make her lose—that game at Chess?
Eager to snatch the ivory prize,
It touched Love's lightly, once—no more!
How can a touch thus paralyse?
How flush her cheek, how fire her eyes?
How fill her soul with sweet distress,
Delight, despair, beyond disguise,
And make her lose—that game at Chess?
His eyes had been on hers for hours,
Yet knew she not that Love had gazed;
His breath had warmed her cheek's rich flowers,
And still these thoughts were all unraised.
Now sits she like a thing amazed;
Her chance at every move grows less;
She plays at random—one so crazed
Ne'er lost or gained a game at Chess.
Yet knew she not that Love had gazed;
His breath had warmed her cheek's rich flowers,
And still these thoughts were all unraised.
Now sits she like a thing amazed;
Her chance at every move grows less;
She plays at random—one so crazed
Ne'er lost or gained a game at Chess.
Thoughts of the player now crowd above
Thoughts of the game, that else would press;
She only feels she plays with Love,
She does not know she plays at Chess.
Her dog might spring with mild caress,
Mother or sister tilt the board,
And she know no emotion less,
Or more, of all her heart must hoard!
Thoughts of the game, that else would press;
She only feels she plays with Love,
She does not know she plays at Chess.
Her dog might spring with mild caress,
Mother or sister tilt the board,
And she know no emotion less,
Or more, of all her heart must hoard!
King, Queen, that heart hath quite forgot;
No Knight hath sway there, but a swain;
No Castle seeks she, but a cot;
No Bishop, but a curate plain.
Such is Love's fine electric chain;
One touch has done it! Need he sue?
No; ere he'd time to touch again,
He'd won the game—and Lady too!
No Knight hath sway there, but a swain;
No Castle seeks she, but a cot;
No Bishop, but a curate plain.
216
One touch has done it! Need he sue?
No; ere he'd time to touch again,
He'd won the game—and Lady too!
1841.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |