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Eloise-A-Bibb-Poems-1895-poetry.txt
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Eloise-A-Bibb-Poems-1895-poetry.txt
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Poems
Bibb, Eloise A. (Eloise Alberta), 1878-1927
Monthly Review Press
Boston
1895
CONTENTS
Dedication . . .3
Preface . . .5
In Memoriam. Frederick Douglass . . .7
In Memory of Arthur Clement Williams . . .9
Early Spring . . .11
Class Song of . . .13
Eliza, in "Uncle Tom's Cabin." . . .14
Imogene. . . .20
Destiny . . .26
Gerarda . . .36
The Vestal Virgin . . .44
Charmion's Lament . . .49
The Hermit . . .53
A Tale of Italy . . .61
Captain Smith and Pocahontas . . .72
The Wandering Jew. . . .77
Judith . . .82
Belshazzar's Feast . . .86
The Expulsion of Hagar . . .91
Ode to the Sun. . . .94
Catherine of Arragon . . .95
Lines to Miss Leona Hanna . . .97
To the Sweet Bora of the Women's Club . . .98
Lines to Mrs. M.G. Turner . . .99
Sonnet to Dr. D.A. Martiner. . . .100
Lines to Hon. Geo. L. Knox . . .101
Anne Boleyn. . . .102
An Offering. . . .107
To Mrs. S. F. Williams, Presidents of the Phillis Wheatley, Club of New Orleans La.:
Dear friend:--I affectionately dedicate to you, this my first volume of defective matter as a token of my strong regard and esteem for your estimable character.
Though all the world censure, I shall be content if I have but pleased you, and feel myself rewarded should I see the light of your approving smale.
Your humble admirer,
Eloise Bibb.
copyright 1895
By Eloise Bibb
All rights reserved.
PREFACE
I timidly present this little volume to the public with a full knowledge of its many faults. Indeed, I sometimes feel greatly frightened at my own temerity, and wonder how I would feel should an able critic deign to censure me as I deserve; but, if fortune should place my work in the hands of some clever judge, even though his criticism might seem harsh and unmerciful, I should feel that his judgements would benefit me in the future.
Never would I have allowed these imperfect productions to appear in print had I not been advised repeatedly by my many friends, especially one whose kind aid and disinterested friendship I shall never forget, to place this volume before the public.
I have implicitly obeyed them because I am aware that "intense timidity and subtle self-criticism" retard success equally as much as arrogance and conceit. E. B.
IN MEMORIAM FREDERICK DOUGLASS.
O Death! why dost thou steal the great,
With grudging like to strongest hate,
And rob the world of giant minds,
For whom all nature mourns and pines.
So few have we upon the earth,
Whom God ennobled at their birth,
With genius stamped upon their souls,
That guides, directs, persuades, controls.
So few who scorn the joys of life,
And labor in contending strife,
With Zeal increased and strength of ten,
To ameliorate the ills of men.
So few who keep a record clean,
Amid temptations strong and keen;
Who live laborious days and nights,
And shun the storms of passion's blights.
O, why cannot these linger here,
As lights upon this planet drear;
Forever in the public sight,
To lead us always to the right?
raster
8
O Douglass! thou wert 'mong the few
Who struggles and temptations knew,
Yet bravely mounted towering heights,
Amazing both to blacks and whites.
The Sons of Ham feel desolate
Without thee, O Douglass the Great;
A nation's tears fall now with mine,
While mourning at thy sacred shrine.
IN MEMORY OF ARTHUR CLEMENT WILLIAMS.
"Alas! That such a soul should taste of
death,"
Such lofty genius fade for want of breath,
Such wit find refuge 'mong the mournful,
dead,--
Such brains lie silent in that narrow bed.
O, let the Negro weep most bitter tears!
Our brightest star from earth now disappears;
He would have stretched Ethiopia's hand
to God
Had Death not early placed him 'neath
the sod.
Ne'er breathed a man who saw that classic
brow,
That did not then within himself allow
He saw a fixed desire to raise his race,
Imprinted on that noble, comely face.
