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ELGIVA. A.D. 955.
Oh, Love! what is it in this world of ours
Which makes it fatal to be lov'd? Ah, why
With Cypress branches hast thou wreath'd thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers,
And place them on the breast, but place to die—
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish,
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
Don Juan. Canto 14.
Which makes it fatal to be lov'd? Ah, why
With Cypress branches hast thou wreath'd thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?
As those who doat on odours pluck the flowers,
And place them on the breast, but place to die—
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish,
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
Don Juan. Canto 14.
Ah me, for ought that ever I could read—
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never does run smooth.
Midsummer Night's Dream.
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never does run smooth.
Midsummer Night's Dream.
Blest be thine earthly dwelling place, O, Love!
Within sweet woman's heart be still thy home,
When, wandering lonely in the quiet grove,
The evening sunlight chequering the green gloom,
The gay birds singing where her footsteps roam,
She lays her blushing cheek on lover's breast!
O, woman, thine is magic to illume
This dreary round, and make us truly blest—
Thine is the perfect love, where we may sweetly rest.
Within sweet woman's heart be still thy home,
When, wandering lonely in the quiet grove,
The evening sunlight chequering the green gloom,
The gay birds singing where her footsteps roam,
She lays her blushing cheek on lover's breast!
O, woman, thine is magic to illume
This dreary round, and make us truly blest—
Thine is the perfect love, where we may sweetly rest.
O, Love, what wond'rous spell and power is thine,
To make the waves that they shall anger not!—
To make the hymnings of the storms divine!
Thou hast a way to every pleasant spot;
To teach pure passions, and exalted thought!
To link, in dearest union, every star!—
Guided by thee, the moon through heaven is brought:
Through thy blest influence sounds the spheric jar,
And visions of the night that gather from afar.
To make the waves that they shall anger not!—
To make the hymnings of the storms divine!
Thou hast a way to every pleasant spot;
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To link, in dearest union, every star!—
Guided by thee, the moon through heaven is brought:
Through thy blest influence sounds the spheric jar,
And visions of the night that gather from afar.
To soothe us when the storm-winds rack the brain—
To drive all melancholy shapes away,
And lift us to that ancient pride again,
When boyhood 'mong the woods held holiday:
To sing all woes asleep—to spread the ray
Of hope and fond delight—to look with eyes
Of solace, when we languish and decay—
To murmur with low voice, and sweet surprise,
And bear the rapturous soul to thy empurpled skies.
To drive all melancholy shapes away,
And lift us to that ancient pride again,
When boyhood 'mong the woods held holiday:
To sing all woes asleep—to spread the ray
Of hope and fond delight—to look with eyes
Of solace, when we languish and decay—
To murmur with low voice, and sweet surprise,
And bear the rapturous soul to thy empurpled skies.
O vain aspiring Petrarch, love is mine—
The love that Rousseau at sweet Claren's spake!
Th' imperial soul that Tasso made divine—
The dream that Byron's lofty spirit brake:
Yea, Laura, clad in green, made, not such ache
In Petrarch's breast, nor Heloise did cling
More fondly—nor did Leonora take
Such root—nor her whom Byron lov'd to sing,
As Margaret to me—celestial, blessed thing.
The love that Rousseau at sweet Claren's spake!
Th' imperial soul that Tasso made divine—
The dream that Byron's lofty spirit brake:
Yea, Laura, clad in green, made, not such ache
In Petrarch's breast, nor Heloise did cling
More fondly—nor did Leonora take
Such root—nor her whom Byron lov'd to sing,
As Margaret to me—celestial, blessed thing.
Hear me, oh, hear me, from this mountain side,
Far o'er the waters let my voice be heard:
Thou hast subdued my spirit's soaring pride,
And made me thine:—my heart, by mandates stirr'd
From thee, bows reverent to hear thy word!
Most matchless creature—beautiful and good;
Thine eye, the fawns—thy voice, the singing bird—
Fair as Diana in the enchanted wood—
High, stately, and serene—the pride of womanhood.
Far o'er the waters let my voice be heard:
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And made me thine:—my heart, by mandates stirr'd
From thee, bows reverent to hear thy word!
Most matchless creature—beautiful and good;
Thine eye, the fawns—thy voice, the singing bird—
Fair as Diana in the enchanted wood—
High, stately, and serene—the pride of womanhood.
Thy beauty haunts me in the silent night;
At noontide I behold thee gliding by;
Night, morning, noon, I view the blessed light
Of thy bright countenance before mine eye.
By grove, stream, river, and old ocean nigh;
By height inspired, and by the mountain side,
Seraphic spirits wander from the sky,
That all like thee before my vision glide,
And teach how vain it is to seek thee for my bride.
