But ah! it little profits, that we thrust From all that 's said, what both must feel, unnamed. Better to face it boldly, as we must, Than feel it in the silence, and be shamed. Irene, I have loved you, as men love Light, music, odor, beauty, love itself;Whatever is apart from and above Those daily needs which deal with dust and pelf. And I had been content, without one thought Our guardian angels could have blushed to know, So to have lived and died, demanding naught Save, living dying, to have loved you so. My youth was orphaned, and my age will be Childless. I have no sister. None, to steal One stray thought from the many thoughts of thee, Which are the source of all I think and feel. 671 My wildest wish was vassal to thy will: I never thought to know what I have known- I never thought, within my heart, to own One wish so blest that you should share it too : Nor ever did I deem, contemplating The many sorrows in this place of pain, So strange a sorrow to my life could cling, As, being thus loved, to be beloved in vain. But now we know the best, the worst. We have Interred, and prematurely, and unknown, Our youth, our hearts, our hopes, in one small grave, Whence we must wander, widowed, to our own. And if we comfort not each other, what Shall comfort us, in the dark days to come? Not the light laughter of the world, and not The faces and the firelight of fond home. And so I write to you; and write, and write, For the mere sake of writing to you, dear. What can I tell you, that you know not? Night Is deepening through the rosy atmosphere About the lonely casement of this room, Which you have left familiar with the grace That grows where you have been. And on the gloom I almost fancy I can see your face: Not pale with pain, and tears restrained for me, Upon my youth, like dawn on dark, it burst. Perchance I shall not ever see again That face. I know that I shall never see With childhood's starry graces lingering yet I will not say to you what I might say Light in your eyes, and laughter on your lip." ever Our sorrowful, but sacred, fellowship." For that would be, to bid you, dear, dissever Your nature from its nobler heritage In consolations registered in heaven, But I would say, O pure and perfect pearl Which I have dived so deep in life to find, Athwart the mountain, and the mist, to you. And trusted, sworn to aid whate'er befall. I have a bark upon the gulf. And I, A home where exiled angels might forbear A while to mourn for paradise."... But no! Never, whate'er fate now may bring us, dear, Shalt thou reproach me for that only woe Which even love is powerless to console; Which dwells where duty dies: and haunts the tomb Of life's abandoned purpose in the soul; Man cannot make, but may ennoble, fate, Never farewell-if farewell mean to fare And I shall feel, wherever we may be, The shadow of the sunniness of thee, Farewell! The dawn is rising, and the light COUNT RINALDO RINALDI. Locked in my heart thou liest. The wave may 'Tis a dark-purple, moonlighted midnight: curl, The wind may wail above us. wind, Wave and What are their storm and strife to me and you? No strife can mar the pure heart's inmost calm. This life of ours, what is it? A very few Soon-ended years, and then-the ceaseless psalm, And the eternal sabbath of the soul! There is music about on the air. And where, through the water, fall flashing The oars of each gay gondolier, The lamp-lighted ripples are dashing, In the musical moonlighted air, To the music, in merriment; washing, And splashing, the black marble stair That leads to the last garden-terrace, Where many a gay cavalier And many a lady yet loiter, Round the Palace in festival there. Hush!... while I write, from the dim Car- 'Tis is a terrace all paven mosaic, miné The midnight angelus begins to roll, My messenger (a man by danger tried) Waits in the courts below; and ere our star Upon the forehead of the dawn hath died, Beloved one, this letter will be far Black marble, and green malachite; Round an ancient Venetian Palace, Where the windows with lampions are bright. 'Tis an evening of gala and festival, Music, and passion, and light. There is love in the nightingales' throats, That sing in the garden so well: There is love in the face of the moon: PROGRESS. There is love in the warm languid glances Of the dancers adown the dim dances: There is love in the low languid notes That rise into rapture, and swell, From viol, and flute, and bassoon. The tree that bends down o'er the water, So black, is a black-cypress tree. And the statue, there, under the terrace, Mnemosyne's statue must be. There comes a black gondola slowly To the Palace in festival there: And the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi Has mounted the black marble stair. There was nothing but darkness, and midnight, And tempest, and storm, in the breast Of the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi, As his foot o'er the black marble pressedThe glimmering black marble stair Where the weed in the green ooze is clinging, That leads to the garden so fair, Where the nightingales softly are singing, Where the minstrels new music are stringing, And the dancers for dancing prepare. There rustles a robe of white satin : Stands near the cypress-tree there- With the light in her long golden hair. And the nightingales softly are singing "Siora," the Count said unto her, "The shafts of ill-fortune pursue me; The old grief grows newer and newer, The old pangs are never at rest; And the foes that have sworn to undo me Have left me no peace in my breast. They have slandered, and wronged, and maligned me: Though they broke not my sword in my hand, They have broken my heart in my bosom And sorrow my youth has unmanned. But I love you, Irene, Irene, With such love as the wretched alone Dreads, Lady, no frown but your own. The mariner, kneeling, doth deck With the dank weeds yet dripping from ocean, And the last jewel saved from the wreck. "None heeds us, beloved Irene ! None will mark if we linger or fly. VOL. III.