XXV. He could have loved her-fervently and well; But still the cold world with its false allure, Bound his free liking in an icy spell, And made its whole foundation insecure. XXVI. But not like meaner souls, would he, to prove They were withdrawn if but her eye met his, As asking pardon that his look had pain'd. XXVIII. And she was nothing unto him,-nor he Aught unto her; but each of each did dream In the still hours of thought, when we are free To quit the real world for things which seem. XXIX. When in his heart love's folded wings would stir, And bid his youth choose out a fitting mate, Against his will his thoughts roam'd back to her, And all around seem'd blank and desolate. XXX. When, in his worldly haunts, a smother'd sigh XXXI. And to the beauty by his side he froze, As though she were not fair, nor he so young, And turn'd on her such looks of cold repose As check'd the trembling accents of her tongue, XXXII. And bid her heart's dim passion seek to hide XXXIII. So in his heart she dwelt,-as one may dwell Upon the verge of a forbidden ground; And oft he struggled hard to break the spell And banish her, but vain the effort found; XXXIV. For still along the winding way which led Through the long night, when those we love seem near, However cold, however far away, Borne on the wings of floating dreams, which cheer And gives us strength to meet the struggling day. XXXVI. And when in twilight hours she roved apart, Feeding her love-sick soul with visions fair, The shadow of his eyes was on her heart, And the smooth masses of his shining hair XXXVII. Rose in the glory of the evening light, And, where she wander'd, glided evermore, A star which beam'd upon her world's lone night Where nothing glad had ever shone before. XXXVIII. But vague and girlish was that love, no hope, THE CREOLE GIRL. 277 Loving to be alone, her thirst to fill XV. From the sweet fountains where the dreamers And no one said to him-" Why mournest thou?" drink. V. One eve, beneath the acacia's waving bough, Wrapt in these lonely thoughts she sate and read; Her dark hair parted from her sunny brow, Her graceful arm beneath her languid head; VI.. And droopingly and sad she hung above The open page, whercon her eyes were bent, With looks of fond regret and pining love; Nor heard my step, so deep was she intent. VII. And when she me perceived, she did not start, Then glanced again upon the printed line. VIII. Because she was the unknown child of shame (Albeit her mother better kept the vow Of faithful love, than some who keep their fame.) "What readest thou?" I ask'd. With fervent Thee the world wrings not with some vain pre (Which, bending down, I saw was Coralie,") Then gave me one imploring piteous look, tence, Nor chills thy tears, nor mocks at thy distress. From man's injustice, from the cold award XX. And tears, too long restrain'd, gush'd fast and There shall thy soul its chains of slavery burst, free. X. It was a tale of one, whose fate had been Too like her own to make that weeping strange; Like her, transplanted from a sunnier scene; Like her, all dull'd and blighted by the change. XI. No further word was breathed between us two;No confidence was made to keep or break ;But since that day, which pierced my soul quite through, My hand the dying girl would faintly take, XII. And murmur, as its grasp (ah! piteous end!) XIII. She died!-The pulse of that untrammell'd heart Fainted to stillness. Those most glorious eyes Closed on the world where she had dwelt apart, And her cold bosom heaved no further sighs. XIV. She died and no one mourn'd, except her sire, Who for a while look'd out with eyes more dim; Lone was her place beside his household fire, Vanish'd the face that ever smiled on him. There, meekly standing before God's high throne, Thou'lt find the judgments of our earth reversed, And answer for no errors but thine own. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I CANNOT LOVE THEE! I CANNOT love thee, tho' thy soul And thy forehead, broad and fair; Weighs my heart when thou art near; Like a chainéd thing, caress'd From the green earth's plenteous bosom ; In those narrow close confines, Can it be, no instinct dwells Can the changeful wavering eye, Seems to me, that I should guess By what a world of bitterness, By what a gulf of hopeless care, Our two hearts divided were: Seems to me that I should know All the dread that lurk'd below, By the want of answer found In the voice's trembling sound; By the unresponsive gaze; By the smile which vainly plays, In whose cold imperfect birth Glows no fondness, lives no mirth; By the sigh, whose different tone Hath no echo of thine own; By the hand's cold clasp, which still Held as not of its free will, Shrinks, as it for freedom yearn'd;That my love was unreturn'd. When thy tongue (ah! woe is me!) Whispers love-vows tenderly, Mine is shaping, all unheard, Fragments of some withering word, Which, by its complete farewell, Shall divide us like a spell! And my heart beats loud and fast, Wishing that confession past; And the tide of anguish rises, Till its strength my soul surprises, And the reckless words, unspoken, Nearly have the silence broken, With a gush like some wild river,— "Oh! depart, depart for ever!" But my faltering courage fails, And my drooping spirit quails; So sweet-earnest looks thy smile Ful! of tenderness the while, And with such strange pow'r are gifted So my faint heart dies away, For I weep when thou art gone! Yes, I weep, but then my soul, Free to ponder o'er the whole, Free from fears which check'd its thought, But, ere yet that page be sent, Once I view the written words Of thy fond hand, gladly taking Powerless, then, my hand reposes Rather should my conscience move Me to think of this vain love, Which my life of peace beguiles, As a tax on foolish smiles, Which-like light not meant for one Who, wandering in the dark alone, Hath yet been tempted by its ray To turn aside and lose his wayBinds me, by their careless sin To take the misled wanderer in. And I praise thee, as I go, Wandering, weary, full of woe, To my own unwilling heart; Cheating it to take thy part By rehearsing each rare merit Which thy nature doth inherit. To myself their list I give, Most prosaic, positive :How thy heart is good and true, And thy face most fair to view; How the powers of thy mind Flatterers in the wisest find, And the talents God hath given Seem as held in trust for Heaven; Labouring on for noble ends,Steady to thy boyhood's friends,Slow to give, or take, offence,Full of earnest eloquence, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Hopeful, eager, gay of cheer,- But in vain the tale is told; Still my heart lies dead and cold, From the thought that thus compels, Save in unconstrained choice. Therefore, when thine eyes shall read When my heart grew coward-weak,- THE PICTURE OF SAPPHO I. THOU! whose impassion'd face Theme of the sculptor's art and poet's story- Warming the heart with its imagined glory! II. Yet, was it history's truth, That tale of wasted youth, Of endless grief, and love forsaken pining? What wert thou, thou whose woe The old traditions show 279 With fame's cold light around thee vainly shining? III. Didst thou indeed sit there In languid lone despair Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying- Watching the lingering rays In the far west, where summer-day was dying- IV. While with low rustling wings, Among the quivering strings The murmuring breeze faint melody was making. As though it wooed thy hand To strike with new command, Or mourn'd with thee because thy heart was breaking? V. Didst thou, as day by day Roll'd heavily away, And left thee anxious, nerveless, and dejected, Wandering thro' bowers beloved Roving where he had roved Yearn for his presence, as for one expected? VI. Didst thou, with fond wild eyes Fix'd on the starry skies, Wait feverishly for each new day to wakenTrusting some glorious morn Might witness his return, Unwilling to believe thyself forsaken? VII. And when conviction came, Didst thou, O saddest of earth's grieving daugh ters! From the Leucadian steep Dash, with a desperate leap, And hide thyself within the whelming waters? VIII. Yea, in their hollow breast Thy heart at length found rest! The ever-moving waves above thee closing: IX. Such is the tale they tell! Vain was thy beauty's spell Vain all the praise thy song could still inspireThough many a happy band Rung with less skilful hand The borrowed love-note of thy echoing lyre. X. FAME, to thy breaking heart No comfort could impart, In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing One grief, and one alone, Could bow thy bright head downThou wert a WOMAN, and wert left despairing! |