# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Poet Lovers

POEMS BY METTA VICTORIA FULLER.
("SINGING SYBIL.")
THE POET LOVERS.
"And soon I stood before a listening throng—
Eager to criticise, to praise, deride—
And poured the fervor forth, restrained so long,
In one impassioned and impetuous tide.
there is nothing upon earth more proud.
More high, more flattering to the swelling soul,
Than to chain every passion of the crowd.
And with one word their sympathies control!
"To feel that you can sway them with a breath!
And bind them with the mighty thoughts you make!
To awe them into silence deep as death.
Or from their lips responsive echoes wake!
To hear a thousand tongues one answer speak!
To make a thousand weep with one low tone!
To see the changing of each earnest cheek.
Which flushes or grows paler with your own!
"Yes! there is glorious triumph in that hour,
That would the wildest dream of fame repay—
Thus to feel conscious of your own great power.
And thus with burning eloquence to sway
The hearts of others, as the waves obey
The wind that stirs them! while beneath your eye
All passions and all feelings powerless lay.
Moved by the lifting of your hand on high!
"And I have felt this triumph! have seen all
Hang eager on the dropping of a word.
With such a silence through the lofty hall,
That scarce a breath the intense stillness stirred!
Have stood, and with a motion or a word
Hushed each heart-throbbing, fixed each careless eye!
The shout of the tumultuous band have heard
Swell upward wild and deaf'ning to the sky!
"But when I stole away from their acclaim.
And sought my silent chamber, lone and still,
And said to my proud heart—'And this is fame!' It only answered with a feverish thrill. And so I turned away from that I sought,
And poured my soul out on the poet's lyre,
And much of bliss and much of pain it brought.
Shall I tell further, love?—or dost thou tire?"
"Do the angels ever weary
Of the strains they hear above? Tell me how the poet's myrtles
Shone among thy ringlets, love."
"Upon a placid brow their leaves did shine.
But my wild heart was burning fire beneath,
Because I strove Ambition's thorns to twine
Among the gentler blossoms of my wreath; One great thought struggled upward in my soul.
As the sea heaves toward heav'n—that thought of fame! And the deep music of its surging roll
The world called song!—its echo was a name!
"The sound was hollow, and my brain soon burned
To hear it ever ringing in my ear.
Ambition was a mocker ! and I spurn'd
What I had sought for as a prize most dear! In this deep restlessness I ever yearned
For something, which I knew not then was love, And my soul's sea a saddened brow upturned.
And murmured ever to the stars above.
"'Twas then that vision stole into my breast.
So spiritual, so perfect, pure, and sweet; And all in glad surprise, I thought how blest
Would my life be if I could only meet, Within this breathing world, a creature rare, Like that so exquisite, so young, so bright;
With such a gift of song—such forehead fair— Such proud, pure eyes, full of deep, shadowy light!
"The vision haunted me! and soon became
A part of every thought and hope in life—
And I forgot the mockery of fame—
Its followers, its bitterness, its strife—
And went forth with a wildly thrilling heart
To seek, and find, and wed my spirit-love,
Whose sweet face of ray dreaming was a part.
Whose spiritual grace seemed stolen from above.
"I went abroad—and wandered far and long
In search of her—my blessed spirit-bride;
I mingled in full many a brilliant throng,
Where were assembled loveliness and pride.
Bewildering eyes looked softly into mine—
Bright lips breathed low, sweet music on the air;
Rich tresses their luxuriant wealth did twine
Around young brows most eloquently fair.
"And peerless forms with gliding steps went by;
And softer beauty stole behind the while;
And dazzling haughtiness before my eye
Melted its cunning lip into a smile.
Bewildering sweetness slept like a still dream
Upon pure foreheads stainless as the snow;
And deep, dark eyes looked out with dewy gleam
From timid lashes lifted soft and slow.
"But not the breathing charm of glowing lips,
Nor the magnificence of midnight eyes, Nor brows which did the pearls they wore eclipse., Nor the mute eloquence which sometimes lies
Within a smile, nor the exquisite grace
Of tiny feet upon rich carpets prest, Could take away the beautiful yung face
Whose holy sweetness lay within my breast.
"Wearied with searching for its owner there,
Amid such haunts of splendor and of pride,
I left the crowded halls, whose beings rare
But made me sigh for my own perfect bride.
