Poems of Passion | Page 9

in a steeple,?That voice from the grave shall call to you.
You may rouse your pride, you may use your reason.?And seem for a space to slay Love so;?But, all in its own good time and season,?It will rise and follow wherever you go.
You shall sit sometimes, when the leaves are falling,?Alone with your heart, as I sit to-day,?And hear that voice from your dead Past calling?Out of the graves that you hid away.
[Illustration:]
A WALTZ-QUADRILLE.
The band was playing a waltz-quadrille,?I felt as light as a wind-blown feather,?As we floated away, at the caller's will,?Through the intricate, mazy dance together.?Like mimic armies our lines were meeting,?Slowly advancing, and then retreating,?All decked in their bright array;?And back and forth to the music's rhyme?We moved together, and all the time?I knew you were going away.
The fold of your strong arm sent a thrill?From heart to brain as we gently glided?Like leaves on the wave of that waltz-quadrille;?Parted, met, and again divided--?You drifting one way, and I another,?Then suddenly turning and facing each other,?Then off in the blithe chasse,?Then airily back to our places swaying,?While every beat of the music seemed saying?That you were going away.
I said to my heart, "Let us take our fill?Of mirth and music and love and laughter;?For it all must end with this waltz-quadrille,?And life will be never the same life after.?Oh, that the caller might go on calling,?Oh, that the music might go on falling?Like a shower of silver spray,?While we whirled on to the vast Forever,?Where no hearts break, and no ties sever,?And no one goes away."
A clamor, a crash, and the band was still;?'Twas the end of the dream, and the end of the measure: The last low notes of that waltz-quadrille?Seemed like a dirge o'er the death of Pleasure.?You said good-night, and the spell was over--?Too warm for a friend, and too cold for a lover--?There was nothing else to say;?But the lights looked dim, and the dancers weary,?And the music was sad, and the hall was dreary,?After you went away.
BEPPO.
Why art thou sad, my Beppo? But last eve,?Here at my feet, thy dear head on my breast,?I heard thee say thy heart would no more grieve?Or feel the olden ennui and unrest.
What troubles thee? Am I not all thine own?--?I, so long sought, so sighed for and so dear??And do I not live but for thee alone??"Thou hast seen Lippo, whom I loved last year!"
Well, what of that? Last year is naught to me--?'Tis swallowed in the ocean of the past.?Art thou not glad 'twas Lippo, and not thee,?Whose brief bright day in that great gulf was cast.?Thy day is all before thee. Let no cloud,?Here in the very morn of our delight,?Drift up from distant foreign skies, to shroud?Our sun of love whose radiance is so bright.
"Thou art not first?" Nay, and he who would be?Defeats his own heart's dearest purpose then.?No truer truth was ever told to thee--?Who has loved most, he best can love again.?If Lippo (and not he alone) has taught?The arts that please thee, wherefore art thou sad??Since all my vast love-lore to thee is brought,?Look up and smile, my Beppo, and be glad.
TIRED.
I am tired to-night, and something,?The wind maybe, or the rain,?Or the cry of a bird in the copse outside,?Has brought back the past and its pain.?And I feel, as I sit here thinking,?That the hand of a dead old June?Has reached out hold of my heart's loose strings,?And is drawing them up in tune.
I am tired to-night, and I miss you,?And long for you, love, through tears;?And it seems but to-day that I saw you go--?You, who have been gone for years.?And I seem to be newly lonely--?I, who am so much alone;?And the strings of my heart are well in tune,?But they have not the same old tone.
I am tired; and that old sorrow?Sweeps down the bed of my soul,?As a turbulent river might sudden'y break?way from a dam's control.?It beareth a wreck on its bosom,?A wreck with a snow-white sail;?And the hand on my heart strings thrums away,?But they only respond with a wail.
[Illustration: "THE BURDEN OF DEAR HUMAN TIES"]
[Illustration:]
THE SPEECH OF SILENCE.
The solemn Sea of Silence lies between us;?I know thou livest, and them lovest me,?And yet I wish some white ship would come sailing?Across the ocean, beating word from thee.
The dead calm awes me with its awful stillness.?No anxious doubts or fears disturb my breast;?I only ask some little wave of language,?To stir this vast infinitude of rest.
I am oppressed with this great sense of loving;?So much I give, so much receive from thee;?Like subtle incense, rising from a censer,?So floats the fragrance of thy love round me.
All speech is poor, and written words unmeaning;?Yet such I ask, blown hither by some wind,?To give relief to this too perfect knowledge,?The Silence so