First gave the full heart's homage: then came Had look'd on Sappho, yet had wept with her.
A shout that rose to heaven; and the hills, The distant valleys, all rang with the name Of the Eolian Sappho-every heart Found in itself some echo to her song. Low notes of love-hopes beautiful and fresh, And some gone by forever-glorious dreams, High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts That dwell upon the absent and the dead, Were breathing in her music and these are Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed, Her colours varying with deep emotion- There is a softer blush than conscious pride Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile Is all a woman's timid tenderness:
Her eye is on a Youth, and other days
Her first love never wholly lost its power, But, like rich incense shed, although no trace Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness Mingled with every feeling, and it gave That soft and melancholy tenderness Which was the magic of her song.... That
Who knelt before her was so like the shape That haunted her spring dreams-the same dark eyes,
Whose light had once been as the light of heaven!-
Others breathed winning flatteries-she turn'd A careless hearing-but when Phaon spoke, Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light Upon her cheek gave a most tender answer... She loved with all the ardour of a heart
And young warm feelings have rush'd on her Which lives but in itself: her life had pass'd Amid the great creations of the mind: With all their former influence, thoughts that Love was to her a vision-it was now slept
Cold, calm as death, have waken'd to new life- Whole years' existence have pass'd in that glance...
She had once loved in very early days: That was a thing gone by: one had call'd forth The music of her soul: he loved her too, But not as she did she was unto him
Heighten'd into devotion So gifted and so passionate as hers Will seek companionship in vain, and find Its feelings solitary Phaon soon Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid; And Sappho knew that genius, riches, fame, May not soothe slighted love.
There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea; "Twas there love's last song echo'd-there She sleeps,
As a young bird, whose early flight he train'd, Whose first wild song were sweet, for he had taught
Whose lyre was crown'd with laurel, and whose
Those songs-but she look'd up to him with all Youth's deep and passionate idolatry: Love was her heart's sole universe-he was
Will be remember'd long as Love or Song Are sacred-the devoted Sappho!
LEONARDI. 'Tis finish'd now: look on my picture, Love!
Her dark hair gather'd round her like a shroud, Yet far more lovely than the sparkling nymphs Dancing around that chariot. Yet how sweet, Though dimm'd with tears, those deep blue eyes, Half turn'd and half averted timidly
ALVINE. O, that sweet ring of graceful figures! From the youth's lightning glance. O tell me
Flings her white arms on high, and gayly strikes One of those legends that I love so well : Her golden cymbals-I can almost deem I hear their beatings; one with glancing feet Follows her music, while her crimson cheek Is flush'd with exercise, till the red grape 'Mid the dark tresses of a sister nymph Is scarcely brighter: there another stands, A darker spirit yet, with joyous brow, And holding a rich goblet: O, that child!
Has not this picture some old history ? LEONARDI. "Tis one of those bright fictions that have made
The name of Greece only another word For love and poetry; with a green earth- Groves of the graceful myrtle-summer skies, Whose stars are mirror'd in ten thousand
With eyes as blue as spring-days, and those curls Winds that move but in perfume and in music,
Throwing their auburn shadow o'er a brow So arch, so playful-have you bodied forth Young Cupid in your colours ? LEONARDI. No-O no,
I could not paint Love as a careless boy,- That passionate Divinity, whose life
Is of such deep and intense feeling! No, I am too true, too earnest, and too happy, To ever image by a changeful child
That which is so unchangeable. But mark How sweet, how pale, the light that I have thrown Over the picture: it is just the time When Dian's dewy kiss lights up the dreams That make Endymion's sleep so beautiful. Look on the calm blue sky, so set with stars: Is it not like to what we both recall? Those azure shadows of a summer night, That veil'd the cautious lutanist who waked Thy slumbers with his song. How more than fair,
How like a spirit of that starry hour, I used to think you, as your timid hand Unbarr'd the casement, and you leant to hear, Your long hair floating loose amid the vines Around your lattice; and how very sweet Your voice, scarce audible, with the soft fear
That mingled in its low and tender tones!