Then in each lovely clime I wandered long,
With thoughts to meet her in some land of flowers— Perchance, in 'Italy's bright land of song,'
Or 'neath the starry blossoms of Spain's bowers.
"I never wandered where the skies were bright, Or where the roses seemed to be more fair.
Nor stood where ruined fanes rose on the sight;
Nor thrilled to gaze upon some sunset rare.
Nor climbed to some sublime or dizzy height.
Nor marked a river rolling in its pride,
Nor mused on the still splendor of the night.
But that I wished thee, sweet one, at my side.
"Three years stole down into my spirit's halls,
Bringing rich jewels on their flowing dress.
And made them there a home, whose pictured walls
Glowed with the rarest tints of loveliness.
Soft skies, and tinted clouds, and golden air, And shadowy haunts, and dimpled waves of light,
And scenes of deep sublimity were there, Mingled with broken gleams of all things bright.
"And that one image! but its counterpart
I sought for vainly in each sunny spot;
Yet with a deeper feeling my wild heart
Clung to the thought that would not be forgot.
Then homeward to my own sweet land I turned—
Blessed be the stars that light it from above!
Blessed every heart which ever toward it yearned.
For here I met thee, sweet spirit-love!
"And when I saw thee, heard thee, clasped thee first—
Held thee, thyself, unto my thrilling breast,
The wild delirium of joy that burst
Upon my soul, words never have expressed!
The deepest eloquence that language owns—
The richest power of music, ne'er can tell,
Since that sweet hour when first I heard thy tones, How dear thou art to me, my own Adel!"
PART SECOND.
The lovers parted for a little time—
Oh, hapless parting! Yet one had but gone
To make a Paradise for his young bride—
To gather birds and flowers to his home—
To hang his palace walls with pictures rare—
To place rich gifts and music in her room—
To load the polished shelves with choicest books,
And blend refinement with the lavish wealth
Profusely scattered through that lovely home!
And when the fruit hung golden on the trees,
And the bright air of autumn wound the leaves
Whose gorgeous hues robed earth in loveliness,
And made soft, dreamy shadows on her breast, And all the air was full of a sweet sound
Made by their rustling music, then was he
To claim the mistress of that fairy place.
Adel was slowly pacing to and fro
Upon a green bank by the river-side.
Where first they met. The faint wind waved her hair,
And sent the leaflets fluttering to her feet,
That like bright butterflies, perched on the trees
And humming to each other, swung above.
Her tiny footsteps heedless pressed them down
Into the mossy turf; and those bright curls
Wore not the glowing wreath she loved to weave
Of autumn glory, in her idle hours, Was that young creature, with the musing step,
Dreaming of future happiness and love—
Dwelling upon the coming bridal hour—
Her heart all trembling with delicious joy
Mingled with timid fears?
Upon that brow,
So proud and pure, and once so shadowless,
A troubled darkness lay; the sweet young lip
Would quiver for a moment, and then grow
As still and mute as marble; and her cheek
Was whiter than a lily's, and her eyes.
When ever and anon she raised them up,
As if beseechingly to the blue sky.
Were dark with an expression of despair
And an unspoken anguish. Tightly twined
Were her small, slender fingers, with a clasp
That pressed the crimson blood most painfully
Through their clear nails.
In broken murmurings
From these quivering lips came forth the words,
Telling to the gay trees and the bright air.
And all the beautiful and heedless scene,
Of the wild sorrow that had come and hushed
The love and trust of her young, passionate soul.
"Oh, shining leaves, I would ye fell
To cover my dark grave!
I would I dared to pray to Heaven To take the life it gave!
Oh, river! murmuring river!
Flowing bright, and cold, and deep, Can your low song sing the anguish
In my aching heart to sleep?
Never! never! earth is mournful!
All things mock my weary sight!
I turn away from sunny skies—
From hope, and love, and light!
Joy's radiant wing is folded;
It will never wave again!
Bright the hour when I met thee.
Oh, impassioned Clarence Vane!
Like the fullness of that gladness
Is the wildness of this pain! I was artless when you sought me;
I was but a dreaming child; But you woke my inner spirit
To devotion deep and wild.
On the altar in my bosom— Laid I down my priceless trust— But the holy shrine is broken.
And the gift lies in the dust! Not as others I esteemed thee, But so gifted and so grand.
