# The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/The Basque Girl and Henri Quatre

THE
BASQUE GIRL AND HENRI QUATRE.
Love! summer flower, how soon thou art decayed! Opening amid a paradise of sweets, Dying with withered leaves and cankered stem! The very memory of thy happiness Departed with thy beauty; breath and bloom Gone, and the trusting heart which thou hadst made So green, so lovely, for thy dwelling-place, Left but a desolation.
'Twas one of those sweet spots which seem just made For lovers' meeting, or for minstrel haunt; The maiden's blush would look so beautiful By those white roses, and the poet's dream
Would be so soothing, lulled by the low notes The birds sing to the leaves, whose soft reply Is murmured by the wind: the grass beneath Is full of wild flowers, and the cypress boughs Have twined o'er head, graceful and close as love. The sun is shining cheerfully, though scarce His rays may pierce through the dim shade, yet still Some golden hues are glancing o'er the trees, And the blue flood is gliding by, as bright As Hope's first smile. All, lingering, stayed to gaze Upon this Eden of the painter's art, And looking on its loveliness, forgot The crowded world around them!—But a spell Stronger than the green landscape fixed the eye— The spell of woman's beauty!—By a beech Whose long dark shadow fell upon the stream,
There stood a radiant girl!—her chesnut hair— One bright gold tint was on it—loosely fell In large rich curls upon a neck whose snow And grace were like the swan's; she wore the garb Of her own village, and her small white feet And slender ancles, delicate as carved From Indian ivory, were bare,—the turf Seemed scarce to feel their pressure. There she stood! Her head leant on her arm, the beech's trunk Supporting her slight figure, and one hand Prest to her heart, as if to still its throbs!— You never might forget that face,—so young, So fair, yet traced with such deep characters Of inward wretchedness! The eyes were dim, With tears on the dark lashes; still the lip Could not quite lose its own accustomed smile,
Even by that pale cheek it kept its arch And tender playfulness: you looked and said, What can have shadowed such a sunny brow? There is so much of natural happiness In that bright countenance, it seems but formed For Spring's light sunbeams, or yet lighter dews. You turned away—then came—and looked again, Watching the pale and silent loveliness, Till even sleep was haunted by that image. There was a severed chain upon the ground— Ah! love is even more fragile than its gifts! A tress of raven hair:—oh, only those Whose souls have felt this one idolatry, Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows! A dead flower Will long be kept, remembrancer of looks
That made each leaf a treasure. And the tree Had two slight words graven upon its stem— The broken heart's last record of its faith— "Adieu, Henri!".... ...I learnt the history of the lovely picture: It was a peasant girls', whose soul was given To one as far above her as the pine Towers o'er the lowly violet; yet still She loved, and was beloved again—ere yet The many trammels of the world were flung Around a heart, whose first and latest pulse Throbbed but for beauty: him, the young, the brave Chivalrous Prince, whose name in after-years A nation was to worship—that young heart Beat with its first wild passion—that pure feeling Life only once may know. I will not dwell
On how Affection's bark was launched and lost:— Love, thou hast hopes like Summers, short and bright, Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams, Intense delicious throbs! But happiness Is not for thee. If ever thou hast known Quiet, yet deep enjoyment, 'tis or ere Thy presence is confessed; but, once revealed, We bow us down in passionate devotion Vowed to thy altar, then the serpents wake That coil around thy votaries—hopes that make Fears burning arrows—lingering jealousy, And last worst poison of thy cup—neglect!... ...It matters little how she was forgotten, Or what she felt—a woman can but weep. She prayed her lover but to say Farewell— To meet her by the river where such hours
Of happiness had pass'd, and said she knew How much she was beneath him; but she prayed That he would look upon her face once more! ...He sought the spot—upon the beechen tree "Adieu, Henri!" was graven, and his heart Felt cold within him! He turned to the wave, And there the beautiful peasant floated—Death Had sealed love's sacrifice!...