And, more than all, the gift of woman's beauty. What marvel that the earth, the sky, the sea, Were fill'd with all those fine imaginings That love creates, and that the lyre preserves! ALVINE. But for the history of that pale girl Who stands so desolate on the seashore? LEONARDI. She was the daughter of a Cretan king-
A tyrant. Hidden in the dark recess Of a wide labyrinth, a monster dwelt, And every year was human tribute paid By the Athenians. They had bow'd in war; And every spring the flowers of all the city, Young maids in their first beauty-stately youths, Were sacrificed to the fierce King! They died In the unfathomable den of want,
Or served the Minotaur for food. At length There came a royal Youth, who vow'd to slay The monster or to perish --Look, Alvine, That statue is young Theseus.
How like a god he stands, one haughty hand Raised in defiance! I have often look'd Upon the marble, wondering it could give Such truth to life and majesty.
LEONARDI. You will not marvel Ariadne
ALVINE. Nay, now I will not listen to the She gave the secret clue that led him safe
Our memory is so rich in. I have much
For question here. Who is this glorious shape, That, placed on a bright chariot in the midst, Stands radiant in his youth and loveliness?
Around his sunny locks there is a wreath
Of the green vine leaves, and his ivory brow Shines out like marble, when a golden ray
Of summer light is on it, and his step
Scarce seems to touch his pard-drawn car, but
Buoyant upon the air ;-and who is she
By her so heartless lover while she slept. She woke from pleasant dreams-she dreamt of him-
Love's power is felt in slumber-woke, and found Herself deserted on the lonely shore!
On whom his ardent gaze is turn'd? So pale, - The bark of the false Theseus was a speck
Scarce seen upon the waters, less and less, Like hope diminishing, till wholly past. I will not say, for you can fancy weil,
Her desolate feelings as she roam'd the beach, Hurl'd from the highest heaven of happy love! But evening crimson'd the blue sea-a sound Of music and of mirth came on the wind,
Graven by memory; but thy pale cheek, Like a white rose on which the sun hath look'd Too wildly warm, (is not this passion's legend?) The drooping lid whose lash is bright with tears, A lip which has the sweetness of a smile But not its gayety-do not these bear The scorch'd footprints sorrow leaves in passing
And radiant shapes and laughing nymphs danced O'er the clear brow of youth ?-It may but be
And he, the Theban God, look'd on the maid, And look'd and loved, and was beloved again. This is the moment that the picture gives: He has just flung her starry crown on high, And bade it there a long memorial shine How a god loved a mortal. He is springing From out his golden car-another bound Bacchus is by his Ariadne's side!
ALVINE. She loved again! O cold inconstancy! This is not woman's love; her love should be A feeling pure and holy as the flame The vestal virgin kindles, fresh as flowers The spring has but just colour'd, innocent As the young dove, and changeless as the faith The martyr seals in blood. 'Tis beautiful
This picture, but it wakes no sympathy.
An idle thought, but I have dream'd thou wert A captive in thy hopelessness: afar From the sweet home of thy young infancy, Whose image unto thee is as a dream Of fire and slaughter, I can see thee wasting, Sick for thy native air, loathing the light And cheerfulness of men; thyself the last Of all thy house, a stranger and a slave!
Ir is a tale that many songs have told, And old, if tale of love can e'er be old; Yet dear to me this lingering o'er the fate
LEONARDI. Next time, Alvine, my pencil shall Of two so young, so true, so passionate! but give
Existence to the memory of love's truth.
And thou, the idol of my harp, the soul Of poetry, to me my hope, my whole
ALVINE. Do you recall a tale you told me once, Happiness of existence, there will be Of the forsaken Nymph that Paris left
For new love and ambition; at his death
He bade them bear him to Enone's arms? She never had forgotten him: her heart, Which beat so faithfully, became his pillow; She closed his eyes, and pardon'd him and died! LEONARDI. Love, yes; I'll paint their meet- ing: the wan youth,
Dying, but yet so happy in forgiveness; The sweet Enone, with her gentle tears, Fill'd with meek tenderness, her pensive brow Arching so gracefully, with deep blue eyes Half hidden by the shadowy lash-a look So patient, yet so fraught with tenderest feeling, Like to an idol placed upon the shrine Of faith, for all to worship. She shall be, Saving thine own inimitable smile, In all like thee, Alvine!
