So sat she fixed; and so observed was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly, -
who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day,
His usual efforts vain to keep away.
"May I come in?" said he :
That smiling voice; - she colored, pressed her heart A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said, "O yes, certainly."
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be, secure :
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this they sat down to the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Leaned with a touch together, thrillingly;
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
There color change, they came upon
the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smiled upon Launcelot when he kissed her first:
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turned, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kissed her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.
Sad were those hearts, and sweet was that long kiss: Sacred be love from sight, whate'er it is.
The world was all forgot, the struggle o'er,
Desperate the joy, - That day they read no more.
HOW THE BRIDE RETURNED TO RAVENNA.
SORROW, they say, to one with true touched ear, Is but the discord of a warbling sphere, A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be, Distils the next note more deliciously. E'en tales like this, founded on real woe, From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow: The woe was earthly, fugitive, is past; song that sweetens it, may always last. And even they, whose shattered hearts and frames Make them unhappiest of poetic names,
What are they, if they know their calling high,
But crushed perfumes exhaling to the sky?
Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen,
Yet keep the earth they haste to, bright and green?
Once, and but once, Tried worth will hear,
nor with a scornful face that scene again took place.
Partly by chance they met, partly to see
The spot where they had last gone cheerfully,
But most, from failure of all self-support; -
And oh! the meeting in that loved resort!
No peevishness there was, no loud distress,
No mean retort of sorry selfishness;
But a mute gush of hiding tears from one
Clasped to the core of him, who yet shed
And self-accusings then, which he began,
And into which her tearful sweetness ran;
And then kind looks, with meeting eyes again,
Starting to deprecate each other's pain;
Till half persuasions they could scarce do wrong,
And sudden sense of wretchedness, more strong,
And why should I add more ?— again they parted,
He doubly torn for her, and she nigh broken-hearted.
She never ventured in that spot again;
And Paulo knew it, but could not refrain ;
He went again one day; and how it looked!
The calm, old shade! his presence felt rebuked..
It seemed, as if the hopes of his young heart,
His kindness, and his generous scorn of art,
Had all been mere a dream, or at the best
A vain negation, that could stand no test;
And that on waking from his idle fit,
He found himself (how could he think of it!)
A selfish boaster and a hypocrite.
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