The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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FIRST AND LAST LOVE. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
FIRST AND LAST LOVE.
A convent's ancient walls were nigh,
Amid the summer woods;
A murmuring stream, an evening sky,
A song of birds and solitudes,
Delighted ear and eye.
Amid the summer woods;
A murmuring stream, an evening sky,
A song of birds and solitudes,
Delighted ear and eye.
Under a spreading oak-tree's shade,
All drest in snowy white,
There I beheld my blooming maid,
And like an angel she was bright,
And like a saint array'd.
All drest in snowy white,
There I beheld my blooming maid,
And like an angel she was bright,
And like a saint array'd.
A book was in that maiden's hand—
A harp was hanging on the tree;
She read aloud in accents bland,
She woke the chords to minstrelsy,
“That lady of the land.”
A harp was hanging on the tree;
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She woke the chords to minstrelsy,
“That lady of the land.”
Dark was her hair, and dark her eye,
Yet white as snow her brow;
And her lovely bosom beat full high,
As she spake in accents sweet and low,
And gazed upon the sky.
Yet white as snow her brow;
And her lovely bosom beat full high,
As she spake in accents sweet and low,
And gazed upon the sky.
Was she a damsel of the wood?
Was she a Naïad, Sylph, or Queen?
For many a silent solitude,
And many a fair maid I have seen,
But none so bright and good!
Was she a Naïad, Sylph, or Queen?
For many a silent solitude,
And many a fair maid I have seen,
But none so bright and good!
Was she some visionary maid?
Some lovely shape of morning dream?
A form in beauty all array'd,
That casts on earth a heavenly gleam,
A glory on the shade?
Some lovely shape of morning dream?
A form in beauty all array'd,
That casts on earth a heavenly gleam,
A glory on the shade?
Or, came she from the central light,
Where holy angels ever rest?
For surely never thing so bright
Save angels, shone on man's unrest
To dazzle human sight.
Where holy angels ever rest?
For surely never thing so bright
Save angels, shone on man's unrest
To dazzle human sight.
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The convent bell, the streamlet's move,
The birds that sang in air;
Those trees, that maiden in the grove,
(So beautiful, and very fair!)
Attuned my soul to love.
The birds that sang in air;
Those trees, that maiden in the grove,
(So beautiful, and very fair!)
Attuned my soul to love.
And, oh, when in her full surprise,
To see me gazing on her face;
She lifted up her dazzling eyes—
She seemed a thing of perfect grace,
An angel from the skies.
To see me gazing on her face;
She lifted up her dazzling eyes—
She seemed a thing of perfect grace,
An angel from the skies.
My bosom heaved, my heart beat high,
Mine eyes were dim with weight of joy—
Upon my knees myself I cast—
I loved—I loved without alloy—
She was my first—my last!
Mine eyes were dim with weight of joy—
Upon my knees myself I cast—
I loved—I loved without alloy—
She was my first—my last!
And oft beneath that ancient tree,
In summer when the woods were green—
And oft when all the heavens were free,
And moon, and stars illumed the scene,
I met that lovely she.
In summer when the woods were green—
And oft when all the heavens were free,
And moon, and stars illumed the scene,
I met that lovely she.
No more—she in the grave doth sleep!
Nor love, nor truth might bind her here—
Around her bier the night-winds sweep—
Her spirit treads a loftier sphere—
And I am left to weep!
Nor love, nor truth might bind her here—
Around her bier the night-winds sweep—
Her spirit treads a loftier sphere—
And I am left to weep!
| The bard, and minor poems | |