There is one thought that pains me much
to-night.
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10
Although of him I sing and sometimes
write,
I did not know this brave and gifted one,
This gallant youth,--this good, obedient
son.
Yet, ne'er-the-less, I sighed when others
sighed;
I wept to think of fondest hopes denied--
Of fleeting joys, of earthly woes and cares,
Of all that mother's tears and anxious
prayers.
That soul so loved by all now rests in peace,
He's happy there where cares and sorrows
cease;
In that celestial home he dwells to-night,
That place of love, of joy, of dazzling light.
(Son of Mrs. S. F. Williams. Written for the anniversary of his twenty-second birthday, August 23, 1891.)
EARLY SPRING.
"The early spring's sweet blush,
Like a maiden's beauteous flush,
Mounts the cheek of earth and sky,
With radiance soft and shy.
She comes like a virgin queen,
From her couch of emerald green,
Enrobed in garments bright,
With sunny locks of light
And gladness in her smile,
Beguiling care the while,
With music from the thrush,
And the brook's low warbling rush.
She stoops and whispers low,
To the violets 'neath the snow,
On bended knee she peeps,
In the home where the clover sleeps;
Her warm and fragrant breath
Has chased the gloom of death,
That shrouded tree and sky,
When winter's tears were nigh.
She dotes on the light and shade,
Her curls and mantle made.
O, Ye who weep and sigh!
Bid tears a long good-bye;
Be not now overcast
With Scenes of the buried past;
Forget the pangs of yore,
That made thy bosom sore;
Know that the soul grows strong
In battles great and long,
Weep not, nor e'en be sad,
Rejoice, for the world is glad!
CLASS SONG OF '91
We are sighing, for time is flying,
We are going from those so dear;
Friends are severed, though 'round us
gathered,
With a cheer to greet us here.
Hope is beck'ning, our fate we're reck'ning,
Life seems bright, all earth is light;
Stars are gleaming, beacons of meaning,
Lights of truth to human sight.
CHORUS.
Then, fare you well, fare you well,
Life for us has just begun;
Don't regret, ne'er forget
This dear class of ninety one.
Hours of pleasure, our mem'ries treasure,
Life's best moments for these we sigh;
Thoughts of gladness will scatter sadness,
When we're dreaming of days gone by.
We are sighing, for time is flying,
Soon we part from friends so dear;
Guiding teachers, God's favor'd creatures,
Ah! good-bye to all friends here.
(Sung to the air of "What Care I," by Alice Hawthorne.")
ELIZA IN UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.
HER MARRIAGE.
I.
See! The moon is smiling
Down her brightest beams,
And the leaflets sleeping,
Whisper in their dreams,
Hear the merry music,
And the darkies' lays,
Hear the happy voices
Joining in the plays.
There in old Kentucky,
On a summer's night,
Stands a quadroon maiden,
Clothed in robes of white;
On her raven ringlets,
Orange blossoms sleep,
O'er her slender figure,
Bridal vestments sweep.
There we see her mistress,
Smiling now with pride,
On her handsome favorite,
Whom she sees a bride.
There is much rejoicing
O'er Eliza's match;
Misses Shelby fancies
George is a good "catch."
So the banjo's sounding,
And the darkies sing,
Hear them gayly dancing,
To the fiddle's ring.
But the dawn is breaking,
Guests must now disperse;
Quick the bow is silent,
Ere the sunlight bursts.
II.
The moon now shines upon a scene,
Much different from the one we left:
A mother gazes on her babe,
A mother feeling richly blest.
A smile of pride plays on her face,
A light of love shines in her eye.
She moves one black curl from its place,
And kisses it with many a sigh.
Ah! a mother's love is great,
E'en a slave could love and hate.
Swift the mother's blood ran cold,
When she knew her boy was sold.
III.
Haste thee, mother, pluck thy flower,
From the bed thou lov'st so well;
Plant it in a soil congenial,--
Quick! Or they'll thy flower sell.
