The young and the lovely are
gathered:
Who shall talk of our wearisome life,
And dwell upon weeds and on
weeping—
The struggle, the sorrow, the strife?
The hours of our being are
coloured,
And many are coloured with rose;
Though on some be a sign and a
shadow,
I list not to speak now of those.
Through the crimson blind steals
forth the splendour
Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay
Has swelled with her breath till
their lustre,
If more soft, is as bright as of day.
Beneath the verandah are flowers—
Camellias like ivory wrought
With the grace of a young Grecian
sculptor,
Who traced what some Oread brought;
And roses—the prodigal summer
Has lavished upon them its bloom,—
O never the East with its spices
Made altar so rich of perfume!
The bright crowd is mingling
together—
How gay is the music they bring!
The delicate laugh and the
whisper—
The steps that re-echo the string.
The harp to the flute is
replying—
'Tis the song of a far-distant land;
But never, in vineyard or valley,
Assembled a lovelier band.
Come thou, with thy glad golden
ringlets,
Like rain which is lit by the sun—
With eyes, the bright spirit's
bright mirrors—
Whose cheek and the rose-bud are one.
While he of the lute and the
laurel
For thee has forgotten the throng,
And builds on thy fairy-like
beauty
A future of sigh and of song.
Ay, listen, but as unto music
The wild wind is bearing away,
As sweet as the sea-shells at
evening,
But far too unearthly to stay.
For the love-dream that haunts
the young poet
Is coloured too much by his mind—
A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.
For he lives but in beauty—his
visions
Inspire with their passion his strain;
And the spirit so quick at
impression
Was never meant long to retain.
But another is passing before me—
Oh, pause, let me gaze on thy brow;
I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice
lovely,
But never so lovely as now.
Thou art changed since those
earlier numbers,
When thou wert a vision to me;
And copies from some fairest
picture,
My heroines were painted from thee.
Thy cheek with its sunset of
crimson,
Like a rose crushed on ivory, bears
Its sunny smile still, but a
softness
Is now in the radiance it wears.
A halo of love is around thee,
It is as if nature had willed
That thy happiness should be
affection,
And thy destiny now is fulfilled.
Be thou happy—a thousand times
happy!
If the gentle, the good, and the kind,
Could make of themselves an
existence,
How blessed a fate thou wouldst find!
For never their elements blended
In a nature more lovely than thine;
And thy beauty is but a
reflection
Of what thine own heart is the shrine.
Farewell! I shall make thee no
longer
My sweet summer queen of romance;
No more will my princes pay
homage,
My knights for thy smile break the lance.
Confess they were exquisite
lovers,
The fictions that knelt at thy throne;
But the graceful, the gallant,
the noble,
What fancy could equal thine own?
Farewell! and henceforth I
enshrine thee
Mid the earlier dreams that have past
O'er my lute, like the fairies by
moonlight,
To leave it more lonely at last.
Alas! it is sad to remember
The once gentle music now mute;
For many a chord hath time stolen
Alike from my heart and my lute.
Ah, most of their memories are
shadows,
Flung down from the brightness of yore;
There are feelings for ever
departed,
And hopes that are treasures no more.
But thou livest only in music—
A broken but beautiful spell;
'Tis as well, for my song has
grown colder—
Sweet lady, for ever farewell!
'Tis midnight—but think not of
slumber,
There are dreams enow floating around;
But ah, our soft dreams while
thus waking
Are aye the most dangerous found.
Like the note of a lute was that
whisper—
Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes;
Love only could breathe such a
murmur,
And what will Love bring thee but sighs?
And thou, thou pale dreamer,
whose forehead
Is flushed with the circle's light praise,
O let it not dwell on thy spirit—
How vain are the hopes it will raise!
The praise of the crowd and the
careless,
Just
caught by a chance and a name,
O take it as pleasant and
passing,
But never mistake it for fame!
Look for fame from the toil of
thy midnight,
When thy rapt spirit eagle-like springs;
But for the glad, the gay, and
the social,
Take only the butterfly's wings.
The flowers around us are fading—
Meet comrades for revels are they;
And the lamps overhead are
decaying—
How cold seems the coming of day!
There, fling off the wreath and
the sandal,
And bid the dark curtains round close;
For your cheek from the morning's
tired slumber
Must win its sweet exile the rose.
What, weary and saddened! this
evening
Is an earnest what all pleasures seem—
A few eager hours' enjoyment—
A toil, a regret, and a dream!
L. E. L.