That upon thy placid forehead
Did I fear to lay my hand;
And my love and reverence blended
With a radiance purer far,
Than the light yet undescended
From the circle of a star.
In one glorious river gliding,
Ev'ry word and every thought, In its bosom jewels hiding, To thy soul's deep fountain brought
All the wealth of my affection,
All emotions pure and deep,—
As all waves in one direction
To the ocean onward sweep.
I blessed you when you held my hands,
And looked into my face;
I blessed you when you folded me
In a mute, hushed embrace;
I blessed you when your fervid lips
Were pressed upon my brow;
I loved you—but oh! agony!
I dare not love you now! Why did they come, those dearest ones.
And whisper in my ear
The words of fearful meaning,
That I shuddered but to hear? They told me of such hateful things In all thy bygone life:— They said no woman pure and good Should ever be thy wife! And o'er my girlish innocence Distrustful shadows flung, And o'er love's, sunny radiance A cloud of sorrow hung! Oh! bitter, bitter knowledge, At my bosom entered in! I can not love thee, Clarence Vane, Thy soul is stained with sin! Oh! winning was your eloquence, And earnest was your tone, When telling of the rosy path Your steps of life had known! And when I listened to your words My bosom swelled with pride, That I should be your chosen one— Your spirit-love! your bride! I worshiped the great oral power That chained the silent throng; I loved the golden lyre that thrilled With wild and passionate song. And when, with half-averted eyes, You spoke of ladies fair:— Of sweet, bewildering loveliness, And grace and beauty rare:— And how you turned away from all With careless heart and cold:— In simple, girlish innocence, I trusted all you told. Oh! hapless fate! oh! cruel fate! That perfect love like mine Should have been given trustingly At an unhallowed shrine! False! you will mock me with that word,
Oh! wild, proud Clarence Vane!
You'll taunt me with this faithlessness, Unknowing of this pain!
And we must meet in bitterness, Who in full faith did part!
Why should I heed reproach or scorn
Breathed by thy lips of art?
And yet I knew that thy strong soul
Gives purest love to me—
Can I not tell a star in heaven
From a star in the sea?
I feel that did an angel sit
And smile upon my brow.
No holier your tenderness
Could be to me than now;
But still I cast that love away—
I banish my sweet trust—
I can not soil my soul's white wings
By stooping them to dust!
If your great mind has been for years
In earthly fetters bound—
If you have stooped your lofty flight.
Base fires to flutter round—
What! though from your soiled pinions
You shake the groveling weight:—
What! though you now soar to the stars,
I can not be your mate;
Ay! deck your glittering palace
With a lover's gentle pride—
And dream of wild devotion—
And murmur of your bride—
Oh! proud and passionate Clarence!
You will never call me wife!
Earth is mournful as the coffin,
And pale sorrow shrouds my life!"
The beautiful young mourner hid her face
In her small hands, and sank upon the earth.
Her tresses stole to kiss the silvery moss,
And her white dress laid daintily and light
Upon bright, crisping leaves—the river sang—
The sky was soft, and fresh, and delicate—
The breeze went by, and its invisible wings
Were laden with perfume and melody—
They were a mockery!
Her lip was mute,
But there was something fraught with agony
In the still drooping of her slender form,
And the white face lying in her cold hands.
The sun went down and the wind asleep,
And the sky shut its twilight eyelids close,
While evening made her toilette. She came forth,
Shining all over with soft, radiant gems.
And eloquent in peace and loveliness;
The dimpling bosoms of the silver waves
Swelled full of melody in praise of her.
And the dark shadows crept beneath the trees
To hide away from her clear, azure eyes.
Those deep, still eyes were on the stricken girl—
The pure, proud, beautiful girl, whose first wild grief
Was knowledge of the evil in man's heart:
An agony awoke the bright young dreams
Which lay within her bosom, thrilled with bliss,
And turned them into sorrows, when her soul
Bent, shuddering, to hear the words of friends
Blending his name with images of sin
She had not known existed. Him—oh! him!
To whom she gave such trust and reverence!
Such perfect, earnest, spiritual love!
Her heart shrank back from the black altar-place
Where its sweet wealth was laid—she could not give
Her sacred offerings where unholy fires
So long had burned! Her very artlessness
And innocence of evil caused her grief!
So bitterly came knowledge to a heart
All radiant with purity and love.