How that mother tore her tresses,
When she learned they sold her bud;
Neither sigh nor tear escaped her,
Only her poor heart dropt blood.
"I will save thee, I'll rescue thee!"
Cried the mother with new life,
"Though my life's blood perish for it,
You'll be free from all this strife."
Close she wrapped her life, her treasure,
Quick she steals out in the night,
All things dear she bids farewell to,
Then she disappears from sight.
IV.
"Farewell! farewell!" Eliza cried,
"Old home, I loved so well;
Farewell! dear trees and shady groves,
I'll miss your magic spell.
Neath shrubs like these oft have I played,
These groves have sheltered me,
Just such a night my heart was won,
Beneath that old beech tree."
With hurrying feet, she quickly sped
Across the frosty ground:
Her fears were roused with awful dread,
At every quaking sound.
At length she neared the river's side,
Her blood turned cold with fright;
Those huge green blocks of floating ice
Will land not boat to-night.
She heard a voice--the voice of Sam,
And saw Haley, the man
Who bought her child, her all and all,
She clasped her boy and ran.
The trader watched her disappear
Far down the river's bank,
And when he saw her desperate leap,
All hope within him sank.
She vaulted o'er the current swift,
The ice now creaked beneath;
She leaps, she slips, she stands again,
Upon the river's reef.
Her shoes are gone, her feet are cut,
The water's dyed with blood,
With mad'ning shrieks she stumbled on,
Forgetful of the flood.
She sees a man, as in a dream,
Upon the other side;
She hears a voice--her heart is still,
"O, aid me, sir!" she cried:
"O, hide me quick, they've sold my boy,--
This child I'd die to save."
"Go thar," he said, "to them kind folks,
They'd save you from the grave."
V.
Eliza slept and dreamed of peace,
Of lands where all is rest;
Of bright, green shores where sorrows cease,
Of homes which God had blest.
She dreamed her child was happy there,
A free and merry boy;
She felt that God had heard her prayer,
And filled her life with joy.
She heard a step, she felt a tear
Upon her forehead fall;
She knew that he she loved was near,--
Her husband and her all.
VI.
Farewell! Farewell! Our time is spent.
We leave thee now in peace;
At last thou'rt free and highly blest,
May heaven thy joys increase.
Thy dear ones all around thee now,
Are bent in tearful prayer;
Their grateful words ascend to Him
Who brought them safely, there.
But we to-day lift up our hearts,
And kneel in prayer with thee;
We bless the God who broke the chain,
And set thy people free.
IMOGENE.
I.
We had been school-mates,--she and I,--
How sad, those years have all rolled by.
I loved her with a school-boy's heart,
A love from which I'll never part.
Though vultures tore my heart in twain,
Still would it beat for her again.
With fancy's eyes I see again,
The old school-house within the glen.
I see the master, bell in hand,
The ranks in single file command.
I feel my heart within me bound,
I welcome so the gladsome sound.
But now I'm tired of ball and bat;
Beneath a large, old oak I sat,
And watched the girls intent at play
With hearts so light and spirits gay.
Oh, that life's morning could return!
For boyhood's days I'll ever yearn.
And as I sat beneath the tree,
I said a maiden watching me,
But when I looked with smile benign,
She quickly turned her eyes from mine,
A maiden blush o'er-spread her face;
She turned from me with natural grace.
The maid was very fair to see,
And shy and prim as maid could be;
My boyish heart began to beat,
I rose and begged she'd have my seat.
But high she held her shapely head,
"I care not for it, sir," she said.
Advances after that were vain,
She treated me with cold disdain.
And still I tried with strongest will,
But she remained persistent still.
Ah! Imogene, had I but known,
We'd then had little need to mourn.
But Cupid's bow had touched my heart,
I struggled from that love to part.
A boy no more, a man to be
From that bright hour she gazed at me.
The hopes of youth had long been o'er,
I vowed I'd live, and love no more.
And gradually the years passed by:
My life was wrecked, I wished to die.
