Look down on the scene below, AUTHOR TO COMPOSER. DUAD. Through thee the rhymer hears his lay, Heart echoing the sense. When both, by fate's dark doom decreed, Pure maiden's eyes my words may read, Dear lips thy notes may sing. And so our little lyrics live Enshrined for many a day; That some a thought to us may give When we have passed away. LA MARCHESANA. Una Pittúra. Chesnut hair of rich luxuriance rolled in many a massy fold O'er her forehead crinkled wavelets rob the sunshine of its gold. Seated in the oriel window, where the summer glory streams O'er her purple silk-clad shoulders, and with varied radiance beams; Shines amid the mazy threadings that reflect the am bient light, Gleaming with a golden glory, crowning with that radiance bright. And the chesnut's pink-stained blossoms with her loveliness compare, Sweeter than the lily's paleness, cream of beauty full and fair. From the garden she has entered like a newly-gathered flower, Bringing all the perfume freshness of the morning's brightest hour: On a seat her hat is lying, just now it was cast aside, And her jeweled hand is toying with a humming bird's gay pride. Now she looks up and those clear eyes, speaking with a modest grace, Bid you welcome to the friendship of a truly handsome face, Bid you with retiring glances, be observant of your place: Veil your gaze with due obeisance she is of a royal race. From Athene the glaucopis came those eyes of cæsian ray Constant in their hyaline changes, "love me not" they always say. JESSAMINE. Peeping through the Jessamine What see I there ? An ivory shoulder'd maiden, Braid her ebon hair; And o'er a Prie-Dieu bow her head, Peeping through the Jessamine— The maiden nestling in her couch, Flickering through the chamber white, Half in shadow, half in light. Sweet the breath of Jessamine- Sweeter is the maiden's sigh On her pillow fair, Sleeping like a pale blush rose, Giving odour in repose. Perish'd is the Jessamine--- Yet, fond love hath that fair maiden Since the dreamings of the night In that trellis-chamber white. THE PRIMROSE PATH. April days when the clouds reveal April days when the wild bees steal Young year days that have passed away Like the sound of the marriage bells; Whose tremulous musical memories sway Love's every idle fear: When the almond tree blossom first opened its leaves Like a sweet hope mid loneliness drear; First blossom of love how dear: How dear to the yearning spirit of youth! There is nothing in life so sweet, There is nothing so sweet so dear; A dew drop lies on the bosom sweet And a single violet grows On a mossy bank where lovers meet: A single violet grows, Leaning over that pale primrose; Looking into the depths of its pure young life In the morning's early hour. And the lustrous tear in its heart of joy Sees there the first dawn of a nascent hope Was it a dream or true? As they first walked forth in the snow; For the witch-elms stretched their thin bare arms With a leafless meaning of No. No! in the frowning sky; No in each sullen field: No! in the wind that went howling by Like a vial of wrath unsealed. But the heart refuses to yield; It clings to a wishful prayer, A chord of sweet music hath compassed it round. A touch of a soft hand near. A sweet trammel it cannot untie ! Though the mocking light of the midnight fire Live in the light of vain hopes awhile In the sadness of truth to die! Sleep, weary questioner, sleep, Sink into calm repose; Think of the old worn classic page With the words inscribed of the Attic sage- "From night and chaotic darkness deep The beauty of day arose." Is it the sound of bells! Or only the thought of a sound In the listener's heart that rises and swells Wild hyacinths bending like pensive maids Of Apollo's AI; alas! Yes, in the far distance marriage bells ringing, Stirring the primroses seen in the lake. Fancy's wild wood notes the harebells are swinging, Sweet sleeping memories fondly awake! |