Selected Poems (41 page)

1170

The swan that swims upon the lake,

One mate, and one alone, will take.

And let the fool still prone to range,

And sneer on all who cannot change,

Partake his jest with boasting boys;

1175

I envy not his varied joys,

But deem such feeble, heartless man,

Less than yon solitary swan;

Far, far beneath the shallow maid

He left believing and betray’d.

1180

Such shame at least was never mine –

Leila! each thought was only thine!

My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe,

My hope on high – my all below.

Earth holds no other like to thee,

1185

Or, if it doth, in vain for me:

For worlds I dare not view the dame

Resembling thee, yet not the same.

The very crimes that mar my youth,

This bed of death – attest my truth!

1190

’Tis all too late – thou wert, thou art

The cherish’d madness of my heart!

‘And she was lost – and yet I breathed,

But not the breath of human life:

A serpent round my heart was wreathed,

1195

And stung my every thought to strife.

Alike all time, abhorred all place,

Shuddering I shrunk from Nature’s face,

Where every hue that charm’d before

The blackness of my bosom wore.

1200

The rest thou dost already know,

And all my sins, and half my woe.

But talk no more of penitence;

Thou see’st I soon shall part from hence:

And if thy holy tale were true,

1205

The deed that’s done canst
thou
undo?

Think me not thankless – but this grief

Looks not to priesthood for relief.
¹

My soul’s estate in secret guess:

But wouldst thou pity more, say less.

1210

When thou canst bid my Leila live,

Then will I sue thee to forgive;

Then plead my cause in that high place

Where purchased masses proffer grace.

Go, when the hunter’s hand hath wrung

1215

From forest-cave her shrieking young,

And calm the lonely lioness:

But soothe not – mock not
my
distress!

‘In earlier days, and calmer hours,

When heart with heart delights to blend,

1220

Where bloom my native valley’s bowers

I had – Ah! have I now? – a friend!

To him this pledge I charge thee send,

Memorial of a youthful vow;

I would remind him of my end:

1225

Though souls absorb’d like mine allow

Brief thought to distant friendship’s claim,

Yet dear to him my blighted name.

‘Tis strange – he prophesied my doom,

And I have smiled – I then could smile –

1230

When Prudence would his voice assume,

And warn – I reck’d not what – the while:

But now remembrance whispers o’er

Those accents scarcely mark’d before.

Say - that his bodings came to pass,

1235

And he will start to hear their truth,

And wish his words had not been sooth:

Tell him, unheeding as I was,

Through many a busy bitter scene

Of all our golden youth had been,

1240

In pain, my faltering tongue had tried

To bless his memory ere I died;

But Heaven in wrath would turn away,

If Guilt should for the guiltless pray.

I do not ask him not to blame,

1245

Too gentle he to wound my name;

And what have I to do with fame?

I do not ask him not to mourn,

Such cold request might sound like scorn;

And what than friendship’s manly tear

1250

May better grace a brother’s bier?

But bear this ring, his own of old,

And tell him – what thou dost behold!

The wither’d frame, the ruin’d mind,

The wrack by passion left behind,

1255

A shrivelled scroll, a scatter’d leaf,

Sear’d by the autumn blast of grief!

* * * * *

‘Tell me no more of fancy’s gleam,

No, father, no, ’twas not a dream;

Alas! the dreamer first must sleep,

1260

I only watch’d, and wish’d to weep;

But could not, for my burning brow

Throbb’d to the very brain as now:

I wish’d but for a single tear,

As something welcome, new, and dear:

1265

I wish’d it then, I wish it still;

Despair is stronger than my will.

Waste not thine orison, despair

Is mightier than thy pious prayer:

I would not, if I might, be blest;

1270

I want no paradise, but rest.

‘Twas then, I tell thee, father! then

I saw her; yes, she lived again;

And shining in her white symar,
¹

As through yon pale gray cloud the star

1275

Which now I gaze on, as on her,

Who look’d and looks far lovelier;

Dimly I view its trembling spark;

To-morrow’s night shall be more dark;

And I, before its rays appear,

1280

That lifeless thing the living fear.

I wander, father! for my soul

Is fleeting towards the final goal.

I saw her, friar! and I rose

Forgetful of our former woes;

1285

And rushing from my couch, I dart,

And clasp her to my desperate heart;

I clasp – what is it that I clasp?

No breathing form within my grasp,

No heart that beats reply to mine,

1290

Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine!

And art thou, dearest, changed so much,

As meet my eye, yet mock my touch?

Ah! were thy beauties e’er so cold,

I care not; so my arms enfold

1295

The all they ever wish’d to hold.

Alas! around a shadow prest

They shrink upon my lonely breast;

Yet still ’tis there! In silence stands,

And beckons with beseeching hands!

1300

With braided hair, and bright-black eye—

I knew ’twas false – she could not die!

But he is dead! within the dell

I saw him buried where he fell;

He comes not, for he cannot break

1305

From earth; why then art thou awake?

They told me wild waves roll’d above

The face I view, the form I love;

They told me – ’twas a hideous tale!

I’d tell it, but my tongue would fail:

1310

If true, and from thine ocean-cave

Thou com’st to claim a calmer grave,

Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o’er

This brow that then will burn no more;

Or place them on my hopeless heart:

1315

But, shape or shade! whate’er thou art,

In mercy ne’er again depart!

Or farther with thee bear my soul

Than winds can waft or waters roll!

* * * * *

‘Such is my name, and such my tale.

1320

Confessor! to thy secret ear

I breathe the sorrows I bewail,

And thank thee for the generous tear

This glazing eye could never shed.

Then lay me with the humblest dead,

1325

And, save the cross above my head,

Be neither name nor emblem spread,

By prying stranger to be read,

Or stay the passing pilgrim’s tread.’
¹

He pass’d – nor of his name and race

1330

Hath left a token or a trace,

Save what the father must not say

Who shrived him on his dying day:

This broken tale was all we knew

Of her he loved, or him he slew.