And thrilling with wild music—like a harp
Just touched in heaven and sent, quivering
With its unutterable melody, to earth.
The starry influence of the shining night,
And the low murmur of the passing waves,
Soothed, like a blessing, the wild, aching grief
Of the sweet, desolate mourner. Tenderly
The starlight stole to kiss her pallid brow,
The trees reached down their arms caressingly.
And the bright river bade her not to grief
In tones of gentleness untaught by art.
The beautiful love shattered so cruelly
By earthy fingers, here seemed proffered her
By the sweet angel-spirits of the night.
Pale, placid, and subdued, the young girl rose—
Her sweet face lifted to the sapphire sky,
And her dark, mournful eyes surpassing thought
In their deep, pleading eloquence, upraised—
And softly folding her white, slender hands
Upon her weary bosom, prayed for peace!
PART THIRD.
"Break not! break not! break not, O mighty heart,
With this fierce anguish rending all thy strings!
Back! agonizing fires which from it start,
Ere this wild torture which my spirit wrings.
Shows itself on my brow or in my eye—
Back! back! into my heart! ye may burn there
Till every feeling doth in ashes lie,
But not a trace of pain my brow shall wear!
"To find her false! oh, anguish unexpressed!
Be still, proud heart, be still! when will this burst
Of awful agony pass from my breast?
This suffering racking me must be the worst
Of mental pain that man can live and bear! Another pang would kill me; and to die, And let her know the depth of my despair—
Better live on in endless agony!
"False! false! O God of heaven! is this so?
And has another kissed that brow so bright,
And held those tiny hands of moulded snow,
And drank from those soft eyes their dewy light!
Peace, tortured soul! why did I dream of her For years and years before I saw her face?
Why did my fiery soul its proud depths stir
To give to her alone its hallowed place?
"Burn on, fierce fire, in my consuming heart
Till every thought of her—till every dream
And every hope in which she had a part
Have perished in thy fearful, molten stream.
Ashes! ashes! ashes alone are left!
Each feeling and each passion have expired!
The fire of this day's anguish has bereft
My heart of every thing it once desired.
"Tears? no, my tears are at their fountain dried—
It sends no dew to cool my burning eyes;
The only passion that remains is pride,
And that upon my brow in mockery lies.
Now I can taunt her! I can look unmoved
Upon the loveliness a star might wear!
Can mock her with the deathless love thus proved,
While writhing sneers my lip and brow shall bear.
"And life, henceforth, shall be a hollow sound—
The springs which all its arrogance control—
Its emptiness—its nothingness I've found!
No gentle thrill shall ever move my soul!
Bright dreams and lovely visions, ye are gone!
My once high heart lies burnt upon your shrine!
Oh, mockery! that I should deem that one
Of truth and purity could e'er be mine!
"Ah! glorious aspirations, where are ye?
Oh, radiant hopes and blest, where have ye flown?
Oh, heart! most mighty heart, once proud and free?
Oh, starry dream of love? all gone! all gone!
A dumb, cold, aching hollow is your grave—
No beautiful emotion there doth dwell!
The holiest, highest love that man e'er gave
I lost when I lost thee, oh, false Adel!
"But shall I mourn thee or thy treachery?
Am I a woman to bewail my fate?
Shall I sigh over this great misery,
And of my sorrow piteously prate?
No! every tone shall freeze like dropping ice,
And she shall shrink from my cold, steady eye,
And dainty scorn ray chosen words shall spice,
While mockery upon my lip doth lie!"
Gorgeous and glowing, from the silver lamp
Depending from the ceiling, fell the light
Over the luxury of that rich room,
Deepening the roses blooming in the tuft
Of the soft, yielding carpet—lighting up
With golden glory the emblazoned names
Glittering o'er the array of rare, choice books
On the dark, polished shelves—kissing the brows
Of lovely statues, smiling from each niche
Most gloriously like life—and lingering
Over rich paintings and bright, perfumed flowers
Drooping in antique vases—glowingly
The soft light flooded the magnificent scene.
Beneath the sparkling lamp the speaker stood;
The fatal missive of the gentle girl
Lay on the floor, trodden beneath his feet.
Sculpture a hollow form of cold, still stone,
Transparent, stern, immovable, and pale,
And kindle a wild, burning fire within—
So did the mighty pain burn in his heart,
And glow through his still features, as he stood
With folded arms and high, proud, pallid form.
