# The Venetian Bracelet, The Lost Pleiad, A History of the Lyre, and Other Poems/The Neglected One

THE NEGLECTED ONE.
And there is silence in that lonely hall, Save where the waters of the fountain fall, And the wind's distant murmuring, which takes Sweet messages from every bud it wakes. 'Tis more than midnight; all the lamps are gone, Their fragrant oils exhausted,—all but one, A little silver lamp beside a scroll, Where a young maiden leant, and pour'd her soul, In those last words, the bitter and the brief. How can they say confiding is relief? Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring;
But there are some too long, too well conceal'd, Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd: Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart, And then the life-blood follows from the heart; Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, But which, once spoken, only hath to die.—  Young, very young, the lady was, who now Bow'd on her slender hand her weary brow: Not beautiful, save when the eager thought In the soft eyes a sudden beauty wrought: Not beautiful, save when the cheek's warm blush Grew eloquent with momentary flush Of feeling, that made beauty, not to last, And scarcely caught, so quickly is it past. —Alas! she knew it well; too early thrown Mid a cold world, the unloved and the lone,
With no near kindred ties on whom could dwell Love that so sought to be beloved as well. Too sensitive for flattery, and too kind To bear the loneliness by fate assign'd, Her life had been a struggle: long she strove To fix on things inanimate her love; On pity, kindness, music, gentle lore, All that romance could yield of fairy store. In vain! she loved:—she loved, and from that hour Gone were the quiet loves of bird or flower; The unread book dropp'd listless on her knee, The untouch'd lute hung on the bending tree, Whose unwreathed boughs no more a pleasant shade For the lone dreamings of her twilight made.
—Well might she love him: every eye was turn'd On that young knight, and bright cheeks brighter burn'd, Save one, that grew the paler for his sake: Alas! for her, whose heart but beat to break; Who knew too well, not hers the lip or eye For which the youthful lover swears to die. How deep, how merciless, the love represt, That robs the silent midnight of its rest; That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone; That hears in mingled footsteps only one; That turns the poet's page, to only find Some mournful image for itself design'd; That seeks in music, but the plaining tone Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!
Alas for the young heart, when love is there, Its comrade and its confidant, despair!  How often leant in some unnoticed spot, Her very being by the throng forgot, Shrunk back to shun the glad lamp's mocking ray, Pass'd many a dark and weary hour away, Watching the young, the beautiful, the bright, Seeming more lovely in that lovely light; And as each fair face glided through the dance, Stealing at some near mirror one swift glance, Then, starting at the contrast, seek her room, To weep, at least, in solitude and gloom! And he, her stately idol, he, with eye Dark as the eagle's in a summer sky, And darker curls, amid whose raven shade The very wild wind amorously delay'd,
With that bright smile, which makes all others dim, So proud, so sweet,—what part had she in him? And yet she loved him: who may say, be still, To the fond heart that beats not at our will?  'Twas too much wretchedness:—the convent cell, There might the maiden with her misery dwell. And that, to-morrow was her chosen doom: There might her hopes, her feelings, find a tomb. Her feelings!—no: pray, struggle, weep, condemn,— Her feelings,—there was but one grave for them. 'Twas her last night, and she had look'd her last, And she must live henceforward in the past. She linger'd in the hall,—he had been there; Her pale lips grew yet paler with the prayer That only ask'd his happiness. She took A blank leaf from an old emblazon'd book,
Which told love's chronicles; a faint hope stole,— A sweet light o'er the darkness of her soul— Might she not leave remembrance, like the wreath, Whose dying flowers their scents on twilight breathe; Just one faint tone of music, low and clear, Coming when other songs have left the ear? Might she not tell him how she loved, and pray A mournful memory for some distant day? She took the scroll:—what! bare perhaps to scorn The timid sorrow she so long had borne! Silent as death, she hid her face, for shame In rushing crimson to her forehead came; Through the small fingers fell the bitter rain, And tremblingly she closed the leaves again. —The hall is lit with rose, that morning hour, Whose lights are colour'd by each opening flower;
A sweet bird by the casement sat and sang A song so glad, that like a laugh it rang, While its wings shook the jessamine, till the bloom Floated like incense round that joyous room. —They found the maiden: still her face was bow'd, As with some shame that might not be avow'd: They raised the long hair which her face conceal'd,— And she is dead,—her secret unreveal'd.