Her eyes shone bright as the luminous star
That breaks through the shadows of dusk from far,
And the wavy tresses that floated and gleamed,
Guarding her radiant temples, seemed
As the faery fires that a vision enfold,
Or light as the tremulous flames of gold
That quiver and glance on the forehead of dawn,
When the curtains of night are backward drawn;
And her smile was like to the rippling sea
Greeting the beams of the sun with glee;
And her voice was the singing of springtide, heard
In the orison chanted by soaring bird,
And in the breath of the soft west breeze
Wooing the buds of the wakened trees,
And in the music of fountains free
At last from their icy slavery;
And she moved with a step as light and glad
As ever a nymph or a goddess had.
Could mortal eyes on a form divine
Gaze for a moment, and then not pine
With passionate hunger for that sweet food
Of the beauteous blossom of maidenhood?
To feed for ever on that soft light
That conquered the gloom of the world's dark night,
And shed in its lustre a mystic sense
Of soothing solace and joy intense?
Could ears drink once of the silver flow
Of melody poured from her lips, nor know
The thirst of a madman, rendering up
Life for the pleasure of one sweet cup?
Seeing and hearing, he scarce wist first
What light on his sunless path had burst,
But he felt about him a wondrous glow
Flooding the field of his vision, so
That the shadows shrank as in shame away,
And hope rekindled her flickering ray;
And over his spirit seemed to flow
A quickening influence, even as though,
Out of the heavy and poisoned air
Of some dark city, a God might bear
One that struggled with labouring breath,
All but held in the grasp of death,
And might set him high on the aery brink
Of a loftily-bastioned Alp, to drink
The strength of the mountains—a stronger draught
Than ever of vintage fire was quaffed,
Coursing exultantly through and through
His veins, and giving him life anew.
So awhile he rejoiced, scarce heedful why,
And the days went sweetly and swiftly by;
Alas! too swiftly over and lost,
Like blossoms of summer seared by the frost,
That feel more bitter the wintry spite
Because of the fulness of past delight.
'Twas but a parting, and oft before
Parting of friends, though his heart was sore,
Parting and loss he had known to bear—
'Tis a lesson we learn from our cradle to share:
But a sudden anguish upon him fell,
As upon one cast from heaven to hell,
For a moment showed what had lifted his life
Out of the weary and sordid strife
Of men that struggle and die for gold,
And sell themselves as a chattel is sold.—
And lo! it was over, and life once more
Must sink to the depth where it groped before:
To part;—and it might be, never again
To know the joy of her presence; fain
Was his heart to utter its secret woe,
And all the strength of its love to show.
Sure 'twas a strength that must prevail
To win the world, or the heavens to scale;
High above earth she seemed, yet heaven
Is mingled with earth by love's sweet leaven,
And even the goddess of dawn, 'tis said,
DeignÈd a mortal man to wed.
Yet when he looked on the light divine
That seemed in those lustrous orbs to shine,
His lips would falter, and pale shame froze
The fountain of love from his heart that rose:
How could a spirit as free as air
Brook to be fettered, or stoop to share
An earthlier life from her range sublime?
Even the fancy he deemed a crime,—
As if one dreamt to win for his own
The queen of night from her star-girt throne
And enjoy the light of the world alone,—
What if he spake could she feel or say?
Words of scorn? or of anger? Nay,
Pity belike for a mind distraught,
That rashly to soar from its sphere had sought.
Harder were pity to bear than scorn;
Better to hide how his heart was torn:
So might the thought of that sweet time be
Ever a cloudless memory,
As of a day that from break to close
Never a film on its bright face shows.—
And so she was gone from his life, and left
His heart of joy and of light bereft,
And tenanted only by blank despair,
That finds no longer the sunshine fair,
And knows no healing for its distress
Except to pass into nothingness.
'Tis but a word and the tale is o'er,—
And haply the like has chanced before,
And it wants not this poor art of mine,—
For he sought as his sorrow's anodyne
The blood-red riot of war, to sate
All thought with the numbing opiate
Of the frenzy of battle; and gave his life
As a prodigal gives, in an alien strife:
And under the shroud of the desert sand
He lies at rest in a far-off land.
And one there is that for many a year
Hath mourned with many a secret tear;
And the light of her eyes is dimmed with care,
And age has silvered her sunny hair,
And hollower rings the full rich flow
Of her voice; and her step is weary and slow;
And little, I ween, is understood
The tale of her maiden-widowhood:
And naught of her trouble of soul she saith,
But ever beyond the river of death,
Soothed as she draws to its margin nigher,
She looks to the haven of her desire:
And dimly her gaze through the mist descries
One that waiteth with earthward eyes,
Fired by a deathless love whose glow
Spoke to her heart long years ago,

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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