His voice had died away 'mid shadows dim
In distant nooks of the luxurious room,
And silently the fire consumed within him.
Then spirits came to haunt the hollow void
Where once a great heart throbbed—pride and despair
Wrestled within his bosom, and his face
Grew fearfully contorted with their might.
Now Pride looked out from his deep, flashing eye,
And sat a moment on his haughty brow;
Anon Despair gleamed wildly in his glance.
And shrieked and quivered on his ashy lip.
Another spirit, wilder than the rest,
Then rose within him—Shadow of the Past—
And taunted him with hateful memories.
Moaning in bitterness, the proud man sank
Upon the floor in crouching agony, And pleaded with those mocking shapes of sin
To leave him to the fearful punishment
Of his own hollow loneliness—in vain!
His brow lay on the letter he had cast
In madness 'neath his feet—his hands were pressed
Convulsively o'er his hot, tearless eyes—
There was no "angel presence" near him then!
The words his forehead touched had broke forever
The silvery chain that bound his wayward soul
To purity, and peace, and innocence!
Wildly he pleaded with rebuking shapes
That rose before the vision of his soul!
Insensible things, glittering in that gay room,
Seemed shaken by his low, wild, aching tones:
The flowers bent down, and drooped, and fainting, died;
A harp-string snapped and broke, and a lute sighed;
Dark shadows shivered in the fitful light,
And all the crystals in the shining lamp
Shut up their sparkling eyes, and looked no more
Upon his prostrate anguish—all was dark.
Still struggled through the gloom his passionate voice!
"Oh! mocking memories! why haunt me now?
Oh! phantoms of the past, that round me rise,
Ye know not how your presence burns my brow
And taunts to agony my shrinking eyes!
Leave me! oh, leave me! ye reproachful band,
Why do you stand and gaze on my despair?
Why do you circle round me, hand-in-hand,
Pale, saddened spirits, once so bright and fair ?
"I know ye all! I know who wrought your fate—
This retribution is too great to bear!
If ye are pale, and sad, and desolate—
Look on! and shudder at my great despair!
Ye will not pity me! such as I gave
Of cold, false, hollow pretense, give you me!
Away! away! pale phantoms of the grave!
Taunt not the wildness of my misery.
"Oh, Ina! Ina! vision white and fair!
How pale and sweet thou dost before me rise;
I hear the pleading that thy lip doth bear—
I see the agony in those soft eyes!
And now I see thee mute and still in death, Thy golden curls dark with the dripping wave
Thy young, sweet lip robbed of its loving breath,
Thy fairy form in a dishonored grave!
"And thou, proud, broken-hearted Isidore!
Thy wild reproach, thy scorn, and thy strange curse—
Away! away! this suffering is more
Than thy wild prayer invoked for me, far worse
Than any nature less than mine could brook,
Or even dream of in its maddest power!
Away! with that dark, scornful, fearful look,
And leave me to the anguish of this hour !
"Ye haunting spirits of the past, away!
Eyes once so soft now burn my very soul!
I can not hope—I can not sleep—nor pray!
Wild phantoms have me in their dark control.
Pride! pride! where have you flown, my boasted pride?
My brain is agony—my soul is hell!
In vain my soul these visions has defied—
Oh, this despair—Adel! Adel! Adel!"
PART FOURTH.
By a Venetian window stood Adel—
Her soft, deep eyes turned with a pensive look
Upon a sunset, rarely beautiful.
One round and snowy arm held back the folds
Of a rich, crimson curtain, whose warm glow
Tinged with a deeper color the young cheek
Resting against the casement.
Purer still,
And holier than ever, was her brow—
Her eyes were deeper and more angel-like,
And her sweet lip more placid and less bright—
Her form more fragile even than of yore—
Her manner so subdued and spiritual—
Herself the exquisite embodiment
Of purity, and loveliness, and grace—
So sadly, softly beautiful she stood.
The muffled echo of a coming step,
Wrapped up in roses from the Persian loom,
Stole through the fair apartment; but Adel
Listed not the soft echo 'mid its flowers.
Her tlioughts were with her eyes, on the gay sky—
Her dreams were with the sunset—purple, and gold,
And crimson palaces she built in air,
With her wild fancies for the artisans.
