The weekly Minnesotian. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn. Territory) 1852-1858, 1852-06-12
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From the Louisville Journal
THE RIVAL.

THE RIVAL.
Thou, lady fair, art very beautiful,
Thy dark eyes with starry spendor burn,
THAT'S like the gorgeous night Of Southern skies
Thy lightly penciled, archng brows lie like
Soft, dreamy shadows on thy forehead proud,
That ike white Camelia looks beneath
The waves Of rich, dark auburn hair, that part
Upon Its perfect page of loveliness;
The red rose flush upon thy rounded cheek
Is delicatey painted as 1t were
The colOrine Of som" Joyous dream; thy smile
Is sweet as music that gdes ger thy bright
And chseled lip, wakenng young loves romance
With in enchanting spell. Thy queenly form
Is all that have dreamed Of womanhood;
Stately, and yet as graceful in treai
As some gazelle In Its native wild.
Thy voices soft, poetic sound is one
That echoes long In nemory's chambers dim:
Once heard 1t will not pass away, but haunts
The soul as songs the eXile's dream, as tones
That linger in the captve'S burning heart,
As music the sick and weary hear
In some wild fever spell; 1t seems like home,
And Heaven, and all things beautiful and fair.
Lady, 1t is not strange that he has knelt
And made an offering Of his love before
Thy proud and sunny shrine. NetlIinks that
Had loved thee too, had been summed beneath
Thine eyes like him, and listened to the soft
And graceful batteries of thy lip, which are
The poetry of truth, and not the cold
And hollow compliments Of daily life'
Whose falsehood shocks and jars the spirit like
Harsh, reckless hands that sweep DER fail harp.
I blame him not that he has cast his dream,
His early dream away, and knet to thee;
He Is Of beauty q wild worshipper!
And thou the great high priestess art, Of this
Fair faith. He loved me once; my SOUS high gifts
Were weak to bind wandering spirit star
Like him the fragile chain has fallen down
Beneath thy look, and lie, In fragments round
Ny weary, aimless life.
see him bend
Der thee in gay and festive halls like some
Wild Eastern devotee, that worshps low
The bright fire altar, where forever burn
The flames of his high faith. stine back
The tear that wells up from my sickened heart,
And turn and smile again, lest he should see
The broken charm of my young life. blame
Thee not that thou hast borne away the gem
That bound up all my hearts enchantment in
Its magic touch that thou hast transferred
The only flower within the desert Wild
OF my lone youth ; that thou hast won the palm
Whose stately cooling shadow was the dream
That cheered my pilgrim spirit in it, march
per life's wide arid waste. l blame thee not
only wish that were changed like him.
Thou dost not love him, lady fair thine eyes
With starry, tranquil gaze meet his and seem
To catch no shadow from the mournful, deep
Regard he bends on thee. There Is an isle,
A soft blue Isle, that in the distance lies
OF ideal life, and thou upon its bright
Dream shores hast not gone forth to meet with him.
He fancies thou art there. A blind and wild
IdolatOr, he cannot that thou
wilt never meet him in thought Of love.
Some day perhaps he'll waken up, as
Have done, to see the mirage dis appear
And wonder at his delusion wide.
Thy practiced, low, 1Eolean tones deceive
his ear, out they Will change their measure soon,
When thou hast wearied of thy conquest proud,
And he Will learn that he has been a toy
In womans hand: that thought will cure his love
But pride will bleed at every Vein.
They say
That thou art but cold coluette they say
1t Is the pastime of thy life to uch
The chords of human love, and make them bound
To madness meath thy hand; 'tis said that tlou
Dost lightly tread on living tortured hearts,
As steps the Conqueror Ger the flowers that pave
HIS proud triumpha path. Thou dost remind
Me of the vampires of the oien time,
W no fed on blood they rung out drop By drop
From hapless victims, wrapt perchance in $ me
Elysian dream and Of the insects i'm
The western wilderness that live upon
Inc eks warm BRAIN Tis strange that thou canst spor
With heart-strngs thus, and make the cnstlies gems
OF feeling playthngs for thy reckless hand.
do forgive thee all the bitter wrong
Of my sad life. shall forget him soon,
MY heart Is proud, marble monument
Will soon rise o'er the ashes of young love.
What though its ghost may sometimes wander back
To haunt me In the lone arcades of life,
And whisper in Its dim and dreary tones
Of happiness forever gone? shall
Not shrink, for every year that passes by
Will make the solemn shade less sa I, and bring
Me nearer to a green and quiet grave.