I KNOW not of thy history, thou sad Yet beautiful faced Girl: -the chestnut braid Bound darkly round thy forehead, the blue veins Wandering in azure light, the ivory chin Dimpled so archly, have no characters
Some gentlest tones that I have caught from thee.
Will not each heart-pulse vibrate, as I tell Of faith even unto death unchangeable! Leander and his Hero! they should be, When youthful lovers talk of constancy, Invoked. O, for one breath of softest song, Such as on summer evenings floats along, To murmur low their history! every word That whispers of them, should be like those heard At moonlight casements, when the awaken'd maid Sighs her soft answer to the serenade.
She stood beside the altar, like the queen, The brighteyed queen that she was worshipping. Her hair was bound with roses, which did fling A perfume round, for she that morn had been To gather roses, that were clustering now Amid the shadowy curls upon her brow. One of the loveliest daughters of that land, Divinest Greece! that taught the painter's hand
To give eternity to loveliness ; One of those darkeyed maids, to whom belong The glory and the beauty of each song
Thy poets breathed, for it was theirs to bless With life the pencil and the lyra's dreams, Giving reality to vision'd gleams Of bright divinities. Amid the crowd That in the presence of young Hero bow'd, Was one who knelt with fond idolatry, As if in homage to some deity,
Gazing upon her as each gaze he took The measure of its happiness is full Must be the very last that intense look When all round shares its own enchanted lull. That none but lovers give, when they would trace There were sweet birds to count the hours, and On their heart's tablets some adored face. The radiant priestess from the temple past: Yet there Leander stayed, to catch the last Wave of her fragrant hair, the last low fall Of her white feet, so light and musical;
And then he wander'd silent to a grove, To feed upon the full heart's ecstasy. The moon was sailing o'er the deep blue sky,
Each moment shedding fuller light above, As the pale crimson from the west departs. Ah, this is just the hour for passionate hearts To linger over dreams of happiness, All of young love's delicious loveliness!
The cypress waved upon the evening air Like the long tresses of a beauty's hair; And close beside was laurel; and the pale Snow blossoms of the myrtle tree, so frail And delicate, like woman; 'mid the shade Rose the white pillars of the colonnade Around the marble temple, where the Queen Of Love was worshipp'd, and there was seen, Where the grove ended, the so glorious sea Now in its azure sleep's tranquillity. He saw a white veil wave, his heart beat high: He heard a voice, and then a low toned sigh. Gently he stole amid the shading trees- It is his love-his Hero that he sees! Her hand lay motionless upon the lute, Which thrill'd beneath the touch, her lip was mute,
Only her eyes were speaking; dew and light There blended like the hyacinth, when night Has wept upon its bosom; she did seem As consciousness were lost in some sweet dream- That dream was love! Blushes were on her cheek,
And what, save love, do blushes ever speak? Her lips were parted, as one moment more, And then the heart would yield its hidden store. "Twas so at length her thought found utterance: Light, feeling, flash'd from her awaken'd glance- She paused-then gazed on one pale star above, Pour'd to her lute the burning words of love! Leander heard his name! How more than sweet That moment, as he knelt at Hero's feet, Breathing his passion in each thrilling word, Only by lovers said, by lovers heard.
That night they parted-but they met again; The blue sea roll'd between them-but in vain! Leander had no fear-he cleft the wave- What is the peril fond hearts will not brave! Delicious were their moonlight wanderings, Delicious were the kind and gentle things Each to the other breathed; a starry sky, Music and flowers, this is love's luxury:
Like those which on a blushing cheek reposes; Violets fresh as violets could be; Stars overhead, with each a history Of love told by its light; and waving trees, And perfumed breathings upon every breeze: 'These were beside them when they met. And day,
Though each was from the other far away, Had still its pleasant memories; they might Think what they had forgotten the last night, And make the tender thing they had to say More warm and welcome from its short delay. And then their love was secret, - O, it is Most exquisite to have a fount of bliss Sacred to us alone, no other eye Conscious of our enchanted mystery, Ourselves the sole possessors of a spell Giving us happiness unutterable! I would compare this secresy and shade To that fair island, whither Love convey'd His Psyche, where she lived remote from all : Life one long, lone, and lovely festival;
But when the charm, concealment's charm, was known,
O then good-by to love, for love was flown! Love's wings are all too delicate to bear The open gaze, the common sun and air.