And when she thought what spirit she would choose
To dwell with her beneath their gorgeous roofs,
She sighed, and her hp quivered mournfully.
But still she mused on beautiful, bright things—
With not a throb of her impassioned heart—
With not a tremble of her delicate hand—
Nor quiver of the lashes sweetly raised—
Nor startling of the color in her cheek,
To tell her that he stood almost beside her—
That the dark eyes of Clarence Vane were fixed
Upon the eloquence of her fair face!
Stilly he stood, and read her musing mood.
He saw that all was beautiful and pure—
That her young heart had turned away from him
Because he was unworthy—that her soul
Was blessed with holy peace—the blessed peace
That was denied unto his fevered brain.
Wild waves of bitterness swept o'er his soul;
Her quiet mood was maditess to his own—
Her placid face was torture, when his own
Had grown so furrowed in his agony!
One burning will, to crush her by the weight
Of scorn and pride, held his wild passions down—
Coldly and mockingly his dark eye smiled,
And his lip curled maliciously—
"Adel!"
The fair girl started from her rosy dreams,
And the faint flusli upon her cheek went down
At the first sound of that cold, mocking voice.
Love! O love! how fearful is thy power!
She had thought that Clarence was no more
Than the wild wind to her—that every link
That bound her soul to his had broken been
By the abhorrence of his sinful past—
That the dark, struggling anguish of her soul
Had been subdued forever—yet oh! now,
The very instant that her eyes met his,
She felt the spell upon her! A strange thrill
Crept round her sinking heart—the weary past
Was all forgotten, and she only felt
His presence! Why stood he thus and smiled?
The life seemed fainting in her heart; her lip
Spoke not, but with uneven step she came
And leaned her forehead on his throbless breast!
No word, and no caress! And summoning strength
She lifted up her face and looked in his.
Cold were his eyes, and stern his altered brow,
And his fine lips were curled into a sneer.
He thought to crush with coldness and contempt
The gentle spirit of the gifted girl;
And for a moment she was powerless
With sorrow, not with dread. She clung to him
With icy and faint grasp, her large, strange eyes
Fixed on his face, and murmured to herself,
Slowly and soft, as in a painful dream:
"He greets me with no loving word—
His brow is stern with pride;
The stars our passionate vows have heard, Yet knows he not his bride!
My brow with anguish is distressed—
My heart is fainting in my breast;
Yet soothes he not, and speaks he not!
I know—I know I am forgot!"
Unconscious of her words was the young girl,
In that dark moment of bewilderment
When love came back, unbidden, to her heart;
It was as well; the evil in his breast
Had quenched the starry light of love forever;
Tlie fate of one so good and beautiful
Must not be blended with so dark a fate.
With a chill, bitter smile, he answered her:
"I much regret this knowledge comes so late;
I did not dream your missive was a jest!
But even in jest there sometimes lurks a fate,
Pieventing love like ours from being blest;
And as I deemed you earnest, I had thought
It was as well to seek another bride.
The message with such just rebukings fraught
Was only play—you did not mean to chide?
"Most highly I approve your faith and trust;
Nor caught nor held by slander's secret spring—
What was it about stooping to the dust—
Or 'bout an eagle with a dirty wing?
Have you repented of your cruelty?
Have you forgotten what you so detest?
And do you prize me more than purity?
I can not realize I am so blest!
"But think not, pretty puritan, I could
Require the sacrifice that you must make
Of friends' approval and of all that's good
For a low lover's most unworthy sake.
No! no! the proffered bliss I must decline,
Though it should break my heart to say farewell!
Yet, if for love of me you still should pine,
I'll wed thee out of pity, fair Adel!"
Back from his bosom had the maiden sprang
As his first words startled her 'wildered ear,
And stood up calm and strong, but deathly pale;
And when his sneering lips grew bitterer still,
Her slender form grew stronger in its pride;
And the bright, haughty crimson in her cheek
Burnt clear and beautiful; and her rich lip
Curled outward in resentment, sweet and full.
And when he ceased, she stood and gazed on him
In silent scorn, most deep and withering.
Never a star looked on a petty flame
With clearer luster than her steady eye
Answered the mock disdain that quailed in his!
Never a queen so wore her regal crown
As she her conscious purity and pride!
