Sandoval [alone]. O Henry! always striv'st thou to be great By thine own act-yet art thou never great The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up As though they were the pillars of a temple, TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN, WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped, Soiled beneath the common tread, Wooed and whispered thee to rise. Gaily from thy mother-stalk Wert thou danced and wafted high— Soon on this unsheltered walk Flung to fade, to rot, and die. TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE THEATRE. MAIDEN, that with sullen brow Sitt'st behind those virgins gay, Soft the glances of the youth, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; Loathing thy polluted lot, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Thou hast known deceit and folly, With a musing melancholy, Inly armed, go, Maiden! go. Mother sage of self-dominion, Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimmed the tender corn, Or the beanfield's odorous blooms. Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, And embathe in heavenly light. LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR OR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, O give me, from this heartless scene released, Or lies the purple evening on the bay For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied, On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, And the gust pelting on the out-house shed Makes the cock shrilly on the rain storm crow, To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Ballad of ship-wrecked sailor floating dead, Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures The things of Nature utter; birds or trees Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. THE KEEPSAKE. THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark, Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose (In vain the darling of successful love) Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!* Has worked (the flowers which most she knew I loved), And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. In the cool morning twilight, early waked Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. There, in that bower where first she owned her love, * One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicht), and I believe, in Denmark and Sweden. |