My Mother, on her dying bed,
Implored an heiress I would wed.
My wife was very fair to see,
But not the one beloved by me.
II. [ THE BALCONY SCENE. ]
The moon shone bright one cloudless night,
The earth was bathed in silver light.
I strolled along, quite tired of life,
I longed to rid myself of strife.
In vain I struggled to forget,
Oh, how I loathed the day we met.
I came upon a mansion bright,
From every window streamed the light;
Sweet strains of music reached my ear,
And peals of laughter loud and clear.
"Ah! this gay throng, I quickly see,
would be no place for woeful me."
I hurried on. But hark! Just see,
Who is this walks you balcony
All clothed in pure, seraphic white?--
I know that form, e'en though it's night.
I've heard that voice,--can it be true?
My Imogene, say--is it you?
Be still, she speaks; my God! 'Tis she!
Oh, list! My darling speaks of me,--
Of me, whom I believed she loathed:
Oh, can it be her love was clothed
Within a garb of blackest hate?
But now the knowledge comes too late
"O love, come back!" I hear her cry,
My Waldershaw, for thee I sing!
My heart was thine long years ago
Didst thou not see? Didst thou not know?
Alas! I kept the secret well,--
This love will be my funeral knell.
She wrings her hands in silent woe;
O God! I watch her shadow go
From off the lonely balcony,
And leave me sighing mournfully,
A still, small voice I've learned to hate,
Within me whispered,"Tis--too late.
III.
These prison-walls are bleak and drear;
Who would have thought I'd enter here.
They say four men will die to-day;
My blood, also, will ebb away.
Ah, well! 'tis sweet to die for love,
That sacred essence from above.
That wretch which spoke my darling's name
With free license in homes of shame,
Deserved to die, just as he did.
I killed him,--though the law forbid;
The slaughter of man's fellow-man.
His blood o'er heath and flower ran.
I hear a step. who may it be!
Some friend who comes to pity me.
A comely youth, his face is hid
His eyes are drooped beneath their lid.
The jailer locks and bars the door,
I see the light of day no more.
Who is this form that o'er me bends,
And rapture to my spirit lends?
"What! Imogene, who brings thee here
To this bleak prison, dark and drear?
Why weepest thou? 'Tis for the best,
I'll pass from woe to realms of rest."
Why does she hold her kerchief near
My nostrils? Sure, she is sincere!
A stupor deadens limb and will.
My brain receives impressions still,--
But Oh, a deadness grips my heart;
Can it be true from life I part?
I see her change her garb for mine,--
I watch her scrawl a single line,
I hear her cry, "Yes, love, I sigh
That I but once for thee can die;
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25
Far better had'st thou never seen
The proud, but faithful Imogene."
I hear her fall upon the ground.
The jailor enters at the sound,
And bears me from the darkened cell.
And Imogene,--how can I tell
The madness of that dreadful hour!
To save my love, I'd not the power.
I knew no more, my senses slept.
Of brain, of mind I was bereft.
When reason cleared the dark away,
I hastened where my darling lay.
With maddened speech I neared the spot,
But there my Imogene was not
Too late! My God! I see my love!
O angels from the choir above,
Oh, stay that hand that deals the blow!
Oh, raise that arm that trembles so!
My God! Too late! The last I've seen
Of her I love, lost Imogene.
DESTINY.
I.
In far-off England, years ago,
There dwelt a wise old sage
Who, from the book of future years
could tare for you a page
One day there came into his home
A youth of noble birth,
who asked that he'd unfold to him
His mission on the earth.
"Lord Allsmere," spoke the rev'rend sage,
"This day is born for you
A wife, in far-off Italy,
For whom, one day, you'll sue,
Your bride is born of humble birth,
No gold or lands has she;
But you will love her just the same,
However poor she be."
"What!--I? How dare you say these things
To me, Lord Allsmere's heir!
I take a, beggar for my wife,
With me my wealth to share?
Ha! Ha! A fool you think me then.
