LOVE. HERE lived a singer in France For gifts she gave you, gracious and few, of old By the tideless, dolorous In a land of sand and ruin and gold There shone one woman, and none but she. And finding life for her love's Tears and kisses-that lady of yours. Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I- There is not room under all the sky For me that know not of worst or best, Being fain to see her, he bade Love will not come to me now, though I die, set sail, Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold, Died praising God for his gift and grace; 66 I shall never be friends again with roses; For she bowed down to him weeping, and Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, said, Live!" and her tears were shed on his face The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung Once, and her close lips touched him and clung O brother, the gods were good to you! Sleep, and be glad while the world endures; Be well content as the years wear through; Give thanks for life and the loves and lures. Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath, As a wave of the sea turned back by song. There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire, Face to face with its own desire A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes; The pulse of war and passion of wonder, The stars that sing and the loves that thun- The music burning at heart like wine, These things are over, and no more mine. A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign, From which the maiden can well divine Passion's whole history. Those only can tell And Zaide hath forgotten in Azim's arms All her so false lamp's falser alarms. Who have loved as young hearts can love so This looks not a bridal: the singers are well mute; How the pulses will beat and the cheek will Still is the mandore and breathless the lute; Yet there the bride sits. Her dark hair is bound, be dyed When they have some love-augury tried: years, To feel again youth's hopes and fears- Zaide watched her flower-built vessel glide, No dew is falling; yet woe to that shade! Hark to the ring of the cimetar! It tells that the soldier returns from afar; The banners of crimson float in the sun : And raised it to look on its father's crest; and song, And the robe of her marriage floats white on the ground. Oh, where is the lover, the bridegroom? oh, where? Look under yon black pall: the bridegroom is there; Yet the guests are all bidden, the feast is the same, And the bride plights her troth amid smoke and 'mid flame. They have raised the death-pyre of sweetscented wood And sprinkled it o'er with the sacred flood Of the Ganges. The priests are assembled ; their song Sinks deep on the ear as they bear her along, That bride of the dead. Ay, is not this love, That one pure, wild feeling all others above, Vowed to the living and kept to the tomb, The same in its blight as it was in its bloom? With no tear in her eye and no change in her smile Young Zaide had come nigh to the funeral pile; The bells of the dancing-girls ceased from their sound; Silent they stood by that holiest mound; From a crowd like the sea-waves there came not a breath When the maiden stood by the place of death. One moment was given the last she might | There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, A And little watch-fires heap with leaves, And milky filberts hoard; And there his oldest daughter stands With downcast eyes and skilful hands Before her ironing-board. She comforts all her mother's days, And with her sweet obedient ways She makes her labors light; So sweet to hear, so fair to see, Oh, she is much too good for me, That lovely Lettice White. The breeze had spread the long curls of her 'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool! With that same lass I went to school: I then was great and wise; She read upon an easier book, And I-I never cared to look Into her shy blue eyes. |