There have been roses round my lute; but
I must forsake them for the cypress bough. Now is my tale of tears :-One night the sky, As if with passion darken'd angrily,
And gusts of wind swept o'er the troubled main Like hasty threats, and then were calm again: That night young Hero by her beacon kept Her silent watch, and blamed the night, and wept, And scarcely dared to look upon the sky: Yet lulling still her fond anxiety- With, "Surely in such a storm he cannot brave, If but for my sake only, wind and wave," At length Aurora led young Day and blush'd, In her sweet presence sea and sky were hush'd; What is there beauty cannot charm? her power Is felt alike, in storm and sunshine hour, And light and soft the breeze which waved the
Of Hero, as she wander'd, lone and pale, Her heart sick with its terror, and her eye Roving in tearful, dim uncertainty. Not long uncertain, she mark'd something glide, Shadowy and indistinct, upon the tide- On rush'd she in that desperate energy, Which only has to know, and, knowing, die- It was Leander!
O, WHY should Woman ever love, Throwing her chance away, Her little chance of summer shine, Upon a rainbow ray ?
Look back on each old history, Each fresh remember'd tale; They'll tell how often love has made The cheek of woman pale; -
Her unrequited love, a flower Dying for air and light; Her love betray'd, another flower Withering before a blight.
Look down within the silent grave; How much of breath and bloom Have wasted, passion's sacrifice Offer'd to the lone tomb.
Look on her hour of solitude, How many bitter cares
Belie the smile with which the lip Would sun the wound it bears.
Mark this sweet face! O, never blush Has pass'd o'er one more fair,
And never o'er a brighter brow Has wander'd raven hair.
And mark how carelessly those wreaths Of curl are flung behind,
And mark how pensively the brow
Leans on the hand reclined.
"Tis she of Crete! -another proof Of woman's weary lot;
Their April doom of sun and shower,To love, then be forgot.
Heart-sickness, feelings tortured, torn,
A sky of storm above,
A path of thorns, these are love's gifts,Ah, why must woman love!
A NEREID FLOATING ON A SHELL.
THY dwelling is the coral cave, Thy element the blue sea wave, Thy music the wild billows dashing, Thy light the diamond's crystal flashing; I'd leave this earth to dwell with thee, Brighthair'd daughter of the sea!
It was an hour of lone starlight When first my eye caught thy sweet sight; Thy white feet press'd a silver shell, Love's own enchanted coracle; Thy fair arms waved like the white foam The seas dash from their billowy home; And far behind, thy golden hair, A bright sail, floated on the air; And on thy lips there was a song, As music wafted thee along. They say, sweet daughter of the sea, Thy look and song are treachery; Thy smile is but the honey'd bait To lure thy lover to his fate. I know not, and I care still less; It is enough of happiness To be deceived. O, never yet Could love doubt-no, one doubt would set His fetter'd pinions free from all His false but most delicious thrall. Love cannot live and doubt; and I, Vow'd slave to my bright deity, Have but one prayer: Come joy, come ill, If you deceive, deceive me still; Better the heart in faith should die Than break beneath love's perjury.
Gleamings of poetry, if I may give That name of beauty, passion, and of grace, To the wild thoughts that in a starlit hour, In a pale twilight, or a rosebud morn, Glance o'er my spirit-thoughts that are like light, Or love, or hope, in their effects.
A SMALL clear fountain, with green willow trees Girdling it round, there is one single spot Where you may sit and rest, its only bank; Elsewhere the willows grew so thick together: And it were like a sin to crush that bed Of pale and delicate narcissus flowers, Bending so languidly, as still they found In the pure wave a love and destiny; But here the moss is soft, and when the wind Has been felt even through the forest screen,— For round, like guardians to the willows, stand Oaks large and old, tall firs, dark beach, and elms Rich with the yellow wealth that April brings,A shower of rose leaves makes it like a bed Whereon a nymph might sleep, when, with her
Shining like snow amid her raven hair,
She dreamt of the sweet song wherewith the
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