I'll let my chances slip,
And leave the wealth of all the land
To kiss a pauper's lip!"
You'll see, young man," the sage replied,
"That all I've said is true,
In Venice, near the riverside
A bride is born for you.
You'll know her by a blood-red mark
That stains her slender arm;
Upon that mark a leaf is traced,
Quite like a stately palm."
"I'll die before I'll bring such shame
Upon my noble home,
I'll seek this child, and murder her,
And then o'er seas I'll roam.
'Tis well you've told me where she bides;
I'll leave England to-night.
Farewell, old man, you'll see that I
Will make this thing allright."
Ah, man! Thou egotist,--how vain
To fight against thy fate;
Know thou the laws if destiny
Are powerful and great!
And its decrees obscured trolls thee
Thou trav'lest in the night!
Bide thou with peace, thou'it reach thy goal
Without the aid of light.
II.
The night was dark, the air was cold,
The city slept in peace;
A whistle shrill rung on the breeze
But soon was made to cease.
Two men, both clad in strange costumes
Stole near the river's side;
They launched a babe within a crib
Upon the flowing tide.
"At last, 'tis o'er; the babe will drown;
She'll be no bride of mine.
I'll show that old phlegmatic sage
For her I'll never pine.
And now, away to Lady dare,
The woman of my heart!
Oh, for that hour when we'll be one,
On earth, no more to part!"
Lord Allsmere traveled all that night,
And reached his lady's side,
And pledged again his vows of troth
To his intended bride.
And he forgot the lonely babe
He launched upon the deep,
But God, who guards the sparrows' nest,
Watched o'er the babe in sleep.
And when the morning's roseate tint
Was seen to light the sky,
A stray gondolier saw thecrib.
And greatly wondered why
An infant's wail was loudly heard
Upon the water's breast.
He took the crib within his boat,
And soothed the babe to rest.
He landed with his precious charge
And placed her near the gates
Of old Count Dido's stately home,
Of whom the world relates
Is seven times a millionaire,
With neither kith nor kin.
And there the babe was reared, and grew
A maiden free from sin.
III.
Oh, list! to sounds that cheer the heart;
Stay! 'Tis the clarion's peal;
The harp is mingled with the tones
That make the senses reel.
And from the water's surface blue
I hear the light guitar;
Some knight of Venice sings of love
That is his guiding star.
And why this song and merriment?
Count Dido gives a ball,
And his adopted daughter stands
Admired by one and all.
And oh, who would not love to gaze
Into those liquid eyes!
To clasp that slender, rounded form
Would seem like paradise.
But Mariann knows nought of this,
She see one form, one face,
She hears the music of one voice.
She notes the air of grace
That marks her hero from the rest.
Lord Allsmere owns her heart,
And she not his?--Oh, dreadful thought
That makes the tear-drops start.
But see! he, too, has stood apart
From that gay company,
And notes with eyes lit up with love,
The charms that others see.
"Ye stars! I've never loved before,"
Lord Allsmere cries amazed.
"I thought I loved the Lady Clare,
But pshaw! My brain was crazed.
"I've loved a score of times, and more ,
But 'twas not love like this .
My heart's on fire with doubt and fear,
Yet 'tis a state of bliss.
Oh, love, that wrings the human heart
Who has not felt its pain!
Who does not know its bitter sweets,
That madden soul and brain!"
Lord Allsmere smiles on Mariann,
And begs a moonlight walk.
Her gentle hand is on his arm,
And soon engrossed in talk--
They near the famed Rialto's arch,
He finds for her a seat,
And lays his sore and bleeding heart
With fervor at her feet.
And Oh! the joy that thrills her soul,
To know she owns his heart.
Such heaven, ah, yes! 'tis paradise!
Will bliss like this depart?
Two arms she lifts, such perfect limbs;
Her hands are clasped in prayer.
But oh! What is that blood-red mark
He sees imprinted there?
He grasps the slender wrist, and looks
Upon the lovely arm;
And there a tiny leaf is traced
Quite like a stately palm
"The babe I drowned!" Lord Allsmere
gasps.
