  “One fatal remembrance—one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes.” —Moore. The troubled spell is o’er, The wild delirious dream of bliss is broke; A spirit whispered to me as I woke, “No more—oh sleep no more, For love has died upon a dart whose sting Sped on a feather plucked from his own wing.” Oh, bright divinity, Bold and unfettered as the eagle’s wing, Oh soul of noblest impulses, the spring, And chainless as the sea, Why didst thou lend my sky thy glorious light Only to quench it in a blacker night! Oh, I have loved to bow Before thy shrine and burn rich incense there, Immaculate spirit of the upper air, Nor rose sincerer vow Nor sweeter wreaths in Dian’s temples hung, When on the Paphian myrtles Sappho sung. Thine is a magic power, A power the sternest hearts to tame and quell Thine own to mortal arts invincible, And glorious is thy dower— Love’s fire, ambition’s struggle, pity’s tear, Religion’s hope, and all—save woman’s fear. Thine is that fearful spell, In which the Orient poppy gardens steep The passer’s senses in luxurious sleep, While dreaming all is well, Nor knows he that the flower’s delicious breath Is the lethargic atmosphere of death. Too late—alas! too late! My heart once fresh with morning dews of youth, Dreaming that all the beautiful was truth, Is seared and desolate; Love’s star is shrouded in its last eclipse And its fair fruit is ashes on my lips. With bitter grief we parted, On thy dear lips I breathed a last adieu To peace, to hope, to sweet repose, and you, And left thee—broken-hearted: And every star in heaven was wrapped in gloom, And earth itself became a living tomb. And like a mourner’s wail Now piercing shrill, now smothered and half hushed, Convulsive tears and sobs all madly gushed— And gushed without avail; For our fond bosoms bore one stricken heart Forever wounded by a fatal dart. The night wind’s plaintive moan Sighed through the pendant branches of the trees, Whose leaf-harp’s sweet vibrations filled the breeze, And the far distant tone Of the blue waters of La Belle Riviere Stole in Æolian murmurs on my ear. The bosom’s quivering throes, The shuddering frame, the anguish of the heart Writhing with Love’s immedicable dart; The unutterable woes Of those whom destiny has doomed to feel The agony they never can reveal— All these were ours—and when The dying night-winds ceased a while to wake Leaf in the wood or ripple on the lake A murmur rose of pain, Doleful and bitter as the passing cry Of a lost spirit in its agony. Mine is the agony To perish where Elysian apples grow, To parch with thirst where Eden’s waters flow To pine—to droop—to die, Without one hope to ease my bosom’s pain, To know I love, am loved, and all in vain! One more fond parting word, While all my frame with agony is shaken, And my torn heart of every hope forsaken, To its far depths is stirred. A word will haunt me like a funeral knell, God bless thee, dear Leonora—and farewell! |
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