But on my heart the seal is set And lays which only told of love That suited well with my sick mind. LEADES AND CYDIPPE. She sat her in her twilight bower, And O, that myrtle! how green it grew! CYDIPPE had turn'd from her column'd hall, Where, the queen of the feast, she was worshipp'd by all: Where the vases were burning with spices and flowers, And the odorous waters were playing in showers; There is a grief that wastes the heart, Like mildew on a tulip's dyes, When hope, deferr'd but to depart, Loses its smiles, but keeps its sighs: When love's bark, with its anchor gone, Clings to a straw, and still trusts on. O, more than all!-methinks that love Should pray that it might ever be Beside the burning shrine which had Its young heart's fond idolatry. O, absence is the night of love! Lovers are very children then! Fancying ten thousand feverish shapes, Until their light returns again. A look, a word, is then recall'd, And thought upon until it wears, What is, perhaps, a very shade, The tone and aspect of our fears. And this is what was withering now The radiance of CYDIPPE'S brow. She watch'd until her cheek grew pale; The green wave bore no bounding sail: Her sight grew dim; 'mid the blue ain No snowy dove came floating there, The dear scroll hid beneath his wing, With plume and soft eye glistening, To seek again, in leafy dome, The nest of its accustom'd home! Still far away, o'er land and seas, Linger'd the faithless LEADES. She thought on the spring days, when she had been, Lonely and lovely, a maiden queen: war. And the maiden's heart was an easy prize, When valour and faith were her sacrifice. Methinks, might that sweet season last, But ere the marriage-feast was spread, He came not! Then the heart's decay Wasted her silently away : A sweet fount, which the mid-day sun Has all too hotly look'd upon! It is most sad to watch the fall Its summer light and warmth forget; The lip whence red and smile are fled! This was CYDIPPE's fate!-They laid The maiden underneath the shade Of a green cypress, and that hour The tree was wither'd, and stood bare! The spring brought leaves to other trees, But never other leaf grew there! It stood, 'mid others flourishing, A blighted, solitary thing. The summer sun shone on that tree When shot a vessel o'er the seaWhen sprang a warrior from the prowLEADES! by the stately brow. Forgotten toil, forgotten care, All his worn heart has had to bear. That heart is full! He hears the sigh That breathed Farewell!' so tenderly. If even then it was most sweet, What will it be that now they meet? Alas! alas! Hope's fair deceit ! He spurr'd o'er land, has cut the wave, To look but on CYDIPPE's grave. It has blossom'd in beauty, that lone tree, And it was said, at evening's close, One evening I had roam'd beside It was on such a night as this As for some great solemnity. The white-robed choristers were singing; And sang while scattering the sweet store. I turn'd me to a distant aisle Where but a feeble glimmering came (Itself in darkness) of the smile Sent from the tapers' perfumed flame And colour'd as each pictured pane Shed o'er the blaze its crimson stain :While, from the window o'er my head, A dim and sickly gleam was shed From the young moon, enough to show That tomb and tablet lay below. I leant upon one monument, "Twas sacred to unhappy love: On it were carved a blighted pineA broken ring-a wounded dove. And two or three brief words told all Her history who lay beneath : The flowers at morn her bridal flowers,Form'd, e'er the eve, her funeral wreath.' I could but envy her. I thought, How sweet it must be thus to die! Your last looks watch'd-your last sigh caught, As life or heaven were in that sigh! Passing in loveliness and light; Your heart as pure, -your cheek as bright As the spring-rose, whose petals shut By sun unscorch'd, by shower unwet; Leaving behind a memory Shrined in love's fond eternity. But I was waken'd from this dream By a burst of light-a gush of song- Blushing beneath her silver veil. Was prest to hers-I saw no more! My heart grew cold, my brain swam round,- Happiness gone, with hope and love,- Rust gather'd on the silent chords Of my neglected lyre, the breeze Was now its mistress: music brought For me too bitter memories! The ivy darken'd o'er my bower; Around, the weeds choked every flower. I pleased me in this desolateness, As each thing bore my fate's impress. At length I made myself a task- I drew her on a rocky shore :- Placed ever, Love! beside thy shrine; A fit home for the broken heart To weep away life, wrongs, and woes! I had now but one hope:-that when The hand that traced these tints was coldIts pulse but in their passion seenLORENZO might these