At noontide I behold thee gliding by;
Night, morning, noon, I view the blessed light
Of thy bright countenance before mine eye.
By grove, stream, river, and old ocean nigh;
By height inspired, and by the mountain side,
Seraphic spirits wander from the sky,
That all like thee before my vision glide,
And teach how vain it is to seek thee for my bride.
Ah, whither do I wander? They are dead,
The loves I sing; and mine—what do they here!
My Muse for other purpose bar'd her head,
And touch'd her silver harp-strings, hymning clear,
Than o'er my petty griefs to drop the tear!
Sound still the ancient day, my faithfnl lyre,—
Still crop the ancient meadows without fear;
And, if there linger ought of heavenly fire
Amid thy chords, not vainly do my dreams aspire.
The loves I sing; and mine—what do they here!
My Muse for other purpose bar'd her head,
And touch'd her silver harp-strings, hymning clear,
Than o'er my petty griefs to drop the tear!
Sound still the ancient day, my faithfnl lyre,—
Still crop the ancient meadows without fear;
And, if there linger ought of heavenly fire
Amid thy chords, not vainly do my dreams aspire.
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Beauteous Elgiva! I can never bear,
That the loud lyre shall leave thy name unsung—
Thou so exceedingly and very fair,
How dar'd they wound thy name with venom'd tongue,
On whose sweet brow so many virtues hung;
Mar that pure face, pour fire upon that breast,
And tear those tresses where the young Loves sung,
And spoil those beauties that a king had prest:
Oh, whither stay'd that king, when thou wert so opprest?
That the loud lyre shall leave thy name unsung—
Thou so exceedingly and very fair,
How dar'd they wound thy name with venom'd tongue,
On whose sweet brow so many virtues hung;
Mar that pure face, pour fire upon that breast,
And tear those tresses where the young Loves sung,
And spoil those beauties that a king had prest:
Oh, whither stay'd that king, when thou wert so opprest?
Did not the winds shriek to him from thy bower?
Was there no dear bird singing all alone
To bear thy plainings, breath'd in that sad hour?
Oh, whither, whither, had thy lover gone,
To hear not this thy melancholy moan?
Strange—strange, that thy low voice, so musical,
Touch'd not these savage hearts—the dreadful groan
Of death-wrung pain—each sad and piteous call—
Or thine immortal beauty, still exceeding all.
Was there no dear bird singing all alone
To bear thy plainings, breath'd in that sad hour?
Oh, whither, whither, had thy lover gone,
To hear not this thy melancholy moan?
Strange—strange, that thy low voice, so musical,
Touch'd not these savage hearts—the dreadful groan
Of death-wrung pain—each sad and piteous call—
Or thine immortal beauty, still exceeding all.
Thy error was, that thou hadst lov'd so well—
So passionately, with a power that might not die—
That thou didst suffer in thy heart to dwell
This imag'd god, in mad idolatry,
Who came on wings from love's empurpled sky!
O, heart of woman, full of strength divine,
And full of truth, pure feeling, passion high;
How shall I duly raise th' inspired line—
How shall I sing aloud the honours that are thine?
So passionately, with a power that might not die—
That thou didst suffer in thy heart to dwell
This imag'd god, in mad idolatry,
Who came on wings from love's empurpled sky!
O, heart of woman, full of strength divine,
And full of truth, pure feeling, passion high;
How shall I duly raise th' inspired line—
How shall I sing aloud the honours that are thine?
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When woman wak'd, heaven smil'd, and there was joy
Through Paradise, till the green leaves did move;
The forest birds trill'd forth their sweet employ;
And the glad waters sang the hymns of love;—
Yea, seraphs blest her from the heavens above;
The shape celestial mov'd, and, 'neath her feet,
The fairest flowerets sprung; at eve, the dove
Did minister to slumbers soft and sweet,
And angels fann'd her cheeks, to ward the summer heat.
Through Paradise, till the green leaves did move;
The forest birds trill'd forth their sweet employ;
And the glad waters sang the hymns of love;—
Yea, seraphs blest her from the heavens above;
The shape celestial mov'd, and, 'neath her feet,
The fairest flowerets sprung; at eve, the dove
Did minister to slumbers soft and sweet,
And angels fann'd her cheeks, to ward the summer heat.
Eve stole the apple; but she gave us love,
And truth heroic, and a heart of flame;
A fondness that neglect can never move,
And peace domestic, and the household name—
A tear for suffering, and a song for fame.
True, many a broken heart hath died away,
And many a loving spirit sunk to blame:
But go among the tombstones—think, and say,
If all the noblest deeds sleep not with woman's clay.
And truth heroic, and a heart of flame;
A fondness that neglect can never move,
And peace domestic, and the household name—
A tear for suffering, and a song for fame.