-43 Amid all the mad masks in yon revel, I am thine, O be mine, O beloved! "Fly with me, Irene, Irene! The moon drops: the morning is near, My gondola waits by the garden, And fleet is my own gondolier!" What the Lady Irene Ricasoli, 673 By Mnemosyne's statue in stone, Where she leaned, 'neath the black-cypress tree, To the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi Replied then, it never was known, And known, now, it never will be. But the moon hath been melted in morning: And the minstrels, and dancers, are gone; And the nightingales now in the garden, From singing have ceased, one by one; But the Count Rinaldo Rinaldi Still stands, where he last stood, alone, 'Neath the black-cypress tree, near the water, By Mnemosyne's statue in stone. O'er his spirit was silence and midnight, He flung it athwart the black stair. He drew from his bosom a kerchief- That her face was less hopelessly fair." When Love's last wrong hath been forgotten coldly, As First Love's face; And, like a rat that comes to wanton boldly In some lone place, "On her cold, dead bosom my portrait lies, Once festal-in the realm of light and laughter "It is set all round with rubies red, Grim Doubt appears; And pearls which a Peri might have kept. While weird Suggestions from Death's vague For each ruby there, my heart hath bled: Hereafter, O'er ruined years, Creep, dark and darker, with new dread to mut ter Through Life's long shade, For each pearl, my eyes have wept." And I said: "The thing is precious to me: They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; Yet make no more in the chill breast the flutter It lies on her heart, and lost must be, Which once they made; Whether it be-that all doth at the grave If I do not take it away." I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, The moon shone over her winding-sheet. As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I dared not look on the face of death: O Man, what art thou, O my friend, my brother, I thought, at first, as my touch fell there, Even to thyself? THE PORTRAIT. MIDNIGHT past! Not a sound of aught prayers. I sat by the dying fire, and thought A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet: Nobody with me, my watch to keep, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move. 'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead-from the other side: And at once the sweat broke over my brow, "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried. Opposite me, by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, "What do you here, my friend?"... The man But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, And grief had sent him fast to sleep The portrait was, till a month ago, "This woman, she loved me well," said I. "A month ago," said my friend to me: "Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: We found the portrait there, in its place: ASTARTE. 675 "One nail drives out another, at least! The face of the portrait there," I cried, Other footsteps fall about me-faint, uncertain, In the shadow of the world, as it recedes: "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest, | Other forms peer through the half-uplifted curWho confessed her when she died." tain Of that mystery which hangs behind the creeds. What is gone, is gone forever. And new fashions May replace old forms which nothing can re store: But I turn from sighing back departed passions With that pining at the bosom as of yore. I remember to have murmured, morn and even : Though the earth dispart these Earthlies, face from face, Yet the Heavenlies shall surely join in Heaven, For the spirit hath no bonds in time or space. "Where it listeth, there it bloweth; all exist ence Is its region; and it houseth, where it will. I shall feel her through immeasurable distance, And grow nearer and be gathered to her still. "If I fail to find her out by her gold tresses, Brows, and breast, and lips, and language of I shall know her by traces of dead kisses, sweet strains, And that portion of myself which she retains." But my being is confused with new experience, And changed to something other than it was; And the Future with the Past is set at variance; And life falters with the burdens which it has. Earth's old sins press fast behind me, weakly wailing: Faint before me fleets the good I have not done; And my search for her may still be unavailing 'Mid the spirits that are passed beyond the sun. AT HOME DURING THE BALL. 'Tis hard upon the dawn, and yet She comes not from the ball. The night is cold, and bleak, and wet, And the snow lies over all. I praised her with her diamonds on: And all night long, as soft and slow Once more I hear the Rhine rush down |