"Say! how can this be true?
Explain!--I'm dazed!--Long years ago!
I sought to murder you!
"Aha! You've crossed my path again;
The sage then spoke aright.
Plebian! Ah, no! you'll ne'er be mine,
I'll slay you, sure , to-night!
And who is Destiny that dares
Choose beggar for my bride;
Ye powers above, I pluck this thorn
That lingers in my side!"
"Oh, spare! Oh, spare! I thee implore,
I'll hide myself airway.
On thy dear face I'll never look,
Nor see the light of day.
I love thee! Ah, my heart is sore,
Why dost thou hate me so?
And what is this that thou dost speak?
Pray tell, I fain would know."
"Alas! I cannot do the deed,
My heart a traitor proves.'
He slowly hides his sword from view,
And from his hand removes
A brilliant ring with opals set,
And lustrous stones that shine.
"See here ! this ring will noir decide
If you will e'er be mine.
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"If e'en in days that are to come,
I see your treacherous face,
And on that hand I loathe and spurn,
This ring finds not its place,
I swear to you this night in truth--
I swear I'll have your heart !
And if, instead, you wear this ring,
We'll wed, no more to part."
He throws the ring far in the deep,
The water's sink it low.
He leaves her with, an angry oath,
To bear this dreadful blow.
Weep not, O maid! Dost thou not know
That thou art led by fate?
And it decreed e'er thou wast born
That thou shouldst be his mate?
IV.
Ten years have passed; they've done their
work
On Allsmere's stony heart.
No longer proud, nor arrogant
He feels love's piercing dart.
He longs again to touch that hand,
To kiss that fevered check;
Away! he hastens to that land
His destined bride to seek.
He sees her by the water's side,
She kneels in tearful prayer.
"What does' she lisp? What are those,
words?
What is that sparkling there?
My ring! O Mariann, arise.
My love! Forgive thou me!
My other soul! I strove in vain
To baffle destiny."
"Lord Allsmere!--See, I wear thy ring?"
The maid, uprising, cried,
"In yonder fish, the cook, yestern,
By chance, the diamond spied.
And now, my love, no more this strife,
My heart's an fire for thee.
Oh, thou canst never fathom, love;
My heart's deep agony!"
"Come, Mariann! Fate's chosen bride,
Twin soul, I sought to slay.
Come to my heart, thou'lt never know
A care I cannot lay.
Come, warm my life,--thou beacon-light,
Shine thou, this night, on me,
And I will bless forevermore
My planning Destiny.
GERARDA.
I.
The day is o'er and twilight's shade,
Is darkening forest, glen and glade;
It steals within the old church door,
And casts its shadows on the floor;
It throws its gloom upon the bride,
And on her partner by her side:
But ah! It has no power to screen
The loveliest form that ever was seen.
Sweet tones as from the angels' lyre,
Came pealing from the ancient choir;
They rouse the brain with magic power,
And fill with light that twilight hour,
Some artist's soul one easily sees,
Inspires the hands that touch the keys;
A genius sits and wakes the soul,
With sounds that o'er the passions roll.
"Till death we part,"
repeats the bride,
She shuddered visibly and sighed;
And as she leaves the altar rail,
She's startled, end her features pale,
For in the ancient choir above,
The man who sits and plays of love,
Has held her heart for many a year.
Alas! her life is sad and drear.
He never dreamed he roused a thrill,
Within that heart that seemed so still;
He never knew the hours of pain,
That racked that tired and troubled brain.
He could not see that bleeding heart,
From which his face would not depart;
He never could have known her grief,
From which, alas! there's no relief.
At last she thought the fire had cooled,
And love's strong guardian she had ruled;
'Twas then she vowed to be the bride
Of him who stands at her side.
Ill-fated hour! She sees too late,
This man she cannot help but hate'
He, whom she promised to obey,
Until from earth she's called away.
This life is sometimes dark and drear,
No lights within the gloom appear.