True, many a broken heart hath died away,
And many a loving spirit sunk to blame:
But go among the tombstones—think, and say,
If all the noblest deeds sleep not with woman's clay.
Doth danger darken—do wars tempests rage?—
The soldier's widow seeks her husband there.
Do death's pale shadows drop on wither'd age?
The bright-hair'd daughter tends with constant care,
And suffers hardships nought but love will dare.
Love fills the prison-gloom with steady light;
And when grim Death rides on the poison'd air,
Love lifts the heart, and fills the soul with might—
It is the purest star that decks our mortal night.
The soldier's widow seeks her husband there.
Do death's pale shadows drop on wither'd age?
The bright-hair'd daughter tends with constant care,
And suffers hardships nought but love will dare.
Love fills the prison-gloom with steady light;
And when grim Death rides on the poison'd air,
Love lifts the heart, and fills the soul with might—
It is the purest star that decks our mortal night.
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O, horrid sight!—the murderer has been here:
See how in death's dread agonies she lay!—
She, that the stars did view with love most dear—
She, whom the sun did woo the live-long day,
Shaken, convulsed, and writhing in decay—
She that was beautiful, as is the night,
By rude assassins slain, and in the clay—
She, that was like a seraph clad in light,
Torn from her husband's arms, a sad untimely blight.
See how in death's dread agonies she lay!—
She, that the stars did view with love most dear—
She, whom the sun did woo the live-long day,
Shaken, convulsed, and writhing in decay—
She that was beautiful, as is the night,
By rude assassins slain, and in the clay—
She, that was like a seraph clad in light,
Torn from her husband's arms, a sad untimely blight.
Will she awake?—Oh, no!—oh, never more!—
Never again those snow-white eyelids now
Will break in light; that bosom's pulse is o'er—
The sunlight faded on that radiant brow!
Those limbs, that in love's gladness us'd to glow,
Are stiff and cold, and motionless, and hard.
Her flexile fingers bent—her tresses flow
Now lank and dry, their golden clustres marr'd,
And all her beauties shorn upon the grassy sward.
Never again those snow-white eyelids now
Will break in light; that bosom's pulse is o'er—
The sunlight faded on that radiant brow!
Those limbs, that in love's gladness us'd to glow,
Are stiff and cold, and motionless, and hard.
Her flexile fingers bent—her tresses flow
Now lank and dry, their golden clustres marr'd,
And all her beauties shorn upon the grassy sward.
And so they die, and fade away, who love!
Swift was Elgiva's death, and terrible,
To fit her lofty love aims: all others move
With sad, slow pace. Their tongues can scarcely tell
Their pains, although the sorrowing heart-strings swell,
And gradual break. The freshness leaves the face;—
The joy that on the forehead wont to dwell—
The eyes their brightness lose—the winning grace
Of beauty dies away, and every heavenly trace.
Swift was Elgiva's death, and terrible,
To fit her lofty love aims: all others move
With sad, slow pace. Their tongues can scarcely tell
Their pains, although the sorrowing heart-strings swell,
And gradual break. The freshness leaves the face;—
The joy that on the forehead wont to dwell—
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Of beauty dies away, and every heavenly trace.
He, whom they sought is lost, or false, or dead:
What unto them is now the earth or sky?
What care they for the sunlight o'er their head—
The cheerful flowers that 'neath their footsteps lie?
Their bowers re-echo but the groan and sigh;
Forlorn and sad, and worn and desolate!—
When Love's deep seals in woman's bosom die,
Her all is gone—all's o'er, which buoy'd her state—
She bends her mournful head, and sinks resign'd to fate.
What unto them is now the earth or sky?
What care they for the sunlight o'er their head—
The cheerful flowers that 'neath their footsteps lie?
Their bowers re-echo but the groan and sigh;
Forlorn and sad, and worn and desolate!—
When Love's deep seals in woman's bosom die,
Her all is gone—all's o'er, which buoy'd her state—
She bends her mournful head, and sinks resign'd to fate.
Whilst Philomel of Tereus shall complain—
Diana weep her lost Endymion;
Whilst Helen's griefs shall wake the mournful strain,
And lovely Sappho's wild laments be sung;
Whilst Cleopatra's woes shall roll along,
And Eloisa weep her Abelard—
So long shall Love with horrid fears be wrung:
Beauteous is Love, but fierce as spotted pard—
A gorgeous serpent coil'd amid the sunny sward.
Diana weep her lost Endymion;
Whilst Helen's griefs shall wake the mournful strain,
And lovely Sappho's wild laments be sung;
Whilst Cleopatra's woes shall roll along,
And Eloisa weep her Abelard—
So long shall Love with horrid fears be wrung:
Beauteous is Love, but fierce as spotted pard—
A gorgeous serpent coil'd amid the sunny sward.
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