The pressure still remains! O blessed couch! Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids! And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart, Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit- Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn Earl Henry. THE NIGHT-SCENE: A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. Sandoval You loved the daughter of Don Manrique ? Sandoval. Did you not say you wooed her? Loved? Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she Met my advances with impassioned pride, That kindled love with love. And when her sire, The golden circlet in his hand, rejected Oh! I were most base, True, I wooed her, My suit with insult, and in memory Of ancient feuds poured curses on my head, Sandoval. Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously. But Oropeza Earl Henry. Blessings gather round her! She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, No leaflet stirred; the air was almost sultry; Fragrant with flowering trees-I well remember Oh! no! I have small memory of aught but pleasure. A living soul-I vowed to die for her: That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard, A murmur breathed against a lady's ear. Oh there is joy above the name of pleasure, Deep self-possession, an intense repose. Sandoval [with a sarcastic smile]. No other than as eastern sages paint, The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf, Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking, Feared as an alien, and too vast for man? For suddenly, impatient of its silence, Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them. I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, I would exchange my unblenched state with hers.— Nay, leave me, friend! I can not bear the torment [Earl Henry retires into the wood.] Sandoval [alone]. O Henry! always striv'st thou to be great By thine own act-yet art thou never great But by the inspiration of great passion. The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And shape themselves: from earth to heaven they stand, Built by Omnipotence in its own honor! But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit : TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN, WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER INNOCENCE. MYRTLE-LEAF, that, ill besped, When the partridge o'er the sheaf Lightly didst thou, foolish thing! 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 Ilim who lured thee and forsook, Fearful saw his pleading look, Soft the glances of the youth, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ; But no sound like simple truth, Loathing thy polluted lot, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! With a wiser innocence. 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, Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, And embathe in heavenly light. LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. NOR cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast In intricacies of laborious song. These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain Bursts in a squall-they gape for wonderment. Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate! Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. |