# Landon in The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/V

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.