The tumult in his breast lay hushed and shamed
Before that peerless majesty of mien—
The lip that breathed of pity paled with awe
Of the bright being that before him stood,
So lofty in her beauty and her scorn!
But still pride struggled with a sense of shame,
And with a husky voice he would have spoke
Still further his unmanly bitterness;
But with a matchless wave of her white hand
And flashing eye, she uttered, clear and quick—
"No more! no more! the spell is broke
Which held me in its dizzy sway—
My dream of thee at last lias woke
To see thee in revealing day!
I can not mourn the spell is past
Which held my spirit's powers fast—
I can not mourn the real light—
I scorn thee from my waking sight—
Away! away
Obedient to that gesture of command.
From her proud, glorious presence, with no word,
No sigh, and no farewell, young Clarence turned.
The souls once blent in seeming perfectness
Were riven apart forever—evermore!
Earth—earth! thy mystery—thy agony!
In the deep twilight, as it gathered 'round,
Adel stood where he left her, with her hands
Pressed tight upon her heart, and murmuring
In one same accent low, "'Tis o'er—'tis o'er!"
And from that hour she gathered up her strength,
And grew more lofty and more beautiful,
With all her pride of genius and of soul.
She trusted not the world, nor hated it;
But wnth a peerless manner, and a brow
Like snow in coldness and in purity,
She walked amid its throngs, confiding not,
But loved and wondered at for starry gifts—
A marble casket, exquisitely fair,
With priceless jewels glittering therein!
At times she swept her lyre with hand divine,
And eagerly the world listed the strains
Thrilling its heart with their rare eloquence—
So sweet, and soft, and passionate, and full;
And through the fineness of each delicate note
A finer tone lingered on the 'tranced ear—
A music mournfully and softly strange,
Like a faint dirge played upon higher keys.
Or tear-drops falling on the spirit's wires.
Have you ne'er seen a palace grand and high,
And decked within by many costly things?
Pictures of beauty and bright burning lamps,
And books of wisdom, and sweet, pleasant flowers.
And many tall, fair mirrors, giving back
A thousand times the splendor that they saw?
Like such a palace was proud Clarence Vane
Before he met his beautiful Adel.
But the fair habitants who should have been
Within so bright a dwelling, had gone out,
And lowly slaves were rioting within.
Virtue and Peace, and Truth and Eloquence
Were frighted from its chambers—even Pride
And stern Ambition fled the revelry
Of the dark slaves they could not fraternize.
Passion, and Selfishness, and all their brood
Of tyrant evils feasted in that home,
And tore the bocks of wisdom, and defaced
The lovely pictures Fancy had designed,
And crushed the flowers of Purity, and quenched
The burning lamps of Genius where they hung!
But a sweet angel-visitant then came,
And with the aweing power of purity
Walked through the palace, and the evils fled.
With graceful hand the pictures she retouched,
Re-lighted the dark lamps, re-wrote the books,
And breathed new perfume in the withered flowers;
And wheresoe'er she walked, the mirrors gave
Only her own fair image pure and bright;
And this sweet angel was Spiritual Love!
When she departed, desolate Despair
Touched his wild torch to all the lovely scene;
And while the flames rose over all within,
Stood 'mid the fearful ruin, Samson-like,
The maddened instrument of his own death.
Yet who that stood and on that palace gazed,
With its proud, marble front so calm and cold,
Would even dream that all was dark within— All hollow, dreary, charred, and tenantless—
Save by the ghosts of past magnificence!
But thus it was with Clarence, since the hour,
When doubly desolate, rebuked, and still,
He went forth from the presence of his love.
His mighty heart became the sepulcher
Holding the ashes of its own dead friends.
And haunted by pale shadows of the past;
While mind, like a dumb slave, sat at the door.
That none might know the desolation there!
If the young flowers of Adel's high heart
Were laid upon a shrine that withered them,
Should no more bloom be gathered? While her hand
With mournful sweetness swept her silver lyre,
Attracted by its angel melody,
A spirit came and bended at her feet.
With earnest love and gentle reverence—
A spirit worthy to commune with hers—
Gifted and eloquent, and full of truth!
And grateful for the homage offered her,
While all her soul quivered with intense joy,
She yielded up the jewels of the love
That would not blend with darkness—and received,
With blessings and with prayers and earnest trust,
A love and tenderness as deep and pure
As the rich light that broods around a star.