LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

With happy glance the glorious sky.

       She loved such scenes, and as she gazed,

       Her face evinced her spirit's mood;

       Beauty or grandeur ever raised

       In her, a deep-felt gratitude.

       But of all lovely things, she loved

       A cloudless moon, on summer night;

       ​Full oft have I impatience proved

       To see how long, her still delight

       Would find a theme in reverie.

       Out on the lawn, or where the trees

       Let in the lustre fitfully,

       As their boughs parted momently,

       To the soft, languid, summer breeze.

       Alas! that she should e'er have flung

       Those pure, though lonely joys away—

       Deceived by false and guileful tongue,

       She gave her hand, then suffered wrong;

       Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young,

       And died of grief by slow decay.

       Open that casket—look how bright

       Those jewels flash upon the sight;

       The brilliants have not lost a ray

       Of lustre, since her wedding day.

       But see—upon that pearly chain—

       How dim lies time's discolouring stain!

       I've seen that by her daughter worn:

       For, e'er she died, a child was born;

       A child that ne'er its mother knew,

       That lone, and almost friendless grew;

       For, ever, when its step drew nigh,

       Averted was the father's eye;

       And then, a life impure and wild

       Made him a stranger to his child;

       Absorbed in vice, he little cared

       On what she did, or how she fared.

       ​The love withheld, she never sought,

       She grew uncherished—learnt untaught;

       To her the inward life of thought

      ⁠Full soon was open laid.

       I know not if her friendlessness

       Did sometimes on her spirit press,

      ⁠But plaint she never made.

       The book-shelves were her darling treasure,

       She rarely seemed the time to measure

      ⁠While she could read alone.

       And she too loved the twilight wood,

       And often, in her mother's mood,

       Away to yonder hill would hie,

       Like her, to watch the setting sun,

       Or see the stars born, one by one,

      ⁠Out of the darkening sky.

       Nor would she leave that hill till night

       Trembled from pole to pole with light;

       Even then, upon her homeward way,

       Long—long her wandering steps delayed

       To quit the sombre forest shade,

       Through which her eerie pathway lay.

       You ask if she had beauty's grace?

       I know not—but a nobler face

      ⁠My eyes have seldom seen;

       A keen and fine intelligence,

       And, better still, the truest sense

      ⁠Were in her speaking mien.

       But bloom or lustre was there none,

       Only at moments, fitful shone

       ​⁠An ardour in her eye,

       That kindled on her cheek a flush,

       Warm as a red sky's passing blush

      ⁠And quick with energy.

       Her speech, too, was not common speech,

       No wish to shine, or aim to teach,

      ⁠Was in her words displayed:

       She still began with quiet sense,

       But oft the force of eloquence

      ⁠Came to her lips in aid;

       Language and voice unconscious changed,

       And thoughts, in other words arranged,

      ⁠Her fervid soul transfused

       Into the hearts of those who heard,

       And transient strength and ardour stirred,

      ⁠In minds to strength unused.

       Yet in gay crowd or festal glare,

       Grave and retiring was her air;

       'Twas seldom, save with me alone,

       That fire of feeling freely shone;

       She loved not awe's nor wonder's gaze,

       Nor even exaggerated praise,

       Nor even notice, if too keen

       The curious gazer searched her mien.

       Nature's own green expanse revealed

       The world, the pleasures, she could prize;

       On free hill-side, in sunny field,

       In quiet spots by woods concealed,

       Grew wild and fresh her chosen joys,

       Yet Nature's feelings deeply lay

       ​In that endowed and youthful frame;

       Shrined in her heart and hid from day,

       They burned unseen with silent flame;

       In youth's first search for mental light,

       She lived but to reflect and learn,

       But soon her mind's maturer might

       For stronger task did pant and yearn;

       And stronger task did fate assign,

       Task that a giant's strength might strain;

       To suffer long and ne'er repine,

       Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain.

       Pale with the secret war of feeling,

       Sustained with courage, mute, yet high;

       The wounds at which she bled, revealing

       Only by altered cheek and eye;

       She bore in silence—but when passion

       Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam,

       The storm at last brought desolation,

       And drove her exiled from her home.

       And silent still, she straight assembled

       The wrecks of strength her soul retained;

       For though the wasted body trembled,

       The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained.

       She crossed the sea—now lone she wanders

       By Seine's, or Rhine's, or Arno's flow;

       ​Fain would I know if distance renders

       Relief or comfort to her woe.

       Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever,

       These eyes shall read in hers again,

       That light of love which faded never,

      

Скачать книгу