tints behold, And find my grief; -think-see-feel all I felt, in this memorial! It was one evening, the rose-light Was o'er each green veranda shining; Spring was just breaking, and white buds Were 'mid the darker ivy twining. My hall was fill'd with the perfume Sent from the early orange bloom: The fountain, in the midst, was fraught With rich hues from the sunset caught ;And the first song came from the dove, Nestling in the shrub alcove. But why pause on my happiness? Another step was with mine there Another sigh than mine made sweet With its dear breath the scented air! LORENZO! could it be my hand, That now was trembling in thine own? LORENZO! could it be mine ear That drank the music of thy tone? We sat us by a lattice, where Came in the soothing evening breeze, Rich with the gifts of early flowers, And the soft wind-lute's symphonies. And in the twilight's vesper-hour, Beneath the hanging jasmine-shower, I heard a tale, -as fond, as dear As e'er was pour'd in woman's ear! LORENZO'S HISTORY. I was betroth'd from earliest youth To a fair orphan, who was left Beneath my father's roof and care,- And timid as a peasant girl: A delicate, frail thing, but made For spring sunshine, or summer shade ;A slender flower, unmeet to bear One April shower, so slight, so fair. I loved her as a brother loves His favourite sister: - and when war First call'd me from our long-shared home To bear my father's sword afar, I parted from her,-not as one Whose life and soul are wrung by parting: With death-cold brow and throbbing pulse, And burning tears like lifeblood starting. Lost in war dreams, I scarcely heard The prayer that bore my name above: The "Farewell!" that kiss'd off her tears, Had more of pity than of love! I thought of her not with that deep, Intensest memory love will keep More tenderly than life. To me She was but as a dream of home,One of those calm and pleasant thoughts That o'er the soldier's spirit come; Remembering him, when battle lowrs, Of twilight walks and fireside hours. I came to thy bright FLORENCE when Like what the clear stars speak at night, A curse lay on me. But not now, To see the young IANTHE blighted Too innocent for this damp earth; Reclaim'd again its gentle birth ? Where health dwells by the side of spring; So patient, though she knew each breath Might be her last; her own mild smile Parted her placid lips in death. Her grave is under southern skies; Green turf and flowers o'er it rise. O! nothing but a pale spring wreath Would fade o'er her who lies beneath! I gave her prayers-I gave her tearsI staid awhile beside her grave; Then led by Hope, and led by Love, Again I cut the azure wave. What have I more to say, my life! But just to pray one smile of thine, Telling I have not loved in vainThat thou dost join these hopes of mine? Yes, smile, sweet love! our life will be As radiant as a fairy tale ! O, mockery of happiness Love now was all too late to save. False Love! O what had you to do With one you had led to the grave? A little time I had been glad To mark the paleness on my cheek; To feel how, day by day, my step Was also preying on my frame: I shall not see its twilight close! The dim blush of the twilight hours, My first!-my last! FAREWELL! - FAREWELL! THERE is a lone and stately hall, Its master dwells apart from all. A wanderer through Italia's land, One night a refuge there I found. The lightning flash roll'd o'er the sky, The torrent rain was sweeping round: These won me entrance. He was young, The castle's lord, but pale like age; His brow, as sculpture beautiful, Was wan as Grief's corroded page, He had no words, he had no smiles, No hopes: his sole employ to brood Silently over his sick heart In sorrow and in solitude. I saw the hall where, day by day, He mused his weary life away; It scarcely seem'd a place for wo, But rather like a genie's home. Around were graceful statues ranged, And pictures shone around the dome. But there was one-a loveliest one!One picture brightest of all there! O! never did the painter's dream Shape thing so gloriously fair! It was a face!--the summer day Is not more radiant in its light! Dark flashing eyes, like the deep stars Lighting the azure brow of night; A blush like sunrise o'er the rose; A cloud of raven hair, whose shade Was sweet as evening's, and whose curls Cluster'd beneath a laurel braid. She leant upon a harp:-one hand Wander'd, like snow, amid the chords; The lips were opening with such life, You almost heard the silvery words. She look'd a form of light and life,All soul, all passion, and all fire; A priestess of Apollo's, when The morning beams fall on her lyre; A Sappho, or ere love had turn'd But by the picture's side was placed |