# The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/The Indian Bride

THE HINDOO GIRL'S SONG.
Playful and wild as the fire-flies' light, This moment hidden, the next moment bright; Like the foam on the dark-green sea, Is the spell that is laid on my lover by me. Were your sigh as sweet as the sumbal's sigh, When the wind of the evening is nigh; Were your smile like that glorious light, Seen when the stars gem the deep midnight; Were that sigh and that smile for ever the same— They were shadows, not fuel, to love's dull'd flame.
Love once formed an amulet, With pearls, and a rainbow, and rose-leaves set. The pearls were pure as pearls could be, And white as maiden purity; The rose had the beauty and breath of soul, And the rainbow-changes crowned the whole. Frown on your lover one little while, Dearer will be the light of your smile; Let your blush, laugh, and sigh ever mingle together, Like the bloom, sun, and clouds of the sweet spring weather. Love never must sleep in security, Or most calm and cold will his waking be.
And as that light strain died away,  Again I swept the breathing strings:
But now the notes I waked were sad,  As those the pining wood-dove sings.
THE INDIAN BRIDE.
She has lighted her lamp, and crowned it with flowers, The sweetest that breathed of the summer hours; Red and white roses linked in a band, Like a maiden's blush, or a maiden's hand; Jasmines,—some like silver spray, Some like gold in the morning ray; Fragrant stars,—and favourites they, When Indian girls, on a festival-day, Braid their dark tresses: and over all weaves The rosy bower of lotus leaves— Canopy suiting the lamp-lighted bark, Love's own flowers, and Love's own ark.
She watched the sky, the sunset grew dim: She raised to Camdeo her evening hymn. The scent of the night-flowers came on the air; And then, like a bird escaped from the snare, She flew to the river—(no moon was bright, But the stars and the fire-flies gave her their light); She stood beneath the mangoes' shade, Half delighted and half afraid; She trimmed the lamp, and breathed on each bloom, (Oh, that breath was sweeter than all their perfume!) Threw spices and oil on the spire of flame, Called thrice on her absent lover's name; And every pulse throbbed as she gave Her little boat to the Ganges' wave.
There are a thousand fanciful things Linked round the young heart's imaginings. In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower Is gifted then with a spell and a power: 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 Who have loved as young hearts can love so well, How the pulses will beat, and the cheek will be dyed, When they have some love augury tried. Oh, it is not for those whose feelings are cold, Withered by care, or blunted by gold; Whose brows have darkened with many years, To feel again youth's hopes and fears—
What they now might blush to confess, Yet what made their spring-day's happiness!    Zaide watched her flower-built vessel glide, Mirrored beneath on the deep-blue tide; Lovely and lonely, scented and bright, Like Hope's own bark, all bloom and light. There's not one breath of wind on the air, The heavens are cloudless, the waters are fair, No dew is falling; yet woe to that shade! The maiden is weeping—her lamp has decayed.    Hark to the ring of the cymetar!
It tells that the soldier returns from afar. Down from the mountains the warriors come: Hark to the thunder-roll of the drum!—
To the startling voice of the trumpet's call!— To the cymbal's crash!—to the atabal! The banners of crimson float in the sun, The warfare is ended, the battle is won. The mother hath taken the child from her breast, And raised it to look on its father's crest. The pathway is lined, as the bands pass along, With maidens, who meet them with flowers and song. And Zaide hath forgotten in Azim's arms All her so false lamp's falser alarms.    This looks not a bridal,—the singers are mute, Still is the mandore, and breathless the lute; Yet there the bride sits. Her dark hair is bound, 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 sweet-scented 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 spare! To the mother, who stood in her weeping there. She took the jewels that shone on her hand; She took from her dark hair its flowery band, And scattered them round. At once they raise The hymn of rejoicing and love in her praise. A prayer is muttered, a blessing said,— Her torch is raised!-—she is by the dead. She has fired the pile! At once there came A mingled rush of smoke and of flame: The wind swept it off. They saw the bride,— Laid by her Azim, side by side. The breeze had spread the long curls of her hair: Like a banner of fire they played on the air.
The smoke and the flame gathered round as before, Then cleared;—but the bride was seen no more!
I heard the words of praise, but not  The one voice that I paused to hear; And other sounds to me were like  A tale poured in a sleeper's ear. Where was Lorenzo?—He had stood  Spell-bound; but when I closed the lay, As if the charm ceased with the song,  He darted hurriedly away. I masqued again, and wandered on  Through many a gay and gorgeous room What with sweet waters, sweeter flowers,  The air was heavy with perfume.