Gerarda smiled and danced that night,
As though her life had been all bright;
And no one knew a battle waged,
Within that heart so closely caged.
The few who've never felt love's dart,
Know not the depth of woman's heart.
II.
Gerarda sat one summer day,
With easel, brush, and forms of clay,
Within her much-loved studio,
Where all that makes the senses glow.
Were placed with great artistic skill;
Content, perhaps, she seems, and still,
She'd give this luxury and more,
To ease that heart so bruised and sore.
Her paintings hang upon the wall,
The power of genius stamps them all;
On this material soil she breathes,
But in her spiritual world she leaves
Her mind, her thoughts, her soul, her brain,
And wakes from fancy's spell with pain.
And thus her pictures plainly show,
Not nature's self but ideal glow.
And now to-day o'er canvas bent,
She strives to place these visions sent
From that bright world she loves so well,
But fancy fails to cast her spell,
And sick at heart, Gerarda sighs,
And wonders why her must denies
The inspiration given before,
When oft in heaven her soul would soar.
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But now her ear has caugh a sound,
That causes heart and brain to bound,
With rapture wild, intense, sincere,
For, list! those strains are coming near;
She grasps the brush, her muse awoke,
Within those notes her genius spoke;
An Angelo might e'en be proud,
Of forms that o'er her vision crowd.
What power is this that swells that touch,
And sends it throbbing with a rush,
That renders all its hearers dumb!
If he be man, whence did he come?
Lo! 'tis the same who played with power
The wedding march that twilight hour;
The strains seem caught from souls above,
It is the very food of love.
And yet, he's neither old nor bent,
A comeliness to youth is lent;
A radiant eye, a natural grace,
An eager, noble, passionate face,--
All these are his, with genius spark,
That guides him safely through the dark,
To hearts that throb and souls that feel,
At every grand and solemn peal.
Triumphant Wagner's soul he reads,
And then with Mozart gently pleads,
And begs the weary cease to mope,
But rise and live in dreams of hope,
The sounds have ceased,-- how drear life
seems!
He wakes from out his land of dreams,
And fins Gerarda rapt, amazed,
In speechless ecstacy she gazed.
"Neville! thou king of heroes great,
A tale of love thou dost relate,
In tones that rend my heart in twain,
With intense agony and pain,
Forgive whate'er I say to-day,
Thy touch has ta'en my sense away:
O man that dreams, thou can'st not see,
That I, alas! doth worship thee!
"Behold! thou Orpheus, I kneel
And beg thee, if thou e'er canst feel,
Or sympathize with my unrest,
To thrust this dagger in my breast.
Shrink not! I can no longer live
Content in agony to writhe;
And death with thy had given to me,
Will be one blissful ecstacy."
He starts, and lifts her from her knees,
Her features pale, and soon he sees
That tired heart so sick and sore
Can bear its grief and woe no more.
She swoons-- her pulse has ceased to beat,
A holy calm, divine and sweet,
Has settled on the saintly face,
Lit up with beauty, youth and grace.
Neville amazed, in rapture stands,
Admiring hair, and face, and hands.
Forgetful then of hour and place,
He stoops to kiss the beauteous face,
And at the touch the fire of love,
So pure as to come from above,
Consumes his heart and racks his brain,
With longing fear and infinite pain.
The kiss, as with a magic spell,
Has roused Gerarda,-- it seems to tell,
'Tis time to bid her conscience wake,
And off her soul this burden shake.
"Neville, forgive'" with downcast eyes,
Gerarda sorrowfully cries;
"I've told thee of my love and woe,--
The things I meant thou should'st not
know."
"Gerarda thou hast woke the heart,
That ne'er before felt passion's smart;
Oh! is it true thou'rt lost to me,
My love, my heart knows none but thee!"
"Enough! Neville, we must forget,
That in this hour our souls have met,
Farewell! we ne'er must meet in life,
For I'm, alas! a wedded wife."
III.
Why ring those bells? what was that cry?