The harp was echoing the lute, Soft voices answered to the flute, And, like rills in the noontide clear, Beneath the flame-hung gondolier, Shone mirrors peopled with the shades Of stately youths and radiant maids; And on the ear in whispers came Those winged words of soul and flame, Breathed in the dark-eyed beauty's ear By some young love-touched cavalier; Or mixed at times some sound more gay, Of dance, or laugh, or roundelay. Oh, it is sickness at the heart To bear in revelry its part, And yet feel bursting:—not one thing Which has part in its suffering,—
The laugh as glad, the step as light, The song as sweet, the glance as bright; As the laugh, step, and glance, and song, Did to young happiness belong.   I turned me from the crowd, and reached  A spot which seemed unsought by all— An alcove filled with shrubs and flowers,  But lighted by the distant hall, With one or two fair statues placed,  Like deities of the sweet shrine That human art should ever frame  Such shapes so utterly divine! A deep sigh breathed,—I knew the tone;  My cheek blushed warm, my heart beat high;—
One moment more I too was known,—  I shrank before Lorenzo's eye. He leant beside a pedestal.  The glorious brow, of Parian stone, Of the Antinous, by his side,  Was not more noble than his own! They were alike: he had the same  Thick-clustering curls the Romans wore— The fixed and melancholy eye—  The smile which passed like lightning o'er The curved lip. We did not speak, But the heart breathed upon each cheek; We looked round with those wandering looks,  Which seek some object for their gaze, As if each other's glance was like  The too much light of morning's rays.
I saw a youth beside me kneel; I heard my name in music steal; I felt my hand trembling in his;— Another moment, and his kiss Had burnt upon it; when, like thought  So swift it past, my hand was thrown Away, as if in sudden pain.  Lorenzo like a dream had flown! We did not meet again:—he seemed  To shun each spot where I might be: And, it was said, another claimed  The heart—more than the world to me!   I loved him as young Genius loves,  When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light,  The love, the life, by passion given.
I loved him, too, as woman loves—  Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn: Life had no evil destiny  That, with him, I could not have borne! I had been nurst in palaces;  Yet earth had not a spot so drear, That I should not have thought a home  In paradise, had he been near! How sweet it would have been to dwell, Apart from all, in some green dell Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers; And nestling birds to sing the hours! Our home beneath some chesnut's shade, But of the woven branches made: Our vesper hymn, the low, lone wail The rose hears from the nightingale;
And waked at morning by the call Of music from a waterfall. But not alone in dreams like this, Breathed in the very hope of bliss, I love: my love had been the same In hushed despair, in open shame. I would have rather been a slave,  In tears, in bondage, by his side, Than shared in all, if wanting him,  This world had power to give beside! My heart was withered,—and my heart  Had ever been the world to me; And love had been the first fond dream,  Whose life was in reality. I had sprung from my solitude  Like a young bird upon the wing
To meet the arrow; so I met  My poisoned shaft of suffering. And as that bird, with drooping crest And broken wing, will seek his nest, But seek in vain; so vain I sought My pleasant home of song and thought. There was one spell upon my brain, Upon my pencil, on my strain; But one face to my colours came; My chords replied but to one name— Lorenzo!—all seemed vowed to thee, To passion, and to misery! I had no interest in the things  That once had been like life, or light; No tale was pleasant to mine ear,  No song was sweet, no picture bright.
I was wild with my great distress, My lone, my utter hopelessness! I would sit hours by the side Of some clear rill, and mark it glide, Bearing my tears along, till night Came with dark hours; and soft starlight Watch o'er its shadowy beauty keeping,  Till I grew calm:—then I would take The lute, which had all day been sleeping  Upon a cypress tree, and wake The echoes of the midnight air With words that love wrung from despair.
SONG.
Farewell!—we shall not meet again!  As we are parting now,
I must my beating heart restrain—  Must veil my burning brow! Oh, I must coldly learn to hide  One thought, all else above— Must call upon my woman's pride  To hide my woman's love! Check dreams I never may avow; Be free, be careless, cold as thou! Oh! those are tears of bitterness,  Wrung from the breaking heart, When two, blest in their tenderness,  Must learn to live—apart! But what are they to that lone sigh,  That cold and fixed despair, That weight of wasting agony  It must be mine to bear?
Methinks I should not thus repine, If I had but one vow of thine. I could forgive inconstancy, To be one moment loved by thee! With me the hope of life is gone,  The sun of joy is set; One wish my soul still dwells upon—  The wish it could forget. I would forget that look, that tone, My heart hath all too dearly known. But who could ever yet efface From memory love's enduring trace? All may revolt, all may complain— But who is there may break the chain? Farewell!—I shall not be to thee  More than a passing thought;
But every time and place will be  With thy remembrance fraught! Farewell! we have not often met—  We may not meet again; But on my heart the seal is set  Love never sets in vain! Fruitless as constancy may be, No chance, no change, may turn from thee One who has loved thee wildly, well— But whose first love-vow breathed—farewell.